The Snake on the Rise: The Silurian

By L.A. Wilson

The Silurian, book Seven:
The Snake on the Rise
A GREAT KING IS MISSING

Arthur has gone missing, and of course, it is up to the Fox to find him, but the rumours are strong that the Saxons have taken the Bear as their hostage with the aid of the Romani Church; that the Bear is more than wounded, but already dead. And in the vacant place where Arthur ruled supreme, his traitor cousin Medraut now begins his campaign to take Arthur's place; to raise the Red Dragon over his own head and declare himself Arthur's heir. But there comes an unexpected enemy standing over both Arthur and Medraut; another threat has arisen in the north, and it is now Medraut's challenge to join or defeat the threat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9781445794594

L.A. Wilson

Author of BIG LONG BOOKS; an epic Arthurian saga. L.A. Wilson: independent author of 'The Silurian' series of 8 Books based on the legendary King Arthur. Critic of the status quo. Passionate and iconoclastic writer - an artist who cannot by the LAW of having rebellious DNA conform to the mass-market of what is conventionally published. "If you want something done, then do it yourself," ended up being the method of how I wrote all of the books in The Silurian series. These are the books I wanted to read about Arthur myself. The Bear of Britain; commonly known as King Arthur. His story told as a first person narrative by his closest friend, Prince Bedwyr, called the Fox. This is the story of their lives together in an age of hero-making: post Roman Britain of the Dark Ages. I did not take the easy road with the writing of this series; but the road that breaks hearts, the journey that lasts a lifetime in loyalty and love, and an endless passion for life. My readers often ask me to make these books into movies. Alas, I am not a movie-maker, nor do I know any. But one can only wish... Book one of The Silurian series received an "honorary mention" in the 2007 London Book Festival

Book preview

THE SILURIAN

BOOK SEVEN

THE

SNAKE

ON

THE

RISE

TwoRiders Productions

2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

L.A. WILSON author of

©THE SILURIAN series

©THE SNAKE ON THE RISE

BOOK 7 OF 8

ISBN: 978-1-4457-9459-4

[e-mail]

Cover Artist

https://selfpubbookcovers.com/billwyc

THE WOUNDED BEAR

1

I went back to Marc the following night as I said I would; and I did not know he knew how to cook Roman fare. He made me a welcome-home feast that night, and even before he laid it on the table, I went and stood in the outer kitchen, and ate delicacies from each of his plates; he had made some strange dish of beaten and cooked eggs, blended with cheese, and it was delicious. Then a bowl of chicken legs, burned till they were golden brown and smelled so good, it was a heaven-like aroma. And next to this, a plate of dried fruits in thick juices, like honey. I could not resist it, and Marc caught me eating when I should have only been looking. He snatched the plates away with a wild glare at my rudeness, and took them to the dining hall. Red-ware bowls and plates stuffed with delights he had bought from the markets while I was away in Caer Llion. Dining with someone who had once betrayed me. It was not unusual for me to live an extraordinary life. So Marc dished up more chicken legs for me to gnaw on, as I had already been doing. He sat at table with me, now pushing a large pie in a dish towards me.

I served myself. The silence between us then was dense like a hedge of thistles. I answered the silence, I like this pie… and ate more. He said, It is fish.

I said, What? I hate fish, but this is delicious; what magic did you use to make me like it? I was impressed.

He stared at me, as if I was an idiot. It is made with a recipe.

What’s a recipe?

Instructions, like how to forge a sword, or…or ride in battle formation. I learned recipes in Rome. Then he hung his head.

I wanted to know more; I asked, still eating his fish-pie, So the secret of cooking food I like … is a recipe? A plan, like a step one to move on to the final step?

Only you do it with all kinds of foods, not just one food. Like so much British fare. In Rome, they make food with a mixture of foods, and it tastes better that way.

It does! It was always a battle for cooks to get me to eat fish. Now you do it in a recipe pie. I put down my spoon.

We stared at each other.

Then he said, with a question that shook me back into sudden anger; I was not expecting this!

Prince, what happened… what happened … to my old friend, Cadarn?

I killed him, I said without a care.

Marc balked, and I tensed in my chair at the memory.

I said, Cadarn blamed me, you know; blamed me for what you did with your whoring; he said I taught you to do this, that I put you up to it, and we became enemies thereafter—he said I had corrupted you. He challenged me to single combat, and I killed him. Never say his name to me again.

Marc looked away into the brazier.

I could not eat any more, and pushed my dish aside.

I got up and began wandering the room.

What was I doing here, eating fish-pie?

Should I not now return to Arthur and leave Marc sitting here, suffering? I did not look at him; he sat on at the table, quiet and stilled. I turned back, Do not judge me for Cadarn’s death—he asked for it. It was him who challenged me, and you do not know his full story. One day you will, but not now. As I stared at him, he looked flushed and shocked, and I added, Do you know who the fool is here? It’s me. Fool I am to come here to you, and not to Arthur, and yet both of you think I can love you again after all that’s gone between us. Not so.

Come and finish your dish, he begged me. And I’ll make up for all our lost years with unbridled faith and loyalty unto death in friendship with you. I know you need to trust me again, I understand that. I am not a boy anymore.

The plea in his voice urged me back to the table, as truly, my task now was to put our past, into the past and let it stay there, and forge for a new future. So then we moved to sit together before the brazier and I drank up all his wine. Here, so alone together, he thought it right to tell me his story—his full story, and I tried not to hear it.

One half to me was readying to go back to Arthur; the other half of me, to stay here and listen to all of Marc’s mighty Roman adventure: only this adventure of his was largely one of misery, slavery of his body and his sex, and naught much else.

For fourteen years. He told me the full story of the fire that had burned him. A story of agony. The reason for his scars that pitted his back and his thigh and calf, for his master had chained him to the foot of the bed he slept on, and Marc could not escape the house as it burned around him. He was burned near to death and was saved by his old master, the one who had taken him to Rome in the first place. Saved his life with the best army doctors Rome had to offer.  Now the power of his story brought him to tears and I did not sleep that night because of it. I slept in his guest room, and not till later, when I woke to find him sitting on the edge of my cot, himself staring into the darkness before dawn.

Why are you staring into the darkness? I asked.

Just remembering, he said. I keep waking up, thinking I’m in Rome, and wondering why I haven’t been summoned to perform some duty, trying to understand I’m here now with you. It’s taking time to fix in my mind that I’m not about to be dragged out of my bed to perform for my master. I feel lost and found all at once.

I said, You paid a great price for deserting me; paid with whips and chains and slavery—maybe I should be pleased you suffered so much, that you thought you were clever, but I’m not pleased. What kind of man would I be if I was? I hate it all, what happened to you. So it was all bad?

He turned to me in the darkness and told me, Not all bad. I learned much. I survived with my mind and wit, and my master, the Dominus. I began to do his household accounts, and filched from his coffers for myself, and he never noticed it. But what does a slave spend his filched coin on? Nothing, so I hoarded it in secret places and used it mostly for bribery, tried to buy my freedom, but it came to nothing. As I stole from my dominus, so his other slaves stole from me. Of course, I could not protest this stealing, as the money was my master’s to begin with. It means, my wits, in the end, always came back to bite me, like you said.

I did not move to stop him from speaking, I lay listening to his story, my eyes on his face. He told me: I learned many things; how to cook great Roman meals as you know; and the accounts of course. I learned Greek, along with my Latin—that I already knew. I wrote letters for men from all over the lands; official, and love letters… He laughed and went on, Yet I saw very little of Rome, other than the great Flavium Forum, and that is beyond description, but he tried, and I could not grasp it: a building of such height and immensity, full of war-skilled warriors in battles to the death, only Marc had seen it for himself, and I looked back into the dark night.

I was a catamite, he went on, and took part in the most debauched orgies you cannot even imagine.

Should you tell me? I was trying to sleep; now you’re sitting on my cot in the night and telling me of Roman orgies.

I can stop here. He gave me a grin. Or tell you what I witnessed, and took part in… He looked away again into the dark. Himself dark.

Tell me then, I said, and free yourself of it. We can be done with it all here and now.

That is a fair idea, he said.

So in Marc’s story, as I lay still, he told me of rites to forbidden pagan gods, of orgies where horses were brought in, and women milked the cocks of stallions, and men allowed themselves to be impaled like the women by these horses; where the men of the Romani Church bought and sold little boys for sex like they were out bartering for household goods, and other foul things. I was silent, and sometimes felt sick for the horrors he told me of, that stayed in my mind’s eye and would not leave me.

What could I know of it here in Britain? I was a warrior; I saw battle and death, and the lives of my kinsmen slaughtered to the rage of the invading Saxons, who hated us with passions that matched those of Rome. I threw my arm around Marc’s neck and pulled him down against me and told him to shut his mouth. I held him hard, and feared just how far he had been corrupted by the past he had lived.

Bedwyr, he asked me in the night, and I held him harder. Please, I want your love again, but before even that, I want your forgiveness. Do you forgive me? I cannot live if you do not forgive me.

Why should I go on punishing him when he had been punished enough? Go on being harsh and revengeful, in an indecent world?

I would be decent to him.

I admit it was not easy to forgive him.

It was a test of my own mettle to let go of the humiliation he had once dealt me. I answered, I forgive you. I forgive you, Marc. I cannot go on with you as a lover, but aye, I forgive you…

2

TIME then to visit the Bear, and together Marc and I took out our horses and rode without speaking through the quiet of the winter forest, up the hill-road to Caer Melyn, and all the way, it was quiet. But once the winter sun broke through the frosted clouds and shone down on my face through the bare branches of the oaks, and with the air sweet and clear, with the sight up ahead of wood-smoke from the Bear’s hall, I smiled, and looked at Marc riding at my side; I admit it felt good to have a companion at my side. He followed me up the track to the caer gates, where I reined in, for I saw at once that the Red Dragon banners were not flying at the gate towers.

This meant Arthur was not home.

Not home?

I frowned—surely he would have sent to me if he planned on leaving, or was away on some business of war or council? I called up to the gate-keepers to open for the High Prince, and they did, which was a good sign at least. I rode through with Marc still at my side; I was off my horse in a moment, and was soon met by Arthur’s standing regent, Lord Dywel mab Erbin of the Bear Clan, coming out of the hall to meet me. With him came the hall warden, Rhett; both men met me as I walked up to the hall doors. Dywel bowed to me, as he must, and I said, Where is he then?

If you mean our King Arthur, Dywel answered, he left two days ago to ride north to visit his cousin, Lord Medraut, my lord, and he grinned and bowed to me again.

I glanced at Rhett, who had always been a friend to me; he nodded agreement, then said, Please, my prince, come inside and warm yourself by the hearth-fire, tis a cold day for standing outside on the porch.

Rhett’s better manners and hospitality then showed up the regent, and I followed him inside, where I found the place packed with hard Silurian warriors, none of them I knew to throw glances of welcome at. I looked fast for familiar faces and saw only two: a new recruit, Farrell, and one of the Armorican guard, Bors. Two faces was not enough to ease me, and I felt in danger at once, and yet, I was their king’s foster-brother, and to harm me here, it would see them dead on Arthur’s command, so they welcomed me warmly enough, and ignored Marc, as he was no warrior of any standing and therefore rated no acknowledgement. Still Rhett set about making me at home with the help of his hall wardens, as Dywel invited me to stay for supper this night.

I wondered about it all again with deep unease; that Arthur had gone to visit Medraut and hadn’t bothered to tell me; it was not right, something was seriously out of balance. I settled with Dywel at the head-table, while Marc settled close at a bench on my right. Himself a Silurian, I hoped he would be safe here amongst his clansmen.

Only I turned to Dywel and said, Tell me more of Arthur. He left without letting me know; that’s not like him, regent.

A servant poured me some wine as I spoke, and Dywel, who looked like a bean-stalk, with a head of thick dark curls and savage eyes, began at once to bait me: I only know what I know. He went to visit his cousin and his son. If he did not tell you, Prince Bedwyr, that he was riding north, perhaps it was for a reason. Our Arthur is not one for living without reasons. He left his daughter here for her to bat her eyelashes at you, not that this would sway you to a young woman’s charms, and he said this with a glance at Marc. I almost rose to his bait, but held myself true.

Princess Ffion is here? I said.

Waiting to bat her eyelashes at you, aye, he mocked me again. She resides in her father’s chamber, yonder, batting her eyelashes.

So you keep on saying. Your talk is naught but boring.

He laughed at me, and again with his eyes on Marc, he said, The little princess talks of nothing but you, my lord. Her father has warned her again and again to shut her mouth about it, but I fear she yearns to have a princely Gododdin prick between her virgin thighs, but you will not go there, will you?

I said, Dywel, this is not good talk to a visiting prince, while you stand as Arthur’s regent. Let me remind you of who I am. You can make my stay welcome and warm, but if you keep it cold—

What? What will you do? Run to your powerful foster-brother and whine that you were treated badly by his brothers in his own hall? You can do that, if you like. But it will only make you look a weakling, a milk-sop, running with your fox’s tail between your legs.

Dywel. Easy to insult me while Arthur is not here, so which one of us now is whining?

And I turned to my drink, my heart beating fast for battle.

Look, man, he said. Tis only a little baiting; we grow bored in this life, and in winter, not much to do but hunt and fight. We will not harm you, or else Arthur will impale me on his sword in the worst place possible. You cannot blame us Bears for a little fox-baiting.

Already I felt like leaving again; but said, If you keep on insulting me this way, I can only think you are nothing but a rat scratching on a dung-heap, and not worthy to be Arthur’s regent. I will think it my duty to tell him of what a cur he has chosen to represent him in his absence. Perhaps that might shut your goading mouth; be sweet to me instead.

I said all of this with my eyes locked on his; he gave me a wan smile and said, All right, all right, you win. Short attack, a fine retort, leaving you above me in your power. So be it; your stay here, Prince, will be warm from now on. The games are over.

He stood up then and cried aloud to the hall, A toast to our visiting High Prince Bedwyr! Our great king’s great foster-brother!

He lifted his goblet to me; his men stood up from their benches and toasted me and drank, and I drank with them, hoping that this would be the last of their goading and baiting. I had no intention of upsetting Arthur with the poor quality of his choice of regent, but if Dywel should go back on his word, I would make sure Arthur came home to find this man without his head, so we went on drinking for a while, without any fox-baiting. Instead, Dywel changed like a summer day, from storm to sunshine, and took me around the hall, mugs in hand, to meet his best warriors, and they had more mettle in them than he did.

I had no doubts about the fine quality of these Silurian Bears, for I had met plenty of them before this clan, and they were all sword-able men, but Dywel himself was a weasel, as I thought him. I met men and youths unshielded in their Silurian magic. I turned to Rhett in the late afternoon and ordered him to allow me in to see Princess Ffion, as I believed she alone could tell me of her father’s state of mind. Ffion was encamped in Arthur’s private chamber, outside guarded by Bors and Farrell, herself inside, sewing with a group of young girls as her maids in waiting, and I went in to see her with Marc, for I would not leave him alone to be dogged by Lord Dywel.

As I went in, Ffion jumped to her feet in delight and ran to me; she had grown again, I was sure, her head now almost came to my shoulder and at marriageable age at fifteen years. She was deadly beautiful, and hugged me as I hugged her, kissed her head, and she dismissed her maids and urged me to sit, Marc at my side. At first, she took no notice of him, as her eyes were all for me; and I saw she had lost none of her love-crush that she carried for me. It was not good, especially when there was a hall outside this chamber full of bright and beautiful youths of her own age, if not in status, it could not be helped, but she sat on her sewing stool and gazed at me as if I was an angel, damn it all to hellfire.

I said, Tell me about Arthur, everything. It’s not like him, Ffion, to leave without letting me know, or even inviting me to go with him. He would have me with him at all times, but this time? Tell me what you know. When will he be back? And who did he take with him as his escort? I would have liked to have gone to see Medraut myself.

And I, she cried. I miss my brother, and I’ve never been to Dun Pendyr, or met Uncle Medraut’s son. But Father took a wing of the Clan with him, Afan Du and Drax, Llwyd and Brodi, oh, and the new men, Gwgawn Red-Sword, Drwst Iron-Fist, Uchdryd Cross-Beard and Bors.

I thought again, and she went on, And Father is a mad one though, and just before he left for Dun Pendyr, he sent all of his women away to lodge with my mother in her compound, save me of course; he even sent his precious love, Gwith, away to my mother. I’ll call her back though, as Gwith is pregnant with Father’s new baby, and I want to see this babe born; and he has left me second in command under Lord Dywel, isn’t that wonderful? I have full control of the hall next to that wretch, Dywel, but Lady Gwith and I have grown close; did you know that, my love?

She called me ‘my love’ and it unsettled me, but her news of Arthur sending all his women away unsettled me even more; he would only do such a thing if he was expecting trouble, great trouble. I said nothing, only glanced at Marc, who sat without comment, silent and wondering.

But Ffion went on and on telling me her news, And I’m not allowed to open the gates for my mother; she is barred from Caer Melyn. When she found out that Grandfather Uthyr was buried next to my grandmother, Igrain, she flew into a wild passion and slapped my face, as if it was my doing! So Father banned her from ever coming here again till she brings sincere apologies and true love for him and me.

And here she moved her stool closer to my side.

She whispered, There is talk amongst the warriors that my mother plans to make herself Queen; as if she can overthrow my father. Can my mother command men to love her and lead them into battle? No, of course not, my mother is a witch, and my father is a true king, and she hates him for it. She hates him for burying a Gododdin chieftain in Silurian soil. This is an outrage to her, and Bedwyr, if she knew you were here, I think she would come and slit your throat in the night, so the gates will remain barred against her, on my orders.

And are your orders obeyed? I said.

Her news was something to hear.

Certainly they are, for they are my father’s orders also, but I do not trust that regent, Dywel, and I do not understand why my father made him such. Do you, my love?

Ffion, I said. Stop calling me that, it’s not right, I’m your foster-father, and many years your senior; I’m not your love. But no, I don’t trust this regent. Tell me, do you have news of my son?

She stopped and stared at me a moment, then said, Amren is returned from scouting, and is now out hunting in the hills; he’s safe. He is now my father’s Leader of the Hunt, so please do not worry about him. He is safe here in my lands.

Her lands, and my son was Leader of the Hunt; perfect for Amren. I was not worried about him, and preferred for him to stay in Siluria, rather than in Dogfeiling, where he would be a target for the Hound’s aggression.

I said, That’s good news. Tell Amren, when you see him, I’ll be either here, or gone home. He’ll know how to find me, if he needs me.

So, you will stay for a while? Her look was hopeful on me.

For a while, I said.

But it was Arthur again, who took my thoughts.

I asked her, You never said when he plans to be back. Ffion? As now she was staring at Marc, perhaps measuring his worth.

I told her, Marc is my companion, groom and servant. Now, Ffion? Please, tell me everything you know.

Marc had stirred when I called him my servant, and Ffion still stared at him, then back to me as she said, He will be home next winter; he’ll be gone all year. I hate it when he goes away, as I want to spend more time with him now that I’m a woman, it will be me who is his heir and not my brother. I will be Queen of the Silures one day. I want to learn the Way of the Sword, for he told me that a sword must never be wielded ignobly, but only for Right Action and Justice; to never draw sword in ignoble spite, merely to kill, but only to defend what is good, and pure, and just. He said that even our enemies have things to say on their side, and we must hear this first, before drawing up for battle. I wish he was home now.

I believed Ffion was indeed a fitting heir to Arthur’s kingdom, more so than her strange brother, Llacheu, who was more like Medraut, a silent deadly and unknown force. I wish he was here too, I soothed her. Ffion, I need to have Rhett make my lodge ready. Marc and I’ll stay here a few more days, till I decide which course to take next. In the spring, I’ll go and bring your father home.

Oh please, aye, bring him home this spring; he’ll listen to you. I’ll get your lodge ready myself.

And she was up and marching to the door to give out orders, beautiful in her command, and I could easily see her with a sword at her hip, directing men to battle. Her face that of her father’s in female form, aye, Ffion was a leader, and I trusted her like I had never trusted any woman before her, save my beloved Clodia. So it was I took Marc with me to my lodge, and I said to him as we went, I hope you understand this world you’ve come back to, Marc. It’s gone wild and mad. And I fear Arthur has slipped his rein.

In this room, there was only one bed, and this was mine. Marc took the cot at the rear of the lodge, and we talked together about how we looked to the world beyond us. For already the men here believed Marc and I were rutting each other. I did not like it, but had to suffer it.

3

WE woke late to lashing and driving rain; the kind that turned the hills to violent waterfalls and veiled the forest in heavy drenching mists. I was up first and opened the door to see nothing was moving outside, or else be drowned. The wind lashed with the rain, and I pushed the door closed again, knowing that nothing would walk out this day, so there was nothing for it but to build up the brazier and go back to bed. Marc was still fast in his own dreams, as I lay and dreamt of Arthur.

Where was he now?

With the Snake, high on a hilltop, with the wind and the crows and the hill-sheep, and the mists.

He was in the beaming rays of sunlight through the clouds; he was in the mountain passes, perhaps plotting one last time, for one last attempt to repel the Saxons with his great sword-arm of defence, and I was determined to join him in the spring.

Thus we stayed bound in the lodge till Marc got up naked to rekindle the fire in the brazier lest it go out; I watched him at his work from my place on my back and propped up by sheepskin bolsters, wrapped in woollen blankets and furs; watched him build up the fire and then turn to look at me.

His gaze was dark for one with such light eyes of blue, and there was a rake of wolfish nature in him now, and I knew then, that out of all of us, Marc, the one who was the most innocent, he stood now as the one who had been corrupted the most, and he made my heart beat harder to see him naked and raw and corrupted. And when he sat naked on the edge of the cot at my side, and took my gaze, he reached out and drew the matted curls of my hair back off my face. He laughed.

I don’t think you ever comb your hair, do you? he said rightly enough.

Never. I gave that up years ago.

I swear you age beautifully, and you are not too fat for a warrior.

I laughed at his words, Don’t be foolish. I’m still lean as a fox, hard as a wolf, and hungry as one too. I have years still in me of battle, but I weary of it. I can still out-run, out-fight and out-hunt most men ten years younger, and my cock stands up stiff at the mere thought of something tight to thrust it into. My balls are loaded, man.

He laughed, as if he did not believe me.

I told him, I am indestructible, so you can beat me till I am raw and bleeding on the floor, but I’ll get up from it and tear your head from your shoulders, somehow, and I shoved him hard with my single hand, and we laughed for a moment till someone came pounding on my lodge door: it was the hall warden, Rhett, calling that he had brought us some breakfast, as we had not fronted into the hall this morning, and so here it was now, brought to our door.

I told Marc to go and open for Rhett, and he did my bidding; dressed fast and went to open the door on a foul sky of drenching rain and blustering wind, stepped back on the step and in came Rhett, and following him, Ffion, catching me naked under the skins.

But like Ffion to be, she showed no sign of anything other than the cold of the rain on her heavy ermine cloak, and complained about that, as she stood by the brazier and let the warden place our breakfast down on the table, and there take off its cover, leaving us two steaming bowls of porridge, and honey and bread, and milk and ale, or whatever it was that he had piled onto the tray. And all I did was stare at the princess for catching me in my pit, myself trying to think of a way to get my breeches on without getting out onto the cold floor and showing her the naked state of my own self.

But I saw a smile cross her beautiful lips, and she said, No need to feel caught-out, my lord. I am well-versed in naked rutting men to deal with, my own father being one of them. I have caught him many times, locked loins and naked with his girls. My only regret is I am still unwed.

And for this, she eyed me.

I’ll not get up then, I said. But Ffion, there are no rutting men in here. I’ll just stay here naked, if you don’t mind, my lady, but this is my pit, and you are standing here, why? Good that it is to see you.

She answered with another stare, this time at Marc, who was about to sit and eat his porridge. To me she said, So, will you not marry me, Bedwyr? Now that Clodia is gone and you are wife-less, will you not marry me? I’m of age now. Or who else will I marry? And I love only you.

I told her, Ffion, you are young and have a love-crush on me, your father’s best warrior; you love me because you love your father. One day you will meet him, your true love, but it is not me. I’m not going to marry you. I’m not going to marry ever again.

I will marry you, she said back, without a sign that she had listened to my words at all. I will marry you one day. You are all that is beautiful to me, prince.

She made me laugh this time with her imperious words, just like her father; and I wondered if she would like to see me naked. Scarred soul and body with battle-wounds from neck to ankle. I reasoned that if I went naked and stood next to her, she would fall back in horror. But I decided against it, as she was Ffion; she would not even baulk at having my naked cock displayed in her face. And like Arthur, she would probably enjoy it, so I withheld it. And she knew it, and came to me and sat down, though first taking my neglected porridge and brought it to me, spoon in hand with every intention of feeding it to me, for she knew I could not hold the bowl and spoon at the same time. And with Marc sitting at table for his, Ffion sat at my side and began to think she would spoon-feed me.

I said, What are you doing, Ffion? Are you so bored with this place that you need me to entertain you with my single handedness? Put the bowl on that table there at my side, I can feed myself.

Oh, please! she pleaded with me. Tis only a little fun, and she said this with all a woman’s randiness. I would show her randy. I got up, naked, and stood before her, and took my bowl of uneaten porridge out of her hand; turned and put it down on the little table at my side; took the spoon from her as well, took a chair, and still naked, sat down to eat. Here Ffion stared at me, stared at my cock. The naked and skin-branded stump of my left arm. I ate my porridge without care, for she had walked into my lair, and I knew she was strong enough to battle whatever she found before her: she was Arthur’s daughter after all, she was a queen in the forging, a true warrior-woman.

And I said to her, I’ll not marry you, Ffion.

You will, one day. She sounded breathless.

Then you’ll be waiting till you’re an old maid, childless, and I don’t think your father will be happy at not having any grandchildren from you.

And who will he marry me to, if not you?

She would not admit defeat! I eyed her, and Marc got up to pile more fuel on our fire. He stood before it, prodding it with the iron prong; we looked at each other and he smiled a wry smile.

I said, You will marry some Silurian stallion of the stock of inside that hall; a lad from Strong-Arm’s stock, I should think. I am Gododdin.

Then it would be a good marriage to you. She smiled with all delight. A marriage alliance between we Silures, and you Gododdin. Our children will be my father’s grandchildren, uniting our two nations: what could be a more perfect match? And I love you already, so it will be no forced marriage for me.

And what about me? I said. Do I have a say in this marriage? I am almost thirty-nine, my lady. Ffion, how old do I have to be before you see sense? I sat back in my chair, porridge all gone, drank some ale, bit off a mouthful of bread, waiting for her to answer.

Again she did not baulk. Her eyes were first locked on mine, then wandered down to what I had hidden under the table.

She said, I think that at the end of each and every day, if you were in my arms and between my legs, mine to love, alone, at night in the cold, like it is today, it would be perfect.

And that was too much for me. I had given her her head, and now I took it back. I’ll listen no more to your girlish foolishness, Ffion. I say you should leave us now. Or else, stay here and be quiet. Firm I spoke, enough to rein her in, as I could see she was full of her father’s power and used it without control. I told her when she did not reply, Why did you come here this morning? Just to goad me? See me naked? Why?

To be with you, she answered lowly. I had hurt her, finally. And to tell you of something I remember Father saying to me, before he left. I am sorry, my lord. I know you think me rude, but we Silures are rude. Forthright. I am sorry for pressing you too hard.

Her head went down in shame.

And I felt my nakedness now. I moved to get dressed and Marc moved to help me. As I did, Ffion kept her eyes down.

And I said, So what did Arthur say to you before he left?

She did not speak again till I came to her and she saw me clothed. She looked up at me. He spoke strange words. He said he was going to visit a coward. That it took a brave man no great courage to visit with a coward, but it must be done. Then he said that you will come. ‘Bedwyr will come’, he said, and nothing more. It made no sense to me, not then and not now.

I frowned.

Visit with a coward? I repeated. I don’t understand that myself. If he means Medraut; no, Medraut is no coward and never has been, and Arthur knows that, so who did he mean?

I looked at Marc this time. He shrugged at me, as if he would know. I looked back at Ffion. I said, And he left me no letter, no orders, no explanations, and no farewells, and he said, I will come…come where? Here? Did he mean for me to look after you? If he thinks that, I cannot. I have to go home to my own—to my own cantref.

I could give her no more than this, and I was wild at Arthur for leaving us this way. Ffion was not my daughter to care for, not here in her own homelands at least, and yet I still feared for her safety. But Ffion rescued me from such worries herself.

Lord Dywel is charged to look out for me; he isn’t really such a bad dog, only annoying and goading. I have good matrons to look over me, and the men are my sworn defenders and champions. I am in no danger here.

I thought this good, gave a laugh, and she looked at me, But what of yourself? This is the safest place in all the land for me, but for you, I know the threat of King Maelgwn Gwynedd; he is a threat to you, my lord, and you say you are going home.

I know it—Maelgwn plans to bite off my balls and roast them along with myself over a spit.

Quick of wit, she began to laugh and said, Then ball-less, you would not be much good as a husband to me!

With or without my balls, I am not marrying you. Time for you to leave, my lady.

She stood up now to face me.

We stood together and she wrapped herself in her cloak, and before leaving, she said, Kiss me but once, and come to supper tonight in the hall. I insist. The more you hide in here with Marc, the more the warriors will bait you for it; they think you and he are rutting. You must face them at supper.

I took her to the door and said, I’m not afraid of your pack of flea-ridden Bears; the bear-baiting will be mine, and I’m not going to kiss you.

She curtsied to me instead, and ran off into the howling rain. I pushed the door closed and sighed in relief. Ffion, worthy heir to her father, was already powerful to deal with and she exhausted me. I was forced to go sit with Marc all day before our brazier. And left in time for supper in the hall, and when the two of us entered, it brought all the gathered warriors to silence.

There was less of them now than the night before, but enough to chill the air as they stared at me as I walked in, Marc at my side. I stopped and stared back at them, challenging them to challenge me. They did not, would not. I went to join with Lord Dywel at the head-table, where sat Ffion with a pack of matrons to one side, overseeing her welfare. Bors and Farrell were at the main doors and they nodded to me: