The Heirs of Britain - Game Fourteen

 

The Heirs of Britain

Session 14: 484, A Daring Counterattack!

 

__________ Session 14: 484, Parisium __________ 

The forces of Logres take stock of their disposition: Earl Roderick's muster is absent over a third of its knights, and nigh all its footmen. Sir Elad's men have been decimated: Those who remain still bear injuries, even after Merlin's magic. Roderick's own eschille has lost only one: The Huntsman Sir Golistan. No-one saw him fall, and no body has been recovered. His son, Uvan, is nearby; still a squire, and now without a knight. Sir Vandagild speaks with him: The young Pict is distraught; he knows his father is missing, but he didn't see him fall; he looked but couldn't find him! His lament becomes a mess of despairing words. Vandagild grips his shoulder and holds his eye, telling him this: Golistan is a smart man, and a good hunter; he probably escaped into the woods. Besides: Given the faewrought deathtrap we’re about to ride into, that is probably for the best. We’ll find him after the battle; be strong, Uvan. He claps his shoulder.

Uvan nods, and grits his jaw.

Alas: Many men have lost their squire. Thus, Sir Vandagild looks to find a new Knight for his young brother-in-law. During the search, the Aquitanian hears word: Roderick calls forth for all squires over 18; he wishes to Knight them!

Elvorix's hears this, and fetches Porkins - he is nineteen.

The Roman tells him sternly: “Porkins! We need knights; I think ye ready.”

He slaps the young lad sharply: “Thus lands the last slap of mine; get thee out there!”

Porkins steps forth to join Uvan and the gathering youths.

Iwan holds his own Uthred back; the lad is only just 18, and he feels him not ready.

The Earl brusquely knights a number of squires; it is unceremonious. He races out a shortened version of the oath, taps them with his sword, and moves on. There is no slap; no white robe; no spurs; no shield. There is only Roderick, still blooded and dusty, working down the line of kneeling young men. Their baptism will be in a shower of Saxon blood.

Sir Vandagild steps to Uvan and takes his forearm as an equal; “Sir Uvan” he says, nodding with a slight smile.

Uvan grips back firmly, and pulls the Aquitanian in for a hearty hug; "Yes, Sir!"

The Pictish knight smiles, nods, and jogs off to his prepare his arms; he lacks full maille, and his horse is no charger, but he readies as best he can.

For the most part, the new knights are placed in the eschille of their fallen lords. Nonetheless, Earl Roderick shuffles some of the men around.

Sir Uvan and Sir Porkins will ride with the Wolves of Logres.

Alas, with Sir Amig dead in the field, the eschille lacks a commander. Roderick approaches the gathered men. Vandagild, expecting an imminent death, is in the midst of thanking his companions for being good friends and noble knights, and other such morbid gratitudes. They stand in attending silence as the Earl approaches.

“Sir Iwan; step forward” he states, with natural authority.

He does.

The Earl takes the handsome knight firmly by the shoulder; "Sir Iwan: Be’est thou a loyal man, and one who acts nobly and wise in the crucible of battle. I have need of thee to take honest care of these men this night; and yea, in the battles ahead.”

He holds Iwan’s gaze, until the latter nods, lowering his eyes in modesty.

“Be’est this no question; but a command. I expect of thee fine work. Do thy King proud."

“Yes my Lord. Of course.”

He lingers but a moment, nods, and moves quickly on; to another eschille, to elevate another man. The losses were great.

Sir Vandagild, grinning, brings wine to Sirs Iwan and Elvorix; he takes Iwan's arm, and congratulates him on his promotion.

"Iwan! A fine knight be thee, and a level head. Hear now: I am proud of thee; I am proud to ride under thee. Let thy greatness shine, sir Knight!”

The Aquitanian sighs, half smiling, “Alas! Be it a terrible shame that this will be our last time fighting as one; for we are all cursed to die this eve! I spit on the fae, and that wretched shapeshifter Merlin! I spit on the Saxons they have ensorcelled unto their cruel designs! Hah! Still, take our humble lives they may, but untouched will be my honour to die riding with thee!"

Sir Elvorix claps his new leader on the back: "Ye will lead us directly into heaven, my friend!"

Vandagild laughs, and raises his drink to that; Iwan purses his lips, unsure how to take it; he smiles, shakes his head softly, and raises his own wine.

__________ A Light in the Dark __________

Reviewing the army more broadly, it looks, unbelievably, like Salisbury has fared better than most: Many forces of the Logres muster are severely depleted. There are almost no footmen anywhere; they did not fare well in the retreat.

King Uther orders the campfires quenched; the night is dark. Yet, as we form, the moon becomes bright, and brighter, illuminating our passage. Sir Vandagild spies the silver orb with suspicion, but then softens: He has been praying for God’s grace and guidance, and the Holy Lord has seen fit to bring light to fight in this dark time. He smiles now: His final hour will be bathed in God’s light. Fitting. He dares not consider too long the chance that some Fae sorcery that brings mocking brightness to their woeful deaths...

The forces gather, arrayed on their eager steeds. Uther trots out before them, gathering the attention of his force with a simple gesture:

"Men! Harken thy King! We did ride forth from our warm, fertile homes to relieve hapless Eburacum; but, this eve, we now ride to bring mercy and rescue to our cruelly enslaved brothers, and captured sons! Nay, Knights! Bear not this insult of Saxon captivity; bear not the vile treachery of the sick, Saxons dogs!"

Uther draws his sword, thrusting it high, roaring: “Men! Treat now thy foe like thy would any sickened hound: PUT THEM DOWN!”

He turns his steed and spurs the mighty beast into the moonlight! With a mighty shout, the forces of Logres spur behind him, enveloping him into their implacable unity. The mass of emboldened cavalry tramples down the steady slope of Mount Damon, all eyes on the oblivious Saxons, comfortably encamped in the town of Parisium below.

Keen-eyed Vandagild scans the scene cautiously, in front and the flanks: He is suspicious of hidden Fae and Saxons in the trees and woodline... Nonetheless, he spies well the village from atop his cantering mount; "Sir Iwan, look hence! The foe are clumsy with drink, and still deep in their revelry!”

Sir Elvorix: "Hah! Well they will be drinking deeply of my sword in but a moment!"

__________ Vengeance! __________
 

Soon, the terrific thunder of the charging force alerts the most proximal Saxons. The silver moonlight bathes the terrible formation of knights in argent monochrome; the blacks and greys of the reaper, splashed heavily on men maddened by vengeance. Lances come low, a savage wave of iron death set with practised precision before a steaming, heaving mass of horseflesh. Men snarl in silence, each picking their floundering target among the panicked invaders. Eyes narrow, bringing the bringers of death to a predator’s focus.

Though they outnumber the British men greatly, the Saxons are caught unawares. As best able, they assemble a thin line; it is weak, disordered, and arrayed only in time for each man to thread himself on a British lance.

At full gallop, The Wolves of Logres thunder ‘cross a moonlit field. Iwan has his target well chosen; the enemy are drunk and disorganised. The devastating knights slam into a wavering rank of Saxon Warriors in blue cloaks; they have neither shirts nor armour; clutching only their long spears with hapless determination.

The impact is shocking; brutal; annihilating. In seconds the line is shattered, broken men, spurting guts, rent skulls, transfixed bodies; each are trampled beneath the war-machine of Logres, crushed mercilessly into the silvery earth by the unyielding hooves of British chargers.

Elvorix and Vandagild's hatred of Saxons roars forth before their steel rips through unarmoured flesh. The Roman’s lance rips through a Saxon chest, tearing organs free, killing the man at once. Iwan too cuts through the line, his lance punching through his foe's gut and bursting out the back. Sir Vandagild, seeking vengeance for Amig's death, aims his lance true: It punches through his foe's face, ripping the man's head in half; the weapon splinters like the man’s ruined skull.

The Wolves are little hindered by the hastily formed defence; they slice rapidly through the Saxon line and deeper into the town. New lines of stumbling Saxons form to oppose, but horns also blare within the town: Beyond these doomed foemen, Saxons start to retreat! In the moments between the next engagement, Atticus rides to Sir Vandagild, he brings him a fresh lance; moreover, tied to his saddle are the reins of stray Rouncy! The Aquitanian, impressed, throws quick praise at the young Roman squire, takes the lance and bids the boy secure their prize.

So armed, Iwan once more spurs his eschille forward. The devastation of the terrible charge was understandably intimidating; the second wavering line of Saxons shatters in terror before the Wolves reach it! Still; another unit of spearmen has formed behind it; but this extra space gives Sir Iwan the space to order a charge! The loyal man brings to his heart the Good Earl Roderick, who not hours gone promoted him to commander! Sirs Elvorix and Vandagild, each glance to their glorious friend, leading a crushing assault on their hated for: They are inspired by the bold leadership of their good friend and companion!

 

Once more, Sir Elvorix's lance lays low his foe! His horse leaps cleanly over the weakly arrayed Saxon spears; the crushing weight of the beast’s descent is headed by his reddened lance! It impales his Saxon foe and the earth beneath him before snapping at the hilt; transfixed! Once more, Sir Vandagild punches his lance through a Saxon skull! Once more, Sir Iwan guts a foe with his deadly lance. Once more, the knights crush irresistibly through the enemy formation. Before them, the tide of battle is clear: The Saxons flee, already in full route, scattering for the surrounding woods and into the silvery night!

Sir Vandagild, still wary, spies the buildings and hills for hidden ballista and ambushing Saxons... he does not see any, though he is confident they lurk. Still, his eyes flick rapidly about him, searching desperately for secret elves and treachery… 

Sir Iwan’s strong voice snaps him to order; “Ride them down! Kill them all!” he roars, a rare display of passion and power from the humble man. The Wolves need no further encouragement: The eschille disarrays as each man’s whim or fury takes him; The fields are thick with flighty Saxons!

For his hunt, Sir Elvorix catches many men! The tall Roman cuts down a handful of warriors, though he catches a stray spearhead in his urgent pursuit! The mighty Roman has slain three Saxons; he ends his pursuit tracking an elusive javelineer near the treeline.

Sir Iwan is more careful, cleanly killing three more Saxons; his finest effort nets another Blue-cloaked veteran. He rides with precision, slowing to try catch sight of his disarrayed men…

Meanwhile Sir Vandagild, fully prepared for his own death and full of his hunter’s guile, is a rampaging wolf among the Saxon rabbits. He rounds a grove, manoeuvring his charger, Deadwind, like a courser; directly into the Saxon Rearguard!

The Fae! Curse thee! Here, now, is the end! The ambush is sprung, he thinks, and now these Saxons demons grin their inhuman grins, thinking here, now, they have their outmatched prize.

The Aquitanian snarls, roars and spurs his mount harder; “Fiends! Meet thy own end in thy quest for this noble blood! DIE!”

The hunter is sorely outnumbered, but fights still with deadly intent against these well-disciplined foe! He flicks his shield without a thought, battering aside a javelin, and whips his sword in a low arc: The hurler’s headless body crumples in a sanguine fountain! To his left, a pair of well-drilled Saxon guardsmen thrust their spears in a precise, well-practised assault. The rangy knight defends with instinct alone, while his long blade thrusts like a piston through the throat of one, slashing out one side and through the unarmoured rib of the second! Without turning, he ducks on some secret impulse, a whisper from God; a long-axe sweeps over his back, swung with deadly-force by some unholy cultist of the Saxon elite: A hulking man, a great horse-skull hanging from his shoulders! The Aquitanian knights whips up and around in his saddle; a ferocious back-cut gaining furious haste: It hacks into the Saxon’s neck, wedging deep in his spine and loosing a torrent of steaming blood into the cool night air. The man falls like a puppet, gasping once; twice. A heroic victory over an overwhelming foe!

Vandagild roars his glory and rage; leaning with his long blade, he slips free the Horse-Skull icon, knotting it quickly to his pommel. He scans for more hated Fae or Saxons…

“Come, Demons! Come now, and reap thy just rewards! Think thee Sir Vandagild easy prey for thy unholy conspiracies!? Nay! I see thee, Saxon! Think not to hide from such vengeful wrath as thy has earned! Hyah!!!”

Several more javelineers, seeing this horrifying display of knightly death, flee swiftly into alleys and coppices; sequestering in their cowardice before any can taste the Aquitanian’s blade.

But his hunt is not over: Emboldened, fearless, and vengeful, he will kill such Saxons this day as he can before their fae powers take him. A Veteran Elite Heorthgeneat is next to fall, and a cowering Shield Warrior follows. Still, the energetic hunter spurs his steed without care! Atticus follows nearby, calling out whatever Saxons he sees!

Alas! Once more Sir Vandagild clatters his powerful mount into a vengeful and well-ordered formation of Saxon Rearguard!

A mix of javelineers, spearmen, and more Veteran Elite Heorthgeneats crush around him; blades and spears clatter against his shield, as his own sword seeks Saxon flesh.

“Atticus!” he shouts, “I will fight free; We ride next for Sir Iwan! He wi-” –

Blackness;

Nothingness.

__________ Squirelord Atticus! __________

Listening intently, the Roman boy, Atticus, watches a Saxon javelineer leap from a Parisium balcony: The agile demon clutches in his hand is a sharp, lengthy spear; not the typical javelins of these dishonourable skirmishers. He sails slowly through the chilled air, a deadly, silver acrobat set against a cold, back sky. The spearhead glints in the argent light; it is thrust like a ballista, and the manic Saxon’s aim does not fail.

The Roman boy watches his knight’s head slowly turn left. His sturdy shield deflects a low blow from a Heorthgeneat as Deadwind kicks free of the press; the knight turns, just timely for the impossible silver weapon to plunge into his cheek, spraying noble blood across a nobler steed; red splashes punctuate the ashen vista!

The knight limpens in his saddle; the agile Saxon thuds to the earth, rolling with the impact, finishing in a balanced crouch. Mud engulfs him as Deadwind heaves, broad hooves sending earth flying: the great steed bursts free of the ambush! Sir Vandagild tilts senselessly, slowly slipping…

Atticus, cousin of Elvorix, is there at once, gripping the knight’s tabard and heaving him upright in his saddle. The man’s face is a mess; a red deluge washes from his rent orbital, bright red on moonlit grey. Atticus steers his own horse, ducking another flung javelin, turning to the flank of Deadwind and leading the mighty charger from the battle. His steady young hand keeps Vandagild in his saddle until they reach Sir Iwan, who has reformed with some of the other men.

Atticus calls to Sir Iwan for aid. The Saxon rearguard do not pursue the fleeing squire.

He still leads the captured Rouncey.

__________

A black limbo; haunting sounds and spectres of grief. Twisted words; songs of British men sung in elvish tongues; the language is true but the meaning false.

Fate.

Fate and Hatred.

The screams of a lance in a desperate man; the miserable, childlike whimpers of the dying; the awful sound of the gutted, too terrible to be inhuman. A beautiful face; a sly smile that does not reach amber eyes; the terrible gnashing of teeth; dread; despair; slavering fangs.

A light.

Low in the sky, forever; there is no darkness wherein the grief can hide. It is here, always now.

The foul stench of ruined bodies; too long left untended; too far from God. A sea of faceless tears; searching; insane with hope; an aegis against the unknowable truth. Teats, Fate, and Hatred.

The light pulses; throbbing; pulsing; throbbing. Pain? Cold, pain; shuddering.

The light dims, everywhere but there: It is bright; warm; enticing.

The light dims. But the new light is God. And God is good.

Throbbing; pulsing; shuddering; cold; pain; hatred.

A gasp, pained and twisted; new blood runs free.

The priest turns, hardened eyes and bloodied hands; these he rests on the knight before him.

“Easy. Safe are thee, Sir Knight; easy. Rest. Drink of this, Sir, I beg thee. By grace of God; praise be his Holiness: Thank thee for thy mercy.”

__________ Fae Treachery __________

The Saxons are routed. By fate or fortune, many good men are recovered from Saxon captivity: with the decisive victory, and the shock of the British assault, the Saxons could not make off with them. Among the rescued are the twins: the tall, handsome Sir Vandar and Vandred. Among the dead are: Sir Golistan, huntsman of Salisbury; the Steward of Salisbury; Sir Rowan, Iwan’s brother; many others.

Still: The Saxons have left a wealth of food, supplies and loot; there is more than enough for the army, and the surviving knights each receive a hearty portion of loot!

King Uther bids the army rest in Parisium; the Saxons defeated, he takes an entourage to see the Centurion King at Eburacum.

A few days later, a rider rushes into the camp, bee-lining for the tents of Salisbury. The man begs for the Earl Roderick and, so presented, gives him a missive.

The Earl unfolds the letter, scanning it quickly. His face goes dark; stonefaced; devoid of emotion.

A few moments pass; he calls for his council. He is not seen for the rest of the day. Indeed, he spends much of the next few days his tent with his senior men. Sir Elad, repeatedly, steps from the tent. He counts and re-counts the number of Salisbury Knights.

A day or two later, the King returns: He informs the gathered knights that they are free to return home. So dismissed, the Earl gathers the men of Salisbury, addressing everyone: While we were away in this land, the Summerlanders attacked. Per incoming reports, they've taken more than just our contested lands. They currently lay siege to Castle Deviziers on the border. This is of course an outrage: Summerland has no claim to it.

The Earl continues: “I see not now, nor did I see whence, one Summerland knight in this fateful battle. Truly, I know not what that…. What Cadwy said to our King, but it seems he was not subject to the same muster as we…”

“Alas. God has heard this: Greatly do I wish to march back through cursed Summerland and take what is ours; but we are in no condition. Spoken, have I, with Duke Ulfius; he has granted us passage through the Vale to return to our lands. But I bid thee, good knights: Upon our return, do keep thee a watchful eye for Summerland incursions deeper into Salisbury proper. You have each fulfilled your duties, and have fought well here. Though you are dismissed, I humbly request willing and able volunteers to bolster our garrisons on the Summerland front. This has been a great victory, but we must remain vigilant on our return home.”

Elvorix stands to cheer for Earl Roderick’s wisdom, and for our victory in Parisium; he seeks to inspire other Knights to join him! Alas, his mood is not met.

__________ Summerland Garrison __________

Sir Vandagild, badly wounded, regains his senses in the care of holy men. Sirs Iwan and Elvorix still attend him, and thus he hears the many details of the battle and Summerland.

In his moments alone, the Aquitanian considers the unlikely victory at Parisium, and his brush with death. The wound under his eye heals well enough, though he hears there was some trouble with the chirurgery. He touches it gingerly; it will leave gnarled scar.

Perhaps the Fae curse was his alone to bear? Yet still: The Demon Merlin has betrayed them all, these good men of Logres, by withholding knowledge of the ambush. He wracks his brain, but he cannot devise the evil schemes of that unholy creature. Still: Though he knows not the demon’s schemes, he is sharp and vigilant. He will discover them, and he will thwart them. 

Hearing of the Summerland garrisons and their predictable, faewrought betrayal, the Aquitanian tells Elvorix to send message to the Earl: He will volunteer as soon as he can fight! He wishes Vengeance on the abject, dishonorbale and fae-twisted Summerland scum. Laughing, Sir Elvorix puts a finger to Vandagild's lips "Now now, Vandagild; nay did I muster half of this kingdom to save thee from that tower, only for thee to die of sepsis. Rest. Glad, am I, that ye yet live."

Vandagild rants more about the wretched Fae Summerlanders, his injured voice spewing with hate; he coughs wretchedly, and once more Elvorix hushes him, bidding him not rip his bandages.

A short while later, Elvorix’s cousin, Atticus, attends his wounded Lord. Vandagild thanks the young Roman him for saving him from the battle, once more commending him for his resourceful acquisition of a Rouncey on the battlefield. He will gift the beast to the Earl Roderick, and credit Atticus with its capture.

With Vandagild stable and recovering, Sirs Elvorix and Iwan volunteer for Garrison, to the gratitude of their Lord. Alas: They learn that before the gathered forces could return to Salisbury, Castle Deviziers had fallen. The Castellan has not been heard of nor seen since, nor any of the other garrison Knights. Woe!

Earl Roderick commands a garrison set up in the manors nearby: Upaven and West Lavington; these lands are held by Sir Hywell. Summerland scouts and raiders probe the defences, but nothing unmanageable. The two Wolves of Logres man their stations and ride their patrols.

On one such patrol, Sir Elvorix rides a patrol, he notices an unusual amount of Summerlands troop movements; Summerland is to the north of his position, but many of their troops seem to be guarding the woods nearby to the west. The Roman reports this to Sir Elad; he explains that he suspects they might be preparing an attack from that direction. Sir Iwan too has spotted these men, but he also reports movements and campfires within the forest. He consults with Elvorix, who did not see these things. The handsome Iwan, ever suspicious of Fae trickery, starts rambling about the fae magic, and the wisps in the woods...

Ignoring Iwan’s mumbling discontent, Sir Elad is concerned: we haven't been able to get a solid count of their men. They're all over the place. He shakes his head in frustration and dismisses the Roman; Sir Elvorix thanks Sir Elad and leaves.

__________ Sarum and Salisbury __________

Soon enough, the knights are each afforded time in their own manors. The famously hardy Vandagild heals soon enough, thanks to God and the hard work of the court chirurgeons; the scar on his face, joining that from his encounter with a bear in his youth, does little favour to his visage.

Soon, from Sarum, word comes: The new Countess Ellen has given birth! God has granted the Earl a healthy daughter; she is named Jenna. There is a celebration at Sarum; the joy is somewhat subdued given the losses of men and land.

Alas! One more blow to the Salisbury morale yet awaits the luckless Earl. At the feast, we hear rumour from Levcomagus: tale spreads of the Six Knights who stood against an army, and the cowardice of Earl Roderick! The folk of that city, lorded by the wretched coward Sir Blains, have begun to sing songs of the six knights who told Earl Roderick to go home in the Spring. Worse still, they are profoundly catchy… Woe!

Regardless of opinion, some part of truth insists that Sir Blains has done a remarkable job in Levcomagus; it has grown from an unimportant town into a popular and rising city. Sir Iwan, for his part, believes the men of Salisbury ought to reverse this ascendence. Vandagild hates the man, and agrees wholeheartedly. Sir Elvorix thinks the plan fine, but we would need a declaration of war. Many other knights overhear the conversation, and chime in with boisterous agreeance:

“Yea! Send forth the Wolves of Logres to Levcomagus! Let them see the teeth of whom they scorn!”

Sir Porkins, Elvorix's former squire, calls loudly! "Yea! Yea, verily! Let us go forth in force; force feed those dogs a taste of this Salisbury “cowardice!” Hurrah!"

Though his young voice carries well through the hall, there is a following silence; Earl Roderick stares, his hand raised in a demand for silence, and obedience.

The man’s voice is measured, and stern: "I will hear not another word of Levcomagus until the year's end. That is enough."

The mood sobers. Sir Vandagild take’s stock: We have conflict with the Saxons, Summerland and Levcomagus. We have lost land, and our forces are depleted. We are truly in no position to make this move; still, the thought satisfies the soul.

The Roman, Sir Elvorix speaks boldly: "Yea, that is the obvious, prudent choice, My Lord. Our straits are dire ones; our country’s forces on the verge of collapse from the bloody battlefields of Eburacum; we must each see to our own lands before we can pursue more conflict!”

A brief silence.

"And as for he who would disagree with our Lord on this matter; that man will have to answer to me!" He follows, standing, and surveying the hall.

More silence.

Earl Roderick; his voice a rock once more: "Sir Elvorix. If thy opinion was wanted, it would have been requested. Now; sit thyself; and eat."

The men eat; each quietly considers his own troubles, weighing them against those of Salisbury and their neighbours.

Quiet conversation eventually resumes: Sir Iwan regrets routing our forces through Summerland; he wishes instead we had burned Levcomagus when we had the chance. Sir Vandagild shrugs: We were beset by hated foes on all sides; and by obligation marched our knights elsewhere. A consequence was inevitable. Moreover; the Aquitanian expresses some satisfaction that his suspicion of the fae-loving Summerlanders was vindicated; now every man will know them for the dishonorable knaves they are. He looks forward to bringing them battle.

The feast resolves; knights are dismissed and return home.

__________ The Homefront __________

Sir Vandagild invites Sir Uvan, now a knight, to dine at the former’s manor of Winterbourne Gunner. The young Pict is unsure of himself; he doesn't feel confident in his new position. He doesn't feel he should be Lord of a manor; he doesn’t feel he can fill his father's shoes. Worse, says Uvan: Roderick has chosen a commoner as the huntsman to replace Sir Golistan; not Sir Uvan, nor even Sir Vandagild! The Aquitanian is gentle, compassionate; he tells his friend that his father’s role as Huntsman was greater than dogs and deer; the position is complex, and requires a wealth of military and political experience. This new commoner-huntsman will not be on the council; Golistan was. He assures Uvan that, in time, the young Pict will earn his role by Roderick’s side. He believes in him, but times are too tense to have a bright young pup like Uvan in the council; Vandagild smiles, shrugs, and offers the lad more wine.

Uvan is grateful; the two men drink and eat in easy camaraderie.

They talk of grief; first Catrin, and now Golistan, are lost to them both. Vandagild is freshly heavy for the latter; he had thought himself redeemed after working hard to atone for his dishonourable entanglement with Lady Catrin; but then she died. As his heart broke, so too his relationship with Golistan. He speaks, mostly to himself, lamenting that he had not smoothed things with the Pictish Huntsman earlier. He thought it just needed time; he thought he had time.

Uvan is kind: He doesn’t blame Vandagild; not for his sister’s death, and not for his father’s wrath. He doesn’t believe the Aquitanian cursed.

The Pict sighs, sliding a tankard of ale across the table; “Sir Iwan, on the other hand… He is cursed. No doubt” he adds, with a laugh and wry smile.

“Poor fellow.”

Vandagild takes the drink, chuckling, and rocks back in his chair; “Yea. Poor Iwan. Truly, I feel some sadness for that. That cursed Beaver, Uvan… my rage hath no bounds. Lord above! Uvan, harken once more: I do hate that Beaver. God, do I hate it.” They laugh, each knowing well that monster’s sneaky wrath.

“Aaah. Yea. Poor Iwan. All aside; Lost too, did he, his brother in yon battle; Rowan.”

He downs some ale. Uvan follows, nodding sadly.

“Alas! Yea. Iwan’s Curse: For such wrath as they might muster, my little warriors will be there beside his when those pitiful fae-devils strike; this I swear, to thee and to God.”

He catches movement in the hall, flicking his eyes thus; “Oh, woe! And thus spoke, the monsters appear!”

Hence, Vandagild’s children, Uvan’s nephews and niece, are brought forth by maids. The men play with the younglings; they poke their father’s new scar, and pull ugly faces at him; he laughs with them, and pokes back. Uncle Uvan battles them with wicker blades: Alas, outnumbered by fearless toddlers, he falls beneath their relentless assault.

Meanwhile, the steward of the manor organises two machinations: Defensive palisades, to encompass the enclosure of Winterbourne Gunner; and the gifting of the captured Rouncey to Earl Roderick, courtesy of Atticus. At Shrewton, Sir Elvorix schemes with Lady Diane; they begin plans to ply their savvy, and the latter’s political connection, to secure grant of a Chace from the King in his lands…

__________ The Envoys of Logres __________

Later in the season, Earl Roderick calls for the Wolves of Logres; they attend in earnest.

“To thy credit, Duke Gorlois of Cornwall hath taken kindly to thee. And fortune presents opportunity; I have need for a meeting with he. Thus, I need thee to set forth to Cornwall on my behalf. Swear now to secrecy, and in doing so accept this task, regardless of what I demand.”

Without hesitation, each man swears it.

“Good. Sit. Here is no secret: We are in a shit position. Summerland hath outwitted us in the west; Sir Blains doth weasel forth his taunts from the east. And the Saxons… Well. Reports mount; they gather in the south. I expect of them an offensive in the Spring. We all do.”

He sighs; “Suffice to say, alone are we in Logres. Am I. That is in need of change,” he says, sitting upright again; “There is one other, and one alone, among the lords of Logres, in similar position. Moreover; he dwelleth beyond the influence of Ulfius, and those other influential men. Duke Gorlois.”

“Last autumn, God did not see fit to bless me with a son. But he hath blessed me with a daughter, and a fine one. Thus, I tell thee this: I seek an alliance with Gorlois. The proposal is to betroth my Jenna with his Cador; and, yea, with that betrothal an alliance. This union, of course, to be formalised when my daughter comes of age. Hence I bid you thus: Travel thee now to Cornwall; tell him that he may attend our court in Sarum this Easter; yea, convince him of this. And hence, at Sarum, we can hunt the details of the agreement.”

“Have thee questions?” he asks, eyeing us each.

“None my Lord.”

He nods; “You are to set off immediately.”

As they depart; Vandagild notes that Sir Elvorix still is in lack of a squire; Porkins, of course, was recently knighted. Vandagild offers him the service of his own youngest brother, Vandimund. As thy family serves me, may mine serve thee, good Sir Elvorix. And Atticus has done for himself many favours, I assure thee!

__________ Winter 484 __________

As they each return to their manors to gather what they need for Cornwall, each man makes some brief preparations for winter.

Sir Vandagild, eager to rid himself of his curse, donates several libra to the church. He summons Good Father Perticus to perform an exorcism for the Fae Curse that plagues his family! Little Vandric and Llyria both catch colds, no doubt wantful for their mother’s careful attention; but God does not see fit to take them this year.

Alas! The luckless Sir Iwan finds yet more fae fortune: His wife, Alwen, passes in the birth of his daughter! The babe lives and is healthy; she is named for her mother, now with God: baby Alwen.

His brother and wife; dead in consecutive seasons. He is quiet, barely sharing the news. As they travel, Vandagild carefully treads the topic with his modest friend; they both share similar griefs. They talk in hushed tones in quiet moments; Vandagild reaffirms that he, and his boys, will help him overcome whatever curse yet haunts his family; the twins, Vandemir and Vandric, are 5 soon, and already learning the blade; they already slew uncle Uvan with merciless efficacy, he quips. He earns a small smile. Enough for now.

Elvorix keeps watch until they return. Bidden or otherwise, Lady Eleri creeps into Iwan’s thoughts.

The Wolves ride west, into the snow.

__________

Images: Bayeux Tapestry, 11^th Century France. From https://www.britannica.com/topic/Bayeux-Tapestry

King Arthur Pendragon 5.2