11

The Raid

Cai opened his eyes. Blearily, he saw his master’s kindly eyes looking back down at him. “I’m sorry, Master, I must have overslept… I had this terrible dream.”

“Hmm…” came the low, booming response. “What has been caught in Elfin’s fish traps, certainly not a salmon! And I’m not your master!”

Cai started, and tried to sit up, but couldn’t move. He was held fast, up to his neck in salty water, by what appeared to be a long, tube-like, wicker basket.

“Steady now, young one. You are in no condition to move just yet. You’re lucky you aren’t dead. These traps have barbs as sharp as a boar’s tusk. If the tide hadn’t been going out last night, you’d have been crab bate.” The man gently lifted Cai’s head and gave him some water to drink from a leather bottle hanging from his neck. Cai’s eyes began to focus better, and he saw before him a middle-aged man, with tawny brown hair, wearing a speckled, wool tunic in the style of the Christian monks. The monk’s eyes and the set of his face, however, looked strangely familiar, just like his master’s, but then the reality flooded over him that he had not been in a dream, and that this living nightmare was continuing.

“Where am I? Who are you?” Cai croaked, still weak.

“First things first,” said the monk, “let’s get you back to the Abbey.” At these words, Cai was overcome with relief and drifted out of consciousness.

When Cai opened his eyes again, this time he found he was lying in a soft bed, with white, linen sheets, and covered with a rough, grey, woollen blanket. Sitting up stiffly, he could see that he was in a large, airy room with whitewashed walls and an oak floor. A large, low, open window let in a gentle breeze from the sea, which could be seen a short distance beyond tilled fields below. The fresh, linen bed sheets smelled of lavender. Cai thought he was dreaming again, until he caught sight of the small table by his bed on top of which was his old leather bag.

“Ah, you’re awake,” said a voice from the corner of the room. The monk had been sitting in a chair, in the shadows. “Welcome to Tudllan Abbey. Now you can tell me who you are, and where you have come from, and how you came to be caught in one of our fish traps?!”

Cai told his life story, about his master, his journey, the terrible battle, his escape, his promise and his despair. The monk listened intently, only occasionally interrupting to ask for further details, but slowly his face became more grave and troubled, and when Cai had finished the monk’s gaze had dropped to the floor, and he remained silent. “Oh… and thank you for finding me and saving my life…” Cai added at the end, rather sheepishly.

The monk seemed set in stone, but eventually looked up and sighed. “Well, you have found him. I am Gwion. Known as Gwion Bach, but only to my brother – I grew to be much bigger than him. It was his joke.”

The monk smiled at the memory, then continued, “But this is such sad and grave news. I have not seen my brother for over fifteen harvests, since we travelled together to the East. My brother was a good man, but always a soldier. That Maelgwn ambushed his troop moving north seems madness. Maelgwn had always supported the province and would normally have escorted him to Segontium. What could have possessed him to do this, what was he looking for that would make him murder all your comrades? You say that my brother gave you a bundle of clothes and asked you to guard it with your life?”

“Yes,” said Cai. “I think he was delirious, but he wanted me to give something to you, before he died, he made me promise to keep it safe. He said he was intending to visit you himself, after Segontium. I didn’t know he had a brother,” added Cai.

“Yes, we took very different paths. After the wars, I wanted a peaceful life of prayer and contemplation, planting crops and learning. He argued that none of that could exist without protection and the ability to defend ourselves. So, we went our separate ways. I didn’t know he had planned to visit,” said the monk. “You’d better show me what he gave you.”

Cai moved to the edge of the bed and reached over to his bag. He pulled out the bundle and gave it to Gwion. The monk carefully unrolled the bundle, and exclaimed surprise that it was an old itinerarium, a copy of a Roman road map, but then out fell the wooden cup onto the bed. Gwion froze, dropped to his knees, whispering, “Sanguis Christi… anima Christi,” then leaping up, ran swiftly to the door, looked outside, closed it and ran to the window checking to see that no-one was in the courtyard below.

“Nothing…” he said sternly, turning back to Cai, “must be said of this to anyone, until I get back. Stay here.” He gently picked up the cup, rolled it back in the cloth map and put it back into Cai’s bag, then left the room. Cai thought it was really strange behaviour, but he’d never visited an abbey before, so maybe they were all a bit weird.

A little while later, some water in an earthenware jug was brought into the room, by another monk, who put it on the table and went to move Cai’s bag. Without thinking Cai instinctively snatched the bag back. The monk, who said nothing, simply looked at him, and then the bag. Then left the room.

After what seemed like hours, Gwion returned, but not alone. He was followed into the room by another older man, wearing a richly embroidered cloak, and a young woman, dressed in more simple, white robes, her head covered by a green hood, with a brooch crafted in the shape of a silver hare, pinned to her shoulder.

“This is Bishop Anian and Abbess Melangell,” he said. “I have explained what I have just seen and they would like to see my brother’s gift as well.”

The abbess and bishop looked at each other, then at Cai.

“Please show us what you have brought to the Abbey, Cai,” said the Abbess kindly, in a soft, lilting accent that Cai had often heard spoken by travellers from Hibernia. She lowered her hood so that Cai could see her face. Her eyes were emerald green and smiling. She gesticulated towards the bag he clutched. Cai opened the bag and unrolled the cloth, holding the cup up in his hands. All three dropped to their knees, heads bowed, leaving Cai feeling embarrassed and more than just a little awkward.

“It’s just a cup, isn’t it? I thought my master had lost his mind when he gave it to me.”

The three rose up in unison, and Gwion took the cup gently from Cai, placing it carefully on the table. The three of them then sat down by the side of his bed.

“Cai,” said Gwion, “let me tell you a story. When we were young, Julius, your master, and I travelled to Rome and Nova Roma, known now as Constantinople. He may have told you about his travels. When we were there, we heard amazing tales about great emperors both bad and cruel and good and just, of wars, armies, vast riches, and saw huge, stone buildings and great, bronze statues that looked like they had been built by giants.

“We also heard other stories. One of those stories was a tale of Josephus of Arimathea. Josephus was a rich merchant who travelled some of the old Phoenician routes to the edges of the known world, trading olive oil, spices and fine cloth for fur, amber, gold, tin and copper. Reaching even to the land of the Britons, tin from the Kernow tribe in Cornwall and copper from the Deceangli tribe in Gwynedd. On one of these trips, he took his young nephew who, bored during the long journey at sea, had carved a piece of wood into a drinking bowl. It was good, his father was a carpenter, and he knew how to follow and work with the grain of the wood, to make it beautiful and strong. He would use it for his own food and drink. But finally, having completed their trading in Britannia, he and his uncle were invited to a farewell feast by the King of the Dumnonii at which they both received gifts.

“Caught off-guard and not wishing to insult their hosts, in return, Josephus gave the King the staff that he had been leaning on, saying, ‘May you plant this in your earth and it will become a tree of strength and renewal for your land.’ The King seemed pleased. Then the King unexpectedly looked also at his nephew, and the boy, without hesitating, handed over the only possession he had, his cup, saying, ‘This is my cup, it is empty but will always fill the hearts of those who are kind.’ The King laughed and thanked them both for their gifts. As was tradition, he shared these gifts with his councillors, one of whom took them back with them to their settlement, where indeed the staff was planted and grew into a great, red-flowering thorn tree, and the cup gained the reputation for the miraculous healing of anyone good who drank from it, but death to those who had evil in their heart. That place was called Avalon, we know it now as Glaestonbury, and that boy was Jesus of Nazareth, our Christ, his cup is the Grail.”

There was silence as they all looked at Cai. Cai looked at the cup and then back at them. The fine-spun curtains on either side of the window flapped softly in the breeze, which drew all their eyes to the window. Suddenly a bell tolled loud and wildly, breaking the silence, not a call to prayer, but a call to arms.

Gwion and the Abbess ran to the window and looked out to see a great cloud of dust rising from a band of horsemen galloping fast towards the Abbey from the direction of the fortress. The sun glinted on their weapons, and it was led by a man in a gold breastplate.

“That’s Maelgwn,” said Abbess Melangell.

Gwion jumped into action, issuing instructions with the certainty of long laid plans. “My Lord Bishop and Lady Abbess, you must not be found here today. Go to the back gate by the west Abbey wall, there will be horses for you, and you should head to St Bueno’s chapel where you will be safe. You must hurry, or they may see you leave.”

He then looked across and said, “Cai, come with me.” And he swept up the cup into Cai’s bag and helped him down the stairs, then they hastened into the courtyard, where men and women were running back and forth, but with purpose, there was no panic. It was like a well-practised drill. Some ran to the main doors, closing them, and lifted a giant, thick plank of wood into slots on the gate to barricade it shut. Some more collected the horses tethered in the courtyard and led them to the back of the Abbey palisade, while others brought out pitch forks, scythes, axes and knives laying them out on a wooden table for each member to pick up something with which to defend themselves. Cai was handed a stout staff.

Gwion leapt up a wooden ladder to the top of the palisade above the gateway, where he could see the approach to the Abbey below, just as the war band arrived. The galloping band drew their reins in hard, bringing their horses to a rearing halt, just before the gates.

Maelgwn circled his horse in front of the doors, and drew his sword, shouting up at Gwion, “Do you know who I am? Who dares to refuse entry to King Maelgwn? I will break down your door and burn this place, if you do not yield!”

“I am Gwion,” he replied. “Protector of the bishop and Abbey. I see you now, Maelgwn, King. Please accept my apologies. We have been caught by Irish raiders many times in the past, so we are now quick to defend ourselves, so that we can repent at leisure.” He looked down at Cai and winked.

“Do not mistake me for a patient or penitent man, Gwion Patronus. Open your doors!”

Gwion signalled below for some men to unbar and open the gate. Maelgwn’s band clattered into the courtyard. As they rode by, Cai recognised one of their group, it was the monk who had brought him some water. The same man jumped down from his horse and walked over to Maelgwn, whispered something and then pointed at Cai. Maelgwn dropped down from his horse like a panther from a tree and strode towards the boy. Gwion quickly sprang down the palisade ladder and planted himself between the two of them, facing the King.

“I am at your service, my lord,” he said, bowing his head.

“Out of my way, Christian!” bellowed Maelgwn. Then hissed, “…If you want to live.”

Gwion looked up and locked his eyes on Maelgwn’s, saying, “This boy is a charge of the Abbey and so he is under my protection. What do you seek from him?”

Maelgwn hesitated, looking Gwion up and down. He was weighing up whether he could kill him easily, quickly, but he could see that Gwion was a big man, yet agile, he had seen the way he jumped down the ladder, and judging by some scars on his face, had possibly been a warrior before he joined the church. Maelgwn had learnt to be wary of these sorts of men, they had often fought in wars in other lands, their techniques were unusual and they always had hidden weapons. Even kings aren’t invulnerable, and this man didn’t seem to be afraid of him, like most others. So, unexpectedly, he stepped back, and laughed. Looking around encouraging his men, and others, to laugh too, which they did, joining in uncomfortably.

“Gwion, Gwion,” he said tutting, “I think we are all allies here, and this is a misunderstanding.” He paused, then continued, “I have been told that you had received an injured guest; a guest who might be carrying something of great importance.” He turned around with his back to Gwion, as if to address his own men again. “You see, I was meant to receive a gift from an old friend two nights ago but, alas, he was ambushed and killed, before he could give it to me. And we couldn’t find it anywhere in the remains of his camp. We think that someone must have stolen it.”

As he said this, Maelgwn slowly turned around and stared directly at Cai. “What’s in the bag, boy?” he said sharply and started to walk towards Cai again. For Cai, time seemed to stand still – all in an instant, he could see that Gwion’s hand was moving towards the back of his neck, and could just see the outline of the pommel of a concealed sword down his back, under his tunic. Gwion’s men were tensed, ready to rush forward. Maelgwn was lifting his left hand towards the palisade. Why was he doing that? Then Cai saw that while they had all been talking, two of his archers had climbed up the gatehouse ladder and were now poised, aiming down from the ramparts, their bowstrings taut, ready to release arrows at his command. They were all going to die.

A bumble bee buzzed lazily towards him.