The body of the dead King lay in his chamber for three days and after that period, despite the embalmer’s art learned from Persia, had to be buried because of the heat. Three days gave enough time for most of his relatives to travel to the city for their last glimpse of the paramount chief of the Belgic peoples. They came from Gaul, secretly, to avoid Roman suspicion, and even from Ireland—the tall, fair aristocracy of the western world. Only Catuval, the King’s favourite young nephew, did not come. He lay in a stinking Belgian village, on a hide-thong bed from which he was too weak to move, tortured by a fever he had picked up while marauding in Germany. He sent his favourite sword and two deerhounds as a burial offering, and swore by the great stones that he would not disobey the next call from Britain, even though his legs were broken and his heart had ceased to beat.
And Cunobelin was buried at last in a round barrow on the hills above the city. They dressed him in his finest armour and clothing, and sat him in his bronze-plated chariot. Under each wheel they placed a slaughtered foal; inside the chariot, at the King’s feet, they laid Catuval’s deerhounds and two pigs from the royal farm; and before the chariot they put the King’s black stallion, dressed in his silver harness studded with garnets.
Caradoc and his brother wept bitterly to see the tried old animal sink back before the pole-axe. Caradoc held his brother’s arm. “Reged,” he said, “I have vowed that should I ever lose a battle, I would kill Gallyn under the great stones; but I made that vow in hot blood. After today I know that, should I ever have to keep my promise, you would have to remind me of it and compel me to keep it. I could not do it alone.”
When the slaves had shovelled a high mound of earth over the King, the royal family returned to the city, walking barefoot over the harsh gravel and among the cruel brambles. No one ate or drank in the King’s house that day or the next, and the names of a dozen slaves no longer appeared on the roll.
Then, after a suitable period of mourning for the dead king, there was a double-wedding. Caradoc married Gwynedd, and Gwyndoc, Ygerne. It was a sunny day and the streets of the city were gay with coloured flags; at every street corner leading to the market-square, servants of the royal house dispensed Gallic wine from great skins for all who wished to drink the King’s health. Bonfires were lighted and the celebrations went on late into the evening, and when dusk fell there were still many who could not remember their way home. In the King’s kitchens a whole ox was roasted for the servants and slaves, and that day all but a handful of dangerous hostages and other prisoners were granted their freedom.
At the great hall feasting was continuous after the druidic binding-ceremony, and the two couples, seated by the heads of their tables, were as madly intoxicated as any of their wild guests. Only once did even the gentle Gwynedd allow herself to look thoughtful, and then her friend Ygerne pounced on her right away. “What is it, dear?” she said, teasing. “Are you finding a queen’s life wearing already? Are you afraid that the crow’s feet are coming and your hair is turning white?” But Gwynedd did not answer, she smiled back quietly and with resignation, and Ygerne, following her eyes, saw that they rested on Gwyndoc, and she understood, for the young lord looked more magnificent than anyone who was not a king had a right to do. He stood, with one foot on a bench, glittering with gold rings and bracelets, and his silken-fringed tartan flung back and showing its scarlet lining, his long yellow hair plaited with silver ribbons, drinking toast after toast from a great ivory horn, calling on all his friends by name, the long length of the hall.
And Ygerne felt proud to belong to this man, and yet sorry because of her friend’s envy. She leaned over and patted Gwynedd’s arm, and a tear stood still in the dark girl’s eyes. Then the tear fell, and once more everyone was gay and shouting, and Ygerne remembered, the wonderful presents that her godmother, the old Brigantian Queen Cartismandua had brought her: golden mirrors, with enamelled arabesques twisting and coiling round their frames; a silver lunula to wear round the neck at sacrifice-times, set with pearls and emeralds, so that the precious stones formed a spray of mistletoe and its berries; combs of jet, garnished with opals; a little poniard, its coral handle carved like a slim fir-cone and its narrow blade engraved with her name in Greek characters—and so many more lovely things to wear and to use. . . . And Ygerne remembered how she and her party had ridden out one blustering day to greet this queen, to meet her after her long wedding-journey from the north. They had expected her to come with her retinue of warriors and servants, in her famous black litter; but instead they had met a solitary rider, on a squally night, huddled in furs on the back of a shaggy native pony, followed only by a ragged old man who led an ox-wagon laden with bales and caskets. “My dear,” said Ygerne, later, telling the story to Gwynedd, “it was fantastic! She had come all that way as I have described! And the old man couldn’t even speak! He was an idiot who looked after her garden, not a soldier at all! I tell you, you could still see the straws in his hair! It was ridiculous!”
But the old queen herself, sitting at Ygerne’s left hand, was not ridiculous, nor would the girl have dared to make such fun of her in her hearing. She sat, a dwarfish figure, her scanty white hair covered by a tartan shawl, huddled over her plate, hardly eating a thing. But her bright bird-like eyes flickered perpetually on the assembled company. There was not a face she forgot, not a word that did not reach her ears. And she drank cup for cup with the warriors at her table, tipping back wine or mead as the hours passed, the golden bracelets at her thin wrists jangling almost continuously as she raised her arm.
Caradoc’s wedding-speech was short. He got to his feet, swaying, and pointed his long finger towards his laughing friend. “My lords,” he said, “we thank you for your presence. This occasion will only draw us together once in our lifetime, but this is not the only time we shall drink. Oh no! Give us always your swords, and we will give you occasions to celebrate! We will give you sons, and victories, and deaths—but not of our folk, we hope!”
He sat down then while the horns were knocking on the tables, but half-missed his chair and would have tumbled into the straw had not Gwynedd steadied him. He looked towards her, embarrassed for a moment by her forlorn expression, but Cartismandua relieved him. He suddenly became conscious of her, peering at him with bright eyes through the smoke and the shouting in the hall. She was speaking to him. She had to say her words a number of times before he got them.
“Well spoken, young man,” she was saying. “May you always be as brave. But come to me, come to Cartismandua, if your courage ever fails you.”
And Caradoc nodded wildly to her, forgetting even to be angry that she should think his courage could fail, laughing all over his face and slopping the mead out of his cup over his wife, his friends and himself with grinning abandon. “Yes, thank you, Mother,” he was saying. “I’ll come, if I ever need you!”
Then he nudged Gwynedd hard, and she did not catch the spirit of the thing and frowned and rubbed her arm; and Caradoc remembered that she was his wife and he her chosen lord, and he was desperately silent until he caught a flash of Cartismandua’s smiling face again.
Then he filled his cup and drank, and loved his friends: all of them who breathed the air; all who walked on two or four legs; all who had eyes to see and ears to hear; and damned to eternal torment any who were not with him in that moment.
And very much later Gwyndoc took his wife to bed, and as they were undressing Ygerne said, “Caradoc was very drunk tonight, wasn’t he?”
But her husband was impatiently struggling with the hide wrappings that held his breeches close to the calf. He could not answer for a moment, then he looked up at his new wife as she stood by his bed, only the long, golden hair of her head clothing the beautiful lithe body. He broke the bindings joyfully and stretched out his free hands to hold her.
“Kings! Kings!” he said. “They’re born drunk! Oh, Ygerne, thank God we’re not kings!” And he stumbled to her side, laughing.
The following morning, even while the many wedding guests were groaning in the straw or holding their heads miserably in the sleeping-chambers, a man galloped his shaggy horse, spattered with mud and froth, through the town gates, and almost fell at the feet of the King’s guard as they ran out to meet him. When they could get any sense at all out of him, they learned that he had ridden at top speed from farther down the coast and insisted on seeing Caradoc.
At first the soldiers argued with him, even threatened him mildly, not being at all certain that the young King would feel like seeing this messenger at such a time. But the staring-eyed horseman would not be put off: he flung down the wine they offered him and pushed the soldiers about with such a determined violence that in the end the captain conducted him reluctantly into the audience-chamber and got one of the more coherent noblemen to awaken the King.
Caradoc came almost immediately, his hair tousled, and his eyes full of sleep. He had had time only to fling a shawl about his body, and he was yawning, until the messenger, kneeling before him, gabbled out his story.
And when Caradoc fully understood his words the yawning stopped and the sleep left his eyes. Even the shawl slipped from his body to the floor. He did not speak to the messenger but turned abruptly towards his chamber; then he halted and turned back to the captain of the guard, who had remained present during the interview, waiting with his sword drawn. “Feed this man,” he said sharply, “and lock him up safely. His story may be false. Send five couriers to me within half an hour!”
Then the King’s door had shut again and Caradoc was already groping among the tumbled linen for his tunic and breeches, knocking over stools, and bumping against the bed in his haste, not worrying now whether or not he woke his wife. He did not even notice that Gwynedd was wide-awake, watching him through the darkened room, her eyes big and questioning.
The captain of the guard assembled his men as soon as he had sent for the five horsemen. “Here’s a piece of news for you, lads,” he said. “But God help any one of you that lets it pass further than these walls. The Romans are coming!” He looked round at the open mouths and the restless hands. “Yes, they’re coming at last. Now there’ll be fun for one or the other, and no feast, I’m thinking, for those who can’t use a sword!”
“Was that all the messenger said, Captain?” asked one of the soldiers.
“No, but it’s all that concerns you,” answered the captain shortly. “He’d just got word from a hide-merchant who came over from Gaul in a fast boat. He came over so fast, he didn’t bother with a cargo. He says the news has run through Gaul like a forest-fire. Aulus Plautius has assembled the biggest land and sea force Rome has seen for many years. He reckons there are close on sixty thousand legionaries and auxiliaries, as well as fighting galleys and supply barges. What’s more, they’ve started out!”
One of the guard turned round and stretched by the open door. “I’ll believe it when I see it. You know what these Gauls are for exaggerating! Hey, where are those couriers off to in such a hurry?”
The captain turned on him, “Get to your post, dog! It’s Caradoc’s business, not yours, to summon the Belgic Council!”
Gwyndoc and Ygerne, who rose much later, rested and happy, broke their fast in their own room. There was a strange tenseness about the serving-girl who brought them their food, but they paid little attention to her, being still full of love for each other.
And when they had eaten, they noticed that the sun had risen in the sky and that everything outside was fresh, and still green and inviting. Gwyndoc flexed his muscles and breathed the clean air deeply, feeling more powerful, more godlike than he had ever felt before.
“Let us have done with kings and courts for today,” he said, “and walk out under the sky, away from fools and walls!” Ygerne laughed and clapped her hands excitedly, like a child; and when they had dressed they made their way out into the courtyard.
As they passed through the gates Gwyndoc noticed that the captain of the guard was watching him, with interest, it seemed. He called the man over: “I shall be away from the King’s house today, walking on the hill with my wife. Let the King know that, if he should ask.” The soldier stared at him. “But will not the King want you by his side, lord?” he said.
Gwyndoc laughed. “King Caradoc has a wife now—and so have I! Tell him that, if he asks what message I left for him!”
And the two strode out towards the field, leaving the soldier shaking his head in puzzlement.
The morning passed all too quickly by the side of streams, or knee-deep in rushes, or eating oaten bread and drinking the sweet mead in some friendly farmhouse. But at last, well after midday, the lovers turned their steps once more in the direction of the city and so passed again through the tiny straggling hamlet they had seen earlier that day, soon after they had started out.
As they approached the village, hand in hand, the children tumbling in the road ran indoors and the old men who sat talking by the well bowed their heads in silence. Gwyndoc walked on, looking straight in front of him, but Ygerne’s face was sad and thoughtful. “What a pity it is, husband,” she said, “that the poor ones are afraid of us and will not make friends with us easily. I want all the world to be my friend today and always, now.” Gwyndoc smiled, a little grimly. “It is true, Ygerne,” he said. “They are afraid of us; and it is good for us that they are, for it makes our rule much easier. I too love them, especially those in my household and my father’s old household; but I know that if I could not use a sword I should get short shrift from some of them, especially the older ones who remember other times.”
“Oh, why can’t all men be brothers, like . . .” began the girl.
Gwyndoc looked at her a trifle harshly. “. . . like the Romans, you were going to say, weren’t you?” he asked.
Ygerne did not speak, but hung her head for a moment. Then, ahead of them, they saw an old woman seated by the roadside crooning. “Let’s make her talk to us,” said Ygerne. Gwyndoc shrugged his shoulders. “Very well, if you wish,” he said, “but I do not think we shall have much luck.” As the two came near to her, the old woman pulled her shawl over her face and half-turned away from them, her voice now still.
“She is afraid, Gwyndoc,” said Ygerne, loosing her husband’s arm. “Let me talk to her. She will be less fearful of me.” And Gwyndoc laughed. “You women!” he said. “You pretend to be afraid of men and go to each other for support. Then you spend the rest of the evening tearing each other to pieces! I’d just as soon trust a forest cat as a woman!”
Ygerne pretended to give him a severe look, but in her heart she was glad that he had said those words, for she knew that he loved her, and that he thought she was different from other women. Then she left the man and went along the path to the old crone, and after a moment sat down beside her on a stone and spoke to her in a low soothing voice.
At first the woman did not move. Then she slowly uncovered her face and looked round, and at last she began to talk to the handsome girl who had sat beside her. And after a few moments Ygerne looked back at her husband and nodded to him, to tell him that he could come now and join them.
As he sat down at their feet, the old woman looked at him closely, ready it seemed to cover her face and resign herself again to death. But his smiling face reassured her and she went on speaking, slowly and pausing often, her eyes on the ground as they must be when addressing gentlefolk. She told them that she was very old, that she could remember when the great Caesar came. At first they teased her gently, and said that it was too long ago for anyone, even the druids, to remember. But when they mentioned the druids she caught her breath and began to rock backwards and forwards again and would not speak any more.
Gwyndoc became impatient and wanted to leave her, but the girl unpinned one of her brooches and put it into the old woman’s hand. When she saw what it was the old woman shook her head, afraid, and tried to push the brooch back into Ygerne’s hand. But the girl smiled at her and closed the wrinkled fingers over the strip of twisted gold. “Do not be afraid, old mother,” she said. “We are your friends. We are not from the druids. We are man and wife and are young. We want to hear tales of the old years, nothing more. We wish to harm no one, nor to be harmed. So tell us, mother, about the times of the great Caesar.”
The woman looked down at the brooch and sighed. Then she made a slight bow towards the girl and began to talk again, and now she looked over their heads towards the battlemented white clouds that were building up in the blue sky. “It was when I was a girl,” she said. “They brought me from Ireland across the western sea because I knew how to spin the flax. My father brought me. A gold worker he was and made the breastplates for a British king. Cassivelaun it was who ordered the plate to be made. He was a great man and came often to our house. I spun the flax for his wife and taught her ladies the tricks of the spindle. It was hard to teach the ladies for they did not speak Irish. I could not give them all the secrets for I was only a little girl then, and they were very stupid. We lived in a little house outside the King’s wall, and in the wintertime the King’s forester brought us venison and the King’s granaryman brought us grain, and I took wood and peat from the King’s yard to make our fire. We were very happy, I think. I was very happy when my father got wounded fighting, or fell down when he was drunk after a mead-meeting. Then I was mistress of the house and looked after him until he was well again.”
Ygerne smiled and patted the old woman gently on the arm. “Yes, mother,” she said. “But tell us about the Caesar. Tell us what you remember of him.”
The old creature rocked again for a time. “We were in the village when he came,” she said. “The horns were blowing and we all went down to the shore to see what was happening. He came in big barges with only a few soldiers. They were brave men and were singing when they jumped into the shallows and came up on to the beach. They were fine big men with swords, and they were all laughing at us. We did not know what to do because they were laughing. But we left the dogs to decide.”
“The dogs?” said Gwyndoc, showing an interest for the first time. “What were these dogs?”
The old woman passed her tired hand across her brow again, trying to remember. “Dogs,” she said, “the great Hounds of the King. They were many and their eyes were red. Round their necks they wore bronze collars and they could kill as they chose. When there was no flax, I would watch the geese for the village. And sometimes the hounds would come and kill here and there, as they willed; and no man might drive them away, even though the geese were sacred. Once they drove me into a tree and kept me there until moon came and made them afraid. They were giant dogs. Only the forester could call them. But each year, at the time of the burning of animals, one of them was put into a cage with the others and sent into the flames for the gods.”
“Yes, yes,” said the young chief, almost impatiently, “but what did they do when Caesar came? Tell me that, old mother.”
The old woman thought for a moment. “When Caesar came, the dogs broke their bonds and ran into the sea,” she said. “They bit the throats of the soldiers as they swam to the beach. And some of them got into the boats. And the king of the dogs was Bran, from Ireland, and he took the great Caesar into his jaws and broke him into many pieces.”
As she spoke the old woman closed her eyes and began to sway from side to side, her words rising and falling like the gentle waves at the side of a lake. Gwyndoc winked at his wife and touched the old woman on the knee. “Go on, mother,” he said, “your children listen to your words.”
“Then Bran called all the other dogs and they came to him in the boats, and he was their king. Then the boats sailed away to the West and Cassivelaun never saw his hounds again. He wept all that night. But I wept for many nights because my father was slain when the first swordsman came onto the beach.”
“But that wasn’t the end of the great Caesar, surely?” asked Ygerne soothingly. “You remember more, do you not?”
The old woman began to weep. “Yes,” she said. “They married me then to an iron-maker, for they said I was too young to be left alone in a house. I was still sad for my father, but the husband they found for me was kind and was like my father in the house. When he was wounded or drunk I looked after him as I had looked after my father. Then my life was happy again. And I had a son one day. But another year my life was sad again, for the great Caesar came again with many men and all the barges that were on the sea!”
Gwyndoc was teasing now. “But, granny, you said the dogs tore Caesar to little pieces. How then could he come again?” And the old woman’s voice was timeless and patient as she spoke to him, like a mother speaking to a wilful child. “The great Caesar was a god,” she said simply. “When his nine wives saw the little pieces, they wrapped them up in fine linen and mulberry leaves and took them home to Italy, and all the long winter nights they sat and stitched the little pieces together with gold and silver threads. And when spring came again the great Caesar was a man once more. And he stood on the pyramids of Egypt and called his armies and they came back to our shores.”
Gwyndoc nodded understandingly, and then absentmindedly began to flick pebbles with finger and thumb at a grasshopper that seemed to stare at them from the path.
“Were you happy or unhappy then?” asked Ygerne.
“I was unhappy then,” answered the old woman. “For the druids took my son to the woods so that the gods would defeat the great Caesar. But they didn’t. The gods deserted us and Caesar stayed on our shores. At first he killed, then he was merciful and ceased to kill. Then he gave presents and many wished him to stay for ever as our god. But he did not give me back my little son. Then at last he sailed away again and took my husband because he was a good smith and loved the horses.”
The story was less remote now, and tears stood in the old woman’s eyes. “I cried for many nights by the sea’s side,” she said, “and at last the people ceased to be afraid of me and came and covered me with straw and skins. Then I went to the woods and lived with the gods. They found me skins to wear and frogs to eat, and I stayed with them for many years, tending their geese. Many conquerors came and passed on to the west, but none of them hurt me. They knew that I was the handmaiden of the shining ones and they made obeisance as they passed me in the woods, especially when I came out to meet them at night.”
Just then Gwyndoc was lucky enough to strike the grasshopper with a small pebble. He laughed as he watched the creature struggling back onto its long legs. Then it gave a great leap and was lost among the grasses.
“Let us go,” he said. “We have heard your story, mother, and now we must go.” He made a sign to Ygerne and the two rose, hand in hand. The old woman bowed her head. When they had walked a step or two she got up and shambled after them, holding out her hand to Ygerne.
“Take back your gift, lady,” she said, pushing the brooch into the girl’s hand. “I have known enough suffering. I cannot keep this, for one day it is to know such pain and tears that would break a heart as old as mine.”
Ygerne clutched the brooch, her eyes staring after the strange creature. She turned at last to Gwyndoc, and his face was clouded. Together they watched the flapping figure as it moved from side to side back along the path. They saw the old woman’s hands stretched out and waving and they heard the sounds she made.
“What is she doing?” asked Ygerne at last.
“She is driving geese for the gods,” said her husband wryly.
As they brushed through the tall grasses, the willowherb and cow-parsley that bordered the winding path, gloom hung over them so heavily that they did not even try to shake it off. “It is terrible to be old and afraid,” said Gwyndoc. “Not to be able to laugh and leap and fight.” Ygerne was still pondering on the old woman’s last words. “Yes,” she said, “to be full of foreboding and waiting for unhappiness and death. The old live in the shadow of pain. Oh, Gwyndoc, I wish we never had to grow old!”
Her husband pinched his arm muscles, as though to prove to himself that he was still young and strong. Then he put his arm round the girl and held her close to him. “Have no fear,” he said. “We shall never be like that old woman. She is alone, but we shall always be together, brave enough to meet anything the gods send.” And Ygerne laughed, showing her white, even teeth perhaps a little longer than she needed. Then they began to climb the hill that lay between them and the city, and soon they came to the shade of a little spinney, where they lay together for a while. Gwyndoc made a daisychain, pretending to be angry when Ygerne laughed at his clumsy fingers that broke the delicate stems as he twisted and split them; then, while he wove the chain in and out of the girl’s long hair, she thrust her hand inside Gwyndoc’s blouse and stroked his hard body. Then they sank back into the moss and shielded their eyes as the sun struck through the leaves above them; and at last Ygerne said, “Gwyndoc, tell me again, what is it that you believe in? Now we are married, I too must believe in your gods. Tell me what to believe in, love.”
The young man’s words were halting and unsure. He put his hands behind his head and stared up through the boughs. “It’s hard to say what I believe in, Ygerne,” he said. “I believe in the gods—the good ones—and Caradoc; and my own strength. And now I believe in you. I believe in the power we have and in the kingdoms we can build. There is land here for hunting and raising cattle and growing corn. Good land to ride over and rivers to fish in. There are woods to rest and to worship in. There are mountains where the red gold can be dug. And one day it will be ours, all of it. Already the Belgae have moved as far as sea and mountains will let them, and everywhere they are victorious. Everywhere they push the others before them or slay them or enslave them. And one day they will build a great kingdom that will stretch from shore to shore of this island. And Caradoc shall rule that kingdom, and, if the gods are still with us, you and I will sit at his right hand to make that kingdom greater still. That is what I believe in, Ygerne. Do you like it?”
The girl moved closer to him. “Do not be angry, love,” she said, “but I do not like it. There is too much of the sword in it; too much blood and too many tears. I do not want to spend my life seeing blood, listening to tales of sorrow, knowing pain. There are other things in life—poetry, and fine weaving, stock-breeding and embroidery. And, above all, the art of living together, all of us—the red, the black and the gold—as one people.”
Gwyndoc pursed his lips. “How can that be?” he said. “The Belgae are my people, not the Scots or the Silures. The corn we grow is ours, the cloth our women weave is ours, the land our sword takes is ours. Our fathers did not come here to till the land for Silurians or beat gold rings for Picts. They came because they were strong and could take what they needed. To be weak is to suffer; to be strong is to accept the gifts of the gods and offer thanks each year under the stones. Surely you can see that, Ygerne.”
The girl smiled a little sadly. “Things will be different now that the old King has gone. He was a man of sense now. He knew that Britain would suffer if her people were not bound together. Now, now that young men like you and Caradoc are masters, all the good will be undone. You will squabble and boast and kill each other until the land is tired of you and surrenders to the next invader.”
Gwyndoc pulled her towards him and rubbed his rough face against her soft cheek. She wriggled and tried to break away from him, but he held her firmly. At last she was able to turn her head round far enough to take his ear in her teeth. She gripped it just hard enough to hurt a little, and held on. At last Gwyndoc saw that he could not tease her further without being punished, so he slackened his grip on her body. Then, when she had loosed him too, he moved his head away and suddenly caught her again, laughing. “You see, we Belgae are too clever for you Romans,” he said. “You may think you have your teeth in our ear—but we’ll trick you in the end!”
And Ygerne pretended to be very angry, although she did not struggle so hard that he would have to let her go. “Yes, you are like all the Celts,” she stormed. “You live and you die by trickery!”
But her husband laughed on, for he knew she was teasing him. Then he moved his body onto hers, pressing her down, holding her hands widespread on the soft grass. He put his lips close to hers. “Say you are a Celt,” he said. “Go on, say it, or I will crush you!”
And for a moment Ygerne tried to keep up her pretence; and then she put her lips to his face and said softly, “Yes, my love, I am a Celt, and I am proud of being such. I am as proud of my blood as I am proud of yours, my husband. We are a great people and no one shall put us down.” Then suddenly she burst out laughing and pushed Gwyndoc from her. “Oh, oh!” she said. “We must behave ourselves; there’s a squirrel with the funniest expression on his face watching us from that tree over there! He looks just like a druid in disguise!” Then they both laughed and sat up.
After a while they left the wood and made their way over the hill, and as they walked, hand in hand above the city, amongst cowslips and bird’s-eye trefoil, with a clear blue sky over their heads and the fresh salt breeze tossing back their long hair, they forgot the dark background of their times, the brutish black backcloth against which all moved, in alternating arrogance, terror, whimpering misery and exalted poetry. They forgot the threshing limbs under the great stones, the antlered men whose ghastly faces twitched among the dark forests, the white-robed wolves who annually carried away the first-born or mutilated the cattle with golden knives to bring rain. They forgot the storms and the famines, the black cock’s entrails steaming omens before the chief’s high table, the fresh blood hardening on some young widow’s lintel, and the ruined and ravaged faces that peered out from the beehive slums as magnificent young lords cantered by with cloak floating and bright boar-spears flashing in their jewelled hands.
But at last they were forced to come down to earth again, and the last dreams faded when a company of horsemen swept past them, shouting and waving swords, as they entered the city gates. Gwyndoc pulled his wife to him and pressed hard against the stone pillars to avoid the flying hooves. “They must be mad or drunk,” said the girl, trembling. But Gwyndoc did not answer. He dragged her by the hand, after him, towards the King’s house, as though she were a calf or a pony going to market. The unglazed windows of the Council Chamber blazed red with torchlight, and even from the courtyard the sound of many excited voices could be heard. Gwyndoc’s steps quickened, and in the ante-room he loosed Ygerne’s hand almost as though he had forgotten that she existed.
Seated on a bench beside the door were Morag and his brother, the one breathing hard on a helmet and rubbing it with his sleeve, the other lazily kicking his heavy leather scabbard from foot to foot.
As Gwyndoc reached the door he spoke to them. “Hail, cousins,” he said. “This is a surprise! Why is the Council in session?” But the brothers looked up at him with a blank stare of enmity, and neither spoke. Gwyndoc paused for a moment, a quick anger driving the blood into his ears. Then Morag slowly bent his head and spat on the floor, and Beddyr stopped kicking his sword and held it in his left hand. Gwyndoc’s lips began to twitch and he could scarcely keep his voice down to a whisper. “Cousins,” he said, “one day your insolence will find me when I am not in a hurry. Then watch which side of your faces you smile on.”
He turned away from them, as they bowed their heads ironically, and passed through the open door. Ygerne waited for him at the entrance to the antechamber, but as the twilight turned to dark he did not come. Morag and Beddyr stared at her from time to time, smiling cruelly but never speaking, until she could stand it no longer. Then she went to find Gwynedd, for she could not bear these barbarians to see her tears and her fear of them.
Caradoc was at first a little angry by his friend’s absence that day, but that annoyance was soon forgotten in the general argument and hubbub of the meeting. Before the Belgic Council retired that night they had condemned Adminius to death, in his absence, as a traitor; had sent the fiery crosses out along all the upland roads from Lindum to Mai Dun; had organised an immediate tribal levy throughout the south, and had sent off couriers to Catuval, in Belgium, reminding him of blood-ties and asking for his armies.
As for the Romans let them come if they were so minded. A clash must take place again sooner or later—it was inevitable. They would be allowed to land wherever they chose—though preferably in the southerly marsh country, south of Tamesa—and then Reged, with the subchieftains and their bog-trotting tribesmen would harry the wits out of them day and night, worrying them to death and preventing them from forming properly. Then, when their determination was shaken, they would be allowed to make their way to the firmer hinterland, where Caradoc could bring the full weight of his chariots to bear on them and so smash them before they could get their second wind.
The meeting ended at an almost hysterical pitch of enthusiasm. Reged, who was riding off straightway to take over his command, ordered a stirrup-cup to be brought, and the farewell toast immediately turned into an orgy of berserk drunkenness. Only Caradoc and Gwyndoc remained sober enough to strap Reged into his saddle and to pack him off southwards with a guard on each side of him to keep him from falling to the ground.
Then they wandered out together into the streets, arm in arm, laughing with a fierce excitement at the fires that burned brightly throughout the city, calling to the shouting tribesmen and laying their hands on the shoulders of the warriors who ran towards them from the shadows and knelt before them, vowing eternal homage.
By the middens a crowd of youths stood laughing round an old man. As the friends drew near they saw that it was Bobyn, the idiot. He danced in the firelight, uncouth as a great bear in his stinking sheepskins and otter-skin cap. He was singing drunkenly and waving above his head a long sword of painted wood.
Caradoc tapped a young lad on the shoulder. “Hey, boy,” he said, “what’s happening here?” The lad did not bother to turn round, nor did he recognise the King’s voice. “Oh, it’s a bit of fun,” he said. “It’s Bobyn! We’ve made him a sword and told him the King wants him to lead the army against the Romans!” And the lad nudged Caradoc and went on laughing.
For a moment the King’s face was grim, then he smiled at Gwyndoc and gave the lad a cuff over the head that was meant to be playful but which laid him on his face.
When Gwyndoc returned to his room he found Ygerne’s bed still empty. She was with Gwynedd, no longer weeping, but cursing the day she had stooped to marry a tribesman, while the dark-eyed girl stroked her arm and nodded patiently, knowing that the fit would pass before morning.