Island Dragon

By Mark Hawkes

In 410 AD, after four centuries of occupation, the armies and administrators of Rome that had brought civilization to the island of Britannia, abandoned her. In the Dark Ages that followed, a series of great leaders, including the semi-mythical King Arthur himself, struggled to maintain order and hold off the growing threat of invading Germanic tribes. After the death of Arthur, another great warrior arose to seize the title of High King of Britain and continue the fight to unify the land against the Saxon invaders: Maelgwn of Gwynedd, the Dragon of the Island.

What we know of Maelgwn comes mainly from the writings of one of his contemporaries: a monk named Gildas Sapiens--Gildas the "Wise". Gildas is exceedingly harsh in his criticism of Maelgwn's lifestyle and behavior, branding him "first in evil" and accusing him of committing a multitude of sins ranging from oath-breaking to familial murder. Island Dragon portrays the real man behind the "bad PR": a man torn between his passions and his intellect, just as his country is torn between the order of Rome and the chaos of lawlessness.

From his carefree youth in what would later become northern Wales, the novel follows key years and events in Maelgwn's life; the personal losses of his first battle, his struggle for power against his usurping uncle, his sojourn in a monastery in search of answers, his early conflicts with Saxon warriors and some of his own countrymen who do not share his vision of a united Britain and block his path to High Kingship, his loves, his hates, and his final confrontation with the invading Saxon King Ida in the northeast of Britain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Hawkes
• Release date: Apr 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301926091

Mark Hawkes

I've been a storyteller all of my life. I love to read, and I'm a history buff. I like to merge what we do know about history with creative conjecture to bring historical figures and times to life for my readers. I've written short stories, plays, novels, and even a role-playing game. I've won numerous writing contests. My current project is a non-fiction book about my family history.

Book preview

Island Dragon

by Mark Hawkes

Copyright 2013 Mark Hawkes

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To my parents for all their support and encouragement, and to author Parke Godwin, whose Arthurian novel Firelord was the inspiration for this book.

Table of Contents

Map of Britain in the Sixth Century

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Epilogue

What of you, dragon of the island, you who have removed many...tyrants from country and even their life? You are...mightier than many both in power and malice, more profuse in giving, more extravagant in sin, strong in arms but stronger still in what destroys a soul, Maglocunus.

Gildas Sapiens, De Excidio

Map

Prologue

November, 547 A.D.

I was meant for better things. What way is this for a king to end up: flat on his back and feverish--weak and helpless as a new babe. The brothers tell me it's the pestilence.

The pain and the fever have eased somewhat--I can focus on the bare, stone monastery walls around me. There's a cross carved above the doorway. I study this for a moment, then clench my eyes shut as another convulsion takes me. Damn, bit my lip that time. I turn my head and spit. Don't mind me, God.

Young Taliesin should be here to see the fulfillment of his prophecy. Even a word-weaving bard like him will have trouble livening up an end like this. I'm sure he'll manage, though--him or one of the others.

When I open my eyes I see, through a greyish haze, a young monk standing by the doorway looking grave and frightened. Familiar face, but I can't place the name.

Come in, come in, I say, beckoning weakly. We're both surprised by the rasping croak of my voice.

The monk moves solemnly to the side of my cot, shaking his head. You've opened your wounds again, my Lord Maelgwn. You must try to lie still.

He keeps his distance and does not touch me.

Would you like some water, my lord?

I raise my head to the bronze cup he hesitantly offers and drain it greedily. The cool liquid is like a blessing. It's worth the pain of the effort. I lay back down, gasping.

The monk takes a step back and stands there, watching me.

What is your name, lad? I gasp.

Asquiol, lord.

Have we met before?

No, save when Prince Deniol and the other lords brought you here.

And how long ago was that?

Three days, lord.

Three days. By now all of Britain will be in an uproar. Each petty princeling preparing to crown himself High King. To hell with them all--they deserve each other. Or perhaps I should live just to spite the lot of them.

The monk has taken a step backward and now stands with his back pressed against the wall.

Is it me, or the sickness you fear, Asquiol? I croak.

He stiffens, looking embarrassed. Neither, he blurts, the Lord protects me from all evil and...I mean....

So I am evil, am I? Not surprising he should think so, the way I look now: body wrapped in bloody bandages, face and limbs swollen and deformed by the sickness.

No, of course not, my lord, it's just that, well, I've read the work of Brother Gildas Sapiens....

I smile. If I had the strength I might even laugh out loud. Ah, yes--Gildas the Wise: the learned master of the Church who has branded me Maglocunus, the Island Dragon. Now I understand your fear: the man that good Gildas chastised in his recent writings is certainly evil and dangerous, at least he would be--if he existed.

Asquiol looks confused.

What do you mean? he asks.

With an effort, I prop myself up on one elbow. What would you say if I told you that Gildas and I were once best friends?

Frowning: But he reviled you....

I shrug, careless of the pain. He had his reasons, I suppose, even if he didn't tell the story quite the way it happened.

"How did it happen, then?"

"Ah, now that is a good question... I say, and lean back, trying to get comfortable. You'd get a different version from each of the people involved...but I like my own best." I give him a half-hearted wink.

"I'll tell you about it, if you care to hear. Mind though--you'll have to listen closely; I don't have the wind for loud speeches. I may not even get through it all, but I'd like to try. I want someone to know the truth: to know what we tried to do and where we went wrong.

It must have been almost thirty years ago that Gildas and his family came to my father's court at Aberffraw on the isle of Mon--I was eight then. It was a good time...a youthful time. I was a young prince and the entire world was my kingdom. All I had to do was go out and conquer it....

Chapter One

July 518 A.D.

It was summer in Gwynedd--one of those blissful summers of youth that last forever. Winter was forgotten; it seemed impossible that the lush green hillsides around our settlement had ever known snow, or that the creek in which my brother Kedwys and I now fished had felt the cold embrace of ice.

I lay on my belly on a flat slab of rock that thrust out into the creek, the sun hot on my bare backside. Fishing line in one hand, I used the other to shield my eyes as I searched the shallows for potential prey. My brother had already caught half-a-dozen fish and was stretched out on the river-bank, asleep. Twelve years my senior, this was one of the rare occasions that he deigned to associate with his little brother. He would never admit it publicly, but he had a strong affection for me, his last surviving sibling, and enjoyed showing and teaching me things.

I brushed a persistent fly away from my ear and sighed, convinced that I could lie there until I rotted and still not catch any fish. As I stared dreamily at the sinuous reflections below me, my eyelids drooping, I began to see an image forming amidst the random patterns of the water's surface. Peering more closely, nearly over-balanced, I could make out a dark, curving shape, which I took for a snake. Continuing to watch with dreadful fascination, I realized that the image was not that of a snake, but of a long line of people walking slowly up a roadway between two hills. I wondered who they could be.

It's getting late, Mal. We'd better head back, Kedwys called as he pulled on his tunic.

I snapped out of my trance, the vision fading quickly from my memory. But I haven't caught anything yet. I threw down my line in disgust. It's not fair.

Kedwys came and knelt beside me on the rock. You know what your problem is, you little whelp? He grabbed me roughly by the waist. You need to get a little closer to the fish! With that, he heaved me over the edge and into the creek. I came to the surface spluttering in impotent fury and began to clamber back onto the shore. I'll get you, you big oaf... I fumed.

Kedwys, doubled-over with laughter, was an easy target. I hit him at a run and we both went down in a tangle. He resorted to tickling and, in seconds, my anger dissolved into helpless giggles. We broke apart and lay on our backs in the grass, gasping like the fish Kedwys had caught earlier.

Kedwys jumped to his feet and slung my clothes across my face. Last one home's a Pict's ass!

He was off and running, his catch flopping crazily on the end of a hide thong. By the time I'd pulled on my tunic and started after him he had disappeared over a ridge.

Cursing and laughing in the same breath, I stumbled along, skipping in a mad dance as sharp stones and thorns stabbed my feet. When I reached the top of the ridge I looked about for my brother and saw him standing on the next rise, watching something. He turned toward me and beckoned me urgently. A wonderful mixture of apprehension and excitement churned in my gut as I plunged down the gentle slope, arms flailing.

When I arrived, panting, at my brother's side, he pointed toward the road that wound through the valley below. A small group was making their way along the narrow track in the direction of our settlement. There was something disturbingly familiar about the sight.

Refugees, my brother announced with certainty. See--they've brought everything they own with them.

I saw that this was true: most of the horses in the party were tough little moor-ponies, heavily laden with tied bundles, strapped-on pieces of furniture, and iron cooking-ware. There were fifty-two people in the group, half of these were mounted warriors with round shields and spears. Within the protective rectangle formed by these men rode a small group of women and children. Some of the children ran alongside the horses, laughing and playing their games of chase.

Who are they? I asked.

Looks like the household of some lord, what with all those fighters. Look there--in the rear: they've got cattle with them, too.

Now that they were closer I could see that many of the warriors were riding in the stiff manner of the wounded. Their outfits were torn and dirty. At the head of the group rode a fierce-looking man whose heavy beard was tinged with grey. His bearing and his dress marked him for a prince, or a king. It seemed my brother was right, but what would prompt a king to gather his people and possessions and become a wanderer, I wondered.

Come, Mal--let's get back and tell Father we've got guests for dinner! Kedwys sprang off down the hill like a young stag, with me scampering along in pursuit.

He was a king of the Novantae, Caunus by name, in the old Roman manner. His kingdom lay far to the north, beyond the Wall. It was the Picts, swooping down from their hiding places in the hills that had forced Caunus and his followers to flee their lands.

We heard his story at dinner in the great hall. My father, King Cadwallon, sat in his usual place at the head of a row of long, wooden tables. Kedwys and I were seated to his left, beside our mother. Caunus, his family, and his retainers sat opposite us. I had scarcely any attention for my food, so intent was I on the conversation.

And you say you were forced to leave behind your oldest son? my father was asking.

Hueil, yes, Caunus replied between mouthfuls of fish. Went out on patrol the last day and ne'er returned. We'd word of a major Pict uprising coming our way and couldn't risk searching for 'im. Now all the bairn I've got are my two precious lassies and young Gildas here. He gave the reed-thin boy beside him a hearty clap on the back. Gildas looked a few years older than me, but as yet his smooth face bore no trace of a beard. His black hair was longer and straighter than my own and, though he was taller than I, mine was the stockier build.

My father beckoned a servant for more mead. My sympathies, lord Caunus, I know what a blow it would be to lose a son, he looked at Kedwys, and a kingdom all at once. There was a solemn pause.

Since you have come to my court as a man in need, and since, as you have mentioned, we share kinship through my great-grandfather, the mighty Cunedda of Manau Gododdin, I offer you my hospitality and protection as King of Gwynedd. There were shouts of approval from both sides of the table.

Caunus began to rise, but my father cut him off. Further, I grant you sufficient land for you and yours to settle and found a homestead. My craftsmen are at your disposal and will assist you with your building. Long may you prosper, friend Caunus. My father saluted graciously with his cup as cheers went up from the rest of us.

By the time the thatching was lashed into place on our new allies' hall, Gildas and I had become fast friends. Despite the gap in our ages, we got along well and busied ourselves with being young. Gildas loved to wander the country-side, and I learned much about the natural world from those excursions. He seemed to have a name to put to everything; he knew the habits of the birds and animals, and which plant to boil to cure a fever. Our wanderings occupied any time we had to spare from chores and studying with the monks of Aberffraw. Our journeys came to an abrupt halt, however, with the appearance of Irish raiders along our coast.

Of course, they had been coming for a long time--that's why the Romans brought my great-great-grandfather and his people from the North and entrusted this land to them: to keep the invaders at bay. But in my lifetime we had known only peace, save for the petty squabbling of the princes, who never seemed to be satisfied with what they had. This, I think, is the greatest fault of my people; if there are no enemies to be had beyond our walls, we create some from within them.

The raiders had been sighted that morning by the look-outs, who still manned the dilapidated Roman shore-fort a half-day's march to the south. Their coracles had come creeping out of the darkness in the West to land at Trefdraeth where a small cluster of homesteaders had gathered their sheep. Our household had been in an uproar ever since the messenger and his exhausted horse had arrived at court.

Battle plans and preparations were swiftly made. The encampment echoed with the sounds of men and horses as my father's teulu, his personal war-band, equipped themselves for battle. Even old Caunus heard the news and came to insist that he be included in the expedition.

Cattle-thieves and looters, the rutting lot of them! Caunus strode about the great hall, muttering. He looked impressive in his worn leather cuirass and red cloak. A finely wrought, circular pin held the cloak in place at the shoulder, flashing periodically in the fire-light as he moved.

I tell you, Cadwal, they're testing you in preparation for a full invasion--seen it before, you know. Be sure none reach home again if you hope to discourage the bastards. Fill their boats with heads and send 'em drifting back--that's the answer I'd give 'em. He slammed his fist into the palm of his left hand and fixed my father with a feverish eye.

Kedwys stood beside my father, fumbling with the ties on his leather breeches. This would be his first battle. He had been trained, as I soon would be, in the art of warfare, and knew all the subtleties of spear, sword and shield. In his fine leather armour and shirt of iron ring-mail he looked very much the part of prince and king's son; I envied him terribly.

Aye, my father said as he checked over Kedwys' gear. We've got to hit them fast and hard, before they have time to think. But even with the horses, we'll be hard put to catch them before they get back to their boats.

What about the fleet? asked Caunus, stroking his beard speculatively.

My father shrugged. "My brother Cadwyr has most of them on patrol around Holyhead, to the north. By the time we get word to them, the Carryg will be back home deep in their crannog, like vermin after a night of scavenging. I don't like to order the rest of the ships out in case this is just a ruse to draw our defenses away from Aberffraw itself."

Gildas and I sat off to one side, out of the way. He looked morose, and hadn't said much all day. He was staring at the table-top before him, drawing aimless patterns in a puddle of something. I ignored him, content to sharpen my small knife and observe the proceedings.

Well, lad. My father clasped Kedwys by the shoulders. You do me proud. If you fight half as sharp as you look, the Carryg are in for an unpleasant time. Now make haste: to your horses, everyone--we ride for Trefdraeth!

A shout went up from the other warriors; I trembled with excitement. The crowd began to file outside where the horses stood, tethered. I prodded Gildas. Come quickly--if we hurry we can watch them ride out down the south road.

He was reluctant at first but, seeing that I would simply leave him behind, he finally followed. We dashed out of the hall, me in the lead, and skirted past the area where the warriors were assembling. Through the outer quarters and under the shadows of the wooden gate-tower we ran: Gildas with those long, distance-devouring strides of his, and me with my scampering steps.

This way, across the fields! I gasped and veered away right of the road.

Gildas gave a whoop as he vaulted a low stone wall, arms thrown wide. The fields began to give way to a sharp rise where bare patches of rock and rubble alternating with grass. The late-afternoon sun painted the slope nearest us with long shadows that strained toward the summit, pointing the way for us.

At last, sweating and breathless, we came to the crest of the hill and sprawled there amongst the last of the summer's wild flowers.

There they are! Gildas pointed to the north.

I saw the dust cloud first, and then the golden glint of the sun on spear-heads. Around a bend in the road they came, riding hard, in lines of three. My father rode at the front with Kedwys, while Caunus' men rode together near the middle of the group. They were set apart from the others by their purple cloaks and stocky, shaggy-maned horses.

As the cohort passed below us, I jumped and capered about the hill-top, waving my arms and urging my kinsmen to victory. My voice grew hoarse by the time the rear-guard disappeared from view in the south. I collapsed beside the silent Gildas. Fifty-six men had ridden past: nearly all of my father's mounted forces. The raiding party was estimated to be slightly larger in number, but on foot. If my father caught them, they wouldn't stand a chance.

I wish I was going with them--isn't it exciting? I asked exuberantly.

Gildas looked slowly up at me from the daisy he was dismembering. You've never seen a battle, have you? His tone was condescending.

I stiffened. No, I admitted, but I've heard the bards describe them: bright swords, bravery, glory...

Gildas snorted. The bards will say anything, as long as it rhymes. They could make the gibbet sound like fun.

I frowned. What are you trying to say?

He cast aside the daisy and picked another. Has your father fought any battles before?

Of course--my father is the greatest warrior in Britain, well, except for King Arthur, maybe. He even fought at Mons Badonicus!

Gildas waved that aside. That was years ago: I was just a baby, and you weren't even born. I mean, has he fought any battles that you can remember? No? I thought not.

He lapsed into silence and I waited impatiently for him to continue. Just as I was about ready to snatch the daisy away from him, he said fiercely, Battles are just plain bad. Pain, blood, fire, death--that's all they mean. Sometimes people come back with an arm or finger missing; sometimes they come back with awful wounds that get smelly and won't heal. His voice dropped to a whisper, Sometimes they don't come back at all.

You mean when they're killed, like your brother?

Gildas rounded on me, his grey eyes narrow and intense. Hueil is not dead. Don't you ever say that he is.

I recoiled from his anger, one hand coming up instinctively to shield me from an expected blow. When none came, I recovered my composure. But I thought...

Never mind what you thought, or what you heard. I tell you he's alive. He's too smart to let any slimy, little Prydn catch him. He could pick them up, two at a time, and crush them with his bare hands. No, he is alive and fighting still, and one day he will reclaim my father's kingdom. Gildas shook his fist at the blue, impartial sky, then stood up, dusting off his breeches.

Come, let us go back, he said.

So we did.

The warriors returned a few hours after night fall with a great deal of singing and celebration. I awoke beside the fire where I had sat myself earlier, determined to stay awake until their return. I threw off the wool blanket that someone had draped over me and ran outside.

By the light of a growing ring of torches I could see men dismounting, greeting friends and relatives, and tending their horses. I searched the crowd for my father and brother and felt sickness in my gut as I caught sight of several still shapes being unloaded from the backs of horses.

As I got closer, I could see that many of the men, and the horses, were wounded in one way or another: some nursed mere nicks, while others clutched at soaked bandages that glistened wetly in the torch-light. I was near panic when I finally squirmed my way into a knot of men and found my father and Kedwys at its center. Kedwys was being supported by two men and my father was calling out orders. At first I couldn't see anything wrong with my brother, but then I noticed a wicked-looking, black-feathered arrow sticking out of his left thigh. A thin, dark stream snaked its way down his leg to his boot.

Kedwys! I blurted, close to tears.

He looked up at me, his face pale and drawn. He grinned. We got 'em, Mal! Every last one!

Then he passed out.

Chapter Two

March, 522 A.D.

Kedwys recovered from his wound in due course, though he never quite overcame a certain stiffness in that leg. In older days such an imperfection would have ended his chances of becoming king.

A romance which he had managed to keep hidden from all of us culminated in the Spring with his marriage to Gwendolyn, daughter of the Count of Gwynedd, the commander of my father's horsemen. The Bishop of Aberffraw presided over the Christian ceremony, which was filled with grave warnings and oaths that I comprehended little of. A separate building was constructed for the new couple within our walled encampment, and by the time the snows began to drift, the cries of a newborn could be heard throughout Aberffraw. This was Drogan, my cranky little nephew, and I resented him with a passion, for all the attention he received.

Word came one day from the north that Gildas' brother Hueil, and a small group of loyal followers, had re-taken the kingdom of Strathclyde from the Picts. He had sent messengers throughout Britain seeking his family and asking them to return home. We were surprised and flattered when Prince Caunus replied that he had found a new home and would remain here with his kinsman and liege, King Cadwallon of Gwynedd. I could tell Gildas was disappointed that he would not soon be reunited with his lost brother, but he stoically consoled himself with the fact that Hueil was indeed alive.

There had been no more raids by the Irish following their defeat at Trefdraeth, but the court always buzzed with tales of the border wars of our neighbours and allies: the kingdoms of Ceredigion and Powys. When they were not bickering with each other, they were fighting the kings of Dyfed, Brycheiniog, and Gwent, farther to the south. Thus, at the age of twelve, I was introduced to the art of combat while my studies of Greek and Latin were relegated to a place of secondary importance.

I was not the only one to endure the rigorous training program offered by several of my father's best officers; young men from noble families throughout Gwynedd were sent to Aberffraw for the experience. Some came with the hope of becoming a member of the king's teulu, some wanted to earn his favour at court, but most simply needed to learn the skills on which their survival and the survival of their people would depend.

Amongst these aspiring warriors were several who became my friends: one was my cousin Cynlas from Caer Einion, capital of Ceredigion on the west coast. He was a good-humoured boy, my own age, with straight brown hair and a stocky build. Cynlas was slow to anger and fiercely loyal, though that loyalty was hard to win.

Another lad with whom I became close friends was Maeldaf, son of Caldor. Caldor was one of my father's princes and lord of Dinas Emrys, the mountain fortress. Maeldaf, though several years younger than I, was a very serious fellow. He was given to long periods of thought and never did anything without first giving it careful consideration. We used to say that if he ever fell off his horse he'd probably take half an hour to decide to hit the ground.

Yet Maeldaf was no dullard: he was sharp-witted and keen--the kind of observer and analyzer that every king values as an adviser. Nor was he lacking in emotion, as many of that type are.

His great-grandfather was the previous High King of Britain, Ambrosius Aurelianus, who retired to the West after turning the throne over to his aggressive young protégé, Arthur Pendragon. Ambrosius had built a comfortable, but effective, fortification in the mountains of Gwynedd. He had brought much of what was left of Rome in Britain with him to Dinas Emrys. That heritage was a strong part of Maeldaf's background.

It was early Spring, a few weeks before Eastertide, and green was beginning to return to the land. Our training program had started again with a vengeance that was hell on muscles grown slack through the winter.

Maelgwn! Get your lazy, noble ass over here! I flinched as the officer barked my name. You may be the king's son, but while you're with me you're going to work as hard, or harder, than the others. Do you understand?

Yes, sir. I gulped.

Good. Now let's see if you remember anything I taught you last year. He drew his short, edge-less training sword and pointed it at the other boys. The rest of you watch closely and learn from his mistakes! Now, guard yourself, Prince!

My own practice sword swung out of its sheath and into a defensive position in one smooth motion; early in my training it had become obvious that, despite my build, which grew stockier each day, I had the speed and agility of a much smaller boy. I possessed an almost instinctive facility with a blade, often anticipating my opponent's next move. Of this talent I was exceedingly proud--a state of mind which is usually fatal in sword-play.

The officer wasted no time as he lunged past my guard and thrust his sword toward my right hip. I side-stepped and struck an over-eager blow at his exposed side. My clumsy stroke was easily turned and the sword was torn from my grasp. The other boys hooted as my blade landed on the grass a few feet away.

Not very impressive, lad, the officer said scornfully. My wee niece can handle a weapon better than that. Now pick it up! He gave my backside a stinging swat with the flat of his blade. My peers laughed more loudly.

Something cold and deadly began to uncoil within me, and for a moment I was on the verge of lunging at the man's throat with my bare hands. With slow, dazed movements, I stepped over to my sword and bent to pick it up. Then I spun quickly around, leaped and slashed. The briefest flicker of surprise and fear flashed across my opponent's face, and then his blade was up, blocking mine and thrusting toward my face. I was forced to throw myself violently backward. My foot caught on something and I crashed to the ground.

Now the officer, too, was laughing. So, my Prince, he said between guffaws, Is your strategy to render your enemy helpless with laughter? Off your ass and fight like a man, not a fool.

There was a strange roaring in my head that I mistook at first for the jeering of the other boys. I had never been humiliated like this before--I was the best swordsman in the class and they all knew it. They had no right to laugh, I was their better...and their Prince. I caught a glimpse of Maeldaf and Cynlas standing apart from the others looking grave and worried, then my vision gradually narrowed to focus on the man before me. He stood there, taunting me, daring me to get up.

With a snarl, I tore up a fistful of earth and hurled it at the officer as I lunged toward him. He deflected the dirt with his hand, but the movement cost him a second and left him unprepared for the speed and ferocity of my assault. I landed a blow across his right shoulder, tearing his tunic and drawing blood, even though my blade had no edge. He grunted in pain and fell back a pace, his sword coming round to deflect my second blow.

Fired by my first success, I continued to cut and strike at the man, never giving him time to return the attack. My mind was a red frenzy of hate--I gave no thought to skill or style in my assault, wanting only to beat the bruised, bloody creature before me into oblivion.

The officer had stumbled and was now down on one knee, sword raised to ward off blows to his head. In fierce triumph, I prepared to strike again. Heavy hands grabbed me from behind, hauling me off my feet. My sword was knocked from my grasp and I was spun around to face my assailants. Kedwys and Gildas were grappling me, pinning my arms to my sides. In the background I could see soldiers running toward us. The other boys were silent now.

My brother's face was grim, his teeth set. He brought the back of his hand hard across my face, stunning me. Maelgwn! By Cristos, what are you doing? he shouted.

I teetered on the verge of unconsciousness, the strength seeming to drain out of my body. I would have collapsed if not for the tight grip of Gildas. My brother caught me by the chin and snapped my head up to face him. Are you all right? Can you speak? You damned near killed this man! He pointed at the officer, who had been helped to his feet, and was now daubing at numerous cuts on his head and face. I could not bring myself to meet his eyes. The warriors led him away.

Well? What have you got to say for yourself? my brother demanded.

He didn't much like my answer: I vomited on his boots.

That evening, after a thorough inspection by the medicus, I sat by the fire in the great hall with Gildas and Maeldaf, sipping a mug of hot mead and feeling somewhat more like myself. Gildas sat hunched on a small oaken stool, his woad-dyed wool cloak pulled close about him. He stared thoughtfully into the flames.

Maeldaf was absently poking the coals with the tip of a stick he had found somewhere. I don't know, he muttered, I think he deserved what he got--the way he spoke to you, his own Prince!

I shook my head and took another sip of mead.

Maeldaf looked exasperated. Well, you couldn't just stand there and let him insult you.

Gildas looked over at Maeldaf and frowned reproachfully, but said nothing.

Ignoring this, Maeldaf gave the fire a petulant poke, saying, My da says a man's got to defend his honour, lest people think he has none to defend. Leastways that's the way it was in the days of the Romans: every man knew his place and he was damned sorry if he ever stepped out of it.

Gildas snorted. Child, you know nothing of the ways of the Romans, for all that you're supposed to be descended from one...Nay, save your protests, I care not for your fragile pride. Listen to me--in the old days there was law and order and men behaved civilly toward each other--except the barbarians--but then, what can you expect from barbarians? The Roman roads ran straight as a dagger from one great city to another, and down them marched the legions that held the whole thing together: keeping out the invaders. He