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The first major assignment of Ceredig’s was to escort some wagons with goods to the city of London, and to try to find some more soldiers for the garrison. His own recent elevation had increased the need to four soldiers, and Band thought it likely that some men could be found in the largest city of the land, especially since the autumn was drawing closer and the warring season would soon come to an end. He could have recruited young men from his villages, but he wanted experienced men, who had passed the trial of battle without loosing their determination. With him, Ceredig brought Owain, Dafwydd and Oban, as well as three villagers driving the wagons. When they got home again, they all - except Oban, who was one of very few who never confided in me - told me of their journey, and since it included some rather significant events, I will relate it here.
From what I have been told, it seemed like an uneventful journey at first. As King Uther was still on his throne and the Saxons were wary and kept to themselves, the land was fairly peaceful. The going was slow, since the three wagons my friends were escorting were heavily loaded, and oxen have never been noted for their speed. One night, when they had made camp some miles north of Royston, they got a visitor. An old man, with almost white hair and beard, clothed all in grey and wearing a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed his eyes, came walking into the camp. He greeted them and asked if he could join them and share their fire. Ceredig bid him welcome and queried after his name.
"You can call me Guest", the old man replied with a smile, leaning on his walking staff.
"Well then, Guest. You can call me Host", Ceredig responded curtly, slightly affronted.
Then he sat down by the fire where Owain had just finished the evening meal. He took his bowl and helped himself to some stew, put a spoonful to his mouth and quickly spat it out. Somehow, Owain had managed to turn perfectly good turnips and pieces of mutton into something altogether inedible.
Guest sniffed at the pot and without a word took a small pouch from a pouch on his belt. He opened it and withdrew some powder, which he sprinkled over the food. After a few turns with the spoon, a wonderful smell rose from the pot. Then he took a wooden bowl and a spoon from his satchel, served himself and sat down beside Dafwydd, who was quick to follow his example. He told me when he came back that he had never before tasted anything so good, and that he felt strangely relaxed after the meal. The others tried it too, and found it just as good.
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An old man, clothed all in grey and wearing a wide-brimmed hat, came walking into the camp.
After they had finished the pot, Ceredig started to question this Guest, trying to find out who he really was, what he had used to condiment the food and what his business were. He was always a suspicious one, was Ceredig, ever looking for plots and secret agendas. Mind you, he had it right, but we would not find that out until much later. Guest managed to avoid all questions without upsetting his host and soon rose.
"Be wary", he said, "you will have more visitors tonight."
Without another word, he took some swift steps and vanished into the dark woods. Not wanting to reveal how concerned he was over this strange warning, Ceredig set the same guard routine as he had had earlier on the journey. As the drivers and soldiers turned in under the wagons, he stood guard over them, alert and ready. A couple of hours later, he woke Dafwydd and turned in. More worried than he really wanted to admit, he kept his mail shirt on and his sword beside him.
True to Guest’s prediction, they had more visitors. A band of robbers came creeping through the woods towards the camp, but Dafwydd spotted them and raised alarm. The ensuing fight was short and ugly. Oban proved his worth by single-handedly killing four of the assailants, one with a dagger thrown at the neck of one man who was just about to kill Owain who had slipped and dropped his sword. One of the drivers, a man called Ewan, helped by attacking the robbers with his ox whip, standing on the seat of a wagon. At the end, only one of the attackers was still alive, and he was captured and bound.
As he had the best equipment, Ceredig assumed he was the leader of the band. Judging from his clothes and weapons, he was no ordinary outlaw either; rather, he looked like a nobleman. He refused to answer any questions, and in frustration Ceredig told Oban to make the prisoner understand the seriousness of the situation. The prisoner was a brave man, and uttered no sound when Oban grimly broke both his little fingers.
In the morning, he still refused to answer Ceredig’s questions, simply saying "You will kill me anyway".
Having neither the patience nor the interest to put the prisoner to torture, Ceredig gave him an offer: "If you answer three questions, I’ll give you your sword and let you die in honourable combat."
"Agreed", the prisoner said, after having studied Ceredig for a moment.
"Good. Who are you?"
"Harwd."
"Who was behind this raid?"
"My father."
"Who is your father?"
"Cadlew, lord of Royston. Now give me my weapons."
He was given his sword and shield, but being wounded and having broken fingers, he had little chance against Ceredig, who quickly killed him. When he had wiped his sword and was about to put it away, he saw something move at the edge of the forest. To his astonishment, Guest calmly re-entered the camp and sat down by the fire.
"Since you are all hurt, I thought I would cook the breakfast."
And that he did, remaining silent and smiling in spite of Ceredig’s repeated questions of who he was. Instead of cheese, bread and ale, which they had eaten in the mornings earlier, Guest cooked a stew and put some of the mysterious powder into it. Soon, a wonderful smell rose from the pot, and the cook served everyone. The stew tasted as good as it had the night before, and the men, who had all received multiple wounds in the fight, felt much better for eating. In the light of the rising sun the wounds and bruises, hastily tended to after the fight, all seemed much less serious than they had in the flickering light of the fire. Aching muscles and strained tendons seemed to relax, and soon the men set to work.
The bodies were stripped of weapons and armour and hidden in the woods, and as the sun continued its ascent, Ceredig’s party once again set off towards London, the loot stowed away in one of the wagons. Guest had asked for permission to ride on one of the wagons to London, and Ceredig, at loss at what to think of the man, had given his permission. During the rest of the voyage, Guest was silent and refrained from every attempt to engage him in conversation. Cautiously, Ceredig decided they should make a detour around the town of Royston, whose lord and ruler seemed to bear them enmity.
* * *
When they arrived to London they soon became lost in the bustling streets. Not far from the gate, Guest jumped off the wagon and disappeared, but Ewan, who had been sitting next to him, gave Ceredig a small pouch.
"He left this on the seat", he said. "I think it is the one he used when cooking."
"Thank you", Ceredig said and took the pouch. "If this is what I think it is, it could prove very useful."
"Oh, do you think it has healing properties, sir?" Ewan asked.
"Yes, that’s what I believe. But keep quiet about this, understand?"
Ceredig looked at the burly man, remembering that he alone of the ox-drivers had participated in the fight.
"Say, have you ever thought about becoming a soldier?"
"Me, sir? A soldier? Nah, that’s for them as are young and brave. No one would want me for a soldier."
"Don’t say that, my friend", Ceredig said. "You did well back there, so whatever you are lacking, it isn’t bravery. And you look like you are stronger than most young men are. Think it over; if you decide you want to change career, I’ll have a word with Lord Band about it."
"Well", Ewan hesitated, "I’ll have to think about that for a while. But thank you sir, for the kind offer."
After a couple of hours, they managed to locate Lord Band’s factor, who provided them with quarters and took care of their cargo and wagons. Oban, who had been in London many times before, knew of a tavern where mercenaries gathered, and advised Ceredig that this was a likely place to find recruits. After a good night’s sleep, they set out the next morning.
This was the first time any of the men, except for Oban of course, visited to London, and they gawked at what they saw. Filthy beggars calling out for alms, proud nobles in outlandish clothes, humble workmen and aloof priests moved in the busy streets. A whore’s invitation and shameless display of merchandise, as it were, made Owain blush furiously, and he kept his eyes downcast. The others looked at everything, while pretending to be as blasé as everybody else, and so Owain was the only one who managed to avoid the frequently occurring evidence that the citizens used the streets as a garbage heap, a convenient place to empty the chamber pots. With dirty, stinking shoes, Dafwydd and Ceredig walked on behind Oban; having left their horses at the factor’s, for prudence sake. Last came Owain, carefully scrutinising the ground and therefore bumping into people all the time.
* * *
After a long walk, Oban called to a halt, pointing at a rough-looking tavern down the street. It was located in one of the seedier parts of London, and the people they saw here either avoided their eyes altogether, or met them with an unspoken but obvious challenge. Slightly uncomfortable, they listened when Oban gave his advice.
"Be careful now, because the men in here are for the most part a touchy lot. It’d be best if we just entered, had a jug of ale or two, and I’ll check the people first. Then we can announce our intention to hire people and see what turns up. But remember, be calm, and act friendly."
With this he went to the door, yanked it open and boldly entered, the others following at his heels. It turned out to be much less frightening than they had expected, even though they were studied carefully by the patrons. Someone called Oban’s name, and he disappeared in the throng of warriors by the counter. The others found seats around a rickety table, and soon enough a serving maid came to them, eyeing Owain openly.
"And what’s your desire, then, pretty boy?" she asked him with a naughty smile.
Ceredig ordered ale for them all, and paid her when she returned with three tankards, ignoring the suggestive look she gave Owain.
After a while, Oban returned with a young man in leather armour, who he introduced as Caradoc, saying that he was interested in taking service. Caradoc looked competent enough, but Ceredig didn’t want to take any chances, and asked the young man if he was willing to prove his ability.
"Of course, he replied, that is customary. We usually do that in the alleyway outside with the blunt weapons the innkeeper has for that very purpose."
Dafwydd quickly emptied his tankard and rose, saying: "Let’s get it over with then, shall we?" and followed Caradoc outside, with Ceredig and Owain trailing after.
After a few tentative swings from both sides, Dafwydd launched a series of mighty strokes, forcing Caradoc to retreat. Unable to keep his guard up in the thunderous assault, Caradoc was finally hit straight over the head and fell, limp and unconscious, without having scored a single point against Dafwydd.
"Well", Dafwydd said calmly as he prodded the unmoving Caradoc with his foot, "I think he didn’t have what we’re looking for, did he?"
Then he laughed and returned to the table, shouting for more ale. As they sat down, the maid returned and served them. Dafwydd paid her, emptied his tankard and looked speculatively at Owain. "Let me try something", he said, and swapped his tankard with Owain’s untouched.
"Smile at her when she passes near us the next time."
Owain looked at his friend, but only received a broad grin and an encouraging nod.
"Do it, Dafwydd said, I think you’ll be surprised!"
The next time the maid passed them by, he sent her his most charming smile and even winked at her. She smiled in return and looked at the empty tankard in front of him, then hurried away. Soon she returned and filled his tankard to the top.
"This is on the house, pretty boy. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours, in ways you can’t even imagine!" she said and left with swaying hips.
Happily laughing, Dafwydd emptied the tankard he had taken from Owain, and exchanged it for the full one.
"I told you", he said with foam in his beard, "you’d be surprised."
Owain didn’t reply, but sat quiet, slightly ashamed of both himself and his friend. Nevertheless, encouraged by Dafwydd’s insistent poking in his side, he repeated the fraud many times that day.
Meanwhile, Oban had announced that they were looking for good, experienced men, to serve in Bedford. As soon as he mentioned the name of the castle, a young man rose and urged the scarred warrior he had sat next to with him. They went to Oban, who greeted the scarred man. After a brief exchange the older man returned to his seat and Oban turned to Ceredig.
"This is Rhodry", Oban said, indicating the youngster, "and a man I’ve known for many years says he is a competent swordsman and trustworthy."
When Ceredig offered him a place in Band’s garrison, Rhodry accepted, almost fervently, and thanked him deeply. Intrigued by this, Ceredig began to sound him out, asking what he had done previously.
"I served in lord Cadlew’s garrison in Royston", Rhodry told him, "but I had had an argument with his son, and left the service. So you understand why I would like to join lord Band’s men."
"Is that so", Ceredig said, hoping that this disgruntled soldier would be able to offer some clues about the unprovoked attack they had suffered from Cadlew’s son. "Why don’t you tell me more about that?"
"Well", said Rhodry, "It is no secret that there has been a feud between Band and Cadlew for the last twenty-five years. It’s been dormant for many years now, but I doubt that any of them has forgiven the other. Before I left, I heard rumours indicating that the flame had been re-ignited, and that the hostilities would be picked up again. Since I have my own reasons to seek revenge on Cadlew, no commander would serve me better than Band of Bedford."
This astonished Ceredig; he had heard some rumours that his lord had another as a long-time adversary, but no one had spoken much about it. This explained the attack by Harwd and his men. Someone must have recognised the little caravan as coming from Bedford, and notified this Cadlew who sent his son to take care of it. Had it not been for the mystical Guest’s warning and the fearsome competence of Oban, they would surely had been defeated and slain. He decided that it would be prudent to try to find out as much about this story as possible.
A kind of beginning The Roman and the Saxon
Text (c) Örjan Westin 1999, art (c) Ann-Cathrine Loo 1999.