TALES OF RAGGED ALBION

TALES OF RAGGED ALBION

And this was Albion, the White Land. A ragged place, a ragged remnant of old Rome left to its own succour. There is darkness everywhere, The darkness of the Irish and Scots pirates to the west, the wild Picts of the north, and the grim Saxons and Frisians in the East.

Lost legionaries whose shouts still echo. Empires of marble, we hear your peoples scream. They flee into forests and crawl through briar, their lips crimson with the juice of berries. Terror has made a palimpsest of their minds. Lesions and boils spread on their flesh. Cataracts close their eyes. Sprites from an older time are invoked, and animals are immolated whole to propitiate ancient deities.

Aurelianus, last bearer of the purple, has grown old. As a final act he journeys north into the land of the Gododdin where he seeks a successor. Cunedda is his name and his bargain is hard. But he comes, with eight sons and their followers. On the return Aurelianus dies; he is found on a iron hard morning of frost, his eyes full of terror (or lust), his hands clenched. Had he dreamed last of Morgan, that centuries-old witch who soothed his groin with poultices. What did he think of the god who placed the sewage next to the playground?

Cunedda calls at Ribchester to gather to him Alan mercenaries. Their old commander Lanector brings with him the cousins LanZealot, named for his zeal in battle, and Lanbors and Lanlionel. Cunedda will dispense with the Lan honorific. Cunedda’s wife, Gwen, takes to the Zealot, admiring his braggadocio on the quintain, his lance ever poised. From Lanzealot he will take on a new name- Lancelot. Cunedda’s right-hand man, Maredudd, uneasy about the double entendre, warns Cunedda of a burgeoning relationship, but he goes too far and Cunedda, scandalised at the imputations cast on his wife, banishes Maredudd.

The Frisians have arrived at Ebbsfleet. They sail way up the river to Tamesian Dorchester where Isis meets Thame and become the Tamesis, eventually the Thames. Their leader Hengest is fierce. So are his sons and his daughter, Rowena, whom he has married off to a collaborative British chieftain. Cunedda is ready for battle. His forces are a melange of characters historical and characters mythological which may seem to give him an advantage but may also render him vulnerable to determinist forces.

And not one battle but a series. Cunedda despatches Hengest but his sons take his place. Eventually they too are despatched and Cunedda, his sons, and the Zealot and his cousins hold the field. And how does the Zealot celebrate? In the arms of his Dux Bellorum’s wife, Gwen.

Now there must be another war, most bitter at every point, from initial resolve, to Gwen’s despatch to a convent, to final execution, though the coda shall bring some peace and reconciliation. The tail of the tale, but we shall come to that. Cunedda must find Maredudd, who was right all along. His was the loyalty not the priapic Zealot’s. He finds him in some waste-strewn filthy Welsh village and begs his forgiveness. Despite his wife imploring him not to, Mareddud returns to Cunedda’s side.

The final battle is in some dim, misty, Gwynedd valley. Cunedda and his sons and Mareddud square up to Lancelot, Bors and Lionel. But men of honour will find each other even, particularly, on fields of battle. Mareddud and Bors in the early days swore loyalty one to the other.

“Yet now I have to fight you”, laments Mareddud.

“Nay” counters Bors, “for these things are tested not in paltry matters but in times such as these”

They disengage and go in search of other foe. Lancelot will kill Mareddud and mortally wound Cunedda. Cunedda’s sons will kill Lionel. The elder son, Einyon Girt, and a grandson, Owain Ddantgwyn, will find Lancelot. Wary of his sword play they will take him from the rear,butchering and decapitating the man who stole Cunedda’s wife and has now all but killed him.

But peace will come to the land. Einyon Girt is now King of Gwynedd. His sons, Cadwallon Lawhir and the brutal Ddantgwyn, will later divide the land between them. Then one day two strangers arrive, a well-appointed man on a horse followed at a distance by a leper ringing a bell. The Welshmen recognise the man as Bors. Einyon draws his sword.

“I come in peace”

Bors turns in the saddle and beckons the leper forward.

“You bring a leper into our midst?”

“Wait. Remove your brown hood”.

Gwen is revealed.

“What trickery is this?” Girt remains suspicious.

But the normally bellicose and truculent Ddantgwyn helps his old grandmother down from the saddle and embraces her. Now Girt profusely thanks Bors, their friend Maredudd’s dear friend, and begs him to stay. Bors demurs; there is still work to be done. The power of the sword must now give way to the power of the pen.

He will leave Albion’s shores forever and betake himself back to France. For though the Alans came out of Asia they had settled in Armorica in the terrible days of Hunnic invasion. It was said that half the men in Brittany (which Welsh exiles from Albion called Armorica) were once called Alan.

Bors however steered a more easterly course. He was in Soissons but continued south to a small town deep into Burgundy, with a singular name. the only one of its kind on a map of Western Europe. He goes to an inn and calls for goosequill, soot ink and parchment. He must write; he must tell the story of the great wars he fought in, tales of loyalty and betrayal, of love and loss, of the death of a hero whose name he will cause to be remembered for centuries to come, for as long as men and women love great stories, acts of valour, passionate love.

But as with many of us as Bors grew old his memory is fading. Who was this great man he first rode with, and then, because of his thoughtless grasping cousin, against? Surely a king of some sort. Cun- what was that. He tries to recall the second part remembering the hard th of the Welsh dd. Cunartha. Not quite. A better name came to him born of many a different tongue. Once upon a time he wrote there was a man known as King Arthur. Bors sat back on his bench. He felt satisfied. Outside the inn he can see the name sign, Avallon. He let himself listen to birdsong before continuing.