The Bodyguard
©2005 Alyce Campbell and SkyFire
Fox Arts LLC
Brid leaned her head back against the rough oaken door, eyes closed, her sword hanging heavily in the sheath that drooped against her right thigh, the gash in her left thigh throbbing. Her stomach was threatening to rise up against the stench of vomit and congealing blood. At least--thank Llew--her own blood had stopped flowing. She ached all over, as if her body was one big purple bruise. And she listened intently. Even through the barred door, which was as thick as two thumbs, she could hear the harsh din of the frenzied battle her fellow defenders were waging against the invaders —a battle she knew the defenders were losing.
Brid opened her eyes and looked across the small murky Christus chapel into the corner where Redegar, her aged master, stood cradling his equally aged wife Hildun. She could barely make out the elderly couple, lit as they were by only a few stray fingers of red flicker that managed to slip through the chapel’s narrow window slits. She tried not to think of the source of that red glow, but in her mind’s eye she could see the sprawling, two storied manor blazing and its rust-colored tiled roof caving as fire consumed timbers that had endured for ten generations.
As Brid listened, the war noises seemed to grow louder. The moans,
the war-cries, the clangs of sword hitting sword became more distinct. She frowned
and guessed that soon the invaders would be coming her way, searching for
Redegar. She scanned the dimly-lit chapel, as she had a dozen times before,
seeking a safe nook. There was
none. The chapel was but a single room
constructed from sturdy fine-grained grey-stone. Without thinking, Brid rubbed her fingers on
the nearest wall, feeling again the strange forms that seemed to be stone
versions of the tiny creatures that lived in the
The chapel’s sparse furnishings consisted of a few well-worn black oak benches facing a large, waist-high bluestone altar. The only decoration, barely visible in the muted red light, was a large wine-colored banner, bearing a golden cross. Hildun and her ladies had lovingly stitched the banner two summers ago when they had all embraced the new god, Iesu, using costly special thread that had come from somewhere east of Constantinopolis.
Brid frowned again and sighed. Perhaps, mighty god Llew willing, she would be able to find a way to sneak Redegar and Hildun past the invaders and out into the still nearly ripened grain-fields beyond the compound’s ruined gate. And even as she prayed for Llew’s guidance, Brid made sure to make the sign of the cross. Although she worshipped the gods of her parents—and Llew, the long-handed master of all arts, in particular--she did not want to offend the gentle newcomer in whose chapel she had taken refuge.
Brid wished again that she had had time to strategize, had had time to hide her master in a safer place. But the invaders had rushed the compound too suddenly, and just at sunset, when most of the good folk inside the compound’s walls were just settling down to evening meal. The invaders had smashed through the main gate, and had rampaged forward. After the alarum drums had sounded, Brid had just barely managed to grab up her sword and run up the stairs to Redegar’s chambers. Luckily Redegar had heard the drums too so he was ready to escape down the backstairs when she had arrived, breathless and anxious. The three had fled the manor and onto the graveled path. Then she had hurried them along to the shelter of this chapel, the most out-of- the-way spot she could think of. Brid had protected the elderly couple, using her sword liberally. She shuddered as she thought of the two men she had slashed so savagely. Did they still live?
Ashamed of her own sentimentality, Brid shut her eyes again. Her dead father’s image flashed into her mind. Involuntarily, she muttered under her breath, “Father, I am so inadequate a substitute for you.” Unbidden, memories from her strange life’s journey to this night crowded in—fitting, perhaps, on a night that she likely would not survive.
Her father, Cedwyth, had been Redegar’s first knight, the captain of his guard—and also a lonely widower. He had raised Brid as he would a boy, teaching her the ways of the fist and the knife and the sword. She smiled as she remember cozy evenings by the hearth when he would tell her tales of courage as he showed her how to keep her weapons primed for use. Then five years back, when she had just turned thirteen, he had decided that she must go to live with her mother’s people for a time so she could learn the ways of womanhood. She had tried not to cry when he had left her in the care of white-haired, grey-eyed Aunt Agathe, who had taken her in with such a disapproving stare. Kindly Aunt Agathe….so determined to tame the unruly Brid! And Brid had tried hard to learn, mostly to make her father proud. Then when the Great Discord began, Cedwyth had abruptly called her home. At his bidding she had abandoned her female garb and had cut off her black braids. Cedwyth had then presented her to Redegar as the son of a cousin, a promising lad in search of a suitable position. Redegar had without reservation accepted Brid as his personal page. And so, Brid had easily become Cedwyth’s eyes and ears in Redegar’s inner circle. And like her father, she had sworn that she would defend Redegar even unto death.
In the gloom, Brid scowled. “The Great Discord”--such an
overly polite name for a brutal deadly war raging between two ruthless
factions! On one side the nobles that supported the Young King, and on the
other those who did not. The Old King had died mysteriously by the
For Brid, the Young King’s victories meant nothing—Cedwyth, her
beloved father, had died in one of the many, many clashes. And as Redegar had wished, Brid had buried him
with full honors in a mound by the
Throughout the many months of civil strife, Redegar’s age and noble heritage had protected him from attack, but Brid guessed that Dagonath’s fury had increased with each of the Young King’s victories, until it boiled over. Redegar, so close at hand, now was feeling the full measure of his wrath.
Brid sighed again and walked the few paces to stand by Redegar’s side. She was distressed by his appearance. His face was drawn and sagging, far more withered than she had remembered. His frame seemed unequal to the weight of his clothes, far more fragile than could be accounted for by his age. Even his normally animated blue eyes seemed to have turned to a dull, washed out grey. In a very worried voice she declared: “Please, master. You must sit. We may need your strength.”
He grimace and replied bitterly, “My strength…”
At his side, Hildun giggled girlishly, as if she was a young maid being courted. “Let us go sit in the moonlight, where you can give us a little kiss,” she said flirtatiously. Then she began humming a song often sung at weddings, all the while fiddling with the tips of her long white braids. It was clear that Hildun was in some faraway place that neither Redegar nor Brid could reach. For a brief moment, Brid envied her. Hildun was protected from all the destruction, and perhaps would die happy should that be their fates.
Redegar led Hildun over to the nearest oak bench and both of them sat. Then he called out. “Come close, young Brid and kneel.” This was unexpected and she was tempted to object. They had so little time, and she wanted to drag the remaining benches closer to the door to make a barricade.
But Redegar called again more insistently, “Come lad. I need you.”
Brid did as she was bid, and knelt beside him. Her injured left thigh reacted with an angry burst of pain, but she managed to choke back a groan.
From beneath his cloak, Redegar pulled out a sword, still in its sheath. Brid’s eyes widened. Redegar was holding Polaris, the legendary weapon he had wielded so long ago, when he had fought at the Old King’s side. As far as Brid knew Redegar had neither worn nor even displayed Polaris for at least a decade. Brid only recognized it from her father’s admiring description.
“What weapon do you carry?” the old man demanded.
Brid lifted her hand to show him the hilt. “Wolf-tongue…a gift from my… from Cedwyth.”
“A good weapon with decent pedigree!” Redegar replied, “But not as worthy as Polaris.” Redegar looked sadly as his wife.
“My lord…!” Brid whispered, suddenly grasping his intent. “It will not come to that. I will not let them pass. I will find the route out for your escape.”
Redegar touched her shoulder with great tenderness. “Lad, well-spoken but I must prepare. They will not take Hildun alive.” In his eyes, Brid saw an iron resolve that she had not seen before--a tiny remnant, perhaps, of the vigor of his youth. He paused, and then ordered: “Give me Wolf-tongue. You must take Polaris.”
Brid shook her head “No, my lord, no…I am not ready…”
Impatiently, Redegar grasped her hand and placed it on Polaris’ hilt. For an instant the world around her seemed molten, shapes and colors shifting and melting to form bright shimmering pools. Brid felt a tingling warmth flow from the sword into her hand and up her arm. It was as if the sword were capturing her into a close embrace.
Redegar must have had some awareness of the strange exchange for removed his hand from hers. He smiled, satisfied: “The sword has chosen—as I knew it would.” Dazed, Brid slowly lifted her still tingling fingers away from the hilt, and then nodded in agreement. After a moment she stood and swiftly handed Wolf-tongue to Redegar, and then unbuckled her leather sword belt. She slipped Wolf-tongue’s sheath off the belt and replaced it with the sheathed Polaris. Her new weapon seems to shimmer as it fell into place against her thigh and nestled there as if it had been hers all her life.
Brid bowed deeply. “Thank you lord—thank you. I will work hard to make my skill equal to the power of this sword.”
“Skills count for much but goodness matters more. The sword knows you have a great heart. Use it with honor, lad, as did my ancestors. I have no son alive, save you, my adopted son. Cedwyth did me a great favor when he brought you to my home.”
Brid’s eyes glistened with tears. She bowed again and turned her face away so that he would not see. “My lord—I…I wish…” She paused. “No deed of mine shall ever dishonor the house of Redegar.”
Redegar patted Brid’s arm, then turned to tend to his wife, who was now singing a string of meaningless babbles. Brid walked back to the door and unsheathed Polaris again. She made a few trial swings to get a sense of the blade’s weight and balance. She smiled ruefully in the dark and re-sheathed the sword. Not all the magic in the world made up for lack of practice. She hoped that she would not have to fight this night.
After several minutes of intense effort, Brid managed to drag two of the heavy benches into position in front of the door. She did not have the strength to stack them. Then she sat to catch her breath and to listen for signs of attackers. Ominously, the sounds of battle had died down. Brid jumped up and leaned her ear against the door, the better to hear. She heard a muffled shouting that became louder. Suddenly the words were very clear, very distinct. She recognized the speaker as Bordauth--Dagonath’s right-hand man, the commander of Dagonath’s veteran personal guard. A tremendous chill went down her spine.
Brid remembered Bordauth well, even though she had met him but once, when she had accompanied Redegar on his visit to Dagonath. Bordauth was large, well-muscled, with thick coarse hair the color of dirty straw. His eyes, under thick bushy brows, were slate grey and seemed to have no pupils. On the day they had arrived at Dagonath’s stronghold, she had watched from afar Bordauth practicing the sword with some fellow knights. Unlike Cedwyth, Bordauth had no natural grace, but he made up for this lack with relentless focus. His thrusts were brutishly powerful and he showed no mercy and gave no quarter, even in practice. One of the knights had been sent, badly wounded, to the care of Dagonath’s healer. And then later that night, at the evening meal, she had waited on the head table, serving Redegar, Dagonath, and Bordauth. When she had filled Bordauth’s cup with wine more slowly than he thought his due, he had slapped her backside with full force and threatened more in a humorless voice, should she not be more respectful. It was not the unexpected stinging blow but the total absence of any humanity that had profoundly shocked her.
Brid knew that her nerve would not falter in any combat with Bordauth, but she also knew—too well—that she was outmatched by his size and experience. Even with Polaris she could not hope to defeat him on open ground.
Through the door she heard Bordauth shout with annoyance. “Where is that dog-shit, Redegar? Why have you not found him?”
A gravely voice answered. “If he is not dead in the manor, he must be in this chapel, for we have searched everywhere else. Trust the coward to hide in the skirts of a holy place.””
“Holy place or cesspool…he either surrenders or dies.” Bordauth growled. Then a heavy fist hammered on the door. “Are you in there Redegar?” Bordauth barked.
Brid froze, unable to breathe, and although she could not see him, she sensed that Redegar was holding Hildun’s mouth closed with one hand and tightly clenching Wolf-tongue with the other.
After a few moments of silence, the hammering began again. “Come out, you traitor!” bawled a nasty voice. A pause, then a heavy-booted foot kicked at door, to drive it open. The iron bar held. “By the gods…unbolt this door!” Bordauth commanded and then he bellowed, “Bring me an axe!”
As she heard the thud of metal on wood, Brid fell back and prepared for the coming confrontation. She drew Polaris from its place of rest, and then glanced around, plotting her first moves. She said a quick prayer to no god in particular, asking for victory and protection, in the language of her mother’s people. The ancient words brought to mind Aunt Agathe, and a cold winter’s night, when they both had stood shivering, barefoot in woolen robes dyed forest green on well-worn stones. The air had been so crisp, so still, as heady as the chilled wine made from white grapes. Above them in the black night, the northern spirits had weaved and danced in great ribbons of pale greens and pinks. And after, as the winter sun rose, drawing to it the silver morning mists, they had chanted sweetly together, a song of thankfulness for the great bountifulness of the earth. She remembered the first pale rays touching the black stone altar, making the tiny flecks of crystal within its surface sparkle like stars. She saw again the light illuminating their offerings of winter apples, sheaves of wheat, and branches of the sacred laurel.
Brid took full even breaths to attract the deep calm from that remembered winter sunrise into her now tensed body. As she had hoped, and as had occurred before when she had been greatly stressed, she felt as though her spirit was split in two. There was one Brid in the chapel preparing to fight and another Brid who floated above just observing, as if the events were nothing more than acts in some drama being played out for the gods. The Brid in the chapel was now unbound from fear or doubt, since nothing could harm the Brid who watched.
Brid focused on the contest to come, and then made her decision. She jerked the iron bar back and yanked the door open as Bordauth hacked at the door again. The force of Bordauth’s swing carried him forward and suddenly finding no resistance, he stumbled. Instantly she brought Polaris down across his outstretched arm. She did not do much damage because of his chain mail, but he gave a grunt of pain and a thin trickle of blood oozed through some of the links. She danced out of his way as he found his balance and threw the axe at her head, then drew his own sword.
Brid jumped to the open door to get him to look away from the dark corner where Redegar crouched. “First blood!” She yelled in triumph. “First blood!”
Bordauth looked at his arm, and then down at Brid. “Well struck, boy, but now this game is done. Surrender and I will not gut you.”
Brid met his glare easily and shouted out. “What…the great Bordauth afraid to fight a simple page?” She could see his rage increasing. Good, she thought…good. His anger will be his enemy and my ally.”
He bellowed back, “Boy…this is not your dispute….The old fool you serve has made a fatal choice. But you can live.”
Brid snarled. “Live---like you? A yappy lap-dog of the foul Dagonath? I hear he does your thinking for you--even tells you when to wipe his buttocks.”
Bordauth’s craggy face grew thunderous. “You will not speak of Dagonath thus. Your insolence has earned you a thorough thrashing before you die.””
“You have to catch me first, you lumbering sack of dung!” Brid taunted, moving back and forth before the man, holding Polaris ready to strike.
Bordauth lunged forward enraged, snorting as if he were a mad bull. In that moment, Brid swung Polaris at his groin, making sure that the flat of the sword smacked firmly against his private parts. As he halted yowling with pain, she bounded away into the darkness, dodging the hands of two of Bordauth’s knights. She ran along the wall towards the stables and animal pens. If she could engage him there, instead of on open ground she could offset a little of the advantage his size and experience gave him. She was nimbler than he, not weighted down with any armor. Also, she knew the grounds far better than he, which would benefit her in the darkness. As she hoped, Bordauth charged after her. He yelled, “This rude lad is mine.”
When she reached the end of the stables she found them to be alive with flame---and no shelter from Bordauth’s wrath. Bordauth was not far behind so she jumped over a fallen beam and zigzagged back towards the destroyed manor. As Bordauth closed in, she found an overturned cart and ducked between the handles, using them as barriers to Bordauth’s assault. Bordauth brought his sword down with a heavy slash, breaking the handle that came between them. The edge of his blow just scraped her shoulder as she rolled away, under the cart. Bordauth upended the cart leaving her exposed. She rolled away again and out of range of a powerful downward stroke. She scrambled to her feet and ran over to a drying rack that was still laden with half-cured strips of deer and boar. She grabbed some of the fleshier pieces and hurled them at Bordauth’s head. One caught on his upraised eye-guard and flapped in front of his face, temporarily blocking his eyes. Brid swung Polaris at his thigh and felt the blade cut through the leather breeches, and then she raced away and crouched behind the shattered pieces of another cart. Bordauth cursed and stopped moving. He reached down and touched his thigh. Brid saw that the anger blindness that had made him give chase was now gone. The shock of the cut brought back the iciness of a cold-blooded killer on the hunt.
He spoke menacingly to the darkness. “Enough of this game…! Lad, you will soon be caught, and you will receive the punishment I promised, before I leave your carcass to the crows.” Then he turned and strode towards the chapel. He walked with speed but not haste, certain that his quarry was trapped.
Brid, fearful for Redegar’s life, doubled back and raced along the wall, hoping to intercept Bordauth. She reached the smashed chapel door just moments before her enemy, and leaped in front of him to prevent him from entering. Panting heavily, but firm in her resolve, Brid challenged, “You shall not pass as long as I have breath,” and raised Polaris.
Bordauth, his anger transformed to black hatred, glared and responded by raising his sword. He spoke in glacial tones, “Have it your way then. Now take your last breath.” Then he stomped forward.
Brid backed into the chapel and found herself pinned against a bench. She twisted out of the way just as Bordauth swung his sword. She parried the blow with Polaris and aimed for Bordauth’s neck. Bordauth deflected her strike and thrust his sword at her unprotected breast. Brid managed to avoid instant death by leaping to the left, but the blade sliced into her side. She groaned in pain, but managed to raise her sword again. “Father, lend me all your strength” she prayed as Bordauth paused, waiting for her to move, planning his final, fatal cut.
Suddenly, outside, Bordauth’s men began hollering. “Bordauth come quick. Mounted men—through the gate…!” Above the bellows Brid heard the clatter of hooves, the disordered din of armored men in combat. Then abruptly the unmistakable notes of a horn pierced the night. At the first sound of the horn-song, all combat ceased.
As the last echoes of the horn-song died away, Bordauth growled at Brid, “Your turn is coming…I will be back.” Then he marched out the door and called to his men to return to the gate.
Brid sagged down on the nearest bench, feeling relieved and thankful for this unexpected reprieve, yet puzzled. Who had come riding in? Had they come to aid Redegar or to help finish him off? She shut her eyes and leaned against the wall, feeling drained and sore. There was nothing more she could do but wait and use this lull to restore herself. As she sat, she heard a furious clash of weapons, then frenzied shouting. Gradually, the clamor of fighting faded away. Voices, words almost inaudible, drifted in her direction. She stood and slowly walked over to Redegar and Hildun, each step causing a little stab of pain in her wounded side. She bent down, wincing, and whispered in his ear, “Did you hear, my lord? Some men have come—perhaps to our aid. I do not know who, but I no longer hear battle sounds.”
Redegar whispered back. “I saw. I heard. Now turn and let me see the wound that makes you hold your side so tightly. Brid swiveled so he could see. She flinched as he probed the gash. Finally, he declared, “It is not deep, but it oozes still. We need to bandage it.” With that, Redegar used Wolf-Tongue to slash a strip of cloth from his sleeve, and handed it to her. “Take this…wind it around your mid-section. Brid stood and tuned away, then lifted her shirt. She wound the strip twice around and tied it in place, then dropped her shirt back in place. “Thank you, lord.”
He motioned for her to sit. They waited a while longer, in silence, just listening to the night. They could hear the normal sounds: low whoops of the night owls, the friendly croaking of the frogs, the soft buzz of the crickets. To Brid, these traces of a peaceful life seemed strangely unfamiliar, out of place amid the remnants of a deadly struggle. She shook her head, as if to clear away mental cobwebs. It was as the wise ones said—man and beast lived in different realms.
After a time, Brid whispered “Shall I go and find out what has happened?” Redegar agreed, and then urged her to take care. She rose, her side aching, her muscles stiff from her exertions. She fervently wished that Bordauth was defeated or had fled, because she believed that her body was not now fit for further combat.
With extreme caution, Brid stepped out into the sultry night and looked across towards the great gate. The fires seemed to have died down, but the air was pungent with the smells of destruction. Suddenly Redegar’s chief groom, Otho, came running, his shirt torn and blood-stained, his head wrapped in a dirty rag. His wife was with him, her face grimy and tear-stained. Otho shoved his face close to Brid’s. “Brid, lad, the leader of our rescuers requires that Redegar come to the commons. You must bring your master. My good-wife will stay with Hildun.”
Hastily Brid led Otho into chapel and together they persuaded the reluctant Redegar to leave his wife’s side. Brid and the groom urged Redegar back to the commons, the large expanse of grass that stretched along the front wall. As they walked through the devastated homestead, Brid wondered if, for Redegar, death would have been the better fate. With each step they came upon the corpses of men, women and children who just hours before had been contented servants, farmers and artisans. As they passed the blackened chimney that was all that remained of the manor, the old man staggered. Brid was afraid that her master would begin to weep.
When they finally reached the commons, they found it almost as bright as day, well-lit from the glow of a least a dozen torches. Bordauth and his men were captives in the center of a circle of Redegar’s foot soldiers. Redegar’s men were grimly pointing spears, ready to stab any captive who might try to escape. A group of knights in chain-mail, their swords drawn, stood off to the side, surrounding a man on horseback. Every man in the group of knights was silent, as if waiting for the mounted man to speak.
As Brid and Redegar approached, the man on horseback removed his helmet and turned to watch them. His red-gold hair hung in loose curls to his collar, except for two thin braids, one falling from each temple. His youthful face and bearing told Brid that he was in his twenties, past adolescence, but not yet in his prime. The face bore the tell-tale signs of a long hard ride—several days’ growth of beard and deep purple pouches under his eyes, but the glittering sea green eyes above those dark pouches showed no signs of fatigue. Brid felt a change in Redegar: excitement that seemed to gladden his heart. He made ready to kneel, but the young man jumped down from his horse and touched the old man’s shoulder. He said respectfully. “No…no, my friend…! I am the one who should kneel—and ask forgiveness. It appears we have arrived too late.
“No not too late…my wife…she…we are now safe.” Redegar sighed in relief and with genuine affection bowed his head. He added, “My lady will want to make a great feast for you.” Brid stood silently observing, wondering if Redegar had, like Hildun, lost touch with reality. Then Redegar slowly, deliberately looked around again at the destruction and his face drooped. As before, Brid thought he might weep. The young man, perhaps sensing the old man’s pain and not wanting him to be humiliated, quickly said: “Time enough for feasting, after you rebuild…” He paused. Brid could see him studying the old man’s frailty and vulnerability. The young man said gently, “You and your good-wife shall dwell with me until your new manor is ready for your return.”
“Dwell with you? I we…we are most grateful, my lord.” Redegar’s voice trembled a little and he bowed again.
“It is I who should be grateful…you have paid so dearly for your loyalty.”
And then Brid suddenly understood…she was standing watching—in fact gawking at--the man who was her king, the Young King whom Redegar had sworn to protect and serve. She hurriedly started to kneel, which attracted the attention of both Redegar and the Young King. The Young King shook his head and instructed. ‘”Stand lad! I assume you are Brid, Redegar’s fearless page. The story of your contest with Bordauth is already stuff of legend.”
Brid bent her head, thinking furiously. Making the half-blind elderly Redegar believe her to be boy had been easy, especially with her father’s backing. But keeping her secret from this eagle-eyed young warrior would be difficult, if not impossible, and certainly she did not want Redegar to find out that for two years he had been dressed and served by a girl. “
Brid’s silence was taken for shyness or modesty. Redegar smiled with approval and said. “It is all right to speak, Brid. None of us will take you for a braggart.”
Brid kept her eyes averted from the Young King. “I…yes.. I am Brid… But Sire, truly, I just did my duty, defending my master and his wife.”
Redegar interrupted. “You are too modest by half, Brid. Did you not manage to keep Bordauth at bay? Did you not manage to make him bleed?”
Reluctantly, Brid admitted to having done these deeds, but added “I had the advantage of the night and familiarity with the grounds.”
“So it is true, then!,” the Young King said, a touch of admiration in his voice. “You fought Bordauth and did not die. Few men can say as much, and you are still a sapling.”
Brid thought to herself that the Young King, barely older than she, was too young to be calling others “saplings”. However, she responded humbly, “Yes, sire, but we surely would have perished without your most timely arrival. It is you who have saved us.”
The Young King flashed a smile that reminded her of golden, carefree summer days, but then the weary sternness of a fighter still at war banished the smile. “Well, we shall have you recount you battle, blow by blow, some night as we all dine in safety. Now we must attend to the remaining tasks.””
The Young King remounted his horse, and leisurely rode to the ring where the invaders stood surrounded by Redegar’s foot soldiers. Three of his knights followed, as did Redegar and Brid. Close up, Brid could see beneath the grime of heavy combat, that the knights wore tunics in the Young King’s personal colors—a black bear’s claw on a blood-red field. Brid wondered if at some point he would adopt the colors of the Old King—the red dragon on white.
When the Young King and those who followed reached the ring, Redegar’s foot soldiers moved apart to create an opening through which they could pass. The Young King positioned himself where he could stare down on the prisoners. In a hard voice, he grimly demanded. “Bordauth…kneel before me and swear to serve.”
Bordauth glared back, and then spat out with contempt: “You sorry rag of ass-wipe. None here will pledge to a lying upstart.””
“Then you shall be executed. This conflict must end.” The Young King spoke with a firmness tinged with a sadness that seemed too profound for a man barely out of adolescence. Brid had heard the same sadness in her father’s voice, when he had spoken of the battles he had survived. It was never a small choice to take a life, even on the battlefield, under threat of death. Brid wondered wistfully how it would be to live in a time of peace.
Bordauth showed no emotion, his eyes blank pools. “All men die. Dagonath will take his revenge.”
The Young King made a motion to his knights. Two seized Bordauth by his shoulders and were able to shove him to the ground, even though he resisted with force. A third knight raised his sword and with a single stroke separated Bordauth’s body from its head. This ending was expected, but Brid still shrank back.
The Young King stared down at the other men. “Who will swear and who will die. Go to the left if you would live.”
About half the men shuffled to the left, while the other prisoners jeered and called them foul names and spat. “Shackle those who have chosen to surrender,” the Young King ordered. “Execute the others.” Then he turned away and guided his horse over to an open space where several makeshift tables had been erected. Brid and Redegar trailed after him. They saw that the tables were being used as makeshift beds for those injured who could not walk. Other folks, some of them wearing bandages, wandered around, acting as nurses to those who were prone, applying salves, dressing wounds and saying prayers. The Young King dismounted and went to speak to a knight who was helping to tend to the wounded.
A small cook-fire was off to one side and on log beside it sat Hildun, being comforted by one of her ladies, who was urging her mistress to drink some wine. Redegar hastened towards Hildun in an unsteady gait. He slumped down beside her and gave her a hug, then began whispering soothing words.
Brid moved to stand behind them, feeling tired and uncomfortable, but wanting to be instantly ready to respond to Redegar’s requests.
The Young King strolled over to them. “We have now secured the grounds and are beginning to clear away that which has been damaged. I plan to post some men here to protect those who have survived. My men will continue to live within your walls until your manor is rebuilt. And now, my friend, I know you are tired, but we must leave. Dagonath may decide to send more attackers.”
Redegar glanced at his wife and nodded. The Young King turned to Brid. “Over by the gate is a covered wagon that Bordauth and his men chanced to miss. Prepare that wagon so Redegar and his lady can ride in comfort. Collect what you think your master and mistress will need and then settle them in.” Brid bowed to acknowledge this command.
Redegar stood. “Sire…it is a night when all has changed. Most of all I shall now live for a time on your kind charity.”
The Young King started to speak, but Redegar, continued. “I wish to make one more change, a gift, I think.”
“A gift...Lord Redegar…I have no need of….”
“The gift is my adopted son.” Redegar pointed at Brid, who felt her heart sink. “I would consider it an honor it you took this lad who has served me so well, as your page.”
Brid, thinking of her pledge to her father, began a gentle protest. “Please my lord, since the day Cedwyth brought me to your house, I have wanted to serve only you.”
Redegar reached out and patted Brid’s face. “Dear boy…you have so much talent…and deserve a better teacher than a spindly-legged old man.
The Young King eyed Brid up and down, a hint of amusement in his eyes. She tried not to fidget under his gaze but felt herself grow red.
“A likely lad…and it is true--I do not have a personal apprentice. I accept your gift, Lord Redegar, although I suspect that Brid will always consider that he is bound to you.”
Brid tried again to object, trying to find words that would not offend Redegar, yet would discourage the Young King. “Sire…you speak truly that my loyalty to Redegar is absolute. I beg leave to stay with my master Redegar, who I think has need of me now more than ever.”
Redegar spoke a little sternly. “No argument, Brid…the kingdom has a great many servants, but very few warriors with your heart.”
Hoping her father would understand, Brid yielded to the inevitable. If she did not keep to her role as a modest knight-in-training, she might not even be allowed to stay in Arthur’s court. Perhaps she would be able to stay close Redegar despite being Arthur’s personal page. Brid bowed deeply. “Master Redegar…I will do my best to make you proud.” Then she dropped down on one knee in front of the Young King, and said. “I pledge to you my life.”
The Young King placed his hand on Brid’s head. Unexpectedly he said softly so that only she and Redegar could hear, “We are not much different in age you and I, young Brid. I pledge to you that I will strive to be worthy of such loyalty--a strong elder brother to you. Please rise.””
Redegar beamed at both the Young King and Brid like a contented father. “It is strange, but I do feel that your futures are tightly interwoven. May Llew protect you! And Iesu too!”
Brid got to her feet, feeling a little off-balance mentally. She had forced herself to keep her focus on the fact of Redegar’s survival, but she knew that soon her self-control would fail and she would have to deal with the full impact all that had happened. This morning she had been the anonymous page of a kindly old man in the backwaters of the country. Tonight her soon- to-be former home was a smoldering wasteland and she was the personal servant of a newly minted king.
“With your leave I will go and prepare the wagon for Lord Redegar and Lady Hildun.” The Young King nodded. She could feel his eyes on her back as she made her way over to the wagon.
After several hours of tedious effort, Redegar and Hildun were sound asleep in the wagon. Brid had loaded up most of what little remained of their personal belongings, and had laid down thick wool blankets for bedding. She had also taken the blue and gold banner from the chapel and stowed it among the boxes. Lastly, with the help of some of Redegar’s other servants she had gathered food, water and wine and secured these in the wagon. When all was ready she had helped the exhausted elderly couple to climb in and prepare to sleep.
Waiting for departure, Brid rested against the wagon, watching, standing guard, because the Young King had not yet sent men to take charge of the wagon. Like Redegar, she was totally exhausted. Her body was stiff and leaden and her two wounds throbbed. It was a struggle to keep alert, though she knew she must.
She looked across to see the Young King approaching, accompanied by two soldiers. Hurriedly she came to attention. The Young King had removed his breast plate and helmet, revealing a muscular build underneath a thin shirt. He moved with the unconscious fluid grace of those born to be champions. She saw that he now looked drawn and fatigued, despite his youth. When close he stopped and smiled wearily. “We are ready to depart. You also?”
. “Yes, sire, Redegar and Hildun sleep. Do you need some assistance? If not, I will climb into the wagon for the journey.”
“Many thanks for making ready so quickly. But from now on, you will ride with me. Come.” Then he said to the soldiers. “The wagon is in your hands. Bring it to the gate”
He turned and strode back towards the commons, not bothering to make sure that she followed. Slowly she pursued him in silence and glanced back twice at the wagon, concerned for Redegar and Hildun. They reached his horse and he turned to face her. He saw her looking back.
A bit sternly he said “You need not worry. Those are my hand-picked men. They are well able to see Redegar and Hildun safely to my keep.”
“Sire...I meant no disrespect. It is just that Redegar and Hildun are, well, family.”
The Young King suddenly smiled, his expression again reminding Brid of beautiful summer mornings. He said with kindness, “I did not mean to sound so gruff. It has been a very difficult night for you. And now you have a new master, about whom you know little.
Brid replied, “That I true sire. I know only what Redegar has told me and what the news-bringers say in their accounts of the Great Discord.”
The Young King rubbed his horse then began checking its condition. As he checked its foot, he said quietly. “Well, know that I am plain-spoken and unused to being a king.”
Brid smiled at the undercurrent of uncertainty, the first she had seen in him tonight. She thought that he was being so revealing only because they were alone and she was his servant. “Well, Sire, I am unused to serving a king, so I guess we will figure it out together.”
The Young King laughed and turned to Brid. “I think we both have much to learn. And Redegar believes you to be a shy youth,” he added cryptically.
Then he mounted his horse. “It is time to go.”
Brid looked around. “Beg pardon, Sire, but where is my horse?”
“No need for one.” And with that he reached down and offered his hand. “My horse can carry us both with ease.”
She had no choice but to grasp his hand. He pulled her up so she could sit behind him. He grasped her hands and positioned them around his waist. “Hold fast. I do not wish you to fall. We have about a four-hour ride.”
Then the Young King headed towards the gate. Brid turned her head and saw that the wagon was now not far behind, being pulled by two of Redegar’s large black, big-horned oxen. The Young King’s knights moved into defensive positions around them and the wagon. She wondered if this was done at his command or out of natural devotion. She guessed that devotion played a major part, so charismatic was this Young King.
She tried to stay awake, but the swaying of the horse and her exhaustion defeated her. She found herself leaning against the Young King’s back, sliding into sleep. Her last thought was “How am I going to keep my secret from this young bear, this Arthur, king of the Brythons?”