Winter's Blossom: The Seasons of Arthur

Chapter 41

Merlin once told me that victorious Roman generals would march their army through the streets of Rome in something called a triumph. He said that that mighty city had been home to a million inhabitants, and almost all of them would be fighting for a place to see the red cloaked legionaries marching proudly along the cobbled streets in straight ranks. Their spearpoints, armour and even their buckles would be polished until it shone like the sunlight that it glinted in, and all to the chills of almost a million voices. A legion of babes would be conceived that night both by the soldiers and the infectious celebratory cheer of their onlookers.

There was no such parade for Owain. The people came to watch his return but there was a subdued look upon their wary faces that watched the warriors march down the streets towards the marketplace. Somehow, despite the fact that he had taken no part in the fighting, Lancelot led the procession. Perhaps it made sense, to be led back into the town by the elite cavalry on their big horses. Perhaps the big horses hid the losses Owain had incurred over the campaign. If that was the intention it failed in its object. Too many loved ones looked longingly at spaces in the ranks that their menfolk should have marched in, for Pellinore had led the actual attack on the fort and had also incurred losses.

But the muted melancholy was punctured by pride. Owain had won a major battle against their embittered foe. He had sacked their fortress and had potentially achieved a generation of respite, from that kingdom at least. There may not have been overt cheers to the returning, weary army, but their were quiet mutterings that Arth, the Bear had sharp teeth and claws, and that he was one of them, a Votadini warrior of whom the blood of his noble ancestors ran true. Everybody still grieved for Agravaine, but now it seemed that the weight of implacable faith and reliance that had been placed upon the fallen prince's shoulders had slipped to add to the already heavy burdens that Owain carried.

This was missed by Lancelot though. Despite having played no part in the fighting, Lancelot's knights led the march through the gates, looking resplendent in their bright armour and long riding cloaks. They rode two by two, led by the lords with Owain and Lancelot at their head. Lancelot was tall and proud in the saddle of his white horse. His brilliant good looks seemed to stand out even from a distance, and he shone like sunlight as he rode besides Owain. I turned away from the window, soured by Lancelot's undeserved pride and plaudits and limped on stiff legs back to my bed.

I felt like I had only dozed, but I must have fallen into a deeper sleep because I came awake with a start, reacting to a touch and I sat up straight in a burst of sharp pain, ready to react to the threat only to see Owain sitting besides my bed. He was leaning forwards and gripping my arm.

'You're okay?' I was unsure if it was a question or a reassurance. Owain's face was a mask of concern. I had been unsure how I would react when I saw Owain. I had experienced so many feelings about him since the battle. Anger and hate for how he had abandoned Agravaine and me in the battle, and blaming him for the death of my friend. I had felt guilt at how I had exploded with such unfair accusation at Owain after the battle, and struggled against my own insecurities against him. But as I looked at him now all of those battling emotions faded into sympathy. Owain was nineteen, like me, but he looked ten or even fifteen years older. His thick mop of hair had started to recede at the edges to create a widow's peak of fluffy, brown hair. His face, while still round and friendly, had lost its boyish quality. While he had always been serious, he had lost that eager, earnestness that had endeared so quickly to people. Instead, his eyes were darkly sad, and seemed sunken. The woes of war seemed to have taken its taxing toll upon him, and I realised that this was not a look that had been developed in three weeks of campaigning. This had been a slow process as stress had eaten away at Owain for months, and I had not been there to alleviate any of it, only add to Owain's problems and exacerbate his own crisis of conscience and guilt.

I felt the urge to apologise all of a sudden. I felt the urge to ask after him, and to answer his concerns with the truth of how I had struggled, and to beg yet more help from my cousin who had constantly been there for me and wanted to be again, despite all the tolls it took on him. Instead I tried to shrug. 'Bit tired.' I said. 'My leg's been better.'

We looked at each other and it was a look of complete understanding. For a moment be both saw into each other's souls and saw each other's demons, but in then in that stubborn nature of men we acknowledged it with a nod and but not words. Instead Owain smiled. 'I can't imagine you've been particularly affected by your wound.' He said conversationally, 'You spend most of your time in bed with pretty girls bringing you wine anyway.'

'Monstrous untruth.' I grinned back at him. 'I am merely taken a well-deserved rest. It must have been most taxing for you, without me to do all of your fighting for you.'

We exchanged a light banter back and forwards for a little while, I probed lightly for news of his campaign. Owain spoke darkly of it though, his voice bitter and humourless. Owain, while he understood the realities of war, would always wrestle with his conscience afterwards. His men had sacked of Sruighlea, and from what he described it must have been a level of merciless brutality that I have never seen. The Caledonian highlanders had been raiding and burning the lands of the Gododdin, murdering and enslaving for years now and the Gododdin warriors, their leashes slipped paid it back a hundredfold. Ironically it was the men, those who had committed the atrocities on the Gododdin who were the lucky ones, for most of them were simply killed. A number though apparently had their arms and legs cut off and left inside the burning husk of their homes as men gambled on what would silence their screams first, the blood loss of the fires. The women fared the worst, as is always the way when soldiers take towns. Very few had been spared the rape that followed the fall. Packs of men seized them, holding them down and taking it in turns to ravage their writhing bodies. A fortunate few struggled enough to be killed before they had been too horrifically abused. Most though were left, broken bodies bleeding on the floor as they did not even bother to crawl away from the fires that eventually took them.

Even the children were not spared, the older, sturdier looking boys. Those older girls did not escape the rape any more than their mothers did and they screamed and cried for mercy as they were invaded by an army turned savage. Those younger children too young for rape or enslavement were brutally murdered. Babes were swung against walls to crush their tiny, fragile heads in splatters of blood and bone. Others were tossed into the air like a bride's bouquet, only the howling men beneath them were waiting to catch the screaming children on the points of their swords or spears.

I shuddered at Owain's description and gripped his arm when he faltered. I knew he felt responsible, but no general in history has ever been able to control the savage that awakens in soldiers during the sack of a city. I looked at my kinsman as he described it, and he seemed shrunken as he spoke in a hollow voice about the atrocities.

'So what happens now?' I asked him, trying to distract from the past with the future.

'We wait for our wounded to heal.' Owain shrugged. 'And then we go home.'

'We won then.' I said, and even I could hear the empty disbelief in voice. It did not feel like victory.

Owain agreed with me. 'It's a small one.' He admitted reluctantly. 'The other tribes, I imagine, will be too busy raiding Sruighlea for now. Meanwhile Pellinore is capable enough to hold back the Scots but I doubt he will go back onto an offensive campaign. He is probably the most powerful man in the kingdom right now and will want to consolidate that power.' He looked at me and saw my confusion and explained without forcing me to voice my lack of understanding. 'With Agravaine gone, he is the most powerful warlord in the country. Elaine will probably have to marry his younger brother now.' He added the last part casually, pretending to look away but I saw the half smile come to his lips as my head shot up so fast that I cricked my neck.

Owain laughed as I gingerly massaged my neck, patted my leg and laughed harder as I winced as he caught the edge of my wound. He made his way towards the door, pausing as he got there to look back, 'Maybe.' He said and, unbelievably, he winked at me. He had never done that to me before. I was stunned, and for a moment wondered if he had just somehow blinked wrong! But the smile on Owain's face had been knowing, and as he swept from the room the crackle of my laughter followed him.