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The year is 495. On May 22, King Uther Pendragon, strapped to his horse, led his army of Logres to surprise and slaughter the Saxons who were led by Kings Octa and Eosa at the Battle of St. Albans. You were there with the responsibility for your knight’s weapons, armor, and horse. As the victorious Britons were celebrating, a treacherous Saxon, masquerading as a doctor, poisoned the water. The king and most of the reigning nobility died, including your knight’s lord, Earl Roderick of Salisbury.
Led by Sir Amig and Sir Leo, who are the marshal and constable of Salisbury respectively, you accompanied the Salisbury contingent of about seventy knights, 150 spearmen, and baggage train with the dead bodies of your knight and his lord home. It became clear in the week following the battle and the ponderous journey home that anarchy now reigns as noblemen kill each other to seize positions of power vacated by the mass death of the lords.
It has been a month since your return. The dead are buried and continue to be mourned. Earl Roderick’s widow, Lady Ellen of Salisbury, attempts to rule as a regent for her ten year old son Robert, the heir to Salisbury. You are gathered at Salisbury Castle under the charge of Sir Amig, who is also the castellan of Vagon Castle and is supervising the final phase of your squiring. Due to the fragile state, the regency council has scheduled your knighting ceremony for August 2nd to bolster their culled ranks.
Five days before the ceremony, Sir Amig worked you hard this morning practicing with the lance targeting a simple wooden plate and then against the quintain, which is a vertical post with a rotating horizontal arm. One end has a shield, and the other a rope and stone. Practice consists of charging against the quintain, striking the shield, and ducking the swinging rock as it comes around from the force of the blow. After lunch, you sparred with one another with wooden swords and padded armor. You are all sweating and exhausted late in the afternoon, when Sir Amig finally calls an end to it when he returns from another errand.
Sir Amig d’Imber is a short stocky man with a chest like a barrel and arms thick as some people’s legs. He has short black hair and a bushy mustache speckled with gray to show his age of the mid thirties. His normal affable nature has been scoured clean by the death of the earl. After you gather around him, he says, ”Well, that’ll do. I’ve seen worse squires knighted. Tomorrow, I want you out of here. Deliver some scrolls to my manor Imber in the west county. It’s more than a day’s ride from here, so you’ll rest at Tilshead. Stay the night at my manor and hunt in my forest as a reward. Return the day after, so you arrive the day before your ceremony. Now grab your horses, I want you to race around the city. The first one back leads the hunt.” You are not certain what surprises you more: a reward from Sir Amig or the immediate race. After a startled pause, Sir Amig yells, ”GO! WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?” With that you get the hint and run to your horses that are tethered nearby. Sir Amig waits for you in the castle to judge the winner.
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Ride checks
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Quint is out like a flash, mounting his horse smoothly and setting off out the castle gates like a greased pig. He navigates the cobbled streets of Sarum like he was born and raised here, stumbling only at the gate exiting the city. Riding around the city, it takes him a bit to get his seat after almost taking a spill leaving the main gate, but by the time he is back to the gates, he is in top form, flying through the streets. He gets back to the castle and dismounts smartly in front of Sir Amig. Only then does he look around to see how his fellow squires faired.
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Martin takes his time mounting the horse, and wheeling him through the castle parade grounds. He canters well behind the group as they move through the town, his horse wickering and balking at every obstacle. It is a long time before he negotiates the winding path out of the town gates and into the open field.
Once through the gates, Martin stops fighting the reins of his horse, and simply plants his spurs deep in the beast's sides. Once the horse is in full stride, there is no stopping until Martin wheels him back into the enclosed space of the castle walls.
Ride checks
1. 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (9) + 7 = 16
2. 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (16) + 7 = 23
3. 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (15) + 7 = 22
4. 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (4) + 7 = 11 Missed
retry
5. 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (6) + 7 = 13 Missed
retry
6. 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (15) + 7 = 22
7. 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (9) + 7 = 16
Success
Fail
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Success
Lose One
Success
Success
Raedwald mounts Gullfaxi easily and charges out of the castle after Quintus and Bran, but while dashing through the city, his horse gets other ideas and stops short, tossing the young Saxon from the saddle and injuring his head on the cobblestones. After cursing and crossing himself for the cursing, he spends a good few minutes chasing after his horse on foot before bringing him to heel and mounting him again to get out of the city. By the time he's out there, he sees Martin has already passed him, and he steps up his efforts, spurring Gullfaxi forward. The already belligerent horse resists and tries to toss him again several times, before he's finally willing to cooperate. At the last instant, he manages to get past Martin, but he sees that the others have been waiting for them at the castle.
"Of all the horses my father, may he rest in peace, could have chosen for me it had to be the most stubborn one in all Salisbury!" he says, nursing his cracked head.
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Bran is to his gelding, Llewyan, and out the gate of the castle in a blitz of speed. Qunitus is right behind him on his own stallion. Bran begins to pull ahead when his mount stumbles on a loose stone in the road, allowing Quintus to overtake him. Bran curses wildly, spurring Llewyan back into the lead for a moment. Again, the hose stumbles, unused to being pushed to such speed inside a city, and Quintus closes the gap. The two are neck and neck for a moment before Quintus again takes the lead. For the rest of the race they are nearly bumping into each other they are so close. Bran has to dodge a cart of potatoes radishes as it barges into an intersection, which gives Quintus a five foot lead that he squeezes out until the end. As Quintus comes to stop back in the castle's courtyard, Bran nearly bowls him over. He reigns in Llewyan hard, causing the gelding to rear and stomp in agitation. Flecks of foam dot the corners of both horses' mouths, and their flanks are lathered with sweat. F&!+ing farmer... Bran thinks. Everyone knows I'm a better hunter than Quint. I don't think he's ever tracked anything in his life! Oh well, you win some, you lose some.
Bran swings easily from the saddle and walks over to the Roman squire. He offers a calloused hand for shaking. "Well done Quintus, you won that fair and square," he says with his easy smile.
Martin trots his horse into the yard right behind Raedwald. Bran and Quintus, already dismounted, stand beside their steeds who have already caught their breath. Martin urges his horse up beside Raedwald, and reigns him to a stop. "Well done, you two," Martin nods, unsure of who had won.
A race? What kind of test is that? At least we know, if the battle turns, who will be the fastest to quit the field... Martin smiles through his derogatory thoughts.
Quintus clasps the man's forearm in Roman fashion.
"It was a very close ride. I think perhaps it was more luck on my part than skill that saw me through to the end", he says modestly.
He nods in acknowledgement of Martin's greeting.
Sir Amig d'Imber waits in courtyard for the squires return. He nods to Quintus and Bran when they return. After they dismount and tether their mounts, they wait for the other two squires to return. When the dust finally settles from Martin's and Raedwald's entrance, he clears his throat and says, ”And the winner is Quintus. Lead the hunt, and give these scrolls to my steward.” He finishes with the first wry grin that you have seen since St. Albans and drops a saddlebag at your feet. ”Now, get cleaned up for supper.” He starts to slowly walk away giving you enough time to ask him a question if you want.
Martin clutches Quintus' hand in return. "No need for modesty," he quips. "Revel in your victories."
"What is the state of the roads between here and Imber? Have bandits and footpads taken hold while so many estates lie poorly managed?"
“Thank the gods, I’m bloody starvin’,” Bran says before stripping off his shirt and going to wash a day’s worth of sweaty grime from his head and torso. As he is washing, Blaidd, his brindle mastiff and constant companion, comes bounding up. “Hey there boy,” Bran says, crouching down to pet the big pup. Together they follow their noses towards the smell of food. Bran drags his shirt back on as they go.
Quint picks up the scrolls and follows along with Sir Amig and Martin. Once Martin has asked and received his response from the knight, Quint respectfully asks his own question.
"Sir Amig", he asks, waiting for the knight to acknowledge him, "Is there anything else you would like us to take care of at your manor while we are there? I feel obliged to repay your hospitality in allowing us the use of your home, Sir."
Sir Amig stops and turns around to respond to Martin, "I've reports of bandits from the Crokwood and Blakemoor Wood. And what Salisbury 'estates lie poorly managed,' Martin?" His demeanor darkens as you feel that offense could be taken by that question. You remember that Sir Amig is the marshal of Salisbury and responsible for the protection of the county in general, the castellan of Vagon Castle with specific responsibility to prevent banditry in the west county, and a regent for the heir of Salisbury with responsibility for entire welfare of the county. Sir Amig would make a terrible political enemy. He holds your gaze for a second calculating what you meant by those questions then turns to Quintus.
"No, Quintus. Just deliver the scrolls and return in time for your knighting ceremony," he answers and pauses for few seconds to allow further conversation.
"Thank you Sir Amig! This is a great honour and we shall discharge our duty and return as you have requested, Sir."
The page give a short bow to his mentor, then, after asking permission, hurries off to clean and dress for dinner.
Raedwald politely bows to Sir Amig, and cringes when Martin asks his question. He just didn't seem to understand how to address a superior.
He retires to his quarters and dresses the head-wound. Upon closer examination he realizes it's mostly just a bleeding scratch, but he had every reason to be concerned. A fall like that could have well killed him, especially if Gullfaxi had decided to kick. What was up with him today? He'd been agitated since St. Albans.
After he's finished, he cleans up, gets dressed and begins to head down to dinner, encountering Bran and Blaidd along the way.
"You're a lucky man to have such an even-tempered steed, Bran."
Sir Amig stops and turns around to respond to Martin, "I've reports of bandits from the Crokwood and Blakemoor Wood. And what Salisbury 'estates lie poorly managed,' Martin?" His demeanor darkens as you feel that offense could be taken by that question.
Martin's smile vanishes as the thunderclouds gather on Sir Amig's brow. "Not Salisbury estates, my lord," he raises his hands in a placating gesture. "Though my thoughts turn more frequently to the fields of Berwick, I am content that they are safe and bountiful. It is a testament to your strength and leadership that it is so."
"But, we are an island amidst a sea of chaos. Even Fand herself cannot guess what enemies may arise from such a sea. I look to you, our captain, to guide us through these trials."
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Sir Amig spits on the courtyard to avoid the ill omen of speaking about enemies arriving by sea, which is a common Pagan custom. So common a custom, Sir Amig is nominally a Christian, "Yes, an island indeed. St. Albans hopefully settled the Saxons for awhile, at least. However, their damned poison killed many of our leaders releasing a bloody cancer of ambition throughout Logres."
His grim countenance has returned after a brief respite of playing with children. After a pause, he continues, "That's why you will be knighted earlier than tradition. We need to replenish our ranks for the fires to come."
Martin bows with a flourish, hoping he had avoided incensing the Knight Marshal. "By your leave, Sir." He joins the others in washing up for the meal.
Raedwald politely bows to Sir Amig, and cringes when Martin asks his question. He just didn't seem to understand how to address a superior.
He retires to his quarters and dresses the head-wound. Upon closer examination he realizes it's mostly just a bleeding scratch, but he had every reason to be concerned. A fall like that could have well killed him, especially if Gullfaxi had decided to kick. What was up with him today? He'd been agitated since St. Albans.
After he's finished, he cleans up, gets dressed and begins to head down to dinner, encountering Bran and Blaidd along the way.
"You're a lucky man to have such an even-tempered steed, Bran."
"Cutting off his stones helped. The rest is careful training. I've cared for Llewyan since he was a foal. My brothers provided him for my late uncle just before the campaign in Cornwall. He saw battle a few times under my uncle, so that probably helped as well." Bran looks at the lump at Raedwald's head. "Ist alles klar bei dir? Du bist aus dem Sattle gefallen, nee?"
"Mehr wie von ihm geworfen. Das Pferd hat ein Temperament, den Teufel selbst zu konkurrieren!"
"Naja, du sollst denn seine Eier abschneiden," Bran chuckles. "I know, I know, but you're the only one I can practice with. I already speak Cymric well enough," he continues, sticking out his tongue at Raedwald.
Raedwald chuckles a bit. Then his face falls as he realizes how quick he was to respond in the language of his birth people.
"You know you don't HAVE to use the Saxon's tongue with me, Bran. I like to think I'm as Briton as you are."
Martin finishes his cleansing by dumping the bucket of water over his head. Though he speaks not a word, it is clear he is listening closely as Bran and Raedwald bandy about in the Saxon tongue.
As the water cascades off of him, he shakes his head back and forth violently sending a spray of droplets. As he drips dry, he pulls his pants and tunic back on, leaving his long, dark hair hanging in thick, damp ringlets.
I like to think I'm as Briton as you are.
"It is dinner time for gentlemen. Die Barbaren können als gut zu essen, nehme ich an."
Martin claps Raedwald on the shoulder, smiling as he says, "Versuchen Sie niemals, sich zu verstecken, wer Sie sind."
Supper is regular fare taken in the barracks with the Castellan of Salisbury Castle and his troops. You are all of course still squires and have yet to take your oaths of fealty for your manors, so your social standing is not yet with the lords and ladies.
From previous encounters and meals you know that Sir Cadfannon, the castellan of Salisbury Castle, is in his early thirties and has a soldier's build and demeanor. His muscles are lean balancing power and speed. His manners are sufficient for the barracks and battlefield but not politic enough for court, and he accepts his place with pleasure. He is not a vassal knight having no manors to his name but a younger son who has done well for himself fighting alongside Earl Roderick for a decade. He missed the Battle of St. Albans to command the garrison of Salisbury while the earl answered King Uther's call of the banners. Like many county soldiers, he is nominally Christian but continues to follow most Pagan traditions.
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Raedwald bristles at Martin's words. He couldn't tell if they were a compliment or an insult. Knowing Martin, probably both. He holds his tongue. Now was not the time or place to start a fight. And even if it was, he never threw the first punch.
"And who I am is a loyal Briton to the core."
Thinking about it cast his mind back to the days of childhood, when Rience would taunt him. Even when he called him "Raedwald ap Neb," he'd never strike Rience. He knew better. And it always helped him avoid trouble when Father'd break up the fight. His face fell as he started thinking about them. How much he missed them already.
He bows to Sir Cadfannon as they enter the barracks.
"Sir Cadfannon, good evening."
"Good evening, Raedwald of Broughton," he formally replies to your formal address. He motions you to the half-full trestle table where he and some of his troops have started eating. "So who won your race? You left quite a trail through the city."
"Sir," Bran says with a quick bow to Cadfannon as he enters the dining hall. Bran was not one to stand too much on formality. It smacked of Romanness, Christianity and everything else he found droll and pointless. It was a man's actions that made him better than others and worthy of respect, not his station. Of course such opinions were best never spoken aloud. He sits at the table and digs into the bread, cheese and vegetables. When Cadfannon asks about who won, Bran points to Quintus. "He did."
Raedwald takes his seat and folds his hands over the plate.
"Bless us, O Lord! and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen."
He then starts on the vegetables. Unlike most of his kin, who seemed to have a preoccupation with meat, vegetables were something he enjoyed greatly.
Martin lags behind the others as they head towards the barracks. During the final days of their training at Salisbury Castle, Martin had made a bit of a game of arriving last to dinner, and trying to turn as many eyes as possible his way as he entered the hall. Sadly, the novelty had worn off after the first few successes. But, his dismal performance in the race had him bristling.
As he measures his pace to allow his compatriots an advance, an old woman suddenly blocks his path.
"You're squandering your gift!" she hisses.
The Crone, Martin blanches. He had never known the woman's name. He honestly doubted she had one. She had come on as some sort of teacher at Berwick, though her lessons to his brothers had been of the most mundane sort. But, she had seized upon Martin the moment she had arrived, and had tried in earnest to impart all sorts of obscure and arcane knowledge to him.
"I am training to be a knight," he whispers harshly. "And you do not belong here."
"Hmph. You are a child playing with sticks. There is no power there. Your voice! Your voice! There is power in your voice!"
"If that is true, then why do you not hear me when I tell you to 'Go Away'!"
"Say the words. Claim your power. Say the words!"
"No!" he says louder than he intends. Martin does not know what the words meant. They sound like gibberish to him. He doubts he could ever find out. Anyone who would understand the language would not be someone he could trust. He only knows that she greatly desires him to recite them. Never, he tells himself for the hundredth time.
He pushes past The Crone. "If you do not leave..." He turns to face her, but she is gone. He would never admit it to anyone, least of all himself, but he is afraid of the The Crone. She has power. And for some reason, something beyond the desire maidens normally have, she wants him to join her.
.......
Martin enters the barracks in an somber, introspective mood. He stops and bows in a distracted sort of way to Sir Cadfannon, and sits in silence to eat his meal.
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Cadfannon nods and replies to Bran with a simple, "Bran" He looks over at Quintus and nods. When Raedwald starts praying, several of the guards quiet down, but just as many ignore him including Cadfannon. After the prayer, the whole table returns to gossiping about people you don't know and exchanging bawdy stories.
It takes fully twenty minutes of raucous laughter to break through Martin's shell, but eventually the food and drink and conversation wear down his introspection...
"... so we slipped into the granary while her Pa was busy hunting us in the fields." Martin paused while the chuckling around the table subsided. "Well what else could I do? It was pouring rain, and we were soaking wet." Martin stopped and took a few bites of his meal and a swig from his horn.
"And...?" prompted one of his listeners.
"And what?" Martin put on an exaggerated look of mock innocence. "The maidens of Berwick are as pure as the sunshine!"
"But, you said it was raining!"
The mischievous smile crept back on Martin's face. "Why, so I did..."
There was an eruption of laughter around him as his meaning became clear. Martin accepted a few slaps to the back, and sat back contentedly as a few more pounded their drinking horns on the table in appreciation.
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Raedwald is unusually quiet as the meal goes on, ignoring the crude conversation of the others. He still feels the pain in his heart from thinking of Rience and his Father's death.
He eats slowly, brooding over the aftermath of St. Albans.
Near the end of supper, a page arrives delivering a message from Sir Amig summoning Quintus to his office. Quintus excuses himself from the table and follows the page from the hall.
Bran chuckles at Martin's tale, thinking back to his own conquest, Breda. She was one of the shepards daughters in his home village. The summer before he became a squire, they'd spent many a day and night tumbling in the hay or under the boughs of the forest. Bran was not one to kiss and tell, though. So he savors the memory privately, using the general mirth to cover the reason for his grin.
He tosses a few pieces of salt-pork to Blaidd, running him through a couple of basic tricks before rewarding him. The dog follows Bran around constantly. To those who were at St. Albans the memory of the mastiff and Bran covered from head to toe in blood and savaging Saxons still occasionally flashes back, to ruin the effect of Bran's smile. Whispers of "ci wallgof" (mad dog) have followed him since that day.
Martin stretches and yawns in an elaborate way, drawing back the attention of those few whose eyes had wandered. "Your pardon, lords and lads. But, our good Marshal is no slouch when it comes to training his wards. He has all but run us to ground, and I shall need a great deal of sleep to rejuvenate. And so, I bid you all a good night."
Martin's good humor returned, he makes a sweeping bow to the table at large. As he approaches the door, he locks heels and makes a much more formal and traditional bow to the Castellan. "My humblest thanks to you, Sir Cadfannon, for your gracious hospitality."
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"Aye! I hear that," Bran agrees. He whistles to Blaidd, bows to the room, and makes his way to his bed chambers to turn in for the night.
Raedwald prays again after the meal ends.
"We give Thee thanks for all Thy benefits, O Almighty God, who livest and reignest world without end. Amen. May the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen."
He stands and bows to Sir Cadfannon again.
"Sir Cadfannon, thank you again. I'm grateful so many in Britain would share their table with me, especially in these dark times."
He prepares for bed and falls asleep very soon, snoring like a lumber camp.
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Sir Amig is there at your departure, and Quintus is not. "Bran, Quintus had to leave last night for Dorset. Family emergency. As the race's second finisher, you lead the way and deliver these scroll," Sir Amig says while handing Bran the saddlebag of scrolls from yesterday. "They're expecting you at Tilshead tonight." With zero fanfare, the three of you saddle up and depart.
The summer weather is overcast with a chance of sun or rain. The morning is an easy ride, the first real relaxation since before the Battle of St. Albans. Raedwald requests to stop at Amesbury Abbey to pray and pay his respects. The abbey was established by Aurelius Ambrosius, the first Pendragon and King Uther’s older brother, and is still supported by royal funds. It is a double abbey having facilities for men and women. Bran wants to stop at the Stones, which is what the locals call the ancient site of large standing stones of Stonehenge.
The sun burns through the cloud cover making a sunny afternoon ride to the city of Tilhead. You make your way to an old Roman palace near the city center, which acts as the county garrison's barracks, where you meet Sir Elad of Orcheston, the commander of the county garrison, which includes Sir Jaradan of Market Lavington and 15 spearmen. They provide you hospitality for the evening and your animals. Sir Elad is of an age with Sir Amig, while Sir Jaradan is a decade younger in his mid-twenties.
At supper, you find out that Sir Jaradan was a household knight of Duke Ulfius of Silchester who survived St. Albans, but his older brother died at St. Albans without an heir. Sir Jaradan inherited Market Lavington and his brother’s young widow. He's an affable chap still in the glow of good fortune on both accounts, because his new wife is stunning.
Sir Elad is a widow; his wife and sons died of the same fever three years ago. The tragedy returned the senior knight to the Old Ways, after the Christian healers failed to save his family. Sir Jaradan and Issa, the captain of the spearmen, who join you at supper, politely steer the conversation away from Sir Elad’s family and Christianity in general. Sir Elad is not brooding so much as just overly serious. His purpose in life has been shaken, and you feel he almost wanted to die at St. Albans fighting Saxons. Stories of the battle tell of him fighting with reckless abandon that has since been translated into inspirational courage.
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Raedwald recalls how he'd shuddered when they visited the Stones, as if a sudden winter wind had blown through far out of its season. While he did not fear or hate the Old Faith as some of his Christian peers were determined to, the Giant's Dance was an imposing and almost alien place. He wondered if maybe the pagans felt the same way about it. He'd been eager to leave once Bran was finished paying his respects to his gods, saying that though he respected Bran's piety, the Stones frankly "give me the creeps."
After arriving at Tilhead, he dismounts Gullfaxi and makes sure he's put up in the stables. During supper, he speaks up.
"Sir Elad, have I permission to speak freely?"
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"Sir Elad, have I permission to speak freely?"
Sir Elad shrugs. His eyebrows perpetually furrowed, "What's on your mind, squire?"