In days long past, those long before Gwilherm or his sister Elena’s children had ever drawn breath, the lands of Estria were ravaged by Balthrorth Terror-Wing. Also known as Balthrorth Red-Wing, he was the greatest terror along with his cousin, Razenth to have ever swept through the lands of Bretwealda. The lordly-isle had since he had arrived in the east, long before his cousin flew northwards, to bear witness to the passage of seventeen years. Razenth having gone north, but six years prior, to bother the Caleds and split their realm almost into two, with his claiming of a mountain in the lands of Noroak, to the north of the High-King’s personal domain. The king’s coffers poorer for it, due in no small part to the red-drake’s seizing of all the east-lords held, including the king’s due of those lands. The line of noble Æthelred Wyvern-Slayer had been brought low, by the flames spewed by the dragon, which had crossed through the south of the Twelve Kingdoms to reach Bretwealda. With countless warriors having already attempted to unseat him, from the high-mountain known as Mt-Sorg, where countless sorrowful tales have sprung from over the years.
The local villagers had at first, sought to flee to the coasts, of Estria or to other parts of the kingdom of Brittia. However, this had only displeased the dragon who had set a great deal of those lands ablaze, before he set a man to warning the king to return all peasants of Estria back to the east. Troubled, since though a bold warrior, Æthelwulf was by no means a fool and turned thence to his chief councillors, who all advised him not to anger the beast. The Estrian clan who had once lorded over the region, had been lost therefore, mayhap they could appease the crimson-scaled one with the offer of his daughters for feasting, said one man.
Liking this council, the heir to the Wyvern-Throne assented to sending the eldest, who was but fifteen summers, as a sacrifice to the drake. Who surprised, yet pleased by the offering demanded now a tribute in gold also, and when this was also sent he grew bolder still. Demanding of the local Estrians, a maid from each of the three castes; one of noble-birth, one base-born and another of the cloth, he set to feasting upon his tri-annual sacrifices.
Distressed by these demands, yet unable to refuse, the wolf of Brittia cowed and beaten, when he had run out of daughters of Cerdic Hatchet-Lover (the father of the three poor maidens who were the initial sacrifices), turned this time to his Chancellor. The Archdruid of Lundrun Cathedral, Uhtred of Beldruin counselled his liege-king, with due reverence. “Turn now to the daughters, of those clans and high-born men, who were most unwilling to kneel to thee, sire. Mayhap, a lottery can be arranged to include their daughters’ names, this could prove efficacious in culling the realm of those who might otherwise, prove rebellious.”
This counsel might have appalled Éluan the Golden-King of Neustria and Lyonesse, but to Æthelwulf it seemed not only prudent, but worthy of laughter. Yes, he said to himself and to all who knew him well, he was well-served by such a councillor as Uhtred. For who else could have turned such a tragedy as a dragon perching himself, atop the highest point in Estria, to the king’s profit. This along with the ‘drake-tax’ that was inflicted upon those of common-birth and of the mercantile ranks, enriched his coffers, with the nobles selected to sacrifice their daughters ordered to forfeit their would-be dowries also to the dragon. This way, the king may avoid spilling open his own coffers for the dragon, thus cheating him of royal wealth, without openly doing so.
It was an act that would have shocked and disgusted Æthelwulf’s ancestors, such as Æthelred Wyvern-Slayer, Æðelric Fort-Builder and Eadmund Land-Grabber. Who had in some cases fought against wyverns, the black-magic twisted cousins of dragons, and in that of others had fought Erde-Wyrms, the wingless-drakes. Such as when Blaurung the Giant-Wyvern was struck dead by Æthelred Wyvern-Slayer, or Ergaron Land-Shaker was smote dead by Æðelric’s lance, when the beast attempted to devour his son, Eadmund. Who later in life, hunted and slew Ergaron’s twin children, Ergath and Argaroth the Terrible, for their own sins. Sins that included the devouring of children in the locality of the Vendrak Mountains, near Weliscia and several of the king’s dogs, with the king fighting to save his favourite blonde-dog, Ziu.
The noble examples set by these mighty warriors, might have inspired another man to acts of bravery, yet not the current king. Who was more interested in profiting from this state of affairs, something which had offended many of his chief supporters, including the princes-turned mercenaries Aymon and Léon. The cousins of Éluan, they had been educated at their cousin’s expense, and though possible rivals it was said that the elder of the two, oft-exchanged messages with the Golden King. Who himself, had slain Balthrorth’s uncle Mydan of the Crimson-Flame, in single combat. A brave-hearted warrior, Aymon might well have departed east to stop the beast himself, as might have his no-less courageous if far more cynical brother, Léon. Were it not for the king’s command, which forbade them specifically from doing so, with both of Gaucelin the Traitor’s sons infuriated by the order. This was as they liked to remind all who strayed near them, their chance to prove themselves, braver and truer men than their father. Infamous for his betrayal of his kin, whom he had aided in the assassination of before he was cut down by his co-conspirator, Charles the Usurper (who was himself years after his treachery slain and possibly devoured by Mydan).
They were his finest warriors, and the only ones who could command the small number of knights sent across the Brittian Channel, by Éluan to serve his exiled cousins as retainers. These knights were some of the most valiant men in arms, in the whole of the lordly-isle. And thus served, as the chief-most discouragement for any who might fancy, dislodging the king from his throne, as Æthelred had done to his elder half-brother and rival Ecgberht III the ‘Slovenly’.
Thus was the state of the realm; a state under a king who dreamt of expansion into the realms of the Arn-law to the north of Londilnarium and into Cymru to the west. Where the vast majority of king’s huscarls, and men-at-arms had thrice advanced into to put a great number of Cymrans, to the sword as one on a hunt might. That is until several of their various barons had at last bent the knee, before him and acknowledged him as liege-lord.
Still though, no amount of victories in the west or north could quite dispel the sense of wrongness, of sorrow for the east that dogged all those in attendance at Æthelwulf’s court. For he had failed in his kingly duty, to protect his people from the dragon that had laid claim to the title, of ‘King of Estria’, a title that infuriated Æthelwulf to near murder every time he heard it. As it challenged his own title, something he despised more than heretics (for in spite of everything, he was a deeply pious man, who held holy-Father Temple above all else in life).
Today though, it was the festival of the Paragon Vargrim, who was said to be the Temple’s Dwarf-patron of miners. One who had been canonised two centuries prior, for his efforts to not only convert miners near the lands of the Draguilian Mountains to the east of the Twelve Kingdoms, but for his self-sacrifice in the rescuing of a dozen Dwarves during a cave-in. Dead for three centuries, it is said he went to convert his people, who received him poorly, yet when there was a cave-in, he was the first to refuse to relent in the rescue of the frightened miners. Blasting through stones boulders with the might of the goddess Brigantia, he had died, under thousands of tons of rock after having rescued all those buried down below. After this, the Dwarf-town he had helped, converted en masse and asked the Temple to make their hero a Paragon of the Temple. This was acquiesced at once, to by the Grand Divan Justice I who had declared his friend, Vargrim’s feast day to be the fifth day of the third month that of Hrēðmonath, as it was known to the people of Brittia.
The festival was one that Æthelwulf rather liked, as he had had a Dwarvish tutor in his youth, and Vargrim was precious to those Dwarves who belonged to the faith of Quirinas. The festival tended to involve a great deal of feasting for the whole of the day with it being open to any Dwarves in Brittia. Notably those Dwarves capable of singing great songs, in praise of the king, his line and of the faith itself, as these were the great hymns that best-pleased the great unifier of all the six kingdoms of Brittia.
For his own part Gwilherm, had no great love for the feast. For that matter, he had not much love for much of anything or anyone about him. His was a bitter spirit, one prone to spilling much bile into the ears of any who might hear of his woes. So that he was unpopular, unliked and unwanted save by his dear sister, several of her children and one or two locals. Not since, the second year of his arrival in Auldchester more than sixteen years prior, after the devastation of the Réalwaldr lands in Estria had he borne a friendly expression. As those lands were his by right, not that the law had much concerned his good-brother (whom he dubbed a thief in private), they were his by right due to the death of his older brother Eadwin at the hands of the lord of Falsveal, Morcar the ‘Hatchet’. A lord who had apparently not only survived, but thrived under the rule of Balthrorth Terror-Wing, enough to seize the lands of many other men. It was said that, he had evaded several payments to the dragon, with the man not having been heard about, in Auldchester or the rest of Gewisse in some time.
Ordinarily, Gwilherm might have been expected to hold his titles in absentia of sorts, to delegate the management of his estates, through stewards and messengers. However, this had not been the case upon his older sister, Elena’s marriage to Æthelwulf. Previously a life-long bachelor, he had fallen at first sight for the eldest of the surviving Réalwaldr children and discovering that she might otherwise have been moderately wealthy had, simply served to worsen his greed for her. It was not long, before Gwilherm was reduced in status with Archdruid Uhtred declaring him illegitimate, and ‘discovering’ the legitimate heiress of his Estrian estates to really be Elena. Thus, was he reduced to little more than the ‘king’s harper’ and ‘good-brother to the king’. Positions that neither pleased, nor amused him, in spite of his very real fondness for song and music and his affection for his elder sister who had hoped with her marriage, to draw some favour from the king for her brother. Thus far, naught had been achieved for his case other than for him, to have become something of a laughing-stock at court.
Forced to perpetually follow the king everywhere on his many tours throughout his domains; domains that stretched for their own part from the Channel in the south, to as far north as the Lion-River, not unlike the dogs that sat and wandered the feast-hall present herewith. The lands of Cymru and Ergyng in the west, though many of the lords of those lands, owed him homage, with Saesonia and other such lands in the east also beyond the wolf’s grasp.
It was with these gloomy thoughts in mind that Gwilherm, attended to the feast, one that involved the high-lords of the realm being seated at a high-table, where they could attend the king. At the lower ones were his huscarls (his house-hold warriors), poets and those lesser nobles sometimes in attendance at his court. The tradition of keeping huscarls was originally an Arnish one, however having eternally battle-ready warriors at hand had pleased Æthelwulf immensely. Especially since he was a man who trusted his people, as much as he did his enemies to the west and north of his realm, with his suspicions of his nobility hardly justified. As most owed ranks entirely thanks to his patronage, with the king during the feasts of Vargrim always ordering for there to be music played in the background. Regardless if someone stood before his table, before the central-fire in the middle of the hall, with their harps, lyres or drums in hand. With as said dogs also present, though they wandered the great-hall with their tongues lolling, some played with one another, and still others begged, whistled through their noses and barked for table-scraps. Scraps that many in the hall such as Gwilherm, supplied generously to them, whereas others such as Uhtred kicked, yelled back at them full of hatred for dogs, due in no small part to him having been bitten as a child for teasing and bullying one of his father (the lord-baron of Weliscia)’s dogs.
Most musicians were to perform one after another, with there being very few peasant-born ones that were not of the Dwarvish people, for they were the most useful to him. Both as smiths and builders of the forts and keeps he loved so much.
This feast took place in the grand-hall of the King in Auldchester, feast hall thirty-meters long and twenty-five wide, so that it was truly the kingliest of halls in all of Brittia. Built of stone using Continental techniques, the hall’s floor was full of dirt, mud and was hardly as extravagant as the fifteen pillars to each side of the hall, holding the ceiling up. A ceiling made of grey-stone, the same colour as the walls and pillars, in the middle of the ceiling was a large square hole, for the smoke from the central-fire to escape from. With the walls being covered in magnificent tapestries depicting the deeds of Æthelred, the slayer of Blaurung the Giant-Wyvern, or those of Æðelric, and even that of Eadmund’s slaying of the twins Ergath and Argaroth. Though the last two slayings were two separate incidences, they were oft-grouped together by artists and weavers. With the castle stone-walls full of tapestries detailing the deed, with the floor paved in some places, and unpaved in others (the upper-floors were all stone-covered). With the castle a new fortification in comparison to others on the Continent, as it rose fifty feet into the air, and was the tallest building in Brittia. It dominated the capital city of Auldchester and was built by Æðelric’s master-builder Robert d’Indegrékon. A brilliant master-builder of Neustrian extract, who in his youth had studied buildings in Korax, before he returned at forty-years of age, to Guilladon in Neustria, for five years before he was hired by Æðelric to build castles. The great-builder had sadly died at the advanced age of eighty a mere five years after the coronation of Eadmund.
The feasts also typically involved the king pardoning most of those imprisoned throughout the principal city of Brittia, and involved a great many dances once the tables were set aside. Then there was the stone-gift giving ceremony, wherein it was expected that there was to be a gift of a gem of some importance exchanged. Typically between those who considered themselves brothers, or amongst lovers, with those of lesser stock exchanging simple pretty rocks, where those of the higher ranks gave rubies, emeralds or cerulean lapis-lazuli. Usually involved only as a singer or for his harp, Gwilherm this year had little of the joy of the festivities in him. For he had spent too much time as of late, singing songs for which he held no great love for; namely those celebrating previous kings of Gewisse.
“Drink Gwilherm, drink!” One man called from down the table, where he sat. A merry person by nature, Vladin the Dwarf, also known as ‘Seat-Tripper’ for his tendency to fall from his chair, after having drunk too much, in most festivals.
Much as he oft appreciated the wit and company of the non-human, who had a love for drink that far surpassed that, of any other man present (save for the Neustrian prince Léon). Gwilherm was in a melancholic mood, and would have preferred to depart for the temple of Brigantia in the city. He had a friend there, brother Melvin who oft preached one last Temple Session, just before midnight and who had a friendly way about him, and a habit of cheering up the nobleman, when he was in such a mood.
“Nay, he would prefer to weep into his goblet,” Taunted another, this one being one of many huscarls in the employ of the monarch. “And spoil that whiny mutt, Remus!”
The dog of which he spoke of, was a magnificent mix of mastiff and labrador breed, with a dark-mane every bit as black as the darkest of nights, not a spot of light nor brown upon his fur. With a great toothy-white grin, large enough to reach a man’s knee he was but two years of age. A hunting dog, with a discipline problem, he had had a tendency of scaring off prey originally by barking too loudly and too soon. For this he had been kicked several times in his youth, an injustice that had scarred him towards the King and Archdruid. Neither of whom cared much for dogs who did not obey at once, then there was Remus the dog’s tendency of scrapping with the other dogs for dominance. Named after the younger brother of Romulus, the founder of the city of Roma, which lay far to the south on the continent of South-Agenor, the city having been founded millennia ago, with Remus being the father of Remia the founding matron of the city of Remia far to the east. His was thus a kingly nature who by virtue of his inherited name and innate instincts could not tolerate being anything less than chief of all the King’s dogs. He was also named and spoiled by the chief-harpist, Gwilherm who bore a special love for him, due in no small part to his being the who had cared for the brown-eyed dog, when he was but a pup.
The Dwarf chose not to answer, ever a wise-policy when confronted by a man as burly as the one who had spoken. Eadgar was his name, and his sword-arm had been praised more than once by the man, to whom they were all sworn to. Never a particularly peaceable man, Eadgar had a tendency to worsen when filled with wine or beer, as he was in that moment.
As the servants brought hither more food, from delicious pheasant shot down by the king’s hunters or captured by his queen’s falcons (falconry being a passion of hers), deer meat roasted over the kitchen fires, to the wolf, peacock and bear meats that were also common during such feasts. Many of whom were taken down either by the king himself, his men and dogs or by the great princes of Neustria, Aymon and Léon. Of whom, there was more than one song that had sprung up, about in recent years. What was more was that there was plenty of beef, pork and chicken-meat all taken from various, of the king’s estates that, decorated the realm. The meats often had spices from the Continent, along with sauces from there or ginger (a favourite of the Queen) imported from Lyonesse, dabbed on them.
With these meats likewise came much warm bread, freshly cooked in the kitchens alongside the meats, made from local flour. Along with fruits ranging from apples, oranges, strawberries along with bananas and vegetables such as leeks, carrots, beans, peas, garlic and onions, with turnips ordinarily permitted, yet Dwarves despised them and for this reason they were forbidden during the feast of Vargrim. Special attention in turn was paid to pepper as a spice and to beef along with wolf or bear-meat, both considered delicacies by the Dwarves. For reasons related to their size in the case of the latter of the two examples of wild-meat, and in the former it was because according to Vladin, they had to ‘‘Tis the least they could do is feed us given how oft they feast upon our dogs.’
Such teasing was not always mean-spirited in nature, yet it had an inevitable effect upon Gwilherm’s mood whenever and wherever he heard it. At times, he favoured it to the alternative topics he was frequently mocked for (such as his sister’s marriage or his cowardice), other times he despaired of it. To-day he had yet to make up his mind, which was preferable preferring to until he could think of a good retort for Eadgar, Angar and several of the other huscarls who liked to make common-sport of besmirching his honour remain silent.
“Gwilherm, Gwilherm how many Estrians does it take to find a battle-field?” Angar asked, a large burly Tigrun that is to say a cat-man of sorts, with a thick mane of hair all about his head and chin, with cat-like eyes and fur the same gold as that of lions. He was a formidable beast of a man, with fists the size of the smaller man’s skull.
“How many?” He asked from between his teeth, aware that to refuse to answer, was to make a grave mistake; namely to risk irritating the non-human. In the meantime, he held up a large bone full of red succulent venison, for Remus who whined, only to let loose a great cry of joy, upon the dropping of the venison upon the dirty, grungy mud-splattered floor.
“I dunno, but soon as one finds one rather than running from them, do let me know!” The Tigrun guffawed cheerily, his teeth bared and his body rocking with laughter.
His mirth was infectious, with even Vladin joining in on the ribaldry, which earned him a sharp look from his friend only for him to shrug, “It is a little funny.”
He might have bitten back, were it not for a blow striking him to the back of the head, so that he spilled some small amount of wine upon his green tunic. A sharp curse followed before he turned his head with a scowl, “What? You clumsy oaf, what do you think you’re up to?!”
It was Mildred the Chambermaid. A plump ogress of a woman, she was said to always be stealing from the king’s stores and had a reputation for meanness surpassed only by the violence of her temper, and the dullness of her wits.
“Oaf am I? Filthy ingrate, ‘tis your turn to sing lest ye might prefer to be thrown down into the prison, to spend the rest of your evening,” She murmured scowling at him, with eyes that might have belonged on the face of a cow. It likely might have been an improvement, given her looks he thought to himself as he gave a curt nod. Remus who had followed him, when he had moved backed away to stand behind him, frightened of the plump woman, who had a tendency to beat the castle-dogs when in a temper or drunk.
“Aye, I will see to it,” He grunted discontentedly, on his feet in an instant scowling at the chambermaid as he did so, unable to keep from one small burst of temper. “Do not forget in the future chambermaid that, I am of noble blood and thus above you. It is not for you to strike me, as one might a child.”
“Aye, soon as you behave like a man and cease fleeing from battles then I will see to treating as such,” She replied with equal coldness, her words making him stiffen a little.
They were as a knife through the wounded pride, he had nursed since his flight from the fields of Telvennar to the west of the Indralansian Mountains that decorated the lands of Cymru. It was four years since that battle, and it was the only time he had ever fled from battle. He was not alone, in having given way to fear, with the lord Siegehelm of Morwyn and a good number of Æthelwulf’s men having also done so.
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Certainly he was one of the first to flee, from the shield-wall once he saw just how futile it was to continue resisting, the forces of the Cymrians at the battle of Telvennar. This single deed was enough, to have condemned him to a lifetime of mockery and scorn, not simply by his fellow men, but also women. It was enough to crush a man’s soul, for honour and dignity were all, even to a man such as Gwilherm. As it was, the only man whom had admitted to having fled was Léon, yet he was such a formidable knight and warrior none dared to besmirch his name by calling him, a coward. Not to his face.
Grumbling more to himself, for he had no great love for his good-brother, who had time and again laughed in his face, at his loss of titles and cowardice, and what was more had never acknowledged his own fear of Balthrorth. This in mind, he stepped forth to sing, having drunk so much he did something, he might not have otherwise done. Remus trailed after him only to plop himself down next to him, with his tongue lolling out, and his chin on the man’s foot, putting it well and truly to sleep. He would never do so for any other man, save for Roparzh the knight or Léon, or even Léon’s son Gaucelin, as most of the men present were of a violent nature, yet he had infinite trust in those mentioned and in Gwilherm.
“Come now brother, sing to us of courage and valour such that ye have never known!” Æthelwulf taunted with a loud laugh, his goblet in hand as he smirked at his brother from ‘neath his dark beard and moustaches, his raven-hair flowed to his powerfully built shoulders. A formidable man, even if he were not king he likely might have earned himself a throne by simple physical mastery over other men.
Being but five-feet six in comparison to the five-foot nine that his good-brother reached, Gwilherm despite his own attempts to reinforce himself physically in the courtyards of the castle, was as a mouse in comparison. This had always embarrassed him, yet now drunk as he was all it did was to add to his anger.
With a shrug, he went to sing one song only to rethink it, and decide upon another.
“Hwaet! In the hour of deepest night didst Blaurung cross Salacia’s joy,
Dour did Ceoldric turn, for many a maids didst he devour,
Vast wert the lands crossed, vaster still was his gift of sorrow,
Where oh where was he who might paint the drake red?
‘Who ye ask after? Who else but Æthelred?’
Lo! Fortune smiled upon Brittia,
Yet where be Æthelred? Where be his equal?
When Ceoldric’s kin first beheld the broken land,
Thus didst they open Auldchester’s leaguer,
The grey-king let his sons fly as hawks from his hands,
Beorhtric be first both in birth and in war,
Iron blade high a-gleam as a third sun one the wyrm did mar,
He struck and thrust yet ne’er was to see the day,
Such sorrow lay upon his father who sung him many a lay!
Wither didst Beorn second-born journey after many a–days,
Swift was his yet swifter was Blaurung,
Third to fly was Eadward also by fangs was he wrung,
As brave as rest was Offa who by morn’ as dead as they,
Unmatched by grief was Ceoldric along with this lay!
Where oh where was he who might paint the drake red?
‘Who ye ask after? Who else but Æthelred?’
Lo! Fortune smiled upon Brittia,
Yet where be Æthelred? Where be his equal?
Where be a King who bears a mien as regal?
‘Lo! Lo! Here I sit with naught before me save sorrow!’
Cried snowy-hair’d Ceoldri his voice a great wail,
Wind howl’d and such was the pain that all shared it even the roof-sparrows,
Not a face was unlign’d by tear-trails,
Woe to all who loved the king cried all gathered,
‘Who o sons of Roparzh shall strike at the unconquer’d?’
Ask’d snowy hair’d Ceoldric his voice a-wail,
Lo! Lo! There he sat heart rent with sorrow!
Who was there to fly north save the swallows?
Thither stood Elgrod the chandler’s son,
He of the yellowest of hair that ere shone as a sun,
‘Who ye ask? Who else but Æthelred?’
Lo! Fortune smiled upon Brittia,
Yet where be Æthelred? Where be his equal?
Where be he who says he is as regal?
Where be Ealdmund’s son-he who is most feeble?”
Once he had concluded his song, sung in the clearest of voices that echoed across the great feasting-hall once built by Æðelric, the grandfather of Æthelwulf. All the more, because of how silent everyone became to hear, the remonstrative song spill from the lips, of the Queen’s own brother. A man, they had long believed more mouse than man, more fool than warrior.
For some time most stared. None spake, and none dared raise their gaze to glance unto the king’s mighty countenance. Only Aymon and Léon, long since the king’s guests and even more royal in blood than he, seemed to hold no fear of Brittia’s most high-warrior.
This might have endured, had not Vladin that great big drunk, not fallen from his seat chortling a little. Though not after, Léon burst into uproarious laughter alongside several of the other knights, and mercenaries he loved the company of.
“What a song!” He hooted to the black-fury and embarrassment of all around him, most especially his elder brother, “Mayhap, the kings’ necropolis near Auldminster may reveal where o where Æthelred and his like, may be found!”
“Shush brother, a little respect!” Aymon hissed at him, in their native Neustrian in a low voice angered by the buffoonish way in which, his equally high-born brother was behaving himself. Dark where his brother was fair, he dressed as darkly where his brother liked fine silks, especially blue and green ones, his lyrical tongue was one few in that grand hall understood. Léon this afternoon wore green, with a fur-cloak with a black-falcon brooch (the great symbol of their royal house), he was long-haired where dark-Aymon was short-haired.
“Bah, what is the worst he will do to me? String me up? I should so hope for such courage from him.” Léon mocked with a snort in the same tongue, evidently as you can see he had no compulsions, in regards to demeaning his host’s good name. Or in enjoying the man’s imported wine, from distant Aguiane, the southern most of the Twelve Kingdoms on the Continent.
Whilst they bickered between them, Æthelwulf had begun to fulminate. His temper never under the greatest of control lay on the verge of exploding, as all could see from his reddened face. His wife, Elena noticing this attempted to soothe him, laying a gentle hand upon his wrist in a visible gesture to do this.
Barely noticing this, or Uhtred the Archdruid leaning over to whisper into the ear, of the king seated to his right, Gwilherm was far, far too drunk and proud of what he had accomplished. He had put to his mind, the older man in his proper place, after a lifetime of humiliations by his hands. Or so he believed.
“I do hope my song has please you, brother and that it shall be spoken of for years to come,” He uttered with a small snicker of glee, taking the laughter of the Dwarf and Léon as encouragement.
“Truly a magnificent song,” Uhtred pronounced with a slight nod of his head, a far more cool-headed individual than the warrior-king may ever hope to be. It was he who remarked with visible malice. “To-day it appears that Gwilherm has taught us in song, what courage truly signifies! In future generations we shall recall back, to his magnificent words, ones that far exceed any deeds, performed by any of our great ancestors.”
“If he is so brave, mayhap it could be he who attempts the dragon next,” Galen commented with a loud belch, one that drew a giggle from some of his table-mates. Though for the most, his words were what inspired laughter amongst his comrades. This old man being one of the knights whom had served Aymon the longest, he was grey-haired and bearded having originally been dark also, though he was in his fifties. Dark-eyed he dressed finely also, in rich wool the same colour as the darkest of starless nights.
“Mayhap throw three of them at him!” Vladin added, to which many others laughed with him, as the Dwarf was very apparently unaware of himself and his words in that moment.
Several of his people, laughed with him if more politely so, as they adored alcohol every bit as much as he, yet theirs were sounder spirits. Notably Kardrin and Palla, who were seated near him attempted to shush the drunk, who railed against them and made a bigger fool of himself.
Hardly paying attention to this quarrel amongst the Dwarves, the king continued to fulminate and arose to his full-height to the visible concern of his Queen. “If you think you could do far better than I, as King, Gwilherm Light-Foot mayhaps, it ought to be ye who are sent out to see to the matter of Balthrorth Red-Wing!”
It was only thence that the awareness of his own folly, entered into the spirit of Gwilherm, who until then had been utterly in the thrall of his mead. With sobriety came a hint of trepidation, for he realised only then that he had risked the wroth of his good-brother, and might well have brought down upon his head, a fate far worse than any, the monarch could throw his way. His cheeks growing pale, just as his forehead and face did, he glanced about nervously, with the fullness of his old fearful nature returning with added force in that moment.
None who had ever clashed with Balthrorth had ever returned, with this knowledge common-knowledge to all, with most of those who had set out having been better warriors than Gwilherm was. With this knowledge also known by all those about him, with the monarch who had just spoken only now thinking on what he had uttered a moment prior.
“Aye, ye should face the dragon as my ancestors once did, in honour of the song ye have sung!” Æthelwulf growled at him, full of righteous fury, “Never forget good-brother that it was not by my will, that ye be cast out and sent on this noble quest!”
His words earned him many laughs and cheers, with the jeers thrown towards his good-brother making the lesser man shrink a little, as much as the punishment heaped upon him. Part of him wished to scream ‘mercy! mercy!’ to his sister’s husband.
He was however beaten to the end of that particular race by her, as Elena reached for her husband’s hand in a supplicating gesture, “Mercy husband! Mercy for my dear brother! The only kinsman left in this world!”
Her plea as most tended to, softened Æthelwulf a little though he was not so easily mollified on this particular day, with Uhtred gazing at her in a calculative manner. It was no secret that the Chancellor had no great love, for the Queen or her three sons. It is said that, he had once hoped to have one of his own daughters wed either the king or his sons, and had been denied this by sheer pigheadedness on the part of the royal, who had preferred to wed for love and Estrian titles. In place of influence throughout the southlands from which, both men had sprung, with the lesser man having sprung from a lowly baronial family on the border between south-eastern Morwyn and Gewisse.
“Agreed sire, to do such a thing to thy Queen would be a poor and dishonourable deed!” Aymon agreed at once, though his reasons for doing so were markedly different, a brave if foolhardy man he was always keen to prove himself the manliest of men present. “Allow myself, and a small group of my men permission to depart upon this quest ourselves-”
It was not the first time that he had made the offer, and all suspected that it would not be the last. So in love was he with the notion, of slaying a dragon himself, as his cousin had that he had attempted several times to escape east to do just that. The trouble was that, Æthelwulf had always forbidden it, and caught him every time he tried only to hold his nephew or men hostage. Reminding him of how Éluan the Golden had forbidden his cousin from doing so, being protective of his cousin, as he wished for him to be his heir. Just as he wished for him to wed, one of his own noblewomen or countesses rather than some Brittian noble-lady. These being the wishes of the greatest of Kings, Æthelwulf could not allow either of them to head east not if he wished to avoid displeasing the Continental lord.
“Never!” Æthelwulf snapped at once, irritated by his guest’s attempt to volunteer to go on this ridiculous quest.
Aymon grumbled under his breath, with none doubting that he was liable, to attempt once more to escape east. His brother though, for his part simply shrugged in response giggling he only ever behaved himself, whenever his beloved son Gaucelin was near. Unfortunately for all present, the lad had already been sent away to sleep, by his father some time ago. “Bah, why not execute him, with your own blade? Would that not be more merciful, than to cast him out to die to the claws or fangs of Balthrorth?”
“It was his choice, to sing of courage and to remark that we ought to emulate Æthelred Wyvern-Slayer.” Uhtred commented noticing how the king appeared to consider this proposal by Léon, and aware that the kingdom could ill-afford to anger Éluan. A monarch unmatched by any other, in all the land, “Therefore, with this matter decided sire mayhap, we may have a more light-hearted song, next?”
Thus did the feast return to its prior mood, with Gwilherm dejectedly returning to his place at the lower table, where he was mocked and jeered as before, until all departed in the early hours of the morn, after the king had. With the king and queen retiring in the early hours of the morn, to their chambers once they saw most of their guests had begun to nod off. The feast would continue for another three days, by which time most had grown weary of the food and had been ill once or twice, due to too much wine, mead or beer.
When the king next reconvened his court formally, it was early in the morn the day after the feasts had ended. The King calling upon the Queen’s brother, along with a number of other officials and courtiers, who all hurried to and fro, out of desperation so as to not displease the whimsical monarch. As it pertained they all knew, to the matter of Balthrorth, all wished to be present to hear what he had decided, and with some having already forgotten what was decided during the feast. Others simply believed it impossible, for the king to send away his wife’s brother.
Just before the embassy Gwilherm had decided to hide from the king’s men, in his friend Melvin’s home. One directly to the back of the temple of Brigantia he always worshiped in, with the brown-haired, plump druid keen to take him in, in the name of their friendship. Doing so at the request also of the Queen also; that is until Léon came pretending to wish to confess his sins, just before he tricked the druid into running an errand down in the cellar for him. With the druid gone, the prince had slipped into the small room where Melvin lived, to find Gwilherm seated at the table with a small amount of pork and bread, along with red-wine from Norlam before him.
Seized before he could take flight, with the protesting druid in tow, Léon took them to the king’s armoury saying as he did so, “King’s orders that you be properly armed. Thus is it time, for you to select arms and for me to assist in dressing you in proper armour.”
Dejected, he did so, choosing a simple short-sword of simple iron, along with two daggers and a hatchet, a green buckler with the king’s red wolf-wyvern symbol on it. And simple leather armour that made Léon shake his head, in contempt, for the prince was a knight who favoured being fully-armoured from his toes to his chin. Not that he was entirely wrong, thought the noble just that he intended to still escape from this duty that had been forced, upon him in place of an execution.
All the while he was dragged before the gates of the city, where the king awaited him with the entire royal court to see him off; he fancied thoughts of living as an outlaw. Perhaps, he could even take flight north, to the court of Causantin in Caledonia. It was said that the king was a noble one, who welcomed all those outlawed from Brittia, and who bore little love for Æthelwulf. These thoughts however, were banished the moment he stood before his good-brother.
“Doubtlessly, ye intend to flee like the faint-hearted coward that ye are,” He whispered to him, just before he loudly bade him to accept his gratitude for accepting this great quest.
Insulted, and annoyed Gwilherm would never be able to tell from where, the surge of defiance and pride in him came from. He had long thought, his own courage long-since quashed yet he swore then a mighty oath, “I will not return o sire until the foul beast is beaten back! This in spite of, the fact that no man other than one of royal descent, has ever accomplished such a feat as slaying a single dragon in all of North-Agenor’s history!”
His outburst earned him a startled look from the king, a horrified one from his sister and Aymon, and a bemused one from Léon. With the people around them, nobles included cheering at these words which after a moment of bewilderment drew a shrug of indifference from Æthelwulf. Who might well have continued, the ceremony of bidding his good-brother good-fortune, were it not for his wife.
“Mercy once again sire!” She said to the irritation of brother and husband as she fell against her husband’s knees, hugging them as she pleaded with him dirtying her fine white dress in the mud of the street as she did so.
“I must go sister, lest I be a coward as some have unfairly accused me and no other here present of,” Gwilherm complained stoutly with a tart look about him, to the rest of the embarrassed court. Once again, he had misbehaved himself, and was saved only by virtue of his status as kinsman to the king, who frowned deeply, aware also of the implied insult to his own honour, for refusing to have ever fought the ‘Beast of Estria’, with the king attempting to pull the queen back up to her feet.
“On your feet, wife! Set an example to our children, less you wish to humiliate them and yourself with such foolish behaviour” He hissed at her, full of rage which drew a compassionate, worried glance from her brother, who wished for nothing more than to spare her, any and all pains.
“Nay, for- none but knights and kings it is said can slay a dragon, or so it is writ in the Canticle of the Temple! In the book of Ziu to be precise,” She recited as her eyes fell upon the golden copy of the Canticle, the holy text of the Temple of Quirinas held by Chancellor Uhtred. The idea coming to her all of a sudden, as she flashed a victorious look at her king and husband who adopted a grim mien, aware as she was of the truth of her words.
Still though, he would not be denied, as he shrugged once more in response, after grinding his teeth together, “Then we shall simply knight him, and induct him into the companions of Aymon- As the first of all Brittian nobles to ever have the honour.”
A dubious honour to say the least, or so everyone thought with a shared set of nervous glances. With the man in question by this time, beginning to have time to rethink his impulsiveness, as his departure was delayed once more, though now it was by Aymon. Who refused to knight him, or accept him into the brotherhood of companions he had by his side.
“Never!” Said he fiercely, his jaw set with more firmness than the rocks of the mountain which Balthrorth rested atop. “To be a knight requires years of training, of spiritual experiences and of course at least a decade of squirehood!”
That he would not knight Gwilherm, was just as others might have expected of the steely prince, who never was one for compromise. Especially on such matters as the law or of honour, this was why Aymon had few friends, even amongst those knights sent by Éluan to serve him during his exile as retainers and followers. That he had the love of his cousin, was an accomplishment none could quite understand, for Éluan was well-known for his cheerful mien.
Looking to those about the prince for support, Æthelwulf need not have worried for if few of the knights liked to contradict their leader, Léon lived for naught else. Stepping forth from the crowd of them, it was he who ordered Gwilherm to kneel even as he pressed a large muscular hand to his shoulder to force him down, saying cheerily as he did so. “Do try to avoid enjoying this, good Gwilherm for I will knight you even if my brother won’t!”
“Léon, non!” Called Aymon furiously, unable to stomach such defiance from his kin, especially on a point of religion and ceremony, both which he held close to his heart, above all other things.
“Do you promise to share the enemies of your king, to defend him from all those who would do him harm? To preserve and defend holy-mother Temple and serve the gods in all things?” Léon asked of him in the most solemn voice he could muster.
Feeling that in some way, he was transfixed and in the midst of one of the single-most important moments of his life. It felt as though, he were bearing witness to something that was destined, to be of some great import.
Kneeling there he hardly noticed the oaths sworn; only the terrible slap across his face that resounded throughout the immediate area and that drew a wince from all around him. His teeth rattled or so it seemed to him, as pain raced through him.
“Now that we resolved that, he can depart!” Léon crowed cheerfully, stepping back to stand behind the king and his brother, Aymon both of whom shot him very different glances. One was grateful, where the other appeared positively murderous. Not that either bothered the ‘silver-falcon’ as he was known (for his white armour and family coat of arms which was a black-falcon).
Defeated Elena’s lower lip began to tremble, as her younger brother stood at her husband’s signal, to embrace her then him with the king pressing a kiss to either side of the shorter man’s face. A sign of kingly approval, these kisses of peace were to signal his purported affection for Gwilherm, who numbly accepted his words without thought.
“Now that ye are a knight and can now embark upon this great quest, without fail to rescue the fair lady-” At this time he turned to Uhtred with a scowl, “What was her name?”
“The lady Elena- like our fair queen- but of Falsveal, milord,” the Chancellor supplied.
This cause Gwilherm to freeze again, if for different reasons as he recognised the name of Falsveal, with a sense of rising disgust. He had known that part of the quest to slay Balthrorth might involve, rescuing a lady. Such was the tradition of dragon-slaying going back to Heracles when he slew Máthrakkon the Black, to rescue Omphale, the Queen of Lykia and second of his wives. However, to rescue a Falsveal was unbearable, when he would much rather leave her to die given how her and her kin, were his enemies.
“Ah yes, the lady Elena of Falsveal,” Pronounced Æthelwulf as though nothing were the matter, “And to accompany thee on thy noble quest, Vladin the Dwarf-”
“NO!” Screamed the Dwarf in question, attempting to fight his way free of the guards who bore him forward, “I refuse! I don’t wanna die!”
Ignoring his protests, Æthelwulf went on ignoring also the confusion of the gathered commons who had previously believed this, to be a willing quest. Now they began to wonder, if this was simply an extension of the sacrifices all had made to Balthrorth, to appease him. Suddenly many became filled with unrest, and disquiet, as they did not much care for the proceedings now. “-Brave Gwilherm, ye will be accompanied for part of thy journey by the noble knights Roparzh and Galen!”
Neither knight looked particularly enthused either, with this particular duty, as they were volunteered for a duty that they were unlikely to return from. One was a young man, blond as Gwilherm was though considerably taller, and with a short beard also, though dressed more richly and with a magnificent scabbard on his waist, with gold-hilted sword at his side. He was green-eyed and otherwise friendly where Galen was dark, morose, almost as short as the Brittian and far more surly than he and had almost thirty years over him and Roparzh.
Thus was the company of ‘heroes’ decided by Æthelwulf and ordered to set out that very day. The most marked thing that the cowardly Gwilherm later recalled was the misery on his sister’s face, the indifference of his young nephews and the feeling of doom that loomed over his head.
The King’s hounds at this time, were all gathered outside of town, since the King wished to follow this ceremony up, by going out on a hunt to celebrate being free of the company of Gwilherm. The leashes of the canines were made of leather, with some thinner than others, notably that of Remus had by then weakened with it tied to his black leather collar. The dog strained, barked and yelped at the sight of the departing Gwilherm. His great love for the harpist such that he would not calm himself, leaping and shrieking, wherefore the houndsman yelled his name, pulled back on the leach (he held a dozen of them, as did the other four houndsmen). He raised his staff, one that was specially used on the hunting dogs of the King, with Remus rather more familiar with it than he would otherwise have preferred.
What none had predicted when they had arisen that morn’ when the dogs were taken out of the great hall and kennels, was for the leash tied to Remus that he had gnawed at almost everyday for near to six-months, to snap. No longer restrained, he bolted after his beloved friend, to the shouted rage of all those who gaped after him, the King included, yet the dog was not to be denied. In time he caught up to the heroes, with those chasing after him having long since abandoned the chase by then (for it was near to a half hour’s chase after him by this time). If Gwilherm was ignorant of the danger that loomed over him, Remus knew not of the danger and glory that was to be his also.