the berserker's tale - part II

If you missed part one you can visit it at the following link: the berserker's tale - part I

...

To the tyrant Vortiporius of Dyfed. I, Giltas, bear warning to thee from the angel whom appeared to me at Arecluta in the valley of the Clyde.

In His infinite mercy may Christ Jesus heal our great land, restore the light that once shown here when Ambrosius Aurelianus swept the Saxon foe before him as waves break upon the shore and strike with righteous wroth the scepter from every tyrant's hand.

But those days of olde go unremembered. Evil and lassitude have inflicted upon our peoples indolence and sloth. Under your neglectful rule, men have become lover’s of self and have forgotten Christ, their true redeemer. The monks have abandoned their monasteries and the solicitude of Christ for the solitude of the hermit’s cell. Forgotten too, our former native mightiness, forgotten the healing power of God from those days when His servant drove the Saxon scourge from the land.

In the forty-third year following the great battle of Mon Badonicus the angel appeared to me and bade me leave home and travel roads long and fraught with danger to Carmarthen and seek there an ancient warrior wise in the battle disciplines of the Celtic kings.

At the Gild-house there I met an elder hwit beard leaning hard upon a woman who appeared ancient as he. But grinning toothlessly, he introduced her as his granddaughter, his lone remaining heir.

She told me proudly, Here est the last of Vortimer’s berserkers; he who twere pierced mortal at Aylesford and yet lived.

I, Giltas, who hast witnessed many wondrous things, stared at the hwit beard in great wonder and whispered faintly How olde art thee grandfather?

Conall am I, he answered hoarsely, son of Connaught and Maeve; husband of Aisling; father of Aoife, Saoirse, Fiona and Kane the bold. I am the last of the true Britons who fought at Mons Badonicus and though blind with age have witnessed ten and one hundred harvests.

I gestured to a maid for ale, and she brought us brimming cups. When he finished his bier, his granddaughter fed him porridge and tenderly wiped his lips when at last he finished.

You won the battle of Aylesford with King Vortimer? I asked him.

His eyes narrowed at the question, and he spoke not as they blindly searched for answer. His granddaughter rubbed his back and smiled at him in encouragement. But he looked sad for the first time since entering the gild house.

Lost we the battle, he finally muttered, the Saxon swept Vortimer's army from the field and the king lay fallen upon its bloody fields and I with him. We should have died ... would have died save for fortune.

Fortune?

Aye, Fortune.

She who stands at the great wheel and blesses with one hand and curses with the other. He and I should have died there at bloody Aylesford.

But surely by Christ's mercy you lived to drive out the Saxon?

The ancient warrior fingered the remains of an ear severed on some distant field of strife as if it might hide the answer.

Aye ... we drove out the Saxon many a time, but they always returned. Now we live among them and they rule over us. Our sons marry their daughters, and their sons have married ours.

We were Britons, Celts and Scots before, now English we have become. Fortune won us many battles boot lost us forever the war. Tears pooling in his eyes began to stream down his cheeks, and my cheeks burned with righteous indignation and pity.

But before I could remonstrate, Conall continued - When I was a boy of twelve summers fought I in me first battle. I bloodied many and was bloodied in return. My father clapped me back in good fellowship and said to me, 'Ye pissed yerself like a boy boot fought like a man.'

And then father and several others lifted me upon their shoulders and carried me to the Avon Medway, tossed me in and bade me wash the piss away with much laughter.

He smiled briefly at the remembrance and then said, I'm tired granddaughter and they rose, said their fare thee wells and departed for the night.

...