Bedwyr was a joyous young man who loved to rove the Ordovice country, and even serving on the borders of the Demetae had been a thrilling and an exciting period of his young life. He had learned his woodcraft in Arden Forest before he was ten years old, and so he made the Western Mountains his own hunting preserve by roving on foot with a tread so silent that rabbits, birds and fallow deer fell to the accuracy of his sling and his bow with ridiculous ease. Bedwyr was a gifted, light-hearted killer with an intimate knowledge of the terrain.
He did not really learn the nature of the Saxon menace until his fate was sealed. The Ordovice clans had ruled the hills of Caer Sivii and Castell Collen so completely that the Saxons avoided their territory. Perhaps he would have retained his innocence far longer, or would have died before his time, if he had not gone hunting one late afternoon above the troop’s base camp in a small, green valley near Castell Collen. His young compatriots were, as always, keen to eat whatever crossed Bedwyr’s path.
His skill in the lengthening shadows was so well-honed that he soon had a brace of coney and a fox that had been uncharacteristically rash. Bedwyr was searching for deer when he smelled smoke on the slopes above the valley camp.
He was drawn inexorably towards its source.
Bedwyr snaked through the underbrush directly above his camp with scarcely a rustle of leaves to betray his passage. The tents were afire and flames rose bloodily over the cooking hearth. The young man was trying to peer through the turgid smoke when the screams began, followed by a smell that made Bedwyr’s stomach begin to churn.
The sharp stench of seared human flesh was hideous and unmistakable.
The screams were terrible, rising out of the lower valley with an awful, pain-fuelled volume. Something twisted and contracted in the flames, but Bedwyr tried not to recognize the details of a man tied to a tree trunk as he roasted in the middle of the fire pit.
But there was no escaping the inhuman agony of those wailing, pulsating cries.
Bedwyr drew his knees up to his chest as he crouched under the low cover. The screams shivered up his spine and reverberated through his bones. Unbidden and unwelcome, the faces of his companions in the troop came striding into his thoughts. Was the burning man Callwyn, or Octa, or Berrigan, or Melwai? Against his will, Bedwyr began to vomit uncontrollably so that he did not hear the slither of careful feet on the pebbled slope, or see the faint glitter of metal off to his right.
When his stomach could heave up only bile, Bedwyr managed to master his nerves, gather up the coneys and the fox, and rope their limp bodies through a cord attached to his belt. After checking for his knife and his bow, Bedwyr slid out of the low cover - straight into two very large Saxons. He barely had time to utter a small exclamation of surprise when a rock crashed against his temple and his wits deserted him.
When he awoke, he realized that his limp body was hanging over the rump of a horse, and he slowly became aware that his hands and feet were tied together under the belly of the animal. His tendons screamed from the strain and his head thudded in an insistent echo of the movements of the animal’s flexing and bunching muscles.
Once again, he vomited bile weakly from his abused throat and stomach.
Just when he believed his muscles would tear from the agony of assaulted nerve ends and joints, a sharp knife cut him free and he slithered to the hard earth with an audible thump.
Winded, he stared up into the handsome, cold face of a tall Saxon youth. The young man spoke in a quick burst of what must surely have been Saxon, but Bedwyr shook his head weakly and shrugged his ignorance. The Saxon spat his impatience, and reverted to bastardized Celt.
‘Stand, dog!’
The knife cut the lashings at his ankles, and Bedwyr struggled to his feet.
‘Look at me, dog! If you can keep up with the horse, there’s a strong chance you will live. But I will cut your throat if we are forced to drag you.’
A long rope secured his hands to the cheek straps of his horse’s harness, and the animal was lashed into movement. Almost dragged off his feet, Bedwyr settled into a mind-numbing shamble.
At last, the leading rope slackened a little, and Bedwyr wiped his brow and temple where blood pumped sluggishly from a long, shallow wound. The horse’s haunches quivered as they began to climb a long, low slope, and Bedwyr stared at the ground and concentrated on the position of stones, scree and fallen branches. He was in no doubt that he would be killed out of hand if he fell.
Wordlessly, Bedwyr thanked his Christian god for his agile legs and whipcord muscles. Only his unshakeable belief in his superb fitness kept him on his feet. Shrubs cut him, and gorse tore his legs. Stubbornly, he forced his exhausted muscles to propel him forward, one leg in front of the other, as each step became a word in a long, sonorous prayer to Jesu.
Stupefied, and drunk on the hypnotic rhythm of his stumbling feet, Bedwyr was barely conscious when the Saxons stopped. The dark silence was only broken by the sounds of laboured, ragged breathing. The Saxon youth cuffed Bedwyr as he turned to check on his prisoner, and seemed disappointed that the Celt was still on his feet.
‘Listen to me, dog! If you fall, then you die! If you live, you will be a gift from me to my lord, Glamdring Ironfist. Now, we run again!’
The youth rejoined his friends, and the agonizing journey recommenced.
The long night blurred into a series of muscle-killing bouts of running, punctuated by brief rests when Bedwyr did not dare to sit in case he could not rise again. At some point in the nightmare passage, his captor grudgingly gave him a few mouthfuls of water, and the cold draught cleared Bedwyr’s head for a short time. His only sustenance was the long, unravelling prayer to his god, and the snatches of the Latin Host that he recited. One foot in front of the other! Again! Again! Again! Ignore the burning lungs! Ignore the pain of torn muscles! Run! Run! Run!
The first stains of dawn were reddening the sky when the half-light revealed a huge wooden palisade, built around a cluster of stone and timber buildings that hunched within it. Ragged huts huddled around the outside of the palisade, and fowls, mangy dogs and half-naked children foraged for food or sunned themselves in the first light.
At the gates, Bedwyr hung his head as he leaned against the haunches of his running mate, whose nostrils were reddened with broken blood vessels. Once inside the forbidding walls, the Saxon youth cut Bedwyr’s rope to the lathered horse and the frightened, exhausted animal was led away behind a squat building. While the youth rolled up his salvaged length of rope, Bedwyr heard the shrill scream from the horse as its throat was cut.
They’ll eat him for the meat, Bedwyr thought to himself, with neither regret nor horror, too exhausted to care. The horse was better off dead.
Inside a smoke-filled, odorous hall, a huge, shaggy-bearded Saxon was seated, breaking his fast with coarse beer, some kind of oat cakes and slabs of half-cooked meat. With smeared fingers, the man ripped the meat to pieces, and employed large, yellowing teeth to chew it to an oozy pulp. Bedwyr could see the whole process clearly, because the Saxon ate noisily with his mouth open.
The young Saxons told their tale of murderous cruelty in their own language, and gesticulated often in Bedwyr’s direction. They were obviously boasting to their master.
Then Bedwyr was dragged forward and cuffed to the ground in a crude copy of the full obeisance owed to a High King. Bedwyr was too exhausted to resist.
‘Who are you, dog?’ the master uttered in a guttural growl. ‘Where are you from?’
‘I am Bedwyr, son of Bedwyr of Letocetum. I am a Cornovii.’
The chieftain, whom Bedwyr later realized was Glamdring Ironfist, looked vaguely at him. Bedwyr realized immediately that the Saxon had no idea who the Cornovii were, or where their lands lay.
Another rapid burst of Saxon words followed, which the Celt didn’t even attempt to follow. Glamdring stared hard at Bedwyr with narrowed blue eyes above his muddy blond beard, while he continued to masticate methodically.
Bedwyr repressed a shudder and let his head hang low.
Glamdring made a decision.
‘You’re strong, I’ll say that for you. You’ll forget your outland name, and will be called Dog from this moment on. You belong to me. If you are a good dog, and labour hard for me, you’ll be fed. If you are not a good dog, you will die and your body will feed my pigs. Get a collar for him!’
Someone pressed a band of iron around Bedwyr’s neck and a peg of metal was forced through the flange under his right ear. He was clubbed to his knees, his cheek lying on the table, while another Saxon used an iron hammer to pound the flange of iron closed. The metal scoured his skin, and Bedwyr knew that his neck would soon be bleeding where the collar rubbed against his flesh.
Another warrior thrust a short spear into the open hearth.
‘You are now mine, Dog. If I die, so will you. And you will then serve me in Valhalla. Remember that my dogs are worth more than you are. They are Saxon dogs and they are fighters. You are a bastard Celt and were taken without striking a blow.’
After that, Glamdring ignored him entirely. Dismissively, he threw bronze arm rings to the six young captors, who flushed to their hairlines with pleasure.
Prudently, Bedwyr remained on his knees, with his head sunk between his shoulders and his chin on his breast. In truth, he was ashamed. Although any attempt to escape would have brought death, Bedwyr regretted that he had been taken so cheaply when his friends had paid with their lives. He supposed that Glamdring and his fellows believed that he would be too cowardly to attempt escape. His heart began to beat with an ever-deepening purpose.
The warrior who was heating the spear eventually drew it out of the hearth. The point glowed.
Glamdring nodded his approval, and several warriors approached and stripped the Celt to his loincloth. He would never see his tunic or leggings again. The warrior holding the spear approached Bedwyr purposefully. Bedwyr controlled his fear and his bowels with difficulty, while praying that he would not shame his ancestors.
His head was forcibly drawn back and his chest was exposed. The warrior pressed the red-hot weapon against the flesh above Bedwyr’s right nipple. The flesh smoked and burned.
Except for the involuntary twitching of muscle, Bedwyr forced himself not to move. He had shut his eyes and concentrated on the crucifixion of his Lord Jesu, for if He could suffer such agony without complaint, then so could Bedwyr. Just when the Celt was sure he would scream, the hot metal was withdrawn, and Bedwyr fell to his knees, panting like an animal.
‘Get yourself to the women in the kitchens, Dog. They’ll put salve on my loving little bite. And remember, Dog, that you must be good and do what you are told, or you’ll learn what real pain is.’
For three years now, Bedwyr had done what he was told. Glamdring was his master, but any Saxon could order him to do their bidding.
His beard had grown and, although he tried to keep it trimmed with a blunt blade, it still turned into a ragged, matted bush. His hair was filthy and knotted although, when circumstances permitted, he would stand in the rivulet below Caer Fyrddin and allow the rushing water to cleanse his body.
In the months and years that followed his capture, Bedwyr’s flesh became meagre and whipcord strong. His muscles developed in response to the unceasing physical labour, and his clear eyes appeared downcast and deceptively docile. In the eyes of Glamdring’s warriors and his women, Dog was a halfwit. Only the other house servants knew that Bedwyr was still alive within Dog’s scarred body. Occasionally, in passing, he would murmur encouragement to a fellow slave, or exchange information culled from his duties in the great hall that he cleaned as vigorously as the Saxons would allow. He assisted the mastiff bitches to whelp, and the great, shaggy beasts loved him, especially one young male whom he called Wind because of its wiry grey coat.
The hall was Bedwyr’s direct responsibility, and it was filthy. How the Saxons avoided pestilence defied reason, but perhaps even disease refused to take root among them. But Bedwyr intended to live and revenge himself on his captors, so he kept himself as clean as possible and took care of any cuts or bruises lest they fester and rot. One of Glamdring’s women, less cruel than her sisters, had given him a salve for his burn which he kept carefully and used for many months till the wound healed. He ate whenever he could steal food, even from the hounds and, despite a vague feeling of guilt, never shared with his fellow slaves. For Bedwyr, survival was everything.
As the years of pain and degradation passed, Bedwyr’s faith began to die. The holy child of Christianity had sustained him on his journey to the fortress, but the darker gods of war salvaged his pride and strengthened his grip on life. In Bedwyr’s jaundiced opinion, acceptance of suffering as a route to Paradise was a foolish affectation. Revenge kept him breathing, and the hope that Ironfist would one day die at his hands allowed the Cornovii to endure every indignity that was heaped on him to break his spirit. His Christian values were not dead but they had merged with older, hardened beliefs that gave him a fragile reason to remain sane.
Over time, the Saxon chief scarcely noticed his daft servant with the insulting name of Dog. The slave was a familiar possession, like his favourite ale cup, which had become worn to the shape of his hand.
Now, as Bedwyr piled wooden trenchers into a wicker basket and rubbed the scarred surface of the table with a grimy scrap of cloth, a Saxon courier pounded on the gates of the fortress. Passwords were exchanged, and the messenger slid into the dark confines of the caer like an eel. Quickly, he was brought into the presence of the Saxon king. Since his capture, Bedwyr had become quite fluent in the Saxon language, but as he was rarely permitted to speak, Glamdring never considered that his slave had ears to hear, or a mouth to pass on secrets.