Free Once More

by roseflower19

Historical AU. In sixth century Wales, Mordred (Medraut) trains under battle commander King Arthur (Artorius) to defeat the Picts at Camlann.

"Annals of Wales" (Annales Cambriae; c. late 10th C.)

Entry for year 516 - The Battle of Badon, in which Arthur carried the Cross of our Lord Jesus Christ for three days and three nights on his shoulders [or shield] and the Britons were the victors.

Entry for year 537 - The Battle of Camlann, in which Arthur and Medraut fell: and there was plague in Britain and Ireland.

Preface

Many people familiar with Arthurian legend know Mordred as the incestuous son of King Arthur, as first suggested in the Vulgate Cycle. The Vulgate Cycle, a collection of French Romantic poems penned in the thirteenth century, also introduced Excalibur, Lancelot and Guinevere, and the Holy Grail. Likely the historical Arthur (Artorius) knew of none of these elements. Some historians believe that he may have lived in the fifth or sixth century, based on two medieval histories. One, the 10th century Annales Cambriae, first mentioned Mordred as "Medraut," who fell in the Battle of Camlann with Arthur. But the manuscript didn't record who Medraut was, whether he fought with or against Arthur, where Camlann was, or who won the battle (if anyone). Also, the dates given for Camlann—and the Battle of Badon—may be off, if Badon occurred at all (other historians, based on archaeological records of the Anglo-Saxon era, when Badon supposedly occurred, have discovered that the Anglo-Saxons were not fighting the Britons but farming the land and intermarrying with local women, so Badon may be a fictional battle).

Generally, books attempting to detail the historical Arthur relegate Medraut to the same role as in the legends. Perhaps he did perform this role. Or perhaps he didn't. The places, events, and character portrayals in this story are largely fictitious, though set against a period backdrop. Because this book draws on the early histories, it does not mention figures like Guinevere, Merlin, and Lancelot.

As for Medraut himself, this story follows Nancy Springer's portrayal of him in I am Mordred as intelligent but non-confrontational. Ultimately, it attempts to portray Medraut as sympathetic and human, rather than a villain.

Chapter One- Day

"Medraut."
His foster-father, General Rollo, stands in front of him, blocking the fire.

"Can you calm your dog?" Bran, Medraut's foster-brother, says as Wren's tail whacks him in the face.

"Sorry," Medraut mutters. "Wren, sit." The mastiff sits obediently, her tail still wagging.

"Boys, it's time for your training," Rollo says, the firelight catching at his rugged fair features, grey hair, and blue eyes. There were rumors he was part Saxon, with a name like Rollo, but no one knew for sure; most people this far west in Wales hadn't even seen a Saxon. But General Artorius trusted him, and that's what mattered. Artorius had said that his father, one of the last Romano-British generals, had fostered him to their family friend, General Ambrosius Aurelianus, and that was where he had met Rollo. The foster-brothers had fought under Ambrosius and had stayed as some of the last Romano-Britons after Ambrosius's death and after the Romans had left, and they had helped make peace with the Saxons, who lived and farmed to the east. So, in truth, Rollo was probably no more Saxon than Artorius was, and, besides, Bran, Rollo's other foster-son, was blond, too, but with a strong Welsh name.

"Artorius doesn't like wasting time," Rollo reminds them. That's all he needs to say. Medraut and Bran dress and strap on their swords and shields before stepping outside, Wren at Medraut's side.

They come into the inner courtyard of what was once a walled Roman fort where Artorius and Rollo had fought with Ambrosius; several other soldiers, most of them sons of chiefs who could find no one better to send their sons to than the greatest general in Wales, are already warming up.

Bran's sword comes up and bites into Medraut's shield as he hurriedly pulls it on his right arm. "I wasn't ready," Medraut says.

"That's obvious. Come on, get your sword out." Bran's blade strikes out again, this time off Medraut's own, and sparks flash. "What's wrong? You aren't paying much attention." Glancing around as if to make sure Rollo, who's checking the guard of the other soldiers, isn't listening, Bran says quietly, "Is it your father again?"

"Yes." Medraut pauses. How much should he tell his foster-brother? It's easier to pretend that they had no life outside this one, the one they came to when they were seven, but it isn't true. "Don't you ever think about your family?"

"No. This is my family. I bet my parents don't even miss me." Bran had said his parents had never paid much attention to him and had been glad to foster him off. "You said your father didn't like you, either."

Father—he'd always been warmer to his brother, Dyllanw, and sister, Cordelia—Cordelia, with her easy laughter and smiling green eyes, married off to a warrior Father knew. Was she happy as a housewife? Was her husband even still alive? Was Dyllanw happy as Father's heir, or was he in charge of the chiefdom now? Did they or Mother or Wyn—it hurt to even think of her—remember him? It'd been almost seven years.

"He seemed to think I was an inconvenience," Medraut says, speaking carefully. "He was happier to see me fostered to a general than always hiding from his sword lessons."

Hadn't he said as much, the day Rollo had come? Medraut had been by the cow and sheep pasture sitting with Wyn, the cowherd's daughter, and the bard, who was practicing the harp for the evening meal in case anyone important came. That should have been the first clue.

"Can I try?" Medraut asked. He wanted to play the wind and the sea and the mountains.

The bard helped him strap on the harp and guide the bow over the strings, Wyn clapping along, when Cordelia came along, her hands on her hips. She wasn't smiling then. She'd been crying for days, ever since Father had paid her bride-price, and now all she said was, "There you are, hiding again. Father would hit you with his sword if he saw you here." Father had taught him again and again, with the flat of his sword, to jump back when the blade came down. "He wants you."

Head down, Medraut had to leave his friends and trudged with Cordelia, Wren flagging at his side, down the hill to the house, where Mother, her blue eyes sad, and Father, his green eyes alive and cheerful, stood with a thick man who looked as though he'd once been blond, in a red tunic and cloak pinned with a Roman-style fibula. Medraut hid behind Mother's skirt. "This is your foster-father," Father had said.

Artorius enters the courtyard, older and greyer than he used to be but still with a hawkish Roman nose and proud bearing, and everyone is on alert, practicing with renewed vigor. Bran engages Medraut again, sparring with more intensity than before. Right, left, back and forth, and Bran's sword catches under Medraut's pommel, sending his sword flying.

"Not bad," Artorius says, watching, "but, Medraut, you need to keep your guard up." Medraut flushes, picking up his sword as Artorius draws his own. "Again," Artorius says, and Bran steps out of the way. Gulping, Medraut tries to keep his sword from shaking as Artorius's connects with his, and everyone is watching now, even Rollo. The sword stays steady at last. That's all Medraut can manage as Artorius hands him blow after blow and he continues to yield ground step by step. Artorius leans towards Medraut's right, his weaker side, and he lunges forward to guard it, only to find his sword flying from his hand again. Some of the older boys laugh, but Artorius stops them with a look. Bending to pick up his sword, Medraut hides his flaming face behind his dark hair. Father would be humiliated at his performance, getting disarmed twice in front of Artorius.

Wren gives him an assuring lick on the chin, and he pats her back. She's all he has left of home. Her and his pony, Hazel.

She nudges at Artorius's hand. "Wren," Medraut whispers to her, but Artorius just scratches her ear. St. Stephen's dog, Artorius calls her sometimes, after St. Stephen's symbol, the wren, and Medraut couldn't say he named her Wren just because he liked the name. "You should practice more with someone more seasoned, like Rollo, who can help you improve."

Medraut picks his jaw up. He'd just been a failure, and Artorius was only telling him to practice more?

"Yes, sir," he manages. "I won't let you down."

"I hope not," Artorius says, with a small smile.

"The morning meal is ready," one of the servants announces, and everyone rushes inside to the dining hall. Medraut starts after them but stops behind the doorway to the hall as Artorius mentions his name to Rollo.

"He has some promise," Artorius says, "if he'd pay more attention to his lessons. He's already taller than several of the older boys, and he's not even fourteen yet."

"I'm beginning to despair of him ever paying more attention," Rollo says. "He may be Gruffud's boy, but he's not like him. I know he'd rather listen to the bards or go to the sea than do sword training."

"We were plenty distracted at that age, too," Artorius laughs, "even if it wasn't because of the sea. Give him a few more years, and he could be a strong warrior. We don't have a choice," he adds more soberly. "I don't know how much longer they'll stay at bay."

Medraut bites the inside of his lip and walks towards the hall, his hand at Wren's shoulder to keep her by his side. Who are they referring to? The Saxons? The merchants from the Mediterranean? The Picts to the North?

#

"Hiding again?" Bran asks, his footsteps cascading over the stones by the shore, where Medraut sits beside Wren and his pony, Hazel. Hazel browses for snatches of grass, while Wren runs after the sticks Medraut throws for her.

"I was coming up with a riddle," Medraut says, facing the sea, breathing softly in and out. It was like the riddles the bards told, but not about death and war; he didn't want to sing about that. "I sing but have no voice; I wave but have no arms; I dance but have no legs; what is my name?"

"You think too much," Bran says, sitting beside him. "Sometimes, I think you're the riddle. I'm a warrior but hate fighting; I'm a chieftain's son but want to be a poet; what is my name?"

"Shut up," Medraut says.

Wren brings her stick back and drops it at his feet, licking his hand until he throws it for her; it lands in the water, and she chases after it, running into the waves and jumping around.

"You disappeared after the morning meal, and I figured you'd probably be here," Bran says. "What are you doing?"

"I heard—" Medraut pauses. Should he tell he foster-brother this? "I heard Artorius tell Rollo that he wasn't sure he'd be able to hold them off anymore. I don't know who he means, but it sounds bad."

"Sounds like one of your riddles."
"I'm serious."
"I don't know. It could be the Picts; there's been some trouble with them lately. I heard they raided a nearby farm and stole some cattle."

"I hope not; that'll only mean war." A cattle raid meant the ones who'd been stolen from had to steal back, and it kept going until the two sides were at war. War was the last thing he wanted, not after they'd so narrowly avoided war with the Saxons.

"But we'd get to take some Pictish heads," Bran says. "I want to put a head from somebody I've killed on a pike."

Medraut shivers. "Rollo probably wouldn't let you do that."

Bran was from an old Welsh family like Medraut, and both their fathers had drinking skulls handed down in their families from warriors their ancestors had killed, but Rollo was Roman-educated and didn't like headhunting, thankfully.

Wren bounds up to them, carrying her stick and shaking her wet fur all over them. They laugh and shield themselves with their cloaks. "Wren!" Medraut cries.

"I guess it's time to get back," Bran says, still chuckling.

Getting back up on their ponies, Wren in between, they start back towards the fort.

#

The rest of that day they spend on spear-fighting, and Medraut is no better at it than sword-fighting. This time, as Artorius suggested, Rollo practices with him and tells him when his guard is too open or too high, which, most of the time, it is. "I'm sorry," Medraut pants after the fifth round, when Rollo pulls up from under his spear and knocks the head off.

"You don't have to apologize," Rollo says as they rest against the stone wall. "Your enemies won't wait long enough for you to say you're sorry; they'll be too busy taking your head off." Medraut flinches. "I shouldn't have said it that way. Artorius is right. It's not that your skill is lacking; it's your will. Let me tell you a story. It's not the kind of story you'll hear from the bards. Artorius and I were young, not much older than you, when we had our first command under Ambrosius Aurelianus. We were too confident in ourselves and led the troops forward too quickly. Only Ambrosius's quick thinking saved the troops from a slaughter. The point is, everyone makes mistakes, even us, but it's about whether you learn from them or not. I hope you'll be able to learn from ours instead of having to make mistakes like that yourself."

That could have been him someday. "Thank you."

"Let's get back to work." Rollo picks up another spear for Medraut, and they start again.

#

That night, Bran already moving softly on his sleeping bench, Medraut curls up under the furs and tries to push Wren's head off his leg, but she doesn't move. Rollo's story flickers through his mind—surely, that won't be him—not so soon...

Chapter Two- Night Attack

Wyn knelt beside him at the cliff, the cows grazing on the tough grass nearby. "What are you doing?" she asked.

He held up the flowers he'd been picking apart. "Here's the pistil, and here's the stamen." The monks had showed him the last time he'd gone with Dyllanw to the monastery.

She made a face. "Flowers are pretty without pulling them apart." Pulling up a few flowers, she started weaving them into a crown for the puppy, who snuffled at the petals Medraut had pulled apart. Wyn had let him have the puppy, and he called her "Wren" because she made chirping noises like a bird.

"Up! Everyone up!" a guard shouts, torches blazing past them. "The Picts are attacking!"

Shouts echo past them, and weapons clang, setting Wren to barking. Bran wakes up with a snort. "What's going on?" he slurs.

"Quiet, Wren," Medraut hisses, grabbing her scruff. She settles down with a whine. "The Picts are attacking," he repeats the message to Bran.

"I told you," Bran says, grabbing his sword from above his bench. "I'm going to take some Pictish heads!"

His heart jumping, Medraut straps on his sword and shield and sneaks out behind Bran, Wren a massive shadow beside him. Rollo is already on watch with Artorius at the wall, the Picts a flash of blue paint and torches as they stream in and out of the fort, carrying off cattle. Some of Artorius's and Rollo's men ride at the Picts, surrounding them and slashing at them with their swords, but it makes little use. The Picts, screaming and their eyes bulging, lash at a dozen soldiers at once, blood and heads flying. Rollo looses an arrow, and it strikes one of the Picts, knocking him off his pony.

"I'm going down there," Bran shouts to them.

"No." Rollo turns around for a moment. "You're too young; you're not dying in a cattle raid."

Bran starts to run towards the gate anyway, but Medraut holds him back. "Do what he says," he whispers. Bran scowls.

Artorius and Rollo continue to fire at the Picts as they ride into the night, carrying both heads and cattle.

#

Artorius rubs his hand over his face, even more tired and lined-looking than usual in the hearth light of the great hall, the remaining soldiers and boys crowded around on the long wooden benches. "I don't know what to do," Artorius admits.

"We should go after them," Bran mutters. Medraut gives him a look. They're both too young still to talk out at meetings.

"The Picts seem to want a fight," Artorius goes on. "They've raided other farms and chiefdoms nearby, and now they attack us directly. They might be short of cattle, but now we're short of cattle and men. It wouldn't be the wisest to go to Pictland and attack them in their own territory."

"If we don't attack them back, they'll call us weak," one of the men points out. "They'll keep coming back and taking more if we don't stop them."

"Do you think we can let them keep our men's heads and put them on pikes?" says another. "We have to get their heads back. They fought for us. We have to fight for them."

Rollo and Artorius confer quietly for a moment. Medraut holds his breath. Please—don't go to war—Please—

"You have fair points," Rollo admits. "We will go North and get our cattle and men back."

Chapter Three- Road

The ponies climb carefully over the rain-soaked cliff, their hooves sending rocks cascading over the edges. Medraut holds on tightly to Hazel, his hand almost frozen on his water-soaked cloak, his head bobbing as he tries to stay awake, even Wren flagging beside him. The Moon rides higher and higher in the sky, sending eerie shadows over the cliffs; over each ridge, shadows jump like an army lying in wait, but it's only a henge made of stone. They'd been traveling all night the day after the Picts attacked, trying to avoid any suspicion from them by traveling at night, but it was a long was to Pictland. Would they even make it there?

Bran's head sags on his chest beside Medraut, and his pony's hoof slips over the edge, nearly sending horse and rider both over the cliff. His heart hammering, Medraut seizes the pony's reins and pulls him back over the edge.

Rollo halts ahead of them. "It's time to stop for the night," he says, and no one disagrees with him.

They tie their ponies to trees close to the henge and start making camp. "Do you think the fairies would like us sleeping here?" Bran asks Medraut as he unrolls the sleeping furs.

"How do you know the fairies built it?" Medraut whispers. They settle under the furs, close together for warmth.

"Who else could have built it? No human could have done that."

Medraut doesn't answer. The henge stands in a circle, the Moonlight stretching the shadow of one of the stones. It looks almost like—like a calendar—

He doesn't even have time to say so before the night washes over him.

#

Rollo's cart rolled over the rutted roads, bumping and jostling Medraut and the puppy in the front seat. The pony Father had given him, the one Medraut called Hazel, walked tethered beside the cart. "Well, Medraut," Rollo said, "how do you like the idea of training under Artorius?" They had started out the morning after Rollo had come for the evening meal and the bard had sung tales of Artorius's glories late into the night. Rollo must not have been the kind of person who liked wasting time.

He didn't answer. He didn't want to fight for a dux bellorum, a battle commander, or for anyone, really, but what choice did he have?
"You're very quiet," Rollo said. "Most boys your age would love to be in your place."
Let them take his place, then.

The hills closed out the sea, and he clung tighter to the puppy, hemmed in for the first time in his life.

The fire pops and crackles as the first rays of Sun crack through Medraut's closed eyelids. He sits up slowly, knocking Wren's head off his chest, and pulls back the furs; Bran wraps them tighter around him, refusing to get up.

The other soldiers clank and jostle around, polishing their weapons or heating bacon around the fire.

Medraut pokes Bran. "Wake up," he hisses.

"Go 'way," Bran mutters, turning over.

"Wake up." Medraut pulls the furs off, and Bran sits up, shivering.

"No fair."

"You can get warm around the fire," Medraut says, rolling up the fire, and Bran wastes no time getting over to it, even though it is near the henge.

"Good morning," Rollo says as Medraut joins them.

"Good morning."

They sit frying bacon over the fire to make a sandwich, and Wren sits begging for scraps until Medraut relents and tosses her a few.

Artorius sweeps around the camp, making sure everyone is up before joining them and smiling a little at Wren's antics. "We need to get started," he says, growing more serious. "If we stay here, we'll be an easier target than if we keep moving."

Groaning, the men pick up camp and load up the ponies before starting on the path once again.

#

The days and nights take on their own kind of rhythm, the rhythm of a horse's swaying back and the rhythm of rain, and they only stop to let the ponies cool down or when the Moon is high in the sky. Sometimes they find a farm or a chiefdom willing to welcome them for the night. Then the ponies get a stable, and they get a good meal that isn't dried meat or bread.

The soldiers sit crammed into a chieftain's house, raising horns of beer and cheering as the bard sings bawdy tales.

"You know," Rollo says, joining Medraut outside under the stars, "your family's chiefdom is very close to here, if you'd like to go."

Leaning against Wren, Medraut stays quiet for a moment. See his family? They hadn't sent word to him or sent word to him for seven years. Would they like it if he came?

"I'll understand whether you do or don't want to," Rollo continues. "I know they're your real family, but—"

"That's not it." Rollo was difficult to get close to and didn't always want the same things Medraut did, but he'd been more like a father than his own had; he had shown more concern and care than Father ever had. "I don't know that they think I'm part of their family."

"That's not true; I got the impression that they really cared about you, or they wouldn't have sent you to us." He starts to touch Medraut's shoulder but pulls back. "Think about it." After Rollo walks away, Medraut continues facing the stars.

"What do you think, Wren?" he asks. She just thumps her tail and doesn't answer.

#

"This is Artorius," Rollo introduced Medraut to the dux bellorum, who had just entered the courtyard of the Roman fort. He dressed like Rollo, mostly like the Welsh but with a Roman fibula and short Roman haircut, but his eyes were dark, and his hair looked as though it had once been, too, as dark of a grey as it was now. He smiled at Medraut, who kept close to Rollo. He had never been so enclosed and with so many strangers in his life.

"Welcome, Medraut," Artorius said. "You'll like it here."

#

The chieftain's daughters are making a wreath of flowers for a figure of the Virgin Mary the next day as the soldiers prepare to leave, and something funny washes over Medraut—it's May Day. His fourteenth birthday. He comes of age today, and he might be at his family's house in time for it.

Artorius, ever respectful, makes the men wait long enough for the girls to process past them on their ponies, flower both in their hair and around their necks, before they can saddle up themselves. Then, putting his hand on Medraut's shoulder, he says, "It's your birthday, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir," Medraut says, tightening Hazel's saddle and not facing him.

"You're really a man now," Bran laughs, thumping him on the back, and Medraut smiles wanly. "I still have to wait another month."

More of the soldiers begin to notice and start to surround him, teasing him about now being old enough to marry one of the girls who'd gone a-Maying, and he leads Hazel away from the group, her chewing placidly at a mouthful of grass. If he never turned fourteen, he would've been happier. Fourteen meant becoming a man, becoming a warrior, and that was the last thing in the world he wanted.

"Are you all right?" Rollo asks him, coming up beside him.

"I'm fine; I'm fine," he says, scratching under Wren's chin as she bounds up to him, and she licks his face. He doesn't even smile.

"I know it's your birthday," Rollo says. "I wanted you to be happy; if there's anything I can do—"

"We should go." Medraut leans his head back towards the grey sky, threatening rain.

#

They'd been riding into the rain all day, it growing thicker as they come close to the coast, and only their wool cloaks keep them warm at all. The outcropping on the coast becomes more familiar, the sharp rise of the cliff over the water's edge and the cave below—Wyn and her cattle seem almost to stand out against the rock fences and wattle-and-daub house. Something tightens in Medraut's throat.

"Do you want us to go with you?" Rollo asks him.

"No." He's being selfish to deny the other soldiers a chance to have somewhere warm to stay and something warm to eat, but he'd rather face his family alone.

Turning Hazel towards the cliff, Medraut rides towards the house that had once been his, Wren beside him, a strange reverse homecoming.

Chapter Four- Home

"Who's there?" Dyllanw peers over the wall. He's even taller and thicker than he was at seventeen, but his wide forehead and blue eyes, like Medraut's, are the same.

"Dyllanw, it's me." Medraut pulls himself up on his pony, trying to make himself visible over the stone wall.

"Medraut?" The gate swings open, and Medraut rides in, swinging off his pony and walking stiffly with her to the stable. Dyllanw walks with him, and Wren sniffs Dyllanw all over before deciding he's safe. Giving her a pat on the back, he starts to say something and stops.

"Where—Where's Father?" Medraut asks, trying to break the silence as he stables Hazel.

"Dead. He and Cordelia's husband both died in the same battle, a Pictish raid."
"Oh." Is it better or worse to not have to meet him again? He was the one who had given him away and wanted him to be a warrior; if it had been up to Mother, she might not have.

"What are you doing here?" Dyllanw asks as they start towards the house.

"We're taking an army north to Pictland to get the cattle they stole from us back, and this was on the way." It sounds too casual, too ungrateful, and, as soon as he says it, he wishes it back.

Dyllanw only nods. "The Picts—We've had some trouble with them ourselves; they stole a few of our cattle, but what could be done? I had too much else to worry about, trying to bury Father." Dyllanw, as peaceful as he ever was.

"Medraut? Medraut?" Wyn pauses in the doorway to the house, her long brown hair as wild and curly as ever, her sharp face and brown eyes more pinched than they used to be but still full of warmth. Her checked tan dress billows in the wind. "Is that you?"

"Wyn? Wyn!"

She throws her arms around him and sobs, and he hugs her fiercely; he'll never let her go. She was still here, hadn't been married off or...

"I missed you," she says, straightening and wiping at her eyes.

He blinks hard. "I thought about you every day."

"You did?" she whispers.

"Yes." Hesitatingly, he brushes a strand of her hair behind her ear, and she blushes.

"Everyone else is inside," she says, taking his hand and stepping into the house beside him.

Cordelia and Mother stare. Mother greets him first, hugging him tightly. "My child," she murmurs, and he hugs her back. Mother. When she releases him, her eyes are too bright. Those eyes are still as wide and blue as ever, where Medraut got his, but more careworn, and her long brown hair is streaked with more grey than before.

"Cordelia," she says to his sister, but she still hasn't moved from the fireside and her sewing, limp in her hands. Being widowed so soon must have aged her; her green eyes are less playful than they used to be, and her dark hair already has a few strands of silver.

"Welcome home, brother," she says, but without much warmth. He tries to smile at her, but it probably looks more like a grimace.

"Medraut, it's good to see you again." Rhys, the cowherd, and Lynette, his wife, sit inside by the fire. They alone haven't changed much, it seems, his hair as dark and curly and her eyes as brown and warm as they ever were. "How long are you staying?" he asks.

"Just for a little while. Rollo and Artorius and their troops are waiting outside—" He breaks off. Everything he tries to say sounds wrong, like he'd rather be with Artorius than his own family. Which one of them truly was his family?

"I'm sorry about Father," he tries again, "and your husband, Cordelia."

"It's all right," she says diffidently. "He died how he wanted to, in battle." She hadn't seemed to have grown any fonder of him than she'd been before.

"Gruffud did, too," Mother said softly. "Though his end came too soon; I wish he could have seen you again, Medraut..."

So he could praise him and tell him how much of a warrior he was becoming?

Medraut scuffs at the ground with his worn leather boot. That was not what he had in mind.

"I'll show you around outside," Wyn suggests to him, "if you want to see the cows."

He agrees, so she leads him away from the horses towards the cow pasture up the hill.

"I thought you might like to get outside," she says, squinting into the rain. "You didn't seem very comfortable in there."

"It's strange," he says. "I wanted to see them, or I thought I did. But it's hard to come back after so long and find everyone so unhappy." None of them had gotten what they wanted.

"And you're just going to leave again, aren't you?" She faces him. "Who knows when or if I'll see you again?"

"The next time I see you, you'll probably be married."

She shakes her head.

"You're old enough and pretty enough—" He stops, flushing. Had he really said that?

"I don't want to get married off, not after Cordelia—She was always sad-looking when she came to visit, and, when she came back for good after her husband—the only thing she seemed sorry about was that he hadn't died sooner. It's hard to believe she used to sing all day and play pranks on us."

If he had to get married, and he probably would now that he's old enough, he didn't want it to be to a stranger. "Remember when we used to lie on the grass and look at the clouds?"

On nice days, when the clouds were big and fluffy, they'd lie outside the cow pasture and try to make shapes in the clouds. "That one looks like a sheep," she'd say.

"They all look like sheep."

"Well, what do you see?"

"That one—over there—it almost looks like a boat—"

She half-smiles. "I remember." Leaning forward, a kiss slips between them.

"Come back," she tells him, pleading in her eyes.

"Can't you come with me?" He brushes at her tears, his hands lingering on her face. If only he could memorize it and keep that memory with him.

"Come back, and don't die. I'll be waiting for you."

Chapter Five- North

"Did you meet that girl again?" Bran teases him once they've made camp for the night, in a cave.

Medraut rolls the other way under the furs. For once, there's something he can't share even with his foster-brother.

"Come on. Did you kiss her?"

His face turns redder, even in the dark.

"You did kiss her. Someone's in love."

"Please stop." He lays his head on Wren's shoulder, and she gives a low whine. It's a helpless, hopeless kind of love that will probably go nowhere. More memories and dreams than reality.

#

Father stood at the edge of his mind, the same as he had ever been, broad and with wild brown hair. "Well, Medraut," he said. "You've grown up, haven't you?"

What to say to him? I want you to be proud of me, no matter what I do, even if I'm not a warrior. Even if I can't measure up to what you want from me. In the end, he says nothing.

Father only says, "I'm proud of you." And he's gone.

#

Pictland grows closer and closer, and they take extra precautions not to be seen, so they only travel by night and don't stay with any locals, who might hand them over to the Picts.

The men grumble about not being able to build a fire even in the cold rain for fear of being seen, but at least the Pictish hill fortress in sight. If Medraut squints hard enough, the outlines of the Pictish hilltop is almost visible through the fog.

Artorius and the other soldiers sharpen their weapons under a rocky outcrop, getting ready, but none of them seem to have a plan. It would be rude to ask, but...

"Are we crossing to the islands tonight?" Medraut asks quietly.

"That's what we were hoping to do, yes," he says.

"What if—the Picts already know we're coming and are waiting to surround us?" Medraut asks hesitantly. "What if they slaughter us before we even get inside?"
"Leave that to Artorius and me; we'll make sure that everyone's safe."

A plan is starting to form, a mad or stupid one, probably, but, all the same... "You told me how you almost led your troops into a slaughter before; you don't want to do that again, do you?"

Rollo looks taken aback. "You've been listening," he says finally.

"My father was a strong warrior, and he got killed against the Picts—"

"I'm sorry. I hadn't heard that." He bows his head.

"I only meant, if he got killed by them, what chance do we have? We don't even know what the Picts want. Let me go. I can sneak in and pretend to be a bard; they won't suspect me."

"No. It's too dangerous." Rollo's voice warns against arguing.

"I'm fourteen; I'm old enough now," Medraut says anyway.

"What's this?" Artorius asks, settling beside them.

"He wants to go to the Pictish stronghold by himself and infiltrate their forces."
Artorius looks impressed. "That's not a bad idea."

"Are you mad? He's a boy; I'm not sending him against full-grown Pictish warriors. His family entrusted him to me, and I'm not going to let him get killed like that."

"He's an adult now. I say if he wants to go, let him go." Artorius gives Medraut a reassuring smile, and a bucket as cold as the rain cascades into his stomach.

What had he gotten himself into?

Chapter Six- Pictland

What was he thinking? The soldiers row the lashed-together boats across the foggy lake to the artificial island to lie in wait until he gave the signal. They are armed with swords and spears; Medraut is only armed with a harp.

Wyn's words flick through his mind— "Don't die. I'll be waiting for you."

I'll come back to you, I swear it.

"Give the signal when you're ready," Artorius tells him as their boats bump against the shore.

"Good luck," Bran says, but Medraut can only jerk his head, his mouth too dry to talk.

Jumping to shore, he gives Wren the signal to stay, and she waits at the edge of the boat, whining. Walking slowly up to the hilltop fortress, his back bent against the wind, he plucks up a tune on the harp about the strength of the Picts, his voice wavering at first but growing stronger and surer— "I praise the King, sovereign of the land; I am the one who makes his fame, the song of his battles, the song of his brave raids—"

"Who's out there?" A Pict, armed with a spear, faces him at the entrance.

"Only a bard," Medraut says, bowing, "here to sing the praises of the King." He starts another tune: "The King of the Picts, most generous of men, he gives to his people wealth and land; he gains more than he loses, gathering glory to bestow on his homeland—" and the Pict throws a few gold coins at him, which he picks up and pockets to give Artorius and Rollo later.

Opening the door, the Pict leads him through the stone walls of the fort to the King's great hall. The King himself sits upon his stone throne, a massive golden torc around his neck and an equally large jeweled brooch pinning his purple cloak. The other guests look up from their cups to stare.

"Who might this be?" the King asks, and Medraut bows low, his heart flopping in his stomach.

"A bard, Your Majesty," he says, "here to sing your praises."

"Then sing." The King waves a hand, and Medraut takes up his harp again, striking up a tune: "See the King and his men ride along the plains of Wales, a Godsend; their spears bristle, their swords gleam, a crowd of warriors, they teem; onto Artorius's fort, they lay waste to the soldiers and return with wealth and glory, by God's grace; I mark them well, as they ride away, leaving nothing but carnage and wreckage from the fray..." The King nods along, his lips turning up, impressed.

"Where did you learn to play so well?" he asks when Medraut finishes. "You look very young."

"From the best bards in your kingdom, Your Grace," he says, hoping he's not flattering him too much.

"Then you've learned well."

"So have your men, to be able to defeat Artorius," he ventures, before he can stop himself.

"That was nothing, just the bait; I'm surprised he hasn't taken it. He's not one to sit and wait by."

Thank God, the King hadn't spotted them. "He's not as bold as you are."

"No, he's certainly not that. Ever since the Romans left, he's caused my people no end of trouble, and it's time to put him to rest; as long as his men try to keep us cornered up here, we can't have enough cattle and land to keep our people satisfied. Let this be the end of it."

Was that what this was about? Stepping as casually as possible to the table, Medraut pretends to bump a candle to the floor, and fire blazes through the window.

"I'm sorry," he says, grabbing a cup and dousing the fire; before anyone can stop him, he bows and hurries out of the fortress, meeting Artorius's troops marching towards it.

"Go to the stables," Artorius orders them, and they hurry away. "We'll stay here in case they come." Turning to Medraut, he says, "You did well."

Medraut's heart warms a little with his praise. Hanging the harp around his shoulder, he takes the sword Rollo offers him. "You were right," he tells them. "The King means to destroy you."

"We'll have to stop him before he does," Artorius says.

The soldiers begin to return with the stolen cattle, holding the severed heads of their men high as the Picts burst from the fortress.

"You," the King shouts at Artorius, "I should have known you were behind this. You and your little brat—" He points to Medraut, who stands straighter.

"Artorius, to the boats," Rollo calls, and Artorius signs that he understood.

Grabbing two of the cattle by the lead, Medraut pulls them, mooing and protesting, towards the boats, alongside the other men. "This isn't what I had in mind," Bran mutters as he forces two more cows on to the rocking boats and glances towards Artorius and Rollo. The two men fight their way through the Picts, their swords clanging as they back steadily towards the boats.

"Let's go." Medraut grabs Bran by the arm and pulls him onto one of the boats, tossing the rope to Artorius and Rollo as they jump on, the boat now rocking, and they push it into the water. Rowing furiously across the lake, sweat dripping down Medraut's back and the other's faces, they hurry towards shore.

Chapter Seven- Home Again

"They're coming after us!" Bran shouts.

They'd just reached shore and, after destroying the boats, had started off on the ponies, the cattle hitched to the ponies' reins, Wren keeping the cows in line.

The water splashes as the Picts begin rowing across.

"They're a little way behind us," Artorius says. "We must hurry to put more distance between us."

"The cattle are slowing us down," Rollo points out. "They'll gain on us, and they'll be able to take the cattle back."

"We didn't come this far to have to let the cattle go."

"We aren't getting rid of them," another of the men says. "That's a lot of money we'd lose."

The two sweet-faced but slow cows on either side of Medraut plod along, weighing Hazel down. They could've been two of Father's cows. Was he supposed to let them go, only for Father's chiefdom to lose more money and fall into debt? But Rollo had a point. They can't travel with the cattle and expect to outrun the Picts. They'd get into a fight and lose the cows, or worse, Bran or Rollo or Artorius—

"We should let them go," he says.

Artorius reins in his horse to face the men. "There's no use going on like this if we can't make a decision. Who here wants to keep the cattle?"

Several men shout aye, and Medraut's heart quickens. He and Rollo may have been overruled.

"Who here wants to let them go?"

The aye is resoundingly louder, and Medraut breaths a sigh. They won.

Untying the cows from Hazel's reins, Medraut tells them, "You're free." They keep staring at him, so he gives them a gentle slap and says again, "Go on. You're free." They pause before ambling off, and the other cattle follow with them. If only he could be like them, free to amble and go where he pleased...

"We have no time to waste!" Artorius calls. The boats have stopped splashing in the dark, and footsteps begin to clamor to shore. Urging his pony faster, Artorius leads the way into the night, and Medraut kicks Hazel into full speed behind him.

#

The ponies begin to tire, so they have to stop and rest under a cliff, the ponies lathered with sweat and the riders sweating, too. The footsteps had faded. "I think we've lost them," Bran says hopefully.

"Someone should keep watch to make sure," Artorius says.

"I can," Medraut volunteers. He wipes away the sweat pouring down his face, his heart still hammering, but he's still wide-awake. It's the least he can do, to make up for having to let the cattle go.

"No," Rollo says, "get some rest. Artorius and I can keep the first watch."

He doesn't argue, just takes some water from his skin and holds out some in his palm for Wren and Hazel before laying down with his head on Wren's shoulder and her head wrapped around his. Fitfully he drifts off.

#

"Watch out," Wyn whispered to him. "Look behind you."

He spun around, and there was a snake staring at his through the brush—

He starts awake, a pair of blue eyes gleaming from above them on the cliff, but they hadn't appeared to have noticed them. Holding his breath, he can't move even a muscle as the eyes pause; their owner, whoever he is, disappears, the eyes vanishing with him. Medraut breathes a sigh of relief. Safe.

#

They travel at night again, sleeping during the day under cover and staying out of sight. The days grow longer, so the Moon rises later and later, and they have less time to travel. Their food is also growing short. Whoever's on watch takes to finding more food for them to eat. When it's Medraut's turn, he scours the trees for fruit and nuts, Wren sniffing the ground for any food that might have fallen. "Did you find something, girl?" he whispers when she stops sniffing, her tail flagging. He almost drops his cloak full of nuts when a warrior comes through the bushes. Reaching for his sword, he almost has it out of the sheath when the man lifts his hands and says, "Medraut, it's me."

The sword drops. "Dyllanw?" He crushes his brother in a hug, and Dyllanw hugs him back briefly. "I thought—how'd you—were you here the entire time?" The blue eyes on the cliff—had they been his?

"After you left home," Dyllanw admits, "I thought about you and Father, and your sacrifices to keep our land safe, while I hadn't done anything. I left Rhys in charge, took some of Father's men, and went north. We found the cows you left—"

"We couldn't take them and escape the Picts at the same time," Medraut says, hanging his head. Of course, it'd been wrong to leave the poor cows.

"Some of the men took them back to our chiefdom if you and Artorius want to get them from there. But I rode on. I wanted to see you."

Medraut smiles, a warmth like a fire bubbling up in him. His brother had gone to all that trouble just to see him.

The others begin to stir, woken by their talking, and instinctively reach for their blades. "It's all right," Medraut tells them. "He's my brother."

The one who seems least happy to see Dyllanw is Bran. Artorius and Rollo welcome him—"It's good to have Gruffud's son for an ally," Rollo said, and Artorius is discussing with him about the cattle—but Bran sits apart from the others and sulks. "What's wrong?" Medraut asks him, sitting beside him. He turns away.

"Nothing."

"That's not true. You've always told me when something's wrong. Why won't you now?"
"There's nothing I can do about it. He's your brother. Everyone can see you look alike."

"Oh." Medraut sits in silence for a moment. It hadn't occurred to him Bran might be jealous.

"I never had a brother," Bran goes on. "You were the closest thing I'd got, but it's not the same."

"I wouldn't be jealous," Medraut says. "You always seemed more like a brother to me; I've known you longer than I've known him, and he was so much older he sometimes seemed like another father."

"I didn't know."

How can he put both his families together?
Medraut draws his arm around Bran's shoulder, and Bran smiles.

#

They reach the chiefdom the next day, and, sure enough, the cattle are waiting for them. So are Wyn and Rhys, and Wyn throws her arms around Medraut. "You're back," she says, but her eyes mean more. He laughs and kisses her.

There's chortling behind them, and they turn to face Bran, grinning and propping himself against the stone fence. "Bran," Medraut says, playfully tackling him over the wall. Wyn ducks her head, blushing, and Rhys looks on, pretending not to notice.

"Medraut." Dyllanw comes up beside them, and they clamber out of the cow pasture. "We're having a feast for the warriors tonight, so could you come help?"

The three of them follow Dyllanw down the cliff to the house, leaving Rhys to look after the cattle. It's busy inside, with Cordelia and Mother overseeing the servants cooking bread cups and hearty stew. "Wyn, could you help with the stew?" Lynette waves her daughter over, and she bends beside her.

"Medraut," Mother says, "can you gather some shellfish?"

He hurries off, Bran still standing awkwardly in the door, and picks his way carefully down the cliff to the water's edge. Wren skitters down the cliff, sending rocks flying, as she comes to join him. Throwing a stick for her, which she leaps into the water after, he searches the rocks along the water's edge for shellfish, prying them off the sides of the cliffs and the rocks along the shore, taking off his leather shoes first so they won't get wet. The sand and the cold water rush between his feet, and he grins. He could live here by the sea all day, gathering shellfish and sea beet and throwing sticks for the dog.

She splashes over to him, soaking him, and he laughs, patting her on the head before tossing the stick for her again.

"Do you need any help?" Bran comes cautiously to the sea's edge.

"The sampkin should be ready," Medraut says, "since it's spring." Bran turns a little pale, but he agrees, so Medraut ties the shellfish in his cloak, which he leaves out of reach of the dog, and they climb carefully up the ledges of rock on the underside of the outcropping that just out to sea. Holding tight to Bran's ankles, Medraut keeps him steady while Bran starts to lean over the edge to search for the sampkin but stops. "I can't do it," he says, sitting up, his face slightly green. "You'd better go."

So instead Bran holds on tight, and Medraut leans over, almost bent double as he picks the sampkin leaves from the cliffside, holding tight to the rocks with one hand and picking a handful of the plant with the other. A gull screams out of the air close by, and Bran cries out, losing his grip. Medraut tumbles headfirst over the cliffs and struggles to hold on with one hand, scrabbling for a foothold. The jagged rocks and the yawning mouth of the sea crash perilously close under him.

"Take the sampkin." Medraut tries to hold his voice steady as he reaches it to Bran, who tucks it in the pocket on his belt and takes Medraut's hand. "Hold on. I'll pull you up." Hanging on to the overhand with one hand and holding onto Medraut with the other, Bran pulls him back as Medraut scrambles up the cliff, stones cascading under him, and collapses, panting, on the overhanging beside Bran, his heart still hammering.

"That was too close," Bran says. One wrong move, and Medraut would have been dashed against the rocks below. "Let's get out of here," Bran adds. "I don't like it up here."

They pick their way back down the cliff, Wren barking below them and throwing herself at them as soon as they reach the shore. "That's a good girl," Medraut says, scratching her scruff and not even bothering to tell her to get down as she leans her forepaws heavily on their shoulders.

"You're mad to like the sea," Bran says, though he's a little less green now. "I'll take the mountains. They're safer."
"I want to know what else is out there," Medraut says as Wren jumps down. He points to the horizon's edge. "There has to be more than just our island."

"There's Irish pirates out there. They'll kidnap you and make you a slave. Haven't you heard of Patrick?" Patrick, the Romano-British bishop who was captured by the Irish and later went back there to preach. Medraut didn't want to end up like that, but he did want to take a coracle and go somewhere beyond Wales someday. And he would.

"Let's take the food back to be cooked," Medraut says, collecting himself. As they start back up the beach, they pass the cave in the cliff where Medraut had spent endless hours exploring when he was younger.

"What's in there?" Bran asks.

"It's just a cave, if you want to see while the tide's out." The two of them step inside the cave, the light shafting through to the other side and the water splashing at their ankles. Picking their way out over the uneven rocks, they explore deeper into the cave.

"This is amazing," Bran says, pointing to a painting on the wall of a deer. "Who do you think made that?"

"I don't know, but it must be really old." There hadn't been any deer here for a long time.

Wren barks at the cave mouth.

"The tide's starting to come in," Medraut says, the water splashing a little higher around his feet. "Let's get out of here."

Bran almost twists his ankle on one of the rocks, and Medraut helps him out the rest of the way. They clamber from the beach up the cliff, Bran only stopping to pick up a smooth beach pebble, and almost run into Rollo at the top.

"I saw what happened," he says, and the two of them duck their heads. "You should have been more careful, but at least it turned out all right."

"I'm sorry," Medraut says. "It was my idea to pick the sampkin; I haven't had any in so long—"

Rollo almost smiles. "Just make sure one of us is with you next time."

"We will."

As they start inside the house, Rollo calls after Medraut, "Enjoy yourself."

Medraut gives a startled smile.

They give the shellfish, the sea beet, and the sampkin to Mother, who says, "Thank you," and she and the servants wrap the shellfish in the sea beet before roasting them, while they soak the sampkin in vinegar, so it'll be ready for tomorrow.

The feast is ready as the Sun goes down, and the soldiers talk heartily as they drink their beer and soak the bread cups in the stew and slurp down oysters, while the bard sings about their win against the Picts. Medraut sits beside Wyn, the warm food and the warm fire enough for a change.

After the feast, while the soldiers continue to talk and laugh, he and Wyn sit under the stars, Wren lying between them. "Remember when we used to sit like this?" she asks as she braids wildflowers into a crown for Wren.

"Yes." He doesn't point out the parts of the flowers now, just hands them to her. With her, his heart could be at peace. "Wyn," he starts hesitantly, and she looks at him, her eyes wide and dark in the gloom. "Could you—would you—when I come back here—" from whatever the Picts had in mind— "Do you want to get married?" He hadn't meant to ask her like that, so suddenly, but he couldn't image a world without her in it.

She flushes and hides her smile behind her hand, but all she says is, "We'd have to ask Father."

"I'll ask your father, and Mother."

"Then yes." She leans his head on his shoulder, and his heart starts to quicken. What had he asked? He was hardly grown himself, and here he is, making such grown decisions.

A shadow passes along the edge of the wall, sharp-outlined like a spear. Wyn jumps to her feet.

"Go inside," Medraut whispers, standing cautiously himself. "Warm the others. And stay out of sight."

"If they're after the cattle again—"

"It's Artorius they really want. Go inside. Take Wren."

She runs in the house, beckoning the dog after her, and he crouches behind one of the stone fences. He has no spear. No sword. Just rocks.

The Picts burst through the gate as the soldiers burst out of the house, both swinging their swords. Father's men, who must've heard the commotion, run from their stone houses, strapping on their weapons. At least the Picts are outnumbered.

"Medraut," Dyllanw breathes, handing him his sword.

"Thank you."

Sparks fly in the dark as the swords clash against each other, and warriors shout as they blunder into each other. Artorius and Rollo fight their way through the onslaught, while Medraut finds himself locked against one of the Picts. Don't let your guard down. Don't let your guard down. Medraut doesn't swing too high or too wide. He keeps the sword steady as the Pict's collides with his, and he feints to the right. When the Pict takes it, Medraut shifts to the left and jabs his sword in up to the hilt into the warrior's stomach, warm blood oozing over his hand as he pulls it out. The warrior falls over. Artorius nods as he and Rollo lock against the Pictish king, but Medraut lowers his sword, the blade shaking. No. No. Please don't be dead.

"Medraut, look behind you," Dyllanw calls, and he spins around just in time to put up his shield as another Pict slices at him, sending splinters flying. Dyllanw engages the warrior, thrusting his sword into his torso, leaving Medraut free to search for Bran. He steps on something squishy and jumps back. Someone's corpse. He hurries on, fending off sword thrusts that come his way. It's impossible to tell who's winning, if anyone, bodies of both Picts and Artorius's men on the ground, but Artorius's forces seem to be pushing the Picts steadily towards the gate.

Bran is stuck against the wall, holding himself against an enemy warrior. "Do you need help?" Medraut asks, sinking his sword into the warrior's back, and Bran pulls the man off as he slumps against him. Please, God, if he's dead, take his soul.

Two more warriors take the first one's place, and Bran and Medraut face them side by side. They force the warriors away from the wall towards the gate. Bran batters his opponent, hitting him hard left and right with blows, while Medraut dodges most of his opponent's, weaving in and out and finally ducking to the warrior's left, leaving Medraut's right side open. The warrior lunges forward to attack, and Medraut holds up his shield, the sword glancing off it, and thrusts his sword up, sending the warrior's blade flying. The two warriors flee through the gate as the other Picts retreat.

Artorius and Rollo shut the gate heavily and bar it. It's over. Panting, Medraut drops to the ground and clutches at his stomach. Blood from a wound he hadn't even notice seeps through his tunic.

"Get him inside," Dyllanw calls.

Everything starts to turn darker and darker.

When he comes to, he's resting in the house, several other wounded soldiers and warriors on the benches and on the floors, moaning. Lynette's shadow flickers among them.

"Medraut." Wyn grips his hand. "Thank goodness. The wound wasn't too serious; it didn't hurt anything important. But I have to cauterize it." He involuntarily jerks away as she holds a red-hot iron to it. "Hold still." The iron sears against the wound, and he bites into his tongue, blood exploding in his mouth, trying not to scream. "I'm sorry," Wyn apologizes. "Mother taught me some things about healing; I hope I did it right. She also told me to put honey on a wound; that helps heal it." She daubs some honey on it, and Wren snuffles at the wound. "Stay away," Wyn laughs, batting the dog's nose back. Medraut scratches lightly behind the dog's ears. To keep the dog away from the wound, Wyn wraps some bandages around it.

"Wyn—The warriors outside—" He struggles to form the words. "Are they dead or alive? The ones I hurt—" God, please don't let them be dead. How can they be dead while I'm still alive? If this is war, it isn't fair.

Wyn looks at him sadly. "You need to rest. I'll get some herbs; they'll help, too." When she returns, she's smashing some herbs in a bowl. "Here, eat this." They're bitter, but he eats them to make her feel better.

Brushing his hair back, she says, "Let me come with you. I could help at the fort with medicine and—"

"Stay here. Your parents need you." Stay away from the fighting and killing. The Picts would come after a healer for sure.

"We made a promise, remember?" Gently she holds his head in her arms.

"That's why I'll come back to you." He closes his eyes, a tear tracing its way down his face.

"Medraut," Mother says, taking his other hand. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine; I'm fine." He tries to sit up, but Wyn lowers him back down. "The warriors—outside—"

"They're all dead," Cordelia says, coming up on the other side. He cringes. "I didn't men it like that," she says, more softly. "They're gone. We'll have to have them cremated, and we can get a monk from the monastery to say a prayer for them."

Dead. His head spins. They're dead. He killed someone, the last thing in the world he'd ever wanted to do. He'd killed them, and now he's no better than they were.

"That's war," Dyllanw says, coming in. "Sometimes it happens, and there's no stopping it." Medraut sits up slowly, and Wyn braces him against her. His gentle brother—he'd stabbed one of the warriors for him—his brother, who'd wanted to be a monk—

Rollo, Artorius, and Bran stop on their rounds by the men. "Thank you," Bran says, punching Medraut lightly on the arm, and he winces. "Sorry. But I couldn't have handled those warriors without you." Medraut smiles wanly.

"You did very well," Rollo says, "both of you."

A grin stretches across Bran's face, and Medraut warms a little. Artorius smiles. For now, at least, both families are here, and that's good enough.

Chapter Eight- South

He rests inside as the men who are well enough pile up wood for a funeral pyre and drag the bodies onto the wood. There are too many to bury. Somewhere on there are the warriors he sent to their deaths, men who probably had families, families who won't know what happened to them.

The monk from the monastery bends his head as the pyre is lit, the flames reaching to Heaven. Please, God, receive their souls.

The monk recites a chant from memory in Latin, while the men and Medraut's family gather around and Wyn helps Medraut outside, her arm wrapped around him heavily.

"Have mercy on us," the monk chants.

Have mercy on all of us and hear our prayers.

#

Artorius wants to get back to the fort, so they rest only a few days at the chiefdom before leaving. Before they go, Medraut pulls Rhys and Lynette aside. "Could I—could I ask you something?" he starts, nervously twisting the edge of his cloak.

"You can ask anything," Rhys says, smiling encouragingly.

"Could I—might I—" He clears his throat and starts over. "Do I have permission to marry your daughter?"

Rhys and Lynette exchange glances, not startled or discouraging, but knowing. "There's no one I'd like better to marry her," Lynette says at last.

"I've seen how much you care for each other," Rhys adds, "and I'm glad you'll be the one. I'd much rather it be someone close by, someone she knows well, than a stranger."

"Thank you," Medraut says, wishing he could say more. Somewhere between laughing and crying, he finds Mother and Rollo in the house packing to ask them the same thing. Mother dries away a tear on the edge of her dress. "I can't believe my youngest is old enough to get married" is all she can say.

Rollo puts his hand on Medraut's shoulder. "I know you'll do well for her, and I hope to be able to be there."

Medraut just swallows and nods. It should be his own father to be able to bless the marriage, to be at the wedding, but it has to be how it is.

With everyone's permission, he runs to tell Wyn, and she both laughs and cries as she holds tight to him, kissing like she'll never let go. "You have to come back now," she says, her crooked smile flashing.

"I'll be back before you know it," he says, trying to reassure her as much as him.

"What's this about our little brother getting married?" Cordelia asks as she brings out armfuls of food for the journey, something of her old smile returning. "Before you, too, Dyllanw," she adds to him when he brings out the horses from the stable. "You need to find a wife soon."

"I suppose I am being a little slow," he agrees, with a half-smile.

Then too soon it time to go again, and everyone in the family stands and calls their farewells as the soldiers ride out to the gate, the cattle in tow, Wyn waving the fiercest. Medraut waves back to her until they fade from view.

"Getting married, are you?" Bran nudges him as they start off. "You're tying to make me look bad again, aren't you?"

Medraut ducks his head but smiles.

The rest of the day passes uneventfully. They ride close to the sea, slowly, so the horses don't jostle the injured soldiers, but Medraut still winces with every step Hazel takes. Trying to take the pressure off, he shifts from foot to foot. Artorius keeps checking over his shoulder to make sure the Picts aren't following them, but no one comes around the bend. No shouts or galloping horses.

They only stop to rest once, to let the horses and cattle cool off and to have some of the sampkin before starting off again.

It begins to rain about midafternoon, slowly but then bringing up sheets of salty, stinging water from the sea, and Medraut hunkers closer to his horse, pulling his cloak closer to his face and trying to keep the bandage dry.

Something slips, sending rocks skittering back towards the horses, and Artorius calls, "Halt."" Medraut reins Hazel in, Wren pacing beside him.

"One of the cows sprained its leg," Rollo calls, examining the cow's injured leg.

"Can you tie it up?" Artorius asks, coming over. "We can't afford to lose time."
If Wyn were here, she might know what to do, but, in the end, Rollo bandages the cow's foot with a torn strip of cloth, and they keep moving, even slower than before.

By night, they reach another chieftain's house, but it's not as far as they should've gotten. As Medraut unsaddles Hazel in the stables, Artorius and the chieftain pass by the door. "Would you be interested in buying a cow?" Artorius asks him. Medraut creeps closer to listen. "I know the leg is injured, but it'll heal in time, and we can't afford to lose time ourselves."

"I've got a slave I could sell you," the chieftain says. "Mind you, he's a little lame himself."

"We've got enough," Artorius says.

"Some swords, freshly hammered by my blacksmith, fine quality—"

"That'll do." They shake hands on it. The small, shaggy cow continues to munch grass outside, unaware of its fate. After it'd come so far, it should get to stay with its herd, but maybe it's for the best.

Medraut passes the night with Hazel and the cows and the other men in the stable, the warmth and breath of the animals close around them, and, while it's still dark, they're off again. Medraut gives the cow a last pat before leaving, and it moos sadly as its herd leaves without it.

There are still nights ahead of them, and they travel more carefully than before, keeping more inland and farther from the rocks and cliff edges. Medraut grows more bone-weary and tired, and it's harder by the day to keep going at night when all he wants to do is curl up under his cloak and rest.

At long last, the fort looms into view, and everyone cheers. "We can finally sleep in our own rooms," Bran says happily. After the servants take the cows and horses to the stables, all of them stumble back to the sleeping quarters, and Medraut falls asleep on top of his bench with his arm around Wren.

Chapter Nine- Day Attack

The days resume their normal rhythm, and Medraut slowly returns to a routine—Rollo and Artorius have them practicing fighting every day, in case the Picts do return.

"I'm starving," Bran says, stuffing down bacon in the great hall, but Medraut barely touches his food. "They're trying to work us to death," Bran goes on, tossing a few scraps to Wren, who sits under the table, her big brown eyes trained on them. "We had those Picts beat. They're not coming back. What's the matter with you?" he asks, finally noticing how little Medraut had eaten. "Are you sick? I know what it is. You're thinking about that girl, aren't you?"
That's not entirely it, but he isn't sure what it is. "You can have mine, if you want," Medraut says, pushing the food towards Bran.

"Did I say something wrong?" Bran calls after him as he leaves the hall, Wren padding after him.

He stands at the wall, Wren's nose snuffing in his hand. "I know, girl, I know," he whispers, patting her neck. They're back again, hemmed in without a view of the sea. He should be used to it, here with his family, but on the open sea, with Wyn beside him, her hair billowing in the wind is where he really belongs. Not here.

"Medraut," Rollo says, and he turns. "How are you?"

He shrugs. "I'm all right."

"That's not what I really meant." Rollo steps up to the wall beside him. "Artorius and I both expect that the Picts will be back; it's only a question of when. We may have held them off, but they'll come back." He pauses. "It's probably safest if you stay here until they're no longer a threat, but, after then, if you'd—you'd like to go back to your family, I understand."

Medraut turns. "Really?"

"When you first came here, I—I was hoping you could make a suitable warrior, but I see that's not where your heart is, and this is no place for a bride. After—after you're married, if you want to stay there, I'll allow it."
"Thank you." Medraut starts to hug him but holds back. "I—I don't want you to think I'm not grateful. You've done so much for Bran and me, and you've been more of a father than either of ours were."

Rollo almost smiles.

"It's time to get back to practice."
Somehow, it's easier to focus, knowing this isn't forever. Rollo starts through the paces, warming up with a simple block and moving to more complicated maneuvers. Medraut blocks Rollo's blow with the sword and follows up with a thrust of his own, sending Rollo backwards. But Medraut isn't done. He engages Rollo until he loses more ground; Rollo's blade edges under Medraut's hilt, but Medraut flicks the blade away and knocks it out of Rollo's hand. Picking it up, Rollo nods, impressed. "Good. Again."

#

It's beginning to seem the Picts may have given up after all, but, as soon as the guard is let down is when the enemy strikes. This time, they come in broad daylight, not a cattle raid, but a battle, and swarm from the trees through the gates before the guards can even shout. Medraut freezes in the middle of the morning practice, and Bran holds his weapons ready. Pulling his sword back up, Medraut tries to stand like his foster-brother.

The Picts swarm their soldiers like a storm, screaming, their faces worked into a frenzy and their eyes bulging from their sockets, and Medraut plants his feet firmly to keep his ground. The warriors stream around Medraut, and he dodges their blows, searching for Artorius or Rollo. Instead, a shadow blots out his view. "You, boy," the King says. "You were on the islands."

"My name," Medraut says, straightening and trying to sound bolder than he really is, "is Medraut, son of Gruffud and Enaid, and I'm not a boy. I'm fourteen."

The King smirks. "You are, are you? Can you fight as well as you can play a harp?"
"Yes." Where are Artorius and Rollo?

"Let's see, then." The King's sword connects with Medraut's shield, and he ducks and rolls to avoid a following blow. "You need to try harder than that," the King says, turning to search for Medraut. Standing quickly behind him, Medraut aims a thrust at the King's back, and the King whips around in time to parry the blow, thrusting Medraut's arm back. He cries out and just manages to straighten his arm as he tries to flick his sword under the King's hilt, but the King swipes his sword out of the way, starting to crush Medraut's own sword under the hilt, and he gasps. "If you were really a man," the King says, you wouldn't duck and cower like that." He's right. All of the tricks Medraut had learned, and none of them work.

"Medraut," Artorius calls, his blade colliding with the King's, and the King faces him, his arm quivering under the force of Artorius's attack. Artorius nods at Medraut, and he slips off to find Bran, his left arm still aching. He flexes it to make sure it's not broken.

Bran grunts at him, backing himself out of a corner against a warrior of his own by feinting, leaving his left side wide open, and the warrior falls for it; instead, Bran's shield snaps up, and he sends the warrior's sword flying before thrusting his own sword up to the hilt under the warrior's ribcage. "I guess sometimes I have to do what you do," Bran calls to Medraut, who smiles wanly.

Another warrior screams and starts for Bran as the first warrior falls, and Medraut attacks him, drawing him away from Bran. If you were really a man, you wouldn't duck and cower like that. Blood pounds in his ears. I'm not a coward; I'm not. Savaging the warrior with blows, Medraut doesn't give him a chance to recover his ground. I'm not a coward. Their shields collide with each other's, and their blades lock, neither of them budging.

Blood spurts through the warrior's chest, and he collapses, Bran pulling his sword out of the man's chest. "What's gotten in to you?" Bran asks, as the Picts begin retreating back out of the gates.

"It—It's the King," Medraut admits, panting and his hands on his knees. "He as good as called me a coward."

"You're not a coward," Bran says, putting his hand on his shoulder. "You're smarter than I am."

"You're a better warrior." Medraut straightens, the blood lessening in his ears.

"But I'm not very cautious."

Artorius returns, wiping blood off his face, followed by Rollo. "We can't let them get away with this," Artorius says, and, for once, Rollo doesn't disagree. "We have to follow them."

Chapter Ten- South Again

Their pursuit of the Picts is more pointed and driven than before; Artorius urges his horse at a gallop, and Medraut and the soldiers follow him. This time they head south, following trails left by Pictish horses or cloaks torn on brambles as they went by. This is not a cattle raid; it's war.

The rain begins to lash into their faces as they pass along the coast, and they have to slow to a trot. Hazel begins to droop her head under Medraut, and Wren pants beside him. He squints ahead into the rain.

"We should take a rest," Rollo suggests, and Artorius reluctantly agrees.

"Where do you think the Picts are leading us?" Bran asks, sitting on a slippery stone. The sea crashes beyond them, barely visible and blending with the horizon. Not so many weeks ago, Medraut sat with him near the same place, before any of this started; it seems a lifetime ago now. Hazel happily pulls up tufts of grass, and Wren flops beside them, unaware.

"I don't know," Medraut admits. Why would the Picts come this far south anyway, when the north is more familiar to them?

"I bet it's a battlefield," Bran says. "Maybe it's one the Romans or Artorius fought on."

Medraut doesn't reply. He's had enough of battlefields; if he could stay here by the water, by the heart of the sea, for the rest of his life, he'd be content.

Rollo sits beside them, lost in thought. "Rollo," Medraut starts hesitantly. What the King said—you duck and cower—continues to bother him. "Do you—do you—think we're cowards?"

Rollo glances at him sideways. "No, of course not. What makes you say that?"

Medraut ducks his head. "It's—just something the King said, that we—don't fight fair."

"I wouldn't pay attention to what the King or any enemy says; they're trying to scare you. All of you have been as well-trained in the Welsh and Roman ways as you can be." Rollo adds more thoughtfully, "Your name means 'moderate' in Latin and 'courageous councilor' in Welsh. You're both of those things."

Medraut smiles a little. Nobody knew better than Rollo.

"We should get going," Artorius says, and they stand, returning to the ponies and starting again.

#

The next days bring more hard riding, and Medraut keeps drooping over his horse before Artorius calls them to a halt. They've come to a wide, crooked river, trees bending on either side of it, and, through the cover, the Picts are camped on the other side.

"The River Camlann," Artorius says quietly. Crooked river. "We're camping here for the night, before the Picts know we're here, and we'll surprise them before it's light."

Unfortunately, it's almost Midsummer, and there's next to no dark at all, so they eat bread and dried sea beet instead of waking a fire the Picts might see, and they lay down to rest, even though it's still light and many of the men seem in more of a mood for taling.

Medraut drifts off uneasily beside Bran, his arm around Wren, who snuffles beside him.

#

Wyn stood beside hm at the cliff, her wide brown eyes watching him. "What is it?" she asked.

"I don't want to do this," he admitted.

"There are a lot of things we have to do we don't want to do," she said, taking his hand.

He squeezes hers tightly. "I just hope—I can make it back to you. If I don't—"

"Don't think like that. You'll make it back. You'll make it back, and we'll go exploring. We'll go everywhere you wanted to go. We made a promise."

"I promise."

Medraut wakes up, the sky still light and hazy, his face wet. Drying it off with his sleeve, he sits up slowly, the sleeping furs falling away. Only Artorius is awake, pacing by the stand of trees by the river's edge. He smiles at Medraut as he approaches, but it's tight around his eyes. "Good morning," he says.

"It doesn't feel like a good morning," Medraut admits.

"No. We could hardly have let the Picts overrun Wales, but—I have a bad feeling about this. I keep getting the sense that this won't end well."

"So do I." Will he make it back to her?

Artorius squints into the Sun hovering at the horizon. "At least it's not raining. If we did, it'll be a good day for it."

Chapter Eleven- Camlann

The soldiers gallop into the Pictish camp, surrounding them. The Picts reach for their weapons, but the soldiers slice through several of their warriors before they manage to arm themselves. When they do, the Picts come back in full force, slashing at the ponies' legs and sending them tumbling, their riders thrown off. Medraut pulls Hazel up by the trees and leaps off, slapping her to send her away. She pauses for a moment, staring at him. "Go!" Then she takes off running to the water. Maybe he'll find her again, maybe he won't. At least she'll be spared getting cut down.

Bran isn't so lucky. His pony tumbles, and he goes flying over the neck. "Bran!" Medraut runs to him, but a warrior blocks his way. Growling at him, Wren sinks her teeth into the warrior's leg, and he brings the hilt of his sword down over her head. She yelps. "No!" Medraut lunges at the warrior, sinking his blade into his chest, and the warrior collapses.

"Wren," Medraut tells her, taking her head in his hands. "You have to go." She stares up at him, slightly dazed. "Go." Growling he points at the trees, away from the battle, before she finally understands and flees. He shouldn't have let either of the animals come.

Bran moans and tries to sit up, but he can't. Medraut kneels beside him, but Bran waves him away. "You can't save everyone," he says, clutching at his ribs. "Save yourself—" He breaks off, coughing.

"Come on." Medraut hooks his hands under Bran's arm and tries to haul him away.

"Stop—stop." Bran holds his leg, the bone sticking through his skin. "It hurts."

"I'll stay with you." Medraut strokes his foster-brother's hair.

"You were right. You really don't make a good warrior." Bran tries to smile, but it comes out as a grimace. Medraut can't even smile back.

"Put him out of his misery," a warrior says, piercing Bran under the rib cage, and blood trickles down his mouth. He must've punctured a lung.

"It's all right—" Bran gurgles, his eyes starting to turn red.

"Stay. Bran, stay." Medraut tries to stop the blood flow, but it's useless.

"At least it's how I wanted to die," Bran chokes out, collapsing in Medraut's arms, his golden eyes sightless.

Medraut screams and screams. "You killed him. You killed him!"

"He was dying anyway," the warrior says. "This way, he doesn't die slowly."

Picking up his sword, Medraut lunges at him. Blood roars in his ears, and his own eyes start to turn red. He'll rip the warrior limb from limb if he has to. Their swords echo off each other, a flurry of sparks, neither of them losing or gaining ground. One of them has to die.

Your name means "moderate" in Latin and "courageous councilor" in Welsh. You're both of these things.

The more people he kills, the more like a warrior he gets, the more like Father. How can someone like Rollo or Artorius be fighters and still keep their humanity?

He lets the warrior go, and before the warrior can sink his blade into him, a spear point digs into the warrior's back. Rollo pulls it out, his face grim as he takes in Bran's body. Medraut bows his head as their foster-father rides off.

Everything seems to slow down as the King rides into the battle in his chariot, his horses clipping ahead of the soldiers' ponies and ahead of his own men. He fires into the crowd with his arrows, picking off Artorius's men. Artorius rides to meet him and leaps off his horse as the Kings leaps from his chariot, and the two of them lock swords.

One of the Picts comes screaming at Medraut, drawing his attention away, but his heart is no longer in it. Somewhere near him, Rollo is also off his horse and facing two warriors at once. Medraut ducks and rolls, trying to get towards Rollo, but the Pict lunges at him, and he has to hold his shield over his head to keep from getting speared with a blade. The tip of the sword sinks through his shield and near his eyes. Leaping up, he snaps the blade from the warrior's hand by twisting his shield, and the warrior's arm turns with it, cracking. The sword clangs to the ground. Leaving the warrior behind, Medraut runs towards Rollo to help him.

He never makes it. Rollo collapses, his arm and leg at odd angles, and, nearby, Artorius falls, the King pulling his sword out of his stomach. Torn, Medraut hesitates. Who should he go to? The King advances, and Medraut throws himself between Artorius and the King, holding up his shield. The King's blade sinks through, leaving a deeper hole than before.

"Medraut," Artorius chokes. "Don't get yourself involved—You're young—I'm old—"

"I'm not letting you die," Medraut tells him. Not you, too.

"Touching," the King says, yanking his sword out of the shield and stabbing again, but Medraut lifts the shield higher. "Stand and fight, then."

Gritting his teeth, Medraut pushes the shield forward, forcing the King's weight back, and he tries to twist the shield and the King's arm back, but the King manages to yank his sword free.

"Try again," he says.

Medraut's sword arcs towards the King's, and the King stops it with his own, Medraut throwing all his own weight behind his sword.

"You can't win," the King says, following up with thrust after thrust and sending Medraut backwards. "You won't win."

He pants with the effort of keeping up. "I have to try." The King is fresher than he is, barely breaking a sweat. Medraut tries to feint, leaving his right side exposed, and the King slices towards him so fast he has to hold up his shield just to hold on.

"Not that again," the King says, pulling his blade loose and attacking again.

That won't work. Medraut flags, his sword tip falling despite his attempts to keep it up.

"They can't help you now," the King says, pointing to Artorius and Rollo. "You're on your own."

Medraut grits his teeth. I have to try harder. Try harder for them. With a last desperate cry, Medraut throws himself at the King, his blade wrenching into him even as the King's extended blade tears through him, as well. The King teeters back in shock and falls as Medraut collapses beside Artorius, clutching at his stomach. The sky wheels over him, turning black.

Chapter Twelve- The End of the Road

Something sniffles at his face, licking him. He pushes away, but the snuffling and licking continues. Wren. Maybe he's in Heaven, and Wren is, too. Can dogs go to Heaven?

"Medraut." Wyn's voice. "Medraut." He's definitely in Heaven. "Wake up."

His eyes squint open. They're still under the trees, by the river, Hazel and Wren both there, and, better yet, both Wyn and Dyllanw are, too. But— "Where are Rollo and Artorius?" he asks, trying to sit up and grunting in pain; it's like someone stuck a spike through his middle.

Wyn looks at him somberly, taking his hand. "They're—oh, Medraut, I'm so sorry. They're gone."

"Gone?" He blinks, the words not sinking in. The pile of bodies by the river is still thick, all of the living having deserted the dead, but Rollo and Artorius are impossible to pick out.

"We followed you after you left the chiefdom," Dyllanw says. "Wyn wanted to go; she said you all might need a healer, and she persuaded me to let her come. We were far enough behind we didn't make it to the battle in time, but, when we saw Hazel and Wren wandering by themselves, we knew something was wrong. We followed them here."

"By then, the battle was over," Wyn adds. "We saw you, and we were—we were afraid you were dead. You weren't moving. Artorius and Rollo and Bran weren't, either. Then you started to move, and we brought you over here, in case anyone came back. I stitched you up as best I could, but that was a nasty cut."

His hand drops to his stomach. Artorius and Rollo—

"At least the Pictish King is dead, too," Dyllanw says. "They might not come back for a long time."

They're gone. They're really gone. It hits Medraut with full force, and he starts sobbing, leaning into Wren's fur; she lays her head heavily on his shoulder with a whine.

"I'm sorry," Wyn repeats, rubbing his shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"What's the point—" he says bitterly. "What's the point in living if they're gone? What was the point in their fighting if they were just going to die?"
Wyn falls silent, tears slipping down her own face.

"Sometimes these things happen," Dyllanw says. "It's war, and war doesn't choose sides. At least they died keeping the rest of our land free."

"What difference does it make?" Medraut tries to dash away the tears, but more take their place. "They'll still come back. The Picts will always be back."

Even Dyllanw doesn't answer.

"I wanted them to be together after the war," Medraut says. "I wanted them to be able to come back to the chiefdom and be there when—when we—" He turns towards Wyn, and she bows her head.

"I know. I know."

#

They ride back through the gates to the chiefdom, but Medraut is still back at Camlann, his shoulders aching from helping dig the graves for Artorius and Rollo and Bran. There'd been too many bodies even to burn the rest. Hopefully God would understand.

"You're back." Mother steps out of the house, followed by Cordelia, and Rhys, and Lynette. As they step off the horses, Mother gives each of them a hug in turn. "I'm glad you're safe," she murmurs.

"Mother," Medraut whispers, tears squeezing their way out of the corners of his eyes again.

"Where are the others?" she asks as she releases him.

He lets Dyllanw explain as he slips off towards the cliff, Wren padding beside him. It was impossible to believe that, only a few weeks ago, he and Bran had almost fallen off it, and Rollo had told him to enjoy himself, and now they were all gone.

Wyn comes up beside him, her hair catching in the salt air, and takes his hand. "Maybe someday we'll get to see what's over the horizon," she says. "We'll go sailing, and who knows? Maybe they'll be out there under the sea, like the old stories say, and we'll find them again."

He nods, unable to say anything. The sea heaves in its fitful sleep; it keeps its secrets.

"Promise?" she asks.

"I promise."

Author's Note

All the people, locations, and events are fictional or fictionalized. Scholars have identified multiple historical individuals who may have been Arthur, but none have conclusively been proven to be him. All that they can agree on is that Arthur was a Romano-British dux bellorum (battle commander) called Artorius living in the sixth century, if he lived at all, and that is how he is portrayed here. Scholars have also identified several possible sixth century sites that may have been connected with Arthur, such as Tintagel in Cornwall, Dinas Powys in Wales, and Cadbury Castle in Somerset, England, and several possible sites for the Battle of Camlann, so I have not favored any of these locations by using fictional ones. Gruffud's chiefdom is modeled on Tintagel, a sixth century fort and trading outpost on a promontory overlooking the spectacular Cornish coast, and it was one of the few places I found Medraut while doing research. The other place I saw him was the coast of Wales while driving into the country, where he and Bran sat with Wren and Hazel. That was when I knew that he loved the sea. I found Artorius mostly at Romano-British sites such as a Roman villa and a Roman amphitheater, both in ruins, in the Cotswolds, once a major Roman area. Artorius's fort is based on the Roman fort that forms part of the wall of Cardiff Castle, and the remains of a sixth century monastery and Dinas Powys, a sixth century village, are also near Cardiff, meaning that the people of Medraut's and Artorius's Wales must have been active in this city.

Camlann is at an entirely fictional location, but "Camlann" does mean "crooked river," and rivers were common battle sites in prehistoric and early historic Britain, so it is likely the battle took place along a river, probably in southwest England. No one knows who Artorius fought against at Camlann. Based on archaeological evidence at Tinagel and elsewhere in England, as presented in a NOVA documentary "Secrets of the Dead: King Arthur," the enemies couldn't have been the Anglo-Saxons, who were farming, not fighting, in eastern England. Some people have suggested the Picts, so that is who I've used. The King is not a historical figure; he could be one of several Pictish kings, though his fort in Inverness is based on Craig Phadrig, a hill fort believed to have been the seat of King Bridei mac Maelchon (ruled 550-584) of the Picts.

As for the material culture of the sixth century isles, Leslie Alcock's Arthur's Britain was useful, as were other books about the Britons and the Celts living in the pre-Christian era; it is likely that this lifestyle would have continued mostly unaltered in places like Wales even after the Romans left. Characters like Gruffud and his family continued living the traditional way, while characters like Artorius and Rollo (completely fictional), tutored by the historical Ambrosius Aurelianus, were the last of the Romano-Britons, who were generally not looked upon kindly by the Britons after the Romans left. (Artorius may have been an exception for being such a great battle commander.)