the berserker's tale - part II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lost we the battle, he finally muttered, Saxon swept Vortimer's army from thee field and me king lay fallen upon its bloody meadow and I wit him. We shad hat died ... hould hat died save fer Fortuna.

Fortune?

Aye, Fortuna.

She who stands at the greet weale and blesses wit one hand and curses wit thee odder. He and I hould hat died at bloody Aylesford.

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

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

Aye ... we droove out the Saxon mony a teem, boot they a’ways returned. Now we live among them and they roole aver us. Our sons marry der daughters, and der sons hat married ours.

We ‘ere Britons, Celts and Scots afore, now English we hat become. Fortuna won us many battles boot lost us ever the war. Tears pooling in his eyes began to stream down his cheeks, and my cheeks burned with righteous indignation and pity.

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

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

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

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