Paul Lewis - The Savage Knight

“I’ve brought you some cawl.” Another unfamiliar word. She removed the cloth and handed him the bowl and spoon. “Here. We don’t have much to share, but it’s better than nothing.”

Dodinal thanked her and set about eating. The cawl was a stew of meat and vegetables in a watery broth. The meat, cured and dried to last through winter, had softened somewhat during cooking but still required a lot of determined chewing. The vegetables were tender, so he ate them first to silence the grumbling in his belly. When they were gone he turned to the meat, chewing and chewing until he could swallow without choking, drinking the broth directly from the bowl to wash it down. Finally he was done. His stomach, while not full, had at least ceased its gurgling protests.

“I don’t think I have ever seen anyone eat so fast.”

Dodinal started. He had been so intent on devouring the meal that he had become oblivious to Rhiannon’s presence.

“Forgive my lack of manners. I was ravenous.”

“Of course you were.” She took the bowl from him. “You haven’t eaten for three days. I wish I could bring you more, but that was all we could spare. Food is scarce. Our men have been out, but there is no game to be found.”

Dodinal nodded agreement. There was game aplenty further to the south, but no hunting party could endure these conditions to search for it. Even fit and rested, Dodinal might have struggled. The senses that attuned him to nature offered him no protection against the elements. As one at home in the forest, he was no stranger to extreme weather, but the snow had fallen and the freezing winds had blown for far longer than usual this year. It had become a challenge even for him. Had he not encountered the boy, he would still be wandering the forest, struggling from shelter to makeshift shelter, his supply of dried meat dwindling with no prey to supplement it. His odds for survival would have diminished with each passing day.

“I’ll leave you now.” Rhiannon gathered up the bowl and spoon, leaving the beaker at his side. “Seeing as the fever has broken, there is no longer a need for me to be here. I’ll stay with Owain.”

“Where is he?”

“With Idris. He hardly left your side. Slept now and then, but not for long, and wouldn’t listen to me when I sent him to his bed. But he listens to his grandfather, which is why I took him there.”

So Idris was either Rhiannon’s father or her absent husband’s.

It occurred to him that Rhiannon, too, would have had little sleep while she tended to him. No wonder her skin was so pale, her face so drawn. It was not just because her people were having to eke out the last of their food. “Thank you. For all you have done for me.”

She waved his words away. “I’ll put some more wood on the fire. It will burn until morning, and I will be back to tend to it then. Don’t even think about getting up to do it yourself. I don’t want those stitches pulling and coming undone, understand?”

Dodinal smiled at her persistence. “As long as you promise not to give me any more of that hellish infusion.”

Her response was a look of mock indignation. “That hellish infusion, as you call it, helped break the fever.”

“I think I preferred the fever.”

“Yes, well, you certainly sound as if you’re on the mend. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Once she had gone, Dodinal sighed and stared up at the roof. For someone who was never fully at ease in the company of others he felt oddly alone. There was something about Rhiannon that intrigued him. Not her healing skills, although he was certainly grateful for them. Something else, something that remained stubbornly elusive.

Eventually he got it. Rhiannon had seemed entirely relaxed in his company. More often than not people found his very appearance intimidating. He was taller and broader than most men and he kept his hair and beard long and unkempt. He looked and fought like a savage, hence the nickname his fellow knights had given him. Dodinal frowned. Fellow knights? They had nothing in common, other than a title bestowed by King Arthur and a duty they had sworn to uphold.

Women and children, many men too, gave him a wide berth when they saw him restlessly prowling the halls and corridors of Camelot, even when he had left his sword in his chambers. Word had reached him that he had a reputation for sudden, unprovoked violence, but that was not true. He fought only in battle or in self-defence, and would never knowingly harm an innocent. But it was a reputation he was not inclined to dispel, as it meant people tended to leave him alone. Dodinal had never been one for small talk.

Rhiannon was different. Granted, he was weak from fever and unable to stand and so hardly presented a threat. That he had saved her son’s life would also have helped. Even so, she had not once recoiled from him or flinched at the sight of his battle-scarred face. She had looked at him as if he were no different from any other man.

That felt strange. But not unpleasant.

They had something in common too. Their skills might be completely different but they were both derived from an understanding of the natural world. She had learned from her mother, he from his father.

Dodinal shifted uncomfortably on the mattress, wincing as the stitches tightened. He had not wanted complications, yet here he was, feeling the first stirrings of interest in a woman he hardly knew. That was not advisable. He resolved to leave the moment he could, weather be damned. The quest could not be abandoned.

And yet…

Sleep was a long time coming that night.

3Small medieval villages often slaughtered most of their animals in November, drying and salting the meat for the cold months, to save on grain. Breeding pairs were kept in barns over the winter.

4“Ryannon” in the manuscript. In the Mabinogion , Rhiannon is the widow of Pwyll, and mother of the hero Pryderi; when Pryderi is born, the infant is lost by her ladies-in-waiting, and eventually recovered and restored to his mother by Teyrnon. References like these support the argument that Malory had access to the Mabinogion , or to an earlier source document, when he wrote the Second Book .

5Medieval poultices often included animal dung and other foul-smelling substances, in the belief that the odor would “drive away” illnesses.

6“Bregirran,” in the manuscript. Brehyrion is Old Welsh for “chieftain.”

The fire was burning low by the time dawn approached, but Rhiannon returned early, ushering in the boy Owain, who held a bowl with both hands. She stamped her boots on the floor to shake off the snow and then took the bowl from her son. Their clothes and hair were flecked with white that melted into glistening dewdrops.

“Put some wood on the fire,” she told Owain, before coming to Dodinal’s side, helping to ease him into a sitting position before handing him the bowl. He thanked her. His stomach had felt empty for several hours, and its rumblings had kept him awake.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked.

He had not, but felt it impolite to say so. “Yes. Thank you.” In the bowl were a few meagre pieces of dried meat, some bread and a handful of nuts and berries. Not much but, at a time when food was hard to come by, it was more than he had any right to expect.

After Rhiannon had left for the night, Dodinal had pushed himself up on one elbow to peer into the dimness around him. He could make out a square table and bench, a smaller pallet than the one he lay on and a dresser, jars and pots stacked on its shelves. There was no other furniture. Clearly these were not prosperous people.

The hut’s austerity was a world away from the opulence of Camelot, but he knew which he preferred. Life may be an endless struggle here, but at least it was real. Sometimes Camelot seemed to be no more than an illusion, a dream from which he was constantly expecting to wake. Returning to nature had revived a strength he had forgotten he had possessed, and powers that civilisation had caused to lie dormant. He felt vibrant, alive, for the first time in years.