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     Gawain and Ragnell

       Ruth Nestvold / Fantasy / History & Fiction
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Gawain and Ragnell


Map of Fifth Century Britain and Ireland





GAWAIN AND RAGNELL

A Short Story From the Pendragon Chronicles

by
Ruth Nestvold



Copyright 2013 by Ruth Nestvold
Cover by Britta Mack and Ruth Nestvold
Map by Britta Mack
First Electronic Edition 2013

Red Dragon Books

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The Story of Gawain and Ragnell


1


And as he rode over a moor,
He saw a lady where she sat
Betwixt an oak and a greene hollen;
She was cladd in red scarlett.
Then there as shold have stood her mouth,
Then there was set her eye;
The other was in her forhead fast,
The way that she might see.
Her nose was crooked and turned outward,
Her mouth stood foule a-wry;
A worse formed lady than she was,
Never man saw with his eye.

Child's Ballads, "The Marriage of Sir Gawain"


Gawain's mount made slow progress on the muddy track north. The old Roman road had washed out along this stretch, unfortunately. Here on the edge of civilization, only few still tried to uphold the ideals of romanitas — not to mention maintain the paved roads. Each fall of hoof sucked up muck and sludgy water, making it impossible for their party to travel as fast as the situation merited.
It was a cold, gray land this time of year, the villas few and far between, the struggling villages they passed obviously suffering from repeated bad harvests. Even city marketplaces had little to offer, and the luxury of inns was nearly non-existent. Gawain was glad they had several well-laden pack animals in their train.
If only he'd had the sense to resist this adventure. But no, he had jumped at the opportunity, had wanted to play the hero after he heard the news the unexpected messenger brought to Caer Leon. It was two weeks after All Hallows according to the Christian calendar (or Samhain according to the old ways), when Father Pabius from Rheged had sought out Arthur, asking for help. The priest had been contacted by Ragnell, a cousin of Arthur's first wife, requesting he come to perform the marriage ceremony for Ragnell and her betrothed.
"But there was something about both the message and the messenger that didn't fit," Pabius had said, handing a writing tablet of thinly sliced wood to Arthur. "For one, he was no servant of Ragnell's, with his manners and his accent. For another, the message asked me to bring her cousin Gwenhwyfar for the wedding, if she could find the time to come. But Ragnell knows perfectly well that Gwenhwyfar is dead. I am almost sure Ragnell is trying to send a message for help."
Gawain wondered if anyone else saw Arthur's jaw tighten at the mention of his first wife. And he couldn't help wondering if he himself would still be reacting to Yseult's name in the same way twenty years from now, if by the grace of the gods he lived so long.
Arthur opened the tablet and scanned the lines, frowning. Done, he looked up. "You were right to come to me, Pabius. Ragnell does not even name her betrothed in this letter. Something has happened. We will need a troop of warriors to go north."
"May I suggest we proceed carefully?" the priest said. "Ragnell might be in danger. A priest and his escort will be expected, but not a troop of fighting men. I can return north with some of your warriors, as long as they are willing to masquerade as priests. I am a king's son and a trained warrior myself; that may be part of the reason Ragnell sent to me."
"Good point," Arthur said, nodding. "I will send an escort with you. Once we know the situation — and have someone inside the fort — a larger band of warriors will follow."
Heartsore and in need of distraction, Gawain stepped forward. "I would be happy to lead such a party, Arthur. Gwenhwyfar was my aunt, after all, and I have ties to the north."
If Arthur suspected the true reason he had volunteered, he didn't show it. The true reason was Yseult, Gawain's former lover, who had recently married his friend Cador. It seemed over one hundred miles distance between them was not enough for Gawain's peace of mind — he had to increase it by going half the length of Britain.
And so now Gawain was on his muddy way north with a weary priest and a score of warriors — in winter, no less, when the cold rain could turn to snow any day. It was surprising how much mud and muck and bone-shattering cold was involved in adventure.
Gawain wiped a combination of sleet and dirt out of his face, accumulated spatter from the hooves of the horses around him. He caught his youngest brother Gareth gazing at him, an infectious grin on his face, as if this were the greatest adventure they had ever set off on together. Without looking, he knew Gaheris's expression would not be so merry. While Gareth saw everything through the distorted lens of his own good nature, including his well-loved wife — a woman most men would call a bitch or worse — Gaheris tended towards the opposite extreme, naturally seeing the worst in everything.
Gawain hoped he fell somewhere between the two extremes represented by his surviving brothers. He was well aware that in the last few months he had tended more towards Gaheris's view of the world than Gareth's.
Which was why he had welcomed the grueling journey, the exertion and exhaustion that had him concentrating more on physical discomfort than the emotional pain that would not leave him, the feeling of rejection and anger at Yseult's betrayal — how she had so readily agreed to Arthur's suggestion to marry the King of the Durotriges, when it was well known throughout Britain that she had no intention of marrying again. But while the freezing rain might have been a welcome distraction at first, now he just wanted it to stop. Perhaps losing one's patrimony was not such a bad thing if it meant escaping from this weather. Gawain and his brothers were the sons of Lot of Gododdin, and when their father rebelled, they sided with Arthur. Their loyalty to the Dux Bellorum, to Britain, had cost them their hereditary lands. After their father's death, the Gododdin kinship group had chosen one of their cousins to be king, rather than any of the "traitors" Gawain, Gaheris, or Gareth.
As he pondered the kingdom that might have been his if not for his loyalty to Arthur, the cold, thick, sleeting mist began turning to snow. Gawain found himself smiling.
His mount, Ceincaled, snorted and shook his head, and Gawain leaned forward to stroke the neck of his favorite stallion. "There, boy. Hopefully we won't have to spend much time in this irritating white stuff."
The horse snorted again, louder this time, obviously agreeing.
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