Gŵyr Bodfyca ap Leon 'Mawr', Warden of CaerCarwyn in Bidog, Albion.
As
the Prince and his Lords were away, Gŵyr Bodfyca Mawr the Warden of
CaerCarwyn would not take the responsibility of risking the Dun and ordering an
attack on such a large force to save the town, as he only had this small reserve
garrison to command and thus constrained, was forced to bear witness to the
sacking of Draenwen.
His
reputation was such every person in this fortress knew he wouldn’t stand for it,
and the murderous look on his big face at that moment confirmed it, as the huge
and imposing warden of CaerCarwyn simply glowed with his frustrated outrage. Gŵyr
Bodfyca ap Leon was a tall,
barrel-chested and grizzled old warrior who had seen active service in Cridas’
elite and celebrated Plyfyn y Baedd
in last year’s Roman war, being known as a ferocious and merciless killer in
his prime. Known now as just ‘Bod’ by his old comrades in the Regiment of the
‘Quills’ and Gŵyr Bodfyca Mawr; the Warden of CaerCarwyn by
everyone else in Albion and Prydein. That prime was well behind Bod now, although his heroic past
exploits had warranted a permanent position of authority in one of Albion’s
great Caers for his retirement. Bodfyca
had thought the offer of Warden of CaerCarwyn a gift from the Gods themselves,
when he was first offered the position by King Cridas himself. That the King
had chosen him personally to be warden to his son and heir had filled him with
pride, as he was not an Albion-born man. Bod had become an Albion man that day though
and for life, also becoming known more recently as Bodfyca Mawr for more
obvious reasons.
Bodfyca hailed from DunGanwy on the Aber of Afon
Conwy, deep in the Decawangly territory of Cymbri but had fled that territory as
a boy, when it had been invaded and destroyed by marauding Iweriu. The mercenary
scots had sailed up the estuary in a
fleet of ships and laid siege to the fortress, but not before his family and
every single person in the Treflan below the Dun had been slaughtered, apart
from Bodfyca, who had fled into
the woods surrounding the fort. Running as fast as his thin legs could carry
him, Bodfyca had managed to
reach the tiny fishing village on Maes Ddu, the beach below Penrhyn Gogarth,
where he stole a boat and escaped. As he rowed across the swirling estuary
toward Penmaenmawr, Bodfyca could see the whole estuary of the Conwy was in
flames behind him and for an eleven-year-old boy who had just lost everything
he had ever known, it was a harrowing image he would take with him to the
grave.
Young Bodfyca had
grown up hard and alone, surviving from one forest to the next like a wild
animal. He lived from hand to mouth for years, until he started to fill out and
grow, but once Bod began to grow, he never seemed to stop. Becoming an adept
hunter through sheer necessity of survival, Bodfyca grew from the cub to the bear as he travelled this country,
heading ever north almost thoughtlessly, as it was just easier. Crossing the
border from Breged into Albion, the huge young man dressed in ragged skins had
been filthy, lice ridden and covered in rough matted hair from head to foot.
Causing uproar in Treflan Annan on arrival and labelled a ‘monster of the
Gwyllion’ by an elder Gawres, Bodfyca was beaten with sticks and driven from
the town by all its inhabitants and chased back into the woods.
Shunned and driven-off from every town and
village he stumbled across, Bodfyca
became shy rather than vengeful and drew into himself, living in a cave and
living hand-to-mouth for many years. As he matured, Bodfyca became bored with
his cave and determined to strike-out once more, seeking something he didn’t
yet know himself he needed. North he headed once more, dressed in deer-hide and
with a bag tied to a pole thrown over one huge, bulging shoulder.
Bodfyca’s huge size and undisguised ferocity had got
him noticed however, when he eventually pitched-up at DunPeris in Enouanta a
few weeks later looking for work. Despite his uncivilised appearance and the
unholy stench emanating from him, the ‘Gŵyr Enouant’ had soon found employment
for the huge and almost feral bear of a man.
There had been no point in attempting to turn
this enormous, almost wild creature of the woods into a swordsman, and so Bodfyca
had been equipped with bronze amulets and a monstrous double-headed war axe. The
massive but still growing Bodfyca Wyllt had become expert in their
deadly use in no time at all, becoming the hot topic of discussion throughout
the fortress. The bucket sized helm and the massive armour pieces which had to
be especially made for him had cost a fortune, but he had justified the
investment in his first battle, as it had been against a warband of invading scots and calling him ‘wild’ had been in
hindsight, quite an understatement.
Bodfyca had gone-on to avenge his family and his Cymbric
village and the vanquished fort of DunGanwy that day and many others since, fighting
Iweriu raiders on several more occasions in his military career for the northern
Kingdom of Albion. It was in these
emotionally-charged battles, that Bodfyca
had carved huge bloody swathes through the enemy. He had written his own legend
in Prydeinig history in those intervening years and done it in hot Iweriu blood,
losing the ‘wild’ title and becoming the fearsome and hugely respected Bod.
Thirty-six long and dangerous years had passed
since that formative and traumatic period which had so heavily influenced this
man and shaped his complex psychology, making him the belligerent and
much-feared Warden of CaerCarwyn he is today. Over recent months and in his
more sedentary position, Bodfyca
Mawr’s belly had begun to compete with his enormous chest but it took nothing
away from his capabilities, rather it added to his physical presence and
authority, and the big Cymbric man did carry it well enough.
*
* * * *
Unknown
to these brothers, those silent men had gained the unnerving title of ‘the
forlorn hope’ and these were almost the last of the fighting men from the main fortress,
leaving its safekeeping to its ferocious defences and a skeleton-crew, which
struggled to even rise to that risible description there were so few of them. The
women, servants and porters had armed themselves and even the children of the
Caer had come to stand on boxes, to take the places of those brave men on the
southern and western palisades facing the town. They did this one at a time,
and the replaced warriors had then assembled below in front of the gates, in
the same way as their comrades had done previously, none of which had survived.
However led by the enormous and fearless Bodfyca Mawr, these valiant Albion men
were prepared for one mad dash to death or glory, and one desperate final attempt
at grabbing the enemy’s hostage in whatever way possible. Then they had to get
their beloved Princess back inside the gates of the fort somehow, and then at
least the tragedies of this day will have been mitigated to a large degree.
There were seven men hiding inside the gate,
prepared to sally-forth and assist the forlorn
hope in gaining its security as a last resort, as these were cooks and
burly stewards, but they were armed with sharp steel and Brythonic courage. The
faces of Bod and his forlorn hope were soot-blackened, their clothing dark and apart
from their huge leader with his legendary axe, each carried a long spear and a
round shield, also blackened with soot. They knew they would need every
fleeting second if their bold plan had any chance of success, and so they crept
out of the fortress and assembled either side of the huge Bodfyca and alongside
the ramp, crouching among the scrub at the verge and staring down at the
assembling enemy horde with fearful eyes.
From
the other side of the town, Cilwyn and Dilwyn had seen the furtive exit and
assembly of those little black figures before the distant gates of the fortress
and their pulses had raced, fearing another vain attempt. It was obvious even
from here who was leading this last-ditch attack, as his bulk caught the eye
and they were compelled to watch with bated breath, as the shadowy figures
vanished into the dark ground alongside the chariot ramp and the ambush was
set.
The
enemy warband eventually moved-out on foot, the same way they had arrived but
now leading a small herd of stolen horses, one of which carried their Princess
who had been thrown face-down over it and they marked it well. The raiders took
the main curving drover’s road and headed north, uphill toward the dark and
silent fortress, but its battlements were still crowded with spearmen, darkly
silhouetted against the night. As the warband approached, all those soldiers at the palisades began to
create a great din, crashing their spears against their shields and throwing
rocks, anything to attract the attention of their enemy, so that their heroic
compatriots crouching in the shadows below in ambush would have just an extra
little chance.
It
seemed to be working as many of these drunken raiders responded, by
gesticulating back at the indistinguishable soldiers high above them on the
battlements and brandishing their weapons in victorious insult. As they climbed
the hill and drew abreast of the Caer, the men in the shadows sprang into
action and Bodfyca led a four-man spearhead, running straight at the rear flank
of the retreating horde. This huge Cymbric legend attacked them with a mindless
rage, allowing the three chosen men behind him to slide past and make directly
for the horse carrying their Princess. The others then formed a single line
behind their furious leader and their vanguard, who were having great initial
success from the surprise, and the fact that the men tasked to lead the horses
away were none too sober. Constrained by the ditched road running uphill, the
great host of warriors was slow to respond to what was unfolding behind them,
and even slower to turn around.
The
three retrievers were led by a
shield-man with a long sword, guarding his two combrogi, who were only armed
with daggers as they needed to be agile and dextrous. With the protection of
their guardian before them, the two men grabbed Eirwen’s horse, as bedlam
exploded behind them. One cut the rains to free the horse and then he swiftly
cut the Princess’ bindings, so that she could rise-up and ride the horse
straight up the ramp and through the open gate, whilst the others guarded the
horse’s rear. They were alarmed when Eirwen slumped from the saddle and fell to
the road senseless. The two men had to grab her by the wrists and ankles and
carry her, as they abandoned the horse and made a dash for the gates.
The enormous Bod and his compatriots roared
with fury, as they fought the enemy to protect these chosen men, but they were
hard pressed by the horde coming back down the hill. They had only needed
moments for Eirwen to ride through the gates but that couldn’t happen now, and
so the two retrievers ran for the gate with their unconscious Princess swinging
between them like dinner, as Bod and his beleaguered men tried to hang on for that
bit longer.
Even the shield-man of the frantic
retrievers was engaged, the fighting suddenly raging closely around them as
these wild and drunken invaders had eventually woken up and sobered up, to
realise what was going on. Now Bod and his brave men had awoken the beast they
struggled valiantly to contain it, as the two men rushed toward the gates behind
them with their prize. They almost made it, but it was the excellence of the
Epidian Gŵyr which was the telling factor, especially Elgan, as he had the calm
disposition and quick-thinking mind of a trained and experienced leader, and
his four knights were in the habit of obeying his orders without hesitation.
The four big men around the man-mountain from
Cymbri had perished but Bodfyca remained huge and roaring, as he felled one
drunken enemy after another with his awesome battle-axe. In the blink of an
eye, an archer took him down with an arrow, which pierced his great heart and
the enormous warrior fell without another sound.
The protective shield men and all their
supporters had perished in moments, as they were massively outnumbered, whilst
Elgan and his four ferocious knights had made directly for the gatehouse and
got there just before the brave pair carrying their Princess did. These two
reckless Albion warriors were brought up short by five unwavering blades of
repute, held in steady and seasoned hands. They had no option left to them and
so they lowered Eirwen slowly to the cold flagstones of the chariot ramp and
put her down carefully, their eyes never leaving those of Elgan’s, which were
ablaze with indignant anger.
To their eternal credit and honour, they
didn’t flee as they could have and stood tall together before the prone form of
their Princess on the ground, and shoulder to shoulder, they drew steel and
died together. Elgan alone with his sword kept the hopelessly ineffectual
amateurs from coming out through the gate to help Bod’s ‘forlorn hope’ and the
little band of brave rescuers justified their tragic name, as the last one was
put cruelly to the sword.
No comments:
Post a Comment