The
Princedom of the Damnoniau occupies the land above Enouanta and Selgofa to the south, and they face the
northern border of Albion and Galedon alone. Northern Selgofa sits to the east
of Damnonia, facing Galedon from its northern coastline over the estuary of
Linn Gwidan, whilst further east lies Fotadina and their rugged coastline to
the German Ocean.
“Picell
Dych?” Ioddo the handsome, son of Cennydd the handsome proposed with a smirk on
this training ground of DunAlclwyd, one blond eyebrow arched in challenge.
He
was proposing the dangerous sport of ‘return-saffwy’, where each would stand at
opposite ends of the throwing straight and loose three javelins at each other
by turn. The Bri came from eyeing
these narrow missiles as they flew toward you, and either moving your body away
at the last moment without a step for a Tlws,
or knocking them aside with a hand or an arm for a Double-Tlws. The ultimate goal of catching it and swiftly returning
it from whence it came, earned the warrior a sacred triad; the Triple-Tlws. This feat was uncommon,
especially in battle but was accomplished at one time or another by many
warriors on the practice ground and Cadwy had dreamed of achieving it for as
long as he could remember. This was made more difficult, by opponents throwing
the three saffwy swiftly after each other and some of the renown javelin
experts could have all three in the air at once. On the rare occasion one of
them was caught and returned, ‘Picell Dych’ was declared and it was well
rewarded by a silver coin from the King himself, if witnessed and performed in
his Dun.
Ioddo
grabbed three saffwy from the barrel and began to trot the fifty reeds down the
course, as Selwyn waved his arms madly, recalling Hefin and the raucous sword-swinging
Bleddyn, so the serious and popular sport of Picell Dych could take place. Ioddo reached his position, as the horses and
chariot came to rest at the ‘smithy’ end of this vast parade ground and he
stuck his three saffwy in the sandy dirt, alongside the two upright poles,
which marked the boundary for the age-old challenge. Cadwy waited until the
dust devils had settled somewhat and then raised his right arm with the javelin
in hand, to show he was first to throw and gripping the leather thong wrapped
around the belly of the javelin, he envisioned the throw. The
boundary mark was well inside the furthest range of all competitors, as it was
a sport of accuracy, courage and agility not distance. Taking account of the
wind that swept this hilltop, regardless of the towering palisade and taking two
swift steps, he hurled it downrange.
Cadwy’s
first saffwy sailed into the sky, streaking in an accurate arc toward his
target, its slim tail vibrating as it flew and Cadwy launched the other two behind
it in quick succession. The third flew from his fingers, when he watched Ioddo
take a half-step and brush his first aside with his left arm for a dubious score
but with a demonstrated measure of contempt, earning a loud cheer and applause
from his audience of three friends. The second however, was perfectly aimed at
the space he’d moved into and he was forced to hop out of the way quickly, as
it barely missed him by inches. This elicited more hooting and cheering from
the boys, now sitting on Cadwy’s carbad to watch the sport. His third was
marginally underthrown and needed no dramatics from Ioddo to dodge its onrush
and it thumped harmlessly into the ground, a reed from his right foot. The
second had been the ace and Ioddo had to admit it with a deep and exaggerated
bow. Behind him Hefin whistled like a stockman from the driver’s seat, with
Bleddyn in noisy support and Cadwy prepared himself to receive his combrogi’s
best efforts.
Flapping
his fingers to relax his forearms and dancing on the spot, he watched closely
as Ioddo launched his first missile, sinking into a wide, easy stance with his
knees slightly bent to receive it. A small part of him watched as Ioddo grabbed
his second javelin but most of his immense focus was on the first, as it
arrowed inexorably toward him. His hunting instincts came alive and his focus
zoomed-in to the bright pointed tip of this saffwy, and as if in slow-motion he
made to grab it with his left hand, as it flashed past him a foot from his left
shoulder, but he hadn’t even touched it. However, courageously Cadwy hadn’t moved a
step from his wide, balanced stance and he instantly focused on the next
javelin, as the boys whistled and yelled their encouragement from behind him.
The
second saffwy was well-thrown too and it forced him to take a step away, as it
was headed directly for his breastbone. Cadwy stepped to his left and tried
again with his right hand, this time making a fleeting contact with the wood as
it scorched through his fingers. The yelling and cheering got louder at this
excellent throw and Cadwy had to tune-out the noise and bring all his focus to
bear on this last javelin as it streaked toward him. It was coming straight for
his head and was Ioddo’s best throw by far, but Cadwy bravely stood his ground,
his heart hammering against his heaving chest.
At
the very last, split-second he twisted his torso and his head, throwing up his
right hand and he felt the jarring impact of the wood hitting his palm, as the
deadly point whistled mere inches past his face. His fingers had clamped tight around
the timber shaft without thought and the momentum threw him off balance, making
him spin, but he went with the movement instinctively. Holding onto the saffwy
he pirouetted gracefully, to stop and present it with panache to his audience
of three and his friends went berserk. Cadwy turned amid the noise and with a
broad grin, launched it back at his friend, who was jumping around in
celebration too at this rare feat. Cadwy was concerned for a brief-moment but
relaxed, as Ioddo had clearly seen the missile and allowed it to fall and
puncture the ground, before he yanked it out and ran toward him, brandishing it
and he too was grinning broadly.
“Picell
Dych you mad bugger!” Ioddo laughed, as the others gathered around the Prince,
clapping him on the back.
“Lug’s
arse, that was some throw Ioddo!” Cadwy grinned back, kissing the iron ring on
his left wrist before taking the saffwy from his vanquished opponent. “It would
have punctured my head for sure! I’m keeping this one.” He told him hefting it
again in his hand, appreciating the perfectly placed strips of thin leather
that made the grip around its belly, its fine balance, beautiful lines and its
sharp steel tip, which had narrowly missed his head.
“That
was some bloody catch Cadwy! And you get a silver coin from your Tad.” Ioddo
said in return, giving his shoulder an affectionate punch.
“More luck than judgement Ioddo!” Cadwy
breathed, his eyes shining as he smiled at his friend.
Lady Meleri turned from the window muttering
to herself. “Damn fool boy, just like his Tad and his Taid before him. It’s a
cursed sickness of the blood I’m sure of it!” She shook her head, determined to
chastise young Cadwy for his foolishness, as he was fresh from his sick bed and
she had almost screamed as he’d dodged the first two saffwy, but to stand there
and catch that third was blatant recklessness. Her mouth had hung open at the
sight and she still hadn’t quite recovered. “What if his vision had blurred
again? What if he’d killed Prince Ioddo?” She grumbled to herself and then
shivered at her own foolishness, sending a silent prayer to Brigida to avert
the omen of her thoughtless words.
Standing straighter Meleri curled her lip now,
as she had to admit to herself that the performance had filled her with pride
too, and the feat had been done with such grace and artistry it had filled her
eyes with tears. “Men and their blasted Bri!” Meleri grunted at her own
foolishness and turned from the window, getting a grip of herself. Dabbing at
her eyes with a white kerchief of the finest linen, she surveyed the roomful of
industrious women that did her bidding in this manufacturing room of the great
fortress. As she looked around the busy chamber, Meleri tried to think of the
name of the local Aerwyr so she could
commission the making of a silver ‘Saffwy gripped in hand’ brooch, which would
make a fitting birthday present for the young Prince and her reckless
great-nephew. She brought her thoughts back to the long list of things that
still needed doing this day. Daily duties which were still demanded in every
Dun and every Tref in the world.
Every woman of plain family in her employ carried
a distaff and spindle, to spin the miles of woollen thread used in the weaving
of fine linen and the mantles and bracs much loved by the northern Brythons.
The wool was brought in bundles from the washing ponds and each household would
send their children to fetch a constant stream of it to satisfy the demands of
a growing town. A far more odious procedure was required for the great
quantities of Flax this region required, for the endless yards of linen and the
work here was virtually endless too. The herds of cattle and sheep needed to be
constantly fed with the dwindling supplies of hay, whilst pigs needed feeding
too and their sty’s cleaned and water needed to be fetched from the nearby river
for all their animals. Dirty straw needed sweeping and burning and fresh straw
needed spreading out on the floors of each of the four hundred thatches, which
surrounded this vast Capital Fortress of the Selgofau. Every chamber of DunEil
itself, this triple-hilled fortress which dominates the landscape, would be
thoroughly cleaned under this impressive Lady’s withering supervision, as holy
Beltain was only days away.
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