Awfully Artful Arthur or should that be Clever Cunning Cerdic? Read online

Awfully Artful Arthur;

  or is it,

  Clever Cunning Cerdic?

  (an almost true story)

  by

  Geoff Boxell

  A Wendlewulf Productions Book.

  ISBN: 978-0-473-34537-2

  PUBLISHING HISTORY:

  Copyright GR Boxell 2015

  Cover by John Clark ( [email protected] ).

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, or hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the purchaser.

  Dedication

  To all those who have already written an “Arthur” story:

  Sorry, but Grimm Wendlewulf, the old man, who is also a young man – he of the one eye; friend of wolves and ravens; the old uninvited guest at your mead bench – he says you have it all wrong – and he says he was there so he should know!

  This is also in memory of Kim Siddorn, founder & Ealdorman of the Regia Anglorum re-enactment group.

  Foreword

  There are few primary sources for Arthur, and of those not all mention him by name. Most of the sources were written years after his possibly being around. “De Excidio Britanniae”, written c. 540 A. D., by a monk called Gildas: Arthur is mentioned, but not named, in this document. “The Battle of Llongborth”, c. 480 – an English translation of a sixth century Welsh poem, called “Elegy for Geraint” – mentions Arthur. “Historia Brittonum”, written c. 830 by a monk called Nennius, gives special emphasis to Arthur. Then there is the “Annales Cambriae”, written c. 970, which contains two interesting references to King Arthur. Lastly there is the “Legend of St. Goeznovius”, written c. 1019, from Brittany, in which Arthur is called “King of the Britons”. Many have questioned if this last document was in fact written as early as it is claimed to have been.

  Grimm’s tale is inspired by “Arthur, Cerdic & the formation of Wessex” (https://levigilant.com/Bulfinch_Mythology/bulfinch.englishatheist.org/arthur/Caradoc-Vreichvras.htm) by John C. Rudmin, 864 Chicago Avenue, Harrisonburg, and Joseph W. Rudmin, Physics Dept., James Madison Univ., Harrisonburg.

  Old English letters used are:

  Æ, æ: Asc – pronounced as a flat “a” as in Alfred.

  Ð, ð: Eth – pronounced as a “th” with the tongue behind the teeth as in teeth.

  Þ, þ: Thorn – pronounced as a “th” with the tongue between the teeth as in thorn.

  Chapter 1: Happy Hastings Holiday

  ‘Young Leofwine.’

  The youth looked at the speaker.

  ‘Don’t you step on my blue suede baldric! You can do anything, but keep off of my blue suede baldric.’ The large bearded man encased in a chain-maille byrnie gave a grin to the gangly youth entering the coolness of the geteld tent where warriors were armouring up ready for the day’s re-enactment of the Battle of Hastings.

  Leofwine, or Jamie as the Wimbledon youth was normally known outside of the re-enactment group, gave a shy smile as he stepped over the leather sword-harness at his feet. ‘You could make a song of that,’ he re-joined.

  ‘Bit old fashioned that song,’ contributed a muscular young man, as his red-haired head emerged from the neck of the maille byrnie that he was wriggling into.

  ‘So is wearing this gear and going out to fight the Norman invader,’ the bearded man reminded the redhead.

  Another armoured man came and stood in front of Jamie so that the youngster could adjust his leg bindings which had started to come loose. ‘Well our ancestors should have finished off that bastard William and his garlic-smelling friends in 1066; then we wouldn’t have to try and do it again each year.’ He looked down and saw that his leg bindings had now been secured and that the small hooks on the top bind were now firmly in place. ‘Thanks, young Leofwine,’ he said before leaving the shade of the geteld and entering the weak October sunshine outside.

  ‘Good lad Leofwine,’ the bearded man added. ‘Next year, if you keep up the weapons practice, you may be able to join us in battle instead of just being our knave.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Jamie moved further down the geteld to help another warrior find a missing arming-cap. ‘I mean,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘it is fun camping with you all and watching the re-enactment, but what I really want is to hold a spear and shield and stand shoulder to shoulder with you all in the shield-wall.’

  ‘Yes, well.’ Yet another warrior pushed past, adjusting his conical spangenhelm as he went. ‘Wait till you get bruised and battered, then you may not be so keen.’

  ‘Don’t put him off, Eadmund; Regia Anglorum needs as many warriors as it can get to beat Vikings and Normans.’

  ‘Yes, but today is the public show and we have to stick to the script and therefore we will have to lose to the Norman yet again.’

  The bearded man slipped his blue baldric over his shoulder, adjusted it so that it fell into place, and then held his arms out at 90 degrees to his body so that Jamie could bring a matching belt around the man’s considerable girth. ‘Thank you Leofwine.’ The man took hold of the belt, secured the buckle, and then tucked the surplus leather under and through the belt. He gave a shrug and a wiggle to make everything settle. ‘Today we lose, because the script says so, but tomorrow …’

  ‘Tomorrow, as happens each year, with no public to watch, we beat the crap out of the Normans.’ The spangenhelmed man exited the geteld and looked across the camp of period-accurate tents towards the battlefield in front of Battle Abbey. ‘A shame King Harold couldn’t have done that.’

  ‘A shame indeed; bastard Normans.’ A short, armoured man, with an axe that had a haft that brought the weapon’s head to the same level as his face, came and stood by the helmeted man’s side – but was suddenly pushed out of the way by a scruffy, untidy apparition who forced his way inside the geteld.

  ‘Bastard Normans indeed. All I get from them is disrespect!’ exclaimed the apparition in a burst of beery breath. ‘But what else can I expect from those who have spent too long interbreeding with those not of my folk.’ The apparition transformed itself into an old man with long lank locks and a straggling grey beard. He staggered towards the men still inside the geteld, a leathern jack slopping flat beer dangling from his left hand whilst his right hand hung on to a long ragged staff that he was using to prevent himself from falling over as his unsteady gait tumbled him over the uneven ground. ‘Under stable-hand, grubbing out the horse shit from a stable in Normandy, one day, and village squire in England’s once fair and pleasant land the next; give or take a battle and a marauding raid or two in between. Illegal, unwanted immigrants: that’s what they were: economic refugees. Couldn’t speak the King’s English when they arrived and they can do little better now. It wouldn’t be so bad if they had tried to fit in rather than make the locals change their ways to theirs.’

  ‘Hello Grimm,’ greeted the bearded man as he made to exit into the sunlight from the cover of the geteld.

  ‘Kim? Kimbold?’ The old man stopped his crashing progress inside the geteld, turned, and steadied himself by clinging to his staff with both hands; the leather jack emptied what remained of its contents over the old man’s threadbare and faded blue track pants.

  ‘That’s me, you old soak.’

  ‘I thought,’ Grimm slurred, ‘I thought you said you were giving the fighting up?’

  ‘Too many holes in the ranks Grimm; not enough youngsters taking the hobby up.’

  Grimm nodded
his head in a semblance of agreement. ‘A seat, shade, something to drink.’ The old man staggered further into the geteld, bumping into three other English warriors as he went. ‘Service? Service!’ he yelled before flopping down on the ground and pulling himself into the foetal position.

  Jamie came forward and looked at the dishevelled collection of tatty humanity and smelly clothes at his feet. ‘Grimm? Is that really you?’

  ‘S’mee,’ Grimm assured him as he fixed his single eye on the youth in front of him. ‘I know you don’t I?’

  ‘Jamie.’

  ‘Who?’ Grimm wiped his eye with the back of his grime-encrusted hand. ‘Jamie? Jamie? – Ah – Leofwine!’ He gave a slack-jawed smile, a dribble of saliva edging down the crease on the left side of his mouth. ‘You have grown.’

  ‘It has been two years Grimm, in fact getting on for three. I