(Enormous nod to Bernard Cornwell's "The Winter King" - a master of storytelling)

 

 

As Briton fights Briton the Saxon awaits

And readies himself at Lloegyr’s gates,

Gorfyddyd of Powys consults with the Fates,

Siluria’s Gundleus too.

 

Outnumbered we hurried round hill and through dale

And came to this place where we’d die called Lugg Vale;

Our certainty spread like a plague that we’d fail

As fear and despondency grew.

 

We prayed to the Old Gods of Mithras and Bel

Some spat and touched iron, ill-luck to dispel;

The Christians prayed for deliverance from Hell;

Their priests rode behind in a waggon.

 

We all felt our battle-plan ill-thought and flawed

We mustered but 500 spearmen and sword

And none knew that self-doubt was wracking our Lord,

Arthur, ap Uther Pendragon.

 

Dumnonia’s poets would later ascribe

To Gorfyddyd paying the Saxon a bribe,

And centuries later the tales would describe

Lord Arthur as Champion of Right;

 

But we who would live through the slaughter that day

And saw the cruel fury with which he would slay,

Could never take oath on our weapons and say

Lord Arthur – A Chivalrous Knight.

 

The victory won and Gorfyddyd slain

And Gundleus given to Nimue again

Who peeled off his skin and, to cries of his pain,

Danced and gave thanks to the Fates.

 

And Arthur ap Uther, no longer Wild Beast,

Outwardly smiled at the victory feast

But inwardly thought of the foe to the East,

The Saxon at Lloegyr’s gates.