Yeah!!!!!!!
I am looking forward to reading the 4th book. I have enjoyed every one of this series!!!
Thank you
Stubear1012
I am looking forward to reading the 4th book. I have enjoyed every one of this series!!!
Thank you
Stubear1012
Cato's Cavalry
- Thread starter Cymraeg
- Start date
I've finally finished reading this very interesting fic (I started almost two weeks ago) but what i'd like to know is since Brittania is de facto independent have they maintained a reasonable attitude to pagans as they're clearly still around so are tolerated instead of being actively persecuted?
Hibernia, 556AD
The rain had stopped when the men returned to the dún, with its hall at the centre of a stone wall. Twelve had gone out but just ten had returned, having lost Donnan to a fall, according to Oissine. As for the other, a thin, young, unhappy warrior with a permanent sniffle, he was no-where to be seen, but his horse was tied to Oissine’s saddle. Colm raised an eyebrow at the older warrior, who hawked and spat into the mud. “Little bastard wanted to run away. We had a little talk. He was stupid enough to pull a knife on me. He won’t make that mistake again.”
Colm nodded and then dismissed the men. As the tired warrior got off their equally tired horses he glanced at the sky. There was rain coming, he could smell it. Rain at the Dún of the Red Ford, what a surprise.
And sure enough, by the time that the men had stabled the horses and tramped into the hall, the rain had come, a soft mist that enfolded the landscape in a dank blanket of wetness. He looked up at the men on the walls and shouted at them to double their vigilance and then he too walked into the hall.
There he found Niall, still staring into the fire. The boy – no, he was a man now – had new lines to his face, bitter lines that spoke of tiredness, anger and worry. When the night hours drew on down then Colm often woke to see Niall awake on his straw pallet, his eyes still on the fire. He was starting to worry about him.
“So no news then,” Niall said as he approached, before looking up at him with those damn green eyes that looked so much like those of his father. If only his features bore more of his father than his mother. If only his uncle had not been a disloyal son of an owl and a pig. If only Cronan had not died in that raid on the far North. Too many ‘ifs’ to think about.
“No,” muttered Colm as he sat down and watched the men at the other end of the hall out of the corner of his eye. “No news. No more lords have rallied to you. I fear that too many are watching and waiting. Your uncle…”
“You can say his name in front of me, Colm,” Niall said with a twisted smile. “It’s Aedan. I won’t catch fire with rage at the sound of it, much though I want to.” He sighed. “So this is what loyalty, true loyalty, is. Fewer than a hundred warriors who remember their oaths.”
Ah. This was difficult. “Their oaths were to your father. Your pardon, but… men can be fickle. Your father was a great man. A High King in fact apart from title. A man that other men fought for because they admired him, not because they feared him. And you…”
He tried for the words, tried to say what was so very difficult to say. He was no bard, no singer of words, no man for whom saying the truth came easily. He was just an old man with too many scars and a tongue that had never been honeyed.
Niall, the son of Túathal, the late High King, found his words for him. “I am not my father,” he said softly. “I look too much like my mother, I sound too much like her as well. I am too young, too callow, too soft. Is that not what they say? Niall the Boy they call me. And now my father is dead and instead of rallying to me they rally to my uncle. Who at least looks like my father.”
“They will soon discover their mistake,” Colm replied. “Aedan is a harsh man. A cruel man. He uses fear to drive men rather than leading them. He is not your father.”
“And yet he is the one with men and fortresses and gold and silver right now,” Niall said, biting the words off as if they were rank within his mouth. Then he returned to looking at the fire. “Do not look at him, but do you see Gobban?” The words were said so softly that Colm barely heard him.
“I do,” Colm replied equally quietly. He could see the normally quiet black-haired man whose fort this was. He was pouring mead out for some of the men and he seemed to be having the time of his life, laughing and joking. For those who knew the man it did not look right. He sounded… strained perhaps. “Cheerful is he not?”
“Too cheerful. Two days ago he was whining over what was being given out here to the men.” Niall flicked a glance at him. “Watch him.”
Colm had to admit that he had a point. Something felt wrong, nothing that he could put his finger on, but his thumb was pricking a little. He nodded slightly and then went back to the door to look out at the drifting rain. The stones of the walls had taken on a sheen and he remembered his own home for a moment, overlooking the great pass to the West. When would he ever see it again? Maybe not this year. He set his chin. He had taken an oath and unlike those faithless bastards he took that oath seriously.
He stood there for a long time, wiping his face occasionally as the rain blew against it, but above all watching the men on the walls and listening with something that was more than his eyes and ears. There was a tension in the air, something that grew deeper as the light started to dim and night crept over the dún.
As if by magic Oissine appeared at his shoulder. “I’ll take a turn at the walls,” he said gruffly. Colm looked at him sharply and the old warrior smiled sourly. “Something’s coming. Don’t know what, but it’s coming.” And then he strode out into the wet dusk.
Colm watched him go and then returned to Niall at the fire. The younger man was talking to Gobban, who judging by the odd look to his face seemed to be partly drunk. As Colm approached the lord of the dún looked up, smiled slightly and then stood and strode off, roaring for more mead.
“Oissine’s on the wall,” Colm muttered quietly to Niall as he sat, before smiling broadly and starting to gesture as if he was telling one of his more bawdy stories. “he says that something’s wrong.” And then he raised his voice and started to tell the tale of the old lord and the young maid who had woven a net of hair to catch the moon with.
As he told the tale he worked in a few words and phrases that made some of the men laugh and some of the men – those who knew him best – put their mugs to one side and stop drinking to listen carefully instead. Good. They felt the tension too.
As for Gobban he watched him as well, his mouth partly open as he listened. Every now and then he looked at the doorway as if awaiting something and every time he did so his face seemed to be a little more damp with sweat.
When Colm finished the tale and then basked in the applause he looked at the door himself. There was a faint shadow there and then he recognised the shape of Oissine, who scratched his nose with his forefinger whilst wiggling his little finger at the same time. Ah.
Colm stood, pretending to sway slightly and then made for the door as if he needed to take a piss. Once through it he darted to one side and looked at the warrior who was waiting there. “Well?”
“Movement in the ground to one side of the road down to the gate, this side of the ford. I’d say at least fifty men. They think they’re being stealthy, but they’re led by an idiot. The rain eased a little and the moon broke through the clouds. Enough light to see swords and a few helmets. Oh, and I found one of Gobban’s men on the wall. He had a rope and a fancy lamp and a clay pot with embers in it.”
Ah. So he had been right. Damn it. Treachery. “Túathal always said that the Lords of the Red Ford had to be treated with caution. Very well. Have the men get ready. I’ll tell the High King.” The veteran nodded shortly and then strode off quickly.
He took a gulp of air into his lungs to stead himself and then turned and walked back into the hall, with a fake smile spread on his face. As he entered he saw Gobban’s eyes on him and he waved genially. The other man smiled a brittle smile. As Colm reached Niall he sat and looked about the room. The tension sang in the air – and then he beckoned Gobban over. “Do you have more mead?”
Gobban nodded and then stood, turning to one side to gesture at a serving man. And as he did Colm saw a gleam of metal at the man’s wrist, hidden in his sleeve. A blade. He frowned and then stood and drew his sword. “To arms!” he bellowed. “Treachery at the Red Ford! Treachery from the Lord of the Red Ford! To arms!”
Gobban turned, startled and then snarled as he realised that all was lost. He reached into his sleeve and grabbed the knife, before shouting: “Kill them all! Rally to your Lord!” All around him chaos erupted as the two factions reached for their weapons and started to spring to their feet.
But Colm’s warning had been heeded by those of his men with wits and all too many of Gobban’s men had had too much mead to allow them to match them. Even just a few heartbeat’s worth of warning was priceless in a fight like this and Colm soon realised that Gobban’s men were losing. A man rushed at him, his eyes wide and his blade raised and Colm parried the blow and then headbutted him. It hurt like hell, but the other man collapsed with a shattered nose and Colm’s sword flickered out to take him in the throat. Red blood spattered onto the floor as the man died swiftly and then Colm stepped over him and looked around – before his heart seemed to freeze. Gobban was rushing at Niall, who had just stabbed a man in the stomach but whose back was turned to the Lord of the Red Ford.
But before he could shout to warn, Niall seemed to sense the arrival of the other man. He turned and threw his knife with a sure hand, before reaching down and grabbing a sword that lay almost at his feet. He didn’t need it. Gobban took the knife straight in the eye and collapsed on the spot without even a scream. As he fell his remaining men watched and then threw their hands up to beg for mercy.
“Watch them!” Colm barked, before darting out of the doorway, concerned about the other force. But again he had no need to worry. Oissine was on the wall with a knot of men all armed with bows. Fortunately the rain had stopped, and as he watched the bowmen sent a quick flight of arrows out into the darkness, where someone was screaming thinly at a distance.
He needed to find out what was going on, so he pounded up the wooden stairs to the wall and approached Oissine, cautiously peering over the wall. “What news?”
“The smart ones are running,” the older man said, his eyes fixed on the ground in front of them. “Their leader has three arrows in him and should be dead by now. If they’d brought bows with them then it would have been nasty. I think they expected the gates to be open.”
“They should have been – Gobban betrayed us.”
“I thought so. Got his lads tied up and taken care of. Sloppy idiots who were waiting for a sign that never came. I’ll take a turn on the walls and make sure that nothing else happens. I’ll send word if I need anything.”
Colm nodded and then headed back down to the hall. As he entered his felt his nose wrinkle. The hall stank of blood and voided bowels and some of his men were pulling out the bodies and spreading fresh straw on the dark patches on the floor. He found Niall standing over the body of Gobban and looking at a little pouch.
“He was well paid for his treachery,” Niall said as Colm approached, holding out the pouch. “Twenty silver coins.”
“Aedan,” spat Colm bitterly. “The dog.”
“Dog or not, he will set every man’s hand against me with such largesse. And we cannot hold the dún without his men. Not against the numbers that my uncle can bring against this place. No, we need to leave at dawn.”
“Where to?”
“We need arms and we need help. And allies. There’s only one place that I know of at the moment.”
Colm thought about it for a moment and then reluctantly nodded. “I agree. Droim Meánach?”
“Droim Meánach. The great fort where the Easterners trade from.”
The rain had stopped when the men returned to the dún, with its hall at the centre of a stone wall. Twelve had gone out but just ten had returned, having lost Donnan to a fall, according to Oissine. As for the other, a thin, young, unhappy warrior with a permanent sniffle, he was no-where to be seen, but his horse was tied to Oissine’s saddle. Colm raised an eyebrow at the older warrior, who hawked and spat into the mud. “Little bastard wanted to run away. We had a little talk. He was stupid enough to pull a knife on me. He won’t make that mistake again.”
Colm nodded and then dismissed the men. As the tired warrior got off their equally tired horses he glanced at the sky. There was rain coming, he could smell it. Rain at the Dún of the Red Ford, what a surprise.
And sure enough, by the time that the men had stabled the horses and tramped into the hall, the rain had come, a soft mist that enfolded the landscape in a dank blanket of wetness. He looked up at the men on the walls and shouted at them to double their vigilance and then he too walked into the hall.
There he found Niall, still staring into the fire. The boy – no, he was a man now – had new lines to his face, bitter lines that spoke of tiredness, anger and worry. When the night hours drew on down then Colm often woke to see Niall awake on his straw pallet, his eyes still on the fire. He was starting to worry about him.
“So no news then,” Niall said as he approached, before looking up at him with those damn green eyes that looked so much like those of his father. If only his features bore more of his father than his mother. If only his uncle had not been a disloyal son of an owl and a pig. If only Cronan had not died in that raid on the far North. Too many ‘ifs’ to think about.
“No,” muttered Colm as he sat down and watched the men at the other end of the hall out of the corner of his eye. “No news. No more lords have rallied to you. I fear that too many are watching and waiting. Your uncle…”
“You can say his name in front of me, Colm,” Niall said with a twisted smile. “It’s Aedan. I won’t catch fire with rage at the sound of it, much though I want to.” He sighed. “So this is what loyalty, true loyalty, is. Fewer than a hundred warriors who remember their oaths.”
Ah. This was difficult. “Their oaths were to your father. Your pardon, but… men can be fickle. Your father was a great man. A High King in fact apart from title. A man that other men fought for because they admired him, not because they feared him. And you…”
He tried for the words, tried to say what was so very difficult to say. He was no bard, no singer of words, no man for whom saying the truth came easily. He was just an old man with too many scars and a tongue that had never been honeyed.
Niall, the son of Túathal, the late High King, found his words for him. “I am not my father,” he said softly. “I look too much like my mother, I sound too much like her as well. I am too young, too callow, too soft. Is that not what they say? Niall the Boy they call me. And now my father is dead and instead of rallying to me they rally to my uncle. Who at least looks like my father.”
“They will soon discover their mistake,” Colm replied. “Aedan is a harsh man. A cruel man. He uses fear to drive men rather than leading them. He is not your father.”
“And yet he is the one with men and fortresses and gold and silver right now,” Niall said, biting the words off as if they were rank within his mouth. Then he returned to looking at the fire. “Do not look at him, but do you see Gobban?” The words were said so softly that Colm barely heard him.
“I do,” Colm replied equally quietly. He could see the normally quiet black-haired man whose fort this was. He was pouring mead out for some of the men and he seemed to be having the time of his life, laughing and joking. For those who knew the man it did not look right. He sounded… strained perhaps. “Cheerful is he not?”
“Too cheerful. Two days ago he was whining over what was being given out here to the men.” Niall flicked a glance at him. “Watch him.”
Colm had to admit that he had a point. Something felt wrong, nothing that he could put his finger on, but his thumb was pricking a little. He nodded slightly and then went back to the door to look out at the drifting rain. The stones of the walls had taken on a sheen and he remembered his own home for a moment, overlooking the great pass to the West. When would he ever see it again? Maybe not this year. He set his chin. He had taken an oath and unlike those faithless bastards he took that oath seriously.
He stood there for a long time, wiping his face occasionally as the rain blew against it, but above all watching the men on the walls and listening with something that was more than his eyes and ears. There was a tension in the air, something that grew deeper as the light started to dim and night crept over the dún.
As if by magic Oissine appeared at his shoulder. “I’ll take a turn at the walls,” he said gruffly. Colm looked at him sharply and the old warrior smiled sourly. “Something’s coming. Don’t know what, but it’s coming.” And then he strode out into the wet dusk.
Colm watched him go and then returned to Niall at the fire. The younger man was talking to Gobban, who judging by the odd look to his face seemed to be partly drunk. As Colm approached the lord of the dún looked up, smiled slightly and then stood and strode off, roaring for more mead.
“Oissine’s on the wall,” Colm muttered quietly to Niall as he sat, before smiling broadly and starting to gesture as if he was telling one of his more bawdy stories. “he says that something’s wrong.” And then he raised his voice and started to tell the tale of the old lord and the young maid who had woven a net of hair to catch the moon with.
As he told the tale he worked in a few words and phrases that made some of the men laugh and some of the men – those who knew him best – put their mugs to one side and stop drinking to listen carefully instead. Good. They felt the tension too.
As for Gobban he watched him as well, his mouth partly open as he listened. Every now and then he looked at the doorway as if awaiting something and every time he did so his face seemed to be a little more damp with sweat.
When Colm finished the tale and then basked in the applause he looked at the door himself. There was a faint shadow there and then he recognised the shape of Oissine, who scratched his nose with his forefinger whilst wiggling his little finger at the same time. Ah.
Colm stood, pretending to sway slightly and then made for the door as if he needed to take a piss. Once through it he darted to one side and looked at the warrior who was waiting there. “Well?”
“Movement in the ground to one side of the road down to the gate, this side of the ford. I’d say at least fifty men. They think they’re being stealthy, but they’re led by an idiot. The rain eased a little and the moon broke through the clouds. Enough light to see swords and a few helmets. Oh, and I found one of Gobban’s men on the wall. He had a rope and a fancy lamp and a clay pot with embers in it.”
Ah. So he had been right. Damn it. Treachery. “Túathal always said that the Lords of the Red Ford had to be treated with caution. Very well. Have the men get ready. I’ll tell the High King.” The veteran nodded shortly and then strode off quickly.
He took a gulp of air into his lungs to stead himself and then turned and walked back into the hall, with a fake smile spread on his face. As he entered he saw Gobban’s eyes on him and he waved genially. The other man smiled a brittle smile. As Colm reached Niall he sat and looked about the room. The tension sang in the air – and then he beckoned Gobban over. “Do you have more mead?”
Gobban nodded and then stood, turning to one side to gesture at a serving man. And as he did Colm saw a gleam of metal at the man’s wrist, hidden in his sleeve. A blade. He frowned and then stood and drew his sword. “To arms!” he bellowed. “Treachery at the Red Ford! Treachery from the Lord of the Red Ford! To arms!”
Gobban turned, startled and then snarled as he realised that all was lost. He reached into his sleeve and grabbed the knife, before shouting: “Kill them all! Rally to your Lord!” All around him chaos erupted as the two factions reached for their weapons and started to spring to their feet.
But Colm’s warning had been heeded by those of his men with wits and all too many of Gobban’s men had had too much mead to allow them to match them. Even just a few heartbeat’s worth of warning was priceless in a fight like this and Colm soon realised that Gobban’s men were losing. A man rushed at him, his eyes wide and his blade raised and Colm parried the blow and then headbutted him. It hurt like hell, but the other man collapsed with a shattered nose and Colm’s sword flickered out to take him in the throat. Red blood spattered onto the floor as the man died swiftly and then Colm stepped over him and looked around – before his heart seemed to freeze. Gobban was rushing at Niall, who had just stabbed a man in the stomach but whose back was turned to the Lord of the Red Ford.
But before he could shout to warn, Niall seemed to sense the arrival of the other man. He turned and threw his knife with a sure hand, before reaching down and grabbing a sword that lay almost at his feet. He didn’t need it. Gobban took the knife straight in the eye and collapsed on the spot without even a scream. As he fell his remaining men watched and then threw their hands up to beg for mercy.
“Watch them!” Colm barked, before darting out of the doorway, concerned about the other force. But again he had no need to worry. Oissine was on the wall with a knot of men all armed with bows. Fortunately the rain had stopped, and as he watched the bowmen sent a quick flight of arrows out into the darkness, where someone was screaming thinly at a distance.
He needed to find out what was going on, so he pounded up the wooden stairs to the wall and approached Oissine, cautiously peering over the wall. “What news?”
“The smart ones are running,” the older man said, his eyes fixed on the ground in front of them. “Their leader has three arrows in him and should be dead by now. If they’d brought bows with them then it would have been nasty. I think they expected the gates to be open.”
“They should have been – Gobban betrayed us.”
“I thought so. Got his lads tied up and taken care of. Sloppy idiots who were waiting for a sign that never came. I’ll take a turn on the walls and make sure that nothing else happens. I’ll send word if I need anything.”
Colm nodded and then headed back down to the hall. As he entered his felt his nose wrinkle. The hall stank of blood and voided bowels and some of his men were pulling out the bodies and spreading fresh straw on the dark patches on the floor. He found Niall standing over the body of Gobban and looking at a little pouch.
“He was well paid for his treachery,” Niall said as Colm approached, holding out the pouch. “Twenty silver coins.”
“Aedan,” spat Colm bitterly. “The dog.”
“Dog or not, he will set every man’s hand against me with such largesse. And we cannot hold the dún without his men. Not against the numbers that my uncle can bring against this place. No, we need to leave at dawn.”
“Where to?”
“We need arms and we need help. And allies. There’s only one place that I know of at the moment.”
Colm thought about it for a moment and then reluctantly nodded. “I agree. Droim Meánach?”
“Droim Meánach. The great fort where the Easterners trade from.”
Please don't let the Britannians make the English mistake of trying to control Hibernia 
Otherwise excellent as always.
Otherwise excellent as always.
Occupy Ireland.. Why not?
the people in Ireland at this time are NOT the ancestors of the Irish we know today
In fact the OTL "native" southern Irish are mostly descendants of Celts driven out of mainland Britain by the Saxons in the 5th and 6th centuries ... i.e TTL Britannians
In case you are wondering where the "real" 5th century Irish went .. perhaps the name "Hibernia" will give you a clue
The displaced tribes moved north and east cross the sea into Scotland.
They wiped out the Pictish peoples (sort of inverse of the 17th century Ulster settlements)
Plus ca change plus c'est la meme chose
Please don't let the Britannians make the English mistake of trying to control Hibernia
Otherwise excellent as always.
the people in Ireland at this time are NOT the ancestors of the Irish we know today
In fact the OTL "native" southern Irish are mostly descendants of Celts driven out of mainland Britain by the Saxons in the 5th and 6th centuries ... i.e TTL Britannians
In case you are wondering where the "real" 5th century Irish went .. perhaps the name "Hibernia" will give you a clue
The displaced tribes moved north and east cross the sea into Scotland.
They wiped out the Pictish peoples (sort of inverse of the 17th century Ulster settlements)
Plus ca change plus c'est la meme chose
A bit OT, Cymraeg, since you've mentioned garum a number of times in this fic (It was the tomato sauce of the Roman empire) it left me wondering if anyone still makes it these days as the recipe is still around?
) it left me wondering if anyone still makes it these days as the recipe is still around?the people in Ireland at this time are NOT the ancestors of the Irish we know today
In fact the OTL "native" southern Irish are mostly descendants of Celts driven out of mainland Britain by the Saxons in the 5th and 6th centuries ... i.e TTL Britannians
In case you are wondering where the "real" 5th century Irish went .. perhaps the name "Hibernia" will give you a clue
The displaced tribes moved north and east cross the sea into Scotland.
They wiped out the Pictish peoples (sort of inverse of the 17th century Ulster settlements)
Plus ca change plus c'est la meme chose
Errr.... No.
the people in Ireland at this time are NOT the ancestors of the Irish we know today
In fact the OTL "native" southern Irish are mostly descendants of Celts driven out of mainland Britain by the Saxons in the 5th and 6th centuries ... i.e TTL Britannians
In case you are wondering where the "real" 5th century Irish went .. perhaps the name "Hibernia" will give you a clue
The displaced tribes moved north and east cross the sea into Scotland.
They wiped out the Pictish peoples (sort of inverse of the 17th century Ulster settlements)
Plus ca change plus c'est la meme chose
Indeed. Are you perhaps confusing the Brythonic settlement of what became Brittany with Ireland? And the Gaelic settlement of Dalriada etc?
Travel, intermarriage and settlement? Sure. Expelling the locals? Hardly.
I believe it was the other way around really, as there was an irish king in south wales (bricheinog and dyfed) in the 6th and 7th centuries, while according to the bards, Cunedda cast out the irish from north wales in the 5th. not to say there was a wholesale replacement but rulers and nobility definitely
A bit OT, Cymraeg, since you've mentioned garum a number of times in this fic (It was the tomato sauce of the Roman empire
I've seen references to online recipes for making it, but it seems to have resembled the fermented anchovy sauce that's still made in Campania, Italy to this day.
He meant: "in ttl does widespread garum making still survive"? But knowing that a version still survives even otl is cool too
.Just finished reading volume lll of your e books cymraeg , bloody brilliant ......have read all three volumes in the last few days.......wife isnt happy as I have done bugger all in the house ......
Now then , get writing on volume lV as I am already getting withdrawl symptoms
P.S. I bought all three books. They are brilliantly written so its only right you should earn royalties from all your hard work
......Now then , get writing on volume lV as I am already getting withdrawl symptoms
P.S. I bought all three books. They are brilliantly written so its only right you should earn royalties from all your hard work