Chapter One. Gwydion 

This, my son, is how I met your father.

There was a man at home in the shadows.
His favoured place at the edge of the light
where ambiguity becomes magic. 

Arriving after the great gate had been closed
and the guards were set for a winter’s night. 

The assistant, breathless, sought the Gate Keeper,
Grey Bold Mighty Grasp, who looked up from his food:

‘Knife has gone to meat. The gates are shut.
Who is allowed to enter? Recite the rules.’ 
‘The son of a lawful king,’ the lad replied.
‘Or a tradesman whose skills are needed at the court.’

‘And which of those is he?’

‘By appearance and speech, a nobleman.
By bearing one who walks at ease
amongst the great. His clothes
and weapons announce his wealth.’ 

‘But who is he?’ asked the Porter.
‘What kind of man? What is his rank?
His trade? What is his family?
It is your job to ascertain these facts.’ 

His food was no cooler
before his assistant returned.

‘He is the chief bard of the Island of Prydain,
the finest storyteller in the world
and the best of harpers, he says.
His name is Gwydion son of Don
and to prove it,
he will turn me into a mouse
if I don’t open the gate.’

 ‘There was a Gwydion son of Don,
who was chief bard before the Romans came.
Before the Druids even. A mighty magician
who made a ship from seaweed
and turned a bird into a boy.
Let him in. Cat’s hungry.
Can’t have him eating you, can we?
Uther’s in a foul mood, and has been
since he returned from Ireland.
A story might gentle the blade.
We’ll soon know if he’s lying.
And God have mercy on him if he is.’

 2 

Gwydion the storyteller
steps into a version of himself.
The smoky hall lined with iron men,
bright, shiny, awkward,
dreaming a glorious future:
fame in battle, marriage
their own estates and children.
Or rusting to the benches.
Bent, battle scratched,
stale veterans going sour
watching their time leaking away
like spilt ale down a long hill,
no longer believing in a future,
their chances fading like their hair.
Becoming the characters
they derided when they arrived:
too old to fight, too poor to fuck.  

Don’t patronise them.
We are born into stories we did not write.
Happy the men and women at home in theirs. 

Uther Pendragon, at the high table,
surrounded by his court officials,
attendant lords, and a woman
with hair the colour of midnight in a cave
laughing with the man beside her. 

Uther comes towards him,
with the shambling swagger
of a horseman after an epic ride,
shouldering his way through an imagined crowd.
He stops in front of Gwydion,
toe to toe, inspecting him.

‘I need a bard. Heard you’re good.
Had the last one thrown off the roof.’ 

He smiles, his head to one side,
‘I like that. You didn’t ask me why.
Because you know I’m going to tell you.
He told a story about the House of Brutus,
how The Thin Man had my father killed
then manipulated my brother’s bodyguard
into killing him as well.’ 

He turns towards the muttering faces.

They’ve all heard that story.
‘Well that’s utter bollocks init.‘
His hands throwing words across the room.
‘A disgruntled servant knifed my dad.
I made enquiries.’ Four syllables, loitering,
unpleasantly. Something to be avoided.

‘I fought with Huns. I mean with them
and against them. Allans, Goths, Lombards.
I know tribal warriors. These aren’t Romans
who switch loyalties faster than you refill your cups.
It would take some kind of deviant Christ
to pull that miracle; to make
a tribesman turn on his ring giver.’

He saunters back to Gwydion.
‘My court needs a bard. Tell me three stories:
one now, here, for the drinkers at the benches;
one for my officers in my room;
one for my lady in her chamber.
Job’s yours if they’re good. If they ain’t,
we’ll throw you off the roof
for claiming to be someone you’re not.’

From Chapter Three: Ness

The queen safe in her chambers
protected by her husband’s walls
guarded by his watchful men.  

In a winding stair
a door in a blank wall.
Splintered wood,
undressed stone.
The watchful guard
nodding welcome.
Knock and enter. 

Maidmutter flamecrackle.
On the stairs, feetpadding
cloak drag pike chink.
Rushes on the floor.
Beneath the window
muffled wind dragged
courtyard voices.
Desire and common sense
arguing the toss. 
A trunk. A bed,
a chair beside the fire,
a stool. An anchorite’s austerity
but for the full-length mirror.  

The lady’s chamber,
usually full of wives
of prominent men,
their maids, their daughters.

 Only 2 blonde serving girls
in the window seat,
dozing at their sewing. 

Sitting on a low stool,
poking the fire with a stick,
she is wearing a plain wool dress,
over a simple white shift.

Her skin like mother of pearl,
hair black as the raven,
lips like spilt blood.

 She has hitched her skirts above her knees
and the curve from ankle to shadow
is the finest line he’s ever seen. 

The songs do justice to her looks.
But she is not a princess. 
The Saxons would call her:
‘Ness, the Lord’s gebedda.’

Rumour at the court claims
he hasn’t touched another woman
since she first shared his bed.
Witchcraft mutter the jealous wives,
black magic the lusting husbands.
Another rumour, far more scandalous:
she has civilised the beast
and taught him how to rule.  

‘Your story was a mess.
Sympathy for the girl.
Approval of the men.
You can’t have both.’

From Chapter Seven. Gorlois

The royal summons to the levy,
finds Gorlois at castle Dore,
a small ring fort, with the land
falling behind him to the valley of the Fowey.[1]
The ground, silvered by frost,
smokes as the sun hoists itself over the horizon.
The trees that line the river,
bloom as dark stains on the mist.
He is blind to the beauty of sunrise,
deaf to the sounds of the fort.

 Uther the King. 

He throws the summons in the fire.
An Uther is a slimy thing
that crawled into his brain,
slithers though his mouth
and ears and eyes,
to settle in his throat
sending grasping tentacles
to hook his heart and stomach,
leaking acid into every burning joint. 

Now Uther this and Uther that,
the world gone gaga for a fool
who could bore for Britain
with his endless babble
about some skirmish with the Huns.
He’d want a Triumph next.

[1] Pronounced Foy

From Chapter Ten. Uther and Ygrayne in Tintagel
 

The cold stone steps upwards
following fall and call and promise.
Her lamp light curves the wall
fumbles their shadows
caresses her hip, warming
a bared shoulder aching his hands. 

A room, claimed, personalised.
Small objects he doesn’t recognise. 

This woman had friends
he knew nothing about.
People whose versions of her
cared nothing for her face
or the shape of her legs. 

Lust flowing towards,
flesh driven to flesh,
ambushed by the thought:
she lived with people
who saw her everyday
and didn’t want to. 

The inevitable boy
helped him out of his boots,
took his riding cloak; disappeared.

Maids with hot water,
clean white towels,
and shameless curiosity,
loitered over their task. 

Smoke rising from the brazier,
the smell a rusty gimlet
stabbing through his ear.
She put out the lamps,
leaving candle flame,
and glowing coals.