The Song of Wessex
* * *
Anglesey, Wales - May 1329
As they traipsed through the wood, their party followed but at a distance. Two old friends, one fifty and nine and the other ten years his junior. Many days and nights had been shared, but usually under much more adverse conditions. Yet here there were no spears...no arrows. Instead, it was a warm spring day and as much as it was a King and his Earl finding time together, it was so too a man and his friend taken to a day of fishing.
It was Anselm’s idea. When the King arrived, and unannounced, the Lord Marshal was both surprised and elated. Never had Arthur come to visit his lands to Gwynedd. In truth, he had rarely spent time there himself. Enough to create a family and see his father’s rule made sound when the time came, but Anselm of Gwynedd felt his true service was to the realm. Battle after battle and after too many deaths, and some most recent...when Arthur arrived, the King was seemingly in need of comfort. His former squire was all too eager to give him that very thing.
His wife Alduara had made for the King a very comfortable room and his steward had found way to feed and house the royal guard that followed along the King’s progress. The county of Gwynedd was nowhere near as prosperous as the Duchy that claimed the same name, but Anselm’s brother Anfroi had done well to keep the coffers full and his children had been well raised and at the ready, as he had been at the same age. When his own father had matched him to the young King Arthur as squire, Anselm had not said a word against it. And as far as he was concerned, no better life could be had.
The King’s party was not terribly large, but enough to show the crown as he made his way north. It had been some time since a royal presence was felt in Wales, yet the years of protest and revolt were mostly over. The Welsh had come to an acceptance of the rule of the House of Wessex. There were, of course, torrid tales that followed; but the populace was as prosperous as the rest of the realm from Lothian to Bourbon and now from Ireland to Flanders. The Welsh were a proud people, as Anselm had learned quickly, but they knew the Kings of Wessex as great and just and any Lord that lived there would must needs answer to these Kings.
For Anselm, it was a matter of solving his King’s troubles. As he always did, when Arthur arrived forlorn and disquieted after the sad death of the Lords Gerald and Theobald, the Earl moved to action. Let them find some cheer. The King enjoyed his hunts but the prey was not quite out yet. Too early in the budding spring for the north of Wales. Yet the fish...always swimming. Another chance to pull his friend from his seeming torpor. The streams and rivers of Wales were grand and he was happy to show his liege about.
“If you think to ease my suffering, Ans...” Arthur announced as he just missed a swinging branch, “...then I wonder if your plan is to kill me from boredom? That would certainly silence my mind from its place.”
Anselm grinned, “It’s just over here, sire. Just a few more paces.”
“I did not think to place my men to a forced march today, sir,” Arthur returned the grin, “Yet...you are Lord Marshal. That is fitting.”
With a laugh, Anselm pushed through some brush, “I know there is no great number of horses bearing down upon you, sire...but I do promise that this can be just as fun.”
Arthur followed with a bemused look, “Never been much a fisherman, Ans. I’ll take the hunt but the fish is not a smart creature. It seems almost...unfair.”
“Ahh...” Anselm grinned once more when he found the spot, “...but there is still sport in it, Your Grace. The winter snows melt and causes a fine stream to here...nearly a river. They flit in and about, but they are cautious...I warn you. There’s no sword to draw. You must use your cunning.”
The King pushed through and saw the rushing waters that were less than a river but more than a simple brook, “I have a cunning plan...let us back to your keep and find some ale.”
“That is no good, sire,” Anselm stated as he found his place and started to unpack, “We could drink all night, but you would still be sad. It’s a terrible thing about Theobald and Gerald, but you needs must take your mind from it. And besides...I have some ale.”
Arthur grinned when Anselm tossed him the skin, “You might have told me, sir. We are to get drunk by the riverside. Very good. I might have marched with more speed.”
“There’s no speed here, sire,” Anselm pulled two poles from his pack and strung one up for the King, “It’s all sitting and waiting. Just like in battle. Wait for your moment and pull the string when the time is just right.”
King Arthur laughed and found a spot to the ground. He sat with a thud and looked up to the sky. It was a sunny day and the light dappled through the trees above them that covered the bank. He untapped the skin and took a healthy pull before sitting forward, “I never thought the Welsh life would suit you, Ans. Yet you take to it well...and I can see why.”
Sticking a pole to the dirt before the King, Anselm sat beside him and worked at his own, “I must admit...I did never think so either. Raised here, but my father wasn’t Welsh. It was all I could do to leave. Yet when he passed...and you honored me so...I felt need to revisit my earlier thought. It’s a fine country. Good rivers...good hills. And the men from here...certainly good fighters.”
“That be no doubt,” Arthur handed back the skin, “From long before our time...the Welsh have been paramount to our armies.”
“And so that is yours...Your Grace,” Anselm flashed a grin as he placed the King’s hand to his fishing pole, “And this is mine. Tug at it...but not too much. Just enough to get their attention.”
Arthur smiled wide, “By God...more Kings should do this! That is the entire process!”
“Let them come to you, sire,” Anselm looked to the rushing waters, “They will bite...eventually.”
“They always do,” the King flashed a grin as he sat back and enjoyed the warmth of the sun for what seemed the first time in ages. The idleness of the day...the sound of the waters as they rushed past...the chirping of the birds through sun dappled trees...it was altogether calming.
Anselm finally rested beside him and watched their lines, “You have had a time of it of late, sire. First young Eddy...then Lord Gerald and Lord Theobald. I know the price of victory has been found steep. Yet it is because of you that we may enjoy this day in such tranquility. And I mind not saying that it is a true honor to find you at my home.”
“I could not return to Westminster...not yet,” Arthur admitted, “There is too much sadness in it at the now. Too many ill thoughts provided by the space...”
The Earl smiled, “There is your paramour, sire.”
“I fear that I have seen little of Annabella since I returned from Brittany,” the King winced, “I’m sure she thinks that she is scorned...but my mind has been elsewhere.”
“She may help alleviate that,” Anselm suggested.
Arthur offered a brief nod, “Mayhap. And she does bring me some joy. Yet I am not fully committed in my efforts to her and wish not to be unfair.”
“I imagine it’s not easy being so close to Ned and Eddy as well,” Anselm replied in understanding.
“I feel regret and think to have listened to you, Ans,” Arthur admitted, “I cannot bring myself to visit their tombs for fear of fully losing my wits. And other than Bella...I have no family still there to keep me company. Only the remains of the dead and they are no succor. Not like yours. That young John is turning out a right strapping young lad, sir. He takes your looks.”
Anselm laughed, “Don’t tell his mother that for she thinks my Lillibet does as well. Poor Alduara. She’s been a good wife...understanding. I never thought to find another after my Cat passed so quickly and so young. Yet she’s given me three children...two that survive. And I think not to have ever been happier.”
“Once more I feel regret, Ans,” Arthur held a hand to his friend’s shoulder, “I keep you from this pleasant place with all of my warring.”
“I’ve told you, sire...it is no thing to regret,” the Earl smiled in return, “It is not just my family that makes me happy. It is my service to you. My service to your son.”
The King gave nod and held to his fishing pole once more, “I thank you for that, Ans. You may recall some years ago when good Tienne suggested that I might play the role of Amedee in Arturo’s life. In truth, that falls on your shoulders and you handle it well. I believe that he trusts you and I am glad of it. A father can never truly be a friend...and a man needs good friends. Especially Kings.”
“He’s always been a good lad, sire. Honest and true. A bit hot headed at times...but then, so is his father,” Anselm grinned.
“You’re not wrong,” Arthur returned the grin, “And he does well to both Scotland and England at the now. He finds his true purpose. Mayhap I was too harsh in my thinking of the Lady Maud...his Queen. She settled Arturo immediately and they have produced four good children. Especially the littlest Arthur...a bright lad.”
Anselm smiled, “Not so little anymore, sire. Twelve now. Of age with my John. Mayhap they too will be friends.”
“I can think of no thing better, Ans,” Arthur looked to the Earl, “We should all make progress to Cupar so they can meet. I’m certain Arturo would be well met with the idea.”
“Back to the time of the great Eadgar the King...” Anselm replied as he pulled his line in and fixed bait once more, “...Gwynedd has always played a special place in the House of Wessex.”
Arthur laughed, “Careful there, sir...history and rumor find a number of times when it was less than happy.”
“I believe not in rumor, sire,” Anselm answered as he cast his line again, “And there is the Duchy compared to the actual land itself. The Northalls to the east...they were said to once be great friends to the crown as well. Yet your father...and you...had the good sense to keep this land here as personal vassal and we were never more grateful than we are now. Here I am...a minor Earl of the realm with great Lords abounding. And yet...now Lord Marshal. I owe it all to you.”
The King smiled, “I remember when you came into my service, Ans. A scrappy young lad...not much younger than myself.”
“You have ten years on me, sire,” Anselm winked.
“Still...” Arthur pushed at his shoulder in jest, “...a man of talent. I could see it then. A good squire. Amedee saw it too...with both you and Tienne. Men that would serve not just the realm, but me. Would be friends and good confidants. Would give me honest counsel when others might shy away due to my rank.”
Anselm looked to the King with appreciation, “I hope that I have always done so.”
“Never fear on that, Ans,” Arthur returned the same eye, “As I have lost so many... Amedee...Tienne...Nicolaus...dear Emma...even the old guard of my father in Theobald and Sir Mark...Thomas and Adam of Normandy. There has always been one constant. From my earliest reign...there you were. You are my right hand, Ans. The Earl of Vexin is a good Lord Chancellor...shrewd and cunning. Yet Earl Edward is not you...does not know me as you do. There is no man that I may trust more.”
“You honor me once more, sire,” Anselm answered, “And if you will allow one more bit of knowing...trust in your son the Prince. I told you that I would keep him safe and I did. You saw his potential when he oversaw his brother’s internment. You were right. He was honorable and did well. He has served well in Ireland...many times over now. And his road has been complicated with feet in two places. He serves his wife out of love and duty. And he serves you out of honor and respect. I am but an Earl, sire. Prince Arthur is your son and heir. As much as I take great pride in being so close to your person...your right hand should not be me. It should be your son. He is far past thirty years in age and shows capable. Include him more knowing that I stand behind you both. It would be good for your soul for him to share some of your burden...and it would be good for England to see their future King making good on his promise. I dare say...he’d bring his own son with him as well. No bad thing.”
Arthur heard him as he looked out over the rushing waters, “Once more, we run into the implacable Maud of Scotland. You’re not wrong, Ans...but she is a most formidable adversary...”
“And daughter,” Anselm grinned, “You said so yourself...mayhap you misjudged her. She is the Prince’s wife and he has proved to be his own man. Leave it to him to convince her. It is high time that there be a warming between you too. Perhaps this is that chance.”
“She has never forgiven me...and suspects me still,” Arthur kept his eyes forward.
Anselm felt a tug to his line as he answered, “One more reason to show solidarity.”
“I say, Ans...I think you may have a bite,” Arthur pointed to the bobbing line in the water.
The Earl pulled to his fishing pole, “I think a rather large one, sire.”
Arthur stood to search their gear, “I’ll get the net.”
“He’s a tenacious little bugger!” Anselm pulled with more strength as he too stood and moved to the water’s edge.
“The current takes him down stream,” the King stood over his shoulder and held to him.
Anselm took another step, “Not if I can help it!”
Though it was no raging river, they fished to a good sized water way that was flush with the melting spring flow from the winter. The bank was steeper than usual and muddy from the thaw and as Anselm shifted closer to the edge, he lost his footing. Unwilling to let go of his line, Anselm slipped and was pulled straight into the water. Arthur immediately moved to help him, “Let it go, Ans! It can’t be worth it!”
‘It’s no thing...” Anselm suggested as his head bobbed up and down in the rushing waters, “...just need...to get my feet...under me!”
Arthur watched his friend pulled downstream quickly and moved to take off his boots, “Find a branch, Ans! Hold on!!”
“Arthu...” Anselm tried to say as he was sucked under.
“I’ve got you!” Arthur answered as he waded into the water and felt the strong current.
Yet Anselm had been pulled far away and the King was forced to caution as he hollered alarm to their party in the woods. They arrived quickly and immediately rushed to their King. Arthur would have none of it, “To Anselm, you fools!!”
He himself tried to swim out to his friend, but the guard stopped him and went in themselves. Three guards jumped in but by the time they reached where Anselm had found some purchase, he was underwater. They struggled to bring him to the surface as his boots and soggy clothing held him down and by the time they pulled him up, there was no sign of movement. Through the rushing stream, they were finally able to get Anselm back to land and he dropped with a thud. Arthur had run to follow them and now knelt by his old friend. Both of them soaked to the bone and the King in desperation.
Slaps to the face to get Anselm to come around did no good and Arthur pushed at his chest to expel the water. That was likewise unsuccessful. Anselm’s face was silent and serene and his body merely flopped at every attempt. The King pushed to turn him over his knee and slapped to his friend’s back. The body only reacted to the movement and did no other.
“Ans!! Come to me!!” Arthur turned him over once more and rested in his lap as he held to Anselm’s head and noticed the gaping wound to his leg, “Find your breath!!!”
It did not come.
“Your Grace...” a guard attempted to help him but Arthur pushed him away as he looked down to the prone body.
“Ans...don’t leave me now!” the King cried out.
Again...there was no answer.
Shades of years past...many gone...a personal memory for the King. And his best friend. Arthur was unmovable as he held to Anselm’s soaked body and water dripped from his own white wet hair. He brought his face close and kissed the cheek of his friend. He whispered into his ear but only silence returned. He rocked back and forth with Anselm to his lap and was...inconsolable. The Lord Marshal, Earl Anselm of Gwynedd was gone. Dead at forty and nine. An accident for this brave warrior. And a picture that would never leave the King’s mind. Of all the abuses...all the regrets...this one hurt the most.
