The Great Captains

Henry Treece

Description

The epic romance and adventure of King Arthur. "This is the story of 'King' Arthur, as I think it happened," Henry Treece wrote about his novel. The Great Captains is about no romantic ghost but a man of the wild, forbidding world of ancient Britain.

Sujets

• Romance
• Arthurian
• Fiction
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 09 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781774643860
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Great Captains
by Henry Treece

First published in 1956
This edition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
[e-mail]
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

THE GREAT CAPTAINS

by HENRY TREECE

Places in the story

Abus— The River Humber
Agned— Edinburgh
Anderida Silva— The Weald Forest
Aquae Sulis— Bath
Avallon— The Celtic Heaven , Valhalla , The Isle of Apples
Bassas— Tumulus in Sussex
Bodotria— The Firth of Forth
Byzantium— Istanbul
Caer Leon— Caerleon-upon-Usk
Caerwent— Caerwent
Caledonia— Area south of the Firth of Forth
Calleva Atrebatum— Silchester
Camulodunum (Camulod, Camelot, Camlann)— Colchester
Cantii— Kentish tribes
Cissaceaster— Chichester
Demetia— Southwest Wales
Deva— Chester
Dubglas— Boundary between Kent and Sussex
Dumnonia— Devon , Cornwall
Durotriges— Tribe of Wessex
Eburacum— York
Glein— River Glynde , East Sussex
Glevum— Gloucester
Gwynnedd— Wales
Gwent— Approximately Shropshire
Hadrian’s Wall— The Roman wall from Wallsend to Carlisle
Lindum— Lincoln
Lis Pengwern— Shrewsbury
Londinium— London
Mancunium— Manchester
Mons Badonicus— Fortified hill near Swindon
Powys— Midland area of Wales
Sabrina— The River Severn
Scythia— Area about the Black Sea
Siluria— South Wales
Sorbiodunum— Old Sarum
Strathclyde— Area south of the Clyde River and including Cumberland
Tamesa— The River Thames
Tribuit— Chichester
Vectis— The Isle of Wight
Venta Belgarum— Winchester
Verulam— Saint Albans
Vricon (Viroconium)— Wroxeter in Shropshire

Preface
This is the story of “King” Arthur, as I think it might havehappened. It is not easy now to throw off all the accretions oflegend and, later, poetry and to see the situation with an objectivehistorical eye. They were men, yet to see them only as men,stripped of their doom-driven greatness, is to represent them ontoo trivial a scale. To draw them as massive heroes only would beto re-create them as inhuman cyphers.
But whatever one does, they loom and fade, slide sideways, shiftout of focus, the pathetic and malevolent ghosts of a period quiteunlike any other in the history of Britain and for which we haveno adequate terms of reference.
Yet it is a tale which sooner or later most storytellers wish toset down in their own way, for the struggles and characters portrayedare archetypal, and there is no getting away from them!
I do not presume to have found out who Arthur was; all Iknow is that Malory and Tennyson were wrong! Men very muchcloser to his time called him ursus horribilis , which should give aclear enough clue. Looking at the problem decently from a numberof directions, I sympathise with Medrawt, who has had a poordefence in the Court of History. And this Court, may it be said,took its case from a biassed Knight writing in 1469, nearly a thousandyears after the event.
The only safe assumption in a case like this is that we are allwrong—but it makes a good story.
Henry Treece
“THE GREAT CAPTAINS”

The great Captains, do they sleep
Careless as other men, with dangling arm?
Or do they roll from side to side,
Wide-eyed and sweating through the night,
Shuddering at every bird-cry, starting up
With hammering heart as distant doorlatch clicks,
Or nightwind carries nearer far-off feet?
Does dawn still find them living through the past,
Where never-ending film to the numb brain
Shows tumbled bodies, killed by directive,
Smashed faces grinning in the drizzling dawn,
And victory only lull before the same
Rehearsal yet again, and yet again?
The great Captains, do they ever weep
Before tedium drags them down to sleep?
PART ONE THE JOURNEY TO THE WEST

At the old world’s edge, the fuchsia was in flower
And bugloss and poppy stood among the corn.
Isca Legionis, Verulamium, even Londinium,
Slept out the length of some long afternoon.
From Corstopitum down to Chichester
Foxglove and eglantine
Grew up towards the sunlight
From between the crumbling stones.

But when the moon came out along the Roman roads,
Along three thousand miles of weed-grown tracks,
Roads straight as arrows from York to Colchester
And back from Exeter to York again,
In the still air the marching feet still echoed,
And above the lonely peewit’s cry
The proud centurion’s voice set trembling
The dangling pine cones in the wood.

No, they are gone. It is all afternoon.
The distant thunder speaks in the hills
But goes unheard.
The blood-red sun will sink, to light another world.
Here in the country villas paint flakes from the columns,
And the ghosts, the tired gay ones,
Sit by the sunlit vineyard wall, yawning,
And speculating on predestination.

Now it is all late summer’s afternoon,
Where the cow nuzzles her bursting udders,
Lowing to be milked,
And the lazy bees mumble as they stagger
Among the pitifully moss-grown urns.
I
Two men stood in the sunlight on the cliff-top, looking downtowards the sea. The disturbed gulls circled low over their heads,squawking with anger at their intrusion, but the men ignored thebirds. They had other problems to think of; the wings that echoedin their minds were the pinions of death.
The old man was gazing over the glittering water with the fixed,immobile set of the head that is often seen in the blind, or thenearly blind. He was tall and almost emaciated. His long greygown of coarse woollen stuff hung loosely about him, sometimeswhipped in the wayward breezes that flicked across the open headland.It looked as though it had been made for a much biggerman. His close-cropped, grizzled hair gave him the look of a hermit,a recluse from the luxuries of common man. Yet upon his feethe wore high sandals of such leather and of such exquisite craftsmanshipas might only have been purchased by one of substantialmeans. Nor was the sword, which swung in a heavy bronze scabbardfrom the thong about his waist, the weapon of an austere andpenniless holy man. It was of the old Roman pattern, but muchlonger, and its hilt and pommel were not of the customary style.The hilt was of chiselled Irish gold, teased into spirals of plaitedbasket-work; the great round pommel was of silver, set with a largered stone that gleamed richly as he moved in the morning sun.
As the light struck in a new shaft from behind a high cloud, thisold man pressed his hand closer to his eyes, straining to see. “Canyou still see them, Medrodus?” he said. “Have they reached theship yet?”
The young man smiled to himself. His own sight was as sharpas that of a bird of prey.
“They are pulling hard against the tide, Ambrosius,” he said.“But the current is strong. It will be long before they are aboard.Must we wait?”
His keen eyes strayed to the rich sword with something likeenvy. Then he lightly shrugged his shoulders and began to whistlesoftly. The old man made a small gesture of annoyance, as thoughirritated at his dependence. He did not seem to like that carefreewhistling, but the young man affected not to notice this.
“We must stay,” said Ambrosius. “But, by the gods, I almostwish I was with them now, for it seems my time here is done. Britainis beyond my cure.”
The young man stopped whistling suddenly, his heavy lids halfveiling the scorn in his dark eyes. Of medium height and build, hisswarthy skin and oiled black hair, which hung in small curls to thenape of his neck, gave him an exotic, almost an Eastern appearance.On his proudly held head he wore a light hood of leather,onto which many small iron plates had been rivetted for protectionagainst a surprise sword cut. As a guard for his ears, two invertedtriangles of chain mail dangled from the hood, clinking ashe moved and lending his expression something of the Babylonianwarrior.
“You are still the Count of Britain, Master,” he said. “While youare with us Rome is not dead in Britain.”
His voice was well modulated and ingratiating and on the surfacehe spoke with sincerity. The old man nodded gravely, acceptingthe title without embarrassment, as a king does. Yet the youngman’s thick red lips had curled as he spoke. The thin fringe of darkbeard about his chin picked out the irony that lay so lightly concealedin his heart.
The old man turned away from him, his head lowered and hishand over his brow.
“The Count of Britain,” he said sadly. “It is a threadbare robenow, that title. It no longer keeps out the Saxon cold. I wonderhow much longer I shall wear it.”
“You will live many years, Master,” said the young man, lookingtowards the sword again like a girl before a trinket-maker’s booth.
He was dressed in a short blue tunic of heavy linen, embellishedby threads of woven silver; but now its hem was torn and its embroiderytarnished. A worn and greasy hide jerkin reached to hiswaist, laced round his broad chest by thongs of twisted leather. Hisstrong legs were bare but for his thin woollen nether-stocks, madeafter the fashion of a legionary’s winter breeches. Upon his feet hewore the caligulae, the marching-boots of a Roman soldier, but ofsuch a