Y Llyn Llwyd

by Michael Arram

II

Urban awoke to a face, a beautiful male face, so close to his own that their noses were all but touching. 'Bore da, Gwrgan bach' it said, then pressed its lips on his. He was aware that the warm naked body attached to the face was lying along his own and that its hips were pressed into his own and gently and rhythmically rubbing his, and that his erection was consequently very hot, thick and hard.

'You taste better than the last boy who kissed me on the mouth,' he commented with a little grin.

'What's this?' laughed Morgan. 'You whore yourself out, you dissolute clerk?'

'It was the ship's boy on the barge that brought me from Castle Goodrich to Monmouth, and a sexy little whore he was, but you are cleaner and smell and taste so much better … what was your name again?'

'There's no worse way to start the day than a knee in the testicles; want to find out why?'

'Er … no. Is this the subhuman savagery for which our people are so infamous?'

'For this insolence Gwrgan bach, you will be fucked. Are you a virgin? Despite the bravado, I would imagine you are.'

'Uh … what if I am?'

'So you didn't take the ship rat's cock.'

'No. It stank of Saxon piss.'

'So you want me.'

'You bet I fucking do. You are … amazing. Let's see the instrument of my torture … oh my! That is not small and it's way bigger than the ship rat's. Can I … can I, kiss it.'

'You are a strange boy, Gwrgan bach. But go ahead. It may stink of British piss, of course.'

'I don't see that as a barrier to my enjoyment.'

The two youths giggled like much smaller boys as they looked for the most comfortable position. Urban found himself on his back with his knees pushed back to his upper chest and consequently his anus raised and open to the body above his. 'Now the thing is, Gwrgan,' said Morgan, 'that when boys fuck they do have a disadvantage as compared to fucking with girls. You have no natural lubricant, cariad.'

'Er … that sounds bad. And incidentally, you fuck girls?'

'Since I was a randy lad of twelve. I have three small sons and a daughter by various obliging peasant girls.'

'Really? That's … surprising.'

'Don't know why. True, I prefer sex with handsome men, but for a man of my class and background breeding with women is a social duty. I know the kids and they know me as their father: Cynan, Cyngwin and Cyngen, the girl is Gwenllian, and one day they will join Daddy's household as his useful servants and officers. It's Saxons and French who treat bastards as lepers. We Britons are so much more pragmatic and generous here in the West. Anyway, lubricant. We have none. So as I push into you, push back as if you're taking a shit. That'll probably be enough to allow me to breach you without too much difficulty, and once I start moving in you you won't care at all, believe me.'

'Er … what if I turns out I actually do need to shit?'

Morgan rolled his eyes. 'Ever the optimist, Gwrgan. We shall take a temporary break and resume after what will then have to happen. Ready?'

With little preliminary Morgan loomed up and over Urban, gently smiling. He winked. There was a momentary stab of pressure, a catch, he pushed out and then something large simply slid into his depths sending pulses of pleasure tingling up his spine. 'Oh fuck! Oh God! That's so good. Do it again.' Urban laughed with relief.

'With pleasure, Gwrgan bach.' And the large thing slid in and out of him causing his anal muscles a happy sort of warmth and his dick to thicken and tingle. Urban clasped Morgan around his waist with his legs and pulled him into him. They kissed and kissed until Morgan tensed and came hugely in pulses the other boy could actually feel emptying into him.

They clung together as the storm of orgasm blew over. 'So that's being fucked by a man. Wow.'

Urban was invited by courtesy towards the Lord Warden to Richard fitz Gilbert's council to consider the route he and his retinue would take from Monmouth to his lordship of Ceredigion. He settled in the rear of the group, next to Morgan. 'The problems begin after we leave your castle at Abergavenny, my lord Brian,' Lord Richard stated in French. 'Welsh rebels hold Brycheiniog, so there is no passage up the Usk valley to Brecon and Llandovery, the route by which we used to travel in my father's day. So what do you gentlemen suggest?'

With little apparent nervousness, or respect for the precedence of the barons and knights around the table, Morgan spoke up promptly in his clear good French. 'My lords, the Black Mountains are outside the bounds of Brycheiniog and there are ways through them to Talgarth or Hay and to Builth beyond.'

'Are you speaking of the pass of the Grwyne Fawr, young man?' Brian of Wallingford asked, his eyes narrowed and suspicious.

'Yes my lord. It's east of the rebel territory and as far as I know is clear of the rebel scum.'

Brian shook his head. 'It's a difficult passage through forest and a narrow high pass. Good hunting land especially for hawking, as I know full well, but one wouldn't want to find oneself being the hunted there.'

Richard shrugged. 'The boy speaks good sense. We have few realistic alternatives in our present circumstances other than to travel a long way to the east into the border shires and by an overland arc through England up to Radnor, which would be about as time-consuming as to travel from here south to the Severn Sea and take ship from Chepstow or Newport around Pembroke into the Irish Sea and thus to land at Cardigan town. We have a respectable body of experienced soldiers with us. I vote for the Grwyne Fawr and the route to Ceredigion by Builth. Time does not allow anything else.'

Brian shook his head. 'As you determine, my lord. But I won't be going past Abergavenny in any case, my responsibilities lie in northern Gwent, so you'll have to take the risk without me and my company.'

And so it was determined with no further debate. Departure was set for the morrow, the 13th day of April. Urban applied himself to writing an account of events so far to send to his Lord Miles while Morgan, looking very full of himself, volunteered to secure a mount for Urban, 'as a thank you for the ride you gave me earlier this morning,' he said with a grin. Which only left the problem of who was to carry Urban's letter to Gloucester.

He wandered down to the quays where the River Monnow emptied into the Wye, and amused himself observing the shipmen unloading and loading barges. And as he did so, he jumped as a cheerful young voice said behind him in English. 'Master Urban? Good day to you. Did all go well in Monmouth?'

It was the ship's boy of his journey from Castle Goodrich, whose name he could not remember, but whose kiss he could never forget. The youth was now minimally dressed, in a stained and grubby breech clout. 'Oh! Hello er …'

'Leofric Alfwinesson, master. You remember me? From the barge? We've just docked on our way back upriver'

Urban smiled. 'I remember your kiss, for sure. It earned you a penny. I can offer you more today.'

'For a fuck, sir? My arse is yours for three pence.' The boy grinned very cheekily and confidently. 'I'd really like that. I charge more for dirty old men, but you, sir …'

'Leofric, I have to turn you down unfortunately … but I have another service in mind which will earn you a lot more. I have a letter that must be delivered to Gloucester castle. If your father's boat is now on its return voyage to Castle Goodrich, maybe your father would release you for the journey onwards to Gloucester. I will pay you a shilling down with expenses, and a shilling more to bring me any reply.'

The boy laughed. 'The old cunt would rather cut his own throat than let me go free in the world, and he'd have your money off me for sure, if he knew about it. But tell you what, master. If you promise to take me on as your servant if you find I answer your needs well, I'll jump ship at Castle Goodrich and take your gewrit onwards to Gloucester.'

'A kiss to seal the deal, young Leofric?'

The boy laughed and repeated the exercise to Urban's great pleasure. For all his odour and unavoidable dirt, Leofric was a very accomplished kisser. 'I wish I had time for that fuck,' Urban groaned feelingly as the other boy laughed.

'Later master, it's all part of the contract.' After some careful instructions, which Urban got the boy to repeat, he watched Leofric skip off through the quayside crowd like a much younger boy, the letter secreted in his rather odoriferous breech clout where Urban thought that few people would look to find anything of value, other than what Leofric sold for three pence, or more for dirty old men.

As the boy disappeared in the quayside crowd, Urban somehow had little doubt, despite all reason, that Leofric would do what was asked of him, though that confidence was underlain by a somewhat disturbing realisation that it was because he sensed that in some strange way the boy Leofric, the soiled river rat and eager prostitute, was in love with him.

Urban found Morgan in the castle courtyard, which was bustling as the barons' household servants loaded the wagons with their lords' baggage. Morgan was sitting on a stray cask with his viol in his hand, talking to a powerfully built soldier in his thirties at his side, whom he introduced to Urban as 'my uncle Seisyll'. Welshman or not, Seisyll was dressed in the French fashion of Anglo-Norman soldiers, a metal-studded jerkin in livery colours of red and yellow above a mail coat that went down to his thighs, but no mail leggings, just riding boots up to his knees. He carried his well-polished helmet in his hands, the broad-brimmed open helm of a mercenary which Urban knew was the fashion in the English king's household.

'Seisyll has sold me one of his palfreys for your use, Gwrgan bach,' Morgan said with a triumphant grin. 'Say diolch yn fawr iawn to him, Gwrgan. He only did it because you're Welsh and because I am his favourite nephew and I asked nicely.'

'Wel, diolch yn fawr iawn i chi'ch dau.' said Urban obediently. 'And to make it more profound and learned, sir, as befits a much indebted clerk, gratias multas in Christo vobis ambobus.'

Seisyll laughed. 'Dicta bene, O urbane clericule.'

Impressed by the man's ready multi-lingual wit, Urban complimented Seisyll on his Latin. The man smiled and reverted to Welsh. Nodding at his nephew, he said 'We belong to an unevenly talented family. This shiftless nephew of mine sometimes reminds me of Our Lord straying as a child into the Temple of Jerusalem, stunning the aged teachers there with his unnatural learning and insights. I rather think he too will come to no good in the end, despite his miraculous abilities.'

'You mean his linguistic skills?'

Seisyll laughed. 'A mere nothing. You have yet to hear him sing, young clerk. Voice of an archangel and a poet of such grandeur that Greek Homer would despair at matching his originality and harmony.'

Urban looked at Morgan, who shrugged, grinned and said, 'It's true. No word of a lie.' He put his viol to his shoulder, picked up a bow and produced an elegant tuneful flourish so different from the usual saw and screech of the alehouse viol-player that Urban was moved to applaud.

Seisyll ruffled Morgan's hair. 'See what I mean? I'm off now, good nephew. I like your new boyfriend, rather more classy than your usual stupid whores. I hope he lasts the week. Kiss? You'll want tongue, you sodomitical, incestuous pervert. I shall give your greetings to your aunt Dyddgu.'

As they watched the man march off, Urban had to thank Morgan again. 'No problem, cariad,' came the easy reply, 'I had no wish to separate myself from you and your lovely twll tin, which I will be using again fairly soon I do not doubt. And for that we need you to have a mount for the journey to Grwyne Fawr, so shall we go and introduce you to her? I believe her somewhat humdrum name is Mair.'

'Mair the Mare … you found that amusing?'

'I take my laughs where I can get them, Gwrgan bach, even in English puns.'

Urban scratched the bay mare's ears and was rewarded with a whinny and a nuzzle. 'She's lovely. How much do I owe you?'

'Just a fuck. Uncle Seisyll didn't take any cash for her. He owes me enough already, believe it, cariad. He can't turn down any reasonable request I make, and not that many unreasonable ones, either.'

'I take it as a gift of love then, Morgan Pidyn-mawr,' grinned Urban.

The boy guffawed. 'So you found something to like about me? My cock size. I am complimented, sort of. So our love-making satisfied you?'

'Yes. And I do want more of it.'

'Hmm. Won't be so easy on the open road, Gwrgan bachgen. But we will look for our opportunities, and grab them with both hands and the requisite enthusiasm. You have your own horse furniture with you? Good. We'll saddle Mair and join Lord Richard's entourage. We might get to spend a night in a bed, if we stop at Y Fenni this evening.'

Their entourage was an intimidating sight as it jingled though the lordship of Monmouth and into that of Upper Gwent, purportedly through fears of local Welsh brigandage. But Urban's heart was untroubled and buoyant and the April day was bright and warm. Spring green was everywhere in the hedgerows and woodlands and the birds were flocking like white dust as they followed the sowers who were following the plough teams across the open fields, hoping to take their tithe of the seeds which would become the spring-sown crops.

'Summer is a-coming in!' Urban happily ventured to sing in English.

'Loudly then fuck you,' Morgan shot him a savage grin from the saddle.

Urban would not be repressed 'The verse goes "loudly sing cuckoo" I believe.'

'It's fucking English, Gwrgan boy. Doesn't that strike you as in any way inappropriate on a fine day in the Kingdom of Gwent, wherein lies the Roman city of Caerleon, once the capital of the great Arthur, King of Britain and Emperor of Rome, whose palace still stands there to proclaim his greatness and the true sovereignty of the British people in this land.'

'Arthur? Who was he?'

Morgan rolled his eyes in an elegant dismissal of Urban's ignorance. 'There is a book which is receiving a lot of notice at the moment, called The History of the Kings of Britain. I have a copy, though not with me, which was given me by its Breton author, Geoffrey mab Artur, who was once a clerk in Monmouth, where I first met and befriended him. It tells the true history of the British people from the fall of Troy to the foundation of the British kingdom in these islands by the hero Brutus, up to the great reign of King Arthur who united our people and drove off for a while the invading Saxon race. A wonderful and tragic story that does full credit to the greatness of our persecuted people, and which is a rallying cry to arms to our lazy fratricidal British princes.'

Morgan sat straight in his saddle and swept an arm around, to comprehend the ridged open fields around them. 'You do not see the daily Saxon tyranny laid on our land, Gwrgan. These fields are Saxon fields erasing the ancient checkerboard of our British ancestors which you still see in happier lordships where no English colonists have been brought in to enslave even the very British earth.'

'Morgan cariad, you make me wonder how and why it is you are happy to serve a French lord as his interpreter,' a rather disgruntled Urban asked.

His response was a frown and a tart comment. 'A question you might equally have asked your late father, who toadied to a Norman king and a Lombard archbishop. Why? To secure what he might of his diocese in the throes of Saxon conquest, and to await his moment. Did you ever ask him why he was so often on the road to Rome? No? Arthur was crowned King of the Britons at Caerleon by Archbishop Dubricius, who was that same St Dyfrig who was the earliest known occupant of the see of Glamorgan. Your good father was arguing at Rome that he should receive the pallium of a rightful archbishop and metropolitan of the Britons, and he had the documents to prove it, some of which were provided by that Geoffrey of Monmouth I mentioned, and some indeed by me.'

Astonished, Urban could only say. 'I had no idea.'

Morgan growled sarcastically. 'A thing we are learning about you, little clerk.' They rode on in silence towards Abergavenny, where Urban learned to his unhappiness that he would sleep alone.

The storm had passed the next morning at mass in the town church, where Morgan grinned in Urban's face and lasciviously thrust his tongue into Urban's mouth at the kiss of peace rather than kiss the silver pax plate which was being passed around. Fortunately they were behind a pillar at the back of the congregation.

Morgan took station at the front of the retinue in the castle courtyard and indicated Urban should ride beside him. After them rode four of Lord Richard's knights with their lord and his young French chaplain, and following them the baggage waggons. In the rear rode a company of a dozen men-at-arms, arbalasts slung on their shoulders.

'I am to lead the way this morning, Gwrgan,' Morgan said. 'I know the pass of Grwyne Fawr, and my tuneful voice will reassure those we encounter that we ride in peace through this land.' He struck up with his viol and as they rode out the town gate and north towards the hunched mass of Great Skirrid he occasionally broke into song. After a few miles, they crossed the valley and took a decent road that led into the rounded hills to the village of Patrishow, where they stopped for a while and made an early lunch.

Richard fitz Gilbert and his chaplain walked up, asking Morgan about the road ahead. 'It's a solitary pass, my lord,' said Morgan, 'a narrow trail beside a stream between two ridges, used mainly by packmen and their mules, but it'll easily accommodate our wagons. Before we reach the pass, we enter into thick woods for a few miles, which give way to rough grass before the peak of the pass. It will be evening before we cross over. I do not see much chance of reaching Talgarth before nightfall, so we may have to pass the night in tents.'

The chaplain sulked at this idea, but Lord Richard laughed at him. 'My dear Sir Alan, if you'd led the life I have, battling across Normandy and the Vexin, one night under canvas is no hardship. We're well provisioned. Grow up, boy.' His chaplain was a fresh-faced boyish blond, looking younger than his years.

'Could fuck that French kid,' Morgan whispered into Urban's ear. 'Fortunately you're here, and I'm sure we'll find opportunities between here and Talgarth.'

'So I'm forgiven, then?'

'For being annoying and dense? A nice moist cul and a lovely squeal when you're breached counts for a lot, Gwrgan bach. Besides, before the sun goes down, you'll have a few things to forgive me for, I do not doubt.'

'What does that mean?'

'I do have a talent for getting on the wrong side of people. Even I have noticed it, Gwrgan bach.'

Urban chuckled. 'It's your sublime self-confidence and sense of entitlement. More suitable in a royal prince than a humble jobbing latimarius, and a Welsh one at that.'

Urban was expecting a sharp retort, but got only an inarticulate growl and a curt command to mount Mair and follow him to the head of the retinue. There Morgan struck up a tune with his viol, and began adding French lyrics as they rode, apparently extemporaneous. It was a scabrous tale of a sodomitical son of a bishop and his relationship with the noble son of a king, of which the refrain played on many meanings that could be read into the phrase 'holy water'. For a while Urban was pursued by the scoffing laughter of the soldiers riding behind them but as they passed under the eaves of the Coed Grwyne the sound of the retinue faded behind them as Morgan urged his mount to go faster, presumably to escape his music critics. Morgan's song ended too, though he carried on playing his viol, if rather less merrily.

Morgan drew his horse to a halt where a standing stone, spattered with yellow lichen, stood beside the trail. 'We dismount here,' he informed Urban.

'So the column can catch up with us?'

'No.' Morgan seemed to be trying to listen for something. 'The column and Lord Richard have something else on their minds at the moment, I think. Now get off Mair and follow me down here. The two youths descended a shallow slope and Urban soon detected the sound of rushing water below them. It was the Grwyne Fawr stream, leaping and rushing over rocks and tumbling over a waterfall into a dark pool.

'Here's a place I like,' Morgan said. 'Get out of those clothes, bishop's brat. I want to fuck you on all fours, and then we'll wash in the bath Nature provided.'

'Is there something holy about this water, Morgan?'

'No. But I am a king's son. So show some respect for my requests.'

'You're what?'

'Rydw i'n Morgan ap Morgan, brenhin Morgannuc.'

'The fuck you say. And Uncle Seisyll?'

'Is the Welsh lord of Upper Gwent. And my Uncle Iorweth will be sending for us after he's finished with Richard fitz Gilbert. But we have time first for that sex. Now, on your knees to the prince of Glamorgan, Gwrgan bach.