The Woken Talisman (The Saxon Shore Trilogy Book 3)

Book summary

In The Woken Talisman, the third book of John Broughton’s Saxon Shore Trilogy, Valdor, a Roman officer, embraces his destiny as Arthur, king of Logres. Amidst battles and the looming Battle of Mons Badonicus, Arthur navigates a world of prophecy and power. This novel blends Arthurian legend with gripping historical drama.

Excerpt from The Woken Talisman (The Saxon Shore Trilogy Book 3)

Glevum, AD 400

Valdor gazed in amazement from the south-facing wall of the Glevum fortress as an entire Roman legion marched with admirable order towards the city. He squinted against the bright sunlight, peering in an attempt to decipher the design on their shields. What legion was this? He was not expecting reinforcements.

The cornicen dismounted and stood next to an obviously high-ranking officer, judging by his splendid helmet and body armour, as well as the scarlet paludamentum, fastened over one shoulder and cincticulus tied around the waist in a bow. The horn blower sounded three blasts and Valdor waved to the gatekeepers to admit the newcomers.

In the principia, the legatus legionis introduced himself, “Salve, I am Legate Marcus, commandant of the Legio II Adiutrix. We were stationed in Aquincum protecting the western frontier of Pannonia. I know not why Emperor Arcadius ordered us to be shipped here in Britannia. He ordered us to be divided into two comitatenses and told me to report to the Count of the Saxon Shore. I confess, we had difficulty finding you, but the legate of Dubris fortress directed us here.”

Valdor took an immediate liking to the legate but did not feel any obligation to explain his presence in Glevum to a complete stranger. Instead, he said, “The new century has begun unpromisingly. Waves of barbarians continue to assail our eastern and southern shores, Legate, therefore your countertrend arrival is fortuitous and welcome.”

He expected the legate to smile at these words but received a puzzled frown and a stern expression.

“Fine words, Count, but hardly a consolation; in Aquincum we expected the arrival of the Huns. A large force was spotted and we were prepared to defend the Danube crossing, but my orders were countermanded. The barbarians will have found the city empty and defenceless. I expect that by now, they will have crossed the river and be menacing the eastern empire. I should not say this, I know, for my role is to obey orders. Still,” he paused and looked embarrassed, biting his lower lip before continuing, “some commands are impossible to fathom. Sometimes it feels as though we are led by incompetents or imbeciles.”

“Have no fear, friend, your words are sacrosanct and I’ll not repeat them. But your presence here is welcome for that very reason. Our forces have been systematically bled white, withdrawn to defend the heartland. What can one say?”

They continued their congenial discussion over a silver flagon of wine until Valdor came to the conclusion that before him sat a conscientious and courageous officer—exactly the kind of man he had been seeking.

“Legate, I have fifty-seven winters behind me and can feel my strength waning—”

“That is not what I have heard, Count Valdor,” the legate smiled and sounded sincere, “There abound reports of your valour and leadership.”

“I thank you, friend, but the truth is another. I will do my duty until my strength fails me, but a younger man is needed to fulfil my obligations. And I have found him seated in front of me,” he smiled, avuncularly, at the legate.

“What do you mean, Count?”

“For some time, I have been seeking a man worthy of succeeding me in the role of Comes Litoris Saxonici without success. My son is too young and inexperienced for such a position, but now, I have found you, Marcus, I have no hesitation through my authority to invest you as the Count of the Saxon Shore.”

Legate Marcus remained speechless and poured them both another beaker. At last, he smiled and said, “I’m honoured, Count—”

“Ay, Count, for I mean to take the position of Comes Britanniarum, since the previous occupant of that role has not been replaced. His death in battle was a great loss to us all. The role suits me better, given my age and experience. I shall stem the advance of Picts, Scoti and anyone who tries to march on this, my city! Ah, Count Marcus, the title is not all I shall take. I mean to relieve you of one comitatensis, to add to my cavalry force. You will have no objection?”

“None, they are good men and will not disappoint you. But as for me, where do you suggest I make my base?”

“Either at Dubris or Regulbium, maybe the latter is a better strategic choice, but you would be wise to decide in situ.”

As the months slipped by, Valdor received three separate reports of victories won by Marcus: against the Saxons twice, and the Jutes on one occasion. He felt more than justified in his choice of Count. As for himself, he was called into action in Cumbria against a Pictish incursion. The battle was more of a skirmish because the outnumbered Picts surrendered and were taken to be sold into slavery. At Glevum, one of the Picts broke free and flung himself into the Severn to vanish underwater and not reappear rather than be sold as a slave. Valdor divided the takings at the slave market between his men, then went home to join his family.

He found Primus lined up with other boys in front of the eastern wall at the start of a race along the road, to the far side of the fortress. The boy was now thirteen and tall and strong for his age: he did not look out of place with the sixteen-year-olds he was among. At the drop of a hand, the boys hurtled along the Via Quintana to the opposite wall. From where he stood, Valdor could not see the leader of the three out ahead, but one was certainly Primus. During the race, he had stifled a desire to cheer on his son, but now he smiled broadly as the trainer took the boy by his wrist and raised his arm—a sure sign that he had won.

Valdor sauntered along the paved road towards the group, pretending he knew nothing. Primus broke away from the group and ran towards him. “Father, I won the race from the east to the west wall—I came first!”

“Winners usually do,” Valdor said laconically: the boy had to learn modesty.

“Now I’m going to win the javelin throwing contest!”

Valdor sighed and shrugged. “I suppose confidence is a good thing, Primus, but overconfidence should be left to losers.”

The youth’s face clouded. Gone was the joy of moments before, replaced by a serious expression. His father was a hero, and Primus had a burning desire to emulate him.

“I don’t mean to brag, Father, but I have faith in my skills. Will you stay and watch?”

Valdor shook his head. “I have much to do.” He hadn’t, but the boy would perform better if he thought he wasn’t the object of his parent’s severe judgement. Valdor strode away, found the sanctuary of a side street, where he stood behind a corner unseen by his son, but with an excellent view of proceedings. The trainer chose a youth renowned for his strong arm and in a ringing voice ordered him to set a difficult marker for the others to surpass if they were able. Six-seven-eight javelins fell short before Primus hurled his at a perfect angle. For a moment, the weapon seemed to float and vibrate in the air before plunging to strike the ground at least three yards beyond the marker.

Ay, the boy has a strong arm, better than mine at his age. Not that I’ll tell him that!

The trainer was organising sword practice with wooden swords but Valdor wanted to embrace his wife and daughter and felt sure that Primus would be bursting to report another victory sooner rather than later.

The reunion with mother and daughter went to plan, which was a joy as Sfava was now eleven and full of the embarrassing fact that she was now officially a woman! She was certainly a beauty, just like her mother. Whenever he was with them, he managed to tinge happiness with worry about the future. He knew that he had made a sensible decision passing the responsibility for the Saxon Shore forts to Marcus. Occasionally, when at home, he felt an urge to resign his commission and retire to the life of a family man, but he knew that was not his destiny, at least, not yet. The only certainty he had about the future was that it would involve Primus, who had so admirably shown his qualities as an athlete earlier, but Primus needed to grow older.

It came as a surprise, therefore, when his son stormed into the room shortly afterwards with a face like thunder.

“What on Earth’s the matter?” Gosvintha asked.

“Nothing!” Primus said curtly, on the verge of rudeness.

“Primus, don’t use that tone with your mother,” Valdor snapped.

“Sorry, it’s just that—”

“Ay?”

“…this damned arm’s aching, but the trainer says it’s not broken. Father, the truth is, my pride hurts more than my arm.”

“Let me see,” Gosvintha fussed, taking the offended limb and turning it gently.

“Ouch!”

His mother shook her head. “That’s an ugly bruise forming there.”

Primus’ eyes filled with tears of unswallowed pride, and he swiped an angry hand across them. “It’s the first time I’ve lost a sword fight, Father. I’m glad you didn’t stay to see it.”

“That’s true, but I’ll come to see you get revenge in a few days from now, when the bruise has gone.”

Primus moaned, “I’ll never beat Caius, he’s too expert for me!”

Valdor squatted in front of his son, who was sitting on the low hearth wall and looked him straight in the eye. “What I need is a bit of that earlier cockiness! You said you’d win at the javelin and you did!”

His son’s eyes sparkled. “You stayed to watch!” Then, his face fell.

“So, I did, but I didn’t stay for the sword fights.”

“So, you didn’t see me lose?”

“Nay, but as I said, I’ll come to see you get the better of this Caius.”

“How can that be?”

Valdor laughed. “Because, I’ll teach you some tricks my mother taught me when I was your age. There’s one, in particular, that has always served me well in battle.”

Primus leapt to his feet. “Did you hear, Mother? Where is she?”

“Here, with a balm for that arm. It’ll take the pain away and bring out the bruise so that it’ll pass in no time! This is a cure for bruises and sprains that an old woman taught my mother when we lived near the Baltic Sea. It’s called the sunshine salve and is made from herbs like calendula and comfrey-infused oil.” She dribbled some drops of oil onto the injured arm and massaged it gently before smearing a golden-orangey salve over the area. “There, isn’t that better?” she grinned into his face. He leant over and kissed her.