Rise of the Pendragon (The Last Pendragon Saga Book 6)

by Sarah Woodbury

  The hope that had briefly flared in Rhiann’s heart went out again, even as she shot one arrow after another, refusing to stop until either there were no more Saxons, or she ran out of arrows. Then to her horror, the ring of fighters broke apart. Every one of Cade’s men had gone down, and Cade himself faced a last man alone.

  Except the last man wasn’t a man. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew that stance. She knew the glow that emanated from him. The god was confronting her husband again.

  Mabon.

  How she hated him.

  Taliesin put a hand on her arm. “You see him? That means it’s time.”

  Rhiann swept her rain-soaked hair out of her eyes and raised her bow. Lifting her eyes to the heavens for one last prayer, she focused all of her attention on this last chance for some kind of victory. Her hands trembled, and she feared that her wet bowstring wouldn’t respond as it should. She would have replaced it earlier if she’d had any to spare. But even so, she pressed the black arrow, the one she’d been saving, the one that Arianrhod had given her by the river, into it—and then loosed it.

  It hit Mabon in the center of his mass.

  And with that shot, power exploded in the center of the field. It burst from the place Mabon had been standing and surged outward like waves from a boulder lobbed into a pool of water. The force pushed men and horses with it, laying them flat to the ground as it passed. It reached Caer Fawr and blew past and through Taliesin and Rhiann, who herself was thrown backwards off the top of the rampart.

  Sometime later, Rhiann came to herself. She was lying flat on her back below the wall, and her bow lay ten feet away. Taliesin, whose composure had never wavered throughout their vigil, was on his knees, and he reached down a hand to her from the top of the wall. “You’ll want to see this.”

  Coughing, she got to her feet and clambered back to Taliesin’s position. The field lay before her, still rain-soaked, though the downpour seemed to have lessened slightly. The five companions stood together. Cade held Dyrnwyn point down, its fire out.

  Here and there, the Saxons they’d been fighting staggered to their feet, their swords and axes forgotten on the ground. Rhiann’s jaw dropped to see half as many as there had been when she’d shot the arrow. Cade himself reached out a hand to assist a helmetless Saxon soldier to his feet. Even from this distance, Rhiann recognized the Saxon by his ornate armor and the black swath of beard across his face. He’d visited Aberffraw when she was a girl. It was Penda, the King of Mercia.

  “What has happened?” Rhiann said. “Where did all of Penda’s men go?”

  “The gods fought with us and against us,” Taliesin said, “just as I foresaw.”

  “I don’t understand,” Rhiann said. “Mabon—”

  “He is gone for now, as are his troops.”

  “But he had no demons at his command,” Rhiann said. “We faced real men.”

  “And almost were overcome by them,” Taliesin said. “But as with the glamour he affects in our world, the size of the Saxon force was an illusion. Penda had many men, but not as many as we believed. If Penda had defeated us, it would have been in part because we defeated ourselves. We believed Penda had thousands more soldiers than he did.”

  “But we lost so many men!”

  “Did we?”

  “But Rhys! And Geraint!”

  Taliesin nodded. “Yes, they are dead, but look around you now and tell me what you see.”

  Rhiann put a hand to her mouth. Many of the men who lay on the field of battle were dead, but here and there, men stirred and shook their heads. Could it be that they’d received blows from which they were only now recovering? Could so many really still live?

  “I don’t believe it!” Rhiann said. And then the tears began to fall in earnest as all her fears and hopes coalesced into a potent mix of joy and pain, sorrow and gladness. They hadn’t lost all their men. Wales would not be left defenseless. Her heart rose in her throat, along with hope. “But—” She swallowed and tried again. “What about the arrow I shot at Mabon? Is he truly dead this time?”

  “Arianrhod’s arrow, his mother’s arrow, ripped away the glamour and the links that anchored him to our world. My hope is that in Mabon’s moment of weakness, Arianrhod tied him to her in the world of the sidhe. She couldn’t find him—couldn’t contain him—and was relying on you whom she deemed worthy to find him for her. If what I believe is true, he is trapped now in his mother’s keeping.”

  “But for how long?” Rhiann said.

  “That I cannot say,” Taliesin said.

  Rhiann stared at Taliesin, and then threw whatever caution she still had—which wasn’t much to begin with—to the wind that roared down the valley from the west.

  The battle might have been over, but the storm hadn’t spent its fury. The rungs of one of the ladders the Saxons had left propped against the rampart were slippery. She almost fell off at the end and landed hard. Once on the ground, it was difficult to see past Rhun’s men and horses, but most of the men had dismounted by now, and she found a path through them to Cade.

  He hadn’t seen her coming, so when she launched herself at him, she almost knocked him over. But he weighed more than she did, and he steadied himself, lifting her off the ground and clutching her to his chest. “Cariad.”

  “I didn’t see how we could win,” Rhiann said into his surcoat. “It seems as unlikely now as it ever did.”

  “So this is the girl who has caused so much trouble.” Penda stood before them, his hands loose at his sides.

  Rhiann turned in Cade’s arms. “I’m the girl who causes trouble? Who encroaches on our lands with every day that passes? Who took advantage of my father’s death to—” She broke off, so angry she couldn’t finish her sentence.

  Cade whispered in her ear. “Mabon visited Penda too, weeks ago.”

  Understanding dawned in Rhiann. She narrowed her eyes at the King of Mercia. “He told you that you could win.”

  Penda bowed. “As you say.”

  And that was all the apology they were going to get. The Welsh had fallen again and again to the Saxons, but rather than live under the rule of foreigners, they’d retreated west into Wales. Penda had waged a war against his own nephew, over rocks and trees he didn’t care for anyway and would have had a hard time controlling even if he did win.

  Penda eyed Cade now. “Your emissary told me the truth about Oswin of Northumbria?”

  “He did,” Cade said.

  Penda surveyed the battlefield. “I suppose you wouldn’t consider fighting beside me against him? You haven’t lost as many men as you feared. You would be welcome.”

  Rhiann gaped at his audacity, but Cade answered civilly. “Better an enemy I know than one I don’t, is that it?”

  Penda shrugged. The gesture was so dismissive—so casual—as if none of what he’d done mattered, that Rhiann wanted to launch herself at him like she had at Cade, except she would then scratch his eyes out. All he cared about was his own power, and if Cade agreed to fight beside him—as Cadfael and Cadwallon had before him—to him it would still be a victory of a sorts.

  Cade studied him, still not answering, and Rhiann was struck with a sudden vision of Penda, lying on a field in the sun, his lifeblood flowing into the grass from a wound to the gut. She’d never seen before, but this felt like a true vision. If Cade denied Penda’s request, he would not live out the year, just as Taliesin had foretold.

  “I’m sorry, Uncle. I cannot fight for you today,” Cade said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dinas Bran

  Cade

  Cade sat behind his desk, turning the little chess piece Rhiann had brought him around and around in his fingers. The knife and the whetstone were to one side and the cloak was hidden in a chest behind him. Dafydd still had Dyrnwyn in his possession, and Cade had seen no reason to ask him for it. A cold anger still burned in Cade that he’d needed to use it, and at how close Cade had come to winning the battle but losing the war. If all had happened as Mab
on desired, Cade’s army would have been so weakened and diminished, it would have been left open to an attack from anyone who could marshal enough men.

  But once Mabon was gone, the glamour he’d created had vanished. The veil had lifted, and the trauma of the day had lessened. Cade had reached Bedwyr and Hywel soon enough to help them. Them and others, through the power of Caledfwlch. Many hadn’t lived to fight another day, and Cade mourned the loss of every man. Still, he had to be grateful that there were fewer widows to accuse him with their grief.

  “I’m glad that Caer Fawr wasn’t really on fire,” Rhun said.

  “Glamour again.” Taliesin closed the door to the room, stumped over to a bench set against the far wall, and settled himself onto it. “I would give much to ensure a way to see through it.”

  That was quite an admission, coming from Taliesin.

  Cade gestured in the general direction of the hall where his other friends were dining. The workman had come a long way on the project of restoring Dinas Bran to its former glory. Another month and they’d finish the curtain wall, provided nothing happened in the interim to stop the work. “So many were sorely wounded. That was no lie.”

  “I, for one, dislike intensely that I cannot trust my own eyes.” Rhun had turned his chair around and sat with his arms resting on the back rail, cushioning his chin with his fists.

  “Even I can’t see through it,” Cade said. “Maybe that’s the next gift I will ask of Arianrhod.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Taliesin said.

  Cade laughed. “No more gifts, eh? I suppose that’s wise.”

  The three friends fell silent. In the aftermath of the battle, and on the return journey to Dinas Bran, Taliesin and Cade had talked for hours about what had happened: about the gods, about the battle, about the war that could rage in the world of the sidhe if Beli and the sidhe council learned of Mabon’s actions. And at this point, how could they not?

  Cade pointed to the Treasures in front of him. “What are we going to do with these now?”

  “With Mabon gone, do we need to worry about them?” Rhun said. “Arianrhod has him contained, right? Isn’t that what you said, Taliesin?”

  “It is,” Taliesin said.

  “But for how long?” Rhun said.

  Taliesin grunted his acknowledgement of the significance of Rhun’s question. “That is the question.”

  “We have to assume the worst,” Cade said, “and plan for it.”

  “And that means collecting the Treasures ourselves,” Rhun said. “If nothing else, it will spare their owners the danger inherent in them.”

  “And Cup of Christ?” Taliesin said. “Your holy grail of Christendom?”

  Cade glanced at the seer. “You know about that? When we were underneath Dinas Bran, you said it was just a cup.”

  “I didn’t see as clearly then,” Taliesin said.

  “The monks say it bestows immortality on those who drink from it,” Cade said. “Just like the drinking horn in your poem.”

  “You could go get it,” Taliesin said. “Give it to Rhiannon.”

  Cade’s eyes narrowed. Rhiann was asleep in the room behind them. In the weeks since Caer Fawr, her pregnancy had taxed her strength such that she slept more often than she was awake. “And keep her with me always? Of course I want that, but it would not serve.”

  “You could ask her,” Taliesin said.

  “You’re tempting me,” Cade said, “and I will not be tempted.”

  “As you say.” Taliesin sat with his staff propped against his shoulder.

  Cade fingered some of the papers on his desk, the Treasures always at the edge of his vision, as if at any moment they might leap up and talk to him. He took a deliberate breath and let it out. “Will you find the rest for me? I need to know how close Mabon was to his goal to unite them all. We must know where they are and if they are safe.”

  Taliesin bowed his head. “You are confirmed in the idea that you won’t keep them for yourself, then?”

  “Of course,” Cade said.

  Taliesin nodded. “If you had not given me this task, I would have asked for it.” He walked to the table and picked up the sacred knife from its spot.

  “And the dark force that rose from the cavern?” Cade said. “You haven’t mentioned it since we rode for Caer Fawr, but I can see that it haunts you.”

  “It is pure evil. The druids have always drawn their power from the earth itself, but not all power is good. And some of my kind spent too much time in the dark.” Taliesin met Cade’s eyes. “I will be careful.”

  “Please do.”

  “I will attend your crowning at the summer solstice, my lord.”

  “I will expect you,” Cade said.

  Rhun stood too. “He wouldn’t really be High King if you weren’t there to keep him humble, would he?”

  Cade shared in the laughter and sketched a wave at Rhun as his brother left the room.

  Silence. Taliesin and Cade gazed at each other. Their eyes said a great number of things that they chose not to put into words.

  Finally, Taliesin spoke. “I leave you in good hands.”

  “I’ll try not to be too reckless in your absence,” Cade said.

  That brought a rare smile to Taliesin’s face. “Blessings upon you, and upon your House, my lord.”

  And he was gone.

  Blessings upon my House. Cade rose to his feet. Political power had come to him through right of birth and strength of arms. Love, however, was something that could only be earned. It was something else that Mabon would never understand.

  Cade followed Taliesin out the door and turned toward the room he shared with Rhiann. His House. He had a wife and child waiting for him.

  Historical Background

  The ‘Dark Ages’—the era in which The Last Pendragon is set—were ‘dark’ only because we lack historical material about the period between 407 AD, when the Romans marched away from Britain, and 1066, when William of Normandy conquered England.

  For Wales, the time was no more or less bright than any other. The relative peace the Romans brought was predicated on the brutal subjugation of the British people. When the Romans left, the Britons faced the Irish from the west, the Scots from the northwest, the Picts from the northeast and ‘Saxons’ (who were Angles and Jutes too, not just ‘Saxons’) from the east. To a certain degree, it was just more of the same. The Britons had their lands back—the whole expanse of what is now Wales and England—for about five minutes.

  It does seem that a ruler named Vortigern invited some Germanic ‘Saxon’ tribes to settle in eastern England, in hopes of creating a buffer zone between the Britons and the relentless invasions from Europe. This plan backfired, however, and resulted in the pushing westward of successive waves of ‘Saxon’ groups. Ultimately, the Britons retreated into Wales, the only portion of land the Saxons were unable to conquer.

  The rule of Cadwaladr ap Cadwallon sits at the resting point between the Welsh retreat and the Saxon advance. As romanticized by Geoffrey of Monmouth, he was the last Pendragon, the last King of Wales before the Cymry fell irretrievably under a wave of Saxon invaders.

  With Cadwaladr’s death, the battles began again, and continued through the Norman conquest, to the lonely death of Llywelyn ap Gruffydd in 1282 AD, thus ending, for the next 700 years, the dream of an independent Welsh people.

  Cadwaladr ap Cadwallon

  What little is known about Cadwaladr ap Cadwallon comes from a few texts. As I write in The Last Pendragon, upon the death of his father in his first year of life (634 AD), Cadwaladr was hidden from the man who usurped the throne of Gwynedd, Cadfael, only to return at the age of twenty-two and regain his father’s crown.

  He is mentioned in the following sources:

  The Harlaein Genealogies: a collection of old Welsh genealogies preserved in British Library, Harleian MS 3859. They’ve been dated to the reign of Hwyel Dda (10th century). Cadwaladr is mentioned as the son of Cadwallon and the father of Idwal, all Kings of Gwyne
dd.

  Annales Cambriae (the Annals of Wales): A single line: 682 - A great plague in Britain, in which Cadwaladr son of Cadwallon dies.

  Historia Brittonum: This text was composed sometime between 828 and 830, attributed to Nennius. Of Cadwaladr ap Cadwallon, he states: “Catgualart (Cadwallader) was king among the Britons, succeeding his father, and he himself died amongst the rest. He slew Penda in the field of Gai, and now took place the slaughter of Gai Campi, and the kings of the Britons, who went out with Penda on the expedition as far as the city of Judeu, were slain.”

  The Book of Taliesin: Taliesin was a Welsh poet born in the mid to late 6th century. Two poems that mention Cadwaladr are attributed to him. One is The Great Prophecy of Britain in which he rails against the Saxon incursions and praises the rule of Cadwaladr: “Cadwaladr is a spear at the side of his men; In the forest, in the field, in the vale, on the hill; Cadwaladr is a candle in the darkness walking with us; Gloriously he will come and the Welsh will rise …” (my interpretation). The second is the Prediction of Cadwaladr, which is incomplete. It speaks of Cadwaladr, not Arthur, as the one who sleeps in the mountains to return at the nation’s greatest need.

  History of the Kings of Britain: This is Geoffrey of Monmouth’s romantic and fanciful tale, telling the supposed story of the history of Britain from its founding by Brutus to the death of Cadwaladr.

  Myth and Religion

  The blend of Christianity and paganism that I write into The Last Pendragon is my take on what it might have been like to have been religious in seventh century Wales. While many fictional accounts of the Dark Ages describe conflict between pagan religions and Christianity, that seems to be a product of the medieval mind, rather than an accurate analysis of Dark Age religion. For there to be conflict there must be a power relationship as well as organization, and for both the pagans and the Christians in Wales at this time, there was little of either.