“I just can’t believe it!” Cei said to Arthur as they walked down the central range towards the armoury. “We’ve waited all our lives for a war and now that one has come, my father sends us as far away from it as possible.”
“We may yet see some fighting,” said Arthur. “Ynys Mon is probably infested with Gaels.”
“If they haven’t all crossed to the mainland with Diugurnach.”
“They wouldn’t leave their lands unguarded. I think you are wrong to assume that this will be an easy reconnaissance mission.”
“Come on, Arthur! My father is sending us there so we will not risk our lives in the battle to come. After all our training he still sees us as children. He’s trying to protect us or perhaps he doesn’t trust us not to shame him in battle.”
In the armoury they began selecting weapons from the great racks of shields, swords, spears and axes. They needed to travel light so they avoided the heavy mail and scale coats for rough-spun tunicas and short cloaks. Cei chose a round buckler that had once been painted green but now much of the wood showed through while Arthur chose a blue one studded with iron nails. They took spears and the long Roman swords known as spathas.
Cei went to the stables to see to their horses while Arthur headed to the principia. As he climbed the stairs, he wondered when, if ever, he would climb those stairs again. Who knew what might happen while he was away?
“Mother,” he said as he entered the chamber at the top. “I am going away.”
She looked up sharply at him, concern crossing her face.
“Cei and I will be riding out before dusk on orders from Lord Cunor.”
“So,” she said slowly. “You have finally become a warrior. You know, in ancient times, it was traditional for the mother to determine when her son was ready for battle by presenting him with his first spear.”
Arthur smiled. “But if it was left up to you, I would be grey in the beard before I received my spear.”
Eigyr forced a smile. “You are all I have, Arthur. I could not bear to lose you on some muddy battlefield.”
“You won’t,” he replied, full of a confidence he wished that he truly felt. “It is a simple reconnaissance mission. If there is to be a battle, I doubt we shall even see any of it.”
“And that disappoints you, I can tell,” replied his mother. “You are keen for battle like all unproven warriors. Just take care of yourself, Arthur. You have a destiny far greater than that of a simple soldier. One day your brothers will realise this and accept you as their equal.”
Arthur didn’t bother to argue. He had long ago come to terms with his mother’s irrational pride in him. But being cooped up in this tower, he was her only contact with the outside world, her only reason for living. He leant forward to kiss her on the forehead. She patted his beardless cheek softly in return and he could see the faintest sign of tears in her eyes as he got up to leave.
Outside, the chaos of the fortress hit him like a wall of noise. Warriors were training in the yard by the barracks, men saddled horses and captains roared orders, all to the clink of hammer upon anvil as weapons and armour were forged and repaired.
Cunor was by the stables, talking to Menw. Two warriors stood nearby. One of them had a beautiful peregrine falcon on his gloved wrist, a hood pulled down over its eyes. Arthur saw Cei approaching down the central range.
“Boys,” said Cunor. “I want you to meet Cundelig and Guihir. Cundelig is a scout trained in the Roman fashion. The eyes of his bird, Hebog, can spot enemy troop movements miles away. Guihir is famed for his mastery of tongues. He is fluent in as many languages as I can count and some say that he can even speak to beasts.”
Guihir smiled proudly at Cei and Arthur. Cei rolled his eyes.
“Father,” said Cei, “I think it would have been better if I had chosen from the men myself.”
“No,” replied Cunor sternly. “This is your first mission and I decide who goes with you.”
“At least give me a few men who can actually fight!”
“Do not argue with me, Cei. Your mission requires stealth, not blunt force. The men I have chosen have the right skills to get the job done. And if it comes to a fight, I’ll wager they are worthier than you give them credit.”
It was futile to argue. As Menw, Cundelig and Guihir mounted their horses, Cei mumbled under his breath to Arthur; “An old teller of tales, a soldier who uses his tongue more than his spear and a man with a bird. I only hope we do encounter a party of Gaels, just so my father will see how misguided he was to send these fools with us.”
Arthur nodded silently as they swung themselves up into their saddles. Two servants would ride with them to the Afon Conui and then return with the horses. Cadwallon appeared just as they were preparing to set out. He smiled at them and threw out a salute as a Roman general might have done from his tribune on the parade ground in the old days as a legion marched out to battle. But they were not a legion. They were five men – soon to be seven – heading beyond enemy lines with no idea of what might be waiting for them.
Cunor did not embrace them or waste words on sentimentality. They were on duty and were no longer his sons, but his warriors. They had a mission to fulfil. The gates of Cair Cunor were heaved open and beyond, the rays of the slowly sinking sun turned the mountains to gold. Cei led them out with Arthur at his side and Menw, Cundelig and Guihir behind, the waning light glinting off their iron helms. Arthur turned his head to glance at the window on the upper story of the principia. He wondered if his mother was watching him from that window, her cheeks wet with tears. He set his face, turned in his saddle and focused on the road ahead.
Part II
“And Arthur called Menw the son of Teirgwaedd, in order that if they went into a savage country, he might cast a charm and an illusion over them, so that none might see them whilst they could see every one.”
- Culhwch and Olwen
Arthur
The Afon Conui wound north and gradually widened as the moorland sloped down into a wooded vale. They rode through the shimmering tributaries and, as darkness fell, the hooves of their horses sent up the gushing waters in glittering diamonds.
Arthur and Cei breathed the cool night air deeply. Despite the seeming triviality of their mission, this was what they had been waiting for; to ride out over the land with the wind in their hair, free from Cair Cunor, free from fortress life with only their own counsel to keep. This is what they had been born for and for the first time in their lives, they felt like men.
Cundelig let Hebog take wing and the peregrine followed the group at a distance, wheeling above the treetops at such a distance that he looked frozen in the air before swooping down suddenly, only to rise once more.
“How long have you had that bird?” Cei asked Cundelig.
“Raised him from a hatchling,” Cundelig said with pride. “It was my father who taught me how to train him. He was chief falconer at the royal court of Rheged.”
“That’s where you hail from, is it? Rheged?”
“Aye, my father’s father settled there after Constantine’s rebellion fell apart in Gaul. He was an explorator – a scout – in the rebel general’s army. He was from Albion originally and he fled back home after Constantine’s execution. We come from a long line of Roman army scouts. My grandfather taught my father all he knew and my father passed that knowledge on to his sons.”
“How did you wind up at Cair Cunor?”
“When my father died, my older brother took his place as Rheged’s falconer. I took Hebog with me and sought employment in the various teulus of the west.” He held out his wrist and Hebog descended to land gracefully upon the thick leather gauntlet, clutching at it with his impressive talons. Cundelig fed him a dead mouse as a treat and the peregrine gulped it down whole.
“What about you?” Cei said, turning in his saddle to address Guihir. “What’s your story?”
“Another cursed second son, I’m afraid,” the interpreter said with a shrug. “My father was a mino
r Powysian noble and my brother and I received the usual martial training as befitting the sons of nobility. But it was my brother who would inherit the land and I was given over to the church. I’ve always been good with languages and took to my lessons well. Our abbot made me his interpreter on his trip to Rome. Latin is one thing but there aren’t half a lot of funny languages spoken between Albion and the holy city. Gaulish, Frankish, Vandal. Once you know a few universal basics, you can pick up most other languages without too much hard work.”
“You’ve been to Rome?” Arthur asked, far more in awe of Guihir’s travels than his mastery of tongues.
“Oh yes. And it’s as magnificent as they say. But the church was no life for me and so I left the cloisters, seeking honest pay and the sins of a life well-lived. You know what I mean!” He threw a wink at Arthur. “The life of a monk doesn’t exactly provide many opportunities for meeting the fairer sex.”
Cundelig snorted at this. “You renounced your vows just to chase women? Have you no honour?”
“Oh, I am as pious as the next Christian,” said Guihir a little defensively. “If there is one thing spending a few years in the cloisters can tell you, it is that few Christians are as holy as they make out. I just decided to be a little more honest about it. So I wandered, brawled and whored my way around the west before the need for decent coin drew me to old King Enniaun’s teulu. Five years I’ve been with it and I haven’t looked back since. There’s always call for a man good with his tongue. The ladies think so too.” He winked at them. Cundelig rolled his eyes in derision.
The trickling river seemed all the louder in the lull of evening. Less than twenty miles from the coast the river opened into Conui’s tidal estuary and the west bank grew thickly wooded. A clapper bridge of mossy stone slabs forded the river and they could see the faint glow of a campfire in the trees on the other side. They dismounted and led their horses across the bridge. As they approached the fire, they could see two figures seated by it. Low voices murmured in the confines of the wood.
Cei whistled out a birdcall. The two figures rose and approached them, silhouetted against the flames.
“Beduir!” said Cei, striding forward to greet the larger of the two men.
Beduir was tall, broad in the chest and had jet-black hair that fell almost to his waist which he kept bound in a single tail, tied in two places. “Finally convinced your old da to let you out of the house, Cei?” Beduir said. “About bloody time!”
Arthur recognized his cousin loitering in the shadows. Gualchmei was short with a touch of the feral about him. He carried a flat composite bow in the Persian style and a quiver of arrows with red fletching was slung over his shoulder. Arthur went forward to embrace him.
Arthur had often felt sorry for his grandfather Anblaud who had been unfortunate enough to see two grandsons who would never bear their fathers’ names. Eigyr had had a younger sister – Guiar – whose belly had begun to swell before their father had found her an advantageous match. No amount of threats or beatings had loosened her tongue on the father’s identity and she had been dismissed to some lonely retreat to bear her child in shame. The child – Gualchmei – was torn from his mother’s arms at a young age and sent away to be fostered. Young Gualchmei eventually made his way to Cair Cunor where he had joined the teulu alongside his cousin. There was always room for fatherless bastards in the teulu, it was jovially maintained.
The servants led the horses back across the bridge and began the trip back to Cair Cunor while the rest of the party joined their new comrades by the fire and ate of the meat that was slowly roasting.
“It is a little over an hour until the tide will be right,” said Beduir, “so we can rest awhile before we head downriver.”
Through the trees, Arthur could see the mast and rigging of a sturdy fishing barge leaning at a slant as it rested on the mud. He wondered if Beduir and his cousin had bought or stolen it.
They talked a while and conversation inevitably turned to the dangers facing them and the rumoured Cauldron-born.
“Can it be true?” Gualchmei asked, his eyes wide by the light of the flickering fire. “Can the Morgens be sending the dead against us?”
“It’s all nonsense, lad,” said Cei. “The Morgens can no more summon the dead than I can summon a big-titted wench right here in this forest. It’s all woodsmoke and whispers. If there is a cauldron then we’ll take the damned thing and haul it back south to destroy it before Meriaun’s teulu. That’ll show them that we are no bedwetting pups to fear whatever alliance they’ve made with those toothless old crones on Ynys Mon.”
“I’d be wary of that tongue of yours, Cei,” said Menw. “You may feel brave twenty miles from the coast but once you’re on their island, you may find a tad more respect for the Morgens. They are not women to be insulted lightly.”
Cei scoffed but knew better than to argue with a bard. Beduir tried to break the uneasy stillness that had fallen over the group. “Menw, how about a song? Something to lighten the mood?”
“Lighten the mood?” said the bard as he chewed on a piece of meat, his lined features deepened by the flickering flames. “You lads don’t need idle songs of war to fill your empty heads. You need wisdom. You think it’s just Gaels we’ll be facing come the dawn when the straits are behind us? Pah! I’ll sing you a song, one you’ve all heard before but seem to have forgotten. Listen.”
He reached into his satchel and drew out his harp. It was a fine thing, carven with a leaf motif of blackened wood that told of a great age. His fingers began to wander over its strings, gathering speed as a runner will break into a jog until they began to dance. Then, he began his tale.
“Back when Albion was young there was a fair and mighty king called Bran who was loved by all. As is true today, there was much hostility between the Britons and the Gaels. Peace was long sought after and eventually found when Bran’s sister Branwen was married to Matholuch, the High-King of Erin.
Thirteen ships arrived bearing treasure and gifts that were to be Branwen’s dowry and nine days of feasting ensued. The druids performed the sacred rights of marriage and as Branwen and Matholuch looked into each other’s eyes, both found happiness there.
The whole kingdom rejoiced except one. Bran and Branwen had two half-brothers. Their names were Nisien and Efnisien. Nisien had grown to be loving and gentle but his brother Efnisien was a spiteful and hateful youth who wanted nothing more than war with the Gaels. For this reason, he was not invited to the wedding.
Efnisien was enraged when he found out that his half-sister had been married to the King of the Gaels and further outraged that he had not been invited to the wedding. And so, while the Britons and the Gaels drank themselves into a stupor, Efnisien sneaked into the stables where King Matholuch’s horses were kept. In a fury, he mutilated them with his knife so that they were no longer of use to anybody and had to be put out of their misery.
Matholuch was enraged by this act and took it as a grave insult. Fearing that all efforts for peace had been lost, Bran offered many gifts as recompense including a magnificent cauldron so large and heavy that four servants were required to carry it.
’This cauldron,’ explained Bran, ‘has a magical property that a dead man may be thrown into it today and tomorrow he will arise as good as he ever was, robbed of nothing but his speech.’
Matholuch stared at the caldron, his eyes glinting with the thought of its potential. With such a cauldron, there would not be an enemy who would dare stand against him. And so it was that peace was re-forged between Erin and Albion. The work of Efnisien was undone and the following morning Matholuch returned to Erin with his new bride.
The peace between the two realms lasted for many years and Branwen was very happy as Matholuch’s queen. They had a son whom they called Guern and he was sent to be fostered in the best house in the land. But after a while, word reached Matholuch’s ears that his people thought he had been too lenient with the Britons after he had been so insulted at his wedding feast. T
hey mocked the king behind his back and called him weak. This enraged Matholuch so much that he began to resent his wife and started to treat her very badly.
Branwen was sent to work in the kitchens where she performed menial and humiliating tasks and was often beaten. Matholuch stopped all ships to Albion so her brother would not hear of her situation and would think that all was well.
Three years passed and Branwen’s situation did not improve. But one day, she came across an injured starling and she placed it on the edge of her kneading-trough. Day by day she nursed it back to health and in so doing, learned its language. She told the small bird of her plight and how to recognise her brother, King Bran of Albion.
The little bird flew off and made its way to Bran’s court where it landed on the king’s shoulder and whispered into his ear of the suffering of his sister. Bran was enraged and called all his warriors to his side. A massive army was prepared to invade Erin. The huge fleet of the Britons crossed the sea and the masts of the ships were so numerous that the watchers on the coast of Erin swore that a whole forest approached them. In a panic, King Matholuch sent emissaries to King Bran promising that he would surrender his kingdom to Guern, Bran’s nephew. This was not good enough for Bran who wanted to rule Erin for himself and so he told the messengers to come back with a better offer.
Matholuch invited Bran and his warriors to a feast in his great hall to discuss terms. The Britons and the Gaels entered the hall and arranged themselves opposite each other. Bran called his nephew over so that he might examine him. And the boy went from warrior to warrior, greeting them all individually but stayed well clear of his troublesome uncle, Efnisien. Angered by this slight, the trickster rose up and grabbed the boy and hurled him into the fire pit. Branwen screamed and made to dive in after her burning son but was restrained by Bran.
Sign of the White Foal Page 6
