Sign of the White Foal

by Chris Thorndycroft

  Such a commotion ensued that all hopes for peace were destroyed and the Britons and the Gaels waged war upon each other once more. The fighting was hard and fierce and many sons of Erin fell. It was then that Matholuch decided to use the magical cauldron and he ordered the dead bodies that lay strewn across the battlefield be boiled inside it. And so, the ranks of the Gaels were swollen with the warriors of the dead – the Cauldron-born – their souls returned from the Otherworld to work the vengeance of their master.

  The Britons were overwhelmed by the Cauldron-born and Efnisien, seeing the horrors his actions had brought upon his people, felt a rare pang of guilt. That night, he crept into the enemy camp and hid himself among the corpses. When two Gaels threw Efnisien into the cauldron, he stretched himself out, straining against the sides of the vessel. The cauldron burst apart and vanished back to Annun, killing Efnisien in the process.

  All across the battlefield, the Cauldron-born fell in their paces, dead once more, and the Britons were able to beat the Gaels. Thanks to Efnisien’s self-sacrifice, Bran slew Matholuch and returned home with his sister Branwen.”

  Cei was the first to break the silence that hung in the wake of Menw’s tale. “It’s a fine story,” he said, “but you still can’t convince me that the dead walk on Ynys Mon.”

  “Cei, for once in your life, know when to shut up,” said Arthur.

  Cei glared at him. Arthur felt haunted by the tale of Bran and the cauldron. He had felt haunted ever since the Cauldron-born had been mentioned in the Pendraig’s council.

  “See now?” Cei said. “You’ve even got my brave foster-brother quaking in his breeches and jumping at shadows. That’s all your tales do for people.”

  Beduir stood up and peered through the trees. The mast of the fishing barge was no longer at an angle but stood straight as a flame, the vessel beneath it buoyed by the returned tide.

  “We must be moving,” he said, “if we are to make the straits by dawn.”

  They piled into the barge and stowed their weapons in the fish hold. Gualchmei untied the mooring rope and hopped on board as Beduir shoved off. They made good time and as the coast approached, they unfurled the sail and caught the wind that would carry them out into the straits. The twin humps of Cair Dugannu could be seen on their right, dark against the paling sky, the torches of the sentries winking in the blackness.

  “Get under cover,” said Beduir. “Gualchmei and I will see us past the coastline.”

  Arthur and the others scrambled into the fish hold and Gualchmei secured the canvas over their heads. From a distance the vessel would look no more suspicious than a two-manned fishing boat heading out for the early morning’s catch.

  Down in the darkness Arthur felt the current pick up as the river washed out into the straits and the boat began to rock violently. He had never suffered from seasickness but down there in the hold with no visibility and no idea if they had been spotted from the coastline, he felt the panic rising in his gut and tried to quell it. Nobody spoke.

  The canvas was suddenly pulled off and they looked up at Gualchmei’s head and shoulders, a black silhouette against the starry sky.

  “The danger is past!” he said. “We made it!”

  They clambered out of the fish hold and watched the coastline receding behind them. The sky was paling in the east and to their west flowed the strong currents of the straits.

  The tides washed around Ynys Mon at different speeds, meeting in the centre at a point known locally as the ‘Swellies’. At high tide this confluence of whirlpools and surges was extremely treacherous and was avoided by all sailors with any sense in their heads.

  They cut northwards and the dark mound of Ynys Mon reared up before them, mysterious and foreboding.

  “The last stronghold of the druids,” said Menw, following Arthur’s gaze. “A great evil was done there long ago and the island does not forget.”

  “The Romans?” Arthur asked. He had heard of the massacre which had put an end to the druidic order several centuries ago.

  “The druids inspired the greatest resistance to the iron legions and the new governor of Albion knew he had to supress them if he was to maintain control over the tribes. Ynys Mon became a refuge for druids and other fugitives who sought sanctuary with the Morgens. The governor led an army across these straits to wipe out druid and priestess alike.

  The druids met them on the shores and called upon the fury of all the gods while the Morgens, dressed in black, ran back and forth, screeching curses. But the gods of Albion forsook the old orders on that day. The Romans struck them down, slaughtered their captives and burned down their sacred groves. It was a great evil that scarred the island and the island remembers.”

  “How is it that the Morgens survived?” Arthur asked, feeling a chill that the warm summer night did not warrant.

  “In the same manner that an acorn from a fallen oak might sprout in harsh soil. The Romans may have wiped them out but the order grew anew and continued its practices in defiance of Albion’s new masters. As for the druids, their order was driven underground. The great councils were no more and they lost contact with one another. They were no longer members of an organised religion but wanderers, tale-tellers and spiritual guides. We bards are the inheritors of the druids, their successors; keepers of the land’s history and custodians of its secrets.”

  The wind carried them around the eastern side of the island and they made for a small, secluded cove banked by grassy slopes. They beached the boat and pulled it up onto the sand as far as they were able. They were exhausted, none of them having slept in many hours, and dawn was already breaking.

  “We shall rest here awhile and continue when it gets fully light,” said Cei. “No fire though. We can’t risk being seen.”

  They made themselves comfortable with their backs to a rock that kept them out of the wind and broke into their rations of dried mutton and hard bread. Sleep came easily despite their rough surroundings and Beduir kept watch as the day broke over the island.

  Arthur woke to the cawing of gulls and the rolling of the waves across the dark sand. A few of the others were already up and were preparing to set out.

  “The Morgens dwell on the shores of a lake on the western side of the island,” said Menw. “We can make the journey in a day as long as we encounter no obstacles.”

  Nobody wanted to comment on what those obstacles might be and so they set out in determined silence, crossing low hills that rippled with ferns and yellow gorse. They occasionally saw cattle grazing but nothing in the way of settlements or habitation; just the endless brackish hills dotted by wind-blasted and leafless trees. There weren’t even any trackways. Arthur had never seen anywhere so bleak and haunted.

  A little after midday the hills dipped into a shallow basin and they entered a forest of tall pines and dense fern. They had still not encountered a soul and their spirits had begun to rise, thinking their mission easier than it had at first seemed.

  “We are more or less in the centre of the island now,” said Menw. “These woods reach all the way to the old Roman fort on the south-eastern point. We must sharpen eastwards and meet the Afon Crigil at its source. Beyond that river lies the marshy area where the Morgens dwell.”

  The mention of the sea-born dampened their spirits a little and the knowledge that their ultimate goal – and its guardians – was near chilled their hearts like a cold wind.

  Cundelig scouted ahead with Hebog who hovered above the treetops. It was not long before he came hurrying back with the peregrine on his gauntlet. “There is a group of warriors moving in a north-easterly direction less than a league from here.”

  “How many?” Cei asked, unslinging his shield from his back.

  “I don’t know but Hebog circled them, indicating that they have horses.”

  “Gaels?” asked Gualchmei.

  Cundelig gave him a withering look. “Hebog can tell me where the enemy is, in which direction they are travelling and if they are mounted or not. He ca
n’t tell me what language they speak or which gods they pray to.”

  “If they are heading north-east then we wait here and avoid them,” said Menw.

  “And risk have them doubling back and falling on our rear?” Cei said. “I don’t know about you, bard, but I’m keen to rid this island of every Gael I can.”

  “We don’t even know if they are Gaels,” said Arthur. “Maybe they’re locals.”

  “Can’t take the chance,” Cei replied. “Let’s see if we can’t get a look at them.”

  He hurried off, sword in hand and the others followed, drawing their own weapons.

  They crested a small, leafy rise and peered down into a dip. Voices could be heard in the muffled stillness of the forest. Arthur tried to make out the words but they were too far off and the dialect too thick.

  “Gaels,” Guihir confirmed grimly.

  “Can you make out what they’re saying?” Beduir asked.

  “Nothing of much interest. Something crude about a woman in the harbour settlement further south.”

  They could see movement through the trees and threw themselves flat on their bellies along the rise. As the party of Gaels passed, they could make out three warriors on horseback and four on foot.

  “We can take them!” said Cei. “Seven against seven!”

  “Not good odds at the best of times,” warned Menw. “And three of them are mounted.”

  “But we have surprise on our side. Gualchmei, let’s see how good you are with that bow. Sneak along the rise and see if you can’t pick a couple of them off. As soon as your arrows start to fly, we’ll charge their rear.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Arthur. “That will leave Gualchmei completely exposed on the ridge. One of us at least should go with him.”

  “I need as many of us as possible to attack them,” said Cei. “They’ll be too occupied dealing with us to pursue Gualchmei. Besides, he will have the high ground and a ranged weapon. He’ll be fine.”

  “Cei, we should think this through…” said Beduir.

  “No time!” said Cei. “They are moving away from us. Gualchmei, get going!”

  The young bowman nodded and took off at a crouched run, drawing an arrow from his quiver as he went.

  “You’re using my cousin as bait,” Arthur said to Cei.

  “He’s a warrior under my command first, your cousin second,” Cei replied. “He knew the risks when he agreed to join this expedition.”

  Gualchmei had vanished behind the rise as it curved around to the north. The party of Gaels was almost obscured by the trees and Arthur knew he couldn’t be the only one who was worried that they wouldn’t have much time to catch up to them once Gualchmei’s position was exposed.

  A shaggy head poked up from the rise and they saw the flat Persian bow bend and loose, sending its black shaft down into the scouting party.

  “Now!” Cei hissed and, as one, they rose and descended the slope in a slither of needles and sandy earth.

  Cries could be heard up ahead and Arthur hoped that Gualchmei’s first arrow had at least evened the odds a little. As they came upon the Gaels they could see that it had for one warrior hung slack in his saddle, a red-fletched shaft sticking out of his neck.

  The footmen heard them approaching and turned to meet them. Shields slammed against shields and spear tips jabbed and thrusted. Arthur took the defensive, letting his opponent’s spear slide and scrape against the boss of his shield. Menw, Cundelig and Guihir flanked the party and pressed in with their spears, fencing the Gaels in on three sides. The two mounted Gaels brought up the rear and pressed their own warriors forward, shouldering them against the Britons with the flanks of their horses, out of reach of the Britons’ spear tips.

  Cei was the first to draw blood and a Gael went down with a skewered throat, gurgling a cry from blooded lips.

  Beduir sliced through a spear shaft with his sword and slammed the rim of his shield into the face of his opponent. As the man stumbled backwards, clutching at his shattered nose and broken teeth, Beduir slid his blade in through his ribs.

  An arrow sailed down from the rise and struck one of the riders between the shoulder blades. He roared an oath in Gaelic and his companion turned and urged his mount up the rise to where Gualchmei was frantically trying to nock another arrow to his bowstring.

  Arthur saw the danger and battered his opponent’s spear away with his shield before thrusting with his own. It lodged in the man’s groin and held fast. He caught the Gael’s mad counter-jab on his shield and let go of his spear to draw his sword. A chop to the unguarded neck nearly severed the man’s head and he went down fast.

  Arthur broke from the skirmish and took off after the horseman. Discarding his shield as he scrambled up the rise, he could see the rider bearing down on his cousin.

  Gualchmei cried out as the Gael speared him in the shoulder and pinned him down like a harpooned fish. Arthur bellowed and swung his blade at the horse’s thigh, hamstringing it.

  The horse screamed and went down, bringing its rider with it. The Gael rolled past Arthur’s feet and tried to rise but Arthur brought his sword down on the man’s head.

  The blade cut through the helm and lodged deep in the skull beneath. The man grunted and blood cascaded from under the rim of his helm. Arthur ripped his blade free and the helm clung to it, rattling on the slick, red steel. He shook it free and stepped over the fallen Gael to reach Gualchmei’s side.

  The spear had been wrenched free by the rider’s fall and the wound bled profusely. Gualchmei was white with fear and his face contorted by pain. Arthur clasped his hand over the wound and bellowed for Menw.

  In the dip beyond the rise the skirmish was over. Cei and the others had finished off the last Gael and were cleaning their weapons and securing the horses which were wild with panic. Menw hurried up to see to the wounded Gualchmei.

  “It is not serious but he needs treatment,” said the bard after inspecting the wound. He began binding it with clean cloth from his satchel before bending the arm at the elbow and tying it in place at the shoulder. “Give him water.”

  Gualchmei had been on the verge of losing consciousness but spluttered a little to life as a trickle from Beduir’s waterskin passed his lips.

  “The wound may be infected,” said Menw. “We need a fire so I can boil the herbs required to prevent a fever.”

  “Not here,” said Cei. “There may be other patrols about. And this lot will soon be missed.”

  Arthur could not contain his rage any longer. He got up and shoved Cei roughly, sending him sprawling. “What was the point of this?” he demanded. “We could have sneaked past them and Gualchmei wouldn’t be lying here wounded. But you had to take on all of Erin within a day of setting out, didn’t you? You had to prove yourself! But it was Gualchmei who paid the price. It was Gualchmei who took the greatest risk in your mad plan!”

  Cei scrambled to his feet, his face red with either rage or embarrassment. A vein bulged in his neck. “We were always going to have to fight them! If not today then tomorrow, or the day after!”

  “We could have avoided them!”

  “And fight them on the way back to the boat? They’re dead, Arthur. They’re dead and we’re alive and to my mind that makes it a victory.”

  He shouldered his way past Arthur and began instructing the others to collect spears to replace the ones they had damaged or lost. Nobody interfered in the altercation. All knew that though Cei was their captain, Arthur was as his brother and none would take it upon themselves to stand in the way of a brothers’ quarrel.

  They continued south-west in silence. Beduir and Guihir took turns in supporting Gualchmei when he needed it. He was in a lot of pain but did his best to hide it. Arthur still seethed at Cei’s recklessness. His first command had clearly gone to his head and he was more interested in proving himself when they should be exercising the utmost caution.

  Cei sent Cundelig farther afield to scout for other patrols. After a time, he came running back with
word that a large party had made camp between them and the river.

  “This is no scouting party,” he said. “They are at least twenty strong with horses too. They carry chests of grain on a wain.”

  “Tax collectors,” said Cei. “They must be making the rounds of the island. Is there any way to skirt them?”

  “They have the ford,” Cundelig said. “And the river looks too swollen by the spring melt to hope for another crossing point downriver.”

  “Then we must wait this time,” said Beduir. “They’ll soon move on and the crossing will be clear.”

  “They’ll be wondering what happened to their scouting party,” said Arthur. “And will undoubtedly send out another. They may not be moving on any time soon once they find the bodies of seven of their comrades.”

  “And I don’t like the look of Gualchmei,” said Menw. “We need to get a fire going so I can clean and re-dress that wound.”

  “I’m fine,” protested Gualchmei in a distant voice. His face looked pale and clammy.

  They debated whether they should make an inconspicuous camp in some gully that might conceal the smoke a small campfire or if they should turn back when the decision was made for them. It was Cundelig’s sharp ears that first heard the approaching noises.

  “Dogs,” he said. “Those bloody great wolfhounds of Erin. I saw some of them with the camp.”

  They could all hear them now; the baying and yelping of hounds begging to be let loose from their leashes. There were horns blowing too and men shouting to each other over wide distances.

  “They’re heading straight for us,” said Cei.

  “Must have seen Hebog,” Cundelig muttered. “He hovered a good while over their camp.”

  “The bird gave us away?” Guihir exclaimed. “I thought he was supposed to help us not lead the enemy to us!”

  Cundelig scowled at him but remained silent.

  “We must run,” said Menw. “And make for moving water to throw the dogs off our scent.”

  They turned tail and headed back the way they had come, skirting the vale where they had slaughtered the scouting party. As the forest petered out around them, Menw led them north. None questioned him for he knew the island better than they did but they were in open country now and could hear the hunt growing closer behind them. Arthur knew that if they did not reach cover soon, they would be ridden down by mounted warriors or torn apart by baying hounds.