Sign of the White Foal

by Chris Thorndycroft

  “Still your tongue,” said Menw, “lest someone has need to honour you before the day is out. You need rest.”

  “I’ve a mind he speaks the truth,” said the warrior. “And I’m not sure I trust an old man and his ‘bodyguard’ wandering the battlefield on horses so fine they could only have come from a king’s stables. Just where exactly where were you two going when we crossed your path?”

  Arthur had laid his hands on the leather sack that was tied to the saddle of Menw’s horse and was watching the exchange, his heart hammering in his chest. The seasoned warrior turned slowly to look in his direction.

  “What’s in the bag, lad?”

  Menw suddenly cried out; “Flee, Arthur! Ride now and don’t look back!”

  “Stop him!” the warrior barked but Arthur had already heaved himself up into the saddle.

  Another of Meriaun’s men lunged forward to seize the animal’s reigns and was rewarded by the heel of Arthur’s boot connecting with his face that sent him reeling backwards.

  Arthur kicked his mount into a gallop. He hated to leave Menw behind in the hands of the enemy but this was his only chance to reach Cadwallon. He could hear enraged shouting behind him and a spear whickered overhead to land in the mud a few feet wide of his frightened horse’s hooves.

  On he galloped, splashing through mud and water, leaping bodies and skirting the deepest parts of the flooded valley. He was vaguely aware of footmen running and shouting although if they were running and shouting at him he had no idea. The battle still seemed to be going on in parts of the valley and he wished to avoid engaging at all costs.

  The cluster of white tents grew closer and the simple defences of the camp became apparent; spiked barricades and flooded ditches for the most part. He reigned his horse in within a few yards of a cluster of mounted warriors. They turned in surprise at his approach and urged their horses to surround him. He suddenly found spearpoints directed at him from all sides.

  “I am Arthur mab Eigyr of Cair Cunor!” he cried. “I am loyal to King Cadwallon the true Pendraig!”

  “Easily said,” said one of the riders. “Not so easily proved!”

  “Where is Lord Cunor?” Arthur demanded. “He is my foster-father!”

  “Aye, he’s right,” said another of the riders. “I know him from the training yard at Cair Cunor. “It’s the penteulu’s foster-son, no mistake.”

  They lowered their spears and began to ply him with questions. Arthur refused to answer any of them until he was taken to Cunor. They eventually gave up and he was escorted into camp.

  Upon spotting him, Cunor strode forward to greet his foster-son in a mighty bear hug. Arthur was startled at this for Cunor had rarely shown him or Cei much affection. “You have survived, lad!” the big man said. “But Cei…?”

  “Alive,” Arthur said. “He is at Cair Dugannu.”

  Cunor’s brow creased. “Captured?”

  “No and that is what has led me here in the most urgent haste. Cair Dugannu is ours. Cei holds it for the Pendraig.”

  Cunor was lost for words. “But how…” he managed at last.

  “I had better explain to the king,” said Arthur. “We have little time.”

  Cadwallon was found in his tent receiving reports from his captains of their losses. His face was grave and he held his head in his hands. He looked so very tired. His queen, Meddyf was by his side and Arthur was surprised to see her in camp with the enemy so close. King Mor was there too as well as Owain and another man in fine armour whom Arthur could only assume was one of the other kings Cadwallon had drawn to his cause.

  Cunor dragged Arthur before them all and Cadwallon looked up in surprise as if suddenly remembering something that had slipped his mind.

  “My foster-son, Arthur is here, my lords,” said Cunor. “And he has news from the north.”

  Wine was brought and Arthur drank gratefully as he related his tale to the assembled lords. Not one of them interrupted him as he told all from their arrival on the shores of Ynys Mon and the wounding of Gualchmei to their desperate flight to the ruined lys and their plan to steal the cauldron from the Morgens. At last he got to their daring attack on Cair Dugannu and the slaying of Diugurnach.

  When he was finished, a silence hung heavy within the tent. He drained his cup of wine and sat back in his chair, more exhausted than he had felt since they had set out. It was done. The message was delivered and the fate of the war was out of his hands. He felt somehow unburdened now.

  “Arthur,” said Cadwallon slowly. “You and your companions have surpassed all our expectations. In truth, we thought you had all been slaughtered by the Gaels and my conscience has ravaged me for sending you on that desperate mission instead of keeping you with the teulu. But my mind is now set at peace by your sudden appearance here, on the edge of all ruin.”

  “All is not lost, my lord,” said Arthur. “The battle may yet be won…”

  “We are, at best, evenly matched,” said Cadwallon. “It could go either way…”

  “Not if we fight with our wits as well as our numbers,” he said, trying to echo the sage words Menw had given no more than a couple of hours previously. How he wished the old bard was here now! He could explain things to Cadwallon so much better than he could. Yet, he had to try. “The cauldron is yours. Use it to your advantage, lord.”

  “How, when it sits at Cair Dugannu?”

  “Meriaun expected to make use of it in this battle. Its absence today will have been sorely missed. Let him know that it is no longer in his possession and neither is Cair Dugannu. Let all your enemies know.”

  “Deal a blow to their spirits before we deal a blow of arms, eh?” said Cunor. “The lad speaks sense, lord. You could call Meriaun to discuss terms. Even if none are reached, he will walk away knowing that a sore defeat has been inflicted on him already.”

  “He may claim we are bluffing,” said Cadwallon uncertainly.

  “No doubt he will, lord,” said Arthur. “And that is why we have brought proof.”

  “Proof? Of what sort?”

  Arthur reached down for the leather bag he had brought from Menw’s horse. It had been resting against his calf until now. He lifted it up and placed it upon the table before the king.

  “What is this?” All heads leaned in to inspect the object.

  Arthur opened the bag and drew it down to reveal the object inside.

  When the meeting adjourned Arthur was told to go and get some food and some rest. He relished both eagerly for it had been a long day in the saddle. As the assembly began to drift away, Queen Meddyf caught his arm in passing.

  “My lady?”

  “Tomorrow morning, I ride for Din Emrys where our people have taken refuge,” she said. “I shall give your mother news of you.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” he replied.

  “She has missed you dearly but never gave up hope of your return. I am ashamed to say that she was the only one. But you proved us all wrong. Thank you, Arthur. Thank you for bringing us hope.”

  Darkness had fallen but still the camp hummed with activity. Defences were being reinforced, food prepared for the hungry and weary warriors and the screams from the wounded reminded everybody that sleep was a privilege afforded to only the very few.

  Arthur was given a pallet to rest on and, after eating his fill of mutton stew, coarse bread and weak ale, he slept the sleep of the dead until dawn.

  He awoke to find the camp already roused. Messengers had been sent to Meriaun to call him and his allies to parley. A request had also been sent to return Menw to Cadwallon. Arthur was pleased to hear this for he was greatly concerned for the bard’s safety.

  A tent was pitched beyond Cadwallon’s defences but out of bowshot from Meriaun’s. The brook had been cleared of bodies during the night and the valley had drained itself once more. The assembled lords and kings prepared to ride out to discuss Venedotia’s fate. Arthur was surprised to learn that he was to join them and rode his newly brushed and fed mare alongside h
is half-brothers.

  King Meriaun was a strong-looking man in his fifties with black hair cropped close at the sides where it had begun to turn to grey. A scar marred his right cheek and people said it had been given to him by Beli mac Benlli; the Gaelic chieftain he had slain at the young age of eighteen.

  Meriaun’s face was unreadable as he watched his cousins take their seats opposite him. On either side of him sat his allies. King Elnaw of Docmaeling and some Gaelic captain sat on his left side and the assembled lords of the Laigin Peninsula on his right. Arthur glanced sidelong at his half-brothers. Owain’s face was beet-red and simmering while Cadwallon’s remained impassive, matching Meriaun’s in aloofness as each eyed their own rival for the throne.

  “Before we start,” Meriaun began. “I have something of yours.”

  Two of Meriaun’s warriors entered the tent, accompanying a man in his middle years. Arthur nearly leapt up from his seat when he saw that it was Menw. The old bard did not appear to have been mistreated and Arthur supressed a sigh of relief.

  “Your father’s precious bard will remain by my side until we are done talking,” said Meriaun. “Think of him as an extra insurance against any of your trickery.”

  “My trickery?” Cadwallon demanded. “That is fine talk for one who’s boundless treachery has all but torn Venedotia limb from limb.”

  “I am not the rebel here, Cadwallon,” said Meriaun. “You were given your chance to surrender peacefully. As for your allies, well, I can hardly blame them for backing what they must have believed was the winning horse and I should state now that they will face no repercussions for their poor judgement should they chose to distance themselves from you now. But you Cadwallon. It was your pride and stubbornness that caused this war.”

  “You dare to lay the blame at my door?” Cadwallon seethed. “I am Enniaun Yrth’s son! I am the rightful Pendraig, the next in line of succession of Cunedag’s dynasty…”

  “Did you know our illustrious grandfather?” Meriaun interrupted. “I did and I can tell you that Cunedag was a cut and grab man, a brutal, thieving, reaver who respected only raw strength and the will to take what is desired. Why else do you think Lord Vertigernus sent him to re-conquer Venedotia from the Gaels all those years ago? He was a barbarian chieftain and little more. This dynasty, the line of succession people so wistfully proclaim is nothing more than an accident of circumstance. Old Cunedag would have laughed to hear you wail about your birth right as if that is all it takes to be a king. He recognised no such thing as blood succession! If he ever felt that one of his offspring was ever worthy enough to inherit his kingdom, then it would have been because he took it for himself and damned his rivals!”

  “Albion has moved on from the days of bloody chieftains stealing from each other and slaying their rivals,” said Menw. “Your talk is of the ways of our enemies; the Saeson, the Gaels and the Picts. These are no longer the ways of the Britons.”

  “Who do you think you are fooling, old man?” Meriaun snapped. “That feeble cowardice is the reason Albion is in the state it is. There are no strong chieftains left. There are none willing to do what it takes to rule.”

  “Except you, presumably,” said Cadwallon.

  “Aye, except me,” said Meriaun.

  “You’ve had your say,” said Cadwallon as he leant forward in his chair. “Now I shall have mine. You’ve already been defeated by something you underestimated. You sought to rule through fear and so you concocted your little arrangement with the Morgens. But you didn’t count on the stout hearts of my followers. They have exposed your lies and the charlatanism of the Nine Sisters. You were expecting your secret lover to arrive with a gift that would whip your followers up into a frenzy, didn’t you? It must have been disappointing when it never arrived.”

  “My high-priestess has been waylaid by some obstacle, it is true,” said Meriaun. “Perhaps it was the doing of whatever little band you sent to Ynys Mon to disrupt things. But it hardly matters. I have already won. The odds may have been evened somewhat due to Etern’s treachery but it won’t do you any good. Even if you were to break through my lines, you would still have to face my mercenaries at Cair Dugannu. I have won, Cadwallon. You should do your followers a mercy by admitting it.”

  Cadwallon grinned. He motioned to Owain and the leather sack was produced. Owain reached in and drew out the head of Diugurnach by the hair.

  The blood drained from Meriaun’s face although he held his composure well. His Gaelic captain was not so restrained. He cursed aloud and looked like he wanted to punch something. Arthur wondered if Diugurnach had been a well-liked chieftain.

  “Cair Dugannu is mine,” said Cadwallon. “As is the cauldron and your would-be-queen. Diugurnach is dead as will many more of your followers be if you continue to resist me.”

  “How?” stumbled Meriaun, his voice choked with rage and disbelief. “No army could passed my lines and taken Cair Dugannu. What allies have you that I have not checked?”

  “As I said, Meriaun. You have already been defeated by that which you did not credit. You can’t win. You are trapped here in this valley. I will force you against the walls of Cair Dugannu or into the straits if I must, but I urge you to accept my offer of surrender now.”

  Meriaun flew up in a rage. “This puffed up bravado is irrelevant! You may have slain Diugurnach, but if you think you have won this war then you are wrong by a great measure! I withdraw my offer of mercy. You and your followers will die today in this valley!”

  He turned and stormed out of the tent. His Gaelic captain, still enraged by the grisly trophy, followed him out and then, Elnaw and the lords of the Laigin Peninsula rose, slowly and stiffly, their faces grave and uncertain. They left and Menw stood by, forgotten by his captors.

  Cadwallon smiled. “Well, my lords,” he said. “I think that did the trick.”

  “He will be preparing to throw everything he’s got at us,” Cunor warned.

  “I know. And we must be ready. Come, let us ride back to our lines with all haste.”

  They rose and Cadwallon embraced Menw. “Welcome back, old friend. You did it!”

  “Arthur did it,” said Menw. “It was he who rode through enemy lines and carried his message to you.”

  “I’m sorry for leaving you, Menw,” said Arthur.

  The bard waved his apology aside. “It was necessary. Besides, Meriaun’s fools would not dare mistreat a bard. And my time in their company gave me plenty of opportunity to spread a few rumours!” He gave a conspiratorial wink.

  “What sort of rumours?” Arthur enquired.

  “Oh, just that the Morgens have turned their back on Meriaun, the gods are displeased, that sort of thing. Especially effective as the promised cauldron never arrived. Even the Christians among them ate it up. Did you see Meriaun’s face when Owain held up Diugurnach’s head?”

  “I thought he was going to shit himself,” said Arthur with a laugh.

  “Instead of a cauldron, he receives the head of his ally and news that his plans are scuppered. By now that tale will be making the rounds of his camp. I tell you, Arthur, symbols are more powerful than spears!”

  Cadwallon and his lords lost no time in whipping the camp into battle lines. Spear and bowmen hurried past Arthur to fill the centre of the valley while horses and their riders trotted to the left and right wings to converge under various standards. Cunor had left Arthur and Menw to discuss tactics with Cadwallon but he was soon back, strapping on his war helm.

  “You are to ride under Owain’s standard, Arthur,” he told him. “He is leading the left flank along with King Mor. You will be in good company.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Arthur replied, feeling a chill of excitement mingled with fear in his breast. He realised Cadwallon would need every man to win but it had only just struck him that he would be riding into battle for the very first time. He had been training for this moment for as long as he could remember but now that it was here, he found that he both dreaded and eagerly anticipated
it in equal measure.

  “May Modron continue to smile on you, lad,” said Menw as Arthur climbed up into his saddle.

  “Thank you, Menw. Stay safe.”

  He rode off to join the gathering cavalry on the teulu’s left wing. When he got there, Owain bellowed his name and all the riders repeated it with gusto; a rousing salute for the man who had dealt such a stinging blow to the enemy’s morale. Arthur felt his face flush with embarrassment.

  Somebody handed him a helm and he strapped it on before a spear and shield were thrust into his hands.

  “Stick close to me and my house guard, Arthur,” said Owain with a friendly smile. “I know it’s your first battle but your foster-father would have my hide if you tried to be a hero and got yourself killed under my standard.”

  The enemy lines could be seen marshalling at the other end of the valley. Before they had completed their manoeuvres, the horns by the fluttering dragon standard blew for the infantry to march forward. It was a slow, steady march and was seen by the enemy who doubled their efforts to get into their formations.

  “It looks like Elnaw is commanding the left flank,” Owain said. “We await my brother’s signal to charge them.”

  Arthur swallowed. Things were moving too fast. Over the past few days he had got used to surviving danger by hiding, fleeing and evading. Now he was part of an unstoppable force heading towards an immovable object and for the first time he felt the terror of the lowly soldier of the ranks, his fate tied to the fate of the teulu.

  “That’s it!” cried Owain at the blast of a horn. “Move out! Hit them hard and hit them true!”

  The cavalry started to move around Arthur and, without thinking, he kicked his mount on to keep pace with them. It was one jostling mass of trembling flanks, nervous coughs, chomping bits, sweat and saliva. Man and horse were one, united in their desperate hope to survive the next few hours.

  The two lines of infantry thundered together and, as the spears began to fly overhead, Owain bellowed; “Charge! Don’t let the bastards outflank our infantry!”