Sign of the White Foal

by Chris Thorndycroft

  The hoofbeat drummed on the earth like a deafening pulse. Through the helmed heads and horse-hair plumes ahead of him, Arthur could see King Elnaw’s cavalry charging at them, head on, spears lowered. He couldn’t move as he and his horse felt all but carried between the flanks of his neighbours. He began to panic. We’re too tight! We have to loosen up!

  But such were the tactics of the Bear of Rhos; hit them hard and compact like the blow of a hammer.

  And they did hit them hard. The shock of it was like a punch in the face to Arthur though he was several riders behind the front line. The wave of impact rippled through the entire wing, shoving horses back, causing them to whiney and rear up. Enemy spears thrust outwards, scraping helms and shields, piercing the necks and faces of the unfortunate.

  Arthur batted aside a spear with his own and stabbed over the shoulder of the rider in front of him. He was rewarded by a cry and a spurt of hot blood that ran down his spear shaft and cooled on his whitened knuckles.

  Owain, mad fighter that he was, pushed deeper and deeper into the enemy ranks, his spear broken or lost, swinging his great sword at any enemy head within reach. Arthur did his best to stay with him but the hot, sweltering press of horse and man was too hard for him to break through. Owain had many loyal riders intent on keeping their lord alive.

  A rider on a small, fast horse slipped in beside Arthur and called out Owain’s name but to no avail. Arthur recognised his light armour as that of a scout. “What news?” he cried.

  “Meriaun’s reserves are unguarded!” the scout shouted. “We can come upon their right flank if we can only disengage from this madness!”

  Arthur took up the scout’s job and forced his mount through the press of horses. “Owain!” he yelled. “Owain!”

  He saw his half-brother’s helmed head turn around.

  “News from your scouts! Meriaun is vulnerable!”

  Owain wheeled his mount around and two of his riders filled the gap he left in the front line as he pushed his way towards Arthur. “What is this?” he demanded.

  “Meriaun sits with the Laigin lords,” the scout shouted over the din. “There is room for us to outflank them!”

  “Lead the way!” Owain bellowed. Then he shouted orders to those in the rear of his cavalry to follow him.

  The left wing split in two, half remaining to hold Elnaw’s warriors and half following Owain and his scout in a mad dash up the sides of the valley. Several of Elnaw’s riders spotted them and followed in hot pursuit. They took a wide curve up the valley wall and down again, bypassing the battle and slipping through the narrow gap Meriaun had left unguarded.

  “Venedotia!” bellowed Owain, his bloody sword thrust outwards.

  His cry was heard by those on the valley plain and the banners of the Laigin lords wavered as if trembling at the sudden and unexpected attack.

  “Venedotia!” cried Arthur, joining the chorus issued forth from the throats of the charging cavalry.

  This time there was no buffer of front lines to insulate the blow and Arthur found himself thrust deep into the enemy ranks. He stabbed at somebody’s neck but only nicked it as the man reeled in his saddle, blood gushing down his mail.

  He was entirely trapped, hemmed in by mounted riders on all sides and, strangely, the realisation that there was nothing he could do about it banished his fear. He might die in the mud that day but powers greater than him – either Modron or the Christian god – had already decided that. There was no running, only fighting and all he had to do was fight on as hard and for as long as he could. That knowledge was a blissful and unexpected release.

  He could see Meriaun’s standard only yards away from him and the smell of victory urged him to fight harder, move faster and dig deeper into the enemy. The war was at its end. Vengeance and victory were in sight.

  His arms grew weary with killing, his helm was dented by the blow of a sword and the blood of his enemies had washed his shield red with gore. The first he knew of their victory was the shouts of his comrades who were further back and on slightly higher ground.

  “They flee!” Owain’s riders cried. “Meriaun stands alone!”

  Arthur rose in his saddle and, beyond the heads of Meriaun’s reserves, he could see the banners of the Laigin commotes being borne away from the battle, carried north up the valley. They had given up and abandoned their false king.

  Behind them the main battle had drawn to a close. The Gaels, their confidence surely broken by the news of the death of their great chieftain had been all but slaughtered by the right flank led by Efiaun and Cunor while the enemy infantry had been routed by Cadwallon’s advancing lines. It was over.

  Arthur didn’t see who it was who hauled Meriaun from his horse and struck down his standard but Owain later claimed the feat for himself. The men were elated and their cries of victory resounded in the valley all the louder as if trying to dispel the awful sounds of slaughter that had reigned only moments before.

  “You fought well, lad,” Owain said to Arthur as they rode back towards the rear of the ranks. “I don’t doubt my brother will find a position of great responsibility in the teulu for you.”

  Meriaun was dragged before Cadwallon who dismissed him out of hand. No words were necessary between the two cousins. They had both already spoken their piece. The traitor was bound and secured along with all the other lords who had surrendered.

  They rode immediately for Cair Dugannu, leaving the corpse-strewn valley and the wagon train of equipment and prisoners to trail in their wake. As they reached the coast, Arthur breathed the sea air deeply, letting it cleanse is lungs after the foulness of the battle in the pass. Gulls cawed overhead and his heart soared with them, knowing that soon he would be reunited with his comrades – and Guenhuifar – and that the war would finally, truly be over.

  As the twin hills of Cair Dugannu came into sight, Arthur could see a crude pennant fluttering from the palisades. It was red and had the image of a dragon stitched on it. Cadwallon beamed when he saw it.

  The gates were opened and there was much cheering from the teulu as it clattered into the courtyard. Cei and the others descended from the walls to greet the returning king. Even Beduir was there, his maimed arm in a blood-spotted sling. He looked much better and Arthur was ecstatic to see him on his feet.

  Guenhuifar stood by him and she smiled at Arthur. He found that he ached to take her in his arms.

  “Can a king ask for better followers?” Cadwallon said.

  “Or a father for better sons?” Cunor added as he embraced Cei and Arthur together in a rare but powerful bear hug.

  “Let the whole land know that the Pendraig has returned to Cair Dugannu!” said King Mor.

  There was a cheer and Cadwallon then approached Cei, his face suddenly serious. “Now then,” he said. “It is time you introduced me to my sister. Where is the damned hell-cat?”

  Cei’s face grew suddenly red as if from embarrassment. “Well, as to that,” he stammered. “There have been developments…”

  “What happened?” Arthur demanded.

  “She escaped, put simply,” said Cei.

  “Escaped?” Arthur cried. “But how?”

  “Look at us, Arthur!” Cei replied. “We are six. Six to hold a fortress! She somehow slipped out of the pantry we had secured her in. None of the other prisoners escaped. Gualchmei was patrolling the walls and he saw her fleeing down the slopes towards the straits.”

  “Towards the straits?” Menw enquired. “What time of day was this?”

  “Just before the tide came in,” said Beduir. “If she tried to cross, I don’t see how she could have outrun the high water.”

  “Nor I,” replied Menw. “You are sure she attempted to cross?”

  “After Gualchmei roused us we rode out and all but caught up with her at the Lafan Sands,” said Cei. “We saw her cross but… well, the tide and…”

  “And you did not dare follow in her footsteps,” finished Cadwallon. “For that you are not to be blamed. Sh
e must have been desperate to escape my justice and preferred to take her chances with Manawydan rather than remain on the mainland. Well, she is probably dead.”

  “It seems so,” said Menw. “Even her sorcery is no match for Manawydan’s indominatable whim.”

  “A shame,” said Cadwallon, “that I never got the chance to ask her why; why she hated me with such a passion. But I suppose we will never know.”

  Arthur felt that he had an inkling as to the cause of their sister’s rage but he kept his thoughts to himself.

  The following morning the wagon train of supplies, wounded and prisoners arrived, shortly followed by the women and children from Din Emrys. The effect of their presence suddenly made the fortress shine as if all the death and killing done in the earning of it was just a memory. Things almost felt as if they were back to normal.

  Arthur’s mother wept to see him and must have kissed him a dozen times over which embarrassed him no end in front of all the warriors who now held him in such high esteem. “You have placed your foot on the pathway to your true place in the world, my son,” she told him. “I am so very proud of you. And your brothers…?”

  “They honour me,” he said, allowing her to kiss him once more in her sudden increase of pride. “They call me Arthur mab Enniaun now.”

  She smiled at this.

  “And I am to be given a command in the teulu. Cei too.”

  “What have I always said? You are the true son of a Pendraig. And now you have shown them all!”

  Preparations began in earnest for Cadwallon’s coronation feast. Regular hunting parties set out to procure fresh meat for Cair Dugannu’s stores and Arthur occasionally joined them. Afterwards he would see to Hengroen in his stall and comb his fine mane, wishing the day would come when he could begin the process of breaking him.

  It was on one of these occasions that he bade farewell to Guenhuifar who was setting out with a couple of escorts who would ferry her to Ynys Mon.

  “You will be back for the coronation feast?” he asked her.

  “I should think so,” she replied. “My family too. Cadwallon has invited us all.”

  “You don’t seem very enthusiastic.”

  She sighed. “It’s hard. I have spent all my life hating the kings of Venedotia. We have always been alone, my family and I; isolated and forgotten. Now we are to be honoured at the coronation of the next Pendraig. It takes some getting used to.”

  “Things will improve for Ynys Mon under Cadwallon’s reign,” he promised her. “He has already spoken of ridding the island of the Gaels. It won’t be too long before we will be back and asking your father to open up the king’s mead again to celebrate another victory.”

  She gave him a half smile. “I hear what you say and my father will be only too happy with the news. Personally I just hope this isn’t all some dream I might awake from. It doesn’t feel real.”

  “I know. Everything has changed so fast. A few days ago we were on the run, hunted and starving. Now we are the toast of the seven kingdoms. And now you must go.”

  “And now I must go,” she echoed.

  “Guenhuifar…” he said, struggling for the words. “Tell me… tell me it wasn’t just me.”

  “What wasn’t just you?”

  “Well, I know it sounds silly, as we were in such danger and all, but… I felt happy. I don’t know why but even though the Gaels were after us and we were cold and always on the move, I honestly felt happy. In think it was because I was in the company of my friends. And I was in your company…”

  She smiled.

  “You saved my life, Guenhuifar. You came to rescue me from the lair of the Morgens so I suppose that has something to do with it but I can’t help but feel that… well… perhaps you felt somehow the same as me…”

  “Arthur,” she said, placing her hand on his chest to still his voice. “It wasn’t just you,” she leant in to kiss him on the mouth.

  It was a small kiss; a kiss of companionship but it set Arthur’s heart aflame. After their lips had parted she gazed at him and he wished he could read what was behind those green eyes. Then she was gone, leading her horse out to join her escorts in the yard. She smiled at him over her shoulder as they rode out of the western gate and he hoped the days until their next meeting would pass quickly.

  Cadwallon would not allow himself to be crowned until the unpleasant business of justice had been carried out. Meriaun was given a summary trial in which he was found guilty of treason. No allies came to his defence. On the morning before the coronation, he was taken out of the fortress to a stone on the coast and made to kneel with his head upon it. Then, one of Cadwallon’s burliest warriors hacked off his head.

  The lords of the Laigin Peninsula were allowed to keep their lands but the borders of Dunauding were extended to cover the worst of the offenders. Efiaun was given direct charge of keeping them under control. Meriaun’s son, Cadwaldr, succeeded his father as king but, with a decimated teulu, few doubted that Meriauned would pose much of a threat in the years to come. That just left Elnaw of Docmaeling. Cadwallon insisted on his abdication in favour of his son, Condruin; an ineffectual youth who would only ever be a puppet of Cadwallon’s to ensure that Docmaeling never rose up against the Pendraig again.

  Both Cadwaldr and Condruin were summoned to Cair Dugannu for the coronation. They grudgingly attended and the Great Hall was filled nearly to bursting. True to tradition, it was a bard who officiated and, once Menw had placed the gold diadem upon the new king’s head, Cadwallon was carried around the hall on a shield by four of his warriors. All six sub-kings of Venedotia, new and old, kissed his sword as a token of their loyalty.

  As his first oath to his subjects, King Cadwallon promised to mount an invasion of Ynys Mon and rid it of the Gaels once and for all. Cunedag’s lys was to be rebuilt and Gogfran would resume his duties as the Pendraig’s steward. The island was to become a part of Venedotia once more.

  Arthur glanced at Guenhuifar who stood on the other side of the hall next to her tearful father. She looked resplendent in a dress of white with her fiery hair combed and plaited. He smiled at her and she returned it, a flush of colour showing on her neck.

  After the final shout of; ‘Long live the Pendraig!’, the hall set to with the feasting.

  It was after dark that Cunor approached the king and told him of the visitors at their gate. Cadwallon rose and gave the order for the western gate to be opened to them. The look on his face told the hall that he had received some grave news and when he left, all followed him out into the courtyard to see what was amiss.

  Eight figures in white robes entered Cair Dugannu. They looked like spectres but Arthur recognised them instantly although their appearance was much changed. Aside from the white garments, their faces glistened in the torchlight with the pale cosmetic they had slathered over their visages. There were no black skull-like circles around their eyes this time, Their faces were of the purest white as if they had been bathed in milk.

  “Damned cheek turning up here like this,” said Owain. “Have them cast in irons, brother!”

  “No,” said Cadwallon and he approached them. “That there are only eight of you and that you have come of your own free will tells me that you seek peace rather than mischief,” he told the Morgens.

  “The wheel has turned,” said one of them. “Modron has been reborn.”

  “And my half-sister? What of her ill deeds?”

  “The Morgen called Anna is no more. We followed her until Modron’s plan had walked its path. Now we must choose a new high-priestess. Just as Venedotia has a new Pendraig and Venedotia begins a new era. Long live the Pendraig!”

  “What assurances do I have that you will not seek to undermine me as you did before I wore this crown?” Cadwallon said, tapping his gold diadem with his finger.

  “You are where Modron has placed you,” came the reply. “As is everybody. Accept our blessings and the blessings of the Great Mother.”

  And with that, the eight priest
esses left through the gate and headed down to the river.

  “I don’t trust them,” said Owain. “Not one bit.”

  “You would be mad to,” said Menw. “It would be as wise to trust the tides, the wind and fate itself. They have said what they came to say.”

  “Are they my enemies, Menw?” Cadwallon asked.

  “They walk a path known only to them,” the bard replied. “Punish them if you will but as they said; the wheel has turned, the goddess is reborn and we find ourselves at the beginning of a new era. Perhaps it would be wise to seek no more answers than that.”

  As they filed back into the hall to continue the feasting, Arthur spotted his mother waiting for him by the stairs to the royal apartments. She was holding a long object bound in an oiled cloth.

  “Mother?” he asked. “Do you tire from the feasting?”

  “Feasts no longer bring me much joy,” she replied. “Once upon a time they did, when I was loved by a king. But these days I would rather take to my bed. I leave on the morrow. Back to Cair Cunor. I have no relish for life at court and I pine for my own chambers and my tapestries. This is your world now, Arthur. But always remember that I will be waiting for you at Cair Cunor.”

  “What’s that you’ve got there?”

  “This? A gift. From a mother to her son.”

  She handed it to him and he unwrapped it. It was a spear. An old one, but a good one with plenty of strength still in its shaft.

  “Now you are a man,” Eigyr said, her eyes moist with tears. “Accept this as a token of my love for you as you take your place beside your brothers.”

  Arthur choked down the lump in his throat and embraced her. “Thank you, mother. This means more to me than you know.”

  “Be safe, my son,” she said. She nodded in the direction of the open doors to the Great Hall. Music and laughter spilled out from the warmth within. “Go and be with your companions. But come home to me one day. Promise?”

  “Promise,” he said, a tear suddenly spilling down his cheek.