Sign of the White Foal

by Chris Thorndycroft

  “What of Meriaun?” Elen said. “He is Cunedag’s eldest grandson and fought in the Gaelic wars himself.”

  “Aye, he has made much of his slaying of Beli mac Benlli and even goes so far as to say that it was that act which dealt the death blow to the Gaels a generation ago. He is a braggart and nothing more. If he presumes to stake his claim then he will have to use more than words. And then it would be civil war.”

  “You could stake your own claim,” Elen said, her voice laced with proposition.

  Owain smiled. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, my sweet? You’d like to place your pretty backside in my mother’s chair at Cair Dugannu and wear finer dresses than I can afford as ruler of Rhos. “I don’t have the strength to take on all of the other kingdoms,” he said, loathe to admit the fact even to his wife.

  “But as the Pendraig’s second son, surely you have a stronger claim than anybody?”

  “The Pendraig’s brother,” he corrected her. “My father died before the Gaels attacked. Cadwallon was king for at least a few hours.”

  “Well? Son or brother? What’s the difference?”

  “A great deal and yet very little as it happens.”

  Owain’s steward scuttled back in. “My lord! My lord!” he cried. “Your brother! The Pendraig! He’s been found!”

  Owain rose suddenly, overturning his wine cup. “Where is he?” he demanded.

  “Here!” came a voice and the door to the Great Hall was heaved aside as Cadwallon strode in, his clothes muddy and his hair dishevelled. He was followed by his wife and sons as well as a young warrior Owain did not recognise.

  “Brother!” Owain cried, coming forward to embrace Cadwallon. “We feared the worst!”

  “Meddyf, my good sister!” said Elen, moving to embrace Cadwallon’s wife, flinching a little when she saw her torn and muck-smeared clothes. “And my sweet nephews! Thank God you are all alive.”

  Is that disappointment I detect in her voice? Owain thought.

  “It is through the efforts of Gobrui here that we live,” said Cadwallon, indicating the youthful warrior at his side. “A more loyal follower I could not ask for. He got us out of Cair Dugannu right under the noses of the Gaels.”

  “The lad must be rewarded,” said Owain. “But you must all be famished. Steward! Bring meat and mead for our guests!”

  As the steward hurried off to see to the kitchen staff, the reunited family members sat at the table while Maelcon and Guidno lay down on the wolf skins by the hearth, exhausted.

  “Tell me everything,” Owain said to his brother.

  Cadwallon related the events of the previous night, pausing only when the food arrived to tuck in ravenously. Owain and Elen waited patiently while their guests wolfed down braised mutton, dark brown bread, creamy white cheese and a clay flagon of mead.

  “They can’t possibly hope to keep Cair Dugannu,” said Owain once Cadwallon was sopping up the meat juices with his crust. “They must know that we will strike back with all the power of the seven kingdoms.”

  Cadwallon gazed at the worn surface of the table. “There is something rotten at the centre of all of this,” he said. “The Gaels are too bold, too reckless. What gives them that courage, I wonder?”

  “They’ll not be so bold once the Teulu of the Red Dragon is mustered and the combined might of Venedotia is marching on them,” said Owain. “We must send word to Cair Cunor.”

  “Yes,” said Cadwallon. “The teulu shall be mustered.” He seemed to remember something and reached inside his tunica. He drew out a bungle of red cloth and placed it on the table between them. “The dragon banner,” he said. “I brought it with us when we fled. Soon enough the Gaels will remember why they should fear the red dragon!”

  Owain’s steward re-entered the hall, his expression grave. “My lords,” he announced. “There has come a messenger. A Gael. From Cair Dugannu.”

  Arthur

  The heat of the morning sun beat down on the two boys as they circled each other in the training yard, their spears raised high, ready to strike. They peered over the rims of their shields at each other, their vision obscured by the sweat that rolled down their faces in great droplets. Both in their sixteenth year, one was heavier than the other and clearly the stronger of the two. The other could nearly be called skinny but what he lacked in strength he made up for in speed and agility.

  The larger boy thrust out with his spear. His opponent parried quickly and counter-struck with his own weapon which slid off the first boy’s shield with a rasping sound. There was a low murmur of approval from the small group of spectators who had gathered to watch. The larger boy tried again, lunging forward suddenly but he had overbalanced himself and stumbled forward. The skinny boy sidestepped and slammed his shield against his opponent’s, knocking the boy to the ground with a heavy thud. He stood over him, victorious, his spear tip held close to his throat.

  The crowd cheered and applauded the victor who helped the fallen boy to his feet.

  “I keep telling you to mind your balance, Cei,” he said, resting his spear and shield against the fence. “Your footwork is your downfall.”

  “A lucky win, Arthur,” protested Cei. “Besides, I can’t let you lose all the time.” He took a playful swipe at Arthur with his spear butt and Arthur dodged nimbly, hurdling the fence.

  Laughing, they walked over to a trough of water and Arthur scooped his hands in and splashed his face, washing the sweat and dirt away. Cei plunged his whole head in and emerged shaking droplets from himself like a dog that had just been for a swim.

  A girl walked by carrying a loaf of bread wrapped in sackcloth under her arm. She was pretty and only slightly younger than the two boys.

  “Morning, Rhan,” Cei called out.

  The girl threw him a brief glimpse and a small smile before turning crimson and scurrying off with her bread.

  “She’s a beauty, that one,” Cei said to Arthur. “Too shy but I’m sure I can open her up like an oyster in time. You can see that she already fancies me.”

  “Really?” said Arthur. “Perhaps it’s me she fancies.”

  Cei snorted. “You wouldn’t know what to do with a girl if one fell into your lap.” He splashed Arthur in the face before taking off at a run, guffawing. Arthur rubbed the water from his eyes and chased after him.

  Cei seized a wooden shovel and struck out at Arthur’s legs playfully. Arthur leapt out of the way and grabbed a length of timber to defend himself with. The wood clicked and clacked together as the two boys sparred back and forth, scattering some panicked chickens that scuttled out of the way, clucking angrily. Cei tossed aside his shovel and made for a sack of flour that was waiting in a cart outside the bakery. He heaved the sack up and swung it around, aiming for Arthur’s head. The bottom of the sack split with a loud rip and the flour erupted from it. Arthur ducked as the gush of flour passed over his head.

  “In the name of the Great Mother!” came a bellow.

  Cei dropped the empty sack and bit down on a knuckle to stop the laughter that rose up in his chest. Peering from a mask of flour were the enraged eyes of Cadyreith, his father’s steward, who had arrived on the scene just in time to catch the billowing white cloud full in the face.

  “What on earth do you two think you’re playing at?” Cadyreith raged as he dusted and shook at his clothes in vain. “And wasting good flour too! If you lads were a year or so younger I would demand Lord Cunor take his sword belt to your hides. Maybe I will yet!”

  “I’m sorry, Cadyreith,” Arthur said, doing a better job of concealing his mirth than his foster-brother.

  “Sorry doesn’t clean my clothes, boy,” the old man said gruffly. “Look at the state of me! And with the lords Owain and Cadwallon arrived just moments ago for a council with your father too!”

  Cei forgot his amusement in an instant. “Owain and Cadwallon, here?” he cried.

  “If you two had been paying attention to what was going on in the fortress this morning instead of acting like a pair
of wild goats,” said Cadyreith, “you would have learned that a messenger arrived last night ahead of King Cadwallon bearing grave news.”

  “King Cadwallon?” Arthur and Cei said in unison.

  “Aye, king and Pendraig now. The High-king Enniaun died two nights ago, an event which preceded an attack on Cair Dugannu from Ynys Mon. Venedotia’s royal seat is in Gaelic hands now and King Cadwallon is in exile.”

  “What?” cried Cei. “Are we at war with the Gaels then?”

  “That remains to be seen,” said Cadyreith. “That’s why a council has been called to discuss things. Your father has requested your presence. Arthur’s too.”

  “Are we to sit in on the council?” Cei asked in excitement.

  “I suppose so, although I must say that you both have a lot of growing up to do before you become worthy members of any council. Get yourselves dressed in something appropriate. There’s no time for finery, we can’t keep the Pendraig waiting.”

  They threw on their tunicas and belted them, ran their fingers through their damp hair and followed Cadyreith down the central range towards the large residence that had once been the praetorium.

  Cair Cunor was an old Roman auxiliary fort, banked and ditched on a low shoulder of rock a mile west of the still waters of Lin Tegid. It was little changed since the days of the legions; its lines of barracks and official buildings an ideal home for an army come down from the north seeking new quarters.

  Cunedag had chosen the fort and its surrounding commote as the base for his teulu for it lay at the very heart of Venedotia. Bordered by Meriauned, Dunauding, Rumaniog and Eternion, and at the crux of the Roman roads that led north-east and north-west through Venedotia, the teulu could be easily dispatched to any of the seven kingdoms should trouble arise. It was also close to the neighbouring territory of Powys – the old lands of Lord Vertigernus – whose descendants had never been too comfortable with a warrior dynasty with Pictish blood in their veins on their doorstep.

  Cunor ruled from Cair Cunor independently, subject only to the Pendraig. He was the son of Cunedag’s second son Osmael – the original penteulu – who had been slain by the Gaels on Ynys Mon. The title had passed to Cunor who had excelled himself in the wars with the Gaels and commanded the fortress from its crumbling praetorium.

  As they walked down the central range, Arthur felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach; a horrible feeling of loss that he couldn’t quite account for. Everything was changing too fast. As they passed the colonnaded principia, he looked up at the lonely window that faced south. Does she know? he wondered.

  The mosaic floor and plaster walls of the praetorium rang with excited chatter and wide-eyed faces. ‘War’ was the word on everybody’s lips. It was a word Arthur and Cei had spoken gleefully since they had been old enough to hold a spear and while Cei bounded with enthusiasm, Arthur felt like he was on a high precipice, staring down into a black abyss.

  Peace had reigned for over a decade and they had grown up in its comfortable embrace with the luxury of training for a battle that might never come. Now, in a single morning their youthful innocence had suddenly become something precarious that might vanish at any moment. This morning they had been boys fighting with blunted spears and wooden foils. Tomorrow they might be marching into battle against the Gaels. Cadyreith was right, both he and Cei had a lot of growing up to do.

  The old dining room was filled with people many of whom Arthur did not recognise. He supposed they were mostly from Din Arth. At the head table sat the new Pendraig and his brother Owain. To the side stood Cei’s father Cunor; a massive man with a fine, yellow beard.

  “Ah, Cadyreith, you found my boys,” said Cunor. He glanced at Cadyreith’s flour-dusted tunic. “Has my faithful steward turned baker?”

  “Apologies, my lord. These boys of yours were careless with a sack of flour.”

  Cunor glared at Arthur and Cei before introducing them. “My lords, this is my son, Cei and my foster-son Arthur.”

  Arthur felt the glances of Cadwallon and Owain pass over him like a cold breeze. If they remembered their illegitimate half-brother, they did not show it.

  “Call the room to order,” said Cadwallon.

  Owain rose and hammered his fist down on the table several times. Everybody in the hall found seats and a hush descended. Cadwallon rose to address them.

  “My friends, my loyal followers,” he began. “You will have all heard by now that my father, the Pendraig Enniaun Yrth, has died. You may also have heard that Cair Dugannu was overrun by Gaels from Ynys Mon two nights past. These Gaels did not act on a whim. They knew my father was on his deathbed. They were informed by a traitor but this traitor was not from within the walls of Cair Dugannu as I had first thought. This traitor was from without.

  “My family and I barely escaped with our lives and we made, through a roundabout way, to the fortress of my dear brother here. Shortly after my arrival a rider from Cair Dugannu came to the gates bearing a message. The message was sent by King Meriaun of Meriauned.”

  The was a low rumbling in the hall at this. Heads turned and questioning faces tried to comprehend the Pendraig’s words.

  “Yes, it is my own cousin who is the traitor,” Cadwallon continued. “As the firstborn of the eldest son of Cunedag, he has long cast envious eyes on my father’s crown but he was too cowardly to act while he was still alive. He has bargained with the Gaels. What he promised them, I have no idea, but it must be a portion of the new kingdom he is planning to create. He sits now in Cair Dugannu, in my father’s chair, and calls himself Pendraig! He would have all the kings of Venedotia bend the knee and pay him homage!”

  The low rumble in the hall rose to an outcry so that Cadwallon had to raise his voice to be heard.

  “I am cast out of my own home and denied my birth right by my own kin!”

  “The Teulu of the Red Dragon must be marshalled!” said Owain, his deep voice carrying farther than his brother’s. “We must strike while the iron is hot and oust Meriaun and his Gaelic hounds.”

  “I shall send out riders immediately, lord,” said Cunor. “But much of the teulu comes from commotes ruled by your cousins. How do they stand in the matter?”

  “Messengers must be sent to determine their allegiances,” said Cadwallon. “King Mor of Rumaniog has long been a friend. I cannot believe he would support Meriaun against me.”

  “And Elnaw of Docmaeling can surely be counted on,” said Owain. His territories lie even further east than my own. We stand between his lands and the Gaels. He has nothing to gain in supporting Meriaun but if Rhos falls then his lands will be next.”

  “And of the others?” Cunor said. “As we sit here counting our allies, surely Meriaun sits at Cair Dugannu and counts his own. Who knows how many of them he has already coerced into supporting him?”

  “Aye, we must send out our messengers without delay,” said Cadwallon.

  After some more discussion on logistics and accommodation for the gathering teulu, the meeting was adjourned and Arthur left Cei talking with his father. He exited the praetorium, crossed the central range and entered the principia through a side door.

  As he climbed the stairs he passed a window and could see the dark green of the mountains to the south, dappled by the sunlight shining through drifting clouds. He often hoped that this view was some comfort to the woman who kept herself concealed from the world here in the upper story of the principia.

  Her name was Eigyr and she had once been loved by a king. That love had died and her heart had been broken beyond repair. Some said that her mind had been broken too, although never within Arthur’s hearing unless they wanted a bloodied nose. Few thought of her or even remembered her for she kept herself concealed from the world that had so ruined her. Although it was a self-imposed exile and although though Arthur visited her daily, he knew she was lonely.

  She had some companions in the few other women who lived at Cair Cunor. They occasionally sat with her and helped on her tapestries. Weav
ing was how Eigyr passed her time and her chamber was hung with many extravagant tapestries in vibrant hues. She was weaving when Arthur opened the door and entered her chamber.

  “Hello, mother,” he said.

  Eigyr looked up from her loom and the woman who was currently keeping her company stood up to leave out of respect for their privacy.

  “Hello, Arthur.”

  He sat down in the vacated chair and drew it close to his mother’s side. She continued with her tapestry and he watched her delicate fingers weave the coloured threads in and out of the warp. He could see the image of two peacocks drinking from a vase taking form, their vibrant colours creeping across the warp threads like the approaching tide of the sea. This motif, he knew, was symbolic of Christians drinking from the waters of eternal life.

  The sons of Cunedag and their descendants worshiped the old gods but Eigyr, like most Britons, was a Christian. Arthur was undecided on which path he truly believed was his. He regularly attended mass with his mother in the small chapel by the banks of the river but he was used to Cei and the others swearing by the old gods and by Modron above all. He had seen warriors pour milk on the fields and wine on the floor at feasts in libation to the Great Mother. He had seen Cei’s father bury the heart of a stag as an offering to the horned Lord of Beasts after a hunt. He had even seen a fine sword cast into Lin Tegid at the funeral of an old warrior so that it would be with him in the Otherworld. And at the spring festival of Calan Mai, when the bonfires of purification dotted the hills like fireflies, he had danced and drunk himself stupid with the others in an orgy of pagan passion.

  “You have heard the news?” he asked her tentatively.

  “Yes,” said Eigyr, her brow furrowed as she concentrated. She looked up and sighed, as if remembering herself. Her brown eyes were suddenly full of sympathy. “I’m sorry, my son.”

  “Did you love him?”

  It was a question he had often wanted to ask his mother but had never found the opportunity or courage. Now seemed as good a time as any.