Sign of the White Foal

by Chris Thorndycroft

  “How could I be?” he replied, shrugging his shoulders in exasperation. “He is only ten, after all. And the things he saw…”

  “A child’s imagination soon runs away with him.”

  “But that’s just the problem. It wasn’t his imagination, was it? He disobeyed my orders in opening his mouth, but those things he told the baker’s boy were no fantasies. They were real.”

  “Embellished to a good degree.”

  “True, but we do face the dead. By all the Gods, I don’t know how it is possible, but somehow Meriaun has raised the very dead against me!”

  It was the first time he had spoken it aloud and Meddyf could see that it was something of a relief to him. Excepting Maelcon, they had all kept silent on the matter. It was as if giving voice to their thoughts would somehow make them more real, and they had enough facing them without dealing with the dead arisen just yet. So those fears had been relegated to the dark, primal part of their minds, not forgotten, just placed to one side to be dealt with at a later time.

  “We don’t know what those things were,” she said at length.

  “You didn’t see them up close,” he said. “You didn’t face them in battle.”

  It was true, she had only caught a glimpse of them as they had been escorted back to their quarters. She had seen white bone and deathly pale bodies smeared with blood and woad, slick and glistening in the moonlight. The warriors who had refused to betray their lord had been led out and she had been glad that the edge of the hall had blocked their vision and prevented her and her children from seeing what those monsters had done to the prisoners.

  Monsters they were, that was beyond a doubt. But the dead given life anew? She knew the native tales of Albion were full of such things but she had been raised a Christian, despite her marriage to a pagan. She had never objected to the rituals and superstitions of the family she had married into, keeping her own mass in the chapel at Penlassoc, but she had never really contemplated that there was any truth behind the old tales. Her husband clearly believed in them for she knew what nightmares rode roughshod through his dreams at night, making him toss and turn. It wasn’t just the shame of losing Cair Dugannu. It was the fear that ate away at his confidence; the raw, primal fear of the dark and what it might hold.

  When she retired to her chamber that night, she prayed to God for guidance and aid in the days to come.

  Arthur

  The dragon standard fluttered high over Cair Cunor; a rallying point to all who would oppose Meriaun the Usurper. So far, only King Mor had answered the call. Warriors from Rumaniog and the commotes of Rhos arrived in a steady stream by the day and the fort grew full to bursting.

  Arthur and Cei were charged with overseeing accommodation for the newcomers. Several of Cair Cunor’s barracks had been disused for over a decade and needed a thorough cleaning out of bracken and sparrows’ nests. Even the old bathhouse, which had fallen into disrepair long ago, was converted into sleeping quarters. When they ran out of room in the fortress, further accommodation was found in the abandoned settlement on its south-eastern wall.

  The warriors were in high spirits, many of whom, like Arthur and Cei, were young and had been waiting for a battle all their lives. They were swarthy, moustachioed youths with bright tunicas and shields painted with the black raven of Rumaniog, the bear of Rhos and the various sigils of a myriad commotes.

  One figure arrived at Cair Cunor’s gates alone. He rode a grey mare and wore a green tunica under a hooded cloak that had once been white but was now grey, stained and blackened at the hem from travel. He had an old, lined face burned brown by the sun. It still looked capable of a smile if the mood took him. His once black hair and beard were now streaked with grey.

  “Menw!” said Arthur with excitement. “The Pendraig’s bard!”

  Menw had not been seen for many months. A bard was not expected to spend all his time reciting the tales of ancient heroes and extolling the merits of his lord to mead-soaked audiences. A good bard, many lords maintained, was one who travelled the realm extensively, learning new tales and keeping his finger on the pulse of the people to best to advise his lord. Arthur had only seen Menw a couple of times in his life when the bard had passed through Cair Cunor on his travels. He mostly remembered Menw’s songs and the strumming of his long fingers on the harp he carried in his crane-skin satchel.

  “What’s his business here?” said Cei. “We need warriors, not bards.”

  “Nobody has known of his whereabouts for a long time now,” said Arthur. “He disappeared before the Pendraig grew sick. Who knows what he has been up to or what news he brings?”

  When Cadwallon learned that his father’s old bard had returned, he immediately called another council. Arthur and Cei, glad of a break from arguing with warriors about bunks, the digging of latrines and the finding of fodder for the horses, eagerly washed up and made their way to the praetorium.

  “What news from the commotes?” Cadwallon asked Menw as a cup of mead and a platter of bread and chicken was placed before the weary bard.

  Menw drank deeply and bit off a hunk of the bread. All in the chamber waited patiently as the old man chewed it and washed it down with mead before starting on the chicken thigh. He had an appetite that suggested that his fare of late had been meagre.

  “Fear sweeps Venedotia like a plague,” he said at last, licking meat juices from his fingers. “In every commote from the Laigin Peninsula to the farms beneath Cair Legion’s walls people burn bright fires into the night and sleep with doors bolted.”

  “When I have marshalled my teulu I shall drive these Gaels back into the sea,” said Cadwallon. “The people will have nothing more to fear once this war is over.”

  “Gaels is one thing,” said Menw, gnawing on the chicken bone. “What the people fear comes not from Erin nor is it easily dispatched with swords and spears.”

  “What are you getting at?” Cadwallon asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “Tell me, my king, when the Gaels took Cair Dugannu, were they accompanied by any… others?”

  “Others?”

  “Were there any in their number who did not seem of this world?”

  “What is this?” Owain asked, his voice testy. “My brother was forced from his ancestral home by Gaels allied to our cousin Meriaun. What is this talk of others?”

  Cadwallon was silent and Menw’s eyes remained fixed on him as if waiting for something. Everybody in the chamber turned to look at their king.

  “What I am about to say,” Cadwallon said slowly, “does not go beyond this chamber. Is that quite clear?”

  Arthur found himself voicing his assent along with the others.

  “You have all heard the rumours, I am sure,” Cadwallon continued. “The truth of the matter is that there were some others that night. I have tried to stamp out those rumours for I feared to see the same loss of hope in the eyes of my teulu as I saw in my father’s men on the walls of Cair Dugannu.” He paused to pour himself some mead and his hands shook a little, spilling some over the rim of his horn. He gulped deeply and set down the horn firmly. “I don’t know what they were, gods help me. They wore masks, of that much I am certain. Masks made from skulls. They were naked and their flesh was pale. I am not even sure that they were entirely… alive.”

  “Not alive?” asked Cunor. “What are you getting at?”

  “I fought close to them. I smelt their stench, saw their black, lifeless eyes. I saw blows dealt to them that would have killed you or I and yet not one of them fell.”

  “Did these men call out any battle cries or curses?” said Menw.

  “Not that I could make out. They screeched and yelled a good deal.”

  “Did you hear any words pass their lips at all?”

  “No, none.”

  “Then it is as I suspected. The Cauldron-born.”

  “Cauldron-born?” asked Cunor.

  “Do you not remember your nursery tales, Cunor mab Osmael? Do you not remember Bran and the Cauldron of
Rebirth?”

  “Nursery tales, aye,” Cunor replied. “And I left them in the nursery where they belong.”

  “The simplest story told to a child often holds a kernel of truth,” said Menw. “And believe me, the Cauldron of Rebirth is as real as this table.” He knocked the rough oak with his knuckle.

  “A tale, surely! A tale of heroes and battles that never happened!”

  “Are not the warriors and battles of one generation the heroes and legends of the next?”

  “Cauldron-born!” Owain scoffed. “We are here to plan our campaign, bard. If you’ve nothing of use to tell us then…”

  “Owain,” cautioned Cadwallon. “Menw was our father’s bard long before we were given our first spears. His kind are the keepers of this land’s knowledge; knowledge which block-headed warriors would do well to heed.” He turned his eyes back to Menw. “What do you know?”

  “It has been many years since I journeyed to Ynys Mon,” the bard continued. “A British bard receives a poor welcome there these days. There are fishermen and traders who occasionally cross the straits – those the Gaels allow – and I have spoken with several of them. They say that the Morgens have acquired a great treasure.”

  “The Morgens?” Owain asked. “Surely the Gaels have raped and murdered the nine sisters by now. We have not heard from them in over a decade.”

  “You forget that the Gaels once shared our veneration of the Great Mother,” said Menw. “Those who have not converted to the worship of the Christ Messiah still follow the old ways. And this Diugurnach is a pagan of the staunchest stock by all accounts. No, the Morgens are alive and have been secretly brewing a recipe of ancient fear. It is my belief that they have found a treasure so ancient and powerful that they have cowed even the Gaels into their thrall through fear alone.”

  “Are you telling us that the Morgens have found the Cauldron of Rebirth and are cooking up the dead to send against us?” Cunor demanded.

  Menw said nothing. There was a frightened stillness in the chamber that was broken only by Owain’s outraged protestations.

  “Why should the Morgens support the Gaels against us?” said Cadwallon. “And how does Meriaun fit into all of this?”

  “That remains to be discovered,” said Menw. “There is a triumvirate here somewhere; an alliance that connects Meriaun to the Gaels and the Morgens but how and why are questions I do not have the answers to. Yet.”

  “We must seek out these answers,” said Cadwallon.

  “You’re not taking all this seriously?” said Owain.

  Cadwallon turned sharply to his brother. “I saw them, Owain! You did not! You did not see how they tore through the men at Cair Dugannu, how they chilled their hearts to stone with fear, how they turned seasoned warriors into meek lambs for the slaughter. I was there. I saw them. There are forces at work too terrible to be ignored and I will not charge blindly into a war without knowing what it is that I face. Tell me, Menw, what must we do?”

  Menw sat back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap as if he had been waiting for precisely this question.

  “We must journey to Ynys Mon under cover of night and without the enemy knowing it. We must steal the cauldron. Only then can the power of the Cauldron-born be shattered. You have only to pick the men for the job and I will lead them myself.”

  “We are on the cusp of a war the like of which Venedotia has not seen since Cunedag’s day,” said Owain in defiance. “And you ask us to send a band of warriors chasing after some nursery tale which will likely get them all killed?”

  “How many men do you need?” Cadwallon asked Menw.

  “Seven should do it,” said Menw. “Seven is a good number. Seven returned from Erin when Bran set out to rescue his sister Branwen. Seven were victorious against the cauldron before.”

  “Seven out of Bran’s entire teulu!” said Owain. “Oh yes, I have not forgotten the tales. And how many of our warriors will return from Ynys Mon? None? While we face all the might of Meriauned and their allies. Brother, you must see that this is folly!”

  “Seven men we can spare,” Cadwallon replied. “Seven to uncover the enemy’s plot. Seven to bring hope to thousands. Menw, you shall have your men. Cunor, I would discuss this with you in private. This council is ended.”

  Owain threw his hands up in despair as the chamber emptied itself. Arthur and Cei followed the older men out into the shade of the colonnades.

  “Damn fool, coming here and stirring things up,” said Cei as they watched Menw from across the atrium. The bard was talking to some young warriors who were pestering him for news, their faces full of hope and excitement. They had not been at the council. They did not know what they all faced. “I wish he’d kept well away from here. We are outnumbered and outmanoeuvred as it is. Cadwallon had the right of it, keeping silent about those damned wild men. The last thing we need is ghost stories scaring the men.”

  “So you think it’s all woodsmoke and old wives’ tales?” Arthur demanded. He didn’t know why but he was irritated by Cei’s scepticism.

  Cei turned to him. “What do you think? The Cauldron-born? The Morgens stirring up mists of sorcery against us? Of course it is!”

  “Cadwallon doesn’t think so,” said Arthur. “Didn’t you hear the fear in his voice? Didn’t you see how he listened to Menw while Owain and your father scoffed at him?” He felt angry. Cei had begun to get on his nerves over the last few days but he could not quite put his finger on why.

  Menw had finished speaking with the warriors and had made his way over to them.

  “Young Cei mab Cunor,” said the bard, bowing his head just a little to indicate a portion of the respect usually reserved for royalty. “And Arthur mab Eigyr, I believe?” he gave Arthur the same, short bow.

  Arthur was taken aback, as much by the bow as by the bard’s recognition of him.

  “Yes, I can see Enniaun Yrth’s eyes in your face, boy,” said Menw. “My condolences.”

  It took a while for Arthur to understand what the bard was referring to but then he grasped it. His father had died. It was a natural thing to say out of politeness, perhaps even to a bastard who had never known his father. And then a second thing occurred to him. Aside from his mother, Menw was the first person since his father’s death to offer their condolences. Not even Cei, who was as a brother to him, had made even the slightest acknowledgement of it. And the source of his irritation for his foster-brother over the past few days was finally revealed to him.

  “Thank you,” Arthur said. “Your coming is welcome. But, please, there is one thing I do not understand about what you have told us.”

  The bard cocked his head expectantly.

  “The cauldron was destroyed by one of Bran’s warriors, so the tales go,” said Arthur. “If the tales are true, then how is it that the cauldron still exists?”

  Menw smiled. “Objects can pass in and out of Annun just as we mortals do. They are reborn, so to speak, as we are, and can live many lives.”

  Annun was one of the names for the Otherworld and meant the ‘Deep Place’. Ynys Aballach was another; the ‘Isle of Apples’.

  “Cei! Arthur!” called Cunor from across the courtyard. “Get over here!”

  Menw accompanied them back into the dining room. It was empty but for Cadwallon, Owain and Cunor.

  “Sit down, both of you,” said Cunor. No such command was given to Menw who required none and took his seat alongside them.

  “This mission to Ynys Mon,” Cunor began. “How does it sit with you?”

  “A wild goose chase, father,” said Cei. “An unnecessary expenditure when we need every spear here to repel Etern’s forces should he decide to march on us.”

  “And you, Arthur? You know that you have always been free to speak your mind to me, just as Cei is.”

  “I do not agree with Cei, my lord,” Arthur replied. “If Menw believes that this is a worthwhile mission that can improve our knowledge of our enemies’ plans whilst simultaneously undermining them,
then I can only agree with him.”

  He saw Menw smiling at him and avoided the scowl he knew would be smeared across Cei’s face. He could see something of that scowl on the face of Owain for he was of a like mind to Cei but Cadwallon remained impassive, watching Arthur closely.

  “I’m glad you agree to it, Arthur,” said Cunor, “for, although I share some of Cei’s misgivings, it has been decided that this mission will set out immediately and you are both to lead it.”

  There was a heavy silence as this sank in.

  “Us?” Cei exclaimed. “We are to go on this foolhardy mission behind enemy lines? Do you think so little of us, father, that you would send us away upon the eve of war?”

  “Do not be petulant, Cei!” Cunor snapped. “Did it not cross your mind that it is because I think so highly of you both that I have agreed to send you on this mission, this mission which has been sanctioned by our Pendraig himself?”

  Cei lapsed into a sullen silence, not wanting to argue further with his father in front of Cadwallon and Owain.

  “Menw will be guiding you on this journey,” said Cadwallon, “and your father will pick four of his best warriors to accompany you.”

  “You are to leave this afternoon,” said Cunor, “and make for the Afon Conui. Under cover of darkness you will travel to the coast and pass right under the noses of the enemy at Cair Dugannu. From there you will cross the straits and make landfall upon the shores of Ynys Mon before dawn. I have already sent Beduir and Gualchmei ahead to procure a fishing boat for your purposes.”

  Cei’s face brightened a little at this. Beduir was known to them, older and well-liked. He had already had his first taste of combat in a Powysian raid and had the scars to prove it. Gualchmei was Arthur’s cousin, cunning and wiley, who made up for his short stature with cat-like nimbleness.

  “I suggest you go down to the armoury now and select what gear you want to take,” said Cunor. “I will have the remaining two members of the party ready in front of the stables and will see you off from there.”

  As Arthur and Cei rose, Cadwallon stood up and extended his arm to them. “I do not take your bravery lightly,” he said, “and you will forever have my deepest gratitude. I wish the three of you luck and look forward to your return.”