Sign of the White Foal

by Chris Thorndycroft

  Gualchmei was fading fast. He fell to the back of the column and Beduir doubled back to support him. Menw showed no mercy and kept up a brutal pace that Arthur thought was well past a man of his years.

  They pushed on as the sun vanished behind them and those brown, brackish hills dulled to grey beneath a darkening sky. The sweat chilled on Arthur’s back and it seemed to him that the ground flew beneath his feet, the hills streaking past him while the wind sang in his ears. He kept his eyes on the ground in front of him as they ran on and on, never daring to look about them or at each other for fear that they might not spot a treacherous hummock or grassy hole that would trip them and break an ankle.

  Eventually Menw slowed and they all took full advantage of the breather, resting their hands on their knees and gasping for breath. The bard raised a hand to his wild eyes and peered into the distance behind them.

  “We have not lost them,” he said and by squinting, Arthur could see the dim dots of mounted men and dogs in the distance crossing the hills in their direction.

  Menw turned and continued. All the others could do was share exhausted looks of desperation before falling in line and following him.

  Cadwallon

  “Spineless worm!” raged Owain. “He means to wait it out to see which bear is worth betting on!”

  A messenger had arrived from the southern most sub-kingdom of Venedotia. King Usai of Caradogion’s position was one of neutrality. That far-flung outpost of Cunedag’s legacy had always been the outsider and least involved of Venedotia’s disputes.

  Cadwallon had never had much hope in Usai’s support; only a desperate hope that a shared heritage would breed some loyalty. Another messenger had arrived the day before proclaiming King Elnaw of Docmaeling’s support for Meriaun. That made two kingdoms in support of the enemy against Cadwallon’s single ally; Mor of Rumaniog. Only one king had not yet given his answer; Efiaun of Dunauding.

  Mor cleared his throat and ruffled the white streaks in his black hair. “It is Dunauding that should concern us the most,” he said. “If Efiaun joins Meriaun we will have enemies to the east and west of us. Our passage to Cair Dugannu will be a narrow one.”

  “Cair Dugannu!” said Owain. “If only it were so simple as retaking the royal seat. Not only are we far outnumbered by Gaels and traitors, we’d never hold the fortress against our cousins for long even if we did take it.”

  “Not since the lords of the Laigin Peninsula threw their support behind Meriaun,” said Cunor gloomily. “I had hoped that they would recognise a usurper when they saw one and put their petty resentment of your father behind them just this once.”

  The Laigin Peninsula was named after the Gaelic tribe – one of the five great tribes of Erin – who had settled it before Cunedag’s coming. Despite the wars that had driven the Gaels from the peninsula, the name had stuck and it had fallen to King Afloeg to rule it. When he died without an heir, Enniaun Yrth’s absorption of Afloegion into his own kingdom had been greatly resented by Afloeg’s bannermen. They had never truly accepted Enniaun as their king and apparently accepted his son even less so.

  “Why does Efiaun delay in sending his reply?” said Cadwallon in frustration. “Surely he cannot mean to wait out the war in his fortress as Usai does? Dunauding is central to Venedotia’s strength as a kingdom. If he bars our way to the Pass of Kings, then we are truly stuck here with Etern gnashing at our heels.”

  The Pass of Kings was a steep-sided valley between the mountain known as the Giant’s Cairn and the Heaps; a rocky range of mountains that walled its eastern side. Widely considered the gateway to the coast, the Pass of Kings had been hotly contested during Cunedag’s wars with the Gaels. Cadwallon hoped to avoid such a contest with his cousin.

  Once the council was adjourned, Cadwallon strolled out onto the sunny central range and made his way towards the north-eastern gate. He passed the training yard and stopped to watch his sons at their lessons. Guidno was sparring with his tutor but Maelcon sat in the shade of a thatched overhang, a codex in his lap. It looked to be an expensive Christian text and Cadwallon wondered where he had got it from.

  “Good, Guidno!” he cheered as he crossed the yard. “Keep your spear tip up like Brochmael shows you!”

  He stepped into the shade of the overhang and Maelcon looked up at him from beneath his dark brows.

  “What’s that?” Cadwallon asked, indicating the codex.

  “A copy of Saint Jerome’s translation of the New Testament,” Maelcon replied. “Deacon Arminius lent it to me to practice my Latin.”

  Cadwallon pursed his lips but said nothing. Meddyf had been ecstatic to learn that Cair Cunor had its very own deacon who lived within its walls and preached his sermons in the small church in the nearby settlement. Cair Dugannu had no such thing, most of its inhabitants being followers of the old faith.

  It had been Meddyf who had suggested that Maelcon take lessons from Deacon Arminius. The boy craved learning, not warfare she had said. She may have been right, but he hadn’t been fooled. Who could blame her for wanting to share her faith with her son? It must be lonely being a Christian queen in a predominantly pagan corner of Albion. He knew that she secretly wanted to raise their sons as Christians and Cadwallon couldn’t bring himself to protest overmuch. He had drawn the line at baptism and always ensured they attended the religious rites of the old faith whenever required, but really, what was one more god when there were already so many to pay one’s devotions to?

  Neither was Cadwallon against the idea of his eldest son learning to read and write. In fact it could prove useful for a future king. He didn’t even particularly mind the Christian subject matter. No, Cadwallon’s fear was that Maelcon would spend too much time reading old scriptures and learning tales of Christ and his followers that his martial obligations would be neglected. If they could win this damnable war, Maelcon would be the next Pendraig and what good was a Pendraig who could not hold his own in single combat or lead his teulu to victory on the battlefield?

  He glanced at Guidno who was so young and already doing so well under his tutor’s instructions. It was not unheard of for a king to pass his kingdom to his second son in favour of his first. It was a king’s duty to do what was best for his kingdom. But he had always had Maelcon in mind for the throne and it felt like a betrayal to even think otherwise. “Maelcon, I want you to put that thing away and join your brother in the training yard.”

  Maelcon glanced up at him. “But da…” he protested.

  “No arguments! We all have to do things we don’t particularly want to on occasion, and we are at war. It is time you recognised that. Come on now, you have your duties just as I have mine.”

  Maelcon sulked and closed the codex before ambling off towards Guidno and Brochmael. Cadwallon sighed and continued onwards and exited the fort through the north-eastern gate.

  The nearby church was a small oblong structure of timber and whitewashed plaster. As Cadwallon arrived, Cair Cunor’s small Christian congregation were dispersing after hearing Mass. He found Meddyf with Owain’s wife, Elen.

  “A king to escort us home!” said Meddyf with one of her wry smiles. “How honoured we are!”

  “I have just come from the council chamber and needed some air,” he replied.

  “That bad? What is to be your decision?”

  “We stay put for the time being,” he said and he noticed a look of disappointment cross Elen’s face which she quickly tried to hide and failed. “I will not march until we have every possible ally under the dragon banner,” he assured her.

  “I have been praying for my father,” Meddyf said. “Has there been any news from him?”

  “No, I am sorry. The last we heard from the Conui Valley was that your father is rounding up every bannerman he can. He will be joining us here as soon as he is able and with riders too. I await his coming as eagerly as you do, Meddyf.”

  “But the Gaels,” Meddyf insisted. “How much further down the valley will they travel?”


  “As far as they can without engaging your father and his friends,” Cadwallon said with an encouraging a smile as he could muster. The truth of it was that Maeldaf and a rag-tag army of bannermen could not hope to stand against Diugurnach’s Gaels if they passed down the Conui en masse. Just as his wife prayed to her Christ for Maeldaf’s safety, Cadwallon prayed to Modron that his father-in-law would have the sense to ride south before it was too late to escape the enemy’s advance.

  “I saw our boys at their lessons in the training yard on my way over here,” he said in an effort to change the subject. “Guidno improves all the time but Maelcon would rather read. I understand Deacon Arminius is lending him Christian texts now.”

  “Arminius says that his comprehension of Latin is exceptional for his age.”

  “While his martial skills are far from exceptional.”

  “He’s just not a warrior, husband.”

  “And he never will be if you keep encouraging him to shirk his lessons.”

  “I must have a word with that Eigyr,” said Elen abruptly, keen to leave the king and his queen to discuss familial matters in private. “She always seems so terribly alone.” They watched Elen hurry off to speak with the curious lady who dwelt in the upper chambers of the principia and only ventured out for Mass.

  “You coddle the boy, Meddyf,” Cadwallon said, returning to the topic in hand.

  “Oh, don’t be such a brute,” she replied. “I know all young princes must learn the art of sword and spear but I just don’t have the heart to force him to do things that he is clearly not cut out for.”

  “He will be a man in a few years. It is time he started to grow up. He needs to focus on his duties. One day he might have to ride into battle. What good will his Christian teachings be then?”

  Meddyf was silent and he knew she had a good retort on the tip of her tongue but had bitten down on it. They crossed the remaining distance to the gate of the fort in silence. When they reached the praetorium they were confronted by Cunor who seemed greatly agitated.

  “My lord,” he said, “a rider came just after you left; one of our watchmen from the eastern border of the commote.”

  “What news?” Cadwallon said, knowing full well what might cause a border watchman to gallop to Cair Cunor as fast as he could.

  “Eternion is mustered,” said Cunor. “King Etern marches on us as we speak. They will be here by tomorrow morning.”

  Arthur

  The chase continued as the sun went down. The sky grew bruised and the breeze chill. They eventually crested a hill and saw the glittering streak of a river below them. Menw urged them on and they plunged down into its icy waters. The hunt was close now, almost upon the rise above them and the companions scooted down river on their haunches, clawing their way past mossy rocks and keeping as much to the shadows of the overhanging roots and earthy banks as possible.

  Arthur felt chilled to the bone by the time Menw scrambled out of the water and climbed the bank on the opposite side. Here they were shaded by a knot of fir trees and they huddled together in the dimness, the chattering of their teeth loud in their ears.

  The sound of the hunt was distant now and it drew farther away. They waited until the last of the dogs’ yelps was a memory on the wind before they rose, clothes clinging to their aching joints. It was pitch black and the moon struggled to be seen behind shifting clouds.

  “We must head north,” said Menw. “To the coast. To Cunedag’s old lys. There we can hide for a while and Gualchmei can be healed while we discuss what our next plan is.”

  “That old place?” Cei said. “It must be a ruin by now. Surely there are some settlements closer where we can buy or steal ourselves some warmth and food.”

  “And hope that nobody runs to the enemy with information of our whereabouts?” the bard replied. “No, the lys is deserted and will suit our needs admirably. It is not far but we must move now before Gualchmei grows any worse.”

  Beduir had to carry their wounded comrade the rest of the journey for, as they all shivered in their wet clothes under the night sky, Gualchmei burned with a fever.

  After some time they could see the thatched roofs of a settlement atop a bald hill. Beyond it lay the cliffs and the booming surf. They had reached the north-eastern tip of the island. It was a walled place but its defences were in poor repair. The thatch of the buildings was black with mould and fallen in in some parts while weeds and long grass pawed at the cracked whitewash.

  They waded through the thick grass and entered the largest of the buildings; an oblong hall with tall rectangular windows. The roof was supported by timbers which had once been painted vibrant colours but were now faded and greenish with moss. The thatch had sunk in and the gaping hole had let in the rainwater which had pooled on the stone flags at the far end.

  Arthur gazed around at the moonlit chamber. This had been Cunedag’s lys; his original court after he and his sons had expelled the Gaels nearly forty years ago. Now, the Gaels had returned and this once magnificent building was home only to ghosts and rats, the memories of laughter and cheer as distant as the winds of last winter.

  “Who goes there?” called a voice from without and the companions jumped and unslung their weapons. In the light of the doorway, the figure of a man could be seen peering in. He stepped closer, a stout cudgel gripped in his hands. As the light fell on his face, Arthur saw his eyes widen at the sight of them. He had evidently thought to come upon a lone intruder or perhaps a pair of rogues, easily sent on their way with a few blows of his cudgel. Seven armed warriors was more than he had anticipated.

  “We mean you no harm, friend,” said Cei, “so long as you mean us none.”

  “Well, you are no Gaels, so that counts in your favour,” said the man. “Who are you?”

  “I am Cei mab Cunor, son to the penteulu of Venedotia. These are my followers. I am frank with you for you do not seem to bear the Gaels any allegiance.”

  “Aye, you are right in that. What is your business here?”

  “We have been sent by the Pendraig on a mission of vital importance. We ran into some of our mutual enemies and my companion here was sorely wounded. We thought to find shelter here.”

  “I am a mere servant,” said the man. “I would gladly offer you shelter but it is not my place to do so. You must speak to the master.”

  “A master of this old ruin?” Menw said. “I was under the impression all associated with it fled when Ynys Mon fell to the Gaels. I myself was in Powys on business when the last defences fell…”

  “The old lys is something of a sacred place for those still loyal to the Dragons of the Isle,” said the servant. “Come, I will take you to my master.”

  He led them from the crumbling lys and across the enclosure to what had been the steward’s quarters in days past. The light of a hearth fire could be seen through one of the windows and smoke drifted from the hole in the thatch which was in a better state than that of the other buildings. He opened the door and led them into an antechamber.

  “Leave your weapons here,” he said.

  The companions looked at one another. It could be a trap but what other choice did they have? The propped their spears and shields against the wall and unbuckled their sword belts. Arthur helped Beduir with Gualchmei who was in a stumbling, mumbling state of delirium.

  It was then that they noticed the two women looking at them. They stood in the doorway to the inner hall with its hide apron parted just enough to reveal their frightened but resolute faces down the end of the spear they gripped between them. One of them looked to be the same age as Cei and Arthur while the other was somewhat younger.

  “Steady…” said Cei, frozen in the act of setting his sword down.

  “Who are these people, Cadfan?” one of the girls asked. She had tawny hair that spilled down over the shoulders of a shabby tunica and from her pale face green eyes burned with the defiance of youth.

  “Fellow Britons,” said the servant named Cadfan. “Warriors from the court
of Venedotia. I saw movement in the lys and thought some bandits were on the prowl. They say they are sent by the Pendraig.”

  The women did not lower their spear. “What interest has the son of Cunedag in sending his warriors to us now?” asked the tawny-haired one.

  “The son of Cunedag is dead,” replied Arthur. “There is a new Pendraig; Cadwallon mab Enniaun.”

  “It’s all the same to us,” said the girl. “And you have not answered my question.”

  “Must we be interrogated at spearpoint?” Cei demanded. “We have already told your servant our business and that our comrade is sorely wounded. Surely you can see that we mean you no harm.”

  “What is it, girls?” came a voice from within.

  “Warriors, father,” called back the tawny-haired girl over her shoulder. “Britons.”

  “Britons?” came the reply. “And you keep our countrymen waiting on our doorstep? Show them in!”

  The girls lowered the spear slowly but the tawny-haired one kept her unblinking, semi-hostile gaze on them.

  They filed into the hall where a hearth fire was crackling merrily and a man with lank, greying hair sat nearby, a blanket over him. “You have wounded,” he said upon seeing Gualchmei hanging between the arms of Arthur and Beduir. “Set him down on the table. Girls, clear some space.”

  “I can see to him,” said Menw. “I require only water to be boiled and clean linen if you have it.”

  The seated man regarded Menw curiously for a moment before remembering himself and sending his daughters to fetch what was needed. “I am Gogfran,” he said. “Steward of this place. These are my daughters, Guenhuifar and Guenhuifach.”