“Steward?” Menw said as Guenhuifach set the water to boil. “Of Cunedag’s old lys?”
“Steward of weeds and rubble,” said Gogfran with a sad smile. “Custodian of ghosts and memories.”
“I seem to remember a Gogfran who was King Enniaun’s steward years ago, before the Gaels returned,” the bard went on.
“Aye, that was me,” said Gogfran. “And you are Menw the bard. I knew I recognised your face as soon as you stepped across my threshold.”
“Gods, man, what have you been doing here all these years?” Menw exclaimed. “I had assumed you had been killed or dismissed when the island fell.”
“When Enniaun Yrth led his teulu back across the straits, some of us stayed. I was born on this island, you see. My family have dwelt here since the days of the druids. It may only be an outpost to the sons of Cunedag, but I could never abandon it. We took shelter with some villagers, my wife and I. The girls were but babes. They were bad times. The Gaels take what they want and kill any who deny them. We went hungry more than one winter. But we survived. It’s what we do, us islanders.”
“But to live here, in this old ruin…” said Cei.
“This old ruin, Cei mab Cunor,” Menw interrupted, “was built by your grandfather.”
“Cunor’s son?” Gogfran said, his eyes passing from Menw to Cei. “Aye, Osmael, the first penteulu built the first fort here. It was said he was to receive Ynys Mon as his own just as his brothers received other portions of Venedotia as their kingdoms, but his death put an end to that. So, the son of Cunor mab Osmael has returned to us!” He sucked his teeth in amusement.
“Gaels have plagued us for years,” said the said the tawny-haired sister who was called Guenhuifar. “And Venedotia sends the son of its penteulu and six warriors to us.” Her face told them that she was far from impressed.
“The teulu is occupied in the south,” said Arthur. “You may not have heard, but King Meriaun has allied himself with the Gaels and is waging war for the crown of Venedotia.”
“We could hardly be so ignorant,” Guenhuifar replied, “with Gaels looting every store and granary to feed the war effort. There isn’t a family on the island who has not been robbed or brutalised by their roving gangs. Times are harder than ever and the mighty Pendraig sends seven warriors to aid us!”
“Hush, girl!” said Gogfran, embarrassed by his daughter’s animosity to their guests.
The water had begun to boil and Guenhuifach, a quiet, doe-eyed girl, swung the pot away from the flames and carried it over to the unconscious Gualchmei. She had made a neat pile of linen rags at the head of the table.
“You have treated the wounded before,” Menw observed as he joined her at the table.
The girl blushed, avoiding his eyes and bustled off to attend to the fire.
“She is her mother’s daughter, and no mistake,” said Gogfran. “My wife taught her to care for the sick and elderly as best she could. It was how we earned our keep in the old days before it was safe to return to the lys. And she has tended to me these past few months. Could a father wish for more than two such daughters? Even if Guenhuifar here takes more after me than her mother, though age has not dulled her tongue nor softened her temper as it has mine!”
Guenhuifar sat by the fire the light of which made her hair seem aflame itself. She rolled her eyes. “You do talk some nonsense, da,” she muttered.
“What is it that ails you, Gogfran?” Menw asked him as he unwrapped the blood-soaked cloth that bound the wound. Gualchmei squirmed and moaned softly.
“Coughing fever, curse it. Can’t seem to rid myself of it.”
“Have you tried celandine boiled with nettle leaves?” Menw asked Guenhuifach.
“Yes, but so little of it grows around here,” she replied in a quiet voice. “We have used all there is and I fear to stray too far in search of more.”
“I’ve told you a thousand times that I would go and fetch all your herbs and plants if you only told me what to look for,” said Guenhuifar.
“And have you come back with mint instead of mugwort?” said Guenhuifach. She smiled at Menw. “My sister’s knowledge of herbology is somewhat lacking, I’m afraid.”
Guenhuifar grunted and stoked the fire.
“I have something in my satchel that may help him,” said Menw. “Just let me see to this young man first.”
He dipped a rag in the hot water and bathed the wound, squeezing and prodding to make sure there were no slivers of metal still within. Gualchmei gasped with pain.
“Be still, son,” said the bard. “This will soon be on the mend.”
He washed the wound with the contents of a small bottle of vinegar and then sewed it up with a sharp bone needle and fine thread. Then he boiled up a poultice of herbs which he mashed in a small mortar and pestle and applied to Gualchmei’s shoulder.
“He needs rest now,” Menw said at last. “As do we all. I apologise for keeping you good people from your beds. Dawn cannot be far off.”
“Not at all,” said Gogfran. “Any warrior of the Pendraig’s is welcome here. But sleep is far from my mind now. I would hear of your business here and all the news you have from the mainland.”
Menw glanced at Cei who indicated that there was no need for secrecy. As the tired warriors sat by the fire, the steam coming off their damp clothes in thin wisps, Menw told their hosts all.
Meddyf
The teulu had been marching all morning and for much of the previous day. The Roman road that led northwest from Cair Cunor through the mountains towards Din Emrys was in poor repair. Long grass grew through the stones and where the road crossed the boggy ground of the moors, it vanished completely. Cunedag may have chosen Cair Cunor as the fortress of his teulu for its place in the Roman road network but nobody had maintained those roads since the legions had departed.
Meddyf climbed down from the caravan and ordered what baggage they had taken with them be unloaded to lighten the weight. The caravan’s wheel was well and truly stuck in the sludge. With much cursing, the men put their shoulders to it and heaved it up out of the rut it had wedged itself into.
Meddyf felt her apprehension rising. They were making slow progress and a warm welcome at their destination was no certain thing. Of all the sub-kings of Venedotia, only King Mor of Rumaniog had answered the call and rode at the head of the column with her husband under the dragon standard. Two kings under the banner when there should be six marching against a traitor! That alone spoke of the crumbling of the line of Cunedag and the end of an era. That kings like Usai should claim neutrality as if they were not all bonded by blood!
It beggared belief that Etern was so foolish as to march on the Pendraig’s position. He had always hated Enniaun Yrth, his younger brother who had inherited Cunedag’s crown. To Etern’s mind, that crown was rightfully his. But he had few winters left to him and no sons. He could not possibly think that Meriaun would ever let him sit on the throne at Cair Dugannu. Why support one nephew over another? What was there to gain? Nobody knew the answer and could only guess that an old man’s jealousy had spoken instead of his honour or his reason.
Cair Cunor had been emptied within a morning and the caravan of horses, equipment, food and supplies wound its way westwards into the mountains. They would make for Din Emrys and hope for the hospitality of King Efiaun of Dunauding. It was the only place left to go and was renowned for its impenetrable defences. Cadwallon had sent riders north to call Maeldaf to meet them en route. Whatever forces he had mustered in the Conui Valley, it was time to call them to the dragon standard.
Elen had been as insufferable as ever at being forced to move once more. She had been in a state of panic ever since news had reached them that the Gaels were marching down the Conui Valley, burning and looting as they went. When the rider from the eastern border had arrived with reports of King Etern mustering his teulu, she had been near inconsolable.
Meddyf tried to comfort her by telling her that the Gaels’ advance would be slowed by their l
ust for plunder and that they had a day’s march on Etern’s teulu. But still, Elen wept and Meddyf soon lost her patience with her. It wasn’t Elen’s people who were being burned out of their homes in the Conui Valley. It wasn’t Elen’s father who faced them alone.
She prayed every day to the Virgin Mary to watch over her father and uncle. Her uncle Drustan was a mere stripling who had seen only fourteen winters. Meddyf’s mother had been of Pictish stock; one of the many children of Talorc mab Cuch; a chieftain who had held lands in the thick forests of Caledonia. Talorc had been a virile old goat to the end and Meddyf had lost count of the number of uncles and aunts she had up there. One of them – Drustan – was sixteen years her junior and had been sent to be fostered in her father’s household. She looked on him more as a little brother than an uncle. Whatever danger her father faced in the Conui Valley, young Drustan faced it also and she longed for them to join the relative safety of the teulu.
Of all the women, Meddyf had come to like Eigyr best, though she was distant and somewhat frail. She had little to do with anybody but it was not a shyness that kept her apart, nor aloofness. She was pleasant and intelligent but seemed to suffer from an invisible wound or phantom burden. Meddyf learnt that she had spent much of the last fifteen years in her rooms at Cair Cunor seeing nobody and rarely venturing outside. When Cadwallon had given the order for Cair Cunor to be emptied, they had had to prise her from her rooms like a limpet off a rock, all the while protesting that she had to remain in case Arthur came back to her.
Arthur, Meddyf later found out, was Eigyr’s son who had accompanied the band of warriors Cadwallon had dispatched to Ynys Mon. Meddyf sighed. Eigyr would be lucky to see her son again just as Cunor would be to see his. Like Owain, Meddyf had thought the expedition a foolish waste. Few outside her husband’s council knew the purpose of it but Cadwallon had told her, as he told her most things. Cauldron of Rebirth? Pah! Although Meddyf did not know in truth what they faced, she often despaired at the pagan superstitions of the people that surrounded her.
The men eventually got the caravan’s wheel up out of the rut and the baggage was loaded once more before the column took up its slow slither through the hills.
They camped in a gully that night and the riders Cadwallon had sent north returned before dark. They reported that Maeldaf and his forces were trapped in the Conui Valley.
“At first light we march north to relieve him,” said Cadwallon. “Make sure everybody is ready. I will waste no time in reaching my wife’s father.”
But, before they set out, the scouts from the south returned with grave faces. “Meriauned is mustered,” they said. “Even with their king at Cair Dugannu, his son, Prince Cadwaldr has marshalled the teulu and crossed the Afon Maudach to the south of us. They could cut us off from Din Emrys if we do not reach it in time.”
“Then we must march at once,” said Owain.
“And what of my father?” Meddyf asked.
“My lady,” Cunor said, his face giving that forced apologetic smile Meddyf hated in the faces of men who sought to patronise her. “We are vulnerable on the road. Meriauned’s teulu could reach Din Emrys before we do or they could cut east and fall upon us here. Either would be our doom. We must make for Din Emrys with all haste.”
“And leave my father in the valley to face the Gaels alone?”
Cunor turned to Cadwallon in desperation.
“Loyalty is hard to find these days,” Cadwallon said. “And what sort of a Pendraig would I be if I left my people at the mercy of the Gaels?” He planted his fists on the map table and breathed deeply as if summoning the courage to say what he had to say.
Meddyf could see that he had decided upon something, that his mind was resolute, but he feared to speak it. He feared the judgement of his followers.
“I will send out all the cavalry we have to clear Maeldaf’s way to us while we head southwest to break the advance of Meriauned before they reach Din Emrys.”
There was a murmuring at this. “You would split the teulu?” Cunor asked, “and meet Prince Cadwaldr with no cavalry?”
“I have no choice,” said Cadwallon. “I cannot leave my father-in-law and whatever bannermen he has mustered to face the Gaels alone in my name without sending him some aid. And I have no desire to sit out a siege at Din Emrys. The teulu of Meriauned is without its king. If we can come upon them by surprise, we might just win out. It’s a desperate gamble, but make no mistake, my lords. We are desperate.”
Well done! Meddyf thought, barely able to stop her face cracking into a smile. She had never been so proud of her husband, nor had she loved him more than she did in that moment.
“It’s a risky plan,” said Cunor, examining the crude but colourful map spread on the table. “But the terrain is in our favour. If we march south we should meet them passing through the forests here. The trees will conceal our advance and we will not be hindered by cavalry which they will be. Forests are no places for cavalry charges.”
“And our cavalry will be put to better use in the Conui Valley,” Cadwallon said. “The Gaels have no horse and will be trapped with nowhere to run but back north.”
“Am I to lead the cavalry, lord?” Cunor asked.
“No, I shall have need of your strategic mind in defeating our enemies to the south.”
“Then Caradog shall lead the mounted expedition. Where are you, Caradog?”
“Here, sir,” spoke a burly but elderly warrior. Caradog was one of Cunor’s captains.
“Brother, let me go with Caradog and our cavalry,” said Owain. “Some of those who have been burned out of their homes are known to me. It would do them good to see the bear of Rhos fluttering above the relief force.”
“Very well,” said Cadwallon. “Once you have secured my father-in-law and his bannermen, head directly for Din Emrys. We shall meet you there when we can. If its gates are barred to you, do not try and force your way in. Leave the diplomacy to me.”
“You don’t trust my diplomatic skills?” Owain said, with mock hurt.
“I don’t know, I’ve never seen them,” Cadwallon replied and the tent bellowed with laughter.
Meddyf allowed herself a small smile. It never failed to surprise her how a joke was always on the lips of men about to risk all in battle. She supposed they needed something to laugh at, something to distract their minds from the danger they were in. And the danger was very real this time. All rode on the outcome of her husband’s gamble. But she knew that even if he had made a wrong decision from a military point of view, for her it was the only right decision to make.
Arthur
Arthur planted his shovel in the earth and rested on the handle to catch his breath. The sweat stood out on his bare torso and his hands, although well calloused from years of sword and spear practice, burned raw.
Three days had passed since they had arrived at the lys. Gualchmei’s wound had improved and his fever had died down. Gogfran too had shown improvement and Menw, having used all the celandine in his satchel, had ventured farther afield to find more.
It surprised Arthur that Guenhuifar also ventured far from her father’s hearth, dressed in a man’s breeches and tunica and always with a bow and quiver of arrows across her back, her auburn hair tied back in a neat plait. She was usually gone for a day at a time and often returned with a rabbit for the pot.
“With no men about the place and my father sick, I don’t have much choice,” she said a little defensively when she once caught Arthur watching her as she gutted and skinned a rabbit, the sleeves of her tunica rolled up to her elbows. “Meat is hard to come by. Sometimes I take the skins to trade for flour and salt in the nearest settlements.”
“Aren’t you worried about the Gaels?”
She glared at him. “They leave us alone and we leave them alone. But I suppose you and your friends are here to change all that.”
“Surely you aren’t content with the Gaels ruling this island?”
“I didn’t say that. But I don’t think ki
cking the hornets’ nest is a good idea either. Not unless you are planning to finish the job. When will you be leaving us, anyway?”
“Depends on Cei,” Arthur said with a shrug.
“You and he don’t seem to get along.”
“You noticed?”
“Hard not to.”
“He is as a brother to me, truly, but… we quarreled recently. He has a rather pig-headed way of going about things. It was because of him that Gualchmei was injured.”
“Perhaps he’s not the best choice to lead your expedition then.”
“He is the penteulu’s son.”
Cei had set them to work repairing and reinforcing the lys’s fortifications. The Gaels would be looking for them and were probably ransacking every settlement for trace of them. It wouldn’t be long before it occurred to them to check the old lys in the north-eastern corner of the island and Cei wanted to be ready for them when they did.
Arthur had pointed out that seven warriors – and one of them sorely wounded – could not hold out against all the Gaels on the island, no matter how well they dug in behind refortified walls. It would be better to continue with their mission than remain sitting ducks in a poorly defended fort but Cei insisted that they could not set out until Gualchmei was able to draw a bow once more. They would need to be at full strength to steal the cauldron from the Morgens and for the time being they had to stay put and hope for the best.
Arthur detected a little reluctance on Cei’s part to set out once more. No longer was he the gung-ho glory seeker he had been when they had crossed the straits. Their first skirmish with their enemy had humbled him and dulled his keenness for action. It wasn’t cowardice that held him back – Cei was anything but a coward – but he clearly felt some shame in his recklessness that had seen Gualchmei wounded. He had even come close to apologizing to Arthur on one occasion which would have been staggeringly out of character for him.
The outer earthworks were almost finished and Cei and Beduir had started working on the gate, replacing its rotten portions with fresh wood and strengthening it with crossbeams. Cundelig and Guihir emerged from the woods bearing a long, freshly cut timber between them.
Sign of the White Foal Page 9