Sign of the White Foal

by Chris Thorndycroft

  “Perfect!” said Beduir. “Put it down here. Cut off the smaller branches and we’ll shape it to size.

  Within the hour they had a perfectly usable bolt for the gate. Guenhuifar brought out water to them and they slaked their thirst in grateful gulps for the sun was blazing and the air warm.

  “My father wishes to thank you for restoring the defenses,” she said, although it seemed a little forced on her part, as if she had been told to say it.

  “No need to thank us,” said Cei. “We’re all in this together if the Gaels come here looking for us.”

  “I would think that you might consider moving on,” she said, “and remove the danger you hold over our heads. We have held no interest for the Gaels so far and they have left us alone for many years.”

  “Their time is at its end,” said Cei. “We have been sent here to deal the death blow to their alliance with the Morgens. Soon the Pendraig will come to drive the Gaels back to Erin.”

  “As his grandfather did?” Guenhuifar replied through lips that curled in a sneer. “How long did that last? It was a mere generation before they returned and Enniaun Yrth abandoned us to their rule. The sons of Cunedag care little for us, they never have. They took more cattle than refugees across the straits when they left. That shows you how much they value the loyalty of men like my father.”

  “Your father stayed of his own accord,” Cei pointed out.

  “Yes. Because he believed that one day the Pendraig would return and the dragon banner would fly over the lys once more. Even I believed it as a child but we have waited too long. I have seen my father grow old and sick and still he does not relinquish his hope. He clings to it for it is all he has left but it is killing him. Day by day, I see it. And now you come here bringing him false hope…”

  “False hope?” said Arthur. “You believe that we will fail?”

  She shrugged. “Fail or succeed, it will make little difference to us. This cauldron you speak of, if you manage to steal it you plan to take it back to the mainland, no?”

  “That is the idea,” said Cei.

  “And that will be the last we’ll see of you, I know it. The Gaels will remain, you will win your war and will celebrate with your precious cauldron at Cair Dugannu while, for us, life will go on unchanged. The Pendraig will not return to Ynys Mon. I gave up on that dream a long time ago. I only wish my father might be able to before he dies.”

  She turned from them and headed back indoors where they could see Gualchmei emerging from the hall, his arm still in its sling.

  “By Modron’s tits, she’s a bitter one,” said Cei, watching Guenhuifar’s hips sway under her tunica as she walked away from them. “But so fair on the outside!”

  That night, as usual, they ate their evening meal by the hearth in the hall with Gogfran and his daughters.

  “Guenhuifar tells me that the gate is repaired,” said Gogfran. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “It is we who should thank you,” said Arthur. “Without your kind hospitality we may have lost Gualchmei to his poisoned wound.”

  “And I may not have lived to see the autumn leaves fall,” Gogfran replied, “without your bard’s medicine.”

  “It is the least I could do,” said Menw. “But time marches on and I fear that we must soon march with it. The gods alone know what is happening on the mainland. Perhaps war has already broken out for the crown of Venedotia. Every day we tarry here is a day that may be the death of many a comrade.”

  “I wish I could be of more help to you,” said Gogfran. “But you go up against ancient sorceries. The Morgens have lived on the western part of the island since before the Romans came. They allow few to witness what goes on around their sacred lake.”

  “On our second night here,” said Menw, “you said that there has been a spate of grave robberies in these parts.”

  “All over the island,” said Guenhuifar. “I have seen those desecrated plots myself.”

  “No doubt the handiwork of the Gaels,” said Gogfran. “Digging up corpses for the Morgens to use in their dark rites. More dead for their army, if the legends about the cauldron are true.” He repressed a shudder which set him off in a coughing fit. He recovered slowly and took a sip of the hot drink of Menw’s herbs that Guenhuifach held to his lips, wincing at the taste as he swallowed.

  “Where has the largest concentration of these grave robberies taken place?” Menw asked.

  “The burial mounds have been largely left alone,” said Guenhuifar. “They are sacred to the Morgens and the Gaels have a fear of them. There’s a Christian graveyard at the church of Saint Padraig on the northernmost tip of the island not eight miles from here. There are many graves there that have been unearthed.”

  “Padraig founded the church after he was shipwrecked here on his way to Erin to convert the Gaels to Christianity,” said Gogfran.

  “Did he have much success?” Cei asked.

  “Some. But the Gaels are a hard-headed lot and sticklers for tradition, especially the tradition of bloodletting. Most of the raiders who came to these shores aren’t about to let the word of a new god stay their hands when there is rape and plunder to be enjoyed.”

  “Their war leader is named Diugurnach, we are told,” Beduir said.

  “Aye, he’s chief among them on this island. Part of some great clan that rules at Tara. I think he plans to make himself a king in Albion.”

  “And he may do just that through his alliance with King Meriaun,” said Menw. “Do you know anything about that?”

  Gogfran shook his head. “The Gaels are concentrated on the western side of the island and are closer to the Morgens than one might credit their bravery.”

  Menw sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “I think I’ll take a look at this Christian cemetery,” he said.

  He disappeared the following morning and did not return for two days. In the meantime, the companions made several other improvements to the lys’s defences. The tips of the palisade timbers, long since dulled by moss and weathering, were re-sharpened leaving them gleaming white in contrast to their blackened posts. They dug a ditch just inside the entrance of the compound and fitted it with spikes before covering it with as much brush and bracken as they could forage.

  Menw returned on the morning of their sixth day and his face was grave. “The Gaels are indeed looking for us and have narrowed in on this corner of the island. It will not be long before they come knocking.”

  “Then we should leave,” said Arthur. “We have endangered these good people for long enough.”

  “No sense in that, lad,” said Menw. "We are cornered and even I cannot guide us past their lines. They have cast their net wide and are strong in number.”

  “So we must dig in here,” said Cei. “Bar the gates. I want watches kept through the night and every one of us sleeps in his war gear.”

  There was talk of Cundelig sending up Hebog to see from which direction the enemy was approaching but Cundelig would have none of it. “He is known to them,” he said. “It was on account of spotting him in the sky that they came after us in the first place. Why alert them to our presence now? Besides, I won’t risk him being shot down by one of their arrows.”

  “Aye, they’ll find us soon enough as it is,” said Menw. “We must prepare to weather the storm.”

  They came a little before noon on the following day; a long line of warriors numbering about twenty. Cadfan sounded the alarm and the companions assembled on the palisade.

  “Do any of them look like the Cauldron-born to you?” Cei asked Menw

  “Not that I can see from this distance,” the bard replied. “But they are fierce warriors nonetheless.”

  “Rabble!” Gogfran said and he hawked a glob of phlegm over the spiked palisade. “Without Diugurnach to lead them they are just a mob made up of those not chosen to join the war on the mainland. The runts of the litter! If only I was at my full strength…” he began to cough and hack and Guenhuifach took him indoors.

  Cadfan ha
d run down to the courtyard and returned wearing a battered iron helm and gripping a shield and spear.

  “Can you fight?” Cei asked the servant.

  “As well as any man will when faced with imminent death,” Cadfan replied.

  “Good enough.” Cei turned to Gualchmei and Guenhuifar. “Go inside. Bar the doors. They won’t get past us, but if they do…”

  “If they do,” said Guenhuifar, “then we’ll finish off your leavings.”

  “I share Gogfran’s shame,” said Gualchmei. “My shoulder is not healed enough to bend my bow but if we could just strap a shield to my weak arm and place a spear in my other hand…”

  “No,” said Cei. “We cannot afford to have any weakness in our defences. Better a man short than a weak link. Go inside with our hosts.”

  Gualchmei’s face reddened and it looked as if tears were beginning to form in his eyes.

  “Cei does not mean any insult, cousin,” Arthur told him. “We need at least one warrior within the hall to protect Gogfran and the women should we fail to hold them back. You shall have your shield and spear. I will arm you myself.”

  Guenhuifar overheard this and as they entered the hall she cast a rare smile at Arthur that made his face flush.

  The Gaels approached and their chieftain – one of Diugurnach’s lieutenants – sat astride his horse and whirled an axe around by its leather thong while he bellowed war cries. Spears and blades hammered against shields and the Britons on the ramparts began to mutter prayers. Menw, Cei and Cadfan prayed to Modron while the others asked the virgin mother of Christ for protection. Arthur remained silent although he hoped that somebody was listening. Perhaps they would have need of many gods to overcome these odds.

  The Gaels began their offensive up the hill. The Britons kept low behind the palisade for already the occasional stone from a sling ricocheted off the timbers. Gogfran had been right, they were a disorganised rabble. They carried no battering ram and had no strategy other then to stumble through the ditch and break upon the gates like a weak tide.

  “Now!” Cei cried and the companions stood up and cast spears, rocks and chunks of masonry down on the Gaels.

  Men screamed as limbs were broken and skulls were caved in while spears nailed men to the ground. Shields were upraised and rocks bounced off them, tumbling into the ditch. The call for retreat was given and they fell back to the trees, carrying their wounded beneath their shields.

  The Britons whooped and cheered. The first round had been won but it was only the opening act. The drubbing the Gaels had received sharpened their wits and made them more resolute and cautious.

  It was midday when the smoke of braziers could be seen at the treeline. Bowmen emerged with arrows wound with oil-soaked rags. They lit these in the braziers and loosed them at the gates. Most were extinguished in their flight and those that lodged in the wood were hastily doused by the Britons who hurried along the ramparts with pails of water.

  The Gaels kept up their offensive for most of the afternoon and grew more effective at it. Arthur and his companions were so occupied dousing the fires that the enemy was able to creep closer which only improved their aim and decreased the number of arrows extinguished mid-flight.

  “We can’t keep this up!” Beduir said as he heaved the contents of a pail over the palisade. “Too many bloody arrows!”

  Flames were creeping up the timbers and spreading all the quicker in the charred spots that had already been scorched. Guenhuifar and Guenhuifach had emerged to help carry water from the spring to the men on the ramparts and everybody was sore, tired and raw-eyed from the smoke.

  “We need only hold them until it seems natural for us to fall back,” said Cei. “Then we let them come upon our second line of defence.”

  It was a risky plan but they were outnumbered and had to resort to trickery if they were to win out. As Arthur passed pail after pail to Beduir, his arms screaming with fatigue, he tried to count the number of Gaels he had seen fall in their initial attack. How many were left?

  The smoke grew thicker and caught in their throats. They could no longer see the ground or the enemy and the heat was unbearable.

  “It’s gone!” Cei cried. “Fall back! There is nothing more we can do to save the gate. Fall back!”

  They scrambled down the ladders and hurried towards their agreed positions Cei had mapped out for them the night before. Arthur, Cei and Beduir took cover behind a barricade of thorn bushes before the doors to the hall, taking up their spears and shields. Cundelig and Guihir hid themselves in the ruined lys where the shadows concealed them. Menw remained where he was and called out to the gods for aid.

  The flames licked up the palisades and smoke rolled out from under the gate, engulfing it in a black cloud. Soon the whole thing was a sheet of roaring flame, its crackling drowning out Menw’s words.

  The time came and the gates, their supports eaten through, tumbled down sending forth a billowing gust of fire and smoke that whirled around Menw like a sea mist. Arthur cleared his eyes and looked up to see the Gaels making their way through the ruined gate, stepping over the burning timbers and leaping through the smoke like demons from hell.

  Wait… thought Arthur. Wait for it…

  The Gaels looked about as if expecting a full garrison to assault them at any minute. Menw walked towards them; a single old man against fifteen-odd warriors. The Gaels laughed and roared insults at the bard. He stopped walking and stretched out his arms as if inviting them.

  The Gaels advanced in a line, three men deep. They stepped on the bracken-covered trench and the first line disappeared into the earth. Screams of outrage and agony drifted up from the pit and the other two lines fell back in alarm.

  “Now!” Cei cried and they leapt up and charged the enemy with spears lowered.

  Incapacitated by sharpened stakes which pierced thighs, feet and calves, the first five Gaels were sitting ducks for the Britons who reddened their spears in their guts. The rest of the Gaels, having overcome their initial surprise, marshalled themselves and flanked the Britons on either side of the pit.

  Arthur discarded his spear and drew his sword as a Gael came at him. He dodged a swipe and cut in low only to be deflected by a ringing blow that reverberated through his arm. An arrow sailed out of nowhere and struck the Gael in the chest. Arthur whirled around.

  From the thatched roof of the hall he could see Gualchmei’s flatbow bending as a second arrow was drawn. But it was not Gualchmei who drew it. The flame-red hair of Guenhuifar billowed in the wind like a pennant and she let the arrow fly. It struck a Gael’s shield but distracted him long enough for Cei to cut his legs out from under him.

  “That’s a bit of a bonus,” Cei said as he thrust his sword tip down into the fallen Gael’s gullet. “The lass can shoot!”

  The Gaels were unsure of themselves now. The trench was filled with their dead and several more lay about the compound. Their chieftain bellowed them on before dismounting to stride forth and mete out some violence himself.

  “Fall back!” Cei cried. “Fall back to the lys!”

  They had been prepared for this; the final part of their plan. Disengaging from the enemy, they turned tail and fled into the shadows of the ruined building. Guenhuifar loosed arrow after arrow at the pursuing Gaels and Arthur began to worry that some of them might break off and torch the thatch of the hall to rid themselves of her but there was nothing for it now but to see their plan through to its end.

  Their footsteps echoed in the cool darkness of the lys and the mirror of stagnant water sent ripples of light across the walls at the far end as they sought refuge in the shadows.

  The Gaels slipped in between the broken doors, not noticing Cundelig and Guihir on either side of the doorway. Once half of the Gaels were inside the building, they both swung high, double-handed blows at the next pair to enter. The two men went down with a clatter and a splash of blood from shattered noses and cloven faces. Those who had already entered spun around to face Cundelig and Guihir,
snarling their anger at being ambushed.

  And then Cei, Arthur and Beduir charged them.

  It was three against four but surprise gave them the edge they needed. Within seconds the stone flags were awash with blood and the last screams of the dying sang in the echoing chamber while Cundelig and Guihir held off the remaining enemies at the doors as they desperately tried to aid their companions.

  Cei led the charge, forcing them back out into the compound. Only the chieftain and two of his warriors were left and they were keeping well out of Guenhuifar’s range. The chieftain called a retreat and they turned and fled, not even stopping to recover their dead.

  The Britons roared in their exaltation. Guenhuifar slid down from the thatch and walked over to them, beaming. Arthur thought a smile vastly improved her already attractive face.

  “Where did you learn to shoot like that, lass?” Cei asked her. “Has Gualchmei been giving you lessons behind our backs?”

  “Shooting Gaels is no different to shooting rabbits,” she said. “Only infinitely more satisfying.”

  Arthur could see through her bravado. He could see the way her hands were shaking and knew the reason why for his own still shook a little whenever he thought too much about the events of the past few days. She’s never killed a man before.

  “Truly, I have never shot a bow as fine as this.” She stroked the smooth wood and ivory tips with appreciation.

  “You do the art proud,” said Gualchmei from the doorway, his shield still strapped to his injured arm and his spear propped up against the wall. “I spy my fletching sticking out of at least two Gaelic dogs.”

  “Well, we gave those whoresons a thing or two to think about, eh?” said Beduir, slapping Cei and Arthur on the shoulders. He grinned at Guenhuifar. “Has your da got anything better than ale to drink about the place? Killing Gaels works up a thirst!”

  “We shall all drink the Pendraig’s mead tonight!” said Gogfran, emerging behind Gualchmei. “There are still a few casks in the cellars. I was saving them for his return but we have a victory to celebrate and a new Pendraig to drink to!”