Sign of the White Foal

by Chris Thorndycroft

  “I must beg that we drink moderately,” said Menw. “We have won a victory but our quest still lies before us and I have a plan that may see it to its fruition. Come, I could do with a cup of the old inspiration myself and I will tell you what I learned at the church of Saint Padraig.”

  Cadwallon

  The wood was still and sombre as if watchful of the army that passed through its leafy realm. The gushing of the Afon Elan drowned most noise but still the teulu proceeded with caution. Bridles were muffled by gloved fists and voices kept to a low whisper. It was not just the desire to come upon the enemy without warning that stilled the men’s tongues. This wood was old and the dim light filtered through the greenery above played upon the superstitions of those who trod its soft loam.

  Further south the river joined the Afon Maudach before it swept westwards, forming the border between Dunauding and Meriauned. The teulu of Meriauned had crossed the Maudach several days ago and were now somewhere in this wood, marching northward.

  The scouts Cadwallon had sent out came back with bloodied blades.

  “They march blind, lord,” said one. “We encountered several of their own scouts and made sure that they did not make it back to report.”

  “That alone may alert them to our presence,” said Cadwallon.

  “They’ll be upon us before the absence of their scouts is noticed. They are but three leagues south-west from here.”

  “How many?”

  “Three-hundred foot. A hundred cavalry.”

  Cadwallon cursed. “And us with no cavalry of our own. I only hope I haven’t wasted those riders I sent with my brother.”

  “We should meet them at the ford before the Black Falls, lord,” said Cunor. “The ground is uneven and the cover is good. We have bowmen. Use them. Riddle them with shafts before they know what they’ve wandered into. That will soften them up enough for our charge. I advise we send every mounted man we have left to cross the Afon Camlan upriver where it runs off the moors and enters the forest. Once we have engaged the enemy at the ford, signal them to charge their left flank. Our riders will be no match for the enemy cavalry but our arrows and spearmen should be able to break apart their ranks, loosening them up for us.”

  “I trust your council, old friend,” said Cadwallon. “You will ride with our mounted troops, such as they are?”

  “I would lead them myself, lord.”

  “I will send King Mor and his household troops with you.”

  The riders broke off from the teulu almost immediately, heading west at all speed to cross the river before the enemy reached the ford. The rest of the teulu continued southwest and it was not long before the distant roar of the Black Falls could be heard.

  The woods were thick and the ground rocky. There was no way through for the caravans and food wains. Cadwallon dismounted and led his horse to the rear of the column. Meddyf poked her head out from behind the caravan curtain. Inside Maelcon and Guidno could be seen, peering out.

  “This is where we part,” he told her. “The river lies ahead and that is where we will make our stand. I have instructed thirty warriors to escort you and the baggage train to the high ridge yonder.”

  “Take your warriors,” said Meddyf. “They are no good to us.”

  “I will not leave my family and the families of every man under my standard vulnerable.”

  “If you fail to break their lines,” Meddyf said slowly, “thirty warriors won’t save us from rape and murder. Take them, husband. You need every spear you can get.”

  Cadwallon saw her logic, characteristically cold as it was. He recalled the thirty warriors and sent them back to the ranks.

  There were tears and frightened voices as the caravans were urged up to the ridge. Cadwallon was haunted by the terrified faces of the women and children under his protection. He had to win this battle for their sakes. He kissed Meddyf and his sons goodbye and prayed to every god he could think of that it would not be the last time he did so. He rode back to the head of the teulu and gave orders for the bowmen to move out and conceal themselves in the trees that lined the high ground west of the ford.

  They crept upon the gushing river which flowed over mossy black rocks towards the falls. The bubbling ford was swollen by the spring runoff and crossing would be slow going. Let the bastards come to us, Cadwallon thought. Let them flounder while we hold the high ground.

  They kept to the green shadows of the woods; a long defensive line of spearmen ready to charge the shallows at a signal from their lord. Through the trees ahead, Cadwallon could see his bowmen squatting on the high rocks of the cascades, arrows nocked to bowstrings.

  The cawing of birds to the south rose, first one group, then another, until the woods seemed to resound with screeching and flapping of birds taking wing so that even the distant falls were drowned out.

  “They are coming,” Cadwallon said to the men at his side.

  The enemy emerged tentatively in small groups from the woods on the other side of the river. Mail and iron helms glinted in the filtered light. As the first of them tested the depth of the rushing waters with the shaft of his spear, the mass of cavalry materialised from the green gloom; a thick body of chestnut and dun mares, interspersed by the occasional bay or blue roan. As they started to cross, the men on the rocks drew their bows.

  Cadwallon waited until the footmen were halfway across the river, its waters lapping around their middles, and the first of the horses were wetting their fetlocks in the icy current before he gave his horn blower the word.

  The long, low blast of the aurochs horn rippled through the forest and seemed to turn all to stone. The men in the river froze and looked about, terrified by the sound. They knew what it meant.

  The bowmen loosed and the volley of arrows fell upon the enemy like hail. Men howled and horses screamed as the deadly darts tore into them and bodies rolled and bucked in the tumbling current.

  Cadwallon drew his sword. He hoped Cunor and Mor had heard the horn blast. They had to be well within hearing distance if they were to win this battle.

  He waited until the second volley of arrows had settled before he gave the order to charge, his voice hoarse and his sword hilt slippery in his sweaty palm.

  It was a mad, savage dash down to the water’s edge. They kept running until the freezing torrent of the river slowed their assault and dragged at their limbs as if they were of lead. The river ran red now and was clogged with corpses. There were some survivors who struggled to double back and outrun their attackers but Cadwallon and his men cut them down from behind.

  Cadwallon had slaughtered Gaels in the wars for Ynys Mon and had grown accustomed to the screaming of the wounded and the gibbering, desperate prayers of those who knew they were on death’s threshold. But these men who fell beneath his blade and went down on his orders were his countrymen; men who had pledged allegiance to his father once upon a time. These same men would have been his were it not for one man’s greed and so now they must die without a voice in the matter. Gods, is there anything more awful and unnatural than civil war?

  They made the far bank and faced the enemy which had retreated from the range of the bowmen and marshalled itself deeper in the woods. Cadwallon ordered all his spearmen to form a defensive barrier, the dragon standard protected by a single row of bristling points. The enemy, its courage bolstered by the knowledge that they faced mere footmen, made to charge.

  “Hold steady!” Cadwallon yelled at his men. He could smell piss as somebody near him urinated in his terror. A man should never have to face a cavalry charge with only a spear in his hands.

  The cavalry broke upon them and the shockwave rippled through the ranks. Horses tumbled end over end, their breasts pierced, tossing their riders like rag dolls, landing on Cadwallon’s men, crushing them.

  Cadwallon screamed and hewed at an outthrust arm, dodging the spear tip, and hacking the limb off at the elbow. All around him men died, trampled under hoof, run through by spears, heads cloven by swinging blades.
Is this it? Is this the pitiful end to my short reign?

  Suddenly the rear ranks of the enemy erupted into chaos. Men were hurled this way and that as some unstoppable force thundered into their left flank. Cadwallon could see the raven banner of Rumaniog wavering about through the trees and knew Cunor and Mor had heard his call.

  “Push forward!” he yelled. “King Mor is with us! Rumaniog is with us!”

  His shattered force heeded the call and pushed onwards, more out of mad desperation than anything else. It was fight or die, most likely both and so what did they have to lose? All along the line, warriors clustered together in small groups and charged the enemy. Long spears and tight formations won out and the enemy was driven deeper into the woods – against the press of Cunor and King Mor’s mounted troops.

  Cadwallon lost track of time and place. All he knew was the clamour and flurry of battle; the splintering of shields, the slither and rasp of steel, the screams of the stricken. War cries sounded from every part of the forest and the thrumming of hooves on soft loam pounded like drums as the enemy mustered and charged and mustered and charged again, each time growing a little smaller, a little weaker.

  We are winning, he thought and then wished he hadn’t. It did not do to be overly confident. What did he know anyway? Numbers were like water (or blood) flowing around him as if from an infinite source.

  And then it was over. Groups of war-weary men threw down their arms and knelt, pleading for mercy. There were no more cavalry charges and already Cadwallon’s men were putting down the screaming horses with spear thrusts. The wounded men were not so lucky. It was considered near blasphemous to leave a wounded horse to suffer but a wounded man might be healed and held for ransom.

  Cunor rode towards Cadwallon, his shield red with gore and his helm dented. His face beamed like a dog in the midst of play. “We have overcome them, my lord!” he said.

  “Thanks to your charge,” Cadwallon replied. “By Modron’s tits, we had a bad few moments after we crossed the river. I feared you might not make it in time!”

  Prisoners were jostled about between the riders and pushed to the front for Cadwallon’s inspection.

  “What of Cadwaldr,” he asked. “Is he here?”

  “Answer him!” Cunor barked, pointing his sword tip at a kneeling prisoner with an ugly gash in his forehead. “Who is in command here?”

  “Meriauned’s penteulu,” said the man. “We saw him fall…”

  “And Meriaun’s son? Where is Cadwaldr?”

  “In Meriauned. Keeping his father’s throne warm.”

  “The runt never had the stomach for battle,” Cunor sneered.

  “Does Meriauned have many more warriors?” Cadwallon asked the prisoner. “Will they attack again?”

  The man’s eyes looked at the earth in shame. “No. We are Meriaun’s entire teulu.”

  “Could be lying,” said King Mor.

  “No,” said Cunor, looking around at the slain and the captives. “He tells the truth. Meriauned has no more left to send against us. Just their damned allies and mercenaries in the north.”

  Cadwallon left his teulu to mop up the mess and returned across the river with a few of his household guard. Upon the ridge Meddyf waited for him with his sons and he wanted to embrace them all and give thanks to Modron before they started the long march north to Din Emrys.

  Part III

  “The Cauldron of Dyrnwch the Giant: if meat for a coward were put in it to boil, it would never boil; but if meat for a brave man were put in it, it would boil quickly.”

  - The Thirteen Treasures of the Island of Britain

  Arthur

  The sky was a small patch of blue, vibrant as a bird’s egg through the press of corpses that weighed down on Arthur. Every breath was a strain, both from the weight of the dead and the stink of old sweat and leather. He could barely move his arms and every minute was a fight against claustrophobia. He wished Menw had let them lie on top of the corpses in the cart instead of beneath them but the bard had insisted that this was the only way.

  Somewhere in the hot tangle of limbs and matted hair, Cei breathed heavily and Arthur took comfort in his close proximity. Despite their quarrel and fraught relationship over the past few days, he would not have liked to have anybody but Cei at his side when the odds were stacked so heavily against them.

  Menw’s plan had required only two of them to ride in the cart and play dead while Guihir drove it. ‘Efnisien’s trick’, was what Menw had called it. Arthur and Cei had stripped to their breeches and donned the blood-soaked tunicas and cloaks of two of the Gaels they had slain. Guihir also dressed in the garb of the enemy and, as only he could speak with any Gaels they might encounter and convince them that he was one of their own, it was his job to get them into the lair of the Morgens. Menw, Beduir, Gualchmei and Cundelig would follow the cart at a distance. Then, once darkness had fallen, Arthur and Cei would steal the cauldron from under the nose of the enemy while the others created a distraction.

  There were so many things that could go wrong with the plan that Arthur dared not dwell on them for too long. They didn’t know exactly what happened to the dead the Gaels brought to the Morgens. Guihir could easily pass for a Gael but would that be enough? What if the Gaels who were sent out to rob graves were all known to the Morgens?

  Guihir kept them updated on the progress of the journey, leaning back to talk to them through the pile of bodies. “We’ve just passed the western edge of Lin Alaw,” he said, referring to the great lake in the centre of Ynys Mon. “I can see the forest to the south. Nothing but gorse and heath up ahead.”

  They had skirted the large lake on its northern side and planned to follow the Afon Alaw which emptied into the sea north of the sacred lake of the Morgens. At some point they would cut south but when that would be, Arthur could only guess. All he could see of their journey was a glimpse of the vast blue sky above.

  “We’ve got company,” said Guihir after a time. “Riders. Five of them. Hunters by the looks of it for they’ve got a deer between them.”

  The cart slowed to a halt and Arthur could hear the baying of those shaggy hounds and the pattering of their paws in the mud as they circled the cart. He also heard the snort of horses and the jingle of harnesses. Guihir struck up conversation with the hunters in Gaelic, his well-trained tongue rattling out the speech of Erin of which Arthur could only pick out some compliments referring to the hunt.

  The Gaels replied with cheerful voices and there was mirth at some jest. It seemed to be going well and as the wheels of the cart creaked off once more with the hunters riding alongside, Arthur guessed that they now had an armed escort. This was either a good thing or a very bad thing. An escort into the lair of the Morgens was preferable to Guihir turning up on his own but what if their new friends insisted on unloading the cart themselves? Once again, he cursed Menw and his reckless plan. Anything could happen once they were among the enemy and now it was too late to turn back.

  The sky began to darken and the ground grew rougher causing all the corpses in the cart to bounce up and down on top of Arthur sickeningly. Guihir reigned his horse in and the cart groaned to a halt.

  Voices.

  Many Gaelic voices.

  Arthur gripped the hilt of his sword, trying not to cause the bodies on top of him to move. He knew that Cei would be doing the same thing. If it came to it, they may have to fight their way out.

  They heard Guihir jump down from the cart and his squelching footsteps disappeared. The voices died down and vanished leaving Arthur feeling that he and Cei were suddenly alone. The plan was to wait until dark when the others would make their distraction. Guihir was supposed to maintain his guise as one of the Gaels until it was safe for him to make his escape after Arthur and Cei had located the cauldron and stolen it.

  It seemed like the unloading of the bodies from the cart was not a priority and that suited Arthur just fine. The thought of playing dead while his limp body was manhandled and tossed about was too muc
h for him. They would surely loot him of his sword too and then where would he be?

  The wait for the oncoming darkness was the worst of it. The sun seemed to take forever to sink and all the while, Arthur and Cei had to lie among the stinking dead, scarcely daring to breathe, not knowing if the Gaels would suddenly think to unload the cart.

  The sky above turned black and the taste of the night air grew tantalisingly chill and fresh from within the tangle of corpses. Arthur longed to be free and to breathe the cool air deeply but there was no sign of Menw’s promised distraction. At last, Cei stirred and spoke.

  “We should make a move. We can’t wait all night to be discovered. The gods know where Menw and the others have got to.”

  “I’d rather fight all the Gaels on the island than spend another minute among their dead,” said Arthur.

  Getting free of the corpses was a struggle in itself after having lain still for so long. Arthur’s own limbs felt as dead as the ones that had been sprawled over him all day. They clambered down from the cart and stretched and gulped down fresh air in an attempt to dispel the stink of death from their nostrils. They squatted by the cart and looked about.

  They were within a stone enclosure. Thatched roundhouses dotted the compound and the lights of fires could be seen between them, silhouetting distant figures that wandered about. The place looked little different to the other villages on the island.

  “I don’t see any lake, sacred or otherwise,” said Cei. “Do you?”

  “No,” Arthur replied. “Perhaps beyond the roofs of the roundhouses?”

  “Looks like its just trees over there. I don’t think this is the lair of the Morgens. I think this is just some Gaelic settlement.”

  “Shit! What do we do now?”

  “I would say cut and run for the woods, but we can’t leave Guihir supping mead with the enemy.”