“My companions,” said Arthur in a voice weak more with fear than anything else. “What have you done with them?”
“You alone were brought to us,” said the woman. “We are aware of the other two intruders but they eluded our agents in the woods. You were the only one they were able to apprehend.”
Arthur closed his eyes. So Cei and Guihir were safe. He was glad of that, yet now he knew he was alone.
“It was foolish of you to try and meddle with our operations,” the whitened lips went on. “And now, we would like to know if you are one of the Britons who slaughtered a party of Gaels at the old lys on the north-eastern tip of the island.”
Arthur saw no point in lying. He was most likely due a slow and unpleasant death anyway so why bother? “Aye, that was us,” he replied.
“So. And that leads us to our next question.”
Arthur didn’t like the way the way there seemed to be a hive mind in effect with one voice speaking for nine.
“What brings warriors from Albion to Ynys Mon?”
“Ynys Mon is part of Albion,” said Arthur, feeling a curious sense of indignation at any implication that it was otherwise. “It always has been. And so have you. Even if you have thrown your lot in with the Gaels of late.”
The chief Morgen sucked her breath in between her teeth at his boldness. “You are a simple warrior and are naive,” she said. “Gaels and Britons; it makes little difference. We all walk this earth, do we not? Beli casts his light on all of us, does it not? We are all subject to the ever-turning wheel of the year and to the whim of Modron. Rulers come and go but only Modron knows who is fit to sit upon the thrones of the world.”
Arthur gritted his teeth. “Cunedag and his sons wrenched this land away from the Gaels. You yourselves blessed his victory and the beginning of his dynasty. How can you now turn your backs on that dynasty by helping the Gaels?”
“The Gaels are a means to an end. They are tools, crude but useful.”
“Meriaun then. Why help him instead of Cadwallon, the rightful king?”
“The only rightful king is the one Modron choses. As I said, rulers come and rulers go and now Albion is on the cusp of a great change. We can feel it in the water, in the land and in the trees. All whisper Modron’s message to us. But I sense something in you; an anger that surpasses more than a simple warrior’s thirst for battle. What is that, I wonder?”
Arthur realised that she was right. He was angry. More angry than any of his companions because, inexplicably, the quest meant more to him than it did to them. He had shied away from the truth for it was a truth he had ignored all his life. He was now forced to face it, forced by these nine women, by their lone speaker. The truth was that he did care about his lineage. He cared about Cunedag’s dynasty and the crown of the Pendraig. He cared because, bastard or no, he was bound to it all as a thorn is to a rose.
The Morgens were supposed to aid the Pendraig, not meddle in his affairs. They were priestesses, nothing more. How dare they take it upon themselves to try and change things?
“The Pendraig is my brother,” he said, feeling more pride in his ancestry than he had ever felt before. His mother’s pride. “I am the son of the old Pendraig. My blood is their blood.”
The chief Morgen narrowed her eyes at him as if stripping him down to the bone to find a kernel of truth in his words. “The son of the old Pendraig,” she repeated slowly. “And who, I wonder, does that make you?”
Arthur noticed that for the first time the head Morgen had spoken of herself in the first person. There was no ‘we’ asking this question.
“I am the bastard son of Enniaun Yrth,” said Arthur.
“And your mother?”
“My mother was the daughter of a minor lord. She loved my father but was discarded by him. I was raised in the teulu and never knew my father.”
The Morgen stared at him for a long time. Then, she turned to the other eight of her order. “Leave us. I wish to question him alone.”
Without a word, the other Morgens shambled off and returned to their roundhouse. Arthur was struck by how much older they seemed than the one who appeared to be their high-priestess.
“Unbind him,” she said to the three men at Arthur’s side.
If there was any hesitation Arthur did not see it and his captors said not a word as they dutifully obeyed her orders. They too were dismissed and Arthur found himself alone with the high-priestess.
“You may stand,” she said to him. “We shall walk together a little. Come.”
They wandered down to the shores of the lake, the reeds brushing their thighs. “Aren’t you afraid that I will try to run?” Arthur asked.
“No. Because you have as many questions as I do.” Her white lips curled up into a smile. Now that he was closer to her, he could see that she was definitely not as old as the other Morgens. He wouldn’t put her age beyond thirty-five. She was short and, by what little he could see of her hair that wasn’t covered by her hood, it was dark brown. He wondered if she was pretty beneath all that cracked makeup.
“What is your name?”
“Arthur.”
“Well, Arthur. I know why you are here. You have come seeking the truth to your existence.”
“No. I came seeking a way to destroy your alliance with the Gaels.”
“Come, now. Haven’t you always wondered about your place in the world? Hasn’t there always been that niggling feeling that you were destined to be something greater than the unwanted side effect of a sordid night’s pleasure? We bastards inherit nothing. We must forge our own way in the world if we are to share in anything.”
“We?”
“Yes, I too was unwanted by my father. My mother too for that matter but that is no concern of yours. I knew my father only a little and I was his shame, even more than you were. You see, you were born of passion. I was born of rape.”
Arthur was silent as he took in the implication of her words. She sensed his dawning realisation. “Yes, we share the same father, Arthur.”
“Anna!”
“So, they still whisper my name in our family, do they? I had wondered if I had faded from memory altogether.”
“Everybody thinks you died in Leudonion after running away.”
“I did run away but death was not to be my fate, praise the Great Mother. I was twelve years old – twelve! – when our father sent me away to be the bride of King Leudon. I was his portal to the great Votadini tribe of which our grandfather Cunedag is still remembered as their last great ruler.”
Her eyes were fixed on some invisible point beyond the far edge of the lake as she thought back to days long gone.
“Leudon was already grey, even then, and I cringed at the thought of his touch. We were wed in the Great Hall at Din Peldur, the chief fort of my husband’s new kingdom. I remember the throngs of guests, the leers of the sycophants who hoped to buy my husband’s favour with expensive wedding gifts. The feasting was long and grand but I touched not a bit of it. The sight of food turned my stomach and my thoughts were focused on the coming nuptials and what I had to do.
I had learned from the serving girls at my father’s lys how I could forgo the ordeal of bearing the child of a man I hated. They taught me how to fool a man and his chambermaids. Before I left for the north, I procured a vial of pig’s blood.
I let old Leudon fumble about. He was so drunk that he did not know if he was inside me or betwixt my legs and I made sure it was the latter. Once he was snoring beside me I sprinkled the sheets with the pig’s blood.
It worked that first night but I knew I would be found out sooner or later. Either that or he would consider me barren and a wasted marriage. I decided that it would be better to die alone and starving than to remain another minute in his power. I ran and headed south-west, toward home.
My journey was long and hard but eventually I found my way back to Ynys Mon, the island of my birth. My mother had been expelled from the Morgens. They hold virginity sacred and our father had s
tolen that from her. She lived apart as an anchoress and it was to her that I fled, hardened, world-warned and eager to make my own way.
She taught me all she had learnt during her time in the order and, after a while, I went to them seeking induction. Modron smiled upon me. Normally one of the Morgens must die so that a new member might be inducted and the eldest of the order had been sick for a long time. I did not have to wait long. And so, I became Anna of the Morgens and my training began.
I learned quickly, thirsty for knowledge and eager to serve the Great Mother. I earned the trust and respect of my peers, many of whom were far older than I, and before my twenty-fifth winter, I took my place as head of the order.”
“How is it that a woman of twenty-five years was permitted to rule women old enough to be her grandmothers?” Arthur asked.
“I am not permitted to reveal the secrets of our order to an outsider,” Anna replied. “Suffice to say that the incumbency of a high-priestess changes like the seasons. It is for Modron alone to decide when a high priestess’s time is up and a new one is to be chosen. Some of the older Morgens have been high-priestess twice over before me. They had their time and now it is up to me to lead our order through these days in which we find ourselves.”
“Was it you who suggested the alliance with King Meriaun?”
“It was. Under Modron’s guidance.”
“And the Gaels. Tools, you said?”
“Means to an end. The Gaels possessed a great treasure which I knew would be a boon to us in our efforts. The Cauldron of Rebirth; one of the great treasures of Albion, a gift from Modron herself. It came from Erin with Diugurnach and his followers. Where he got it is not important for it had been among the Gaels for generations. After Efnisien destroyed it in Bran’s great war an age ago, it was re-forged in Annun and sent back into our world. Now it is ours, a gift to be used in the war for Albion.”
“You’re resurrecting the dead,” said Arthur, “to help our cousin usurp our brother. I still don’t understand why.”
Anna laughed. “You are not required to, brother. It is all far beyond your ken. Not even we Sea-born know all of Modron’s intentions. It pleases me that you came to us now, in the quiet before the storm. I am pleased that we might know one another but it is ultimately irrelevant. The wheels are in motion. Modron will be reborn and a new age will dawn. You are but a witness and should count yourself lucky to see such times.”
She looked at him and he looked at her, this half-sister whom he had never met. Once she had been no more than a sad story of a lost girl. Now she was a crazed high-priestess of a perverted order and Venedotia’s greatest enemy.
They had circled the lake and were re-entering the village on its southern side. Those same, vacant-eyed locals watched them in awe. They were clearly devoted to the Morgens and wholly subservient to them. Anna beckoned the two youths who had delivered Arthur to her. They approached in a grovelling, servile gait that sickened him.
“Take this boy back to the guest quarters,” she told them. “Feed him and do not treat him ill. He is very dear to me.”
The youths took Arthur by the arms and led him back to the hut he had awoken in that morning. Arthur looked over his shoulder and saw his sister smiling at him from the shores of the lake, her expression unreadable, as were her intentions.
Cadwallon
“You should have sent word of your coming,” the captain said as they began the long, steep climb up the narrow mountain ledge. “We would have sent an escort to meet you.”
There was no ‘my lord’ or ‘your highness’ in the gruff captain’s address, Cadwallon noted. Wherever King Efiaun of Dunauding’s allegiance lay, it was clear he did not consider him to be his Pendraig. Still, they had not been attacked upon approach and had received an armed escort to Efiaun’s royal seat. That counted for something perhaps. An undecided mind at best.
“There was no time to send a messenger ahead of us,” said Cadwallon. “We come straight from the battlefield and time is short. And we saw no companies bearing the sigil of Dunauding on our way.”
“Aye, that is easy enough to believe. King Efiaun has called all his warriors to Din Emrys to guard the mountain, to defend it against… well, Gaels some say. What others say I don’t like to comment on. Nonsense, to my mind.”
So, Cadwallon thought. Word of the Cauldron-born has reached Dunauding. “If you fear Gaels,” he said, “then I take it your king does not support my uncle Meriaun and his pact with the hounds of Erin.”
“I cannot comment on that,” the captain replied. “Best you speak with the king yourself.”
Cadwallon turned in his saddle to glance at Meddyf who rode beside him. They shared a look. So there is hope… it said.
Crowning the summit of a small crag in the shadow of the Giant’s Cairn, Din Emrys’s dry-stone ramparts followed the natural line of the hilltop, filling in the gaps between its rocky outcrops. It had a rather ramshackle appearance but Cadwallon was not fooled. Din Emrys was one of the most impregnable strongholds in all Albion. There were only two approaches to the mountain retreat. Both passed below the fortress walls for some length making any assault a hard and costly exercise.
Din Emrys had once belonged to an old British family – the Ambrosii - who had made a name for themselves in the Romano-British military and administrative elite. The Lord Vertigernus had stripped the Ambrosii of their fortress and given it to the sons of Cunedag when he had relocated them to Venedotia. The last of the family – the aged Ambrosius Aurelianus – was currently holding back the Saeson advance in the far south, his lineage forgotten and his heritage lost. Nevertheless, Din Emrys still held the name of the Ambrosii in its native British form.
“When we reach the summit,” Cadwallon told his escort, “I would appreciate it if you fetched your surgeons quickly. We have many wounded in our train.”
“I will pass along your request,” said the captain. And then his curiosity got the better of him. “Was it a big battle?”
“Yes. We shattered Meriauned’s advance at the Black Falls. No further attack will come from the south.” He felt no need to hold back the details of his victory from either friends or foes. News of his success had to be spread one way or another if he hoped to win over the undecided and turn the tide of this war.
He grew aware of the helmed heads of guards peering down at them from the parapets above as they made their ascent. Any army would have to be mad to attempt an attack on this place. He had to keep telling himself that they were still alive because King Efiaun had clearly given orders to keep them so.
The door of the gatehouse creaked open and the tired and wounded column limped in. It was early evening and the low sun gilded the thatch of the roundhouses, stables and smithies. The wind was strong up on the crag and Cadwallon’s hair billowed about in his face. Various warriors and nobles had assembled in the main courtyard to examine their visitors. Cadwallon ignored them and gave orders for the wounded to be unloaded from the wagons.
“Where is the lord of Din Emrys while his Pendraig is left to see to the wounded himself?” Cunor demanded.
“Here,” came a surly voice from across the yard as a stocky, fair-haired man approached, the wind whipping his cloak about him.
As the son of Cunedag’s last-born child, King Efiaun was only just approaching his middle years. Strong and hale, his taste in finery was exemplified in his silk tunica, red leather boots and saffron cloak, not to mention the gold rings that made every finger sparkle.
“Cousin Efiaun,” said Cadwallon. He refused to acknowledge Efiaun’s kingship if Efiaun would not acknowledge his. “We are war-weary and are in need of refuge and aid.”
“Of course,” said Efiaun. “My roof is yours for as long as you have need of it.”
The wounded were escorted to a separate roundhouse while Cadwallon and his followers were taken to the Great Hall and given meat and mead.
“I take it my brother has not come knocking on your door,” Cadwallon said.
“My teulu,” Cadwallon corrected him. “The Teulu of the Red Dragon. Am I not my father’s son and successor; the Pendraig of Venedotia? Please remind me, for signs of your loyalty have been somewhat lacklustre of late.”
Efiaun set his jaw and leaned back in his seat. “With the greatest respect, cousin, you are not your father.”
“I praise the gods that I am not, but I am nevertheless the Pendraig – your high-king – and you owe me your support and your warriors. Why did you not heed my call?”
“You speak of an age that died with your father,” Efiaun said. “Perhaps it died with Cunedag. This mighty Teulu of the Red Dragon that you claim to have inherited – all I see is a rag-tag band of desperate men seeking shelter.”
“This rag-tag band thrashed the teulu of Meriauned not two days ago,” said Cunor, his voice testy.
“My penteulu is right,” said Cadwallon, “and yet, in a way, so are you. My following is less than half that my father would have commanded and had it not been for King Mor’s support, we would have all died at the Black Falls. No, the Teulu of the Red Dragon is as strong as the kings who support it. As strong as the warriors they contribute. As strong as their loyalty to Cunedag’s legacy.”
Efiaun placed a hand on the shoulder of a young boy who sat by his side. “This is my youngest son. Only twelve winters. I have other children too including a daughter still in her swaddling clothes. They are my legacy and I will do all I can to ensure their survival.”
“Then join me in ridding Venedotia of its enemies!” Cadwallon exclaimed.
Efiaun shook his head. “You may have won a minor victory over Meriaun’s son but Meriaun himself rules Venedotia from the Laigin Peninsula to the eastern fringes of Rhos. And that is not to mention Ynys Mon. That accursed isle vomits forth an even greater threat if the tales are to be believed.”
Sign of the White Foal Page 13