“And do you believe them?”
Efiaun narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know what to believe. All I know is that you came down from the north as fast as you could and the people speak of a black horror treading in your wake.”
“Old wives’ tales,” said Cadwallon. “Gaels came from Ynys Mon, nothing more.”
“And what of our cousin’s alliance with the Morgens? What sort of vengeance for your father’s blasphemy are they cooking up?”
“There may be something to that,” Cadwallon admitted. “But it is words and curses only. Let them stir their hate. What need have we to fear a cult of old hags?”
“Hags who have found the Cauldron of Rebirth, so it is told.”
Cadwallon sighed. Bad news travelled faster than any teulu could ever dream of doing. “A rumour, nothing more. Even if they did have some sort of cauldron, do you really believe it could be the cauldron of legend?”
Efiaun was silent.
“I have dispatched a company to investigate and, if possible, destroy whatever alliance Meriaun has with the nine sisters. That ought to put to bed all these rumours of the dead walking. In any case, it will at least divert Meriaun’s eye to Ynys Mon while we muster our forces in the south and press the advance.”
“You seek to advance on Cair Dugannu? You’re impossibly outnumbered.”
“Meriaun’s Gaelic mercenaries are tearing up the Conui Valley as we speak. If we can cross the mountains and make the Pass of Kings in good time, we can come upon Cair Dugannu on its western side without warning. But you’re right in saying that our numbers are thin. I need allies. So what do you say? I can’t win without you.”
“I will give you shelter, Efiaun said, “as you are my kin, but I want no part in this war. Meriaun has sworn that he will not attack those who do not stand against him. Why should I jeopardise my people in supporting a war that you cannot possibly win?”
Cunor slammed his fist down on the table and it was not just the women who jumped at his sudden explosion. “You trust the word of a traitor?” he demanded. “You honestly believe he won’t turn his eyes upon Din Emrys once he has crushed the rest of us? You might think you’re safe now up here in your mountain retreat but what about when Meriaun’s Gaels are stealing your crops come harvest and you don’t dare step down off your hill?”
“Our granaries are full to bursting,” said Efiaun coolly.
“Meriaun will wait, believe me. He’ll starve you out eventually. Have you ever seen a siege won by starvation? It’s not pretty, I can tell you. They start to eat their dead when there are no more rats left…”
“That’s enough, Cunor!” said Cadwallon. Efiaun was visibly angered by the outburst and he didn’t want his fiery penteulu to cost them the hospitality of their host although he well understood Cunor’s anger. This man sat here comfortable in his cowardice while Cunor had dispatched both his son and his foster-son to almost certain doom in a desperate attempt to turn the tide of the war.
“Won’t you reconsider?” Cunor speaks truth. There will be no safety for you if we are defeated. But if we win we will have re-forged the lands of our fathers into a Venedotia once more united under the dragon banner.”
Efiaun visibly seethed after Cunor’s accusation of cowardice. “I am not interested in a Venedotia united under the dragon banner,” he said. “I am interested in the safety of my family.”
He got up and left the hall. His warriors and kin followed suit leaving the newcomers alone.
“I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn, my lord,” said Cunor, his face red.
“Not at all,” Cadwallon replied. “I was of half a mind to give him a tongue lashing myself.”
“The fool is frightened,” said Meddyf. “He has to be made to see sense. We must bolster his courage somehow.”
“Hard to do that when all is set against us,” said Cadwallon.
The following day brought what felt like a miracle to Cadwallon and his weary but loyal followers. A horn blew from Din Emrys’s watchtower, warning of an advancing host. Cadwallon joined King Efiaun at the ramparts looking east. Sure enough, a column of horsemen and their baggage train was approaching along the valley floor, following the river that flowed from Lin Emrys.
Cadwallon squinted at the fluttering banners and, just as Efiaun was giving the order to rouse the fortress and man the ramparts, he held up his hand. “Hold!” he cried, excitement getting the better of him. “That is not the banner of an advancing enemy. That is the Bear of Rhos approaching! My brother lives!”
“It must have been quite a victory in the Conui Valley,” said Cunor at his side. “He has more men than he set out with!”
There were also more banners, trailing in Owain’s column. Cadwallon could not make them out at this distance but he felt a joy swelling in his heart as he dared to hope for what he had not thought possible.
Meddyf shared the same hope for upon hearing the news she exclaimed; “My father! My father must be with them!”
Cadwallon all but had to restrain her from leaving the fort and running down the steep pathway to greet the approaching host herself. They waited in the courtyard until the gates finally creaked open to admit the host.
“So many of you have come!” Cadwallon said, embracing Owain. “So many banners! I dared not hope for such a victory!”
“It was a long, hard slog but we rallied enough support to drive the Gaels back north,” said Owain. “They were their own undoing, really. People tend to get irate when you steal their crops and rape their women. You were right, they just needed a standard to follow.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Cadwallon said with a grin, clapping his brother on the shoulder.
Meddyf pushed past them when she saw her father dismounting and handing the reigns of his mare to a stable boy. She ran into his open arms.
Maeldaf was a tall, broad-shouldered man with greying black curls and a wide mouth bristling with white stubble. He lifted Meddyf up as if she were still a girl and kissed her on the cheek. After he set her down she seemed to remember herself and quickly smoothed down her cloak.
“It’s been too long, father,” she said, unable to stop herself from beaming ear to ear.
“Aye, that it has, lass,” he agreed.
Young Drustan stood by his side, spear in hand. Cadwallon was surprised how much older he looked since he had seen him last. His hair was long in the Pictish style and his face was thick with a beard that defied his years.
“Drustan, you’ve grown!” said Meddyf. She kissed him and he shied away with embarrassment.
“I’m sorry I was delayed and didn’t meet up with you on the road,” said Maeldaf. “But I couldn’t abandon our people to face the Gaels alone. Luckily your canny husband sent enough of his cavalry to aid us.”
“All of my cavalry,” Cadwallon corrected him as he grasped the hand of his father-in-law. “And I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you held that valley on my account for so long and against such odds. Thank you Maeldaf.”
“Thank them,” said the old warrior, extending his arm to the assembled warband. “It was their willingness to stay and defend their homes instead of fleeing into the hills that won us the valley.”
And it was then, as he looked into their faces, that Cadwallon understood how desperate things had been in the Conui Valley. “They’re all so young,” he said, marvelling at the unshaven faces arrayed before him. Most were no more than boys armed with simple weapons and little to no armour. Their faces were frightened, haunted by the fast growing up they had had to do over the past few days. There were a few old men and the occasional woman dressed in her father’s or brother’s tunica and breeches, spear held in dainty but firm hands. There were almost no men between fifteen and fifty.
“These are all that’s left of the valley people who were not killed by the Gaels or fled from their advance,” Maeldaf explained. “These are the ones who refused to flee, refused to bow down. They have lost their homes their families too, most of them.
Fathers butchered, mothers and sisters raped and enslaved. Such outrages instil a fierce stubbornness in common hearts. They were prepared to stand their ground until death claimed them but then they saw the bear banner of Rhos coming up from the south and they knew that our Pendraig had not forgotten them. These boys and girls and old men stand with you, Cadwallon. They stand with you if it means their death for what use is life when all that gives it meaning is trampled on and burned by our enemies? They are with you to the end.”
“As am I,” said a voice to Cadwallon’s right.
Cadwallon turned and saw Efiaun standing pale-faced beside him.
“I am ashamed, cousin,” he said. “My eyes have been blind and my heart cold. I thought to save my people from the Gaels’ fury but I see now that the only way to stop them is to defeat Meriaun. I do not want to live as a client king to the kind of beasts who have done this…”
“Then you will fight?” Cadwallon asked him.
“Aye, my Pendraig,” Efiaun said. “For better or worse, Dunauding is with you. We march for the Pass of Kings as soon as you are ready.”
Arthur
Arthur had given up straining against his bonds. He had been tied to the wooden frame several hours ago and his hands had gone numb. He didn’t know why he had been erected like a scarecrow by the shores of the lake at the edge of dusk. Why hadn’t they left him in his hut with his leg manacled? The Morgens seemed intent that he should bear witness to whatever it was that currently had the whole settlement in a state of solemn industry.
It had gone very quiet. The sun was setting. He gazed across the great mirror of the ocean to west. This is as far as the Romans ever got, he mused. He truly was at the edge of the world. Beyond that ocean lay Erin, land of the Gaels which even the Romans had been unable to conquer, and beyond that? Who knew? More ocean, like a sheet of glass going on and on into a shimmering infinity? Or more lands? More tribes, more wars and more desolation? Was that all the world was? One vast, endless existence of chaos and conflict?
He thought of his companions and hoped that their fates would be better than his. He thought of wise Menw, bull-headed Cei, strong but kind Beduir, wiley Gualchmei, stoic Cundelig and lustful but good-natured Guihir. He wished them all well and hoped that they would meet their gods in the ways they hoped.
He was convinced that his days on this earth were near their end. He had no doubt that Anna – or one of her sisters – would cut his life short with the edge of a blade before the sun rose once more. What for him then? Would he meet God or would he voyage through the mists of Annun to the Isle of Apples for an audience with Modron the Great Mother? He had always felt torn between the Christian faith and Albion’s old gods and now, in the clutches of this ancient order, at the edge of the known world, he was even less sure of his path.
They came just as the sun dipped below the sea and the darkness began to descend; a line of torches dancing like fireflies. They bore bundles of wood which they piled up on the lake shore before kindling it and standing back to watch the flames grow higher and higher. The glow was reflected in the waters of the lake and it was as the flames began to die down that the Morgens emerged from their roundhouse and made their way down to the shore.
Anna led them and even in the deepening gloom, Arthur could see that they had added a new layer of greasepaint to their faces which rendered them stark and livid in the torchlight. They carried something large between them and as the light caught it, Arthur could see that it was round and bulbous in shape like a pregnant sow.
The villagers formed a circle around the fire and an iron tripod was erected over the glowing embers. The object the Morgens carried was attached to it by a chain to dangle freely over the low flames.
A cauldron.
But this was no rusted pot. Even at a distance, Arthur could see that this was a treasure of kings. The flames picked out intricate designs beaten into the bronze panels and he could see faces, many shimmering faces as if the lives of a thousand generations were trapped within its surface.
Water in clay amphorae was brought forward by servants and poured into the cauldron until it was brimming. The villagers parted to allow five naked figures to enter the circle. They were all men, Gaels in the prime of their lives, broad-chested and powerful in the arms. They were not bound and seemed perfectly willing. Anna ordered them to kneel down before the cauldron which they did dutifully.
Arthur blinked. From his vantage point on his wooden frame, he could see all that occurred within the circle of villagers and he supposed that he was intended to. Were these men to be sacrificed? A group of warriors armed with spears stood nearby, presumably to prevent any disruption to the ceremony.
The water in the cauldron had begun to steam. The Morgens opened leather pouches and scattered what looked like leaves and roots into the liquid. Anna stirred and pounded them with a fat wooden pole. Then the chanting and percussion began. Voices called out arcane incantations while hands pounded skin drums to an intoxicating beat.
The naked Gaels remained kneeling, heads bowed while the Morgens began to daub their bodies with white greasepaint and then, on top of this, they painted swirling designs in blue woad, all to the beat of the drums and chanting voices.
The ceremony continued late into the night and Arthur realised that he must had dozed off for the stars were now bright in the sky and the faint touch of dawn paled the horizon to the east. He felt drugged; lulled to sleep by the incessant drumming and chanting. How had they managed to keep this up all through the night? There was a feeling of exhaustion over the assembly but still they continued as the climax of their efforts undoubtedly drew near. The fire beneath the cauldron had died out and was white ash blowing on the wind.
Anna bade the supplicants rise and they did so, one by one, to wait, arms slack, for the next part of the ritual. The other Morgens came forward to affix masks to their painted faces. The light of the torches glinted off white bone and Arthur remembered the boiling bones in the cauldrons by the roundhouse; bones stripped clean of flesh and livid white.
The chanting grew in rapidity until it was a crescendo and Anna beckoned the first of the Gaels to come forward. He stepped up to the cauldron and she dipped a cup into its milky, steaming liquid. She held it to his lips as the chanting became deafening in its intensity. The man drank, gagging at the taste but forcing it down like a child being given his medicine by his mother. When the cup was empty, he staggered away, clearly suppressing the urge to retch.
One by one, the others stepped up for their medicine but by the time the last of them was wiping his mouth, a change had overcome the first to drink. He was hunched over as if in agony and clawed at the earth, fighting something that wasn’t there. That he was drugged was obvious but the effect of that drug was a mystery to Arthur and he looked on, fearful of what might happen next.
The sun was rising. The day was being reborn and before the first rays glinted off the surface of the sacred lake, the change over the five Gaels was complete.
Arthur understood the sorcery of the Morgens now. He knew the cauldron’s secret. He saw who the Cauldron-born were and why Cadwallon had feared them ever since that night they had taken Cair Dugannu. They weren’t the dead brought back from the Otherworld. They were as alive as he was but driven insane by the root-magic the Morgens cooked up in their cauldron.
The warriors who had been loitering outside the circle all night blew their horns and barked out orders. The naked men screeched and shambled towards them. The villagers stepped on each other’s toes to get out of the way, terrified of Modron’s new-born. The warriors kept them at a safe distance with their spears and directed them towards the woods. Then they were off at a jog, vanishing into the darkness of the trees.
Silence descended over the lakeshore. There was no more drumming or chanting. The torches burned low, one or two of them guttering out. The villagers wearily ambled back to their huts while the Morgens remained by the ashes of the fire.
Anna ascended the slope to
wards Arthur, drawing a knife as she went. Arthur realised that his time to die had finally come.
With several fast slashes, Anna cut through the ropes that secured his hands and feet and he fell forward to land face down in the reeds.
“There are few fortunate enough to witness our sacred rites,” she said to him, sheathing her knife.
“Why?” he croaked, his throat dry. “Why me? Why not just kill me?”
She did not answer. The other Morgens appeared on either side of him and they lifted him up. He was too weak to resist. His hands and feet screamed with pins of fire as the blood in his body began to circulate about them more freely. He knew that he couldn’t walk. They carried him back to his hut and reaffixed the manacle to his leg.
“You will remain here for some time,” Anna said to him as they began to file out. “I will see that you are well looked after in my absence.”
“Your absence?”
“I am journeying south, across the straits. The final battle draws near. I want to be there to oversee the fruition of Modron’s plans. I will return to you, brother, and we shall discuss your fate at another time.”
She left him and it was then that the real feeling of desperation and loneliness consumed him. It would have been better had she plunged her knife into his heart than to keep him alive as a prisoner, chained and unable to help while the fate of everybody he knew was decided.
He thought of the five Cauldron-born he had seen transformed before his very eyes. They had headed off in a north-easterly direction, not a southerly one. That meant they were probably headed for the lys to finish the job he and his companions had thwarted.
He thought of kind Gogfran and Guenhuifach and the flame-haired Guenhuifar. Gods, Guenhuifar! He had witnessed the birth of their doom and had done nothing to prevent it.
He tugged at the chain that bound his leg to the post. The bowl he had eaten his meal of barley porridge from lay beside his pallet. Nobody had come to collect it in the build up to the ceremony. He seized it and began to dig into the hard-packed earth around the base of the post. He scraped and chiselled, heaping the dirt to one side. It would take him a long time but he was determined to free himself and do his best to escape the clutches of the Morgens. He might not be able to save Guenhuifar and her family but he could at least die fighting his way to her instead of waiting to be murdered by his own sister upon her return.
Sign of the White Foal Page 14