“Modron?” asked Arthur. “The Great Mother? But she was just a girl!”
“She can take many forms,” said Menw. “Just as the earth looks different from summer to winter, so too can the goddess. She mirrors the land.”
“She reflects the seasons?”
“It’s not quite as simple as that. She reflects the land but what hidden cycles she follows are her secret.”
Arthur thought back to the meeting with his sister. “Anna spoke of Modron being reborn. She seems to think we are on the verge of a new age.”
“Aye, well, if anybody has any insight into the mind of Modron then it is the Morgens. They are her priestesses after all.”
Arthur found it difficult to reconcile the horrors he had seen on Ynys Mon with the pretty girl in the white dress. The idea that the goddess should save his life while her priestesses had nearly taken it was a confusing thought. It all seemed rather more complex than good versus evil.
The others had returned and stoked the campfire for Guenhuifar’s coneys. “We can’t take that beast with us,” said Cei, glancing at the white foal that stood by watching them patiently, twitching his ears. “He’ll need feeding before long and we don’t even have food for ourselves.”
“He’s coming with us,” said Arthur. He felt a strange attachment to the small horse he had rescued. They had both been lost and, in their search for their respective companions, they had found each other.
“A white foal,” said Menw rubbing his beard. “Mabon mab Modron. Very interesting.”
“Mabon mab Modron?” Arthur asked. “The youthful god?”
“Aye. Just as Modron is the divine mother, so is Mabon her divine son. The two deities are symbolic of man born of mother. Always must Mabon be freed from his prison in order to reach manhood. In older times Modron and Mabon were often represented by a mare and her foal.”
“So, Arthur rescued a foal from a thorn bush,” said Cei. “A coincidence.”
“A white foal,” said Menw. “White is the colour of youth, both for man and his mother.”
“Pah! Symbolism and superstition.”
Menw ignored him. “I believe that Modron sent her son to aid you, Arthur. Just as she sent you to aid her son. You and the white foal are one and the same. You are Mabon, Arthur. This quest has been your mabinogi – your coming of age tale. You were a boy when you passed through the waters to Annun, to Ynys Aballach, and you have returned to us from the Isle of Apples a man.”
“My mabinogi…” Arthur repeated, feeling a little foolish. He liked the old tales as well as any but was a little embarrassed by the way Menw drew parallels between them and his own life.
“We encountered a shepherd who gave us news from Cair Dugannu,” said Guenhuifar as she set the coneys on sticks over the flames. “Three nights ago, the fortress all but emptied itself of troops. Meriaun marched south with all banners flying.”
“By Christ there must be a battle brewing somewhere in the mountain passes,” said Cundelig, feeding Hebog a scrap of rabbit’s liver.
“If they left three nights ago,” said Gualchmei, “then Anna will have arrived at Cair Dugannu after they left. She and the cauldron are probably still there.”
“If she survived the straits,” said Cei.
“If we did then you can count on her having done the same,” said Menw.
“Whether it is at the bottom of the sea or within Cair Dugannu’s walls the cauldron is as good as lost to us,” said Cei wearily. “We must head south and skirt Meriaun’s teulu to make contact with the Pendraig and tell him that we have failed. Perhaps we can make amends by laying down our lives for him in the final battle.”
“We might not have to,” said Arthur. They all looked at him. “If Meriaun and his teulu have marched south then Cari Dugannu will be severely undermanned. The cauldron will be vulnerable.”
“You’re suggesting that we seven storm the royal seat of Venedotia?” asked Cei incredulously.
“Eight,” added Guenhuifar.
“You’re not a warrior, lass.”
“No, but my aim is deadlier than any of yours. And its sounds as if you need every advantage you can get.”
“Why would you risk your life for our mission?” Arthur asked her.
She shrugged. “As I said on Ynys Mon, I have already gone too far down this path with you. The Gaels will never leave my family alone unless they are defeated. I don’t care about your precious cauldron. I just want to see them driven back into the sea.”
“And you are prepared to die for that?”
“For my family? Yes.”
“I do not doubt the courage of anybody here,” said Cei. “Including yours, lass. But this is suicide. Meriaun may have marched south but he will hardly have left his back door open. There’ll be a detachment of Gaels guarding Cair Dugannu. Possibly Diugurnach himself. We must forget this foolish idea. South to battle is the only road left open to us.”
“It’s a long march,” said Cundelig. “And how are we to know where the Pendraig’s teulu is? Even Hebog can’t scour every valley and dale in Venedotia. It’s more likely that we’ll be picked up by Meriaun’s scouts than find our own people.”
“Our guide speaks the truth,” said Menw. “By the time we find the Pendraig, the battle will be over. Lost more than likely and we will be left drifting on the wind.”
“It will be a hard fight, there is no doubt as to that,” said Arthur. “But we need not attempt a frontal assault on Cair Dugannu. If we could somehow sneak inside and capture the fortress from within, we could end this war before its final battle begins.”
“It’s just a bloody cooking pot, Arthur,” said Cei. “You said so yourself.”
“It is a symbol,” said Arthur. He glanced at Menw. “And symbols win the hearts of men more than the truth. We have but to show the enemy – and our friends – that Cair Dugannu is ours and that the power of the cauldron is broken. You’ll see how stout the courage of Meriaun’s following is then.”
Cei sighed. “I suppose dying up here is as good as dying down south. And I’m pig-sick of chasing this old pot about. Very well, Arthur. You have the right of it once again. Let’s do this. My only question is how?”
“As to that,” said Arthur. “I have one idea.”
Meddyf
A humid drizzle began to mist the trees on the other side of the river as they descended the hill and began to cross the grassy valley floor. The old Roman fort occupied a bend on the Afon Lugu. It was little different to the half dozen or so forts the Romans had built to subdue the rebellious Britons of the mountains. Its square plan, rows of barrack huts and vaulted praetorium put Meddyf in mind of Cair Cunor although Cunor’s fort was much better maintained.
Cair Lugu was a tumbledown old place that had not been inhabited since the Romans had left. As they approached its ivy-cloaked walls and crumbling gates, Meddyf wondered why King Etern had bothered to quarter his teulu here instead of camping them on the plain. The ruined fort would offer little protection should her husband decide march on it.
He must feel vulnerable to hide behind such shabby walls, she thought. There has to be a weakness here; something that we can exploit…
“It’s not too late to change your mind, my lady,” said Cunor beside her. “You can still turn back…”
“No,” she said, her face hard against the drizzle. “We go on.”
Cunor’s words of caution echoed the discussion that had consumed Cadwallon’s war council the previous night. She knew that all the men felt honour-bound to try and talk her out of it but all of them – including her husband – knew there was no other way.
Cadwallon had set out the day before in a north-easterly direction with the intention of turning north-west through the lee of the Giant’s Cairn and heading through the Pass of Kings which led into the flat coastal lands beyond. Maeldaf and his valley scouts had returned bearing news that Etern’s teulu had marched from Cair Cunor and was following the Afon Lugu into the mountains on their r
ight flank.
“The old bastard is planning to cut us off at the pass,” said King Efiaun as they made camp in the Y-shaped valley that night.
“He’s too old for this game,” said King Mor. “And too slow. We’ll reach the pass by noon tomorrow. He’ll still be struggling through the mountains by the time we march on Cair Dugannu.”
The mood in the tent was light and Meddyf had not seen the men so jovial in as long as she could remember. The end of this war was in sight. By tomorrow evening they would be out of the mountains and the stretch of coastline would be all that stood between them and Cair Dugannu. All that stands between us and home.
But, as with every step of this campaign it seemed, God mocked them. King Mor’s scouts returned from the north-west arm of the valley with news that Meriaun’s teulu had entered the pass from the other side. Their ranks, bolstered by their Gaelic mercenaries, were filling the pass with their tents and the lights of their campfires dotted the black valley like the night stars.
“This was arranged!” said Cadwallon, hurling his wine cup to the ground in frustration. “They mean to pin us between hammer and anvil!”
“And they’ll do it too, by all the gods,” said Cunor. “We can’t fight them on two flanks.”
“And if we fall back to Din Emrys, they’ll converge here and storm that mountain retreat together with a force the like of which has not been seen since Cunedag’s time,” said Owain gloomily.
“Not with all of Venedotia’s teulus together could they crack my fortress,” said Efiaun with his characteristic defiance.
“No but they could starve us out in a matter of weeks,” Cadwallon reminded him. “We are too many for your granaries to feed. We should have set out earlier!”
Efiaun grew sullen and silent, his shame at his own tardiness to support Cadwallon weighing heavily upon him. If they had made the pass perhaps as little as a day earlier they would now be facing Meriaun on open ground instead of penned in the mountains with an enemy host on each flank.
“We outnumber Etern’s teulu three-to-one,” said Cunor. “If we march by night we could easily be upon them by sunup tomorrow…”
“To what end?” Cadwallon asked. “It is Cair Dugannu I seek to claim not Etern’s seat. And I will not waste my men by attacking him and leave myself vulnerable to Meriaun’s counterattack. No, we must break through that pass!”
“Etern must somehow be bargained with,” said Meddyf. “The old fool has nothing to gain by supporting Meriaun.”
“He supports him out of spite for your husband and his line,” said Mor. “Etern always hated Enniaun and he resents you, my lord, for being his son.”
“But he’ll be no better off if Meriaun wins this war,” said Meddyf. “He’ll still be king of Eternion and Eternion alone.”
“Like I said,” said Mor, “he supports Meriaun out of spite, not logic.”
“Well that spite must be blunted,” said Meddyf. “Or this war is lost. We must have something to offer him, something that will sate his petty jealousy.”
“What have I?” Cadwallon asked. “I don’t even have my crown…”
“There must be something! We have to at least try to parley with him…”
“You’re right,” admitted Cadwallon. “There must be a salve for this bitter rivalry my father caused with his brothers.” He gave out a sigh as if being forced down a road he did not want to walk. “I will ride east to discuss terms with my uncle.”
The other lords voiced their outrage at such a foolhardy notion.
“My lord, you cannot walk into his hands!” said Mor. “You are the key to their victory. If Etern gets hold of you he will hand you over to Meriaun without a second thought.”
“Send someone else to parley with this traitor,” said Owain. “You cannot put yourself in such danger.”
“Who could carry my authority?” said Cadwallon. “Whom would he see as his equal enough to discuss terms with?”
“I’ll go,” said Meddyf.
The lords in the tent stared at her.
“I must protest…” said Mor.
“He’ll hold you to ransom as quick as…” Cunor began.
“No,” Meddyf insisted. “I would present a valuable hostage it is true, but he would not dare hold me against my will with my husband’s teulu less than a day’s march from him. Oh, I am sure he feels safe enough now knowing that a victory over him would be a pointless one politically speaking but he also knows that my husband would throw all to the wind and march on him if any harm should to come to me.”
The men were silent as they all considered this.
“I don’t like it,” said Cadwallon.
“Nor I,” Meddyf admitted. “But what other choice do we have?”
“My lord, I beg you to send me in our queen’s stead,” said Efiaun but all knew his words were mere courtesy. It had to be Meddyf. Only the life of the Pendraig’s queen was valuable enough for him to throw away the whole war to save.
Cadwallon was silent for a long while before he spoke. “I want Cunor to go with you,” he said. “And I will have every warrior ready to march at the blast of a horn. If my uncle tries any treachery, I’ll redden the Lugu with his teulu’s corpses.”
Cadwallon’s oath brought little comfort to Meddyf as the gates of Cair Lugu creaked open, their rusted hinges and wavering timbers threatening to burst asunder at every inch. An armed reception awaited them upon the parade ground and Meddyf and Cunor were escorted to the praetorium.
Despite being summer, a fire crackled in the brazier in the main hall and King Etern sat wrapped in a blanket. His once golden hair was now white streaked with sickly yellow. His face was pinched and veined and he regarded them with beady, hungry eyes as they approached.
“What’s this then? Terms of surrender?” he demanded. “Does my brave nephew send his wife to treat in his stead? Oh, I know she comes with protection, Cunor, did you think I’d forget your sullen face? I must say, I’m enjoying your family home immensely, though you didn’t leave me much. Even the kitchens had been emptied. Still, when this war is done, I’m thinking of razing Cair Cunor and using its stones to build some stables.”
Meddyf felt Cunor tense at her side but the loyal penteulu kept his cool. “We are not here to surrender but to ask you to reconsider your support of Meriaun,” she said.
“Reconsider?” Does the wolf reconsider his dinner when asked to by the sheep?”
“My husband is not so easily beaten as you might think. Efiaun of Dunauding is with him as is Mor of Rumaniog and many bannermen from the Conui Valley. He could trample this fort within the day and still have enough men to face Meriaun.”
“If that were true, then why doesn’t he?” Etern replied. There was a hesitation in his voice that suggested uncertainty.
He didn’t count on Dunauding joining the war against him, she thought. This is new to him.
“My husband wishes to heal the wounds between Cunedag’s descendants, not rend them utterly. You swore an oath to his father; your own brother.”
“Aye, and he’s dead, gods rot him. I swore no oath to your husband.”
“My husband is your brother’s son,” Meddyf persisted. “The rightful heir to Venedotia. Why turn your back on your father’s dynasty now?”
“I turn my back?” Etern seemed ripe to explode. “It was my proud and splendid brother who turned his back on me – on all of us! Did he really think we would bend the knee to his son; a whelp who never raised a blade in the conquest of this land?”
“My husband raised his blade to defend Venedotia when the Gaels returned. He fights that battle still.”
“And I raised mine to forge it when your precious husband was still sucking on his mother’s teat! I am the last of us, the last of Cunedag’s sons who watered this land with our blood! If anyone should wear the Pendraig’s crown then it is I!” He was overtaken by a sudden bout of coughing which turned his face purple and attendants rushed to offer him water. He waved them away. “Oh, don
’t look at me like that,” he said to Meddyf once he had recovered. “I know what you’re thinking. An old wreck like me wouldn’t wear the crown for very long even if he did get it on his head. And you’re right! My time has passed, I admit that. But what of my line? I have never been blessed with sons but I have daughters who will carry sons of their own. What for them? Why should my brother choose his own descendants for the throne while mine inherit nothing more than a scrap of a kingdom on Venedotia’s outskirts that is little more than a buffer state to keep back the dogs of Powys?”
“The Teulu of the Red Dragon has always come to Eternion’s defence in the past,” said Meddyf.
“After my people have borne the brunt of Powys’s raids,” Etern spat.
“What has Meriaun offered you?” she demanded.
She had expected something – more land, the spoils of conquest perhaps – but when Etern sat back in his chair and sighed, his vindictive face sagging a little, she understood the truth. Meriaun had offered him nothing but vengeance; a petty, fleeting thing in exchange for helping him win the throne.
“Is it the lot of your descendants to continue to hold Venedotia’s borders in check while Meriaun sits upon your father’s throne?” she asked him.
Her looked at her with puzzlement. “Can your husband offer me anything better?”
“As a matter of fact…” she began and then checked herself. She had no right to say what she was currently considering. Only her husband had the right to make that kind of offer. And yet, Cadwallon was not here. She was. And as well as carrying her husband’s authority, she remembered his words to her that morning. Find a way. Offer him anything we can to turn his loyalty.
“We have a son,” she said. Forgive me, husband. Forgive me Maelcon. “A fine lad who will be upon the cusp of manhood in a few years. I understand you have a pair of daughters, young and fair.”
“What of them?” Etern asked, his beady eyes lighting up with greedy curiosity.
“You said so yourself; you are too old to wear the crown of the Pendraig for long. But your grandson might wear it for many years. There are other ways to secure it for him than war.”
Sign of the White Foal Page 17