He watched her climb the stairs to the upper chambers and then he turned and walked towards the Great Hall. He could hear Cei’s voice roaring out a song of battle and the voices of the others – Beduir, Gualchmei and many more – joining in. He checked his spear at the gate and crossed the threshold to join his companions.
Venedotia would know several years of peace under King Cadwallon’s reign and in its rocky hills and grassy valleys a white foal chased the wind, shaking its shining mane. In no time at all it seemed, it grew into a fine young stallion.
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Historical Note
Most of the historical basis for the figure behind the legendary King Arthur comes from a text called the Historia Brittonum (The History of the Britons); a compilation of manuscripts believed to have been put together by a Welsh monk called Nennius sometime in the mid ninth century. In relation to the wars with the Anglo-Saxons it states that ‘Then in those days Arthur fought against them with the kings of the Britons, but he was a commander in the battles.’ It then goes on to list twelve battles the locations of most have never been fully identified.
Further evidence comes from two ambiguous references in the Annales Cambriae (The Annals of Wales) set down sometime in the mid tenth century. These detail Arthur’s victory at ‘the Battle of Badon’ in 516 A.D. and his eventual demise in 537 A.D. at ‘the Strife of Camlann’ along with somebody called Medraut.
This all seems a far cry from the King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table of later legend. In fact, these early references don’t even make him out to be a king at all. Some sort of 5th century war leader who led a native resistance to the Anglo-Saxon expansions seems likely but how did this shadowy figure emerge from the chaos of post-Roman Britain to become the legendary king of a fictional Camelot in the later middle ages?
Between the early references to the historical Arthur and the romances of the 13th and 14th centuries there was a large body of Welsh poetry and tales pertaining to Arthur. In this tradition he is a king but there are many differences to the well-known legend of later centuries. There is no mention of Lancelot, Merlin, the Round Table or the sword in the stone. Instead, the hot-headed Cei and one-handed Bedwyr appear consistently as his closest companions along with Gwalchmei (who became Gawain in later stories). His queen is Gwenhwyfar but he rules from Caerleon, not Camelot.
That such a body of literature and folklore was inspired by a single individual suggests that Arthur, whoever he was, was a figure of great importance to the Britons. There is a supernatural element in these early tales and several other Welsh tales of the period depict bands of warriors chasing after magical cauldrons. The mabinogi of Bran and Branwen (as told by Menw in this book) is one such example. The tale of Culhwch and Olwen (a story from which I have borrowed many elements including the characters who accompany Arthur on his quest) also deals with a similar vessel and the legendary account of the great bard Taliesin is centred around the cauldron of Ceridwen. Perhaps most important of all is the cryptic poem The Spoils of Annwn; a surreal account of a band of warriors (including Arthur) who voyage to the otherworld and steal a magical cauldron. As with Bran’s expedition to Ireland, only seven of them return.
In Celtic myth the cauldron appears to be a symbol of rebirth and there may be archaeological evidence in the form of the Gundestrup Cauldron which depicts a goddess-like figure dipping warriors into a cauldron headfirst. Parallels have been drawn between the magical cauldron and the quest for the Holy Grail which occupied much of later Arthurian literature.
It was Geoffrey of Monmouth who first penned a comprehensive life of King Arthur. His twelfth century Historia Regum Britanniae (History of the Kings of Britain) is an incredible blending of fact, folklore and pure fantasy. It is in this work that Arthur is first given a sister – Anna – who is married off to King Loth of Lothian. Little else is said of her but in later romances Arthur gains a more famous sister; the wicked sorceress Morgan le Fay. Morgan was also first mentioned by Geoffrey of Monmouth who called her ‘Morgen’ (meaning ‘sea-born’) in his Vita Merlini (The Life of Merlin) but makes no mention of her being Arthur’s sister. Instead, she is a wise healer, a shapeshifter and chief among nine sisters who rule Avalon, the ‘Island of Apples’.
The idea of nine priestesses ruling an island appears with interesting frequency in Celtic history and literature. The 1st century Roman Geographer Pomponius Mela in his Description of the World says that the isle of Sena (Île de Sein) belonged to a ‘Gallic divinity and is famous for its oracle, whose priestesses, sanctified by their perpetual virginity, are reportedly nine in number.’ The cauldron in The Spoils of Annwn is kindled by ‘the breath of nine maidens’ and the Arthurian hero Peredur encounters the nine witches of Caer Lloyw (Gloucester) in Peredur son of Efrawg. In Welsh and Breton folklore there are creatures known as ‘morgens’ who are reportedly water spirits responsible for drowning men. Paralleling the name of Monmouth’s sorceress, we could be looking at a folk memory of a Celtic priestess hood connected with water and islands who were relegated over time to the status of witches and evil spirits in medieval literature.
The dynasty of Cunedda (I have opted for the older form ‘Cunedag’ as it appears in the Historia Brittonum) was a real (or at least semi-legendary) dynasty that ruled Gwynedd in the late fifth century. His name and the names of his sons appear in the royal genealogies of Wales as the ancestors of the notorious Maelgwn of Gwynedd (definitely a real king).
There is nothing that specifically connects King Arthur with Cunedda’s dynasty, but I felt that it was an interesting (and possibly dysfunctional) royal family with plenty of room for a bastard son (and daughter) within its ranks.
Sneak Peek – Banner of the Red Dragon
Caledonia, 482 A.D.
Arthur
The mist hung over the forests like a shroud. Arthur gripped the reigns of his grey mare Lamrei in his gloved fist, patting her pale neck to sooth her nerves while he fought down his own. Behind him his company stood ready, horses whinnying softly, champing at the bit and scraping at the damp earth with their hooves. Every sound seemed amplified in the muted silence of the forests. The jingle of every harness was like the toll of a bell and every nervous warrior’s cough a clap of thunder.
He looked out across the wooded valley that lay deep in the Caledonian Forest. Its other side was barely visible in the fog and shade of the tall pines. Somewhere over there Cei was waiting at the head of his own company. Further down the valley waited the combined cavalry of their foster father Cunor and King Leudon, blocking the exit, sealing the trap.
It had been a hard season’s fighting. The thick forests of the north concealed an enemy that had dwelt there since the dawn of time, deeply knowledgeable of its paths and valleys, working as swiftly as ghosts in the mist. Blood had been spilt for every inch of ground as the Britons were constantly assailed by small raiding bands sent by King Caw of the Pictish tribes.
The Picts had been united under a high-king before but the fragmented state of the tribes and their incessant blood feuds made it a rare occurrence. The first time had been during the Barbarian Conspiracy of 367 when the Roman garrison at the Great Wall had rebelled. A Pictish confederation under King Gartnait had swarmed south in an attack coordinated with the Gaels of Erin and the Saeson pirates who plagued the s
outh-east coast. The second time had been during a civil war between Prince Talorc and his aunt Galana who, in accordance with the tradition of matrilineal descent held by some of the tribes, wanted the throne for her infant son. It had been a British army sent by Lord Vertigernus that had crushed Galana’s rebellion and placed Talorc on the throne to rule Pictland from his royal seat at Din Eidyn.
But Din Eidyn had once been the home of the Votadini tribe; a client kingdom of the Romans. Their greatest warlord was Cunedag who had been sent by Lord Vertigernus to reconquer the mountainous region of Venedotia from the Gaels several years earlier.
Cunedag had been Arthur’s grandfather and although Arthur was but a bastard offshoot of Cunedag’s dynasty, he served Venedotia as loyally as any trueborn son.
In the years that followed Talorc’s victory over his aunt, the British warlord Leudon set his sights on a northern kingdom of his own and took Din Eidyn from the Picts. In an attempt to legitimise his rule over what had once been the territory of Cunedag’s kin, he married into the ruling family of Venedotia. His bride Anna – Arthur’s half-sister – had run away from the marriage bed and was now dead yet the kingdom of Leudonion had been secured.
The Picts, never ones to forget an injury, plotted swift revenge on Leudon. Their opportunity came in the form of Caw who banded the tribes together in a confederation with the intent of smashing Leudon’s hold over Din Eidyn and driving the Britons back south. Leudon, cowering in the face of Caw’s painted hordes, had sent to his lost bride’s family for help. King Cadwallon, newly ascended to the title of ‘Pendraig’ – high-king of Venedotia – heeded his estranged brother-in-law’s call and had sent the Teulu of the Red Dragon north that summer.
Now autumn had come and the treetops had turned golden brown, their leaves stripped away to reveal the skeleton of the forest. The Picts had finally been forced into open battle and Arthur hoped that this would be an end to the war. He was sick of the rain and the mud, sick of the cold, whipping winds and sleeping in rough tents, eating bowls of watery stew and stale bread, day after day. He wanted to go home. For many reasons.
A sound reached his ears; a distant tramping of hooves down on the valley floor. He leaned forward in his saddle and listened hard. He could just make out the sound of the oncoming force as it moved slowly through the trees. It was five-hundred strong according to the scouts. He could see movement; spear tips and blue woad on bare skin. The helmed heads of warriors mounted on their sturdy highland ponies. He turned to Gualchmei.
“Get ready for my signal,” he said, and Gualchmei passed the message along the ranks. Spears were gripped tightly and shields were lifted up and down as the warriors prepared their shoulder muscles, revolving their arms in their sockets, loosening up for maximum mobility. The sound of the oncoming Picts was louder now, a low rumbling growl of movement. The trees down in the valley began to sway as the mighty force shouldered its way past. A horn bellowed on the other side of the valley, Cei’s horn; the signal to attack.
“‘Company!” roared Arthur, holding his spear aloft. “Forward!”
As one, Arthur’s company followed their captain down the slope of the hill and into the valley. Earth and pine needles were kicked up by hooves as they gradually picked up speed.
“Keep the line steady!” Arthur bellowed. “As one!”
Trees whipped past them, a fuzzy blur of greens and browns. The enemy was in sight now; a massive force of mounted Picts flanking a column of spearmen. Savage war-hounds strained at their leashes, their ears pricking at the sound of on-commers.
Hundreds of heads turned to look in startled surprise at the charging Britons. The hounds bayed and gnashed their jaws and the spearmen tugged on them as they hurried to form a defensive line. But they were too slow and undisciplined. Arthur struck out with his spear as he led his men into their right flank, blinking as a gush of blood spattered the right side of his face. The spearmen went down under the hooves of the Britons and the Pictish cavalry flanks turned in an attempt to hem them in.
Horses whinnied in fear and pain and the war-hounds barked and tore savagely at their flanks. Spears punctured armour and flesh while shields shivered and split under the impact of heavy swords and axes. The Picts, never ones to stay surprised for long, fought back with a furious energy.
Arthur parried a spear stroke and thrust his own iron-tipped shaft into the chest of his attacker, knocking the stricken man from his saddle. He could hear the distant sound of Cei’s horn and grinned as the Pictish host turned in shock to face another company of Britons descending the valley on the other side. Caught between two pincers, the Picts fought bravely, refusing to give up any ground to their attackers.
Then came the sound of another horn, deeper, more resonant. It was as if a death-toll had descended from the fog and all in the valley turned to see its source. Emerging from the southern end of the valley was the third cavalry led by Cunor and King Leudon. Above them the banner of the red dragon wavered, nostrils flaring, tail billowing out behind it like a ghastly apparition from the mist accompanied by a roaring of horns. This was the final stroke for the Picts and their captains turned in their saddles and bellowed out the order to retreat.
The Britons roared with triumph and urged their steeds onwards, cutting at the heels of their enemy. They chased the Picts up the valley, slaying any who were too slow to escape their stabbing spears and swinging blades. Arthur heard Cei bellowing to him above the slaughter.
“By Modron’s tits, we have them on the hop! Did you see that prince of theirs? We wiped that blue smirk off his face!”
“Hueil? No, I couldn’t make him out.” said Arthur. Hueil was Caw’s eldest son and had led most of the attacks against them throughout the season. “Were you near him?”
“Aye, but I couldn’t get a good swing at him. His bastard captains formed a ring about him. But I’ll get him next time! They have nowhere to run now. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Time is something we are running short of,” said a voice behind them. It was Cunor, Cei’s father, his steed foaming with sweat and his standard-bearer struggling to keep up with him. “We have waited all season for this battle and now that we have these bastards pinned down, winter threatens to take them away from us. I want the heads of Caw and Hueil on poles by the end of the day.”
“They’ll be heading for the river,” said King Leudon beside him. “Caw will most likely be somewhere beyond it with the rest of the confederation. What we faced today was merely Hueil’s vanguard. There is a fording point further east.”
“Then we must push onwards and cut them off before they cross the river, father,” said Cei. “If we stop Hueil reuniting with the rest of the Picts, Caw will be more vulnerable.”
“Agreed,” replied Cunor. “But beyond that river is unknown territory. I don’t want to risk blundering into any of their ambushes.”
“The river is wide and deep further west,” said Leudon. “If we could push them in that direction, then they won’t be able to cross and will be forced to fight.”
“Very well,” said Cunor. “But we must secure that crossing in case they slip by us. Cei, Arthur, your companies are light and fast. I want you to ride for the crossing as fast as you can. Reach it before the enemy does and hold it until we arrive. With any luck we will be able to crush Hueil between our two forces.”
“Yes, sir!” replied Arthur and Cei in unison and they trotted off, hailing their standard-bearers to regroup their companies.
“Follow my lead,” said Cei to Arthur as they set off up the valley. “If my company comes across any pockets of resistance, ride yours around on my left flank and engage.”
They proceeded northwards and the valley levelled out into flat ground. The forest grew thicker and the two companies had trouble keeping their men in an orderly formation.
“Get those stragglers on our right flank closer in!” called Arthur to Gualchmei. “I don’t want anyone vulnerable to ambush!”
The sound of Cunor’
s horns dwindled into the distance as Arthur and Cei rode on. Soon they could hear the rushing of the river and Cei sent scouts ahead. They reported back with news that Hueil and his company were already in the process of fording it.
“Damn them!” shouted Cei.
“We’re too late!” said Arthur.
“We have to cross and cut them down before they regroup with Caw.”
“Your father’s orders were to wait for him at the ford.”
“If we let Hueil reach his father this war could drag on and on! And I don’t know about you, but I want that blue bastard’s head on a spear before sundown!”
“Cei, we could ride straight into a trap!”
“Arthur is right,” said Beduir, Cei’s cousin. “We don’t know how large Caw’s following is. There could be thousands waiting for us across the river.”
“Then that is why we must cut down Hueil before he reaches them! And Beduir, you are in my company, not Arthur’s. You do as I say!”
Beduir shrugged apologetically at Arthur and followed Cei as he led his company across the river. Arthur watched in silent disapproval. He knew there was no point in trying to make his pig-headed foster-brother listen to reason when the scent of blood and victory was in his nostrils.
When he was halfway across the river, Cei turned in his saddle to call to Arthur. “Remain on the southern bank and wait for my father if you wish, Arthur. But I’m going to bring back Hueil’s head!”
“This is a bad idea,” said Gualchmei at Arthur’s side. “Both companies are vulnerable divided.”
Arthur nodded. “He is a fool, but he is not under my command. Where is Cundelig?”
“Here, sir!” the lead scout replied, trotting over to him. Hebog, his peregrine falcon, sat on his gauntlet, leather hood pulled down over its eyes.
“Take a group of your scouts to the other side of the river and keep pace with my block-headed brother. We can at least watch his back that way.”
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