Sign of the White Foal

by Chris Thorndycroft

  Cundelig saluted and crossed the river with three of his scouts on their light, fast horses. Arthur waited with the rest of his company on the riverbank, watching the swirls and eddies of the dark water.

  Cundelig had barely been gone a few moments before he and his scouts returned, splashing across the ford in great haste.

  “Sir!” he blurted. “Cei and his riders have plunged on into the woods in a northerly direction. We spotted a large company of Picts coming from the west and I mean massive. It’s a good bet Caw is with them. We only just managed to get back across the river without being seen.”

  “It was a ruse,” said Arthur, panic rising in his gut. “They will be coming up behind Cei. He’ll be trapped!”

  “Lord Cunor and the rest of the teulu are still on their way,” said Gualchmei. “There is nothing we can do.”

  “The hell there isn’t!” replied Arthur. “That’s my foster-brother out there. I’m going to get him out somehow. If we can trick Caw’s force into coming after us instead of Cei, then we may have a chance to ambush them here at the ford. I’m going to split the company into two units. You shall lead the first, Gualchmei. Ride west as hard as possible and draw Caw’s attention. I shall take the second unit and conceal ourselves on that ridge across the river. When the enemy pursues you across the ford, we shall charge their rear.”

  “Sir,” said Gualchmei. “We are a small enough force as it is. Dividing us is extremely risky. Even if we spring a successful ambush, we’ll be hopelessly outnumbered.”

  “We only need to draw them away from Cei. The first party does not need to engage the enemy at all, merely bait them. But we need to move now if we are to prevent them from getting at Cei. Off you go and good luck. And remember, only draw their attention. Do not risk yourselves in combat.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Gualchmei and he rode off, leading his small group of men across the river.

  Arthur waited until the river was clear before leading his own men across. The rise on the other side was thickly wooded and provided excellent cover for his men and their horses. Atop it, he could see the rear of Gualchmei’s unit weaving through the trees below, following the river west. As they vanished into the gloom, Arthur felt the haunted wilderness closing in on him. He had less than twenty-five warriors, they were alone and on the wrong side of the river in uncharted territory.

  All because of Cei.

  It hadn’t been the first time his foster-brother had charged into danger without a thought for the consequences. He was a hot-headed, gung-ho oaf. But Arthur loved him and would risk all to save him. It was selfish to risk the lives of his men perhaps, but there it was.

  It wasn’t long before the sound of horns calling for chase to be given drifted through the trees towards them. Arthur heard the hammering of hooves and Gualchmei’s unit thundered into view, curling around to cross the ford. The Pictish vanguard followed closely, hooves churning the earth and war dogs threading their way in and out, jaws slavering for the kill. They had taken the bait!

  The press of infantry hurried along in their wake; hundreds of them dressed in an array of colourful wool, mail, leather and skins. Every inch of bare flesh was either tattooed or painted with the blue dye of the woad plant depicting the sigils and totem animals of a dozen clans.

  As the stragglers were wading into the foaming waters, Arthur yelled the order to charge at the top of his voice. They crashed down the slope and the Picts turned, startled at an attack on their rear. But the danger posed by Arthur’s paltry twenty-five riders was slim in the face of their superior numbers.

  Arthur roared an oath of defiance as they slammed into the rear of the enemy. They cut through the infantry like butter, swinging their great cavalry swords and axes down on unprotected heads, cracking them open like turnips. They drove deep into the enemy ranks so that the shallows of the river wetted the fetlocks of their horses.

  Across the river, Gualchmei had wheeled his unit around and was charging the enemy head on, trapping the Picts in the bottleneck of the ford.

  Brave lad, thought Arthur. He is prepared to lay down his life for his comrades. A retreat south was open to him but he had chosen to die with his teulu. That kind of loyalty could not be bought.

  The river turned red and grew bloated with the corpses of the fallen. The Picts were momentarily trapped and many braved the deeper parts of the river. Some made it to the banks while others lost their footing and were swept away by the strong current.

  Up ahead, Arthur could see King Caw; a plume of raven feathers cresting an iron helm that wobbled as he hacked and slashed his way through Gualchmei’s ranks. Near to him Arthur saw Hueil, roaring defiance and urging the Picts onwards. He must have cut westwards after crossing the ford to bring news to his father while Cei was led on a wild goose chase deep into the forests.

  They had no chance of holding them at the ford. Gualchmei’s unit was being overrun. The Picts would win through but Arthur did not regret his decision. Drawing the enemy away from Cei and spoiling their trap had been the only choice open to him.

  A bellowing roar sounded from the south-west and the Britons cried with joy at seeing Cunor and Leudon at the head of the teulu, riding hard towards the ford. The red dragon standard was as a splash of blood amidst the muted greens and browns of the forest. The Picts saw that the tables had turned suddenly and began pushing against Gualchmei’s unit all the harder, not to destroy them now but to break through, to flee.

  “We have them!” Arthur cried. “Push on! Cut down their king! Don’t let him escape!”

  They crossed the ford, threading a path around the sodden corpses that leaked red tendrils into the pinkish water, and climbed the bank to re-join Gualchmei’s unit. Cunor and Leudon had slammed into the right flank of the fleeing Picts and battle rang out among the trees for as far as the eye could see.

  Arthur led his company into the rear of the fleeing enemy but the battle was over almost by the time they got there. Cunor was wheeling his mighty mount around, waving a bloodied sword in the air.

  “You did it, my lad!” he cried upon seeing Arthur. “I don’t know how you held that ford against such odds but you did it!”

  Before Arthur could explain, Cunor interrupted him. “Caw is dead! I saw him hacked down by Leudon’s household troops. The head of the tattooed snake has been lopped off! Where is Cei?” he asked at last, noticing his son’s absence.

  Arthur saw the look of concern cross his foster-father’s face and hurried to allay his fears that his son was slain. “Cei was not with us at the ford. When we arrived, Hueil and his warriors had already crossed. Cei led his company across the river in pursuit of him while my company remained to wait for you. My scouts brought me word of a large Pictish force coming from the west. It was a ruse to ambush us once we had crossed the river.”

  “What happened?”

  “I split my company and we lured the Picts across the ford and then ambushed them.”

  “Saving my son,” said Cunor, his face grim. “Well were the hell is he?”

  “Sir!” said Caradog, captain of the first company, galloping over to them. “Prince Hueil has escaped. He is has rallied the remaining Pictish cavalry and they are fleeing south.”

  “To what end?” asked Gualchmei. “Without their king they can’t pose much of a threat to the southern kingdoms. They’ll disperse and attempt to sneak back to their tribal lands. It’s over!”

  “No,” said Arthur. Hueil is as canny a leader as his father was. He’ll remain a standard for them to flock to.”

  “You’re right, Arthur,” said Cunor. “This war isn’t over until I have Hueil’s head along with his father’s. You must go after them, son.”

  “Me?” Arthur said.

  “Aye. You have the fastest horses. We will finish mopping up here.”

  “Cei returns!” Gualchmei exclaimed.

  Cunor turned an angry face to the ford where his son was leading his company through the water.

  “I told you to re
main at the ford!” Cunor exploded as Cei drew near.

  “Father,” Cei protested. “Hueil was within our grasp! I couldn’t let him get away! Not when we were so close to winning…”

  “Hueil headed west and re-joined his father,” said Cunor. They would have bitten you in the arse had it not been for Arthur’s quick thinking! You deliberately disobeyed my orders!”

  Cei’s face reddened. “Father, I…”

  Cunor turned to Arthur. “Get going. Don’t let Hueil escape.”

  “Yes, sir,” Arthur replied and began rounding up his company.

  “Hueil has fled south?” Cei enquired. “Father, let me go with Arthur…”

  “No! I want you here with me where I can keep an eye on you!”

  Arthur did not wait to hear any more. Water skins were passed around and those who were still fit to ride mounted their horses and set out.

  They rode south all afternoon until the sky above the treetops grew blood streaked. The men and the horses were tired yet still they forced themselves on with the knowledge that their enemy would be just as fatigued.

  They can’t run forever, Arthur told himself as he urged Lamrei on, sympathising with the creature’s flagging strength.

  They passed through the neck of Albion where the great island narrowed into the tribal territories of the southern Picts, squeezed between two powerful British kingdoms. To the east lay Leudonion with its chief forts of Din Eidyn and Din Peldur. To the west lay the kingdom of Ystrat Clut, ruled by King Caradog; an old Briton who was a little too friendly with the Gaels and the Picts than his countrymen thought decent. This was compounded by his refusal to aid King Leudon in his war against the northern Picts. Eventually, as darkness descended, they were forced to stop and rest.

  “Hueil will be doing the same,” said Gualchmei. “His horses will be no fresher than ours.”

  “I want to be ready to move out at first light,” said Arthur.

  After they had fed and watered the horses and brushed down their sweat-streaked coats, they collapsed around their campfires and boiled their meat. Arthur posted sentries and sent Cundelig and a scouting unit further south to see if they could find out how far away Hueil was camped. With the stars like dust in the black sky, the men began to snore as they sank into a well-earned rest.

  Arthur remained awake, staring into the glowing embers of the campfire. His thoughts were of home, of Venedotia and the hair of one woman which burned in his mind as red as the heat of the flames before him.

  He and Guenhuifar had grown close over the past two years. Much of Arthur’s time had been spent on Ynys Mon with the teulu in their effort to drive away the Gaels. It had been a long campaign but they had succeeded, despite several fresh invasions from Erin along Albion’s north-west coast. King Cadwallon, the Pendraig of Venedotia and Arthur’s half-brother had rebuilt Cunedag’s old lys in the north-eastern corner of Ynys Mon and had made Guenhuifar’s father steward of it as he had been of old. Many celebrations had taken place in Cadwallon’s new royal seat and Arthur and Guenhuifar had found their eyes meeting more and more often over the heads of the revellers in the smoky hall.

  Without ever revealing their feelings for one another to anyone else, they had enjoyed stolen moments of secrecy and forbidden kisses beneath the moonlight when the autumn wind was peeling the dead leaves from the trees. Whether he was in his bed at Cair Cunor, or in a muddy field facing a horde of howling Gaels or Picts, Arthur’s mind yearned for those soft lips and that thick, auburn hair. They had not openly expressed their love to each other but it was there all the same; a glowing ember that smouldered away, biding its time, threatening to burst into flame at any moment.

  “Arthur!” called one of the sentries, hurrying over to him. “Cundelig and his scouts have returned!”

  Arthur got up and went to the perimeter of the camp where Cundelig was dismounting, his exhausted horse shaking with fatigue.

  “Arthur took Cundelig by the shoulder. “You have returned so soon! Are they close?”

  “Any closer and we could hurl insults at each other,” said Cundelig. “The ground slopes down through the trees over there to the shores of a great lake. Hueil has made camp beneath the shelter of the trees at the water’s edge. He commands but a fraction of the warriors we saw him ride away with.”

  “Where are the rest of them?”

  “Deserted? Fled back to their homes? Who knows?”

  “Ha!” said Gualchmei, joining them at the camp’s edge. “He’s a sitting duck!”

  Arthur was not convinced. “He must have come this far south for a reason. My guess is that he has sent his warriors out to rally local support. We are in Damnonii territory and we have the Britons of Ystrat Clut to the west of us.”

  “Ystrat Clut has long been friendly to the southern Picts,” said Gualchmei. “King Caradog refused to send his warriors to aid Leudonion.”

  “And we don’t know how loyal the Damnonii are to Caw’s confederation but if they rally to Hueil’s standard with the support of King Caradog, we could be facing a resurgence here in the south.”

  “By Christ, we’ve got to take him and take him now!” said Cundelig. “Else all will be undone!”

  “Aye,” Arthur agreed. “The lads and the horses need a couple of hours more sleep but I want to fall upon Hueil’s camp before dawn. They don’t know we have followed them this far and won’t be expecting us. Once we have Hueil, we ride east for Din Eidyn. We can hand him over to Leudon’s people there and he can be used as a bargaining chip to end this war.”

  The dawn attack on Hueil’s camp went according to plan. Arthur marshalled his cavalry on the top of the slope just as the sky was beginning to pale in the east. They were all still tired, stiff and sore from the previous day’s fighting but the sight of the small cluster of campfires down by the shores of the lake was more refreshing to them than either sleep or a good meal. That pathetic encampment was all that stood between them and the end of the whole blasted war.

  Arthur gave no orders for horns to be blown. He wanted the surprise to be saved until the very last second. He led them himself, spurring Lamrei down the slope, dodging the trees, spear gripped in his right fist.

  As they emerged from the trees in a thunder of hooves, the alarm of the sentries could be heard, but only briefly. They tore through the outer perimeter, skewering and hacking down any Pict who stood in their way. Campfires were scattered by hooves in a flurry of embers and ash. Arthur sent the wings of his company to envelop the camp on all sides, leaving only the lake at the enemy’s rear.

  The panicked Picts splashed into the shallows and tried to swim for it but Arthur’s men dismounted and waded in after them, reddening the water with down-thrust spears. Those who remained on land were captured and herded together.

  “Where is Hueil mab Caw?” Arthur bellowed, wheeling Lamrei about as he scanned the faces of the prisoners.

  They remained silent but it was a futile gesture. Hueil was known to Arthur and his men. They had seen his blue-painted face roaring at them over the din of the battlefield several times that summer and would recognise it now.

  “Here!” said Gualchmei triumphantly.

  Hueil was plucked from the gathered prisoners and hauled before Arthur. The woad on his face was cracked and peeling now and the effects of tiredness and defeat showed in his wild, dark eyes.

  “Arthur mab Enniaun,” said Hueil, drawing himself up defiantly. “You have the upper hand today, it seems. The gods take pity on you at last!” He grinned through his blackened teeth.

  “Fortunes of war change like the tides,” said Arthur. “And today is not your day. Fetch him along!”

  “What of the others?” Gualchmei asked.

  Arthur glanced at the unarmed Picts who were clustered together like sheep. “They are of no use to us,” he said. “Kill them.”

  The enemy did not scream or beg for mercy as Arthur’s men set about their butchery. Such things were the very depths of dishonour for a Pict and they di
ed as Arthur knew they would, fighting with their bare hands until their last breaths. Hueil watched the awful scene without emotion. These were his warriors, his companions. They had done him proud in life and now they did him proud in their deaths.

  They ate what they could of the Picts’ meagre supplies before setting out east. Hueil was led on a horse, his hands bound behind him, saying not a word.

  It was before noon that the scouts came hurrying back with news of a Pictish host approaching from the east.

  “Damnonii?” Arthur asked.

  “By the looks of their markings, I would say so,” said Cundelig. “A thousand strong on foot. They must have marshalled their entire tribe.”

  “Is there any way around them?”

  “If we could make it to the banks of the Bodotria Estuary, we could follow it to Din Eidyn but it would be risky trying to cross that distance so close to their scouts. They have dogs and our horses are tired. We would not avoid an engagement if we were spotted.”

  “Back north, then?”

  Cundelig rubbed his chin. “Possible. But we might run into whatever is left of Caw’s warband fleeing south with Cunor on their heels. Even refugees would outnumber us.”

  “Then there is only one way open to us then,” said Arthur. “We go south. To the Wall.”

  “The Wall?” Gualchmei exclaimed.

  “It is quite a distance but we can find safety at Din Banna.”

  Din Banna was one of the sixteen forts the Romans had built at regular intervals along the length of the Emperor Hadrian’s great wall.

  “They won’t be looking for us yet so we have a head start on them,” said Arthur.

  They turned their mounts in a southerly direction and tried to cover as much distance as possible before night fell. To the south the lands opened up into a vista of rolling moors bearded with purple heather and cut through by flowing watercourses. There was little cover and when they camped that night, Arthur forbade the lighting of fires for they would be spotted miles off. They had no food left and slept in discomfort for only as long as they had to before setting out once more.