Sign of the White Foal Page 2

The Gaels seemed to part as several of their warriors shouldered their way through to the front ranks. As soon as they saw them the Britons fell back in sheer terror. Cadwallon had never seen anything like these men. They were as nightmares from a mist-shrouded age. They were naked but for masks that concealed their features and those black, soulless eye sockets told him that these were masks fashioned from human skulls. They fought like demons, screeching and howling, all traces of humanity blasted from their minds by the battle fury.

  “Gods, what are they?” Tathal uttered.

  Focused solely on slaughter, the skull-faced warriors seemed impervious to pain, ignoring the wounds inflicted on their naked, woad-stained flesh as the Britons desperately tried to fight them off.

  Cadwallon could see that it was hopeless. These monsters were driving a wedge between them while the rest of the Gaels flanked them on either side. They were as fish in a barrel. Tathal fell, his shoulder blade splintered by the axe of a skull-faced howler. The rest of Cadwallon’s warriors rallied to him with cries of “To the Pendraig! To the Pendraig!”

  He could have wept at their loyalty for there could be none among them who did not know that they would all be slaughtered within minutes. But the Gaels seemed to hold back, fresh spearmen pushing through the ranks to hold the Britons at a distance and at the same time, drive back their own wild warriors.

  “Which of you is Cadwallon mab Enniaun?” demanded a voice in British with a thick Gaelic accent.

  All were silent but for the groans of the dying and the heaving breaths of the living. Cadwallon straightened and stepped forward. “I am he,” he answered.

  A large Gael wearing a tartan cloak and the torc of a chieftain shouldered his way forward. “I am Diugurnach mac Domhnall,” he said. “Surrender this fortress and your remaining men will live.”

  “And what of my family?” Cadwallon asked.

  “All will live if you throw down your weapons now. If you do not, all will die.”

  Cadwallon felt the eyes of his remaining men upon him. It had been selfish to think that he could die in battle. He had the lives of his people to think of. He tossed his bloodied sword to the mud. A heartbeat passed before all British blades and spears fell to the ground in unison.

  The Gaels herded them into the Great Hall while the skull-faced warriors capered and foamed at the mouth amidst the blood and the entrails outside. All of the women, children and servants were roused from their quarters and marched into the hall. The chamber echoed with frightened weeping. Cadwallon looked for Meddyf and saw her, clutching the hands of Maelcon and Guidno. She was visibly shaken yet her face remained brave and defiant.

  The one called Diugurnach mounted the dais at the head of the hall and spoke to them. “I have taken this fortress and you are all my prisoners. Cadwallon mab Enniaun, step forward.”

  Cadwallon took a pace towards the dais, conscious of Meddyf, his sons, everybody, watching him. He must not fail them now. He was still their king. His courage must hold strong.

  “Do you yield to me, princeling?”

  “I yield this fortress to you to save what is left of my people,” Cadwallon replied. “But I am no princeling. I am the Pendraig, the High-king of Venedotia. My uncle and my cousins all owe me allegiance. By tomorrow five-thousand British spears will be upon you and you will rue the day you set foot on Venedotian soil.”

  Diugurnach ignored the last and addressed the hall; “You all heard him! This fortress is mine! I offer food and plunder to any warrior who wishes to join me and pledge their allegiance. Step forward now!”

  He knows he is vulnerable here, thought Cadwallon. Otherwise he wouldn’t recruit warriors from the enemy.

  Several of Cadwallon’s warriors stepped forward to the disapproving hiss and grumble of the assembly. Cadwallon saw young Gobrui among them but found that he could not begrudge the lad. They were all so frightened. One by one they knelt and kissed Diugurnach’s sword before taking their places among the Gaels.

  All warriors who did not pledge allegiance were taken outside where the skull-faced still howled. As Cadwallon and his family were escorted to their quarters, they heard the screams as they were butchered behind the Great Hall. That they should remain loyal while I surrender, he thought miserably. That they should die and I should live!

  They were taken to the royal apartments at the rear of the fortress and left with their sorrows. The celebrations of the conquerors could be heard drifting through the thatch of the Great Hall and up through the open windows.

  “Are they going to kill us, da?” Guidno said, his face as white as a sheet.

  “Of course not,” Maelcon snapped at his little brother. “Else why would they keep us alive now? We’re far too important to kill.”

  Maelcon was ten and already showed much of the surliness of young manhood.

  “Maelcon is right, Guidno,” Cadwallon said. “We are royalty. They won’t touch us. They won’t dare.” Gods, I hope I’m right.

  “There are no guards outside our chamber,” said Meddyf, peeping into the corridor beyond.

  “Diugurnach can’t spare the men,” Cadwallon said. “They are needed on the palisades. He has enough warriors to seize Cair Dugannu but not enough to hold it.”

  “Or to keep its inhabitants from escaping…” Meddyf suggested.

  “Escape?” he regarded her with surprise. “There is no need to be foolhardy. All we need do is sit tight and await the marshalling of the teulu. Once Tathal’s messenger reaches Din Arth, my brother will have all Venedotia coming to our rescue. These Gaelic wolves don’t know what they’ve done in attacking us.”

  The Teulu of the Red Dragon was the standing army of Venedotia. Formed by Cunedag in the old days, every king contributed warriors to its ranks. It was headquartered at Cair Cunor in the south and could reach the coast within two days.

  “Someone is coming,” Meddyf said.

  The door opened and Gobrui entered. He was armed.

  “Not drinking your king’s mead in the Great Hall with your new friends, traitor?” Meddyf spat. “Or have your new masters already got you running errands?”

  The boy blushed but he appeared to have something of import to say. “I know you have little reason to trust me, my lord, but I have prepared a way out, if you are willing.”

  “A way out?” said Cadwallon “Too risky. I’ll not endanger my family on some reckless escape plan when all of Venedotia will be coming to our aid tomorrow.”

  “All of Venedotia?”

  “Tathal was able to get a messenger out before the east gate fell. By midday tomorrow Owain and Cunor will be mustering the teulu.”

  “Begging your pardon, my lord, but the messenger did not get through. They led his horse back in with his carcass slung over its saddle not an hour ago.”

  “Damn!” Cadwallon cursed. “Damn these bastards!”

  “There’s more, my lord. Diugurnach did not act alone. He has support from somebody in Venedotia. My Gaelic isn’t too good but they seem to be awaiting the arrival of somebody of great importance tomorrow. You are being kept alive for an audience with them. What your fate will be afterwards, I do not know.”

  “Diugurnach may have orders to keep you alive only long enough to be used as a pawn,” said Meddyf. “Once you have served your purpose we may all be killed. Look what happened to those soldiers who remained loyal to you even after Diugurnach promised to spare everybody. I say we make a run for it. If we can reach Owain at Din Arth we will be safe, at least until the teulu can be mustered.” She glanced at Gobrui. “How is it to be done?”

  “It will have to be on foot,” the youth replied. “Diugurnach has few warriors but we can’t reach the stables without being seen. I have taken care of the guard at the east gate. The way is open but only for so long. If we are to leave then it must be now.”

  “Very well,” said Cadwallon. “If you get us out of this, lad, you will be the hero of Venedotia. Come! Lead the way!”

  They stepped out onto the gallery.
Dawn was still a few hours away and the lamps burned low. Drunken singing could still be heard down in the Great Hall but all elsewhere was silent. Gobrui led them right along the gallery towards the west wall.

  “Hold,” said Cadwallon in a low whisper. “Wait here for me.” He turned and Meddyf seized his arm.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed.

  “Just give me a moment,” he replied, shaking himself free of her grip.

  He hurried down the gallery and descended a couple of steps to the standard bearer’s quarters. It was pitch black inside so he took one of the lamps from the gallery to light his way. Bronze and silver glinted in the darkness. He wove his way between the racks of spear shafts to the iron-bound chest at the back of the chamber. He opened it and took out what he wanted, bundling it under his arm before re-joining his family.

  “What’s that?” Meddyf demanded, her eyes on the bundle of red cloth under his arm.

  “My father’s dragon banner,” he replied.

  “You went back for that?” Her eyes blazed in the darkness.

  “This is the very standard Cunedag brought with him from the lands of the Votadini over forty years ago,” he said. “It is the symbol of our dynasty and I’ll be damned if I’ll leave it in the hands of the bastard Gaels.”

  “We’re trying to escape with our lives and you tarry to collect a battle standard?”

  “I am the Pendraig now. I am its custodian. Where I go, it goes. Else all is for naught.”

  “If you dare to suggest that a piece of brightly coloured cloth is equal to the lives of our sons I’ll leave you right here in in this fortress!”

  Cadwallon looked at the two frightened faces of his boys. Maelcon looked upon his father with his mother’s scathing eyes while Guidno seemed on the verge of weeping. They don’t understand, he thought. How could they? But they will someday. Maelcon especially if he is to succeed me…

  They headed to ground level and skirted the Great Hall. Gobrui pulled them into the shadows of the palisades as a drunken Gael stumbled out of the building and vomited under the eaves. They waited while he staggered to his feet and urinated before shambling back indoors, tying his breeches as he went.

  They hurried over to the gate which had so recently been breached. Its shattered timbers lay all around. The corpses had been carried off but the ground was damp with the blood of the fallen.

  “They leave no guard at the north gate?” Cadwallon asked.

  “They see little need to,” Gobrui replied. “They fear only attack from without and have all their guards on the palisades looking outwards.”

  As they descended the footpath they could see the ruins of the settlement between the two hills. Roundhouses still burned but the flames were low, licking at charred timbers which poked up from the ruins like blackened skeletons.

  The east gate was closed and Cadwallon helped Gobrui heave it open just enough to allow them to slip out.

  “How did you persuade the guard to leave his post?” Cadwallon asked him, looking up at the gatehouse.

  Gobrui didn’t answer but as soon as they left the fortress they saw the guard’s corpse impaled on the defensive spikes at the foot of the wall, his body pierced in at least three places.

  Cadwallon was impressed but the need for haste was too great to bestow compliments. They had escaped the fortress but it was a long trek to Din Arth and when the Gaels realised their prisoners had escaped, they would after them in hot pursuit.

  They heaved the gate shut for the sake of appearances to buy themselves a little more time. Cadwallon scooped Guidno up into his arms and Meddyf led Maelcon by the hand. At the foot of the hill the treeline was a black haze that signified concealment and shelter. They hurried towards it, fleeting shadows in the pale light of dawn.

  Owain

  While Cair Dugannu was a moderate timber construction, Din Arth was a massive fortification with walls of quarried limestone piled three and a half meters high. It was a fort meant to inspire awe but, unlike Cair Dugannu, Din Arth was no royal seat despite its ruler’s pretentions.

  Owain mab Enniaun seethed as he rode through its gates, his ruddy complexion almost beet-red in his rage. In the warm spring afternoon, his great bearskin cloak made him swelter but he would not take it off until he was within his quarters. He wore it for effect; to bolster his already broad shoulders and suggest a bear-like temper which was no exaggeration. It was a theme he had built upon with the name of his fortress – which meant ‘fort bear’ in the British tongue – and his standard; a bear rampant on a blood-red field.

  But Owain was no king. His brother Cadwallon was the heir to the Pendraig’s crown. After years of pestering, their father had given Owain rulership of Rhos; a swathe of moorland between the Afon Conui and the Cluid Valley on the easternmost fringes of Venedotia. But the territory did not come with a royal title and Owain had soon set his sights higher. After all, had not their grandfather made all his sons kings during his lifetime?

  “Would you have me appoint a king for every commote?” Enniaun Yrth had demanded. “There are already seven kings in Venedotia and that is six too many!”

  On a clear day one could stand on the ramparts of Din Arth and see right across the Creudin Peninsula to the twin humps of Cair Dugannu. On that morning, the sky could have been no clearer and Owain had awoken to cries of alarm that smoke could be seen above Venedotia’s royal seat.

  Owain had ridden out with his best warriors but they had met refugees heading east from Penlassoc who warned them from riding too close to Cair Dugannu. The fort had fallen, they said, and Gaels were plundering Penlassoc for supplies. Roundhouses near to the fort had been put to the torch.

  “What of my father?” Owain had demanded. “What of my brother and his family? Do they live?”

  Few could give him any answers and he grew frantic, burning with shame for not having the courage to ride his troop within spear’s range of Cair Dugannu to find out for himself.

  It was a fisherman with an ear for Gaelic who had been down the Afon Conui that morning who provided Owain with some picture of what had happened.

  “Your father is dead, lord, may God rest his soul.” He touched the bone crucifix at his throat. “They say he died in the night before they attacked. Your brother, in his grief, wasn’t ready for ‘em, lord, but they do tell of his escape, so he must live, wherever he is.”

  “What?” Owain cried. “My brother escaped? How do you know this?”

  “There was a great search party of mounted warriors and dogs too, set out from the fortress at the crack of dawn. Then the rest of them set on Penlassoc and looted it bare of meat and fish. Most folk are headed east to your fortress, my lord. I do hope you’ll consider taking them in.”

  “Aye, they shall find refuge at Din Arth,” Owain replied. “But my brother! Is he not among them?”

  “Who can say, lord? He escaped before dawn so if he was headed in your direction, he should have reached you by now.”

  But he hadn’t. Din Arth was the closest fort to Cair Dugannu and the obvious place to run to. So where was he?

  Owain rode back to Din Arth, stopping to scour every baggage train and forlorn group of refugees for his brother’s face. He did not find it. The refugees spoke of Gaelic hunting parties searching the woods and churning up the trackways. This fed Owain’s hopes that his brother had not yet been found.

  “If he did not make a crow’s flight for Din Arth then he must have tried to lose his pursuers in the woods,” his steward said once Owain was back at the fortress. His bear-skin cloak lay across the back of his chair in the Great Hall while he sipped cool wine in an effort to quench his temper.

  “Gaels, for the love of Modron!” he cursed, invoking the name of the Great Mother. “They didn’t waste any time, did they? My father’s body was not yet cold before they struck. Don’t you find that a bit timely?”

  “I do, lord,” the steward said. “They undoubtedly had word from someone within Cair Dugannu.”

 
“If I ever find out who, I’ll string him up by his own entrails!”

  He had sent out patrols – all the mounted warriors he could spare – to find his brother. If they came into contact with the Gaels then there would be bloodshed but he didn’t care. The Pendraig had to be found.

  The thought had crossed his mind that if his brother and sons lay dead in a ditch somewhere then the throne might be within his own grasp. But it was a foolish thought, not to mention a callous one. His cousins would all have claims on the throne too and Rhos was not strong enough to fight them all. Indeed, his very position as ruler of Rhos rested on the Pendraig’s support. If some cousin from one of the other kingdoms took the throne, Owain may very well find himself stripped of his territory. His brother had to survive.

  He was pondering this when his wife, Elen entered. The nurse followed her, carrying their baby son Cunlas. Most of Cunedag’s line were dark but Owain had inherited his mother’s tawny locks which he kept closely cropped. His son Cunlas had followed suit and his small head looked as if it was wreathed in bushfire.

  “Is it true, husband?” Elen demanded, her voice trembling. “Has Cair Dugannu fallen to the Gaels?”

  “It is true, my sweet,” Owain replied. “They struck from Ynys Mon in the night. My father is dead and my brother’s whereabouts unknown.”

  “Then we are ruined! The Gaels will turn to us next and butcher us all within these walls!”

  Her cries upset Cunlas and he began to bawl. His nurse sat down with him and bounced him up and down, making cooing noises.

  “Hush, Elen,” Owain said. “Din Arth’s walls are thick. We can hold out against them far longer than Cair Dugannu did. They were taken by surprise whereas we are forewarned.”

  “But what of your brother? Who now rules Venedotia?”

  Aye, that was the question indeed, Owain thought calmly to himself as he sipped his wine. “Young Maelcon is the direct heir but if Cadwallon was slain then it is likely his sons were too. My uncle Etern thinks he has a claim as he is the last of the sons of Cunedag but he is old and foolish. Few would accept him on the throne.”