There were more busy priests rushing
about and more smudge-bowls could be discerned smouldering in their niches
these last two days and a sepulchral atmosphere now permeated a fragrant
CaerCiaran. These soldiers had stopped cursing and using foul language
strangely and it was this alone which had drawn Ederus’ attention to this
spiritually charged atmosphere which now pervaded this unfamiliar minor Caer.
It seemed to be an unspoken thing that had manifested between them, but this
sense that they were on a holy
mission had gripped all these men concurrently, or perhaps it was the knowledge
that it would probably be their last mission on this earth, it was hard to
tell. This was however was the rescue of a Princess against insurmountable odds
and a sacred, deeply honourable undertaking, something these vaunted warriors
had come to accept as nothing less than a gift from their Gods.
To a man they knew they were destined
for Camulo’s Mincer this summer and very few of these warriors would be
returning north from the war against Caesar. If even half of the stark rumours
about the size of his burgeoning fleet and the outlandish things that Roman
General was preparing for his second invasion were proved to be true, no one
could be sure of returning. This
unique endeavour offered them a chance at glory and everlasting Bri, that elusive prize which cannot be
purchased anywhere, as it can only be bestowed to the warrior class by one’s
peers and represents a priceless fortune. Bri
is the distilled essence of renown and personal distinction, being the very
shiny brooch of reputation, honour and all-important respect. Every warrior
sought Bri and bathed in its warm and
eternal golden glow once achieved. It has always
been this way and will be, until the end of days.
This
was the kind of legendary accomplishment their ever-honoured predecessors would
have jumped-at and the kind of bri-laden, principled endeavour the glorified warriors
of old had excelled at. It was this 'against-all-odds', reckless and almost
suicidal type of endeavour which had inspired their ancient Bards to write
about their fearless progenitors, and to sing to their glory forever. The younger warriors were fired by
this and their imaginations, into spiritual fanaticism and lurid dreams of
rescuing a goddess-like Princess and the bri-dripping glory, awash with the
gold which was assured them. Whilst the ones with the grey showing in their
plaits and in their beards, took it as one last golden opportunity for glory
and immortality. Even the most cynical amongst them became imbued with the
spiritual aspect of this impending mission and many a grisly old campaigner
could be found on his knees, mumbling in front of a smoking altar.
This morning, shortly after Bel had
soared up from behind the hills of the mainland a most disconcerting message
had arrived, and this by an oath-sworn Cennadwr
Marchog, bearing the galloping gold brooch on his fir-green mantle as proof
of his highly regarded position. The rolled and wax-sealed strip of goatskin
bore the cygil of a tusked boar’s head pressed into the wax, proclaiming the
royal warrant of Albion and the news was too important to send by bird, coming
directly from King Cridas to King Ederus and it beggared belief.
The official request for allied
assistance from the sacred northern Triad, Druid-sworn and ready to decamp
south as they were, had never arrived. In fact they had received news at
Bellnor’s CaerUswer, that King Caswallawn of the Southern Brythons did not
intend to call them south again in defence of Prydein. In his hubris and
arrogant delusion, the man had declared his southern armies could defeat Caesar’s
impending invasion alone and without their assistance. The infamously ambitious
son of Beli Mawr himself, declared that he had built ample fortifications all
along Caint and that the Tafwys and his brother’s LludsDun were impregnable due
to his endeavours. Furthermore in the southern King’s preposterous opinion,
there would be no room at any of the coastal approaches in Caint to allow their
great northern host to be brought to bear without fouling up Caswallawn’s own
planned operations, negating their need to journey south and to be involved in
the second war at all.
Bellnor and Cridas were creating a
huge storm of protest in Breged at this exclusion and had sent a delegation of
diplomats south in all haste to change the southern King’s mind; that he would
make the official request at least, so that the Triad can move south to an
assembly point away from the coast, if it relieves any perceived congestion. Once encamped in some corner
of Caint, the Northern Triad can be called upon if required by Caswallawn, or
not as he sees fit but to ignore the Triad and exclude these valiant northern
men who had proved so invaluable in the first invasion, would be a grave and
blatant insult. It would be seen as an equally grave error in judgement, in the
opinion of just about every soul living north of DunBorthmyn. The Arch-Druids
of the three northern nations had sent urgent messages to their Brif-Druid
across in Gallia, begging him to return and resolve the situation. The great
man was needed to wrest the vital unity from the Nations of Prydein again, as
he was the only living person capable of it and to achieve the Undeb required to repel the might of
Rome once more. No response had been received from Gallia however and it was as
if HênDdu had become distant to all Prydein’s worries.
Ederus had been incandescent with
rage at the unbelievable news, crashing about his guest lodges and throwing
things about with a dreadful clamour. Nobody would dare venture near the great
oak door to his chambers, until the racket eventually died down and Erran was
seen scurrying for food and ale. The shocking report was disseminated
throughout this great assembly of men in no time at all, packed as they were
like eels in a wicker trap in this modest fortress. Although all were amazed at
the hubris of the southern King they were glad to be here, rather than facing
the long and meaningless march home. Buoyed too by the knowledge that their
sacred, Gods-sworn trial which had now become so important to these warriors
was still ongoing, it sustained the fire in their hope for glory. For now it
seemed fate itself and all the Gods of Prydein together had blessed this
perilous rescue attempt, and their historic part in it.
* *
* * *
His duty
complete, an exhausted and wind-battered pigeon gained the stoop to his loft,
gratefully slipping into his home nest and pecking hungrily at the loose corn
among the straw on the floor. Returning east
against the wind and from a foreign country, this fatigued bird rearranged his
ruffled feathers now on tired legs and took a much-needed drink at the trough,
his peers and family members welcoming him home with familiar clicks and coos. This pigeon loft had been
constructed away from CaerGlâs’ dovecot for obvious reasons, as that provided eggs, meat, feathers
bones and sinews, whereas these Colomen y
Cerrig as they had become affectionately known, provided an absolutely
vital service. They did this via a system of dependable messaging stations,
established across the country by the aristocracy and the military of Prydein.
Any system is like a chain, being only as strong as its weakest link and the
weak link in this particular communication chain, snored gently in the corner,
slumped in his wicker chair.
This new
fortress of King Berwyn’s Damnoniau had been founded on an ancient enclosed
village and within an equally ancient set of ditches, alongside which trudged
the winding, sluggish trickle of Nant y Moel. Old King Cylan Wyllt had finally succumbed to his old
head injury and his soul had departed to seek out his long-lost wits, leaving
his son and heir Crown Prince Berwyn to take the walk against the sun and
accede to Damnonia’s ancient throne. One of King
Berwyn’s first commissions was the founding of CaerGlâs on the
westerly Aber of the Clwyd and its sharp palisades were as fresh and bright as
the thatches of its interior buildings. History had recalled the name of this
boggy maes as ‘Green Hollow Camp’, giving CaerGlâs its name and it lay just half a mile from the
Aber of Arglwydd Clwyd, where the Moel paid grudging but everlasting tribute.
This
vitally important pigeon loft still smelled of sawn pine and the thatching over
it was fresh and yellow. It had been built alongside the southern battlements and
pale-yellow light spilled out from under the drooping thatch and through the
long row of small openings, illuminating the foreground but there was no human movement inside this crucial hub
of communication this evening. Had old Griff Adar known the import of the tiny scrap of bark shaving, tucked
into the little leather boot on this new arrival’s leg, the Feis y Taflod would have awoken in a
sweat-soaked nightmare, but for now he slept soundly, snoring and dribbling in
blissful ignorance.
* *
* * *
Ederus mounted the gangplank and boarded the biggest vessel,
among the last to embark this great fleet of ships he had gathered. The tide
had turned, the wind was fair and all in this invasion force knew the moment
had arrived and it was now or never. The men had all been taken through the
cleansing and religious rites for spiritual protection by a veritable flock of
Druids, who had sacrificed a whole herd of goats in votive supplication to
their Gods at midnight, and under the stars of their fate. Arglwydd Camulo had
been especially worshipped, which they did by slaughtering an enormous black
bull, as being so hopelessly outnumbered they would need the blessing of their
great red God of War this uncertain day.
The rain had stayed clear, remaining largely inland and it
was a fine, blustery morning in Western Galedon. The stiff canvas sails cracked, and these ponderous ships
heeled with the favourable wind which propelled them out of Ciaran Bay, past
the little island of Dafâr and into the Sound of Bran, where
they headed south toward the rushing waters of Culfor Gogledd. A raucous flock of pristine herring gulls followed
this fleet of forty-two ships on their canted wings, as it passed through the
Sound of Sanddu. Ederus’ Captain in the flagship steered the fleet to the right,
once past the larger island of the same name and where the fleet caught the
irresistible flow of the channel proper. Ederus’ ships tacked west around the
bulbous and mountainous tip of Cul Pentîr and then
rode this favourable wind north toward the distant crown of northern Iweriu.
They would then need to curve west
over the Rhobogdian Peninsula, to sail around Rathlyn Island and on down the
northern coast to Porth Talar and there off a tiny island in the lee of the
long rocky peninsula in the sound, Ederus would moor this fleet. Regardless of
rumour he would stubbornly follow the procedure, by sending an emissary ashore
to finalise the details of the exchange, before making a landing himself on the
beach alongside the port. He’d played enough Bones in his time to know when to force your opponent into
revealing his pattern and he was determined to play his part today, forcing the
Iweriu to make the trade or to show their treacherous red hand.
The King of Galedon stumped down into
the hold of his ship, gripping the timbers as it caught the rearing waves of
the channel proper and he took his seat with a scowl.
* *
* * *
A dashing Cennadwr Marchog controlled his fabulous
horse with his heels, as they clattered down the pass between the hills and to
the cliffs at the bell-end of Cul Pentîr. This
professional rider with his gold brooch of service worn proudly on his
fir-green mantle, was in no hurry and let his magnificent, sure-footed horse
pick its way down through the gorse to the snowy pathway around the cliffs at
the head of this towering isthmus. He turned them right along the headland path
but soon came to a stop at a widening in this narrow footpath, where a nearby
scout’s hut had been erected and it was clearly a well-used vantage point for
the lookouts and with good reason, as the views across the glittering northern
channel to distant Iweriu were stunning, especially on such a glorious spring
morning. Despite the enervating panorama laid-out before him, his expression
under the wide-brimmed hat was doleful, as he watched Ederus’ great fleet gain
the wind below him and head slowly up the channel. He had done his duty to the
best of his ability, even setting a new record for the last leg of his
neck-breaking journey. He had arrived early at CaerCiaran, laying at the head
of this long, tortuous and freezing peninsula but ultimately, he had failed in
his endeavour.
His message
had been initiated from CaerGlâs at the aber of Afon Clwyd and as no message birds were kept between these
old-enemy fortresses, a messenger-knight had been sent-for in all haste.
Although this capable man had no idea of its contents, he had been informed and
could tell by the animation of all involved, that his relayed message this cold
and windy day contained the most shocking news and was of most vital import to
the King of Galedon and all northern Prydein.
He watched
the little sailing boat down to his left and far below, fight its way from the
Sound of Sanddu and venture into the seething channel, bravely trying to catch
up the now distant fleet with the message he had carried here at such reckless
haste in his satchel. He knew it was too late however and the boat would never
draw near enough to the departing ships now to deliver it, as the fleet was
already beginning to curve around to the west and would soon disappear from
view behind enemy land.He could only guess at the import of the missed intelligence as he sat languidly in the wafer-thin saddle, watching the fleet vanish around the Fair Head Cape into the distant freezing mist. His priceless charger scraped the snow with a hoof and cropped the short grass beneath it, as he shook his head and spat with frustration. This messenger-knight could only offer a forlorn hope and a prayer to Arglwydd Cornonnyn now, the great Horned-God who sustained him and every member of his honoured brotherhood. He offered up a sincere plea to the terrible and eternal horned-one, that the lost message wouldn’t make too much of a negative impact on the King’s valiant attempt at rescuing his beloved daughter, but he was a pragmatic and experienced man and he spat to the icy turf again, before tugging the reins. He knew even the smallest, most incidental piece of knowledge can often make all the difference in war, occasionally being the very crucial final fragment of information which can decide the day and secure victory. This elite professional was in a unique position to understand this and a sinking feeling of foreboding took hold of him, as he led his equine comet back up the pass at a sedate walk, between the snow-laden hills and toward CaerCiaran, his billet for this freezing day and the night ahead.
His pessimism was reflected in the slump of his shoulders beneath the green wool of his mantle and his head hung, as he pulled the big collar up against the bite of the wind. This knight of the ‘galloping green’ rode solemnly uphill and back through these lanes to his duties and freezing, ice-crusted Cul Pentîr became deserted once more.
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