The celebrated meeting of King Ederus and King Cridas broke-up,
as did the formations of lords and champions, which were then led up to DunEil
by the two northern Kings. Shortly afterwards, the huge crowd of weary people
headed off together to their places of refreshment and rest, whilst the nobles went
their own way, riding up the steep ramp to the hilltop fortress.
The Tref, harbour and all Rhôsmel were soon teeming with warriors
and werrin from both nations, and the alehouses and taverns were bursting to
capacity and more. The night followed a completely predictable pattern of
events, as ‘old-enemy’ warrior challenged warrior to a seemingly unending range
of diverse trials and tests, mostly the physical type of drinking, wrestling or
arm-wrestling, log-throwing or stand-up cyffi,
where only fists were used. Whilst there was a great deal of enjoined singing
and drinking, there were also many scuffles, loud arguments and several brawls.
There had been one spectacular and hugely supported fight
between two female warriors in the early hours, one a Fachomagian Nêr from the wild north-western reaches
of Galedon, whose angular face was completely covered in swirling blue tattoos.
She had clashed with a muscular Enouantan Penaig over the affections of an
Albion Sergeant and within a heartbeat, they were about each other. This was no
bout of Cyffi, as the flash of honour-daggers
was almost instant. As expected, these ferocious females would die before
capitulating and so had to be forcibly separated by two Gŵyr, four burly
spearmen and a Druid but not before most had received many nicks and cuts amid
the thrashing lunacy.
Once disarmed, the two screeching denizens were released, and
they came together like two battling ferrets. There was still no clear victor
an hour later, even as they had fought themselves to a bellowing standstill. So,
utterly exhausted both women had been carried on-high to the beer tents in
vociferous honour, and where the two battered combatants had been fated and
ale-soaked for hours. Despite and perhaps in view of these high spirits, no-one
was killed nor seriously hurt and somehow, this fragile alliance of the
old-enemy contrived to survive its first night.
*
* * * *
Two more arrivals came through his arched oak door then,
these from the Tawescally lands of King Conal of DunAer. This pair of seasoned
warriors had come west from the Mynyddoedd
Goch, a mountainous region protecting the wild, storm-tossed eastern coast
of Galedon. One was a renowned Gŵyr and the other his Penaig or tribal leader
and she had the sharp, restless eyes of the practiced killer. This well-built,
impressive female warrior’s face was heavily tattooed, and she looked fiercer
than the Gŵyr she followed as did the other female warriors present, a common
thing in Prydein.
*
* * * *
In the smoke-wreathed and beery atmosphere of Galan’s great
hall in DunAdda and with the Gŵyrd y Gogledd in attendance, news of
Caswallawn’s defensive failures and the decimation of his army is being heard
with mixed feelings. What he is now trying to achieve with guerrilla tactics,
misdirection, subterfuge and falsehood are being hotly discussed, amid several
games of bones taking place on the
tables around the dais.
A grisly looking senior Penaig was reciting the latest reports
of the Roman war from memory, but only a few were really listening. This
seasoned warrior sported several facial scars among the swirling blue tattoos
and looked ferocious but pressed on with the report from the dais at the head
of this long and thatched hall, regardless of the patent disinterest shown by large
parts of the audience. The battle at the mined
ford across the Afon Tafwys near LludsDun was retold by this tall and
well-built leader of Galan’s agents and the part it had played in the war. When the warrior went-on to describe some
monstrous creation of nightmare, all here would have denied the news as false
if they hadn’t known the originating messenger personally by reputation.
Caswallawn’s bravery in the face of the enemy and that alien
monstrosity was lauded, but all here knew that Caesar had effectively broken
the back of the southern army and is now rampaging through Trinobanta without
pause. All the southern Brythonic King can do now, is watch the Roman General
from the wings and attack his loose troops and foraging parties, as the war around
him becomes one of dire and murderous attrition. Laughably, due to Caswallawn’s
own vainglory and obscene ambition, no one it seems in all southern Prydein had
the power to expel the Yellow Dog once
and for all.
Dark rumour of treachery and treason about the elusive King
Afarwy is shared by this fearsome warrior, swelling the number of listeners, as
it is thought that that once well-respected man who had suffered so much at the
hands of Caswallawn, may have allied with Commios, Caswallawn’s oldest and most
infamous enemy. Many thought he may do the unthinkable, no-doubt in revenge and
in a last-ditch attempt to regain his beleaguered Kingdom. The world and his
wife knew of Commios’ singular and all-consuming obsession with Caswallawn, and
his vociferous hatred of Casufelawny had become a thing of ridicule and rude
invective to Prydein’s bards. It was no surprise to any of these northern men
that Commios who had spent the last twelve months as a lackey of Caesar, was
involved in Afarwy’s treachery. It was commonly remarked in these northern
territories that if Julius Caesar ever stopped suddenly, Commios would get
Roman shit on his nose and the exiled King of the Atrebatau, was as despised as
he was derided.
Galan and all his seasoned, senior Gŵyrd remained sanguine at this news from the far southern
coast, as their interest in the war had vanished with the infamous exclusion and these northern warriors
felt more removed from their southern cousins now, than they ever had in the
past. The pragmatic among them knew the Roman would return to Gallia when he’d
had his fill and if he left all of southern Prydein in flames when he departed,
it was neither here nor there to these proud and disqualified Galedonian warriors and besides, they had more
pressing matters to hand; the running of a federation.
The Bards and musicians arrived then and a great cheer went
up, drowning out the rest of the Penaig’s report. As the huge silver cauldron
was brought through the door by two burly stewards, it steamed with its sweet
contents and the cheering got louder. These thirsty northern warriors started banging
their drinking logs on the tables in appreciation, as it was time for warm medd-melys and singing, and they had
waited for it all evening.
The big and gruesome looking Penaig ended her interrupted
intelligence report with a sanguine expression and shrugged her muscular
shoulders, stepping down from the dais. She carelessly joined the queue for the
mead horns, as the rattle of metal-dipped knuckle bones resumed behind her at
the front tables.
*
* * * *
The King remained silent in the face of such a personal and
emotion-filled encounter, even though it was taking place in his Caer and on
such an auspicious occasion. Experience told, one raised finger being enough to
stall his Pencampwr, as he could feel the rage building in his man beside him
at the near accusation. Berwyn ap Tudur obeyed his King instantly, who had
wisely forestalled his involvement, as Caswallawn knew that with so many proud
champions and notable swordsmen in one place and emotions running high, this
situation had to be managed and controlled immediately. Caswallawn knew his
people intimately and the people of Prydein as a whole. Their proclivity to
take-up arms and fight is legendary and if things were left to run a natural
course here this bright afternoon, the blood would run down the storm-gutters
of his Caer and spout into the surrounding ditches like a foul red autumn
deluge. None would baulk from any fight, especially the women and although only
recently oath-sworn to alliance and armed with just honour daggers, all would
be enjoined in battle nonetheless and the slaughter would be chaotic, joyous
and uncontainable.
*
* * * *
The loud whispers of the maids around her were distracting,
as Eirwen was trying to look past one of the big Lynx Guards who had just
appeared. She leaned to her right around his shining mail-clad bulk, to look
again at the western tower and the expanse of sunlit and close-cropped grass
below it. The royal House of Albion was there reposed, before an enormous
cross-hung banner of the swirling, hump-backed boar of their nation. This large
wealthy family and its attendant court looked dazzling, even from across the
grass of the huge courtyard. She had caught the occasional sight of Cadwy as he
performed his duties, in his lovely uniform of the Keeper of their Honour Guard
and her heart had lifted with every fleeting glimpse.
Lydia approached her then with the soft woollen shawl she had
asked for, as it had cooled noticeably in this enormous fortress, once Bel was
in the sky’s western quadrant and reddening with the efforts of his journey.
She smiled her thanks and took the shawl, throwing it around her shoulders with
a practiced flip. Lydia grabbed her wrist then tightly and Eirwen was shocked
at the sudden and completely out of character action from her handmaid.
“Arglwydd Brigida - my lady!” Lydia breathed, alarm clear on
her young face, her eyes focused across the maes. The whispers of the arwein
around them suddenly increased in volume, raised an octave and sharpened in
tone. Lydia’s gaze was clearly glued to the Albion corner and Eirwen snapped
her head around, reclaiming her arm but then her heart lurched into a glacier’s
crevice, as the icy claws of her darkest fear suddenly closed around it.
Eirwen stood then on unsteady legs, her eyes flashing to the
Albion gathering and as the dreaded circumstances brutally forced their way
into her consciousness, her knees felt suddenly weak. It was clear in an
instant what was about to unfold here this afternoon and she felt sick to her
stomach, which knotted then in a painful spasm of guilty fear.
“No.” She said quietly, and whatever form the wrought-iron
bands of inner strength which supported and drove this woman of such peerless
lineage took, their fearsome power emerged once again. It was like an up-swell
of the crackling, vital essence of a she-warrior of old, and flints of amber
light sparked from Eirwen’s emerald eyes. She stooped to pick-up her long
skirts and the Galedon Princess shot like a silk-wrapped arrow for the
conflagration ahead, her long and lustrous curls of living, auburn hair flaming
behind her. Eirwen’s feet were a blur as she raced across the turf, her
beautiful face gripped now with a terrible vision of the intended violence
mushrooming within her.
*
* * * *
These completely naked, suicidal spirit warriors would attack
first as was their long and honourable tradition, as a spiritual Brythonic
introduction to what was soon to follow. These were the Chwaeroliaeth Wyllt, courageous women who were all generational
volunteers and had already brought children into this world. They would today
fight unclothed, with a bronze torc around their necks and only a single short
sword to fight with. These torcs were hollow bronze rather than the solid Gold
reserved for royalty but still showed the reverence and respect given to these
fierce warriors, mature and young alike. Their lips had been sewn-up with
silver wire, so they could utter no sound and no screams, their bodies painted
by the acolytes of the Uati with the blue woad swirls and patterns that pleased
their Goddess, and which ensured a glorious and conspicuous death. Each had a
white skull mask painted on their faces in lime, to signify their sacred status
and that each was marked for holy sacrifice this portentous day. Mistletoe was woven into their braided hair
which declared they belonged to the Druids and these ultimately courageous,
spiritual she-warriors prayed now on their knees. They prayed to their fierce
and warlike Arglwydd Andras, their beloved deity and they dedicated and
sacrificed their lives to Her and to the defence of Arglwydd Prydein. They
would precede the main, manic onrushing attack of the tribes against the Roman
invaders as their predecessors have always done, and all would die as expected,
but songs and englyns are sung about the most successful of these religiously
inspired warriors and will be, until the end of days.
Their most lauded and famous Chwaer was one Gawres Cyllt, a phenomenal woman warrior who is
deeply honoured to this day and who personified their fierce and terrible
Goddess Andras Fawr centuries ago. Sister Cyllt had cut great swathes of enemy
spearmen down in a long-passed era, spinning and pirouetting gracefully before
inevitably, she was brought down. She was slaughtered with the utmost
difficulty the Bards tell and her painted body pierced with so many spears, her
body had resembled a giant hedgehog. One mindless enemy had done the
unthinkable however. One idiotic, mead-addled and long-forgotten individual had
cut off the head of this legendary heroine, throwing it over the shield wall
with a curse, back into no-man’s land. A
howl of enraged and deranged disbelief had broken from the main body of her
tribe at such unbelievable profanity, as none but a Druid could touch the body
of a slain Sister without incurring the displeasure of the Goddess Andras and
all the deities of Prydein, but to decapitate her was nothing short of
sacrilege.
It had turned the tide in the battle that day so long ago and
cemented Cyllt’s place in Brythonic history and legend. Eventually the songs
would have the listener believe that she slew forty armoured men that day
before being brought down but whatever the tally, her name was revered
centuries after her long-forgotten contemporaries had faded into the mists of
time.
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