The throne-challenge for the ‘Rheolwr y Grym’ – ruling power over all Galedon.

DunAdda in Epidia, Galedon - Dunstaffnage Castle, Oban, Scotland.

Ynys Epona was in an uproar, with stewards and servants rushing about as if DunAdda’s secondary but adjoined island fortress was aflame. Apart from the blazing hearths, the only fire in DunAdda this freezing cold morning was the one lit under these frantic workers by their King. Regardless or perhaps because of the impending throne-challenge, Galan had gone through this fortress as a Rhingyll goes through his barracks at dawn and everybody had jumped to his barked-out orders. On the lugubrious tour of his Caer, the King of Epidia had declared that the renovation of the royal stables was long overdue, and it had galvanised the inhabitants of both these island-fortresses. Since Ederus’ death, Galan had been virtually unapproachable by all but his closest Gŵyr and family members and had kept his own company leading up to this unfortunate day.

All the stewards, indentured servants and a whole army of slaves had been kept busy throughout this Capital Caer and it now shone with the attention lavished upon it. Cartloads of dirty straw and dung had trundled over the long timber causeway which joined these two island forts and then wound their way around DunAdda’s perimeter, to pass over the great fortified causeway to land. This convoy of carts passed noisily through Tref Adda and once they reached the correct enclosure at the outskirts of the town, the farm labourers at this processing facility would unload this fertilizing gold from each cart with their long wooden forks and another notch would be cut on their supervisor’s tally-stick.

DunAdda and Ynys Epona with their two linked umbilical cords of cut timber, seemed to float serenely on the ruffled iron-grey and frigid surface of the great Sea Loch Linne this icy morning and a squadron of startling white herring gulls encircled the great Caer from on-high. The dotted line of ox-drawn carts made their return journey over the long timber jetty and across the main causeway, each loaded down with fresh clean bedding straw and their rumbling transit over the oaken planks sounded like rolling thunder over the water.

The wide hearth fire blazed in the great hall of this island Capital and this long and thatched, ancient chamber was clean and had been recently swept. It was filled now with the assembled Gŵyrd of Epidia and a great many other notable warriors and nobles who had arrived from across greater Galedon. The Federation was represented here in all its factions and in one quiet corner sat a group of taciturn ghost-warriors, who also awaited the results of this portentous day. Even the mighty Gadwyr were present, led by the legend that was Gŵyr Brith Fawr and there was a comfortable space left around their tables, made for the comfort of everybody else rather than these enormous, muscular warriors, as there was an earthy whiff of decay emanating from them which reminded everyone of death. The malodorous Gadwyr made these long, benched tables look like children’s furniture, and they hulked over them and their logs of beer on their elbows with their fiery red hair catching the firelight. They echoed their combrogi’s interest in today’s outcome and adopted too the ghost-warrior’s silence. None of them seemed approachable and so they were left alone in their funk, to wait and glower at everyone through the smoke.

Galan sat imperiously on his ‘Kneeling Stallions’ throne chin in hand, studying the bone-board before him and discussing all that was in play here in his Caer and in wider Prydein with his Gŵyrd, especially the events on the south coast of Caint. Reaching out, he slid one of the silver-dipped knuckle bones along two positions to support another and Galan looked up to his Pencampwr Gŵyr Gryffen with a smirk.

“Get out of that without moving!” Galan chortled, and his burly Champion just shook his head, throwing up his hands.

“One day Lord, I will beat you!” Gryffen ap Garnant growled still shaking his head and staring at the board, in a forlorn attempt to comprehend his swift and unexpected demise.

“Let us hope that Roman bastard is just as blind to subterfuge Gryffen, or there won’t be much left of Afarwy’s Trinobanta for Caswallawn Fawr to plunder by the time Caesar leaves.” Galan told the man with an arched eyebrow, drawing another smirk from his Champion.

From latest reports, King Caswallawn of the Southern Brythons was acquitting himself well and intelligently despite the forces arrayed against him, demonstrating excellent control over his tribal warriors especially in engaging and disengaging from the enemy, which had always been a huge problem given the almost uncontrollable way in which many Brythons fought. From all accounts he had trained the core of his army well throughout the winter, and this prepared army of Caswallawn’s had met the Romans again at the Afon Gryffdŵr crossing. The southern King had used chariot warfare to good effect reportedly but following a hard-fought battle, was flanked by Caesar’s cavalry and forced to withdraw tactically, tempting the Romans to pursue him and his army into the woods but at a terrible cost to themselves. It was undeniable however, that the Romans had the best of it at day’s end.

King Galan’s latest reports pointed out that Caswallawn had now adopted the long-planned scorched-earth, guerrilla style of warfare he had developed through the winter with much expert advice and counsel. As of three days ago, he was destroying local food sources and using his chariots to harass the Roman legions if they drew too close, or if any strayed from the host. So far and despite his losses, the bold southern King was staying ahead of the Roman but there was a great deal yet to accomplish before Julius Caesar could be persuaded to leave.

“The Roman bastard should have been thrown back into the sea the day he landed and if we had all been….ah dog’s balls to it! There’s just no point in moaning about it anymore….why do we keep picking at the wound?” Gryffen scowled, mirroring all his men’s attitudes. “That arrogant, insulting bastard’s made his bracken, so he must now lie in it and I for one don’t give a hoot what happens to bloody Caswallawn!” The Epidian champion finished with a snarl and Galan regarded him with a measure of surprise, as his Champion was normally a taciturn man, but the warrior had voiced the very thing which had divided this great country like nothing else before.

None of these Epidians were impressed by Caswallawn’s repulsion of Cwnfelyn Rhyfeinig so far, as in their scornful opinions Caesar had become encouraged by his perceived victories. Many had fought against his machine-like legionaries last year and had vanquished them, proving they were indeed ferocious warriors but human and vulnerable nonetheless. Now aware of the southern King’s restrictions and inabilities, they were even more furious at their exclusion and a few here couldn’t have cared less what happened to those soft southerners now. The hard-won but crucial Undeb they had achieved last year had united all Prydein but that had all been turned on its head by the southern King’s notorious northern exclusion and now the reverse was true, southern Prydein had never been so fractured and divided. Sadly those egocentric, selfish beliefs had stretched north, like long cynical fingers of disunity.

These northerners also agreed and were comforted by the firm belief, that however ambitious and daring the ‘Yellow Dog of Rome’ was, he wasn’t stupid enough to march north and poke a hornet’s nest. Given enough time to become bored down south, not an uncommon experience to many a northerner, they expected Caesar to return to Gallia soon anyway and if all southern Prydein was in flames when he left, King Caswallawn would get precious little sympathy from these injuriously side-lined northern warriors.

Stewards began to close the inner shutters and feed the hearth fires in this great hall, as a few of these hard northern visitors had begun to shiver. It was officially summer time but that felt like a nasty joke in these parts, as all were wrapped in furs against the bitter wind, those that could afford such luxuries. This cruel wind had sharp teeth this day, whistling and howling ominously through any crevice in this building with each gust outside and a mournful chorus would usher from the walls, competing with and occasionally complementing the dark words spoken by these serious people.

The bone-board was put away and discussion on the Roman war ended abruptly, as a well-known visitor entered DunAdda’s great hall and respectfully approached the dais once more. With a nod from Galan, the visitor stepped up to the white rod on the ground to deliver his entreaty with a deep and formal bow.

“He had no choice in the matter Lord I can assure you! This is the last thing King Galwyn wanted you must know this Lord, as he has held you in the highest regard all his life. He was given no alternative from Oric Gwyn even to give the ground, for as you know Lord our priests in Fachomagia are powerful!” The Fachomagian emissary told Galan earnestly in support of his King, before bowing again with all deference and all here knew his words to be true, as his King was indeed an old friend and admirer of this King before him. However the value of that friendship, had today been placed in the balance of life and death itself and it was this acting Diplomat’s duty here this fraught day, to add whatever weight he could to Galwyn’s side of the scales.

Galan just waved his hand at the man in moody response as he’d heard it all before, but he studied the man’s familiar face, appreciating the deep lines of concern and stress around his eyes which revealed little hope in their blue depths. The tense body language too spoke volumes of the man’s distress, as all knew any throne-challenge was a clash of both tribes in-reality, sparking many all-out wars between feudal families in the past. The emissary himself was familiar to Galan and his Gŵyrd, being a frequent and friendly visitor to Epidia in the normal calendar of events and all here were familiar with him. Peaceful and respectful trade and even intermarriage had been common between these two eastern and western Galedonian tribes for several generations and their young and energetic monarchs had become firm friends, but it seems now as though religion may drive a wedge between them, far bigger than the Kingdom of the Galedonau which separate them on the land. It was perhaps this worried man’s duty to ensure that peaceful relations remained whatever took place on the field of combat shortly, but internecine diplomacy was ever a difficult path to negotiate.

All Galedon seemed to have descended on this rugged and fractured coastline of Epidia and Galan’s resplendent capital Fortress, to witness no doubt what this ominous day would bring. This was Gŵyr Ieuan’s last, in a long line of recent and increasingly tense diplomatic missions to DunAdda in an attempt to calm the situation, as the werrin of both tribes had been difficult to contain in these last few days leading up to this potentially cataclysmic event.  The two opposing cabals of tribal Druids did nothing to alleviate the situation, doing just the opposite with their accusations and counter-accusations, and even the land itself seemed to tremble now in anticipation.

Galan was volubly furious with Fachomagia for its self-seeking dissent and he surveyed his honoured and familiar visiting emissary then with a bleak look, a caustic remark on his lips perhaps but he relented from the diplomacy this man represented, nodding glumly to acting Diplomydd Ieuan and changing the words which finally emerged.

“It’s alright Ieuan Geiriog you can stop sweating needles, whatever happens here this forlorn day, my Gŵyrd have sworn an oath not to perpetuate any notion of sarhaed should I fall. I have insisted that peaceful relations with Fachomagia will continue and I know your King Galwyn is of similar mind. I understand too that this was not Galwyn’s choice, whom all know I have been a personal friend-to for many years, nor was this deadly throne-challenge the desire of his honourable Gŵyrd, but the results will remain the same will they not Ieuan? One Galedonian King must perish here today because a mead-addled old Druid had a dream?” Galan spat out the complaint, hiding none of his animosity toward the priesthood of Fachomagia. He was echoing perhaps his disappointment and frustration with all Prydein’s venerable religious leaders of late, as the jarring vacuum left by the passing of HênDdu still felt like a dark and bottomless pit under these superstitious northern people, as if the Brif-Druid’s black portal still gaped and had been left painfully open at his shocking death. When the Brif-Druid of all Prydein was sacrificed by his own brotherhood in Gallia recently, it had infuriated the worshipful werrin of these northern highlands and they suspected treason from those Galliad priests. Their anger had dissipated somewhat when the full report from Aremorica was shared, in that almost all those priests had paid the ultimate price for their folly in the resulting bloodbath on Ynys Trebes. Roman steel had been awash with holy Galliad blood that dark day when Caesar had sailed north in his fleet of conquest, leaving a broken people and a sundered religion in its vast imperial wake.

The rage of these northern werrin had risen sharply once more however when all the sordid details emerged, in that HênDdu had been needlessly slaughtered long after the pivotal moment had passed, due largely to the interminable vicissitudes of the priesthood elite and to no effect on Caesar’s departure whatsoever. Galan’s Druids looked shamefaced behind him on the dais and shuffled their feet in the awkward silence which punctuated the diatribe against them. They remained sensibly and knowledgeably silent in this fraught atmosphere, as they knew the unseen stars above them all revolved without end in the heavens, counting down the remaining minutes. Lacking the vision, wisdom and guidance of their national leader; the legendary and irreplaceable HênDdu, the disparate cabals of Druids and Druidens of northern Prydein had begun to polarise and began to promote their own individual interpretations of the Druidic religion, often finding themselves in complete opposition and dire competition. Today was a perfect example of the fractured, self-promoting and politicised state of the religion currently in these cold and increasingly cynical northern extremes.

Acting diplomat Ieuan Geiriog had no answer to any of this and remained silent in the face of Galan’s anger, knowing himself that there was very little he could have done anyway, as the Druids had already decided today’s outcome. The forlorn look on Ieuan’s long face at that moment gave sight to the heart-break he was feeling, and this was shared by everyone in this great hall, as all knew too that time had run out for him and his fated King Galwyn.

For once, ‘wordy’ Ieuan was lost for words but his blushes were saved by the tall bronze horns of the Druids, which blew long and stark into the cold air outside.

This portentous, vibrating lament carried far and wide, echoing for miles down the length of the sea loch and many who had gathered to witness this historic event shivered at the deep melancholic lowing, which seemed to sum-up the gloomy mood of these intensely apprehensive people today.

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Caswallawn makes his move.

In the midst of this bedlam of angry shout and counter-shout, an arwein approached Caswallawn from behind his huge and dazzling throne to whisper something in his ear and the King’s eyes sparkled at the news. His glittering eyes moved then across the great hall to his left, back toward the source of the dispute and he caught the eye of Ochor once more. The King in charge of DunCamulo and the leader of the rebellion snarled back at him through the smoke but Caswallawn ignored him, looking then to Ochor’s left and at the slimmer, younger face of Prince Aracorn of DunErb; a close eastern neighbour. A quizzical look softened this Belgic Prince’s pinched face at that moment, in response maybe to the smug, satisfied look on Caswallawn’s.

*   *   *   *   *

A barn-owl hooted twice from somewhere in the dark and the outpost guard turned his head at the sound, toward the forest’s edge behind him. He never saw the arrow that streaked out from the blackness to thunk solidly into the front of his skull and as his eyeballs rolled upwards towards it, the sentry fell back to the turf without a sound.

There was no moon and the heavy cloud cover in the night sky, obliterated all the stars too. A guard’s vision was compromised for at least half an hour after coming out from a well-lit thatch and until his night-sight kicked-in fully. This fact had eased the swift death of this guard and his three compatriots at the other three points of the compass around this hilltop Dun that towered over them. The Caer’s guard-shift had just changed and these unawake and poorly sighted lookouts, had all died without a sound.

A pair of hard, pale eyes surveyed the Caer from the fringes of this forest to its north, from a high shelf in the bedrock which stepped-up at this forest’s edge. This long finger of granite outcrop reached south toward this hilltop fortress, giving a much better outlook of its layout and defences but its outpost guard was long-dead. The snarling face of a sharp-toothed black fox hung over this warrior’s head, with its ears pinned back for fighting and the back legs of its cured body were wrapped around his broad chest, fastened with a silver clasp. The fox’s forelegs formed a chin-strap and the tip of the bushy black tail hung below the man’s waist. This broad, powerful looking warrior on one knee at the forest’s edge was the leader of these two hundred highly-trained men and not a shred of mercy was revealed in the lifeless and pale eyes, or in his harsh and uncompromising features as he surveyed the deeply shadowed fortress before him.

They had all tracked and found their own rare black fox when they had become men of this elite Demeta force and all wore their hard-earned tails and fox-fur armbands with immense pride. These simple scraps of black fur were their badges of honour within their ancient House and they had all sweated blood to gain them. Their mantles were a dark weave and their round shields were black with pitch and their faces bore the same black streaks of charcoal soot. These well-travelled warriors crouched behind their Nêr Galwyn ap Gair, the short but immensely capable man who had led them here. Ten of his best vassal shadow-stalkers had entered the silent and dark fortress some time ago, using a tall timber ladder and Galwyn watched for sign of their success from under the black fox of command.

This black fox strapped to his head and shoulders looked out above him and whose glassy eyes, stared out across the same hundred reeds of waste-ground before the Caer and the tall arched northern gate atop a long flight of stone steps. This stairway snaked up the side of the hill and over the double ring of ditches to a small walled courtyard balcony, which served as a high waiting yard for any callers to this rear entrance. The Nêr’s amber eyes scanned the tops of the battlements again from this elevated position and the Demetau warrior could see beyond them to the vast swathes of rich farmland, which this region was blessed with and which surrounded this hillfort of the Western Trinobantau. His long-scouts had informed him that there were few other strongholds nearby which could offer timely support to this Caer and that the whole territory was soft, full of farmsteads and communities rather than fortresses and warriors and that it was ripe for the taking, like a dark juicy plum.

DunErb and its surrounding communities had been part of Casufelawny many generations ago but had been taken by force by the late King Dunfallawn’s grandfather. This inward bulge in Casufelawny’s eastern border and the land around this dark Caer, had never really been incorporated fully into Trinobanta and even the people who lived here had always felt differently. Its cultural differences from the central lands of Trinobanta were apparent and the locals with their unique dialect here, had remained more Casufel even to this day. This part of the border had been fluid for many centuries and it would reform again this night, with violence and a mercenary force. Unknown to its sleeping werrin, those that survived would once again become citizens of Casufelawny.

The huge studded oak door in its stone arch frame at the top of this high flight of stairs, was lit by a torch either side in its becket and the monstrous black shadows around this pedestrian gate and the stone balcony around it grew and danced as their flames flickered in the wind. These invisible and ever watchful, silent killers crouching around their leader knew the huge double-gates atop the ramp of the western face of this Caer were firmly shut. Even though they could only see the very bottom of the long, paved ramp from this part of the forest, they could see well enough that there were few lights visible from the Caer and it was locked-down and as silent as the grave, with but a handful of sleepy guards patrolling the battlements.

Nêr Galwyn and his fox looked up to the sky again to get a rough idea of the time, but the dark night-sky was still smothered with even darker clouds and the parentheses that framed his mouth deepened, being the only outward sign of his mounting frustration. 

A movement snapped his focus back up to the high courtyard door then as it opened slowly, and the figure of a man appeared in the moving, dancing gleam of the torches at either side. Galwyn knew by the size and shape of this man that it was his Rhingyll Killan and the sergeant raised his right arm, giving the clear and familiar signal, before repeating the same signal with his left arm and Galwyn grunted with the release of his tension. His man Killan, doused both torches at the rear entrance, plunging this high gateway and its steep approaches into darkness.

Galwyn stood then without a word and began to trot in a low crouch, down the rubble-strewn slope and across the rough, tussocked ground toward the bottom step of this long flight of worn stone steps ahead. His men followed swiftly and silently behind him, moving lithe and low like the sinuous black hounds of Lug himself, raised to this world for the darkest of deeds. The elite shadow-stalkers of the Wythonau had taken care of the sleepy guards patrolling the battlements and in a few short minutes, all the black-fox warriors had swarmed up the steps to charge through the now unguarded door and flood into the Dun.  An owl hooted a prophetic rebuke from the nearby forest but nonetheless and under a starless sky, the killing began.

The terrible screaming tore the silence of this dark night asunder, but it was far too late to do anybody any good. The off-duty guards had all died in their sleep in their barrack beds with their throats cut and all the stewards, the young arwein and squires had been next. These black-fox warriors were to a-man experts at the dark arts of insidious assault and assassination, especially the shield less shadow-stalkers of the wild Wythonau among them. They had broken into the absent Prince Aracorn’s royal chambers, like a black death-carrying swarm.

The Prince’s two personal guards had put up a tremendous fight, killing seven of the smaller Black-Fox warriors before they were subdued, and the royal family were then trapped at the back of the royal bed chamber. Prince Aracorn’s teenage son had stood before his family and valiantly held at bay two Demeta invaders with his heirloom sword but fell from an expertly thrown dagger to his throat by a shadow-stalker. The brave boy died gurgling on his parent’s bedroom rug, as his screaming mother and sisters were quickly put to the sword around him. All the warriors of this fortress were then slain without a word spoken, as there had been nothing on their part to say. They were here for one thing only, the death of all within this great Dun.

People began awaking to the horror that was taking place in their fortress, but all too soon any real defensive threat they could mount against their attackers had been efficiently eliminated. The survivors; the old men, the civilian women and all the children who lived within these high walls were then herded together into one corner of the central parade ground. There they were slaughtered by a grim-faced circle of these merciless sword and spearmen, who didn’t even flinch at the profiteering bloodshed, as all were highly experienced in the taking of human life and it meant little to them. The black-fox warriors of Demeta carved through these screaming innocents with as little thought as a farmer scythes through his ripe crop under Alban Elfed, the late and merciless light of the Autumn Equinox.

Within the hour, these blood-spattered butchers were manning the palisaded battlements and their elite Wythonau comrades guarded the strong room. Every living thing found inside this dark fortress had been dragged out to the quadrangle and slaughtered like a sacrificial goat.

The Demetau leader Nêr Galwyn, released two messenger pigeons from their willow cages and his shoulders relaxed a little at their fluttering launch into flight, as the first part of his mission was successfully completed. All he had to do now was to hold DunErb until relieved by Caswallawn’s men, whenever that would be.

*   *   *   *   *

Some busy royals had left immediately the crychiad had ended, including the deflated nobles and the Belgic Gŵyrd of the unruly northern Trinobantau, but not before Prince Aracorn of DunErb had taken one final worried look at his expansive, sharply smiling host who slouched nonchalantly on his glittering throne, as there had been something troubling in his smug attitude. Most Brythons had stayed behind and had formed big knots of leaders and warriors, who talked earnestly about their preparations for the looming war with the Romans.

Another arwein approached the dais quietly from behind the throne and bent to whisper in Caswallawn’s ear again and the King of the Brythonau Dde’s shark-like smile broadened. Stepping down and sharing the news quietly with his family members at the front tables, they smiled back in congratulation for his successes this night and raised a toast to his laudable ambition. 

As five hundred of Casufelawny’s bronze-shield warriors prepared quietly to move-out in darkness from the far eastern gate, a dark-mantled and solitary rider left the Caer quietly through the front gate, preceding Caswallawn’s covert relief force but taking a more direct route.

This man’s dress and accoutrements were highly unusual, mostly black fur and leather with bones woven into his long hair and beard, as this uncommon man was one of the Ailyllwr - a shape-shifting tracker of long legend. His lane north-east was the same drover’s lane which the reduced Trinobanta alliance had taken a little earlier and this ultimate, silent hunter set-off easily behind those rebels for the sixty-mile journey, thoughtlessly following their bold tracks in the starlight toward the distant hills, rising ominously in the darkness of the east.

Fox warriors of Demeta.

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Lydia and the uncertain, daily life of Prydein’s werrin.

The fictional seaside fishing and salt-panner’s village of Môrcorn, Gabrantofica in Breged.

It wasn’t long after sunrise, when one of the stockmen’s children delivered the fresh cow’s milk in one of their tall earthenware jars and now Lydia mixed the dusty rolled oats with it in her Mam’s thick cooking pot, adding a healthy dollop of local honey. This was followed by a small knob of butter and a pinch of the village’s own sea-salt, before she placed the pot on the Cerrig y Badell. These were the flame-blackened flat stones which were placed correctly around the edge of the hearth fire, precisely for her mother’s cooking-pots. The largest of these was the Cerrig y Gradell, the large and carefully selected stone for the Gradell, the ubiquitous iron skillet the Brythonic women use across Prydein, on which they griddle their biscuits, eggs and their popular flat butter cakes. Used in conjunction with the Padell; the domed lid for the same, these two items are the most common cooking devices found in these lands and Lydia covered this familiar pot, leaving the porridge to Bubble.

Greid and Granwen their long-legged lurchers bounded into the thatch, through the door Lydia liked to keep open when she was cooking. They both charged up to lick her face, as her presence was still novel to them and they clearly adored her. When she had arrived home the previous day, they had almost bowled her over in their frenzied welcome and Lydia hugged them both now, having missed them both equally. She began singing quietly to herself and threw the shaggy pair of sibling dogs a few scraps she carved from a hanging ham in the thatch, before bending to turn the pot. Lifting the lid, she gave it a good stir with a wooden spoon as it thickened, and it was soon ready.

Spooning the gloopy porridge which supported the Brythons and which they called Siot into two wooden bowls, Lydia took one to her mother on the pallet-bed at the other side of the crackling hearth. Putting the bowl down, Lydia helped her mother into a sitting position, propping her up with the sheepskin pillows.

“Come on cu-mam sit up, here’s your siot and just how you like it!” Lydia smiled her encouragement.

“Thank you dearest.” Efa thanked her daughter in a querulous voice and Lydia sat on a three-legged milking stool to help her mother take some of the sweetened siot, looking around at the back of the thatch and over her Mam’s now neglected old work space.

The single-frame loom with her long needles, distaffs and bobbins of the varying weights which determined the thickness of the yarn all gathered dust, exactly where she had seen them last. For as long as she could remember, Lydia knew that differing wools needed different weights to spin them effectively into yarn, especially if it was the greasy wool reserved for rainproof cloaks and scabbard lining. Although Efa still possessed all the tools of her old trade and the life-long experience and expertise which never went away, she lacked the physical and constitutional strength to do the work anymore. Due to some unknown and undiagnosed creeping sickness of the body and soul, Efa no longer had the energy or the will to continue to produce the village’s clothing and bedding. All this equipment which once governed and controlled all life in and around their thatch now lay indolent from disuse, resting in retirement under its own gathering blanket of dust. Lydia had prayed and made frequent sacrifice to the triple Goddess aspect she worshipped since Efa’s obvious decline, that of Brigid, Sulis and Arianhrod but it seems this tiny and insignificant Treflan of Môrcorn slipped under the gaze of those hard-working deities, as had the ailing Efa gwraig Ofydd and Lydia was forced to become pragmatic about her mother’s future.

She made sure her mother had eaten most of her siot before she went to eat her own, with her favourite spoon that she always left here, the one her Tad had carved for her. It had a handle like a fish tail and the outside of the bowl was gently carved with fish scales. Her heart constricted then at the memory of her father’s brave but foolish death. Lydia’s much grieved and longed-for Tad was one Ofydd ap Odgar, a nobody really in the grand scheme of things but he had been everything to Lydia and his family.

Ofydd was a respected village elder, being a renowned warrior as a younger man and all the youth of the village would love to listen to his old tales of heroism, honour and imperative victory around the village fire especially at Samhain, the age-old season for warfare and tall tales. Each night as the sun sank below the ocean, he would regale his neighbours with lurid war stories and his main claim-to-fame, that he had fought against the mighty Gadwyr once in a border-dispute war in the year 3872. He had been twenty-five years old at the time and he had been one of the very few to have survived, to tell the tragic tale. As Ofydd settled at this seaside village to fish in his retirement and raise a family, his injuries and age had insidiously conspired against him in those later years and slowed his sword-arm and more, he had been a fisherman on this east coast for more than twenty years when that first merciless seaborne attack had come.

Despite not picking up a sword in anger for more years than he could remember, Ofydd ap Odgar’s warrior spirit had been undiminished however, and he had chosen to inspire the young men of the village with his courage to stand and fight with him that early and dark morning, rather than flee with the women and children. As the elders and the young gathered in the village in absolute panic before fleeing for the forest, Odgar had spoken softly to the men and boys around him on the sand, knowing from experience how valuable and comforting a few well-chosen words could be from a calm leader, in a situation as dire as the one they faced that day. That same experience had shown on his lined and weathered face, telling him and everyone there that none of them would ever see the sun come up again. Ofydd had been immensely proud to stand in front of those young but brave Brythonic werrin, as the wave of guttural-grunting, monstrous Germanic invaders had swept ashore on that bleak and fateful morning, leaping from their high-prowed longboats and roaring their primal, atavistic hatred.

That had been four long years ago and unannounced, murderous seaborne attack had become a terrifying but irregular occurrence since that first unforgettable raid. The constant threat of rape and slaughter had weighed heavily on the people of Môrcorn, forever changing these once happy, seaside villagers. Utterly merciless, horn-helmed, fur-swathed, bearded and screaming axe-men of enormous size had spilled from their ships and onto their lovely white sandy beach. Lydia had clung to her mother as they fled the village that terrible night, the night their lovely white beach had been spoiled red. They had both turned at the ridgeline for a last look back, before they vanished down the other side to the plain below, before running for the forest over half a mile away. Lydia had often wished they hadn’t paused on that ridge to look back, to see her father slaughtered like a sacrificial goat on this beach.

The fighting figures in the one-sided battle on the shore that night had been back-lit by the stars, as they reflected a glittering light across the ocean behind them. A huge warrior’s battle-axe had cleaved her father’s head and upper body apart like a log of kindling, with one monstrous stroke that ended at his waist. That pin-sharp image would stay with Lydia forever. That searing, unbearable image had been burned into her retinas in that instant and she would carry that heart-breaking vision with her to the Underworld, when this hard life ended. Lydia shook her head, realising she’d been staring at the back of the spoon like a nerco! By the time she had eaten her siot and rinsed out the bowls, throwing the muck into the rill-washed ditch outside the door, Lydia’s honoured father had retreated to his resting place.

Lydia busied herself tidying-up and making sure her mother was comfortable, before she grabbed the lovely warm cloak her mistress had given her, and she left her nest-thatch, both dogs bounding out of the door with her. Lydia looked up to place the sun and judged it to be almost at its highest and just shy of its anterth, which marked the imminent noon. Greid and Granwen sprinted ahead to join the other village dogs, as they tore across the sand, flinging the gritty sand up behind them. Many of the smaller dogs yapped with their excitement, scooting around the two tall lurchers in circles and Lydia smiled, as that ‘home’ feeling finally struck her. It was magnified by her years of absence and the local girl looked around the familiar fishing village of Môrcorn again now, with the eyes of an experienced, well-travelled and knowledgeable young woman.

She surveyed its salt encrusted and moss-blackened thatches with the same love as the girl but with a different, more objective and worldly perspective. It was with a measure of sadness that Lydia came to realise that her home which had seemed so permanent in childhood, clung to a truly precarious existence in reality, and the evidence of her village’s decline lay everywhere to her saddened eyes. Vital seasonal maintenance had clearly been forsaken by many, as for many dark months her kinfolk had counted their lives in days, one to the next.  Some fences needed repair and one or two gates sagged on their posts and the once thriving coastal village had the unmistakeable air of neglect about it, but it was nothing serious, as one season could see all repairs and work needed complete. With death unfolding its huge black wings in their nightly dreams however, it was no surprise that her old neighbours doubted their future. Clearly the community’s morale was at a low ebb, she could feel it and see it in their faces and their tense postures as they went about their business.

A new thatch on the high ridge-line to the west however showed vividly in the bright afternoon sunshine, with bright thatch growing like a yellow mushroom from the gleaming new whitewashed enclosure. There was the bright crimson banner of Gabrantofica fluttering from the newly fenced bluff before this new house and the view must be breath-taking. Lydia thought it must be the house of a Nêr at least and she determined to go and introduce herself to the new inhabitant of her birth village a little later.

There were more children running around since her last visit, which bode well for her village’s future and pleased her immensely. The line of seaweed and limpet-encrusted coracles, drawn up on the sand above the fragmented tide line were there still, as were the mounds of netting between them and higher on the beach, marched the long rows of cane racking which supported the dozens of drying fish and Lydia took it all-in again. The children ran up and down the avenues between these rows of double-sided drying racks as they chanted old nursery rhymes, brandishing long horsehair frewyll, which they flicked constantly and expertly to keep the flies off their fish.

From further down the long beach, arose the acrid but deeply familiar spirals of smoke and dense clouds of steam from the salt-panner’s fires, and they smudged the pale eastern sky in a memorable pattern. As the village dogs frolicked in the cold sea, the familiar harsh smell carried up the shoreline to her nostrils, mixing with the feint but foul odour from the retting ponds behind the dunes and she knew then, that she really was home.

Lydia called on an old next-door neighbour and life-long friend, giving the stout door a knock before entering without invitation, as was her life-long practice. Llinos the lady of the thatch, looked up from her work but the drop-spindle kept spinning as the wool twisted into yarn without pause, something every woman in every thatch across Prydein and beyond, did constantly throughout the day with little thought, every day.

“Lydia bach I knew you were back, come in - come in, would you like some milk and oatcakes?” Llinos offered from her seat and Lydia bent to kiss her.

This enormous woman overflowing the stool she sat on, was a village elder and the only person in the village to own a rotary quern stone and so she would grind everybody else’s grain, keeping a tenth as tithe. Llinos also wove, stitched and sold tough and durable Jute grain-sacks and good quality linen, made from the growing fields of nearby Jute and Flax. The sloping Flax fields had been divided in two by ditches as many were, not just for added irrigation, as one half was a species grown for the vital nutrition given by the big fat Linseeds they produced, whilst in the other up-slope and less-boggier half, they grew the more fibrous species commonly used for producing linen. The foul-smelling retting ponds were far enough away, except when the wind came from the east, but all three crops were a vital part of the economy of this community. This impressive lady with the lightning fast fingers had been instrumental in their creation and ongoing maintenance, mostly done by the older children of the village. However Llinos Fawr as the children called her, was the acknowledged spiritual leader of this small seaside community and her life had been spent in the service of its people. Llinos tended the sick and infirm, as well as Lydia’s mother and Lydia put six silver coins and a fine bronze brooch on a shelf-stone in her kitchen, a payment she made each time she visited, as some small token of personal thanks. Whilst they always caused instant alarm, the peaceful traders that arrived here on occasion were always eager to exchange their goods for silver or bronze, and Lydia knew this metal would be spent wisely.

“You stay where you are Modryb Llinos, I’ve just eaten.” Lydia told her and although Llinos was no blood relation, she had called her ‘Auntie’ all her life and this lady’s large, callused but caring hands had brought Lydia screaming into this world.

“Oh dearest Lydia, you shouldn’t!” Llinos complained half-heartedly, eyeing the coins and the golden coloured brooch, already deciding what she would trade them for.

A big and still fluffy mound of wool sat in front of her between her enormous ham-like thighs, but it was a dwindling pile, which had already been washed, dried, graded and combed before it could be spun into yarn. The first parts of this process were done by the children of the Pwll y Panny, the ‘fulling ponds’ where they washed and scrubbed the raw wool before grading it, leaving their hands chapped and just as raw as the wool until they hardened to it. More of this wool sat outside uncombed, drying on a big rush mat and held down with a square of fine fishing net and a ring of pebbles. The laborious task of combing-out with wide and specially made wool combs of bone or fruit-wood, was a part of the process seen as a chore by all, as often all members of Brythonic families were involved even Tad, although he would never admit to it. These pairs of combs used in tandem, pull all the tangles out of the wool and allow any foreign body to be easily removed. After being well-combed, the wool can finally be spun into yarn with a drop spindle.

Lydia grabbed a big mound of uncombed wool from the back of the thatch and went to sit on the opposite stool in her old and so familiar position. Putting it between her feet she picked up a pair of Llinos’ wool-combs, before setting-to on the tangled wool and it wasn’t long before there was a useful mound of combed and clean wool on the rush mat between them. Swapping the combs for one of Llinos’ drop-spindles, Lydia recognised it by the carving on the spindle and the wheel-like disc of the whorl, as one she had made herself as a girl from a local apple wood. She remembered boring out the hole in the centre for the spindle as if it had been yesterday, with its metal hook set into the tip which Llinos’ husband had made for her from a bent bit of wire.

“Yes, I’ve still got that one dearest!” Llinos said smiling and Lydia fell into her old routine in a moment. It was soon as if she’d never been away, as they worked and chatted merrily together.

“Sunwise or other Modryb?” Lydia asked the obvious question.

“I’m spinning sunwise darling, so if you’d do other.” Llinos answered her, as to prevent the yarn unwinding it was spun together in pairs, each single yarn twisted the opposite way and thus when they were spun together, they remained twisted, as useful woollen yarn.

The ancient four-stage process came to Lydia’s hands without thought once more, as she caught up with all the local news and gossip with her old friend and her nimble fingers were soon back in the old routine. Spin and catch, feed more fibre and draw, unhook and un-notch, wind, spin and catch. This was the repetitive imperative that she no longer had to devote most of her waking hours to, so the age-old chore was enjoyable to her now, as her quick fingers recalled the so-familiar patterns of movement in a blink. Even out on these wild eastern fringes, preparations were being made for the imminent Beltain fayre and Lydia chatted merrily to Llinos, helping her with the planning whilst doing the seemingly endless task of wool preparation and spinning.

Lydia spent a happy day visiting all the villagers, helping her aged and infirm neighbours of old and introducing herself to the new young chieftain on the high head of the western promontory. Once the young Bregedian Nêr realised that Lydia was Princess Eirwen of Galedon’s famed hand-maiden, he had his servant rushing about his new abode to offer her refreshment and hospitality. Following this enlightening and thrilling visit where to her delight, she had been treated as a lady of influence, Lydia had blessed each thatch she had visited in the usual and expected way but with her self-confidence soaring. Leading up to dusk, she then spent long hours foraging in the inland pastures and woodlands she knew so well, which rose and fell as the familiar Glyn Briall before the great promontory to the east. It formed a beautiful and deeply wooded valley she had explored and foraged as a child.

As the sun sank below the western mountains inland, at least an hour before sunset proper when a new day would begin, Lydia shared the delicious fish soup her mother had shown her how to prepare as a little girl. It had been made possible with a beautiful dressed sea-bass given to her by the new village Nêr; a new friend. This was bolstered with crisp samphire, wild sage, sea-beet, mussels, clams and a handful of slices thrown in from the hanging smoked ham and the mouth-watering aroma filled the smoky thatch, making the two dogs drool in anticipation.

Lydia spent an enjoyable evening regaling her mother with stories about her wayward, often rash royal mistress, her gruff and majestic father the King, and his terrifying ghost-warrior she had met last year. Lydia also shared with her mother her delight at her mistress’ pregnancy, looking forward to the birth around Lughnas and outlining the plans her royal patrons had already made for the child. Both dogs were curled up at her feet, snoozing and blissfully happy to hear her voice and Lydia relaxed in the warm and comforting glow of both the crackling hearth-fire, and a happy, productive day.

As night fell heavily on this tiny seaside community, the village settled down beneath it and the uncountable stars it suspended over them. The hearth in their thatch was an agreeable red glow now and both dogs were snoring gently. Lydia looked across the embers of the fire to her mother now, who was snoring in rhythm with her dogs and Lydia sighed, looking back down to the work in her hands. She was being picked up tomorrow off the beach for her return voyage to DunEryr, that high, snow-topped craggy fortress on the Aber of Linn Gwidan in Fotadina. A further two-day journey south with a trading caravan would see Lydia returned to Bidog in Albion, her new home and place of occupation as Gwraig y Let of Prince Cadwy’s CaerCarwyn.

It was the same each time on the last night of her annual visits home, as her emotions slowly mounted. It was leaving her Mam each time, in a little weaker state on each visit which tore at her the most, that and the guilt from wanting to leave again, missing her Princess and yearning for the new life the Gods had given her. She was a respected woman of Albion now, with a position of influence and importance in the town of Draenwen and she had never been happier than she was, at that happiest of northern market towns. She longed to see its clean orderly streets, full of laughing children and the rows of tidy golden thatches with the vibrant hanging baskets of flowers at each entrance.

The daffodils and crocuses will be out now all along the main road and the hawthorn which the town is named for, will have blossomed all along the banks of the Clwyd. The pens will be filled with fluffy-white, frolicking lambs and the surrounding forests will be carpeted with bluebells. Beautiful Bidog seemed a long way away at that moment and Lydia sighed. At least her aunt Llinos in the next enclosure was still able to care for her Mam. Without her beloved Modryb’s vital care, Lydia wouldn’t know what to do.

Getting up to put the spindle and the wool away, she crept out of the thatch, taking the yawning dogs out for a run along the beach before retiring for the night. As Lydia watched Granwen and Greid joyfully kick up sand in the darkness, she took some deep breaths of the salty sea air and looked back at her birthplace, huddled under the stars, but her melancholy wouldn’t budge. Her dogs began to bark then, looking out across the softly crashing waves with their ruffs standing, setting off the other dogs of the village. Lydia’s eyes narrowed and swept across the dark horizon, her heart banging in her throat and she was wide-awake suddenly.

People appeared at lantern-lit doorways, all wearing the same terrified expressions but one glance out to sea told them all and Lydia, that they were not about to be attacked again from the merciless and marauding Jutes. Just a single rowing boat approached this wild eastern coast of Gabrantofica from the open German sea, and it calmed Lydia and all these nervous werrin of Môrcorn. The flare of panic abated quickly, and Lydia heaved a great sigh of relief, watching with a scowl as the tiny little boat seemed to be heading for the beach, huddled below the foot of the distant forested headland to the east. It lay a little over a mile from where she and her now silent lurchers stood watching. 

That low, gliding vessel was little more than a black silhouette and it was filled with dark shadow-figures, all huddled over their oars. The small craft carved its way through the bright sword of yellow moonlight which blazed across the glittering sea. Lydia, Granwen and Greid watched absently as this dark and crowded rowing boat gained the lee of the distant promontory, before drawing swiftly up to the beach below it.

As the fishing village settled down again in darkness behind them, three black and hooded figures leapt from the prow of the boat as it ground to the sand and even from here, she could see the warriors draw three long swords. Another even bigger man jumped out and the armed trio stood silently facing the edge of the forest ahead of them, clearly guarding the last one ashore. Lydia’s curiosity overcame her melancholy briefly, as she watched the distant scenario unfold but her lurchers soon lost interest and bounded away.

Barely moments later, another dark figure broke from the tree-line and furtively approached this anonymous group of arrivals on the beach. Following a brief discourse, the five men then headed off together in single file into the woods and the distant shoreline became deserted once more.

Lydia shrugged her shoulders and headed back to her steadily smouldering thatch, as armed men skulking around in the dark was a common thing in Gabrantofica. In fact in Lydia’s growing experience, it was a common thing across northern Prydein. She whistled Greid and Granwen and the dogs came bounding to her, their bright pink tongues lolling.

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The Sacking of Bidog.

Cadwy had seen the black pall of smoke towering up into the morning sky, sheering and smearing right as it found the prevailing wind in the heavens and it spoiled the pale blue in the high east for miles. Bel’s sunrise had revealed the black monstrosity, roiling into the clouds above and he needed no Uati to inform him of its import or where it was coming from, as it was just as clear to all these shocked men around him. His heart had fallen into his boots when he had first spotted the towering symbol of his own ruin just moments ago, soundlessly dividing the blue sky above Bidog like a black sword of doom and dividing his heart in equal measure.

Hefin stood to his left with Bleddyn to his right and both their stunned faces revealed the tragedy that faced them all. All their fingers trembled as they hurriedly strapped down their saddles and satchels and Cadwy could hardly contain his frustration, as his thick fingers were not as awake yet as his furious mind, and he growled as he forced them to obey.

Soldiers were hurriedly breaking camp and throwing saddles onto horses but Cadwy and his Gŵyrd were far ahead of those, but the Prince was the first to mount. Tywysog reared mightily at this, clearly nervous at the explosion of terse excitement in the camp but came to his hooves smartly and bolted for the trees. His cyfail finally broke free from the spell cast by the black pall of doom rising behind the hills ahead of them and they spurred their horses after him. The Gŵyrd of Selgofa thundered off up the hillside and down the other side to enter the great forest below, galloping after their distraught Prince and leaving their men to follow as best they could.

In the van, Hefin and Bleddyn were both yelling at him to slow down but Cadwy was long-past the point where he was open to advice. Dropping flat to the saddle, he just managed to duck under the great Sycamore limb, which would have taken his head off at this reckless velocity. The branches scoured his back as he crashed under the horizontal branch and he tugged the reins sharply to the right. Tywysog jinked that way in an instant and just brushed the next tree, snagging the left leg of Cadwy’s bracs. The chequered wool tore open below the knee and scored his skin drawing blood, but they thundered on through the dense northern sector of Coedwig Collen without check.

There was a dead-man’s fist clutching his heart tightly, making it difficult to breathe and the pain unbearable and it took every ounce of his warrior’s inner-strength to stamp firmly on the icy up-swell of panic, which reared up inside him like a black tidal wave. All possible causes of such a large column of smoke rising above Draenwen had been explored at lightning speed in his furious mind, regardless of its age-old, even iconic symbolism. An early ‘summer wild-fire’ his Gŵyr had concurred hurriedly and optimistically, as they frantically prepared for the gallop home but an almost certain catastrophe.

Cadwy had drilled his troops himself and had paid for all the leather aprons, gauntlets and buckets, as it was a part of Brythonic life to watch and combat Bel’s earthly spirits when they slipped their restraints. In a thatched town, ‘fire-fighting’ was as vital as gathering the harvest and the werrin of Bidog were well drilled in the same. There was a stream in the northern part of the town, which ran through the back orchard of Eirwen’s crèche and led to a nearby bow in the Afon Clwyd and with Llŷn Fychan at the foot of the hill near CaerCarbwyn, there could be very little excuse for allowing a summer thatch-fire to get out of control to such an obviously catastrophic extent. If incompetence was the cause of the fire getting out of control, his Warden Bodfyca Mawr regardless of his reputation and size was for the high-jump.

Yet Cadwy knew in his captive struggling heart and in his shrivelling soul as he thundered south, that what lay beyond those hills was not the result of a summer fire. He was convinced that the age-old symbolism in that ominous tower of filthy and dense smoke ahead, was as true this day as it had ever been, and it seared him to the root. In the depths of his darkest fear now emerging in him like a bleak winter sunrise, was that Bidog had been sacked, Draenwen put to the torch and his beloved Eirwen killed or captured, which was the primary source of the upswell of panic threatening to engulf him, as he clung desperately to Tywysog’s saddle and reins.

There was no real reason to suppose that his Caer and his wife were in any real danger, unless Galedon or another great siege-capable army had invaded and to Cadwy, that was just nonsense. CaerCarwyn should be invulnerable to anything but a major army with engineers and if Master Iolo had carried-out his duty and given his people enough warning, perhaps it was just their thatched roofs which were burning and his Caer would be bursting to capacity but safe and undiminished with Bod yelling at everybody, but it felt like a forlorn hope to Cadwy for some reason.

There had been no real tribal animosities in Selgofa for many decades, apart from the ubiquitous family feuds that go-on across Prydein thirteen months of the year but as far as he was aware, the non-threatening community of Bidog had no known enemies. Nothing made sense to him as he urged Tywysog through the trees, gripped by this escalating panic and there was just no reason in this world why anyone would attack Draenwen, so he steeled himself to face some unforeseen calamity which had befallen his new Tumony. Now he was barely minutes away, for some unknown reason the phrase ‘forlorn hope’ came back to his reeling mind.

The forest began to thin as the ground rose once more and Cadwy was forty reeds ahead of his compatriots now, who galloped after him in his leaf-strewn and perilous wake. He goaded Tywysog again and the great stallion responded, clearly enjoying himself from the reckless charge through the trees and as they burst from the tree line, big clods of snowy turf flew from his great hooves. With Cadwy leaning forwards in the saddle, Tywysog galloped up the snowy slope of Bryn Collen with hardly a check in his forward rush and in moments, they crested the hill. Tywysog reared mightily on his hind legs on the white crown of Bryn Collen, flailing his forelegs in the air at the sight of his new home below him, with the star-spangled heavens behind him a stunning backdrop, throwing him and his rider into sharp relief. They must have made a spectacular sight from the town below, but the sight of that same town from the starry heights of Bryn Collen, was a bleak and heart-stopping one for Cadwy.

As the great stallion regained his forelegs, Cadwy stared down at the devastation in his town and in Hefin’s Caer below it, with his mouth hanging open and hot tears pricking at his eyes. The contrast between this dreadful scene of devastation and the earlier, beautiful one of possession he had revelled-in those months previously was a stark and painful one to behold. The dreadful condition of Draenwen and CaerCarbwyn was so shocking, Cadwy had forgotten to breathe and he let out a deep and mournful sigh at that sad, deeply distressing moment.

His Caer however looked undamaged as expected and the fighting platforms seemed partially manned at-least and so his panic faded, as Eirwen must surely be safe and well but why? This was the question which raged in his mind now, as someone was responsible for the carnage and the destruction below and he would know who, or the very earth would tremble with his anger. His Gŵyrd thundered up the hill behind him and their talk died, as they crested Bryn Collen and looked down upon the blackened and smoking ruin which was Draenwen, their faces reflecting Cadwy’s horror.

“My Gods we’ve been attacked! Who in Lug’s name could have done this and why?” Hefin’s horror-filled voice matched everyone’s urgent question as he drew alongside Cadwy on the brow of the hill.

Their anger swelled quickly as they descended the hill toward the Dun on the broad drover’s road and as more of the town came into view. The desolation before them fuelled the building rage in these Albion warriors, but no one as yet had fathomed a motive for such a devastating attack on Draenwen of all places, nor could they envisage anyone in their right minds who would carry out such a brazen ‘market-town raid’ these days, as those times were long gone. It hadn’t even been market day and so what on earth could they have come for? These questions flew between these morose men like tethered birds as they headed downhill, until Cadwy stilled their discussion.

“It seems we’re about to find out!” Cadwy told them grimly sitting up in his saddle, as three riders had come clattering out of the horse-gate of his Caer and down the ramp, where they slewed right onto the bottom of this road and galloped up toward them.

Cadwy frowned seeing his Warden was not among them and they were clearly beside themselves with some great consternation and calamity, apart from the obvious perhaps and the terror writ large across their pale faces unnerved Cadwy, making his heart gallop faster than the horses approaching.

As a terrible, sliding feeling of foreboding lurched sickeningly inside him, one word rang-out over and over in his suddenly frantic mind like a bronze bell; Eirwen!

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King Conal’s day of reckoning arrives. (Part 2).

Pencampwr of all Galedon Gŵyr Lloerig ap Irfon looked as huge as Conal, except around the midriff where Conal won hands-down. A sprawling mass of mounted and foot soldiers had gathered outside the great gates of DunAer, which were thrown wide open and King Conal ap Cynal of Tawescally stood square in the centre of the entrance legs apart and sword in hand, but he was alone. A great semi-circular space around these gates was delineated by a ring of spectators, soldiers and civilians alike and the throng stretched all the way down Bryn Aer to the Plain of Rhŷnd and the Port below. Even the long timber bridge over the Aber of Linn-That to Craig the southern headland was thronged with the gathering werrin, as the land was alive with news of the arrival of such a celebrated host and an important, even historic occasion was surely in the making. Its import was not lost on the worried people of Tawescally and they had gathered like flies on a corpse to witness whatever was about to befall them this uncertain day.

King Ederus ap Ewin ap Ewin ap Durstus Fawr, High-King of all Galedon and his distinguished senior Gŵyrd y Gogledd were mounted front and centre outside the twin gate towers. They were amassed under their allied pennants, supporting the King’s golden-stag banner in the centre and all were grave and silent. They had surrounded the high fluttering vixen banners above Conal in his gatehouse and in every conceivable way, vassal DunAer was under siege. The five other rulers of the Houses of Galedon were too drawn-up outside Tawescally’s Capital in response to Conal’s stupidity and the portly, recklessly ambitious King would answer to the Federation and his peers this day.

Ederus looked magnificent on the back of his legendary stallion Caddogddu and the glittering King of Galedon was chuckling bitterly at Conal’s blustering and his ludicrous proposition of single-combat ‘sarhaed’. It wasn’t the swordfight which had elicited this dark sarcastic humour from the King, as he had come here to claim Conal’s head this day, and however it was removed from his treacherous and double-dealing body it was all the same to him, as long as it was bouncing on his horse’s shoulder when he departed.

Conal couldn’t just be hauled out and slaughtered like a goat in public, as he came from a long and honoured lineage and it would likely cause an uprising among his people, just from the disrespect. So, the last-resort of single-combat sarhaed had not only been expected by Ederus and his Gŵyrd, it would have been welcomed as a quick and easy solution to what would have otherwise been a tense and fraught public hanging. The conditions Conal had demanded for the bout had been risible however and had caused much laughter among the ranks. Not only did the florid and overweight fool want to live if he won the bout, he wanted to retain rule of Tawescally and more, the arrogant fool wanted Wenyllon too! Ederus shrugged, understanding Conal’s position in a way, as he had absolutely no leverage at all and nothing left to lose and so he may as well have bayed for the moon.

“Vanquish Lloerig by some absurd miracle and I will grant you your worthless life Conal but that is all, you back-stabbing bastard!” Ederus spat at him, seething with his anger.

“What life would that be Ederus, living as a homeless, landless thief in exile?” Conal snarled back at the King unmoved.

“Are you not a thief then Conal?” Ederus roared back at him, sitting up in his saddle but Conal just scowled back with a belligerent challenge on his face and said nothing, firing Ederus’ renowned anger. “I should just have you hanged from your own gates for your duplicity and I only agreed to Lloerig slaughtering you, out of respect for your father! You have given up your right to rule Tawescally and I cannot speak for Wenyllon, so take your choice Conal!” Ederus demanded loudly of him with a scowl but was abruptly forestalled.

“I can speak for Wenyllon!” Came a cultured voice and every eye was drawn to the tall and broad aristocrat, who broke the front ranks of the Gŵyrd and casually strode forward to stand in front of Gŵyr Lloerig, shocking many civilian observers. 

To usurp a champion already nominated, stood-to with sword in-hand and in a heightened state of readiness was a reckless thing for anybody to do, but Lloerig could offer no protest at this blatant trumping of his position, nor could he voice his primary claim to the ‘Ran y Rhyswr’ as this man was not only a King, he was the infamous Wŷr of great Beli Mawr himself and so the ‘champion’s portion’ was now unattainable to Lloerig. 

A murmur of approbation and whispered caution, flitted around the huge crowd of onlookers surrounding the open gates of the Dun at his sudden and unexpected appearance. King Lleu Llaw Gyffes, grandson to the greatest of all Prydein’s Kings was clearly not with his uncle in Aremorica as believed, as he was standing nonchalantly before Conal in the gateway of DunAer, shimmering in his rare and deadly brilliance. 

King Lleu ap Rianaw ap Beli Mawr of Wenyllon and Galedon was impeccably dressed as ever, in beautifully tailored brown leather riding bracs and tall matching boots this morning with a crisp white linen shirt above them, open at the neck. Over the white linen Lleu had thrown the most intricate and delicate mail shirt anyone had ever seen and this long-sleeved mantle, glimmered with the exotic and lightweight alloys it had been created from. This was Beli Mawr’s legendary Morddyl vest and it had been fashioned by Gwyn ap Nudd’s infamous alchemist generations ago and its legend was manifest. Apart from resisting all manner of corrosion or stain, mythical Morddyl chain-mail was said to be invulnerable to a blow from any steel-bladed weapon and it drew every warrior’s wide eye here this sunny morning, bright with the terrible gleam of compulsive envy. 

Lleu looked aloof and magnificent, displaying a friendly and relaxed attitude as he approached the open gates of DunAer. The sun shone like liquid gold on the flowing, rippling surface of the vest as he strolled forth to face the glowering Conal in his combat stance, who made no effort to hide his enduring hatred of him. Lleu looked like his brother Lludd to those here who knew both men and a well-known, somewhat cynical smile played around that familiar and engaging mouth. The crystalline, fearsome blue eyes were the same as those of the Brif-Dewin of Prydein however and the eye-catching King of Wenyllon looked just as dangerous. 

Lleu’s eyes today were as flat and uncompromising as the blue sky above him, blazing with the awakening spirit of his own inner dragon. A beautiful circlet of sculpted gold sat at a jaunty angle on his noble head and it was formed into a delicate row of standing Wrens beak-to-tail, the noble bird which was Lleu and Wenyllon’s talisman. It was the same ancient, alluvial gold which made-up the fabulously intricate and twisted torc around his neck, both terminals finished with the protruding silver head of a Wren. The same sacred Wren, which perched on the embroidered winged-dagger cygil sewn onto the front of his priceless Morddyl vest.

Conal eyed his old adversary with a hateful scowl, as he came to stand before him in that bird-crown and those ridiculous clothes; ‘Who did this peacock think he was?’ With his long golden plaits, and constantly twirling a bejewelled dagger in the fingers of his right hand without any obvious thought? He was everything a true warrior was not in Conal’s given opinion and he stood relaxed and smiling now in front of him with an easy grace, but one which belied his rumoured potential. This fastidious young King smiling at him always seemed more dressed for dancing than fighting and it had always galled him.

“I speak for Wenyllon do I not Conal, regardless of your ire and your persistent denials. And so it is I who will accept your ludicrous sarhaed and all its unjustified caveats!” Lleu told him easily and there was such a collective sharp intake of breath from so many around them, it was like a visiting sprite of sceptical wind. 

Conal’s red eyes grew at this astonishing offer, as he had only demanded Wenyllon so that he would have somewhere to fall back-to; the retention of Tawescally. His life no longer meant much to him if he failed in that, his honour being his last and most valued asset, and that was all he had been sure of keeping this critical day. Now however this arrogant fool in his courtier’s clothing had offered him everything! This idiot of a show-cockerel had leaned on the fame and reputation of his predecessors far too long and too often in Conal’s excited opinion, his pulse quickening as the import of the man’s words sank in. He had actually acceded to all the terms of the sarhaed in public, now all Conal had to do was crush him and all of eastern Galedon would be his and there was nothing Ederus could do about it! 

He looked up at Ederus then on his horse across this big semi-circular space and the King just glowered back at him, but he couldn’t disguise the lines of concern around his piercing eyes. Conal looked back to Lleu, who was casually inspecting the fingernails of his left hand, whilst still twirling the gleaming dagger in his right, without even looking.

“So if I beat you here today boy, Tawescally remains mine and Wenyllon becomes mine?” Conal challenged him loudly so that all could hear, and he couldn’t help but cast another bold glance at Ederus.

“Certainly Conal my dear chap!” Lleu responded with an ominous smile, looking Conal in the eyes for the first time and the flashing dagger never stopped rolling between his fingers, or spinning on the knuckle of his thumb, as if it had a life of its own. 

It was so distracting, try as he might to resist the impulse, Conal was compelled to glance down at the whirring steel and at that exact moment, the dagger flew up into the air. Conal’s and more than a thousand other eyes followed its glittering arc, as it spun end-over-end above Lleu’s head. Then it fell, still spinning and the grip landed surely with a slap into Lleu’s outstretched hand. His hard, cerulean eyes hadn’t left Conal’s for one instant throughout the dazzling display and applause rippled through these watching warriors, as the dagger began its mesmerising spinning again, and the flamboyant skills of Lleu the agile-handed were undeniable.

Conal’s temper flared again at this supremely self-assured and carefree attitude, as he’d had just about enough of that from his aged arwein. Lleu’s consummate and relaxed confidence just stoked the flames of his building fury but it was the condescending smile which tipped the scales, and Conal roared as he slashed the air with his sword, before pointing it at Lleu’s heart and the tip remained rock-steady.

“Fetch your sword boy, for I am about to give you a lesson in swordsmanship that all these fine Lords of Galedon will be talking about in their dotage!” He challenged him hoarsely the blade not moving, but Conal’s warface was emerging and filling with blood, matching the colour of his eyes. 

Lleu didn’t flinch at Conal’s roaring challenge, or the long sword pointing unerringly at his heart, but his dagger had stilled its tantalising movement and it was now pointing dangerously and unwaveringly at Conal.

“Sword? I didn’t bring my sword old chap, well I didn’t think I’d be needing it on such a glorious spring morning. It’s still glorious isn’t it Conal?” Lleu asked him with that smile but continued blithely without waiting for an answer. “Especially in this delightful corner of the country!” Lleu declared with that enigmatic smile still playing on his lips, looking around with pleasure at the natural, snow-draped beauty surrounding Bryn Aer and Conal’s great Dun. His compliments and consummately relaxed attitude seemed to infuriate his opponent even more and the frustrated rage was coming off the red-faced Conal in discernible waves.

“Will someone lend this insufferable fop a proper bloody sword!” Conal roared at the surrounding crowd of his besiegers. “So we can get this bloody show on the road!” He bellowed and several notable Gŵyr stepped forward but Lleu held up his finely manicured hand, forestalling their generous advance.

“Don’t worry gentlemen, I won’t be needing a sword.” He said absently, inspecting the nails of his fingers again.  

Confusion showed all around, and it was mirrored on Conal’s rugged and flushed countenance, but the same question was on all; ‘Was King Lleu ap Rianaw ap Beli Mawr himself, actually about to commit cowardice of the highest order and in the glare of the public? Was he really going to refuse a mortal challenge of sarhaed before his peers and the aristocracy of all northern Prydein and gift Conal his Kingdom?’ It was only the foolish, drunk or unthinking in this crowd who passed-on or gave any weight to this rumour, which flashed through them like faugh lightning.

“Oh this old dagger will do admirably I think, to deal with blustery old Conal Têw and his blunt and ancient cattle-prod!” Lleu laughed at him in his deep and musical voice, as did every warrior watching but Lleu’s laughter never reached his blazing blue eyes, which never left Conal’s. 

Conal charged him, roaring his uncontainable rage at the unforgivable insult to his heirloom sword, as a blunt cattle-prod it was not. He could care less that Lleu had called him fat, but he would kill him for the slur against ‘Cold Steel Thorn’. As he rushed in, he raised the Tawescally legend for the killing stroke and put all his weight behind the savage downward cut. There was the merest chink of sound and Conal was suddenly alone and stumbling forwards, as Lleu had parried easily with his dagger and skipped away. 

As Conal turned and attacked again, Lleu put his fingernails away finally, apparently satisfied with their condition and then he moved like a flash of lightning again, leaving the lumbering Conal slashing at vacated thin-air once more, much to the derision of the crowd. 

Lleu was waiting for him three reeds away in a languid pose with one knee bent and he looked completely unruffled, with that irritating smile still playing around his lips and it infuriated Conal. The Tawescally Monarch lost all reason then in the face of this insulting ridicule and the increasing laughter of the crowd, blazing in again with his sword flashing and once more there was a ‘chink’ of steel deflecting steel, but followed abruptly this time by a distinctly solid and wet thunk, which was heard by everyone and which made the watching veterans wince.

Conal hadn’t overshot into space this time making himself look foolish again, but had frozen in mid-stride, his back to the crowd still. Lleu walked away from him casually, once more inspecting his immaculate fingernails and the sharp-eyed few in the crowd, noticed that the King of Wenyllon was suddenly unarmed. Conal’s sword fell to the ground and he followed it, collapsing to his knees on the threshold and facing his own Caer, before folding over backwards so that his shirt lifted, and his belly ballooned out in front of him. His upside-down head came to rest on his heels in the dirt and facing the hushed crowd, with his tortured mouth wide open. 

Conal was dead before the back of his head hit the worn heels of his warboots and the Tawescally King in the final throes of his sudden death, revealed where Beli Mawr’s unmatched grandson had left his fabulous dagger. It was buried six inches into Conal’s skull and stood proudly from his sundered right eye socket. The handle of the dagger pointed directly at King Ederus and the polished ruby set into the pommel, twinkled in the sunlight as the body under it ticced and twitched in death. Lleu’s infamous killing stroke had become known as the ‘Peck of the Wren’ by Wenyllon’s Bards, since the day Lleu had killed the Gŵyr of this man laying at his feet, those years ago when he had picked up the nome-de-guerre of Lleu Llaw Gyffes; the agile-handed. 

The roar of the surrounding crowd penetrated Lleu’s consciousness then and he looked up absently from his fingernails, to see a vast circle of smiling celebrating faces and even the werrin of Tawescally were smiling and cheering. The soldiers on the sun-washed palisades of DunAer were celebrating too, along with a recently very wealthy, aged Arwein and a grubby but cheerful little boy.

At sunset and in great ceremony, Prince Dylan with his regal father King Lleu ap Rianaw ap Beli Mawr and their glimmering Wenyllon Gŵyrd rode forwards on their fabulous horses, through the open gates and under the split-tree roof timbers of the fighting platform. Between the fluttering vixen flags on the impressive gatehouses of DunAer, they trotted in possessive advance and they were magnificent in their star-lit, shimmering glory.

Finally after much luck and many decades of careful planning and very little blood spilled, Tawescally had become part of the prefecture of the sons of Beli Mawr.

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