Cadwy sat up in his sickbed, still swathed around the head by a great bandage, but his eyes were clear, his speech and his mind were sharp, as was his appetite. Hefin his cousin and closest friend and one of the five cyfail that were his constant companions throughout his young life was there with him, sitting at the foot of the bed.
His cyfail were the sons of the Princes and senior Gŵyr of the various Houses of Albion, and Hefin was his late uncle Brynig’s son. Hefin was bringing Cadwy up to date with everything that had happened since his hunting injury, both local gossip and the portentous things that were happening elsewhere in Prydein and abroad. A basket of the delicious local butter cakes shared the bed between them, and the Princes were munching their way through them.
“So Brude Bredus of the Western Isles and King Conair Môr have allied and invaded Galedon? Oh Gods, against great King Ederus’ war-host? I would love to see that battle Hefin, I bet the Gadwyr are the first in!” Cadwy said with a grunt from his sore ribs, still chewing.
“Lug’s arse! If half of what we’ve heard about them is true, I hope we never have to go to war with Galedon again!” Hefin said seriously, and Cadwy added his nods of agreement.
The monstrous Gadwyr were probably the most feared strike force in all northern Prydein, and they were only a recent addition to King Ederus’ already vast Galedonian army.
“They EAT virgin girls!” Hefin added, his young eyes wide in horror-filled disbelief.
“That much is true I’m told, cousin.” Cadwy answered his younger friend casually. “I know what I’d rather do with them!” He added with a wink, grabbing another cake carefully from the basket.
Hefin’s eyes got bigger.
“Cadwy! They’re only eleven years old!” He admonished him and Cadwy curled his lip at this.
“Mm, I forgot. You’re right Hef, they’re all teeth, bones and tears at that age!” He expressed his vast experience in this regard, leaning back to the pillows with a grimace. He almost had a girlfriend, and what a girl!
Cadwy’s mind flew a familiar route of late; back to the flawless young face of the honourable and eternally beautiful, seventeen-year-old Princess Eirwen of Galedon, who’s Nation was now at war as he’d just been informed. She had been in his thoughts persistently since he had first met the young Princess in the company of his great-aunt, Lady Meleri. That had been at the ‘Year and a Day’ festival at Samhain, seventeen long days previously, and each night since, he had dreamed of her and him - together.
The year-and-a-day festival of light, poetry, singing and all the sacred arts is held toward the end of each year and is an integral part of the week-long holy Samhain festival; the festival of the dead. Samhain is not only a time to honour the glorious dead, but like all the seasons of the year is a busy period for the werrin. Samhain is the final, ‘winter’ festival in Prydein, known as ‘Li-Tu Dub’ in ancient times, and it begins at midnight on Ysgaw dauddeg-wyth; the 28th and last day of Ysgaw; the final month in the year’s lunar cycle of thirteen. It is the penultimate day of each year, leaving as always; the additional ‘day in the year’, the sacred inspiration for the ‘year and a day’ festival.
As joint patron to the all-female Druidic College on the Myrun Isles in Galedon, Lady Meleri of Albion had taken Cadwy as her escort to this festival, held on holy Ynys Medcaut and in the Kingdom of Fotadina off Albion’s eastern coast. That festival had been a wonderful and intoxicating experience, and one Cadwy would never forget for many reasons. The main island laying off Medcaut Bay was one of the most ancient and original locations for the festival, and all it’s incredible sights, smells, tastes and sounds had been captivating. The smaller and landward Ynys Caru had hosted a naked group of communities that night, dedicated to the hedonistic and sophisticated art of lovemaking. The large but temporary hazel and canvas shelters on that smaller isle were festooned with skulls and flowers and were surrounded by hundreds of roaring campfires which had made the little island a bejewelled, twinkling oasis in the darkness. Musicians wandered those fragrant hillsides dressed in black rags and playing the holy triad of melody; the harp, the lute and the reed flute, whilst the tents around them had writhed with the rhythmic, coupling bodies of their ecstatic occupants. Many herbs, fungi and other compounds were eaten, drunk and smoked there, and which transported those huge groups of people to various stages of narcosis; from euphoria and endless energy to sparkling and pulsating hallucination. Young and nubile servants had also meandered among those many groups, offering wine or beer, fruit and other delicacies, and all across that small island was peace, bliss and eternal love. At next spring’s Imbolc Li-Tu, both islands will be dedicated to the fertility of this earth, making the exploits on Ynys Caru that night look tame in comparison. Overlooking the spectacular bay of Medcaut was the ancient and palisaded DunGwardd, founded on the high promontory to the south, and that huge fortress had offered the Albion party its quarters for the celebrations.
Cadwy had not been allowed anywhere near that long and swaying, rope and timber foot bridge which led to the smaller island of eternal love, much to his chagrin. He had enjoyed the festival well enough though despite this expected exclusion. The singing had been an awe inspiring and spiritual experience, especially when the Cantorion of the Enouanta had taken the stage. The three-tiered assembly of that thirty-three-member, all-male choir from the south-western region of Albion was famous in all Prydein and across the known world. Those lauded Enouantan Cantorion had just returned from travelling the breadth of Gallia for three years and in a great convoy of ox-drawn carts, enchanting every massed audience they had sung to, and making even such a large troupe extremely wealthy. The hair on Cadwy’s neck and forearms had risen in superstitious awe when the Enouantau had performed from the high northern battlements of DunGwardd, surrounded by tall burning torches and resplendent always in their chosen gwisgoedd y werrin; the humble attire of matching mantle and trews, which had been an all-black weave that night. The rude, plaited shoes of the werrin completed the clothing of the working people of Prydein, and which those wealthy, professional singers took great pride in wearing.
The crushing crescendo of their performance that night had been the ancient ‘Death Song of Leir’, and Cadwy had held his great Aunt’s bony hand tightly in his, as she had wept at the heart-rending words to what is surely the most enduringly popular song in all Prydein. Nobody could sing that great tragedy with the power and emotions of those unmatched Enouantau, and Cadwy had known the words reminded his Aunt so painfully of her long-lost husband. Before long, the hushed electric atmosphere, the wondrous, harmonising voices and the achingly tragical lyrics had woven their ancient spell and had wrung the emotions from his very soul. Cadwy’s bottom lip had trembled, his tears had broken and they’d streamed down his cheeks, but he had sat as stiff as a broom, not daring to wipe his eyes for long moments as the glorious voices had washed over him, soaring to the starlit heavens above him and lifting his soul up with them.
“It takes a real man to cry Cadwy bach.” His great Aunt had spoken quietly to him at his side, and in a lull in the singing.
Turning, he’d seen through his watery tears the smiling face of Lady Meleri, and Cadwy had laughed. Meleri couldn’t help herself but laugh too, and they had laughed together then, holding hands tightly and with wet, shining faces. An old woman and a young man bound close by their blood, closer by their fealty and eternally by their obvious love for each other.
As Cadwy chewed methodically on the butter biscuit in his sickbed, he thought of his Hênmodryb and the long conversation they had shared on their return. Not only had her plans filled him with an excitement he couldn’t quite justify at the time, they had given him a rare insight to his Great Aunt’s fearsome intellect and the way in which her devious mind worked. He hadn’t given a thought to her astonishing strategic grasp of the bigger picture and the state of play in these highly-strung northern territories that night, as the emotional and physical toll of the festival and escorting his venerable charge safely through that ecstatic throng had been extremely demanding.
He smiled now as he thought of that performance by the amazing Enouanta and the rest of that enlightening evening, as it had seemed to mark a pivotal moment in his relationship with his great Aunt, bringing them closer together in some subtle and unspoken way. He remembered vividly that when the singing had started again, and the soaring, harmonising voices of those marvellous Brythons had burst into the opening stanza to the famous victory of ‘Arglwydd Clwyd’, he and Meleri had both cried again. They had wept happy tears that time, and their souls had rejoiced together as the tenors had soared to the highest notes among the stars and the basses and baritones had vibrated the very air around them.
Breaking their fast the following morning at DunGwardd and on the high headland overlooking the bay, its ocean views were stunning and the great hall of Gŵyr Huw ap Irfonwy had been packed-out. That largely absent Fotadina Lord of Medcaut was the powerless lord of that locality, as all was ruled by the priesthood of those two islands and they held the reins of that entire region with a firm grip.
Cadwy had worn a fine long, kid-leather jacket of a deep oxblood that morning and which had shone in the morning sunlight. Gleaming with the sheen of fresh lanolin, it had a broad collar and had been decorated with a row of highly polished, silver boar’s-head buttons. That soft leather coat had been tailored to fit him like a glove and it hugged his waist, cut to fit the muscular flare of his broad back and to show the powerful breadth of his shoulders. This he’d worn over a pair of fine woollen bracs with a subtle, chequered weave, picked out with square panels of the same deep red. His new bracs were tucked into a highly polished pair of tall, oxblood riding boots that morning and with contrasting glossy black collars. A white linen shirt lay open at his throat, revealing the beautiful and intricately twisted, golden Torc of a wealthy Tywysog; a warrior-prince. The pure silver terminals of his heavy royal Torc were each formed into the protruding shape of a tusked Boar’s head, clearly denoting that his royal line belonged to the ruling House Selgofa of Albion. Selgofa held the Rheolwr y Grym over the other tribes of Albion, and Cridas’ House had for countless generations held this ‘ruling power’, making all the difference in how this young and dapper Prince had been viewed and received in vassal Fotadina. A servant had plaited Cadwy’s long, golden hair that morning and had tied it with a maroon silk ribbon, which he’d laid over his left shoulder as was now fashionable.
The tall, broad and ruggedly handsome young Prince had been the object of many surreptitious looks throughout that morning, but Cadwy’s focus had been on his geriatric aunt. These unseen appraisals had come from the hundreds of young women which had thronged the island, but the bolder, more overtly acquisitive looks this morning had come from the more advanced and aristocratic among them, staying here at this fortress. Most of this fascinated inspection had gone virtually unnoticed by Cadwy, as his focus had been on the personal care of his beloved Aunt. Completely unaware that he had become the hot topic of discussion among the females of a certain age and status, and there had been a great number of those highly competitive young ladies present on Ynys Medcaut, Cadwy had been oblivious. Unwittingly and on arrival, he had unleashed a wave of merciless female politics across the festival grounds and this nearby fortress. This bright and sunny morning however he had sparked a minor war, and Cadwy had innocently initiated a flurry of frantic activity in a number of the more ambitious of these noble maidens’ chambers. Behind the heavy drapes their servants had jumped as costumes were changed, and perfume was liberally applied. Hair was furiously brushed and braided, whilst ruthless schemes were frantically conjured.
Cadwy had taken-up Lady Meleri’s basket of warm and soft bread squares along with his own in one-hand, and carefully supporting her left elbow he’d helped her toward a deep and comfortable chair by the roaring, central hearth. He had noticed that the hall was far busier that morning for some reason, and there seemed to be excited young girls everywhere and all dressed up in silks and furs. He was forced to wonder why, as he’d thought the festival almost finished. Cadwy fervently hoped that there was no cheesy ‘End of Li-Tu’ celebration going on here he knew nothing about and which he would be forced to endure, as he had suffered a poor night’s sleep. His night had been filled with lurid images of a frantic, writhing Ynys Caru and he was exhausted, just wanting a quiet morning and a decent break of fast before beginning the long ride home.
People had fallen silent and parted, making way for the famous pair as Cadwy led Meleri through this perfumed throng, aware of her painful hip and careful that her way was clear. As soon as his Great Aunt was comfortable in the chair, Cadwy had placed the bread baskets on the adjacent low table and called a servant over to take their order. Turning to take the chair opposite, Cadwy was struck square between the eyes by a thunderbolt!
A pair of magical, captivating eyes of the most wondrous emerald green he’d ever imagined had locked with his, and the shock had rocked his foundations. Those huge, beautiful and startling green eyes, which had flown open when they had met his own equally shocked eyes had trapped him in their gaze. The air had been suddenly filled with the most exotic and heady perfume, which had beguiled and bewitched his reeling senses and Cadwy’s world seemed to sway before vanishing away completely. The two of them could have been alone on top of a silent and mist-wreathed mountain, not in a packed and seething breakfast hall. This electric connection had lasted a mere fraction of an instant, but it must have seemed to them both as though the Earth itself had stopped turning.
That cataclysmic moment had stretched achingly, and they had both been completely caught up in it, as if suspended somehow by a Druiden’s powerful spell. Like a ‘doe in the knock’, that vision of beauty had hovered on her tiptoes, her shocked eyes locked onto his and it was like a blow to his senses. She’d stood poised, frozen like a deer spotting the hunter in that fleeting moment before flight, the moment when their two worlds had collided headlong, and nothing would ever be the same again.
At that sparking, cataclysmic point in time, Cadwy’s throat had turned to ash, and he’d felt a kind of mushrooming panic grow inside him like nothing he’d ever experienced before. His spirit had soared, flushing his neck pink in a treacherous display, but that flame-haired Goddess had come off her tiptoes then and passed him by. She had floated away like a cloud of fragrant, white silk and it had been like the sun going in. Her demeanour had changed too in that instant, from one that mirrored his sudden and shocking, almost painfully overwhelming physical attraction, to an abrupt, dismissive return to a supreme coolness and a feminine poise. For Cadwy, the world had zoomed back into focus in that instant and with a sickening lurch, the babbling sounds swelling around him. She had moved past him then like an elegant ghost, not giving him another glance, and she’d torn the beating heart from his chest. Utterly undone where he stood, Cadwy had felt compelled to yell out ‘Don’t go!’ but his tongue was dry and truculent, and he couldn’t have uttered even a croak at that devastating moment had his life depended on it. Realising that his mouth hung open, Cadwy had snapped it shut with a dry click of his teeth.
‘Do something you idiot!’ He’d yelled wordlessly at himself; rooted.
‘She wouldn’t soil her feet with you.’ Had come the response from the little voice of doubt in his head as his mind reeled, and his heart had hammered against his chest as that vision of loveliness vanished into the crowd.
He’d realised with a rush of hot blood that everyone was looking at him. In fact he was surrounded by hundreds of wide-eyed females, and Cadwy had dropped his gaze, slumping into the armchair and forcing himself to focus on its fiery depths in an attempt at regaining his wits. Staring into the hearth fire for long moments, Cadwy’s face was glowing and not just from the heat, but he was finally able to breathe again. The loud hubbub and the usual noise of the crowd in this hall had risen noticeably, and Cadwy had been unsure whether there had been utter silence in the preceding moments, or if he had just tuned-out the noise and was only hearing it again now, but he’d felt dizzy and flushed, and so he’d kept his head down, sucking-in the perfumed air.
“Are you well Cadwy?” Lady Meleri had asked him casually from her chair, and Cadwy had forced himself to nod to his Great Aunt, controlling his breathing, but he couldn’t meet her eyes, as his mind was still in turmoil and his heart galloped on without pause.
“Lovely isn’t she!” Lady Meleri added quietly, and as if in careless afterthought.
Cadwy’s blue eyes had flicked upwards to meet his Aunt’s, and the hunting alarm had gone-off in the back of his head for some reason. There had been something about the vaguely feline expression of that great lady and at that moment which had unnerved him; sitting there opposite him, happily munching on a soft bread roll and with that unsettling smile on her unreadable face. She’d held out the wicker basket absently and with that wholly unconvincing, innocent look.
“Bara?” The enigmatic smile remained.
Cadwy had taken a soft roll with a nod but had grabbed his log of honeyed half-ale from the low table and took a long slurp of the sweetened beer, unlocking his grateful throat. It had dawned on him then that there was something going on in Gŵyr Huw’s dining hall that he knew nothing about. Cadwy had looked at his Great Aunt again but more carefully, as the instinctive alarm still tingled worryingly.
“Who is she?” He had managed to utter without too much loss of face but hadn’t liked the amused look on Lady Meleri’s face at that moment. The same moment he could have sworn he’d heard the feint, but familiar clang of a spring-loaded bear-trap snapping shut somewhere in the grounds outside, but then it may have been his suddenly feverish imagination.
“That Cadwy bach, is the honourable Princess Eirwen ferch Ederus of the House Galedon. Great King Ederus’ daughter and currently a student of mine at Ynys Myrun College.” She had told him quietly, watching him carefully.
Cadwy had heard the words like sweet music in his ears; SHE had a name he could hang his heart on! ‘Princess Eirwen of Galedon’, and a strange, warm feeling had glowed inside him as he’d spoken her name in his mind. Snapping quickly out of the daydream however, he’d met his Aunt’s eyes again and which seemed to have penetrated his very soul at that enlightening moment. He hadn’t forgotten just who that feeble looking, elderly woman sitting opposite him was. With her silks and beautiful mantles and bejewelled brooches and her ever present appendage; the silver-handled walking cane, a fool could have thought her feeble. Lady Meleri was anything but, and that impressive lady was one of the three most accomplished and revered, senior Druidens in all Prydein, and her power, influence and her stature were immense. Her gaze had been unnerving that morning however, and Cadwy had felt himself wilting before it spiritually, but then suddenly it was gone in an instant. It was as if his great-aunt had felt the shift in his mood and relented, withdrawing her fearsome probing.
“She’s not Gods’-sworn is she!” Cadwy had blurted out loudly, standing up and knocking the basket of bread flying as the appalling thought had hit him like a slap across the face.
Meleri had put her hand to her mouth at this and began trembling. Cadwy had been suddenly alarmed that he’d caused her insult or injury, until he’d realised with a shock that she was laughing - laughing at him!
Blushing to his roots then, Cadwy had looked around himself sheepishly, realising just how loudly he had blurted those words out. He had drawn a lot of attention once more it seemed, but that hadn’t fazed him, at least SHE hadn’t been around to hear his all-too revealing outburst….the honourable, beautiful and fragrant, Princess Eirwen of Galedon – thump, there had been that strange, weak but warm feeling again as his stomach flipped, and his pulse had quickened a little along with his breathing. His mind still whirled in a kaleidoscopic vision of bright emerald green and deep copper-auburn as he stood tense, focussing on his breathing and waiting for the worst of news.
“No Cadwy, she is not Gods’ sworn.” Meleri had answered him plainly, ending his agony and with her mirth suppressed admirably for that moment.
Ddugesi Meleri had composed herself completely by the time Cadwy had resumed his seat, and where he kept his eyes lowered, supped his morning ale and learned on the hoof precisely when he should keep his mouth shut.
“She is a beautiful girl and I know her well Cadwy. Her beauty goes all the way through too, from mind to heart and to her soul. I would like to discuss Princess Eirwen with you Cadwy, it’s why you’re here.” She had told him steadily, again watching his face carefully but without any mind intrusion.
They had discussed this pivotal moment often in the following days and evenings around their home hearth. That initial lightning flash of their mind-meet and at the point of eye contact was completely unexpected, and it had thrilled Meleri to the core, for she had known that the true power in life is locked-up in this rare and elemental spark of human attraction. It comes when two people are hit with the same Thunderbolt of Cythera, and it is a force as old as man himself. It had been that way for her, so many years ago and when Meleri had met her lord husband to-be. It was on those recent, quiet and intimate nights of long discussion since their return that Cadwy had been shown all of Meleri’s vision, and he had been amazed.
The initial foray into a proposed and arranged royal marriage, which could unite the great northern kingdoms of Albion and Galedon into an immense and unconquerable northern federation was a longshot. At that stage merely an opening gambit and one with incredibly long odds. Meleri’s plan was a tentative but ground-breaking first move in a well-thought-out campaign, but it was based on ancient rules and traditions which were dubious and long-forgotten at best. A regal handfasting between such elevated and popular royal personages would attract Kings and nobles from across the known world if achieved however, and it could transform and inspire all of Northern Prydein as the Brythons were ever romantics. Meleri had known that King Ederus would be the trickiest part in the whole equation, as the old fool had already made one poor decision in that regard.
Galedon and Albion had made war on each other on countless occasions in the past, and to much begrudged loss of life on both sides, and this was the by-far the biggest barrier to any success in this entirely risky venture. Songs and englyns have been sung for generations about these conflicts on both sides of the great divide, and the warriors who died in them are still remembered and honoured to this day. So, Meleri’s plan was dependant on cutting through decades of deeply entrenched fear, suspicion and hatred. No painless undertaking, even for someone of her power and influence.
In her considered opinion, the Thunderbolt of Cythera was a wonderful thing, but often got in the way of arranged marriages one way or another. Back at DunEil; his father’s capital however, Lady Meleri had admitted to a strange and warm feeling about that momentous happening in Huw’s dining hall and Cadwy’s possible betrothal. In spite of the huge cultural and emotional obstacles dividing two confirmed old-enemy nations, she had been unexpectedly optimistic. Recalling that morning and when she had looked around at the sullen faces of the young ladies in that hall, most of their sad eyes had still been focused on Cadwy, and she had chuckled to herself. Not one girl in that great hall had missed the cataclysmic spark that had passed between those two young Royals, and the hall had been filled with broken female hearts from that moment, and the boy didn’t even have a clue. If Cadwy had been aware of the situation around him that morning, he would have been mortified and so much could have gone wrong, but Cythera’s eternal power could not be turned, and neither could fate.
“We’re probably going to see the Gadwyr for ourselves Cadwy, if what we hear about Julius Caesar is true. We will all soon be going to war, only this time together!” Hefin broke the daydream with his direct pragmatism and voiced the current concern of their nation.
Cadwy nodded thoughtfully in response and he put away his emotions, his eyes refocusing as he woke up a little. He picked up another butter-cake from the bed with a wince, and a slight shift in position from the protest of his damaged ribs.
“Mm, I know Hef, if the rumoured alliance takes place we shall of course be involved. You and I will both be in the van of Albion’s host!” Cadwy declared and with a wolfish grin.
“Yay, that should be exciting!” Hefin responded with little conviction, his young face flushing at the thought.
* * * * *
Excerpt from Iron Blood & Sacrifice (The Sons of Beli Mawr); the uniquely Brythonic perspective, iron-age trilogy encompassing both Julius Caesar’s invasions of Britain.
Author’s Amazon Page; https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B077CVBL2F
Copyright Eifion Wyn Williams 2018.
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