Drustan and Esyllt: Wolves of the Sea

By Chris Thorndycroft

Defeated in battle by the warlord Arthur, Prince Drustan of the Picts is sent to the court of his uncle King March of Dumnonia as a political hostage. A cunning warrior, Drustan soon earns the trust of King March who sends him on a mission of vital importance.

When the Irish princess Esyllt learns of her betrothal to King March – a man she has never met – to seal an alliance between Britons and Gaels, she knows she is about to lose everything; her family, her home and her freedom. But when she meets the brash young Drustan who is to escort her to Dumnonia, she sees a chance of happiness.

In a reckless romance that would become legend, Drustan and Esyllt plot to overthrow King March and rule Dumnonia for themselves. But in the chaos of 5th century Britain, things are never simple and both are ultimately forced to choose between love, ambition and family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Thorndycroft
• Release date: May 10, 2019

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Drustan and Esyllt: Wolves of the Sea

By Chris Thorndycroft

2019 by Copyright © Chris Thorndycroft

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

https://christhorndycroft.wordpress.com/

For Maia for her constant encouragement and my parents for their unwavering support

Contents

Map

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Epilogue

A Message from the Author and Sneak Peek!

Map

And Esyllt sang this englyn;

‘Three trees are good in nature:

the holly, the ivy, and the yew,

which keep their leaves throughout their lives:

I am Trystan's as long as he lives!’

- Ystori Trystan

One

Erin, spring, 483 A.D.

From the first, Drustan knew she would bring trouble to Dumnonia’s shores. She was barely sixteen but her eyes crackled with a maturity far beyond her years. Those eyes – a pale blue beneath brows darkened with charcoal – spoke of a keen wit and a defiance that would put many a brazen young warrior to shame. This girl is trouble, he thought.

The great roundhouse of Ráith Bilech – ringfort of the sacred tree – heaved with noise and warmth. Meat crackled over the fire pits and smoke collected under the thatch as the men of the Laigin feasted and bade farewell to their youngest princess.

Do you think this will really be the end of it? Drustan’s companion Corbinal asked him as they sat shoulder to shoulder at the benches.

End of what? Drustan replied, not taking his eyes off the princess at the head table.

Corbinal blinked at him. The end of hostilities between Gael and Briton. There are many who place all their hopes for the future in this marriage.

You speak of Dumnonia only, I assume? Drustan said.

Yes, I suppose I do. I forget that you come from farther afield and have seen and experienced more of the world. We Dumnonians have lived with the threat of raids from Erin for so long that we think little of the rest of Albion.

Drustan shrugged. This marriage of King March to the princess Esyllt may indeed cease hostilities. But only for the length of a generation and only in Dumnonia. As for peace between Albion and Erin? Ha! As well seek a truce between owls and mice! He said no more and drank deeply from his cup.

There had always been enmity between the Gaels and the Britons. The two islands had existed in a state of blood feud since the Dawntime or at least as far as anybody knew. One side would raid the other and the other side would send their ships in retaliation and on and on it went. And ever since Rome had forsaken Albion and the legions had departed never to return, the Gaels had grown ever bolder, settling on the western fringes of the island and carving out new kingdoms for themselves.

Albion – the former Roman province of Britannia – had fallen back into its old ways. Tribal chieftains, administrators of the old government and opportunistic strongmen had quickly proclaimed themselves kings and warlords and fought over the scraps of the province, hammering out new kingdoms and new dynasties.

Dumnonia was ruled by King March; a youthful warlord, stubborn as he was keen for vengeance. His source of wealth lay in the control of Din Tagel, a sea-port on the south-western foot of Albion which had trade links to Gaul and beyond. He also had territory on the other side of the British sea, in Armorica; the north-western tip of Gaul. HisHHis fleet was the envy of many a British monarch and he was well deserving of his epithet ‘Cunomor’ – the Sea Wolf.

The Gaels had made it their business to plunder the shipping routes and exact tribute and hostages from King March at every opportunity. There was little March could do but send the occasional punitive raid. Strong though his fleet was, Erin was too vast and its tribal allegiances too complicated to attempt anything resembling an organised invasion. It was the Laigin – one of the five main peoples of Erin – who plagued him the most and it was they who bore the brunt of King March’s reprisals.

But even warriors tire of bloodshed, or so it is said. Perhaps that was the reason which called the two kings to parley and discuss something along the lines of a truce. Such a thing had not occurred between Briton and Gael in living memory but King Crimthann mac Énnai of the Laigin had a daughter who was purportedly as fair as sunshine and a newly-flowered woman to boot. Such an offer appealed to King March and so the union was agreed upon. March was too busy fighting the Saeson barbarians in the east to collect his bride personally, so a delegation was sent.

Drustan gazed at the head table where King Crimthann and Queen Congain sat with Esyllt, their young daughter who was due to leave Erin’s shores on the morning tide for her new life as Queen of Dumnonia. On their other side sat Nath Í, their only son and heir to the clan. A second man sat by the prince’s side; a burly brute of a specimen with a scarred face.

Who’s the handsome chap on the end? Drustan asked Corbinal.

I believe that is Morholt, brother of Queen Congain and her husband’s champion.

Ah, the mighty Morholt. I was expecting somebody taller.

Don’t jest, Drustan, said Corbinal. He’s easily two heads taller than you and from his reputation, he can best any man both in Erin and Albion.

It’s almost a shame we will never see that boast put to the test, said Drustan with a grin.

As the evening wore on and the men got drunker and drunker, games were held outside in the light of the moon and the sputtering torches. The British guests were keen to prove themselves against their age-old enemy.

There was wrestling, spear throwing and jumping long and high. Stripped to their waists, their muscles glistening with sweat, the men pushed themselves to their limits but the night’s drinking had taken its toll on most of them and Drustan grimaced as he saw more than a couple of his men vomit the steaming contents of their bellies by the sidelines and pass out.

Morholt was proving himself to be the true champion of the games. The massive Gael hurled his opponents end over end in the wrestling matches and threw his spear with such savage force that he split nearly every target he aimed for. The Britons were in awe of him and few dared take up his challenges.

Drustan looked on grimly. It may all be in the name of peace and celebration but he knew Morholt had led more than a few raiding expeditions to Dumnonia. He wondered how many British warriors the giant had slain, how many orphans and widows he had made.

Drustan had fought the Gaels in several brutal engagements that spring but he had never encountered Morholt personally. It sat ill with him that they were all expected to get along and play games in the spirit of friendly competition when they would have killed each other given the chance but a month previously.

Is this the best Albion has to offer? Morholt bellowed as another Briton was led away from the wrestling ring with a dislocated shoulder. Where are Albion’s heroes? Where are March’s champions?

It surprised Drustan that this gargantuan Gael spoke British albeit with a heavy accent. No doubt he had picked it up while raping and pillaging his way across Dumnonia’s coast.

Drustan became aware that his men were shouting his name in answer to Morholt’s challenge.

Ah, the famous Drustan mab Talorc, said Morholt, demonstrating that he was no slob when it came to knowing his enemy. The nephew of King March, no less. That just about makes us family now, does it not? Well, I’ll not let that stand in the way of a good fight. What say you?

You have already fought five of my men, said Drustan. You must be tired. It would hardly be a fair fight.

There was laughter at this. Morholt ignored it. I knew several men you have slain but I have not had the pleasure of meeting you face to face, said Morholt. "And as for your five men, I can assure you that they have not tired me one bit. Or perhaps you lack the courage to fight me, cruithen."

Drustan ground his teeth. Morholt had used the Gaelic word for ‘Briton’ but the way he said it suggested that it was not intended as a compliment.

"I am no