Merch Y Ddraig
Daughter of the Dragon

By Nghaire Collins

Ceridwen Morgannwg lifted her green eyes to survey the Welsh landscape that lay beyond the battlements of Castell Caerfyrddin, her red cloak billowing gently in the morning breeze. Her black hair swirled about her, free from its usual bonds of Celtic clips. The air was refreshingly sharp, filling her lungs and clearing her mind. The valleys were just beginning to clear from the mists, slinking away across the treetops.

Alone save for the usual morning detail of Welsh guards on their regular patrol, Ceridwen often came out here from her turret bedroom to think; and also to reflect. The civil war with England would be over soon, she estimated. The heavy, unexplainable losses on the English side, coupled with trouble overseas in France and the growing unrest in Ireland was all combining to stretch the English army and navy to their limits. Any time soon, they would have to crack. Napoleon's forces and allies posed a far greater threat to England than the simple demands of her native country.

It was what had dominated her early life, from the time she had first been recognised by an old scholar as the Daughter of the Red Dragon. Merch y Ddraig Goch. Such a child was born only once every thirty generations, and only to the fifth daughter of a fifth daughter. Ceridwen glanced down again, at the birthmark on the back of her left hand, shaped as a shield. Her mind powers had at first made her afraid. She'd felt like a freak after causing a chessboard to erupt in flame during a school competition, and her friends had deserted her, fearing her. As time had gone on, she had started to sense the minds of others, and had to struggle to control the cacophony of mental white noise alone.

Now, as leader of the Welsh rebellion, she was, in essence, a human weapon. She knew it -- but since witnessing the treatment of her people at the hands of the English army, she could not bear to stand back and allow the suppression of their language, their heritage, their land. Their land. It belonged to her people, not the English sovereign, or his troops.

The sunlight was diffused as through silk, soft yellow banishing grey. Four English battalions had disappeared from the face of the Earth since the beginning of the civil war eleven months ago. The soldiers feared her ability to summon the ancient Celtic forces and rouse the Red Dragon from her slumber to wreak havoc among the enemy, despite her attempts to make them feel at ease in her presence. Isolation was her only friend.

She turned her thoughts to the young English soldier, still held in the castle. Corporal James Richards, of the 18th Dragoon Guards, taken hostage after a small scouting party, sent by the brass, had crossed the border to investigate covertly the incidents at the battlefields. His uncle was a high-ranking admiral, which increased their bargaining power. Family. She sighed at the memory, recalling the deaths of her own parents, and three of her four sisters, in the first English attack on the small village of Caerfyrddin while she was still only twelve. If only they could see her now, living in the old castle that had once struck fear into their hearts as it glowered upon the populace.

She had talked at length to the young soldier, and started to form what she could consider a tentative bond of friendship. It was not her desire to kill innocents, but what needed to be done had to be done, and if it meant executing him, she would, if it would mean the independence of her country. But then, there had been so much suffering on both sides. How long did it have to go on?

"My lady Ceridwen?"

She started, turned, to be greeted by her aide, Lord Dafydd ap Hugh.

"Yes?"

"Reports are coming in that a small band of cavalry is making its way here, bringing before it the standard of King George."

Her brow creased as she regarded him.

"The Royal Standard?"

"Yes, Lady. Under a flag of truce, they request permission to approach the castle. They wait now four miles away at a checkpoint."

This was highly unusual. She turned away to look over the battlements again, her mind suspicious. She narrowed her green eyes.

"Let them come. But watch them."

"Very well, Lady."

He departed as swiftly as he had arrived, the heels of his riding boots ringing as they made contact with the ancient flagstones. Ceridwen realised how deep in thought she must have been not to have heard him arrive. After a few moments, she descended from the battlements to return to her bedchamber, giving orders to a guard on watch to have the prisoner brought to her within the hour.

The bedchamber was spacious, and richly decorated and furnished. The previous owner had gone to great lengths in spending the people's taxes furnishing the great castle. Stone carvings of birds and cherubs were integrated into the pillars, the walls painted with scenes of a Renaissance style. Candleholders on the walls of wrought iron illuminated the room, creating a jittery, dancing orange glow. Ceridwen sat at the oak dresser, in front of the large mirror in its gilt frame, and began brushing her long black hair back into its silver clips, braiding it as her mother had done so long ago. She despised the luxury of the room, after the deprivation of her childhood and of those people still living in the valleys. She had, in a fit of rage, defaced the paintings with oil from her burner, making the paint streak, smashing the porcelain ornaments of exotic animals. Even afterwards, she did not regret her actions, and still viewed the frieze with disdain.

A knock came on the arched wooden door, made by the hilt of a sword. Ceridwen stood, straightening her floor-length blue dress.

"Come."

The heavy door creaked open, revealing a guard and Corporal James Richards. They both entered, the guard escorting the Englishman by the arm. He was scruffy, but she had ordered he be well treated. She refused to let him brand them barbarians when they released him. He had been fed, given a bed and drink, changes of clothes. She looked at him again, taking in his gentle face and short red-brown hair. It was long enough now to curl at the ends, which it did in spirals, reaching to his collar. His uniform had been taken, and replaced with a simple shirt and breeches. A handsome man, she thought, although he never had struck her as the fighting type, despite his initial hostility.

"You may leave us, Private," she said, shortly. The guard appeared uncertain at leaving her alone with a possible hostile, but she waved him away. He inclined his head, then left, closing the door behind him.

James looked her directly in the eyes, with his own penetrating blue gaze. He had seen what she was capable of, after being forced to accompany her and observe, as one living witness to tell the tale and recommend surrender when he returned. He'd witnessed her ability to use her mind as a sort of conduit through which she had channelled unimaginable power, bringing the Dragon to whisk away the bodies and souls of Englishmen, leaving nothing but their armour and weapons behind. He didn't understand it, and at first he had hated her. Hated her for killing fellow soldiers and friends.

He had seen her for the first time in the castle's courtyard, as the rebels dragged him in, tied and helpless, wounded by a gunshot to his shoulder; the scarlet bloom on his uniform weeping on the red fabric. He'd struggled, sure he was about to be executed along with the others, as Ceridwen had approached him. He had been sure the fear alone would be enough to push his heart through his chest, as she stood in front of him and his captors. She was not tall, but generated the illusion of being so by holding herself straight as a rod, an aura of dignity and presence hitting him like a brick wall. The authority and experience in her tone belied her age. She could not be much older than himself, he had thought, and recalled the surprise and puzzlement he'd felt as she had ordered him to be untied and treated for his wounds; but he could see the sadness behind her eyes, and the maturity beyond her twenty-three years.

The flickering candlelight highlighted her cheekbones, and glinted off the silver clip, the Celtic knot contrasting sharply with the straightness of her hair. She had said it was an old heirloom, from the time of Prince Llewelyn, the last Welsh prince of Wales. Her spoken English was flawless, indicative of her upbringing with educated monks and scholars. She had also told him that she hated his language, and that its vulgarity made the words feel like thorns in her throat. She spoke to him now, the lilting Welsh accent prominent.

"They are coming, James. Under a flag of truce and bearing the Royal Standard. Why the Royal Standard and not that of the army?" she asked.

He shrugged. Over the past weeks, they had talked frequently. Both had felt themselves outcasts, not belonging anywhere. James had joined the army at the behest of his father, who wanted his son to someday reach his brother's rank. Ceridwen had told him of the massacre in Caerfyrddin that claimed the lives of all but one of her family, leaving her to wander among the carnage until she was found by the residents of the next town, who had heard of the destruction and come to help. He knew how committed she was to the cause. She had nothing else, and nothing to lose, but everything to gain. That made her dangerous - highly dangerous.

"Exceptional circumstances indeed, my lady. I can only guess that they come with a treaty from the King."

"A treaty?" Hope flickered in her eyes. He lowered his own, he could not be sure.

"I cannot be certain. But it is possible."

She approached him. He was unable to maintain eye contact for a length of time. Her gaze seemed to penetrate into his very soul, to read his thoughts. It was ... disturbing.

"Look at me, James."

"I mean no disrespect ."

"I cannot have a friend who will not look up -- he will be forever walking into things!"

She laughed, an infectious, almost childish laugh. He looked up, a smile shifting his aristocratic features. She returned it, her green eyes sparkling, then she sobered, and sighed.

"You will be going home, James. To your family."

"You are confident this is the declaration cutting Wales free from English rule?"

She moved away from him, walking towards the window. The embroidered gold dragon on her cloak caught the candlelight, almost animating it.

"No. But I have kept you here, away from them, too long. War is a terrible thing, James. It tears families apart. I have no desire to create more misery."

James caught his breath. He was their bargaining chip -- why was she doing this?

"My Lady ... "

"Ceridwen."

"Ceridwen, I cannot see why ... "

Her shoulders sagged as she turned to him.

"Can you imagine it, James? Being able to read the minds of others, know what they think of you, and that they fear you? Having the ability to kill with a thought? Having to control every single impulse that enters your head?"

"No," he said quietly, "I cannot."

"I never wanted this war. But there was no other way. There should have been another way," she whispered, the distress on her face plain to see.

James remained silent, his conflicting feelings of fear and sympathy making him unsure what to say. Slowly she came to him, and clasped his hands in both of her slim, pale ones, her fingers slipping in amongst his. Her usual appearance of power had gone, replaced by the helplessness of a child.

"Is there something I can do?" he asked, thinking as he said it how ridiculous it was. What could he do?

She peered intently at him for a few moments.

"Promise me, James. You said you wanted to be a doctor, not a soldier. Go back to your studies."

He blinked, then nodded slowly. He was about to give a reply, when there was a knock at the door. She moved away from him -- almost reluctantly it seemed to him, but he could have been mistaken -- and opened it.

"Lord Dafydd," she bowed her head as a mark of respect to her aide.

"Lady Ceridwen." He lowered his voice, switching to their native tongue, "They are in sight."

She could sense the rise in tension as he saw the Englishman behind her, and James' consequent unease under his scrutiny.

"Diolch. I shall bring the prisoner with me to the battlements overlooking the entrance."

"Do you wish extra guards on duty should they attempt ... "

"No. Theirs is but a small party."

"Very well, my lady."

Ceridwen turned to the soldier, her composure fully regained, the appearance of power restored. Once more their friendship was on hold. He needed no instruction, and duly walked past her into the hallway, allowing his hands to be tied. He did not return the narrow-eyed glare from the Welshman as he went by, but felt it burn as two hot coals into his back.

The cotton flag depicting the guardant blood-red dragon tugged at its mooring as the wind toyed with it. Ceridwen watched it a while, gazing up at the highest turret of the castle where its pole stood, the sentry standing to attention with telescope in hand, raised to his eye. James scanned the horizon, following the road with his eyes as it led into a wood. After a few moments, he could make out the small band of cavalry, three white horses and one black, trotting at a steady pace. The escort consisted of three others, all wearing green and red uniforms, the rebel uniform of the Welsh soldiers. The next minutes were agonising as the troop approached the castle, finally drawing to a halt just in front of the lowered portcullis. Ceridwen leaned over the battlements to look down upon them. The leader appeared to be a general by the ranking he displayed, as well as the elaborate gold trimmings on the uniform. She could see he had no gun, but held a leather pouch in one hand.

"I have come with a declaration from King George," he called up, his voice tentative and wavering. She raised an eyebrow as she sensed the uncertainty. He obviously hasn't spent much time away from his desk, she mused. "May I speak with the rebel leader?"

"You are speaking to her," she replied.

This appeared to catch him off guard, as he turned to look at his two comrades, who shrugged. "Do you require further clarification?" she frowned, her demeanour even at this distance intimidating. James stood out of sight, watched by two soldiers as well as Dafydd, listening to the conversation.

"Er, no ... "

"I am Lady Ceridwen Morgannwg. What do you bring? Place it in the basket to your right near the entrance." She had no time for petty English pleasantries.

The general dismounted, and placed the pouch into a small wicker basket that was lowered by a rope from the battlements.

"A decree that frees the country of Wales from English rule. It is signed by the King himself, and is effective as soon as we depart with the prisoner I believe you hold hostage."

"Corporal James Richards is alive and well. But I shall not release him until I am sure that I am not being tricked."

"Read the document. It cannot be retracted, I assure you."

She narrowed her green eyes at the Englishman, but held out a hand, taking the leather pouch's contents from her aide. Breaking the wax seal bearing the royal crest, she unrolled the document and read its flowing handwriting. James frowned, as she turned away from the battlements to face him, her face a picture of concentration, but her changing expression difficult to decipher. After several moments she lowered the paper, ashen-faced, turmoil clouding her green eyes. All this fighting and death for the sake of a piece of paper from a royal who knew nothing. But it was what they had been fighting for since the Act of 1536 had first bound them to England. It was over.

"My Lady? What ..."

"Read it, Dafydd. Tell me I am not imagining things."

The bewildered dignitary took the scroll from her and read it aloud.

I, King George the Third, King of England, do hereby agree to the terms as given by the rebel contingent of Wales, to hereby instate self-government and self-rule as requested most strongly by the leader, on the following conditions:

1) That any English prisoner of war is released immediately unharmed and

2) That the rebel leader surrenders.

This decree will be effective when the document is opened and the terms fulfilled, and is non-retractable. Wales is now recognised as an independent country.

Thus is my bidding, on the twenty-second of November, this year of Our Lord Seventeen Hundred and Ninety-Seven.

Dafydd looked up sharply from the paper at Ceridwen, who was staring blankly at the horizon.

"My Lady, this is preposterous! I cannot allow you to surrender!"

She did not heed him. Turning to the two guards, she ordered James' bonds to be cut. James realised what was happening and tried to go to her, but was held back.

"I have released the prisoner," she called over the battlements. "And we accept the terms."

"My Lady!" Dafydd grasped her arm, and was met with green eyes flashing defiantly.

"Take the scroll and guard it," she ordered, her face giving nothing away as to the turmoil inside her mind.

"Ceridwen, what's happening?" called James. The wind picked up, making the hairs on the nape of his neck stand on end. He ignored the glare from Lord Dafydd at his informality, as Ceridwen walked over to him.

"You are a free man, Corporal. You may leave this castle. But do not return. Ever."

"They want you to hand yourself over! You can't do it, do you know what they'll ..."

"Yes. I said I would surrender. But they never specified to whom."

James looked bewildered. To whom else was there to surrender?

"But I ..."

"Escort him outside," she said shortly, cutting him off, then added in a whisper, "goodbye, James."

The two guards began taking him, reluctantly, down the steps to the castle's courtyard. Leaning back over the battlements, Ceridwen called that she would come down in a few minutes after gathering her things and securing the safety of the royal document.

"Very well," replied the general, "you have five minutes."

She let out a deep breath as she withdrew, and was about to start walking, when Lord Dafydd blocked her way, distraught.

"Please, I beg you, don't do this!"

"The war is over, Dafydd. What use am I now? They cannot retract the statement. And I will surrender. But not to them."

"Then to who?"

Her gaze shifted past him, and up. He looked back over his shoulder to see the turret bearing the flag. He bowed his head, but stepped aside.

"Farewell, Ceridwen. Your country will not forget you. I will see to it."

She smiled, and squeezed his arm.

"It is all up to you, now. We have a country to rebuild, families to re-unite. I place the welfare of this land in your hands."

He nodded slowly, then she walked briskly past him, towards the turret entrance, and began climbing the steps to the top.

James wrested free of his guards at the bottom of the stairs, and turned to see Ceridwen just one last time, only to see her gone. Gripped by a sudden panic, he looked around wildly, then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of red hurrying past the turret window. He then knew exactly what she meant to do.

"Ceridwen! No!" he yelled, a surge of adrenalin taking him past his guards and back up the stairs. He had to reach her, had to talk her out of it. The flurry of motion alerted Dafydd, who attempted to block the Englishman's path. He cannoned into him, but it was the Welshman who came off worst; winded, he crumpled, but staggered to the turret's arched entrance after James.

"Don't try to talk her out of it!" he yelled as best he could up the turret's stairs, "It's what she wants! What do you think you can do?"

James refused to answer, even though he knew there was nothing that would prevent this woman from doing what she believed in. Even so, he had to try, dammit. Gasping for breath, he managed the last steps, and burst through the arched oak door that led out onto a small circular area, in the middle of which stood the flagpole. Ceridwen was standing, arms outstretched, on the stone battlements, the wind whipping her red cloak behind her as wings, her midnight hair streaking out as tendrils to grasp the blue sky. He dashed over to grab her, his lungs burning from the sudden exertion. The world slowed down, as he watched Ceridwen fall forwards, away from him, to lay herself upon the winds. Desperately he reached out, his fingers just brushing the cotton fabric of her cloak, but closing on cold, cruel air. A fleeting instant, noiseless, and she was gone.

Gasping, James could only manage a strangulated cry as he fell against the stone wall, the bile stinging his throat as he slid down to a sitting position on the cold stone floor.

The wind rose again, snapping the flag at its pole. A commotion from below reached his ears on the stiff breeze, but James could not bear to look.

When he found the courage to open his eyes again, they rested upon Dafydd, standing at the doorway, his expression grim. He approached the Englishman, and helped him up. Their eyes met for the first time without malice, James' deep blue eyes countering the other man's brown ones.

"Come. It is time you went home."

James sighed, and looked out once again at the valley of Caerfyrddin.

"Yes. Home. Rest well, Ceridwen," he said to the winds, before turning and following Dafydd down the stairs, and to freedom.