by Katy Moran
Highrule gets to his feet, a thin smile drawn across his face. “Well,” he says. “I’m not fool enough to fight the losing side in a battle, and so I have come to give you the strength of my sword, Penda, King of Mercia. It’s in my mind that you are the rightful High King of Britain, for you hold more land than my uncle, your might is more than twice his, and the men of the north are too foolish to set aside their differences and stand together – still all we hear is talk of Deira, Bernicia, never one kingdom of Northumbria. Wilt tha have my sword?”
No one says a word. Anwen moves closer to Wulf. Edge looks sickened, as though he has just stumbled on something dead and rotting, something foul. I can’t take my eyes away from him. Is he going to faint – he’s pale enough – or do something foolish?
At last, at long last, Penda smiles.
“Well enough, Highrule son of Godsrule,” he says. “You may fight for me when the time comes. Now do you sit down, and Cai shall bring you meat and wine.”
But now Edge is standing, standing and shaking. Anwen opens her mouth to speak, but Edge doesn’t give her the chance— “You filthy traitor!” His voice rises to the rafters, jarring in the golden early-morning quiet. He strides towards his cousin, who just stands there with that faint, mocking smile on his face. “You should die here this day. You’ll rot in hell for it.”
“Edge, be quiet!” Anwen’s voice rings out. “Have you forgot all courtesy?”
“Well,” says Highrule, “how goes it, Peaceblade? How tall you’ve grown, child. But a stripling you were when we brought you here, long ago.”
It’s as if Edge hasn’t even heard. “Dost tha not remember how your mother wept when Penda took tha father’s life, Highrule?” he shouts. “May God curse tha children and tha children’s children, traitor!”
Beside me, Thorn weeps silently, tears spilling down her cheeks. Her wedding feast is blighted now, spoilt. Cenry grips her hand, squeezing her fingers tight, his face frozen. Edge spits on the ground at Highrule’s feet, and Wulf moves at last, his hand crashing down on the table so all the bowls and cups totter in their places.
A thick, horrified quiet settles on us all. I watch a cup jerking, swaying till it tumbles off the table and cracks into shards on the floor.
“Outside,” Wulf says to Edge, without raising his voice, “before you let loose any more foolish words. Never have I been so shamed.”
Edge stalks away, letting the door swing shut. I scramble to my feet, ready to sprint after him.
“Cai,” Wulf says sharply. “Where do you go? Bring meat and wine for our guest, as you were asked.”
Anwen begins fussing around Highrule, taking his cloak, pouring him a cup of beer, bidding him sit, all as if he were just any traveller who had happened upon our hall, and Edge had merely said it had rained a lot of late.
It’s close on full daylight before I get the chance to slip outside.
I find Edge sitting in a shadowy corner of the barn, pitching stones at the mice that flit from shadow to shadow.
“Cursed hawks don’t keep them down,” I say, glancing up at the beam where my lord’s hooded hunting-birds roost.
Edge says nothing. I feel the sorrow burning out of him. He’s never got wrong of Wulf before, at least not while I’ve lived here. He’s not like me. Worse still, Edge is two summers older than I am. If he were at home in the north, he’d be counted a man by now, wearing a ring for his father as Cenry does for Wulf.
I sit down and pass him the leather cask of wine I hid in my tunic. “Here. Have a draught of this. You need it.”
He drinks, taking long gulps, then passes it back. “You ought to go. Get some sleep.”
“They’ll not know I was here,” I say, and taking a swig myself I hand the cask back.
“I don’t know what I’m to do.” Edge’s voice is on the point of cracking. I’ve not heard him like this before; he’s ever bitter and mocking, and never seems to care much about anything. “I’m Northumbrian, House of the Serpent: I was born to give that kingdom my loyalty till the day I die, yet my father sells me to Penda’s son, and now Highrule—And who has looked out for me since I was eight summers old? Wulf, my father’s sworn enemy. I can hardly even recall my father’s face, Cai.”
“Have a drink, you fool,” I tell him, and he takes another draught, letting out a long breath. “Don’t fret on what you can’t mend; it was your father’s choice to send you here. Why should we care what these foolish old men do, anyhow? It’s a mess, but it’s none of our making.”
Edge turns to look at me. “Listen, Cai. You don’t know the half of Penda. Have you never heard the tale of how my uncle Godsrule was killed? He was taken in battle with Mercia – I was no more than three summers old. Penda had his corpse torn limb from limb, his head, his arms and his legs mounted on poles and stuck along the high road to remind folk thereabouts not to shift their loyalties again from Mercia to the High King, who was their rightful overlord anyhow.”
I feel cold inside.
Edge sighs. “Penda’s many things, but he’s not foolish, Cai. He’s dangerous, and now Highrule has sworn loyalty to him, the man who killed his own father. Jesu, we’re in a mess, all right, and it’s going to get worse.”
“Look, do you really think Highrule’s here just to lend his sword to Penda?”
Edge shrugs. “Why else did he come, then? For the fine hunting and the fair women of Repedune?”
“What, like Wynn?” I say, and we both laugh. “Edge, have you no wits in your head at all?” I lower my voice. “I’ll lay you my dagger Highrule’s not here to lend Penda his sword, but to look out for your safety.”
Edge throws a stone, missing a darting mouse by an arm’s length. He throws another and hits one, sending it skedaddling across the barn floor. Then he laughs. “I bet he’s right glad of the welcome I gave him, then.” And he turns to me, his face grave now. “Cai, it’s coming soon. There’s to be a fight, a great fight, and you and I must keep our wits sharp if we’re to come out of it with our skins whole. If Penda orders Wulf to take our lives, he must do it. You know this, don’t you?”
“Give me the wine,” I say, shoving him. “Don’t talk to me of wits after the sport you gave us tonight.”
But Edge is right.
I may be a liar and a thief but I am not normally a fool. Only now I’m sure that swearing myself to Penda was the most foolish mistake I’ve ever made.
A Gathering Storm
IT BEGAN when I was sitting in the yard beneath the ash tree. Wulf told me once they used to praise it as a god when he was a boy, before Christianity came to Repedune-hall. I had a stick in my hand, scratching patterns into the hard-packed dust at my feet. The words alit in my mind like a flock of birds. I was back in the courtyard at Yannis’s, unravelling the Iliad in the shade of the apricot tree; the stick sprang to life in my hand, and I wrote in the dust of Achilles’ great sorrow, of the wine-dark sea lapping at the sands of Troy, shaping the letters that once I hated.
“Cai, what are you doing?” Rhiannfel stood there with her sister and a gaggle of village brats. They stared down at what I had written, fear shadowing their faces. No one writes or reads here, for all Leofric claims he was taught in that Northumbrian god-house where he was bred up to plague me. Is it my fault these Anglish deem letters dark magic, fit only for the god-men?
“Making a tale,” I told her. I do not even know the Anglish word for writing. “Not that it’s any concern of yours, wench.”
Rhiannfel nodded, slowly, kneeling down beside me, her dark hair thick with dust. She must have been in the barn, where they’re threshing the wheat. “Show me how to make my name.” I scratched out the sounds of Rhiannfel’s name in the dirt and she turned, her freckled face bright with laughter. “Is that really me?”
“More or less. You try,” I said.
But the other brats looked edgy now, afraid. They hissed and sighed when Rhiannfel took the stick, ready to copy the letters.
“Don’t do it!” someone c
ried.
“Witch-boy, witch-boy, he’ll curse you!”
“They’re fools,” Rhiannfel whispered, but it was too late: folk poured out of the barn, dusty with the threshing, coming to see what was amiss – and then I saw Leofric striding across the yard from his god-house, dark robes flapping around his scrawny ankles. “He was just showing me, Father,” Rhiannfel said. But Leofric paid her no heed. She may be the daughter of his lord, but she is only a girl.
“I’ll thank you not to frighten the youngsters with your heathenish tricks, Cai.” Leofric dealt me one of his scornful smiles and kicked my work into nothing, leaving no trace as the dust settled again. The children scattered, running towards the safety of the barn where their folk watched, narrow-eyed.
I don’t know what made me do it – maybe it was the heat of the day, perhaps it was just the feeling of being crushed by this place, over-watched by everyone. “I was only writing in Greek, dear Father,” I said, tasting sour delight as the colour drained from Leofric’s shrivelled face and his lips turned white. “If it was good enough for Saint Paul it shall do well enough for me.”
He didn’t agree.
So now I am sitting alone in the dark, shadowy god-house. I’m meant to be on my knees praying for my soul, as if I’d just committed each of the seven deadly sins. At least if I’d done that I should have had some sport and cheer. I ought to have kept my mouth shut: Leofric hates being reminded I know more of the Bible than he does. I’ve had all the psalms by heart since I was six summers old, and he can barely read.
I lean back against the wooden wall, watching a spear of butter-yellow light point down from that high window beneath the thatch where swallows nest in spring. The smell of frying pig-meat and fresh bread drifts in, and out in the courtyard there’s laughter. They’ve forgotten about the witch-boy.
Oh, they like me well enough when I can draw truth from the lips of their enemies, but they’re happy to lock me up the moment I scare them. It makes me sick. I long for Tasik, for my own people. I wish my grandmother were still here. I’d give anything now even to see my dagger-tongued wretch of a sister Elflight.
“More cider, my friend?” I hear someone say – Garric, I think, and there’s the clink of earthenware cups. They’re all sitting out in the yard, toasting the sinking sun and their day’s work with that apple-wine everyone’s so cursed fond of on this island. The brats are at play, too, running and shrieking. They’re safe from the witch-boy now. I should steal back my ring from Wulf. I should get away from this place before it’s too late.
I hear horses, folk calling out greetings, more laughter. Wulf. He’s been away with Penda these past few days, off staying in the hall of some border-march lord or other, bound to Mercia with a golden ring. They took that slipsome eel Highrule, too, which I was glad of, because Edge cannot look on him without bristling like a guard-hound, no matter how many times I say he’s really here to watch for Edge’s safety. And here they are, back again. Oh, wonderful. Right grim and cheerless Wulf has been, ever since Highrule rode in that morning. I’ve had my fill of it. I thought he’d be less unresty once the Wolf Folk left, but he’s worse, if anything.
Something bad is going to befall us all and I know it. How I wish I could shake off this dread, this sense that everything is going to change for ever.
How I wish there was a door to the past and I could walk through it.
I dream of Asha.
It’s hot in the courtyard: the sun’s high, streaming down, beating against the white walls. Vine-leaves hang limp among the green, shadowy tangle. We sit on the rim of the fountain, our legs cool in the dark water. It’s good to be here with Asha once more, even though part of me knows this is not real.
She turns to me, her face calm, serious. Her hair is loose down her back, black and shining. I had my freedom and my family taken from me, she says. You have given yours away.
I wake up breathless. Why did I do it? I lie in the dark hall, listening to Edge’s slow, steady breathing beside me. Why did I give up those I loved? Why have I fallen out with Wulf, and why did I swear myself to Penda? First the Emperor of Thieves, now the King of Mercia. What’s wrong with me? Am I truly so power-thirsty, so wicked, that I’d cling to the cloak of the devil himself if I thought I’d gain from it?
I dread falling asleep again. I don’t mind dreaming of Asha, but I fear the other dream, the one I know will come again tonight, just as it has every night since Cenry and I rode back from Elmet.
But sleep I must.
Fear grips me, and I see a white-haired king sitting on a dark throne, and all around him are dead, swollen corpses, and there is not one living tree, not one blade of grass. There is but the king sitting alone, lord over a blasted wasteland, never to know the warmth of companionship again.
I draw closer, and I see the lines of sorrow etched on the king’s face, the loneliness. And I look at his eyes; black and long they are – the same as mine.
He is what I shall become should I grow too fond of twisting men’s thoughts, should I thirst too deep for the bright, burning power of it: ruler over them all, but alone.
I stand at Garric’s shoulder while he works; I need arrowheads, but he’ll not talk to me till he’s ready, and I like watching him. He’s making nails, holding a coil of metal in the fire with the tongs. The iron glows red, then gold, then white, and swift, smooth, Garric draws it from the forge-fire and hammers it against the anvil to flinders. He scoops them up, dropping them into the water trough, and there’s a white, hissing plume of steam.
I can’t get used to the way everything we use at the hall is wrought by hand, from the cloth the girls and women make in the weaving-shed to the shoes on our feet. At home all we needed was to be had for coin from the stalls thronging the Mese.
Finally, Garric turns to me, his broad face glistening with sweat. “Well enough, witch-brat, and what can I do for you?” He says nothing about my brangle with Leofric yesterday, and I know he shan’t. I like Garric. He never mutters about the Halfling Witch when he thinks I can’t hear; I’ve never once seen him make the sign against the evil eye as I walk by.
I grin. “I want to go shooting, and I’ve no arrowheads. You swore you’d make me some.”
“And so I did, you grasping wretch. I meant to give you them last night but you’d gone to sleep when I came. They ought to be on the hall table still. Go on, get out of my way – even if you can hie off shooting all day, I’ve work enough.”
I run into the quiet hall, bow bouncing against my shoulders. I can see the leather bag of arrowheads from here, resting on the end of the table. I mean to go after a brace of ducks today, and Wynn shall cook them for us tonight.
“Cai, what are you doing?” It’s Wulf, sitting by the fire with Penda.
Oh, no. It’s like turning over a rock to find an adder, fangs waiting and ready to strike. When Anwen came to fetch me from the god-house last night, she told me to stay out of Wulf’s way and now I see why: his temper’s frayed to shreds, and so would mine be if I’d been riding around for days with no one but Highrule and Penda for company.
“Have you lost the power of speech?” he demands. “Come here.”
Where is the old Wulf, the one who was always shouting with laughter and merry as an eel in a barrel of wine? He has changed: these times have washed the cheer from him.
I tuck the bag of arrowheads into my belt and drop to my knees at his feet. “I’m going hunting for ducks.” I search his face for a trace of a smile, but there’s not a glimmer of one.
“Was the fuss you stirred up yesterday not enough?” Wulf’s voice fills the hall right up to the rafters, and I flinch. “You were told to go up to Far Acre and help with the ploughing. Why have you not done so?”
He hasn’t even asked for my end of the tale. No matter what I’d done, Tasik always heard my side of it. I wish he were here now.
“Because I’m weary of folk staring at me all the while and whispering, that’s why!” The words are out before I’ve t
he sense to swallow them.
Wulf’s eyes narrow, and I’ve a plunging feeling in my belly, as if I’m falling. I’m going to get it now.
But then Penda holds up one thin, wrinkled hand.
“Wait, Wulfhere,” he says. He’s smiling, and I shudder. “Perhaps we’re well met this morning, Cai.” He turns to Wulf. “Might this not be the way to untangle our little problem?”
Wulf looks at him, sharply. “Father, I don’t want him mired up in it.”
“Mired up in what?” Again the words are out before I can stop them.
Penda leans back in his chair, and goes on talking as if I haven’t even spoken. “No, Wulfhere – Cai chose to disobey your orders this morning, but perhaps it’s the working of fate. You must agree there’s no one here could do the job better. Peaceblade trusts him.”
What’s he talking about Edge for? A chill slides gently down my back.
Penda leans forward. “Come and sit down, boy; bring up a chair and we shall talk like men, shan’t we?”
I glance at Wulf and he nods – after all, what choice do I have? Penda is my king: mine to obey, and I swore my service to him. Moving as if under water I get to my feet and reach for a stool. Time was I would have loved this, sitting with my lord Wulf and his father, drawn into their trust. But now I’m wishing myself otherwhere.
“What think you of Highrule, boy?” Penda asks.
I stare at the flames. “He’s a traitor, my lord,” I lie, for I do not believe he is. I’d swear on my life that Highrule is playing a double game. “But lucky for you – I’d wager you’ve learned all sorts from him about the Northumbrian fighting men King Godsway has got.”
“Well, boy,” Penda says, “I do not know if I am lucky or deceived. But you could find it out for me, could you not?”
Oh, no. I don’t like the way this is swinging. “My lord—”
“Quiet!” Penda’s hands grip the arms of his chair, bunching up like dead spiders. “Do not speak until you are spoken to. You will find out for me just where Highrule’s loyalty lies. But not from him – he’s too sharp, even for one with your sneaking skills. Get it from your cousin Peaceblade and come to me with the news. Do you understand? You shall be rewarded.”