The Forgotten Kingdom

by Signe Pike

  “Ah, I see your humor has returned at last,” I said. “You must be feeling better, brother. You were growing quite dull, you know.”

  Brant smiled, but Gwenddolau only lifted a brow.

  “Never fear, Angharad,” Brant reassured her. “When Lailoken chooses to wed, he will have his pick of gentle ladies.”

  Angharad had turned to Gwenddolau now, her attention blessedly diverted. “And why have you not taken a wife, Uncle? After all, you are a rich and powerful king.”

  “So I am rich and powerful, while your uncle Lailoken is handsome. Is this what you say?” Gwenddolau frowned.

  “Oh, you are quite handsome, too,” she answered. “But never so much as when you smile.”

  “And am I to be only handsome, not rich and powerful as well?” I asked.

  Angharad looked between us. “You tease me.”

  “Right you are. For there isn’t a citizen of Strathclyde who doesn’t know I possess a great many more gifts than my incredibly fine looks,” I said.

  “Humility, for one,” Maelgwn said as he drew his mount up beside us. Angharad laughed. But with talk of marriage, Gwenddolau fell silent.

  Strong-featured with pale hair, Gwenddolau suffered no lack of women. But when it came to finding a wife, I’d searched the length of the isle, and no king or chieftain would wed his daughter to Uther Pendragon. Despite Gwenddolau’s wealth and the reputation of his retinue, our kingdom was small and pressed by the Angles of Bernicia in the east. What land he possessed the Dragons had carved out. The risk, these fathers feared, was too great. My own sister, at least, did not doubt our strength. Had she worried over our survival, she’d never have allowed me to foster her youngest child.

  As Gwenddolau’s counsel, I’d strengthened our alliances as best as I could. We’d visited the powerful King Urien of Rheged by arrangement of his Song Keeper named Taliesin, a man I called a friend. We’d made a treaty for trade with Aedan mac Gabhran, a powerful Scot, now king of Mannau in the north. And on Gwenddolau’s behalf, I traveled often to my sister and her husband, Rhydderch, at Cadzow and Clyde Rock.

  Still, our enemies only mounted. The power of the Angles in Bernicia had quickened, and they sought to test the boundaries of their new kingdom in sudden and violent raids. Raids came, too, from the kingdom of Ebrauc, ruled by Gwenddolau’s cousins Gwrgi and Peredur. Their father had routed Gwenddolau’s father from his throne when I was but a boy. Now the sons carried the feud their fathers begot; they attacked and we countered. Blood flowed on both sides.

  It was time for the Dragons to find a safe haven. And if I could not secure a marital alliance for Gwenddolau, I must craft a political one. Thus, our visit to my twin sister at Cadzow had been at my urging. Strathclyde was a great power, and Rhydderch its likeliest successor. I had appealed to Rhydderch for support, but the visit had not been a success. Gwenddolau refused to swear fealty, and Rhydderch would not take up Gwenddolau’s cause without it—to do so was to risk losing the favor of his father, Tutgual. Tutgual had not yet named a tanist, his chosen successor. In the end, the Council of Strathclyde must agree to Tutgual’s choice, but to be named Tutgual’s tanist was a mighty thing.

  Now we returned to our kingdom to see to our defenses. Let the kings of the north have their doubts. The warriors Pendragon were among the most feared in our land. We would fortify our ramparts and triple our scouts. We had survived before and would do so again.

  Thinking of it, I turned to Gwenddolau. “All has been quiet in our absence. The men have seen to the rampart, yes? They have deepened the dyke and dug the new pits?”

  “Aye,” Gwenddolau said. “And tomorrow we will ride out to bring the southern settlements some ease. What happened at Sweetmeadow shall not happen again.”

  With talk of adult things above her station, Angharad perked. “Sweetmeadow? Is there a story? I do love a story.”

  Gwenddolau and I exchanged a look.

  “It was a raid,” he said. “A raid by our enemies. That is all.”

  The memory of what I’d seen—what Lord Gwrgi had done—surged back unbidden. The dark-haired woman hanging from the stables. Bodies strewn like dolls. Girls. Little more than children. Rage pulsed at my temples, working its poison, but I could not turn from the visions. Let the girls be remembered for their suffering. After what Gwrgi of Ebrauc had done, it was better they had not lived.

  “Uncle, you hold me too tight!”

  I looked down to see I’d been clutching Angharad as if she might slip from my grasp.

  “Sorry, I am sorry,” I murmured, releasing her.

  It was nearly sunset by the time our caravan reached the fortress. Along the river, the sun lit the parchment of birch trunks like melted gold. In the shallows, a waterbird stood, one foot lifted, scouring shadows under rock for its evening catch.

  There had been a cliffside fortress at the meeting of the Liddel Water and the river Esk since twilight times. It was a seat of power when I was but a boy, though it had since been burned and rebuilt. The fort commanded tribute on goods traveling north into Strathclyde as well as south into Rheged. We earned a portion of wealth, too, from any wares arriving or departing from the salt waters of the Solway Firth. Caer Gwenddolau might be small, but the reach of Pendragon’s influence was mighty.

  As we neared the edge of the forest, the warriors’ wives and lovers came rushing from their huts to greet them, children close behind, and Angharad shrank into the saddle as if she wished to disappear. But I saw her smile as Dreon’s daughters threw themselves at their father like a pack of wild dogs. His youngest shared a birth year with Angharad. They’d make suitable friends.

  The warriors who dwelled in the huts below the fortress dropped from their horses and waved us off, taking their loved ones under their arms. Only those who sought escape would join us for supper in the hall this night.

  I urged Gwydion into the lead as we mounted the narrow trail carved into the eastern slope of the hill, but as we rounded the bend, there came a brown flash of feathers and the muted thundering of wings.

  “Quail!” Angharad said with delight as the flock scattered. They fluttered to and fro in a such a panic it made me wonder at their survival. An omen, perhaps.

  I looked up at the timber guard tower as we neared the outer rampart, lifting my arm in greeting. “Ho, Fendwin!”

  The ruddy-haired warrior raised a hand in welcome from the lookout. “Well met,” he called out. “And just in time. Einion killed a stag. We’ve been waiting all day now.”

  “Fendwin. All right?” Gwenddolau called from behind me.

  “Aye, Pendragon. All’s well.” Fendwin peered from the tower with a broad smile for Angharad. “Is this the niece, then, I’ve heard so much of?”

  “The same. Angharad, meet Fendwin,” I said.

  “Are you the gateman?” she asked, craning her neck.

  “Nay, little lass, not exactly,” he said. “We’re all gatemen here. It’s the Pendragon way.”

  “The Pendragon way?”

  “Our warriors share in all stations of service,” I explained as we passed through the gates. “Dragon Warriors are not like other soldiers, suited only for one task, kept in only one position. Today Fendwin mans the tower. Tomorrow he may ride out to scout. The day after that, he may lead a raid. We are not only an arm or a leg. We are every part of the creature. Even myself. You’ll soon see, for while you may study as a Keeper, you’ll be given your tasks as well.”

  “I should like to mind the gate,” she said.

  “Well. First you must learn to wield your mother’s blade. Then we shall see.”

  We left our horses to graze and climbed to the summit on foot. The hounds heard us coming. Their bays echoed over the summer pastures as we passed through the gate of the inner rampart. Inside, the evening breeze was milder. There were trees here—hazel and ash, crab apple and rowan. But the hilltop was large enough for only the necessities: granary, smithy, kitchen house, guard lodgings, temple, and tanning shed. At the highe
st point, our timber hall stood, thatch-roofed with a pair of fierce-toothed wooden dragons keeping watch above the heavy oaken door.

  “There you can see the hall. And beyond it, the well.” I pointed. “Beside the well is the temple, home to Diarmid, a friend and fellow Keeper. He is a diviner. Uther’s birds are kept within.”

  At the mention of Diarmid and the birds, Angharad’s eyes lit. She lived in a land of priests. Seers of the Old Way were banned from Tutgual’s court. Aside from myself, Diarmid may be the first of her own kind the girl would encounter.

  “You’ll soon meet him,” I assured her. In fact, I planned to visit Diarmid as soon as I was able. I was anxious to speak with him about Angharad and what had taken place in the stones.

  I watched as she took in the tidy buildings tucked within the fortress’s inner rampart, wondering how it appeared to a child so accustomed to Partick, with its bustling market and fine trappings, its scores of monks and richly plumed ladies of Tutgual’s court. But Angharad was a child of Cadzow, I reminded myself. A child of the forest, like her mother. Like me.

  “It’s a mite smaller than you’re accustomed to,” I ventured.

  “It’s just as I imagined it,” she answered. “I was only thinking of Rhys. He talks of nothing but you and Uther and the Dragon Warriors—I’ve seen him in his chamber. He spends ages hunched over his little pine table, staring at this very place on his map.”

  The mention of my nephew brought a smile. “Rhys will come. Would that he’d come long before now, but he cannot go overlong without seeing his favorite sister—not to mention his favorite uncle. You shall see. Rhys is a man of seventeen. He will soon make his excuses and visit us here.”

  Even as I said it, I did not believe it. Rhydderch kept his eldest son close. Perhaps he sensed how brightly his son’s passion for the Dragon Warriors burned and hoped to keep the boy’s affection from catching alight.

  The door to the hall opened and our shaggy gray hounds rushed out to greet us, thumping their tails and shoving their wet noses into the folds of Angharad’s cloak until she burst into laughter.

  “Back, you beasts!” I bent to wrestle my favorite, who stood taller than Angharad with his paws upon my chest. Across the yard of the fortress, the servants moved about their duties, their eyes lingering upon the little tawny-haired girl.

  “Come, Angharad,” I said. “All are eager to meet you. But first we shall get you settled in your quarters. You’ll want to rest before supper.”

  I led Angharad past the great room and into her little chamber as the servants began to unpack her belongings. As I closed the door to my own small room, the silence felt a blessing after three nights spent beside snoring men on a bedroll. My chamber—as well as Angharad’s—lay off the great room, and it dawned upon me there would be a ruckus in the evenings. What if the child could not sleep?

  Sweet gods! Dreon was right. I was becoming staid as a mother hen. I recalled the sight of the ale waiting in the great room on the tables beside the central hearth. Perhaps I did require a servant woman to mind Angharad. Languoreth had wanted to send her woman, but I’d refused; it wasn’t the way. “A Keeper must not travel with servants when they undertake their training,” I’d said. But for all my adherence to custom, I had not anticipated the difficulty. I loved the child, but it would be impossible for me to see to her every need. And tomorrow we would ride out to answer Sweetmeadow. I craved the blurry sort of heat lent by a horn of liquor and the comfort of a beauty in my bed.

  Leaning over my washbasin, I rinsed my face and dried it with a cloth, pulling loose my sandy hair from its binding. My white robe was brown with muck from the road, and I tugged it off. Within the walls of this fortress, all knew my station, so I preferred to wear a warrior’s tunic. I pulled one of red linen over my head and stepped into a soft pair of trousers, belting them at my waist.

  “A mother hen,” I mumbled. The smooth skin of my stomach stretched taut over ridges of muscle. I was a man at my zenith—face unlined, body strong and able. How long had it been since I’d lain with a woman? I felt the need stir. At Cadzow I had been too preoccupied with matters at hand. But now we were returned to ride out in search of Gwrgi. My blood drummed at the thought of it. It was a dangerous thing to ride out after the head of a king. I would need to stoke my battle madness, to summon my frenzy. Nay, I would not sleep alone this night.

  But first I must secure Angharad a nursemaid.

  In the great room, I swiped a mug of ale from the table and swallowed it down as I headed across the courtyard, calling for our housewoman. “Hedwenn!”

  It was a warm summer evening, and the door to the kitchen house was propped open. I stooped beneath the entryway, but not low enough to avoid slamming my skull against the lintel.

  “Ow. Hedwenn!” I rubbed my head with a frown. “Where’s Hedwenn?”

  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim. Bushels of marjoram and stringy roots of lovage hung from a length of twine stretched between the roof beams. The hind Einion had killed smoked over the hearth on a spit, and I caught the pungent scent of wild garlic mingling with the earthy char of mushrooms. Suspended from a hook above the fire, an iron pot of broth was simmering.

  Hedwenn stood with her strong back to the door, bent over a wicker basket of whortleberries. “Ah! Here you are, back home!” She straightened with a grin. “Come here and I’ll feed you.”

  “Nay, Hedwenn. I’ve come on another errand.” I paused. “Well. Perhaps just a bannock.”

  “A bannock, then.” She beamed and plundered a warm bannock from a cloth-lined basket beside the hearth. It gave off little crumbles as she pulled it apart, dunking it into the pot of broth before offering it to me.

  “Hedwenn,” I moaned as I stuffed it in my mouth. The juices trickled down my chin. “Why must I ever leave you?”

  She flushed with pleasure and handed me a linen to wipe my beard. “Ever the flatterer.”

  I glanced round at the bustle of servants, and an unfamiliar woman caught my eye. She sat at the table near the wall, half-hidden by the dim light of the kitchen house. Her long brown hair was tied back but had slipped from its plait, further obscuring her face. Her fingers were short and slim, her collarbone fine. How curious. A new servant. Quite possibly a pretty one.

  I nudged Hedwenn, squinting into the poor light. “Who is that?”

  Hedwenn lowered her voice. “She’s just come from the quay. Been here a for’night. Rhiwallon brought her.”

  “Brought her from where?”

  “Don’t know. Won’t say. She doesn’t talk much. But she’s a good worker and fine enough help, aren’t you, love?”

  The woman straightened, pushing the hair from her eyes with the back of her hand. Her eyes were blue as a dunnock’s egg, rimmed with dark lashes. Hedwenn must have seen the look upon my face because she planted herself firmly between me and the servant, crossing her arms over her bosom.

  “I need more help than Pendragon’s allowed me, Lailoken. And you can tell him I’ve said as much! My back’s been painin’ me. And my eyes—”

  “Hedwenn. You’re a treasure, and you shall have all the help you deserve,” I said, craning my neck to get a better look at the woman. “But I’ve come on an errand of particular import, and I’ve a feeling about this one.”

  “Eira.”

  I was taken by surprise when the woman spoke—her voice was soft but firm, and there was a richness in her tone that belied her age, for she didn’t appear to be older than twenty winters.

  “Pardon?” I said.

  “Eira is my name.”

  Snow, it meant, in the tongue of the Britons. And it was fitting, for her skin was smooth and pale. But the look upon her face made it clear she did not appreciate the flippant way I’d referred to her.

  “Eira. Very well.” I offered my most disarming smile. “I have need of a nursemaid for my niece. She is eight winters. You have been here only a fortnight, but I am certain you’ve heard of her arrival. She has le
ft behind her family, and though I am her uncle, it seems she could use a companion. I fear she is most lonely.”

  At the mention of Angharad, Hedwenn flapped her arms, birdlike. “Aye, goodness me, Angharad! Don’t think I’ve forgotten. I’ve put aside some sweets for her—I baked them off just this morning.” She took my elbow firmly in hand and drew me toward a little parcel set aside on the table.

  “You’re trying to distract me, Hedwenn. It won’t work. It’s Angharad I’m thinking of. You must see my reason.”

  Hedwenn put a pudgy hand to her hips. “M’lord. Surely you can’t mean to have a servant girl as your niece’s companion.”

  “Why ever not?”

  She cast about for a reason. “Well, for one thing, they’re not always trusty. Letting her into the hall when she’s been here not one moon?”

  Across the room, Eira stiffened.

  I studied her. “She seems trusty enough. After all, you’ve got her preparing Pendragon’s dinner.”

  “We’ll seek out someone more fitting on the morrow,” Hedwenn assured me. “I shall find you the perfect lady, one far better suited to keep company of a wee princess from Strathclyde.”

  “Perhaps I’ve already found her.”

  Hedwenn glanced at Eira, dropping her voice to a whisper. “M’lord.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it’s only I don’t think it’s fitting to bring a woman from the kitchens into the main hall. And this one… I won’t say she’s trouble, but she has a tale, I can promise you that.”

  “Servitude is no easy life. All servants have a tale.”

  “What I mean to say is, I’d be lyin’ if I didn’t tell you I feel motherly is all.” Hedwenn clutched her apron between her hands. “ ‘Bring me a sturdy young boy with a strong back,’ I tell Rhiwallon. And he come back with this one! I muddied her up best I could, but the men have been sniffing round her like a pack o’ wolves. You’re a fool to think you’re the first.”

  I bristled and nearly asked Hedwenn which men had been sniffing round, but we’d all had girls from the kitchens, hadn’t we? “Best not to task Rhiwallon with picking the servants next time, I’d say.”