by Signe Pike
But I couldn’t rightly blame Rhiwallon. There was something striking about this woman. Had I seen her, perhaps I would’ve bought her, too.
“Look, Hedwenn, don’t fret. I’ve heard your words. I only wish to speak with her.”
Across the kitchen house, the woman—Eira—was chopping root vegetables with renewed vigor, but I could tell she was listening.
“I won’t trouble you,” I said. “I only mean to speak to you is all.”
“Then speak.” She returned her eyes to her task.
“I… er…” Damn it all, she flustered me. I frowned, mastering myself. “I wonder, do you… enjoy your work in the kitchens?”
She did not stop her slicing, only glanced up as if I’d gone completely mad. As if any servant truly enjoyed his or her position. It was protection. Labor. Survival.
“Forgive me,” I began again. “What I mean to inquire is, have you any knowledge of children?”
At this she ceased her work, setting aside her knife. “Aye. I suppose I do.”
“What sort?”
She swept the vegetables into a waiting basket. “I was eldest of five.”
“And do you like them? Children.”
“I do.” Her answer was swift. Earnest.
I considered her a moment. “Very good, then. You’ll come with me. We shall get you cleaned up, and I’m certain Angharad will be eager to meet you.”
Eira frowned but stood all the same, brushing peels of parsnip from the coarse brown fabric of her dress. By now all the servants in the kitchen were watching. They’d envy her now, if they hadn’t already. They’d be spiteful. Hedwenn was not wrong—there was a reason we left servants in their places. Perhaps I was being selfish to want this woman to serve a purpose of my own. But I thought of the men. If what Hedwenn said was true, Eira would be safer as Angharad’s nursemaid than here in the kitchens. Under my protection, the men would not take such liberties in pursuing her. Besides, if she was not a match, I’d simply return her to the kitchens. No harm done.
“This way.” I motioned for Eira to take her leave. She inclined her head to Hedwenn in passing, and I reached to take Hedwenn’s hand, brushing my lips over her dry knuckles. “Thank you for the sweets. Angharad will be grateful.”
“She’s got a tale, Lailoken.” Hedwenn frowned. “Be kind to her is all.”
“I am always kind,” I said.
Taking the packet from the table, I left Hedwenn to get on with supper.
CHAPTER 3
Lailoken
I stopped at the soft sound of weeping from beyond Angharad’s door. As I reached to knock, her breath hitched, and she called out, “Who’s there?”
“It’s your uncle Lailoken.”
“Does she not know who her uncle is?” Eira murmured behind me. Truly, this woman was far too petulant for a servant.
“Uther Pendragon is an uncle as well,” I informed her.
“I see,” she said.
I turned, half considering sending this Eira back to the kitchens. But I needed her aid and could not help but marvel at her transformation, one that had been achieved in little time. Her brown hair had been washed and drawn back from her face at the temples, secured by a pair of painted wooden combs. A thick wave of curls, still damp and smelling of sweet oils, tumbled down her back. Hedwenn had found a robe in one of our spare trunks, and though it hung a bit loose, it was dark blue and made Eira’s skin look pure as fresh skimmed cream. I’d leave it to Angharad, I decided. Eira was to be her serving woman, after all. The girl had a right to choose.
I opened the door to find Angharad perched at the edge of her bed, wiping the tears from her face.
“Are you feeling quite rested?” I asked. “Is the chamber to your liking?”
Angharad nodded, then looked at me pointedly. “You’ve brought someone.”
I thought she might be pleased, but the look upon her face had me uncertain. “Yes, I’ve brought someone. A companion. Her name is Eira.”
“I thought you were to be my companion.”
“Well, of course I am. But I must ride out before too long, and you’ll need to stay here. Eira will keep you company.”
“The raid,” she gathered.
“Yes, the raid. And Eira was the eldest of five. She will make a fine companion, I think. She told me she quite likes children.” I stepped back, and Eira gave a graceful bow.
“Lady Angharad.”
“Hello,” Angharad said, taking her in. She kicked her feet as she did when she was nervous—a habit my horse, Gwydion, was none too fond of. “So… you’re to be my serving woman?” she asked.
“If you would like,” Eira said.
“I’m not sure. Is that all right?”
“Yes. That’s all right.”
Angharad looked at Eira, her delicate face shifting. “Have you come from the kitchens?”
“Yes.” Eira looked surprised. “How did you know?”
Angharad smiled. “You have a binding on your finger.”
The linen knotted upon Eira’s finger had escaped my notice, but I knew the truth of it. Raised among priests, Angharad had been brought up concealing her gift, especially among those she did not know. She had become quite clever about it. Quite clever, and it pleased her, so now she shrugged. “Also, you do not color your face.”
“Angharad,” I said. “Don’t be rude.”
“She is not rude. She is observant,” Eira said. “I cut my finger just this morning, chopping wild garlic. And I do not paint my face because I have no use for such things.”
“Not even lily root powder?”
“Not even lily root powder.”
“But lily root looks quite pretty,” Angharad said. “My older sister Gladys uses stain on her lips and upon her cheeks. She’s even allowed to kohl her eyes now. But not me. I’m too little.”
“Beauty is not always a virtue,” Eira said.
“I do not think you could ever appear plain, even should you wish it,” Angharad said. But where any other woman might smile from the flattery of a child, something else flashed behind Eira’s eyes. Something like a secret. Angharad noticed, too.
I knew if she willed it, the girl could likely pry into Eira and perhaps be rewarded with a piece of her story. I nearly wished she would, for then Angharad might learn that prying could unearth things one did not wish to see. But I remembered the moment at the stones and cleared my throat. “Angharad.”
Chastened, she looked down, folding her hands in her lap. “Have you lived here very long?” she asked, changing her course.
“No. Not very long at all.” Eira looked about the room, then motioned to the little stool beside Angharad’s table. “May I sit?”
Angharad seemed uncertain how to respond. Servants should stand. But Angharad was unaccustomed to adults asking her if they might sit or stand—this was the realm of her mother.
“You may sit,” Angharad said. “I’ve only arrived here today. I’m to live with my uncle now. Did he tell you? I’m to become a Wisdom Keeper.”
“That is a very noble thing,” Eira said.
I watched the two of them as Eira settled upon the stool. Hedwenn had claimed Eira didn’t often speak, but it seemed to me she had a fair plenty to say.
“Well,” I said after a moment. “Perhaps I should leave you.”
“Yes, you may leave us.” Angharad looked at me.
“And, Eira, you will help ready Angharad for supper.”
She looked up. “Yes, of course. Good-bye, my lord.”
“Good-bye, then.” I looked to my niece but could not escape the feeling I had been rather unceremoniously dismissed. “Until supper.”
Well enough. It was good they should come to know each other, and I wanted to visit the temple. I had time enough before supper to speak with Diarmid.
I found the Wisdom Keeper bent over a small table he’d set in the grass behind the structure, disemboweling rats.
“And where are your robes?” he addressed me without
turning.
“Sullied.” I leaned over his shoulder. “You should make the birds work for their supper.”
Diarmid only grunted. “They like the slimy bits.”
The sleeves of his white robes were rolled up past his elbows, his forearms covered in coarse hair and sunspots. He kept his graying hair cropped close, and his brown eyes were hooded, sharp as those of the eagles he tended.
“Where’s the little lass?” he asked.
“Resting just now, but she’s eager to meet you.”
“She’s a Seer,” he said. Not a question. “And likely more.”
“Aye, I’ve discovered as much. You might’ve told me.”
“You’ve trained enough young ones. It was only a matter of time before you discovered it yourself. Who does it come from, then?”
“Not my own mother; she was a healer. Angharad’s mother did not have the gift. I can only think it comes from her father’s side. Rhydderch’s mother is a Pict. The girl has a way with animals, too.”
“Ah. Perhaps then Angharad will be an augur, like her uncle.”
“The truth is I think she could be a great many things.”
“Special, eh?” Diarmid pushed the entrails into a shallow bowl with a sweep of his knife. Setting his blade aside, he wiped his hands on a broad strip of fabric, then tossed the cloth to me. “Give the hounds a good sniff and set them loose in the granary. That’s where I trapped these two.” He nodded at the carcasses, tipping some water from a nearby bucket to clean the gore from his hands. “Bad luck, rats in the granary. But it’s not yet autumn. There’s still time.”
Something in the Keeper’s tone told me he was speaking of more than rats.
“I took Angharad to the stones at Wildburn,” I told him. “Something troubling happened there.”
Diarmid looked up. “Come in, then. We should not speak of it here.”
I set the bloody cloth on the table and followed Diarmid to the front of the temple. Inside, the stone floor kept the air cool and blocked the sounds of domestic bustle from the courtyard. I breathed in the soothing char of burned resin and heard Gwenddolau’s golden eagles chattering to one another, ruffling their feathers. At the center of the room, a wooden effigy of Herne loomed, cluttered with offerings. Blossoms, gold and silver from our plunder, antler, bone, fresh mead, and a small but skillfully rendered wooden figure with an enlarged phallus, carved by Dreon from the look of it, though I could not imagine, given the number in his brood, he lacked the gift of virility.
Diarmid tossed the entrails to the birds as I removed my leather shoes, nodding to the effigy. It was a representation only. A god of wild places did not favor the confines of any man-made temple, even one hewn of stone. All Britons knew this, not only the Keepers. But it suited to have a place where the people could come during snow and wet weather to sit with their gods, where favors could be asked and offerings could remain unscattered by wind.
“Well?” Diarmid called. “Tell me of the stones.”
I followed him behind the wicker wall that cordoned off his sleeping quarters. In the space, he kept a thin cot, a small bedside table, and a candle in a rude wooden holder. He eased himself onto the cot, and I sank onto the floor across from him, drawing my knees into my chest.
Diarmid listened as I told him of the shift in the air, the smell of it. Of what Angharad had told me, the beast that was threatening. At last Diarmid spoke. “Lailoken. Do you truly believe that men are the wagers of war?”
I considered Diarmid’s question. “Aye. It is men who draw their weapons, who plan their attack. We may beseech the blessings of our chosen gods, but it is we who fight for land, for power, for freedom.”
“Nay.” Diarmid wagged his finger. “The force that drives war is far more terrible than any single man. It is a power—animate and complete. It has a hunger that cannot be sated by the corpses of one hundred thousand men. Always it hungers for more.” He met my eyes. “The beast that comes is war.”
“War,” I echoed. I had felt it, had I not? The immensity. The hunger. “So Angharad warns us of a battle to come. We have fought battles before. Long have Gwrgi and Peredur fixed their eyes upon our land. We will prepare. Angharad’s Knowing is fortuitous.”
“I do not speak of battle. I speak of war,” Diarmid said, and his ferocity startled me.
“Go on, then. I am listening.”
The diviner stared off into the distance a moment, as he did when playing fidchell. “Raids. Battles. Thievery. Lies. All such things only serve to stir the beast. I fear this is larger than revenge sought or justice reclaimed. I fear a greater threat comes for our people, the Britons.”
“We Britons have made our home on this island for time out of memory,” I said. “We will not be undone by this, whatever it may be. With Angharad’s warning, with my counsel and your sight… surely we can find a way to stop this beast in its tracks.”
Diarmid threw up his hands. “Perhaps. Perhaps not! Lailoken, you are a learned man. You know as well as I, vision alone cannot prevent catastrophe.”
I rubbed my forehead wearily. “If only there were fewer kingdoms from which danger may come. That is our first trouble.”
There could be a mass of sea raiders from Pictland, or a scourge of Angles sweeping the country from east to west, as they had done when I and my sister were but little. We could see an attack from Gwrgi and Peredur from the kingdom of Ebrauc, but what strength had they, without a confederation of kingdoms at their backs?
Surely the kings of the Britons were too preoccupied in raiding their neighbors and the rising threat of the Angles of Bernicia to take up arms against the Dragon Warriors, our island’s own protectors. And Rhydderch of Strathclyde was a brother by marriage. He may not have agreed to an alliance, but he would never be my enemy. Take up arms against us? What cause had we given him?
No. Gwrgi and Peredur were our greatest living threat, and on the morrow we would ride out to crush them. “Do not tell me we should not claim our revenge,” I said.
Diarmid’s face shifted. “I crave justice as much as you, Lailoken, but I worry this is not the way.”
“But this very eve I saw success for our campaign. A bevy of quail—the way they flushed underfoot. Herne knows my mind. He knows I seek after it.”
“Aye?” Diarmid’s eyes flicked to the effigy. “And a quick wit has Herne, sending birds.”
I nodded at the memory. I’d been ten winters when my sister and her servant had chanced upon Gwrgi in the market. He’d tormented them by tearing the throat from a chicken with his bare teeth. My cousins and I had seen his deed repaid and tenfold. We’d stolen into his chamber at the inn and filled his bed with chicken heads enough to satiate his hunger. It seemed so long ago now, but the memory summoned some pride. To protect my sister, to answer for a wrong. To do so in a way that was clever yet did not incite a blood feud. That day was the first I understood what it was to be a true warrior.
Diarmid stood, and together we walked to the threshold of the temple.
“Are you prepared, then, to ride out?”
“Nearly,” I said. “We finalize the attack tonight. Truth be told, I hunger for it.”
“Hunger?” Diarmid lifted his brows. “Beware the beast, eh, Lailoken?”
Laughter carried across the courtyard. The door to the hall stood open, and overhead, the sky was awash in purple evening light. In the great room, no fire was lit. With the golden glow of oil lamps, there was no need of it. My eyes fell upon our standard tethered between the posts at the back wall of the great room. The twisting body of the dragon seemed to breathe as the breeze from the open door fluttered the rich blue cloth.
Our Song Keeper, Yarin, was perched on a stool beneath our wall of round painted shields, head tilted to his cruit as he tested its strings. Around the hall, warriors relaxed on pine benches or fleece-lined couches, hunched over gaming boards or cradling cups of ale.
“Escaped so soon?” I chided Dreon, then clapped the muscled shoulder of Fendwin,
who sat beside him. Women had come up from the settlement below and arranged themselves on benches beside the warriors, if not upon their laps. Their eyes touched upon the Dragon, but Gwenddolau sat alone, his blue eyes distant.
“I’ve come from Diarmid,” I said, joining him at his table.
“Tell me,” he said, but his voice was weary.
“Later.”
“Well enough. How does Angharad fare?”
“She’s settled in her chamber, as can be expected.” I paused. “I found her a companion.”
“Aye. I’ve heard as much. Hedwenn is not pleased.” He looked at me. “A servant from the kitchens?”
“Aye, but she suits Angharad well; isn’t that what matters? And besides, there was something about her.”
“Something about her, eh?” His eyes fixed on me as if he would say more, but then our littlest charge appeared in the doorway, Eira by her side.
The men stirred to life as Angharad entered, smiling and hoisting their ale aloft. They might have shared only three days with her on the road, but from the warmth in their eyes I could tell my niece had already won their affection. She stopped and looked about the room, cheeks flushed, hesitant to be the focus of so much attention.
Gwenddolau stood, and the room fell quiet as he gestured for Angharad to come close. Eira ushered her forward.
“To any who have not yet met my young niece,” he began, “this is Angharad of Strathclyde, daughter of Rhydderch. She has come among us to train with Lailoken—she is to be a Wisdom Keeper! But she does not brighten our fortress with her countenance alone. Her presence is a reminder that the bond between the Dragon Warriors and Strathclyde endures. She has been entrusted to our care. We, now, are her family.” He lifted his own cup and turned to gaze down at her. “Welcome to Caer Gwenddolau, Angharad. Welcome home.”
CHAPTER 4
Lailoken
When the last of the platters had been cleared, Yarin called up his bards with the bodhran and flute, and the music began in earnest. The women took to dancing, tugging the warriors to stand, and even as the sturdy planks of the floor began to shake, Angharad yawned, nestling herself into the crook of my shoulder. Soon she was dreaming.