by Signe Pike
Why had I worried? This child could sleep through a siege. As soon as I thought it, I prayed she would not have to. Eira sat across from me, eyes bright from merriment and possibly from drink, for I would admit some guilt in refilling her cup. I harbored no dishonorable intentions—rather, I’d been curious. As she ate and drank, I’d seen the tightness in which she enveloped herself begin to unfurl. Now I watched as she reached across the narrow table to smooth a strand of hair behind Angharad’s ear.
“My littlest brother had red hair. So very much like hers,” Eira said.
I had not looked overlong at her features while we ate. When I heard the delicate and surprising sound of her laugh, I’d acknowledged it was a fine laugh, but no finer than any other. And I certainly had not glanced down her bodice as she leaned to brush the crumbs from Angharad’s dress. A breath of wind drifted in through the open door and carried her scent to me. She smelled fresh, like meadowsweet. I grimaced at the baseness of my own desire.
My blood was hot, my need stirring. But I’d given my word to Hedwenn, and that was no light thing. Across the room, young women lounged on the couches with lily-white breasts beneath their dresses and invitations in their eyes. I’d lain with a few of them, and the memories were pleasant. Surely there was a far more suitable companion to ease what urged me. I would not make advances upon Angharad’s new companion. Eira would sleep on a pallet beside Angharad this night and, if Angharad so chose, for countless nights after.
I looked down at my niece, fast asleep upon my shoulder. “Angharad has her red hair from her mother,” I said.
“Languoreth,” Eira said. “I’ve heard much of her.”
“Have you, then? I should not be surprised. My sister’s fame far exceeds my own.”
“I’ll not flatter you, if that’s what you seek. You know the Song Keepers tell stories of you.”
“And what tales have you heard? I am curious to know.”
“Well, I myself recall only one story. I heard it when I was but a girl. It was long ago now.”
“I think I know the story of which you speak.”
Her eyes met mine. “It was a sad tale.”
“What makes you say so?”
“It was the story of a young lord who rode out to protect his father’s grain. There had been too much rain. Winter had come early and tarried too long. Many in Strathclyde were hungry. That was when they came to raid. The boy thought to make himself a hero. But he arrived to find his father’s men overwhelmed by a mob. Starving and desperate. Fueled by rage. They captured the boy and held him down. They marked him with the same mark his father bore.”
Her gaze shifted to my scar, and I felt heat creep up my neck at her scrutiny. But her story was not quite right. I set down my cup. “I hear nothing sad about that tale. The acts that mark us lead us to our fate.”
“And what is your fate, my lord?”
I did not like the course of this—it ran too close to my core. And so I said, “Hedwenn tells me that Fendwin purchased you at the quay.”
“Yes.” She shifted in her seat.
“How was it you came there?”
“I came there as any servant does. In bonds.”
“Aye.” I nodded. “But what I do not know is how you came to be there. Who was your master? Where do you hail from?”
“I cannot see why it should matter.”
“Is it so unusual a question?”
“Well, I do not wish to say.”
“Yet I wish to know.”
The look she gave me was cutting. “Are you ordering me, then, to tell you?”
“Nay, I will not order you. I am curious about you, that is all.”
“I come from nowhere of consequence. Keep your curiosity. Or if you cannot, send me back to the kitchens.”
I looked at her, taken aback. “You’ve been drawn from the kitchen with a chance now to serve. Any kitchen girl would be thankful. And yet you are not.”
“I had no desire to be pulled from the kitchens.”
“Do you desire, then, to return?”
Uncertainty flickered behind her eyes, but then she lifted her chin. “Perhaps I do.” Silence fell a moment, then she spoke again. “Angharad tells me on the morrow you will ride out to punish Gwrgi of Ebrauc.”
“Aye.”
“I pray you will find success.”
“Thank you for your wishes, but success will be nearer if I am not preoccupied with the well-being of my niece,” I answered.
“Then you must not be preoccupied, for I hear Gwrgi of Ebrauc is a dangerous man.”
“Aye. But we are dangerous as well.” I looked at her. “Will you stay with Angharad until I return? If by then you are still eager to return to the kitchens, I will tell Angharad myself, and we shall find another nursemaid. But I must know in my absence she will be kept safe and in good comfort. I cannot fight shouldering that worry, and I should most like to return home alive.”
Eira considered it, then inclined her head. “Very well. I will stay,” she said.
“Good. And perhaps when I return, you will reward me with your story.”
“My story. Is that your price for my service, then, or will you demand more?”
“You mean to address me as ‘my lord.’ ”
“My lord,” she said, but her face flushed in anger.
“I’ll exact no such payment, none the likes of your mind,” I answered. “But I will advise you thus: if you wish to play servant, you might learn to speak like one.”
Her face blanched. “I play at nothing! You may live a life of sport, but this is no game for me.” She glanced round the hall and smoothed her dress, but I could see her fingers trembled.
I lowered my voice. “You speak like a noble,” I said. “You have only to open your mouth, and you’ve given yourself away. Where have you come from, then? And why will you not tell me the reason you have left?”
“I cannot say.” She straightened her spine, blue eyes pinning mine. “And if you are a man of any honor, you must swear to tell no one what you suspect.”
I did not like the course of this, but I considered her nonetheless. “Very well. I will tell no one. But in exchange, upon my return, whether you stay with Angharad or wish to return to the kitchens, you will tell me your secret.”
Eira bristled. “And if I will not?”
“Then I will return you to the quay, where you may try your luck with new overlords. I cannot imagine they will be so kind.”
It felt almost cruel to exact such a bargain, but I had a responsibility to our men and, most of all, to Gwenddolau. If a woman of noble blood was concealing herself in our fortress, somewhere there were noblemen in search of her.
“You must understand,” I said. “We are Dragon Warriors. We cannot harbor secrets. We cannot afford them.”
From across the room, I felt Gwenddolau’s eyes upon us. Eira followed my gaze, then stood. “I must take Angharad to bed.”
“Let me carry her.” I made to stand, but she stopped me.
“Nay, I can manage. Come, Angharad.” Her voice was gentle as she stirred my niece. “Cling to me just here.”
Angharad blinked drowsily but did as she was bidden, wrapping her gangly legs around Eira’s waist and securing her hands about her neck.
“There, now. Off to bed with you.” Eira strained at the weight of her, and I rose from my seat.
“Angharad, you’re certain you’ve everything you need?”
“Uncle, you sound an old biddy,” Angharad mumbled as Eira carried her away. I watched them go, ill at ease over Eira and her secret. Perhaps I should not have prevented Angharad from prying after all—I might have learned what caused this woman to seek escape behind our walls.
Then my cousin Brant’s low voice came at my shoulder, drawing me back from my thoughts. “You’ve found Angharad a serving woman.”
“Eira,” I said.
“Eira.” He watched as they crossed the hall, slipping from sight into Angharad’s chamber. “She looks
quite suited for Pendragon, does she not?”
“Pendragon?” I turned to him. “Nay. She is far too… tall. And her back. Look at the way it curves. It’s a wonder she can stand at all.”
Brant raised a brow.
“I only mean to say—perhaps she’s not horrible to look upon, but it’s rather unfortunate about… well.” I gestured below my belt as if to indicate some bedding disease. “The men would do well to keep some distance.”
Brant shook his head with a smile. “And that’s your best effort? I’ve known you far too long, Lailoken.”
I was quite fond of my elder cousin, but I felt suddenly quite certain I might thrash him. Yet as darkness closed in round the fort, the mood in the great room had shifted. Our minds had begun to turn to the raid. When you wake and eat and slumber with the same men as long as we had, you become like one great aspen—many quivering shoots of the same tree.
Gwenddolau gestured from his table nearest the hearth, where Maelgwn had joined him already. They sat with their heads bent over a stretch of ale-stained vellum as Maelgwn made a rough sketch of the neighboring lands with a pointed reed and ink. Brant and I took our seats beside them.
We knew every old tree, each tenant farm, river, and streamlet. But maps moved our minds to these places. Sometimes a map could anticipate something we might not see. I let my eyes roam it unfocused as I told them of Diarmid’s words and Angharad’s warning.
“You saw success should we ride out tomorrow,” Gwenddolau said. “Have you changed your mind, brother?”
“Nay, not exactly.”
Gwenddolau looked at me. “Your lips say one thing, but your eyes say another.”
“It is only I now wonder what series of events this might beget. It is evident Gwrgi and Peredur mean to provoke us. We cannot refuse to answer the wrongs that have been wrought. Yet in doing so, we give Gwrgi and Peredur reason to come against us again.”
“Rhiwallon has just returned from his scouting ride,” Maelgwn said. “He tells me Gwrgi collects his rents from the harvest even now. There may not be a better moment to strike.”
“Fairhaven is closest to our border, so we cannot strike from there,” Gwenddolau said. “It must be a point Gwrgi will not expect. A place he believes is farther from our reach.”
“What of Featherstone?” Brant asked. “It lies deep in the hills. Their food rents will be scarce, but they have mining goods. Tin and lead. If we strike there, we would have Gwrgi’s head as well as a bounty in metal.”
Gwenddolau looked to me. “What say you?”
Brant was a seasoned warrior and I trusted his instincts, yet something felt unsettling. “There is risk in traveling so deep into Gwrgi’s lands,” I said. “I worry for our men. Let us strike somewhere closer to our own border.”
The Dragon Warriors were among the best men-at-arms. But more and more of late, Gwenddolau relied upon our prowess. Now the horror of Sweetmeadow had muddied his judgment.
Gwenddolau scanned our men as they sipped their drinks. They would raid if he asked it, no matter the risk. They thrived on it. But Featherstone was not a risk he needed to take.
“Think on it, Pendragon,” I advised him. “Perhaps now is not the time to strike.”
“I want Gwrgi to fear that nowhere in his kingdom is safe from our grip,” Gwenddolau decided. “Featherstone it is.”
I pinned him with a look. What good was my counsel if he would not follow it? “As you say. Long have I admired your leadership, Gwenddolau.”
My use of his birth name was purposeful. It caused him to blink as if stirring from sleep. But just as quickly his pale eyes turned stony. “Long has it been since I sacrificed the boy called Gwenddolau to become Uther Pendragon,” he said. He looked down upon the map, his deep voice rising. “It was Uther, not Gwenddolau, who was chosen to protect our kingdom when Emrys was murdered. It was Uther, not Gwenddolau, who wed himself to the goddess of the land. Uther took a spear to the lungs. Uther wets his sword with Angle blood. Uther keeps their kingdom at bay. Uther! I am not yet forty winters, yet my yellow hair turns white. I carry the weight of this island upon my back. You jest and say I no longer smile, eh, Lailoken? Look at me. Look at me and see the cost of your freedom.”
Around us, the warriors in the great room had gone silent. Gwenddolau looked up and searched the men’s faces, his eyes questioning the allegiance of each and every man.
How readily they gave it.
Satisfied, he stood.
“Tomorrow we ride for the head of Gwrgi of Ebrauc. We ride to avenge the horrors he has brought upon the people of Sweetmeadow. We will act with what honor we possess, but we will show no mercy, for none has been granted those who lie dead,” Gwenddolau said, then fixed his eyes upon me. “Such is the cost of war.”
CHAPTER 5
Angharad
Caer Gwenddolau
Kingdom of the Pendragons
Late Summer, AD 572
Angharad’s uncles rode off at dawn. She watched from the small timber tower perched above the gate a long while after, until the birdsong became a cacophony and the summer heat made her linen dress cling to her back. The warrior called Rhiwallon kept watch beside her, eyes fixed patiently on the lush green pastures below. Angharad adjusted the belt at her waist; the gold-handled knife sheathed there had once belonged to her mother, and its presence made her feel less lonesome. For although Eira had followed her dutifully up the ladder, Angharad could feel Eira’s thoughts traveling leagues away.
Men were forever riding off. To dangerous things, mostly, like the time her elder brother, Rhys, reached his fifteenth winter, disappearing with her father and her uncle Morcant. Days later he returned driving a stream of stolen cattle. Thereafter, Rhys had been full of shadows.
“A dull occupation, keeping watch, until it is not,” Rhiwallon said, startling Angharad from her thoughts.
“My uncle hoped it would divert me,” she answered. “Yesterday I told him I would quite like to mind the gate.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied. “Perhaps he wished you to learn our ways so you might carry your weight in earnest, as all of us do.”
A voice came from down below. “Or perhaps he wished to demonstrate that diversions are impossible without training the mind.” Angharad leaned over the opening to see Diarmid the Diviner squinting up into the sun.
“You must have terribly good hearing,” Angharad said.
“Children’s voices carry,” the Wisdom Keeper replied. “You would do well to remember that.”
Next to her, Eira smiled, amused.
“Come down, then,” Diarmid said. “Keeping to towers is a waste of your time.”
Angharad turned to Eira. “May I?”
“I don’t see why not.”
Angharad climbed down carefully and looked at the diviner. His expression was frank, but his brown eyes were kind and full of stories.
“Would you like to see Pendragon’s birds?” he asked.
“The eagles? Oh, yes. Very much,” she replied.
“Excellent.” He looked to Eira. “I will return her to you.”
“Of course,” she said.
Sun through summer leaves dappled the grass as Angharad followed the Wisdom Keeper into the courtyard. “Is it true you can divine the future?” she asked.
“Aye. What the Gods allow.”
“Have you done the Bull’s Sleep, then?”
“Aye. I’ve done many a Bull’s Sleep.”
“Is it true you must chew the bull’s flesh without even roasting?”
“Aye.”
“And does it taste very awful?”
“I find it quite mild. ’Tis better, though, if you take no issue with gristle and fat.”
The thought made Angharad want to retch, but there was so much more she wanted to know. “Is it true you can cloak yourself from sight?”
At this, Diarmid turned to her. “In a way,” he said. “Would you like to know how?”
“Oh, very much,” she answered.<
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“Then look.” Diarmid pointed. Angharad followed his finger in confusion before spotting a little streak of brown disappearing behind the kitchen house.
She screwed up her face. “A mouse?”
“Precisely.”
“I don’t understand.”
Diarmid looked at her. “Imagine you are brown as dirt. Imagine you are little more than a mouse. Think on it. Who knows? Perhaps then you shall see.”
They stepped through the door of the temple, and Angharad bent quickly to remove her leather shoes. A tingle rose as the cold flagstone met her bare feet. Before her a wooden statue stood, the figure of a man with a great pair of antlers branching from his head. Herne, she knew. Beyond the effigy, Angharad heard the rustle of two powerful golden eagles. They sat perched in a tall wicker enclosure, eyes blinking as they regarded her.
“Magnificent creatures, aren’t they?” Diarmid said. And at the sound of his voice, one of the eagles tilted its head. “Go on, go and greet them. But don’t get too near. They do not much care for strangers.”
Angharad moved nearer. The birds seemed nearly as large as she. The ends of their beaks were curved and looked sharp as needles.
She could feel the Wisdom Keeper watching her. “Lailoken told me of your encounter in the stones,” he said.
“Had he not told me, I would not have remembered what took place at all.”
“Yes, that is the way at first.” Diarmid nodded. “But in time you will gain mastery over it. Seers live in two worlds, Angharad. The outer and the deep. I admit I sometimes forget which is where. It is only natural that, in the beginning, memories are lost between the two. Better that the memory is lost rather than you.
“From the tower where you sat, one can scarcely see beyond the farthest pasture,” he continued. “There are much more efficient ways to see. Your uncle may instruct you on augury and the study of omens in nature. But, child, I can teach you how to become an instrument of the Gods, if you will it. Are you ready, then, to learn?”