by Signe Pike
“Yes,” Angharad answered eagerly.
“Good. First we shall quiet your mind. Then we shall see.”
Angharad went to the temple each morning as soon as she’d swallowed down her breakfast. There she and Diarmid sat on reed mats in the cool quiet, and he taught her the way of slowing her breath. Of waiting without waiting.
It was not seeing. Not truly. It was more akin to listening. Sensing. Angharad began to understand it in the way one catches a scent on the breeze for a moment, before it is gone. But now, on the eighth day since her uncles’ absence, she sat trying to listen, to no avail. Everything had become so loud. The feathery rustles from the eagles’ enclosure. The thudding of her own heart. As she sat in Diarmid’s stillness, the tiny red lumps on her arms from the midges at sunset itched with renewed vigor until Angharad felt she’d go mad. She squeezed her eyes shut, screaming inside her own head.
“Enough for today,” Diarmid announced, as if she had spoken aloud.
“A few moments more,” Angharad begged.
“Nay, we must cease, Angharad. We shall try again tomorrow. Besides, your uncles will soon return.”
“How do you know?” Angharad asked in wonderment. “Did you divine it?”
Diarmid gave a small smile. “Your frustration, child, is a mirror of their own.”
“Whatever do you mean? Please, Diarmid. Tell me plain.”
“The warriors have failed in their raid. They could not catch Gwrgi out. You felt their rage as I did. Only I intended to, whereas you did not.”
Angharad frowned. Diarmid could not be right. Her inability to sit still had always enraged her. Or had it indeed? For she’d sat quite happily the day before, and the day before that.
“Come now, no frowns,” Diarmid said. “Your uncles will be in need of a welcoming face.”
Relieved as she was at the thought of their safe return, Angharad found it difficult to believe the Dragon Warriors could set out with such fervor and fail at their task. She knew Gwrgi of Ebrauc was a horrible man. She had seen him in Strathclyde, for he never missed their summer games. She had seen the way her mother stiffened at the sight of him. Heard the way her mother spoke his name, as if it were a curse.
“If they have not slain Gwrgi, will he not seek revenge?” Angharad asked worriedly.
Diarmid’s dark eyes were solemn. “Yes, Angharad. He will seek revenge.”
“And what will happen then?”
“When that day comes, you must do as we say. But a child like you needn’t worry.” The Seer patted her hand reassuringly. “There is a great plan for you, Angharad, for you are Chosen. The Gods call their children to them, and shelter none so much as those who do their work. Your course was charted long ago, so whatever may come to pass, you must not fret. You will be safe from harm, Angharad of Strathclyde. I, Diarmid the Diviner, do promise you that.”
II.
Myrddin… was a white hawk
when the fierce battle would be fought,
when there would be a joyous death,
when there would be a broken shoulder,
when there would be heart’s blood before he would be put to flight.
—“Peiryan Vaban” (“Commanding Youth”), translated by John K. Bollard, The Romance of Merlin
CHAPTER 6
Languoreth
Tutgual’s Hall
Partick
Kingdom of Strathclyde
October, AD 573
Imprisoned in the dark of my chamber, I could not see the sky, but I knew rain was coming, for my body ached in places I was overworn. My hips, from bearing four children. My wrist, from bracing my fall the time I’d been struck by a man. And then I was thinking of my eldest boy, Rhys. Of Angharad. Of Maelgwn and Lailoken and my foster brother, Gwenddolau, and the beast descended to devour me once more.
At first there had been no words.
All I could do was retreat in my memory to the time we began—my twin brother, Lailoken, and I.
In those days, our father yet lived. I danced beside the blaze of a Midsummer fire and loved a black-haired warrior named Maelgwn under a temple of trees. My youngest daughter Angharad had not yet been taken from me. My firstborn, Rhys, had not yet ridden off to war.
These were the days I chose to inhabit. I left my body like a shell and buried myself there.
Time passed. They had given me, at least, parchment and ink.
Scarcely pausing to eat or sleep, I wrote of all that had taken place, sometimes through laughter but more often through tears, until my story had unraveled and I arrived back at the place I now dwelled—a prisoner in my own chamber, armed guard at my door.
My husband and eldest son had ridden off to make war upon my brothers.
It had all happened so quickly.
Gwrgi and Peredur of Ebrauc had arrived at Tutgual’s gate demanding an end of Uther Pendragon. I’d been barred from their War Council, but their claims, I knew, would be threefold: that Pendragon’s violent raids against Ebrauc were evidence of his dangerous thirst for power. That Pendragon was weakening, and should his lands be seized by the Angles, all of our kingdoms would be vulnerable to attack. Last, they would cite Pendragon’s refusal to pledge fealty to any overking. If it came to war with the Angles, Uther Pendragon could not be trusted to join a Brythonic confederation.
And so Tutgual agreed, and together their armies left to crush Gwenddolau once and for all.
And yet there was a darker, more insidious reason this battle had been waged, one not spoken aloud.
The people of our island were divided by belief. Gwenddolau and his kingdom kept the old gods, while kings such as Tutgual, Gwrgi, and Peredur claimed devotion to Christ.
The battle against the beliefs of our ancestors had begun when I was a child. I came of age in a time when a Wisdom Keeper still possessed the power to speak first, even before a king. Now Wisdom Keepers were replaced by bishops who worked with a willing nobility to create a new order, one that subsumed the power of our Keepers. Still, for as many Christian families as there might now be, there were just as many who kept the ways of those who’d come before. Slaying Uther Pendragon would be a devastating strike against the people of the Old Way.
Knowing my devotion to both my brothers and the Gods, my husband shut me away so I would not send warning. But I had already sent my groom by the time I heard the ominous slide of the bolt against my door. I only prayed my warning had reached Caer Gwenddolau in time.
Now, when I slept, I dreamt of my daughter.
I’m all right, Mama, I’m all right, Angharad called out. But she was not all right. She was treading chest-deep in an ocean of blood, her tawny hair soaked with it, eyes wide as she struggled to keep to the surface. I plunged into the viscous depths, felt it seep into my dress as I struggled to reach her. My nose filled with the smell of rust, and I woke.
Angharad. In the tongue of the Britons, her name meant “most beloved.”
I had railed and pleaded and screamed and wept until the guards became deaf to it. Time passed, and I began to understand there was no escape from the prison save death itself. I understood that this chamber was not the prison. The prison was of my husband’s making—the war he was waging even now against those I loved most.
Then I remembered that while Angharad and Rhys were away and in such terrible danger, I had two children yet here. Two children yet with me, and they needed their mother.
And so this time I did not beat at my door but tapped softly upon it. The guard must have recognized I’d returned to myself, for at last, after too long, he opened the door.
“Please,” I said. “Bring me my children.”
He looked me over, then turned away. Moments stretched. I smoothed my hair and pinched my cheeks to summon life I did not feel. And then my serving woman Aela came. With her were Gladys and Cyan.
“Mother!” Gladys ran to me, but Cyan stood at the door, regarding me as if I were a stranger. I clutched Gladys as she shook with her tears, her slender shoulde
rs somehow more womanly though it had been only days. How many? Truthfully, I did not know.
Gladys drew back, eyes wild with fear and with anger. “Why have they not let us come until now? Why are they keeping you here? Did they discover your groom?”
“Gladys!” I gripped her, glancing hurriedly at the door. “You must not mention it. Do you understand? Not ever again. That I would send warning… the king would have my head for that.”
“I’m sorry, Mother!” She burst into tears anew, and I cursed Rhydderch’s family again and again, pulling her close.
“Never mind it. Tutgual only means to keep us safe,” I lied. “Strange things happen in times of war. Men’s minds are bent. We will be out of harm’s way here in the capital, in the hall of the king. We are together now—that’s all that matters.” I looked up in search of my youngest son. “Cyan, will you not come? Please. I would hold you.”
He gave in at last and let me embrace him, but his gaze remained fixed upon the floor. He would not forgive me so readily for abandoning him. His fair hair smelled of candle wax, and when I took his hands in mine, I saw his fingers were stained with pigment.
“You’ve been drawing. What have you made? Will you bring it to me? I should like to keep it in my chamber.”
It was this that summoned his tears, and his gray eyes filled. “Will they not release you, then?”
“My boy. My love.” I drew him back into the circle of my arms and hugged them both so fiercely I wondered they did not break. “It will all be over soon. Your father and Rhys will return, and with them will be Angharad. We must believe it to be true. We will survive it no other way.”
Rhydderch would have traded for Angharad before they attacked. And even had that somehow gone awry, Maelgwn had sworn to me, the day she had left with the Dragon Warriors, that he’d keep Angharad safe.
“And what of our uncles?” Gladys asked. “What of Lailoken and Uther?”
I looked to Aela, questioning, but she gave a slight shake of her head. No news, then. They would keep me here, keep me in the dark.
Yet what right had I to complain of darkness when I was surrounded by all my belongings, when I slept dry and warm in my own chamber each night? Even now, those I loved could be dead or wounded, fleeing through the frigid autumn woods. Even now, Tutgual held my cousin Brodyn in the prison pits beyond the hall. If I could not be trusted, Brodyn of Cadzow was something worse in the eyes of Strathclyde. He had taught Lailoken and Gwenddolau in weaponry. And his brother Brant was a Dragon Warrior. So now my own blood, captain of my guard, languished in a hole in the earth.
“How many days has it been?” I asked. “How many days since they rode out?”
“More than a fortnight,” Aela answered.
“Dear Gods.” Had it been a fortnight since Elufed had slipped into my chamber and pressed the mushroom into my palm, the one that had brought me such visions? It had wracked my body with sickness and sweat—I realized now how close I’d truly come to death.
But I had seen men escaping through fire. A broad-shouldered mountain covered in snow. There was a vision of Angharad, grown to a woman. My brother, his body stooped with age. Why had I not been granted such visions of my son?
“It is over now,” I said, even as sickness crept into my belly. “It must be. And until they arrive, we must keep ourselves occupied, and we must pray to the Gods to bring them safely home.”
“I pray to Christ every morning and night that he might bring Father home,” Cyan said.
“To Christ?” I said it more sharply than I intended, and Cyan drew away. “I’m sorry, Cyan. To each his god. You are praying; that is what matters.”
I smoothed back his hair. Each to his god, Cathan would say. But Cathan had been speaking of the gods of this great island with its mountains and lochs, its glades and bog lands and forests. The gods of the Britons. Who would we become, he might ask, if we banished the choosing of one’s own devotion? Freedom in thought and devotion had always been our way. And as we chose our gods, surely the gods chose us, too. Lailoken was a son of Herne. For my love of healing, I belonged to Brigid. I was a daughter of Clota, our river. And so it seemed Christ had beckoned my Cyan. Perhaps it was only Christ who could deliver him to his greatest purpose.
“Has Elufed been minding you, then?” I asked.
Now, as if the mere mention of her name had summoned her, the guard opened the door and the queen appeared, her golden hair exquisitely coiled and her slate-colored eyes impassive.
“I heard you were at last among the living,” Rhydderch’s mother said. But Elufed’s voice betrayed what her eyes did not—I knew her well enough to hear her relief and her fondness.
“Thank you for minding the children,” I said.
Elufed inclined her head but then frowned. “It smells like a souring wound in this room. Aela, open the shutters.”
“I’m afraid I cannot, my queen.” Aela bowed.
“Why ever not?”
“They’ve been hammered shut.”
Elufed strode to the door. “Gavin!” she called out. The guard appeared without the good grace to look shameful. “Did you truly believe Lady Languoreth would attempt to steal from that utterly insignificant window? And from an upper chamber? She would surely break her bones.”
“I was only keeping to the king’s word, my queen.”
“You will pull the nails immediately. She is Rhydderch’s wife, after all.”
“Aye, my queen.”
Rage rose at the mention of Rhydderch’s name. My own husband had locked me in my chamber, too much of a coward to even bid me good-bye.
Elufed seemed to sense my anger and turned to look at me. “Languoreth. Are you quite well?”
The look I gave her was incredulous.
“Never mind it,” she said. “There will be plenty of time to speak. You must wash. Aela will help you dress, and then you may join me. I shall meet you in the great room when you are ready. Come, children. Your mother must bathe and recover from her ordeal.”
She gestured for my children to precede her, then paused beneath the lintel. The thunk of a ladder sounded from the other side of the window. I heard the efficient groan of iron wrenching from wood as the nails were yanked from their moorings, and the shutters clattered open, fresh air rushing in through the open window.
I was a prisoner no more.
With the children and guards beyond hearing, Elufed spoke. “I could not help you. I am sorry.”
“I understand.”
“The gift I brought. Did it help you see?”
I gave a slight nod.
“Will you tell me of it?”
Elufed was not only Rhydderch’s mother; she had become an ally, a friend. But something gave me pause. My vision had been a gift, had it not? Despite the pain it had brought, I did not wish to share it. At least not yet. “I do not know. Perhaps.”
Her pretty face darkened, but she accepted my answer. “As you like. It is done now, in any case.”
“Please. I must have news,” I begged.
“Of course you must. I have been waiting. But we cannot speak of it here. Come to me in the great room. I will tell you all I know.”
“And Brodyn?”
Guilt flickered, but beneath it I sensed her anguish. Brodyn was, after all, the queen’s lover. “I could not go to him, but you might. They bring him food—I saw to that much. But until the king and his men return, there is nothing more we can do.”
“We cannot leave him until Tutgual’s return. You know what will become of him.”
Tutgual would not risk an enemy within his own walls, whether or not his united army had crushed that of Brodyn’s brother. Either my cousin would be left to die in the pits, or he’d be efficiently dispatched by sword. Elufed did not answer, though I knew she’d thought of it. Instead she reached to press my hand. “Take heart. You are no longer a captive. Soon you shall forget all about this terrible business.”
She released my hand and I caught sight of my o
wn fingers, nails broken and bloody from days of prying at the shutters, beating at the door.
I said nothing. Then she was gone.
With the shutters cast wide, I saw it was late afternoon. Storm clouds towered like giants, limbs plump with coming rain. Aela returned with warm water for washing. I stood before my dressing table, eyes fixed on the reflection in my little bronze mirror as Aela helped me strip off my soiled clothes. My blue eyes were murky, my skin sallow, my light snuffed out.
I took the emerald ring from the pocket I had sewn into every dress and placed it upon my dressing table. Aela had asked after it once. I told her it had come from a loved one. One who was gone. And gone he was, living in the Kingdom of Pendragon, for Maelgwn had given it to me. When I touched it, I could still feel him near.
Maelgwn was Gwenddolau’s war leader, and so they would make a prize of his head. I swayed a little on my feet, and Aela reached to steady me.
“There now, m’lady. A wash will do you good,” she said.
“No. No washing. Just help me dress, please, and quickly.”
“As you say.”
Elufed had received word from the battlefield. I was ravenous for it. When Aela was too gentle, I tugged my dress over my breasts, waving her away as she made to help with my shoes.
“I’ll manage,” I said, bending to fasten them. I straightened and took up my ring from the dressing table, slipping it back into my pocket. Our eyes met then, and all that had transpired since the dawn the war party rode out passed between us. For a moment it seemed Aela might weep. I covered her hand in mine. “It’s as Elufed said. Perhaps it is best if we can put these dark days behind us.”
“Are you able, m’lady?” Her eyes searched mine, but I could not tell Aela a lie.
I pressed her knuckles.
“Whilst I’m gone, have the servants clean my chamber,” I said. “I would have it seem a different place when I return.”
“Of course, m’lady.” Aela bowed.
I could not bear one more moment in that putrid room, the air thick from a fortnight of agony and grief.