The Forgotten Kingdom

by Signe Pike

  Lailoken and Gwenddolau. Brant. Diarmid with his graying hair and dark, sparkling eyes. Fendwin. Rhiwallon. Maelgwn. Even more than Angharad’s uncles, it was he who’d told her silly tales when she was sad, who’d swiped at her most persistently with bug salve at evenfall. Something in Maelgwn had always felt safe. Perhaps it was his kind green eyes—they brought to mind her brother’s.

  She tried to summon her brother’s face. But at the thought of Rhys, Angharad felt her throat fill with tears. Yes, surely this liquid was tears, for she was lying on her back, choking on it, drowning, unable to breathe. Then, suddenly, it was no longer nighttime in the forest. Angharad smelled mud and felt its wetness beneath her soak into her clothing. The sky overhead was blue, racing with thin white clouds. In her ears there was a burgeoning deafness, a dull and aching thud. But if she strained, if she gave way to it, someone was speaking. It was the voice of her uncle. Deep and reassuring. Heavy with grief. Angharad struggled to sit, to clear her throat of the choking sea, but her body was not hers to command.

  Sleep took her instead.

  Angharad sank deep into the mercy of her dreaming, to a place where she struggled no more.

  CHAPTER 10

  Languoreth

  Tutgual’s Hall

  Partick

  Kingdom of Strathclyde

  29th of October, AD 573

  A guard followed at my heel as I fastened my cloak and stepped onto the covered porch of the hall.

  Night had fallen, but I could not visit Brodyn until Gladys and Cyan were asleep. I balanced the heavy wicker basket readied by the kitchens over my arm, a thick woolen blanket tucked within it, and turned to the guard who had followed me, nodding at the bundle of unlit torches on the porch. “We need light.”

  The guard reached for a torch with a resigned look. Across the courtyard, twin torches lit the wooden gate, casting shadows on the timber palisade that encircled Tutgual’s hall. The watchmen nodded as we neared, lighting our torch from their flames.

  Somewhere in the distance, hounds bayed. The sky was black and moonless, air biting with the threat of winter. The only other sound was the heavy shush and rustle of the guard’s boots as he followed me through the dying grass of the courtyard, past the stable, toward the back field where the prison pits lay.

  The pits were dug narrow and deep, marring a field once planted with barley, lined with stones that grew slick in the damp. There would be creatures down there, all manner of insects that ate human dung. There would be a stench like soiled chamber pots.

  The pits were open to the weather, topped only by grids of bound sticks weighed down at their edges by flat, heavy stones. A ladder was kept nearby, but the guards had little reason to tend prisoners sent here. Men were thrown in, left to suffer the consequences of falling. Some pits held ten men, pressed so tightly they took turns to sit and to stand, but I could not imagine which could be worse—to be nearly suffocated by others in their prison rot, or to be tossed into the muddy earth alone, no bodies to warm you, silence beating upon your ears until it drove you slowly mad.

  Brodyn had been at the mercy of the elements for a fortnight, knowing an army marched upon Gwenddolau and Lailoken, boys he’d trained in weapons. Knowing he could not ride out to fight alongside his brother, Brant.

  The torch flickered in the wind. There was a snap to the air that made me shiver, but the cluster of guards had a fire—close enough to keep watch on the pits but not near enough to warm the men below. They looked up as I neared, and I saw their disdain. Sister of Strathclyde’s enemies—Pendragon and his druid counsellor.

  My blood heated, but I lowered my eyes in a semblance of respect, adjusting the basket on my arm. “I’ve come to see my cousin,” I said.

  They glanced at one another, and a fair-haired soldier stood. “Apologies, m’lady, but you cannot trespass here.”

  “Of course. I see.” I paused. “ ’Tis only… Well. The battle’s been won. Surely there can be no harm in it. Brodyn of Cadzow has been captain of my guard for many a winter, as well you know. Some bread and meat, a skin of wine. That is all. Please. I’ve brought the same for you.”

  I took their offerings from the basket and handed them to the fair-haired guard who approached. He tossed the packet to the man by the fire and leaned forward to prod the remaining goods. “What is this?” he asked.

  “A blanket only, to ward off the chill.” I shifted aside the foodstuffs to reveal it, growing short on patience. “Tell me. What is your name?” I asked him.

  “Torin.”

  “Torin.” I met his eyes. “My cousin is a warrior and a noble, nephew of Morken king. If he was suspected of any trouble or flight, he should have been treated as a hostage of war, kept by our laws in the warmth of the hall with all its comforts, not tossed like a common thief into the pits.”

  He studied me, then gestured to a pit a short distance away. “Well enough. A few moments only.” I went to it and knelt, the smell assailing me.

  I turned to the soldier who’d followed me. “Lower the torch, please. Or give it here. I will hold it myself.”

  He frowned but did as I asked, squatting down. “Brodyn,” I called out. At first the flickering light illuminated little but the dank stone walls. Then I heard a soft dragging sound and felt a sudden, sharp awareness come from the dark. At last the eerie glow of Brodyn’s face came, looking up from below.

  “Languoreth.” His brown eyes were black in the torchlight.

  “I can scarcely see you,” I said. “Are you injured? Are you chilled?”

  “Nay. I’m hale.”

  I heard the gentle scuffle once more as he shifted farther into the light, bracing himself against the slick stone wall.

  “Your leg. Is it the bone?” I asked.

  “Twisted, I think,” he said, giving a quick smile. “Never a healer round when you need one.”

  “This is no time for wit,” I said.

  His shoulder-length hair was loose and tangled. I could see how much gray was now threaded amid the brown. I supposed we lived so closely I hadn’t noticed before that my cousin was a man approaching fifty winters. His beard had grown, his mustache drooping low over his mouth, but he did not look bloodied. They might have thrown him in the pit, but at least they had not beat him. My shoulders sank with relief.

  “Have you news, then?” he urged. Brodyn’s face was steeled with a warrior’s practice. Expectant. But the guards’ ears were pricked. I had to speak carefully.

  “Strathclyde and the kings of the south were victorious,” I said.

  Brodyn sank back against the wall. He knew I could not say more. But we were kin. Our eyes met, and I knew he understood: Gwenddolau was most likely dead.

  “Then the king will soon return,” he said.

  “Yes. I am certain he returns to Partick even now. And when he does, I will speak to him. We will see to your release.”

  Brodyn nodded, his dark eyes fixed on the wet stone of the pit. Tutgual set prisoners against each other for amusement. Now that the captain of my guard was the kin of Tutgual’s enemies, I did not like to think what the high king might do.

  The weight of it settled between us. This murdering of our family under the pretense of war.

  “I’ve brought food and a blanket,” I said, hoping to cheer him. I wrapped the packet in the blanket and pushed it through a wooden square of the pit cover. He caught them and hastily dug through, tearing into the food.

  “Thank you, Cousin. It does me much good to see you,” he said.

  “And I shall come again,” I said. “Samhain draws near.”

  Brodyn glanced up and I caught his eye. He tilted his head. “How many days ’til Samhain?” he asked.

  “Three days’ time. I will return and bring blessings then.”

  He nodded. “Thank you, then, Cousin. Until Samhain.”

  “Until Samhain.” I stood and gathered the empty basket. Was that enough? I prayed Brodyn would somehow glean my intent. Tutgual had brought war upon our fami
ly, and Brodyn would be honor-bound to answer his violence. But Tutgual had not grown old by letting men who threatened revenge live, and I would not stand by while he made a spectacle of my cousin’s death.

  Nodding to the warriors, I left them to drink by their fire in the dark. There had been something about Torin, the fair-haired warrior guarding the pits. He was young, admittedly. But I could smell it on him. Ambition. He was better than the others he stood guard with, or at the very least he thought so. He dreamt of a ranking that would take him from prison guard to warrior of the court. And no matter my feelings, I would soon be in need of a new captain of my guard.

  Back in the warmth of the hall, Aela unfastened my father’s brooch from my cloak, and I closed my fist around it, my fingers tracing the sleek silver hounds set within their protective thicket of interlacing. A gift from my mother to protect him from harm. I wore it often, but it was especially fitting to call upon its strength as Samhain drew near.

  Of all the high holidays, none was more powerful than the eve of our new year. It was a night for honoring the dead. On the eve of Samhain, when the veils of the Summerlands parted, our loved ones traveled the mists to sit once more at our table for the night, leaving blessings of good fortune when they departed our homes. On Samhain, things often happened no one could explain. People saw visions reflected in water or heard voices in the forest that belonged to no earthly man. Elders told tales of cats shifting shape into peat-black steeds, of wild hosts of spirits storming through crossroads in search of warmth and food. Things once lost at last reappeared. Things kept close somehow went missing.

  On the eve of Samhain, with Torin’s help, I would work my own mystery.

  On the eve of Samhain, I would make Brodyn of Cadzow disappear.

  CHAPTER 11

  Lailoken

  Battle of Arderydd

  Kingdom of the Pendragons

  15th of October, AD 573

  “Run,” Gwenddolau commanded.

  But I shook my head. “Hold the wall!” I shouted, dropping down beside him. Too many wounds to identify the worst. His skin had gone waxy.

  “Hold!” Dreon echoed, thrusting his body to his shield.

  “Stand, brother, you must stand!” I tried to ease Gwenddolau to his feet, but blood spouted from his mouth. I pressed my hand to his abdomen, the worst of it, but could not stanch the flow.

  The clatter of weapons was deafening. The cries. I’d felt my shoulder shatter in the shield wall, heard the unearthly crunch. The pain was blinding, and in the moment my grip had loosened on my spear, Rhydderch’s men had broken through. Gwenddolau had been wounded.

  Now we’d rushed before him, holding our line, holding the dyke. But we could not hold for long. Dreon’s shield arm trembled with the strain as he turned to me.

  I shook my head. The old warrior’s face stiffened. “Then you must go,” he said. “They must not have his body.”

  “Dreon—”

  “Go!” he shouted. I glanced at our men in the shield wall, faces strained, determined. They were of one mind; they had chosen their sacrifice. They would hold back Rhydderch’s war band as long as they could so the rest of us might retreat.

  I held Dreon’s eyes. “We will draw the fight to the wood,” I promised. For all of us would die. But those who remained could cluster and attack—we’d kill more of the enemy there.

  Dreon nodded. They would hold the dyke.

  I roared as I stood and hefted Gwenddolau over my shoulders, gripping an arm and a leg.

  “Retreat!” I shouted.

  Maelgwn glanced up, saw Gwenddolau upon my back. Saw our men’s tenuous hold of the dyke. I saw it flash in his eyes—he would not abandon them. “You waste your life here!” I shouted. “We will avenge them. Retreat!”

  With one last strike, Maelgwn turned to see our warriors in the shield wall giving their last, as I would soon do. As we all would do.

  The men who had made their choice remained. Here, at the dyke, this was their end.

  Only then did we run.

  CHAPTER 12

  Angharad

  Battle of Arderydd

  Kingdom of the Pendragons

  16th of October, AD 573

  Angharad woke to a stirring of dead leaves in the early-morning chill. The fire was ash and embers, smoldering in wisps, but Angharad was warm stretched against the length of Eira’s body, tucked under the safety of her heavy fur cloak. She nearly drifted back to sleep, her body still wracked with exhaustion. But there it came again—the soft rustle and crunch of leaves underfoot. They were no longer alone. Angharad opened her eyes, senses alert.

  Mist banked in wraithlike billows through the forest, and the air was wet and dewy, smelling of earth and of rain. Too frightened to move, Angharad lay motionless, peering into the trees from her place upon the ground. And then she saw it. A flicker of movement, the flash of a stormy cloak.

  Just beyond the dying fire, a woman stood.

  Her hair was black as a crow feather and her skin pale as the moon. She strode past the fire with purpose, a simple wicker basket over her arm. She hasn’t seen us, Angharad thought. Then the woman stopped.

  Her head swiveled as she fixed Angharad with a stare. Her eyes were pale blue, the color of a morning sky. Angharad tried to search the woman, even as the woman was searching her. She opened her mouth to speak, but the woman raised a hand, a finger to her lips. Shhhh.

  Was that her voice or a whisper of wind?

  Angharad tried to move, but her limbs were weighted. Her tongue felt thick, as if her mouth were full of honey. Help us, please help me, she tried to say.

  And though she could not utter the words, she heard her own voice. The woman lifted her arm, her cloak slipping up her forearm as she pointed to a nearby stand of poplars. That way.

  Angharad scrambled to put her feet beneath her. Somehow she knew this woman would help them. Somehow she knew this woman would not lead them astray. But the woman had turned and was already traveling briskly into the forest. Angharad watched, helpless, as she disappeared into the mist. Wait, please! You must help us. Please, wait!

  “Angharad!”

  She opened her eyes to find Eira crouched over her, worry etching her face.

  “You were crying out,” Eira said. “You were having a foul dream.”

  Angharad propped herself up on one elbow, rubbing her eyes. The morning was clear and fine—Angharad could no longer see mist. In the trees overhead, birds chirped. There was no woman. No track of rustled leaves. Where had she gone?

  She wanted to tell Eira, and yet she did not. It felt like a secret.

  It felt like a Knowing.

  “Foul dreams are dreadful, but they’re only dreams,” Eira said. “They haunt warriors far rougher than you after a battle. Once we see you safe, they shall fade.” Eira’s swelling had worsened in the night, making her look like a stranger. She must have noticed Angharad’s shock at her appearance, for her smile faltered.

  “Are you hungry? Of course you are. Come and eat. I’ve caught us some breakfast,” she said.

  Angharad glanced at the fire to find it had not died down; rather, it burned hot, a rodent roasting over the flames on a hastily made spit.

  “Is that… a squirrel?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But however did you catch it?”

  “You wish to know?”

  Angharad nodded.

  “I lured it with hazelnuts, then wrung its neck. Come now. We must eat. We will need all our strength.”

  Angharad remembered the friendly red squirrels she’d trained to eat from her hand on summer days at Cadzow, then ate the meat anyway, all the while thinking of the woman. It had been a dream. Or could the woman have been a spirit? Perhaps she had even been a god. Gooseflesh traced her limbs.

  Samhain was approaching, Angharad remembered, and she had always felt its sway. It was a time of year when the whispers became voices, when gods and goddesses of the Summerlands could slip between the worlds that l
ay beneath and within. Diarmid had told her of innumerable gods she had not known of: the god of the hazel wood and the roe deer, the goddess of the Esk, the goddess of bees. In the year she’d trained with Diarmid and her uncle, the forest and burns had come more alive than ever before. But she was only a novice, just beginning to understand the language of mystery.

  Angharad searched the poplar trees. She thought she could make out the slender arc of a herd trail emerging from the other side.

  “We must find water,” Eira said, smothering the fire with earth. One red squirrel, split between two. Angharad’s stomach still kicked with hunger.

  “Perhaps we should travel that way.” Angharad pointed to the trees. “There’s a trail. Mightn’t it lead to water?” She was thirsty, too. So very thirsty. She stood slowly, testing her feet. Her blisters jabbed like needles. She felt Eira’s watchful gaze. Eira had become accustomed to Angharad’s visions, but they did not often speak of them. That was the realm of her uncle.

  “Very well, then. We shall follow the herd trail.” Eira stuffed the rest of their belongings into her satchel and slipped it over her shoulder.

  The forest was an autumn splendor. Leaves crunched underfoot as they followed the meandering track through the trees, listening for the shouts or rustle of soldiers, but the only sound was the low whistle of wind in their ears as it plucked gold and vermilion leaves from the branches overhead, sending them spiraling gracefully from the canopy. They drifted into Angharad’s hair, touching upon her shoulders like momentary blessings. They passed the morning that way until, just beyond the tree line, the acrid smell of charred timber stung their noses. Soon smoke was clogging the forest, gusting in billows from the fields. Their eyes began to water and weep.

  “Your tunic.” Eira gestured. Angharad covered her nose and mouth, taking shallow breaths through the cloth. “Angharad, keep low,” Eira warned her. “We must keep from sight.”

  Creeping through the brush, they lowered themselves onto their bellies, peering into the cultivated field beyond. There were no sheep or goats, no cattle or horses. Where there had been a village, only smoldering frames now stood, some still licking with flame. Others had collapsed in upon themselves, leaving little more than soot stains. Blackened forms lay in the grass, and as Angharad watched, a scattering of crows settled, feasting on the bodies of the dead.