by Signe Pike
She drew back her hand to wipe her face, glancing at her children. “The others are gone,” she said. “Warriors came upon us, and we ran. I found an overhang or we would’ve been taken. Taken or worse…”
My chest tightened. “And Eira—was she among them? Did you see where she went?”
Seren frowned. “Nay. Eira was not with us at all. She took us as far as the hill path, then turned back for the huts.”
I shook my head. “No, she was with you. She swore it.”
“I am sorry, Lailoken.” She straightened, wiping her face. “You are not the only one who has lost their lover.”
“Of course. I am sorry,” I said, while fear crept into the pit of me.
“Here, you must drink. We have had nothing for days.” Maelgwn’s face was somber as he handed me a cup.
“She is not here,” I said.
“No,” he said gently.
I turned to him. “I cannot stay. I must go and find her.”
“If you do, then you are a fool. Winter is upon us, and we are hunted men. Eira knows the Selgovian lands. I am sorry, brother, but you have taken leave of your senses. You must stay here, where Eira might find you. It may not be until spring, when the weather clears. But if she lives, she will come. You must believe it.”
“Nay, Maelgwn. You do not understand.”
Red and black banners swam in my vision, but I could not tell him what I knew. Yes, I’d hunted Gwrgi of Ebrauc even as he hunted me. And on every encounter, he had slipped away. Why would the fates not deliver him to me?
I’d sworn Eira’s secret was safe in my keeping. That she had once been known by another name. Her story had left me roiling with fury with no place to spend it. It had left me holding her in my arms as if she were a bird’s egg that at any moment might break.
And by which name, then, shall I call you? I’d asked, drawing back gently to brush the tears from her face.
Eira, she’d said. For it was the name I chose when I began again. And now I have found another beginning with you.
No, I could not tell Maelgwn. I could only speak my fear—the fate that, for Eira, would be worse than any death.
“What if she was taken by Gwrgi?” I said.
Malegwn bowed his head. “If she was taken, Lailoken, then there is nothing we can do.”
CHAPTER 14
Languoreth
Tutgual’s Hall
Partick
Kingdom of Strathclyde
Samhain
31st of October, AD 573
The eve of our new year dawned misty, the air rich with the loam of wet autumn leaves. Beyond the gate came the steady clomp of cattle as the cowkeeps returned with their lords’ herds from their high-summer steadings. A shiver traced my neck.
Word had come that Tutgual and his army would soon return, and we were to prepare a hero’s welcome. This eve of shades and lost loved ones, when things happened beyond our understanding—this night was my only hope to salvage what family I had left. Once I’d seen Brodyn safe, then could I sit beside the fire and wait for Rhys to come. I would not curse Angharad by believing she was gone. But I would light the Samhain fire this night so that my firstborn child could find his way home.
The weaving room was empty of women.
“The queen must be yet in her chamber,” Aela said, looking round as we entered. “Shall I let her know you are here?”
“Nay, but thank you, Aela,” I said, adjusting my shawl to sit at my loom. “But there is another errand I’d have you attend to. There is a warrior who keeps guard by the pits by the name of Torin. Go to him and tell him the queen wishes to speak with him. You may deliver him here.”
She hesitated, but bowed nonetheless. “Aye, m’lady.”
Before long, I heard the efficient shuffle of Aela’s leather slippers followed by a heavier bootstep, and Torin entered, shoulders tall and squared off, blue eyes confident. He was handsome, so perhaps he’d expected this—that he might someday catch the eye of Elufed. When he did not see her, he faltered.
“Come in,” I said. “Sit down.”
“I will stand,” he said stiffly.
“Well enough.”
“Shall I go, m’lady?” Aela asked, uncertain.
“Stay, Aela. Your presence is most welcome.” I would not have talk of an affair with a soldier.
She sat in the corner of the room, and Torin cleared his throat. “I take it the queen does not seek me,” he said.
“I fear not. At least not the queen you are thinking of. But there is another queen who seeks you—one who has yet to be anointed. My husband led a successful campaign. Rhydderch is favored by the council as well as his father. It is the queen of days to come who wishes to speak with you now.”
I could see him taking my measure. His gaze flicked to Aela.
“You may speak freely,” I said, beginning to work at my weaving.
“You wish me to free your cousin.”
Across the room, Aela’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, but I knew how fond she was of Brodyn. She would not betray me. It was Torin I must be sure of.
“You interest me,” I said. “I should like to learn more about your aspirations, Torin. Where do you come from? Who is your kin?”
“My father’s lands lie on the Isle of Man.”
“Your father is Turloch, then?” I brightened. “My father spoke of him. He thought him a strong and honorable chieftain. Why, then, do you seek your fortune elsewhere?”
“I have many brothers.”
“I see. But why not serve in your father’s guard? Or perhaps an elder brother’s if you stand no chance to inherit?”
“I have proven my skill here.”
I sat back from the loom to look at him. “Tell me why you left.”
It was a request, not a command. I watched him battle himself. He did not wish to warm to me but found that he was. Charm was a proven skill of my own.
“I fell out with my brother.”
“There was a young woman,” I said gently. “I can see love’s mark on you. You carry it like a boulder upon your back.”
Torin did not answer, but I knew I had struck it.
“I have not seen your skill with weaponry,” I continued, “but I am in need of a new captain of my guard. As you know, my cousin Brodyn is currently imprisoned. I needn’t tell you it’s likely he’ll be killed.”
I was not gifted with Angharad’s sight, but I had learned much of people. Torin was a damaged fledgling of a warrior, bumped from the nest by his brothers. Perhaps someday he might earn Tutgual’s notice. But Rhydderch had his own men—far beyond Torin’s standing both in weapons and in blood—and it was these men who would rise with Rhydderch when he came to the throne.
It was a woman’s right to choose her own guard. I could offer Torin a home. And even should he outgrow my nest, he’d stand a far better chance of catching Rhydderch’s eye in safeguarding his wife than standing guard at the prison pits.
“And you will keep your word?” he asked.
“I will keep my word so long as you are proficient with a sword. Will you keep me safe?”
“Aye,” he said. “I will.”
“Good,” I said. “But first you must see my elder cousin safely off to exile. I should like to know, though I may never again see him, that somewhere Brodyn of Cadzow will grow to be an old man. Do that, and the station is yours.”
Torin’s blue eyes went keen. I knew he was suited.
“Go on, then,” I said with a smile. “Tell me your plan. Then I shall tell you mine.”
A few hours before sunset, the children and I dressed in our dark clothes and winter-lined cloaks, and I took my seat beside them in the horse-drawn cart. A shock of golden elm leaves clung stubbornly to their branches against a dreary late-afternoon sky. Aela had kohled my eyes and polished my torque. Beside me, Gladys wore her chestnut hair plaited and coiled, the bone comb that once belonged to my mother tucked gracefully at the back.
“It looks so well on y
ou,” I said, touching it. “And, Cyan, what a proper young lord you look.”
Cyan brightened a little beneath my praise, and I gazed out the back of the cart as we left Tutgual’s hall behind. We were meant to be decorations in Partick on days such as this.
At Cadzow, I kept holidays with our warriors and tenants as I pleased, seeing to the food and readying for the festivals. But here in Strathclyde’s capital, I’d been warned that a balance must be struck. Tutgual permitted me and my children to attend the townspeople’s festivities so long as I kept a measure of distance—that my influence not grow too great was left unspoken.
Strathclyde is a kingdom of two faiths now, he’d said. The king had made clear which faith he intended to win out. He had already banned female Keepers from his court by the time I wed Rhydderch, but many winters had passed since then, and the king did not yet have the power to also bar the men, for they held too much sway. More than half of Strathclyde’s chieftains kept the old gods. And White Isle lay only a stone’s throw upriver, where young male initiates yet went to train.
The tip of my nose was chill to the touch. Outside the cart, the road was lined with festivalgoers hurrying to the Samhain hill on foot, their children’s faces disguised with woad and soot. They did not yet know of Tutgual’s victory or the kingdom he had crushed. They knew nothing of Strathclyde’s dead prince and lost princess. Uther was a hero and Emrys Pendragon before him. Tomorrow the crowds might hail their king, but for many, tears would fall in the silence of their huts. Gladys and I leaned out of the cart to wave, but Cyan sat still, watching.
“Cyan, it was not long ago I colored your face on such a night,” I reminded him.
He looked at the children almost wistfully, then frowned. “Father Natan says Samhain is a foul night, filled with wicked and wandering spirits.”
“Is that so? Just this night I saw Father Natan place an empty bowl at his table as I passed by his open door.” I offered what I hoped was a smile. “Samhain is a night to honor our loved ones who have left us, Cyan. Even Tutgual’s Christian counsellor seeks the blessing of his ancestors who have come before.”
I spoke, yet all I could think of was Brodyn. Eight armed men had traveled with our cart—For safety, I’d said, hoping to draw as many men from Tutgual’s hall as I could.
Elufed traveled in her own cart ahead. She would not keep the Samhain feast, but would attend to give the townspeople her blessing. She was a woman of Christ—or so Strathclyde believed. She bore witness to the baptisms or sent servants on her behalf; she joined the monks in prayer. Only I had seen her tuck aside a portion of food on Samhain night. Only I had seen her steal from the hall under the heavy cloak of darkness to stand barefoot in the courtyard, eyes fixed on the Hunter’s Moon. Though her lineage as a Pict was broadly known, her allegiance was to Strathclyde, to her husband, to his god. Few knew the depth of her Pictish roots. And though her king professed to be Christian, still, each Samhain, all the fires of Tutgual’s hall were duly snuffed out, to be relit with the flame kindled from the Samhain need-fire.
The crowds thickened as we drew nearer to the festival site. They peered into the cart as we passed; a dark-haired boy chewing an apple for good fortune, an old woman shaking her fist. “There rides Strathclyde’s princess on this holy night as we travel by foot!” she cried out.
“Stop the cart!” Cyan shouted. “Mother, you cannot be disrespected! Have the soldiers give her a thrashing.”
“Cyan!” Gladys exclaimed.
I looked at him. “Yes. Stop the cart,” I called out.
“You shall see, Gladys. The poor cannot speak to us thusly,” he said.
I accepted a soldier’s hand and stepped down from the cart. The old woman and her boy had stopped, her face indignant, his uncertain. I strode toward her, my eyes upon hers. Then, placing my hand gently upon her arm, bowed my head and gave the Samhain blessing. “Bendithio Samhain.”
She considered me a moment in the way only an old women can, then nodded. “Bendithio Samhain,” she answered.
I smiled and gestured for her to lead on. Gladys, Cyan, and I followed behind on foot now. The look Cyan cast me was stormy. I turned to him, praying my lesson would not be lost. “Listen to your people, Cyan. Deaf tyrants are toppled. You would do well to remember that.”
As we neared the top of the hill, I felt at last I could breathe. Meat dripped its juices from spits, soon ready for carving, and music carried on the air along with the sumptuous smell of roasted hazelnuts in honey. Angharad’s favorite. Children raced round the hilltop and into the nearby wood, gathering ferns and thin stalks of gàinisg, tinder for the ritual fire.
Angharad would be one of them, I thought, and my longing was crippling.
But as I looked round the hilltop, I realized I was not alone in my suffering. For something was different. Hundreds had gathered. Yet before me stood only women and children. All of our men had been summoned to fight.
Even in my grief, I understood my good fortune. These women did not have the privilege of messengers. Only tomorrow—upon the presence or absence of a loved one’s face—would they discover whether he lived or had died.
“Look, Mother!” Gladys pointed. “They’ve raised the tent.”
The Keepers of White Isle walked the hilltop in their pearl-white robes, greeting the people and bestowing their blessings. But within the tent the priestesses were at work, readying for the rites.
“Go and help gather the tinder,” I urged Cyan and Gladys. “It’ll soon be dark.”
To my surprise, Cyan followed his sister, and soon they, too, were galloping round the top of the hill, aiding the little ones who dropped sticks and nodding respectfully to the Keepers by the pyre. As the women stood, watching our children, we found solace, I think, in one another’s eyes. We were the women, the life givers. The battle belonged to none of us here.
I was gazing rather absently into the wood when I felt the sudden touch of a hand clasping mine.
“Bendithio Samhain.”
I turned, startled to see an older man had come to stand beside me, joining his hand in mine as if he were my taid, a grandfather. His gray hair curled round his ears, and his beard was neatly kept. He wore brown trousers beneath a simple checked tunic, and his cloak was made of coarse wool that was equally unremarkable. My guards, of course, had failed to take notice. That or they simply did not care if a stranger should accost me.
“Bendithio Samhain,” I replied, bewildered. Truly, this man was far too familiar. Yet I did not wish to be rude. I’d just made a point of tutoring Cyan in how to be kind.
The man patted my hand, and as he did, I felt a soothing warmth surge through me. I’d heard about such people—those who could heal by a laying on of hands. There were Keepers who professed to do so, and Christians said Jesus of the Desert had been such a man.
“What sort of Keeper are you? Or are you a priest?” I asked, for it occurred to me that despite the fact he wore neither the robes of a Keeper nor the hood of a monk, he must indeed be one of the two.
“I am one who wishes to keep peace,” he said.
I smiled. “Then you are a peace keeper,” I said.
“Aye. Rather like you,” he said, then turned to look at me. “I am so very sorry about the loss of your children.”
I wanted to demand How did you know? But his blue eyes were brimming with compassion, with the love of a father. And my own father had been gone such a very long time. “I do not know if I shall ever recover,” I whispered. I shared too much, yet could not stop myself.
“Time is not a masterful healer, but at least it is persistent,” he said. “Take comfort in those who are yet living. And take comfort from yonder hill.”
I followed his gaze to the slope of Bright Hill. “Take comfort?” I asked in confusion. “What can you mean? That hill was taken in violence. Our sacred oaks cut down. There is a monastery now at the foot of Bright Hill. It was taken, and it is forever changed.”
“Nay. For as long as the
re is memory, Bright Hill will remain just as it was. Memory, when preserved, can never be taken. You might tell them to remember.”
“Tell whom?” I asked.
My children were brought up on the story of Bright Hill, I’d made certain of that. They knew well the tale of the pale-haired monk called Mungo who’d arrived in Partick and, soon after, buried a dead Christian on a hill sacred to the druids. In so doing, Mungo had nearly torn apart the kingdom of Strathclyde. I did not disguise my hatred for the man who was responsible for disfiguring my brother. He may have been exiled, but beasts must be remembered so they cannot be made again.
“Tell whom?” I asked again, turning, but the man was no longer beside me. I craned my neck only to catch sight of him retreating downhill. He did not look back, yet must have felt my eyes upon him, for he raised one hand in a gesture of farewell.
“Aela?” I called, seeking her out. “Did you see that man? That man just there!” I pointed, and she stood on the tips of her toes to peer above the crowd.
“Only now, m’lady. Who is he?”
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t say. But there was something about him. Something rather strange.”
“Shall I call the guard?”
“Oh, no. No need for that; he isn’t harmful. I’m sure of it.”
“If you’re certain?”
“Yes. It’s all right. Never mind it.”
Across the hill, the pyre towered in height. Suddenly the drums kicked up, sounding like a heartbeat from within the burlap tent. When the last light faded, the veil would lift, and the dark half of the year would be upon us.
Gladys and Cyan came running, cheeks bright from the chill. “Mother, we must take our seats!”
“Yes, Elufed will be waiting,” I said, and Cyan came around to slip his hand in mine, a gesture not often extended. I offered my other arm to Gladys as we made our way into the thick of the crowd.
Elufed looked up as we joined her on the benches set aside for the bonheddigion, those of noble blood. “Where have you been? Never mind it. You look very well. Elegant.”