The Forgotten Kingdom

by Signe Pike

  “Nay, nay,” the face said. “Please. Don’t be frightened. Here. Let me come down.”

  Her eyes widened as the face drew into the light, attached to a neck and a lean set of shoulders. It was not a monstrous beast after all, but a man dressed in brown clothing. To his rough brown tunic, he’d affixed panels of reeds, and his face was smeared with something viscous and brown. Angharad blinked in astonishment. He had disguised himself! He’d been watching from the rafters all the while.

  “Please. There’s nothing to fear, it’s only mud,” the man explained.

  Still, Angharad gripped the knife as he dropped to the floor with the grace of a stable cat. His eyebrows were sandy, like her uncle’s, but thick and drawn in what looked like concern. His light eyes appeared kind. But Angharad did not trust men, even ones who might claim to be holy.

  The man stepped closer, and Angharad stabbed at the place between them with the knife. “Get away!” she shrieked.

  “I am Brother Thomas,” he said evenly. “And who might you be?” When Angharad did not answer, he lifted his hands. “I will not harm you. I only wish to help.”

  Angharad searched his eyes, trying to take his measure, but came up wanting and frowned. How curious, she thought. She tried once more but felt as though she’d run headlong into a drystone wall.

  “Are you a monk?” she asked tightly.

  “Of a sort,” Brother Thomas said.

  “Are you a culdee, then?”

  “Yes.” He smiled. “The same. So you have heard of my kind.”

  Angharad gave a slight nod.

  “Good! Then you know I will not harm you. Come. Set down that knife and tell me your name.”

  She did not set down the knife. “I’m called Angharad,” she said.

  “Angharad,” he repeated. “I know the name well, but she is the young daughter of Rhydderch. Rhydderch of Strathclyde.” The way he spoke, Angharad understood that somehow, he already knew it was she. “Whatever are you doing here, so far from home?” he asked. “You find yourself in the middle of a war.”

  Angharad had been fleeing the battle for two days in a waking nightmare. Now, as she heard her father’s name and the tenderness with which Brother Thomas asked what had befallen her, the dam keeping back her tears splintered and gave way. Dropping the knife to the table, she began to cry.

  Brother Thomas moved carefully to sit beside her. He did not try to embrace her, only sat. “Whatever has happened, you are safe here,” he said. “You are safe.”

  Safe. The word only made Angharad’s breath turn shallow, for Eira’s screams had come again, resounding in her head. She pressed her hands over her ears, shaking her head with a wail.

  The monk drew her to him so efficiently, so assuredly, Angharad did not even think to resist. She curled into him as if his arms were a cave, and as he embraced her, a wave of calm came over her. She drank and drank from it, until gradually, her breathing slowed, and her eyes dried out, wrung of all their water.

  After a while Brother Thomas stood and went to the cookpot, pouring some liquid from a jug into its belly and setting it over the fire to boil. “You will be hungry, I imagine,” he said. “Take off those soggy boots, if you will.”

  Angharad bent and gingerly removed them, watching hungrily as he took up the sack of oats from the floor and sifted a portion into the pot.

  “Why were you concealing yourself?” Angharad asked carefully.

  Brother Thomas cut a thick slice of bread, slathering it with a dollop of honey before placing it before her. She stuffed it into her mouth without shame.

  “You are not the first to stumble upon my hut. Some days ago, a soldier came to my door. He knew me for a man of god. He told me I must mark my door with the sign of the cross and no harm would befall me. Since then, not only men of Ebrauc have come, but many who are in need. They rifle my belongings, take my food, my warmth, and my hut, all of which are given freely. Sometimes I am here, sometimes I conceal myself in the rafters or the trees. They soon depart. I do not play at sides. A need is a need.”

  “And what of the Dragon Warriors?” Angharad asked eagerly. “Have you seen any of Pendragon’s men?”

  “Nay. An elderly tenant who did not muster to fight. A mother and two boys. No Dragon Warriors,” he answered.

  Angharad’s shoulders sank. Still, it could be that her uncle survived. He’d promised to find her and Eira with the Selgovae should they make it to the Caledonian Wood.

  Brother Thomas stood as if waiting for an explanation, but when she gave none, only shrugged. “You’ve spilled my oats, Angharad of Strathclyde. Go, then, and pick them up. As you know, food is quite hard to come by.”

  His face was stern, but his voice was gentle. Angharad eased to her feet and accepted the oat sack from him, bending to collect them flake by flake. An impossible task.

  “There will soon be more food,” she said quietly. “The battle is over now. My father has won.”

  Brother Thomas checked the cookpot, then moved to the table and began to untie his reed wrappings from about his middle. “The battle is not over. It has only just begun. You and I are speaking of different battles, I think.”

  Angharad looked up. This culdee was full of riddles. “Which battle do you speak of?”

  “If you do not know already, I fear you will soon discover it.”

  It felt like a warning, but the stab of Angharad’s hunger left little space for talk of such things. The oats were ready. Brother Thomas drew out the stool from the table and gestured for her to sit. Saliva pooled as she watched him serve two steaming ladles of porridge into a wooden bowl and top it with a scattering of hazelnuts. Fixing himself a helping, he crouched beside the fire and murmured a blessing. The culdee had removed his reed dressings, but his face was yet darkened with mud.

  “You conceal yourself in the rafters, even whilst men and women are sleeping below?” Angharad asked. Brother Thomas gave a slight nod. “And they do not see you?”

  “They do not see me until I wish to be seen. As it was with you.”

  “But that is a gift of a Wisdom Keeper.”

  “If you believe such things are only for Wisdom Keepers, you know very little of God,” he said.

  They ate awhile in silence, porridge warming her from the inside out, soothing places that were raw—her throat from screaming and tears, her stomach from its near-continual twisting in fear and grief, hunger and revulsion. Somehow, she’d forgotten the blisters on her feet and the prickers embedded in her hands. But now that Angharad sat in the warmth, the skelfs that Eira had been unable to remove ached and pulsed, biting little things.

  Brother Thomas must have been observing the way Angharad hobbled and cradled her spoon, for he glanced at her bowl with a nod. “If you are finished, we must dress your wounds.”

  He moved to the wooden shelf on the wall, squinting at a tidy row of earthen jars before selecting one, then prepared some soft linen wrappings.

  “Dry your feet by the hearth whilst I tend to your hands,” he said, waiting. Angharad offered her palms hesitantly. He took them gently, tilting them to the light. “Thorns,” he observed.

  “No digging.”

  “Very well. I will not dig,” he said. “But the holes are going sour.”

  “No digging,” she insisted.

  “As you say.” Brother Thomas lowered his head and began to clean away the dirt. “I imagine you are looking for your father.”

  Angharad nodded, averting her eyes as he worked.

  “It is chaos beyond this door. Something that once might have been so simple is not so simple now.”

  “But he is searching for me,” she said.

  “Then he has had very ill luck. And where did you think to encounter him?”

  “I was looking for the river when I came upon your hut.”

  “I see.” His eyes were so kind, Angharad wanted to tell Brother Thomas of all that had transpired. But he was a stranger, and a man, and the well of her sorrow was too deep. He s
at back a moment, then began carefully applying the salve.

  “There was a time long ago when I found myself full of thorns,” he said. “They had pierced the skin, embedded.”

  “How did it happen?” Angharad looked at him, curious.

  “A thorn is a thorn. How it came to be does not matter so much. It was what I learned that is perhaps more important. Pluck the thorn, and it is gone from you. The hole will heal, and your skin soon forgets. Let it linger, and in time, your body may eat the thorn away, bit by bit. But it will never be gone from you. The thorns will be in your blood, going round and round within you, forever.”

  He glanced up as if to make sure she understood. Angharad looked down at her palms, and suddenly, it was as if she stood once more upon the heights of Caer Gwenddolau, the battle raging all around her, the cries of men making her cringe, the shouts as the warriors hacked, splitting each other’s bodies as she struggled to descend the cliff. She had lived there little more than one year, but Caer Gwenddolau was her home. She did not want to forget.

  “Leave them,” she said.

  “As you say.” Brother Thomas wrapped her hands, securing the linens with a knot. “The salve will draw out the heat. We will wrap them along with your feet and change the dressings in the morning.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “And in the morning, if I am well enough, will you help me find my father?” She tried to sound brave but could not keep her voice from wavering.

  Brother Thomas paused a moment, searching her. Angharad tried to hide from his scrutiny but knew it was too late. He’d seen within her, seen the girl yet trapped in the dark of a forest, belly pressed to the earth beneath an autumn thicket.

  Brother Thomas bowed his head, his face somber. “Yes. If you feel well enough on the morrow, I will do my best to help you find your father.”

  His gaze was distant as he finished dressing the blisters on her feet and stood to put away the salve. He fluffed the straw-stuffed pallet of the bed, lifting the sheepskins to shake them out. “You may sleep here,” he said, gesturing.

  Angharad moved gratefully to the bed, slipping beneath the fleece. Brother Thomas checked the bolt on the door before adding more turf to the fire, then drew the reed mat beside the hearth. Lying down upon it, he folded his arms beneath his head to make a pillow. A culdee. And one who could mask his presence, just like Diarmid and her uncle.

  “You asked how I came to be here,” Angharad said. “I was training with my uncle to become a Wisdom Keeper.”

  Brother Thomas did not turn. “Your uncle is Lailoken.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “I know only that he is Uther Pendragon’s counsel. He and Uther were good enough to grant me peace here in the forest, at the edge of their lands.”

  “Diarmid the Seer was teaching me how to cloak myself,” Angharad said.

  “Ah.”

  “Do you know how to cloak yourself?”

  Brother Thomas seemed ill at ease with her question. “Culdees are not like other monks” was all he said.

  “Then I am glad to have found a culdee.”

  Brother Thomas was quiet.

  “My father did not trade for me,” Angharad said. “He knew I was within the fortress. He attacked us all the same.”

  “Perhaps he meant to rescue you. Perhaps he meant to find you,” he offered.

  “But he did not.”

  “No. He did not.” That the culdee acknowledged it did not heal, but it granted Angharad comfort.

  “Rest now, Angharad, and sleep well,” Brother Thomas said.

  Angharad shifted upon the bedding, and her torque scraped against her back, but its presence was reassuring. Remember who you are, it said. Angharad looked up at the reed roof, willing sleep to find her. All was silent, the only sounds the soft burn of turf and the gentle draw of Brother Thomas’s breathing. But in the silence, she still heard Eira weeping.

  Beneath her dressings, thorns pulsed into Angharad’s blood the things she would never forget.

  CHAPTER 17

  Languoreth

  Tutgual’s Hall

  Partick

  Kingdom of Strathclyde

  Samhain

  October 31st, AD 573

  The children were asleep when Elufed caught my elbow, just inside the door.

  “Whatever are you doing?” she whispered. “You must not be seen by the pits this night!”

  I steadied the oil lamp between my hands, the door still open at my back. “The pits? I’ve only left an offering for the aos sí.”

  Elufed peered beyond me to the basket I’d left for the old ones by the rowan tree. “Do not play me for a fool, Languoreth, I do not speak of offerings left for the dead. I speak about the living. You risk too much.”

  “And you do not risk enough.”

  Elufed lifted her chin. “Well, then. It seems neither you nor I shall be able to say farewell.”

  “No,” I said.

  Her wintry eyes gave nothing away, but her voice—in that moment, she sounded almost a child. I knew Elufed and Brodyn had lain together. Perhaps she even loved him. I thought of my cousin, slipping away into the dark.

  “And your new man. You trust him?” she asked.

  “His task will bear it out. But nothing shall come back upon me. I was at the Samhain pyre, well within sight of Tutgual’s men.”

  “I suppose we shall have to see what tomorrow brings.” Her smile did not reach her eyes. “In any case, it is done now, and for the best.” She glanced down at the oil lamp in my hands. “Are you going to his chamber, then?”

  Rhys, she meant. I nodded.

  “I will come with you and sit awhile.”

  “No,” I said. “But thank you. I should rather wait alone.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  I did not know if I could bear the sight of my eldest son’s chamber. I had not entered it since hearing of his death. But if Rhys did return this night, he’d be in want of his mother. He’d be in want of his bed. His soul would be so very weary.

  I entered to find the shutter closed and rushed to thrust it wide, nearly sending the oil lamp clattering. Sweet gods. The window must be open. What if my boy had come already and could not get in?

  “I am sorry! I am sorry!” I cried. Beyond the narrow window, the stars were snuffed by cloud. Nothing stirred. The air was still and thick, expectant.

  There now. There, Rhys.

  I closed my eyes to night, letting the cold soothe my cheeks.

  Come to me, I called to him. Come home.

  I am here. I am waiting.

  “Taken! Can you believe?”

  Two servants were speaking by the door to the kitchens, heads bent as if conspiring. I stopped just beyond the door, listening.

  “Taken by the aos sí,” the other said. “There at sundown, gone by morning. I heard voices in the wood. I knew it was they.”

  I stepped from the doorway, offering a smile. “Who is it you speak of? Who is gone?”

  They exchanged a somber look. “Why, didn’t you hear, m’lady? Brodyn of Cadzow, your own cousin. Gone from the pits! Quick as you like!”

  “They took ’im,” the other said. “But it weren’t voices in the wood. It were chantin’—his, no mistake. Heard him myself. Chanting and wailing all the night long. He called, and they came. Simple as that.”

  My fingers fluttered to my throat in feigned alarm. “My cousin is gone?”

  “Aye! The alarm was called at first light!”

  “I heard voices. I thought I’d been dreaming.”

  Nearly all in Tutgual’s hall had taken up the Christian mantle—in name if not in faith. Maidens still crept out before dawn on Beltaine to wet their faces with morning dew, and there wasn’t a milker who dared forget a portion for Brigid each time they squeezed the goat or sheep’s utters.

  Which gods we prayed to did not matter in this case—we were a people who believed in the power of spirits and their world of mist.

  Elufed swept into t
he kitchens with two servants at her heels, catching the last of our conversation.

  “You believe Brodyn was taken, then, and did not somehow escape?” She stopped, blinking at the servants in expectation. What was she playing at?

  “Well, surely Brodyn of Cadzow had no friend among the guard,” the elder woman said.

  “You are right,” I said. “And they were quite unkind when I went to see him.”

  I saw it then: Elufed was leading the servants to strengthen their own conclusions. It was Samhain, and if a crack should open between the worlds, a person could be snatched, never to be seen again.

  “And there were three men guarding the pits!” the other pointed out. “They’d n’er let him out.”

  “Were that the case, the king would certainly put his guards to the sword,” Elufed said, meeting my eyes. “He may yet, upon his return.”

  I never intended to cost any man his life. If it was Torin, I would sorrow. But I would not regret it. Such were the lessons I had learned.

  “I must excuse myself to get ready,” I said. “The men will soon be here.”

  Elufed waved me away, turning to matters at hand. “Let me taste the stewed apple,” she said, reaching delicately into a pot before wrinkling her nose. “Still too sour. We must fix it, or make it again.”

  The marketplace was teeming with women and children despite the chill in the air. The women’s eyes were fixed on the road that led into Partick, while their children perched like squirrels in the trees to catch the first glimpse of the war band’s return. Tutgual’s men milled among the gathering crowd. They’d quartered off a place for the noblewomen. Our benches from the Samhain rite sat along the road, where Elufed waited already, attendants by her side and wine in hand. I had no attendant, as Aela was needed at the hall to aid in preparations, but I was not the queen. Beside Elufed sat Rhian, Morcant’s flaxen-haired wife, draped in gold jewelry, but her kohled eyes and berry-stained cheeks were unable to mask her dread. Morcant and Rhydderch might have been brothers, but one was a boar, the other a stag. At least I’d thought as much, before my husband had ridden off to murder my brothers.