The Forgotten Kingdom

by Signe Pike

  Rhian leaped to her feet as we climbed out from the cart, jostling Elufed’s cup. “Your seat, Languoreth! Come sit beside me.”

  “Thank you, Rhian.” I greeted her with a kiss. Elufed looked at her.

  “Oh goodness, your cloak! I am so dreadfully sorry, my queen.”

  “Never mind it,” Elufed said, and leaned back so her servant might brush away the spill.

  “Auntie!” Gladys and Cyan rushed to embrace her, and Rhian beamed at them as they took their places. Morcant had many children, none who’d been born of his own wife.

  “The marketplace buzzes like a hive,” I said.

  “Yes.” Rhian glanced down the road. “Any moment now. Here. Take some wine.” Rhian passed me a cup, but as I reached to accept it, she noticed my fingers, still scabbed and bloody from clawing at my door. “Oh, Languoreth,” she whispered.

  “It is nothing. These marks, at least, are my own.” I met her eyes.

  That Rhian should pity me, when the bruises she so often wore were left by her husband, was just one mark of her kindness. But Rhian only shook her head. “Nay, Languoreth, make no mistake. These wounds you bear are no more your own doing than mine.”

  The last I had seen of Rhydderch was the back of his dark head disappearing into a sea of men in the great room, that day the lords of Ebrauc had arrived, and Tutgual had summoned the war counsel. In all the hours I’d spent imprisoned, in all the anguish I’d felt wondering who was dead and who was yet living, the thought of my own husband had been little more than a shadow. Perhaps that made me a monster.

  But if that were so, was Rhydderch not more a monster than I? I drank deeply from my cup, and Rhian watched, eyes all-knowing.

  “Have you thought of what you might say upon his return?”

  I lowered my voice. “It has been preying on me, all the things I might say, since the moment I heard the bolt slide against my door. But now that I am faced with his return, in truth, I do not know.”

  “Morcant lives for battle,” Rhian said. “I cannot sleep for imagining all the terrible things he has done.”

  To your brothers and the Dragon Warriors, she would not say.

  Searching for distraction, I cast about the crowd. A group of women I knew to be Christian stood by the well, wives of warriors who’d been summoned to fight. I met their gaze and lifted my hand in greeting, but the smiles they returned did not reach their eyes.

  “They seem displeased we are conversing,” I said.

  “Then they are not truly Christian,” she said. “Goodness. Love. Kindness. Let them observe us. Perhaps they shall learn a thing or two about both the Old Religion and the new.”

  “You bring to mind an old man I met.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, at the Samhain rites. He was a holy man. He spoke like a Scot. But he did not declare himself a Wisdom Keeper.”

  Rhian considered it. “A hermit of some kind. From the West and holy, you say?”

  “Quite. His touch… his hands…” I could not rightly explain it.

  “And did he travel alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well.” Rhian laughed. “Then he was not Columba of Iona. For he travels nowhere without his armed guard. Moluag, however…”

  “Moluag,” I said. “The holy man of Lismore?”

  He was a Christian, I knew, and a much hallowed teacher. Cathan had spoken of Moluag. He had considered him a friend.

  “But Lismore is days away by boat,” I said. “Whatever would bring him to a Samhain rite in Partick?”

  “I could not say. Never mind it! I suppose it could have been any old hermit.” She smiled.

  “Nay, thank you, Rhian. I shall tuck it away.” I had the strangest feeling this was not the last time I might see the man, whoever he might be.

  Children raced around their elders’ knees, playing at games of war. The people’s anticipation was building like a coming storm; at any moment, the sky would crack.

  And then, from a distance, voices carried. Hundreds of voices lifted in song. At first I could not make out the words. But as they drew nearer, their singing rang clear.

  All along the Eskside hills

  The battle fog was blowing…

  They’d crafted their battle song on their victorious march, a song of blood and spite. Visions flashed unbidden—warriors creeping through the wood—making me feel as if my skin crawled with mites. I smoothed my hair, and then the river of men was upon us.

  The spearmen strode first, their backs straight as rods. The cheering was deafening as the people of Partick stretched out their hands, welcoming the men back into our fold.

  Nothing could have prepared me for the roiling wave of poison that rose. I wanted to spit my own blood. Which of these men had taken aim at my lover? Who among them had sought the prize of my brother’s head?

  I took a steadying breath as the warriors on horseback appeared. Some of the footmen were poulticed and wrapped. Either I was mistaken, or there were fewer men, fewer horses.

  The Dragon Warriors had given them a fight.

  On the bench beside me, Cyan’s face was plain with his longing for his father. The working of a child’s heart was so simple. But as I searched, I could not find my husband among them.

  “Where is Rhydderch?” I wondered, trying not to sound alarmed. But Elufed, too, had noticed her son’s absence and stood, craning her neck.

  “Why is Father not here?” Gladys said, her voice rising. “You told me he lived!”

  “He does not ride with them,” Elufed said. “There must be good reason.”

  “Yes,” I assured them. “We will soon find out. We had word he was hale.”

  “There is Morcant.” Rhian pointed. “And the king.”

  We watched as they drew closer. Tutgual’s snowy head was held high, torque at his neck and piercing eyes fixed ahead. His eldest son rode close behind, but Morcant did not stare nobly into the distance. Nor did he seek his wife. His gaze sought me instead, his heavy brows lifting slightly as he neared.

  Upon his javelin, a man’s head was pierced.

  My face did not alter. From somewhere within, a voice directed me. Breathe. Blink. Do not weep.

  “Gladys and Cyan, cover your eyes,” I said quickly.

  Morcant must have imagined this moment all the long leagues between here and the Borderlands—my horrific panic, the way my heart would be drumming in my chest.

  To whom did the head belong? Uther? Lail? Oh, sweet gods. Maelgwn?

  I searched for breath as if I’d been knocked from a tree. The man’s neck was a ring of gore, face drained of blood, now white and distorted. The only thing known to my eye was the tumble of dark, untethered hair.

  Maelgwn No, no, no, my love…

  I could not bear it. I could not fathom it. I plunged my trembling hand deep into my pocket to clutch the emerald ring.

  Breathe. Do not weep, I thought, reasoning at the sight of it. It could not be. No one save Lailoken knew of our love.

  I kept utterly still. The man’s hair was not black but brown. Brown as an acorn and threaded with silver.

  Brant.

  Brant, who’d taught me to wield my knife. Brant, who’d loved and protected us the whole of our lives. The head on Morcant’s spike belonged to my cousin.

  Vomit rose, and I swallowed it.

  But Cyan only stared in fascination as Morcant passed by. “Was that not our cousin?” he asked.

  “Sweet Gods, Cyan, do not look!” I exclaimed.

  Gladys’s eyes flew open and she gasped. “Oh, no, no!”

  I drew her to me, staring at Morcant with a hate that could burn a man to cinders. “Do not let him see you weep. Do not feed his wickedness,” I said into her hair.

  But Morcant was not the only man bearing a trophy of gore, for each warrior in his retinue rode with a head pierced upon a pike.

  I pressed my lips to keep from weeping.

  Dragon Warriors all, greatest of our land. Bulls of our island, protectors fro
m the Angles. Their souls would have no peace now. They had been given no honor. I knew these men. They had supped at my table at Partick and at Cadzow. They deserved to be named, if only in silence.

  Dreon.

  Einion.

  Brant.

  They had stood against an impossible confederation. They had stood upon that hill and seen the war bands creeping over their fields and had known they were going to die.

  Who would sing of their heroism? Who yet lived to remember them?

  There is you, I told myself. But when I was gone?

  Theirs would become a forgotten kingdom.

  I stood stone-faced, holding Gladys, as the procession carried on. The ladies of Strathclyde would stay, as was custom, until every last warrior had been welcomed back home.

  Heads on pikes, jostled and lofted for cheers from the crowd.

  But not all the citizens of Partick were battle-mad. As I looked, I saw I was not alone in my grief. Here. And there. A woman. An old man. Another and there, another. More and more as I looked, standing as if stunned, tears streaming their cheeks.

  They remembered the day the Angles had first risen in a rage of fire and sword, and how one man called Emrys—a warrior from the Wall—had fashioned a banner from the bloodied tunics of his men to become the first Pendragon. They remembered twenty and more winters of Dragons on the Wall, heroes on horseback who had battled and slaughtered generations of Angle kings.

  I searched out their eyes, and as they looked up and saw me, I sent them my strength. One by one, they ceased their weeping. I bent down to Gladys, squeezing her gently. “Look, Gladys. We are yet among our people,” I whispered. “Show them you are here. Show them you are unbroken.”

  I clasped her hand. Gladys wiped her face and looked up, her eyes slowly brightening as she gazed over the crowd.

  “Do you see? This sorrow is not ours alone. The sharing of our pain has forged us new kin.”

  Gladys tilted her chin as she looked at them in return. In the midst of all my sorrow, I did not know if I had ever been so proud. “Good girl,” I told her.

  We remember.

  I prayed my eyes spoke the words I could not say.

  I could not explain it, save to say it was a healing. Something had shifted. I had felt it when the Cailleach placed her hands upon my head. I could not yet name it, but it pulsed, steady and strong as the beat of my heart.

  The Old Gods were summoning. We would answer their call.

  CHAPTER 18

  Languoreth

  Partick

  Kingdom of Strathclyde

  1st of November, AD 573

  Last came the prisoners. Gwenddolau’s people.

  They traveled in a caravan of three wooden carts drawn by tired horses, bodies packed against the high-sided slats, faces bleak as the dead.

  I had waited for the captives despite not knowing how I might aid them. They would be tenants and former servants, tradesmen. Perhaps a Wisdom Keeper, if any remained. Women and children who could be traded or sold. Farmers who’d seen the signal fire and rallied to the banner of the Dragon. Torin and the men from the pits stood at the road, ready to escort the carts back to Tutgual’s hall. I stood helpless, willing a discovery that eluded me. And then, from within one of the carts, someone cried out my name. “Languoreth!”

  I searched the press of bodies for the source.

  “Languoreth!”

  It was a woman, body thrust against the slats of the first cart—a woman with wild eyes and brown hair. Her dress drooped from her shoulders as if it had been torn. Her face was swollen with blood and bruises.

  “Stop!” I called out. “Stop the cart!” I broke through the line of noblewomen and dashed into the procession before any of our guard could stop me.

  “Languoreth!” The woman stretched her hand through the planks, but Torin reached her first, sending the blunt wooden end of his spear into her stomach.

  “Do not strike her!” I cried, reaching for her hand.

  She gripped my fingers. “Please help me, please,” she said. Her voice was a rasp.

  Torin spun round on me. “Get back! Are you mad?”

  Perhaps I was mad, for the captives now saw a chance for salvation. I cried out in pain as a dozen hands clawed, gripping my arm in a frenzy. They yanked and tugged, dashing my cheek against the wall of the cart.

  “Languoreth, Languoreth!” they cried as they crushed and piled, thrusting their hands through the slats. The warriors beat at their hands until they released me, and I stumbled back onto the grass. But now the carts were rocking as the captives shook their wooden prisons, desperate for release. “Languoreth! Languoreth!”

  “Go, go!” Torin shouted, and onlookers scattered as Tutgual’s men surrounded me, forcing me down, their shields coming over my head.

  “Stop this!” I shouted.

  “You’ve done this,” Torin shot back.

  “Let me go, they will not harm me,” I said, even as the prisoners shrieked beyond the shield wall, struggling to break free.

  “Get her back to the hall,” Torin commanded, “and get the carts gone!”

  The driver snapped the reins, urging the horses forward at a clip as prisoners tumbled and collided. The other two carts followed, disappearing from sight.

  The warriors stood, lowering their shields, fuming. Torin looked at me, shaking his head. “What were you on about? You nearly caused a riot!”

  “That woman, she knew me. She called for me!” I said. Even as I said it, I knew I sounded a fool. Who among the imprisoned did not know me? I was Uther Pendragon’s foster sister, twin to his counsellor, Lailoken. My dress and hair were disheveled. I felt a sting and reached to my cheek. My fingers felt the wet of blood.

  “You are bleeding!” Rhian said, hurrying to my side. “Come, come. Elufed and the children are already in the cart.”

  I took Rhian’s hand and she helped me in. Elufed’s eyes were calm, but her chest was rising rapidly. I felt her stare and looked away. “ ’Tis only a scratch, Rhian. I am hale, truly.”

  We rocked as the cart drew away from the marketplace, my children watching me in stunned silence.

  “Mother, are you all right?” Cyan asked.

  “She’s been through a shock,” Elufed said, but I scarcely heard her.

  “Three carts,” I murmured, casting back to the laws Cathan had taught us so well.

  “Three carts! Why, they are war prizes, aren’t they? One for the king, one for each of his sons, Morcant and Rhydderch.”

  Elufed looked as if she might shake me. “You mean to claim a slave cart? Your cousin disappeared and your brothers—our enemies—dead or in exile, and you would make demands of the king?”

  “It is not a demand. It is my right. My husband is not returned. Who else should claim his booty?”

  “I will claim it!” Cyan piped up.

  “Be quiet, Cyan.” I reached for his hand.

  “Cyan, your mother has struck her head and gone silly.” Elufed frowned. “I will not aid you in this, Languoreth.”

  “I would not ask it of you. I would only ask your help in securing a new captain of my guard. I must keep my word.”

  She knew I meant Torin, but she only crossed her arms beneath her fur cloak, saying, “We shall see. And what will you do with a cart of prisoners, in any case? Sell them? You don’t know the first thing about it.”

  “They are my property by law. I shall do with them as I please.”

  But I must attempt it without angering the king. I thought about the woman in the first cart, the look upon her face. I would have her cart, I would see to it. For the moment, I could do no more.

  We drew to a stop, and Elufed gathered the deep purple skirt of her dress, stepping down from the cart. I bent to speak softly to Gladys and Cyan. “No matter how we may feel, we must be certain to welcome your taid. We must welcome the king home.”

  They nodded, and we descended into a mass of revelers milling in the courtyard. The music thrummed too bright
ly as warriors held their children close. Sons and daughters looked up with stars in their eyes at their hero come home, and Cyan watched them, feeling Rhydderch’s absence with no way to reconcile it. Why had my husband not returned?

  I put my arms round my children. “Come, then. Let us go in.”

  The hall was a crush of dank leather and sweat, but the warriors parted as we trailed behind the queen, her face shining as she strode toward her husband. “Tutgual King.”

  “My lady queen. All is well?” Tutgual stood readily from his oaken chair to embrace her, but my healer’s eye noticed the frailness that accompanied a man of sixty-five winters.

  “All is well now you’re returned,” Elufed said. Her body did not stiffen, though I knew she did not love him, and her wintry eyes were warm as she turned to look upon her eldest son. Did she not feel betrayed that her body had borne such a vile and hateful man?

  Rhian brushed Morcant’s cheek with a kiss as I stepped forward to greet the king. “Tutgual King. We are so happy to see you come home.”

  Tutgual studied me with his birdlike gaze, then nodded. “You have lost a son. I am sorry for it.” The king had been fond of Rhys, a gifted fighter. He did not mention my daughter.

  “Thank you, my king. I had hoped at least to see my husband.”

  “He hunts the men who fled,” he said.

  My brother. I closed my eyes a moment, forcing myself onward. “When might we expect Rhydderch’s return?”

  “When his errand is complete. He is tanist now. He must see the task done.”

  “Then I shall await his return,” I said lightly. “Tonight we raise our cups to you. Our king is hale.” I bowed and shifted away, then stopped. “My king, I beg your favor. There is one item I wish to discuss.”

  “Speak.” The king blinked, impatient.

  “You are an exceedingly generous king, but I would never presume… I noted there were three slave carts. Do you intend one share to go to Rhydderch for his spoils?”

  “Aye. And what of it?”

  “In his absence, I would claim it if I may. I need servants at Cadzow, we are down to bare bones.”