The Forgotten Kingdom

by Signe Pike

  I turned back to Eira. “I am leaving for Cadzow tomorrow. I should very much like for you to come. However, if you do not wish to reveal your noble blood, I fear you would have to join my service as a servant. You would assist in my chamber, of course, or wherever you so wish. You have sacrificed many times over for your freedom, and at such great cost. I would never deign to take it from you. But I cannot explain your presence in any other way.” I sought her eyes. “Sister.”

  She nodded, wordless, and I sighed in relief.

  “I am so very happy we shall come to know each other,” I said.

  The shuffle of Aela’s shoes let me know she had been standing there for some time. “I’ve brought food and the washing water, m’lady,” she said.

  “Thank you. Aela, this is Eira. She will be joining you in my chamber service.”

  “You are most welcome, Eira,” she said with a bow of her head. It was then I knew just how much she’d overheard.

  “Will you help Eira to bathe?” I asked. She nodded.

  “We must be very careful, Aela. Before all other eyes, we must treat Eira as a servant.”

  “I understand,” she said, helping Eira to stand. “Come, m’lady. I will tend to you now. We will wash away your ills.”

  Torin appeared the next morning, standing taller. He’d been gifted a new tunic and cloak by Elufed, signaling the release of him and two others into my service. The men who’d aided in Brodyn’s escape. “The carts are ready, m’lady,” he said. But as I pinned my cousin’s old brooch upon his chest, Torin’s blue eyes were troubled.

  “What is it?” I asked. “I should think you’d be happy.”

  “I am pleased, m’lady. It isn’t that. It’s…” He stopped.

  “Tell me.”

  “Morcant has done a foul thing. It will disturb you.”

  Instantly, I knew. “Brant.”

  Torin nodded. “By the carts.”

  I clenched my fists to keep them from shaking.

  “What would you have me do?” he asked.

  I shook my head. I was finished with this man. I refused to be Morcant’s toy any longer.

  “Load the children and my serving women into the cart, and bring me a burlap sack from the kitchens. I shall be out shortly.”

  I closed my eyes and thought of my cousin until my breathing steadied. Then, shoulders back, I strode into the light.

  Elufed and Rhian stood waiting to see me off. I could tell by their stiffness they had already seen the sight that awaited me.

  Brant’s impaled head, the pike thrust into the ground just beside the carts. His face was distorted, dark eyes glassy.

  Curse you, Morcant, curse you to die.

  He imagined it would shock me, that I would scream. He’d meant to stir horror, yet he’d left me an offering.

  Torin came forward with the sack, now gleaning my intent. “Let me,” he said.

  “Nay, Torin. I will do it myself.” I stood a moment, looking into Brant’s eyes. You are with me, now, cousin. I am going to bring you home.

  Brant’s brown hair stirred in the wind.

  “My cousin’s head is no trophy.” I spoke loudly, so that wherever the coward Morcant was, he might hear. “Torin, please. Hold the bottom. Hold the pike.”

  He gripped the weapon shaft as I hoisted the sack up, bringing it down over Brant’s head. I could not see his face now, ruined in death. In my mind, I could see him as he’d once been. I swallowed. Beneath the burlap, I felt the shape of his ears as I placed my palms upon either side of the sack, pressing, then pulled up.

  The weight of it fell into my hands as I drew the sack closed. I looked round the courtyard.

  “I pray the gods will forgive Morcant for what he has done,” I said. I nodded in farewell to Rhian and Elufed, cradling the sack to my chest as I climbed into the cart.

  My heart recovered its pacing only when Partick had faded in the distance.

  An icy rain fell as we traveled along the road leading back to the forests of Cadzow. I thought of the priestess at Samhain. Of my little girl, alone in the woods. I thought of my lover.

  A wise woman once told me, We may not always have the choice we would like, but we always have a choice.

  Eira and I.

  Elufed and Rhian.

  We each made our choices in how to be free.

  CHAPTER 21

  Angharad

  The Forest

  Battle of Arderydd

  17th of October, AD 573

  Angharad woke in the hut of Brother Thomas to the smell of simmering oats. Porridge again, but she welcomed it. It was difficult to tell the time of day in the windowless hut. Angharad felt as if she’d slept through winter. No dreams. Brother Thomas looked up from the cookpot.

  “Is it morning?” she asked.

  “It is,” he said.

  Her sleep fog evaporated at the thought of Eira, and Angharad swung her feet over the edge of the bed. The sooner she found her father, the sooner she might save Eira.

  “Is it early morning? Or have I slept overlate? We must set out. Please, we must go.”

  She looked about to gather her belongings but remembered she had none, save her torque and the belt that once holstered her mother’s knife.

  “Those who are wise know better than to travel on an empty stomach,” Brother Thomas said. “Straight after we eat, we will set out for the river Tyne.”

  Angharad sat dutifully at the table, studying a freshly carved cross resting there. Intricate interlacing patterned the wood. In the center was a star, its points radiating outward, beyond.

  “It’s only just finished,” he said. “It is meant to bring protection.”

  “It’s lovely. You are quite good at carving.”

  “Woodworking was my craft at the monastery before I came here to the woods. I learned it from my father, and he, his father before him.” Brother Thomas placed her bowl of porridge on the table. “Eat, then. We will change your wrappings before we depart.”

  It was a cool, clear morning as they stepped outside the hut, and Angharad took a deep breath, blinking in the light. The forest was a pulsating world of color and sound after her deep hours of sleep, and though her worries had not left her, at least she was rested. Brother Thomas tilted his face to the sun filtering through the trees. Looking at his sandy hair and blue eyes, Angharad could not help but be reminded of her uncle Lailoken, though Brother Thomas seemed older and possessed poorer teeth. Yesterday she’d set out to find the river but come upon Brother Thomas instead. Now she had someone to bring her to the river in safety. The trees had been right. She’d been just where she needed to be.

  “Is it very far?” Angharad asked as she followed him on the forest trail.

  “Far enough that until recent days, my hut received few visitors,” Brother Thomas replied. “But we shall reach it by midday.”

  They walked in silence a stretch before Angharad turned to him. “Brother Thomas?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did the man come and demand that you mark your door?”

  He looked at her. “Why do you think?”

  “Because the armies would spare Christians.”

  “It would seem so,” he said.

  Angharad thought on this. “Do you not feel terrible that your hut was spared while the homes of women and children of the Old Way were burnt?”

  “I do not like the burning of any huts, nor the harming of any people, no matter which god they might choose. But if my hut had not been spared, I could not offer those same women and children food and shelter.”

  “The armies—my father’s men and the other kings—they sought to punish people of the Old Way. But I am of the Old Way. And so is my mother.”

  “Belief among kings is nearly always about power,” he said. “Perhaps there was more than one reason the kings wished to topple Uther Pendragon.”

  “But he was a hero. He and my uncle Lailoken and all of their men!”

  “Yes. And as such, they had great infl
uence. Uther’s lands also levied much tribute from merchants taking their goods both north and south. And his kingdom stands between other Brythonic kings and Bernicia. Men fear what they cannot control. And they could not control Uther Pendragon.”

  “But why are there lords and chieftains who despise the old religion so?”

  “I do not believe they despise the Old Way, not truly. It is more so they recognize Christianity can lend them more power.”

  “But how?”

  “Let me pose you a question.” Brother Thomas bowed his head. “Two men of power enter a room before a great audience. Who may speak first? The Wisdom Keeper or the king?”

  “The Wisdom Keeper,” Angharad replied. “It has always been so.”

  “That is right.”

  Angharad considered this, stopping midstride. “The kings wish to be beholden to none other but themselves.”

  “You are quite clever for a girl of nine winters.”

  “But that has nothing to do with gods! It is only about power! And why must it come to a war between this way or that?”

  “Because men are fools.”

  “But you chose a life among men, at a monastery,” Angharad pointed out.

  Brother Thomas did not smile. “And now I am a hermit, living in the woods.”

  “A culdee,” she corrected him. “Why did you leave?”

  “I fell out with the priest there, and I wished to be closer to God. That is all you need know.”

  “Your god or mine?” Angharad asked.

  Brother Thomas looked amused. “Are they not one and the same?” He quickened his pace. “Come on, then. We’re getting close now. With any luck, a vessel will pass before too long.”

  Brother Thomas was kind, Angharad knew, but also powerful. She’d tried to see into him, and it was as if she’d run headlong into a rampart. She fell quiet. At last they emerged from the trees to find themselves standing before the river. Waist-high brown river grass led to a place where the bank sloped into dark flowing water. Blue sky and clouds drifted in its reflection, as if one could step foot on the river’s surface and stride across the sky. But there was no sign of any boat.

  Brother Thomas drew out some bread and cheese from his satchel, and they ate. A curlew called from the shallows. Still no boats. Angharad picked dirt from beneath her fingernails. Time stretched. Then at last Brother Thomas stiffened, narrowing his eyes as he looked upriver. “A vessel, I think! It comes this way.”

  It was a flat-bottomed currach with four men at oar, a fifth sitting at the stern watching. Brother Thomas stood, waving, but Angharad’s stomach was full of moths. The boatmen wore Brythonic-style caps and woven checked tunics, but something about the men made Angharad ill at ease.

  “I do not think these men are good,” Angharad said.

  “I am here. No ill shall befall you,” Brother Thomas reassured her. “Let us speak to them, in the least. We shall see what they know.”

  The currach drew up, the boatmen stretching their oars to pull the boat ashore. Only as they drew closer did Angharad realize they weren’t men, not all. Two of the oarsmen were women. They wore tunics and woolen trousers, their shoulders muscled beneath their shirts, but both had the unmistakable rise of breasts. Wives? Sisters, perhaps? Either way, Angharad felt a sway of relief. There was safety in women.

  The man at the stern leapt lightly from the boat and scaled the bank, offering a smile. His hair was light brown and the beard beneath his chin trained to a point. He wore a belted tunic with an embroidered hem and a padded leather vest. His eyes were pale, more gray than blue. “Good day,” he said, and Angharad heard an accent.

  Brother Thomas drew Angharad behind him. “Greetings. You’re the first vessel we’ve seen all morning. Where do you travel from?”

  The man smiled but appeared confused. “Traders.” He tapped his chest, nodding toward the boat.

  “Ah,” Thomas said. “They do not possess a good grip on Brythonic. Have you seen any warriors?” He lifted his arm as if gripping a spear, and the man’s eyes sparked with understanding.

  “No, no,” he said. He pointed upriver, shaking his head again.

  “And where is it you’ve come from?” Thomas asked again, but Angharad could tell he was growing frustrated.

  “Bernicia.”

  Brother Thomas’s face brightened. “Ah!” He spoke something to the man that sounded like Anglian, and the trader smiled broadly in return, exposing a row of clean white teeth. “Stay here a moment. I’ll see what we might learn,” Brother Thomas said.

  “But he’s an Angle.” Angharad tugged Brother Thomas’s cloak.

  The trader stiffened. “We must all be born some place, Angharad. Not all Angles are evil, and as you well know, not all Britons are kind,” Brother Thomas said.

  “But—”

  “A moment, only.” He stepped away and Angharad slunk back.

  What did she know, in any case? At every turn she’d been wrong. She’d abandoned the fortress and gotten separated from her family. She’d followed the dark-haired woman and led Eira into danger. How could she be Chosen? How could her uncle, her mother, and even Diarmid believe her to be? Angharad’s chest tightened, and she forced her eyes from Brother Thomas and the trader, looking instead at the women in the boat. They spoke in low voices with the men as the currach bobbed in the river’s eddy, their eyes wary and their skin a pale leather of weather and wind. They were more muscled than other freewomen. Then again, Angharad had never seen an Angle before. Perhaps they all rowed boats and dressed like men. One looked up, feeling Angharad’s eyes upon her, and offered a smile that did not reach her eyes.

  Angharad startled when Brother Thomas touched her arm.

  “It’s all right, it’s only me,” he said gently. “They’re traders from Bernicia, here to make what profit they can from the strife. Word of Gwenddolau’s fall has traveled. People are desperate for sheepskin and food and all else imaginable. For a price, they’ve agreed to take us to Rheged.”

  “To Rheged?” she asked.

  “Yes. Urien is a fair and generous king. If we do not meet your father’s men along the way, he will certainly receive us. You will be safe there until your people can fetch you home. But we must buy passage. Have you anything to trade? Anything at all?”

  Her mother’s knife was with Gwrgi and his men now, but her slender golden torque was still fastened by the belt at her waist, hidden beneath her tunic. It was all she had left of home, and she could not part with it. Angharad shook her head.

  “You needn’t fret. Perhaps he’ll accept a carving. Come, Angharad. We must not tarry.”

  They followed the trader to the riverbank, where the oarsmen waited, steadying the boat.

  “I can offer this.” Brother Thomas drew the cross he’d finished only that morning from his satchel. The trader squinted at it, then laughed.

  “Doesn’t like my handiwork, it seems,” Brother Thomas said. Clearly, the trader was not a Christian.

  “I have nothing else.” Brother Thomas held up his hands. The humor fell from the trader’s face. He looked at them a moment, then gestured impatiently, taking the cross and thrusting it into his vest. The woman who’d been eyeing Angharad from the boat stood to help them aboard, offering Brother Thomas her hand. He stepped in, but as she reached to hoist Angharad in beside him, the torque pinched between her hand and Angharad’s back. They settled into the currach beside the cargo, and the trader hopped in.

  As the woman took up the oar nearest their backs, she said something that sounded like an admonishment. The trader glanced at Angharad, and they pushed off from the bank, easing the currach into the river’s swift current. They’d found a boat. They were under way. But the trader did not take his place at the stern. He moved instead to crouch before Angharad, looking at her expectantly.

  “We’ve paid you. The girl has nothing,” Brother Thomas said. The trader raised a brow and spoke in Anglian, holding out his hand.

  “He claims you have jewels,”
Brother Thomas said.

  “Jewels? I haven’t!” Angharad lied. Her torque had belonged to her mother before her, and it was worth the price of a thousand currachs, besides. She heard an impatient tsk from behind her, and the woman reached roughly beneath Angharad’s tunic, yanking the torque from her belt and slapping it into the trader’s waiting hand. He looked at it, then at Angharad, his pale eyes keen.

  “Where did you find that?” Brother Thomas admonished her. “Thievery is a sin!”

  Angharad’s face heated with anger and confusion—the trader had taken her torque, and Brother Thomas knew she was a noble! Then he looked at her with meaning, and she realized. He did not wish the trader to know that Angharad was of gentle blood. She needn’t know why, but she trusted him.

  “I am sorry.” She bowed her head, watching with a sinking heart as the man tucked the treasure into his vest.

  “It is better he should have it, for you must learn the way of things.” The culdee spoke so the man might hear. “Steal from another, and another shall steal from you. What is ill begotten, ill begets.”

  The trader clapped Brother Thomas on the back and moved away. Angharad swiveled in her seat to look at the woman rowing behind her. The woman only returned her stare.

  Horrid! Angharad turned back to the water, brows drawn in fury. “That was all I had of my mother and my father. I curse you! I curse you! I curse you to die,” she whispered.

  Brother Thomas heard her and straightened. “Angharad! You mustn’t curse people! Take it away,” he said.

  Angharad shook her head. Brother Thomas pushed aside a sack of sheepskins to sit nearer. “I am very sorry for the loss of your torque,” he said. “But you mustn’t wish ill upon people, Angharad. It can be very dangerous indeed. Enough evil finds its way. Do you truly wish to aid it?”

  Angharad’s vision blurred as she looked downriver, and Brother Thomas sighed, taking her hand. “Nothing can take your mother and father away. They cannot be found in a trinket. You are made of them, always, and they of you.”