The Forgotten Kingdom

by Signe Pike

  Just at that moment, Talorcan returned, tossing the woman a weary look.

  “Let him come in, then,” the woman said. “We need not have put him out like a flock hound.”

  “He ate, did he not? Leave it at that,” Talorcan said.

  “As you say.” The woman took the bowls from the table and set them down for the terrier to lick.

  “Why do you hate Christians so?” Angharad asked.

  “Why do you not?” the woman replied.

  “Brother Thomas came to my aid. He is a wise and just man,” she answered.

  “Yet it was Christians who raised war in your kingdom. Now Uther Pendragon is dead.”

  “Do not speak his name as if you know him,” Angharad said angrily. “I saw no Picts come to our aid.”

  “And why should we? We have our own troubles. And we have our own way,” she said. “We do not need Christians shadowing our hut doors, telling us our wrongs and what to believe, as if theirs is the only true way.” She took up the stew bowls from the floor. “It grows late. Help me clean the dinner bowls. And you might also clean yourself.”

  She lifted her brows as she passed Angharad the stack of wooden bowls, as if it were Angharad’s fault she had not bathed since before the battle. Angharad followed her just behind the hut, to a place where a stream flowed between moss-covered boulders. The woods were shaded in the purple light of evening, and the sound of the water soothed, but the chill stung her fingers as she bent to clean the bowls, and she thought of Brother Thomas bedding with the pigs.

  Angharad cleaned herself as well as she could bear with stream water and brought Brother Thomas a fleece from her pallet, which Talorcan and the woman grudgingly let be.

  The pallet was soft as butter beneath Angharad’s cheek. The terrier curled into the crook of her knees as the woman moved quietly about the hut, tidying while Talorcan undressed. It seemed he and the woman shared a bed. He climbed beneath the skins, and soon he was sleeping. The woman glanced at the bed, then came to kneel beside Angharad.

  “Have you thought about what I said?” she asked. “Tomorrow Talorcan will bring you before the village chieftain. I know his mind well. I can assure you he is not fond of Tutgual, your king.”

  Outside, the wind rustled the branches of a nearby tree. A whisper urged her. Go. Angharad searched the woman’s eyes. There was truth there, and comfort. Growing suddenly warm beside the hearth, Angharad wiped her face with her sleeve. “Why have you banked the fire so?” she asked. “I can scarcely breathe.”

  The woman looked at Angharad, curious. “Would you like me to open the door?”

  Angharad was about to answer yes, she would, when she glanced at the hearth. It raged no more than it had a moment before.

  It was the woman who burned.

  “I wish to go upriver,” Angharad said.

  “Very well. I will speak with the chieftain on your behalf. Good night, child.”

  “Angharad,” she said. “My name is Angharad.”

  The woman made a quick gesture, tapping her fingers twice to her breastbone as if by rote.

  “Why do you do that?” Angharad asked.

  “You trust me with your name. This is how we acknowledge it. If one gives you his name whilst you are here, you must do the same in return.” She showed Angharad again, tapping the place above her heart.

  “In my kingdom, we give our names to be well mannered.”

  “It is not so here. You should be careful whom you give your name to. But I will not abuse it.”

  “And will you not give me your name in return?”

  “My name?” she asked. “I will leave that to you. Perhaps you might ask the sea.”

  “No. Not the sea.”

  “No? And why do you say so?”

  “Because you are not made of water,” Angharad answered.

  The woman shrugged with a smile, turning toward bed. “Good night, Angharad. Rest well.”

  Angharad stared at the fire, pillowing her hand beneath her cheek. She would ask the fire the woman’s name. Surely it would tell her.

  For when Angharad had looked into the woman’s eyes, all she had seen were flames.

  CHAPTER 25

  Lailoken

  Caledonian Wood

  Kingdom of the Selgovae

  January, 574 AD

  I stood, waiting. Watching for a sign. And then I heard a sound. A rumble in the direction of the wood. I swiveled, seeking its source. There, beyond the loch, a trail snaked through the forest.

  Follow.

  I knew I must.

  Each step felt like a league. It was not winter here, and the canopy of leaves snuffed out the light, turning the forest into a dim stretch of twilight. The air grew cold, or was that my body, somewhere beyond myself? Each time I came to a twist in the path, I listened for the sound, and the soft rumble drew me on, until at last I came to a hut, half hidden in shadow.

  Hearth smoke beckoned, sifting through the thatching. Who or what waited within? I am not ashamed to say I felt fear, but no knowledge comes from comfort. I pushed open the door.

  The hearth blazed, yet I felt no heat. Beside it, a man sat upon a woven mat, legs crossed at the ankles. He looked up, and I saw his dark hair was shorn in a tonsure. His piercing eyes were kohled. It was the Keeper of the Falls.

  I bowed my head in greeting. I was in his land now, the land of the dead.

  He gestured to a waiting mat. He looked somehow more youthful here, his face less lined, eyes less threatening.

  I sat opposite him. An earthenware pitcher sat beside a mortar and pestle on the mat before him. I watched as he reached for the pitcher, pouring its liquid into two cups. “Drink,” he urged, passing one to me.

  I took the cup but did not sip it. He smiled then, understanding that I knew his ruse: one cannot eat or drink in the land of the dead if one wishes to return.

  “My body lies bound in the Bull’s Sleep. I cannot tarry. But I wish to know why I was drawn here,” I said.

  The Keeper nodded and shifted the mortar and pestle closer so he might begin mixing whatever substance lay within. It was a fine blue powder, the color of storms.

  “Ask me,” he said, bending his head to his task. Tipping a splash of liquid from the jug into the mortar, he worked the pestle, creating a paste.

  “Why was I drawn here?”

  “That is not the right question.”

  “Who are you?”

  The Keeper did not look up, only continued in his mixing. “You waste time you do not have. Ask again.”

  Frustration flared. I looked at him, thinking. Searching. Attempted again. “Why did you take your own life?”

  At this he looked up. “I did not only drown.”

  “Your answer makes no sense.”

  If he had leaped from the hilltop, as Archer had said, he would have died from the fall. He would not have drowned. “Assassination. That is that what you speak of.”

  The Wisdom Keeper scoffed. Shaking his head, he trained his eyes upon the fire, his hand working the pestle as if I were no longer there at all. But I would not be so easily dismissed. I sat in silence as he leaned closer, peering into the flames. His eyes widened then, as if finding a vision.

  “They are rebuilding the fortress,” he said. “I see a great wall of stone. You stand on one side. I stand upon the other. Listen to me. Listen! For I cannot speak plain. We must cut them down without mercy, we must paint trees with their gore. We must hunt them like wolves through the dark of the wood. Again, and again, and again they will come. But hear me, my brother. They must not pass through!”

  The Keeper fell back, his hands still.

  “You speak of your days, Brother Keeper. Not of my own,” I said carefully.

  He opened his eyes, pinning me. “Your days are my days. Soon you will see.”

  A rich, earthy tang came from the mortar, a scent I knew like my own—woad paste for battle. The Keeper beckoned, and I did as he bade, waiting. Mortar in hand, he dipped three fingers into
the paint. I felt the cold silken trail as he reached to mark me, forehead to nose.

  Then he looked at me, and I understood.

  I am going back to war.

  The thought set me to flight. For the hut around me had gone, and quite suddenly, I found that I stood in the middle of a vast and ancient wood.

  It was early morning, and the low rumble had returned. I had followed it, unknowing. Now I saw its source.

  A legion of men moved like a channel of water through the forest. The thunder of their boots shook the saplings, but the rumble came from the sledges they dragged, carrying their weapons of war ever deeper into the forest.

  The Angles are coming! I heard someone shout. And in the next moment, a hail of arrows sailed in a punishing rain. But these men were not Angles. Not any I had seen. These men wore red cloaks and plumed helmets, like soldiers of Rome.

  I looked for the Keeper, but men were racing now, taking shelter behind trees. They shouted out orders, preparing to fight.

  Wake up, wake up! someone called from the trees. I ducked as arrows pierced the man beside me and he fell to his knees.

  Wake up! one of the men shouted with a curse.

  I jerked as some force took hold of me, yanking me to the surface through too many depths.

  “Wake up, you cock wart!”

  I shot up to sitting as if plunged into ice, blinded by dark. Gasping for breath, I thrashed and flailed, not knowing my own bonds.

  There was a man in my cell, shaking me from sleep. “Quit struggling!” he said crossly. But how could it be? I knew well that voice. “Diarmid?” I asked.

  I ripped off my blind. There he stood in the light of the fire, but I would not be fooled.

  “You are dead,” I said. “And I am still dreaming.”

  He leaned in close, peering into my eyes like a hoot owl, then slapped angrily at my cheeks.

  “Ow!” I protested.

  “I’m not dead, you dullard,” he said, crossing his arms. “And just what were you thinking, taking the Bull’s Sleep with no one to wake you?”

  “I had no choice.”

  “No choice? Is that what you say? Lucky I came, that’s what you were. A little while longer and you would have been dead.”

  “I was not dead,” I replied, yanking the bonds from my wrists. “And I wasn’t yet through!”

  Diarmid paced the little cell, waving dismissively. “Fine, then. Some greeting I’ve had, too. Traveling all night, the sky pissing snow. Where am I to bed? This place isn’t fit for a rat.”

  I crouched beneath the roof, untwining the last of the rope from my legs, and then straightened. We looked at each other.

  “You’re here,” I said, blinking.

  “Aye. That I am.” He tried to stand proud beneath the weight of my gaze, but Diarmid was stooped now, one eye gone milky and unseeing.

  “We took you for dead.”

  Diarmid’s eyes filled. He brought his hands to his head.

  I do not think I had truly cried, not until then.

  I went to Diarmid, gripping him tightly beneath my chin. My sobs came out heaving as I clutched the man I’d thought gone—my teacher, my friend. Diarmid wept, too, until our grief sank back on its tide. Then, wiping his unseeing eye, he said, “Fuff off, then. Holding me like a baby.”

  My chuckle was cut short by a fiery stab shooting up from my feet. Wincing, I bent.

  “Winter’s bite,” Diarmid said. “We had best get your boots off and see what’s left of your toes.”

  “How did you find me?” I asked as we sat close together, fumbling with my boots.

  “I found the men first. Maelgwn said you’d come here. Kept mumbling on about some blasted curse. Then I knew right where he meant.”

  “I’d forgotten you spent time here as a boy,” I said.

  “Not too far flung. I once knew these hills well. Though I do not like the presence here.” He looked accusingly round the cell, and the hairs upon my skin bristled. “I would be mindful what you say.”

  “Ha,” Diarmid scoffed. “I fear no shades.”

  “This Keeper,” I said, “his workings are shadowed, but I will tell you I think he is more than a shade.”

  I gestured for my satchel, and Diarmid tossed it at my feet. From my medicines I drew a small handful of stag moss to crush over the flames. Breathing in the smoke, I felt the plant do its work, closing the passage between this realm and the other.

  Diarmid rooted through my satchel, mumbling. “I’m half starved. What’ve you got to eat, then? Nothing. I figured as much.” He reached for his own satchel and pulled out a loaf, a parcel of cheese, and some salted game. A skin of wine.

  “And where did you pilfer that?” I asked.

  “Why, Archer, of course.”

  “He gave me no such things.”

  Diarmid shrugged. “You were not fostered by a Selgovian aunt as a lad.”

  “Give it here.” The wine had warmed by the fire and tasted of the sun-drenched soil of Gaul. “Oh, that’s fine,” I said, savoring the path it took down my gullet. I took another draught, then returned it. “So,” I said. “How came you here?”

  Diarmid’s face shifted. I could still hear the clash and roar of battle as if we yet stood on the ramparts, but those of us who were left, we burned to remember even as we bled.

  “I suppose night had fallen by the time I awoke,” he said. “The smoke stirred me, thick in the air. They’d built pyres beneath the ramparts and struck them alight. My skull felt as if pressed. The world was a blur of darkness and light. I’d been struck by sword and by spear. I had not thought I would live. But I had tumbled downslope, into the shelter of bushes. Now they were searching for survivors to run through with their pikes. I heard our men cry, but what was I to do? I stayed there and blessed them. I saw each of them home.”

  He looked down, rubbing the tears that had splashed on his knuckles. “I made my way north, traveling by night. When I got beyond the burning, a widow took me in. Some of my wounds had soured by then. It took many weeks before I was healed. But soon as I was, I struck out to find what was left of our men. The Selgovae, they have watchers in the wood, and they knew of the woman sheltering a wounded man. They had a rough way with questions, but they soon brought me here.”

  “And did you see any others? Was there any word of Eira or Angharad? Any word at all?”

  His milky eye shifted. “No news, I am sorry to say.”

  Talk of the battle only stoked my fire to seek justice. For Angharad and Rhys. Gwenddolau and Eira and Brant.

  “Your eye.” I gestured. “Can you see from it at all?”

  “The other does me well enough,” he said, inspecting my foot. “And I’d say it’s a mite better off than your toes. You’ll lose two off this foot. The others might stay.”

  The third and fourth were shrunken, burnt black like decay. Diarmid bandaged my foot with a nod. “The Cailleach took them. That was her price. No visions come in winter without her design. Now, Lailoken. Tell me your tale.”

  I told him of our retreat through the forest, of finding our way to Old Man Archer. The wolf and the boar. The Keeper and his cloak.

  “Arrows in the wood. It was this battle I saw, a battle with the Angles, though I did not know its name. There is a blindness that rides on the tails of that army. A nothingness. It is a place beyond which I cannot see.” Diarmid’s words were ominous in winter’s dark.

  “Angles. Romans. Both seeking land, both seeking power, that’s all the same. I still cannot say how it concerns the Mad Keeper.”

  “And did he seem mad?”

  “Nay,” I acknowledged. “Perhaps no more than me.”

  Diarmid leaned back upon his elbows. “Romans, Romans… it does bring to mind the tale of the Lost Legion.”

  “Which tale of the Lost Legion?”

  Diarmid sighed. “Many generations ago, in the time of Agricola, the Ninth Legion of Rome was the most loathed in all the land. It was they, by the thousands, who’d marched north
from their fortress at Ebrauc up through Partick, raping and burning and pillaging as they went. Well, the Selgovae bore the brunt, and they never did forget it. Forty winters passed, and they fought all the while.

  “Then one day, the Britons rose up. A new ruler sent the Ninth Legion up to quell it. North again they marched, into the wood. Five thousand strong they were, marching through the Caledonian Wood, through the land of the Selgovae. But this time they would not rape and burn. For they disappeared into the Deep, never again to be seen.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “The Selgovae took them in the forest. Spread their gore upon the trees! And the Romans at their fort in Ebrauc were none the wiser. Had no blessed idea where their men had gone.”

  “What do you say?”

  “I said, they spread their gore upon the trees!” Diarmid said with delight.

  “Those were the Keeper’s words. But I told you as much.”

  “Nay, you didn’t,” Diarmid said. “But that’s how the tale goes, all the same.” We were silent a moment before Diarmid spoke again. “Keep it in your vest,” he advised. “Visions don’t come for naught. You will understand its meaning when the time comes. That is always the way.”

  “There will be war with the Angles, that much I know. We must be united or we all shall be dead. And yet I cannot stomach it.”

  Diarmid’s face soured. “United with Rhydderch.”

  “Aye. An impossible confederation. Dragon Warriors. The Selgovae. Gwrgi and Peredur, too. None could turn their head for fear of a blade in their backs.”

  Diarmid stared into the flames. “The beast of war consumes many hosts. It was with you on the day you rode out to Sweetmeadow. It was with the men rushing our ramparts. It will be with the Angles when they march against us, too. It feeds on ambition and fear, jealousy and hate. And it cannot be fooled—it is old as man himself, our companion, our shadow. Our master, if we allow it. For with its power, we can bring kingdoms to their knees. We can obliterate entire peoples. Its only demand is that we do not ask questions.”

  A shiver traced my neck. “I fear I am a host it knows too well.”