The Forgotten Kingdom

by Signe Pike

  “Host it when you must,” he said, “but do not let it consume you.”

  “You are a wise old bird.”

  Diarmid only shrugged. “So some might say.”

  I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes. “We were the protectors of our island. I believed in our cause. I have given my life to it. I do not know now what I should do.”

  “Lailoken, the battle Emrys began is not over yet.”

  “Perhaps not for others. But it is over for me. The Britons believe they are stronger with Gwenddolau dead. They have severed their spear hand in fear of its power. Let the Angles come. Let the Britons of Ebrauc and Strathclyde and the warriors of Rheged wage their own war.”

  “And what would you do?” he asked.

  I thought on it, nodding. “I would make these woods a refuge for those among the persecuted who yet honor our ways. We will build our own army, an army of Stags. We will stand with the Selgovae to keep their wood safe. We will strike Rhydderch and Tutgual in retribution for their war. Those of us who remain will answer the slaughter brought upon us at Arderydd. When the snows melt and spring comes, the lords of Strathclyde shall hear my reply.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Languoreth

  Cadzow Fortress

  Kingdom of Strathclyde

  26th of November, AD 573

  The last of the blackberries had long since shriveled. In the days that passed, I paced the forest in the company of Eira and Gladys, and with Cyan, on occasion, when the mood struck him.

  One clear day, I looked north and saw the mountains in the distance were capped white with snow. The next morning, I woke to the rasp of a crow.

  The bird’s call had invaded my dreams, for in the pillowing fog between waking and sleep, I’d been dreaming of black feathers falling from the sky.

  “You seem troubled this morning,” Eira said, entering my chamber to help me to dress. It was strange to allow it, knowing she was noble, but she did it with such comfort that she’d set me at ease.

  “Someone is coming,” I said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Did Lailoken speak much of Cathan?” I turned to look at her.

  “Yes, of course. Your father’s counsel and his teacher.”

  “He was significant to me as well,” I said, though the words did not touch it. “Crows warn me of visitors ever since his death.”

  “He was assassinated by the bishop Mungo,” Eira said. “The same man responsible for Lailoken’s scar.”

  I was with him, I could not say. I blinked away the memory of Cathan hanging from a tree.

  “The visitor,” Eira said, as if to divert me. “Who might it be?”

  “Rhydderch,” I said, surprising myself. But speaking the words, I knew they were true.

  Eira looked away. Her hair was coming in nicely, fair at the roots. Though her face had healed from its memories of violence, the rest of her would never forget.

  “I knew I must face this, but I did not imagine how it might feel,” she said.

  “Nor did I.” Together Eira and I sat down upon the bed. We needn’t speak it—that my husband had brought battle and dealt death to so many we knew, that if he hadn’t failed to find Angharad, she would be with me, and Eira would have fled. That she need never have encountered Gwrgi again.

  “I do not like that I shall have to pass you off as a servant,” I said. “Can we not consider telling Rhydderch the truth?”

  “No, not yet. Please let me say when.” Eira did not look at me. Her voice was tight as she stared straight ahead. “And what if Rhydderch has murdered your brother?”

  I closed my eyes. “No matter what else he has done, he could not do that.”

  “And what if he has?” She took my hand now, seeking my gaze.

  In all these days, I had never truly questioned that my twin was alive. I had wrung myself with worry, I had been sick. But Lailoken and I had entered this world of the living together. I was so certain of our bond, I reasoned I would have felt it had he left me.

  But what if he were gone?

  If Lailoken was dead, and by Rhydderch’s hand?

  “I must go tell Olwenna to make ready for guests,” I said.

  I stood and crossed my chamber. I felt Eira stiffen, the bond we had forged turning to lead. But I was not finished. I turned at the door.

  “If Rhydderch has harmed my brother, he will wish he were dead.”

  I gathered my son and daughter close as we waited in the courtyard, Cadzow’s gates thrust open, listening to the nearing thunder of horses and the discordant bellow of horns. Power rode this way. I felt it like a moon tide. The sounds stirred my blood, my breath coming short. And then the men were upon us, streaming through the pasture, my husband riding at the helm of fifty mounted men. These were the scouts—the cleverest and most skilled among Rhydderch’s retinue, tasked with scouring the hills and valleys of Gwenddolau’s kingdom for the past fortnight and a month, tracking and killing any survivors who’d fled. Behind them trailed a pack of dogs.

  Now I would serve them Cadzow beef and fill their stomachs with mead as they sat at the table where Lailoken and I had laughed and bickered over bannocks. Among their battle-hard faces, Rhydderch’s lean, muscled frame was as familiar as the whorls of my own fingers. He rode between two banner men. The dark beard he kept so neatly trimmed crept down his neck. His brown hair, threaded with gray, was overlong and tangled by wind, and his expression was searching; he had not yet seen me.

  Eira and Aela stood behind me. It had been easier with Rhydderch gone, making him into a monster. But then his gray eyes locked upon mine, and I saw the cost of Tutgual’s war.

  The men on horseback slowed their mounts as they filled the courtyard in a flood, their boots blackened with blood and battle mud.

  Rhydderch did not smile at the sight of his two living children, only swung his legs swiftly from his horse and gathered them into his arms, breathing in their smell. When at last he released them, we stood looking at each other, our hands uncertain at our sides.

  “You’ve come home.” My voice was unnatural. I went to him dutifully and he gripped me too tightly, burying his face in my hair. Then, before I knew it, he had set me back so he might look at me. All I could not speak before his men passed over my face.

  He opened his mouth, but I cut him short. “Come, you must be worn through. Get your men into the warm. We have food in the great room and bedding for all.”

  Rhydderch nodded and motioned to his men, and together we guided them into the hall.

  I kept busy in seeing to their comfort. After we’d eaten, the men dusted off the old instruments in the hall, wincing and laughing at the tired old strings. But the songs they sang were solemn, and as evening fell, I could see they yearned for nothing so much as to return to their homes, to their own lovers and kin.

  “May we speak?”

  I looked up to see Rhydderch before me, offering his hand.

  “Of course, we must.” I rose from my seat.

  In my father’s old chamber, the fire crackled and the room flickered with the light of a single oil lamp. Before us the bed loomed, and the air was thick with all that lay between us. Rhydderch went to the sturdy oaken table to tip the wine amphora, pouring two cups, extending one to me. His face was expectant. “Please, Languoreth. Drink. For we must find a way for you to forgive me.”

  “For which act must I forgive you first?” I scoffed. “Waging war upon my brothers? The death of our son? Or perhaps the disappearance of our daughter?”

  Rhydderch stepped back. “So you blame me for all. I knew it would be thus. Will you not let me speak?”

  “Speak, though I cannot feign I will trust whatever you might say. Your quest for kingship has corrupted you. You are no longer the man I once knew.”

  I might well have struck him.

  “How could you think I would not attempt everything in my power to save Angharad? To protect our own son? You sit by the warmth of a fire, safe from blades and spears,
whilst you lay down judgment like some sort of jurist. You knew this path would not be gentle. Kingship does not come without sacrifice. You swore to stand beside me no matter the cost. Well, you have been brought to challenge, Languoreth, and once again you have fallen short.”

  I shook my head, trembling with rage. “It is I who has fallen short? How dare you? I am a shade because of you! Everything I love has been taken from me! And now you ask—no, you demand—forgiveness? No, I cannot forgive. I would sooner have died than have lost my own children. I have nothing left to give.”

  “And were they not my children, too?” Rhydderch slammed down the cups. “They slayed the man I sent to trade for her, or did you not know? They left his body lying at the foot of their rampart. I searched for my daughter on that battlefield even as I took blow after blow to protect my own son! And I have been searching for her since!”

  Never before had Rhydderch raised his voice. He took a breath, his shoulders sinking. He looked suddenly quite tired, then. Tired and aged.

  “They slayed your bargainer?” I asked. “But there must have been some mistake! They never would have done such a thing.”

  “I tell you, a corpse was their answer. And what was I to do? Defy my father? Give way to Morcant, that he should be named tanist instead? Languoreth, I had no choice.”

  “There is always a choice!” I said. “Do not play at being helpless. You abandoned a girl of nine winters to one of the bloodiest battles we have known. You led my son into war against his own uncles. It is I who have been helpless, stuck indoors weaving spools into grief, as I wonder what has become of our daughter and how my son’s life did end!”

  “I cannot say how it happened. Each man in our war party understood they must bring Angharad to me. They were to find her, and not my men alone. A united army of Britons!”

  “Perhaps you are not the commander you think. For it was Gwrgi who found her, and where is she now? What has become of her?”

  Rhydderch did not move. “What is this you speak of?”

  “Aye, Gwrgi found our child! You turned your face from Sweetmeadow, and look what has happened!”

  “How came you to know this? If Gwrgi found Angharad, he would have delivered her up. He would not have dared—”

  “You have no idea what Gwrgi has done.”

  “Languoreth, I beg you, speak plain!”

  “Our daughter escaped him, so Gwrgi said nothing. Our daughter was not harmed. But now she is lost once more, and no closer to home. The rest is not my story to tell.”

  Rhydderch went to the bed and sat, closing his eyes. “Dear God. What have I done?”

  It was a strange sound, Rhydderch’s cry. Strangled and boyish. I stood a moment, stunned. The sight of his ruin caused a caving in me, like rock into water. I went to him and sat beside him. He dropped his head to my lap like a child, wrapping his arms about my waist. “I could not save them. I could not save them,” he wept.

  I knew his pain because it was my own. We carried twin hollows in our hearts, Angharad and Rhys. Lord and lady of one of the most powerful kingdoms in the north, yet we could not protect our son from death. We could not even find our own daughter.

  Rhydderch’s tears subsided. We sat, wine in hand, our empty eyes fixed on the fire. After a while, I spoke.

  “I claimed your prison cart. Your share of Arderydd’s booty. Gwenddolau’s people are in our stable, even as we speak. Any who do not wish to earn their keep at Cadzow, I intend to set free. You must handle Morcant. I do not care how. Can we agree?”

  Rhydderch looked at me sidelong. “Well enough. If it please you, I will agree.”

  “Your brother made a trophy of my cousin’s head. He carried Brant to Partick upon a pike.”

  “I am so sorry, wife. I did not know.” His voice was tender.

  “I buried him in the woods.”

  “I did not see him take it. I never would have allowed it. That you must know.”

  “It does not matter. He is home now.” I blinked. “Angharad would not have been there to begin with had I not insisted she become a Keeper. It was I who asked that of you, and you conceded.”

  “I conceded because there was nothing better suited for her,” he said. “We cannot give up hope that Angharad is yet alive. I had to return, Tutgual commanded it. But there are men yet searching. They will find her.”

  “They must. Oh, please, Gods, let them find her.” Then I spoke aloud the thought that haunted me still. “You left me a prisoner. You left without a word.”

  Rhydderch looked at his hands. “I could not face you. I knew you would be angry. I knew you would feel betrayed. I knew the look upon your face would have knocked the battle from me. And I worried, then, I could not fight. Did you not wish me to return?”

  He looked up, gray eyes searching mine. There was no cave distant enough to bury my answer.

  “You hunted my brother,” I said, searching him in turn. “I must know. Did you find him?”

  Rhydderch looked away. I waited until I could not. “Please, speak!”

  “Aye. I found him,” he answered.

  “And does he live? Is he harmed? Did you harm him?” I demanded.

  Rhydderch threw up his hands, demanding my silence. “If you had any idea…” He shook his head. “Your brother lives. Or did so, some days ago.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “One of my men stumbled upon a boot print. A single print, in the middle of the Caledonian Wood. But he was an excellent tracker. He followed a trail of bent twigs and instinct to a cave, stopping just short of their watchman. He left before their warrior caught wind of him and reported to me. Nine men. Your brother was among them.”

  “And what did you do?” I heard my voice rising. “What happened then?”

  Rhydderch’s jaw tightened. He glanced at the door, lowering his voice. “I killed him. I killed my own man.”

  I sat in stunned silence. It was not an act I’d ever imagined my honorable husband was capable of. “I—I do not know what to say.”

  “Say nothing. It is done. My men believe it was by a Dragon’s hand.”

  I wanted to ask whether he had done it for Lailoken or done it for me. But what did it matter? I could see how it ate at him. How he’d never be free.

  “I am sorry,” I said. “But I am so very grateful.” I reached for his hand. Rhydderch entwined his fingers in mine. “I cannot reconcile Tutgual’s blood flowing through your veins,” I admitted. “I cannot help but fear it will someday corrupt you.”

  “That may be so. But I also have within me the blood of my mother, the First People. Everything I have done has been in the hope of eventual peace. But peace is impossible when our kingdoms cannot unite. War with the Angles may be inevitable, and you know as well as I that Gwenddolau would never agree to fight alongside his enemies. He had to be deposed.”

  “You never gave him the chance.”

  “Indeed I did,” Rhydderch said gently. “When he visited Cadzow. He demanded an ally without bending his knee. I will make it right, I swear it. Your brother must stay awhile in exile. Until my father is gone. But when I am named king, I will seek Lailoken to be my counsel.”

  “But he is of the Old Way.”

  “We will face it when it comes.”

  I thought of the nine in the cave. Was Maelgwn among them? He was to become the next Pendragon if Gwenddolau fell. Surely the men would have boasted if they’d taken his head.

  “And what of the Dragons? The ones who remain. Have they not suffered enough? I would see you grant them relief from exile, too. They are good men, husband. They have supped at our table.”

  “They are men who leveled their blades at my neck. And after this battle, they would do so again.”

  “Let us leave it for now. I am so very weary.”

  I passed Rhydderch my cup, unable to press him. We lay back upon the bed, yet in our clothes. I had borne him three children. We’d been wed nearly twenty winters. I was not sure he would touch me, nor if I’
d welcome it. But there is something that stirs from so familiar a touch, the safety of habit, the promise of pleasure. I returned Rhydderch’s kiss when he put his mouth to mine. We so seldom kissed. If it were not for my certain knowledge of his lips, he could have been any sad champion returning from war. So I met his eyes and offered up what healing I could muster. His passion simmered but never boiled over; he had learned my body as well as any of his weapons. I felt release and slipped behind it. After a while, we stilled.

  Rhydderch slept. I lay awake as I so often did, gazing at the thatch.

  I berated Rhydderch for his betrayal even while I had betrayed Rhydderch first.

  Our very marriage was built upon my betrayal. That I had lain with another man. Before Rhydderch and after. I had borne Maelgwn’s child and passed him off as our own. And yet I had never felt guilt strike me before, for love was not wrong.

  Outside, beyond the courtyard, was the pasture where I had first seen Maelgwn. When I stood near the cattle, I could envision it still—the day the Dragon Warriors had first galloped through our gate.

  Maelgwn’s green eyes had pinned me in place. You. As if with surprise.

  Now I understood Maelgwn and I had known each other before, in some distant time, for our draw was undeniable. To live without knowing him was unconscionable, no matter the price.

  And then, once I had known him, once I had felt him, I could not turn away.

  Take it, Ariane once told me. Do not give it up.

  I’d found no such recognition in Rhydderch’s steady eyes.

  Fondness. Respect. A great deal of warmth. But though he professed it, not that sort of love. Now Rhydderch startled in his sleep, and for a moment it looked as if he were gripping a sword.

  I must try harder, I told myself. I owe him my love.

  Togetherness was our bargain. Allegiance until our end.

  CHAPTER 27

  Angharad

  Dùn Déagh

  Kingdom of the Picts

  27th of October, AD 573

  Angharad had already finished breakfast by the time the woman returned. Talorcan sat at the table, chewing stormily on a bannock, when she gusted through the door, her terrier at her heels. She wore a sumptuous fur-lined cloak, her fiery hair neatly plaited. Over the tattoos on her neck she’d clasped an impossibly heavy torque. It was not gold, like so many torques Angharad had seen. Thick links of silver bound her neck in a chain.