by Signe Pike
Their argument was a whirl of strange words in a torrent, but Angharad needn’t understand Pictish to know the root of their strife. The woman held more power than Talorcan, and Talorcan felt unmanned. Angharad pondered whether or not she should tell them, but instead snuck some bread and cheese for Thomas, hoping they would discover it themselves in time.
“I am going with you,” Angharad told Brother Thomas, crouching at his side by the pigs.
He ceased his chewing and looked up. “No, Angharad, you must stay here. The chieftain, he will arrange—”
“I told Muirenn I would go, and I won’t change my mind. She’s been to see the chieftain. She’s arranged it already.”
“Muirenn?” Thomas looked baffled.
“Yes. The woman with the fiery hair.”
“She told you her name?”
“Not precisely.”
Brother Thomas was not amused.
“You said you would not chastise me. Why are you looking at me so?” Angharad frowned.
“Because I worry for you, Angharad. I worry very much. Travel any farther into this land, and you might never return. You do not understand the vastness of Pictland. Mountains and lochs never ending, from here all the way to the foot of the northern sea! Seven kingdoms, with countless lords and chieftains beneath them. Here at Dùn Déagh, this is only the beginning.”
Thomas’s words were built to frighten her.
“Muirenn says there are women here. Women who will help me go home. If we accompany Talorcan, she promised to take me there. I would stay with you, Brother Thomas, as long as I may.”
She said the last with such vehemence that the culdee fell silent. Inside the hut, Talorcan and Muirenn still traded words.
“If you would travel with me awhile longer, Angharad, it will bring me great comfort,” Brother Thomas said.
“Then I shall,” she said, but her eyes fell to his bonds. “I don’t know what I shall do without you.”
“We needn’t think about that yet,” he said. He bowed his head. “In the beginning, it is always hard. The mystery takes us in hand in ways we cannot understand. But we must never stop listening, Angharad. That is how we learn to believe. All will be well. We must believe in that, together.”
Talorcan sat in the bow of the currach as his men powered the boat up the river Tay.
Muirenn perched beside Angharad, her terrier upon her lap.
Muirenn. That was the name the hearth flames had given, but Angharad dared not use it. As they navigated the river, Muirenn’s eyes darted often to Talorcan, and Angharad knew she felt exposed to injury, naked as a new root.
“He is unhappy you woke early and went to the chieftain,” Angharad said.
“You speak your mind freely, princess,” Muirenn said, then softened. “Perhaps I should have waited, but I hoped to avoid a spectacle.” Her eyes traveled to Brother Thomas, who sat bound at the stern of the currach.
“A spectacle? You mean to say your chieftain might have harmed him?”
“Some matters are better settled away from the gaze of our people, that is all. Our chieftain is protective of our ways. We have seen what happens when people open their ears to the silver tongues of outsiders.”
“But he heeded you. The chieftain granted your request. Is this why Talorcan is angry?”
“I have stolen a chance for him to parade his priest, and he is sore from it.”
Angharad screwed up her face. “I do not think that is why.”
“Is it not?”
“No. Talorcan wishes to prove himself to your chieftain. Most men wish as much, only Talorcan seems to wish it even more.”
“You are very curious for a little girl.” The heavy silver torque round Muirenn’s neck caught the light as she turned to glance at the stern of the boat, and Angharad finally understood.
“I think it is because the chieftain is your father.”
“Curious and clever.” Muirenn raised a brow, and her approval felt sweet as honey.
“Well, I hope he won’t be angry for long.” Angharad reached to stroke the terrier. “You seem stony at first, but your heart is soft as petals. Muirenn.” She looked up carefully, tapping two fingers to her chest.
Muirenn blinked. “Well done, princess.” She gave a little smile, looking out over the water. “Stony but soft. Such is the way with many women who have given themselves to the goddess.”
“Your goddess lives in fire.” Angharad tried it out, as if to make sense of it.
“My goddess is fire. But perhaps not in the way you think. She has many names and many faces—but it is we who give her masks. We are so small, you see, and she, so very vast.”
“But I saw no masks or faces. I saw only flames. And then I heard a whisper.”
“Yes, princess. That is the way.”
Angharad looked at the river. “Sometimes I fear I will never find my way home.”
“Do not fret,” she said tenderly. “You must remember that when you are a child of the Gods, every moment you are finding your way home. If that is what you truly wish, I have no doubt the Gods will deliver it. Angharad.”
The wind and the slap of water against the hull slipped them into silence a moment, then Angharad’s eyes fell again on Muirenn’s torque. “Your torque is different from any I have seen,” Angharad said. “You are a noble, and yet the links—they appear so heavy and thick. Ours are slender and made of gold. As mine was.”
“Have you lost it, then?”
“I didn’t lose it. It was taken.”
“Thievery is always punished. Perhaps someday you shall see it returned.” Muirenn reached absently to the metal at her throat. “My torque is forged from Roman silver. There is a story behind it. Would you like to hear?”
“Yes. I love stories.”
“Very well. Long ago, our kings wore torques of the finest gold. The Cruithni prospered, our people multiplied. But then one day there came a red tide. Romans. We watched as it washed onto shore in crimson capes and plumed helmets, with spears and broadswords and great tools of battle unlike any we had known. Our vast island began tipping, as if into the sea. Thousands upon thousands were dying in the wake of this tide. The high king in the north worried for our people. He gathered three ships to carry himself and his bravest men in search of a treaty. He swore his allegiance to Rome. The high king returned, his boats weighed down with silver, and with a promise of peace.
“In return, we had only to watch as the tide came for all others who stood up to fight. Britons and Scots. Rival Pictish clanns. These were our enemies. Years passed, one after another, and our lords and high king amassed hoards in tribute from Rome. But when next the Roman emissaries came, they brought silver in exchange for our men and our boats—for we possessed some of the best warriors who navigated these waters.” Muirenn hesitated, her fingers tracing the links about her neck.
“Then what happened?” Angharad asked.
“Our men, once skilled and fearless, returned to us haunted, if indeed they returned at all. Our enemies came in secret to treat with our king. They looked at each other, noblest among the Cruithni, now hollow and thin, broken from war. By this time, we had seen what Rome truly offered—annihilation or servitude. They desired a kingdom with no bounds, and we were their slaves. Then one night a priestess had a dream. We must fight, or the Romans would consume us, they would swallow us whole. She brought her message to the king. The Cruithni rose up and brought battle to Rome. Much blood was spilt, and many lives were lost, but at last we drove them from our borders and our seas.
“The priestess, however, worried that memory is short. She did not wish the Cruithni to ever forget. So she demanded the Roman silver that had turned us to slaves be melted down and fashioned into torques. Yes, the chains are heavy. And so was our burden. We wear them and are forever reminded what it cost to be free.
“This torque has been worn by the chiefs of Dùn Déagh ever since. When I was chosen by council as my father’s successor, the torque of my ancestors
was given to me.” Muirenn sat back.
“You will be the next chieftain?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a warrior, then? Can you also fight?”
“Yes, I can fight.”
“Why do you call yourselves the Cruithni when all others call you Picts?”
Muirenn made a hiss at the word. “Pict is the name the foreigners gave. We are the Cruithni. The First People.”
“And what ever happened to the priestess?”
“Well. The priestess went back to her village so she might train more priestesses. So that if a time came once more, when they were needed, they would be ready. But the high king was grateful for her vision, for without it, he would never have had the power to bring all the tribes together. In thanks, he gave her a fortress high upon a hill at the mouth of a sacred glen. The glen was the beating heart of his kingdom. And the fortress of the priestess stands to this day.”
“Is it true?”
“It is true. And it is to that very place you are bound. It is a place very few Britons ever shall see.”
Brother Thomas had been listening in silence and spoke. “I have heard tell of this place. The Crooked Glen of Stones. It is said a magnificent old yew grows there, far below the fort.”
“You shall certainly never see it, priest. Your journey ends at Ceann Mòr. Talorcan will fetch a price for you, and that will be that.”
“Why must you be so cruel?” Angharad said.
Muirenn scoffed. “Why? These men of Christ trespass upon our land and bring chaos to our people. They say we are full of sin.” She spoke the word as if it were bitter. “They declare there is only one god—their god—and that all others are false and without power.”
“Yes. But Brother Thomas is not that way.”
“They are all that way. There was a time when we would open our gate and invite them to speak, for such is our custom. There were even kings in the south who chose to follow their way. It brought a crumbling of their clanns. They cannot make peace with our druids. They want wealth, and land, and protection, but what do they offer? Nothing but strife.” Muirenn tilted her chin, fixing her gaze up ahead.
Angharad closed her eyes. The crooked glen. A deep place. Buried in time. A place few Britons shall ever see. And now Angharad traveled there, to the place where the priestess from Muirenn’s story once dwelled. It sounded like something from a Song Keeper’s tale.
All around her, Angharad could hear the river as if it were singing. Louder here than ever before. The Tay was a channel of dark water, deep and full of darting fish. Its song was soothing Talorcan. The river nestled between undulating hills, where the trees were lit yellow and orange like so many flames. The air smelled of earth and tasted of rain. Angharad felt the push of clouds racing overhead and their will to become water. She felt an otter kick from an underwater rock and glide beneath the water’s skin, sleeker than any vessel.
If such things were made of the gods, Angharad wanted more.
She worried for Brother Thomas, an enemy here. And yet it was if the river cast a spell. The trees along the water were bowing. This river was gentle, a most ancient mother. Tatha was her name. She whispered that she’d been born on the slopes of Beinn Laoigh, that the Cruithni born to this land were her children. Could Angharad, then, be the river’s child, too?
Keep him safe. Let Brother Thomas stay by my side, Angharad prayed.
The river breeze tickled the wisps of hair at her neck. Muirenn had washed and plaited it for her. Angharad looked down at her crimson wool dress, a gift from a villager. Angharad had followed dutifully as Muirenn had taken her round, procuring a pair of leather booties from one family, wool stockings from another, a linen undergarment, and at the last, a fur-lined cloak.
Angharad had wondered why the villagers gave such beautiful things with such generosity. Now she understood that the chieftain’s daughter had asked them to do so. Nonetheless, the people had not begrudged her. What they gave, they gave freely. They did not speak the same tongue. But as the craft carried on swiftly upriver, Angharad began to feel an unusual sense of home.
Perhaps it was the blood of the Cruithni awakening within her. Though the Cruithni themselves might not count her as such, Elufed’s blood was in her. But while she knew her nain was a Pict, she did not even know from which kingdom she’d come. Elufed did not speak of it.
Angharad knew she had been taken from her family when she was terribly young. She’d been in Strathclyde now far longer than she’d ever been in Pictland. Angharad had studied the map in her lessons, her fingers traveling the vellum up, up, up. But now she could feel the mass of land stretching beyond them. She looked at Muirenn. Surely there had been Britons who’d traveled here before, for they’d had the good sense to make maps of it. She thought of the map Rhys kept in his chamber, rolled out upon the table, how she had perched on his knee to study it. Her heart twisted when the memory struck, but the river was certain.
Do not worry, child, the river promised. I will help.
Angharad looked up as they passed a towering stone slab at the water’s edge, carved with a hulking warrior painted in bright colors and gripping a spear. His leg shot out midstride, as if he were patrolling the land. The boundary marker of a new chieftain or king.
They passed currachs carrying all manner of goods. And where the footpath to Ceann Mòr snaked along the river, Angharad caught glimpses through the trees of snowy white sheep and heard the deep moan of cattle being driven to market. Fields of emmer and barley were already deep in their rest, and when the gruff call of a raven sounded, Angharad realized it would soon be Samhain.
“What day is it?” Angharad asked, turning to Muirenn.
“The day before market day.” She answered Angharad, but her eyes were set upon Brother Thomas.
CHAPTER 28
Angharad
The river Tay narrowed, twisting like an adder. Black boulders rose from the water, tufted in green moss even in autumn, and ancient trees lined the riverbanks, trunks skirted with river grass. Everywhere great hills broke the crust of the earth, baring steep shoulders. They drifted past a retinue of tattooed Cruithni bearing spears, watching the boats traveling the river, and Talorcan nodded in greeting. Fields of sheep and crops gave way to a speckling of neatly kept huts along the riverbank. And as the river narrowed further, Muirenn pointed. “Look there,” she said.
High on the hill, a fortress brooded. The hall was a muscular work of stone topped with a tightly thatched roof, a pair of red banners rustling in the breeze from either side of the entrance. Angharad squinted. They carried the symbol of the boar.
“That fort belongs to Bridei, the high king,” Talorcan said. “He holds many forts throughout the land.”
“His banners fly only when he is within,” Muirenn said.
“The high king is here?” Angharad asked.
“Yes. He comes to collect his rents and stays through Samhain. He often buys slaves at the market. The high king of the Cruithni is wealthier than any king of the Britons. He is richer even than Tutgual. It is fortunate Tutgual rules beside a powerful Cruithni wife.”
“Then you know of Elufed? You know of Tutgual’s queen?” Angharad asked.
“Only from stories,” Muirenn said. “Whispers in the trees.”
“She never would speak of her upbringing. I do not even know the name of her tribe.”
“Names, names. You are too hungry for names,” Muirenn said.
Angharad shifted away, drawing her arms about her chest. Who wouldn’t wish to learn more of their nain? Angharad had never imagined she would find herself here. But now that she was a hostage in Pictland—for though Muirenn had not spoken it, what else could she be?—Angharad found she knew nothing at all.
She clung to her anger round two bends in the river, but as the fortress fell behind them, they breached the mouth of the river, and Angharad released her struggle with a sigh.
“Ceann Mòr,” Talorcan said.
A loch stretched be
fore them like a great pool of silver. The river wind had dropped, and the skin of the loch was a glassy reflection of hill, sky, and mountains of cloud. Crannogs perched on the water, their thatched roofs like paps, boats tied below them while more drifted by.
“Beautiful, yes?” Muirenn leaned in. “This loch is a trick; it plays with the eye. It would seem that it ends, but it stretches quite a long way.”
Angharad followed her gaze to the far end of the loch, where hills became mountains, their peaks disappearing in high banks of cloud.
Talorcan jumped from the currach and helped drag it ashore, then lifted Angharad out, placing her gently on her feet. His foul mood had lifted. He led Brother Thomas to a log on the flat, pebbled shore, tossing his rope, a grudging invitation to sit. Tents and cookfires crowded the shore, and beyond them, a wicker fence stretched for storing livestock. People nodded in welcome as Talorcan and his men erected the tents, then carried the contents of the currach inside.
Angharad sat beside Thomas, the market on her mind. Children raced past with wooden swords in their fists, or ran by in droves, jostling a leather ball with their sticks.
“Perhaps you should join them,” Muirenn said, coming up from behind. “I could speak to them for you.” Angharad shook her head. She had no desire to play. Muirenn looked at her, scratched her head as if thinking. “Very well. Come with me, then, princess. I will show you the market.”
Angharad glanced at Thomas, and Muirenn sighed. “Angharad, your priest is better left here. Talorcan will mind him, believe me. He’ll do nothing, I promise, to endanger his profit.”
Thomas nudged her from his place on the log. “Go, then, Angharad, I shall be here when you return.”
Angharad accepted Muirenn’s outstretched hand. It was strong and warm in Angharad’s. Past the cluster of tents, merchants set up their wares within stalls, their sturdy wooden carts for sleeping and goods. As Muirenn’s auburn hair caught the late-afternoon light, Angharad thought how similar it was to her mother’s—wavy and thick, the color of acorns. She squeezed her eyes shut, imagining, if only for a moment, that it was her mother’s fingers clasping hers instead.