The Forgotten Kingdom

by Signe Pike

  My mama loves me. She is trying to find me.

  “Careful or you shall trip,” Muirenn warned, breaking the spell. Pottery and perfume oils. Wooden bowls with smooth swirling grains. Beautiful bratts woven in a myriad of checkered fabrics, to be wrapped for warmth and pinned to drape over one shoulder. Carved figurines. Tapers. Little dolls sewn from cloth.

  They walked for a while past the long stretch of merchants. Flute carried beneath light fingers over the race of a drum. But such merriment felt hollow, and Angharad’s vision blurred with missing her home. Muirenn drew her to sit beneath the branches of an oak, her catlike eyes solemn in the shifting afternoon light.

  “I was younger than you when I left my own mother, you know.”

  The flames upon her neck had already become part of her to Angharad, but her eyes fell on them now. They whispered of secrets.

  “Are you a priestess, then?” Angharad asked.

  “I might have been. Oh, how I wished it were so. When a priestess came to visit my father, I begged her to take me away. I clung to her robes. It was very difficult, the training. I missed my father and mother, and at night I felt most alone. I would lie awake and try to remember my mother’s face, but as winters passed, I began to forget. Then one day I realized I could recognize my mother’s face when I gazed at my own.

  “That was the day that I became my own mother. And then I became a child of the goddess. After that day, I was never alone.”

  “And yet you returned home. So you might be with your family?”

  “No, little princess. It was not my choice to make. Someday, perhaps, I shall tell you my story.”

  Angharad closed her eyes, trying to press her mother’s face into her heart. “I miss my mother so badly, it feels as if my heart bleeds.”

  “Someday, Angharad, you shall see her again.”

  Children gathered at the feet of the musicians, twirling in dance. It had been so long since Angharad had seen something resembling joy. The warmth of the people hummed like a hive. Muirenn placed her arm around Angharad’s shoulder. “You know something?” she said. “You are not so terrible, even for a Briton, and a princess, at that. Come. I smell honey bread. I wager you have yet to try that.”

  The morning of the slave market dawned, and Angharad woke with a pit in her stomach. She sat beside Thomas, refusing a plate as Talorcan and Muirenn ate their breakfast.

  “Angharad, you must eat,” Thomas said. She shook her head, but he caught her eyes with a sad smile. “Those who are wise know better than to travel on an empty stomach,” he said. Angharad burst into tears. “Think of the story of Patrick,” Thomas said. “Do not be afraid. I am not afraid.”

  Angharad covered his hands with hers. Then came the ominous pound of a drum. No, not one drum, many, echoing over the loch from the fortress on the hill.

  Talorcan appeared above them, a razor in his hand. “Your hair.” He gestured as one of his men sloshed over a bucket full of water. Thomas’s hair had been shorn in the way of a holy man, but in the days they’d been traveling, his tonsure had become overgrown. Talorcan meant to shave it to fetch a better price.

  “Do it, then,” Thomas said, bowing his head.

  Angharad sat in silence as Talorcan wet Brother Thomas’s scalp, plunging a hunk of soap into the water to make the shave smooth. When he finished, he wiped the razor clean on the corner of his tunic, then stretched out his hand in a peace offering, to help Thomas stand.

  The culdee looked at him a long moment. Then he accepted.

  “Come, then,” Talorcan said.

  Muirenn emerged from the tent and eyed the soapy bucket, her hair coiled into a nest at the nape of her neck. “He could have had one of his men do it,” she told Angharad, falling in beside her.

  The morning was cloudy, with a bite to the air that sank to the bone. Merchants and marketgoers looked up as they passed, some gazes lingering, others moving quickly away.

  The river had promised, I will help.

  Remember the river, Angharad thought.

  Tutgual had told Angharad there was no room for kindness when dealing with slaves. There is no servitude without fear, he had said. Do not look to your mother. Her softness will earn her a knife in the back.

  Some nights after feasts, servants would go missing. Angharad remembered lying abed, closing her eyes, as fighting and laughter roared from the hall. On those nights, her mother came early to sleep. Soon her soft singing was all Angharad could hear.

  Brother Thomas had been free under his temple of trees. But he’d chosen to help Angharad, and look what she had done. Cursed the Bernician, and they were taken by the Cruithni. Now the people round them stared, and Angharad glared into the crowd. “Why must they watch? Surely not all here are rich enough to purchase.”

  “They are curious to see people from faraway places,” Muirenn said. “And near places, too. The raiders often bring slaves from Dalriada, enemies who bring us nothing but war. They take Pictish wives and dishonor their treaties. Dalriadan slaves fetch a very good price.”

  “And what about priests?”

  “Priests do just as well.”

  Angharad reached out, taking her hand. “Muirenn, you are wealthy. Buy him. Please? Can you not use his aid on your farm?”

  “Angharad, no. Do not ask me again. And do not use my name for things you do not understand.”

  Angharad tried to yank away, but Muirenn pulled her close. “Walk by me, Angharad. Else they shall think you, too, are for sale.”

  Angharad did not want to walk beside Muirenn. She did not want to do as she was told. The line of people ahead slowed as they approached a wooden platform. Upon it stood the first batch of slaves. Ropes, chains or collars, bound wrists and feet. They awaited their fate as their flesh merchants stood close, keeping watch on their quarry.

  Tightening his hold on Brother Thomas’s rope, Talorcan forged on, leading him like a bull to the slaughter to join the other slaves.

  “No, wait. Please, wait!” Angharad pushed after them, but Muirenn gripped her.

  “Angharad, you mustn’t. You have said your farewells.”

  Thomas looked over his shoulder, finding her eyes. Peace. Be at peace.

  As the priest climbed the platform, jeers erupted from the crowd. Angharad stood mute while children snacked on hazelnuts. And then the hazelnuts fell from their fingers as a warrior’s voice called out. The answer came in a chorus, a deep and guttural huh! as if the wind had knocked in a kick from their stomachs.

  A line of people trailed down from the fort. At the center strode a man who looked like a king.

  “Bridei mac Maelchon, high king of the Cruithni,” Muirenn said.

  A purple-checked bratt was draped across his broad chest, pinned at the shoulder with an exquisite silver brooch. His robe was crimson, embroidered in gold, falling to his ankles, where intricate leather tooling adorned the straps of his calfskin shoes. He was bearded, his hair a mix of silver and black.

  The Cruithni stretched out their hands, smiling, their faces tilted as if welcoming the sun.

  Upon the platform, Talorcan pushed Brother Thomas down upon one knee, and Muirenn guided Angharad gently to do the same.

  The high king wore the thick silver chain of legend, but his appeared even heavier than the chain about Muirenn’s neck, for King Bridei’s bore the weight of all Pictland.

  A group of richly dressed men—petty kings or chieftains—followed next, but there was one man who did not walk within the neatly formed line. He strode next to the king, his long legs keeping him nearly one step ahead. His graying hair was shorn, save the thick length of hair he’d bound like a horse tail running down his back.

  A Wisdom Keeper.

  “Who is that man?” Angharad whispered.

  “Briochan, the king’s counsel,” Muirenn said. “He is a powerful Wisdom Keeper, beloved nearly as much as Bridei himself.”

  Briochan’s eyes skimmed the crowd like a flat rock over water, but when they fell upon Angharad, they c
aught.

  His eyes were the color of oak wood, and when they touched upon hers, Angharad felt suddenly as if she stood in a fog—heady and disoriented, as if she no longer knew which way was earth and which way was sky. She tried to shut herself away too late. Or perhaps it was senseless. But then, as quickly as she’d felt it, Briochan moved on.

  The high king and his retinue took their place, and the first man was thrust forward. The slave market began.

  A boy with pale hair and angry eyes. A pair of girls who seemed sisters. A man in midlife, beside himself, weeping. Their eyes carried their stories. Angharad could not bear to look. She turned instead to the retinue of the king. Beyond Briochan and Bridei, a regal old woman caught her eye. She stood so motionless she might have been an effigy. Her silvery hair was plaited and coiled atop her head, set with a pair of delicate bone combs. Her eyes were serene, the color of winter. Something in her features felt like an echo.

  Muirenn, it seemed, had noticed the woman too, for suddenly, the chieftain’s daughter appeared less like a woman and more like a child.

  “Who is she?” Angharad asked.

  “The priestess of Fortingall,” Muirenn said.

  “Is that the very woman you have brought me to see?”

  Muirenn looked uncertain. “I did not imagine she would be here, I meant to bring you to her fortress. She has not attended the Samhain market in many a winter. Her daughter has always come in her stead.”

  Suddenly, Angharad did not care, for only one figure stood ahead of Brother Thomas now. He would be next.

  “We do not have to stay. We can return to the tent,” Muirenn said.

  “I will not leave him.”

  She shrugged. “As you say.”

  Bridei seemed distracted. But then a young woman was pushed forward. Her hair was greasy and unclean, but beneath its curtain, her face was pleasing—light eyes, a straight nose. Angharad heard “Dalriada” in the torrent that fell from the slaver’s mouth. Briochan, the king’s counsellor, looked up. Leaning to Bridei, he spoke low words in his ear. Bridei lifted a hand. The slaver nodded, then smiled. The deal had been done. Bridei’s man came to collect the woman as the payment was settled. She looked at the king, her face pale with dread.

  “She is Dalriadan. She should feel fortunate. She could be dead,” Muirenn said with disdain.

  Angharad heard the echo of the man who’d taken Eira. Now she is our Pendragon whore. But now Talorcan strode forward, pulling Thomas behind him.

  Voices that had been jeering dropped to a whisper. The atmosphere felt eager, as if slaving were sport. Brother Thomas squared his shoulders. Angharad twisted her fingers, trying not to weep, for she would not see Thomas any more distraught.

  Talorcan began speaking. Angharad tugged Muirenn’s dress. “Tell me what he says.”

  Muirenn listened, bowing her head. “He says, ‘This man before you is a priest from the south, a priest of the Britons.’ ”

  Talorcan paused, his eyes flicking to Angharad before he continued.

  “What does he say now?” Angharad demanded.

  Muirenn’s face shifted. “He says the priest is a forest dweller. He would do well with a gentle hand.”

  “He would do well not to be sold here at all!” Angharad said. But the bidding had begun, the crowd come alive. Talorcan moved from bidder to bidder as the Cruithni haggled over the priest.

  Then Bridei mac Maelchon lifted his hand.

  Talorcan stepped back, lifting his brows in delight. But before he could agree, granting Bridei his prize, the priestess stepped forward, laying her hand on the king’s sleeve. Bridei startled and turned to acknowledge her. The priestess shook her head. Bridei stepped back with a bow, and the priestess came forward, pressing a leather purse in Talorcan’s hands.

  Talorcan nodded. The deal was done.

  “I do not understand,” Angharad said.

  Brother Thomas looked astounded. The old woman faced the crowd, Brother Thomas’s rope in hand. No one uttered a sound.

  Satisfied, she turned, and four warriors fell in beside her as she descended the platform with Thomas in hand.

  It had been many long winters since Britons had given up sacrificing men. But Cyan told her stories of Picts beyond the border who drowned men in pools, or cut out their entrails, leaving them for dead. Now Brother Thomas had been bought by a priestess. Twisting from Muirenn’s grip, Angharad ran.

  “Stop! Wait!” Angharad cried, ducking and scurrying through the thick of the crowd. “Stop!” she cried, and at the sound of her voice, the old woman turned. One of the warriors caught Angharad by the collar of her dress, holding her at arm’s length as the priestess strode near.

  “And who is he to you, child?” The priestess spoke in Brythonic, her gray eyes inquisitive.

  “He is my friend!”

  “Angharad, please.” Brother Thomas looked pained.

  The priestess seemed startled. “What… what is your name?”

  “Angharad.” She straightened. “I am daughter of—”

  “Release her,” she commanded. The warrior dropped his hold. “I know who you are.” The priestess looked at her as if seeing anew. “Come forward,” she said. Angharad obeyed her uncertainly. The woman’s hands were like ice as she lifted them to Angharad’s cheeks. The priestess murmured in Pictish, tilting Angharad’s face to the light. “Can that be you?”

  Angharad felt the tremble of age in the old woman’s fingers as the priestess gazed deeply into Angharad’s eyes.

  “Oh, no. Oh, my child,” she said.

  But even as she gazed, Angahrad gazed back. A skinny little girl, handed to a man upon horseback. She had pale golden hair and eyes the color of shadowed snow. In Angharad’s stomach, the feeling of being rent in two.

  “You are Rhydderch’s child,” the priestess said. “Elufed was my daughter. You have her eyes, my daughter’s eyes. How is it you came to me?”

  Just then Muirenn burst breathless through the crowd. The priestess looked up, eyeing her, and nodded. “Ena,” she said.

  “Eachna, my lady.” Muirenn bowed, but beneath her reverence was the hardness of rage. “We did not expect you at market. I was bringing the child to Fortingall.”

  “It does not matter. I am here now. The river. She called me.”

  A shiver traced Angharad’s arms. Hennain. Great-grandmother. The priestess was her family. Tears gathered in her throat as Eachna drew Angharad close. She smelled of flower water and heather.

  Eachna smoothed her hair. “You must come with me now. I will keep you safe.”

  Amidst the warriors, Thomas stood with a smile upon his face.

  “Unbind him? Please,” Angharad said.

  But Eachna drew back, shaking her head. “No, child. Not yet.” The priestess spoke to Muirenn. “Ena, you are welcome, if you would come.”

  The chieftain’s daughter seemed to consider it a moment, then frowned. “No. I will stay. I meant only to bring the child to you. Now that task is done.”

  Angharad looked between them, feeling even more the child. Muirenn had known that Eachna was her hennain, yet she hadn’t said a thing.

  Muirenn stepped forward. “So, then. I must say farewell.”

  “Why did you not tell me?” Angharad’s voice sounded small.

  “You will be safe now, princess. That is all that matters.” She bent to embrace Angharad, whispering into her hair. “Eachna will care for you. So much awaits there. But be mindful not to lose your way in her Fortress of Dreams.”

  “Come, Angharad,” Eachna said abruptly, taking her hand. “You shall ride upon my horse.”

  At the foot of Bridei’s hill, Eachna’s horses waited on their tethers. Lady Eachna mounted a stormy white mare with surprising grace as one of her guards lifted Angharad, placing her before Eachna in her saddle. Thomas trailed behind them, his rope knotted to the pommel of a warrior’s horse.

  “It won’t be long,” Eachna said. “A quarter day at most. Rest, child, while we ride. I can feel
you are worn through.”

  Her hennain’s hands rested easily on the reins as they turned onto a narrow road that skirted the loch. Eachna was slight, but her arms circled Angharad like those of a great mother bear.

  “Are we going to Fortingall?” Angharad asked.

  “Yes, child, to the White Fort, my home, at the mouth of the glen. While we travel, I hope you might tell me how you found yourself here.”

  Angharad had lived lifetimes since the blackberries had spilled from her hands. She did not know how to speak of it. Not to someone who cared. As if she could sense it, the priestess covered Angharad’s hand. “There, there, child. There is time. I understand.”

  It had happened so quickly. The battle and the blood. Gwrgi and Eira. Brother Thomas and the Bernicians. The curse and the Picts. The river and trees had whispered their promises, then risen in a fury to wash Angharad away.

  Now Eachna was here.

  Angharad twisted back in the saddle uncertainly, searching for Muirenn. The chieftain’s daughter stood watching them depart from the edge of the field, nearly out of sight.

  “Muirenn,” she called, though Angharad did not think she could hear.

  But Muirenn tilted her head at the sound of Angharad’s voice. Lifting her hand to her breastbone, she reached to tap two fingers over her heart. Angharad’s eyes filled. She lifted her hand, tapping two fingers back. Muirenn smiled, nodding.

  But her fingers wandered, restless, to the chain around her throat.

  CHAPTER 29

  Lailoken

  Hart Fell, the Black Mountain

  March, AD 574

  In the weeks that followed my Bull’s Sleep, winter closed in. Diarmid and I returned to the huts at the foot of Black Mountain. Winter’s grip was deadly, sealing the passes. I had already given the Cailleach two of my toes, so there was little to do but idle by the fire and devise a way to decimate Tutgual’s fortress at Clyde Rock.