A Novel

by Signe Pike

  “There is talk of a man called Emrys,” Oren said. “They say he is a shrewd man, and battle hard. His people are Sarmatian; they came with the Romans. For five generations since, his family has guarded the Wall. Warriors all.”

  “A Dragon Warrior,” Cathan observed. “If any can hope to press back the Angles, it is he.”

  Dragon Warrior. I mouthed the words at Lailoken, my eyes wide. Cathan had told us of the Sarmatians. They fought in scaled armor and hailed from the far East, the frostbitten lands of grass. Their standard was that of a great dragon that made furious shrieking sounds when it met with the wind, causing their enemies to pee in their britches. They, too, had once fought the Romans. When they, too, were defeated, they were shipped over the broad sea to guard the Wall built by the wicked emperor Hadrian. The Sarmatians were paid handsomely to keep us wild Britons, Picts, and Westmen at bay.

  “His forefathers may be Sarmatian,” Oren said, “But he is a Briton, a man of the Wall through and through. They call him Pen Dragon.”

  “Head Dragon, indeed.” Cathan looked pleased.

  “But he is lowborn.” Father turned to his counsellor. “You know as well as I the lords and high chieftains will never follow him.”

  Cathan smoothed his white sleeves and strode to the hearth, his gaze settling on the crackling flames.

  “We shall see, Morken, my old friend. In times such as these, when the people need a hero, so are such heroes made.”

  CHAPTER 3

  * * *

  I woke to the nicker of horses in the courtyard, Father’s voice coming muffled through the thick timber walls.

  “Aye, Herrick. Load it on the cart.”

  I heard the unmistakable scrape and thunk of Father’s heavy wooden trunk and bolted upright. Yanking my boots over bare feet, I wrapped my cloak over my shift and rushed out into the dull gray morning. A gloomy gust of wind assailed me as I rubbed my eyes to take in the flurry of activity. Beside the naked branches of the apple tree, Father’s chestnut stallion stood sleepily next to Cathan’s mottled gray. Macon, our groom, was leading Gwenddolau’s mount along the narrow dirt path that led from the stables.

  “My lady.” Our servant Herrick gave me a nod, the corded muscles of his back straining as he worked to angle my father’s trunk past two others in the cart and secure them with rope.

  At the sight of me Father straightened, dropping his hands from the girth buckle. “Languoreth.”

  He’d trimmed the wiry cinnamon hairs of his beard and was clad in his fur-lined traveling cloak. His thick golden torque gleamed heavy at the hollow of his throat.

  “Where are you going?” I asked, my boots clomping as I crossed the wet grass.

  “Tutgual King has called for a Gathering of the kings and lords of Strathclyde. It is as we thought. I must leave this very morning for Partick,” he said.

  Days ago I’d lost my mother. Now my father was being called away?

  Father shook his head. “You look at me as if I were going to leave without saying farewell! Come now. It’ll be a fortnight, maybe less.”

  I stared at him, gutless, and he bent, leveling his brown eyes on mine.

  “Daughter. What would you have me do? Ignore the summons of our high king in the capital? You know I must go.”

  I looked frantically round the courtyard. “Then you must leave Cathan with us, or Gwenddolau!”

  “Cathan is not only my counsellor and your tutor, Languoreth. He is also head Wisdom Keeper of Strathclyde and lord of the White Isle. He can no more ignore such a summons than I. And Gwenddolau is nearly a man. He will soon need to make his own way among these courts. You will be in trusted care. Brant and Brodyn will stay.”

  “No. I want to go with you,” I said. “Take me to Partick.”

  “Languoreth. You are far too young, and the roads now are far too dangerous.”

  I didn’t believe him: there could be nothing so dangerous between here and such a place. Partick was shining and ripe, a capital full of sweet orchards where all the nobles kept residences. Gwenddolau had told me of shops there laden with pottery from Gaul, the vendors selling herbed olives and exotic spices, their carts full to bursting with creamy cheeses, perfumes, and incense that had journeyed all the way across the ocean, up the glittering expanse of the river Clyde. I longed for Partick and yet I did not know which I wanted: to travel with Father or to keep him from leaving.

  Foundering, I searched until I found it, the thing I knew would stay him.

  “But Mother is dead. It has only been days! Would you so soon forget her?”

  As soon as I said the words, I wanted to swallow them.

  “Still your mouth, child.” Father’s dark eyes pinned me, his hands curled involuntarily into fists. He had never struck me, but if he did now, I might have earned it.

  “With every fiber of my body I grieve for your mother,” he said. “But I am a king, chief of Goddeu. Even now, Picts and Westmen creep their boats up our stretch of river in search of weakness. They lurk round my borders eyeing my cattle and grain, the very wealth we depend on. Even now, the Angles march, burning and slaying as they make their way back toward Bryneich. The blood of my father and all four of my brothers has soaked this land. I will not forsake them. You think I am the only man to lose a wife? Death is no excuse for any man. Least of all a king.”

  I flushed. A long moment passed before Father straightened and sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

  “Languoreth, I assure you. You will have plenty of time in Partick once you’re fully grown.”

  Father moved to take my hand but I yanked it from reach, narrowing my eyes instead. “Gods know where you got your temper.” He glowered as he bent to yank his horse’s girth.

  “Likely the same place she got her fiery hair.” Cathan appeared from the kitchens clasping a hunk of bread stuffed with strips of beef that he used to gesture vaguely in Father’s direction. A send-off from our cook, Agnes, no doubt. She was forever stuffing Cathan with food.

  Father shot him a grim look and smoothed a hand over his head, where thick strands of auburn yet battled the gray.

  “You must be easy on her,” Cathan said, striding across the courtyard. “It takes practice to get used to farewells, but with leadership comes obligation.” He turned to me. “Languoreth knows this. Do you not?”

  My nod was reluctant.

  Father bent to me once more, his eyes searching mine. “I will return, you have nothing to fear. I’ve got ten men-at-arms accompanying me to Partick. I swear to you, all will be well.”

  He pulled his cloak more closely about his shoulders and extended his heavy silver brooch to me. “Here. Be a kind daughter and help your father fasten his cloak.”

  I took the metal halfheartedly, pushing the thick pin through the fabric to secure it at his breast, and he smiled. “I nearly forgot. I’ve got something for you. A gift.”

  Reaching into the folds of his cloak he pulled out a leather packet with a flourish like a traveling magician. It was heavy and wrapped in buttery calfskin. A weapon, I was sure of it. Too small to be a sword. And yet the weight of it felt substantial in my hands. I touched the cord that bound it.

  “Go ahead. Open it.”

  Slowly, I tugged the cord, and the folded leather fell open to reveal the thick golden handle of a knife. I drew the weapon from its intricately tooled leather sheath to examine it more fully. How could something so beautiful be functional? The handle was decorated with delicate threads of interlacing. Amber, amethysts, and rubies were fashioned into the glittering scales of a fierce and magnificent serpent. His tail curled around the handle’s tip and the strong iron blade emerged from his gaping mouth, a cold and slicing sort of fire.

  The sight of it left me speechless.

  “I have seen you watching your brother and Gwenddolau train at their weapons,” Father said. “There is no reason you shouldn’t learn the skill of it. You are, after all, the daughter of a warrior.”

  Cathan leaned in to admire the
knife. “A strong and beautiful weapon,” he said. “Fit for a queen.”

  A weapon of my own. Despite my sadness, my heart became a feathered thing, testing its wings in the cage of my chest. I had been wanting this—oh, how I’d been wanting this. It had been decades—no, centuries—since women were privileged to train in weapons. Now, at last, I had my chance. I traced my fingers over the glittering scales in disbelief.

  “This is mine?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I may learn how to wield it?”

  “Well, that was my hope. It’s otherwise a rather dangerous gift to give a child, wouldn’t you agree?” Father’s smiled broadened. “Your brother’s gone off with Brant and Brodyn to do their weapon work. If you hurry, you might begin right now.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  I folded the knife into the pocket of my cloak and reached to place my hands on either side of his bearded face. “Thank you, Father.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled in the way they did when he was truly happy. “Wield it well, little one. I’ll soon be home to see your use of it. May the Gods keep you.”

  “May the Gods keep you,” I echoed, praying it might be true.

  He hoisted me up and kissed me, then handed me to Cathan. “Cathan. Say good-bye to our warrior princess.”

  Cathan groaned at the weight of me. I breathed in the deep scent of incense as he held me against his cloak. “Tell your brother to mind what you say, eh? We all know who’s the wiser.”

  Voices sounded from the direction of the stables, and as Cathan set me down, I looked up to see Gwenddolau coming through the courtyard, my father’s men close behind. His heavy green cloak made him look like a forest spirit, but his eyes were shadows. No news yet of his father.

  I reached for him and he ducked beneath the haggard fingers of the apple tree to embrace me.

  “Hey now, little one. Don’t be so sad. We’ll be home before you know it.” He gave a small smile and swung onto his horse. “I’m leaving my bird in your care. Take good care of her, will you?”

  I looked up at him, so handsome and noble upon his mare. “I want to go with you,” I said, my voice small.

  Gwenddolau rested his callused hand on my head.

  “Your place is here at Cadzow just now. Do not be in such a hurry to grow up, Languoreth. Before you know it, you’ll be fifteen, and these times will be like a gust of wind. One moment through the trees, and the next, forever gone.”

  His light eyes were sad. I wasn’t sure how to answer, or if I was even meant to. I climbed the rain-slick ladder of the guard tower instead and watched as they rode out, until the far gate was bolted behind them. In the quiet that descended I let out a breath. But the sinking feeling was buoyed by the weight of the new gift in my pocket. Scrambling back down the ladder, I found Crowan waiting in the courtyard, a heavy shawl wrapped tight round her little frame.

  “I’ll not be the one to say it, not me, but it don’t seem fitting, giving a young lady a knife.”

  I gripped the cold metal protectively, the way a sillier girl might hold a doll.

  “Oh, go ahead, then,” she said. “Go and find your brother. But mind you don’t run with that evil blade unsheathed! And, for the sake of the Gods, put some clothes on you first! Is that a shift I spy under that cloak?”

  “I’ll dress,” I promised, and ran from the courtyard before she could change her mind.

  I found the men by the stables. Brodyn was leaning against the barn with an easy grace, his long brown hair tied back and legs clad in training leathers, watching his older brother, Brant, parry the swift clash of Lail’s sword. Brant was short and slightly stocky, whereas Brodyn was lean. But what my cousin Brant lacked in height, he’d gained in brawn and in his sense of command. Brant was serious, while Brodyn was forever jesting. Both brothers—with their dark hair and acorn-colored eyes—were as gifted with weaponry as they were in their looks, as the young maids of Cadzow would readily agree.

  I watched Lailoken’s feet move in their rhythm of attack like the steps of a dance, his sandy brows knit in concentration. My brother moved with such ease now. I’d tugged on a tunic and a pair of Lailoken’s trousers, the ones I always borrowed for tromping the woods and mucking round by the river—the ones I wore when I most wished I belonged in the world of men.

  I observed them sparring until Brant sensed me standing behind him and lifted his hands in surrender. “Peace, Lailoken, peace. Your sister has arrived.”

  Lail lowered his blade and turned to me. “Father’s given you the knife!”

  Brant smiled. “I thought he might.”

  “It was I who thought he might.” Brodyn unfolded his arms and pushed his tall frame from the barn wall. “I told you it would be this morning.”

  Brant swung at his brother as Lail jogged to greet me. “You must be happy, sister. May I see it?”

  My face burned with pride as I extended the knife and Lail drew it from the sheath.

  “It belonged to a Westman king.” Brant leaned in to admire it. “He made a run last summer at Clyde Rock. Do you remember, Languoreth? He met with Morken’s sword. Bad luck, really, raiding during a feast.”

  “Bad luck raiding when we were there, I say,” Brodyn scoffed. “Eight boats of hairy Westmen against the likes of us? We made such quick work of them; old Tutgual’s soldiers had scarcely made it down to the water by the time we were through.”

  Brant looked wearily at his brother. “There’s a braggart, and there’s you. Did our father teach you nothing about humility?”

  “Did our father teach you nothing about pride in one’s accomplishments?” Brodyn countered. “We’ve still got it around here somewhere if you want to see it. The Westman’s head, I mean.” Brodyn grinned. “Cedar oil. It’s an age-old trick. Does a beautiful job preserving.”

  “No, thank you,” I said too quickly.

  “Ah, no matter.” Brodyn clapped me on the shoulder. “We’ll build a warrior’s stomach in you yet.”

  “Come on then,” Brant said, a smile playing at his lips. “Our little cousin is wanting to wield her weapon, no doubt.”

  “Right. Our wee Languoreth. Let’s see what you can do.” Brodyn yanked Lail down beside him in the dead winter grass. I took a breath and tucked my thick braid into the collar of Lail’s tunic.

  “Firstly,” Brant said, “do not stand front-wise to me. Turn your body like this.”

  He angled his torso and staggered his legs. “You leave your enemy too many opportunities. That’s better. And keep your weapon out of my reach.” Before I could blink, Brant’s ironlike grip had locked on my wrist and squeezed, causing me to cry out in pain and drop my knife.

  Shocked, I rubbed my wrist and waited for an apology that did not come. Instead he tucked his toe under the fallen blade and, with a flick of his foot, lofted it, catching it swiftly in hand.

  “If you think a Westman or a Pict would be any kinder, you are mistaken. Now try again,” he said, returning the knife.

  The next time Brant made a grab for my wrist, I shrank away just in time. He nearly stumbled forward in surprise.

  “And never let your guard down with a girl of ten winters, eh, brother?” Brodyn called out.

  “I’ll thank you to shut your trap whilst we’re training,” Brant said, fixing his eyes on me. “Now attack.”

  My cousins had fashioned a thick wax covering for the tip of my blade so I’d be able to parry and thrust with no risk of injury. I think they’d intended I not cut myself, but after a few close encounters with the hollow of his neck, Brant’s dark eyes lit, surprised.

  “How about that: she knows to go for the neck! Brodyn?” he called.

  “Yes, brother?”

  “I’m glad you cast the wax so thickly.”

  I beamed in the warmth of their praise. This is what I was built for, I thought, as I reveled in the chill of the winter air on my face and the stretch and spring of my limbs as they moved in the foreign rhythms of defense
and attack.

  After some time had passed, Brodyn stood, stretching. “Come, brother, give way. She’s clearly got talent. Let the girl benefit from a more experienced instructor.”

  Brant shook his head but sank down beside Lail in the grass while Brodyn showed me how to jab, how to slice, and the places on the body most impacted by a wound from a smaller blade: the neck, the thigh, the stomach. All the while Lail watched, a distinctly proud look on his face.

  I could have stayed practicing all day had the rain not begun to come down, soaking us to the bone in a matter of moments, the wet causing the knife to go slick in my hand.

  “That’s enough now,” Brant said as he shielded his eyes from the onslaught of water. “Come, Languoreth. It’s time for midday.” The shivering overtook me and I let them draw me away.

  Brodyn draped his arm over my shoulder as we made our way back to the hall. “It seems, Lailoken, that you are not the only one gifted with the warrior’s way.”

  But my brother did not return his smile. “I would be proud to have my sister battle at my side. I think, someday, she shall, in whatever way she can.”

  • • •

  The brothers shook rain from their heads and leaned their weapons against the wall in the great room, oblivious to the weight of Crowan’s disapproving glare as she nudged Lail and me onto the wooden bench and tucked a thick wool blanket round each of us. The fire blazed hot as the summer sun, and I breathed in the bright smell of rosemary rising in wisps of steam from the heaping bowl of mutton before me. The four of us fell upon our midday meal as if we hadn’t eaten in weeks.

  I had just devoured my second helping of stew and was sopping the extra gravy with a hunk of bread when shouting erupted over the steady pounding of the rain.

  Brodyn shot up, nearly knocking over our bench. “Someone’s at the gate.”

  “Go,” Brant said. “I’ll stay with the children.”

  “Children?” Lail scoffed.

  “You are children,” Brant said. “And you’ll mind what I say.”

  In one swift motion, Brodyn lifted his spear from the wall and took off running into the rain. I watched a shift come over Brant. I’d seen it before, when Father gathered his men in the courtyard before riding off to raid. The sparkle in Brant’s dark eyes drained away and his body tensed, as if something inside him had coiled like a snake. He positioned himself between us and the door, hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to strike.