A Novel

by Signe Pike

  “Bryneich. Our village lies just beyond its gates.”

  “But Bryneich is where the Angles began their assault,” I said. “How ever did you escape?”

  The girl just stared at me, her chin thrust in a defiant way that made me sorry I’d asked.

  “You’ve come an awfully long way,” I said. “Was there no other refuge you happened upon before ours?”

  “None far enough.” Her small eyes studied me. “Are you the lady of this hall?”

  I thought a moment. “Yes.”

  “You look terrible young to be the lady.”

  “My mother has died.”

  “Oh.” She screwed up her face. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.” My face felt suddenly hot with guilt, accepting condolences from a girl whose parents were obviously dead. “I’m called Languoreth.”

  “Languoreth.” She echoed my name almost with a sense of wonder.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Desdemona,” she said.

  My gaze traveled to her feet, where welted sores puffed over the heels of her rough leather shoes. “Are . . . are you hurt?”

  She shook her head.

  “You must be hungry. There’ll be food in the great room, and a warm fire there. You must get something to eat. And perhaps get some rest.” I offered. “My brother is there. He’ll welcome you.”

  “No.” Desdemona shook her head. “I’m waitin’ for my mum. She fell behind in the wood. She’d an injured leg is all,” she said. “She made me swear to keep goin’. She did swear she’d find me here.” Her dark eyes were wide, hopeful.

  “The Caledonian Wood?” I bit my lip. I’d never seen it, but I knew of the vast forest that bordered the Wall. They said the trees grew so thick that noon was dark as night. There were packs of wolves the size of bears, wild boars with tusks like spears. People said the wood had been cast under a dark enchantment long ago, and if you strayed from the path, the trees themselves could twist round your body and swallow you whole.

  Desdemona looked at me impatiently, widening her eyes as if to make me understand. Her mother was coming. Couldn’t I see? I fumbled for the right thing to say.

  “Of course. Please. Head inside to the warm. If your mother arrives, I’ll send her straight to you. When your mother arrives,” I amended.

  This seemed to satisfy Desdemona, and she nodded. I let out a shaky sigh as she stood with slumped shoulders and headed out into the chill.

  She had no sooner departed than Ariane called to me. “Languoreth, come. I need your help.”

  She’d finished with the snowy-haired man and was scrubbing her hands with a bar of lard soap. She gestured. “Rinse, please.”

  I tilted clean water onto her pale, soapy skin. “You didn’t save him,” I said. “You knew the boy was going to die and you sent me away.”

  She bowed her head as if she hadn’t heard. “You must clean your hands often when caring for the injured. It prevents wounds from going sour. Surely your mother taught you that.”

  Of course my mother had taught me that. But it hadn’t saved her, either. I stared at Ariane, unmoving, and she let out an exasperated sigh.

  “Everyone dies, Languoreth. Mothers. Fathers. Lovers. Even little boys.” Her blue eyes were piercing. “Did you wish to watch that little boy die?”

  My face went hot with tears, but Ariane only straightened, wiping her hands on her dress.

  “I can tend to the others. Wounds that need stitching or sealing with fire, some broken bones. Mostly they need nourishment—more than they’ve gotten. Have the old woman in the kitchen make a heartier batch of stew. We need more wine and ale also, or we’ll be in danger of draining your well. Most have sour stomachs. It gives them a terrible thirst.”

  “Agnes. Our lady in the kitchens is Agnes,” I said.

  “Have Agnes make a heartier batch of stew,” she said patiently.

  “Would you have anything else, or would you dismiss me now?” I could not keep the edge from my voice.

  “Yes, wait.” She lifted a slender finger. “There is something we must discuss. Compensation.”

  I looked at her in astonishment. “You wish to talk of payment?” There were men and women yet bleeding before us.

  “My father is not at home,” I said coldly, “and I am but a child. I do not deal in such matters.”

  “It appears your family has need of my skills,” she said. “I have heard of your father, Morken, and of course Cathan the White. I have no need for jewels or cattle or other such trifles given to Keepers who take up employ. I ask only food, lodging, and whatever clothing I like for as long as I should stay. Most important, I shall need the freedom to come and go as I please, without question. Do you accept my terms?” She folded her slim arms over her chest. “I believe they are more than fair.”

  Keepers were lavished with feasts and gifts wherever they traveled. After all, they carried the Gods’ good favor, and it was ill luck to turn away someone who could bend the ear of the Gods. She might not wear robes, but her training as a healer was evident. Still, Father would be angry if I accepted Ariane into the household without consulting him first.

  “I . . . I cannot make such decisions,” I said. “I must consult my father.”

  “Your father is not here. And are you not, at present, the lady of the house?”

  “I am.”

  “Well, then. I shall pledge my services to you. Surely your father would find no harm in that.”

  Pledge her services to me? I frowned. I didn’t even like her. In fact, until only moments ago, I was certain I despised her. But the buckets of water surrounding me had gone cool, and Ariane was right. I was a child at play in a healer’s workshop. We had a responsibility to the people. Isn’t that what Father always said? Surely he would not begrudge us a healer when one was so greatly needed.

  Ariane waited, her blue eyes unwavering.

  “All right. Yes.”

  “Yes, you shall have me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then. I have found a new home. Now, if you please. Go and see about the stew. And spirits. We’ll all have need of drink, I imagine, by the time this day is through.”

  I made my way across the stable yard and through the courtyard into the kitchens, all the while wondering just who was now serving whom.

  CHAPTER 5

  * * *

  Brant’s deep voice broke the silence. “They carry with them the darkness of war.”

  We were gathered in the small chamber immediately beyond the Hall’s entryway, Lail, Brant, Brodyn, the hounds and I, having settled the great room for the newcomers. In the corner Crowan dozed in a fleece-lined chair, her little gray head wedged uncomfortably against the wall. Lail eyed her in the flickering lamplight.

  “Shouldn’t we help her to bed?”

  “I shouldn’t wake her if I were you,” I said.

  Beyond our door the oil lamps had been snuffed out, and in the great room the firelight cast slanting shadows that wavered like specters in the dark. If we were quiet enough, we could hear the sounds of muttering and sleep talk, of chests rising and falling in a soft chorus of sighs.

  “Aye, the darkness of war,” Brodyn agreed. He moved his spear-hardened fingers listlessly over one of the gaming pieces on the board that rested between him and my brother. Neither had any heart for playing. The rain had moved off toward the coast, and a deep black night crushed in around us. Two cauldrons of stew had been emptied, and we had gone through no fewer than three barrels of mead.

  “How many are dead?” I asked.

  My cousins exchanged a look.

  “Tell her,” Lail said. “My sister is not an infant.”

  “Of the thirty-five who discovered us, so far more than twenty have perished.” Brant’s voice betrayed little emotion.

  “When do you think Father will return?” Lail wondered.

  “Not for some time yet.” Brodyn grimaced, rubbing his neck. “We sent word, of course. But he’s need
ed now in the capital. And besides, all is well here now. No one is in danger.”

  All did not seem well. I closed my eyes, wishing I could find the peace in it my cousins had. I knew that death was a part of life. Even in the cycle of the seasons, death reminded us of her presence. In the dark half of the year, when the crops shrank and withered to the ground and the sun rose late and sank too early, when the great oaks in the forest bowed their branches and dropped their burning leaves, casting a chill in our bones not easily warmed by fire. We were raised celebrating the coming of the light at the winter festival Imbolc. And at autumn’s end, on Samhain, we gathered to usher in the coming darkness at the end of the harvest. Our Wisdom Keepers taught of everlasting life, while my father’s warriors rode off to battle only to return draped over their horses’ backs, their lifeless bodies wrapped in blood-soaked cloaks.

  When my mother died, I thought, So this is how it happens.

  You burn young and bright. Death comes to steal your breath, your eyes go sightless, and you are snuffed out, a candle burned to its wick. They tell those who loved you, This is the way of the Gods.

  I thought of Desdemona, and what dangers might have befallen her mother in the thick of the Caledonian Wood.

  “Will more survivors come?” I wondered.

  “No, little cousin. I fear no more will come if they’ve not made it by now.” Brant’s voice trailed off and I followed his gaze. Ariane had appeared. She didn’t look at any of us, just unfastened her blue cloak, tossing it on the iron hook by the door.

  Brodyn looked up from his gaming, his eyes sweeping over her. “Hey-ho. You’re the healer.”

  She looked at him, her blue eyes expressionless over her angular cheeks.

  “You did fine work today,” he went on.

  Ariane did not answer, only lifted the slender amphora of wine that sat on the cracked wooden table and poured herself a brimming cup. We watched as she tilted her head back and drained it, filling another before sitting and leaning her head against the wall. Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks as she closed her eyes.

  “Her name is Ariane,” I said.

  Brodyn looked at her approvingly. “I like how she drinks.”

  Brant shot his younger brother a look, and a soft snore rattled from Crowan in the corner. Lailoken set down his gaming piece, clearing his throat.

  “We are fortunate you arrived today, Ariane. Thank you for aiding us.”

  At the sound of my brother’s voice, Ariane opened one eye to regard him. “Then you’ll feel fortunate I’ve decided to stay, Lailoken.”

  “So you’ll answer the boy, is that it?” Brodyn asked.

  “Him, I like,” Ariane said.

  Brant smiled, but leaned back in his chair beside the oil lamp, considering her. “You are most welcome to Cadzow, Ariane. But you must understand that, you being a stranger, we are curious to know what’s brought you here. They say the Angles have blazed a trail of fire from the east. How is it that you alone seem to have escaped any injury?”

  I could tell by the way Brant watched her that he thought her quite pretty, but he wouldn’t be lured from his wits by a pretty face.

  “I do not come from the east; I come from the north,” Ariane said, her eyes yet closed. “I happened upon these people on the road.”

  “Traveling alone, were you?” Brant asked, but beneath his friendly tone I heard the warrior’s edge.

  “She is a Wisdom Keeper.” I surprised myself by defending her. I didn’t even like her. Did I?

  Brodyn spoke up. “If she is a Wisdom Keeper, then where are her robes?”

  Ariane opened her eyes to regard him frankly. “I wear no robes.”

  “How unusual.” Brodyn leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “No robes. And you must know the penalty among the Britons for impersonating a Keeper?”

  I stiffened in my chair, looking between the two of them. Death. The penalty was death.

  Ariane stretched and stood, reaching to refill her cup. “Are you prepared, then, to question me, warrior? For only a Keeper may question a Keeper. Are you a Keeper, then? Do you know the words we must say?” She turned, her eyes lit with humor. “I am certain you know the penalty for impersonating a Keeper.”

  Brodyn laughed. “I like her more and more! So we shall wait until Cathan returns, eh? We shall see what he has to say.”

  “Leave her.” Brant stood and pushed back his chair. “The woman has had a long day. As have we all.”

  The hounds roused, too, shaking the sleep from their shaggy gray fur to follow the man they liked best after my father. I wondered if Ariane noticed Brant’s muscled chest beneath his tunic as he stretched, straightening his shoulders. The village girls certainly did. Ariane looked away. From his seat at the gaming table, Brodyn rolled his eyes at his brother’s display.

  “Ariane can bed this night in Languoreth’s chamber,” Brant said. “We’ll lay out our bedrolls on Lailoken’s floor.”

  My chamber? I concentrated on the pool of burning lamp oil, refusing to let Ariane see my frown. I did not want to see her harmed. But to share my bed with her?

  I had not imagined this day could have gotten any worse.

  • • •

  The next morning we resumed our duties, but Ariane insisted we work from Mother’s healing hut.

  “I will not be carting supplies to and fro like some sort of mule,” she said. “We’ll tend to those in the hall who cannot rise, but the others must seek us here. It will do them good to move, to walk.”

  I had worried she would crowd me in my bed, but Ariane slept with her hands knit beneath her breast as if she had been laid to rest and was awaiting the pyre. She didn’t stir until morning, when she went to check upon the injured in the great room.

  Over the next several days, Ariane and I fell into a strangely easy rhythm as we moved about the little hut where I’d spent so much time with my mother. We spent early mornings walking the forest, collecting what early springtime medicines we could, sometimes talking but mostly in silence, Ariane breaking the spell only to pull a wild root here or a budding plant there. She tested me on the contents of the jars and glass bottles. Soon she tasked me with bringing her the plants and roots she called out for.

  In stolen moments, I studied this strange young woman who’d so suddenly appeared among us. Her skin was as translucent as the underbelly of a leaf. I supposed there could be a place where Keepers did not wear robes, though the thought was puzzling. I watched her mix poultices and salves to soothe torn feet. I stood behind her as she pounded roots I’d never seen my mother use into a fine powder, which she steeped in boiling water to make a pungent, bitter tea to help treat dysentery.

  Ariane spoke little, but when she did, it was with that strange accent I could not place. Though I probed her with questions, she would tell me nothing of her home, nor anything at all about her training. Nonetheless, she treated the ill with great care, and her knowledge was vast for so young a Keeper, for she couldn’t be older than twenty winters.

  Before I realized, a fortnight had passed and I had grown accustomed to her presence. Soon I realized I’d even begun to welcome it.

  It was the first mild day we’d had since the snows of winter had ceased, and outside the oaks were feathering, green-tipped, in the meadow. Rare shafts of sunlight poured in, turning my mother’s glass tincture jars into glittering green jewels as we took stock of our remedies. The shutters of the little window were cast wide and Ariane had propped the door open with a bucket.

  “More woundwort,” I said, my fingers scraping the last flakes of dried plant from its vessel into the cup of my hand.

  “Mmm.”

  Ariane reached to take the empty jar and I moved to the next. Elderberry. The sweet, earthy scent only deepened as it dried. A swift wind swept in through the unfettered window, and I drew it deep into my lungs. It carried the first viridescent smell of spring, and played with the wisps of hair at my neck that had escaped my thick plait. Ariane’s hands sto
pped their work and she closed her eyes as if listening.

  “Your father is coming,” she said.

  I looked about, confused. “My father? Now? However do you know?”

  “Listen to the wind, let it whistle through the valley . . .” She looked at me in surprise. “Have you not heard those words before?”

  “No.”

  “It is an old kenning. Your mother was a Keeper, was she not? And she did not teach you the kennings? The old wisdom hidden within the lines of our stories?”

  “I have learnt such kennings as Cathan has taught me,” I informed her. “I know that wound-wasp means arrow. A forest-walker is a bear. Wind’s brother is fire.”

  “Any child knows such things,” Ariane said. “I am speaking of the teachings that lie beneath. The kennings that are kept safe by the Keepers. Listen to the wind, let it whistle through the valley. This kenning is a reminder that, in its travels, the wind touches all places. It carries with it sights, sounds, and remembrances. The wind is always speaking. But if you cannot allow it to whistle within, you will never be able to hear. Did your mother not speak of such things?”

  “She would have,” I lied, even as I blinked at the memory. I had begged for such knowledge in the woods with my mother that day. She had been speaking of mayweed and Aaron’s rod, wood ear and dock.

  I want to be a Keeper, Mama . . .

  It was the way my mother’s eyes had been shining before the light was so suddenly snuffed out. When she spoke, it was with the hardness of remembering what she had bargained for in bearing the children of a king.

  You cannot become a Keeper. Your father is king, and you our only girl. You must marry someone of rank and keep safe our family. Daughters of kings are married to kings.

  The words had fallen like ashes between us. In that moment I understood I would never belong to myself.

  I studied the fine lines that whorled over my knuckles.

  “Well, I will teach you the kennings,” Ariane said simply. “And you must remember them. Someday you will teach them to your daughter.”

  I looked up. “But such kennings are only for Keepers.”

  “Not where I come from.” She pursed her lips. “Where I come from, kennings are meant for those bound to carry them. And you are such a one.”