A Novel

by Signe Pike

  Scenes from the riot flooded back unbidden. Remembering Cathan standing alone in the clashing crowd, I struggled to sit, but a spinning overtook me. All I could do was say his name.

  “You worry for Cathan,” Father chuckled. “That’s a task I surrendered long ago. Cathan is safe enough. He rides not far behind.”

  “You left him,” I said. I would not let Father laugh it away.

  “Cathan desired to be left. More important, your mother bade me keep you safe,” Father said. “Your mother, she had no love for Partick. She desired nothing more than to keep you and your brother at Cadzow until you were fully grown. I betrayed her in bringing you, but after the Angle massacre of Bryneich, I could not leave you behind. I see now that Partick is no place for children. Forgive me, Languoreth.”

  It came back now: the crush of bodies, the thrusting of spears, the spraying of blood. Warm and viscous.

  “We are going home,” Father said. “We will send for our things. It was not safe to linger at Buckthorn. By the time we reached the gates of town, hundreds had taken up arms to fight. Such bloodshed has not been seen on the streets of Partick as long as I have lived.”

  “It was as if your own people did not know you.”

  “Such is the nature of a riot. It is madness. Madness that seeks only blood. You cannot reason with a mob.”

  “I cannot help but wonder how Cathan did it.”

  “What?” Father raised a brow. “How he evaded a king’s guard to unearth the body of Fergus? Why, magic, of course.” He gave a small smile, but his answer did not satisfy.

  “If the Gods could aid Cathan in unearthing the body of Fergus, why could they not prevent the felling of the trees in the first place?”

  Father considered this a moment. “Just as there are laws of our world, I believe there are laws that govern the world of the Gods, the world of the dead. Perhaps the Gods cannot stay the blow of an axe. But who is to say they did not try to warn us in their way?”

  I remembered the shifting of the forest when I’d encountered the monk on Bright Hill. The gathering of the crows on the roof.

  “I will never forget the face of the man I saw on Bright Hill,” I vowed. “If ever I should see him again, I will know him. I will see he is brought to justice.”

  “Aye. You must only say the word.” Father squeezed my hand. “Shall we try to sit now?”

  I nodded and, with his help, rose slowly.

  “King Tutgual seems a horrible man,” I said. I risked a glimpse from the corner of my eye, but Father’s face was not angry.

  “Tutgual is a warlord and a king,” he answered.

  “As are you. But I do not think you horrible.”

  “Perhaps you would if you knew of the things I must do in raiding and war.” His voice was grave. “You think me a hero, but I lust for blood as every man does. There are things I have done in battle that visit me still in the quiet of the dark. But, no, Tutgual is not like me, Languoreth.

  “He is a man of far greater power. He controls the trade from the rivers to the sea. The Westmen of Dalriada pay him tribute. Every lord and chieftain of Strathclyde pays him tribute. It is either pay him or be slain by him—for the high king and I both know I do not have men enough to challenge him. And so we must play the game our family has bested now for centuries.”

  Father covered my hand with his. It was as tanned and tough as a turtle shell, hardened by years of sun and wind and weaponry. I did not want to think of the things my father might have done that continued to haunt him in the dark, and yet, even though I was still a child, I felt shame in avoiding it.

  Did I not live under his roof and benefit from his profits?

  Did I not have the finest spun wool for my dresses and even silks? Did we not have two properties and more land and livestock than any other kings or high chieftains in Strathclyde save Tutgual himself?

  Such things, I knew, came at a price. Someday, too, I knew, I would be expected to play this game and so protect the legacy of our family.

  The thought of it turned my mind back to those I loved, and I asked Father to help me peer beyond the domed roof of the cart. I could just make out their forms in the dusk: Lailoken and Crowan. Brant and Brodyn and Ariane following in silence on their horses. I leaned back against the taut covering of the wagon as Father passed me his skin of water.

  “You see? We are all safe, and thank the Gods it should be so,” he said. “Drink now, then rest. We have some distance yet to travel.”

  I hadn’t realized what a desert my body had become until I closed my eyes and drained the bladder, the water soothing a course down my throat. As I passed the empty bladder back to Father I reached to cradle my tender ribs.

  “Father?”

  “Yes?”

  “I still cannot understand why anyone would do such a thing when we have lived in peace for so long.”

  “It is for the same reason men do all things, daughter. For power. They mean to challenge our tradition and, in doing so, claim possession of Bright Hill.”

  “But Cathan has unearthed the body. He has claimed Bright Hill for the Old Way once more.”

  “Nay,” Father said. “Cathan claimed nothing he intended to keep. Bright Hill has been fouled by that body. It cannot be remade. There’s little to stop Bright Hill from becoming a burial ground now.” Father rubbed his face. “Our Wisdom Keepers will move their rites to an unspoiled site. Let the Christians do with it what they will.”

  I thought of the sparkling waters of the White Spring. Who would come to cup their hands and drink her healing waters now? Who would bend their knee at her banks and remember her? The thought of the spring lying solitary and forgotten ’til her waters ran dry and she faded into earth was enough to brim my eyes with tears.

  “So it was all for nothing,” I said bitterly. “We have lost Bright Hill and this is the end.”

  “Nay, this is not the end, Languoreth.” Father leaned back, resting his auburn head against the dome of the cart.

  “Nay, little one, this is not the end,” he repeated with a sigh. “In fact, I fear this is only the beginning.”

  II.

  I am a falcon above the cliff . . .

  I am a wonder among flowers.

  —“Song of Amergin,” translated by Robert Graves, The White Goddess

  CHAPTER 15

  * * *

  Cadzow Fortress, Strathclyde

  Midsummer, AD 554

  It had been more than four years since my shining dreams of the capital had been churned to dust beneath the retreating wheels of our cart, and I was happier for it. My home was amid the towering shelter of Cadzow’s trees, where the shallow gurgle of the Avon lulled me to sleep each night and happenings at court felt far, far away.

  Necessity still summoned Father to Partick for months at a time, but now he traveled with Lailoken, just as he’d once taken Gwenddolau. They’d come home bearing gifts: ivory combs for my hair and perfumes from the Mediterranean; an embroidered dress from the seamstress who lived on the outskirts of the market. My brother would tell such tales: of a troupe of brown-skinned Arabian dancers, of a Song Keeper from Gaul who wore a cloak made of feathers so that he might fly to other worlds when he sang, and who could recall from memory more than one thousand songs. Lail’s eyes were bright as he related such tales, but my memories of Partick were stained by blood. I did not long to return.

  And while the men were at Partick, I was never too long alone. Ariane and Crowan made good company. Besides, there was much to learn at Cadzow. I had no brothers save Lail, and, as a Wisdom Keeper, Lailoken could not lawfully own land. When the time came and Father passed, Cadzow and Buckthorn would fall to me.

  Or to my future husband, Ariane was too quick to remind me. Not because she wished me to marry, but rather because she wished for me to take the project more firmly in hand.

  “Nothing can be taken from you that you do not freely give,” she said. “If it is you who knows the tenants and the mill keepers, if it is you
who hears disputes, who collects the rents and runs the harvests, it will be you the people demand. It will be you who holds their loyalty.”

  So, in Father’s absence, I received the merchants winding their way up or down our stretch of the Clyde. There was always news from a tenant bringing a gift of flour, cheese, carrots, or livestock, or from the herdsmen who wandered the wild summer pastures minding our cattle and sheep. It was they who brought news from the Borders: that Gwenddolau had grown to be a noble and warlike lord. That Ceidio and Pendragon yet kept the Angles at bay. Battles were lost but mostly won, and I gathered news like a squirrel hoarded acorns, eager to hear of my foster brother’s safety but saddened that the fighting had made Gwenddolau a stranger, keeping him so long from our door.

  Now another summer had blessed the soft green fields of Cadzow and found me lazing beneath the oaks, gazing up at a sky as blue as a dunnock’s egg. The deep calls of our cattle sounded from the nearby pasture—mothers moaning to their little ones—and the thought of the snowy-white calves was enough to stir me from my daydreaming and send me meandering along the forest path in search of their velvety noses.

  The air was thick with the honeyed smell of wych elm, and as I moved through the trees, the starry white blossoms scattered, catching in my hair like snowflakes. As I neared the pasture, two calves who’d been racing clumsy-legged through the tall grass stopped and studied me, their dark eyes curious. I drew in a deep breath of loamy earth and smiled at the cowherd, a strong, fair-haired boy a few winters older than I. Though he leaned against an oak whittling at a stick, I couldn’t help but notice his eyes lingered uncomfortably long on me, and I reached to shake the blossoms from my hair, fanning it over my chest to hide the rising curve of my bosom.

  My dresses were suddenly tight across my back and shoulders. How had this happened, seemingly overnight? Crowan must have noticed, though she hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t I always known it would come to this? It did not matter how much Father loved me. As soon as I reached marrying age . . . The thought brought a swell of sickness, and I chased it away. I slipped behind a copse of trees to evade the prying eyes of the cowherd, stretching out my hand to the calves.

  “Come, little ones. Come and see me.”

  The calves pricked their ears, wary. At last a brave youngster rose uncertainly from the shadow of the hedge, inching closer until his curiosity got the better of him. I smiled at the tickle of wet breath as he sniffed the air above my fingers.

  “Yes, you remember me, don’t you?”

  I stroked the downy tuft of white hair between his black-tipped ears and he blinked his long lashes in pleasure. I’d been stroking his forehead for some time when he suddenly jerked upright and bolted from my side, startling me half to death as he tore away toward the shelter of his mother.

  I turned to see Cathan skirting the edge of the pasture, his thick gray hair braided back from his face and staff in hand. He lifted it triumphantly in greeting when he caught sight of me, the worn lines round his eyes creasing in little branches.

  “A wise beast to skitter from you,” I called out and gestured to the calf, now sitting resolutely in the shadow of his mother. “It seems he knows who selects the bulls for sacrifice.”

  “At least we know where to look when you do not meet us at the gate,” he replied.

  I grinned, rushing to embrace him. “You’re back! I didn’t hear the watchman’s call.”

  “We’ve only just arrived.”

  “And how did you find your visit to Partick?”

  Cathan hesitated. “Troubling,” he said at last.

  “Troubling? Why?”

  “It seems a new settlement has taken root across the shore from the White Isle. Christians. They come to hear the proselytizing of a monk they call ‘Mungo.’ ”

  “Dear One. And what do you know of him?”

  “I sent men to seek his history. He is of noble birth. His mother is Taneu, daughter to Lot, king of the Lothians. She fled to a monastery at the Firth of Forth to evade marriage to a son of Rheged, and Mungo was birthed there. He makes no claims to his grandfather’s power now, of course, but he is of noble blood, and it draws the people.”

  “But how is it he came to Partick? The Firth of Forth is leagues away.”

  “He arrived to Brother Telleyr with a letter of endorsement from a priest called Serf some years ago now.”

  “How strange we have not met him.”

  “The monk had taken a vow of silence these past five years, or so Telleyr has related, a vow which he has only just concluded. Now the two men have parted ways. This Mungo speaks, and pilgrims travel vast distances in search of his wisdom and miracles. They build hovels on the bank of the river near the White Isle. They launder, bathe, and defecate in the waters sacred to Clota.”

  I drew a breath. “It cannot be! That stretch of water has been a place of sacrifice since time out of memory. The broken swords of their very own ancestors must lie sleeping in the silt of that river.”

  “It would seem they seek to atone for the misgivings of their forefathers.” Cathan laughed without humor.

  “Misgivings,” I said. “Despite the destruction of Bright Hill on Beltane eve, we have not seen famine, flood, or disaster. Despite raids and the presence of the Angles, the Gods have kept us close to their breasts.”

  “So one might say. But there are Christians in Partick who believe it is the Christ god who shines his favor upon us now, so pleased was he with the sacrifice of Bright Hill. In these past days the Council has even sanctioned the building of a new monastery beside the burn at the bottom of the hill.”

  “A monastery? Beside the burn that flows near the White Spring! However could you sanction this?”

  “Come now, I? I sanction nothing. I may yet be head of the Council, but I cannot control its ruling. You know as much. The monastery will be home to Telleyr and his monks, not this Mungo. At least I could see to that.” Cathan rubbed his brow.

  “And what of Tutgual? Does he yet keep counsel with Brother Telleyr?”

  “You have not heard.” Cathan’s brows arched in surprise. “Nay, Telleyr has fallen from the king’s favor. And whilst we were in Partick, Tutgual decreed all female Wisdom Keepers banned from his court.”

  I nearly staggered. “Tutgual has banned female Keepers from his court? How can he do such a thing? What of the female Song Keepers? Would he banish them, too?”

  “Nay. Never the Song Keepers. The winter is far too long, and the old king wrings far too much enjoyment from their stories.”

  “Well, then certainly our female Song Keepers should refuse to visit the court of the king.”

  “They will not,” Cathan said. “The Song Keepers know well the wisdom that lives in our stories. There are many in the capital—and even in Tutgual’s own court—who yet cling to the Old Way. The Keepers will not abandon their people, nor the hope that the stories will work magic on even the most taciturn of ears. Besides, Tutgual is not truly a Christian. He only wishes to appear as such when it serves him.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Tutgual trades with Gaul and with Rome. He looks across the water, and what does he see? Wisdom Keepers long since stripped of their power, and kingdoms gathered under the rule of rulers like Chlothar, with wealthy churches backing their reigns. Here in our lands, the power of a Wisdom Keeper nearly outranks that of a king, whilst Christian kings answer to no other but their god. Tutgual yearns for such power, yet does not know which way the tide will turn in the land of the Britons. So he must play both sides. This may yet be to our benefit.”

  “How can you say so?”

  Cathan’s eyes roamed the pasture, fogged by something troubling before he shook the thought and turned to me.

  “All this gloom. Come. Let’s talk no more of this. Your father and brother await.” Cathan straightened and dug into the folds of his robes. “But whilst we are undisturbed . . . I’ve brought you a gift.”

  “Cathan, you needn’t have brought me a
nything.”

  “Stuff and nonsense. It is yours already, in a way.” With that, he lay a simple cloth packet in my hands. I tested its weight. Too light to be a weapon. Confounded, I unfolded the cloth to reveal a carved leather mask and drew a breath. There was no mistaking it. This was one of the masks the maidens wore at Midsummer.

  The leather tooling was delicate yet ferocious, an intricate map of whorls and symbols carved onto its surface. The stiff skin of the mask had been tanned a fiery shade of orange, and I traced my fingers along the edges that rose and fell in a semblance of flames.

  “It belonged to your mother,” Cathan said. “She wore it when she danced as a Torch Bearer at the Midsummer fires. Now it has come to you.”

  A Torch Bearer. My pulse skittered. With all the talk of Partick, I’d nearly forgotten this would be my first year taking part in the Midsummer rites. So many summers I’d watched the young women of our village race with burning torches to ignite the Midsummer fire; watched as they moved to the rattles and drums, twisting and spinning in the dizzying chase between darkness and light. Now I was finally of age. I could almost feel my mother there with me as I caressed the fine leather—could almost summon the scent of her—but then the memory was lost.

  “I can scarcely remember what she looked like,” I said. “If I close my eyes, I can see only her dark hair twirling about her as she spun.”

  Cathan smiled. “Your mother danced with the grace of a roe deer. There was hardly a man who could catch her.”

  “Yet I dance with the grace of a sow,” I said.

  “A sow?” he laughed. “Oh, no, we can’t have that. After all, we’ll have very important guests for the celebration this year.”

  The tease in his voice made me narrow my eyes. “Tell me.”

  “Why, Emrys Pendragon,” Cathan said, his smile broadening at the sight of my gaping mouth. “Indeed, it’s true. Emrys and his retinue are to join us for Midsummer. Better yet, he travels with Gwenddolau.”