by Signe Pike
This priest knew who our father was. And yet he did not bow.
I watched Lailoken’s hackles rise as he pushed past Brodyn and Brant. “Monk. You do not bow your head in deference to this king.”
“I mean this nobleman no offense,” the man said, his voice smooth and even. “But I bow to only one king, and he is my god.”
“This ‘nobleman’ is Morken, king of Goddeu.” Lail’s fist tightened at his side. “Perhaps in all your prayer you have forgotten your manners. Shall I remind you?”
The priest stiffened, and the look he cast my brother caused the hairs to stand at the back of my neck. At his full height he was tall, tall enough to level his hollow eyes on my brother’s. “Strike me, chieftain’s son, and you will regret it.”
“Oh?” Lail gave a laugh. “The more you speak, the less I believe I will.”
“Then strike and we shall see. I will look down from heaven upon your piteous moans as you blister in the fires of hell.” The man’s benevolent smile only served to incite my brother further.
“A zealot! Father, do you hear this man speaking? Allow me to—”
“Lailoken, leave him.” Father strode forward. “I’ll have no quarrel with these men.”
My brother’s eyes flashed. He stood, eyes locked on the priest, until I worried he may snap.
“Lailoken,” Father warned.
“As you will it.” Lail fell back in line.
“Lailoken,” the man echoed, trying out my brother’s name as if to preserve it. He shot my brother a satisfied smirk. “I’m certain we shall meet again.”
“You should hope not, monk.”
“Onward.” Father gave Lail a stern look as he brushed past the hooded men. “Our ship awaits.”
I had been watching, transfixed, unable to reconcile seeing the man who’d knocked my blade from my hand that day in the forest standing before me now, engaging with our party in such naked contempt. I’d been a child then. I was a woman now. But his presence within paces of me and my family made me feel like nothing more than a frightened little girl alone in the woods. As Lailoken reached a protective arm to escort me past, the man glanced up.
His pale eyes locked on mine with a flicker of surprise.
He knew me. What’s more, I could see from the way his gaze turned keener that he saw the fear on my face and delighted in it. I moved past him, training my eyes on the steps beneath my feet. My anger swelled, but Tutgual’s men escorted us, and I would not provide fodder for the king’s spies. I said nothing, not until we were safely alone on board the ship. The moment we were river bound, I reached for Lailoken’s arm.
“That man,” I said. “The monk.”
“Yes? What about him?” Lail’s gaze sharpened. “I do not like the look upon your face, Languoreth.”
“That is the man from Bright Hill.”
Lailoken froze. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. The wood that day so long ago. It was he who had something to do with the felling of the trees. I know it. I knew him the moment I saw him.”
A shadow crossed Lail’s face as we watched the black island recede into the distance.
“And now it would seem he is in Tutgual’s pocket.”
“There can be no other reason for his presence on Clyde Rock,” I said. “Ariane has told me Brother Telleyr has since fallen from Tutgual’s favor. Perhaps this is what this monk planned all along.”
Lail looked to where Father sat at the bow of the boat. “Father is so bent upon peace, he is blind to it. We must tell Father when Cathan is near. Cathan will make him see the truth of it. We must tell them everything you’ve spoken of, Languoreth.”
“I agree. But who is this man? And how can a man with such darkness possibly be head of a church?” The man’s hollow eyes returned to me and I shuddered.
“These are things we do not know,” Lailoken said. “But I promise you, sister, we are going to find out.”
• • •
Afternoon sweltered beyond Buckthorn’s doors the following day, but the great room was cool and dark as we entered, answering Father’s summons. We had spoken with him and Cathan long into the evening last night, and now Father sat at the long table, absently toying with his dinner knife.
“Good, you’ve come. I wanted you both to be present. Telleyr has just arrived and we’ve been speaking of this Mungo,” Father said.
Cathan took a seat as Telleyr bowed in greeting. “The man your Father describes can be none other than Brother Garthwys,” Telleyr said. “The man the people call ‘Mungo.’ But I would hear from Languoreth. My lady, you are certain this monk you encountered only yesterday at Clyde Rock was the same man you saw that fateful day upon Bright Hill?”
“It was he.” I strode forward. “There can be no doubt of it.”
Telleyr nodded, deep in thought. “When Lady Languoreth first described the man she saw upon Bright Hill, I had my suspicions. But Garthwys had only just concluded a vow of silence the fortnight before Fergus’s death. I asked myself, How could a man who has scarcely spoken plan a desecration on such a scale? No, I thought. It could not be he. I was a fool.”
“It would seem a fortnight of plotting with Fergus was more than sufficient,” Cathan said.
“Aye,” Telleyr said. “That can be the only way of it. Even in his silence he had drawn some number of followers to him, so beguiled were they by the fervency of his faith. As you know, Fergus was a zealot. It was likely his dying wish to be entombed on the hill and so claim it for the Christian way.”
A vow of silence. This was why Mungo would not answer when I demanded his identity in the wood. Or perhaps he enjoyed frightening children of the Old Way.
“I cannot comprehend how a man such as he could come to inspire such a following,” Father said.
“I blame myself,” Telleyr said. “I saw no fault in it when Brother Anguen and Brother Garthwys made a petition to offer followers a . . . more ascetic sort of faith in their own weekly sermons. I was in need of aid in giving sermons, you might remember. With my flock growing and the building of the monastery, I thought it a heavenly gift of help. And Mungo has a way about him when he speaks to the people.
“Their weekly sermons soon became daily. I set my own sights on expanding the monastery: more buildings, clearing new fields for crops. Too late did I understand their radical view on the principles of the gospel. Mungo’s faith is deep. It is a pity that his mind has warped it.”
“The gospel?” Lailoken tested the foreign word.
“It is the Word of the Lord,” Telleyr replied. “Brother Garthwys does not believe that men of Christ should marry or engage in . . .” He sought for the proper words, no doubt due to my presence. “. . . lustful acts. He deprives himself of such so as to be a beacon of right doing. He makes a show of piety, wearing a goat-hair shirt beneath his robes, and eats scarcely enough to live. They say he sleeps with a rock for his pillow. There are those who believe his ability to work miracles comes from his pure form of living.” Telleyr looked up. “But Mungo’s piety is not faith, it is madness. I know that now, and too late. I fear by now Mungo may even believe the tales told of him.”
“I have gathered stories of these purported miracles,” Cathan said. “The people believe he has restored a dead robin to life. That his breath alone has kindled fire. Stories all, put about to raise his standing. Not even I can perform such deeds—though I am quite good with a flint,” he added, a twinkle of humor in his eye.
“You would jest?” Father frowned.
“The man is a blight. My humor sustains me. That and the drink,” Cathan added, taking a deep draft of ale.
“Come now, Morken. I have put in my work. I have since traveled to the abbey to discover his past myself,” Cathan said. “There I spoke to the abbot, an elderly man called Serf. When I told this man of our trouble, he displayed no surprise. He told me he raised Mungo as if the boy were his own. But whilst he was an avid student, he was detested by his peers; it seems he delighted in toying wit
h his fellow students and making great mischief for them.”
Father leaned in. “What sort of mischief?”
“Serf told me of an incident most disturbing,” Cathan said. “The priest had a bird he was particularly fond of—a robin, I believe. Each day it would come to be fed from Serf’s hand, and so it became quite friendly to people. But one day Serf went to feed his bird and found it dead in his courtyard, its head taken off. A student claimed he’d seen Mungo kill the creature, but Mungo replied it was done by the students to cast a stain upon him. It seemed to me Serf knew the truth of it. This was what caused Mungo to be cast from the monastery.”
“Harming gentler creatures is sign of a sickness of mind not easily tamed,” Father said. “I have encountered such men before.”
I thought of Gwrgi and the chicken as Lailoken, who had been listening with intent, threw up his hands. “And now this twisted tale is being bandied about as a miracle? That this Mungo somehow brought the creature back from the dead?”
Cathan raised his brows. “For a young man so versed in stories, I would think you would understand their more fantastical elements, Lailoken.”
“This man is a danger to Strathclyde,” Lail said.
“That much is clear,” Father answered. “But we must strive to keep peace! Already the Angles have established a kingdom at the edge of our eastern sea. I will not be the king to start a war within our borders.”
Lailoken tossed his head back. “Father, if you do nothing, then he shall bring the war to you!”
Father shot him a look of warning. “This Mungo is under Tutgual’s protection. Would you have me go to war with the high king?”
I heard a soft shuffle and Desdemona appeared with a jug of ale and an amphora of wine.
“No, Desdemona,” Father said, dismissing her. “We have no want of that.”
She bowed her head.
“And why are you bringing drink?” Father inquired, annoyed. “Can my servants not now carry out the simplest of tasks? This is Devi’s duty when I am in meeting. You are a chamber girl.”
“Devi’s ill,” Desdemona explained, eyes lowered. “He bade me serve you.”
Father waved her off, and she went to stand beside the door, waiting to refill our cups. He turned to Cathan. “Have we any proof that this man is responsible for Bright Hill?” I could hear the edge that had crept into his voice, hungry for revenge.
“None save Languoreth’s account.”
“I saw him on Bright Hill that day,” I said. “I will bear witness.”
Father turned to me. “And you witnessed him felling a tree? Or perhaps instructing others to do so?”
“No, but—”
“It is not enough,” Father said.
“He defied you openly,” Lailoken said. “We could have made an example of him right then, Father, on Clyde Rock, and yet you forbade it.”
“Lailoken!” Father’s eyes flashed with anger. “My son, I fear you have long to go before you may offer counsel to a king.”
Lail looked as if he’d been struck, but Father would see he learned a lesson.
“Even had I known it was he, you must never let a man within your borders know he is your enemy. Not until you are prepared to act. You’ve marked yourself now. I cannot make use of you.”
“I can yet be of use,” Lail said.
“Enough,” Father said. “Tutgual plans to appoint a bishop for Strathclyde, a leader for people of the Christian way. And this Mungo has already visited Clyde Rock.” Father locked eyes with Telleyr. “If you ever held the ear of the king, you must travel to the rock and speak now, before it is too late. Tutgual must hear of your misgivings of this man. You must make it clear that you put yourself forward for this position of bishop.”
“Yes. I shall speak to the king about my misgivings,” Telleyr said. “But, Morken, you must believe that when it comes to a successor for Tutgual, Mungo will have his own designs for who best to raise to that throne. Rhydderch’s brother, Morcant, is elder, and Morcant is of the Christian faith. Should Languoreth of the Old Way indeed be Rhydderch’s choice, you’d be wise to remember it is not always the most noble-hearted son who is chosen to succeed his father.”
I shuddered at the thought of Morcant’s being named tanist, but Father only rose from his chair and walked to Telleyr’s side.
“I cannot speak against Mungo. Not without witness. Not without proof. Even now we await Rhydderch’s bid for marriage. If Tutgual does indeed favor Mungo, I cannot make an enemy of his chosen man. I must bide my time until I have something more actionable. But I promise you, brother, the moment that time does come, I shall act. And this Mungo shall know the meaning of my fury.”
Telleyr took a breath and reached to clasp Father’s arm. “I hear what you say, Morken King. This appointment may be made any moment now. I will bid you good day. I must hire a boatman. The tide is with me. If I leave now, I will arrive before dark.”
“Very well.” Father signaled to Brant, who was standing guard beside the doors. “Fetch Arwel and another—men Tutgual’s soldiers may not recognize by sight,” he said. Then he turned back to Telleyr. “You should not travel alone. I will send men to accompany you down to the quay. They can disguise themselves as hired hands. You needn’t travel under my banner.”
“I am grateful, Morken. But you cannot risk it.” Telleyr adjusted his hood over his head. His brown eyes were kind. “I know the way well. I’ll keep to the forest path until I arrive at the river.”
“So be it.” Father gripped his arm. “Travel safely, my friend.”
A nagging sense made me stand. “Brother Telleyr, may I escort you out?”
“Of course,” he said. “I should be glad for it.”
Outside, beyond the courtyard, rain clouds billowed in the heat, and the sky had turned the color of molten silver.
“I must urge you to be careful,” I said. “I cannot say why, but this whole circumstance has me very ill at ease.”
“Thank you, my lady, but do not worry.” Telleyr smiled. “You shall see: light always prevails. All will be right in the end.”
I nodded but did not believe it. Hadn’t Ariane warned of this? She had foretold of a darkness drawn by the Christians of Partick. Now that darkness had a face, one I was coming to know all too well. Would that Telleyr had never taken him in.
The monk looked up as rain began to splatter.
“I must be off.” Mounting his horse, Telleyr gave a quick wave.
I lifted my hand in return and watched him ride, head bowed, into the coming storm.
CHAPTER 27
* * *
The rain swept in ceaseless billows from over the sea, gusting the thatch from roofs and drowning our high fields of oats and barley. It had been three days and still it had not ceased. All the while we had no news of Telleyr and his visit to Clyde Rock. Lailoken and Father joined the warriors in helping our tenant farmers dig drainage ditches in hopes of sparing the crops. Our wealth depended on our grain supply, and we needed a full summer’s harvest. Rising water brought more power to our mills, but what good was more power if you didn’t have grain enough to grind? The granaries were somewhat stocked, but without this year’s harvest, come midwinter we would run dangerously low.
As waters turned puddles into lochs and grasses began to yellow and shrink, Ariane joined Cathan in seclusion on White Isle in hopes of discovering a remedy. There were sacrifices to be made, and in times like these our Keepers would spend long days in fasting and prayer. Of course, despite the wet and cling of the horrible weather, Lailoken did not miss the chance to point out that a few missed meals might actually do Cathan some good.
With the men out of doors, and the people of Partick hovered round their hearths to stay dry and keep sickness at bay, the world seemed awfully small. I sat in the great room with Crowan and Desdemona while the rain pounded down, every now and again lifting the shutter to watch sinuous streams of peat smoke rise from the huts like so many snakes.
�
��I hear rumors that in Pendragon’s lands fighting has broken out with Hengist the Angle,” I said aloud, my mind fixed on Maelgwn.
“Those men can keep their own,” Crowan said, scarcely glancing up from her weaving. “Especially our Gwenddolau, eh?”
I felt a flash of shame that it was not Gwenddolau I worried over and closed my eyes, praying both he and Maelgwn would be kept safe. Sword, spear, or axe—in the blink of an eye a warrior could fall. One misjudgment of an enemy’s hand . . . I’d witnessed the results. Maimed, blinded, suffering. To die was more fortunate.
Soon it would be Lughnasa, when our fortnight celebration of feasting and games would begin. Lailoken’s favorite time of year. And yet, when my brother came home from the fields, he paced his chamber. He wanted to go to Gwenddolau. He wanted to join in the fight. I could feel the call to battle pulling him as if it were a need of my own. Why train to throw his spear in competition when it could be far more lethal in war? Why waste his muscle in digging drainage for fields when the Angle warriors raided and ravaged Britons in the south? As the days passed, I watched as Lailoken trained his mind for the tasks of a Keeper and his body for the tasks of war. He wore his hair longer now, tethered tightly from his face. He was corded with muscle, no doubt from goading Brant and Brodyn to swordplay long after they were spent, and from trudging out before sunrise to the targets to thrust his spear. His anxiety was smoldering, and I understood all too well as the rain continued to fall. After all, the weight of my own fate hung in the balance.
It was through these sheets of water that the messenger came from King Tutgual’s court. My hand stilled at the loom as a shout rose up from the guard, followed by a thunderous knock at the door. I slipped from my chair and peered out into the corridor. The messenger was elegantly dressed but said little. I hurried back into the great room and wrung my fingers in my lap, waiting by the fire to receive him.
At last the messenger entered and bowed with great courtesy. Rising, he pulled a parchment from a thick leather case. It was sealed with the wax emblem of Clyde Rock and spotted from the rain.