A Novel

by Signe Pike

  I looked to my brother, my voice shaking in anger. “These are no injuries sustained from a tree.”

  Telleyr had never made it to the river. He had never gotten the chance to warn Tutgual of Mungo, to give voice to the terrible danger we all felt. Someone had intercepted him on the way. Someone must have been following him. Must have known where he was traveling. But who?

  Lailoken’s face went tight as he studied the extent of Telleyr’s injuries with a warrior’s eye.

  “Yes,” he said, bowing his head. “Brother Telleyr has been beaten to death. It is a terrible way to die.”

  CHAPTER 28

  * * *

  “Murder,” I said, biting back tears. “This is murder.”

  We walked briskly as we could past the mourners and the kitchens toward the monastery gate.

  “Yes, it is murder. And yet again we haven’t any proof,” Lailoken said angrily. I looked nervously over my shoulder.

  “They mustn’t hear you, Lailoken. They mustn’t suspect.”

  “No.” Lailoken ran a hand over his wavy hair in anger. “He is too smooth-tongued. Too treacherous. Even if we were to accuse him, Mungo would only say such wounds had come from a falling tree.”

  “We failed Brother Telleyr. We should have known it would come to this.”

  “And to stand here and do nothing!” Lail tightened his fists.

  “But Father is right,” I said, trying to convince myself as much as him. “Whilst Mungo does not yet know you, you will be at some advantage. You must play the part of impetuous young Wisdom Keeper. Reluctantly obedient son. He must not see our cunning. He must not know we are clever.”

  Lailoken flexed his fist and studied it. “He assaults my sister. He desecrates Bright Hill. He murders Brother Telleyr. And yet we cannot touch him. It is enough to make me think that his god does indeed protect him. I tell you, sister, this man, this Mungo, he is an enemy for the ages.”

  “I hate him,” I said. The words were not enough.

  “Yes,” Lail said. “I hate him.” Our words were like a vow. But as Lail looked at me, his anger drained and all that was left was worry. Worry for me.

  “You do not have to say it,” I said. “Of course I will see him at court. How could I not? He is Tutgual’s pet.”

  “You must watch yourself,” he said. “You must never forget what he is capable of.”

  I sighed with a nod. Strands of Lail’s sandy-streaked hair had come loose, and he pressed his hands to his temples as if they ached.

  “I cannot travel with such rage running through me. Let us sit a moment,” he said. “Let us think.”

  “You are more levelheaded than Father gives you credit for,” I said. And as we came to ourselves we realized we now stood within only paces of the White Spring. It trickled away softly as if untroubled by the events churning around it. Lail sat back on his heels beside the smooth stones at the edge of the pool where the water yet gurgled. A heavy stone cross had been placed upright at the springhead, but shiny bits of silver, glass, and precious rocks still glittered from the pool’s bottom. Somewhere in those depths our pebbles of amber yet slept. In the blackthorn tree that kept watch over the springhead, colorful strips of cloth had been tied: hopes of healing that fluttered like wings when caught by the wind. I sat listening to the trickle of cold water issuing up from underground.

  Lail knelt at my side in the mud, his eyes closed. I watched as his lips moved in prayer. Closing my own eyes, I felt the same sense of well-being wash over me that I had felt so long ago. Warm and pulsing. Like a mother. Like a friend. I soaked it in until I felt my lungs expand. Suddenly I found it easier to breathe again.

  I opened my eyes to see Lail tracing tender whorls upon the stone beside the spring with his fingers. “Do you remember when we came here first?”

  “I could not forget.”

  “That day was a perfect day,” he said. “Before you saw Mungo in the wood, before the trees were felled. Now that I have come back here, I know that I will never return again. I prefer to remember it as it was, that first day we visited. Before all of this. The White Spring feels hollow now. Empty.”

  “And what of your Lady of the Spring?” I turned to him. “Would you abandon her, too?”

  “The Lady of the Spring is sleeping.”

  “Come now, brother.” I tried to cheer him. “People still visit the spring for healing; that much is evident.”

  Lail looked at the offerings scattered in the pool. “They call her by another name, a name that is not her own. And so she may become it, if she chooses, and her true name will be lost.”

  “What name do they call her, do you think?”

  “They call her Mary, I have heard,” Lail said. “After the mother of Christ.”

  “And what does that matter? The spring is still the spring.”

  “The White Spring is sleeping,” Lail insisted. “Can you not feel the layers that now lie so thickly between you and the thrumming of her waters?”

  “Perhaps she will stay asleep until one comes who truly remembers her. Then that one will call to her and she will awaken again.”

  Lailoken only shook his head, and I understood the difference between me and my brother then. I did not believe mankind could make magic flee from a place where it chose to manifest with such power. What we called that force did not so much matter. It was the honoring of the force itself, a longing man shared. Perhaps the Lady of the Spring did not belong to the old Gods or the new. Perhaps she belonged only to herself.

  “Where you see sadness, I see hope,” I said. “The people still visit her; they still pray on bended knee. We simple folk may call her by another name, but her power remains unchanged.”

  “We must each believe what we wish.” Lailoken shrugged and picked up a nearby pebble. “Speaking of wishes”—he smiled a little—“what was it that you wished, all those years ago?”

  I looked up, surprised. “My wish?”

  “Or have you forgotten?”

  “Nay. But Cathan advised we should not say.”

  “Well, I shall tell you mine, for I wished I would become a great warrior and a wise Wisdom Keeper, and that much has already come to pass.”

  I laughed despite my sadness.

  “All right. Now you,” he urged.

  “Very well.” My amusement dried on my lips. “I wished that someday I would be able to live as I please.”

  Lail’s smile fell. We both knew I was to be Rhydderch’s wife—that my life would be tied to his, no matter my wish. But did this mean the spring held no power?

  I would not believe it.

  “Perhaps the Lady of the Spring wields her magic still,” Lailoken said. “Old magic takes time.” I looked into my brother’s eyes and saw the wisdom of other worlds reflected there.

  A part of me wondered if some form of old magic had been set in motion that day we stood beside Cathan at the foot of Bright Hill on Beltane eve. But old magic was subtle and strange, I was coming to learn. It was the wind that moved the hair at the back of your neck; it was a stag drinking in the shallows. It was a vision of your departed mother, the haunting caw of a crow. Yes, my brother was right: old magic took time, but more and more, I was beginning to see it required surrender. For how else could the Gods and spirits help when we struggled so against their work?

  “Come, sister,” Lailoken said, helping me to stand. “Let us go home.”

  Home.

  As we reached the footbridge, I looked back toward the water. Despite the overcast day, a glimmer of light caught the ripples of the stream in what looked like a wink.

  Perhaps surrendering was all I could do.

  • • •

  “I sent him to his grave.”

  Father dropped his head into his hands and Brodyn tipped some whiskey from his flagon into Father’s cup. We sat in the great room, our bones heavy from our slog back to Buckthorn in the mud.

  “Uncle, you cannot hold the blame yourself. This Mungo has spies,” Brodyn said. />
  “Surely you do not suggest it was someone within this house.”

  “Only one possibility.” My cousin held up his hands in surrender.

  Brant spoke up: “Or else he sent men to follow Telleyr to make certain of his silence. Either way, I agree. You cannot bear the blame upon your shoulders. You could not protect Telleyr any more than his own god could.”

  “I cannot bear the blame?” Father’s hand tightened on his cup. “I could not send men to avenge Bright Hill. I could not send men to protect Brother Telleyr. Where does my power lie? At the foot of King Tutgual.” His face flushed with anger. “I grow weary of feeling my hands are bound.”

  Father looked at me. “How much shall we deliver for burial costs?”

  “Mungo says he has already made arrangements. Any monetary gift would only go toward lining his coffers.”

  Brant gave a sharp laugh. “Isn’t he a sly bastard? He would have known how the people would love Morken, a king of the Old Way, for funding the burial of a Christian priest. Even in this he seeks to steal your power!”

  “That is not the reason I sought to pay.” Father stood abruptly. “Where is Cathan?” he demanded.

  “I am here,” Cathan called as he entered from the corridor, shaking water from his cloak. “We have arrived just now.”

  Ariane followed, her cerulean eyes finding mine across the room with a nod. Cathan sat heavily and signaled for ale as Ariane came to stand alongside me, laying a hand upon my shoulder in greeting.

  “What said the Council?” Father asked.

  “Tutgual has appointed Mungo as bishop. It is as we expected,” Cathan said. “There is to be a naming ceremony to mark the occasion in one week’s time and all are expected to attend.”

  Father banged his fist against the table. “Now that Mungo is backed by the king and his coffers, he will not need to grow his assassins from among his own flock; he may hire them with impunity! We must strike him where he stands, for he will soon be too armed to touch him.”

  Cathan shot him a look. “There is none who would like that better than I, but that is not wise, Morken. Think of all you might lose.”

  Father let out a growl and beat at his head with his hands. We waited until he blew out a breath and lifted his face to look at his old friend. “You are my counsellor. Surely there must be something we can do.”

  “Wed your daughter to the king’s son. That much we have undertaken already.” Cathan’s eyes touched on mine in unspoken apology and I took a deep drink from my cup.

  “And what of this naming ceremony?” Lailoken asked.

  “We must go,” Cathan said.

  “Yes.” Father took his seat once more, pushing away his cup. “Mungo has drawn the line of battle with the body of my friend. I will heed his call to war. No bishop shall hold sway over me,” he said, his voice rising. “Oh, I will go to the naming ceremony. Let him look upon my face! I will see he understands a new kind of fear.”

  Next to me, Ariane lowered her head.

  It had begun.

  I could feel it creeping from the shadows, this strife among our people.

  “Father, I loathe Mungo as much as you. But can you not see this is precisely what he wants?” I said. “Have we not known since the attack on Bright Hill that whoever was behind it meant to beget such a war? We are puppets playing his parts if we behave thusly.”

  “I agree with Languoreth,” Lailoken said. “I loathe the man, too. But Mungo now wields the power of bishop with the backing of a sympathetic king.”

  Father looked between the two of us. “I do not recall naming either of you my counsellor.”

  “Lailoken and Languoreth are wise,” Cathan said. “If Mungo finds no resistance, he must do something to provoke you, to draw you out. You and I are bastions of the Old Way. He will be unable to resist testing his new power.”

  “Yes. But at what cost?” Father held our gazes a long moment before nodding at Cathan with a sigh. “You are right, then, all of you. We will watch and wait, if only for now. I am coming to know his mind, I think. He will grow too bold with his power. He will make a mistake. That is when we must strike, and be rid of this Mungo once and for all.”

  I stared at the fire. As soon as I gained Rhydderch’s trust, I would make certain he knew of Mungo’s wicked part in this: Telleyr’s murder, paying the burial costs, playing the part of sad brother-in-arms. Surely he would see that Mungo was only trying to increase both his power and his reach. For even now there were two factions of Christians in Partick: those who loved Telleyr, and those who flocked to Mungo. By furnishing the cost of Telleyr’s burial, Mungo not only sought to uproot any good deed by my father but also hoped to prove himself to Telleyr’s community, thus absorbing it into his own.

  Father rubbed the back of his neck. “Talk of Mungo sours my stomach. Let us discuss more pleasant news.”

  “Very well,” Cathan said. “We are in a state of agricultural devastation.”

  “Ah! A lighter topic.” Father shot him a look. “It is not so bad as all that. We have lost nearly half our crop, but we are better off than others. It will not be our strongest, but our tenants will yet manage a harvest, thank the Gods. We will be able to restock our granaries before winter, with some amount left to barter or sell.”

  “Your stores may be secure, but between here and the borders of Strathclyde there is little but dead and wilted fields, and there will be more rain to come,” Cathan said.

  Ariane spoke up. “Morken King, as you know I traveled with Lord Cathan to White Isle. Long we both sat, with varying methods, but the signs were all the same. There will be much rain this year and a very cold winter. With that comes worry of famine.”

  Cathan turned to Father. “Lughnasa will soon be upon us. We must guard your grain stores with care.”

  “I hear your warning,” Father said, “and I thank you. I will double my guard. Brant will see to it.”

  A silence fell. Father squinted in the gloom. “Enough talk. I would have music. Summon Dane the Song Keeper. Perhaps he can soothe us all.”

  “A fine idea.” Cathan nodded to our man Devi, who was posted by the doors.

  Dane entered a few moments later, his kind eyes full of calm, white robes glowing in the dimming light of evening. As was custom, the king poured him a cup and offered it.

  “A song, if you would so treat us?” Father asked.

  “Indeed.” Dane inclined his head and nestled his cruit upon his lap. We turned toward the hearth in silence as his nimble fingers tested the strings. “I will sing the tale of Lugh and his mother in honor of these high days of summer.”

  I sank back in my chair, closing my eyes as he began to play. It was a welcome invitation to lose my thoughts for a moment and dream of Lughnasa, my favorite festival of the year. It was two days’ travel to the base of the mountain where we would settle into lavish tents for the fortnight of celebration. People would travel to the fields beneath the mountain from all across Strathclyde for spear throwing, swordplay, horse racing, and games. Song and dance. There would be sacrifices and offerings. A young bull. Incantations and tributes given in thanks for the harvest to come. On the final eve, we would keep awake the long night and, swathed in the blackness just before morning, begin our climb up the mountain.

  It was a sacred pilgrimage, a punishing climb begun in darkness that finished with the rising of the sun. We offered Lugh’s mountain our blood, and the mountain was greedy; it drank thirstily as we sliced our bare feet against the rocks, as the skin of our heels chafed against the hard-packed dirt of the trail. There were years when the wind would lash its way up the mountain pass as though it meant to sweep us from our feet, extinguishing our torches and leaving us fumbling our way through the stony morning dark. But always when we arrived on the summit, with all the world laid out before us and the first rays of daylight glowing like embers in the eastern sky, I knew I was as close as I would ever be to that unnameable power that lived in the Gods.

  Dane’s voice d
ropped. There was a moment of stillness as the room sat entranced, and then the final sweet reverberation of the cruit faded and my father stood and offered him a bow. The mood in the room had lightened, but my heart was yet a barnacled anchor sinking in my chest. Lughnasa was nearly upon us, and thereafter I would be wed. There was no ending more final than this. As conversation rose once more, I looked up to find Ariane watching me.

  “Troubles with crops were not all the Gods showed me upon my visit to White Isle.”

  “I do not know if I can bear any more prophecy,” I said.

  “As you wish it. I shall not tell you, then, what I have seen.”

  I looked at Ariane, my face laid bare. “You know I cannot resist such a statement.”

  She gave a small smile. “Very well. You must take heart. For the warrior Maelgwn comes this way for Lughnasa. I have seen it.”

  I lowered my voice. “If what you say is true, then I am happy for it. But surely you would chastise me.”

  “I?” She gave a soft laugh. “No, not I.”

  Ariane leaned forward. “Languoreth, you have made such contracts as needed to be made. Your duty is fulfilled. You may be told where to live and with whom, but do not let fear get in the way of your heart’s deepest yearnings. I have watched you since Midsummer. Any fool can see how this pulls at you. Let nature take her course. It will bring about more harm than good to fight it.”

  “Let nature take her course?” I echoed. “I am betrothed to a son of the high king. No. There is too much danger in this! Ariane, as my counsel, how could you of all people advise me so?”

  Ariane fixed me with a stern glance. “Languoreth, in less than one month’s time you will be given away, forced to live under the sleepless watch of a new court with hard rules of behavior and conduct the likes of which you cannot begin to imagine. You will be living a life of containment. Of servitude. Do not look at me so. You know it does not please me to say this, but you also know it to be true.” She softened. “Time is what you make of it. Some things cannot be contained. Love is such a thing.”