by Signe Pike
“I was very sorry to hear of your brother,” she said, her eyes full of sympathy.
“Thank you. He will heal in time. I suppose it could have been worse.”
Her eyes flicked to Morcant. “That’s what we say, isn’t it? That it could have been worse. But truly it is always bad enough, just as it is.”
“You’re right.” I followed her gaze. “It is bad enough, just as it is.”
Rhian glanced away, frightened we’d come too close to the truth of it. “What do you think will happen today?” she wondered.
“I cannot say. I only pray that justice will be served.”
“Then I will pray with you,” she said resolutely. My heart swelled at her kindness even as, across the room, Morcant settled his hard gaze on his wife.
“You should be careful in speaking with me,” I said. “Your husband does not like it.”
She swallowed but straightened her shoulders. “We are sisters, are we not? Surely we must speak with each other.”
“Of course.” I reached to touch her hand. “Otherwise I should be very sad indeed.”
Rhian smiled at this, but her happiness turned to alarm as she glanced over my shoulder at the door. “He’s here,” she whispered. “The bishop is here.”
I turned as a score of brown-hooded monks entered, Mungo at their center. He walked contemplatively, head bowed and eyes downcast. His finely embossed bishop’s robes hung limply from his slender frame, but I noticed his once simple wooden shepherd’s crook was now cast in fine silver. Mungo bowed low as he greeted the high king. His eyes touched calmly on Morcant’s.
He harbors no fear, I thought. He imagines his position in this kingdom to be that secure. My anger threatened to boil as I took in the merchants who stood at the far end of the great room. In their thick satins and flowing tunics, in their cloaks trimmed in exotic embroidery, they watched the bishop reverently, as if he walked upon water, while their wives studied the handsome Brother Anguen by his side beneath lowered lashes. It seemed Mungo had more than one weapon in his arsenal, and I doubted he was unaware of it. I glanced impatiently at the doorway.
Where in the name of the Gods were they?
Please, Father, be clever, I begged. Don’t keep the king waiting overlong.
Just as I thought Tutgual was going to stand and call the Gathering at a loss for my father, the slow troop of footsteps sounded from the corridor and the crowd fell silent.
I turned to see Cathan, his thick gray hair woven neatly into a plait and his sloping shoulders drawn tall, moving with purpose through the entryway. Brant came next, followed by the rest of our retinue. At last my father appeared, face grave and mouth set firm.
His wavy auburn hair was loose and his torque shone heavy about his neck as he strode casually to the armory drop to deposit his sword and two knives, bending to adjust the lacing on one of his boots.
When he straightened, his dark eyes found mine and he gave me a reassuring nod.
Tutgual warned my father even as he greeted him. “Morken. You have kept us waiting overlong.”
“My apologies, my king.” Father moved to the center of the room. “But as you well know, I am short one vessel, and today I travel in large company.”
If Father’s tardiness was intentional, his words were inspired. He reminded the king of the injustice we’d been dealt, and that a king of the north was no longer safe within the walls of Strathclyde’s own capital; he must travel with greater guard.
“As you can see, I have come without my son,” Father continued, clearing his throat. “Lailoken is not yet strong enough to travel.”
Perhaps a prod too much. I glanced nervously at the high king, but Tutgual only bowed his head in a display of pity. “May he recover soon.”
Tutgual gestured to the center of the room. “I have called you together in hopes of finding a peaceful resolution to the strife between you and the bishop. This time is yours. State your grievance.”
Father had yet to acknowledge Mungo. Now he turned his broad back to him as he addressed the king.
“Some weeks ago, this Mungo—”
“You shall address him as Bishop Kentigern,” Morcant interrupted, lurching forward like a bear.
“Kentigern” was the name Brother Garthwys had been given at his naming ceremony. But Father only snorted, then continued.
“Some weeks ago, this Mungo arrived at my hall. His crops had failed and he demanded that I should come to his aid out of my abundance.”
“And you refused this request,” Tutgual said.
“Yes.”
“It would please me to know why.”
“Why?” Father looked up sharply. “First, because neither Mungo nor his monastery are within the confines of my lands. Of course this means by law I am not beholden to come to his aid. Second, because my own grain stores are low, and I must ensure that proper provisions are available to those who have pledged their fealty to me. Third, because this Mungo has been collecting taxes these past months on behalf of his church from the broader regions of Strathclyde. Why could he not buy or trade for the grain he wished for rather than demanding I provide it?”
Father cupped his hand to his mouth, whispering aloud. “He did not offer me any coin when he made such a request, though I have it on good account that his coffers are overflowing.”
Some in the audience snickered, and Tutgual swept the audience with an ill-tempered look.
“And fourth”—Father turned, pinning Mungo with his stare—“because I do not like him.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd, and my father gave a wry smile, but his eyes were rimmed with exhaustion. He’d had little sleep for two days. His son was wounded, and now he’d been summoned to the high king to arbitrate a violence that under any other circumstance would have been answered by instant death. And still no one had asked why Tutgual, in all his wealth, had not come to the bishop’s aid himself.
Father straightened his shoulders and continued. “Two nights ago there was a raid on my grain stores. My sacks of oats and barley were plundered, my barns were burned, and one of my vessels was stolen; my men watched it departing upriver, toward the monastery at Bright Hill. As you know, my son is skilled with spear and sword. He rode out at the head of our men to defend my property only to find himself outnumbered.” He paused, his jaw working silently. “For his troubles he was given a scar to match his father’s.”
Father touched the old wound, and the atmosphere in the room turned stormy.
Tutgual leaned forward in his seat. “And can you prove that Bishop Kentigern was responsible for this raid? Have you any witnesses? Any who saw him at your granaries that night?”
“This is not a man who fights his own battles,” Father grunted. “Why should he sully his hands when he can incite others with empty stomachs to carry out his violence for him?”
He turned to face Mungo, jabbing a thick finger toward the bishop.
“You shall not pollute the land in which you live, for blood defiles the land, and the land cannot be cleansed of the blood that is shed except by the blood of he who shed it. This is a teaching of your faith, is it not? And yet men died for oats. For barley. Your own god calls for your blood.” Father’s mouth twisted. “Shall I let him have it?”
Mungo raised his arms in a gesture of capitulation, his pale eyes wide. “I do not wish a violent outcome to this matter any more than I wished violence upon your son.”
“You lie!”
The mention of Lailoken snapped any measure of restraint my father had left. He crossed the room in five big strides. The first blow doubled Mungo over. The second, dealt with the force of a seasoned warrior, slammed Mungo to the ground. I gasped as the great room erupted into turmoil. Father’s men bolted to his side as Tutgual’s soldiers rushed in, swords drawn, from the edges of the room. Father’s men formed a wall before them as the soldiers fought and shoved their way toward the bishop.
“Stop!” Tutgual shouted. “Cease this at once!”
> I heard Mungo grunt as Father’s boot collided with his ribs. Rhydderch sprang from his seat and pushed himself between the factions, arms thrust wide to keep both sides at bay.
“Steady, now,” he said, voice low. “Steady all, steady.”
Father raised his hands in mock surrender and backed away. Mungo lay curled like a wounded fox, but Father’s eyes remained locked on him with a predatory gleam.
“This man peddles a belief built upon compassion. Yet, since his arrival in Strathclyde, our kingdom has seen nothing but violence!” Father bellowed over the shouts of the crowd as he pointed at the bishop. “Our sacred groves are felled. Good Christian men are found dead. His priests come into our homes and tell us our wives are not our wives! That our heirs are illegitimate! He says one thing, yet his deeds say another. This man is not a priest. He is a coward and a power-hungry fool. I am Morken, son of Morydd, and a king of the north. My grain stores were robbed within the walls of our own capital. My own son was mutilated. And in this matter I will have justice!”
I balled my hands into fists, my eyes brimming with tears. The room had fallen silent now, enraptured by my father.
“Enough!” Tutgual barked. “Morken. You have broken the laws of treaty. I will not warn you again.”
Father smoothed a hand through his thick, wavy hair. Brother Anguen rushed forward, but Mungo stood on his own, addressing the high king.
“I am not injured.” Mungo lifted his chin and winced, turning to the men and women who watched anxiously. “This wicked king has seen fit to cause me shame. But I would joyfully suffer such humiliation in defense of my Lord. In defense of my belief!”
Father’s dark eyes narrowed in disgust. “Those blows were not for your God,” he spat. “They were for your thievery and your malice.”
“You call me a thief,” Mungo said. “I shall let the king deliberate on the falsehood of your claim. But I would ask: Who is the thief, when children starve whilst this man is feasting through the long winter nights?”
Father stood tall. “I do not bow to your God, nor do I seek his justice. And yet I am increased with prosperity and abundance in all things. My Gods smile upon me. You call yourself a Christian. You are no Christian. You may have slithered your way into a bishop’s seat, but you are full of lies and false miracles. Your faith is empty and your preaching false.”
“Enough!” Tutgual thundered again.
Father turned and fixed him with a stare before finally bowing his head, giving way to the king.
Tutgual sat back angrily and beckoned to Mungo. “Bishop, come forward. You may address these claims.”
Mungo touched a slim hand to his ribs as if to remind us of the blows he’d just been dealt, sweeping the audience with soulful eyes.
“It was Matthew, a disciple of Jesus who said, ‘Do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on . . . Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?’ ”
He paused, steepling his fingers. “It is true I visited this chieftain Morken, beseeching grain. And though I have children in my care whose stomachs roil with hunger, I was told to cast my burden upon my Lord. This man, Morken, scoffed at me, asking did I not travel these lands preaching that my God would sustain me.” He smiled to himself. “Sometimes the voice of God can come from the most mysterious of places. And so I turned my thoughts to this man’s message, though it was delivered in spite.
“Did I not believe my Lord would sustain me, and his people, in our time of need?” He tilted his head. “I prayed in isolation, taking no sleep or sustenance for days on end. And on the seventh day of my fasting, I heard a voice. It said unto me, Worry not. For the waters of the Clyde will rise up, and the grain you seek shall be miraculously delivered to your people.”
“Miraculously delivered.” Tutgual blinked. “And you say this was so?”
“I have many witnesses who will attest to this fact, for we all rose together, and were equally humbled by the miracle that had appeared before us.” Mungo spoke softly, his voice full of wonder. “Where my grain stores had been empty, now they were full.” He stretched his thin arms wide.
Father scoffed. “He would deny his role in the raid that has taken place!”
Mungo looked up. “I leave it to my king to deliberate on such slanderous and outrageous claims.”
“No more,” Tutgual warned the bishop. “I have heard enough.” Mungo’s light eyes flickered between my father and the king, and for the first time I saw fear in them.
“I have reached a decision,” Tutgual said solemnly. He cast his eyes upon the bishop, and I noticed with disgust that they were full more of disappointment than with anger.
“I find King Morken’s grievance is not without reason. The bishop Kentigern shall henceforth return the grain by sundown on the morrow, along with the vessel his disciples have plundered to transport any goods.”
Shouts of dissent and wild applause broke out all at once.
“But this was a miracle of God!” Mungo lifted his head angrily. “My king, you know not what you do. We have committed no thievery. This is a mistake! You would shun the hand of God for supplying grain to the needy!”
“Silence,” Tutgual demanded. “Silence!” The clamor dropped, and the king turned to my father. “Morken. Does this resolution satisfy you?”
“I am glad you have ruled thusly,” Father answered. “For this very morning I struck out and recovered my grain. I recovered, too, my vessel. There were a few . . .” He paused, studying his fingers. “. . . injuries. But none, I believe, are dead.”
Mungo turned his head, rage contorting his face. “You have already acted thusly?”
The king pinned my father with a dangerous look. “Morken, you test the limits of our friendship.”
“It did not gladden me to do so,” Father said. “But no man shall steal from me without answering for it.”
Tutgual considered him. “Now, then, you have been answered. You will leave this matter. It has been settled.”
“Settled, perhaps,” Father said. “But you ask if I am satisfied, and my answer is no. My son’s wound is a debt yet to be paid.”
Mungo looked anxiously at the king.
“This man is yet the bishop of Strathclyde,” Tutgual asserted, “and as such, he will not be harmed. If any violence should come to him, I can assure you my actions will be swift and unforgiving.”
The bishop stiffened beneath the weight of Father’s stare.
“So be it,” Father said at last. He strode toward Mungo, but three of Tutgual’s men stepped in front, shielding the monk. Father raised a brow at them, then leaned forward, getting as close to the bishop as he was able.
“But I warn you, Mungo. You should keep yourself from my sight. Keep your monks from my tenants; keep your ghoulish face from my door. For if I should catch sight of you on my lands or near any of my people, I can assure you my actions will be swift and unforgiving.”
Across the room Elufed’s eyes touched on mine. I could not quite see, for her face was cast in shadow, but I could have sworn her mouth parted in the barest hint of a smile.
CHAPTER 36
* * *
“It is not enough,” I said. The guests who had stayed had dined and gone to bed. Father and Cathan had chosen to sail home with the favorable tide. I stood before my dressing table as Desdemona helped pull my nightdress over my head.
Rhydderch looked up from his parchment, his eyes lingering on my figure. “It is all it can be for now. Morken did test my father. I worried for him. It is not a game he should play.”
“Father could not afford to appear weak. Not in front of his men, nor in front of the bishop.” I sat at my little pine table and studied my fingers.
“It matters little now.” Rhydderch looked back to his parchment. “You heard my father. It is done. Neither party can act lest he face s
evere and sudden punishment. Surely there is a measure of safety in that.”
“I wish I were so certain,” I said. “Word will spread of Mungo’s beating at the hands of my father. His followers will be vengeful. And as Cathan is his counsellor, everyone will know it was truly Cathan’s words behind my father’s speech this day. Isn’t that the way it goes with kings and their Keepers?” I picked up my comb and set it down again. “Perhaps Tutgual will find he cannot so easily extinguish the fire he has kindled.”
“My father can extinguish any fire.” Rhydderch looked up darkly. “And we would all do well to remember it.”
I swallowed and rose with some effort to stand behind him.
“There is something I would ask of you.”
“What is it?” His voice was already weighted with dread.
“I wish to go to Partick.”
Rhydderch looked up. “Why?”
“Can you truly ask me that? Why am I here on this rock? Each day my belly grows fuller with child. I should be in town, where I am closer to a healer.”
Where I am closer to my family, I did not say.
“We have healers here,” he said gently. “There will be priests to assist you.”
“Priests,” I said firmly. “What do they know of a woman’s body? Ariane has left me. That cannot be helped. But let me at least retire to your father’s hall in Partick. Surely it would be safer to labor there.”
“You are here on this rock”—he used my words and they sounded petulant—“because the capital harbors sickness and disease. And now there is civil unrest. Armed mobs attack your father. Who is to say they would not strike out in search of you?”
“You are to say. Do you mean to tell me you believe any wife of Rhydderch, any daughter of Tutgual, could ever be in danger? With all your military might?”
Rhydderch’s gray eyes pierced mine. “Languoreth. Tell me what is truly at the heart of this request.”