Rise of the Pendragon (Islands in the Mist Book 3)

by J. M. Hofer

  ***

  Though Arhianna enjoyed the many hours she spent riding and talking with Brokkr and his family, being with them and speaking their tongue conjured bittersweet memories of Jørren and Ragna. Where are they now? Still alive? Still in Kent?

  “Arhianna,” her mother said to her in a hushed tone, breaking the spell of her reverie.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you remember when you were little and insisted you would marry Idris?”

  Arhianna smiled, feeling heat flush her cheeks. “Oh, yes. I remember.” She looked back and stole a glance at Idris, who rode behind them thirty feet or so, in charge of the left flank. He sat tall on his horse, ever strong and handsome. His graying hair and the crinkles in the corners of his eyes were his only features that hinted at his age. Although he was nearly twenty years her senior, Arhianna still thought him the most handsome man in the clan. She chuckled, thinking back on how relentlessly her thoughts used to dwell on him. She could not have been more than seven or eight years old when she first told her mother she wanted to marry him.

  “Idris?” her mother had said, surprised. “He is a bit too old for you, Butterfly.”

  Her mother had nicknamed her Butterfly when she was a child, because she could not sit in one place for more than a few moments.

  “I don’t mind. I love him. I’m going to marry him. Tell Father.”

  Though her mother could have laughed at her, she had not. She smiled kindly, smoothed her hair, took her hands and said, “Idris cannot marry you, cariad.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s in love with someone else.”

  She remembered the helpless jealousy that had gripped her little heart as if it were yesterday. “Who?”

  “Do you remember the Lady Creirwy, who took you aboard her father’s ship when we went to Gwythno this summer?”

  Once Arhianna learned Idris was in love with Creirwy, she had nearly given up hope. No one loomed larger in her childhood imagination than the fascinating Creirwy. “Then he will wait forever,” she told her mother. “Lady Creirwy will never come home. Not for long, anyway. She loves the sea too much.”

  How wise I was in that innocent moment. It was exactly so. Every summer of her youth, the Oaks traveled to Maes Gwythno at Lughnasadh for the summer harvest and the trade, but, most of all, to welcome back the Ceffyl Dŵr. The ship was always laden with the most exotic items one could imagine, but none more beautiful or exotic than the Lady Creirwy herself. Each year she grew more so, and though the weather had aged her beauty, she remained wise and stunning. Arhianna and her mother would wait upon the dock, craning for a glimpse of her blonde hair. She remembered how her heart would thump as the ship came in, the excitement so intense she could not help but jump up and down and squeal with delight. Creirwy would leap like a deer from the ship to the dock, and Arhianna would run into her arms, thrilled to see what she had to show them from all the faraway ports they had sailed to over the past year.

  Over the years, the Ceffyl Dŵr had sailed to Massilia, to Rome, to Alexandria, and even as far as Constantinople. Tegid Voel and his crew brought back countless wonderful things, the likes of which exceeded the imagination in their splendor—flowing silks in bright colors, strings of pearls in every shade of yellow and pink, strange pointed shoes, perfumed oils, and elaborate dresses so heavy with embroidery that Arhianna needed help trying them on.

  Through it all, Idris had a passion for Creirwy that never faltered—one she enjoyed and returned in kind for the month they were in port, but when the time came, she always chose to return to her father’s ship and sail out to sea again, leaving Idris behind.

  “One day, she will tire of the sea,” she had heard Idris say to her father as they watched the Ceffyl Dŵr sail away again, but, as Arhianna had predicted, Creirwy never had.

  “Is Earl Jørren going to come to Mynyth Aur now, too?” Inga asked her, drawing her out of her thoughts.

  “I don’t know,” she answered, wondering, as she often did, where he was and if he yet lived. Speaking of Jørren with her mother had unburdened her soul somewhat, yet she still felt haunted by the way she left him. She often pondered her mother’s words, hoping they would take root and give her some relief. “Without respect, love dies quickly—especially a woman’s love for a man. You miss him now, of course—so you feel you could have forgiven him anything, but a woman cannot truly love nor trust a man if she does not respect him. You did the right thing.” Her mother’s words served as salve, but the wound remained. Dear Freya, will it ever heal?

  ***

  The journey went much the same for the next few days, Arhianna riding alongside her mother or side-by-side with Inga. When they tired of riding, they would climb into a wagon and sleep.

  After two weeks, they neared Dumnonia. Arhianna’s excitement grew as she began to recognize the landscape. “We’re almost there, Inga—look! You can see the castle from here.” She pointed off into the distance, across the misty green landscape to where Amlawth’s castle stood. Then, it was Inga who became impatient. Arhianna smiled. Although Brokkr was a good father, she knew there were things he simply could not do for his daughter—namely, be a mother. Inga had come to her mother when she had first gotten her blood. She imagined neither Brokkr nor Laust even knew she was a woman yet, and, if they did, they had likely not done anything to acknowledge it. She and her mother had ensured Inga would have a new dress for the wedding, along with ribbons for her hair. She thought back fondly on the first womanly dress her mother had given her when she had come of age. She had felt like a queen. Now, she looked forward to doing the same for Inga.

  They were met upon the road by a rider bearing Amlawth’s banner and then led into the courtyard of the castle where a bustle of servants came rushing out to help with the horses and unloading of the wagons.

  Igerna and her mother soon appeared, and Igerna ran toward Arhianna to embrace her. “I can’t believe it!” she cried happily. Her expression then changed into one of reproach. “Father was so worried about you! Why did you leave him like that?”

  “I didn’t mean to make him worry—or Cynwal. Please believe me. I felt sick about it. I promise, I’ll explain everything to you later.”

  Igerna nodded, her eyes widening a bit at the hint of intrigue Arhianna had slipped to her. “Tonight then. You’ll sleep with me in my chambers.”

  Arhianna nodded, glancing around them at the men in the courtyard, wondering if her betrayer might still be among them.

  “And who is this?” Igerna asked, looking at Inga.

  Arhianna beckoned to her young friend, who had become stricken with shyness. “This is Inga, sister to my brother’s closest friend. This is her first visit to a proper castle…and her first royal wedding.”

  “Well, aren’t you lovely!” Igerna proclaimed. “Just look at that thick, golden hair! Oh, my maids will fight over who gets to braid it for the wedding.” She winked at Inga, who relaxed and smiled. “Thank you, Lady Igerna,” she managed to say. “I am honored to be here for your wedding.”

  “And such a lovely accent, as well,” Igerna noted.

  Only Arhianna noticed the subtle change in Igerna’s expression. Oh, gods. How could we have expected our Saxon friends would be welcomed here without question? She pulled Inga close and put her arm around her shoulders. “Yes, doesn’t she speak well? She’s learned so quickly. So have her father and brother. They are like family to us, now.”

  Arhianna could tell by Igerna’s look that she had received her message clearly. “Then they shall be as family to us, as well.”

  Arhianna gave her friend a knowing nod and resolved to keep Inga close.

  After all the cursory introductions had been made, they were shown to their quarters to bathe and change for dinner. At sunset, they were served a lavish meal in the banquet hall. Amlawth sat up like a proud stag at the head of his table, beaming over at his eldest daughter.

  No wonder, Arhianna thought. He’s done well for himself. He’s well
-allied with Emrys, and his daughter is about to marry the Duke of Cornwall, also favored by the king. Judging from the exotic fruit on the table and the fine jewels and dresses his wife and daughters are wearing, his trade ventures were also paying off. She caught Igerna’s eye and smiled at her, raising her cup in her friend’s direction. She felt happy for her and her family. Certainly, there were men of wealth and power far more wicked than her father, who deserved it far less.

  Soon, all the seats at the table were filled save one—Cynwal’s. He had not been in the courtyard to greet them either. Arhianna felt relieved that she would not have to explain herself to him, yet, at the same time, a little disappointed that he was not there. Perhaps he’s gone to fight in Emrys’ army.

  A servant came to fill her cup again, and as she drank, she felt anxious. The army my husband might be fighting against, soon. She thought of how much she had longed for Jørren since leaving him, feeling as if she would die without him, but how, the moment Taliesin had embraced her, they had disappeared—eclipsed by her desire for him. Dear Freya, who am I? She set her cup down, resolving to be cautious with her drinking.

  She felt Freya’s spirit answer.

  These are the longings of your body—not your spirit. The body craves food, water, and pleasure. It does not long for the same things as the spirit. Do not feel ashamed of your body calling for pleasure any more than you feel ashamed of your body calling for food or drink. You have mistaken your body’s longing for pleasure as love. Although love brings pleasure in its wake, the opposite is not true. Remember this.

  Arhianna felt somewhat better but remained confused.

  “What’s wrong, Arhianna? You look worried.” Her mother reached over and squeezed her hand.

  “Mother, how do you know if you love someone or if it’s simply spring spell?” Spring spell was what her mother called sudden sexual longings that did not last.

  “Well, if you truly love someone, the thought of standing over their grave should overcome you with a panic that nearly chokes you. If I think of losing you, Gareth, or your father, I feel as if I’m drowning. Spring spell doesn’t grip the soul this way.”

  “Is it possible to love more than one man at the same time?”

  “Not for me.” Her mother shook her head. “I can’t imagine being with any man but your father.”

  Arhianna smiled. “There’s no one like Father.”

  Her mother nodded. “I will say this, though—I love you and your brother with just as much of my heart as I love your father. I couldn’t possibly love either of you any more or less than the other. So, perhaps such love can exist between a man and two women, or a woman and two men, but those who would pursue it would surely do so at their own peril.”

  Arhianna laughed, thinking of how the women in their clan reacted to a possible indiscretion. “It would never work among our people, to be sure.”

  Her mother shook her head. “Oh, no. It certainly would not.”

  So, then, who would I weep for more at his funeral? Taliesin or Jørren? To her dismay, the idea of losing Taliesin disturbed her more. Perhaps it’s because I think of him as a brother. Father always says blood is thicker than water. And yet, her feelings when she had last seen him had certainly not been those of a sister toward her brother. Oh, damn the gods, anyway!

  She went to sit with Igerna. They talked about all that had happened in the moons since they had last seen each other, until the night grew long and the fire died down.

  “Come, now. Let’s retire,” Igerna suggested. They bid everyone good night and climbed the stairs to her chamber. Igerna shut the door and pulled the pin from her hair. “Now, at last, we can enjoy some private conversation. I’m not sure when we’ll have the chance again.”

  They brushed their hair, changed into their nightclothes and crawled into bed where none could eavesdrop on their conversation.

  “Now,” Igerna said, propping herself up on an elbow. “Tell me everything.”

  Arhianna had spun nearly a thousand different ways to tell her friend her story, but, in the end, opted to cut quickly to the heart of the matter. “First, I’m married.”

  Igerna sat up. “What? When did this happen? And how could you not invite me?”

  Arhianna shook her head at Igerna’s misunderstanding. “I’ve been married for as long as we’ve known one another. My husband and I were separated.”

  Igerna stared at her, eyes wide, waiting for an explanation. Arhianna felt a sudden surge of doubt and hesitated. This is a mistake. You shouldn’t speak of this. Not even to her.

  “Go on,” Igerna prompted. “You can trust me.”

  Arhianna took a deep breath and decided their friendship was worth the risk. She sat up as well and seized Igerna’s hands. “You can never repeat any of what I’m about to tell you to anyone—no one at all, do you understand?”

  “Yes, I swear. Whatever it is, I’ll not breathe a word of it. I promise you.”

  Arhianna nodded and summoned her courage. “My husband is a Jute, and an earl, like Hengist.”

  Igerna raised her brows and opened her mouth to speak, but Arhianna held up her hand to stop her. “Please, let me finish before you say anything.”

  Igerna nodded.

  “My clan was in Caer Gwythno to celebrate Midsummer, exactly three years ago. We were attacked by a Jute raiding party. My brother and I, and many others, were dragged to their ships and taken back to their land to be used as slaves. Gareth was given to the village blacksmith, and I was given to their earl.”

  Igerna could not keep quiet. “Dear God. How horrible! So you were forced to marry him?”

  She thought of how close she had been to becoming a bride of sorts to Hraban and shuddered. “No. He decided instead to sacrifice me to their god, Woden. Luckily, they decided to burn me.”

  Igerna’s eyes popped. “What do you mean, luckily?”

  “I have another secret you must not speak of.” Arhianna sighed. “I’m what my clan calls a Firebrand.” She demonstrated her gift by lengthening the flames on every candle in the room and bringing the hearth to a full blaze.

  Igerna looked around the room in shock. Her mouth slowly curled into a smile. “You can control fire?

  “Yes.”

  Igerna’s smile widened into grin. “I can’t believe it. Can you teach me how?”

  Arhianna shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. As far as I know, there is no way to teach it. It’s something you’re born with.”

  “So you’ve always had this power? From the time you were a child?”

  “No, not always. I discovered it during the attack. Maybe my fear brought it out. I’m not certain what kindled it, but I’ve had it ever since.”

  “And so, you can’t be burned?”

  Arhianna shook her head. “No.” She took a candle and held her hand over it. “Neither can Gareth. Seren thinks it’s because we shared a womb. But he can’t control fire like I can.”

  “I can’t believe it.” Igerna repeated, shaking her head. “I’ve heard stories of women who can control fire, but Mother says they’ve all but disappeared. And now, I find out you’re one of them! I can’t believe my luck.”

  Arhianna felt surprised. “Your mother knows of these things?”

  Igerna nodded. “Yes. My mother’s people have always dwelled here, in Dumnonia, as far back as we know. She still goes out on the moor and practices the Old Ways, like your clan does. She teaches me about them, but my father doesn’t know. Or, if he does, he says nothing about it and lets her do as she wishes.” Igerna smiled. “He’s a wise man.”

  Arhianna agreed. “He is.”

  “Now, go on. Finish your story. They tried to burn you, but you could not be burned. Then what?”

  “They thought I’d been spared by their god. From that moment on, I was no longer a slave.”

  “And then, you became the wife of the earl?”

  “Yes, but not the one who led the raid on Gwythno. I married the earl who took his place. His name is Jør
ren. He saved my life. He was good to me.” She felt her throat tightening. “Things were good for awhile, until the Danes came. They began attacking the villages in the Lim Fjord, where we lived. One by one, they took them over and enslaved whomever they decided not to kill. Because of this, when my husband received Hengist’s invitation to settle in Kent, he accepted. I tried to convince him to take the clan to Mynyth Aur instead, but he refused.”

  “So you sailed to Kent?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how did you get separated?”

  Arhianna pictured Jørren’s face the day she left and suppressed a tear. “I left him. He gave me no choice. Hengist commanded him to take part in the massacre at Ambrius. I told him if he did, he would never see me again.” Arhianna stared out the window, wondering whether he had survived that awful night, and if so, where he was.

  Igerna’s expression softened. “And then we met you in Calleva.”

  “Yes.” Arhianna sighed, relaxing against her pillow. It felt good to unburden herself. “Now, you know everything.”

  Igerna held up a finger. “Almost—you still haven’t told me why you took off on your own from Caer Glou.”

  Arhianna felt a bit of heaviness return. “Believe me, I didn’t want to do it. Your father certainly did not deserve it. He’s been so good to me. But I received a warning that I was being hunted—that a betrayer lurked among your father’s men. So I fled.”

  Igerna’s eyes grew as wide as chestnuts. “A warning from whom?”

  Arhianna could still hear the old woman’s voice coming to her out of the darkness. A chill ran down her spine. “An old woman came to me at Caer Glou and told me I was in danger. I imagine she must have overheard something in the stables or the dining hall and felt it her duty to warn me.”

  Igerna shook her head, grimacing. “A betrayer within my father’s ranks? I can’t imagine it.”