A Novel

by Signe Pike

  Fergus, who’d been eyeing me with a discomforting amount of interest, shuddered in offense. Apparently he had very keen hearing.

  “Fancy myself? Such words are false and . . . untrue! Did I not foresee, just the other day, that a fox would find his way into the chicken coop?” He was overtaken then by a fit of coughing, and Telleyr reached to clap him on the back.

  “We all foresaw it, if you recall, when we noticed the gap in our fence, Brother. And still no one has gotten round to fixing it.” He turned to me. “The good Lord takes all kinds.”

  “May he reign everlasting!” Fergus cried, but was taken by another spasm of coughing.

  “Brother Fergus, you must try not to excite yourself. It’s not good for your condition.”

  “What condition has he?” I asked.

  “There’s no need to speak of me as if I weren’t here, young lady,” Fergus said. “I’ve been ill for some time now. A disease of the lung, or so they think. There is no treatment for my malady.”

  “Oh. I am sorry.”

  Fergus let out a snort. “Nothing an apology can address. My Lord will keep me.”

  “Well,” Telleyr said, “I think I’ll ride ahead and give my regards to your father.”

  Brother Fergus squinted as if he could not imagine which would be worse—staying here with me or riding forward to meet my father.

  “It’s been lovely to make your acquaintance,” I offered.

  Fergus tipped his head like an overstuffed bird and kicked his poor pony into a turn, heading back to the end of our company.

  CHAPTER 8

  * * *

  Across the expanse of the river, the walls of Partick were dark and forbidding, the ramparts encircling the town like a dragon curled round its treasure. Dusk cast the clouds in a purple glow as Tutgual’s men looked down from lofted platforms and guard towers along the wall, shadow people holding spears that sent shivers down my spine in the coming dark.

  “Is it as you imagined?” Ariane asked, pulling her horse to walk beside mine.

  “I did not imagine it to look so . . . imposing,” I said. “Have you visited Partick before?”

  “Only once,” she answered. “A long time ago.”

  She met my eyes in the way that told me she would say no more.

  “You and your mysteries,” I mumbled.

  Ariane bowed her head with a little smile as we crossed the wide Roman bridge that led to the town, the hooves of our horses rumbling over stone. Beneath Partick’s walls, the salty river slapped against the hulls of merchant vessels docked in the shipyard, and gulls hovered, their wings flashing white against the darkening sky. Brodyn called out to a sentry and the massive gates were unbolted with a heavy clank. I smelled the sharp tang of seaweed before the gates swung open and the sights and sounds of the capital engulfed me.

  Even in early evening the streets were crowded with merchants and makeshift stalls. A group of musicians spun and twisted, stomping their feet in time to the beat of the bodhran while townspeople haggled over hunks of fresh goat’s cheese, crocks of butter, and end-of-day prices on butchered pigs. The sights and sounds of Partick assailed my senses like a herd of stampeding cattle. Suddenly I missed the rushing water and gently creaking trees of Cadzow’s forests. Here the people were so accustomed to caravans of kings, they hardly glanced up from their conversations as we passed.

  “Look to the water,” Father called over his shoulder. “Do you see those granaries there? Those hold the bulk of our grain stores.”

  I followed his gaze to three squat buildings perched on the riverbank and recognized two of my father’s flat-bottomed vessels tethered in the slips beside.

  “We’ll visit them whilst in Partick. It’s good that you both learn the running of things. Ten men guard them at all times,” he said, a touch of pride in his voice. “So my children needn’t worry about our wealth slipping into the river.”

  We followed Father down the flint-topped thoroughfare, my eyes not quite large enough to take it all in. A copper-haired slave moved a broom listlessly over the threshold of a shop piled with swaths of fabric. We passed another shop brimming with blue-glazed pottery, and beside it a shop stacked with shelves upon shelves of delicately tooled leather booties and shoes. We followed the road until it terminated at a grand hall in the center of town.

  “The Gathering Place,” Ariane said as I examined the ornately carved wooden doors—such skill! Craning my neck, I looked to where the towering thatched roof peaked high above the nearby hickory trees.

  “It must hold over a hundred people,” I said. “However do they repair all that thatching?”

  Ariane looked at me sidelong. “They must be very good climbers.”

  Roads struck out from the Gathering Place like the spokes of a wheel. We took the road to the right, following it until it narrowed under the shelter of pine trees. The hum of merchants and mothers and packs of shouting children faded into the dim. We were scarcely beyond the center of town, but the air smelled sweeter here. Crab apples were in blossom. The last birds of daylight called from their roosts as we reached two large hitching posts at the head of a path.

  “We’re here at last,” Father said. “Welcome to Buckthorn.”

  How sophisticated and ordered Buckthorn was compared with our wooden country fortress of Cadzow. Grasses lined the path where medicinal plant beds were dug in neatly ordered patches, bordered in white quartz that glowed like moonlight—my mother’s work, I knew. But the hall itself seemed to glow, the timber coated with daub and a smooth covering of whitewash, stretching into the treetops. Light blazed in preparation for our arrival. The thatching of the roof was tight, as though recently redone, and oil lamps flickered on either side of the double-set wooden doors, each as heavy as an ox and reinforced with iron banding.

  Beyond the main building sat the kitchen house, and just past that I could make out the stables tucked against a small, rolling orchard of fruit trees. Thick hedges of buckthorn bramble enclosed the pastures, where I sensed animals breathing in the growing dark.

  “Come, children, come,” Father said. “We must greet the servants.”

  Father eased from his mount to greet the servants who had issued from the house and stood now, heads bowed. I dropped from Fallah’s back, suddenly shy, and handed her reins to Macon, who was already giving directions to the two young grooms from Bryneich.

  There were too many new faces, but the faces were kind; I could tell they loved my father well. Desdemona, who’d ridden the long journey in the back of one of the heavy-wheeled carts, hovered behind Agnes, and I hoped our cook would help her find a warm welcome within.

  A young man stepped forward, a creamy fold of parchment in his hand. “This came for you, Morken. I would not wish to trouble you upon your arrival, but the messenger asked that I deliver it right away.”

  I squinted, trying to make out the seal, but Father slipped his thick finger too quickly beneath the wax, bending the message toward the dim yellow light. I watched his dark eyes move over the Latin script, his brows lift. He passed the missive to Cathan, who scanned it quickly, unable to hide his delight.

  “Emrys Pendragon has requested an audience. He arrives two days hence.”

  The mere mention of his name was enough to charge the air with enchantment. That we might see the leader of the fierce Dragon Warriors, the man who’d inspired the bravest of the Britons to rally beneath a new banner?

  “The Pendragon—here!” I exclaimed. Lailoken’s eyes had gone wide as soup bowls. Father held out a hand to silence us.

  “He comes to me first. Before Tutgual, it would seem. I do not know if I should consent to such a meeting.”

  Cathan gave a shake of his head as if to dismiss the question altogether. “So he is not a man who answers to high kings. You think this makes him unwise. I think this makes him all the more interesting. Play the fool with Tutgual if you must, but I see no danger here. Throw him a feast. I should like to know what this Emrys Pendragon wants with t
he likes of Morken the King.”

  “And will you attend?” Father asked Cathan.

  “Nay, though I regret it. I must travel on the morrow to White Isle. But you will do well enough on your own.”

  Concern etched Father’s face as he nodded, looking to Agnes and Crowan. “If we are to meet, we must be ready to host Pendragon the day after tomorrow.”

  “Give me a real test,” Crowan answered, but in the half-light her face blanched at the thought of it.

  “Young Languoreth can help,” Cathan said. “She is the lady of the hall now, is she not?”

  “She is,” Father looked to me.

  “Of course I will help,” I said, trying to sound braver than I felt. Plan a feast for Pendragon and his famed Dragon Warriors? Lailoken’s blue eyes found mine, full of sympathy.

  “Ale for the warriors,” he whispered. “Just make sure there’s plenty of ale.”

  • • •

  “Up you get, beauty.” Crowan planted her hands on her bony hips, her cheeks already flushed with the morning’s activity. “We’ve got the feasting to plan, and we’ll need to gather supplies yet. Well? Aren’t you eager to explore the town?”

  I looked at her, bleary-eyed.

  “Splash some water on your face—that’ll do the trick.” She hummed as she moved about the room, unhinging the shutters to usher in fresh air that smelled like rain. “A bit o’ sun and now more rain. Let’s hope it doesn’a muck with our guests and their travel.”

  The thought of Pendragon’s arrival at Buckthorn sent a flood of excitement through me, and I swung my feet over the edge of my bed.

  Crowan swept aside my plait as I plunged my cupped hands into the icy water of the washbasin, splashing the sleep from my face.

  “Just think: the Pendragon, dining in our hall,” she said. “He may not be a king, but he’s as brave a man as any Song Keeper might celebrate.”

  “Far braver than that coward Vortigern,” I said.

  They said Pendragon could cut down scores of men with a single stroke of his sword; that he could hide in plain sight; that he could leap from horse to horse at full gallop with nary a falter. I could hardly imagine that at sundown tomorrow he would arrive at our hall to feast.

  “Well, if he’s a soldier used to life on the Wall, he’ll be thankful to have some good meat,” Crowan said.

  She chattered on as she helped me dress. From my small window on the upper floor of Buckthorn I could see the rounded huts and stately wooden lodges that lined the road to town beyond our tall trees.

  Ariane had gone off to the markets already, and outside Desdemona waited by the stables, her dark hair pulled from her face but her brown eyes expressionless. I offered a smile.

  “Good morning, Desdemona. Are you eager to see the market?”

  She fixed her eyes on the grass. “I suppose so, m’lady.”

  Crowan saw my frown and cleared her throat. “Go ahead, now, Desdemona. Macon will be ready with the cart.”

  She leaned in with a touch of her hand. “Don’t fret yourself, dove. Some people don’t know when a stroke of good luck’s found them is all.”

  “Do you think she’s unhappy with us?” I asked.

  “The poor child’s only just lost her parents and is making a new home among strangers,” Crowan said. “She’ll settle in. Give it time.”

  Macon drove us to town. It all felt like a grand adventure. In the market, bottles of oil in green glass glittered in daylight like liquid emerald. Boisterous olive-skinned merchants with wax-tipped mustaches called out their wares against the sizzling intoxication of meat pies, and the hollow clang of the shipbuilders’ mallets echoed from the river’s edge below. We passed from stall to stall, Crowan testing the firmness of leeks or tasting a crab-apple preserve. I felt the townspeople’s eyes upon me, heard one of the merchant wives whisper, “Is that Morken’s little daughter? Isn’t she lovely!”

  By the time we were through, Crowan had arranged for twelve legs of lamb, four barrels of wine, cheeses, herbs, three heads of cabbage, and six ceramic jars of honey. I was passing a bushel of carrots back to Desdemona, when I realized she was no longer there. Crowan turned, ready to scold her, but the rebuke dried upon her tongue. Desdemona stood several paces behind, her way blocked by the arm of a nobleman.

  “Whatever is he doing?” I said, alarmed.

  That he was a royal was clear; his torque was a thick twist of gold, worth more cattle than I could count. He was short and wiry, with close-cropped black hair that would have made him appear nearly boyish were it not for the fact that he was surely a few winters older than Brant and Brodyn. Desdemona must have stopped to admire the little pen of young chickens, I realized, for her fingers yet gripped the top of the wicker fencing even as the nobleman leaned casually toward her, his eyes strangely lit at the look of fear upon Desdemona’s face.

  My hackles rose, and before Crowan could stop me I called out, “Step away from my servant!”

  Beside me Crowan cursed as the nobleman turned his wide-set eyes upon me.

  “If this be your servant, you should have a care to teach her better manners,” he said. “She was staring at me like a witless boar from across the marketplace. ‘Surely the child must wish to meet me,’ I said to myself, ‘for why else would she stare at me so?’ ”

  There was giddiness to his voice, as if he were directing a game to which only he knew the rules. My eyes fell to the gleaming silver brooch upon his chest bearing the emblem of a raptor.

  “Perhaps she stares because she recognizes you as a lord of Ebrauc,” I said, unable to keep the disdain from my voice. That very emblem had been Gwenddolau’s to claim as a boy prince, before his uncle, Eliffer, turned traitor and usurped Ceidio’s throne. Given the size of his torque, this could be none other than Gwrgi or Peredur, one of Eliffer’s sons.

  “No, no,” the nobleman said, and moved toward Desdemona as if to conspire. “I think she stares because she knows how very fond I am of chickens.”

  He turned to the poultry keeper standing nearby and held out his hands, nearly beseeching. “May I?”

  By now the people of Partick had stopped their business in the market, sensing a strangeness. The poultry keeper reached hesitantly into the pen to select a chicken. The halt of activity in the market heightened the swell of tension, but the addition of an audience seemed to only further delight the man. As the poultry keeper handed over her livestock, I saw her dirt-streaked fingers were trembling. She’d gathered a brown-speckled hen with a beak the color of yolks and two peacefully blinking eyes.

  The face of Eliffer’s son lit with delight as he took the bird and drew it close to his chest. “Ah. Do you see what I mean? Yes. This is truly a fat and magnificent bird.” He bent his dark head to bury his nose deep within her feathers. “Oh!” He breathed. “The smell of her.”

  “Very well, then, Desdemona.” I summoned my authority and called to her, beckoning. “Let’s be on our way.”

  “No, no, you mustn’t go!” he exclaimed, his face seeming suddenly kind. “Your servant girl—look! She is afraid of me. I would not part knowing I had frightened the girl.” He extended the bird to Desdemona with a smile. “I saw you admiring her. You like chickens, too, don’t you, little girl? Would you like to stroke her?”

  Desdemona swallowed, dark eyes wide, and shook her head. She startled as Eliffer’s son threw back his head with a laugh.

  “Well enough, then, because truly I do not like to share, and I am powerfully hungry.”

  It happened so fast—the flash of his teeth like a hunting dog, the wild look of abandon on his face as he suddenly bent his head to the bird. And then there was a ripping and a horrible, garbled squawk. I screamed as the bird’s eyes went wild, her wings and claws thrashing as a spray of blood erupted from the severed artery of the chicken’s neck, spattering Desdemona’s pale face even as she stumbled forward, swiping the blood from her eyes blindly, trying to escape.

  I rushed at him. “You’re mad! A mad and v
ile man! My father shall hear of this and you shall be sorry!”

  My fury only fueled his lunacy, and the man fixed his eyes upon me, bearing his bloodstained teeth in delight.

  The bird had fallen to the ground, where it jerked and flapped its tawny wings in the dirt. I burst into tears at the sight of it, covering my face with my hands as he tossed his head back with a howl. Then there was a flash of metal and the bird went still. A voice came.

  “That’s enough, Gwrgi.” But where the voice should have been stern, it sounded merely put out.

  I turned to see a tall man with long black hair disdainfully wiping the blood from his sword. Crowan rushed to help Desdemona to her feet, and I stepped over the severed head of the bird to stand between Gwrgi and Desdemona.

  “This man accosted my servant.” I pinned my eyes on Eliffer’s son. Gwrgi only glanced at the taller man and shrugged, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Brother, why must you insist upon spoiling my fun?” Gwrgi said. “Did I not tell you I was famished? ‘Let us settle the horses and have some ale,’ you said. But I have such hunger! And this woman has such lovely chickens.”

  His brother hushed him as one might a child and turned to me. His black hair was so thin that, as he bent to offer me a bow, I saw the pearly white of his scalp peeking through the heavily oiled shine.

  “You have the apologies of Peredur and Gwrgi, sons of Eliffer. My little brother should not have trifled with you, nor your servant. I can see you are the child of a nobleman yourself, are you not? I assure you Gwrgi meant no harm. We have only just arrived to the capital, you see.” He gestured to the horses standing before the inn across the lane. “I am afraid all the travel has put my brother out of sorts.”

  There was a blade’s edge to his voice, but where I should have felt fear, there was only fury. I regarded him a moment. “The price of harming another’s servant is two silver pieces.”