A Novel

by Signe Pike

  Peredur’s dark brows shot up with his laugh. “So it’s money you want? Whose child are you? I must know.”

  “It isn’t your silver I want, it is justice. I know the laws. I am Languoreth, daughter of Morken. And the cost of harming another’s servant is two silver pieces—that is what you must pay. Unless you would have me take this matter to the Council, of course. Though I am certain they would award me the same.”

  Peredur’s dark eyes shifted at the mention of my father’s name, and his smile faded. But beside him Gwrgi clapped his hands with glee. “She is Gwenddolau’s foster sister!” he exclaimed. “Brother, I can hardly believe our luck.”

  Peredur turned to Gwrgi, and this time his voice sliced as it should. “Pay her; pay her and be done with it.”

  Gwrgi’s eyes were upon me, dark and slippery. But he reached into the leather pouch at his waist and counted out two silver pieces. He watched my eyes as he placed the coins into my outstretched hand, his fingers departing with a tickle against my palm that made my stomach pitch. I yanked my hand away, the coins balled tightly in my fist.

  “Now you have our apology and our reparation, my lady,” Peredur said. “I would not hear of this again. Tell your father we have no quarrel with Morken.”

  Behind me Crowan pulled at my dress. Poor Desdemona; poor old Crowan and her heart!

  “Very well,” I said. “The matter is settled.”

  No sooner had I spoken than Crowan wrapped her bony arms around me and hurried me toward the cart, Desdemona following close behind.

  “Oh, why did you vex them, dove? And I no more than a servant myself, who could do nothin’ to protect you? Oh!” She exclaimed, pulling me to her. “Noble or not, you mustn’a risk yourself ever again, do you hear me? I saw that Gwrgi’s eyes. His heart’s black as a shadow—a danger, I say!”

  “It’s done now, Crowan,” I assured her, even as I shivered. It had pained her, being unable to protect me, and from the way her eyes now darted I could see it had shamed her, too.

  “You cared for Desdemona,” I said. “It’s over and done. There was nothing more you could do.”

  Macon’s face tightened in alarm at the sight of blood-spattered Desdemona as we drew near the cart.

  “What’s happened?” he demanded. Crowan told him all as he hoisted me up and we pulled away from the market with all haste. Desdemona at last began to cry.

  I turned from my seat at the front of the wagon and reached for her hand. The chicken’s blood had clumped her dark hair, and her upturned nose was red with weeping. She looked up at me from her place among the carrots and lamb shanks.

  “Here,” I said, uncurling her palm. Her brown eyes widened as I placed the silver pieces in her hand. “These belong to you.”

  “Nay, m’lady,” she stammered. “You mustn’t . . .”

  Two silver pieces was more than any servant expected to see in their lifetime. They were not paid in coin; they were paid in food and shelter. In protection.

  “I never meant them for myself,” I said. “That Gwrgi is a horrid man. You must take his money and do with it what you will.”

  Desdemona looked at the coins a long moment before folding her fingers around them and tucking them into the pocket of her dress.

  “Thank you, m’lady,” she said. “I didn’a mean to stare, m’lady. It’s only we heard such tales about them, Drustan and me.”

  “I do not doubt it, Bryneich being just north of Ebruac,” I said, because I did not want to hear Desdemona’s tales. I had just seen a man tear the feathered throat from a chicken with his bare teeth in the marketplace, and my heart was yet racing as though it were I who’d been yanked from my wicker pen. Some said Peredur was older. Some said Gwrgi was a bastard. Some said they were twins. But I had always known that Gwenddolau’s cousins were his most deadly of enemies. Now I had seen just how evil they were.

  “Would that Gwenddolau had killed them when he still had the chance,” I said.

  Crowan reached to cover my knee with her thin hand. “Gods hear us, he yet will.”

  Back at Buckthorn, the hounds startled at the sound of Father’s roar when I told him what had taken place.

  “Some dark god must shelter Gwrgi, for had he touched a strand of hair upon your head, I would have routed him from that inn and gutted him where he stood,” he growled. He drew me to him, and I lay my head against his chest. I could hear his heart beating against his ribs. Lailoken stood nearby, his face red with anger.

  “Are you certain you’re hale, Languoreth? Are you certain he did not frighten you?” he asked.

  “No, Lail, I wasn’t frightened,” I lied. But Father drew back to look at me, reading the truth.

  “Gwrgi will pay.”

  “What would you have us do, Father?” Lailoken waited, his jaw set.

  “We will satiate his hunger,” Father said. “Lailoken, you will go with Brant and Brodyn. My nephews know my mind, I think?”

  My cousins hovered nearby, hungry for retribution. “Aye,” Brant said.

  “Very good,” Father nodded. “See that it is done.”

  “I’m proud to call you my daughter.” He turned to me. “You may be yet a girl, but this day you acted every bit of a queen.”

  I did not have to wait long to learn the breadth of Gwrgi’s lesson. By the following morning news had spread throughout the capital about the rage Gwrgi had thrown at the inn at day’s end; he’d thrust back his covers only to find his bedding soaked in blood and cluttered with entrails, the heads of a dozen chickens resting companionably on his pillows.

  “You’ll be sorrowful for the chickens,” Father sighed when he saw me. “Don’t worry, my love. The birds were due for slaughter, and I’ve kept the choice parts; I wouldn’t waste a butchering on those two if the Gods themselves decreed it.”

  • • •

  The next afternoon saw the great room swept and the tables decked with spring flowers. There were amphorae for wine and platters waiting to be piled with food. Dane the Song Keeper, one of Strathclyde’s finest poets, had been sought to entertain, and I’d helped arrange it all. My encounter with Gwrgi and Peredur had emboldened me. I stood straighter now, and the men of my family eyed me with greater respect. Now the meat was roasting and the servants were busy chopping cabbage in the kitchen house as Crowan appeared to replait my hair, twining it with delicate seeds of freshwater pearl. She helped me into my moss-colored dress embroidered in gold and eased me into my best pair of exquisite leather shoes.

  As I moved to the doorway, a fumbling and cursing from Lail’s chamber drew an exasperated sigh from Crowan. She threw up her hands and shuffled down the corridor.

  “This is what befalls when you don’t let old Crowan help pack your things,” I heard her scold.

  I followed only to catch a glimpse of my brother knee-deep in trunks, his robes and tunics spread about the floor.

  “I can manage myself, Crowan,” Lail insisted, though the state of his chamber said otherwise.

  I left them to it and found Father in the great room, feet propped on an old wooden stool and a vellum-bound book in his grasp. Two small braids had been threaded through his shoulder-length hair to keep it from his face, and the brilliant blue of his tunic made the cinnamon streaks in his hair gleam boldly. Pinned to his breast was his most extravagant brooch, a gift from my mother. Two fierce-toothed hunting dogs joined openmouthed, their amethyst eyes glittering amid an intricate gold interlacing designed by the smith to ward off harm.

  Sensing my stare, he glanced up and lowered the little book down upon his lap.

  “What’s that volume you’re reading?” I asked. “I’ve not seen it before.”

  “This?” He shifted his feet so I could perch upon his stool. “Brother Telleyr has lent it upon my request. It is a collection of Christian texts. The Holy Books.”

  “The Holy Books,” I repeated. “Are they in Latin?”

  “Latin, yes. Taken from Greek.”

  “And what do they say?”


  He studied me. “This interests you? Christianity?”

  “I only wonder why a Wisdom Keeper would become a priest of Christ as Telleyr has.”

  “I suppose Brother Telleyr believes Christ is the god above all other gods, the great high king.”

  I considered this. “Is not our god Belenus rather a high king?”

  “Nay; Belenus may be great, but I cannot place one god above another. Christianity is a foreign religion begat in a foreign land,” Father said. “Where is the many-faced Anu, the mother who sustains us all? Where are the countless spirits of rivers, mountains, and seas? I have stood at the bank of the Clyde and felt the power of Clota call to me. I have given my body over to Morrígu in battle and felt her might overtake me. These gods belong to no other gods but themselves. No, this religion is not the way of thinking for me.”

  “Then why do you read it?”

  “A leader must understand the new thoughts that may take hold among his people.”

  “But aside from Telleyr, we know none who are Christians.”

  “In our lands, perhaps. But in King Tutgual’s domain they grow in number. Even now there are lords and chieftains of the Old North who send their children off to the tutelage of monks rather than Wisdom Keepers. They hope to keep their heads above water in what they believe will be a turning tide.” He looked almost sad as he moved the book from his lap, but then he seemed to remember himself and he smiled.

  “Tell me, daughter, do you look forward to the festivities this night? The smell of lamb pervades, and it has set my stout stomach to grumbling.”

  “I cannot help but wonder if Pendragon will be fierce or full of wile. Will he come wearing his armor, do you think?”

  “You speak of him as though he may sprout wings and fly.” Father chuckled. “As for armor, I would think he’d wear a leather plate when using the chamber pot. There are lords here who are none too keen with his presence.”

  “Is this why he has been summoned to Partick?”

  “Pendragon has been summoned to Partick because he is seen as a threat,” Lailoken said from the doorway.

  Father swept a scrutinizing glance over Lail’s wrinkled tunic as he came to join us, but nodded. “Aye, that’s right.”

  “And because he draws warriors to him like flies are drawn to honey,” I added.

  “Aye. But there is greater reason he is seen as a threat.” Father shifted and rose, moving to stare into the great fire at the center of the room.

  “Pendragon rides from Vortigern’s fortress above the river Esk,” he said.

  “The fortress Vortigern retreated to?” Lail asked.

  “The same. There, Pendragon sought an audience with the king, beseeching him to return to Bryneich to join him in taking up arms against the Angles, and so shake the grip they had gained on Vortigern’s kingdom. But Vortigern refused. That very night, Pendragon returned. His men mounted the walls. They barred the doors.” Father’s voice grew quiet, his eyes locked on the flames. “They burnt Vortigern’s fortress to the ground, with the king yet inside.”

  My hand flew to my mouth but Lailoken shushed me, his blue eyes lit.

  “The thick black smoke and ember glow were seen all the way from the kingdom of Rheged,” Father continued. “A signal, a warning. A message to all of what consequence may come from turning in cowardice from this new Angle terror.”

  I blinked in disbelief. Heroes did not slay kings; they fought to protect them.

  Emrys Pendragon would dine at our table this night with the ashes of a king on his fingertips.

  “I heard Pendragon himself bolted Vortigern inside,” Lail said excitedly. “That even neighboring villages could hear the sound of his screams as he burnt alive.”

  I looked at my father as if to say, And this is whom you have brought to dinner?

  Father waved a hand. “Vortigern was a coward. I do not begrudge Pendragon this victory. I will decide for myself what to believe and whether or not I admire him.” He drew himself from the fire and his dark eyes settled upon us. “Emrys should have sought an audience with Tutgual to discuss the proper manner of dealing with a king like Vortigern. Instead he has made it clear that he will act first and seek reparations after. Do you see why some think him dangerous?”

  I understood now why Father had been so hesitant upon receiving Pendragon’s request. And the fact that Pendragon wished an audience with my father before meeting the high king who had summoned him was not respectful conduct.

  “Why did you not refuse his request?” I asked.

  “Because whilst I pay due respect to our high king, I do not fear him. If Lord Emrys would meet, I would see what he’s made of. I am intrigued by this man, who only a season ago was captain of the guard. In slaying Vortigern, Emrys has claimed his kingdom. Now we will see if he and his Dragon Warriors can hold it.”

  “The act is rebellious!” My brother’s voice was tinged with excitement. Father looked at him with concern.

  “It is indeed. And there are many who would see Emrys deliver Vortigern’s land to a more rightful owner. Like Pascent, Vortigern’s son. Vortigern’s lords, too, were driven from their lands.”

  “Fled, you mean,” Lailoken said.

  “Aye, they fled. And some have taken refuge with King Tutgual himself.”

  “They want land they are not willing to fight for,” I said. “They are cowardly!”

  “Every man wants land, Languoreth.” Father moved to close the shutters as a soft rush of droplets came against the thatching overhead. Outside, indigo swaths of clouds had built without my noticing. Our guests would arrive in the rain.

  “Here on this island, we battle for every measure of land we own,” Father said. “Land, crops, cattle. This is our wealth. None in our federation—whether they be Pendragon or one of Vortigern’s lords—would be fool enough not to lay claim. Vortigern’s fortress on the Esk controls all the trade coming into our kingdoms from the south, and any traveling south from the north as well. Pendragon saw a failed standard and burnt it to oblivion. It’s what he chooses to do with his power that remains to be seen.”

  Just then, as if summoned by our talk, our watchmen called out and the heavy hooves of horses sounded from the road beyond: Pendragon and his men. Lail’s eyes found mine, offering me strength.

  Father turned to me. “Our Lady of the Hall, our guests approach. Be certain all is ready. We will be seated shortly.”

  CHAPTER 9

  * * *

  I called to the servants to stoke the central hearth to spitting, and soon cracks and pops were sending red-hot embers onto the flagstone floor. Oil lamps flickered from their wrought-iron hooks like fireflies as Crowan passed me like a feathered thing on her way to the kitchen house. I skimmed the three long wooden tables decked with ruby-filled wine amphorae and rich ocher earthenware from Gaul. I’d helped arrange the pine boughs that spilled from the centers of the tables, tucked wildflowers and tufts of rosemary among their emerald branches, and they gave off a sweet scent. I felt a small surge of pride as Father and Lail smiled approvingly at the sight of it. But no sooner had they entered than the thudding of boots came, their echo tracing a shiver up my arms.

  In the burning torchlight his shadow preceded him, stretching broad as a giant. And then I saw him, Lord Emrys, the man they called Pendragon.

  Though he was thickly muscled, he was the height of any man, not tall, yet not slight, his dark hair clipped close in Roman fashion, and his skin yet bearing the olive tone of his Sarmatian ancestors. His face, which might have been handsome, was made rougher by the presence of an oddly beaked nose, but it was his eyes that pierced like a dragon’s: deeply set and so azure that they were nearly hypnotizing. He scanned the room, rain dripping from his cloak into little puddles at his feet. Where I’d expected forty, only ten men rode in his retinue, all soaked to the bone in their thick leather armor.

  “Emrys Pendragon. Your bold deeds precede you.” Father strode forward to greet him.

  This spar
ked humor in Pendragon’s eyes and he bowed his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “ ‘Bold deeds,’ ” he echoed. “My friend Ceidio did warn me you did not play at words.”

  At the mention of Ceidio’s name, Father stiffened. “I have heard you and my friend Ceidio have formed an allegiance. Have you any news?”

  “Ceidio is well. When last we met he was awaiting the arrival of his son. We lodged with him some nights ago on our way north. I know he is indebted for your care.”

  Father nodded, and Lord Emrys looked upon me with a smile. I stepped forward, remembering my role.

  “Please, cast off your wet cloaks. Come warm yourselves by the fire.”

  If he was surprised to be met by so young a lady, he had the good graces not to show it.

  “This must be your daughter.”

  “Aye. Lord Emrys, meet my children: Lailoken and Languoreth of Cadzow.”

  “Lady Languoreth. Thank you for welcoming me and my men.”

  “I am pleased to meet you.” I bowed my head as my mother had taught and moved to stand beside my brother.

  “Come,” Father said. “You’ve traveled far and you must be hungry. Sit. Let us dine. Wine, ale! Whatever you please.”

  At my father’s gesture the servants poured drink. I took my seat between Lail and my father, watching my brother’s eyes kindle with pleasure as the steward poured him unwatered wine. The toasting was boisterous enough, but as my father reached once more for his cup, his voice grew somber.

  “As Ceidio has said, I prefer to speak plainly. I am certain you know there are some in Partick who are not pleased that you are here, Lord Emrys.”

  Emrys raised a brow. “None, I hope, who are seated at this table.”

  “You’ll come to no harm whilst under my roof,” Father assured him. “But you seem no fool. You knew you would make enemies of a powerful few when you set fire to the hall of a king.”

  Silence fell over the revelry, and Lailoken lifted his eyes to mine. Only the soft strains of the cruit could be heard as all in the room shifted their eyes to Pendragon.

  “Yes,” Emrys replied. “Though it seems stranger that lords who fled their own lands, abandoning their people, could find cause to quarrel with me, Morken.”