A Novel

by Signe Pike

  Cathan snorted at the ridiculousness of this and was preparing to say something further, when a pounding sounded at the door.

  Father looked up in annoyance. “Come,” he called out.

  The doors of the great room swung open and a scarlet-cloaked soldier from Tutgual’s guard swept in, his black hair clipped as short as the cap of a jackdaw.

  The warrior stepped forward, bowing his head in greeting. “Morken. I realize the hour is late.”

  “It is no matter, Breg. There will be little sleep this night.” Father lifted his cup, an offer of drink, but Tutgual’s man gave a curt shake of his head.

  “The high king would like to extend his sympathies to Cathan of the White Isle for the horrific act that was carried out on Bright Hill this day. He has convened a meeting of the Council first thing on the morrow. Until then, sentries have been posted at the foot of Bright Hill for the safety of all concerned.”

  Cathan tilted his head like a hawk. “And just who are these sentries there to protect?”

  “The sentries have been ordered to keep the peace,” Breg said. “To that end, the king has requested both the hilltop and the grave lie undisturbed this night.”

  “Let the grave lie undisturbed?” Cathan balked. “Just whom does the king think he commands? The land of Bright Hill is under our divine jurisdiction.”

  Tutgual’s man stiffened. “The land of Bright Hill is also under the jurisdiction of the Kingdom of Strathclyde.”

  Cathan stood with an agility I didn’t know he possessed. In his white robes, his silver hair lit amber by hearth light, he was transformed into something formidable, almost otherworldly. His eyes darkened like a storm on the sea.

  “Do you wish to debate the law with me, warrior? I could tell you the history of the land grants of this kingdom with an accuracy that stretches back to its roots in the beginning of time out of memory. Or, if it please me, I could rattle such a curse that would leave your ballocks shrunken in the seat of your pants.”

  Breg shifted ever so slightly, and Cathan shook his head in disgust. “Tell your king his sympathies are wasted.”

  Father bowed his head. He was no less angered, but, unlike Keepers, who could say whatever they pleased, my father was beholden to Tutgual, the high king. Breg looked to him. “And, Morken. What say you?”

  I held my breath. Father stood. “Tell your king I will attend the meeting of the Council on the morrow. Until then, Gods keep you.”

  “And you.” Breg turned on his heel, eager, it seemed, to leave. Our servant closed the doors behind him and retreated to his station at the edge of the room.

  Ariane thrummed her fingers absently against her collarbone as she did when she was thinking. “It would be foolish not to consider the involvement of Tutgual himself, or, in the very least, people from his court. I have heard he is a man who likes to bolster his wagers. After all, was it not he who drew Morken away for the hunt?” she said.

  “I confess I do not know Tutgual’s mind,” Father said. “He does not profess to be a Christian, but he welcomes Christian families into his lands and his courts. One does not become high king by refusing to bend in a powerful wind. Long has his family courted the protection of Rome.”

  Cathan motioned for a cup. “We will discover the culprits and the desecration will be removed.”

  Telleyr ceased his pacing. “You cannot mean to remove the body.”

  “You cannot think I would allow it to stay.”

  “Lord Cathan. You place me in a difficult situation. Can we not seek a peaceful resolution?”

  “Peace?” Cathan said. “You ask for peace? This may be no act of yours, but there can be no mistake. The burial of this body on sacred soil was designed to ignite a war. My people will riot should I let that body stand.”

  “I do not argue your point,” Telleyr said. “But the fact remains that Fergus was a consecrated monk of my order and a man of the church. My people will riot to see his body removed. Can you not see what a predicament we are in?” He looked at the Wisdom Keeper, his kind face imploring. “I would humbly request that you allow the body of Brother Fergus to rest.”

  “What you ask is impossible,” Cathan said. “A human body, and moreover the body of a Christian zealot, now rots in one of the most sacred sites to the Britons north of the Wall. Oaks that have stood sentinel for nearly one thousand years have been most abhorrently hacked down. You know too well the punishment for felling such a tree. And you ask me to let this lie?”

  “Cathan is right,” Father said. “This cannot stand. This night is Beltane eve, and the fires were extinguished by this act before they could even be lit. The rites for the land were not conducted. Our people are enraged! They worry for the crops. They worry that famine will return. Listen! Even now, at this distance, you can hear them on the streets.”

  Telleyr turned to Father, defeated. “What would you have me do?”

  “Get some sleep,” Father sighed. “We will attend the Gathering on the morrow. We will discuss this act and decide what shall be done. It is late, and you have a long ride home in the dark. You may bed here if you like.”

  “Thank you, my friend. But I have already accepted King Tutgual’s offer to bed in his hall in Partick this night. It is an invitation I cannot refuse.”

  “So be it.” Father nodded. Telleyr moved to the doors but then turned back, his dark eyes beseeching.

  “Morken. You are a just and considerate king. Before I depart, I would ask for your word that Fergus’s body will rest undisturbed this night.”

  Father stroked his beard, regarding the monk. At last he bowed his head. “You have my word. I will not remove his body.”

  “I thank you.” Telleyr’s shoulders sank in relief.

  “Travel in safety, Brother.”

  “Until tomorrow.”

  Father nodded. “Tomorrow.”

  The monk’s dark eyes touched on mine in parting, and I read sorrow in their depths. As the doors to the great room closed behind him, Father turned to us.

  “To bed, children. You have heard enough talk for one day.”

  I was too bruised to argue, though when I closed my eyes, I could only see Cathan on his knees, weeping in a field of splintered giants. I gathered my sewing from my lap and rose. “Good night, Father.”

  “But, Father,” Lail said, “what of—”

  “Lailoken. Do you question me?” Father’s wick had burned short.

  I stared at my brother, begging him to be silent. At last Lail rose reluctantly but followed me all the same.

  “Good night, then,” Father said, and we closed the doors to the great room behind us.

  I sighed. “I wonder if there has ever before been a Beltane eve on which the fires were not lit.”

  Lail did not answer, and I looked back to see him kneeling with his face pressed to the slender gap between the doors.

  “Lailoken!”

  “Shhh!” he hissed.

  “Lailoken,” I whispered, “one of these days you are going to get caught. And you will be deserving of your beating.” I narrowed my eyes but then lowered myself down beside him all the same, just in time to hear the soft scrape of a chair against the floor. The doors could not muffle the gloom in Father’s voice.

  “Brother Telleyr asked for my word. I cannot go with you.”

  “I would not ask it of you,” Cathan said.

  “What of Tutgual’s men?” Ariane’s voice sounded as clear as a bell, as if she stood just on the other side of the doors, and I tugged at Lail’s sleeve, but he swatted me away.

  Cathan scoffed. “I will not wait for a king’s permission to cleanse my own land. It is Beltane eve. The presence of soldiers will be no trouble for me.”

  My brother’s eyes lit with pride. I looked at him as if to say, You do realize someone could get terribly hurt.

  “We share this outrage. I should be with you.” Father’s voice was solemn. “Who would you take? Brant and Brodyn can follow. They’ll stay out of sight.” />
  “No,” Cathan said. “I may be able to cloak myself in shadow, but I cannot cloak another. Let alone two. There will be men on the road. And this is the business of a Keeper. I will have your iron at my back should I need it.”

  I heard the scrape of another chair and Father’s sigh. “Yes. If it comes to that, you know well that you do.”

  Lail frowned as if to say something, but at the shuffling sound of feet we scrambled from the doors, disappearing up the stairs just as the doors swung open below.

  I stood on my toes to peer over the high wooden rail. Down below, Cathan loomed in the gloom of the doorway, a dark riding cloak cast over his sleeve. Ariane’s slender shadow stretched on the floor before him.

  “Perhaps I am new among you,” she said. “But one man against so many . . .”

  “There is no other way,” Cathan said. “March my Keepers up Bright Hill and it is as Telleyr says: we would beget a war. I will not be goaded into such action.”

  “And what if war were inevitable?” she said. “What would you do then?”

  “You speak as though you have seen something I cannot,” Cathan said.

  “I have only seen the hearts of men.”

  “Ariane.” Cathan bowed his head. “I hear your warning.”

  Lailoken and I ducked from the railing, our footfalls masked by the heavy groan of the iron latch on the main door before it closed behind Cathan with a clang. Lailoken motioned me into his chamber.

  “He’s going to Bright Hill.” I leaned against the welcome solidity of Lailoken’s door.

  “Cathan is lord of the White Isle, sister. He has no choice.” Lail seemed uneasy, as if his skin itched from the inside out. He moved to the small pine table that sat beneath his window, letting his fingers roam restlessly over the clutter of objects on the tabletop: a chunk of mica, a silver brooch, a tablet of slate on which he’d been practicing his Ogham alphabet, a thick wooden comb.

  “But the guards,” I said. “How will he not be seen?”

  “You think guards will keep Cathan from Bright Hill?” Lail asked. “Wisdom Keepers have their ways. Just as the sea god Manannan can veil himself in mist as if it were a cloak. Cathan keeps counsel with many gods. Surely they will come to his aid.”

  “Just as the Gods came to the aid of our trees?” I asked.

  Lail looked up, angry. “You have no faith in what the Gods can do.”

  “And what if I do not? The Gods did not protect Mother. The Gods did not protect Bright Hill. Yet they will come to Cathan’s aid?”

  Lailoken turned away. Like all men, Cathan had fought battles in his time, but he was older than Father. The hands that had once tossed a spear now held only a staff. I tried to summon once more the magic of walking Bright Hill—unseen eyes—but nothing came. Worse was the way Lailoken’s gaze kept shifting toward the door. The moment I left, he would do something foolish.

  “I’m frightened for Cathan is all,” I tried. “I know I will not sleep. Stay with me, like when we were little.”

  Lail leveled his gaze at me as if, in a different light, he’d find my attempt amusing.

  “Languoreth, you are not my keeper. I can look after myself.”

  “Can you? And what exactly is your plan?” I said, hands on my hips. “Father will have men posted not only at the gate but also at the outside doors. If you think Brant and Brodyn will look the other way, you’re mistaken. Truly, Lail. Causing trouble with all that’s happened today? It’s the middle of the night! Bright Hill is guarded by a score of Tutgual’s men or more. You’d be found out in an instant. And what do you think will happen when the son of a king of the Old Way is caught meddling with a Christian body on Bright Hill? Father will be to blame, that’s what.”

  “Keep your voice down.” Lail’s blue eyes were stony.

  “You’re as stubborn as an ox and as foolish, too!” I whispered.

  “A fool, am I?” Lail tipped his chin. “I have begun my training, Languoreth. I should be there. I should be there with my teacher.”

  The haughtiness in his voice broke the dam of my anger. “I need no further reminders that you have begun your training, Lailoken.”

  “You’re only jealous.”

  “Yes, I am jealous!” I exclaimed. “And why should I not be? Did it never occur to you that I might wish to train as a Wisdom Keeper, too? Do you not imagine how it pains me to be excluded from your lessons—that I shall never have the freedom to become a healer like Mother, to be the master of my own fate? For me these are impossible dreams. For me there is no other destiny than to become the wife of a stranger!”

  Lail stood as if he’d been struck. A shadow of guilt passed over his face.

  “You’re right. I have been selfish,” he said. “I did not think of how you might feel.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I looked down at my hands. “You are too hasty, Lailoken. You cannot ride out into the night as if you weren’t made of skin and bone. Can’t you see? You are my twin. We are made of each other. If anything should happen to you . . .” My voice broke. At the sight of my tears, Lailoken’s face fell as if he might cry, too.

  “Don’t cry, Languoreth. I will stay, all right? I will stay.”

  “It isn’t enough,” I said, searching for what might be. First my brother had wished to ride out and fight the Angles. And now . . . What if Lailoken had somehow managed to sneak away, only to be mistaken as an interloper by Tutgual’s men? I’d seen enough to know Tutgual’s warriors were not kindly. Perhaps they would have returned him to Father. More likely they would have sought to teach my brother a lesson he would not soon forget.

  I sank onto his bed. “You must promise not to do such things without first confiding in me, Lailoken. We must look after each other.”

  He looked at me for a long moment. “You’re right. After all, you are my twin. Your blood is my blood, and my blood is yours. If we cannot trust each other, who can we trust?”

  “Swear it, then,” I said, reaching for his hand. “Swear that from this day forth we shall always look after each other.”

  “All right,” Lail said. “I swear it.”

  “No. Not like that.”

  I could not explain it, but I sensed a moonless danger lurking in the shadows of our path, one that could be satisfied only by blood. Something loomed this night, with Cathan riding into the dark, with the wind rattling against the shutters as if the Gods themselves were wailing.

  Lailoken came to sit with me and offered up his hand. The blade of my knife glinted vermillion in the light of the oil lamps. A crimson bead sprung up as I pressed its point to the padded whorl of his finger like a jewel we might toss into a pool. The sting of the knife on my own finger was my lot to cast. Solemnly we pressed our fingers together.

  And we told ourselves our bond would never be broken.

  CHAPTER 13

  * * *

  There were no buttery wreaths of May Day broom decking the doors of the huts the next morning as we rode into Partick. Absent was the earthy smell of woodsmoke from the Beltane fires that lingered so long after they’d burned out. Shops were shuttered, market stalls empty. The royal town of Partick was in mourning. People thronged the square outside the Gathering Place, scarcely moving aside for the warriors and chieftains trotting in with their retinues to attend the Gathering called by the high king.

  Cathan had not yet returned, but I refused to believe any ill had befallen him. Still, I shivered in the rush of wind that bent the trees. High on the thatched roof of the Gathering Place, a murder of crows stood, their bodies gleaming like ink pots in the morning sun. Ariane loosened her grip on her reins and lifted her eyes to the dark flapping birds.

  “Look at the crows,” she said. “Do you see how they hop? They wait for something. The Gods. They are watching.”

  I pushed back the hood of my riding cloak, shielding my eyes. “Perhaps they wait for Cathan,” I said.

  “They wait for justice,” Ariane said.

  Brant and Brodyn rode up ah
ead with Father, edgy as a pair of falcons who’d been tethered overlong. We led our horses to a stand of hickories and dismounted, leaving them for our grooms to tend.

  I scoured the crowd in search of Gwrgi and Peredur, despite the news they had returned to Ebruac some days earlier. Never had I seen so many noblemen in one place. Father’s torque winked in the dappled light as he strode to greet the other chieftains. They looked to me like living myths, wild-haired and bearded, with their magnificent brooches and finely woven plaids. They were fierce-faced and straight-backed, some of them marred by war, though none bore a scar like my father’s. As they spoke to one another, I sought to read the stories upon their faces. This one was a friend to Father. That one he did not trust. When their sights rested on me, on my brother, my heart hammered small and fast, and I wanted to cling to Father’s cloak or hide in my mother’s skirts as I’d done as a babe. Sensing my nerves, Father turned to me and clasped my hand, his undereyes bruised with purple from last night’s vigil.

  “All will be well, Languoreth. Don’t forget, you must stand behind your brother. Do you remember what I’ve told you?”

  “Do not speak unless I am bidden.”

  “And?”

  “Do not laugh.”

  “Do not laugh? I doubt there will be much occasion for laughter this day.”

  I frowned. “It’s only that Brant and Brodyn said there are many who endeavor to make them laugh at King Tutgual’s court.”

  “I see.” Father shot my cousins a grim look. “What your cousins mean to say is that there are many at court they find amusing. It would be a very good idea, Languoreth, to try not to laugh.”

  I nodded and slipped into place behind Lailoken. It wasn’t just the birds that made me anxious. It was as if the air itself were alive and breathing. Waiting. Ariane eyed my coiled plaits and deep purple frock and reached to give my arm an awkward pat.

  “Lift your chin, now, Languoreth,” she said, nudging me into the throng. “Let them see the daughter of a king.”

  The people parted for Morken and his retinue like water skirts a boulder. I fixed my gaze on Father’s amber hair as he moved toward the immense timber building, his bulk towering above the crowd. I blinked as we entered the dizzying inner sanctum of the Gathering Place, trying to adjust my eyes to the dimmer light.