A Novel

by Signe Pike

  So this was court. The lords and petty kings of the north were plumed in plaids like rare birds, proud-chested and preening in clusters round the perimeter of the grand hall, their voices like the deep hum of a hive. Wives stood in the shadows of their lords, their cheeks bright with berry stain, their eyes lined with kohl, their hair coiffed and coiled, their slender bodies wrapped in jewel-toned robes tipped with delicate handwork of the finest embroidery.

  As we followed Father to our places, Ariane gagged, coughing as if to clear her throat.

  “Ugh. This perfume. It is as if they would drown me.”

  A green-eyed woman in a clinging scarlet robe fixed Ariane with a stare, and I tugged her along, giving the noblewoman a small bow of apology.

  Members of the Council, some white-robed Keepers, some clad in royal garb, stood huddled, heads bent, already discussing the matter at hand. But all of the room, Council and court alike, leaned, as poppies toward the sun, toward the man who sat at the head of the open arena in an ornately carved oaken throne.

  Tutgual, the high king of Strathclyde.

  I attempted to read him, as I had so readily divined the natures of the other nobles, but his blue eyes were serene as a cloudless sky, devoid of feeling. His face was thin and bearded, framed by wavy graying hair that might once have been brown, and the sharp angles of his cheeks gave him the appearance of a ravenous eagle. He was tall but built with fading muscle. The heavy ocher fabric of his cloak was clasped at the shoulder by the most exquisite brooch I had ever seen.

  A beautiful woman stood behind him, her slender fingers resting casually on the arm of Tutgual’s throne.

  “Look.” I prodded Lailoken. “That must be Elufed, his queen.”

  She was slightly younger than my mother had been, but where my mother had been all forest and earth, Elufed was a winter river, thick with ice. Her pale yellow hair was swept from her face by two jeweled combs, left to cascade in luxuriant waves over her shoulders. She wore a deep-sapphire robe that made her eyes appear impossibly crystalline. Not blue, but gray and elemental, like glaciers or shadows on snow. She looked languidly about the room, and then my breath caught as her eyes locked on mine, frank with curiosity. She tilted her head to say something low in her husband’s ear.

  “She’s a Pict,” Lail whispered. “One of the First People. I heard Tutgual wed her when she was little more than a girl. She couldn’t have been much older than you are now.” Looking at me, he winced. “I’m sorry, sister. It was a stupid thing to say.”

  “Forget it. I don’t mind,” I lied, and craned my neck instead in search of Brother Telleyr. I spotted him standing just beyond where the Council members were gathered, his ruddy face solemn. Behind him stood a cluster of monks from his order, brothers in brown hoods, but the edges of the Gathering Place were lit by shafts of sunlight and pockets of shadow, and I couldn’t quite make out their faces.

  A whisper rose from the crowd. How much longer would Tutgual delay the proceedings? Still there was no sign of Cathan. Quite suddenly the high king’s captain stepped forward and addressed the crowd.

  “Tutgual, son of Cedic, high king of the kingdom of Strathclyde and Clyde Rock, the ancient rock of the Britons, welcomes you to the Gathering convened on this day.”

  Tutgual’s eyes rested on my father and he gestured, the sleeve of his tunic flapping like a bird.

  “Morken. Come.”

  A hush traveled through the room until it was so silent I could hear the soft slapping of my father’s boots as he crossed the expanse to clasp the arm of the king.

  “Morken,” Tutgual repeated, looking about the crowded room. “Such news as befell us upon yesterday’s hunt has never before darkened the hills or hollows of Strathclyde. You have answered the summons so that the Council might decide the due course of justice. But it appears Lord Cathan has chosen not to appear.”

  “It appears that is so, my king.”

  “Perhaps you will tell me why.”

  Father inclined his head. “Would that I knew, my king. But I am afraid I cannot say. Though Lord Cathan acts as my chief counsellor, he keeps counsel only with himself, as any Wisdom Keeper has the right.”

  Tutgual narrowed his eyes and lifted a finger to his lips as if considering what he might do. “Then we must conduct our Gathering without him,” he said. “You will stand in his stead.”

  Father’s grimace was so slight that any who didn’t know him might not have noticed.

  “Aye. It is only fair we should begin.”

  Lail and I looked at each other. Our father was a king, not an orator. A warrior, not an arbitrator. He was neither trained nor comfortable fulfilling Cathan’s role. But it appeared the king would see this matter concluded whether or not the Wisdom Keeper was here to speak. Father had little choice.

  “Then let us turn to the matter at hand,” Tutgual began. “The desecration of Bright Hill, undertaken by unknown men. We shall ask Brother Telleyr be first to speak.”

  Telleyr bowed his head in a gesture of respect to Father, the Council, and the high king before striding into the center of the room.

  “For many years now, good Christians have called Partick their home,” he began. “We have lived peaceably despite any difference in belief, as has long been the way of the Britons. We are shopkeepers and shield makers, farmers and bakers, just like you. Our God may be Christ, but we are not separate. We are all of us Britons. It is only together that believers of the one God and the many can make a prosperous kingdom.”

  A murmuring of approval came from the crowd, and Telleyr let it drift before he continued.

  “Who carried the body of Brother Fergus up the sacred slopes of Bright Hill? Whose axes and blades felled our ancient grove of oaks? These are questions I cannot answer. I only know that none among my community are capable of such acts. Many Christians who worship with me now were not long ago worshippers of that same hill. What has taken place is unconscionable. The hearts of our community bleed alongside those of our neighbors.”

  “We are thankful for your compassion, Brother Telleyr,” the king said. “It does much to mend the spirit. Does it not, Morken? What say you?”

  Father bowed his head.

  “I am a warrior and a king, not a jurist or Wisdom Keeper. But I am learned in the law as befitting my station. My people have worshipped the Gods of our ancestors since time out of memory. And since time out of memory, it has been law that to fell any sacred tree is an act punishable by death.” His brown eyes swept the room. “Therefore I would say that the body of Fergus must be removed. And I must demand that those who undertook this violence be sought out. They must be brought to the sort of justice only a sword can relay.”

  Cries rang from the throng, and Tutgual lifted his hand, demanding silence.

  “Brother Telleyr”—the high king gestured—“what is your reply?”

  “We cannot even guess which man might be guilty of this crime. An agreement can be achieved, I am sure of it. Allow the body of Fergus to rest, and in turn, the Christian community will repair the damage done. Hauling away wood, repopulating the trees. Whatever we may do to be of use, let it be done in the name of kinship. This divisive situation can yet serve as a monument to peace if we can only see beyond this grievance and let this body lie.”

  At this, Father snorted like a bull. “You ask us to look beyond this grievance?”

  “It was an egregious act.” Telleyr looked guilty, as if he did not wish to say what he was about to. “However, I would remind King Morken that to remove a Christian body from its resting place is an equally criminal act, punishable by pain of death.”

  I clutched at Lailoken’s shirt.

  “By whose law?” Father scoffed.

  “By law of the Holy Roman Empire. The burial place of a person, regardless of faith, constitutes a locus religiosus, and as such, it is as inviolable as any temple or church,” Telleyr said. “The body of one who has been laid to rest may not be removed from its place of burial under penalty of
injury and even death. The law applies to all citizens and lands under the canopy of Rome.”

  Father laughed. “It is fortunate, then, that we are no longer governed by the laws of Rome. I am certain I need not remind the Council that we have not been subject to the laws of a foreign empire for more than one hundred and fifty years.”

  Disquiet swelled in the Gathering Place, and I looked anxiously to Telleyr.

  “That may be so,” Telleyr said. “But by Roman law, any Christian in Britain yet falls beneath its protection. The body of Fergus has been entombed. The laws of Rome yet protect the rights of the Christian people and make sacrosanct their final resting place.”

  “If we are to be governed by Roman law, the sanctity of the site—the locus religiosus, as you say—would also refer to the sanctity of Bright Hill on behalf of the Old Way,” Father said. “For it is a sacred place with far more ancient a history than the hastily dug grave of this man called Fergus. The Beltane fires have not been lit. There could not have been a more foolish time to toy with the affection of the Gods. The citizens of this kingdom depend on our harvests. If a blight comes to Strathclyde, you and the men of your church will be to blame.”

  Shouts erupted from the crowd, and I shrank back as the townspeople began to push and rattle the wooden barrier that separated the peasant and merchant caste from the nobles.

  “A curse on the Christians!” someone called out.

  “What of our children?” a woman shouted. “The fires have not been lit! Our children will starve!”

  The warriors posted round the wooden barrier stiffened, gripping their spears, and Brodyn’s fingers edged toward his sword. Tutgual stood, his voice booming over the tumult of the crowd.

  “Silence! I will have silence!”

  Tutgual’s warriors turned in one swift movement to face the dissenters, their shields clattering to form a shield wall. It stayed the people, though some yet glared, their eyes lit by a fire I did not think would soon be extinguished.

  The room went still, and the high king eased back into his throne and steepled his fingers, his face placid with reflection.

  “It would appear that we are at an impasse,” Tutgual said. Furrowing his brow, he surveyed the room, reveling in the great silence, the power he commanded. The vast importance of what he prepared to say next.

  A shame, then, that he never had the opportunity to say it. For at that very moment, another voice sounded from the farthest corner of the Gathering Place, deep as a boom of thunder.

  “You say we are at an impasse.”

  Nobles and peasants alike turned to behold Cathan the Wisdom Keeper, lord of the White Isle, standing on the threshold of the Gathering Place, and a cheer rose up from the people. His white robes were lit in a swath of morning sun. Before him he balanced a sturdy three-wheeled cart. I saw something disguised in stiff folds of burlap sticking up from the cart as Cathan waited for acknowledgment from the king. But he did not bow. Wisdom Keepers bowed to no one.

  Tutgual eyed the cart a moment before beckoning. “Lord Cathan. Come.”

  Cathan did as he was bidden. “You say we are at an impasse, Tutgual King,” Cathan repeated, “but I cannot agree.” There was no mistaking the glimmer in his eyes when he lifted his head, his gaze piercing Tutgual’s like a pike.

  “Then it would please the Council to hear your argument.” Tutgual’s face belied his words; it would not please him at all.

  “Ah. My argument.” Cathan tilted his head. “The Council will thank me, as there is no need for argument. The offending body has been removed.”

  With a thrust of his arms, Cathan upended the wooden cart.

  A shower of loose soil rained over the smooth slate floor. Something heavy tumbled from the cart. The burlap unraveled itself with a flourish.

  The waxy and distended corpse of Brother Fergus fell at Tutgual’s feet with a deep and sickening thud.

  CHAPTER 14

  * * *

  For a moment there was no sound, like the silence I imagined in the time before the Gods took a breath and the new world was born. The eyes of the room were upon the body of Fergus, his thick, discolored limbs splayed like a butchered hog’s upon the floor. And then it was as if a sudden snap of wind woke the crowd from their stupor as a dissonant army of voices rose in a fury, echoing wildly off the stones.

  Ariane reached to grab me. Across the room Father’s dark eyes found us and he moved toward us, alert, the way he looked when he swung upon his horse to ride off to battle. Brant and Brodyn moved to shield the three of us as Father’s hand closed about my wrist.

  “Quickly, children,” he said, low. “We must go now.”

  “What’s happening?” I asked.

  “We must go now.” His voice held a warning I’d not heard before.

  “A riot,” Lail said. “Father’s worried they’ll riot.”

  The nobles were scattering now, trying to maintain their dignity as they moved toward the same grand entryway, but their fear smelled sour. The peasants behind the barrier began to pulse, to push, and Tutgual’s warriors bristled, their iron-tipped spears baring like teeth—a warning to the crowd. Brodyn reached back roughly for my hand and hooked my fingers firmly round his belt.

  “Hang on to me, Languoreth,” he commanded. “Do not let go.”

  I gripped Brodyn’s belt as the shouting grew to a fevered pitch. Ariane pressed close. “Do not be afraid,” she said.

  Just beyond the muscled tower of Brodyn, I caught sight of a young man, the son of one of our own tenants, as he ducked beneath the barrier and ran with a cry at one of Tutgual’s warriors.

  It happened too quickly—the thrust of the spear. And I watched as the young man’s face shifted from fury to surprise as the spear gored his chest, blood issuing in a crimson and clotted geyser, soaking the leather armor of the warrior who had impaled him, igniting the outrage of the crowd. I screamed. The young man fell back like a scarecrow, gurgling onto the floor. Tutgual’s soldier yanked the spear from his body with a satisfied smirk, and the Gathering Place exploded into chaos. The crush of bodies thrust me off balance and I bit my own tongue as my chin collided with the hilt of Brodyn’s sword.

  “Languoreth.” Brodyn steadied me. “Do not let go!”

  I gripped his belt once more as men in rough tunics launched themselves over the barrier in a torrential rain, beating against the shields of Tutgual’s warriors with bare fists.

  “There!” Father pointed, and Brodyn changed our course from the main entryway—where chieftains, warriors, and kings had now drawn their blades—to lead us instead straight into the crushing mob.

  “Keep your head down, Languoreth,” Father called. In one smooth motion he bent to retrieve a discarded shield. Gripping it to his chest, he leaned into the clash of bodies, forging a path toward a little gap in the barrier just wide enough to pass through.

  The crowd had turned upon itself. I caught sight of a shopkeeper I knew to be a Christian leading a cluster of men into the seething mob, rocks and sticks gripped in their hands. In the blindness of their fury, the people no longer recognized my father. As a thickly muscled peasant collided with Brodyn, his elbow came crashing through the momentary gap between us, slamming against my ribs. I gasped in pain as the blow sent me stumbling beneath the swift and deadly churning of feet. Brodyn turned, eyes wide, and yanked me up by my cloak.

  Behind me Ariane pressed her body against mine to shield me and shouted, “She cannot pass, Brodyn. You must lift her up!”

  “I need both arms to protect her!” he shouted. “We haven’t enough men.”

  Ariane cursed and lifted me from my feet, stumbling for a moment beneath the weight of me until she foisted me up, my gangly legs dangling over the crook of her arm. Father ducked and plowed forward like an ox, bracing himself against the barrier, his body a human rampart against the seething crowd. Tears blurred my vision.

  “Quickly, now.” He grimaced. “I cannot hold them.”

  “Uncle,” Brant yelled, �
�you cannot stay!”

  “Go!” Father lifted his shield to block a blow. “I’ll find you at the horses!”

  “Father!” I shouted.

  Brodyn snatched me from Ariane’s arms and tossed me over one shoulder, ducking beneath Father’s shield arm. Flung like a doll, I lifted my head in panic and caught sight of Cathan.

  His arms at his sides, he was a fixed point in the storm of thrusting spears and clanging swords. His eyes were lifted solemnly to the heavens. He looked like an oak on a hill, or a man of ancient magic who might still control the weather. And then I felt the jolting shock of bone colliding with bone. Someone struck my skull, shattering my vision into a flurry of sparks. A blinding, searing pain surged through me.

  The world went dark.

  • • •

  I was rocking from side to side. The rumbling of a cart drowned out all other sound, lulling me back into the blackness from which I was struggling to surface.

  Cathan’s robes, lit by sun. A three-wheeled cart and the flick of a wrist. A corpse on the ground.

  I fought to open my eyes only to be met by a white-hot pulsing at my temple that caused me to cry out.

  “It’s all right now. You’re all right.” My father’s voice came low and gentle.

  Through the fog of my pain I felt the firm pillow of his leg supporting my head. I was so very sleepy. But the sound of wheels over road grew louder. We were moving. I opened my eyes to find it was twilight. Hours had passed.

  “You have been in and out of sleep all day,” Father said. His bearded face looked almost ghoulish by the light of a lantern. His shadow flickered against the tautly stretched cowhide canopy of the cart. Somehow I knew he was bringing us home. Back to Cadzow.

  I reached my fingers to the swollen egg upon my temple and winced.

  “It hurts, does it?” Father reached gingerly to stroke my hair. “Aye. I should think it does. You took a stout blow to your noggin.”