A Novel

by Signe Pike

  I had not spoken to anyone since I’d received my summons. Not even my brother. He glanced back at me now as our horses slopped through the muddied streets of town, that same small wrinkle creasing his brow.

  Lailoken did not understand. I was not angry with him. Nor with Cathan or my father. It was only that there was nothing to say. At least Crowan and Ariane understood as much. They followed close, but did not press me. They left me to myself.

  Now Partick appeared as empty as a plundered town. When at last we reached Buckthorn, hearth smoke rose in a plume of mist through the thatching as if it were some great monster breathing.

  Perhaps, if I bid it to, it would swallow me whole.

  • • •

  A knock at my door roused me some hours later. I sat up in bed as a doughy young woman with dark hair entered, a wooden bowl cupped in her hands. The rich steam that rose from it stirred my hunger and I swung my legs over the bed, suddenly ravenous.

  “You missed your supper,” she said. “Your father bade us let you sleep.”

  “Thank you.” I rubbed my forehead and gestured toward the table near the window.

  “Stewed beef w’ herbs and barley.” Her brown eyes lingered on mine a moment as she moved my mirror aside and set the bowl down gingerly.

  “Thank you. It will do me good after a long day’s ride, I am sure.” I nodded, waiting for her to take her leave. Instead she turned to me, expectant.

  “Pardon, m’lady. But do you na’ remember me?”

  Remember her? The faces waiting in the courtyard earlier had been a blur of unfamiliarity, and truly I’d been too numb to care. But now as I took in her rounded face and upturned nose, I felt a rush of shame. My mother had raised me better.

  “Desdemona.” I blinked. “Of course I remember you. But you’re a woman now. Could that truly be you?”

  She nodded with a slight flush and bent to retrieve the frock I’d draped over my traveling trunk.

  “I didn’t greet you earlier,” I said. “You must think me awful. It was the journey; it has me overtired.”

  “Nay. It’s been many winters since we met, but I won’t forget what you done that day. You’ve been at Cadzow—of course you mightn’t know me straightaway. And all the while I’ve been here.”

  “Well, I am grateful to see a familiar face.” I rose from my bed to take a seat in the simple pine chair. “Do you like your work in the kitchens?”

  “Well enough, m’lady. In fact, it was me what made your soup.”

  I breathed in the stock, rich with the roast of marrow and thyme. It tasted like the round days of autumn.

  “It’s very good,” I offered, trying to separate her from the memories she summoned: a dying, rain-drenched boy in Cadzow’s courtyard, a chicken twitching on the blood-slicked street of Partick’s market.

  “And the other servants—do they treat you well?” I asked.

  “Well enough,” she said again. Silence fell. From the edge of my vision I could see her standing by the door, still watching me.

  “I am glad we shall have a chance to get to know each other at last,” I said. “Thank you for supper. I will finish up on my own.”

  I did not wish to be unkind, but could she not see I yearned for solitude? But Desdemona only swallowed, twisting her fingers.

  I turned, somewhat exasperated. “Unless there is something else?”

  “I donna ken if I should say,” she began. “It’s only . . . there’s talk. The folks a’ town have been sayin’ such things!”

  This damnable place. “I suppose that should not surprise me,” I said evenly. “If there is talk, I’d rather hear it.”

  Desdemona was eyeing the door now, as if she could slink back through it.

  “Nay, I were wrong. I shoudn’a spoken . . .”

  “No,” I said. “If there is gossip, you are right to speak. It is not our habit in Morken’s clan to punish those who watch out for our family.”

  “As you like.” She took a breath. “It’s just the folks a’ town have been whisperin’ such things! That you’d sooner be a Keeper than the wife o’ a king. That you’re wild and willful, more likely ta spear a man with that knife you wear than . . . let ’im spear you.” Desdemona flushed full scarlet, and I managed a laugh.

  “Is that all?”

  “Would it were, m’lady.” She dropped her gaze.

  “Oh, go on, then.” I smiled. “I’m sturdier than I look.”

  She hesitated, then the words came rushing like a geyser. “They’ve been sayin’ your mother was a woods witch. That she died o’ the boils, an’ you were struck by ’em, too. She used her magic, else ne’er you nor your brother would ha’ lived. They say that’s wha’ cost her her life.”

  I set down my spoon.

  “My mother was no common wood witch,” I said tightly. “She was a Wisdom Keeper and a healer of great renown.”

  Mother. Even as I spoke, the memory took me. Our tenant’s wife had fallen ill. Mother had hurried to their hut and bid us stay home. Inside, the air must have been close. It must have smelled sweet, like rot and sickness. We’d heard tell of how it had traveled in years before like the curse of a vengeful god through Rheged and farther south, laying entire kingdoms to waste. Mother must have known when she saw the pustules that the sickness had returned to Cadzow. But by then it was too late. I hadn’t fallen sick, and neither had Lailoken, but it wasn’t due to magic—it was due to common sense. My mother had come home and ordered us sequestered. Even as she was dying, she kept herself away. It haunted me still.

  Desdemona looked away. And yet something behind her eyes told me this was not all.

  “Could there be more?” I said bitterly. “What more could the comely residents of Partick have to say on the private matters of our family? Come, Desdemona. Tell me. I would hear it all.”

  Desdemona studied the floor. “Well, m’lady, they been sayin’ the pox marks you still, under your clothes. That’s the reason you’ve been hid away. ’Til now, that is. Now that your da saw fit to have you wed.”

  I blinked, momentarily blinded by rage. But it would not suit to let Desdemona discover where my scars truly lay. It was then that an idea came to me.

  So the people of Partick thought me freakish and scarred. Unweddable.

  Desdemona had risked my fury in relaying Partick’s slander, which meant she was most likely loyal. But if she’d heard such gossip, perhaps she was not so far above the carrying of it. I swiveled in my chair, considering her. Her small brown eyes were skittish, fearful. It was almost too easy. Allowing a tremor to come to my voice, I turned my chair and began to speak in earnest.

  Just let Father try to match me now.

  CHAPTER 21

  * * *

  For some days after, I refused to leave my chamber at Buckthorn. In turn Father forbade any visitors, hoping to flush me from my room like a pheasant. Still I kept to my bed, my protest sustaining me like a vigil. Meals came and went, but no one came to see me—not Ariane, not Crowan, not even my brother. Only Desdemona appeared, her thick hair plaited neatly from her face as she carried in wine and slices of brown bread alongside whatever food the others had enjoyed for supper. I studied what vellum tomes I had packed in my trunks and even practiced my stitching, wondering if Desdemona had carried the rumors round Partick as I had intended.

  At last, on my fifth gloomy morning in the capital, just as my revolt was beginning to taste like ash in my mouth, Ariane blew through the door with a stout wicker basket under her arm.

  “At last, you’ve come!” I thrust down my reading. “How ever did you sneak past Father?”

  I stood to embrace her, but Ariane slapped her palm against my breastbone, sending me careening back into my chair.

  “You fool of a girl,” she said. “What have you done?”

  I scowled, rubbing my elbow. “Whatever do you—”

  “Never mind. Say nothing. Not a word.”

  She eyed my state of undress and muttered something unintelligibl
e in her native tongue. Striding to my window, she thrust open the shutter.

  “Get dressed. You will smile and greet your father. You will tell him you need some air and we are going to gather saltweed.” She turned, her blue eyes piercing mine. “Do you understand?”

  I nodded, and for the first time felt afraid. Could the slander I’d plied on an unknowing servant have traveled so fast? I felt the first creepings of regret.

  Moving to the wardrobe, I fumbled with a clean shift as Ariane opened my wooden jewel chest, her fingers sifting through my possessions.

  “Wear these,” she commanded, lifting a pair of silver and green amber earrings that had belonged to my mother. “They will complement your hair. And your torque,” she added, tossing it to me. “You are royalty, after all.”

  I pulled the shift over my head and Ariane gave an impatient sigh. “Where is your servant?”

  “Crowan has not come these past four days.”

  “Crowan’s eyes are failing; she can no longer tell amber from lapis. You are a woman now, and the daughter of a king. You must have your own servant to help you dress, not some aging nurse-mother.”

  “Don’t speak of Crowan so,” I said. “I can ready myself.”

  “Then make ready. Later I will speak to your father.”

  I plucked a rust-colored dress from the trunk and pulled it over my head, yanking to loosen the lacing. “Why have you not come to see me until today?” I asked, looking away as I secured the lacings and reached for my torque. It felt leaden about my neck, and my wavy hair caught painfully in the twisted metal as I struggled to tame it.

  Watching my struggle, Ariane softened. “I have been on White Isle,” she said.

  “White Isle? What for?”

  “To listen to old men talk too long over simple things. Here, let me.” She tilted my head back and gathered the heft of my hair in her slender hands, twisting it into a loop at the nape of my neck. “Hand me that strip of leather.”

  I did as she bade, and she wound the leather round the nest of my hair, securing it with a knot.

  “There.” She stepped back swiftly to assess her work, then bent to retrieve her basket from the side of the bed. “Come now—we must go. I have already asked Macon to ready the horses.”

  I followed Ariane down the corridor, my heart banging in my chest. But in the great room Father scarcely looked up from his gaming. He was still sore with me.

  “Brant,” he said gruffly. “Follow them.”

  I kept close behind Ariane’s chestnut mare until we turned downhill and the narrow lane widened, leading us past the Gathering Place and through the market, where the townspeople of Partick stopped to stare wide-eyed like fish.

  Brant urged his mount to walk beside mine, but I could still feel their eyes prying as if they might peel off my very clothing. At last we reached the banks of the river, where ships breezed in on the prevailing tide. Salt water slapped at the quay as merchants directed the servants unloading their cargo, and warriors in bright tartans strode the docks with spears in hand, minding the shipments bound for their chieftains and kings. Overhead, the seabirds disappeared into thick banks of clouds gathering from the east.

  Ariane nodded in greeting to those we passed and spoke idly to me.

  “Partick. One day sunny and the next spitting rain. The wind, at least, is constant. Like the pull of the tides.”

  I nodded, ill at ease. Whatever it was, it seemed she would not speak of it ’til we were truly alone. At last Ariane dismounted beneath a sturdy stand of oaks and handed her reins to Brant.

  “Leave us, please. Languoreth and I must speak in private.”

  Brant lowered his dark brows with a frown. Warriors were not accustomed to taking orders from women, even their lovers. He planted his feet as if to make a point, but a hard look from Ariane made him lift his arms in surrender.

  “Fine. Have it your way. But I’ll not be far.”

  Ignoring him, she turned to me, pointing to the sandy banks of the riverbed. “Here. Do you see where the water has drawn away? Come down and help me gather these piles of weed into the basket.”

  I edged down the slippery bank of rock and sand.

  “Shoo the flies away,” Ariane said. “We’ll rinse it later.”

  I grabbed a handful of the slick green weed; it smelled of the bottom of the sea. Shaking it, I tossed it into the wicker, eyeing her expectantly. “You’re angry with me.”

  “Yes, I am angry. And you know why.”

  “You cannot tell me you wouldn’t have done the same,” I said.

  “What I would do is not for you!” She turned sharply. “You are the daughter of a king. You must be wed. I travel to White Isle to parlay with the Keepers, to ensure that your sacrifice of marriage will not be in vain, and what do you do? You spread lies and gossip, trying to ruin any chance of an advantageous match.” Her jaw tightened as she bent to thrust a bundle of weed into her basket, then straightened, regarding me.

  “Have you any idea what sort of man wants a woman he thinks must be broken? Oh, your bride price will be paid, and doubly. With bruises and welts. With a life of misery and rape, of unimaginable torture. There are plenty of chieftains who would pay for a pretty young wife they can beat like a dog. And what choice would your father have then, when you have ruined any better opportunity for yourself? Is this what you desired when you opened your mouth and so sabotaged your future?”

  Ariane’s words knocked the breath from me.

  I thought I had been so clever. Never had I been so foolish. I sank onto the sandy bank, my head in my hands. “What have I done?”

  Ariane took a breath and let it out, calming herself before sitting down at my side.

  “Lucky for you, there are whisperings. Whisperings in the trees. Word has come to the Keepers that Lord Rhydderch wishes to meet you.”

  “Lord Rhydderch . . .” I lifted my head. I had never even laid eyes on Tutgual’s son.

  “He wishes to meet you. And he will like what he sees.” Ariane’s gaze was steady.

  I shook my head, wishing I could send the words back into her mouth. Surely Tutgual’s son had his pick of child brides. Young and green and blissfully unwillful. Given the damage I had done to my own reputation, I could not imagine why he would even agree to such a meeting.

  “They will ask your father to arrange it,” Ariane continued.

  “But Tutgual is a tyrant!” I said. “A supplicant to Rome. Surely his son is no better than he! You present this as if it were a better option. This is no option at all.”

  Tears blurred my vision. I knew I should not have come to Partick. And yet, what choice had I?

  “Languoreth.” Ariane’s voice was stern. “For a moment, think not only of yourself. Have you heard nothing of the goings-on around Partick?”

  My eyes flashed. “Think not of myself! Say you, a woman who is free to do whatever she might wish! I will thank you not to tell me what I should think.”

  “You have accepted me as your counsellor, and as such, it is precisely my duty to tell you what you should think,” she shot back. Then she sighed. “Even as the hero Pendragon rides off to fight his war, Lord Rhydderch’s popularity rises. Should you marry Rhydderch—and should he someday become king—you would become queen of all of Strathclyde. Wife to the high king. Your father cannot refuse such an alliance, nor, do I think, would he. But more than this”—she bent her head, forcing me to meet her gaze—“if you succeed in winning Rhydderch, you could provide security for your people. For the ancient ways of your people.”

  “Tell me what you mean.”

  The depths of Ariane’s eyes were troubled. “There are those among Telleyr’s community who are no longer content to live side by side with men and women who do not follow the Christian way. Their resentment festers. It begins to grow something dark and ungodly. I have seen what will transpire. They will draw something to them to accomplish their ends. Blood will run through the streets of Partick and beyond. I warn you, Languoreth
: the Britons cannot sustain a war from the Angles as well as this war that will rise up from within. It could bring about the ruin of your people. The end of the Old Way. Do you understand?”

  Ariane’s words came like the rush of a river, rising until I felt I might drown.

  “But how am I to effect these coming events?” I asked. “I am only a woman. And I have never even been to court.”

  “Only a woman.” Ariane frowned. “Languoreth, your family has long been followers of the Old Way. Your father is a much-beloved king; your own mother was a Keeper. If you think you are powerless, you are mistaken. Tutgual is like a reed in the wind, one day bowing to the Gods of old and the next day to the new. Who is to say which way he will ultimately bend?

  “Should Tutgual and the men of his banner baptize themselves to the Christ god, the people of the Old Way may be punished; they will need our protection. Even should Rhydderch never rise to the kingship, as his wife you would be placed advantageously within the high king’s court. You will hear things—observe things—before they come to pass. In you, the people of the Old Way will yet have a leader. It will not be an easy task. But I, and others, believe that you alone are suited for it.”

  I wanted to sink into the murky ebb of the river. It seemed so long ago that I had sat on another bank beside Lailoken, a girl of only ten, watching a great red stag drink in the shallows.

  How long had it been since I’d dreamt of the forest?

  My childhood was gone.

  “Even now, there is talk at Clyde Rock of installing a bishop.” The distaste in Ariane’s voice brought me back to myself.

  “Languoreth, you are courageous,” she said, “and I have seen how you tend to the villagers of Cadzow. You love the people. The people of Cadzow have come to love you. You must ask yourself what you would sacrifice for them; for your Father may well decide it and decree it to be so, but it is not he who must win Rhydderch’s heart. That task belongs only to you. Rhydderch is a man, not a boy. It is said he possesses wit beyond measure. It will take more than a pretty face to win his affection. This is not a gamble you or your people can afford to lose. Without the heart of Tutgual’s son, you will hold no influence. This is why I have come to you. Because we may not always have the choice we would like. But we always have a choice.”