A Novel

by Signe Pike

  Four stone ramparts circled the island, each more formidable than the last. Nearly twenty guards patrolled the platform of the first wall alone, their helmets visible above a rampart topped with sharpened stakes. Father gave me a reassuring nod as Tutgual’s men lowered the sails, guiding the boat toward the quay. Soldiers in padded vests and scarlet regalia reached for her ropes, and I accepted Lailoken’s outstretched hand, stepping onto the sturdy planking.

  Lail attempted to distract me. “There’s a freshwater well and even a granary at the base of that peak.” He gestured to the uppermost slope, populated with dwellings. “Even if the bottom levels of the fortress are breached, Tutgual and his kin can stay safely entrenched for a season or more.”

  “Has it ever been breached?” I asked.

  “No. Not for generations,” Lail said. “Though I’m certain your knife remembers the most recent attempt.”

  It had been on these very shores that my father had claimed it from a Westman king. Now that I stood at the watery feet of Clyde Rock, I could see for myself: any man would be a fool to mount an assault on this fortress. My fingers slipped absently beneath my cloak to trace the hilt of my knife in search of comfort and came up wanting.

  The sound of footsteps heralded a warrior striding along the quay, his graying black hair clipped short, his garnet cloak fluttering in the breeze.

  “Morken.” His silver brooch gleamed as he gripped Father’s arm. “You and your retinue are most welcome.”

  I recognized his face: he was the soldier who’d come to Buckthorn the day Bright Hill had been ravaged. He was yet captain of Tutgual’s guard.

  “Breg.” Father’s acknowledgement was perfunctory.

  “Please. Follow me.” The captain gave an abrupt signal and the warriors opened the outermost gate. Its doors were hundred-year-old oak and reinforced with iron, and as the great bolt clanged shut behind us I chased away a shiver. A prison, then, not a home.

  But beyond the sharpened stakes and towering wall, the scene was surprisingly pastoral.

  Servants poured out slop beside a set of neatly ordered barns, where spotted pigs and several head of brown cattle stood sleepy-eyed behind a reed-fence enclosure. On the pasture that sloped uphill, black-faced sheep with snowy fleeces chomped thick summer grass, looking out contentedly over the deadly rampart to the tidal waters below.

  Father gestured to the steep stone pathway leading uphill. “Now we climb.”

  I fought to keep my breath even as we followed the path up, deeper into the belly of the fortress. A firm knock from Breg at the second rampart gained us entrance through a narrow door, after which the peace of the pasture disappeared behind us. Here, stairs had been carved into a chasm between two cliffs, no wider than four men across. Ivy tumbled over the sheer cliff walls, and small rivulets of water trickled down through thick tufts of fern. It felt hidden. Almost enchanting. But to any raiding party, I knew the chute was a dead man’s trap. Warriors from above could rain down arrows or drop vats of burning oil. They could spear invaders here like salmon in a pool.

  Behind me Father winced ever so slightly. “Forgot about the stairs,” he muttered. We were far from home. He’d never admit to Tutgual he was in need of a healer. I would need to fix him a poultice.

  “Go slowly,” I urged. Measuring my steps to keep pace with Father’s, I battled the dread that rattled my resolve.

  What did I know of making a man mad for me?

  Maelgwn’s face came before me and I blinked it away, counting the stone steps as the door to the third rampart came into view. Beyond the door, elms towered, their outstretched branches casting patterns of sunlight on the small, grassy plain nestled between the two mounts. Gooseweed and tufts of yarrow sprouted up the cliff side, good for eating and good for healing. A servant boy ceased filling his bucket from the depths of a well, watching as we passed.

  “This way.” Breg glanced over his shoulder, hurrying me along.

  The thick scent of roasted meat wafted in smoky fingers from the squat timber building that housed the kitchens, and I caught a glimpse of slabs of beef and salt pork hanging beside neat strings of fish through the open door of the drying house. From a circular hut nearby came the persistent clang of metal: the smith was at work, whether on brooches or spear tips, who could tell?

  My legs ached by the time we reached the last rampart. Here, gorse shot up in buttery sprays from weathered cracks in the rock, its nutty scent catching my nose. Dizzy with the height, I swayed a little as we ducked beneath the final door, emerging onto the peak of the hill.

  “A moment, Breg.” Father lifted his hand to signal a stop as he came to stand beside me.

  We towered over a vast wilderness of watery sand and glittering river, where gulls spiraled against sweeping tufts of cloud blowing west toward the sea lochs. I tried to imagine pacing the fenced crescent of this hill in isolation as the world turned below me, a prisoner of Olympus.

  Father gathered me close and pointed west, to the blue-green hills that rose in the distance.

  “There you have the borders of Dalriada, land of the Scots,” he said. “And those mountains mark the lands of the Picts.” He gestured north, where the peaks rose in earnest, blurring the separation between rocky mount and sky.

  “And there, to the southeast: you know those lands well.”

  I looked far in the distance, to the place where the lush fields of Cadzow rolled sweet and green. Never had I seen our lands from such heights.

  “Look at our valleys, how fertile and green. They are bursting with crops, rich with grass for grazing—our own emerald sea. This is something our neighbors do not have, and they lust for it,” he said. “Beyond our borders the world is rocky and inhospitable, where wind whips against granite, and crops, hard-won, are wont to shrivel and die. Our ancestors have given their blood to this land; elsewhere is harder living. Perhaps someday you shall see.”

  I scanned the horizon. Angles to the east. The cold mountains of Pictland looming beyond the great loch. The hills of Dalriada to the west, and beyond that, their kin, plundering from the great isle of Scotia, the Westland.

  Lailoken swore I would be safe here, safer than the Borderlands, but as I took in the boundaries of our enemies from the teetering height of the great island, never had I felt so exposed.

  “It is a lucky thing indeed that the kings of the Britons have been able to protect the boundaries of Strathclyde from this place for so long,” I allowed.

  Father looked at me sternly. “The men who rule Clyde Rock have no need for luck. The men of Clyde Rock have power.”

  CHAPTER 25

  * * *

  Tutgual’s hall commanded the hilltop, its wooden pediments swirling with the ancient carvings of hound and serpent, eagle and swan. The heavy oaken doors of the hall were cast open and we entered into the flickering torchlight of a long, dark corridor.

  Light and voices emanated from the corridor’s end; my ears burned with the echo of my name in whispers. Lailoken placed himself before me, casting a steadying look over his shoulder.

  “Remember, I am with you,” he said.

  Too soon we were at the corridor’s end, and then the bannerman was clearing his throat and calling out, “Morken comes—son of Morydd, Chief of Stags, holder of the Great Fort in the Avon Forest, and king of all the lands of Goddeu.”

  I smoothed my robes as we emerged into a roar of golden light, clinging to the memory of Ariane’s words.

  We may not always have the choice we would like. But we always have a choice.

  And suddenly I stood before the court of King Tutgual.

  The room was vast, decorated with gilded shields painted in every hue known to the human eye. The soaring ceiling was edged by narrow slats hewn high in the stone to let out hearth smoke and give the room light. A throbbing sea of warriors, lords, and their richly robed wives, of monks and male Keepers all seemed to stare as Morken of Cadzow came forth to present his daughter to Rhydderch, son of Tutgual King.


  I knew I should keep my head bowed demurely but, unable to stop myself, I risked a glance at the set of carved wooden chairs resting behind the high king’s. I could be bound to one of these men until my bones turned to dust.

  Two dark-haired forms were half-hidden in shadow behind the towering throne of their king. One was hulking, with the stout muscles of a bear, his bluntly cut hair terminating at eyebrows as thick as caterpillars. The other was of equal height and clearly strong, but not without grace. His brown hair fell in loose waves about his bearded face, and his eyes were steady and clear, the color of river rock.

  Please, Gods, let that be Rhydderch, I prayed, returning my gaze to the smooth shale floor.

  I waited, rooted, choking on my dread, as Tutgual spoke.

  “Morken and his kin have arrived to Clyde Rock. Greetings, Morken. Do come forth.”

  “Tutgual, King.” Father’s voice echoed in the vast room as he strode forward. “We were gladdened by your invitation. You remember my son, perhaps? Lailoken.”

  My brother’s body had been blocking mine like a human rampart, but as Lail moved forward to pay his respects to the king, he revealed me to the heat of a thousand stares.

  Father could delay no further. “Of course we are gathered here so that I might present my daughter, the lady Languoreth.”

  I lifted my head as a river of jeweled garments and crimson-rouged faces swam before me. Everywhere the glint of precious stone and the shine of fine metal glittered. But nothing glittered as bright as the vulture-like eyes of the king.

  “Come.” Tutgual beckoned with a war-gnarled finger. Beside him stood his queen, Elufed, gray eyes watchful beneath graceful brows.

  The room was so still, I could hear the rustle of my silk over the stone. I stood before the king and bowed my head, but Tutgual reached out to grip my chin roughly, as if he were inspecting a horse. I fought the instinct to jerk away.

  “Pretty,” the king allowed, studying me closely. “I remember her being a rather gawky little child. What richly colored hair she has. Red. Like her father’s.”

  “Aye.” Father moved to my side, protective, but his voice was agreeable.

  “You have said they are twins,” Tutgual continued. “Twins are auspicious. Yet they look nothing alike. One has red hair, the other brown.”

  “They are both tall, like the men of Morydd. And they share their mother’s blue eyes.”

  “Aye, that I see.” Tutgual’s fingers on my chin were cold as a fish, and I struggled against the urge to resist him. The flash in my eyes did not go unnoticed.

  “She’s a spirited one, eh?” The high king’s voice was hard. “Too much spirit, perhaps, to make a fine wife. We shall see.”

  He dropped his hand with a sniff of approval and gestured to the men sitting in ornate chairs behind him. “My eldest son, Morcant. And here is my second-born, Rhydderch.”

  I swayed in relief as the giant one merely grunted and the more refined brother rose, striding with purpose to stand before my father.

  “Morken, King. It is an honor to meet you at last. I was reluctant to miss the war council, but my attentions were needed in Dalriada.” Rhydderch’s voice was measured. Fine lines creased the edges of his shale-colored eyes as he clasped Father’s arm. He was more than thirty summers, older than Brant, older than Brodyn. But where his elder brother Morcant was overmuscled and clearly stout from over-feasting, Rhydderch had the lithe strength of a man of discipline, one who had burned through all his softness. Turning as if he could hear my thoughts, he locked his eyes on mine with a slight bow.

  “Lady Languoreth. Since your arrival, Partick is enlivened by talk of your comeliness. I admit I did wonder if rumors do blossom on occasion from seedlings of truth.”

  Rhydderch’s words caught me off guard until I realized he meant to test me. Ariane had warned me Tutgual’s son was clever. Now, though his words paid compliment, his eyes posed a riddle. Clever Britons spent hours trading wits and words. They were puzzles, an art of sorts, and one in which Lailoken and I delighted as children.

  Rhydderch was speaking not at all of my beauty; he alluded instead to the recent talk of my character. I bowed my head, trading riddle with riddle.

  “You flatter me, Lord Rhydderch. I find rumors to be as enlivening as often as they are true. I’m afraid on this occasion, however, such talk cannot help but leave its subject wanting.”

  I watched to see if he caught my meaning—that rumors were neither enlivening nor true, and that the truth was always far less salacious than people liked to believe. But Rhydderch’s eyes were shadowed snow in winter, just like his mother’s.

  Tutgual’s chair scraped stone as he rose, impatient.

  “Come. Let us offer some refreshment. This night you are guests of the Fortress on the Rock. Your chambers are arranged. Tonight we will feast!”

  He gave an abrupt clap of his hands and called for music. A cluster of musicians beside the blaze of the hearth bowed their sweaty heads and began to play.

  “Lady Languoreth.” Rhydderch extended his hand. “Will you join me at the table?”

  I inclined my head, feeling nothing as his fingers grazed my arm. He smelled of oil of juniper mixed with clove.

  “Your brother will sit beside us,” he said. A command, not a question.

  “Indeed,” Lailoken agreed protectively. “You will find I am like a lucky talisman. I turn up wherever my sister may go.”

  “I see.” Rhydderch allowed a smile. “Well, you shall always be welcome in my court.”

  “And what of your father’s?” Lailoken cocked his head. “For whilst I am grateful to be welcome at your court, the training of a Wisdom Keeper takes many years to complete. I wonder if by the time I have earned my robes the king will have seen fit to ban male Wisdom Keepers as well.” Lail’s sentiment was not all challenge; there was an ease to his wit that helped him get away with saying such things. If Lord Rhydderch was offended, he did not show it.

  “Well”—Rhydderch smiled revealing strong white teeth—“then I suppose we must pray that will not be the case.”

  He welcomed my brother at his court in the same breath he resigned himself to his father’s rule. He was spineless, I decided. Or was the prince being purposefully enigmatic? As Rhydderch led us to the table, I took his measure. His fingers upon my sleeve were callused, so he did his own fighting. The taut muscle beneath the blue fabric of his tunic told me he took meticulous care in training his body. Ordered. Even. Precise. And clever. Ariane was right: Rhydderch was not like most men. He was more difficult to figure. And that made him far more formidable.

  Laughter rose over the cheer of pipe and drum. I watched as Tutgual’s retinue found their seats, my father easing himself down in the place of honor to the right of the king. Poor father, besieged by the high king’s brothers and nephews, his cousins and their wives, ladies with hair twisted and pinned with delicate bone fasteners, their filmy summer robes gathered and embroidered in the newest styles from across the sea. They looked cruel and peckish, like a flock of hungry chickens. As they sipped from exquisite goblets of glass, their eyes touched upon me before trailing languidly away, as if nothing of remark had captured their interest. Rhydderch followed my gaze.

  “They see you as a country girl.” He leaned in. “Naïve and overly accustomed to the coarser sorts of comforts.”

  Across the table Lail’s mouth twitched with amusement at the flush in my cheeks.

  “I suppose in that they are not wrong,” I said. “I do not delight in finery and I have kept myself mostly far from the capital.”

  A servant came to fill our glasses, and Rhydderch turned to me. “Why is that?”

  “I love my home,” I said simply. Thinking of Cadzow, my chest swelled with longing. “The wilds are in our blood, my mother would always say. She taught us the name of every blossom, root, and tree. I know every crevice of Cadzow’s shady cliffs. I know which pines glitter brightest with fallen snow in winter . . .” I stopped abruptly, certain
Lord Rhydderch did not care to hear me rambling on.

  “It sounds like a place I should like to visit,” he said. “Though it must be easy to love a place when it is the only place you have ever known.”

  His condescension irked me, and I took a deep draft from my wine. “I cannot claim to be a world traveler. But Cadzow is not the only place I know. I have come to know Partick.” I turned to him frankly. “And I do not love it.”

  “No?” Rhydderch’s eyes lit with amusement. “You are unafraid to speak your mind,” he said. “In court you may come to realize this is not always wise.”

  “Perhaps, at your elbow, I can learn the manners most needed to be accepted at court,” I replied.

  The king’s son looked at me then, the weight of his scrutiny making my pulse race in my throat.

  “You should not be insincere, Lady Languoreth. It does not suit you,” Rhydderch said.

  I was composing a response, when, blessedly, a figure over my shoulder caught his attention.

  “Ah. Here comes my mother.”

  I turned to see Elufed sweeping across the room, the hem of her low-cut gown rippling over the shale like water.

  “Lady Languoreth.” She gave a perfunctory dip of her head, and I noticed the black sweep of kohl lining her eyes made them appear as translucent as glass.

  It had been nearly five years since I’d last seen her, yet her flaxen hair was still as luxuriant as spun gold, not a single line having aged her face. I pushed back my chair to stand, but she pressed her pale hand to my shoulder.