A Novel

by Signe Pike

  I walked to the nearest table and set the missive upon it without another glance.

  “Allow me to offer you a mug of ale by the fire,” I said.

  “I make haste to get home to the warmth of my own hearth, but I thank you, my lady.” With that, he was gone.

  “Who is it? Who’s there?” Crowan called, rushing in from the kitchens. She stopped as she eyed the parchment, her thin fingers worrying at her face. “Sweet Gods, it’s come.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve not looked?”

  “No.”

  “Lucky you haven’t! Your father will want you to wait,” she said. And so we sat by the fire, our gazes going in turns to the water-spotted parchment sealed with wax that awaited Father’s return.

  As darkness drew close, I looked at her imploringly.

  “We dare not!” Crowan narrowed her eyes, but she was just as anxious. “Your father could be home at any moment, and more likely than not he’ll be soaked to the bone. I’d be some sort of fool to test his love in this weather, and the same goes for you.”

  I went to pace by the fire. I was about to pluck the missive from the table and hold it up to the light, when the doors swung open and the men blew in, wet as a pile of half-drowned rats. Crowan gave a shout and our servants appeared, their arms full of dry linens. Father accepted one gratefully and bent to towel his hair.

  “How did you fare today?” I asked, trying to keep the nerves from my voice.

  Father shook his head. “Moving mud, that’s all it is. The soil has collapsed, a stew of earth and water. But we got the last of the trenches in. Thank the Gods for that.”

  Father and Lail followed my eyes to the table. Brant and Brodyn stood utterly still, droplets of water beading into puddles on the floor.

  “Tutgual’s man was here?”

  I nodded.

  Father moved swiftly to the table, working his finger under the thick scarlet seal.

  I watched as he let out a slow breath. Nodded. He handed me the parchment.

  It rolled in upon itself like a snail in my hand. After waiting for hours to know my fate, I suddenly wished time to stop so that I would never have to know.

  “Go on, Languoreth,” Father urged. Reading the words would make them real. Taking a breath, I unrolled it, my eyes skimming the message written in Latin.

  “Rhydderch will take me for his wife. A bride price of six hundred silver coins will be paid, and Father will be granted new tracts of land north of Cadzow. It is signed by Rhydderch’s own hand.” I set the paper down on the table and looked at him. “So the matter is settled.”

  “Yes, Languoreth. It must be so.” Father’s eyes touched on mine tenderly.

  Lailoken looked to the ground. “And when will the wedding take place?”

  “We will speak with the king, but I should think it must follow Lughnasa,” Father said. My mouth went dry. Silence fell. I could be wed in less than one month’s time.

  Father sank heavily into his chair and called out in a voice that startled me. “Wine!”

  It was meant to be in cheer, but his voice sounded hollow.

  Servants appeared with cups and an amphora. When the wine was poured, he raised his glass.

  “This is a great day for the house of . . .” His voice thickened with emotion and he shook his head. “Come, fellows. Let us drink. A cup for the bride. We shall celebrate my only daughter, our Languoreth. We shall honor the sacrifice she makes for this family.”

  “To Languoreth!” The cry echoed throughout Buckthorn.

  I raised the cup to my lips and drank deeply, doubting there was wine enough in the world to drown all my sorrow.

  • • •

  As we sat at breakfast the next morning, Father’s mouth was set grim. “It has been too long without news of Telleyr,” he said. “Something has happened. Clearly I cannot send men.”

  Lail looked up from his porridge. “The rain has let up,” he said, waiting for Father to tell him to go.

  “Yes. It’ll be a mucky ride down to the quay. But I thought you might manage it, Languoreth.”

  “Me?” I looked up from my plate.

  “He cannot mean it,” Lail said. “I’ll ride out, Father. Let Languoreth stay here.”

  “Languoreth has occasion to visit the shops, and everyone knows she likes to ride,” Father said. “It would not seem strange should she take the path through the forest.”

  “It would,” Lail said.

  “It would not,” I argued.

  I suddenly found I wanted more than anything to go on an errand for my father. Whether Telleyr had returned to the monastery or been delayed at Clyde Rock, he knew we awaited news. He should have sent word.

  “It would not,” Father agreed. “Men underestimate women. Stupid men, but men nonetheless. You must learn to use this to your advantage, Languoreth. Go and find our friend.”

  “Well, in the very least you cannot mean for her to ride alone.” Lail stood.

  “Lailoken, why must you bicker?” I said, my cheeks heating. “Don’t you care at all for our friend?”

  “No,” Father said. “Lailoken is right. I pray you will not need it, but you should have your brother’s protection. Lail, you may go. But on the condition that you will control yourself. No matter what you may find.”

  “I will. I swear it,” he said quickly.

  “Very well,” Father said.

  “I’ll go and ready the horses,” Lail said.

  Father watched as Lail departed. As I stood to gather my things, he drew me aside.

  “Bring your blade. Keep to the woods,” he said. “And follow Telleyr’s trail. I will trust you to keep a tight rein on your brother. He is too hotheaded for his own good.”

  “I will,” I said.

  The turf of the forest path had absorbed more water than had the river road, which, running south as it did, was a streaming rush of muddy water. It was overcast, and there was a coolness to the air that hinted of summer’s end. As we ducked under the low-hanging branches of the canopy, I could not help but think of Telleyr riding alone toward the quay in the growing dark. The forest path was not much frequented, but since the flooding it had become a veritable thoroughfare. Twice we had to pull aside our horses to let lines of townspeople pass on foot, somber-faced men and women trudging ankle-deep through the muck. But on the third time I caught sight of a symbol resembling a stick figure strung round a woman’s neck.

  “Lailoken, her necklace,” I said. I’d seen it before. Brother Telleyr wore just such an amulet over his robes. “It’s the first two letters in the Greek word for Christ,” I said. “Many Christians wear them.”

  Lailoken looked at the woman. “Pardon me,” he stopped her. “Where do you travel?”

  “To the monastery,” she said, wiping her brow. The new monastery, she meant. At the foot of Bright Hill.

  “May I ask why?” I said. “Is today some sacred day?”

  “No, m’lady,” she answered. “Not as such. We’re going to visit the body of the monk. To pay our respects.”

  The monk. My heart thudded in my ears. “Which monk?”

  “Why, Brother Telleyr, m’lady.” She looked surprised. “There was none so beloved as he, save Mungo, of course. They found him yesterday just down the path, beside the river. Crushed by a tree that fell in the storm.”

  I felt a swift stab. A tree that fell in the storm? It could not be.

  “Thank you,” I said, dismissing her, and looked at Lail.

  “A fallen tree,” he scoffed. “So that is their tale?”

  “I agree. It is all too convenient. We must go, quickly. We must see for ourselves.” With a swift kick I swung Fallah round.

  Her muscles strained as we trotted through mud, soaking my skirts with grime. At last we arrived at the little footbridge in the wood that led to the White Spring. I tethered Fallah and looked up at the sleeping mound of Bright Hill. There would be strange saplings now, planted in the holes where the oaks had once been. An
d new wooden crosses staked above bodies, grave markers for this decaying Hill of the Dead. Beyond the spring, where forest had stood for ages, a lofty wall of timber stakes stretched to encircle the monastery. The gate was unmanned, propped open to welcome visitors arriving to pay their respects. Still, we waited before crossing the bridge. We sought permission.

  On the other side, forest had been cleared to make space for a cluster of buildings. Two long huts covered in whitewash were laid out in a fashion that called to mind the ruins I’d seen of an old Roman barracks: monks’ quarters, most likely. A large rectangular building that looked like a kitchen and communal dining space sat not far from a church made of timber and stone, the symbol of Christ mounted above the door. People milled the grounds, some weeping, others in quiet contemplation, and from somewhere in the distance I could hear the sound of a single anvil striking stone.

  A monk spotted us and began making his way across the field, the wet grass soaking dark patches in the bottom of his robe.

  “Can I be of assistance?” As he looked at us carefully, his name came to me. Brother Anguen. It was he who led sermons with Mungo. He was quite handsome, with rich auburn hair and clear green eyes, but he had a spell-struck look about him, as if he drifted about in a thrall.

  “We were on the road when we heard news of Brother Telleyr. He was a friend,” I said.

  “You are the children of Morken,” Anguen observed.

  “Aye. And what of it?” Lail stiffened.

  “It’s of no consequence, of course.” A shadow flickered over the monk’s face. “Brother Telleyr was a friend to many. A truly terrible accident. We are all beset by grief. As you can see, he was much beloved. We have been receiving his mourners since yesterday.”

  “It is strange indeed that we heard nothing of our friend’s death until today,” I said. “When last we saw Telleyr—”

  Lail gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head and I switched course. He was right: we mustn’t give too much away.

  But it had been just enough. Something had sharpened behind Anguen’s gaze. “Yes, he was found not far from the quay. It was a chestnut tree, fouled at the roots. It must have given way with all the wind and the rain.”

  “And what of his horse?” I pressed.

  “Luckier than he,” Anguen said. “Come. You’ve ridden all this way. You will want to pay your respects.”

  He turned to lead us through the sodden grass, hands clasped behind his back. “He led the building of this monastery with his own two hands. The granaries, the stables. The church. You should return for a proper tour. Today would not be a good day to show you our grounds. As you can see, we are all in mourning.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I can assure you a tour is not necessary. We are well acquainted with the grounds of Bright Hill.”

  Anguen looked back, his gaze lingering on Lail. No doubt he knew of my brother’s training as a Wisdom Keeper. But he said nothing, reaching instead to push open the heavy wooden door to the church.

  I leaned in. “If Mungo is inside, we must not let him incite us to anger,” I warned Lail.

  Lail shot me a dark look and straightened his hulking shoulders. “I could say the same to you.”

  Inside the church, the stone seemed to remember the many days of rain. The temperature dropped and I felt a shiver travel my arms beneath my cloak. Beneath the room’s only window, an altar glowed in the light of oil lamps and two dozen candles. Despite the flickering light, it felt cold and dark compared to the lush majesty of our groves or the cozy little open shelters where our people would sit to pray beside our wealth of sacred springs.

  “This way.” Anguen gestured. We followed him through a low doorway and I was startled to find myself suddenly standing in a small room amid a tight huddle of people. Some stood quietly, heads bent in prayer, while others wept openly, the press of their shoulders blocking the view of the wooden coffin that stood in the room’s center.

  A few mourners turned as we entered, but the man standing at the head of the table kept his eyes cast down. When he raised them, they were rimmed with red. If Mungo was surprised to see us, he did not show it. He had seemed so much older than me that day I first encountered him in the forest. But here in the candlelight, his hood resting at the nape of his neck, I saw he was only six or seven winters older than I was. He looked to Anguen calmly, as if awaiting an explanation. The brother approached him, bending to his ear to speak in low tones. Mungo nodded.

  I felt the familiar mixture of fear and trepidation, but this time beneath it simmered a new and terrible fury. I strained to see past the horde of people but could only see the coffin’s outline. Telleyr’s body was hidden from view.

  “I wish to see him,” I said impatiently, breaking the silence. Faces turned in alarm, frowning.

  “There are many who have come to see Brother Telleyr,” Mungo said. “We will gladly make pardon for you, but we ask that you do not disturb our peace. We are grieving . . .” He said the words as if they were foreign.

  You grieve nothing, I nearly spat, but bit my tongue. I felt Lailoken at my back, his rage billowing like a storm cloud.

  Mungo turned to the mourners and spoke to them gently. “Brothers, sisters. These people have come to pay their respects. Let us grant them a moment alone. We shall meet for prayers at two.”

  Mungo watched them go, then bowed his head. “I will leave you, then.”

  Lail stepped forward, blocking his path. “You will stay.”

  “Your manners are no better than they were upon Clyde Rock,” Mungo said. “Though I suppose that royalty and good breeding need not go hand in hand.” His eyes flicked to me.

  “I would be careful, were I you, with what you imply about my sister,” Lailoken warned.

  “You need not defend me, Lailoken.” I turned to Mungo. “I should have gutted you that day in the forest,” I hissed, before I could stop myself.

  “I cannot figure what you mean.” Mungo looked puzzled. “Are you implying we have met before?”

  I pinned him with my eyes. “You would feign we have not?”

  “On the contrary. I spend much time walking the wood,” he said. “It is the place I feel perhaps closest to God. But I do not know you. You mistake me for somebody else.”

  I bit my cheek, struggling to control my emotion. Father depended upon me to be levelheaded. I could not let Mungo creep beneath my skin.

  “Will you tell us who found him?” Turning to the coffin, I prepared myself to see the body of my friend. But the coffin lid was shut. “People have come to mourn. Why is Brother Telleyr’s body not on view?” I asked.

  Mungo sniffed. “It was the state of the body,” he said. “Crushed, you see. I would spare the members of my flock the sight that I and my brothers were forced to see. As it was, it was three of our parishioners who discovered him,” Mungo said. “By the time he was found, it was too late. It took two oxen to clear away the tree that had fallen upon him.”

  I watched as he spoke. Mungo was not telling the truth. He thought he was clever, but I read it plainly upon his face. As I stood listening to his lies, I felt the sting of tears imagining what Telleyr might really have suffered that day in the wood. I could feel the air beginning to thicken with our mounting fury. I worried for a moment what Lailoken might do—so much so that at the sound of my brother’s voice I nearly jumped.

  “Brother Telleyr must have been on an errand of some import,” Lail said, fixing Mungo with a stare. “I cannot imagine why else he would venture out in the coming night.”

  Mungo raised a hand, flickering his fingers dismissively. “Who knows where the errands of God may lead us?”

  I spoke quickly, reaching back to stay my brother. “I should like to say my farewells in private. Perhaps, Brother Garthwys, you might leave us after all.”

  “Very well,” Mungo said, but he seemed suddenly suspicious. “See to it you let him rest undisturbed. Once was quite enough. I won’t see you make it a habit to disturb good Christ
ian men at rest.”

  He put before us the memory of Fergus as if to smear our faces in it, as if he meant to incite us to anger so he might force us to leave. There was something Mungo did not wish us to see.

  “I am to tell you our father will see to the cost of Telleyr’s burial,” I said. “He was our friend. We would also make certain that arrangements have been made.”

  “I have personally taken care of the funeral expenses,” Mungo said. “One of our brothers is a stone carver, and he’s been at work this morning on a proper headstone. I shall see to it that Brother Telleyr has something far grander than this simple pine coffin. He shall be buried in a fine casket of oak.”

  Mungo’s words were heavy with impunity, but his meaning was not lost on me. Oak being the sacred tree of our Keepers.

  At last Mungo moved to the door. I felt the air nearly lighten with the departure of him but then he turned to loose one last arrow.

  “Brother Telleyr will be buried beside Brother Fergus, you know. Up on the necropolis. I believe it was once called ‘Bright Hill.’ Perhaps you can visit him there.”

  There was a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. I wanted to fly at him, to claw at his face with my fingers. I felt Lailoken’s anger, the pent-up desire to lay this man flat right where he stood.

  “Close the door,” I said to Lailoken. Mungo’s thin lips stretched into a smile, and with that, he was gone.

  With the door safely shut, Lail moved hastily toward the coffin and lifted the lid.

  At first I could see only that the figure of Telleyr was lifeless. His hood was drawn up around the warm face we’d come to know so well, his fingers knit over the crest of his ribs as if he were sleeping. I had never noticed how tall he was, how strong in the shoulders from years of farming and clearing land and building huts, all in the name of his God.

  I’d seen too many dead bodies, but it was not the horror of death I found most startling. It was the absence of life. Pale skin once flushed by humor turned waxen. Never did the body feel more like a shell for the spirit than when emptied by death. Setting my jaw, I reached in to gently push back Telleyr’s hood. It was then I saw the swollen eye. The purpled bruises. His face was covered in angry welts, and I drew in a sharp breath as I saw the place where the back of his head had fallen in, as though struck by some sort of blunt object.