A Novel

by Signe Pike

  Anger flashed in Rhys’s eyes before he turned away, shaking his head. “Come now, children,” he said, ushering his brother and sisters across the field.

  Aela, who had been standing at my side, let out a breath.

  “Rhys is no longer a child, my lady. You know as well as I that he is grown to be a man. Two years now he’s been fighting at his father’s side. I know you don’t wish to think of it, but after this winter’s sea storms have abated . . .” She meant to say that Rhys would likely be given his own retinue of Rhydderch’s forces to command soon.

  “Please. Don’t speak of it.” I held up my hand. “Not now. Not yet.”

  “As you say.” Aela bowed her head. “Shall we get you dressed, then, my lady?”

  I slipped my hand into my pocket, where it closed tightly around my green ring. “Yes, I had better ready myself.”

  As we hurried toward the hall, the cool, familiar comfort of the metal pulsed against the cushion of my palm. Inside the hall I was greeted by chaos as servants swept the slate floors and brought in armfuls of summer greenery to deck the tables. Aela closed my chamber door and I fought the sudden urge to lean against it to keep the world at bay. Instead I sat on the edge of my little pine chair watching Aela heave open one of my trunks and rifle through it with practiced hands.

  “And will you wear the green robe?” she asked, drawing it out.

  “The green?” My voice was too sharp, and Aela turned, studying my profile.

  “It’s only that it’s so lovely with your hair . . .”

  Of course. She couldn’t have known it was the color Maelgwn had favored on me so long ago.

  The ring suddenly burned like an ember and I drew my hand from my pocket. “No, not the green,” I said. “I am the wife of Lord Rhydderch. Any day now he shall be named tanist. Tonight I will wear the color befitting a royal. Tonight I’ll wear the purple.”

  After the ring had come nothing. It was the last of anything I’d had from Maelgwn. Lailoken visited us at Partick and at Cadzow, his pockets stuffed with secrets and sweets, but he never brought one word from the man I loved.

  At first I begged for news, for any small detail of Maelgwn. How were his new men training up? Was he keeping his feet dry in all the autumn rains, the winter snows? I sent messages by Lail full of love and reassurance. Again and again I was met only by silence.

  At first it was merely puzzling. There was a time I would never have doubted his love. Surely there was good reason Maelgwn had not sent any word. But time passed and resentment sprouted, binding my insides like a disease. Look what a desperate woman he’d made of me. No, this was my doing. Hadn’t I been playing the part of the warrior’s wench all along?

  In the end, perhaps I took pity on my brother. The pain my own suffering caused him was plain upon his face, and he had such pressures now in the Borderlands. There were only so many times I could ask my twin to feel my own heartbreak.

  “I have delivered each message. I swear it,” Lail assured me.

  At last he’d said gently, “Perhaps it is better this way.”

  And so nearly seventeen years had passed. I was thirty-two winters now. I had borne four strong and beautiful children. I had given my faith to my husband. All was as it should be.

  But as I lifted the bronze mirror from my dressing table, the expression that met me was furrowed. I turned my head to the left, then the right, my fingers exploring the smooth skin of my cheek. I supposed I did not look so very different from when we’d first met. Tired about the eyes, but my softness had been replaced by lean muscle from chasing my children and lack of good appetite; I was hungry for a food I could never consume. A caring wife if not a happy one. I loved Rhydderch in my way, but he could not fill me.

  I was dutiful but hollow-hearted.

  Try as I might, I could not part with the little green ring. And so Aela knew that in each robe or new frock that I bought, whether it be of silk or wool or finest linen, a pocket must be sewn, though she never asked why. Attached to a slender chain and fastened by a pin, I kept the ring safe in that pocket, close to my hip, where Maelgwn’s head had once lain.

  Seventeen years. I had been such a fool.

  I set down the mirror and, reaching into my dress, gave the golden band a sharp tug. There was a satisfying snap as the pin ripped loose from its anchor in my pocket, and I set the ring down on the table before me, the little chain dangling like an umbilical cord.

  “Yes,” I repeated, straightening. “I’ll wear the purple. The new robe with the gold embroidery. Let them see me for the woman I have become, not the foolish little girl I once was.”

  • • •

  Darkness fell, and still Gwenddolau and his men had not arrived. I waited with the children for the call of the watchman’s horn in my weaving room, my fingers clumsy at the loom. Rhys was in the great room beyond with our warriors, where the tables were decked with late summer blooms and drinking horns, where the firelight flickered and our musicians sent sweet strains echoing beyond the Hall into the dusk. In the corner, beside the lamplight, Angharad hummed the kennings I’d taught her. Not the words—those she knew must be kept secret—but the melodies. I’d kept them in my memory from Ariane all these years. Now I knew they were meant for Angharad all along.

  The children grew hungry, and I sent for some bread.

  “What are you weaving, Mama?” Gladys came to sit beside me, her pale fingers reaching gingerly to trace the threads.

  “Who can tell?” I murmured. “Busywork, that’s all weaving is. It keeps a woman from going mad.”

  I looked at my hands on the loom, crisscrossed with tiny lines, each one a story of time gone by. Just then the call came up from the watch. I looked up.

  “Our guests have arrived. Come, then. We must greet them.”

  I took my place beside Rhydderch, to the right of his great oaken chair. His gray eyes swept my face and he reached back to touch my hand, reassuring. We had not had time to speak of what this might mean, this sudden and unannounced visit. And now outside the Hall came the heavy sound of boots as the men dismounted from their horses.

  My long auburn hair was shiny and plaited, pinned with combs. My purple robe skimmed my figure, the intricate embroidery drawing the eye to the curves of bust and hip. My eyes were lined with kohl, my freckles powdered pale with lily root. There was a dull ache at the thought that three men I’d once been inseparable from had become so distant from me now as I stood waiting, a polite smile upon my face.

  Rhydderch’s wife, the lady of the Hall.

  I felt like a rose clinging to a woody stem in winter, faded and used up.

  What had I done to fulfill my great destiny? What revenge had I exacted to right the wrongs done to my family?

  I had aged and borne children. I had entertained rich lords and helplessly witnessed their maneuverings. In the world of the high king, a woman was an ornament to be tossed on the midden pile once her enamel wore off. But just as I thought that, I loathed myself for it. If I succumbed to that belief, then Tutgual’s reign had done its work.

  Elufed and I knew a woman’s worth.

  My husband’s mother had become a trusted friend, and more than anyone she had guided me well. Did I not have my husband’s heart but also his ear? Had I not grown wise in all I had seen? Did I not work each day to be a model of intelligence, grace, and kindness to all of our people?

  I imagined my backbone built of iron. I had taken on my roles to the best of my abilities. Seventeen years of silence had taught me I owed Maelgwn nothing. Then the footsteps were sounding. The voices were dropping. The servants were craning their necks. The Dragon Warriors were coming.

  The doors opened and I saw their figures etched against the darkening sky, the first stars winking beyond their silhouettes in pinpoints of light against the azure of the coming night. Gwenddolau entered, flanked by twenty solemn-faced men, scale-bellied in their ebony lamellar armor, shields slung over their shoulders, eyes hard and wary of strangers. They smel
led of mud and sweat and leather.

  I scoured the ranks until I found him, Maelgwn, my living ghost. He wore his thick black hair long now, held back by a golden ring, but it hadn’t a trace of ash in it. His olive skin had weathered from the pelt of rain and snow, but his face . . .

  His eyes . . .

  The quiet assuredness that breathed from him . . . I had summoned him a thousand times alone in the dim: green eyes, strong brows, straight nose, even mouth. The vines that had bound me twisted. Then gave way.

  My love.

  It was as if I’d spoken the words aloud: Maelgwn’s gaze tracked me like a falcon’s. Our eyes met, and time fell away. I read him like a parchment and his body told me the story of the Dragon Warriors: seventeen years of warring, raiding, and tribute. The power and wealth the Pendragons had amassed was evident in General Maelgwn’s golden armband and masterful cloak clasps, in the rare indigo dye of his tunic; the cost of that power in the hardness that now clung to him, black as hearth smoke, in the set of his jaw, in a new scar that arced above his right eye, a sliver of white cutting through his dark eyebrow like a crescent moon.

  All this had changed. But the look in his eyes was unmistakable.

  You, it said. It has always been you.

  My heart flipped like a wounded rabbit and I tore my eyes from his. If this was so, then why had he tortured me with his silence?

  You mustn’t stare, I warned myself. No one must see what’s passed between you.

  Gwenddolau strode forward to clasp Rhydderch’s arm, and I watched, unhearing, as words passed between them.

  Uther Pendragon.

  Somewhere beneath this man’s leather scaled armor and impenetrable countenance was the boy who’d carried me up from the river on his shoulders. Gwenddolau was just as golden now as he’d been then, his pale hair long and loose about his shoulders, tangled from the wind. There were small braids plaited throughout, secured with golden rings that caught the gleam of the oil lamps as he bowed his head in greeting. His forehead was tan, dust from the road lining its creases, but it held more furrows than a man of forty winters should wear. And the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes—there were stories here, too.

  Not crow’s-feet from laughter. These were of a different sort of bird: hunchbacked, vulture-like, they were watchful lines that came from searching the hills for any flicker of movement, squinting at every shifting shadow in the underbrush.

  Uther Pendragon’s face was that of a man with too many enemies.

  The Dragons who stood before me now guarded significant treasure. But gold always came at a cost.

  Behind Gwenddolau the men hefted trunks: gifts for Lord Rhydderch, who might someday be king. I could see now how Gwenddolau bent a little as if cradling his ribs. His blue eyes were rocks, but behind them I sensed something cavernous. The human body yet spoke to me in a tongue I could not forget, and Gwenddolau’s body was worn through.

  “Languoreth.” Gwenddolau’s eyes were trained on me now, awaiting my greeting.

  “Gwenddolau, my brother.” I rushed forward to embrace him, and beside the summer hearth the musicians struck up their instruments.

  He drew back to look at me. “Sister. It has been too long. It does me such good to see you.”

  “And you.” I squeezed his callused hands. “Are you well, truly?”

  He raised a brow but allowed me to inspect him. “Have the years truly treated me so poorly?”

  “No, no,” I said. “You seem tired is all. Yours was a long journey.”

  “There is no need for politeness, little sister. Not among family. I know how time has worn me.”

  “Time has worn us all,” I said. “We all wear our histories, whether it be inside or out.”

  “Not you,” he said. “You have not aged one single winter, I could swear it.”

  “Come, now. You needn’t flatter your host. But you!” I turned to Lailoken, who stood waiting impatiently. “You look worst of all.”

  “You should watch how you speak to a Keeper.” He smiled and leaned in to kiss my cheek just as Gladys and Angharad broke the line and ran to wrap their arms around their uncle.

  “My littlest ladies,” he groaned beneath their weight as he hefted them. My brother, at least, was blissfully unchanged. Though he, too, wore his hair long, the front of his head was shaved in the style of a Keeper and plaited as Cathan had done, in a braid down his back. He wore a full beard that now partially obscured his massive scar. And while Gwenddolau’s eyes had dimmed, Lailoken’s glowed with a warmth and charm that was captivating, contagious. He lumbered forward to greet Rhydderch with a crooked smile, Angharad’s legs wrapped around one hip and Gladys clinging awkwardly to the other.

  “Daughters,” I called after them, “you are nearly eight and ten. You mustn’t hang on your uncle so. You’re going to break the old man’s back!”

  Lailoken threw me a look but straightened in relief as his nieces dismounted. I kissed my cousin Brant, graying at the temples but much unchanged. I could feel Maelgwn’s eyes on me as he stood with his shoulders square, waiting. I should greet him. As lady of the house it was my duty, was it not? But just as I moved to welcome him, Rhydderch placed his hand on the small of my back. It was strange and unsettling to have the two of them standing face-to-face, equal in height but different in every other aspect. Maelgwn was broad where Rhydderch was narrow. Maelgwn’s hair was dark as peat, while Rhydderch’s was oak, threaded now with thick strands of silver. But both pairs of eyes belonged to men who missed very little.

  “Lord Rhydderch.” Maelgwn bowed. His green eyes touched on mine. “My lady.”

  Rhydderch’s hand went protectively round my waist. “General Maelgwn, you are most welcome. But I cannot help but notice. You look at my wife as if you are acquainted.”

  “Indeed, for we have met,” I said quickly. “Maelgwn visited my father on a few occasions at our hall.”

  Maelgwn blinked at my half truth but dipped his head gracefully. “It is so. You look well, Lady Languoreth.”

  “And you,” I said, then turned to my foster brother. “Come, Gwenddolau. You must meet my children.” I gestured for them to join us before Rhydderch could observe anything more.

  “Children, come and meet your uncle, Lord Gwenddolau,” I called. “And this is Maelgwn, his general and second-in-command.”

  The children clustered round like seabirds, and I spoke their names as they bowed, the blood pumping in my ears. I could not help but wonder if with one look Maelgwn might know. Rhys’s eyes, green as pine. But his skin was mine, fairer than his father’s, and he had the shape of my face about him. I watched like an eagle as Rhys clasped Maelgwn’s thick arm with a nod of admiration. Then Maelgwn stepped back, his eyes sweeping our son’s face as if he were figuring a riddle.

  Beyond the pulsing in my head, Rhydderch was welcoming the men with lifted cup, the warriors were settling onto sturdy benches, the servants bringing out the platters of beef and salmon trapped in our waters.

  Maelgwn cocked his head as if to say something, but I reached out to smooth Rhys’s checked tunic with a smile.

  “Come, Rhys, you have a place beside your father. Our servants will show General Maelgwn the way. It is late now, and time to eat.”

  Rhys bowed his head and went to the table, but Maelgwn caught my sleeve, his eyes flickering in the lamplight.

  “I have not set eyes on you in nearly two decades and you treat me like a stranger.”

  “Are we not strangers now,” I asked, “after so much time?”

  “Nay, Languoreth. I could never be a stranger to you.”

  “Is that so?” I suddenly wanted to strike him and clutched at my skirts to stay my hands, turning to him instead. “How dare you speak to me now as if we are familiar. In fact, it would please me most if you would not speak to me at all. You’re practiced at that, are you not?”

  He drew back with a look of consternation. “What I did, I did for your protection. Surely you must know—”

&
nbsp; “Please take your seat,” I said, turning away. My cheeks were flushed with heat and I could feel Rhydderch’s eyes upon me across the room. This was dangerous—too dangerous. I took a breath to calm myself and crossed the room. Gathering my robe, I sat gracefully beside my husband.

  “You are upset,” Rhydderch said. “What were you speaking of?”

  I knew my husband would not be fooled by smiles and platitudes. “An old disagreement,” I said. “One better left buried.”

  “And is it, then?” he watched me. “Buried?”

  “Yes.” I met his gaze. “In truth, it was buried long ago.”

  “Very well, then,” Rhydderch said. He lifted his spoon, urging me to do the same. “You must eat something, my love. Autumn is coming and it will be cold. You are growing too thin.”

  • • •

  Later, Lailoken and I sat side by side looking out over the great room as empty platters were taken back to the kitchens and glasses and drinking horns refilled.

  “It worries me that Tutgual has not yet named Rhydderch his tanist.” Lail said. “Did not this past birthday mark Tutgual one thousand years old? I am beginning to think he sips each night on some magical elixir.”

  “It is no laughing matter,” I said. “It seems the king’s health will not falter. There are things I wish . . . but we mustn’t speak of that here. Tell me,” I said, observing Rhydderch and Gwenddolau at the head of the table, “why does Gwenddolau sit so stiffly beside my husband?”

  “Gwenddolau does not trust the lords of Strathclyde.”

  “Then why has he come? Rhydderch is my husband. Can Uther Pendragon not even show his host some good favor in conversing?”

  “Good favor.” Lailoken’s echo was hollow as he set down his cup.

  “Brother”—I searched his face—“tell me the reason you’ve come. You have heavy matters on your mind. How might I ease your burden?”

  “Yes, he is silent.” Lailoken stared at Gwenddolau and Rhydderch, unhearing. “To have come all this way, and our brother sits silent!”

  “Gods, speak plainly, Lailoken. I am your sister and your ally, or have you forgotten?”