by Signe Pike
“By the time I have spoken my piece, you will see I have not forgotten.” Lailoken took a deep draft from his cup. “You have heard, I am sure, of the raiding by Gwrgi and Peredur?”
“Yes, of course.”
He set down his cup, eyes fixed on the hearth. “When Emrys rose up, he was lord of nothing: a burnt-out fortress and smoldering fields. Now look at the golden clasps in Gwenddolau’s hair, the jewels in his brooch. We have fields bursting with crops. Endless heads of fine cattle. We have chests of silver and gold, booty and coin such as even you cannot imagine. The lure has become too great.”
I frowned, impatient for my brother to reach his point. “Surely, to be robbed of booty and livestock is a blow—”
“Booty and livestock?” Lail’s laugh was bitter. “Nay, sister. Perhaps that is how they began . . .” His eyes touched on Angharad and Gladys. Their faces were bright across the room, heads raised to the high thatching as they twirled to the beat of the bodhran.
“Only days ago we came upon our village of Sweetmeadow. They had rounded up the women and the girls.” Lailoken’s jaw twitched, and he looked away. “Perhaps it is better that at last Gwrgi killed them, for I will never forget what I have seen.”
“Children? You cannot mean . . .” Lailoken locked his eyes on mine and I pushed away my plate, sickened.
“We mean to show the sons of Eliffer that harming little children is not a sport,” he said.
“But what will you do?” I asked. “How will you answer?”
“It will come to war. Already we fight with the new Angle king. I fear a war with the sons of Eliffer might break us.”
There was a shadow of fear in my brother’s eyes unlike anything I’d seen before. Lailoken feared nothing. And yet he feared this.
“Then you cannot fight them,” I said. “There must be another way. Double your men. Triple your patrols.”
Lailoken looked up angrily. “You speak as if this has not already been done! They mean to incite us. For twenty-three years the Dragon Warriors have bled to protect the people of Pendragon. Emrys rose up to fight when their own king would not. Under the Pendragon banner the people have prospered. Under the Pendragon banner the people have been safe. We cannot fail them now.”
“You must appeal to Tutgual,” I said. “He may be a tyrant, but surely even he would see the evil in their ways. You need the might of Strathclyde behind you.”
“Our lands are beyond Strathclyde’s borders,” Lail said. “Yes, Tutgual would be all too happy to exact tribute upon us—to expand his influence over our trade routes, too, if only Gwenddolau would bend his knee in fealty. But that is something Uther will never accede to.”
“Then you must tell Rhydderch what Gwrgi and his brother’s men have done. He will speak with the king. Perhaps something can be arranged. You must treat with Rhydderch right away.”
Lailoken blinked. “You think I tell you of things your husband does not already know?”
“No.” I shook my head. “Rhydderch could not know of such horrors. He would have spoken of it. Surely he would have ridden out!”
“Sister, I sent word of Sweetmeadow to your husband myself. Perhaps you do not know him as well as you think.”
I looked at Rhydderch, his gray eyes intent as he watched the bards play. No. Rhydderch could never stand by after learning such atrocities were taking place. And yet . . . I knew such an arrangement would be at great cost to my husband. He was not free to align himself with whomever he chose. The throne could go to any male heir. First Tutgual would have to name Rhydderch tanist, his chosen successor. Then Rhydderch must be elected by the Council. Supporting the cause of a man who would not pledge fealty to his father would be unacceptable. Unless, of course, Gwenddolau would pledge fealty to Rhydderch.
“You know as well as I that Rhydderch can do nothing without first securing Gwenddolau’s fealty himself,” I said. “An allegiance is a costly thing: vessels, food, and weapons. Horses. The lives of men. Rhydderch cannot risk himself if Gwenddolau is not under his command.”
“It is as you say, but I fear he will not do it,” Lailoken said. “No Pendragon has ever sworn allegiance to a king. And, truth be told, I am with Gwenddolau. What do the Pendragons owe to a king? One king fled as his people were cut down to nothing. Another pits his servants against one another for sport. No, I cannot blame him. Yet I fear it is our only hope.”
As I watched, Gwenddolau nodded curtly at Rhydderch and stood, striding to join his men on the fleece-lined couches by the wall.
“But Rhydderch is a good man, and true to his word,” I said.
“You ask why we have come. Gwenddolau thinks he comes to treat with Rhydderch. In truth, I have brought Gwenddolau here so that he might speak with you. You must persuade Gwenddolau to swear his fealty to Rhydderch.”
“And what will Gwenddolau care for my thoughts when he will not even heed the word of his own counsellor?”
“Counsellors and kings do not always agree. You know as much. You are Gwenddolau’s own sister, and you have lived beside Rhydderch for many winters now. I can only hope Gwenddolau will hear from you what he cannot from me. Too many wait to catch sight of the chink in Pendragon’s armor. Look at our brother and the price he has paid. He cannot go on like this. His body has been mended so many times, it is ripping at the seams. He must make an allegiance, and soon.”
Across the room Gwenddolau sat hunched with his elbows on his knees, his eyes lost in the fire. I could see how tired he was, how used up. If I had seen it so plainly when he arrived, I could not have been the first to notice.
“I will speak with him, and with Rhydderch,” I said. “But it will take time. How long can you stay?”
“Three days, perhaps, maybe four. Long enough to rest the horses and our men’s tired feet and not a moment more. We must strike within a matter of weeks. The atrocities of Sweetmeadow cannot go unanswered. If we attack, even in defense of our people, it will be nothing less than a call to war.” Lailoken fixed his gaze on his fingers, anxiously rubbing his knuckles.
“But what if he will not listen? He seems a different man from the one I once knew.”
When Lailoken looked up, it was the face of a Wisdom Keeper, not my own twin, gazing back at me.
“I can only hope that he will heed you,” he said. “The wolves are circling and evening has come. It is time for the Dragons to find a safe haven.”
CHAPTER 42
* * *
I thought on my brother’s words late into the night. If only Gwenddolau could become better acquainted with Rhydderch. I would organize a hunt for the pair of them and then speak with my foster brother at day’s end. Surely by then Gwenddolau would see that Rhydderch was deserving of his fealty. That he was a man who could be trusted. And yet, why hadn’t Rhydderch told me about what had taken place at the village of Sweetmeadow? What Gwrgi had done to those innocent girls . . . children. I could not imagine.
The summer skies were gray and foreboding, rain misting in fine swaths beyond the shuttered windows. I sent a man to Gwenddolau’s guest quarters, as was custom, to determine how he would like to spend the day.
Did Lord Gwenddolau wish to hunt?
He declined.
Surely then, he would like to watch a race? It could be organized quickly and with little effort; we maintained a good trail that ran clear through the pastures behind the hall. Again his response came back that he thanked Lady Languoreth and Lord Rhydderch, but what he would most prefer was to spend the day in his quarters.
“He comes to our hall only to refuse our invitations.” Rhydderch gave me a look before striding toward the door. “I’m riding out to visit with the tenants. Rhys, come with me.”
I twisted my fingers in my lap as Rhys followed his father out the door. Poor Rhys. He’d made such heroes of the Dragon Warriors. Now they’d hidden themselves away in our guest quarters like a bunch of petulant old men. The visit was going badly, but I could not let Rhydderch discover just how badly things trul
y stood.
Gwenddolau had never had much patience for playing politics. He must have already decided he would not pledge himself to Rhydderch. Now he would avoid his host and stay only long enough to get what rest he needed for his men.
“Is Father upset?” Gladys asked, watching her father and brother go.
“No, my love. It takes a great deal more than this to make your father upset, but Lord Gwenddolau has certainly insulted him with his refusals.”
“It is insulting,” Cyan said darkly. “He could at least suggest an activity that would better suit him.”
“But why does he keep himself away?” Angharad complained. “Uther Pendragon is our uncle, yet he won’t even come to us.”
I bent to brush her hair behind her ear. “Your uncle is tired. He has had a long journey.”
“He isn’t our real uncle, anyway.” Cyan narrowed his eyes. “He’s only your foster brother.”
“Foster siblings are no less legitimate than our own kin. It is an oath, a binding of family!” I spoke more sharply than I intended. I had not realized the depths of my own sadness. Gwenddolau was my brother, and I could not stand to see him coiled up in our guest quarters like a wounded old dragon.
Angharad fixed her eyes on the ground. “I want to see Lailoken,” she said.
“You are right.” I stood suddenly. “They have come all this way, and who knows when we shall see them again? Let us go to them, then. We shall go and see both your uncles right now.”
Aela stood hurriedly. “My lady, if you mean to visit the guest quarters, perhaps you should send Brodyn first. The men may be . . . otherwise occupied.”
Women, she meant. Most likely nude.
“If that is the case, I have no doubt Brodyn is already there,” I said frankly. Tapping my cheeks to bring some color to them, I gestured for the children to follow me out of our hall and into the rain.
Droplets splattered down my bodice from the thatching overhead as I lifted the iron latch of the guest hall and thrust open the door.
Inside, the quarters smelled of stale mead and unwashed bodies. There was a flash of naked flesh as my eyes adjusted to the weak light and I heard a curse. Squinting into the gloom, I saw a yellow-haired warrior yank up his trousers as he swiveled to frown at me.
“Wait here a moment, children.” I pressed them gently back.
The Dragon Warriors were scattered about the main room in varying states of undress, the prettiest whores of Goddeu come to sit astride them or bend provocatively to serve them drink. Gaming pieces were scattered on the tables, and smoke trailed from the wick of an oil lamp that had just exhausted itself. As if entirely too accustomed to his surroundings, Maelgwn sat at the long table in the center of the room, studying a map by candlelight.
“Greetings, General Maelgwn.”
At the sound of my voice he rose too quickly, bumping the table and tipping the candle in its holder. Hot wax splattered across his knuckles and he cursed, frowning at his company.
“Cover yourselves, all of you. There is a lady present.”
Cyan pushed in beside me, his gray eyes widening as a blond woman with berry-stained nipples reached languidly for her dress.
“Lady Languoreth. What brings you here?” Maelgwn asked. For a moment I imagined his eyes flickered with hope.
“I am looking for my brothers.”
He gave a curt nod. “Gwenddolau is in the back chamber. Lailoken left earlier, I presume for a walk.”
“I would speak with Gwenddolau. It is a matter of much import.”
“Gwenddolau does not wish to be disturbed,” he said carefully. “Perhaps I might be of service.”
“No. You cannot be of service. I must speak to my foster brother.” I planted my feet. Maelgwn studied me a moment before raising his brows with a nod.
“Very well, then. You can answer to him. Come, I will show you the way.”
“I thank you, but there is no need.” I held up my hand. “This is my guesthouse, after all. Come children, follow me. We’re going to speak with your uncle.”
Maelgwn did not give way as I brushed past him. I willed my cheeks not to flush at the nearness of his body to mine in the confined quarters of the room. The Dragon Warriors looked on—some in disbelief and some in disdain to have their revelry disrupted, and by the lady of the hall, no less—as I led the children past the smoldering hearth pit and rapped at Gwenddolau’s door.
“What is it, then, are you ill?”
I thrust the door open but stopped at the sight of him.
Gwenddolau sat propped up in bed, his golden skin pale and his clear blue eyes rimmed red. He tried to stand at the sight of us but winced, doubling over, his hand cradling his ribs.
Angharad looked at him as she came to stand beside me.
“He has a wound,” she said, tugging at my fingers. “On the outside it is healed, but it festers from within.”
“How do you know this?” Gwenddolau demanded. Angharad shrank behind me, disappearing behind my skirts. I reached back to squeeze her little hand.
“It only matters if it is true,” I said. “Come, brother. If you are injured, you must let me see.”
“Mother,” Gladys said meekly. “Perhaps we should wait outside?”
“Not me,” said Cyan. “I want to see.”
“Of course you may stay.” Gwenddolau’s laugh came easily but turned to a cough as he gestured to the stools perched beside his bed. “It gladdens me to see my nieces and my nephew.”
“If you are certain,” I said. I looked to the empty stool at his bedside. Lailoken had been there. His presence lingered upon the seat, and I wondered what they had been discussing.
“It’s no trouble,” Gwenddolau said. “Besides, such wounds of war will come. You would all do well to watch your mother at work.”
“I’m afraid my healing skills have fallen out of use,” I said. “Will you still let me?”
His eyes locked on mine. “You and no other.”
“Very well.”
“Cyan”—Gwenddolau bestowed a charming smile upon him—“you must tell me what you’ve learnt of Pythagoras of Samos whilst your mother pokes and prods at me. Lailoken says you are already a great student of philosophy.”
Cyan beamed, then became suddenly quite serious. “Certainly, Uncle. You see, it was Pythagoras who first discovered that everything given to us by God was made up of numbers.”
Gwenddolau’s smile faltered as readily as it had come. “You mean to say the Gods.”
I turned quickly, giving Cyan a reassuring look.
“Cyan is currently tutored by priests,” I said. My eyes beseeched Gwenddolau not to berate his nephew for a fault not his own.
“Of course he is.” Gwenddolau bowed his head. “Please. Continue, then, Cyan. And forgive my interruption.”
I drew up Gwenddolau’s shirt as the children began arguing over the role Pythagoras’s disciples played in his work and Aristotle’s thoughts behind his Metaphysics.
Gwenddolau watched them with amusement, but his blue eyes kept returning to Angharad. “It would seem your youngest possesses her mother’s gift,” he said.
“Nay. She is far more gifted than ever I was.”
He sucked in a breath as my fingers tested the flesh between his ribs.
“Sorry, brother. Only a moment more.” I leaned in to study the pink scar I found there, alarmed to feel the heat emanating from beneath. “This wound—what was it?”
“A spear,” he said. “But it was some years ago.”
The scar was the size of a game piece, but where the tissue should have been firm, there was a softness beneath it like rotten fruit. Angharad was right, not that I’d doubted her. Gwenddolau’s old wound was festering from within. And the tightness in his cough—I worried for his lungs.
I lowered my voice. “When you cough, is there blood?”
“Some.” He gestured at a rag beside the bed and I saw it was soiled with bright streaks of rust and phlegm. Our eyes met.
/> “Gwenddolau. You must tell my husband you are not well.”
“No.”
“Rhydderch thinks you insult him.”
Gwenddolau rubbed a hand over his pale beard. The children had gone quiet, listening now.
I turned. “Children, perhaps you should go find your uncle Lailoken. General Maelgwn mentioned he’d gone off for a walk. Bid Aela go with you. And mind you fasten your cloaks and draw up your hoods so you don’t get too soggy.”
“Yes, Mother,” Cyan and Gladys said, obedient. Only Angharad peered reluctantly over her shoulder as she followed them out the door.
With my children gone, I turned back to Gwenddolau.
“Lailoken has told me of your predicament,” I said. “I know you place no faith in kings, but you must trust Rhydderch. Please, brother, I beg you. Tell him of your condition. Pledge your fealty in exchange for his aid.”
Gwenddolau would not look at me. “You make it sound so simple.” He reached for a bedside cup, his eyes lost in memory.
“Tell me, sister, do you remember the day we first heard that Vortigern had fled? The day we first heard of the great hero named Emrys?”
“Of course I remember. It was just after Mother died.”
“Aye.” He nodded. “Morken summoned us all to the courtyard. I had been training with my sword. That day I could not hack hard enough. I had lost so much, I wanted revenge. I could not know I was preparing for the day when I would fight at the side of that very same hero: the Great Pendragon, the man who summoned an army from the wilds. He taught me that only small men fight for revenge. Honorable men fight for something far greater. They fight for freedom.
“Shortly after I joined Emrys at the wall, his men made him their king,” Gwenddolau went on. “A Wisdom Keeper had come. She hailed from the north. She consulted her oracle and conducted the sacrifice. She led Lord Emrys into his tent, and when they emerged some time later, he bore a mark just like this.”
Gwenddolau slid back the loose collar of his shirt. There upon his chest was the massive likeness of a dragon. It was this I had glimpsed so long ago on the contest field at Lughnasa, but to see it up close was astonishing. Its talons gripped the smooth flesh of Gwenddolau’s torso, its serpentine body twisting between the peaks of a mountain scene, claiming its land. The artistry was fearsome and of such tremendous skill that the dragon seemed to breathe with each rise and fall of Gwenddolau’s chest.
