A Novel

by Signe Pike

  “What is it?” Maelgwn shifted. “Why are you looking at me so?” His smile faded as he studied my face. “There’s something you wish to tell me.”

  I wanted more than anything to tell him of Rhys. I knew he suspected as much already. But I didn’t want to hurt him anymore, ever again. And I just didn’t know how to begin. I took a breath. Better to just come straight out with it.

  “You’re right. I wanted to tell you—”

  “Mummy!” I startled and looked up to see Angharad racing toward me along the forest path, her arms flung out in delight. Lailoken lifted a hand in greeting, Cyan and Gladys at his side.

  “We’ll come back to it,” Maelgwn assured me.

  I gave a slight nod as Lailoken called out, “Your wood nymphs have found me and I am returning them unharmed!”

  Angharad grinned up at her uncle, her pale face dusted with summer freckles.

  “We were catching moths in our hands, like this!” She cupped her hands and made a show of peeking inside the cage of her fingers.

  “I see. You’re a pack of rascals,” I said, smiling, and bent to snare her in my arms. “Did you know that if you knock the dust from the wings of a moth, it can no longer fly?”

  Angharad stopped.

  “It’s true,” Gladys said. “I told her not to do it. She never listens.”

  “You would do very well to listen to your elder sister,” I said, drawing back to look at her. “And what have you got in your pockets?”

  I waited as Angharad dug for her treasures.

  “Ah, green acorns,” I observed. “And a very pretty jay feather. And this . . .” I took the red-bulbed mushroom between two fingers. Some of the white warts had worn off in Angharad’s pocket, but Lailoken should know better.

  I looked into her slate-colored eyes. “This toadstool is poison, Angharad. It can kill you.”

  “That’s not what our uncle said,” she protested. “Lailoken told me the Wisdom Keepers eat this mushroom and it teaches them how to fly.”

  Maelgwn chuckled. I looked at Lailoken with a frown. “Your uncle said that, did he?”

  “To other realms,” Lail said, waving it away. “She knows it cannot teach you to flap like a bird.”

  “And did he also tell you that only a Wisdom Keeper knows how to prepare it thusly?”

  “Of course I did. But Angharad’s no fool. She knows not to eat it, don’t you?” Lailoken tousled her auburn hair. “She admires the colors is all.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” I took the toadstool firmly in hand and looked at her. “This has no place in a little girl’s chamber. Toss it away, please.”

  Angharad’s little face reddened with shame and I tamped down a swift surge of guilt. I felt the weight of Lailoken’s gaze upon me as she took the mushroom gingerly from my palm and tossed it back into the forest.

  “Come now, children. Let’s walk back to the hall.”

  Lailoken came to walk beside me as we moved along the forest path. “That was cruel,” he said softly so the children would not hear.

  “You cannot allow children to collect poisonous mushrooms.” I looked away and beckoned for Cyan and Gladys to join me. “So,” I said brightly, “tell me of your adventures. Where have you been this morning?”

  We walked back together through the wood, Angharad trotting closely behind with Maelgwn. He smiled as she rattled on about the wild creatures they had seen and the tales Lailoken had told them.

  “Did you know that it takes thirty petals to make a daisy?” she asked. “And twenty-four grains of pollen can be carried on the belly of a bee.”

  • • •

  Later that evening, long after dinner had been served, I sat with a cup of wine on the slope of grass in front of our hall where I could look out over the river. I could feel the press of ruthless men on Gwenddolau’s borders as if they shadowed my own. Tonight I would speak with Rhydderch. There had to be a way. Several paces away, Rhys practiced with his sword, and watching him brought me comfort. Soft strains of music sifted through the twilight. Though Gwenddolau had again been absent from dinner, the Dragon Warriors had found an ease with Rhydderch’s men, and I could hear deep rumbles of laughter as they passed round the ale horn, trying to best one another with stories. Amid it all I waited for Maelgwn to come; I’d felt his gaze upon my back as I’d turned to leave. But our men were everywhere. Rhys was here, swinging his sword. And anywhere else we might possibly escape to would be too private to be seemly. I could hardly admit Uther Pendragon’s general into my private chamber.

  In the end, it was Lailoken who found me instead.

  “You’re missing great tales about goats.” He crouched down beside me, cup in hand.

  “Ah, then I’ve left just in time.”

  My brother plopped down heavily beside me in the grass. “I owe you thanks. Gwenddolau told me of your discussion. He seems much relieved by your medicine. He was even able to prop himself up for dinner.”

  “Though not in our hall,” I added.

  “But you spoke with Rhydderch, did you?”

  “I told him only that Gwenddolau had fallen ill on his travels. You know more than anyone that Rhydderch is shrewd. I cannot say he believed me. I rather think not.” I glanced at him. “I have not yet spoken to Rhydderch about Gwenddolau’s allegiance. I will do it this night.”

  I thought again of the little girls. Perhaps Lailoken was right. Perhaps I did not know my own husband after all. The thought gave me a sudden chill.

  “Are you cold?” Lail asked, wrapping a sturdy arm around me.

  “No. I was only thinking how much I miss you.”

  “And I you.”

  “Things haven’t been the same since you left.”

  “I suppose we’ve both grown up, haven’t we?”

  I looked down. “Sometimes, when it’s quiet here, I think about our childhood days at Cadzow with such longing, I could weep. It doesn’t feel right that we should live so far apart, you and I. You’re half of me, you know.”

  Lailoken looked out over the edge of the gorge in the fading light, his thumb absently tracing the finger where we’d pricked our oaths so long ago.

  “Nothing can touch those days,” he said. “The earth here remembers. We remember.” He looked up at the first stars of twilight. “Someday we shall live together again. When we are old and wrinkled. You can build me a grand house up on a hill, somewhere I can observe the stars, and we shall drink wine and hobble about and bicker, just as we do now.”

  “Sweet Gods,” I groaned. “Pray someone strike me dead before all that.”

  Lail laughed, a sweet, rich sound that eased the pulsing of my heart. From behind the hall, the low call of our groom sounded as he summoned the horses to the stable for the night. Rhys was a shadow against the fading sky as he sheathed his sword and swiped at his brow.

  “Are you finished, Rhys?” I called out.

  He looked over. “In a while, Mother. There’s light enough yet to toss the spear.”

  “He is a strong warrior already,” Lailoken observed, setting down his cup. “Much like his father.”

  “Of course. Rhydderch is a prince, after all.”

  Lailoken’s eyes softened. “It will only become more apparent the older he gets. Surely you must have considered this.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. “He is nearly seventeen winters and no one is yet the wiser. This secret shall not leave us. Is that clear?”

  “Do not doubt it,” Lail said. “I worry for the boy is all. He is a fish out of water at Rhydderch’s court.”

  “Not so long as he swims in his mother’s sea.”

  “And will he keep to his mother’s sea when the men of his family drink from the baptismal font? His father is of the Old Way. Our way.”

  “Rhys is strong and wise and blessed with a kind heart. Religion will not change him.”

  “And what about Angharad? Would you see her raised a Christian, too?” Lail looked at me keenly. “Come, now, sister. You must have realized
by now that she is Chosen.”

  My ears pricked like a mother lion’s. “So now we get to the heart of it. Yes. I suppose it is plain enough to see.”

  “The Gods have marked her, Languoreth. This is a call greater than any mortal man or woman can deny. I thought as much before, but now I am certain. She has our mother’s gift. The one you could never realize. She needs proper training. And yet you chastise her.”

  Lailoken’s words stung, and I drew away.

  “How might I encourage her, Lailoken? Tutgual King cares not what mortal men can or cannot deny. He would never consent to have Rhydderch’s daughter trained as a Keeper. Zealotry aside, she’s too valuable a pawn. He’ll want her wed. And Rhydderch would never consent to send his favorite daughter away. He is most attached. No. I will not see her heart broken over this.”

  “As yours was?”

  “I think you remember how I felt.” I fell quiet.

  “The call was not yours to receive. But it is your daughter’s,” he said firmly. “I prayed you had made peace with this some time ago.”

  “I’ve made peace with a great many things,” I said.

  “Indeed? You talk of Rhydderch and Tutgual, but I think there is a deeper reason you have not heeded Angharad’s calling.”

  The truth poked my soft places like a stick but I shook my head.

  “She is nearly eight winters, but it is not yet too late,” Lailoken said. “Let me take her. I will love her and foster her, and above all I will ensure she receives proper training.”

  “Take her?”

  The thought of Angharad being taken from me brought on a wave of panic so swift, it was as if someone had thrust a hand into my body and ripped the womb from my belly. “She is a child, Lailoken. She cannot be taken from her mother.”

  “Children younger than Angharad have heeded the call. Already she and I are bonded. Surely you can see that, too.”

  I looked up, bewildered. “And what do you know of raising a child?”

  “I am a man of thirty-two winters and head counsellor to Uther Pendragon,” Lailoken said. “Since joining our brother in the Borderlands, I have initiated scores of young men and women into the Keepers’ fold, and yet you look at me and all you see is a boy, your twin. I am grown to a man, Languoreth, and I am not incapable of raising and loving a child. What I do not know of being a father, Angharad would teach me, and I would be her most ardent student.”

  “Let it lie, brother,” I said, my voice full of warning. “I will not discuss this any further.”

  “I only ask that you hear me.” Lailoken shifted to crouch before me, his face earnest. “I swear to you, Languoreth, I will love Angharad like my own. I will lay down my life to protect her. I promise you, no harm will come to your daughter in my care.”

  “I am sick of Wisdom Keepers telling me what I must sacrifice, of taking every last thing I love away!” I turned away, tears spilling onto the fabric of my robe.

  The air between us was charged as if by a storm. Lailoken pressed his lips together, and I saw the mottled pink patches where his beard would never grow. The seal I’d made with the branding of my knife.

  “You asked if I remembered how you felt,” Lail said. “I remember you felt robbed of your greatest desire. I remember you felt as if you were nothing more than a game piece.” He looked up. “Is this what you wish for your daughter? This is Angharad’s destiny. She will wither without it. Angharad is meant to be a Keeper. Please. Do not be the one to stand in her way.”

  I dropped my head into my hands. “I cannot say good-bye to her. Not my little girl.”

  Lailoken waited.

  When at last I spoke, it was in a whisper. “If she goes, when might I next see her?”

  “It will be some time. If I am to foster her, I could not bring her when I came to your court. It would only confuse the child. She will need to be immersed in her training. She could visit when she reaches fifteen, but not before.”

  “Seven years.” I nearly choked.

  “Seven years and she will be free, living the destiny the Gods have carved for her,” Lailoken said. “What is seven years in exchange for that?”

  “Seven years is a lifetime in a mother’s heart.” My voice was bitter, my stomach cramped as if she had already been wrenched from my arms.

  Lailoken bowed his head. “I understand.”

  “I do not believe you do.”

  A straw moth flicked past my ear, drawn to the gold embroidery of my robe. I watched as it settled on my bent knee and folded its papery white wings over its back.

  “I will speak with her,” I said at last. “It must be her choice. Angharad must understand what it means. She must know what she will lose.”

  “Of course,” Lail said.

  “And what of Rhydderch and the king?”

  “Leave it with me. I will speak with your husband.” Lail stood with ease and extended a hand to help me to my feet.

  “You must never lose faith in the Gods, Languoreth. Angharad is marked to become a Keeper. What is meant to be will come to pass, I can promise you that.”

  The bodice of my robe felt suddenly tight as I entered the hall, as if it were pressing the breath from me. Maelgwn sat beside the hearth surrounded by a group of twenty men, all of whom seemed to be vying for his attention. He looked up and his face stirred at the sight of me, but his green eyes were sad.

  He could not break free without being noticed, and I could not risk a message, written or not. Women had been executed for less deceit than I was guilty of. And what might become of Rhys if it was discovered that he was not Rhydderch’s natural son? Banishment, if not death.

  No, the truth of the matter would have to go unsaid. Tomorrow, if all went as the Gods seemed to will it, I would be forced to say good-bye not only to my lover but also to my child. I turned as Lailoken strode past the hearth and bent to speak low in Rhydderch’s ear. I could not bear witness to this—any of it. Rhydderch stiffened, his gray eyes settling on me, and I wondered if he could see the guilt that clung to me like leeches.

  I signaled my retirement for the evening to my husband and climbed the stairs, knowing eventually he would follow.

  What answer would he give Lailoken? Perhaps he would not answer him at all. My chamber was a sanctuary of stillness. I draped myself over the bed, half-extinguished. I must have closed my eyes, for when I opened them, Rhydderch was sitting beside me, his bearded face watchful.

  “You fell asleep,” he said, his voice even, his eyes unreadable.

  “Has it been long?” I pushed myself up with some effort.

  “It has been a long night for me,” he said, his voice not so much weary as oddly numb. “I have only just come from speaking with your brother. You know what he asks?”

  “I do.”

  “There were days when one could not refuse the call of a Keeper, or so Lailoken reminds me.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you, as Angharad’s mother, you would part with her?”

  I closed my eyes. “I would. Though it would shatter me.”

  Silence hung heavy between us until at last he looked up. “Then Angharad will leave with your brother and the Warriors Pendragon in the morning.”

  My heart swung between uncertainty, loss, and relief. “And you?” I asked. “Is this what you wish?”

  Rhydderch bowed his head. “The old laws are not yet gone from here. But now new laws rise, too, laws I do not always have a taste for. I love Angharad. I love my child,” he said. “But I have seen her speak to things that I cannot see. I have watched her fascination as she walks in the wood. I know there is no place for our daughter in a land of priests. The old laws are no more mine to break than are the new. My only hope is for our daughter’s happiness.”

  “But your father . . . What if he does not consent?”

  “I have considered it, believe me, wife. There were days when Tutgual still visited the temples of the forest, just as I yet do. But my father is not sentimental. His zeal will not
prevent him from seeing a purpose when that purpose presents itself. Your brother may be a Wisdom Keeper, but he is also head counsellor to Gwenddolau. Uther Pendragon may never swear fealty to my father, but Angharad’s fostering would create a bond between Strathclyde and the Pendragons. It may someday be of use to him, though he may not know yet to what end.”

  “Then it is done,” I said.

  He traced his thumb over the back of my hand. “Yes. It is done.”

  Until this moment, my skin had borne only Maelgwn’s touch. Rhydderch’s fingers brushed the enchantment away like dust from a moth’s wings.

  I drew my hand away gently. “I should go to her. She will be sleeping soon. Will you come?”

  “Nay. Let her hear it from her mother. I will be better fit to see her off in the morning. Besides”—he cast a gloomy look toward the door—“we have guests yet in the great room. I must return for a while before I can retire to bed.”

  I nodded and Rhydderch turned to leave, but I knew I must ask him the question that had been haunting me since Lailoken’s return.

  “Husband. I would rest better for my part if I knew you had no knowledge of the most recent dealings of Gwrgi and Peredur.”

  He looked at me, his gray eyes tired. “I will not aid Gwenddolau. I cannot. Do not press me, wife. For tonight, I have given you enough.”

  Rhydderch had answered. I had no choice but to leave it for now, but I vowed to bide my time. Perhaps there would yet be a way to make my influence felt. And, truth be told, I had no argument left in me. I was to say good-bye to my daughter on the morrow. Tonight I would tell her that in the morning she’d be leaving.

  Cyan was already asleep against his pillows, but he shifted a little, restless, as I kissed him and blew out his candle. In the room beyond I heard Gladys and Aela softly laughing and the slap of water as it spilled over the edge of the wooden tub and onto the floor. I found Angharad in the chamber she shared with her sister, her nightdress bunched up around her knees as she crouched on the bed like a magpie, sorting her woodland treasures.

  She glanced up. “Hello, Mama.”

  “Hello, little dove.” The hay in the mattress made a shushing sound as I sat down beside her and smoothed back her hair, still wet from her bath. Her skin smelled of pine needles and rosemary soap. Was this how my own mother felt when she had to break my heart? She had been firm, too firm, and at the time it had seemed needlessly cruel. Now I sat before my own daughter with happier news, yet it was not happy at all.