“If they have not slain Gwrgi, will he not seek revenge?” Angharad asked worriedly.
Diarmid’s dark eyes were solemn. “Yes, Angharad. He will seek revenge.”
“And what will happen then?”
“When that day comes, you must do as we say. But a child like you needn’t worry.” The Seer patted her hand reassuringly. “There is a great plan for you, Angharad, for you are Chosen. The Gods call their children to them, and shelter none so much as those who do their work. Your course was charted long ago, so whatever may come to pass, you must not fret. You will be safe from harm, Angharad of Strathclyde. I, Diarmid the Diviner, do promise you that.”
II.
Myrddin… was a white hawk
when the fierce battle would be fought,
when there would be a joyous death,
when there would be a broken shoulder,
when there would be heart’s blood before he would be put to flight.
—“Peiryan Vaban” (“Commanding Youth”), translated by John K. Bollard, The Romance of Merlin
CHAPTER 6
Languoreth
Tutgual’s Hall
Partick
Kingdom of Strathclyde
October, AD 573
Imprisoned in the dark of my chamber, I could not see the sky, but I knew rain was coming, for my body ached in places I was overworn. My hips, from bearing four children. My wrist, from bracing my fall the time I’d been struck by a man. And then I was thinking of my eldest boy, Rhys. Of Angharad. Of Maelgwn and Lailoken and my foster brother, Gwenddolau, and the beast descended to devour me once more.
At first there had been no words.
All I could do was retreat in my memory to the time we began—my twin brother, Lailoken, and I.
In those days, our father yet lived. I danced beside the blaze of a Midsummer fire and loved a black-haired warrior named Maelgwn under a temple of trees. My youngest daughter Angharad had not yet been taken from me. My firstborn, Rhys, had not yet ridden off to war.
These were the days I chose to inhabit. I left my body like a shell and buried myself there.
Time passed. They had given me, at least, parchment and ink.
Scarcely pausing to eat or sleep, I wrote of all that had taken place, sometimes through laughter but more often through tears, until my story had unraveled and I arrived back at the place I now dwelled—a prisoner in my own chamber, armed guard at my door.
My husband and eldest son had ridden off to make war upon my brothers.
It had all happened so quickly.
Gwrgi and Peredur of Ebrauc had arrived at Tutgual’s gate demanding an end of Uther Pendragon. I’d been barred from their War Council, but their claims, I knew, would be threefold: that Pendragon’s violent raids against Ebrauc were evidence of his dangerous thirst for power. That Pendragon was weakening, and should his lands be seized by the Angles, all of our kingdoms would be vulnerable to attack. Last, they would cite Pendragon’s refusal to pledge fealty to any overking. If it came to war with the Angles, Uther Pendragon could not be trusted to join a Brythonic confederation.
And so Tutgual agreed, and together their armies left to crush Gwenddolau once and for all.
And yet there was a darker, more insidious reason this battle had been waged, one not spoken aloud.
The people of our island were divided by belief. Gwenddolau and his kingdom kept the old gods, while kings such as Tutgual, Gwrgi, and Peredur claimed devotion to Christ.
The battle against the beliefs of our ancestors had begun when I was a child. I came of age in a time when a Wisdom Keeper still possessed the power to speak first, even before a king. Now Wisdom Keepers were replaced by bishops who worked with a willing nobility to create a new order, one that subsumed the power of our Keepers. Still, for as many Christian families as there might now be, there were just as many who kept the ways of those who’d come before. Slaying Uther Pendragon would be a devastating strike against the people of the Old Way.
Knowing my devotion to both my brothers and the Gods, my husband shut me away so I would not send warning. But I had already sent my groom by the time I heard the ominous slide of the bolt against my door. I only prayed my warning had reached Caer Gwenddolau in time.
Now, when I slept, I dreamt of my daughter.
I’m all right, Mama, I’m all right, Angharad called out. But she was not all right. She was treading chest-deep in an ocean of blood, her tawny hair soaked with it, eyes wide as she struggled to keep to the surface. I plunged into the viscous depths, felt it seep into my dress as I struggled to reach her. My nose filled with the smell of rust, and I woke.
Angharad. In the tongue of the Britons, her name meant “most beloved.”
I had railed and pleaded and screamed and wept until the guards became deaf to it. Time passed, and I began to understand there was no escape from the prison save death itself. I understood that this chamber was not the prison. The prison was of my husband’s making—the war he was waging even now against those I loved most.
Then I remembered that while Angharad and Rhys were away and in such terrible danger, I had two children yet here. Two children yet with me, and they needed their mother.
And so this time I did not beat at my door but tapped softly upon it. The guard must have recognized I’d returned to myself, for at last, after too long, he opened the door.
“Please,” I said. “Bring me my children.”
He looked me over, then turned away. Moments stretched. I smoothed my hair and pinched my cheeks to summon life I did not feel. And then my serving woman Aela came. With her were Gladys and Cyan.
“Mother!” Gladys ran to me, but Cyan stood at the door, regarding me as if I were a stranger. I clutched Gladys as she shook with her tears, her slender shoulders somehow more womanly though it had been only days. How many? Truthfully, I did not know.
Gladys drew back, eyes wild with fear and with anger. “Why have they not let us come until now? Why are they keeping you here? Did they discover your groom?”
“Gladys!” I gripped her, glancing hurriedly at the door. “You must not mention it. Do you understand? Not ever again. That I would send warning… the king would have my head for that.”
“I’m sorry, Mother!” She burst into tears anew, and I cursed Rhydderch’s family again and again, pulling her close.
“Never mind it. Tutgual only means to keep us safe,” I lied. “Strange things happen in times of war. Men’s minds are bent. We will be out of harm’s way here in the capital, in the hall of the king. We are together now—that’s all that matters.” I looked up in search of my youngest son. “Cyan, will you not come? Please. I would hold you.”
He gave in at last and let me embrace him, but his gaze remained fixed upon the floor. He would not forgive me so readily for abandoning him. His fair hair smelled of candle wax, and when I took his hands in mine, I saw his fingers were stained with pigment.
“You’ve been drawing. What have you made? Will you bring it to me? I should like to keep it in my chamber.”
It was this that summoned his tears, and his gray eyes filled. “Will they not release you, then?”
“My boy. My love.” I drew him back into the circle of my arms and hugged them both so fiercely I wondered they did not break. “It will all be over soon. Your father and Rhys will return, and with them will be Angharad. We must believe it to be true. We will survive it no other way.”