“Vortigern hides behind his walls whilst his countrymen are slaughtered,” Father said. His gaze flicked to Gwenddolau and back. “Tell me. What path have the Angles sought?”
“From Vortigern’s fortress at Bryneich straight through the Borderlands, ’til they wet their boots in the western sea,” Oren said.
A shadow fell across Gwenddolau’s face. His father, Ceidio, had taken refuge in the Borders.
“Our countryside is yet filled with fierce men who are ready to fight.” Father cast Gwenddolau a steadying look. “My friend Ceidio is such a one.”
“It seems that is so,” Oren said, his voice taking on a new tone, one of excitement, perhaps even belief. “Even now, I hear tales of such brave men who have gathered in the wild places. They wait in the glades, caves, and by the coast, eating no more than sea kelp and shivering in the damp. They wait for a worthier man to lead them.”
My heart skittered in my chest to hear it. Lailoken stood.
“Can we not ride out to challenge them, Father?”
“Do not be in such a rush to claim your glory, Lailoken.” Father turned to him, tapped a finger upon the thick white scar that marked him from temple to chin. “Such scars of war may come. But for now a king of the north cowers in hiding. His son and lords have fled. The Angles raid the countryside in much greater numbers than our own. This is not yet our war. You will have many battles yet to fight without luring the enemy to our door.”
Lail sank back in his chair with a frown.
“And what of King Ceidio?” Father asked. “Is there any news of our friend?”
Oren looked to my foster brother. “I am sorry. I have heard nothing of your father’s whereabouts.”
“We will have news; give it time.” Father gripped Gwenddolau’s shoulder. “Ceidio is a sound warrior with good men yet by his side.”
“Tutgual will call a Gathering. We must prepare our belongings,” Cathan said, then turned to Oren. “You say there are yet men who lie in wait for a leader. Is there talk of such a man?”
“There is talk of a man called Emrys,” Oren said. “They say he is a shrewd man, and battle hard. His people are Sarmatian; they came with the Romans. For five generations since, his family has guarded the Wall. Warriors all.”
“A Dragon Warrior,” Cathan observed. “If any can hope to press back the Angles, it is he.”
Dragon Warrior. I mouthed the words at Lailoken, my eyes wide. Cathan had told us of the Sarmatians. They fought in scaled armor and hailed from the far East, the frostbitten lands of grass. Their standard was that of a great dragon that made furious shrieking sounds when it met with the wind, causing their enemies to pee in their britches. They, too, had once fought the Romans. When they, too, were defeated, they were shipped over the broad sea to guard the Wall built by the wicked emperor Hadrian. The Sarmatians were paid handsomely to keep us wild Britons, Picts, and Westmen at bay.
“His forefathers may be Sarmatian,” Oren said, “But he is a Briton, a man of the Wall through and through. They call him Pen Dragon.”
“Head Dragon, indeed.” Cathan looked pleased.
“But he is lowborn.” Father turned to his counsellor. “You know as well as I the lords and high chieftains will never follow him.”
Cathan smoothed his white sleeves and strode to the hearth, his gaze settling on the crackling flames.
“We shall see, Morken, my old friend. In times such as these, when the people need a hero, so are such heroes made.”
CHAPTER 3
* * *
I woke to the nicker of horses in the courtyard, Father’s voice coming muffled through the thick timber walls.
“Aye, Herrick. Load it on the cart.”
I heard the unmistakable scrape and thunk of Father’s heavy wooden trunk and bolted upright. Yanking my boots over bare feet, I wrapped my cloak over my shift and rushed out into the dull gray morning. A gloomy gust of wind assailed me as I rubbed my eyes to take in the flurry of activity. Beside the naked branches of the apple tree, Father’s chestnut stallion stood sleepily next to Cathan’s mottled gray. Macon, our groom, was leading Gwenddolau’s mount along the narrow dirt path that led from the stables.
“My lady.” Our servant Herrick gave me a nod, the corded muscles of his back straining as he worked to angle my father’s trunk past two others in the cart and secure them with rope.
At the sight of me Father straightened, dropping his hands from the girth buckle. “Languoreth.”
He’d trimmed the wiry cinnamon hairs of his beard and was clad in his fur-lined traveling cloak. His thick golden torque gleamed heavy at the hollow of his throat.
“Where are you going?” I asked, my boots clomping as I crossed the wet grass.
“Tutgual King has called for a Gathering of the kings and lords of Strathclyde. It is as we thought. I must leave this very morning for Partick,” he said.
Days ago I’d lost my mother. Now my father was being called away?
Father shook his head. “You look at me as if I were going to leave without saying farewell! Come now. It’ll be a fortnight, maybe less.”
I stared at him, gutless, and he bent, leveling his brown eyes on mine.
“Daughter. What would you have me do? Ignore the summons of our high king in the capital? You know I must go.”
I looked frantically round the courtyard. “Then you must leave Cathan with us, or Gwenddolau!”
“Cathan is not only my counsellor and your tutor, Languoreth. He is also head Wisdom Keeper of Strathclyde and lord of the White Isle. He can no more ignore such a summons than I. And Gwenddolau is nearly a man. He will soon need to make his own way among these courts. You will be in trusted care. Brant and Brodyn will stay.”
“No. I want to go with you,” I said. “Take me to Partick.”
“Languoreth. You are far too young, and the roads now are far too dangerous.”
I didn’t believe him: there could be nothing so dangerous between here and such a place. Partick was shining and ripe, a capital full of sweet orchards where all the nobles kept residences. Gwenddolau had told me of shops there laden with pottery from Gaul, the vendors selling herbed olives and exotic spices, their carts full to bursting with creamy cheeses, perfumes, and incense that had journeyed all the way across the ocean, up the glittering expanse of the river Clyde. I longed for Partick and yet I did not know which I wanted: to travel with Father or to keep him from leaving.
Foundering, I searched until I found it, the thing I knew would stay him.
“But Mother is dead. It has only been days! Would you so soon forget her?”
As soon as I said the words, I wanted to swallow them.
“Still your mouth, child.” Father’s dark eyes pinned me, his hands curled involuntarily into fists. He had never struck me, but if he did now, I might have earned it.
“With every fiber of my body I grieve for your mother,” he said. “But I am a king, chief of Goddeu. Even now, Picts and Westmen creep their boats up our stretch of river in search of weakness. They lurk round my borders eyeing my cattle and grain, the very wealth we depend on. Even now, the Angles march, burning and slaying as they make their way back toward Bryneich. The blood of my father and all four of my brothers has soaked this land. I will not forsake them. You think I am the only man to lose a wife? Death is no excuse for any man. Least of all a king.”