Chapter 1: Languoreth CHAPTER 1 Languoreth Dùn Meldred, Southern Kingdom of Gododdin Land of the Britons 2nd of July, AD 580 It began with a dream. Those were the first words my daughter uttered after eight years missing. Angharad was dead. Or so I'd been told. When I sat at my weaving, eyes touched upon me with pity. Look at the woman who has lost both daughter and son. I met their gaze, unflinching. Yes, I am still here. It is a wonder, is it not, what the heart can survive? I heard them whisper, Some say she still keeps counsel with their ghosts. Perhaps they were right. For only yesterday I had watched my lost daughter glide like a specter across a battlefield. Who was this woman who kept company with Pictish warriors, ink marking her body and hair falling down her back in a mass of ruddy coils? She wore a cloak made of feathers, beaded and slick from driving rain. From a distance, I'd not known her at first, my own child. The relentless churn of time can do such things. After all, how could I have imagined the woman she'd become? Now she stood beside me high upon the ramparts of a fortress, her gray eyes somber as we looked out across a field of the dead. On the muddy expanse below, warriors prodded the fallen, hoping to finish any enemies who yet lived. Soon, the corpse birds would come. Lord Meldred's Hall sat like an eagle's nest high above the Tweed River Valley, commanding views of the Dreva Hills. Spears of summer sun pierced the blue-black clouds overhead. It was the sort of light that followed a storm, casting the grassy lands of Dùn Meldred in a gilded light that belied the massacre below, where men lay like effigies, eyes unblinking. My body still thrummed from the terrors of war, but I pushed it aside, reaching instead for Angharad's hand. Along the creamy underside of her wrist, a trail of birds had been pricked in black ink. "Crows?" I asked. Had she remembered what I'd told her of my old teacher Cathan, or how our hearts were like birds, pricked full of feathers? But the look she gave me was veiled, unyielding. "We cannot speak of our markings," she said. I felt a stab. We cannot speak . My daughter was a stranger, no longer a Briton. Last evening I'd overheard her speaking with the Picts, their tongue rushing from her lips like water. Now, when she spoke Brythonic, it was with the cadence of one who came from the north. I did not want to ask how long she would stay, for I knew she would not. I looked at our joined hands. "You must forgive me. I cannot help but touch you," I said. "This morning when I woke, I worried it all was a dream, your returning." Angharad looked at me, her gray eyes taking my measure, but said nothing. If she was angry, she had every right: I was her mother, meant to protect her, yet I'd sent her away when she was just a child. My reasoning had been sound. Angharad had a gift. But what did that matter? I had sent her away, and she'd been lost to war. She and her elder brother, Rhys, whose first battle had been his last. "You must know," I said, "not a day went by that we did not search for you. I carry the loss of your brother like a boulder. But a child gone missing is worse than any death. The trickery of hope is enough to drive a mother mad. We searched for you in kingdom upon kingdom, our search sputtering out again and again on the shores of either sea. I am shamed to say, the days I woke and wondered if you might be dead, I felt the smallest relief. For at least in death I knew you could not be suffering." Angharad looked out over the hills. "There are those who call the kingdom of the Picts the Shadowed Lands," she said. "I cannot blame them. One can scarcely imagine its vastness. There are mountains upon mountains, countless rivers and lochs that furrow the land. It is a world unto itself. Deep and hidden. As a child, I feared it. But now I cannot imagine who I might have become had I not known it. Now there is no other place that feels like my home." I could not help but marvel at her--this young woman who'd dreamt that an army of Angles was marching to make war upon the Britons. She had returned to us with a band of Pictish warriors who had turned the tide of the battle. I had been headstrong and impetuous at her age. Angharad's training had wrought her into a woman far wiser than her seventeen winters. After the Battle of the Caledonian Wood, as our celebration had cooled to embers, I'd listened with a tortured sort of rapture as Angharad described what had become of her as a child all those winters ago, in the Battle of Arderydd. She'd run to my brother's hut in the woods to find his wife, Eira, waiting. They'd escaped the fighting only to be taken by Gwrgi of Ebrauc. Though he said he meant to deliver Angharad to her father, Eira knew he could not be trusted. Their attempt to escape left Angharad alone in the forest. There she met a monk who promised to deliver her to safety, but their boat was set upon by Picts, and Angharad found herself held captive once more. Since that day, she'd been hidden away in the shadowed lands of the Cruithni, the first people. Over time, her memories of home grew distant. She began her training as a priestess. She woke one day to find that she no longer wished to escape. "Angharad...," I said now. But for some things, there are no words. She turned to me, reading my face. "It wasn't your fault, Mother. All that passed was meant to be. I do not blame you for it." I reached out with my free hand to smooth her coiled hair. "You are so at ease in the hands of the Gods. They have snatched you up as if you were their treasure, when always you have been mine." I reluctantly lowered my hand from her hair as if she were a thing forbidden. "I strive to be devoted. I have even felt their touch. But giving you up was one of the most difficult demands they have made of me. And now, knowing all the misfortune you suffered, I do not know if I can ever be at peace." Angharad looked at me as if I'd somehow disappointed her. "It was not misfortune, Mother. Can't you see?" She took a breath as if to say more, but the moment was broken by a shout from the battlefield. She lifted her hand to block the sun, squinting into the distance. She pointed. "There." Far across the fields, where the river Tweed snaked beneath the Dreva Hills, a cluster of warriors was racing to surround a wounded man. They'd discovered him as they were rooting through the nearby heap of dead warriors, no doubt. But from the way he loped, half crouched as he attempted to run, he appeared close to death himself. "He must have hidden beneath that pile of the dead," Angharad said. "Yes," I agreed. "And that standing stone will be Drumelzier Haugh." I nodded at the specked stone in the distance. Our warriors closed on him like a pack of hunting dogs, but not before he'd reached the tall gray stone beside the river, falling against it as one embraces a mother. The man was claiming sanctuary. The warriors stepped aside as Torin, captain of my guard, pushed through. I did not know much of the ancestral stones here; these were the lands of our neighbors, the Britons of Gododdin. But sanctuary was a right by law, and--enemy or no--our warriors would not risk dishonoring the dead. Torin turned and looked up, searching out the place where I stood, and I motioned impatiently, my voice carrying across the pasture from the great height. "Bring him," I called out. They snatched up the prisoner, tossing him onto a nearby cart, and I took my daughter's elbow. "Come, we'll meet them at the lower gate," I said. "I am curious about this man. He may be of value." Angharad nodded. I glanced over my shoulder at the fort as we trod the mud-slick path, wary of meddling. My husband, the high king of Strathclyde, was out hunting survivors with Lord Meldred and the Dragon Warriors. With Rhydderch away, my word was held highest. But the battle was scarcely over, and Lord Meldred's swineherds still milled the grounds with their wolfhounds close at heel. The wayward warriors would be all too eager to wet their blades with Angle blood. The sturdy doors of the outer gate eased open and my warriors urged the mule-drawn cart through. I studied the wounded man as the cart rattled closer. Older than twenty winters, yet still younger than thirty. His hair was the color of ash bark, his beard trimmed to a point, darkened by blood. His eyes were a pale blue and his skin was waxen. He'd lost much blood. He grunted in pain as my men hoisted him, propping him against the back of the cart so I might look him in the eye. Torin was already frowning. It seemed the man had tested his patience. "We discovered him skulking beneath the dead. He claimed sanctuary before we could spear him," he said. "Has he given his name?" I asked. "He has refused, my lady." "Is that so?" There was something distinctive about him, something in his bearing that made me wonder if he might be nobility. I moved to stand before him. "Tell me, then. What is your name?" The man turned away. "Obstinate," I observed. I looked to Torin, giving a slight nod, and he jabbed the butt of his blade against the man's weeping stomach wound. The man expelled an animal sound, collapsing in pain. "Your name," I said. He looked up, eyes searching the sky overhead. "My name... is Ealhstan," he said. Beside me, Angharad shook her head. She leaned in, speaking softly in my ear. "Ealhstan is not his name." I did not question my daughter's gifts. "My daughter is wise," I said. "Lie to me and I will discover it. And it will be far the worse for you, Angle." "I have given... my name." I tossed him a reproachful look, and Torin leveled his blade at the man's throat as I leaned over the splintered edge of the cart. "You have claimed sanctuary," I said. "However, I wonder: Is sanctuary to be honored in times such as these? What honor have your people shown in slaughtering good Britons, in burning our homes as you swarmed from your stolen lands at the edge of our eastern sea? And not for the first time," I added. "I was a child of ten when Ida the Angle took the kingdom of Bryneich. I saw what 'honor' the Angles were made of then. Babies smashed against rocks. Children made motherless, limping to my father's gates in states of gore. I wrapped their wounds with my own two hands." I gestured and Torin pressed the point of his blade to the skin. "You wear the clothes of a footman, yet I sense you are learned. I am learned, too. Do you know who I am?" He coughed, his look dismissive. "You are Languoreth of Strathclyde. Wife of Rhydderch. They call you the 'Lioness of Damnonia.'?" I glanced at Torin. The Lioness of Damnonia? This was a name we had not heard. "Yes, I am Languoreth of Strathclyde. But who are you?" I said. "I possess some knowledge of Anglisc, thin as your tongue may be. Eahl-Stan . It means 'sacred stone,' does it not? Come, now. You insult me." "I have claimed sanctuary," he said. "Kill me, and you do so before the eyes of the Gods." "Your sanctuary means nothing to me. The Morrigu rode with the Britons today. I'm certain she would not deny me the satisfaction of your death." I considered him. "But I believe you to be a noble. You do not wish me to know your value, should I offer you up for trade. Despite our victory, there can be no doubt that your people have prisoners, too. I assume, then, that you are worth a good deal to your king." His face betrayed nothing, which only made me keener. "I will discover who you are. But should you die of your wounds before I come to it? Well. The decision shall be made for me. Who is to say? Perhaps I am as dim-witted as you think." I turned to Torin. "He'll give us nothing more now. Take him to the prison hut." Torin gave the order. As the cart rolled uphill, Angharad stared after it as if figuring a puzzle. "What is it?" I asked. "That man. He looked familiar. As if I have seen him somewhere before." "The Angle? Are you certain?" Her gray eyes were distant, her fingers fidgeting along the inside of her palm. "Yes, I'm certain. Perhaps it will come to me." "It will, my love. I do not doubt it." If I was right, and the man was indeed noble, he could not be traded in such a state. He would likely die on the journey, which was no use to us at all. I paused, torn between a mother's caution and the desire to allow my daughter to ply her gifts. "Will you tend to him?" I asked. "You're a strong healer. Far better than I ever was. His life could be worth ten or even twenty of our own warriors in exchange." "Yes," she said. "I will see to it." "Good," I said. "But I do not trust him. I'll send two of my men to keep watch at the door." "If you wish it," she said, seeming unworried. "I'll go and gather my basket." "Thank you, Angharad." "Of course, Mother." Mother. The word sounded strange coming from her lips. I watched as she followed the cart up the steep slope of the fortress to fetch her supplies. There was a chasm between us now, and I felt the rift like breaking earth. She was a child of the Gods, I reminded myself. I had given her up long ago. "My lady?" Torin's deep voice stirred me from my thoughts. "Yes. What is it?" His blue eyes held concern. "Will you return to the Hall, then?" "No." I frowned. "The man is a noble, don't you agree? He must have swapped garments with a footman. Let's return to the battlefield. Perhaps we'll find something that gives him away." "Well enough." Torin nodded, offering his arm. My boots squelched in the muck as we followed my men back through the open gate, and I yanked at the hem of my dress impatiently as it caught in the slop, tangling about my feet. "What Angle lords are accounted for? I cannot remember," I said. "Quite a few," he said. "Come, then. I will show you." We strode side by side, easy in our silence. It had been seven winters since I'd plucked the fair-haired sentry from his place guarding Tutgual's prison pits, and he'd become invaluable to me since. I felt closer to Torin than I did to my only living son, though it saddened me to think it. Now twenty-two winters, Cyan carried too much of Tutgual's blood. Where Cyan was prone to rage, Torin was level as a woodworker's plane. Smart and precise, Torin was, above all, honorable. Too often now when I looked at my son, I sensed a growing darkness, as if something within him twisted as he grew. I took a breath as we neared the place where our trophies had been thrust upon pikes beyond the outer rampart of the fortress. Fifteen in all, each bearing an Angle's head, gruesomely severed. This is what became of those who waged war upon the Britons. But it was not the gore I need steel myself against; rather, it was the memory it summoned. My cousin Brant's head, taken as a trophy by Rhydderch's brother, Morcant, after the battle of Arderydd. I closed my eyes against it, but it tore through me all the same, the way his blood-blackened hair had crackled beneath my fingers as I'd drawn his head from the pike. "Are you well?" Torin asked. "You needn't look if it troubles you." "No, Torin. It isn't that. Go on." "If you're certain." "It would be a help to see their bodies. Where are they?" I asked. "Piled to be burnt. The men have already gathered any plunder." He turned to them. "Find the corpses and line them up here, brothers." As the men struck out to pair bodies with heads as best as could be managed, I lifted my gaze to the faces of the dead. I had thought, by my age, I would be more accustomed to it. But each face was nightmarish. Motherhood changed a woman more than becoming a queen ever could. Each of these men had been a babe once, no less beloved than my own. Torin gestured to the pike bearing the head of an old, balding man. "That will be Rawdon. And there is Wacian, or I'm a fool," he added. Despite his measured tone, Torin's eyes were lit like a child's on a festival day. In passing winters, Torin had excelled in his position. As volunteers came to join my guard, he quickly distinguished their gifts and put them to good use, for not all were warriors--some were even women. I now possessed not only a strong and loyal guard but also a growing number of men and women who kept close watch from other kingdoms, sending news and information. So it was that the features of every high-ranking Angle lord was known to Torin. He'd seen to it. But he had seen few of them himself. I gestured to a man's head with long strands of tangled black hair. "And this man? Who is he?" Torin leaned closer, his blue eyes keen. "Him I do not know." He called to the men, now returning with bodies. "Who took this trophy, then?" A thick, freckled warrior with ginger hair stepped forward. "It was I." "Did you slay him in battle?" Torin questioned. "Nay, I cannot claim it. I found him by the river," The man gestured toward the standing stone. "What was taken off him?" I asked. "I would see what he was stripped of." The warrior reached into his padded leather vest. "His was not the armor of a king, my lady. A lesser nobleman, perhaps. He wore this." He withdrew a brown leather belt with a golden buckle, handing it to me. The delicate metalwork gleamed in the sun, interlacing knots of Angle craftsmanship. Amidst the swirling nest of gold a lion bared its teeth. "Æthelric of Bernicia and his kin claim the lion, do they not?" I asked. Torin looked over my shoulder. "Aye. The lion belongs to Æthelric, a son of Ida." Ida the Angle had ruled in my youth and had issued twelve sons. Those twelve bore countless sons of their own, and I confess I knew only a scattering by name. I glanced at the corpse head. "This man seems too young to be Æthelric. What of his sons?" "He has two who are grown. Theobald and Æthelfrith." Torin examined the dead man's head. "Theobald's head is shaven, I am told. Æthelfrith is said to be brown of hair, but it is light in color. Not nearly so dark as this." "The man in the prison hut has light brown hair. What if he swapped clothing with this fellow, hoping to escape the battlefield unnoticed? This could very well be the head of a footman." "If we do hold a spawn of Ida, no doubt they'll be eager for his return," Torin said. "You are right." I handed the golden buckle back to the warrior. "Thank you. You may keep this." The warrior bowed and I turned to Torin. "Dead men can't be traded. It is good, then, that Angharad will see to him. When Rhydderch and the men return, I'll speak to him about the prisoner exchange. I'm certain they've found others." "We mustn't keep him long lest he hear or see too much," Torin said. "Yes," I agreed. A spawn of Ida, the first Angle to bring ruin to our lands. I could not forget the horrors I'd witnessed as a child at his hands. As we turned back to the fortress where the Angle now lay, the girl I'd once been pounded in my marrow, demanding revenge. But she was impetuous; the woman I'd become was measured. Any grandchild of Ida was worth a great deal, and we would need all our leaders returned, if indeed they yet lived. This man's life was not mine to take. "I should have known him on sight," Torin said. "Torin, he was much disguised by blood. You could be one of Mungo's Christians for how you flagellate yourself." Torin only frowned. "If you'd like, I could arrange for a goat's-hair shirt," I said. "I hear Mungo wears just such a one beneath his robes." "You should not jest of Mungo, my lady," he said. "He watches you. And now that he returns in our company to Strathclyde, there is no telling what he may do." "I must find humor where I can, else I would weep," I said. "I still cannot fathom that my own husband would bring such a dangerous man back to court. Believe me, Torin, I above all know what Mungo is capable of." We fell into silence, the echoes of my past rumbling in my head. As we neared the upper gate, I stopped. "I saw a spider this morning as I was dressing," I said. "She was sat high in the corner of the guest quarters, silent, building her web. I watched her awhile, her delicate legs working. 'How beautiful it would be, to be a spider,' I thought. Sticky is her silk; there is nothing that passes that she cannot catch." I looked at him sidelong, dropping my voice so only he might hear. "It was a sign, Torin. Sent from the Gods. For now that I am queen, I need a gwyliwr . A watcher. My brother is to be head counsellor, along with Mungo. Lailoken is in danger, too. We must build a greater web, one that catches every whisper. I must have eyes ever watchful, ears pressed to every door." "You... wish me to be your gwyliwr ?" Torin asked. "I can imagine no other." "But I am no spymaster. I know far too little of the craft." "Torin, you have done as much already. Your aptitude is beyond argument. You have learnt the image of nearly every Angle lord in Bernicia. How came that to be?" I did not wait for his answer. "You have placed men and women among the Angles--no simple feat. There is no other I would trust. Please. It must be you." He considered it. "We would need more scouts. That will require barter and coin. And in Partick, we must have someone among the Christians." I thought of my chamberwoman Desdemona, her dark head bowed before the blade, and an old wound twisted in my gut. I did not wish to speak of it--not her betrayal, nor the choice I'd had to make. "I tried as much, once," I said. "It did not fare well." "Then we must try again," Torin said. "It is not so simple." "No," he said. "In this realm, nothing is simple. But it can be done," he said. "There is that man we spoke of. That hermit in the wood. Perhaps we should begin there." "Do you mean to say you agree?" I asked. "You will do it?" He took a breath, then blew it out. "Aye. I'll do it." I clasped his arm and squeezed it, unable to keep the emotion from my voice. "I am grateful for you, Torin of Mann." He nodded, clearing his throat. "The men will soon return. We must quicken our pace." Up ahead, the fortress loomed from its perch on the hill like a hungry bird. Torin urged me on, his light eyes unwavering. "You say you are in need of a greater web, my lady. Together, we shall build it." Excerpted from The Shadowed Land: A Novel by Signe Pike All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
