Chapter Text
“I have sea foam in my veins; I understand the language of the waves.”
~Jean Cocteau
Chapter One
“There’s been another slide.”
The words were delivered through pale lips that set themselves in a flat, thin line when they were done. The messenger who brought them kept his eyes averted, downturned, as though unwilling to witness the reaction to them.
He need not have feared it. Angharad, darting a quick, perceptive glance toward her mother, saw the queen’s chest rise and fall once, heavily, but Regat’s carved-marble face remained impassive, her dark eyes unreadable. When she spoke, her voice did not waver. “Where?”
The man’s gaze flickered a little up and vaguely toward the left, still carefully avoiding that of his monarch. “The eastern coast, at the village of Llamorset.” He swallowed. “It happened in the night. Half a dozen cottages were lost; six families, along with their livestock, while they slept. Twenty-three in all. They recovered two bodies on the beach this morning; children.”
Angharad sucked in her breath, but Regat still made no indication of distress. “Did the seawall afford no protection?”
“The wall was taken, your Majesty, from its north end, two-thirds along. You know that Llamorset had built right up to it.” He shut his mouth suddenly and took half a step backwards, as though he had said more than he meant. “It...the entire slope crumbled from below. They are evacuating the remaining houses at the edge.”
“Thank you.” Queen Regat waved him away. “We shall see to the rebuilding of the wall, and to the relief of those misplaced. I shall send an emissary to assess the needs tomorrow. You may go.”
The man looked taken aback, and wavered a moment. He glanced in Angharad’s direction; she chewed at the insides of her cheeks, and gave him a curt nod. Not until he had bowed himself out and the heavy oak door had shut on his heels did she speak, turning to the queen indignantly.
“Mother. To send him away with no other message?”
“What would you have me tell him?” Regat, bending over the herbs in whose processing they had been interrupted, picked up mortar and pestle as though their weight had doubled. Now that the interloper was gone, weariness and grief were evident in her face and bearing, but her voice was hard. “When the people persist, against all advisement, on building up to the very cliff edges, there will be loss.”
“They’re blaming us for it,” Angharad countered, “for not outright forbidding the building at the edge. For not opening up the interior for settling when they asked, two years ago. You know they are. He almost said it.”
“It is well for him that he did not,” Regat murmured, darkly.
Angharad fell silent, warned by the tone, and attended to the bunches of dried lavender in her hands, snipping the ties and shaking the pale gray-purple buds into the parchment spread on the table. She scooped them into a pile, breathed in the scent to calm herself, steadying her will before she spoke again. “You could have at least assured him that we are seeking the cause.”
She could hear the frown in her mother’s voice. “That would only serve to confirm the fears. Better the people believe the disasters are natural.”
“No one believes that, even when they are natural,” Angharad muttered, throwing the empty stems to the side and drumming the tabletop with her fingertips. “They come up with rubbish about angry gods and bad omens and witchcraft.”
“Who is to say?” A note of humor crept into the queen’s severe tone. “Even the most outrageous legends spring from seeds of truth. It is hardly just, daughter, for you to sit in this chamber, doing what we do, and find fault in anyone for believing in witchcraft.” She tapped the pestle resolutely on the edge of the mortar, as though shaking off public opinion. “Still, until we know the truth of the matter, it is best to make no statement at all, for I will not speak comforting lies. Let them believe what they will, for now.”
She selected a container from the array of clay pots, glass vials, and parchment packets displayed on a nearby shelf, scraped the contents from the mortar into it, and settled it carefully in its place. “We need sweet grass. And ormer - good Llyr!” The queen held up an empty basket in disgust. “How have we run so low on ormer?”
“I think Oren has been taking it to make jewelry for that new initiate,” Angharad answered, biting back a chuckle. “And you stopped sending him and Manawydd to the shore, remember?”
Regat sniffed at mention of her nephews. “They were always coming back with fish heads and broken scallops; nothing the least bit useful. Never send an acolyte to do an enchantress’s job, remember that.” Her own mouth twitched. “New initiate, is it? She’d be better off learning her rituals than flirting with Oren. Why is he even allowed into the grove? Arianrhod makes too many allowances for him. I knew it would be trouble when she bore sons instead of daughters. I shall speak to them both.”
Angharad smothered a smile. “May you have more luck than I did. I already told him he should look elsewhere for his amusement.” She hesitated. “Let me go to the cove for supplies. I’ve not been out in ages. Not for the last two months.”
Regat looked at her levelly, heard all she did not say. “Yes, you have been as confined as our guest, in your way. I never heard anyone make more fuss about a perfectly ordinary pregnancy. But Teleria has always been difficult.”
Angharad winced. “It’s not Teleria’s fault,” she said wearily, feeling mildly defensive on her cousin’s behalf. “I mean, yes, she can be rather…but she was so uncomfortable, you know, at the end, I couldn’t blame her. She’s far more agreeable now she’s got the baby to distract her, and Branwen says they’re both doing so well they can travel back to Mona in a week or two. But…yes, I’ve felt rather…confined.”
She rolled the lavender under her fingertips absently, staring out the nearby casement. The view from the tower spread beneath. Her island: green, verdant, streaked in purple heather over rolling hills broken by crags and cliffs of dark stone, it spread to the dark line of water that surrounded it on all sides, the ever-shifting sea whose thundering breath was, even from this distance, dimly audible. Low-hanging clouds quilted the sky in soft grey. A stone's throw away, a pair of gulls floated upon the breeze, crying to each other in their lonely tongue.
Abruptly Angharad folded the parchment around the herb and slid the packet into an empty space on the shelf. “All this…ill news. Reports of one thing after another, all coming here, all expecting us to do something.” Trying to hide it from everyone, she added silently to herself, wondering what her opinionated cousin would say if she knew she’d given birth in an atmosphere of so much trouble. Teleria, thank goodness, was less observant than she was outspoken. “Sometimes I think word of one more disaster will make the whole castle…crumble. Like the cliffs.” She grimaced. “I am restless. I want to get out.” The thought of the coastline - waves rushing upon the sand and black rock, the gulls crying overhead - pulled suddenly at her throat, tightening it. “I can go and be back by this evening.”
Regat stepped into the shaft of light from the open window and gazed silently upon her daughter for a moment, sadness playing over her face, softening its hard lines. “I remember what it was to be your age, and in your position. I wish I could tell you that restlessness would cease, that one day you will suddenly awaken joyful at your lot. But I cannot. It is the burden we bear.” She stopped herself, and turned away.
Angharad, stunned at such unwonted empathy from her mother, stood motionless for a moment, watching as Regat, in her turn, gazed out the window, surveying the land that she ruled. The queen’s fingers tightened upon the casement sill before one hand let go, waving dismissively toward her daughter without looking at her. “Angharad. Go. Enjoy what freedom you have, while it remains to you.”
The princess hesitated, then curtsied, and hurried from the chamber.
She wasted no time. Regat rarely exercised such lenience and she meant to take full advantage. She waylaid a page on the way to her chambers, sending him to the stables with orders to have her horse prepared, and cantered down a long hallway, distracted by anticipatory thoughts of the seaside.
Her lady-in-waiting, a slim, pretty girl close to her own age, was sitting quietly with an embroidery basket at her feet when Angharad arrived in her rooms, ordering breathlessly, “Elen, quick. Help me change. I’m going out for the day.”
“Out!” Elen rose, laying down her handwork, and hopped over the basket lightly. “It’s about time. Killing yourself moping about inside, that’s what you’ve been. Where to?” Her skilled fingers worked quickly at the laces at her lady’s back, adept with long practice.
“Cove, of course,” the princess murmured, jerking at her long sleeves, eager and impatient.
“Stop that,” Elen ordered. “I’m not done; you’ll rip the seams. How’d you manage to get out of the council this afternoon?”
“I don’t know,” Angharad admitted. “Mother’s not let me miss one in ages - especially now with all that’s been happening.”
“All the quakes?”
“Mm. And the rumors from inland. Strange beasts sighted. Screaming in the night. Sheep slaughtered.”
“Nursery tales,” Elen scoffed.
“Some of it, maybe. But sheep are being lost. Deformed fish in the harbor. Red tide. Even that storm a fortnight ago. We lost a ship.” Angharad turned to the silver-backed glass that hung by the door, and frowned at her reflection.
“Your face will freeze like that if the wind changes,” Elen quipped saucily, quoting their old governess while her reflection grinned at Angharad’s over her shoulder. “There’ve always been storms, even bad ones. People have short memories when they’re afraid. The sea gives and he takes away; such it’s always been. There, pull that off.”
Angharad wriggled out of her long gown and stood in her shift while Elen folded it carefully, and then dug in her trunk for apparel more suitable for the outdoors. “I hope you’re not wanting me to come,” Elen remarked dubiously.
“No. I know how you hate riding.” Angharad poked her head through the top of a long, loose linen tunic and grinned. “I want to be alone, anyhow.”
“Take a cloak,” Elen ordered. “It’s me the queen will blame if you fall ill, going out with your arms bare like that. You’re going swimming, aren’t you?” She raised a suspicious, accusatory eyebrow.
“What do you think?” Angharad pulled another face. “It’s a hot day. But I’ll take a cloak to appease you.” She belted her tunic and pulled on her boots, tucking a small dagger into a pocket at her calf.
“I suppose it’s useless to tell you to be careful,” Elen said. She brandished a shell-toothed comb. “You’re not still for a blessed minute. Sit down so I can braid.”
“Oh, don’t bother.” Angharad waved her off. “I’ll do it on the way. I want to get on.”
“You will not. You’re going to go out all streaming like that. It’ll be impossible when you come back,” the girl moaned. “Wild and full of salt.”
“I’ll wash it, just for you, and without complaining - that should please you, shouldn’t it?”
“Any port in a storm,” Elen muttered darkly, then added, “Are you going in to see Teleria before you go?”
Angharad groaned. “I suppose I should. She’ll be offended if I don’t visit every day. How many times can you pretend to admire a baby who doesn’t do anything yet?”
“At least you have a reason to make it short.” Elen smirked, her grey eyes dancing. “Don’t let her start talking about the labor again or you’ll never get away.”
“Branwen says birth stories are a rite of passage.” Angharad threw on a woolen cloak, buckled a leather pouch by its long strap over her shoulder, and took up a small golden ball from her bedside table, tucking it into a pocket of her tunic. “But if I ever tell one as much as Teleria does, you have my permission to stuff a stocking in my mouth. There, I’m off. I’ll be back before dark.”
“Enjoy yourself.” Elen straightened her cloak and pulled her in to kiss her cheek. Angharad returned her embrace distractedly, and turned down the hall once more, heading to the east wing.
The nursery doors were open and she could hear, a full fifty paces before she reached it, the lusty cries of a healthy newborn and the authoritative voice of the head midwife. Good. With Branwen there it would be easier to get away quickly.
“But he just ate,” Teleria was saying, as Angharad paused in the doorway. The young mother was sitting up on a couch near an open window, propped upon cushions and wrapped in blankets, and submitting, despite her protests, to the midwife’s wrestling of a squalling, red-faced bundle into the proper position for nursing. Two ladies’ maids hovered anxiously in the background.
“He’s growing. He can’t have too much.” Branwen took no nonsense from anyone, noble or not, especially fractious infants. Her capable hands turned the child’s head toward his mother’s breast, popping it into place when he took another breath to scream. Instantly there was silence, broken only by a sigh of relief from Teleria. “If you’d done that when he first started in to whimper,” Branwen admonished, “he’d have latched much easier.”
Angharad coughed and both looked up. Teleria beamed. “Oh, Angharad! It’s good to see you. I wondered if - oh, do cover that window, Gwynneth, there’s a draft - you’d come today.”
“Not for too long, though, I take it.” Branwen looked the princess over shrewdly. “What’s this getup, milady? Where are you gadding off to?”
“I’m for the shore,” Angharad crossed to the couch, pausing to embrace the midwife. Branwen’s massive, middle-aged figure combined strength with softness; arms that had caught and cradled hundreds of babies enveloped her affectionately. She smelled of raspberry leaves and fenugreek and milk; like safety and warmth. “We need supplies for the full moon, and I want some fresh air.”
Branwen glanced sideways at Teleria and knowingly back to Angharad, her lined face creasing in a faint, sardonic smile. “So I imagine. Bring me back vervain if you find any.”
“How lovely to get out for a bit,” Teleria sighed, looking wistful. Her plump face was rosy and healthy, but there were weary circles under her eyes, and her pale braids were tousled as though her hair had not been brushed in days. “Perhaps once I get a night’s sleep again…”
“Don’t expect that for some time yet,” Branwen interrupted, handing her a steaming cup.
Angharad sat carefully at the edge of the couch. “How’s wee Rhun today?”she asked, reaching for the baby’s tiny hand which, having escaped his swaddling, waved about aimlessly in the air. The little pink digits closed around her forefinger and clutched it.
Teleria radiated pride. “Look how clever!” she cooed. “Already holding things! He’s a strong boy. Just like his father.”
Angharad bit back the comment that all babies did this, and lit upon the topic presented. “Have you heard from Rhuddlum yet?” Word had been sent of the birth immediately, of course, to the royal family on Mona, but the child had been born just before the storm a fortnight ago, and there was a chance the messenger had been lost in it.
“Oh, yes. Just yesterday!” exclaimed Teleria. “The courier arrived after the tempest; blown off course, you know, and had to travel back once they - ouch! don’t scratch so, child, dear me, what claws - came to the mainland. He’s transcendent, of course. So thrilled to have a son. The whole family crowing about the next heir to the crown. You know how the men are over there.” She laughed tolerantly at the patrilineal excitement of her homeland kin. Branwen grunted faint disapproval.
“I’m glad he’s doing well,” Angharad said, prying her finger loose from the baby’s grip. The child had nursed himself to sleep; his bald round head eased itself back until his mouth relaxed and gaped open, dribbling milk into the folds of his neck. Teleria giggled fondly and dabbed at it with a handful of her shift, and his pale blue eyes opened slightly and rolled back into his head before the lids closed again.
“Yes,” Teleria sighed. “Very well. Of course he was so big and healthy, it’s to be expected. But I declare, I never thought he’d come. Those last few days I thought I’d burst - oh, I’ve spilt my tea, hand me the towel, would you dear - no, not that! That’s a wet clutch - but I knew, somehow, that morning, that it would be the day. But you’re not leaving yet?”
“I must, I think.” Angharad rose, feigning reluctance. “I need enough time to find what we need. I only popped in to let you know why I couldn’t visit long today.” She bent and kissed Teleria, and then the baby’s velvety head. The warm, acrid newborn scent tingled through her senses, strange and compelling. Branwen always said the smell of a baby’s head was as potent a drug as anything in the herbals.
“Well, do be careful,” Teleria clucked anxiously. “It isn’t natural, a girl alone, going out all by yourself, traipsing the countryside. They’d never allow it at home.”
“This is my home,” Angharad said, rather shortly. “I’ve nothing to fear from it. Take care. Get your rest.”
She embraced Branwen again and escaped before Teleria could say anything else.
Tan, her chestnut mare, was saddled, bridled and waiting at the stable; the grooms, eyes averted, saluted her as she mounted, crossing their wrists over their hearts in the gesture of respect due her rank. She barely saw them; barely saw the guards who did the same as they rolled open the castle gates for her; her eyes were on the sky and the dark wedge of blue nestled in the green arms of the horizon. Gulls screamed overhead like heralds. Angharad laid her heels in the horse’s flanks, clamped her knees to its sides. The salt air filled her streaming hair as the turf melted away beneath flying hooves.