The Wanderer and the Wolves

By S. A. Watson

"On the morrow, you return with them to Cilaros."

The news floored me, and my courage faltered. I stammered, "I do not know the way. And...and...there are bears in the wood." I could think of no creature more fearsome.

"Kauaros will escor

• Language: English
• Publisher: Manuscripts
• Release date: Mar 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9798889265535

Book preview

Author’s Note

And, therefore, for some time I have thought of writing, but I have hesitated until now, for truly, I feared to expose myself to the criticism of men…

—Saint Patrick, Confessio

Have you ever been afraid? Ever?

I don’t mean scared of the dark or of spiders. Or afraid of sharks after watching Jaws. I mean really afraid. At a gut level. Deep down in the dark places of yourself that no one wants to talk about, let alone look at. I’m talking about that feeling when you wake up from a nightmare right before you die in the dream, so scared you can’t bear to speak of it because speaking of it would force you to relive it. I mean that shaken-to-the-core feeling in your stomach, where you don’t want to leave your bed. The feeling that you would rather die than live in this much fear another moment.

I have.

I have been afraid to leave the house ever since I can remember. Afraid of people, afraid of noise, afraid of motorcycles. And, yes, afraid of sharks and spiders.

Whew. Can’t stand that last one. But that might just be because I’m a Libra. We don’t do ugly. I don’t think there’s anything uglier than a spider. Except maybe for certain people.

I’ve had the misfortune to meet, live with, and be related to some truly ugly people. They make your life incredibly difficult, sap your confidence, and sometimes even make you think you’re the ugly one, the crazy one, the bad one. Certainly, the weak one. Ever hear about crazy-making behavior? These people invented it. But they make great characters. Now, who’s afraid?

I once had a writer friend who asked the instructor in our how-to-write-a-book course what type of book she was writing. My friend reveres Hawthorne and was trying to write a literary book, you know, the great American novel. To her surprise and horror, our teacher said she was writing horror. When my friend pushed back, asking how in the Sam Hill she derived horror from a literary tome, the teacher said, Horror is the evil that men do.

By those lights, every writer with a human character in their novel is writing horror.

I am writing horror, too.

Oh, sure, I know it’s historical fiction. No dragons here. Sorry, all you Game of Thrones fans. And I know it’s heavy on the history. I did, after all, spend the better part of my life researching this series, which has expanded over time to include twelve books.

But the underbelly, the heart, the crux of The Wanderer and the Wolves is horror. Because at the heart of the book is fear. This fear started in childhood for Anavere, my lead character—as it did for me—and continues to pervade her life.

Fear is a disease. Literally, a dis-ease. It infects every area of life. If ignored, it spreads. Like an infection. Like a disease.

To fight fear, you must face it.

I deal with this principle in The Wanderer and the Wolves.

Oh sure, plenty of other subjects are involved. Arthurian legend, for one. The actual historical politics of Dark Age Scotland… and Western Europe, for that matter. Ancient warfare. Swords and helmets and dirks and other weapons. Battle tactics. Fifth-century theology. Love it. Love that stuff. Love all of it.

What I hate is writing about feelings. Dredging up every single insipid thought that goes through a character’s brain. All that mushy, girly stuff. I don’t like reading about them either. Loathe it.

But my editor said the book needed more thoughts and feelings, more of an inner life. Oh, no! I thought. I don’t have time to sit around all day pontificating on what I think and feel, what someone else thinks and feels, and how they feel about what they think! Who cares? I do that enough in my personal life. I’m writing the book to get away from all that. I’d rather write about what they did.

However, my editor said people can’t always tell what the character feels or thinks, even from their actions. People don’t always act the way they think. They don’t always do what they say they’re going to do.

She had me there. Nuts!

So I had to dig deep and dredge up some feelings. And thoughts to go with them. That was fun.

As I began writing, and the words came pouring out, it dawned on me that I might, just might, have something worth saying. Anyone could research the heck out of Arthurian legend, fifth-century Scotland, et al., and write a book on it. All my suffering over the years, all my fear, might actually help somebody else, might do more than just educate or divert them from their own miserable version of this twenty-first century. Maybe it would help them heal. Or at least let them know they are not alone.

It takes more, a lot more, to do an archaeological dig on yourself, dredge up all the stuff you don’t want to see, and put that on the page. Then, to make it something worth talking about, worth thinking about, and—infinitely harder—worth writing about. Something worth reading. To incorporate it into a character, fashion it into their language and the fifth-century life you’ve just spent yours researching. Make it fit. Or else determine where it does. Because I’m not throwing all that research out, you can bet your sweet bippy.

The Annals of Anavere series is a monument to anyone who wrestles with fear, those who survive the struggle… and those who don’t. Fear is almost a character in The Wanderer and the Wolves. Through my personal battles with depression, anxiety, panic attacks, and post-traumatic stress disorder, I have fought a daily war with fear. Even in my earliest years, I remember lying in bed, butterflies in my stomach, afraid to get up and go to school. Fear has crept beside me throughout my childhood and slunk into my adolescence and adulthood, crippling my life, and strangling my joy. Overcoming it has been a lifelong struggle.

But fear has its place in this world, too. Without fear, courage cannot exist. Life is not about whether you fear, but about how you face your fear.

What I have created in The Annals of Anavere is what I call a fear panorama. Cwenhild, the Jutish shieldmaiden and storyteller of Book II, lives to fight and feels virtually no fear at all. We shall see how life turns out for her.

Then, two half-sisters, Anavere—the Guinevere of the series—and Rapha, or Dark Daughter, narrate Books I and III, respectively. Each bears more than her fair share of fear and takes a different path in dealing with it. Anavere is the chronicler of The Wanderer and the Wolves and the main character of the series. Her quest to face her fear, discover its causes, and root it out has been my journey as well. Her voice is my voice.

The Annals of Anavere offers something for everyone. Admirers of Arthurian legend will enjoy delving into the history behind the myth. Followers of Joseph Campbell and Carl Jung will appreciate this updated heroine’s journey. Anyone interested in etymology, the evolution of language, will value the translation of the names of every tribe, Grail Hallow, king, queen, knight, kingdom, and castle in the Arthurian corpus: the largest body of literature in the world. History buffs and armchair archaeologists will relish seeing the characters, once thought of as only fairy tale archetypes, spring to life. And epic enthusiasts—those who delighted in Game of Thrones, The Tudors, Vikings, Braveheart, and Outlander—will love this new take on an old theme.

Map: The Vale of Afalach:

MAP LINK: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ObARdfVw138W7yiBXk1SEnnIEHeyixd0tPV1FXGuTTs/edit?usp=sharing

Prologue: Annales

Once, kings kept careful records of their reigns. These accounts were called rēgis annales libri: the annals of the king. They were the chronicles of the weddings, births, battles, victories, defeats, deaths, and other doings that transpired during the monarch’s rule.

Ofttimes, counselors, seneschals, senators, or scribes composed these histories for their royal masters. Every so often, priests penned them. And sometimes, queens wrote them.

I was such a queen.

My dowry decreed that I should dictate the annals of my king. My king was my husband: Arthur map Uthr map Custennin. Dragonchief. Dux bellorum. Rex Britanniarum. Rí Attacotti. He was also my adversary, abductor, tormentor, and more than once, my almost-executioner.

He was never my champion.

Nevertheless, I kept my part of our bargain. As stipulated, I devised his annals. All down the long decades, by the flickering light of taper, I scratched them out on the uneven parchment. Now complete, they are as nothing to me.

These are not they. For alongside Arthur’s account, in secret, I kept another.

These are the annals of my reign. Of my time. Of my failures and losses, my victories and glories.

These are The Annals of Anavere.

SECTION I

IN THE HOUSE OF LOTH

2 November of the Year Four Hundred Twenty-Eight to September of the Year Four Hundred Thirty-Four

And if my own do not want to know me, well and good… perhaps we are not from the same sheepfold.

—Saint Patrick, Confessio

Chapter One

Orphan

Unto himself, a man may take many wives… but their land shall transmit, not to him, but to his daughters.

—Pictish proverb

All Souls Day: 2 November, The Year Four Hundred Twenty-Eight

The child ran. Behind her, bellows, as of a charging bull, swelled to a roar, and the ominous drumming of following footsteps deadened her hopes like thunder before the lightning strike. The lightning would surely find her this time.

Father was on the fight again. She should have known better than to hide under the bed. Her mother, Queen Seren—the child did not know what the word queen meant, but she had always liked the sound of it—had warned her that her father must never see her, must not know she was still in the castle. Now, he was after her, hot as a hawk on the hunt. The child could scarce run for the fear that rattled her slender limbs like arrows in a quiver. But run, she must.

For the first several years of her life, her mother’s Pictish servants had hidden her from her father. In the several instances when her father had happened upon her, Haidd the old gardener, Bresychen the cook, Naia her mother’s handmaiden, and Laver the washerwoman all had conspired to pass off the child variously as the bastard of the kennelmaster, or the cook’s get, or the serving maid’s niece. So whenever Kaduwallọn Llawhir appeared, especially if he was in his cups or a foul mood, as he frequently was, one or another would hastily trundle her out of the irascible chieftain’s way.

Only grouchy old Gyanu, the nurse, refused to have anything to do with their foolishness, as she termed it. You cannot hide her forever, she always warned. But somehow, Gyanu’s warnings seemed more like wishes. As did the knowing smirk that punctuated her prophecies.

Kaduwallọn had been given to believe his daughter had been stillborn. He had never yet set eyes upon her, leastways, not to know her as his own. The servants knew, as did the queen-mother, Seren; the child’s ten-year-old brother, Bedr; her aunt, Ataia; her mother’s handmaiden, Naia; and, somehow, the girl herself, that should her father discover his wife to have born a living heiress to her boundless properties, that daughter’s death would follow hard upon such a discovery’s heels. So they lied.

This day, Kaduwallọn the Longhand had discovered her. While Seren and her maidens were at worship in the downstairs chapel, the child had scampered into her mother’s bedchamber. The room was redolent of copper and firelight and the golden sandstone quarried locally by the Pictish Matai.

Light-filled, even in the morning when the sun was on the other side of the castle, Seren’s chamber was always tranquil, except when her husband was in residence. The loveliest hour, though, was in the evening, when the sun set in the west, casting a glowing benediction through the window of the room and painting pretty shadowlights on the gold stone floor. It was her mother’s favorite time of day and favorite room in the castle. The child loved playing there beside the protective arm of her elder brother and beneath the loving eyes of her mother.

Today, she had counted on its shadows to conceal her. Seren’s high, oaken Roman bedstead was set into an alcove at the back of the room. Scurrying toward it, the girl crept beneath the white linen coverlet, letting it fall to the floor behind her, masking the footboard. The little girl scooted as far under the bed as she could go, huddling in the darkest corner with her arms about her favorite wolfdog, Pari the Panter.

Pari’s thick coat made him hot, even in the borderlands of the far north, where rain and cold were commoner far than sun. Consequently, Pari panted loudly and long, dripping his doggie-sweat onto the girl’s arm. The child thought of him as Pari the Protector, for the hound never strayed far from her.

On this day, however, he proved her undoing. Her pursuer must have heard Pari’s panting, for the thundering footsteps slowed to a stop before the bedstead.

Lifting the white linen and lowering the oil lamp so she could see the crude iron seal of the Matai on its granite surface, Kaduwallọn Llawhir squinted his beady bird-eyes into the gloom beneath the bed. Rasping, I thought so. He stretched out his horrid long arm toward her.

The child was horrified. He knew her! Never before had her father cast so much as a lingering glance upon her. But now? Unquestionably, something had changed.

Had someone talked? Gossip permeated the castle. Even a child as young as she could hear as much for herself, but it was the common belief that to speak of Seren’s daughter was more than the speaker’s life was worth.

And so, she ran. Fast to the chapel. Her mother had told her the chapel—which Seren called her Ship of Souls—was safe, a sanctuary where one could always speak to God. She would speak to Him, and God would protect her.

Her mother was there, too, with her women. They would all protect her. Had they not always done so?

Slipping between the heavy wooden doors with their bronze shield bosses, the child raced across the little chapel, past the rows of benches, past the startled women still kneeling in prayer. She darted around Bedr, who was playing with their cousin, Rapha, in the cool of the shadowy rear of the room. She had just enough time to duck behind the hanging tapestry her mother had woven.

After their initial start at the child’s sudden entrance and disappearance behind the tapestry, the women had returned to their worship. The child had found she could fit her fingers into a hole in the tapestry. If she wiggled them, the hole became just large enough to peer through with one eye. She watched her mother, who still knelt before the altar, head bent once more, lips moving silently. Naia drifted among the oil lamps, lighting them with a long taper. Seren’s sister, Ataia, attended her, along with her daughter, Rapha. The two little girls were just the same age. The sanctuary was fragrant with burning oil and lamp smoke.

Abruptly, the chapel’s heavy double doors flew open, crashing into the wall behind. Kaduwallọn Llawhir stormed into the room, his black hair on end and fists clenched. His face glowed a fiery red, and his eyes shot sparks at the startled women. Even his eyebrows bristled. A low rumble issued from his throat.

The women’s heads shot to attention, and Naia uttered a short shriek. In her refuge behind the tapestry, the child quavered. Bedr dropped his wooden soldiers and fled as Rapha began to wail. Rapha had always been frightened of the tall, dark-visaged chieftain.

Where is she? Kaduwallọn snarled.

Seren arose from her knees. We are at devotions, my lord. Can you not wait until we emerge?

In answer, her husband lunged forward, wrapping one long hand around her throat. "I asked you, woman: Where is your daughter? Where?"

He punctuated his question with a hard shove, and Seren fell heavily to the floor. Her handmaid and sister rushed to her relief, but she brushed aside their ministrations and sat up unaided. For a long moment, she merely sat there, staring at her spouse as if seeing him for the first time.

Kaduwallọn crossed his arms on his chest and raised his bristling, black brows. Beside his queen’s remarkable poise, he appeared nothing more than the sulky youth he had once been.

With that same composure, Seren got to her feet. Have you not asked her nurse where she is? Perhaps she is being fed, or mayhap taken for an airing in this fine weather? She stared at him, chin and eyes level.

Kaduwallọn checked, taken aback by her unexpected calm and, perhaps, the news that his unwanted offspring had been so well cared-for beneath his very nose. Then he shook his head. You are no liar, you heathen bitch. Sure, you kept your little secret, for a time. But you must know, ’tis no secret if two or more share in it. This time, I saw her with mine own eyes. You’ve disposed of her somehow, hidden her away. ’tis no good protecting her any longer. Bring the child to me at once. I’ve my mind made up.

The queen’s dark eyes, like the soul-sad orbs of a seal gazing from beneath the waves, gave the merest flicker, and then their light extinguished. She met her husband’s anger with a long, cool look. I will not have the child brought. At any rate, I cannot. She is gone beyond your reach, to be raised without your sword over her head, safe and protected by her own people. You cannot harm her.

At this, Kaduwallọn lost all semblance of control. He had never been thwarted in even the slightest thing, let alone by a woman. Now, his wife—whom he had always believed to be entirely cowed—had betrayed him without revealing a single hint of her intent. Had he known the price Seren’s duplicity had cost her, he might have considered it punishment enough. As it was, he never thought to ask.

The first blow sent the handmaid crashing into the benches, knocking three of the oil lamps awry. They toppled and fell, rolling across the floor of the chapel. One came to rest against the base of the wooden altar, which began to smoke and quickly blazed up.

As Naia screamed and tried to run, Kaduwallọn Llawhir seized her by the hair of her head, sliding his dagger across her throat. Blood bubbled forth, drowning her cries. The Longhand tossed the lifeless body at his lady’s feet.

Horrified, Seren attempted to crawl away from the body of her friend, but her husband leapt over the sprawling limbs of the maid and grabbed his wife, hauling her to her feet. He held her with one hand and beat her with the other, raining blows on her face and body until she fell limply to the floor.

As she lay at his feet, unable to rise, he kicked her repeatedly, rhythmically, punctuating each kick with a curse. Bitch, whore, heathen, traitor! Bitch, whore…

Unnoticed in the shadows at the back of the chapel, Ataia knelt with Rapha. A feeble keening issued from her lips as she watched the dreadful scene, scarcely daring to raise her eyes. Rocking to-and-fro, she clutched the little girl to her breast. After what seemed an eternity, she gave her head a hard shake as if coming to a decision and pressed her lips to the child’s forehead. Gazing long into her daughter’s face, she placed her gently beneath an upturned bench and held a finger to her lips. Rapha’s sobs silenced at once.

Forgotten behind the tapestry, eyes pressed close to its woolen folds, so the blue and red threads stood out like veins, another child watched in horror.

Ataia crept forward and grasped an oil lamp that lay at the foot of the smoldering altar. Tightening her grip around its iron base, she plunged to her feet, clumsily swinging the makeshift weapon at Kaduwallọn. The blow landed on the side of his face, and blood spilled down his cheek. But the weight of the lamp propelled Ataia past her target and sent her spinning into a row of rough wooden benches.

As Kaduwallọn hefted his dagger and advanced, Seren pleaded through swollen lips. No, not her. Not Ataia. Spare her, I beg you! She is innocent of all this. She knew nothing, nothing. I beg you, spare my beloved sister!

Kaduwallọn halted and glared down at the bloodied woman. Then he smiled. I shall not. It is precisely because you love her so that I shall not spare her. And I shall not spare you. You will watch her die.

He had turned back to finish Ataia, still cowering among the benches, when a movement in the shadows arrested him. The Longhand peered through the gloom, glittering eyes shooting obsidian sparks in the dusky room. At the back of the chapel, the smoke obscured a slender figure.

The seneschal appeared from the shadows, stooped, and hoisted his howling daughter to his shoulder. As he straightened, patting the child gently, Berthelai lifted his head and stared at his master. For a long moment, their gazes held.

Kaduwallọn gave a brief nod of dismissal, one quick jerk of the chin. Without a ripple in his impassive face, the seneschal turned on his heel, abandoning his wife and her mistress to their fate. Behind him, the sound of splintering wood resumed.