‘Betrayal. Magic. Murder. A tale of three siblings and three deadly sins. 

King Cador’s children inherit a land abandoned by the Romans, torn by warring tribes. Riva can cure others, but can’t heal her own scars. Keyne battles to be seen as the king’s son, although born a daughter. And Sinne dreams of love, longing for adventure.

All three fear a life of confinement within the walls of the hold, their people’s last bastion of strength against the invading Saxons. However, change comes on the day ash falls from the sky – bringing Myrdhin, meddler and magician. The siblings discover the power that lies within them and the land. But fate also brings Tristan, a warrior whose secrets will tear them apart. 

Riva, Keyne, and Sinne become entangled in a web of treachery and heartbreak, and must fight to forge their own paths. It’s a story that will shape the destiny of Britain. 

This powerful narrative reimagines “The Two Sisters”, an old British folk ballad.’

I first came upon the ballad ‘The Two Sisters’ through The Unthanks’s haunting rendition, and was enthralled by its macabre, mournful tale. My curiosity was piqued by Lucy Holland’s novelistic retelling of the song; although the reworking and reimagining of ancient myth and folklore has developed into a booming literary trend, authors untangling the murky, misty tales of Celtic or Briton cultures are much  fewer than those focusing on the stories of classical Rome and Greece. This disparity probably stems from the piecemeal survival of bodies of legend from England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, as the legacies of oral traditions fray and splinter, teasing ghostly webs of affiliation and cross-cultural ellipses. Holland succeeds admirably in spinning a darkly beautiful novel from the threads of a single ballad, braiding contemporary resonances with profound respect for a long-distant past, refusing either to warp history to placate modern tastes and expectations, or to romanticise brutality and repression. Told from the alternating perspectives of three Briton princesses, Keyne, Riva, and Sinne, whose father’s kingdom is threatened by Saxon invasion and cultural fragmentation, Sistersong is a powerful tale of sisterly love and rivalry, the dangers of disconnection from the natural world, and the irresistible erasure of time. 

From the very beginning, the momentum of the novel is driven by a sense of threat: the twin pressures of Saxon aggression and Christianisation seem likely to grind King Cador’s realm to dust, the former by brute force, the latter by insidious sapping of cultural distinction. Holland does well to vivify the clash of cultures between the paganism of the Britons and the zeal of the Christian missions. The latter group is represented by Gildas, a sinister priest who has the ear of King Cador and his wife (herself of Roman descent), and who is bent on imposing the structures and mores of the Catholic hierarchy on Dumnonia. The novel is structured around the Celtic festivals of Imbolc, Eostre, Beltane, Lammas, and Samhain; as the story begins, the tension between the pagan and Christian faiths is dramatised through conflict over celebrations of the goddess Brigid, a potent symbol of female power and fertility through one lens, a saintly abbess and missionary through another. With varying results, Holland regularly frames the battle between Briton traditions and Christianity as a gendered conflict; this emphasis is captured effectively and movingly in Gildas’s banning of female processions in honour of Brigid, and his insistence on churching, or purifying, the women of Dunbrigas. Sinne, in her teenage imaginings, yearns to participate in the traditional festivals, and to showcase her beauty alongside the ‘gleam of bright white garments, the chanting, the unbound hair’. Much to her disappointment, she wakes on Imbolc (or Candlemas) to women dressed in ‘sober colours’, their heads ‘covered with modest scarves’. As Sinne’s imagination meanders through the boredom of mass, she hits on a powerful image of the new emphasis Christianity places on suffering and repentance, a shift from celebration of the natural world and gratitude for its bounty that is dramatised as a move from light into darkness: 

‘The church feels oppressive. It wasn’t always a church, just a big storehouse Gildas blessed and called a church. Passing into its shadow, I realise all our old festivals take place out of doors. When we look up from our dancing or feasting, it’s to see the sun or stars about us. Now when I look up, all I see is the suffering, benevolent face of Christ hanging over us like a thunderhead.’

As one of the epigraphs of Sistersong, Holland chose a quote from Zora Neale Thurston: ‘There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside you.’ The author’s determination to have women’s stories heard is boldly defiant, and characteristic of the spate of mythological retellings gracing bookshelves in recent years. As previously mentioned, the effect in Sistersong is mixed: at her most brazen, Holland is wonderful, allowing free rein to Sinne’s adolescent daydreams of sex and romance even as she sits in Gildas’s church, and creating a powerful and poignant sense of a wealth of female power or wisdom demonised and effaced by the spread of Christianity. At other times, Christian influence is cast purely in terms of loss, and the Church is caricatured as a bogeyman institution spreading misogyny where none previously existed. This dichotomisation can fall flat, simplistically superimposing modern perspectives on a more nuanced, subtle process of cultural change. However, Holland does showcase Briton realpolitik, laying bare their manoeuvring and strategising when it comes to adopting the trappings of the new religion for pragmatic purposes; while the eclipse of pagan practices is represented as a loss, the Briton kings, seeing which way the wind is blowing, choose Christianity rather than having it imposed upon them. Furthermore, Holland doesn’t lionise the pre-Christian beliefs held by the Britons to excess; this pagan form of worship is also cast as being overly anthropocentric, seeking to mould a more nebulous power or mystery into recognisably human forms. By contrast, Holland creates an evocative impression of the ancient, fading magic that governs the land as genuine communion with nature, an idea that is quite radical in its implications. There is recognisably modern environmental urgency in the connections Keyne seeks to forge with the natural world around her, as well as echoes of primeval heartsongs, a sense of pre-verbal unity that brings the messages of Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass to mind: 

‘Silver threads spread from my fingers, burrowing root-like through the earth. They cross the clearing, climb the ancient oaks, gilding each ridge and whorl. And then I cannot see them at all. Because I am the threads. I fall to earth like rain, seep into stone. Beneath its surface is a web branching off into darkness. But where I go, I carry the light. I am the water and the rock. I am the blind things that live on the underside of the world. I delve further. I am the ore, the years, the blood and the bones. And as below, I am above. We are connected. I burst from the yawn of a cave a league away, find myself in reeds. There is a willow and a fox, an owl, a mouse. I open one of my throats and become the nightjar and its song. It is too much. I can feel myself unravelling and a part of me wants this, to live in every body and in none. Far away I sense the people of Dunbriga. Breathing, talking, loving. They are like candle flames on the verge of flickering out. “Enough.” My stomach roils. It takes me a moment to realise I have a stomach, just one, a single brain, a pounding heart. So little of me after so many. I open my human mouth, but the words are a long while coming. “What was that?” “The land.” Mori says, sounding satisfied.’

This radical fluidity is embodied in the sorcerer-druid figure Myrdhin, and the priestess-witch figure Mori, who collapse the binary divisions placed by Christianity between men and women; the lost and the saved; self and other; body and mind; man and nature. By contrast, these characters embrace and embody duality, multiplicity, and complexity; Holland even seems to imply that the original logic of Christianity shares this tolerance and flexibility, conceiving of Christ as both man and god. In this way, both pagan and Christian beliefs could intertwine and compliment each other, deriving ultimately from the same ancient mystery, but human representatives of the Roman institutions, such as Gildas, insist on regulation and the imposition of hierarchy, setting the religions in opposition and drifting ever further from the force of unifying magic. This understanding of Christianity, and indeed religion more generally, is much more generous and nuanced than the aforementioned dichotomies at the surface of the narrative, and speaks to Holland’s poignant compassion towards the human impulse to forge connections and to seek answers. 

This compassion extends to Keyne’s struggles with gender identity, as readers are quickly made aware of the profound discomfort and self-estrangement she feels due to her socialisation as a woman:

‘On my blanket is a dress, brown with pale stitches. It swims in my vision. All at once the dream returns and my nose fills with the stench of carrion. My legs wobble but I force them still. It’s just a dream. It’s just a dress.

I can’t do it. 

My stomach heaves at the thought of going to church, candle in one hand, bunched skirts in the other. It’s a betrayal of everything I am. I reach for the pail, but nothing comes up; we’re not allowed to break our fasts this morning. My skin is clammy and I want desperately to shed it, like snakes do. I want to run free. I want out of this dim room with its dresses and prospects and Gildas’s censures. I want to be me. 

My heart is racing again, gooseflesh creeping along my arms. I could say I’m ill, but Locinna has already seen me up. And anyway, illness won’t stop Mother dragging me to church today. When people look at me, they see the king’s daughter – no matter what I say or do – and I well know that Gildas wants to cleanse me alongside my sisters. But I can’t do it. I won’t do it. 

I seize the linen I use to bind my chest flat, wrapping it round and pulling it tight. I cough out a breath and hope I won’t have to run. Shirt next, fumbling the laces, then green tunic over it, followed by trousers and shoon. I don’t bother with the leather wraps that secure them to my feet; time is short. Still struggling to take a full breath, I peep around the edge of my wooden screen. There’s no one visible beyond, though I can hear the sounds of dressing. A guttering torch throws my shadow across the floor. With my hair tied back, it’s a man’s shadow, anonymous.’

In this, as in the subtler explorations of the leeching of female power and wisdom enacted by the institutions of Christianity, Holland suffuses Sistersong with an urgent, unforced feminist logic, dramatising experiences like that of Keyne that have always existed, though erased by patriarchal histories.

The feminism of the novel is entwined with Holland’s beautiful testament to the beating heart at the core of the oral tradition, a nod to what is irreplaceable and irrecoverable in lost stories and customs, but remains live and latent still. The art of telling stories, the irresistible pull of a story well told, is of central importance to Sistersong, the very existence of which is an act of imaginative conservation. In one sense, this emphasis is aesthetic or semi-religious, praising the magic of skilled storytellers and attesting to the ghostly chains of memory, legend, and folk wisdom that bind the descendants of Celtic cultures to their heritage and history, as displayed in Sinne’s description of the enchantment Myrdhin places over his listeners:

‘When the trenchers of mutton are cleared, we gather in the main hall, our whole household and a scattering more, to hear Myrdhin’s tale. Our storyteller settles on a bench before the fire, built up to a crackling height. Most of the torches have been put out and the vast timbered space feels like a dragon’s cave, the fire a hoard at its heart. I watch the flame-shadows dance across faces – we listeners are eager, attentive. The usual bickering over the best perches dies down as soon as Myrdhin raises a hand. 

“What should I tell tonight?” His gaze strays to Father, who rarely misses a story. “A tale of a king, perhaps -“ his eyes move to Keyne – “and his princely sons? The choices they made -“ those blue eyes touch Riva before finally meeting mine – “and the fate that befell them?” 

It’s not really a question. When Myrdhin decides on a particular story, not even Father requests he tell another. “Sit still then, listeners,” our storyteller declares and he sweeps an arm through the air. A vision unfurls in its wake and we all gasp our astonishment. A rich green valley and sparkling river appear within a ring of fang-shaped mountains. The impression overlays our hall; I can just make out the fire crackling beneath. I glance around for Gildas and let go my breath in a rush when I don’t see him. Instead I seek Father’s face, worrying that he’ll put a stop to this blatant use of magic. But Father’s eyes are strangely wistful as they explore Myrdhin’s illusion. The magician isn’t part of our hold, or one of the king’s subjects, after all. Besides, who would dare tell such a man he couldn’t do magic? 

Myrdhin smiles and takes up his small harp. He strums a chord to accompany the story, a haunting note with a hint of threat. “I will tell you of the sea god, Lir, and his children.”

In another sense, Holland’s emphasis is undeniably political, underscoring the historical and cultural impact of privileging certain voices and narratives over others, as well as the revelatory, even revolutionary, effect of bringing stolen and silenced stories to light. Holland beautifully reframes the notion of loss through the characterisation of Riva and Keyne, both of whom feel themselves damaged or estranged in some way, the former due to the scars left by a childhood accident, and the latter due to the true self she must hide. The sisters’ experiences of hardship, erasure, concealment and mutilation are tenderly wrought, and evoke a wider understanding of history as simultaneous accrual and erosion: what survives the onslaught of time is all the more wondrous, standing as a multifaceted emblem of resilience, whether human or inhuman, historical or cultural. This recasting of loss and salvage, whether cultural or personal, is also vital to the historical inevitability propelling the book: readers know the Britons will lose dominance, slipping under Saxon, and eventually Viking, rule, and yet the novel testifies to the endurance of Briton art, belief, and wisdom. 

One of the most poignant aspects of Sistersong is the centrality Holland accords to ideas of shame and silence. As indicated by previous discussions of the role of Christianity in the narrative, and its intersection with gendered power dynamics and systems of control, shame becomes a key concept in the novel: where it is felt, by whom, and why; how it is manipulated and weaponised. For women especially, or those born in female bodies, shame serves to repress self-actualisation and self-realisation, erecting barriers between the three sisters and their parents, between their self-conception and their sense of communion with the land around them, and between them and their sexuality. There is a certain duality inherent in Holland’s structuring of the narrative; on the one hand, men are decentralised – the principal characters are female or gender-fluid, their experiences are foremost in the tale, and it is inferred that women possess a distinctive body of wisdom and magic. On the other hand, these women are subjected to the patriarchal mores of both Roman Christianity and Briton kingship. This duality is epitomised by the king’s absence from the narrative until nearly one hundred pages in; though he is absent, his character decentralised from the novel, his decisions and influence have ripple effects on the protagonists and their circumstances. By balancing these tensions, Holland evokes an achingly familiar and sensitive sense of bonds of sisterhood besieged by the enforced distance of royalty. The system of kingship from which the princesses derive their uneasy status is one built on gendered notions of honour, virtue, and propriety, leaving them feeling somewhat removed from their parents and siblings. Holland does extremely well to document the frustrations, jealousies, and tendernesses of sisterhood, the close and unspoken connections woven by filaments of shared blood amid mutual strangenesses, unknowable spaces, and unbridgeable distances.

In terms of the writing itself, Sistersong falls victim to some of the foibles of the genre: the prose can be overly formal or archaic, as in the use of dung as a curse-word, and the narrative can be overly expository, making explicit what would have been more powerful if left to the imagination of readers. In addition, Holland has a slightly callow tendency to recycle nice turns of phrase, such as faces clouded by a twist of misery or pain.  However, the sincerity of Holland’s writing is compelling and potent; its magic is difficult to resist, and really, why would you want to? There is a gorgeous richness to the prose that resonates with the oral culture of storytellers; while the novel can have a certain literary naivety to it at times, its style is warm and full-blooded: 

‘Sleep ought to find me with a head full of Myrdhin’s lighter stories: majestic beasts, magical stones and boys who challenge giants, all brought to life by the lilting strains of his hard. But what I think about, as I lie on my pallet that night, are the rivers that used to be men, voiceless and betrayed.

In some ways, Sistersong reminds me of Shauna Lawless’s debut The Kingdom of Gods and Fighting Men, as both Holland and Lawless build an mystical, textured historical atmosphere without romanticising the early medieval past. The fictional creation of Dumnonia is steeped in the gloom, smoke, darkness, and pungency of its time, and the hardship of human existence is laid bare. Similarly, Holland’s descriptions of battle are wonderful, inglorious and gruesome scenes laced with visceral fear, adrenaline, and nauseating anxiety; much like Lawless, Holland refuses to embellish or sanitise the horror of the hand-to-hand filth and intimacy of medieval warfare: 

‘Only the pounding of my heart the fire of battle, is keeping the pain of my wounds at bay. Both of my legs are riddled with gashes where the enemy has tried to pull me out of the saddle. I hadn’t noticed them until now. Although I’m still holding onto the vein of magic, I need to follow a pattern to use it. Gritting my teeth, I search for fire again. It’s hard to hold it in my head when half of me expects another arrow storm. I turn to look behind and sweep out an arm. Flame follows in my wake, cutting off the Saxons, covering our retreat. It’s less ghostly this time; I can feel real heat on my back and hear the screams and curses of the enemy. The air becomes sweeter, fresher, as I leave the stink of gore behind. Between the leaping flames is a scene of carnage: the tangled legs of dead horses, severed human limbs and guts spilled as if across a butcher’s bench. I swallow, holding in vomit.’

Fundamentally, in Sistersong Lucy Holland has crafted a fantastic, good old-fashioned story that is well-paced and compelling, intricately braided and unpredictable. The life breathed into the characters of an ancient ballad in these pages is raw, realistic, and intensely moving; the pulse of human drama and experience never runs too faintly under the complex layers of historical understanding, environmental urgency, or feminist discourse that are blended skilfully with the rich texture of a fragmented legend. I sincerely look forward to reading Holland’s next work.