by Mark Noce
“What kind of spell did the ancients cast here?”
“One that was not meant to be undone, but by one of their own. Alas, the secrets of the Old Ways are long since lost.”
A baritone growl booms out from the mists.
Artagan and I freeze. We press our backs to one another. The deep howl reverberates off the stonework and seems to come from all sides before it fades. Maybe the others were right. Maybe we should never have come here. Whatever dwells inside these hollows, death itself seems to linger within them. Artagan descends into the fog.
“Wait here. Whatever hunts us, it is not human.”
“Artagan, wait! Come back.”
He disappears into the gauze of gray mist. The bravehearted hero. Unfortunately, I now stand alone in the middle of a haunted castle. Calling out as loudly as I dare, I hear no reply from Artagan.
A lilting voice rises on the wind. My skin turns cold, hearing the familiar song I’ve heard only once before. In my dreams. A woman’s song rises in my ears. Turning around, a figure chants a melancholy melody from atop one of the broken towers. I gasp.
“Mother?”
The figure fades back into the mist, her voice fading with her. It cannot be. The Saxons took my mother years ago. Only a few years old at the time, I saw them strike her down. So much blood. No, it could not be her. Not here, not now.
A hand grabs me from behind. I jump as Artagan tries to shush me. I cannot keep still.
“Artagan, did you see her? Did you hear her song?”
“Huh? All I found were some animal droppings. Big too. Something lives up here.”
“No, no. There was a woman. I think … I think she was my mother.”
Artagan raises a skeptical eyebrow.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
Another forceful growl shakes the cobblestones. No need to ask, I know he heard that. Enough of this! I bend down and pull flint and tinder from my satchel. Artagan raises his arms.
“What are you doing?”
“Find some wood, dry wood. We must make the dark places light.”
Within a few minutes, I have a fire going. Kindling a torch, I descend into the dark archways of the castle interiors. Artagan follows close behind, his longsword in hand. The flickering flames illuminate the strange mixed architecture of the ancient fortress. Rough-hewn stonework forged without mortar by the Old Tribes. Arches and aqueducts run through the veins of the complex, crafted by Roman engineers. Circular turrets and water cisterns constructed by the monks who failed to make the hilltop their permanent monastic home. Our footsteps echo far into the darkness. Such a vast place. It must have been quite a palace in the ancient days.
Turning a corner, I come nearly nose to nose with a pair of small, furry creatures. The tiny, four-legged cubs whimper and nuzzle us. I smile before Artagan abruptly pulls me back.
“It’s no monster that lives here,” he deduces. “It’s become a cave for bears.”
A deep growl emanates from behind us. We spin around on our heels, a huge she-bear snarling in our faces. Her claws cut deep gashes in the walls, her coal-black eyes reflecting the torchlight. Her fangs foam as she tries to get at her cubs, but within the confines of the narrow corridor, we cannot seem to get out of her way.
Artagan swings his sword, but the massive beast swats his blade away like a toothpick. I wave the flaming branch at the creature’s snout, but to no avail. My heart hammers in my ears as the bristling predator charges us.
A woman appears behind the bear, raising her arms and voice. She coos at the two cubs, the baby bears scampering around us to lick her hands. Golden honey drips between the woman’s fingertips. She chants toward the she-bear in some ancient tongue. Something like a spell.
My heart stops.
It is the woman from the mists. The mother bear turns to her, following her scampering cubs. Humming a soft lullaby, the woman leads the cubs and she-bear away.
Moments later she returns on her own. She has dark locks with faint streaks of silver. My voice shrinks down to a whisper.
“Mother?”
“No, child. Although, you have the look of the Old Tribes. No, I’m not your mother. I’m his.”
Artagan frowns, lowering his blade.
“Annwyn? What are you doing here?”
“Is that any way to greet your own mother?”
“So you’re the old ghost haunting the ruins of Aranrhod,” he replies with a frown.
Doing a double-take, I grab Artagan by the shoulder.
“She is your mother?” I ask, still trying to convince myself that this lady named Annwyn is real.
“We haven’t spoken in years,” Artagan replies. “She isn’t your typical mother. She follows the Old Ways.”
“Old Ways?” I echo, remembering Artagan once mentioning such about his mysterious mother. I turn my gaze back toward Annwyn. “You’re a pagan.”
“I worship the old gods,” she replies with a nod. “In truth, I worship nature. I’m a healer, much like your mother once was.”
“You knew my mother?”
Now I know I’m dreaming. First this mysterious enchantress appears out of the mists and now she claims to have known Mother. Annwyn smiles as she patiently explains herself.
“Vivian was a chieftain’s daughter from the Dyfed side of the mountains. Strong in the blood of the Old Tribes, although she followed the new religion.”
“You’re the one singing the song. I heard you, I saw you in the mists.”
“I’ve many haunts, Aranrhod among them. I prefer the tranquility of quiet places, away from the prying eyes, torches, and pitchforks of Christians who are less understanding than yourselves.”
Artagan steps between us.
“The reunion has been heartwarming, but we’ve a war on, Mother. Saxons may be coming this way and we’ve got to fortify this old derelict before they get here.”
“Wars are the realm of men and folly, son. Have I taught you nothing? Only love can conquer hate.”
Artagan winces as he turns to me.
“You see why we didn’t get along? Saxons are pagans too, but no amount of love is going to halt their blades of steel.”
“Some thanks I get,” Annwyn retorts. “I just saved your lives, without the aid of any weapons but patience and love. I simply asked the bears to leave. Why not do the same with the Saxons?”
Artagan shakes his head, turning his back on his mother. I bow before Annwyn, trying to salvage the situation. This is not the time for some philosophical family dispute.
“Please, your ladyship. The people of the Free Cantrefs are depending on us. This place was a haven for their ancestors of old. We must make it a refuge once again.”
Annwyn looks from her son to me, her dark hair and hazel eyes eerily reminiscent of my own mother. Despite having only just met her, I cannot help but feel my mother’s hand guiding me to this wandering enchantress. Annwyn has a trustworthy face, but does that mean she will aid us in our hour of need? We certainly need all the assistance we can get right now.
She puts her hands on her hips, flashing a smile.
“How can I help?”
* * *
By dusk, a few hundred more villagers arrive in the valley. The westernmost survivors herd their animals through the mountain passes, their cattle, sheep, and hogs drinking at the small river that cuts through the valley floor. Fog still blankets the mountains, but clears enough along the plains for the people to find their way up the grassy path leading to the fortress gates. Or what used to be the fortress gates. Little more remains than crumbling archways of cracked stonework.
Artagan’s woodsmen work by torchlight, digging in along the crumbling battlements. Every hour counts. A steady cacophony of clanking tools fills the night air. The Blacksword’s bowmen shore up the defenses by piling up stones and timbers. Village women kindle bonfires for light whilst others gather water from the river. For the first time in centuries, the splash of freshwater fills the ancient cisterns. If the enem
y does show up, we’ll need every drop if we have to withstand a siege.
A constant stream of women and children trickles in throughout the evening, some bearing bindles whilst others have no more than the tunics on their backs. A few lucky peasants find family members or neighbors amongst the refugees, but far too many call out the names of missing loved ones in vain.
Directing the growing multitude from atop one of the bastion towers, I pore over a brittle, torn map with Annwyn. An old parchment, probably left over from the long-ago monks, it lays out a basic floor plan of the grounds. Rowena and Una sweep out the interiors of the old solar chamber behind me, cursing the animal droppings and cobwebs that fill the neglected chambers. I lean over the map as I address Lady Annwyn.
“We have to plug every gap in the defenses. We cannot risk any Saxons finding a way inside.”
“I’ve visited this site for years and have still never fully explored the labyrinth of passageways beneath it,” she replies. “This isn’t one fortress but several, one built right atop the other. A Celtic hill fort beneath a Roman outpost, beneath a monastery of towers. Just be thankful there aren’t more bears living inside … as far as I know.”
Hanging my head, I scoff at the futility of it all. We’ve a matter of days, maybe only hours, to make habitable a castle that has fallen apart over the centuries. Regaining my composure, I point at the outline of the outer embrasures on the chart.
“What about the walls themselves? The gates are just gaping holes in the stonework now.”
“Four walls and two gates that I know of,” Annwyn begins, with a hand on her chin. “The west and south wall stand too high to assail, the best remnants of the Old Roman period. But the northern and eastern segments have crumbled so low in places that rabbits and badgers sometimes find their way inside. The ancient gates were made of wood, and of course burned down long ago, or so the legends say.”
“Then that’s where the Saxons will most likely attack us, the lowest walls and beside the missing gates. And they’ll be a lot worse than a few rabbits and badgers.”
“The Old Tribes rolled boulders down against the legions, routing the Romans many times.”
“Did they run out of boulders eventually? Is that how they lost?”
“No, they were betrayed, by one of their own. The Romans captured everyone in a single night.”
A knot tightens in my throat. How often have the Welsh been defeated by their own kind? Betrayed by spies from within. I shake my head, knowing that I must show some backbone. Nonetheless, I find myself watching Rowena and Una from the corner of my eye as they clean out our new quarters. Such young girls, they have followed me through thick and thin. I do them a disservice by doubting them in my heart.
A ram’s horn blares from outside the walls. My pulse quickens. I race to the windowsill. Rowena, Una, and Annwyn all join me as we gaze eastward. A snaking column of torches makes its way down the valley toward the river fords.
No! If the Saxons have come already, we don’t stand a chance. Our defenses look like rotten cheese in places, so many cracks and holes pockmark the masonry. Artagan’s warriors drop their hammers and shovels, manning the broken ramparts with spears and longbows.
These new arrivals from the eastern passes crowd the fields outside our crumbling walls. Artagan calls out from the defenses, cupping his palms around his mouth.
“Stand down! Lower your weapons! They’re Free Cantref folk!”
I sigh with relief. Thank heaven. Rowena and Una exchange smiles with me, each of us breathing a bit easier.
To my surprise, Annwyn hands me a quiver of arrows.
“Here, you’ll need this. I’ve used it for game, but I confess I was never very good with it.”
She offers me a bow of birch wood, its handle emblazoned with Celtic runes. Brimming with questions, I don’t know where to start. No one has ever given me such a gift.
“Lady Annwyn, I cannot accept such an exquisite—”
She gently shushes me with a smile. “I think you shall have more need of it than I.”
I bow, deeply humbled by such generosity. Despite her peaceful philosophy, Annwyn truly does adhere to the ways of the Old Tribes, who sent their womenfolk into battle beside their men. I pray I have the strength to draw the bowstring and do justice to this finely crafted piece of woodwork.
Gazing out over the windowsill, my eyes widen at the sight of such a large contingent of refugees. There must be a thousand of them! So many villagers and homesteaders. Entire stretches of the Free Cantrefs must be empty of people now.
A lone rider astride a white horse leads the swarm of survivors up the slope toward the missing gates. She must be some local noblewoman.
My gaze suddenly narrows on the unmistakable figure of a fair woman with long, straight, jet-black hair. Her violet gown glistens with fine silks and jewels. Only one woman in Christendom could match such beauty. Lady Olwen.
Artagan rushes forward to greet her. Straining my eyes, I can only see their distant figures meet amidst the crowd of refugees pouring into Aranrhod. The bottom drops out of my stomach. Both Una and Rowena glance my way with sympathy in their eyes. Why would Artagan want me now? Especially since I’ve rejected him and he has a perfectly gorgeous paramour that his father betrothed him to already. My ladies-in-waiting both abruptly resume their tasks, pretending not to have noticed the look of consternation on my face.
Throngs of more Free Cantref folk pass through the open gateways. We’ll need all the room this old castle can afford us. Every nook and cranny within these walls will be filled by midnight. Descending the turret steps, I inspect the construction along the weaker segments of the walls. Artagan and Olwen are sure to be there. Natural leaders always throw themselves into the thick of things. I bring along my new quiver of arrows and my birch longbow.
Many of the new arrivals turn and wave to me, survivors from Cadwallon’s Keep. Half the villagers from Cadwallon’s settlement must have escaped to the woods in order to avoid the Saxons. I embrace several mothers and farmwives. It seems as though we haven’t seen each other in years. Has it only been a matter of days since the Saxons turned the world upside down? My heart sinks when I realize how few of the elders have made it. The journey to Aranrhod must have been rough. Only the young survive.
Amidst the multitude, I hear Lady Olwen’s voice before seeing her. Dismounted, she tugs her white mare behind her, her other hand upon Artagan’s arm. Her deep, sensual voice could cast a spell on any man. She and Artagan suddenly halt before me, the rest of the crowd parting around us like a rock in a river. Olwen speaks to the Blacksword as though I’m not even here.
“Artagan, you didn’t! Stealing another man’s wife? That’s bold, even for you.”
The Blacksword shuffles uncomfortably. Lady Olwen keeps her hand on his arm. I stare down her haughty gaze.
“Actually, I rescued him,” I reply matter-of-factly. “To what do we owe the pleasure, Lady Olwen?”
“I’ve come to rescue you, or at least your people. But they’re not even that, are they? I suppose you’re a queen of nothing now that you’ve thrown it all away.”
My cheeks burn, but I’ve no reply. Despite her sharp words, she speaks the truth. I’ve no kingdom under my sway, no family nor husbandly ties to fall back upon. A queen without a country. Little better than a beggar-maid. Artagan removes Olwen’s palm from his wrist, his gaze darkening.
“Branwen has done more for the people of the Free Cantrefs than anyone. She cares for every villager like a mother, and for no benefit but the goodness of her own heart. The people love her.”
Olwen purses her lips. I glance at Artagan, unsure what to say. Such sternness has clearly taken Olwen aback as well. He nods toward both of us before excusing himself.
“Pardon me, Lady Olwen, but I’ve battlements to rebuild. Queen Branwen is in charge here. If you’ve come to lend a hand in our defense, I suggest you take it up with her.”
He goes without another word, although he doe
s glance back at my new bow with a curious expression. Olwen makes a sour face, her violet eyes lingering upon Artagan as he leaves. Puffing out her chest, she looks me up and down as she might appraise a horse.
“I brought as many survivors here as I could. The rest is up to you, Lady Branwen.”
“You have my thanks,” I reply cordially. “I’m sure we can find a useful task for you.”
“I’ll manage myself, thank you.”
She motions to leave, but stops, as though remembering something she wishes to tell me.
“You’ve turned his head, Branwen. Nothing more. You think yourself the first? He’ll come around, sooner or later. He always does. Always.”
Olwen brushes past me, her shoulder glancing mine. My fingernails dig into my palms until they leave marks. I’ve a sudden, very unchristian urge to practice bow shots on her. But I’ve little enough arrows for our enemies as it is.
Striding back inside the fortress, I thumb the grip of my new longbow. Annwyn must be of a similar height as me, because when I pull back the bowstring, the nock comes right to my jaw. As though the bow was crafted for me. My skin buzzes with a thousand pinpricks, wondering what Mother would think if she could see me now. Me wielding a longbow in a stronghold of the Old Tribes. I’ve no formal training in arms and none of the experience of a proper spear-wife, but I think I can at least manage to loose an arrow or two if need be. I suppose if the Saxons come, I’ll find out.
Men and women nod to me as I walk the battlements. Artagan’s warriors erect a row of wooden pikes in the earth, angling them outward. With his naked blade, the Blacksword lops the heads off each log. Each wooden tip is razor-sharp. A row of sharpened timbers, these barriers will not stop the enemy, but may slow them down.
Amidst the burning bonfires and torches, everyone lends a hand. Keenan and Emryus cut wood, Rowena and Una dig entrenchments, while Ahern and Padraig pile rocks along the walls. Stooping beside them, I join the Abbot and my kinsman as they rebuild the walls one stone at a time. Padraig does not look up from his work.