by Mark Noce
“But what if Sab has guessed your plan and her warriors are waiting for you up in that dun?”
“Then God help us.”
A bird call whistles over the moors. Not the common seabird caw, but an inland thrush like we have deep in the forests of the Free Cantrefs. My ears perk up. It’s Artagan’s signal.
I draw back my bow, ordering my bowmen to angle their shots high. I do not want any stray arrow to hit Artagan or his men. Time to make it rain death over the crags of Dun Dyfed. I release my arrow as I shout to my warriors.
“Archers, loose!”
The twang of bowstrings hisses through the moors. A cloud of black arrows rises like a deadly flock of birds over the citadel. Moments later the clatter and thud of arrowheads hitting stone and wood reverberates within the hill fort. If the sting of a few hundred feathery darts doesn’t alert the Picts to our presence, nothing will.
Artagan’s men roar as they charge forward, their mingled voices surging up over the first line of stony defenses. Only glimpses of Dyfed spearmen and Free Cantref warriors show through the passing mists before the fog obscures them completely. I press my lips together and say a quick prayer for Artagan. God, spare my love from harm this day. I string another arrow onto my birch wood bow.
Olwen nudges me.
“What’s happening? I cannot see a thing in this sea mist.”
I shush her, craning my ears. Something has gone wrong. The usual clang of battle, the din of clashing men does not echo across the moors. Instead, a deadly silence pervades the surround. What the hell is going on up there? I urge my horse forward in front of my bowmen.
“Archers, make ready to charge.”
Several bowmen exchange looks, but nonetheless they ready their bows or draw short-swords and spears. Whatever has happened, Artagan needs help and he needs it quick. Olwen snaps at me.
“What are you doing? Artagan gave you no orders to charge.”
“I know what he said! Shut up, girl, or stand aside!”
I shout over the gusts of wind rustling my wild locks.
“Free Cantref warriors, forward!”
“Mab Ceridwen!” they chant in reply.
I spur my pony forward, headlong into the defenses of Dun Dyfed. My thighs grip my mount’s flanks tightly as I aim my bow, intent on driving an arrow straight into the heart of the first Pict I see. I was born within the walls of Dun Dyfed, so perhaps it’s fitting that I shall die here as well. Whatever fate has befallen Artagan, I intend to share it with him.
My mare whinnies loudly as she leaps over the first stone wall. A maze of rocky bastions radiates out from the center of the citadel. The mists swirl thickly around me, blinding me to all else except the roar of bowmen following close behind. Charging deeper into the ring of breastworks, I glimpse signs of the Picts everywhere. Piles of bleached bones, smoldering campfires, and strange runes chiseled into the stonework that mar every corridor and passageway. I dismount my pony, the narrowing passages growing too constrictive for a rider to pass.
My heart races as I peer down every corner, stalking toward the archways of the main hall. My arrow quivers on my bow, my fingertips ready to release it at a moment’s notice. Baritone voices well up from deep within the castle. My eyes narrow as I step into the main hallway alone. Not a single Pict has assailed me yet. What is Queen Sab waiting for?
Footsteps jostle up a tunnel leading to the hall. I aim for the archway as a shadow looms over the threshold. The lone figure calls out, holding his hands over his head.
“Stay your hand, my Queen!”
I lower my bow, squinting at the man with an ax emerging from the shadows.
“Sir Keenan? What’s going on? Where is my husband? Where are the Picts?”
He shrugs. Rowena’s husband is a brave and loyal knight, but has never had an abundance of wisdom with words. I peer down the other passages leading to the main hall, wrinkling my nose at the lingering stench of feces and peat smoke. Gray-bearded Emryus emerges from another archway, his quarterstaff in hand.
“My lady.” He bows. “We’ve secured the main keep and have men searching out the tunnels below the castle, but it will take some time. The underground cellars are extensive in places.”
“What do you mean, Sir Emryus? What will take some time?”
“To secure the fort, my Queen. So far, it seems to be free of Picts.”
“You mean the enemy is missing?”
Another voice echoes from the main archway.
“They’re gone! Queen Sab gave us the slip.”
Artagan marches into the main chamber with his longsword sheathed across his back. A dozen warriors march behind him. He steps around piles of manure on the cobblestones, fanning swarms of flies away from his face. The Picts have truly made a pigsty of the fortress.
Despite his frown, I rush forward to wrap an arm around him. Both of us are whole and unharmed. Whatever has happened today, I will count that as blessing enough. But Artagan does not look so relieved.
“Once again, Sab remains one step ahead of us,” he fumes. “Her ships are gone. They probably set sail no more than an hour ago. The castle hearths are still warm.”
“But why would she leave? This fortress is near impregnable.”
“She must have ferried more of her warriors into Gwynedd than we thought. I doubt she had more than a skeleton force manning the walls of Dun Dyfed the last time you visited.”
I look to the floor. Artagan doesn’t mean his last comment as a rebuke, but I cannot take it any other way. I had not the foresight to realize Sab was depleting her forces from the castle, and she did it right under my nose. I should have been more perceptive, more observant. But I could never tell how many Picts remained within the dun. They always skulked about, more down below the main keep than aboveground.
Bowen and Carrick enter the hall, cheering with several Dyfed spearmen. The Free Cantref warriors, by contrast, remain silent. Sir Bowen raises an eyebrow when he sees Artagan’s unusually stony countenance.
“Why so glum, brave King? We’ve retaken Dun Dyfed from the Picts!”
“Only because they let us have it,” Artagan snaps. “We needed to defeat Queen Sab before she could join forces with her new allies in the North. My guess is that her ships sail for King Iago’s castle as we speak.”
“Then the Picts are fools!” Bowen replies. “Dyfed is free once more.”
Artagan shakes his head. Bowen and Carrick exchange looks, still not understanding the weight of the situation. I step between the King and the Dyfed men, trying to explain.
“Sab is not like a Saxon chieftain. She does not seek to directly conquer us and hold territory. She intends to carve us up, one kingdom at a time, by setting us against each other, and all the while the Picts and Saxons grow stronger on our borders.”
The normally silent Carrick steps forward, his brows furrowed.
“But surely this is a victory today, is it not, my lady? We’ve retaken the castle without losing a soul.”
I shake my head, raising my voice for all the soldiers gathered in the hall to hear.
“We’ve won the castle, but we may have just lost the war. Look what Sab has done to us! We’ve drawn our forces away to the west, far now from any Saxons or Picts. The barbarians have made us weaken our defenses to the east and north. As soon as Sab unites with Iago’s army, she will set Welshman against Welshman by raiding the other kingdoms. Meanwhile, South Wales is already under attack by Saxons while we’re sitting out here by the sea, a hundred leagues away from the settlements we need to defend from the barbarians. No, my brave knights, today is no victory but merely the beginning of a long defeat. There are dark winds rising against us.”
My words gradually sink in, every warrior in the hall suddenly lost in his own somber thoughts. I could kick myself for my ignorance. I was blind not to see this coming, but who else could have foreseen it? No Welshman or Saxon would’ve given up a prize like Dun Dyfed, but Queen Sab has the cunning of an altogether different m
agnitude.
She might have bled us dry during a siege, but she would probably have lost in the end. Now her people are safely at sea, en route to the north. Within a week she will have a few thousand northern horsemen to back up her bloodthirsty Picts, and many a defenseless Welsh homestead will pay the price for our blunder today. How in God’s name have all our carefully laid plans come to this?
Something catches my gaze.
A piece of torn parchment lies on my father’s empty throne, where Queen Sab sat mere hours ago. I glance down at the water-stained page, just a few lines of text and a small hand-painted icon of a female figure. Probably penned by a long-dead monk who spent his life copying tomes of ancient history at the abbey. It makes my blood boil to think of all the books the Picts destroyed when they sacked the holy monastery. Taking treasured papers like this and using them to wipe their arses. Barbarians indeed.
But something about this tiny scrap of vellum draws my eye. The small icon looks like a noblewoman, a crown atop her head and with long dark tresses. I lift the page and read the fragmented words:
And the young Queen Vivian led her people away from the land of the Picts. Her followers came into Dyfed, where she wed King Vortigen where they have dwelt ever since …
My gaze narrows. It’s a passage about my mother. I turn over the soot-covered page but find no more. I reread these unfinished lines over and over again. Finding this tattered inscription was no accident. Sab left this here on my father’s old seat for me to find. But why?
It raises more questions than answers. My mother, Queen Vivian, lived near the land of the Picts once? No one ever spoke of such a thing to me. Not father nor my tutor, Abbot Padraig, God rest his soul. Yet Sab wanted me to know this. It was her parting gift, so to speak, yet I cannot decipher the meaning behind it. Perhaps she thinks I know more of my mother’s past than I actually do. It appears as though this bit of text ought to convey some profound meaning, at least to someone who does know what my mother was doing living near the Picts long ago. Whatever Sab’s game, this sheet was left behind out of malice. I sense it as thick in the air as the stink of dung that pervades this befouled castle. Perhaps if I can get to the bottom of this story about my mother, it’ll at least give me some understanding of what goes on behind Sab’s lifeless eyes. Why she does the things she does and what she hopes to gain. By such small measures wars and kingdoms are gained or lost.
But everyone who knew my mother in her youth has long since perished. And with the abbey destroyed, I’ve little hope of finding any record to illuminate this mystery. There must be some place in Christendom left that still maintains books containing the answers I seek. But where?
I almost instinctively turn toward the eldest man in the room. Gray-bearded Sir Emryus. I hand him the parchment.
“Sir Emryus, what do you make of this?”
The old bard strokes his beard a moment as he contemplates the words on the page.
“I’m afraid I’m of little help to you, my Queen. I know many a legend and song by heart, but ne’er have I heard one about your mother’s youth. I always assumed she was raised in Dyfed, but evidently she must have lived near the Old Borderlands in Hen Ogledd once upon a time.”
“Old Borderlands?”
“As you know, the Welsh Lands once extended much farther to the north and east than they do today,” Emryus begins. “Entire kingdoms that have since been engulfed by the Saxon hordes. But even when your mother was young, there would’ve been a few Welsh realms that still directly bordered the lands of the Picts to the far North. I can only assume that the late Queen Vivian must have been there at some point, or at least that’s what this scrap of parchment seems to allude to.”
“Thank you, kind sir.
“I only wish I could be of more assistance.”
He bows and moves away. His words linger in my head. The Old Borderlands. Lost realms of old Welsh kingdoms, somewhere to the northeast. What would my mother have been doing there when so young, and what of the Picts who lived nearby? Evidently, Sab knows much more of my mother’s past than I thought. It is certainly disquieting to have an almost complete stranger like Sab reveal secrets about my own mother. Oh, Mother, if only you were here now to help me. So many answers she might give me. But I hang my head, knowing in my heart that wishing will never bring my mother back.
I stuff the tiny scrap of text inside the folds of my cloak and pace the hall. I wander closer toward my husband, his brow furrowed in deep through. Something else ails him as well.
Upon noticing me, Artagan takes me aside. The other warriors murmur amongst themselves. He leans close, not looking anyone directly in the eye as he whispers in my ear.
“We need to do something, Branwen. Whether or not our cause is lost, I will not go down without a fight. We must think of something quick, before things sour between us and the Dyfed men.”
“Sour? They’re the only loyal allies we have.”
“Aye, but Bowen and Carrick think I want to claim Dyfed’s throne. They’ve got their capital back, but no king. Bad as the Picts were, they did give us a united purpose with the people of Dyfed. That purpose is now gone.”
“But the Picts will be back sooner or later.”
“You know how short the memories of most men are. I give it a fortnight before Bowen and Carrick ask my army to leave. When that happens, we will be even weaker, with fewer warriors to resist the Picts and the North Welsh when they come.”
“Then we need more allies, something to rally others to our banners and keep Dyfed confident in our alliance.”
“There’s no one left to ally with.”
“What about South Wales?”
“The South Welsh are under attack from Saxons as it is, asking us for help. They’ll not send reinforcements against the Picts while Saxons still harry their borders. Don’t forget, the South Welsh and the Free Cantrefs have fought against one another more often than they’ve fought on the same side.”
“Leave those worries to me. I’ll ride for Caerleon today and meet with King Griffith.”
“Are you mad? You’re the only one in my household of Dyfed blood. Your presence is one of the few reasons these Dyfed knights even trust me at all. If you go, something’s bound to go wrong sooner or later.”
“You said yourself they’ll probably ask you to leave in a fortnight no matter what. Besides, Ahern hasn’t returned since you sent him to King Griffith. He’s my half brother and of Dyfed too. I have to find out what happened to him. He might be in some kind of trouble.”
“Which gives me less reason to let you go alone in the first place.”
“Then send an armed escort with me. We don’t have much time left, Artagan. Your army needs you here to hold it together. Let me try to talk some sense into King Griffith. It’s our only chance. We need more men.”
Artagan frowns, contemplating my proposal. He knows I’m right, but as usual doesn’t want me anywhere near danger. But what place will be safe once Sab and her new army are set loose on Wales?
Olwen enters the hall, holding a kerchief to her nose as she sidesteps several small dung heaps. I groan with frustration. Even on the eve of a battle she continues to dog my steps. What does she want now? She stalks over to me, leaning in too close for comfort.
“A rider just arrive outside the gates, from Ogham Stone. She says her wagon was attacked on the road to Aranrhod.”
“She?”
“It’s your nun friend, Una. She says her wagon was ambushed by a lone rider who wore the horned mask of the Hammer King.”
My cheeks blanch as I hold a hand to my lips. The assassin has struck again. My God, the children.
10
We stand in the morning mists that pervade the main courtyard of Dun Dyfed. The three of us with our cloaks bundled close against the cool breeze. My husband, Olwen, and I. Artagan hisses through clenched teeth.
“Christ wept, woman! You put the children in danger again? I thought they were supposed to be safe where you were s
ending them.”
I grimace, trying to remain calm. It irks me to discuss this in the presence of others, especially in front of Olwen. The northern Queen seems to haunt my steps of late. Wherever I go, there she soon follows. She folds her arms, her lips hinting at the thinnest of smiles while my husband and I have our spat. I’ve half a mind to swat her across the face with my longbow.
Artagan’s gaze darkens.
“I love you more than life itself, my dear. But sooner or later I fear you must choose whether to be a mother or a spear-wife. I do not think you can be both.”
My jaw tightens.
“I am a queen, so I can and must be both mother and huntress if need be.”
Artagan raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. Olwen butts in, as though anyone wanted her in this conversation.
“Some queens tend the hearth and raise their children whilst others put them in the care of servants while they attend to affairs of state. I know of no queen who has the stamina to do both.”
I spin on my heel to face her.
“Then you’ve yet to see a woman of the Old Tribes do it!” I reply, before turning back toward my husband. “Don’t make me choose between my children and my throne, Artagan.”
My husband’s eyebrows narrow, his eyes looking hurt.
“You misunderstand me, dear wife,” he says in a soft voice, his gaze falling. “I’m merely trying to look after you. I would never make you choose one life over another. Life simply is the way it is, that’s all.”
I swallow a lump in my throat, suddenly feeling like the villain now. My beloved man only means the best, even if he doesn’t see that his words still hint at an ultimatum. As though a woman cannot lead her people and tend to her children all at once. But my forebearers of the Old Tribes did as much, and their blood runs in my veins. I know I can be both a mother and a warrior-queen. I do not have to choose one over the other! Heaven help me, I will have both or perish trying.