Dark Winds Rising

by Mark Noce

  Striding forward, I plant a soft kiss on my husband’s cheek. He responds by wrapping his arms around me. He whispers in my ear.

  “Be safe, Branwen. Bring both our son and yourself back to me.”

  I nod, my dry throat suddenly robbed of its voice. Artagan kisses me tenderly upon the lips, and for a moment I forget all else. He knows I’ve set my mind to go and does not bother trying to dissuade me from it. In many ways, he is a better man than I deserve. We each do what we must in trying times like these, and Artagan and I will weather these perils as we always have. Together, as equals.

  Olwen peers at me from the corner of her eye. She stalks away without another word. The sight of Artagan and me so tenderly embracing seems to have robbed her of her voice as well. My gaze narrows as she disappears into the fog.

  Outside the fort, I find my mount waiting for me.

  I don a large sky-blue cloak to hide my ever-swelling belly. I cannot keep my pregnancy hidden for much longer. My thighs ache in the saddle as I dig my heels into my pony’s flanks. No time for comfort. Artagan wouldn’t even let me ride if he knew my condition. But my son is in peril somewhere out there and I have to find him. I have so little time.

  A dozen bowmen on horseback ride a few lengths behind. Artagan must have put an escort of guards at my disposal, but I fear they will only slow me down. I’ve ridden the length and breadth of Wales before with no more than my bow and God’s good grace. Perhaps I’ve pushed my luck. Maybe I will not come through this latest trial unscathed. But what mother ever really has a choice? I would trade my life for Gavin’s in a heartbeat. The thought suddenly makes me come up short, halting my mare.

  Here I ride at a breakneck pace to find my son, all the while endangering the child growing in my womb with all this jostling about. And to take the bitterroot potion now would probably spell death for both the child and myself. I suddenly realize that I have already made my choice. All along, delaying the inevitable, because in my heart of hearts I cannot bear the thought of harming the life within me. Even if it means my own death. I wince. The unbidden image of myself broken and bleeding after childbirth flashes through my mind. I draw a deep breath, swallowing hard. If that is my fate, so be it.

  My guardsmen halt and exchange glances, wondering why I have suddenly stopped. A cool wind whistles through the heather that blankets the moors. Another pair of riders catches up with our small retinue. The green banners of Artagan’s army still linger in the distance beneath Dun Dyfed. My eyes brighten at the sight of Una, but my smile quickly fades when I see Olwen galloping beside her. May the Virgin help me! Will that woman never leave me alone? My voice comes out harsher than I intend.

  “Una! What’s she here for?”

  Unperturbed, Olwen halts her mare between us.

  “My son is endangered too. Not you, or anyone else, will stop me from finding him.”

  I grip my mare’s reins all the tighter.

  “I ride on a dual purpose, Olwen. First to find my child, and then to treat with King Griffith at Caerleon to see if he will join our side in this conflict against the Picts. This is no journey for a king’s mistress accustomed to pillowed litters and a warm bed.”

  Olwen jabs her finger close to my nose.

  “You are the one who put my boy in danger in the first place! Now I will accompany you until you show me where he is and I can be assured he is safe.”

  Una, Olwen, and I sit quiet a moment in our saddles. The Free Cantref warriors give us a wide berth, their mounts nervously swishing their tails. I make a wry face at Olwen. Very well. I’ve little chance of getting rid of her, anyway. If she chooses to ride into harm’s way with me, then be it on her own head. She is concerned for her child, after all, and I can hardly blame her for that. I give Una a knowing look as I reply to Olwen.

  “Una hasn’t told you, then? Good. Then she has fooled you as well as she did the assassin.”

  “What are you going on about?” Olwen snaps.

  I nod toward Una, giving her permission to let Olwen in on our little secret. Might as well, especially as Olwen has no intention of letting us leave without her. Una clears her throat.

  “The assassin did indeed attack my wagon on the road back to Aranrhod. I escaped because he was interested only in the passengers in my cart.”

  Olwen raises her voice until the cords show in her neck.

  “You mean you deserted the children?”

  “Nay, my lady. I did not have the children, just a handful of sheep hidden beneath the blankets in my cart. The assassin did not realize his mistake until it was too late.”

  “But then where are the children? Where is my son?”

  “With Rowena,” I explain. “He should be safely at Caerleon by now. Una’s cart was a diversion. A decoy. Rowena took another wagon with the children, heading in the opposite direction in the dark hours after Una had left.”

  “Then my Cadwallon is safe?”

  My heart suddenly grows heavy as I exchange looks with Una.

  “If Rowena has already reached Caerleon. That’s where we ride to find out. Griffith may have his disagreements with us, but he is an honorable man and would shelter my boy as he once did myself when I was younger. But the assassin has merely been tricked, not deterred. The ghost of the Hammer King will strike again now that he has realized his mistake. We ride posthaste.”

  I kick my heels into my pony’s sides, yawing in her ear. Without a word, Una, Olwen, and my guards follow as we traverse the trackless moors to the southeast. Doubts plague my mind as the sun crosses the sky, rising past its zenith. Should I have sent guards with Rowena? But I couldn’t. It would have attracted too much attention and undone our ruse before it began.

  On top of it all, I’ve risked Una’s life to divert the assassin. Artagan still doubts that Morgan has mysteriously risen from the dead to hunt our child, and I’m sure he is right. But he did not see the Hammer King when he cornered Ahern and me in that thicket. This killer is no ordinary mortal.

  And what of my half brother? We’ve still no word since he rode to Caerleon. Ahern should have returned by now. What could possibly keep him? Nothing good. My temples throb from all the conflicting thoughts ruminating in my mind. War with the Picts, raids by the Saxons, and the northern kingdom turning traitor to Wales. All the while my brother goes missing and my son remains in mortal danger. It’s enough to make my heart race faster than the tread of my pony’s hooves. I urge her on. Faster, my girl. Faster. We’ve so little time.

  The hours wane with the setting sun as our steeds splash through the fords along the rivers of South Wales. Undulating downs give way to woodlots and fields of budding rye. Every village we pass looks deserted, but the patchwork of well-tended fields tells me that the peasants have not fled. They merely hide within their hovels. Does even a small company of riders scare these commoners nowadays? Such have the past years of conflict taught our people. To fear any armed cavalry, whether they be Saxon or Welsh.

  Finally, the ancient stone towers of Caerleon loom in the distance, their crimson dragon banners glinting brightly in the setting sun. Red-tile rooftops surround the castle, encircled by the town nestled along the banks of the river. Boisterous boatmen unload their produce along the docks. A crumbling amphitheater and a moss-covered aqueduct attest to the legacy of the Roman legions who first build the fortress that became Caerleon all those generations ago.

  Butterflies flutter in my stomach. I’ve not see Caerleon since I was a teen, when first betrothed to the Hammer King. I wed and bedded him here, losing my maidenhood and for the first time answering to the title of Queen. How long ago it all seems, and yet my fingertips tremble as though I were still a mere girl of sixteen.

  Hailing the watchmen on the outskirts of town, my bowmen put out word that the Queen of the Free Cantrefs has come to treat with King Griffith. Townsfolk in the cobblestone streets murmur as we pass, Mab Ceridwen on many of their lips. I might smile if the faces of the shopkeeps and fishwives did not look so serious. Ev
en here, in the heart of Griffith’s realm, rumor of my unusual deeds and namesake has reached the ears of the common folk.

  The blood of the Old Tribes does not run as strong here. Many of the citizens inherited the aquiline noses and tan skins of the Roman legionnaires. Nonetheless, Caerleon has more citizens than any other settlement in the Welsh Lands. Thousands of people all congregate together in the old city, sporting the latest styles that their merchants have brought back from the continent across the sea. Men wear long hose breeches instead of the kilt tunics of the Free Cantrefs. Women pile up their hair in tight buns or lazy chignons, their skirts twirling with eye-catching warm reds and topaz. The dyes sold amongst the wares of Caerleon seem a far cry from the homespun woolens and fur tartans worn in Aranrhod or Dyfed.

  Inside the gates of Caerleon, I dismount and enter King Griffith’s main hall. A score of armored men-at-arms line the chamber walls. Their chain mail and steel helms glimmer under the torches, their red cloaks vaguely reminiscent of ancient Rome’s long-lost legions.

  Olwen and Una wait beside me in the eerily silent hall, our guards posted outside the entranceway. Griffith’s throne is empty. Other than the guards, we stand alone in the colonnade of ancient pillars. None of the men-at-arms look us in the face, their gazes blankly focused elsewhere. I don’t like this. My hand itches to grab an arrow from my quiver. A small voice echoes across the stone-tiled gallery.

  “Mama!”

  Gavin rushes out between the columns, his outstretched arms grasping my waist as he buries his face in my tunic. I touch his copper hair, pressing my lips to his soft cheeks. The insistent grip of his small hands assures me that this is all real. My boy, safe and sound, and in my arms again. He nuzzles close to my stomach, unaware he has his ear pressed against his younger sibling who swells inside me.

  The other children enter the main hall, followed closely by Rowena and King Griffith. Olwen sinks to her knees and wraps her arms around her son. Dark-haired Cadwallon quickly puts his arms around her neck. Even though he rarely sees her, every boy remembers and longs for his own mother. Cadwallon follows Gavin’s lead as he too presses his face against Olwen’s skirts.

  I bow before Griffith. The fat king smiles stiffly through his bearded jowls. As he turns his back to ascend his throne, Rowena flashes me a nervous glance. Something has gone amiss since she arrived here in Caerleon, but she dares not speak of it in front of Griffith. God bless her, though. Without giving herself away, Rowena has put me on my guard. I glance back at my bowmen clustered outside the hall. If only Griffith’s guards didn’t stand between me and my archers.

  Queen Cordelia enters and takes her seat, licking some white powder from her fingertips. Probably cake or some such. She makes a great effort to squeeze into her smaller throne beside her husband.

  Last, Prince Arthwys enters. For a moment, I do a double take. The young teen’s broad shoulders and angular face look so much like his deceased father’s. However, Arthwys has sandy hair and no beard where Morgan once sported locks dark as sackcloth. One glance from the young man’s cold gray eyes sets my blood pumping fast. My former stepson still bears me more malice than ever, the ill will in his stare almost palpable. His livid glare must have something to do with Rowena’s warning. Everyone in the chamber exchanges courteous smiles, but their grins seem fake as they shift glances from one face to the next. Griffith clutches the arms of his chair with his sausage like fingers, his young ward perching behind him like a hawk.

  “You’ve put me in a difficult position, Queen Branwen.”

  I bow slightly again. An extra dab of courtly courtesy will not hurt. I must endeavor to stay on Griffith’s good side if I’m ever to convince him to join us. But I sense another threat under the surface, only I have no idea what. As though my fate and the fate of my son may hang in the balance. What I do in these next few moments must be done with careful tact.

  “I thank you from the bottom of my heart, gracious King, for sheltering my son and the son of Queen Olwen.”

  I elbow Olwen. She catches my drift, taking a bow and thanking him likewise. Griffith does not return our smiles.

  “You give me no warning,” he continues. “Instead I find your lady-in-waiting at my doorstep with four children, two of whom are heirs to two of the greatest kingdoms in Wales.”

  “If you will allow me to explain, King Griffith—”

  He holds up a meaty palm to silence me.

  “Your handmaid told me about the assassin. Let me assure you, Queen Branwen, your former husband has not risen from the dead to hunt for your beloved son. King Morgan lies interred in his crypt in this very city! I find your pretext for sending your boy here both preposterous and insulting to the memory of a former South Welsh king.”

  Griffith’s voice booms off the rafters. Arthwys never takes his eyes off me. It requires little imagination to guess how he feels, especially with me accusing his dead father of trying to kill children. The Hammer King who died in battle against the Saxons became both a hero and martyr to his people. If only the commoners knew the warmongering Hammer King in private like I did. Arthwys certainly knows what kind of man his father was, which makes me all the more certain that he has turned into the spitting image of King Morgan. I can at least comprehend Arthwys’s sentiments, but what has Griffith so riled? I decide to play somewhat dumb until I can learn more.

  “Forgive my hasty actions, wise King. As a mother, I was merely concerned for my son and foster son. Someone has indeed tried to harm my boy, so I sent him here in the hopes that I might outwit the killer, knowing that none would dare to hurt a guest of the honorable King Griffith.”

  Griffith shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He does not entirely believe me, but at the same time his sense of honor and pride recognizes the need to protect my son. In all Wales, the relationship of a host and guest is considered sacred. Most of all for kings. After all, who would respect a king who could not protect guests and subjects in his own hall? Griffith leans forward in his seat.

  “No one would dare harm your son under my care. I can assure you of that, my Queen. But you are here now, so you’ve no need to ask my continued protection. Yes?”

  I wet my lips with my tongue, trying to choose my next words carefully. There is something in our conversation I’m still not seeing clearly. I’ve little doubt that the assassin could still strike at my son no matter how many guards Griffith posts around Gavin’s bedchamber. After all, the assassin first struck at our home in Aranrhod. On top of all this, I must somehow convince Griffith to aid us in the coming conflict with the Picts and North Wales. But I can cross only one bridge at a time. I must be patient. I force a smile.

  “Of course, my King. I ask only to stay a few days and rest. I’ve had a weary journey. I understand that my guardsman, Ahern, is here. I’d like to speak with him.”

  Griffith leans back in his chair, shifting his jaw from side to side.

  “He is not here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your kinsman went to Caerwent to see the Saxon threat for himself. He has not returned.”

  A chill runs through me. Caerwent. The sister citadel to Caerleon, a full day’s journey to the east. During my first husband’s reign, Morgan made Caerwent his capital and fortified it with an army the likes of which Wales had never seen. In those days, it seemed that the high walls of that fortress could never fall. But since Morgan’s death, the Saxons have sacked Caerwent once, and although the South Welsh later retook it, the old citadel remains a ruined shadow of its former self. The common folk say the castle at Caerwent is cursed.

  Rowena flashes me another look. Whatever warning she has tried to give me, it must have something to do with Ahern. I yawn, feigning a bit more fatigue than I perhaps feel, although the journey has certainly left me famished. Whatever further questions I would like to press Griffith about can wait. The King graciously excuses me, clapping for a servant to show us to our quarters. I feel Arthwys’s heavy stare on me as I exit the hall.
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br />   When we reach the tower solar overlooking the river, I post several of my green-clad archers on the stairwell. Griffith may have guards aplenty in this citadel, but I don’t trust anyone outside my own entourage right now. Olwen retires to a neighboring chamber with Cadwallon while Una excuses herself so that she may join the evening vespers in the castle chapel.

  Rowena and Una exchange silent looks. Despite their loyalty to me, their mutual distrust remains high as ever. If only I could make them see each other as sisters like they once did. But their love for the same man will remain a barrier for the rest of their days.

  Gavin plays with Rowena’s girls in the corner, oblivious of all else but the small wooden toys Griffith’s household has provided for them. I kneel down on the floor with him, my little boy cackling with glee as I take hold of a mounted timber knight and pretend to make it ride around his. My goodness, how my Gavin loves tiny wooden soldiers. My hearts stops a moment, thinking how my boy might someday have to ride real horses into battle, facing very real enemies with their long spears and knives.

  But thankfully those days are a long way off. In the meantime, it’s my duty to leave him a more peaceful realm than I inherited from my parents. I give my son a quick squeeze, the boy squirming under my smothering embrace. I rise to my feet, quietly watching him carouse with the other children.

  Checking the lock on our bedchamber door, Rowena makes sure we are quite alone. She moves to the window, pacing beside the panorama of the riverfront and the crimson-tiled rooftops of the city below. I’ve rarely seen her so tense.

  “Griffith is lying to you, m’lady. Though I do not know why.”

  “Did Ahern not go to Caerwent as he says?”

  “He did, but only because the King banished him from the city.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Griffith’s guards caught Ahern breaking into the catacombs beneath the chapel. He was trying to open the Hammer King’s tomb.”