Dark Winds Rising

by Mark Noce

  The hairs rise along my skin. Ahern could have only one reason for taking such a risk. He wanted to see whether Morgan is indeed entombed beneath the cathedral. He wanted to know for certain whether the Hammer King is really dead, or if he is actually the assassin who has been hunting my son. I grasp Rowena by the wrist.

  “Did he see for himself whether or not Morgan is in his coffin?”

  Rowena shakes her head.

  “I don’t think so. The guards caught him in the act. Griffith has posted a dozen men to watch over the tomb since then.”

  I begin to pace. If Griffith wanted to prevent thieves from defacing the Hammer King’s casket, he would not need more than a couple guardsmen to do so. But a dozen soldiers? Griffith is clearly hiding something. He does not want anyone getting near that crypt, and he suspects that if Ahern almost succeeded, someone else might try again.

  My temples throb as I hold a hand to my head. This only raises more questions than answers. Artagan sent Ahern here to evaluate the Saxon threat. To see whether only a few raiding parties or an entire invasion was happening in South Wales. We still don’t know for certain. Presumably, the Saxons are fighting Griffith’s forces near Caerwent, but it seems odd that King Griffith remains here at Caerleon when his army is elsewhere. I stop my pacing beside Rowena.

  “How did you find all this out, Rowena? You’ve only been here a day or two.”

  “The kitchen servants wag their tongues a lot here, m’lady. Kings and knights never think their bondservants are listening, so they don’t bother to silence them. I tried to find Ahern the moment I arrived, wanting to confide in someone I could trust. That’s when I learned from the cooks about a Free Cantref herald banished from the city for breaking into the Hammer King’s mausoleum. It had to be Ahern.”

  I nod with a grin. Rowena is worth her weight in gold. She risks the perils of the countryside to save my son and help bring him here. Then she learns more secrets in a few nights than I might have after a week of snooping around. I grasp her by the shoulder, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

  “Rowena, you are better than I deserve. The sister I never had.”

  My handmaid smiles, returning my embrace with a hug. She glances back at the children as they play with their toys across the room. She keeps her voice low.

  “I’m glad you’re here, my Queen, but what do we do now? That assassin’s still on the loose and will show up here sooner or later.”

  “We need South Wales as an ally, against both the Saxons and the Picts. But before I can convince Griffith, we need to find out what happened to Ahern, and how to stop the assassin before he strikes again. There’s only one way to get to the bottom of this. We have to open up the Hammer King’s tomb ourselves.”

  Rowena stands silent a moment, swallowing hard.

  “But, m’lady, won’t that sour King Griffith against us if we disturb the Hammer King’s tomb?”

  “It would, if he finds out. So we must make sure he does not.”

  “But there are a dozen guards watching the crypt at all times.”

  “Not only that, Morgan is probably entombed in stone, which means you and I won’t have the strength to open his coffin. I’m willing to bet that Ahern was discovered as soon as he took a hammer to it.”

  “So between the guards and immovable stone, how are we supposed to do all this quietly?”

  I sigh, glancing at my feet. This won’t be easy, yet it’s a greater risk if I do nothing at all. I have to make Rowena understand. I look her straight in the eye.

  “We need to do three things first, and you’re not going to like any of them.”

  Rowena raises a skeptical eyebrow.

  “I take it that you intend to sneak into the crypt this very night?”

  I sigh, trying to explain myself as best I can.

  “First, we need to trust Olwen, to both watch the children while we’re away and to swear we were with her the whole evening. Second, we need to steal a few vials from the castle apothecary, some dangerous vials, so to speak. Third, we will need Una’s help.”

  Rowena frowns at this last part. She would risk betrayal by Olwen and palm a few unsavory potions before she would put her fate in Una’s hands. But I trust both Rowena and Una entirely, and I need them to work together this night. Personally, I’m more doubtful about Olwen in the long run, but she will help us so long as her purposes and ours remain in line. I’ve no intention of telling her where I go or what I’ll be up to, but she’ll agree to play her part if she wants me to continue to watch over and care for her son when all these troubles are over.

  My lady-in-waiting still looks pensive, her brows furrowed with worry. I give Rowena’s hand a squeeze. She gradually nods her head. I know that no matter what occurs tonight, she will stay the course with me to the bitter end.

  Warming my palms over the fireplace, the flames rise and fall under my eyes. Rowena glances at me out of the corner of her eye, never having grown quite accustomed to the way hearth fires flicker or goblets of water tremble around me. Yet she has the good manners not to say so. Nonetheless, she crosses herself before exiting the chamber so that she can go about the tasks I have set for her this evening.

  The sky turns purple outside as the sun sets beyond the western hills. We’ve little time and much to do. Once the children are abed, I’ll speak to Olwen while Rowena purloins the necessary ingredients from the apothecary’s vault. Getting word to Una may prove a little problematic, but I will simply have to wait until she returns from evening vespers.

  Someone pounds on the door, giving both Rowena and me a start. What the devil? More fists bang on the timber entranceway before Olwen’s voice seeps through the planks.

  “Branwen! Open up! Quick!”

  I unlatch the lock, finding a pair of my guardsmen trying to restrain the former Queen. I wave them away, giving Olwen a moment alone with Rowena and me. Her violet eyes look wild with fright.

  “He’s struck again! The blackguard is here, in the castle!”

  I try to shake some sense into the woman.

  “Who? Who, Olwen?”

  “The assassin! He left this embedded in the door of my chamber.”

  Olwen holds up a large dagger, its hilt gilded and carved with intricate knot-work. Clearly such a finely crafted weapon could belong only to a nobleman. My eyes widen as Olwen places the dagger in my hands. The blade drips with blood.

  11

  “Post all of our guards on the stairwell. Wait for me until I return. Say nothing of this to anyone!”

  Olwen looks at me like I have suddenly sprouted a second head. She doesn’t understand, and who can blame her? Things have been set in motion that can no longer be stopped. I hand the bloodied blade back to her.

  “Hide this. Don’t get rid of it, but keep it until we need it.”

  Olwen stammers, shaking her head.

  “Branwen, someone has just tried to kill our sons! And you want to hush it up?”

  “If the assassin wanted our boys dead, he would have simply struck. He would not have left a bloodied dagger.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m not sure myself. Only that something is afoot. Something has changed.”

  “We must tell Griffith, so he can protect us! Someone tried to harm our boys, now we must keep them safe with all means at our disposal. It’s that simple!”

  “This is anything but simple, Olwen! We don’t even know whose blood this is! The assassin has made several attempts on my son’s life, and now he simply leaves behind a bloody knife for the fun of it? No. I don’t understand it myself, but we must keep our heads. I don’t trust anyone outside our own guards right now. Everyone else is suspect. That includes Griffith and his men.”

  Olwen breathes fast and heavy before regaining her calm. Maybe my words have shaken some sense into her. Or maybe she simply doesn’t want me to see her unhinged. I ball my hands into fists to keep them from trembling. I too want to roar like a mother bear protecting her cub, but what good wo
uld that do? We are caught up in a chess game of life and death, and I refuse to be played like a pawn again. We need to stay clearheaded.

  Rowena returns with something bulging under her skirt. She nods as we exchange quick looks. Good. She must have fetched the materials I need from the apothecary. I turn to Olwen, gripping her by both shoulders.

  “I’m putting my son’s life in your hands, as you have often put yours in mine.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Never mind that, I’ll return shortly. I need you to trust me, Olwen.”

  She swallows, looking me up and down. We’ve been adversaries over the years more often than we’ve been allies. We ruled rival kingdoms, resisted the Saxons, and loved the same man. But tonight both our boys’ lives depend on our mutual trust. Surely, she understands that. Olwen straightens her posture.

  “I will watch over the children tonight and guard them with my life. You have my word. But whatever you’re planning, Branwen, do it fast. It had better work.”

  I repress a frown, my lips twisting into a sour face. I suppose we’ve struck as amiable a compromise as we ever will. She would rather run to Griffith for protection even when he clearly cannot keep us safe within his own castle walls. But at least my bowmen are here, and they are loyal to a man.

  But how could the assassin have gotten by them? And why only leave a bloody knife? Whose blood is even on that blade? Killers don’t typically leave a warning. Unless the killer really is Morgan, risen from the grave. Perhaps he simply wants to terrorize us first before slitting our throats. A shiver runs down my spine.

  Every fiber of my being wants to run back into the bedchamber and wrap my arms around Gavin once more, but I fear that if I do, I may never have the courage to let go again. Instead, I peek into the room as he plays with the other children, blissfully unaware of the peril he is in. Sleep well, my little darling. Mother will not let anything harm you tonight. I promise.

  Setting my jaw, I descend the shadowy stairs with Rowena. My green-clad archers congregate around the entrance to the tower, their longbows polished and strung for a fight. If anyone does return to the tower this evening, he will taste the steel arrowheads of Free Cantref warriors.

  Rowena and I steal through the dark corridors of the castle complex, most of the inhabitants already abed. Crickets chirp as the moon rises through the clouds overhead. Rowena hands me a bundle of clothes. I thread my arms through a dun-colored robe, the kind that a nun would wear. I pull the hood down over my face as Rowena whispers beside me.

  “M’lady, it’s still not too late to turn back.”

  “You spoke to Una, I gather?”

  “Aye.” She frowns. “She’s waiting for us.”

  “Good. We have to do this, Rowena. Everything hinges on it.”

  Rowena opens her mouth to speak again, but the castle chapel looms before us. A dozen red-caped guards linger outside the entrance. The sole archway leading into the crypts below the church, and Morgan’s grave.

  Una appears beside us, silent as a wraith. She hands both Rowena and me rough hempen rope to tie around our waists. Her voice barely registers above a whisper.

  “Let me do the talking. Keep your hoods low. You’re supposed to be subservient brides of Christ.”

  Even in the shadows, I can sense Rowena’s shoulders tightening. She has no taste for taking orders from Una, but we’ve no time to argue. We follow Una single-file toward the guards. The guardsmen tell jokes and pass a jug between them as we approach. They fall silent when we stop in front of the church. The head guard puts a palm in front of Una.

  “Chapel’s closed, Sister. No one enters. Orders of the King.”

  Una attempts to walk around him, unfazed.

  “I was in the chapel not an hour ago for evening vespers. I still have work to do.”

  “Work?” the guard bellows. “At this hour?”

  “The work of God, you foolish man of the world! Now step aside.”

  The guard’s voice turns grim.

  “No one may pass.”

  Una doffs her hood, clasping a crucifix in one hand. She bores into the soldier with her dark gaze, aiming a disapproving finger at him. He flinches as though her fingernail were the tip of a knife.

  “We pray for the souls of the departed. Souls like yours that have spent their life spilling blood and now rely on the prayers of the holy to beseech God to lift them from purgatory toward paradise. Think well on it, soldier. When you pass into the next life, all that may stand between your soul and eternal damnation might be the prayers of a few barefoot nuns like me.”

  The guardsman swallows hard. His companions seem equally sobered, putting down their wine jug. Their gazes collectively fall to the floor. Each warrior has surely slain men and broken many a commandment for love of king and country, but they nonetheless fear the lake of fire of which the priests preach.

  I wince at the thought of such a dismal afterlife. It seems too cruel to be anything other than the invention of spiteful priests, but nonetheless the people clearly believe it and so do these men. Thinking on my own sins, I prefer to dwell more on God’s forgiveness and the promise of paradise. Maybe the Old Ways that Annwyn stuck to made more sense, souls being reborn with each new generation, seeking to continue to grow and learn lifetime after lifetime.

  But I shake my head. This is not the time to contemplate such weighty matters of life and death. We’ve work to do.

  The head guard motions for us to enter. He eyes each of us as we hide our faces beneath our hoods. I start to sweat. If any of these men should recognize me, our ruse is at an end. Foolhardy queen that I am, I should not have come. But I have to know who is really down in that crypt. It was my decision to do this, and I must see it through.

  The guard looks me over before allowing me to pass. I sigh with relief. The lead guardsman calls after us as we shuffle into the dark church.

  “Do not take too long, Sisters. Or the king shall have my head and send me quicker to the next life than I wish.”

  His fellow guards laugh, but it is a forced laugh. They seem just as nervous as we do. Perhaps we all risk our lives this night.

  Once inside the nave, Una leads us behind the altar, where we descend narrow, winding steps into the dark. I blink against the pitch-blackness but cannot discern anything from within the dim crypt. A rush of cold, dead air prickles my skin. Although I cannot see anything, I instinctively know that I am surrounded by the dead.

  Una kindles a torch with the tinder and brand in her hand. She must have hidden it beneath her robes. She lights another set of torches for both Rowena and me. The three of us descend deeper into the stony vaults, our orange torchlight illuminating the mausoleum of stone walls. Each paving stone bears an inscription, a name and the memory of the bones that lie behind it. With every step, I know that I tread over the remains of long-dead ghosts. Even behind the stonework and shadows, I feel their ancient eyes upon me.

  I talk to keep my mind off the skeletons entombed behind every cold slab.

  “That was brilliant the way you got us past those guards, Una.”

  Rowena interrupts, crossing herself as we tread through the catacombs.

  “Even those dimwits will grow suspicious if we take too long. I doubt we have half a turn of the hourglass before they come to remove us, whether we are nuns or no.”

  Una snaps at her without a backward glance.

  “I told a lie so that you could come here and disturb the dead! That’s two sins in one night I will have to do penance for. Worry not so much about your mortal life. It’s only a matter of time before we end up just like the men and women interred in these tombs.”

  All three of us cease talking. Only the sound of our footsteps echoes off the narrow stone corridors. How many generations of Christians lie buried in this dim complex? Probably some burials date back to the Roman period when followers of Christ were persecuted by the Empire and forced to conduct their rituals belowground.

  Una halts at the end of a
n archway over a large stone funerary box, its surface chiseled with Latin inscriptions and the Chi-Rho. My knees start to tremble, the coldness in the floors seeping right up through my feet. By the glint of our torches, a name emerges from the dusty stone slab: MORGAN SON OF MEURIG, KING OF GWENT. Una’s voice barely registers above a whisper.

  “This is the Hammer King’s crypt.”

  I clutch my torch close, keeping it between myself and the limestone coffin. As though my former husband might leap out of his crypt and wrap his hands around my throat. Rowena seems to sense my thoughts.

  “Do you really think he’s the one hunting your son?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  “But how? It would take a dozen strong men to lift that slab. You’ll never get it open!”

  Without a reply, I extend my hand. Rowena fishes out several vials of fluid, purloined from the castle’s apothecary at my request. I remove a small flask from my garments and begin to combine the potions. Rowena throws up her hand.

  “M’lady, those are just commonplace substances. Why do you need them?”

  As I add each vial to the mix, the liquid in the flask begins to bubble. A misty broth rises from its surface. I talk over my shoulder as I work.

  “Commonplace potions alone, yes. But Lady Annwyn taught me that in the right order, even the most mundane cordials possess rare magic. Magic that only the women of the Old Tribes learned to unlock.”

  Una stands over me, her voice trembling for the first time.

  “Mistress, whatever black arts you’re using, what do you hope to gain by them?”

  “Either my former husband is trying to kill my son or he is not. I must know what’s inside that coffin.”

  Adding the final ingredient to my potion, it nearly boils over as it glows with an iridescent green tint. Both Rowena and Una back away as I gingerly clasp the volatile elixir in my hands. I stand over the stone sarcophagus. A sickening flush rises up through my veins, as though I stand upon a precipice. I clench my jaw. No time for doubts now. Whatever happens, I must risk opening Pandora’s box and accept my fate.