Dark Winds Rising

by Mark Noce

  I pour the glowing emerald liquid around the edge of the cover stone. It sizzles as the potion drips along the seam of sealed masonry. Smoke rises from the rim of the crypt, as though the devil himself might soon emerge.

  A low rumble thunders within the limestone coffin. Several large cracks spread across the slab, branching out like lightning bolts. A puff of putrid air escapes from within the fragmented sarcophagus. The cover of the stone coffin has been broken, undone by the potion eating away at its mortar. The three of us stand silent before Rowena breaks the stillness.

  “What do we do now?”

  I wipe the sweat from my brow.

  “The top slab is still too heavy for us to lift, but together we might remove one of these cracked pieces. Just enough to glimpse inside.”

  Una looks at me with wide eyes.

  “And what do you expect to find?”

  “If Morgan’s body is there, it means he couldn’t be the assassin. But if he’s gone, then we know he must somehow still be alive.”

  Rowena clutches my arm.

  “What if he is in there, but he’s a ghost … the one that’s been haunting your son?”

  A tremor rises up through my bones. I struggle to steady my voice.

  “Then only God can help us now.”

  I wrap both arms around a loose fragment of the coffin lid. About the size of a small, flat boulder. I can hardly budge it. Rowena and Una get on either side of me, all three of us taking hold of the shattered piece of stone. I count to three before we heave with all our might. Each of us strains until the cords in our necks show, our torches flickering on the floors behind us. I grit my teeth as sweat runs down my temples.

  With a groan, we push the chunk of rock over the lip of the coffin. It hits the ground with a heavy thud that echoes throughout the catacombs. If the guards aboveground didn’t hear that, they must be as deaf as the skeletons down here with us. We probably have only a minute or two before they come down into the crypts and find us.

  A cloud of dust permeates the coffin. I waft away the gray mist, coughing as the sulfuric fumes of the stone-breaking potion sting my nostrils. No living person has laid eyes on the interior of this sarcophagus since the day Morgan was laid to rest. The Hammer King. The man who was my husband, then my enemy, and perhaps my enemy still. I place my hands on the edge of the coffin and lean in to take a look.

  I blink, pawing around inside the dim confines of the crypt. Una grabs a torch and holds it over my head. My skin turns cold. The coffin is empty.

  The heavy clank of chain mail reverberates down the corridor, voices filling the dim passageways. Torches flash from every side as guardsmen encircle us with their short-swords and glaives. Rowena and Una raise their hands over their heads.

  I stand still as a gargoyle, dumbly staring into the vacant crypt. Morgan is not there. I choke down the bitter bile in the back of my throat, trying not to retch. Morgan lives.

  The lead guard approaches me with a set of manacles in hand.

  “All of you are under arrest.”

  Even when he claps the irons on my wrists, I do not look away from the hollow tomb. I shut my eyes. All is lost, all is lost.

  * * *

  At daybreak, King Griffith comes storming into the dungeons, his heavy tread echoing off the stone floors. I sit up on my cot, a thin beam of daylight streaming in through a high arrow slit. As dungeons go, the cells at Caerleon are not bad, almost tolerable. Almost.

  Griffith halts in front of my cage, waving his guards away. His bearded jowls shake as he pounds his fist against the bars.

  “You desecrated the grave of one of our most honored monarchs!”

  “There was nothing to desecrate. Morgan’s not there. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

  Griffith gnashes his teeth. I pace the length of my cell. Where they’ve put Rowena and Una, I can only guess, but they must be isolated in a cage similar to mine. Wearing only the ill-fitting nun’s robe from last evening, my swollen belly protrudes like a small hump beneath my garments. I must be closer to four moons along by now. I gently rub my subtly ripening stomach. Griffith’s eyes grow wide as chicken eggs.

  “My lady, you are with child?”

  “My husband doesn’t know yet. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have sent me to treat with you. Nonetheless, I’m sure once he learns that his pregnant wife and son are imprisoned within your castle he shall arrive here shortly … along with his army.”

  Griffith’s cheeks pale. Despite his anger, he knows that Artagan will come for me no matter how many Picts, Saxons, or Welsh stand in his way. Odds be damned. I repress a smile. Sometimes my husband’s reputation for recklessness provides me with a most useful bargaining chip. Griffith narrows his gaze, trying to look stern, but I can tell that my words have taken the starch out of him.

  The King aims a fat index finger at me.

  “You have still damaged a king’s grave.”

  “An empty grave. You built a king’s monument without a king inside it.”

  “My people need a hero, someone to inspire them, and the Hammer King’s memory does that.”

  I fold my arms. Griffith does have some wisdom. He is not the dashing warrior my husband is, but his people must be inspired nonetheless. He has given his people an ideal, not with himself but by revering the legacy of his predecessor. Morgan’s memory reminds the people of South Wales that they were great once and can become great again. How ironic that Morgan’s reputation should inspire such honor in people. Few people knew Morgan as I did. Was he ever truly honorable? More like cunning and relentless, but history is written by those who survive, and both Griffith and I intend to survive. I take a step closer toward him, choosing my words carefully.

  “It would certainly damage morale in Caerleon to learn that the Hammer King’s revered tomb is empty. Their monument to their hero, a mere hollow shell. But who really knows this? You and I, and a few guards? It’s still a secret. With some simple repairs to the crypt and several paid-off guardsmen, it could remain a secret.”

  Now Griffith takes a turn to pace, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. He understands that my offer is both a means at reconciliation and a threat. Repairing the crypt will restore prestige to his catacomb, and keeping the secret will keep his people’s morale up in these trying times. A secret he now needs me and my household to keep private. Griffith stops, leaning his face nearer the bars.

  “You would keep this secret?”

  “If you let me out of this prison.”

  “What about the repairs to the tomb? It will be costly after the witchcraft you did to it.”

  “I am a queen with some means at my disposal. My kingdom can spare a few coppers as a gesture of goodwill between our realms.”

  Griffith strokes his beard, considering my offer. It allows him to keep his precious honor and his city’s pride intact, all the while enabling me to get out of this cage without starting another war. But something in Griffith’s searching eyes leaves me unconvinced. I swallow, trying to keep up my mask of calm. Trapped like a bird in a cage, I have nothing but my wits to protect me and my unborn babe. Griffith taps his brow.

  “One thing I do not understand. You think Morgan lives, and hunts your son, yes?”

  “I know it now.”

  He shakes his head.

  “I too was at the Battle of the Bloody Fords, remember? I saw Morgan die. The Saxons took me captive. I watched as they dismembered the Hammer King’s corpse. They made trophies of his arms, legs, head, his … extremities. They burnt the rest. So you see, Morgan has no body, yet I found a way to honor him nonetheless.”

  I wag my head. Griffith did not see the assassin in the thicket that day Ahern and I encountered him. I stick my head between the bars, nearly nose to nose with the King.

  “That’s not possible! I’ve seen the assassin. His build, his hammer, his mask. It’s Morgan.”

  “Then it must be a ghost, because the Hammer King is dead!”

  He scoffs, looking
away. I wonder if he believes what he says. He may have seen Morgan die, but I saw him come after my boy not two moons ago. I don’t know how those two things could both be true, but somehow they are. Somehow I must convince him. If he does not trust me enough to believe Morgan hunts for my son, he will never trust me enough to form an alliance with us against the Picts. I must put my best chess piece forward in order to earn a victory here. I clear my throat.

  “Gracious King, please send one of your guards to Lady Olwen. She has something I think you should see. Something that may convince you better than any of my words.”

  Griffith raises a skeptical eyebrow but nonetheless calls for one of his guards. After acceding to my request, he sends his guardsman off. Minutes later the soldier returns with something wrapped in a bloodied cloth under one arm. The guard pants out of breath as he hands the concealed object to his King.

  Griffith frowns as he unwraps the bloody dagger. His eyes widen when he recognizes the make of the blade and its polished handle. Well-crafted South Welsh steel. This could have belonged only to a well-to-do nobleman like the Hammer King. I choose my words with care, knowing that this is the moment to make my point. If I do not convince him now, I never will.

  “Does that look like the handiwork of a ghost, my King? It was embedded in the door behind which my child sleeps.”

  Griffith blinks in disbelief.

  “This happened in my castle?”

  “An assassin has followed me here to Caerleon. One who knows the castle well enough to sneak past your guards and mine.”

  Griffith clenches his fist around the hilt until his knuckles turn white. He does not want to admit that I am right. Only someone like Morgan would have had a blade like this. Only Morgan would have known all the secret passages within the castle. He once ruled over Caerleon and Caerwent, after all. Griffith examines the tarnished steel.

  “Whose blood is this?”

  I shrug. If only I had more answers to give him. Nor do I know why the assassin tried to hurt my boy twice before, and this time merely left a crimson dagger to taunt us. Of course, if Morgan is indeed a ghost, perhaps he can sense our fear. Perhaps he merely savors the taste.

  Griffith lowers the blade. Without looking at me, he paces toward a sunlit arrow slit. A shaft of copper light cuts across his face.

  “If I let you out of your cell, where will you go? I doubt you’ll linger in Caerleon now.”

  “I make for Caerwent. My kinsman, Ahern, went there last before he disappeared.”

  “The Saxons are there! My men hold the castle, but the countryside to the east is crawling with barbarians.”

  “Which is exactly why I must go there and see for myself.”

  “You still think the Picts who have Iago’s ear are a greater threat than the Saxons?”

  “I don’t know, but I intend to find out. The answer lies at Caerwent.”

  “As do God knows how many Saxons. You would risk such peril?”

  “These are perilous times. We must risk much if we are to survive.”

  Griffith sighs.

  “Then you will not go alone. It would shame me to my dying day if a queen heavy with child braved the dangers of the Saxons while I sat at home behind thick walls. When do you plan to depart?”

  It takes me a moment to gather my wits. Does he jest? I very nearly stutter.

  “I plan to leave right away.”

  “Then we make for Caerwent and the peril of the Saxons posthaste.”

  12

  I grab my third bun from the basket on the table. A serving girl deposits another bowl of piping-hot stirabout in front of me as I down my second mugful of milk. My rumbling stomach hungers for more. I seem to have become a bottomless pit of late.

  Sitting in the central mead hall of the castle, I devour another plate of eggs while a servant refills my cup. Rowena, Una, and Olwen sit opposite me, nibbling at their meals while the children make a mess of their breakfasts. Gavin and Cadwallon launch spoonfuls of porridge across the table at one another, cackling behind their tiny makeshift catapults. Olwen chides them both, but they always seem to find another spoon. Rowena’s little girls keep putting their palms into their pudding, smearing it across the table.

  Grabbing Gavin by the wrist, I drag my squirming boy over to my side of the table and plop him on my lap. He struggles against me with his stout, meaty arms, his thrashing subsiding only when I begin to spoon-feed him his stirabout myself. The child inside me somersaults, making the bile rise in my throat a moment. But at least Gavin is calmer now, greedily devouring the breakfast I spoon into his little gullet. I smile down at my hungry boy as I wipe some stray oats from his chin.

  I hear Griffith’s footsteps before I see him. His heavy tread rattles the bench under me. After a cursory glance, I devour another handful of fresh berries. Griffith certainly keeps a well-stocked table, I’ll give him that. The King clears his throat, dispersing his servants. I understand the gesture. He wants the two of us to speak alone. I nod to Rowena, who nudges Una and Olwen. The three of them herd the children to a mead bench several table lengths away. Gavin slides off my lap to join his companions. The boys’ boisterous voices and the girls’ laughter reverberate off the rafters. Griffith sits down opposite me, the bench groaning under his weight.

  “The horses are saddled, my soldiers ready to depart. Your wagon has been prepared.”

  “Wagon? I already have a mount.”

  “Aye, a mountain pony. Barely fit for a peasant but hardly appropriate for a queen, let alone one so far along with child.”

  My eyes narrow, my skin growing hot. Griffith raises a placating hand.

  “Please, this request comes from your own lady-in-waiting. She insists that a woman in your condition should not mount a horse. Bad for the baby, she says.”

  I flash Rowena a glance across the room. She shrugs sheepishly, no doubt guessing the words that pass between the King and me. She is right to insist, of course, but a wagon will only slow me down. It’s hard to feel much like a warrior-queen when astride pincushions in the back of an oxcart.

  Griffith stabs a sausage with his knife.

  “I don’t claim to be an expert in womanly affairs, but it would certainly bode ill for both our kingdoms if the Queen of Aranrhod miscarried while in my care. Agreed?”

  I frown, nodding reluctantly. I don’t mind their concern so much as I do the lack of choice I seem to have in the matter. It still amazes me how once a woman becomes a queen, her body no longer belongs to herself but to the kingdom at large. The only heirs who can sit on Artagan’s throne after him will come from my womb and no one else’s. Such is the power that all queens have wielded since the days of the Old Tribes. But with such sway comes a heavy price, the need to produce offspring for the greater good of the realm.

  Gavin and Cadwallon merrily chase one another around mead benches, earning frowns from the servants dodging out of their way. I pat my round belly and the life inside me. Whatever will become of my beloved boy and his unborn sibling? Will they have to sit on thrones, lead armies, or submit to arranged marriages as I have in my time? It’s hard to imagine Gavin as anything other than the cherub-cheeked princeling I adore. He is just a boy, but already some cold-blooded assassin seeks to snuff out his life before it has even begun. Does the same fate await the infant growing within me? I sigh. If my vision of childbirth holds true, I doubt I will ever live long enough to get to know the babe growing inside me.

  After finishing my bowl of porridge, I stuff a few more buns into my robes. Who knows when I will find my next full meal on the road? The Saxons have likely stripped the countryside bare.

  Rising from my seat, I pull Griffith aside with a gentle hand on his arm.

  “Good King, you’ve been a lord and ruler in Wales longer than most.”

  “That’s a kind way of saying I’m getting old and fat,” he replies with a cordial smile.

  “I did not mean it that way, Griffith. Instead, I was curious what you might remember of my mothe
r … when she was young.”

  “Queen Vivian?” he replies with his eyebrows raised. “I knew her not when she was Vortigen’s wife. Sadly, we never got the chance to meet. Why do you ask?”

  I shake my head, trying to hide behind a sad smile.

  “Nothing. I was just curious.”

  Griffith scratches his beard a moment.

  “My clerics have some histories recorded from older manuscripts, here and at Caerwent. I’ll ask them to see if any reference the late Queen of Dyfed.”

  “Thank you, Griffith. My memories of her are so few. I suppose I look for any scrap of knowledge about her life that I can nowadays.”

  He calls aside a passing servant, giving him orders to send for his clerics to search their tomes for any word about Queen Vivian of Dyfed. I thank Griffith again, still wondering what if anything his scribes might possess that would be of any use to me. It seems if I am ever to discover what my mother was doing near Pictish territory in the days of old I will have to ask Sab herself about it. The mere thought makes my skin crawl.

  Outside in the castle courtyard, my dozen archers sit astride their small mountain ponies. Several of the bowmen’s feet hang barely a few hands above the ground. Griffith’s guardsmen exchange grins. They doubtless consider our small Free Cantref mounts little better than dogs with ponytails. But these lowlanders have never seen one of our stout upland ponies traverse the side of a mountain in a thunderstorm. I doubt any of their thoroughbred horses could withstand such a test.

  Griffith mounts a well-muscled bay. The stud whinnies under the King’s immense weight. The sight of it makes me wince. They must have found the strongest beast in the kingdom to hold his prodigious girth. I would have put money down that Griffith could no longer mount a horse. Griffith blushes red in the face, looking almost as amazed as I am that he can still keep himself in the saddle. Several of the children snicker behind us. I chide them with a quick hiss.

  I should not mock Griffith, even in my mind. I look no better as I step into my hay-filled wagon. A quartet of horses stands tethered to the front. I take up the reins and place myself on the front lip, trying to keep my composure like some queen charioteer. Instead, I look more like a peasant girl in the back of a donkey cart. Barefoot and pregnant. So much for looking regal.