Dark Winds Rising

by Mark Noce

  Gavin, Cadwallon, Mina, and Mora all pile into the back of the wagon. To them, this is all just another marvelous adventure. I fake a smile, playing along with their game of make-believe. What kind of mother am I? Leading them into danger, toward a place where my kinsman has disappeared and Saxon barbarians roam at will. But what safer place is there for them? Picts linger in the North, and an assassin stalks our steps. If our fortunes do not change for the better, soon every child in Wales will suffer our enemies’ wrath.

  Rowena and Una sit on opposite sides of the cart, keeping the children between them. It also gives them an excuse not to talk to one another. Olwen mounts her white filly, looking down her nose at my hay-stuffed wagon. Let her. I may look like some farm girl in a jaunting car, but at least I am still a queen in truth. I have a husband and a home to return to. Let Olwen have her pretty white horse. Aside from that and her young son, the poor thing doesn’t own so much as a pot to piss in.

  Griffith leads a column of red-caped soldiers out the castle gates. A few hundred infantrymen in jangling chain mail and steel helms march down the old Roman road toward the eastern woods. Hundreds more guards line the battlements of Caerleon, watching us go. If only Griffith would march more of his troops outside his walls. But the threat of the Saxons on his eastern borders has him curled up in his shell.

  Imagine what we could do if Free Cantref archers fought alongside South Welsh swordsmen. Griffith’s troops and ours might actually stand a chance against Queen Sab and her Picts. But Griffith won’t do that. Not so long as the Saxons have Caerwent besieged. Caerwent, the last place in Wales I should be heading, and the one place my destiny seems to be leading me toward. The Fates truly work in mysterious ways.

  As we pass beneath the tall towers of Caerleon, a sickly chill runs through my bones. I look up at a pair of dark eyes boring into me from one of the highest parapets. A figure with his hands on his hips, silhouetted blackly against the morning sky.

  Arthwys.

  The young Prince stands still as a gargoyle. I can almost feel his eyes smoldering a hundred lengths away. His father once looked at me that way, silent and menacing. On the night I fled his castle forever, with Artagan and a stolen horse. Morgan hunted me for years after. Perhaps he hunts me and my son still.

  A dark tremor runs through my mind. Could the young boy be impersonating his dead father? If anyone has the build and the means to obtain Morgan’s old war-mask, it might be him. But no. I quickly dismiss such foreboding from my head. He is still a boy, after all. But perhaps at sixteen he is old enough to be a killer. Yet I feel that if it had been Arthwys underneath Morgan’s old mask I would have somehow sensed it. Odd though that may seem, I still trust my gut in matters of such importance.

  Despite the perils ahead, it lightens my heart to know that Arthwys will remain behind. The thought of the young Prince in our cavalcade would have given me many sleepless nights. Though only a boy, I cannot convince myself that Arthwys is an innocent child. He carries his father’s seed of darkness within him.

  A gray sky rumbles overhead. Our mixed caravan of South Welsh soldiers and Free Cantref archers winds its way toward the foggy sun. The roads will be wet and muddy. I bite my lip. Damnation. Can’t my journey across this godforsaken land be advantageous for once? Would it anger God if my travels across Wales went according to plan for a change? I heave a heavy sigh.

  Perhaps I am being unfair. Rough as our country is, mountainous and full of rivers and thick woods, its very topography has helped protect us against barbarians in the past. Soggy weather and boggy terrain may inhibit Saxons and Picts, but to the Welsh it’s just another day at home.

  By midday, a torrential downpour halts the column. We encamp at the edge of the woods, utilizing the dripping canopy for cover. Droplets hit the roadway so hard it seems as through the mud splashes the treetops. Men and horses alike stand with grim faces in the shadows, waiting for the cloudburst to end. The children take no heed, however, sticking out their tongues to catch fat drops of rainwater. I smile and do the same. It tastes clean and cold.

  Perhaps my little boy and the other children are wiser than so-called adults like me. Where we see hardship, they see an opportunity to have fun. Fun. Have I completely forgotten the word? I suppose a queen and a mother has little room for such things.

  Gavin chuckles as the rain plasters his red locks to his forehead. I cannot help but smile. He reminds me so much of Artagan when he grins like that.

  I draw Gavin close to me, my son still bright eyed and grinning despite his frigid cheeks. My heartstrings constrict at the thought of Artagan so far from us now. I hug Gavin all the tighter.

  Our company keeps a decent pace between rain showers, but eventually a new storm front stops us in our tracks. We bivouac under a tall stand of oaks near the old Roman road, spending a wet night beneath soaked blankets and tents. Half the soldiers stand on guard at any given hour, wary of both the nearby Saxons and highway bandits. I remember a time when bandits wouldn’t have dared strike a king’s entourage within his own realm. But it seems that those prouder, safer days in South Wales are long gone.

  Sleep comes to me slowly as I lie coiled on the ground with Gavin in my arms. The baby in my womb stirs. I put one hand on my stomach and another on Gavin. My two sleeping babes. I smile through a groggy yawn. Our nest of quilts steams with damp warmth amidst the downpour. The tapping of droplets on broadleaves fills my dreamless slumber.

  At daybreak, little more than a grayish glow hints at sunrise. Another overcast day. The thick slop of horses’ hooves slipping and suctioning through the muddy thoroughfare announces our presence to every startled deer and rabbit. Birds stir in the trees. So much for stealth. In this godforsaken muck, even a child could hear us coming. And I doubt the Saxons will be less watchful than a rain-soaked child.

  Atop my makeshift chariot, I slap the reins against the workhorses’ backs. Cakes of mud stick to the timber wheels, the uneven road jouncing the wagon until my tailbone stings. In the back of the wagon, the children gnaw on a breakfast of hard bread. The women rub the children’s cold palms by turns to keep them warm. I yaw into the ears of the draft horses tugging our cart. Saxons or no, the sooner we reach the shelter of Caerwent, the better.

  When the caw of crows reaches my ears, I know something is wrong. An icy feeling wends its way up my spine. The forested roadway breaks before a large clearing, the blackened silhouette of Caerwent’s crumbled towers looming across the plain. Ravens circle high overhead.

  Griffith draws his sword, ordering his men to form ranks. They spread across the overgrown greens, looking over their shoulders as they advance. A misty stillness pervades the grassy fields. Not a single signal or halloo comes from within the fortress of Caerwent. Not a single watchman patrols the broken walls. I hand the wagon reins to Rowena and pull my birch wood bow from the straw. I’ve only half a dozen arrows in my quiver. It’ll have to be enough.

  This castle was once the strongest in all Wales. Now its stonework cracks with age, its battlements crumbling in gaps as though gnawed upon by giants. Years of Saxon assaults have taken their toll. Masonry battered by catapults. Timber supports blackened by fiery arrows. The ages have reduced Caerwent to a hulking shell. But where is everyone? The Saxons? The Welsh? Even in decay, Caerwent’s thick walls provide a prize no general would dismiss. Ancient walls are still better than none at all. Griffith orders our company to halt. He points his sword down at the grass beside my wagon.

  “My men will secure the castle. You and your women should stay here.”

  “So we can be picked off like sheep? Nay, we stand a better chance if we stick together.”

  “If there is any danger ahead, my men will flush it out.”

  “I thought your army held Caerwent still. Where are they?”

  “I received a raven from them but a week ago. We’re wasting time, Queen Branwen.”

  He puts his heels to his horse’s flanks, the beast neighing wildly under his broad girth. Red in th
e face, Griffith leads his men forward himself. I have touched his pride, and I cannot blame him for getting cross. We have ridden barely two days from his capital and found the borders of his own land deserted. No king should be caught so unawares within his own fiefdom.

  Rowena’s girls begin to fuss in the back of the cart. Their mother returns to them, trying to shush her daughters. Una does the same for Gavin and Cadwallon. Olwen comes forward and takes the reins as I draw back my bow.

  My protruding belly nearly gets in the way as I draw back my bowstring. My cheeks burn hot, but what can I do? I probably look as silly as a cow caught in a blackthorn vine. Halfway into my pregnancy and I’m feeling more awkward than ever. But I can still shoot straight. For now. Olwen represses a half-smirk beside me.

  Her grin quickly fades as we approach the shadow of Caerwent’s outer walls. She whispers barely loud enough for me to hear.

  “If Griffith’s army has gone missing, then where are the Saxons?”

  “I think we’re about to find out.”

  Olwen pales as we near the citadel’s western gate. Griffith’s men push open the large timber doors, filtering into the defenses. Their rattling armor and heavy tread murmur throughout the complex. These South Welsh may be brave, but they lack the stealth of our Free Cantref bowmen. My dozen-odd green-clad archers form a crescent around our wagon, their eyes scanning the woods behind us. Griffith charges inside the citadel, brandishing his sword overhead. Olwen halts our wagon at the foot of the open gates.

  Drawing my bowstring, I pull back an arrow to my jaw, my hands starting to sweat. The first foe that sticks his head through the castle entranceway will get a mouthful of steel arrowheads. Mingled voices shout from inside the walls, but I cannot make anything out. My fingertips tremble along the bowstring.

  Griffith emerges from the castle gates, his blade sheathed. He waves both arms over his head, the signal that all appears well. I lower my bow with a sigh, but I keep an arrow nocked just in case. I call out to the King.

  “What happened?”

  “See for yourself.”

  He motions over his shoulder. Olwen slaps the horse’s reins as our wagon rumbles inside the citadel walls. The stench of rotten meat wrinkles my nose.

  Scores of men lie head to foot in the courtyard, some wrapped in blankets and others dressed in little more than tatters. My skin turns cold. Rowena and Una instinctively cover the children’s eyes. Only when some of the soldiers stir do I realize that most of these men still live. Just barely. Olwen does not seem as convinced, halting the wagon inside the walls.

  “Are they dead?”

  “Sick,” Griffith answers her. “More than half the garrison has the blight.”

  I swallow hard, putting down my bow and rubbing my round stomach. Arrows will not protect my unborn child from a pestilence that can be neither seen nor touched. But it certainly has a smell. An odor of overripe cheese and sulfur permeates the interior walls. The monks in Dyfed told me as a child that the devil himself smells of sulfur. My palate runs dry. The devil has indeed come to Caerwent.

  Olwen tugs the reins hard to one side, trying to turn the wagon around. The horses whinny, struggling to turn in the confined space of the courtyard. Her eyes widen as she grabs me by the shoulder.

  “We have to leave! Before the children and all of us take down with the plague!”

  I open my mouth, but no words come out. My brow beads with sweat. I’m inclined to agree with her, but what can we do? If the Saxons lurk nearby, then the woods or the open road will afford us little better protection than the walls of Caerwent. Nonetheless, my skin begins to crawl, imagining the unseen blight that breathes in the dank spaces between the castle walls. I’ve seen people perish in many ways, but death by plague is one of the worst.

  Before I can think of a reply, Griffith rides his steed between us and the open gates, barring our path. His voice brooks no argument.

  “No one is going anywhere! We’re already exposed. Fleeing will only spread the pestilence. We stay put, all of us.”

  Olwen puts her hands on her hips.

  “I’d sooner take my chances with the Saxons! I’m still a queen, daughter of a king, and I’ll not endanger my child by remaining here another minute.”

  “You were a queen!” Griffith growls. “And you are in my kingdom, under the protection of my guards. Restrain yourself, your ladyship, or I shall be forced to have my men restrain you.”

  Olwen lurches forward like a maddened mother hen, but I stay her with my arm. She looks me in the eye as I shake my head. For once, I feel much the same as her, but it will do no good to contradict Griffith in front of his troops. There’s no sooner way to start bloodshed than to defy a king in front of his own men. Besides, Griffith might be right. We’re exposed anyway, so what would fleeing accomplish?

  Still, I glance back at Gavin and Cadwallon. They are so young, their cheeks still baby soft even at three years of age. Would God strike them down before they’ve even had a chance at life? Bad enough we have barbarians and assassins to fret about. Now a plague visits the land. I shut my eyes. Sometimes I think God has forsaken Wales altogether.

  I turn to Griffith, trying to put as much authority into my voice as possible. A queen shouldn’t squeak like a scared little girl, even if she does tremble inside. I’d rather face a thousand Picts right now than spend one night in a castle riddled with a pox, but what alternative do I have? I point at a nearby tower.

  “My King, we should secure one of the larger towers. I’ve seen contagions before, and if we can isolate ourselves somewhat from the infected, it may help prevent the spread of the disease.”

  “It may help?” he replies with a raised eyebrow.

  “Please, sire, we must try. For our own sakes. For the children.”

  He glances at the boys and girls in the back of the cart. Griffith sighs before surveying the throngs of enfeebled men sprawled across the courtyard cobblestones. His shoulders sink.

  “As you wish, Queen Branwen. Your knowledge as a healer earned you the namesake of Mab Ceridwen for a reason. My guards are at your disposal. Cordon off one of the towers, but I will stay with the ill men here. I am their king and I should share their fate, whatever befalls us.”

  I nod, biting my lip. Despite his flaws, Griffith is an honorable man and a just ruler. Such a rare quality in most leaders these days, amongst both the Welsh and the barbarians. It shames me to not stand beside him, but I have my own children to think of. Those born and unborn. I lead our wagon toward the tallest tower, making arrangements with Griffith’s guardsmen before the King has time to change his mind.

  My footfalls echo up the tower stairwell, as though a ghost walks ahead of me on the stone steps. The hairs rise along my forearms. I’ve not set foot inside this castle since I was Morgan’s queen. Ghost or no, perhaps he will come here, his former stronghold. I doubt plagues scare ghosts much, but they might just ward off an assassin. Then again, what made the assassin restrain himself when we encamped beneath Ogham Stone? I still have no answer for that. My head begins to ache. Too many mysteries for me to attempt to solve just now.

  Una and Rowena set about sweeping out the interiors of the tower chambers. I post all of my archers at the foot of the stairs, relieving Griffith’s guards to tend to their duties. After all, someone should stand watch over this castle. Has the blight truly been so bad that the garrison could not spare a single man to stand as lookout?

  I suds a bucket of soap and begin scrubbing the floors. My knees ache and my swollen belly makes every brushstroke doubly tiresome and awkward, but these tasks must be done. Olwen folds her arms, looking at me skeptically as I clean the chamber floorboards.

  “Kindle a fire in the hearth, if scrubbing doesn’t suit you,” I say, without giving her a glance. “We must purify these chambers as best we can if we are to isolate ourselves from the plague.”

  “I still say we should put as much distance between us and this cursed castle as we can!”

  “
And have Griffith’s men or bandits hunt us down on the open road?”

  “I’d rather take my chances.”

  Her words set my teeth on edge. Can’t she stop her gums from flapping for just a single turn of the hourglass? I too would like to flee South Wales with my child in tow, but it simply isn’t an option. Besides, I still am no closer to convincing Griffith to ally with my husband’s army against King Iago and the Picts. I cannot return to Artagan empty-handed, not when our people so desperately need a miracle to save us.

  I rise to my feet, glaring at Olwen. My foaming scrub brush drips in my hand. I have half a mind to wash out her mouth with these bristles. She eyes the suds on my brush as though guessing my intent.

  When I return to my washing, Olwen loses interest and stalks away. I pause over the washbowl, expecting to glimpse my reflection in the dank water, but instead the suds begin to swirl like a nautilus shell. My trancelike stare into the water pot deepens, and I’m unable to look away as the bowl froths over. Within the clear dark center, the water stills like a mirror as hazy images take shape. My skin grows cold and damp.

  Artagan appears in the reflection, slumped lazily on Dyfed’s throne, Father’s old chair. He abruptly rises to his feet, his face stern as he argues with someone. I cannot hear the words, but both Bowen and Carrick appear beside him, clearly discussing something in a heated manner with my husband. The vision quickly fades into the swirl of soapy eddies. I sit back from the washbowl as steam rises from the water and dissipates in the breeze.

  Blinking back the sweat from my eyes, I glance around the room. None save myself seem to have noticed the vision. But I know what I saw. Artagan, not as he was or will be, but as he is right now. Are things already falling apart back at Dun Dyfed, the restless Free Cantref and Dyfed warriors snapping at each other’s throats like so many bored hunting hounds? How odd that the visions that once came to me by firelight with Annwyn now appear in water since my meeting with Sab. As though the Picts evoke a new element within me, something colder and darker than that in which Annwyn instructed me. Like a dark wind rising from the inside out.