Dark Winds Rising

by Mark Noce

  “For once, your guardsman’s right, my Queen. There’s no reason why the Saxons ever do anything.”

  Griffith leers back at Ahern from the corner of his eyes. After banishing Ahern from Caerleon for trying to steal into Morgan’s tomb, he likely hasn’t much patience for my half brother. Then again, I did the same thing, and yet Griffith does not seem to have cooled toward me. But I never claimed to be an expert in menfolk or their whims.

  Especially such thick-headed men as these. Even Saxons have reasons for what they do, foreign though they may seem to us. I learned that when Saxons first tried to steal me on my betrothal day as a youth. I’ve done my best not to underestimate them since. I try to steer Griffith’s attention back to the problem at hand.

  “I still find it odd that the Saxons would lay a siege and then retreat to the woods, showing hardly one of them to us at a time.”

  “Perhaps they took cover for protection against archers?” Griffith replies.

  I shake my head.

  “Against Free Cantref warriors maybe, but your South Welshmen favor the sword and close combat. The Saxons know this from years of warfare. They wouldn’t fall back into the woods for no reason.”

  “You think they fear to approach because we have the plague?”

  “I think they have the plague. And just like us, no longer have men fit enough to wage war.”

  Griffith and Ahern exchange looks. The King puts his hands behind his back.

  “That’s quite a presumption, Queen Branwen. Nonetheless, we cannot afford to let down our guard so easily.”

  I sigh. The fat king is as overcautious as ever. It makes him a fine defender of castles, but he has no aggression when in the field. My husband wouldn’t sit still behind tall walls. He’d have rooted out the Saxons from the woods even if he had to do it all by himself. I fold my arms, refusing to give in to Griffith’s skepticism.

  “Then I will lead a sortie into the woods and prove it to you.”

  Griffith’s mouth hangs open. Ahern nearly stumbles backward down the stairs. Soldiers along the battlements murmur amongst themselves as Griffith shakes his finger at me.

  “But you’re a woman … with child! You can’t be serious?”

  “If your men fear to go where a pregnant woman dares to tread, then you had best stay with them behind your walls.”

  I turn my back and march down the stairs to the main courtyard, my archers gathering around me. Although my palms tremble, I keep a straight back and a confident demeanor. I walk a dangerous line, trying to shame Griffith on one hand but not insult him enough to make him throw me in a dungeon. He must see for himself that the Saxons can no longer threaten his borders. Only then can I possibly hope to enlist his help against the Picts and King Iago in the North.

  Many dangers lurk behind every decision I make or do not make. Perhaps it is preferable to risk death by plague than fall into barbaric hands. But a queen doesn’t have the luxury of always playing it safe. Sometimes she must risk everything she holds dear if she hopes to keep it.

  Griffith calls out after me, but I ignore him. Ahern hobbles beside me. I can tell by his wide grimace that he heartily disapproves of my plan, but he does not question me openly in front of the others. Instead he curses under his breath, using his spear like a crutch. He joins my retinue at the castle gates, adjusting his patch. My good, stubborn brother. He would follow me into the fires of hell if I set my mind to do so. Maybe I already have.

  By the time my small company of archers stride halfway into the greens outside the castle, I hear the rumble of hooves behind us. Griffith leads a small contingent of guards on horseback, although whether to accompany me or return me to the castle keep, I do not know for certain. I spare a passing glance at the citadel tower. Rowena, look after my boy. If I’m wrong, you and Una will be all Gavin has left. Lord knows, I wouldn’t put him in Olwen’s hands.

  The lone Saxon chieftain sees us, rearing his steed again as it boxes the air with its hooves. He digs his heels into the mount’s flanks and charges straight for us. I freeze in my tracks, suddenly feeling like a fool with my bowstring drawn before my wide belly. My skin grows cold with sweat. Perhaps I’ve made a grave error.

  My bowmen draw back their longbows. The mere sound of Free Cantref archers pulling their strings taut seems enough to give the Saxon war-chief second thoughts. He spins his horse about, bolting for the cover of the woods. My men loose a couple arrows after him, nearly clipping the yellow braids from his hair before he descends into the forest.

  Although my men are only on foot, I order them into the woods. Griffith’s horsemen canter after us. Whether or not he plans to take me back to Caerwent, Griffith has now cast his lot with me. He will have to help rather than hinder me should we run into any Saxons in the brush.

  Ahern hobbles beside me, but I fare little better, weighed down by the child within me. We follow my bowmen into the dark shades of the wood. They shout a throaty Mab Ceridwen hurrah that makes my skin ripple in gooseflesh. Though only two dozen men, they are brave as were their forefathers. The knights of Arthur’s day and the warriors of the Old Tribes would smile with approval seeing that their descendants still have such courage in their hearts.

  But a baritone roar answers us back as a score of Saxons clad in furs and iron helms surrounds us. My throat stops up, not able to utter even a scream. I’ve led my warriors into a trap. God help us.

  The blond Saxon on horseback urges his savages on, howling as they grapple with my outnumbered guardsmen. Ahern coughs into his fist before summoning his last reserves of strength. He hurls his spear through a Saxon’s throat, spraying us both with hot blood. I loose an arrow into the crowd of Saxons, but they are too many.

  Griffith’s cavalcade charges into the groves, trampling the barbarians under their horses’ hooves. The fat king nearly slumps out of the saddle twice, but he keeps his seat as he swings his sword down upon the helms of his long-bearded foes. The lead Saxon and his warriors break ranks before fleeing deeper into the woods. Several of Griffith’s horsemen and my archers chase after them, howling amidst their pursuit. Griffith steadies his mount, glaring down at me.

  “No wonder Morgan couldn’t keep you as his bride. Do you disobey Artagan’s commands as often as you do mine?”

  “A queen gives commands, she does not take them. And Artagan keeps me as his wife because I desire it to be so.”

  I plant a hand on my hip, giving him a hard stare. What business is it of his if I choose to go my own way in life? I’m not the scared little girl I was when the Hammer King first took me to bed all those years ago. Besides, we’ve no time to fret about niceties and decorum. The cries of battle and Saxons still haunt the woods.

  Ahern staggers up beside me. At first I think him wounded, but then he wheezes through his teeth and leans against a tree. He should be in bed, not in the thick of a swordfight. I cannot fault his loyalty, though. He shakes his head, wiping the dew from his brow.

  “We should never have come into these woods. We must regroup back at the castle, my Queen. There are doubtless more Saxons hiding in these groves.”

  “I’m counting on it,” I reply.

  Ahern blinks his lone eye incredulously at me. Griffith likewise looks at me as though I’ve lost my wits. My remaining archers and Griffith’s score of knights gather around us, having given their barbaric foes a good chase into the forest. I dart ahead, wending my way between the trees. Griffith’s exasperated voice echoes behind me.

  “Where in Christendom is she going now?”

  “We best go after her,” Ahern replies.

  I clench my jaw. Do they still not understand? Could they possibly be so blind? We encountered only a few dozen Saxons. Since when do those bloody savages do anything in such small numbers? They prefer large sorties, a hundred men at least. It takes a Welsh mind-set to fight a little war in small groups, and the Saxons certainly haven’t the craftiness necessary for that. No. The Saxons would never fight with such small numbers by choice
.

  The trees open onto a small open glade. I pause in my tracks. A stench like rotting cheese makes me wrinkle my nose. The footsteps of my companions halt abruptly behind me. I fold my arms and stare smugly back at Griffith and Ahern.

  Scores upon scores of Saxons lie strewn about the undergrowth, coughing into their fists and sweating feverishly beneath their animal-skin coverlets. Many of them stare in wide-eyed fear at the sight of us. Few of them can crawl more than a few paces. Ahern stutters beside me, still defiantly lug-headed to the last.

  “What are these beggars doing just lying about?” my brother asks. “Why do they not run or fight?”

  “Because, you fool, they have the plague!” I scoff. “The whole Saxon army is just as immobilized as the garrison at Caerwent.”

  The Saxons are spent. It’s difficult to conquer a kingdom when your own troops are too sick to stand. Even barbarians must understand that.

  Griffith looks down at me from the saddle, his eyes glazing over with a look difficult to discern. When he nods my way, I finally understand. Kings are loath to admit their wrongness, so I suppose a simple nod is as much as I should expect from Griffith. Even with his overly cautious gaze, he finally sees the Saxon forces for what they are: sickly, unable to even defend their own. They will not threaten his borders so long as this blight persists. They put up a good bluff, hiding in the woods where even their wounded could wave a few spears and make their numbers still appear strong. The woods move now only with the sounds of their slow retreat.

  Which means that Griffith’s forces back at Caerleon a day’s ride to the west, healthy and far from the plague, are free from the burden of defense. Free to accompany their King anywhere should he choose to go on the offensive. Preferably with me against the Picts.

  A broad smile fills my cheeks. I feel hopeful for the first time in a long while. But my grin quickly fades as something convulses down below my gut. I glance down, my skin suddenly growing pale. The baby within me moves.

  Stumbling backward, I lean a hand against a tree. Ahern and Griffith both rush to catch me. My insides turn over again. No, it is too soon. Far too soon. The child cannot come, not now, not yet. I collapse to my knees, clenching my teeth as the pressure swells and contracts inside me.

  14

  My innards pinch together, the pain between my hips surging anew. Rowena and Una hover on either side as I squat on a stool, a cool breeze wafting over the tower windowsill. Sweat pours down my brow, my damp forelocks plastered to my head. I breathe short and fast through clenched teeth.

  The guards who carried me in bar the door behind them, standing watch on the tower stairwell outside. My vision swims in a fog of peat smoke from the nearby hearth fire. I hear a child’s whimper between the walls.

  “Where’s Gavin?”

  “The children are fine,” Rowena assures me. “They’re with Olwen.”

  I cringe. Olwen? Motioning to get up, the cramps in my gut intensify. I fall back into my seat. Una prods me with a bucket.

  “Best make water if you can.”

  “Una, I don’t need to pee.”

  “Just try, Your Grace. It may help alleviate the pain.”

  Heaven help me. I color at the thought of dropping my skirts in front of both women, but they have seen plenty more from the birthings of other women. I do as Una says. The pressure around my belt begins to ease almost immediately. My breathing slows, the tremors still lingering within me but gradually fading. Like an echo dissipating in a tunnel.

  Una puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “Better?”

  “Aye.”

  “’Tis as I suspected. False birth pangs. Making water or lying on your side can help alleviate them.”

  I wipe the perspiration from my hairline, feeling like a childish dolt.

  “I should’ve known. I rarely felt them when I was pregnant with Gavin.”

  Rowena frowns, wagging her finger at me.

  “You led armed men into battle against the Saxons, m’lady! What did you expect? All that excitement and the blood rushing inside you. You’re lucky you didn’t go into labor right then and there!”

  Una nods in agreement.

  “Rowena is right, my Queen. You cannot do such things as you are accustomed to. Not at least until after the child is born at the proper time. It’s still too early for the babe to come forth.”

  I frown at her words, reminded how much her reasoning sounds like Artagan’s. Perhaps I ask too much of myself trying to be both a mother and a spear-wife. Rowena grimaces at Una.

  “The Queen is a midwife herself! She needn’t be told she could lose the baby if she pushes herself too hard. Both she and I have had babies of our own, we know what to expect.”

  Una’s gaze narrows, her cheeks coloring at Rowena’s slight. As a nun she certainly has never borne a child herself. I shut my eyes. Just when I thought the two of them had made amends, they’re at one another’s throats. Una leans in, almost nose to nose with Rowena.

  “I’ve delivered many a child at the nunnery! Many a lost mother shows up on our doorstep there, I assure you.”

  Rowena glares right back at her, hands on her hips. I push my arms between them.

  “Enough! Bad enough we’ve Saxons and the plague to contend with without you two snarling like wildcats!”

  My two ladies-in-waiting pace along opposite sides of the chamber. My shoulders sink as I lean back against the cool stone wall, exhausted in mind, body, and soul. Una tries to change the subject.

  “What of the Saxons in the woods, Your Grace? The soldiers say the brigands have the blight just the same as we do.”

  I nod in reply.

  “Aye, we scattered them good, took some prisoners, and left a few dead who refused to be prisoners. But they’re still out there, like a pack of wounded wolves. They’ll sulk in their lairs so long as the plague lasts.”

  “At least the threat of a siege has temporarily lifted.” Una sighs.

  Rowena folds her arms, frowning at the nun.

  “Little good it does us! Especially if we are just as like to catch the plague ourselves.”

  “The clerics in the chapel pray to God every day for salvation,” Una begins, “and they alone have yet to contract the affliction. Perhaps you would do well, Rowena, to do the same.”

  “Pah! Those soup eaters probably keep to their prayer cells simply to avoid contact with the dying.”

  “Soup eaters? Those clerics dedicate their lives to the sick and infirm!”

  I roll my eyes as the two women clench their jaws, ready to spar again. What has gotten into them of late? They’ve got their blood up, hot as young knights in a tourney. If I didn’t love them so much, I’d take a switch to both of them this instant.

  My mouth suddenly twitches with the hint of a smile. Something Rowena says sticks in my mind. Soup eaters? Now why would the clerics, of all men, be immune to the blight? They’ve surely been exposed as equally as the soldiers. So what do they do different? Prayer may play a part, but a tingling feeling tells me there is something more afoot.

  The soup! Of course, how could I have been so blind? The truth has been there, staring us all in the face this entire time. I start to laugh, drawing looks from Una and Rowena. They exchange glances, both a little pale, probably thinking I’ve become unhinged. Rowena’s voice squeaks like a tiny mouse.

  “Have I missed something, m’lady? What humors you so?”

  “I have to hand it to the pair of you. Even in discord you two are better than the brightest minds in Christendom.”

  “I still don’t follow,” Una replies in turn.

  I repress a smile, realizing than neither woman sees the obvious truth.

  “What have the soldiers been fed? Rations are low, probably rotten bread and salted meat, aye?”

  The two of them nod in reply. I go on, failing to repress my grin this time. They still do not see.

  “And what do the monks eat? The soup. Onion or garlic I don’t doubt, it grows wild in Wale
s this time of year.”

  “Forgive my dull wits, my Queen,” Rowena replies, “but I still don’t understand.”

  I rise to my feet. It’s not necessary that they understand just yet. So long as we act quickly, we have a chance to save this garrison, and maybe turn the tide of this conflict in our favor.

  “Both of you, hasten to the kitchens! Fetch every able-bodied soul you can. We’ve picking to do.”

  “Picking?” the two women say in unison.

  “Onions, garlic, leeks, anything growing wild at the verge of the forest. And we’ll need a vat, a big vat for soup.”

  I pace the floor, trying to manage the figures in my head. We need to gather enough to feed the entire garrison. The rains have been plentiful of late, and the wild onions and garlic in particular should be sprouting everywhere. Rowena blocks my path.

  “Pardon, m’lady, but how will we stop a plague with soup?”

  “Broth, girl, broth! We need every green growing, wild thing we can put in the broth.”

  Una steps forward.

  “Clerics eat such things, but the soldiers won’t, Your Grace. They consider green things peasant food.”

  “They’ll consider it salvation once I’m through with them. Now, go. We’ve little time!”

  Each of them shrugs before hastening from the room. We’ve little time indeed, but if I’m right, we may have just saved hundreds of men from untimely deaths. Better yet, we can keep the children safe and healthy as well. Of course, if I am wrong, we’ll all be in our graves in a fortnight anyway. If the blight has its way.

  * * *

  Griffith shakes his head with a smile. He slurps another bowlful of yellow-green broth, chewing on the vegetable rinds floating in the stew. I lean against the castle wall with a satisfied smirk as the soldiers in the courtyard drink the same piping-hot brew. Ahern sits nearby as well, the color returning to his cheeks as he drinks his stew. Already he looks fit enough to fight a bull. What a change for the better the last few days have been for us all.

  King Griffith’s lips smack together as he sighs, steam rising from his mouth.