Dark Winds Rising

by Mark Noce

  “I’ll be damned, Lady Branwen. You truly are the Mab Ceridwen. Only someone blessed by the Fates could have wrought such a miracle.”

  “It’s old knowledge, long forgot, is all. Wise women of the Old Tribes knew as much.”

  “It’s magic, whatever it is! In two days’ time, nearly every man in the fortress has begun to come around, all thanks to you.”

  I laugh. Magic? Does he think me a sorceress simply for applying a good dose of common sense? Albeit perhaps not as common as it was in the ancient days. I try my best to explain.

  “Lady Annwyn, God rest her soul, told me a story about when the Roman legions invaded Britain. By the time they reached Wales, many of their men began to drop like flies. Their eyes sunken, their skin pallid, some even losing their teeth.”

  “Just as my men were here in Caerwent, when we first arrived.”

  “And just like those Roman soldiers, your men had low rations, little more than breadcrumbs and dried meat. The blight they caught is no mere infection but rather a condition. When the body lacks green things in its blood, it starts to die. The women of the Old Tribes knew this and fed their warriors such stews so as to keep the wasting sickness away. A scourge, they called it, or scurvy for short. But the Romans conquered nonetheless, and such ancient wisdom has very nearly disappeared from the Welsh Lands.”

  “But not from you, my lady. We owe you a great debt. You have saved my army.”

  I turn to him, my face suddenly serious. Now is the time, the opportunity I have been waiting for. It’s now or never.

  “Now I ask you, King Griffith, to help save my army. To save my people from destruction. My husband’s small force stands alone against the might of the Picts and the treacherous King Iago. Shall we stand alone forever?”

  The broad-faced King knits his brows in thought, the full weight of my request making him frown through his bushy beard. His blank gaze wanders the battlements as he sinks deep into thought. I dare not rush him. Such decisions are not weighed lightly. Perhaps he does owe me mightily for having saved his men from the blight, but monarchs can be fickle. All hinges on this. Without his help, we will be mincemeat before Iago and Queen Sab’s combined armies.

  Does Griffith still think the Saxons a threat even in their current plague-ridden state? They do not know the secret of the plague, which it turns out is not a plague at all. Merely malnutrition at its worst, but still deadly enough to kill those too ignorant to see it for what it is.

  Griffith’s frown deepens and my heart begins to sink. He remains cautious as ever, even with the danger of the Saxons on his doorstep temporarily lifted. Our gazes travel to our feet, neither one of us able to look the other in the eye. Griffith heaves a sigh.

  “I’m sorry, my lady, but—”

  I cut him off, not wanting to hear the truth but unable to keep silent.

  “You won’t help us, will you? Even with all of Wales at stake?”

  “Risk my army and my kingdom for the sake of all Wales? All the bickering, stubborn, independent-minded free folk who hardly heed their kings, let alone each other? No.”

  I bite my lip, my shoulders sinking. I have lost all, my mission here in South Wales a failure. Griffith clears his throat, drawing my gaze toward his face.

  “For Wales alone, of course not. She is too divided and treacherous a nation. But … for the Mab Ceridwen … well … that’s a different story.”

  He flashes a broad smile and my heart rises within me. The jovial blackguard! He almost had me believing that he would forsake his friends in their greatest hour of need. I beam back at him, unable to contain my mirth.

  * * *

  Near a full moon has passed. Perhaps too much time. But pebbles gradually join together to create an avalanche. And so I too have an avalanche, a torrent, a rising tide behind me, and I intend to make the ground shake.

  Atop my mare, I trot slowly at the head of Griffith’s army, my belly ripe and round as a melon. Crimson dragon banners snap in the breeze amidst the steady tromp of two thousand foot soldiers, their polished shields and grieves glinting under the late summer sun. My ladies-in-waiting finally relent and allow me to mount a pony, only so long as I promise to keep her at a snail’s pace. My ever-rounding belly swells beneath my garments with a full six moons, or more, of child inside me, my light-azure gown streaming behind me like bands of gossamer in the wind.

  Griffith rides beside me, putting an ox horn to his lips to announce our presence. His bugle call echoes off the green hills and rolling downs of the valley before us. The circle of Ogham Stone looms in the distance, the green banners of my husband’s army encamped just where my messenger raven asked them to be. I cannot help but smile with approval.

  The wheels of my plan have been set in motion. We shall soon see what Queen Sab and King Iago think when they encounter an alliance of green and red dragon banners. The Free Cantrefs, Dyfed, and the South Welsh have not fought on the same side in some years.

  Squinting into the late afternoon sun, I ride into camp and dismount before the throngs of temporary hovels and canvas tents. My namesake of Mab Ceridwen passes from the lips of the soldiers and camp followers nestled beneath the small tor of Ogham Stone. A familiar voice speaks in my ear.

  “Looking for a bed to spend the night, fair lady?”

  Artagan flashes his cocky half-grin, his opal eyes as full of mischief as ever. I wrap both arms around his neck, pressing my lips to his, despite my swollen abdomen between us. His balsam scent and strong arms surround me. I press myself ever harder into his grasp, afraid that this may be only a dream. For far too many moons we have been apart. Never, never again do I wish to be parted from him for more than a day, nay, even an hour. May God be my witness. My husband runs a palm over my stomach.

  “When were you planning on telling me? After the child is born and learns to walk?”

  “I told you with the message raven!” I say, feigning indignation. “Or have you forgotten those reading lessons I gave you so long ago?”

  He scratches his head sheepishly.

  “I seem to recall a different sort of lesson, one with you atop me.”

  I repress a grin, reddening from ear to ear.

  “Hush! It’s that hound dog attitude of yours that got us with this one.” I pat my womb for good measure.

  Artagan’s gaze softens as he stares into my eyes, his arms wrapping around me.

  “You and I?” he whispers. “Another young one? Truly?”

  I nod my head, suddenly robbed of my voice as the water rises behind my eyes.

  “Yes, my love. Another little addition to our family.”

  He smiles back at me, blinking back a few budding tears of his own. The miracle of life still manages to surprise us both. Another lovechild grows inside me, another part of Artagan and me that will always link the two of us together. For the moment, we are not king and queen but simply man and wife. Two people in love, their world centered round the newborn who will soon join our lives forevermore. I sniffle a touch, my cheeks stinging with mirth. Despite all the trials that came before, now that I see Artagan’s love in his eyes, I’ve never wanted this child more. Our child. Another small part of us soon to be brought into the world.

  Before either of us can say more, little Gavin gallivants past me and into his father’s arms. Artagan lifts him high into the air, the young boy cackling amidst his father’s attentions. The two play-wrestle in the grass, as comfortable with one another as though they had parted only yesterday. My eyes water even more at the sight of our little family reunited again. I turn away, wiping my lashes lest Artagan tease me for being so motherly. But even a queen should be entitled to her own emotions from time to time, should she not?

  Heading toward our tent, we pass a pair of men wrestling bare-chested while a crowd of Dyfed and Free Cantref soldiers cheer them on. I blink before I recognize Bowen of Dyfed and Keenan of Aranrhod as the combatants. Several purple bruises and welts mar their forearms and necks. I abruptly turn toward Artagan
.

  “What’s this all about?”

  “Blowing off steam.” He smiles. “Our archers and the local spearmen kept getting into spats. Both camps grew restless as roosters in a henhouse. I even had Bowen and Carrick bickering with me at one point, griping about everything from the food to whether our intentions in Dyfed were as pure as we claimed.”

  “So you decided a wrestling match would resolve these issues better than words?”

  “These men are warriors. If you don’t let war dogs hunt, they’ll start snapping at each other.”

  I glance back at the wrestling pit and, sure enough, both men grin and clasp one another’s shoulders after the bout has finished. I shake my head. Menfolk are truly a species unto themselves. Rivals near beat each other to a pulp and suddenly they become lifelong friends. Still, I admire the way Artagan has unified the men. Such a solution truly would have never occurred to me in a hundred years.

  The encampment bustles with activity as the soldiers hone their blades with whetstones. Wives and sweethearts try to steal a few last moments together with their lovers behind tent canvas and wicker huts. And who can blame them? None know what tomorrow brings.

  Once inside our tent, we feast on fresh game hens and barley broth as the sun sets. The scent of woodsmoke permeates the small timber keep where Artagan has made his headquarters. A few pieces of furniture deck our otherwise spartan tent. A few chairs, a tabletop, some flagons of wine, and a simple bedstead. Artagan must have sent for these or had them built by local artisans. Small touches to make this tent dwelling feel a little bit more like our bedchamber back home. I put a warm hand on his sleeve as he and our boy eat at the table beside me. Artagan gnaws on his dinner, grinning at me with bits of chicken stuck between his teeth. I chortle through my nose. Mighty king or no, he still makes me laugh like at a court jester. Our little boy follows suit, giggling with us.

  Yet a sudden wave of melancholy overwhelms me.

  I put a finger to Artagan’s lips, unable to refrain from interrupting him. My own voice overwhelms me, the words flooding from my lips like an unexpected torrent. I’ve put this off for too long.

  “It’s all been my fault,” I begin. “Despite the things we’ve gained, I’ve risked much trying to save us and our kingdom, and I’ve put the life of our son and the child inside me in danger more than once. I can only ask that you find it in your heart to forgive me, husband.”

  Artagan blinks at me, surprised by this outburst of guilt.

  I hang my head in candid repentance. Yes, I may have had my reasons for everything, but that doesn’t entirely justify the risks. How hollow would our lives be now if I had secured peace or an alliance but lost our children in the process? Artagan reaches forward and lifts my chin.

  “You are the Mab Ceridwen of my heart, and whatever you choose to do I will always trust you, Branwen. Always.”

  My eyes start to brim over.

  “I love you, Artagan.”

  He smiles and puts his lips on mine.

  “No tears, my love. From now on we do everything together, eh? No more divide and conquer. We’ll meet our challenges hand in hand.”

  “Agreed.” I beam back at him, squeezing his palm.

  Gavin rattles his plate, either trying to get our attention or attempting to weed the vegetables out of his meal. Perhaps both. With one arm, Artagan scoots our son across the bench and puts Gavin between us. Our little boy murmurs contentedly at his food between the warmth of both his parents. A weight seems to lift from the bellows of my lungs, as though for the first time in a long time things are exactly as they should be. Our hunger takes over as the three of us devour the chicken until only bones remain.

  After supper and the dismissal of the servants, Artagan invites the various leaders of our combined army to a council of war. Ten of us ring a large outdoor fire pit: Artagan’s knights and those of Dyfed, as well as Griffith and myself. Olwen and young Arthwys also join us. I’d rather sleep with a snake in my bed than invite them to a secret council meeting, but at least I have the tact not to say so. War and alliances do indeed make strange bedfellows.

  Artagan stokes the fire logs with a stick, gazing into the sparks as he addresses our council.

  “Sab and Iago have not been idle in the North. My scouts report that the Picts have marched on the northernmost Free Cantref lands and subjugated them. The entire northern half of Wales is now under their sway.”

  A brooding silence falls over the small gathering. Olwen gasps, lowering her gaze. Although a former queen of the North by marriage, she was born in the northernmost Free Cantrefs, where her long-dead father once ruled as King Urien the Old. A twinge of sympathy for her rises within my breast. Her violet gaze suddenly fixates on me.

  “This never would have happened had we not dallied in the South these past few weeks!”

  I clench my jaw, balling my fists at my sides. All my budding sympathy for her vanishes in the smoke of the fire. My voice booms over the timber palisade.

  “If we hadn’t gone south to Gwent, Griffith’s army would be half dead of the plague instead of here at our side! And my son and yours might very well have fallen prey to the assassin who stalks us!”

  Artagan holds up his hands. Olwen and I both hold our tongues, but just barely. Why did she include herself in this council of war, anyway? Probably because she still sees herself as the rightful queen of the North. She knows that if we win, when this is all over, we will need someone the North Welsh still trust. Someone to try to make peace with the other kingdoms. But that’s all a big if right now.

  Even now, she still has no gratitude despite all I’ve done for her. Protecting her child, fighting to regain her kingdom. If not for our mutual foes, I’d just as likely expect to meet her at the end of an arrowhead. I suddenly find the thought of riddling her with arrows darkly pleasing.

  And what of the assassin who seems to have strangely vanished? Not since we discovered that dagger embedded in our door at Caerleon have we seen hide or hair of him. Does the magic of Ogham Stone once again keep the villain at bay? Perhaps.

  My stomach turns over, the babe inside me restless. Why of all times, oh Lord, do I have to be heavy with child now? While our kingdoms fight for their very existence! Why?

  Perhaps Queen Sab has already won. Already she has what she wanted, one half of Wales at war with the other half. North against South. Welshman against Welshman. Cousin against cousin. No matter who wins, she will have revenge for the ancient blood feud between the Picts and the children of the Old Tribes. That blue-painted she-wolf and her temptress of a daughter will turn the Welsh Lands into a graveyard before they’re through.

  Griffith raises his voice, drawing my attention out of my own inner thoughts.

  “We should let them come to us! Fortify ourselves here at Ogham Stone, and we will have the defensive advantage.”

  Several conversations break out at once. Bowen and Carrick argue that Dun Dyfed would offer a better defense, while Keenan and Emryus speak in favor of Aranrhod. Griffith stomps his foot, kicking up dust. He clearly favors a more southerly bastion near his own domains.

  I shake my head. Hiding behind walls again will not help. Ever cautious, Griffith would build himself new fortifications. He would sit and wait for his enemies to come to him, breaking themselves against his defenses like waves against a rocky shore. But I doubt Queen Sab would be so stupid. No, she thinks like neither the Welsh nor the Saxons. She prefers to move sideways, always keeping her opponents off balance.

  Glancing at Olwen, a thought engenders itself in my head. She once made herself queen of all the North, and she certainly didn’t need any army to do it. Glancing around the fire, I briefly eye each knight and king.

  Unable to restrain myself any longer, I lob a handful of pinecones into the hearth. The pop and crackle within the flames momentarily overwhelm all conversations and arguments. All eyes turn on me as the embers die down once again.

  “Queen Sab is not like most opponents,” I begin.
“She will not try to besiege our castles or meet our army in the open, if she can avoid it. She’s far craftier than that. If we hole up at Ogham Stone or somewhere else, her army will simply move around us, laying waste to the countryside as she goes.”

  Artagan nods in agreement.

  “My Queen speaks true. Sab struck at Dun Dyfed when we least expected it and likewise abandoned it just before we could concentrate our forces against her. She is shifty. I doubt she will come to us simply because we want her to.”

  Arthwys smirks, folding his arms as he glares at me across the flames.

  “What would you have us do, then? Cower in fear before a woman enemy?”

  Ignoring Arthwys’s attempt to bait me, I glance again at Olwen before turning my level gaze on the dark-eyed teenage prince.

  “We must exploit Sab’s weakness. King Iago.”

  Most of the nobles around the campfire laugh, all except Arthwys and Olwen. Iago has been a rival king to many of these noblemen, and few consider him a friend. King Griffith shakes his head with a grin.

  “’Tis a good jest, my lady, but what advantage, pray tell, do we have merely because King Iago marches with the Picts?”

  “More than half of Queen Sab’s army is made of North Welshmen,” I reply. “Unlike Sab and her Picts, King Iago is predictable. We must merely find something he wants, and we shall draw his army to us.”

  “Something he wants?” Ahern asks.

  “Aye. We should do something that even Iago and Sab cannot ignore, something that will force them to meet us in open battle. We should muster our armies and invade North Wales.”

  Silence pervades the group. Nothing but the snap of kindling murmurs from the fire pit. Artagan turns toward me.

  “You mean to take the coastal road north and cross into Iago’s domains?”

  Before I can answer, Prince Arthwys interrupts.

  “’Tis folly! No one, not us nor the Saxons, has conquered Gwynedd since the days of the Romans!”

  “The boy is right.” Griffith grimaces. “North Wales is surrounded by the tallest mountains in the Welsh Lands, its approaches covering barren moors and rocky rivers. The North is a natural citadel. We could never hope to take it.”