by Mark Noce
My eyes narrow on Griffith and the young prince.
“We don’t need to conquer the North, nor should we try. Merely our presence alone on Iago’s borders will be threat enough. He cannot afford to ignore us if we march on his lands.”
A small smile forms on Artagan’s lips. He nods.
“I see. Conquest is not our goal, but merely to draw Iago and Sab’s forces onto a field of our choosing. Whatever Sab wants, she will have to abandon her plans should we invade the North. Iago and his men will kick and scream until Sab lets them rally to defend their lands and homesteads. It is a wise plan, my love.”
He beams at me with his azure gaze, admiring me the way he might a wise sage. Before I can smile back at Artagan, Griffith folds his arms beside me. The shadows of the firelight deepen the dark bags under his eyes.
“It is indeed a bold plan, but a risky one at that. If Sab and Iago do not go for it, our own lands will be defenseless.”
“They’ll take the bait,” I reply. “If they don’t, they risk us razing the Northlands to the ground.”
I try my best to sound confident and calm. Thankfully, my sweating palms are hidden within the folds of my gown. The plan I offer indeed has many perils, but surely these men see that we have no other real choice. Not if we intend to defeat the Picts without destroying ourselves in the process.
We must somehow defeat Sab without getting our own warriors butchered. Otherwise, the Saxons will overwhelm us just as soon as we rid ourselves of the Picts. Our conflict with Sab is anything but simple. Even if she loses, she may still draw enough blood to mortally wound the free kingdoms of Wales. It seems that she might get her vengeance upon us either way.
PART THREE
Autumn, A.D. 602
15
A fell breeze chills my skin, the babe stirring within me. My navel has popped out and I know my days run short as I near the end of my term. Soon the birthing will come upon me. A few weeks more at most. And likely my death with it.
I’ve not spoken a word of my vision to anyone, not even Artagan. Bloodstains and the cries from childbed haunt my dreams enough as it is. What good would it do to tell him, anyway? Such foreboding would only poison our last days together, and I would rather feel Artagan’s warm caresses as he sleeps beside me and our son each night. No pity or sorrow will cloud his glances. Instead, a perennial hope for an ever brighter future shines behind his eyes. I love him dearly, but he is a man, after all, and succumbs willingly to such unbounded optimism. Women, especially mothers, know better.
As I sit up in our tent, my husband and son lie asleep beneath the coverlets. The dim thunder of the nearby seashore murmurs in my ears. A thick fog obscures the sunrise. We have journeyed ever northward each day with our army, with neither sight nor sound of our enemy. I almost wish they would appear, simply to end the tension that tightens each day within my chest. Another few days of this and my heart shall burst asunder. I’d rather face my foes head-on than withstand this damnable waiting game.
Where have Sab and Iago gotten to? They wouldn’t simply let us march up to their borders unchallenged. Would they? No, they have to come and try to stop us. They have to. Otherwise, our own lands in the South will indeed lie undefended should the Picts and North Welsh strike there. Heaven help us if I am wrong.
I pace outside the tent flaps in the gray dawn. Perhaps I have forgotten something, something important. Iago and his forces may have already withdrawn into their citadels at Snowdon and Mona. If they do that, all we can do is lay a siege, and in the barren crags of the North we would be just as likely as the enemy to starve to death. But if what Artagan’s scouts report is true, then Sab and Iago’s forces have scattered themselves across the northern Free Cantrefs of Powys while attempting to subdue the villages there. That would mean the enemy has ranged too far from their northern holdfasts to reach their castles in time. They will have to make directly for the coastal road and try to intercept us first. Or so I keep telling myself.
The morning mists part over our encampment, revealing the green and red dragon banners of our alliance. About two thousand green-clad archers and a thousand more Dyfed spearmen surround our tent in a wide crescent. Another two thousand of Griffith’s swordsmen have their tents pitched across the sandy coast road. Near five thousand souls all told. Hopefully, it will be enough. It has to be. There simply are no more troops to be spared from Aranrhod to Caerleon.
Several years ago we gathered a host twice as large to face the Saxons. But we suffered severe losses and have not had time to replace those who fell defending our homelands. A few years of intervening peace have not given our population nearly enough time to recover. Ever more are our warriors needed against the threats of Saxon and Pictish barbarians. And each season there are fewer and fewer of us left to defend Wales. Perhaps the brooding old priests are right, and the End of Days is truly upon us.
Arms surround me from behind. I flinch and nearly cry out before recognizing my husband’s familiar scent. A hint of sweet pine sap and woodsmoke. The smells of a man who spends many days outdoors and in the field. I relax in his arms as he nuzzles my hair, his voice soft beside my ear.
“How fares my love and our little bundle inside you?”
“The child is restless. I think I’ve only another fortnight or two before my time comes.”
“Your shoulders are tight as a knotty oak, my sweet. What troubles you so?”
Only Artagan could ask such a question. What with a war against the Picts, memories of an assassin, and a nearing birthing all weighing me down. If only I had his gift for living in the present, somehow able to put off thoughts of worry as he does. I merely kiss him in reply.
He smiles as our lips touch.
“Do you remember our first kiss, my love?”
“Aye.” I beam back at him. “That and the many after.”
I press my cheek against his chest, closing my eyes as he holds me. He rests his chin atop my head. Most of the encampment still slumbers, leaving just my husband and me awake while all the world sleeps. My voice warbles out scarcely above a whisper.
“I’m scared, Artagan. Mayhaps more than I’ve ever been.”
“More than when your first husband tried to kill us? Or the Saxons? Or anyone else, for that matter?”
“I’m serious, love. In some ways, Sab and the Picts scare me more than the Saxons. They are so different from us, almost more animal than human. And I cannot forget that assassin wearing Morgan’s helmet, hunting for our boy. Promise me, Artagan, no matter what happens to me, that when the child comes you will look after the newborn babe and Gavin. Promise me you’ll let no harm come to them.”
Artagan draws back, still smiling as he plants a kiss on my brow. His arms feel warm as I snuggle up against his sternum, clinging to him as a drowning woman to a piece of driftwood. Heaven help me, I’m shivering like a child afraid of the dark. But there’s no one else here to see but Artagan. He strokes my hair, his soothing voice in my ear.
“Hush, my love. No harm will come to you or our children. You birthed our boy just fine and you’ll fare just as well with this next child. As for the Picts, don’t give them another thought. Yours was a good plan to take the fight to them. I think you surprised everyone, including me, with your battle strategy. When did you become such a war-chief?”
I shrug.
“I only do what I must. Build a castle, barter peace, fight a war. A queen has little choice. She must make do, or she will soon do without.”
Artagan guffaws slightly under his breath.
“Well, give neither Sab nor Iago another thought. Your tactics have brought us this far, and now I have a plan of mine own once we encounter the brigands.”
“You do?”
I back up a touch and eye him closely.
“Aye, of course I have a plan,” he replies, with a half-feigned smirk of consternation. “Why look you so surprised?”
“Because you are brave and honest and a great leader of men amidst the chaos,
but when it comes to looking ahead, your plots oft involve far more improvisation than well-laid plans. Although, truth be told, you’re becoming a better strategist day by day.”
He flashes his familiar cocky grin.
“Improvisation, eh? If you’re referring to that time on the King’s Road, I knew what I was doing the entire time.”
“You were outnumbered ten to one by Saxons! You barely survived by the skin of your teeth.”
“I saved your life, though, didn’t I?”
I frown, not deigning to reply. My husband has more luck in his little finger than all the saints in Christendom, but that doesn’t mean he can walk through fire at will. One of these days, his reckless good luck is bound to run out. Artagan rubs my shoulders, gently trying to assuage the tension in my muscles.
“Trust me, Branwen. I’ve a stratagem of my own, and I aim to turn the tables on Sab and her would-be allies whenever they decide to show themselves. You do trust me, my Queen, don’t you?”
A knot forms in my throat. What can I say? I’ve entrusted him with my heart. I would follow him through the fires of hell and back. My love for him goes far beyond paltry words like “trust.” I’d give anything at this moment for the two of us to be home again, in our bedchamber at Aranrhod. I look down, trying to blink back the water behind my eyes. Artagan lifts my chin with his hand.
“Branwen, you trust me, yes?”
I nod, sniffling slightly. Artagan presses his lips to mine, his warm breath thawing the morning chill on my cheeks. I stroke the dark stubble on his jaw, shutting out the rest of the world as I close my eyes. A small hand tugs at my skirts.
“Mama.”
Gavin smiles up at me. My little darling. Was I wrong to bring him so near to danger? But that assassin still lurks out there somewhere. Surrounded by an army, my son could find no safer place in all of Wales, even if we are on the very brink of battle. I’ll not let Gavin leave my side for a single day. Not until this is all over. If indeed it ever ends.
My son grins up at me with a blanket in one hand. I suddenly notice that he is naked from the waist up. My eyes narrow. Where did his nightshirt go? It’s cold enough outside to freeze beer, and my boy offs his shirt as though it were a midsummer day. Early autumn winds blow swiftly off the nearby sea, but Gavin only smiles as his chest ripples in gooseflesh. Another hot-blood, just like his father. I kneel down and wrap Gavin up in my shawl.
“Darling, you’ll catch your death of cold in this weather.”
Gavin smiles, and points at Artagan.
“Dada.”
Artagan has doffed his own linen shirt, bare chested and fair skinned as our boy. His nipples perk in the cool sea air. He pinches Gavin’s cheek.
“That’s my little Celt!” Artagan beams. “A warrior-poet, born for the misty morn.”
My two boys giggle, despite one being a toddler and the other my husband. I shake my head. Artagan really is no better than a child himself at times. I chastise the pair of them with half-feigned indignation.
“Get your clothes back on over your heads, both of you! No better than a pair of heathens!”
The two smirk, their grins mirror images. One being dark of hair and the other auburn. I stifle a smile myself. My two boys. They thread their arms through their linens, but I still wrap a fur tartan around each of their shoulders for good measure. My King and Princeling might be mighty warrior-poets, but I swear they’d freeze to death on a wet day if I wasn’t there to cover them up.
Someone clears her throat behind us. My shoulders immediately tense. Olwen folds her arms, one eyebrow raised as she watches us.
“Don’t let me interrupt your family moment.”
I level my gaze. Doesn’t she have her own son to tend to? Maybe if she’d been more of a family woman herself, her own husband would not have been lured into the arms of another. My tone runs cold.
“What do you want, Olwen?”
“We’ve a war on, remember? Or at least we’re supposed to. Still no sign of Sab or my husband. Looks like your plan has all come to naught, Mab Ceridwen.”
She pronounces my namesake with more than a light mocking tone. I ball my fists at my sides, but Artagan puts his hands on my shoulders, trying to sooth the knots out of my muscles. It’s never a good sign when my hot-blooded husband is the one trying to get me to calm down. Is my wrath for Olwen so obvious? It would seem so.
By now most of the encampment’s inhabitants have awakened, smoke trails filling the sky from morning campfires. Soldiers banter as they roast their breakfasts of gruel and fresh game. Enough woodsmoke fills the air to ensure that every Welshman in North Wales can tell where our army camps. Surely Sab and Iago must know where to find us by now.
Trying my best to ignore Olwen’s violet stare, I unroll a large map on one of the makeshift tables erected in Artagan’s tent. Rowena takes Gavin off my hands, feeding porridge to each of the children for breakfast. God bless her. It’s hard enough to be heavy with child and watch a toddler, let alone having to be a queen in a time of war.
Artagan and Olwen both join me as I pore over the chart. My round belly bumps the table. Jesus wept! I can hardly lean over a tabletop, so how could I lead an army into battle? When the fight comes, and it will, I shall have to be looking on from a distance. Artagan and the others may take up the battle standard, but I can hardly waddle, let alone wield a bow or spear against the Picts.
Which probably means I’ll be stuck at the rear of the army with Olwen. I grind my teeth. She would be the last person to consider going into battle. Her ladyship wouldn’t want to rend a fingernail or muss the rouge powder on her cheeks, I suppose. Some women are meant for pincushions, and Olwen is such a woman if I ever saw one.
Centering the chart on the table, I place a palm on either side of North Wales. Faded ink indicates the large crescent of mountains and squiggles of streams that intersect the landscape of the North. Olwen frowns beside me, rapping her knuckles across the parchment.
“This is hopeless!” she scoffs. “The North is impregnable. I should know, I’ve been its Queen these past few years. Mountains bar every invader, leaving only two narrow approaches, one along the north coast and the other where we are along the western shore. A narrow passage either way that our enemies can block up indefinitely. You’re leading us into a bloody massacre, Branwen!”
I clench my jaw, not deigning to look at her smug face.
“Have you a better idea? Or do you expect your husband to stop cuckolding you and just give you your queenship back?”
Olwen’s eyes burn with a purplish fire. Artagan steps between us. If not for him, I’d take a switch to Olwen before she could blink. Trying to keep us focused on the task at hand, Artagan strokes his chin while he ponders the map.
“Strange that with such a barren, mountainous kingdom, Iago manages to keep the best horses and cavalry in Wales,” he muses.
Olwen taps the outline of a large island off the coast of the Northlands.
“That’s because the Isle of Mona is fertile, very unlike the rocky coasts of the mainland. The island is a breadbasket with enough grain and pasture to feed Iago’s entire kingdom.”
Artagan’s eyebrows rise in astonishment.
“Then North Wales truly is the most perfect realm for defense. A good food supply for Iago’s horses and rough terrain on his borders to thwart his foes.”
I bite my tongue until a bitter, metallic taste rises in my mouth. Even Artagan starts to see things Olwen’s way. The North is indeed a natural fortress. The Isle of Mona holds all their foodstuffs, but in order to get near it an army would have to cross impenetrable mountains and then approach via a narrow coastal defile that Iago and Sab’s army would certainly be guarding. My shoulders sink. Perhaps my stratagem is truly hopeless. We cannot possibly hope to defeat Iago’s men on their home ground.
But we don’t need to conquer them. That would bleed both our armies dry, anyway, and I do not wish to see any more Welshmen die than necessary. No, we need only dr
aw Sab and Iago to us. And then what? My mind suddenly runs blank. I turn to Artagan, trying to summon the last reserves of confidence into my voice.
“You said before that you had your own plan, my love. A way to defeat Queen Sab?”
“Aye, but first we need her to come find us.”
“She’ll come, she has to. We’re on the edge of their hinterlands now. If Sab and Iago don’t move to block us soon, we’ll be near the heart of his kingdom within a few days.”
Artagan smiles.
“Iago won’t let us get that far into his territory uncontested. He’ll show up.”
Olwen scoffs, exhaling sharply through her teeth.
“My husband might, but Queen Sab? Heaven knows what that heathen chieftess will do.”
For once, I cannot disagree with her. Olwen has a point about Sab. She is anything but predictable. But we cannot delay confrontation with her any longer. Time is on Sab’s side. The longer we postpone battling her, the more time she has to weaken Wales. Every day her barbarians pillage and burn our villages while the Saxons look on across the border, biding their time. We must strike the Picts, and we must do it soon.
An ox horn sounds across the encampment. My skin ripples with goose bumps. Griffith’s bugle call. He would not use it this close to enemy territory unless some danger was nigh at hand.
Artagan, Olwen, and I duck out under the tent flaps. Griffith stands outside, lowering his horn as an armorer fits chain mail and bracers on him. The fat monarch points toward a quartet of riders galloping headlong across the greens toward us. My husband’s scouts. Emryus, Keenan, Bowen, and Carrick.
The four knights halt their panting mounts a few paces from our tents, plumes of steam rising from the stallions’ dilated nostrils. The riders’ chests heave in and out, equally out of breath as their steeds. Keenan speaks up first, motioning toward the misty mountains in the distance with his battle-ax. His wide eyes focus on Artagan.