Dark Winds Rising

by Mark Noce

  “Och!” I reply with feigned indignance. “As though I need looking after by either my husband or my sons? Amongst the Old Tribes it was the womenfolk who looked after the men.”

  Artagan puts his palms together in mock prayer, glancing heavenward.

  “And may it always be so under our roof, dear Lord.”

  Gavin chuckles at his father’s grin, even if he is too young to understand the humor. I gently paw Artagan’s cheek. Hardly a fortnight from his near deathbed, and already my husband speaks as blasphemously as ever. Tristan yawns, unperturbed by all our noise as he momentarily widens his tiny pink lips.

  Rowena passes our open door with her girls in tow. Catching a glance from me, she offers to take Tristan and Gavin with her. The children’s voices boisterously echo down the passageways as Rowena leads them to the larder. Finally alone together, I press my brow to Artagan’s.

  “I thought I’d lost you.”

  “It’d take more than a dozen spears to part me from you.”

  He grins, trying to make light of his condition. Even as he smiles, his eyes contract when he tries to stifle the pain. The wound from Bal’s bone spear runs deep through Artagan’s torso, and even now he may still yet relapse and fail to recover. I quickly push such thoughts from my head. No. We will persevere, because we must. Artagan has had his share of wounds over the years, both as a hedge knight and as a king. But even if he regains his health, I wonder whether he will ever wield a sword or ride a horse as well as he once did. A few years shy of thirty, and he has already put his body through so many trials and terrors that he will be lucky if he can still draw breath should he live to see forty. The very though makes my chest smart. I clutch Artagan all the closer.

  “I had a vision,” I begin, “in which I feared I’d die in childbirth. It has haunted me these many months, but alas, I saw only the pain, not the peaceful conclusion.”

  Startled, Artagan looks at me with a searching gaze.

  “Did you truly see into the future?”

  “I saw something,” I reply with a shrug. “I have a touch of the Sight, or so Sab said, but I’m reluctant to pursue such awakenings further. I think I prefer living life simply one day to the next, much as you do.”

  Artagan smiles and rests his brow thoughtfully against mine. I almost mention seeing my mother after the delirium of the birthing as well. But somehow I know my husband already understands the depths of my soul as it is. No words are necessary between us.

  We hold one another without saying more, simply content to feel one another’s warmth. For a time, I forget all else except Artagan’s embrace and the laughter of the children down in the courtyard. All that I care for in all the world are with me now inside the walls of Dun Dyfed.

  A man clears his throat outside the lintel of our room. Ahern lingers in the shadows, patiently waiting for me. I help lay Artagan back down on his cot. Within moments his chest rises and falls with the peaceful rhythm of a man fast asleep. Leaning down, I press my lips to his closed eyelids. Rest, my love. Rest and replenish your strength. I cannot go on without you. I need you. I love you.

  Quietly closing the door, I follow Ahern to the main hall of the hill fort. How many scenes of my childhood passed in this drafty old mead hall? I recall my father, God rest him, deep in his cups before he gave me away as a bride to the Hammer King. And then much later, finding that Pictish Queen sitting on Father’s old throne, her barbarians eating and defecating about the hall as though it were a pigsty. The mere thought makes me cringe.

  Around a flickering central hearth, Ahern gathers with those few knights who remain to us. Sir Emryus and Keenan steady themselves with a staff or an ax handle, both of their heads wrapped in crimson bandages. The quiet Dyfed knight, Sir Carrick, joins them, his arm in a sling. I nod to each of them before turning to Carrick.

  “How fares your brother, sir knight?”

  Carrick’s gaze clouds over.

  “Poorly, Your Grace. Bowen still has fever dreams and the clerics say he will probably lose his leg.”

  I bite my lip, almost wishing I had not asked. Many brave Dyfed and Free Cantref warriors lie dead or dying. Just one of the many repercussions Wales will doubtless suffer as a result of our defeat at All Hallows. Ahern glances my way with his single eye.

  “King Griffith’s body has not yet been recovered.”

  “He should be honored with a king’s barrow.” I sigh. “His courage on the battlefield led to the rescue of my husband. Without Griffith’s valor, Artagan might not be here with us now.”

  Pacing around the flickering fire, I try to push thoughts of Griffith from my mind. The image of tears streaming down his cheeks as he led men forward to save my husband will remain emblazoned in my memory until the end of my days. I owe the round old king a debt I can never repay. But I’ve enough grief within me already to burst asunder. The weeping and hair rending must wait for another day. Our country’s fate hangs in the balance, and a queen cannot afford herself the luxury of mourning. Not now, not with so much at stake.

  I recline upon my father’s old throne, the well-worn seat where many of my forefathers once sat. Queen Sab’s duff rested here once too, the viperess. She will doubtless return here someday soon to try to reclaim it.

  If it irks Ahern to see me in Father’s old chair instead of himself, he does not show it. Curse myself, I do my half brother a disservice for even entertaining such notions, no matter how briefly. He has served me faithfully for years since his one betrayal, which we rarely speak of now. Nonetheless, I bet old Sab would promise a man like Ahern the moon if he opened our gates to her army. Then again, with so few remaining under our banners, Sab may not need any further treachery to bring us down. As for Ahern, he would fight to the last drop of blood to keep a villainess like the Pictish Queen from claiming dominion over our birthplace here at Dyfed.

  I glance at my four remaining war-captains as they warm themselves beside the hearth.

  “Sab will show up here sooner or later. It is only a matter of time.”

  “The war season has ended.” Keenan shrugs. “With the cold weather upon us, no one can wage a campaign. The Picts will wait for spring.”

  Emryus, Carrick, and Ahern exchange looks, not nearly as convinced. I sit up in my seat, equally doubtful that we will have a reprieve from the fighting. My voice fills the largely empty hall.

  “Winter may be coming, Sir Keenan, but Queen Sab is a wily foe. She will not stop merely because of some rain and soggy mud. Her people come from the cold wastes of the far North. They can wage war in any season.”

  Carrick scratches his sling with his good hand, staring into the flames.

  “How many men do we have here now at Dun Dyfed?”

  “A thousand, more or less,” Ahern answers. “But half of them are wounded, and most of the rest are short on rations.”

  Emryus frowns, stroking his gray beard.

  “Our food stores are nearly exhausted. Many villagers have taken refuge here now that word of Mab Ceridwen’s presence has spread. But even with this dun’s famously impregnable walls, we won’t hold out long with a thousand starving wounded warriors and refugees crowding the citadel.”

  All four warriors stand silent, lost in their own pessimistic thoughts as they listen to the snap and crackle of the fire pit. With my elbow on the armrest, I put my chin against my fist. When I first arrived here weeks ago, hardly anyone remained in the castle. Now it swells with maimed warriors and scared peasants looking for shelter and protection.

  Low on food. Low on warriors. Low on hope. What chance do we stand once Sab’s marauding Picts show up on our doorstep? It’s a miracle they haven’t besieged us already. Only her savages’ greed for glutting themselves on the prosperous farms and herds of the Welsh countryside has slowed their progress. The fruits of victory for the invaders.

  We need help. We need allies, but from where? Who could possibly come to our aid even if they wanted to? I do not intend to simply rot in Dun Dyfed, waiting for Sab
’s army to arrive and finish us off. But what choice have I? We seem to have run out of possibilities. I start to think out loud, a dangerous prospect for any leader in times of peril, but we need a plan and we need it fast.

  “First, we need foodstuffs, or we are done for in a fortnight. The autumn harvests are in. Surely, the granaries in Aranrhod are full by now. Have we any word there from Father David?”

  Ahern grimaces, the firelight lengthening the lines on his face.

  “I sent a raven, but it has not returned. The roads between here and your castle at Aranrhod are blocked, my Queen.”

  “Blocked? By what?”

  “King Arthwys’s army.”

  Ahern spits into the flames, sneering at having to refer to that teenage monarch as king. I swallow hard, realizing that we are in even more dire straits than I first supposed. Poor Griffith may have traded his life to save my husband’s, but when the South Welsh ruler died, his throne passed to the Hammer King’s son. Prince, now King Arthwys. I can still see his hollow gray stare from across the battlefield, betraying us as he sided with Sab. Even in the face of foreign enemies, will the Welsh ever cease fighting each other? Maybe our people do not deserve to be saved.

  I shake my head. I cannot condemn my own people for the evil deeds of a few conniving nobles. But I can certainly damn Arthwys and Iago. I clench my fists, racking my mind for any possible solutions.

  With Arthwys’s troops blocking the roads to the east, we cannot hope to get any wagons of food from Aranrhod. Poor Father David. I left him in charge of the castle months ago, thinking I would be gone only a short while. Now the beleaguered priest has a fortress to look after, and may yet find himself under siege as well before too long. We already drew all available troops from Aranrhod before the Battle of All Hallows. Whom will Father David find to man the walls? Women and children with pitchforks? That will not keep any foes at bay for long.

  As much as Arthwys despises me, he has not turned his troops to open battle against me yet. But why? He would not do so by choice, not unless forced to by circumstances out of his hands. The South Welsh followed Griffith when he led them against the Picts and North Welsh, but now they must swear loyalty to the new heir and whomever he calls friend. Although I doubt many relish calling the Picts their allies after so much blood has been spilled. Arthwys treads in dangerous waters, changing his friends and foes so often. I tap the arm of my chair, glancing at Ahern.

  “How bad were our enemy’s losses at All Hallows?”

  My kinsman shrugs.

  “Hard to tell. They took the field, but we gave as good as we got, and we lost hundreds, maybe even a thousand men.”

  “And have just as many maimed and wounded to tend,” Carrick adds, doubtless thinking of his brother.

  I lean forward in my seat, my wandering gaze lost in thought.

  “Then Sab’s Picts, Iago’s northern horsemen, and even Arthwys’s swordsmen will all have suffered equally, maybe losing half their strength.”

  “Aye, but by combining their forces together, they’ll have more than enough troops to overwhelm us,” Sir Emryus counters.

  A half-grin spreads across my cheek.

  “True, but they haven’t united their forces, have they? Which means there is discord in their ranks as well. They don’t trust each other.”

  I snap my fingers, rising from the throne and beginning to pace. My knights exchange looks but keep silent, watching me with furrowed brows. I refuse to let their perplexed faces distract me as I follow my thoughts to their logical conclusion, bantering to myself all the while.

  “They don’t trust each other!” I repeat with a smile. “Arthwys and Iago’s forces bloodied one another badly, and their troops will sooner see each other in perdition rather than join ranks. So Arthwys merely cuts us off from aid. He guards the roads not only against us but also against Iago and Sab, in case they should change their minds and betray him by marching on the South Welsh Lands.”

  Ahern nods.

  “It makes sense, my Queen. By now the Saxons are doubtless recovering from their bout with the plague, so Arthwys will have to watch his eastern borders as well. He doesn’t have the manpower to do more than blockade the roads against us. He cannot march his forces directly against us without taking the risk of leaving his own castles defenseless to Saxons or the North Welsh.”

  Keenan stokes the fire with a switch, sending sparks into the air.

  “But what good does that do us?” The young knight frowns. “So Arthwys won’t attack. He has still cut off our food supply, which damns us all the same. There’s not a king in all Wales who will come to our aid now!”

  I click my tongue in disapproval, still unable to hide my smile.

  “Sir Keenan, I’ve no intention or asking help from any kings in Wales. But we might just find an ally amongst their queens.”

  All four knights raise their eyebrows. I could laugh if it wasn’t all so serious. Brave as these warriors are, they cannot think outside the narrow confines of battlefields and kingships. They do not see the many other subtle advantages we have yet to press against our enemies as they seek to encircle us. Time will tell whether or not I am right, but for the first moment in weeks I feel a kernel of genuine hope springing to life within me. And yet, our time runs short. I will have to hatch my little plots quickly, before starvation or Queen Sab’s armies bring us to our knees.

  18

  The last of my messenger ravens take to the skies, carrying with them the last hopes for my country. Standing atop a ring of Dun Dyfed’s rocky walls, I watch until the dark birds disappear toward the horizon. My windswept hair spiderwebs across my face. The cool breath of the ocean rises off the many whitecaps that dot the western sea. A mist of wet, salty spray dapples my warm cheeks. Una stands with her hands folded as though in prayer, the two of us alone together as she talks over the roar of the surf.

  “You’re taking an awful risk, my Queen. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Me too.”

  “If those messenger birds should be intercepted by the enemy…”

  “I’m more worried about them reaching their destinations at all. The autumn storms have abated a touch, but they will renew their fury before the next moon is out. I can smell it in the air.”

  I shut my eyes a moment, inhaling the scent of washed-up kelp. Gulls cry out overhead, large whitish-gray flocks streaming inland. A sure sign that another gale forms somewhere far out to sea.

  Una paces, her fingers fidgeting nervously. To the east, the open heaths bleed brown pools of rainwater. Half the landscape has turned into a moss-covered bog. It will make travel for our enemies difficult, but not impossible. With the sea on one side and marsh on the other, we seem truly cut off from the rest of the world. Still no sign of the Picts or Iago’s army, but that will change. And heaven help us when they do come, for we will be hard-pressed to withstand a siege. A leaden weight sinks in my gut.

  Wending my way toward the main hall, I follow the subterranean corridors of the dun until I stop at a chamber near my own. I stand in the doorway, looking in as Olwen brushes back Cadwallon’s ash-colored hair. She beams with pleasure as she combs through the toddler’s locks, talking to him about their castles in the far North where she hopes he may one day rule as king. I clear my throat, drawing Olwen’s gaze.

  Una trails me to Olwen’s cell. I turn to her, trying to make my voice pleasant yet firm.

  “Take young Cadwallon to Rowena’s chambers so that he can play with the other children,” I begin. “I must speak with Queen Olwen alone.”

  Olwen abruptly rises to her feet, clearly perturbed at both my interruption and my seemingly high-handed orders, but she acquiesces without a word. She eyes me warily with her violet gaze. Olwen takes a seat on a footstool as Una leads the boy out into the hall. I gently close the door once Olwen and I are alone, waiting until Una’s footfalls have dissipated down the corridor. Olwen folds her arms.

  “Mind telling me what this is all about, yo
ur highness?” she says with a frown.

  “I wanted to thank you for all you’ve done,” I begin. “Standing by my side through thick and thin. And most especially, helping with the delivery of my baby.”

  Olwen blinks, taken aback by my words as her grimace turns into a small smile.

  “Thank you, Branwen. Despite our spats, I like to think we’ve become something like friends.”

  “That’s why I must now ask you to betray me.”

  Her eyes narrow, the lines on her fair face growing long. I try my best to keep my own face a mask of stoic complacency. What I do now, I do for all Wales. Whatever happens, I must ensure that our people survive, and I’m going to need Olwen’s help to do that. She rises from her seat, circling me as though checking to make sure I’m not some apparition or phantom.

  “What are you talking about, Branwen?”

  “I’ve set some plans in motion, messages sent to certain parties via my ravens. But I need your help to make these plans work. I need you to betray me, publicly.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s no secret that you and I have never seen eye to eye, often reluctant allies at best. That’s an advantage I plan to use. Our enemies will have little trouble believing that you mean me ill. If you ride into their camp to join them, they will readily believe you’ve betrayed me, especially if you tell them you and I have been at odds of late.”

  “Are we at odds, Branwen?”

  I lower my gaze with a faint smile.

  “I don’t honestly know, Olwen.”

  She smirks back.

  “A fine answer. I think if you’d said yes or no, I’d not have believed you, but somehow hearing you in doubt, I know what you say is true.”

  “Will you help me? Will you help save our country?”

  “How? By riding into Sab’s camp and groveling before my cuckolding husband?”

  “I don’t want you to go to Sab or Iago. I want you to ride to Arthwys’s camp.”

  Her eyes widen slightly.

  “To what purpose? The only reason a deposed noblewoman like myself would ride into a young warlord’s camp would be to…”