Dark Winds Rising

by Mark Noce

  Her eyes widen into full moons as the realization overtakes her. She stomps her foot against the cobblestone floor, aiming her finger at me.

  “Oh, no … no, no, no!” she says, wagging her head. “I’ll not do it, Branwen! My God, you’ve got the devil’s own soul to ask me to do a thing like that!”

  I put both hands on her shoulders, steadying her with my ivy gaze.

  “It’s only a plot to mislead our enemies, Olwen. One I need you to play as convincingly as any role you’ve had in your life. You need not actually do anything, only give Arthwys the promise of what you will do.”

  Olwen paces the room. Although neither of us has said directly what I’m asking of her, we both know exactly what needs to be done. Olwen is no fool, I’ll give her that much. But does she have the gumption to risk everything for the sake of all our kingdoms? Olwen sighs, her shoulders sinking a moment before she stabs the air with her forefinger once more.

  “I’ll not sleep with him! Even I have my limits, Branwen!”

  “I would never ask you to, but an offer of marriage to a landed queen is not something a young warlord like Arthwys can afford to dismiss.”

  “You think he’ll use me as an excuse to claim the North, since I am still Queen there?”

  I nod.

  “And in doing so,” I continue, “he will drive a wedge between the fledgling alliance Sab has sought to create amongst her, Iago, and Arthwys.”

  “But Arthwys should take Griffith’s old Queen, Cordelia, to the altar. Fat and boorish as she is, her presence binds South Wales to Cornwall. Cordelia will be livid if she finds out Arthwys is considering wedding me.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  Something in my dark smile must tickle Olwen’s own devilish sense of mischief. Her gaze goes blank for a moment as she takes in the full meaning of my plot. A plan I’ve so far shared only with her and no one else. She flashes a half-grin back at me, clicking her tongue slightly.

  “Queen Branwen, I think until this very moment, I’ve underestimated you.”

  “Thanks,” I reply with a simper.

  “When must I leave?”

  “Immediately. We’ve no time to lose.”

  Olwen nods, sticking her index finger so close it almost grazes my nose.

  “Just one more thing, Mab Ceridwen. If, if I do this, it had better work … or so help me I might just betray you for sooth, in order to save my own skin.”

  I put my hands on my hips, sizing her up as we stand toe to toe.

  “Well, Olwen, I can certainly say that I have not underestimated you.”

  “Och!” she replies without another word.

  She unbolts the door, hastening into the hallway and toward the stables. Both Rowena and Una see her saddling her white mare. They exchange looks. As the children play in their room, Rowena approaches me with an awkward bow.

  “Lady Olwen looks like she’s readying her horse, Your Grace.”

  “Aye.”

  “Are we going somewhere, m’lady?”

  “No, just Queen Olwen. She’s betraying me.”

  Rowena’s eyes widen. I keep an aloof expression. Una crosses herself in the corner, neither one of them understanding what has transpired betwixt Olwen and me. Olwen mounts her filly, glancing over her shoulder at me.

  “Look after my boy, Branwen. He’ll be a king someday, and when he is, he’ll remember who was kind to his mother and who was not.”

  She digs her heels into the steed’s flanks, galloping headlong out the front gates and onto the moors. The clack of the mare’s hooves diminishes into the distant fog. I draw in a long, deep breath. Godspeed, brave Olwen. Godspeed.

  My breasts clench like a pair of tightening fists, and I know I must feed little Tristan once more. Rations are short within our walls, but at least my milk has remained strong for my newborn. Una tends to the other children while Rowena wraps Tristan in swaddling cloth.

  Once I recline in my chair within my own bedchamber, Rowena brings my little babe to me. Tristan’s eyes close as he suckles greedily, slowly lulling himself into a milk-induced slumber. Rowena whispers so as not to wake the child.

  “M’lady, pardon my impertinence, but I still do not understand what just happened.”

  “That is how I want it for now, dear Rowena. Not just for you, but for everyone else. Olwen’s part in this plot is between only her and myself.”

  Rowena’s face suddenly brightens.

  “But you have a plan, my Queen? A way out of this turmoil that those bloody Picts have set upon us?”

  “Aye, Rowena, I have a plan, if you’ll call it that, and Olwen has a crucial role to play in it. But I’ve not revealed my full plot to anyone, including Olwen. No more will I say. Not until it is done and the last move made.”

  “You talk almost as if it were a game betwixt you and Queen Sab, m’lady.”

  I utter a hollow laugh.

  “No, I am done with games, Rowena, although this shall certainly be a fight to the death. Only one of us will prevail, either Sab or myself, and we both might very well be dead before it is over.”

  Rowena involuntarily sucks in a sharp breath.

  “For sooth, m’lady? I’d give mine own life before I let harm come to you.”

  “You’re a better lady-in-waiting than I deserve, Rowena.”

  I smile at her, my heartstrings more than a little stirred by her unfaltering loyalty. Even though she does not know the details of my plot, the calm confidence she has in me is comforting. She puts her hands on her hips as she gazes out the windowsill.

  “Our enemies may have more warriors, more supplies, and more allies than us, but there is one thing they do not have. They don’t have Mab Ceridwen on their side.”

  I press my lips together, unable to think of anything to say. Lovely, faithful Rowena. God bless her.

  She smiles and nods before leaving me alone with Tristan. After she shuts the door behind her, I gently rock my young son in my arms. I quietly kiss his tiny warm brow. Hush, little one. Hush. Mother will take care of you. You are still a son of the Old Tribes, and you have a strength within you that you do not yet know. But you will one day, my sweet child. You will know, and be glad.

  * * *

  Ahern’s voice rings from the lookout nest atop the battlements.

  “Ships! Ships on the water! To arms! To arms!”

  I sit up in bed with a gasp, Tristan cradled in the coverlets beside me. He slumbers against my side as my eyes blink back the darkness. It is not yet dawn, only the faintest opal hue lingers on the horizon.

  The clack of footfalls on the slick stone steps outside resounds with the tramp of spearmen and archers taking up their positions along the battlements. I doubt Ahern has more than a few dozen warriors to call upon at this ungodly hour. Most are doubtless too weak from wounds or hunger to yet rise. How few of us remain.

  My heart pumps fast as Rowena opens the door, one of her daughters half-asleep in her arms. My handmaid’s eyes look round as goose eggs, her disheveled nightshift drooping down one shoulder. She whispers thickly into my ear.

  “Sails offshore, m’lady. Our foes have finally come for blood!”

  “Stay with Tristan, and send Una to make sure Gavin and my husband keep to their chamber.”

  My little Gavin and wounded husband are the last two people in the citadel who should be out of bed and on the ramparts, but that doesn’t mean they won’t try. It’ll take the strictness of a nun to keep them at bay. Thank the Lord for Una.

  I don a robe and pull a doeskin tartan over my shoulders. A quick check of my bow and quiver finds everything in order. I may still have half a stone of baby weight on me, but at least I can draw a bowstring like a proper spear-wife should. Rowena grasps my sleeve.

  “Your Grace, you’re not going out there, are ye? It’s black as the devil’s heart outside.”

  “I won’t slip and fall, Rowena. I was born in Dun Dyfed. I know these halls well.”

  “What if the castle falls, my
Queen? What will be the fate of the children?”

  I grab Rowena by the wrist, probably harder than I should.

  “It will not come to that! Do you understand?”

  She nods meekly, and a pang of guilt lances my chest. I shouldn’t chide her so, but the thought of what our children’s fate will be should we fail is too much for me to contemplate. It simply cannot come to pass. It cannot. One thing the Saxons and Picts have in common is that they do not leave the children of defeated nobles alive. The mere thought makes me shudder. I quickly push such nightmares to the back of my mind. I will not let it come to that.

  Some inspirational leader I’ve proved to be. I wish I had Artagan’s knack for cockiness before a fight. But he will do little inspiring of the troops while lying on a sickbed. God help us, have the Picts already moored their vessels offshore? We’ve already run out of time.

  I race through dim corridors toward the westernmost wall overlooking the dark sea far below. Ahern and a score of warriors squint into the misty fogbanks scattered across the predawn shoreline. Standing beside me, my brother gives me a quick glance. I crane my eyes and ears against the blackness and the wind, trying to glean anything in the blue-gray haze.

  Half a dozen sails dot the waters, their ghostly shapes listing heavily in the shallows. Each vessel must be heavily weighed down, but with what? It’s still too dark to make out more than the curve of their prows and the canvas of their mainmasts.

  Ahern grimaces beside me.

  “I’d have bet my last copper that Sab’s army would approach by land. She has only enough boats for her Picts, and half of those were damaged at All Hallows. Would she really leave Iago’s horsemen behind?”

  “I doubt she needs Iago’s troops to lay siege to our beleaguered lot.”

  “What are your orders? Do we loose some arrows? Try to set a few of their ships alight before they make landfall?”

  “I’m not sure we have the means to offer even that much resistance.”

  I frown until my cheeks hurt. This is not how things were supposed to unfold. Sab’s tiny fleet alone will upset all my carefully laid plans. Her unpredictability will be the downfall of us all. I clench my bow until my fist smarts. The first rays of dawn pierce the horizon.

  A few daggers of crimson sunshine penetrate the thinning fog. My eyes alight on the nearest sea craft as it beaches itself along the strand below the dun. The first sailor hops off onto the sands. My eyes widen, my heart rising against my ribs.

  “Look! Those ships are made of timber, not calfskin. Their sails are dun-colored, not black, and their crew wears breeches, not animal skins.”

  Ahern furrows his brows.

  “My lady?”

  “Those aren’t Picts. They’re Cornish ships.”

  “Boats from Cornwall? But why would they come here?”

  “Because I sent for them.”

  A broad smile spreads across my lips. I shut my eyes and say a silent prayer. Even with all my hoped-for plans, I never expected such a rapid response. My messenger ravens went out barely a week ago. Before Ahern can ask me further questions, I issue orders to his guardsmen.

  “Saddle my pony and ready a contingent of spearmen. Mount everyone else you can on the walls and battlements, even the sick and the children. Make it look like there are a thousand of us. I want us to look as well-manned and imposing as possible. I won’t have the Cornish thinking we are a few meager defenders standing on our last legs.”

  “Aye, but we are,” Ahern murmurs to himself.

  I give him a cross look. He sets about obeying my orders without another word. Although my half brother is a veteran of many battles, he doesn’t understand the first thing about diplomacy. It’s always better to negotiate from a position of strength, and even potential allies must not see the chinks in one’s armor. No one wants to join a lost cause, and we must give our best impression to these Cornishmen if we are to enlist their help. So much do I hope.

  By the time the yellow orb rises in the east, half the inhabitants within the citadel line the defenses. Up close, even a blind man could tell they’re little more than refugees and walking wounded. But from down on the shore, the Cornish will see what appear to be at least a thousand spears manning the walls of Dun Dyfed.

  I ride my mare down the grassy dunes to the beach, letting her dip her hooves in the rushing tide. Ahern and a score of his healthiest spearmen jog behind me with their shields at the ready. Just in case these Cornish sailors are not what they appear to be.

  A small gang of Cornish mariners disembarks from their ships, mooring their vessels in the shallows with blocks made of Cornish iron. They wear cutlasses on their belts, each seaman holding a harpoon in one hand. Typical weapons of our distant Celtic kin in Cornwall, the best seafarers in all Britain. Only a skeleton crew mans each craft. So what, pray tell, weighs each ship down so?

  Before I can venture a guess, a figure descends a gangplank to the shore, the wooden board bowing under her weight. I sit tall in the saddle, trying to maintain a measure of confidence in my poise, whether I feel it or not. I nod with a smile toward the large round woman, decked out in finger rings and warm-colored skirts.

  “Queen Cordelia of South Wales, welcome. My condolences on the passing of your late husband. King Griffith’s death pains us all.”

  “Not as much as his successor pains me,” she retorts. “Arthwys isn’t half the king Griffith was.”

  The large Queen sighs, a half-eaten chicken thigh in hand. My goodness, does this Cornishwoman never cease eating? My stomach growls, not having seen so much meat in over a fortnight. My own soldiers doubtless fight the urge to lick their lips. Ahern gives each of them a stern eye. No guardsman so much as budges a muscle.

  I bow in the saddle and Queen Cordelia curtsies in turn. I peer down at her from atop my mount.

  “You received my raven?” I ask.

  “At first I did not believe your letter. Surely, Arthwys would keep me on as queen in order to maintain his mercantile alliance with my cousin King Caradoc’s realm in Cornwall. Then I received the news from Arthwys himself, the little prince. He means to put me aside so that he can wed that exiled Queen from the North. The strumpet.”

  I repress a satisfied smile. So Olwen has played her part perfectly thus far. I almost feel sorry for Cordelia. Originally betrothed to the Hammer King’s brother years ago, she and I might have been sisters-in-law had fate turned out differently. But her first husband, like mine, died at the hands of the Saxons. She wed the next king at Caerleon, Lord Griffith, and likewise expected to have to wed again now that South Wales has a new monarch.

  But Arthwys must have taken one look at Olwen and knew he would never take a fat old bird like Cordelia to the altar. Important as the Cornish trade is for South Wales, the chance of claiming North Wales through Olwen’s hand in marriage would be too much to resist for most men. And despite Olwen being at least a decade older than Arthwys, she is still a ravishing Welsh Venus. Fertile enough to sire an heir or two. Yes, I’m sure a teenage king like Arthwys had both land and lust on his mind when Olwen rode into camp, offering herself as a wedding present to him.

  Cordelia sniffles, dabbing her eye with a handkerchief before using it to wipe the last chicken grease from her lips. In her own way, I’m sure she does mourn Griffith. But she also mourns her former position as queen at Caerleon, with the many comforts that only one of the finest palaces in all Wales can offer. Little did Arthwys reckon the enemy he made in dismissing Cordelia from his court. Cordelia’s double chin shakes as she contemplates all her travails.

  “It was kind of you to send a raven to my cousin in Cornwall as well,” she adds. “King Caradoc was surprised, since the Cornish have little trade with your Free Cantref people, but nonetheless, he sent several ships to collect me from Caerleon. Else Arthwys would have left me to rot outside the city gates.”

  “And so you sailed here, and we are most glad of your coming to us.”

  “I’ve done more than that, Queen
Branwen. I’ve come to offer you what aid I can. Arthwys will pay for what he has done to me. And so I’ve brought you the one thing he has denied you of late … the one thing I never go anywhere without.”

  She gestures toward the half dozen vessels anchored behind her. I raise an eyebrow, at first not comprehending her meaning. Her sailors roll several barrels and casks onto the sands while others retrieve large chests and crates from belowdecks. My eyes are wide as Ahern and I exchange looks. Cordelia smiles.

  “Sacks of barley and flour, barrels of salted meat, a few casks of ale, and dozens of crates of my favorite onions. Have you ever had onion soup, my Queen?”

  I lick my lips despite myself. There must be half a hundred vats of foodstuffs aboard her small ships. No wonder their vessels rode so low in the water! Enough supplies to feed a thousand mouths or more. Cordelia has brought us something better than an army. She has brought us life! I’m guessing my people and I will be eating a lot of onion soup in the days to come. I turn toward my soldiers, raising my longbow high overhead.

  “Three cheers for Queen Cordelia! The rightful Queen of South Wales!”

  My spearmen reply with three throaty hurrahs, their eyes covetously following every barrel and hogshead of rations unloaded onshore. Although they may cheer more at the thought of a full belly than for Cordelia’s usurped throne, the deposed Queen nonetheless smiles at my warriors’ show of support. Whether the food comes from Cornwall’s food stores or South Wales’s granaries, it will be a severe blow for Arthwys’s cause. His blockade of the mountains roads has not prevented food supplies from reaching my garrison at Dun Dyfed. With real food in our stomachs again, our wounded will recover and our ranks will swell again with healthy, hearty warriors.

  Ahern’s men help the Cornish sailors break into the first crates, sharing bread and cheeses amongst them. My kinsman graciously offers me a hunk of rye flatbread. I devour it with as much haste as much as I dare in front of Cordelia and her mariners, trying to maintain my manners while still obeying my growling stomach. Every bite tastes like manna from heaven.