by Mark Noce
“They want to parley with us? I’d rather answer them with steel and arrows.”
“They want to watch us squirm, maybe even beg. But what does it cost us to talk a little? It may buy us some time.”
“I’d rather we drop these pretenses and get down to fighting. I’ve still got enough strength to send a few Picts to the next world, or whatever those savages believe in.”
“I don’t think a queen like Sab believes in anything at all.”
Artagan gives me another glance, but I keep my focus on Sab astride her mount in the middle of no-man’s-land. A numbness overcomes me, my face a damask mask, my lips flat and small. Whatever will happen, will happen. It is out of my hands now. Maybe my own fate never really was mine to determine.
I grab my longbow and saddle my mountain pony. Artagan follows me astride Merlin, galloping with me onto the open moors. A third horse snorts and labors behind us. I halt my mare to look back over my shoulder. Queen Cordelia clasps her plump legs around a rust-colored gelding.
“I’ve thrown my lot in with you against these pagan Picts. I might as well see what the beggars look like up close.”
Artagan exchanges looks with me and shrugs. I suppose it can’t hurt to have Cordelia along, although I wonder if she has truly grasped the peril we’re all in. Grateful as I am to her for saving us from starvation, I doubt that a lifetime of pincushions and feasting at Caerleon has prepared her for a showdown with the likes of Queen Sab. But so be it.
I dig my heels into the flanks of my mare, cantering into the open space between our two armies. Sab, Ness, and Iago wait for us. My hands relax on the bridle as I let my mount slow to a halt. My jaw hangs open, my eyes unable to look away from King Iago.
He sits in his saddle beside Sab and Ness, slumped to one side like a sack of ground meal. The right side of his face sags, one eyelid drooping. Half of his lip curls downward unnaturally.
His right arm is completely missing.
Artagan and Cordelia halt beside me, the fat Queen gasping when she sees the maimed northern King. In the chaos of our battle at All Hallows, I was too concerned with Artagan and the baby to notice our foes’ losses. It appears that our enemies have endured tragedies as well.
Iago looks to have suffered a stroke, probably when his clerics had to amputate his wounded arm. His dark hair now has a swath of white running through it. Despite his mangled appearance, he clutches the horse’s reins tightly with his one good hand, defying the wind that buffets him and threatens to tear him from the saddle. I almost admire Iago’s endurance. Almost. Then I think of King Griffith and all the others we lost at All Hallows. A knot tightens so fiercely within my chest it seems fit to burst.
The voluptuous Ness nudges her mount beside Iago, coiled like a cat in her saddle. She still has Iago in her thrall. I grimace until my cheeks hurt. Whether a commoner or king, anyone who stands with Sab and Ness is an enemy of mine and a foe of all free Wales.
Artagan snaps at Sab. Even in his weakened state he still wants to fight.
“What do you want, Sab? Be quick with it.”
“Still alive, Blacksword?” Sab replies. “My, you do have nine lives. Mab Ceridwen’s healing prowess lives up to its reputation.”
Sab flashes a brittle smile, doubtless thinking of her dead champion. Bal and Artagan dueled to the death at All Hallows. Now Bal lies beneath his burial mound, if his own people didn’t eat him. Meanwhile, Artagan has been at death’s door for nigh over a moon or more, although one can hardly tell now that his blood is up.
If Sab really meant to honor their duel, she would have acceded that Artagan won and withdrawn her troops. Instead she cried foul, and we’ve been up to our knees in Welsh blood ever since. My fist tightens on my longbow until the knuckles turn white. My voice is harsh yet firm.
“He asked you a question, chieftess. You’re far from home, Sab, what do you want?”
“Why, to spare further bloodshed, of course. I plan to offer generous terms.”
“For our surrender?” I reply. “If you want our swords, you’ll have to come and take them yourself. One of my archers is worth ten of your mongrels. We’ll bleed your army dry.”
Sab purses her lips with a wicked grin.
“I was hoping you’d say that. I’ve two thousand spears that would like to put your boast to the test.”
“Come and try it, Sab. Dun Dyfed has withstood a hundred sieges in its long history, and its ancient walls are stout and rocky as ever.”
“Aye, but it’s fallen to Picts before, and it will again. Once I set my warriors loose, Branwen, there’ll be no quarter for anyone inside your walls. Men, women, children.”
She savors the last word. Children. I swallow involuntarily, thinking of Gavin and Tristan. Their angelic faces, so soft and so vulnerable. Only the most heartless of devils would harm such innocents. And yet I’ve no doubt that Sab is such a demoness, if ever I saw one. Her smile forks into an unnatural V. She seems to enjoy the color draining from my face, watching me squirm.
Artagan nudges his steed forward, his sword hand itching for his blade. He could hardly lift his sword if he tried, but fortunately the Picts don’t know that. Sab ignores him, turning toward Queen Cordelia.
“And how about the Cornish Queen of South Wales? Do you wish to fight to the death too?”
Cordelia stutters a few incoherent syllables, her jowls shaking ever so slightly. I edge my steed between Sab and Cordelia. If Sab wishes to pierce our hearts with terror, let her focus on me. Perhaps it’s time the Pictish shamaness had a taste of her own medicine. I gently clear my throat as though making a nonchalant comment.
“Queen Cordelia is free to come and go as she chooses. It’s not the Queen that should concern you, but her ships.”
Sab’s eyes narrow.
“What ships?”
“The ones her Cornish kin brought to our aid.”
“You got a few foodstuffs, what of it? You’ll die with full bellies instead of empty ones.”
Now it’s my turn to smile. I remove the note from inside my tunic, the parchment Ahern’s messenger raven delivered this morning. I toss the balled-up paper at Iago, who fumbles with it in his lap. He raises an eyebrow as he examines the page.
“What is this trifle?”
“A report from my kinsman, Ahern,” I reply. “I sent him north with the Cornish ships to attack the Isle of Mona off the coast of your kingdom.”
Iago lets the paper fall from his hands, his skin suddenly white as a sheet. Ness and Sab exchange looks as the Pict Queen leans toward me. She no longer sounds quite so confident.
“A handful of ships, maybe a score or two of men, they can’t conquer a kingdom.”
“His kingdom?” I smile ruefully. “I’m after his granaries on Mona. My men burnt half of them to the ground this morning. If they do not receive word from me soon, they shall burn the other half.”
Iago blanches, pale as death. I watch him, patient as a cat who has a mouse trapped in its paws. With a word from me, my men could raze his people’s winter stores to the ground. A famine would set in.
Gwynedd may be impregnable from the land, but it’s vulnerable from the sea. And Mona is the breadbasket of the Northlands, providing most of the foodstuffs for Iago’s otherwise mountainous realm. With most of his forces in the South, I gambled that he did not have any troops left behind to guard his homelands. And why should he? Until a few days ago, I didn’t have a fleet with which to threaten his coasts.
Iago’s curled lips twist into an uneven grimace. It appears that my gamble has paid off. He fumes under his breath, balling his only fist.
“You burn my people’s food stores and expect me to capitulate to you?”
“No, I expect you to see reason, Iago. Half your people’s precious granaries can still be spared, the choice is yours.”
Iago shifts his jaw, unable to speak. A deathly silence pervades the surround. Nothing but the whistling wind and the swish of our steeds’ tails makes a sound.
It goes without saying that if my men burn down the rest of Iago’s grain stores, thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of Welshmen and women will perish of starvation this winter. But how many Welsh have died since Iago joined forces with Sab? How many villages have they burnt? How many widows and orphans have they made? My soldiers on Mona await my orders, but it will be Iago’s decision that determines what happens now. The onus hangs on him. Either Ahern’s men will set sail in peace, or they will turn Mona’s remaining granaries to ash.
Ness sidles up beside Iago, glaring at me as she speaks in his ear.
“She’s lying! It’s a trick. What proof do we have that any of what she says is true?”
The clatter of a horse gallops across the moors. A white mare, well-bred by the look of her. A smirk plays across my lips as the stranger nears our small gathering. Ness blanches as I point out the nearing equestrian.
“If you don’t believe me, ask your own people, King Iago. Ask someone you trust.”
Iago furrows his brow before turning to greet the approaching rider. The white filly halts before us, her nostrils dilated and her cream coat shimmering with sweat. A dark beauty of a woman clears the midnight locks from her face, her chest panting as she catches her breath. Iago gasps.
“Olwen!”
Her gaze darts to Iago’s maimed limb, but she quickly covers up her shock. Good, Olwen. Good. Don’t lose your composure. Olwen nonchalantly looks the northern King over with her appraising violet eyes.
“Hello, husband.” She smiles. “It’s been some time since you tossed me aside for this trollop. It does look as though she hasn’t been any good for your health.”
She nods toward Ness, who only clutches Iago’s good arm all the tighter. The Pictish vixen sneers at Olwen. I find that I must agree with Olwen myself. Iago would probably have all his limbs had he not sided with Sab and her daughter. The addled northern King stares openmouthed at his wife.
Cordelia also shifts uncomfortably in her saddle, glaring at the woman for whom Arthwys set her aside. I put a hand to the plump queen’s chest to keep her silent. The last thing I need right now is a row between Cordelia and Olwen.
Iago watches Olwen closely.
“Why have you come back to me, then?”
“Because King Arthwys is marching on your lands as we speak. His army has left Caerleon.”
Iago unhooks his arm from Ness, staring blankly at the grass. First my raiding party torches half his winter stores and now a former ally intends to invade his lands from the south. He clears his throat, trying to regain his lost voice, but it only comes out in a thick whisper.
“An invasion from Arthwys? Now?”
“He means to claim the North through marriage to me,” Olwen replies. “But that was just a ruse to gain his trust. I’m still Queen of the North, your Queen, Iago, and I would save our people now if you’ll let me.”
“Branwen says her raiders have torched half of Mona,” he replies.
“She’s the devil’s own master. If she said it, then she could do it. It’s probably true.”
Olwen looks me over suspiciously, sizing me up like a wrestler observing an opponent. I know I told her to betray me so that she could drive a wedge between Arthwys and Iago, but how much is an act and how much does she speak true? Sab and Ness exchange furtive glances. Even the two cunning she-devils from the Pictlands cannot tell. Olwen, as always, keeps council only with Olwen.
Sab sneers at the two of us, glaring at me, then at Olwen as she turns to Iago.
“This is a ploy to drive our alliance apart! Can’t you see that, you dimwitted oaf?”
Olwen laughs in a singsong falsetto, her confidence unnerving even myself.
“Branwen and I, in league together? The woman who stole my first love, deprived me of my birthright in the Free Cantrefs, and opposed my husband’s army in the field?” She laughs again, turning toward me. “What say you, Mab Ceridwen? Should we salt old wounds or retract our claws?”
“You first,” I reply through clenched teeth.
I decide that whether or not she is faking her anger toward me, I might as well play the part of her antagonist. After all, how hard do we have to pretend to be foes? Olwen smirks.
“I thought you’d say as much.”
Sab ushers her steed between us, snapping at me as though ready to take a blade to my face.
“Enough of this! I have no granaries for you to hold ransom, Branwen, and my warriors will feast on your remains when we breach your walls. You’ve seen your last sunrise this day!”
Sab motions turn her mount to go, but Iago raises a hand to stop her.
“Hold! You will mount no attack today, Sab!”
The Pictish Queen’s eyes widen before waning into half-moons. With only a few hundred Picts, most of her army depends upon Iago’s two thousand northern horsemen. She cannot besiege Dun Dyfed with her blue-painted savages alone. Her voice rasps out like the hiss of hot coals.
“A backbone doesn’t become you, Iago. This army takes its orders from me. We attack at once.”
“Not with my horsemen, you won’t.”
Iago straightens his spine in the saddle. Olwen sidles up beside him, linking her arm through his. If Iago takes his cavalry with him, it will deprive Sab of most of her army. A couple hundred Picts aren’t enough to conquer the walls of Dun Dyfed, even with only a few hundred able-bodied defenders in my own garrison. My heart starts to beat faster. For the first time, a real glimmer of hope has shined down on me. On all of us.
Ness grabs Iago, speaking softly to him, but the tremor in her tone betrays her lack of confidence.
“Hee … Heed my mother, wise King. Let us do away with this pesky Branwen and her kin. Then we can return north and secure our home there.”
Olwen pushes herself between Ness and Iago.
“Why not ride north now to defend our kingdom from Arthwys? We could save our granaries in the process. I for one would share my husband even with the likes of you, so long as he takes me back to save my people.”
Ness’s mouth hangs open, lost for speech for once. Olwen’s placating tact has thrown the young Pict completely off balance. Iago smiles at Olwen, putting his remaining hand on her forearm and stroking it fondly.
“You’re right, my brave Queen. I should never have let you go.”
Iago turns his steed to go, linking arms with Olwen as he calls out to Sab over his shoulder.
“I’m returning north to defend our lands there. If you’re wise, Sab, you’ll do the same and come with us.”
Iago and Olwen depart toward the line of northern horsemen across the fields. Ness looks despondently at her mother, biting her lip. Sab gives her daughter’s mare a slap to the hindquarters, starting the animal forward.
“After him, girl! Keep close to him, or that Welsh seductress will turn his head and undo your spell on him!”
Ness departs without another word. She casts one last glance back at Artagan as I glare at her. Go get your own man, little girl. But heaven help you if you return to the north in Olwen’s company. It’ll take less than a fortnight before Olwen arranges some accident to befall the Pictish enchantress. I would laugh were there not still a few hundred armed Picts within bowshot of my husband and me.
Iago’s men dip their black banners as they depart the field and gallop back into the mists. If none of his men return, I’ll make sure to send a raven north to Ahern and tell him to stand down. A Welsh queen always honors her debts.
Sab circles her horse, looking fit to pull out every hair on her head. Instead, she draws a bone scimitar from her saddle, hissing like a cat as she bares her sharp fangs. Her dark eyes focus squarely on me.
My pulse leaps in my throat, seeing the unmistakable intent in her face. Even if she had only a dozen warriors left, she would still risk all the perils of hell to come and take my head. Odds be damned.
Queen Cordelia squeals like a sow, her mount bolting back toward the gates of Dun Dyfed. Sab pays her no heed as she closes on Arta
gan and me. I draw my bow, fitting an arrow to the twine.
Artagan calls out to our soldiers in the bastions behind us, blowing his hunting horn. Our archers and spearmen pour out of the battlements. But there is no time. We might outrun the Picts, but not with Sab only a few paces away. Besides, I’ve not the stomach for running anymore.
Digging my heels into my mare’s flanks, I charge directly for the Pict Queen as her mare bolts toward me. Sab’s ululating battle cry pierces the air. She rises in the saddle like an uncoiled spring, a deathly white bone scimitar in one hand and an obsidian blade in the other. Guiding my pony with my thighs, I draw my bowstring to my jaw, never taking my gaze off Sab. I aim my arrowhead for her throat.
All the world seems to slow in the half instant as our mares collide, nose to nose. The cacophony of opening battle between our warriors, the whoosh of arrowheads and slingstones hurtling through the air. Artagan’s voice calls out, though whether to me or our troops I cannot tell. My eyes see nothing but Sab. The barbarian foe, daughter of all the Picts who ever opposed all my foremothers of the Old Tribes.
I loose my arrow, deafening myself with my own battle scream. Neither fear nor pain can touch me. My fate and that of my arrowhead lie in God’s hands. I am one with that whistling arrow speeding toward Sab’s jugular. I am euphoric. I am half a barbarian myself. I am the Queen of Death.
PART FOUR
Winter, A.D. 602
20
Holly and mistletoe hang from the rafters in Aranrhod this Christmastide. The clank of mead horns and the din of boisterous conversations permeate the castle walls, the scent of roasting meat and woodsmoke hanging thick in the central hall. Outside, winter winds buffet the fortress walls, but inside we are warm and dry beside the glowing hearths.
Artagan reclines on his throne beside me. A fit of laughter erupts from his fellow knights as he finishes a joke. Sir Emryus slaps his thigh in mirth while Sir Keenan laughs so hard he shoots beer out his nose. My husband turns and winks at me, probably thinking that whatever he said will prove too bawdy for my tastes. I give his hand a squeeze, gnawing on a leg of mutton from the banquet table. The aroma of sweetmeats and baked bread rises above our many subjects crowded around the long feast tables.