Dark Winds Rising

by Mark Noce

  I smile at the peace and tranquility of it all before putting a hand to my cheek. A thin, faded scar along my left cheekbone burns hot a moment before subsiding. It hardly shows anymore, but the memory still stings fresh in my mind. Artagan notices and leans close to my ear.

  “Does the wound still bother you, my dear?”

  “Bother me? No. But I shall remember it every day of my life.”

  “A small price to pay, my love. You’re still beautiful as ever to me.”

  He caresses my other cheek with his palm. His azure eyes beam mischievously as he nestles closer. I recognize the familiar look in his eye and rise from my seat with a smile. In the last fortnight we’ve not gone a day without taking a tumble between the sheets. His war wounds certainly don’t seem to hamper him now! I give him a lingering kiss before excusing myself from the throne room.

  “I need some fresh air, my love. I’ll return shortly.”

  “Don’t wander too far, fair maiden.” He grins. “The view does wonders for my health.”

  I follow his gaze down to my bust. Nursing Tristan these past few moons has made my chest swell more than ever. My dress neckline sags somewhat low. I quickly adjust my gown to show a little more propriety and a little less skin. Artagan makes an exaggerated frown, like a crestfallen pup. My goodness, he would have me sit on his lap in the open mead hall if I didn’t rein him in once in a while! Nonetheless, a devilish grin flashes across my cheek. I lean down close to his ear so that he gets one more good view of my shift.

  “Patience, my King. Tonight you shall see who is the true ruler in this castle.”

  I turn without another word, feeling his smoldering gaze following me all the way out of the main chambers. Pulling a fur tartan over my shoulders, I step out into the evening cold. The frosty dusk air hits my warm cheeks, rippling my flesh in goose bumps.

  I pace the battlements alone while the golden firelight flickers through the castle’s arrow slits. The murmur of the ongoing feast fills every nook and cranny of the castle interiors. In the distance, snowcapped mountains and sugarcoated forests peek through far-off fogbanks swirling around the winter landscape. Mother Nature has taken on her snowy mantle of hibernation, all the world once again at peace.

  My feet take me to the one place I already knew they would, but until this moment I did not admit to myself I had any particular destination in mind. I pause atop the parapet above the castle’s main gate, the massive wood-and-iron doors closed fast by both the guards and the wintry icicles. High above, dangling from the uppermost tower of the citadel, a small object hangs heavy despite the intemperate winds. I swallow hard, suddenly chilled to the marrow.

  From a hempen rope droops the severed head of the chieftess of the Picts: Queen Sab.

  Her sunken eyes have long since deteriorated into black holes. Crows have pecked much of the skull clean, but a nest of whitened hairs splays out from her scalp. Some half-frozen sinews still clench her jaw to the cranium, giving her head a lopsided, toothy sneer. I stand still in the frosty evening air, fogging my pink cheeks with my breath. Even dead, the Pictish shamaness still renders me speechless. My fingertips twitch nervously at my sides, feeling for the dagger on my belt. I half-expect her lifeless head to come to life again, a threat from beyond the grave.

  A falcon’s cry pierces the darkening, overcast sky. I flinch, wondering what bird would still be here in winter. Then I remember, grinning up at my hunting falcon. Vivian descends from her rookery atop my private tower across the castle keep. I pull a leather glove off my belt and thread my fingers through it. Vivian lands on my arm, squawking at the severed head dangling before us.

  “Easy, girl. Easy.”

  I shush my hawking bird, smoothing her feathers. How I’ve missed her. I owe a great debt to this bird of prey for saving my life and the life of my son the night that assassin first came into our lives all those months ago. Bal, the secret killer sent by Sab to slay my child and strike terror into our hearts. But Vivian descended on his crossbow that evening, marring the shot that would have otherwise killed my child and perhaps me as well. Thanks to this bird, my children and I remain safe, and it is Sab’s head who decorates the castle battlements. A grim warning to those who oppose the Free Welsh and their kin.

  Finding my voice, I shuffle my feet to keep warm. Vivian remains on my arm as I banter with the dead queen.

  “I still bear the scar you gave me outside Dun Dyfed, courtesy of your bone blade,” I begin, touching my cheek. “And I see you are still missing the neck that my arrow tore through. I feared you, Sab, as I have feared no man or woman before or since. And yet you are food for crows while me and mine still live. And do you know why?”

  The bodiless corpse makes no response, merely rocking back and forth in the fell breeze. It’s almost as though she wags her head at me. I look to my feet a moment.

  “Everything changed the day Artagan and Bal fought their duel. In an instant, my husband had been wounded, perhaps mortally, a battle had begun, our allies deserted us, and on top of it all my birth pangs came upon me. And do you know what I felt? What I thought at that exact moment?”

  Sab’s head remains mute, the rope holding her aloft creaking under a draft.

  “I felt utterly powerless,” I continue. “Weak and insignificant as a bug. All my plots, my scheming, my intricate plans that had made me a queen in the first place all added up to … nothing. I realized that despite all my efforts to protect Wales and defeat my enemies, I was not the one really in control. I once thought I was, but now I know better. And that ultimately became the key difference between us, Sab. You were every bit as cunning as me, if not more so. You are very much what in another life I could easily have turned into. A scheming, ruthless ruler of men, heedless of the means it took to justify your own ends. You believe in nothing, nothing but yourself and what you can control. But I am not fate’s master. I am in God’s hands, or the Goddess’s hands, or whatever you choose to call it. The same hands that shaped the history of the Mothers of the Old Tribes and continues to mold my kingdom’s destiny now.”

  I tap my chest, my heart beating fast within me.

  “Once I knew that in here, I no longer tried to outwit you at your own game. I simply trusted to God that what was meant to happen, would. Just as my mother did before me. It was faith that defeated you. I was only the vessel, the instrument of your demise.”

  Staring up into her vacant face, I know that this unsightly battle trophy may strike fear into our enemies or give hope to our people, but this image of Sab will fade from my mind in time and I will think on it no more. Instead, the tiny flaw on my cheek will be my daily reminder of Sab, a remembrance of the kind of woman, the type of queen I almost became. The path of darkness I once unknowingly walked in my own arrogance and deceit. I touch the small scar on my face once more, letting my mind drift as the first snowflakes fall on my shoulders.

  A man clears his throat nearby.

  “Talking to dead people is never a good sign. Particularly on Christmas Eve.”

  I grin at Ahern. He smiles back before glancing up at Sab’s head.

  “Wish I could have been there,” he says, “when you turned the tables on her at Dun Dyfed. When our people drove those savages into the sea. I wish I could’ve seen the look on her face.”

  “In a way, it looked much the same as it does now,” I reply.

  “Oh, you are harsh, my Queen.”

  “I’m cold,” I retort.

  Vivian glances up at my tower, listening to her chicks chirp from their sheltered nest. She vaults from my forearm, ascending to her rookery. My faithful falcon, well fed and nursing a brood of her own. She’ll not want for anything so long as I live. Warm hay, fresh field mice, and the freedom to come and go as she pleases. Ahern squints at the spotted falcon with his one good eyeball, still never entirely at ease around my large-clawed pet. I stifle a grin. We best return to the Christmas revelries down in the main hall.

  A bugle suddenly erupts from the darkenin
g woods outside the castle. My pulse jumps in my throat. Ahern instinctively reaches for his spear, all of the merriment in his voice changed to gruff suspicion.

  “That’s a war horn. Who the devil would be afoot on a night like this?”

  A second horn blares from the dimness, this one higher in pitch, like a silver trumpet. My eyes widen. There are two separate groups out there in the darkness.

  “Ahern, those are two different Welsh horns, but neither is from our kin.”

  “I fear you’re right. Which means two of our former foes have showed up at our gates, the North Welsh and those from the South kingdom.”

  “Iago and Arthwys?” I gasp. “If they’ve joined forces again…”

  I trail off, afraid to complete the thought. Aren’t Iago and Arthwys enemies now? Last we heard, Arthwys planned to march against Gwynedd, but only rumors have reached us since. We’ve had too much war as it is. With Iago’s horsemen and Arthwys’s swordsmen arrayed against us, our few remaining archers will fall like sheaves to the scythe. Iago’s men certainly have reason to be unfriendly. I did order Ahern to lay waste to half their winter granaries with flame and sword. As for Arthwys, he has hated me since he was a boy. I doubt that our differences will ever be resolved but with blood. I bite down on my fist, hard enough to make me wince. Dear God, why now? We’ve survived Saxon and Pict invasions, only to fall to our fellow Welshmen? Perhaps there’s a dark, yet fitting, irony to it all.

  Most of the revelers down in the mead hall have not yet heard the war bugles. The clatter of crockery and the music of minstrels still pipe through the vaults within the heart of the complex. Only a few figures come out onto the landing with us in the bitter winter cold. Artagan and his knights peer into the growing darkness beyond the castle gates. Even amidst a Yuletide feast, Artagan’s ears are trained for war. He unsheathes his longsword, wielding his weapon with almost as much briskness as he did before his injury.

  “Have the lookouts seen anything?” he demands.

  I shake my head. Our mingled breath fogs our cheeks. Two more distinct toots sound through the woods.

  “But those are definitely North and South Welsh bullhorns,” I reply.

  He curses under his breath. We both know just how bad this could be, but neither of us wish to say so aloud. We’ve endured too much for it to end like this. Artagan’s eyes narrow.

  “Why sound their bugles? Why would they warn us of their coming?”

  Ahern and the others shrug their shoulders. Several guards arrive, manning the walls with their bows drawn. Artagan’s question lingers in my mind a moment before my eyes widen. Of course! How could I have been so foolish? I hasten toward the guards along the main gateway.

  “They normally wouldn’t sound their horns,” I reply to my husband, “unless they meant us no harm.”

  I order the nearest guardsmen to open the gates. The warriors exchange looks, glancing up at Artagan for guidance. My husband and my brother look equally taken aback. I shake my head, almost smiling. It’s so simple, yet they do not see it for what it is. I put a hand on my hip.

  “Men. You assume all horns are blown for battle or hunting.”

  “No knight or king would do otherwise,” Artagan retorts.

  “Aye.” I smile. “But queens, now, they are a different matter entirely.”

  Artagan’s eyes wax into half-moons before his features relax. He gives me a peck on the cheek in praise. Ahern still looks as perplexed as ever, but Artagan, catching my drift, leans over the battlements to call out to his guards.

  “Open the gates, men! We’ve some extra guests for the feast.”

  Reluctantly, the soldiers follow his command. The frozen oaken gates creak and groan as they pry them apart. The clack of horses’ hooves murmur down the roadway leading to the castle. The first riders enter the ring of torchlight cast from our warriors’ flickering brands. A small retinue of mounted soldiers escorts a pair of riders at the head of their company. A broad smile creases my lips as the two lead riders halt in front of the open gates.

  “Queen Olwen and Queen Cordelia.” I bow. “Well met. You are both most welcome.”

  “I hope you’ve plenty of fare left at table,” Cordelia replies. “My men and I are famished.”

  Olwen and I exchange looks, both repressing smiles and half failing to do so. I doubt Cordelia’s men and horses are half so famished as she will prove to be once we get her to the feasting hall. The two matrons enter the main courtyard with their escorts. My guardsmen bar the gates once again against the winter cold and the lingering darkness. Inside Aranrhod’s confines, however, everything is warmth and light.

  In the main hall, the minstrels strike up new tunes at the sight of our honored, if unexpected, guests. I seat Olwen and Cordelia at the head table with my own family. Olwen’s little boy leaps forward at the sight of his mother. My own elder son wraps his arms around my waist as he swallows another mouthful of venison. I smile at Olwen as our boys cling to our skirts.

  “To what do I owe this unexpected visit?” I begin cordially.

  “Can’t a pair of queens visit you just because they want to?” Olwen smiles.

  “So you’ve both managed to become queens again? What of your rival, young Ness?”

  “Who?” Olwen replies, pretending for an instant she forgot. “Oh, her. Perished quite mysteriously a full moon ago. Died of a poison arrow, I believe, or so the clerics decided. I, of course, paid the priests to change their minds. A fever sounded more realistic to my taste.”

  I bury my mouth behind my hand, half-amused and half-astounded by Olwen’s brazen use of her newly reclaimed power. I need not ask anything more. Even a blind man can tell that Olwen once again has King Iago wrapped around her little finger. And the whole northern kingdom, for that matter. Perhaps now more so than ever.

  And to think I’ve no one to blame but myself for helping put Olwen back on her throne. I pray that I never live to regret it. I give Olwen a sidelong glance, lowering my voice.

  “How are you and Cordelia on such good terms now? And aren’t your husbands supposed to be foes?”

  “Being queens again has helped mend our differences. As for our husbands … well, I might have exaggerated Arthwys’s plans for the North. His army never actually left Caerleon.” Olwen winks.

  Never left Caerleon? Her little fib helped drive apart Sab’s alliance, and none of us even thought to question her. It appears I have underestimated Olwen. I’d best keep a close eye on her in the years to come.

  Yet she did send me a raven not long ago with some friendly intelligence. When she had him under her spell, Arthwys admitted to having planted the bloody dagger in our door at Caerleon. His father’s old blade, covered in pig’s blood. I should have known. It was far too clumsy a thing for a real assassin to do, more like a page boy’s prank. He took advantage of the situation to sow the seeds of fear in my heart. That I’ll not soon forget. A queen always pays her debts. But such comeuppance between King Arthwys and myself will have to wait for another day.

  As for Olwen and I, tonight we can stop being rivals for a spell. We can simply enjoy being two mothers celebrating Christmastide with their children beside a warm hearth fire.

  Cordelia already finds herself up to her elbows in cheese wheels and a platter of roast duck. Smacking her lips between gulps of mead, she relays a brief description of her reunited condition with King Arthwys.

  “He knows which side his bread’s buttered on! If he wants to maintain his lucrative trade with Cornwall that has made his kingdom so rich, he’ll keep me on as his bride. I’m back where I belong—in Caerleon. I’ve told the young boy king that if he wants to keep me as wife, he’ll need to keep peace with my friends, and that includes the Free Cantref Queen who sheltered me when that little princeling booted me out in the first place.”

  She winks at me just in case I don’t understand that the friend she refers to is me. Cordelia finishes her thought as she sizes up a bowl of stew.

  “I don’t expect
a vigorous marriage, but so long as I’m supplied with the life I’m accustomed to, Arthwys and I should get on splendidly.”

  I bite my tongue, trying not to snort cider out my nostrils. I vaguely manage to picture young Arthwys in the bedchamber with Cordelia’s generous girth taking up most of the bed. Few young men in Christendom would envy his position. But he seems to be learning that being king doesn’t mean a man can always do as he pleases. For the time being, Arthwys will put up with Cordelia, but for how many years is anyone’s guess. Arthwys needs the valuable trade with Cornwall that keeps South Wales rich. So long as the coin continues to flow, he will keep Cordelia as his bride. And so long as Cordelia remains queen, she will keep South Wales at peace with my realm.

  A weight lifts from my shoulders as I grasp the full meaning of what has happened. These two queens certainly didn’t just come to offer a friendly “well met, hello.” They’re here to subtly remind me that their kingdoms will remain at peace with mine own so long as the three of us remain in accord with each other. Three queens, together securing a three-way peace for war-torn Wales. I lift a fresh horn of mead to my lips. Such a prospect of enduring peace is the best Christmas present I could hope for.

  Rowena comes by the table with Tristan in her arms, my younger son fussing hungrily. I take the child and throw a shift over my shoulder, suckling my babe beneath the folds of my gown. Queen and commoner alike nurse their newborns in the mead hall, a fairly everyday sight that hardly draws a look.

  I suddenly notice just how many young ones number amongst the families in our hall. Rowena’s two girls, Olwen’s son, and scores of small servant children run amongst the long tables while Una and Father David try hopelessly to keep them in line. My toddler Gavin sits on the bench beside me, devouring his meal with the gusto of a growing boy. I’ve all my children with me, safe and happy, with the real possibility of a bright future ahead of them.