Dark Winds Rising

by Mark Noce

  Finally, a long peace in which Wales may bear some fruit. A new generation will come of age, and thanks to Olwen, Cordelia, and myself, we’ve secured a country for them to inherit someday. Doubtless the Saxons will eventually return when their numbers grow once more, but that will be years from now. Word has it they’re still suffering from the plague. As for the Picts, I don’t think they’ll ever have the strength to threaten our shores again. And if they do, their skulls shall join Queen Sab’s outside my castle gatepost.

  But what’s to stop the Welsh from warring amongst themselves? Olwen, Cordelia, and I won’t live forever. We can buy our nation of fragmented kingdoms a few precious years, maybe a decade or two. But what happens after that, when our children come of age? So long as our realms are divided, the greatest threat to the Welsh people will be other Welshmen. One fief threatening to go to war with the other.

  Making my way back to the throne, I take my seat beside Artagan. Tristan falls asleep at the breast, as he often does. I adjust my shift as I let the newborn rest in my arms. Gavin sidles up beside me to get a better look at his little brother. Even after a few moons, he can’t seem to get enough of him. He stares and stares, even smiles, but rarely says anything. I cannot help but smile too. My boy seems quite taken with his new ward. He will be a good big brother.

  Across the feast tables, the two knights from Dyfed saunter up the main aisle. Brothers, Carrick and Bowen, I can now tell them easily apart by Bowen’s limp and his new wooden leg. The clerics had to remove his limb below the knee after the Battle of All Hallows, but he remains as proud a warrior as ever. Much like myself and Artagan, I suppose. Despite losing the big battles, we still managed to win the war. We Welsh are a stubborn people and never give in easily.

  Bowen and Carrick have served as loyal allies in our campaign against the Picts, helping to drive the blue-painted savages back to their ships at the last battle outside Dun Dyfed’s walls. But something in Bowen’s strained face gives me pause. His brother knight grimaces beside him. The two Dyfed brothers halt in front of Artagan and me, standing silent before our thrones.

  My husband gives me a sidelong glance. I merely shrug in reply. The crowd gradually quiets down, all eyes turning to the pair of Dyfed knights who have presented themselves before us. My pulse quickens. Both brothers look serious as steel. What ails them so? Bowen clears his throat, tapping the stone floor with his wooden peg leg. The sound of clacking timber reverberates off the rafters like a gavel. Silence pervades the chamber.

  “I ask to speak, King Artagan, before you and your subjects.”

  Artagan raises an eyebrow.

  “Speak freely, Sir Bowen. You’ve stood with us in many a battle and are no stranger here.”

  Bowen surveys the crowd, speaking to them as much as he does to Artagan.

  “I would ask the King of Aranrhod, ruler of the Free Cantrefs, for a favor he owes the people of Dyfed. My people. We served as faithful allies when you came to our aid, battling Picts and any Welshmen who joined them. We helped one another and fought as brothers. But we Dyfed men are a proud lot and will not submit to a stranger to rule over us. We ask now that you recognize Dyfed in its own right and the man we wish to declare King of Dun Dyfed!”

  Murmurs fill the hall as scores of whispered conversations break out at once. A new king of Dyfed? None have been rightful ruler there since my father died at the hands of the Saxons several years ago. I tighten my hand on the arm of my chair. These Dyfed knights have suspected every king and warlord of trying to take over their homeland. Even now, after all we have done for them, they still seem to view us as strangers. Some thanks indeed!

  I make a move to rise from my seat, to give these two Dyfed knights a piece of my mind. After all, I was born a royal woman of Dyfed, and I think I still have a right to tell my countrymen what I think. Sensing my rising wrath, Artagan puts a hand over mine to stay my words. He rises from his throne and looks down at Bowen.

  “Dyfed makes its own way, and we in the Free Cantrefs shall recognize that. Who would you have as your king?”

  “The last living son of the old Dyfed king,” Bowen replies for all to hear. “Ahern, son of Vortigen!”

  A hush runs over the crowd. My brother Ahern walks alone toward the dais before our thrones, his one good eye staring straight ahead at me. Although bastard born, the ways of the Old Tribes recognize any natural child as a man’s heir. Such ways are sometimes neglected in the North and South, but they run strongest in the Free Cantrefs and Dyfed. And Ahern is my late father’s only remaining son, even if he is born on the other side of the blanket. I supposed I’ve always known this day was coming, but I was loath to admit it to myself. After all the adventures we’ve shared, I simply don’t wish to be parted from my dear Ahern.

  Artagan turns to Ahern. My brother never removes his gaze from me.

  “Do you accept the crown of Dyfed, Ahern son of Vortigen?” Artagan asks him.

  “If my lady allows me to accept it.” Ahern nods toward me. “I am still her sworn guardsman and seneschal until she releases me from my oath.”

  All eyes turn toward me. Why have these Dyfed knights asked this of me? Ahern has been with me since I first left Dyfed as a child. We’ve had our ups and downs, but never did I think I’d have to live without him at my side. And now they want him to sit on Father’s old throne. Why should that make my heart twist sideways so? Perhaps because I still see myself as Dyfed’s true heiress. Or maybe because I am selfish and do not wish to see Ahern go. I’ve always slept well knowing he guarded me and my children at night. But now the people of Dyfed need him. A grizzled veteran, a survivor of many trials. He will make a good king.

  I bow my head, nodding my ascent.

  “I relieve you of your oath, dear brother. Although I shall miss you more than words can say.”

  Ahern flashes a cordial smile. Why does he look so pleased with himself? Has my brother longed to be released from my service all this time? Have I been so blind?

  So he wishes to be a monarch, after all. With all of Dyfed under his sway, will he be a benign neighbor, or will he oppose us? I swallow hard. The people of the Free Cantrefs have endured so much war these past few years. I do not think our kingdom could survive another.

  Ahern turns to Sir Bowen and Sir Carrick, his voice resounding and stern.

  “Do I have your oaths, then, liegemen of Dyfed? As faithful vassals to their lord?”

  “Aye,” both brothers reply in tandem.

  “Then I agree to be Lord of Dun Dyfed, on one condition,” Ahern begins. “That my first and last act as king will be for me to bend the knee to two rulers who are better than I.”

  Ahern sinks down on one knee before Artagan and me. Sir Bowen and Sir Carrick do likewise. Now I am truly confused. Whatever Ahern is up to, both Bowen and Carrick clearly seem to be in on the same plot.

  I hand my sleeping babe into Rowena’s arms, standing beside my husband. He furrows his brow, equally as perplexed as myself. Ahern speaks loud enough for the entire hall to hear.

  “Too long has Wales been divided by petty kingdoms! Not since the days of Arthur have the descendants of the Old Tribes followed a single ruler. Today we aim to change that. I pledge my loyalty and my Kingdom of Dyfed to the House of King Artagan and Queen Branwen. They came to the aid of Wales when she was in dire need, and I’ll pledge my life and spear to their rule.”

  “I can live with that oath,” Bowen seconds, kneeling with his good leg.

  “As can I.” Carrick grins. “I second the motion.”

  “Wait!” I interrupt, still trying to wrap my mind around their professed oaths. “You’ve just made Ahern King of Dyfed and now you wish to pledge your loyalty to us?”

  “To join the kingdoms, my lady,” Ahern replies. “Not as one realm conquering another, but welded together as equals. You are of the royal line of Dyfed, and King Artagan comes from the Free Cantrefs, but in the days of old they were all one people of the Old Tribes. Let us join Dyfed and the Fre
e Cantrefs as one realm once more. Not part of North or South Wales, but a central place united in peace and war … a Middle Kingdom.”

  Dyfed spearmen and Free Cantref archers scattered throughout the hall raise their drinking horns with hearty “hear, hears” and seconded toasts. I swallow, suddenly lost for words. Everything is happening so fast. Permanently join the realms of the Free Cantrefs and Dyfed? Neither realm ruled by the lords of the North or South Welsh Lands. I murmur Ahern’s last words. The Middle Kingdom.

  Every commoner and noble in the main hall stands, cheering their support for Ahern’s proposal. We’ve more than enough mixed company of Free Cantref and Dyfed families throughout the hall, and yet they all seem to raise their voices as one. Only two individuals do not rise quite as rapidly as the others.

  Queen Olwen and Queen Cordelia give one another sidelong looks. They smile politely, but their trepidation is all too clear to my mind. Although I am their ally, my husband’s kingdom has suddenly doubled in size, big enough to rival their own holdings in the North and South. Can Wales be balanced so, a third of it under each of us queens and our husbands? Every castle court in Wales will whisper that I’ve connived for this union from the very first, trying to place half of Wales under my sway. But despite all my past plots and plans, never did I dream so big as this.

  Artagan unsheathes his sword as his own knights, Sir Emryus and Sir Keenan, join the others knelt before the throne. My husband’s voice rings throughout the hall.

  “Here today by common consent, I take the oaths of the people, to make Ahern Lord of Dun Dyfed, and unite all the people of the Free Cantrefs and Dyfed lands into a single nation as our common forebearers once did. From this day forth we are one country, one realm. The Middle Kingdom of King Artagan Blacksword and Queen Branwen the Mab Ceridwen!”

  Artagan taps each of his knights on the shoulder with the flat of his blade. They in turn swear firm-sounding “aye, ayes” as they place their palms over their hearts. Artagan bids them rise and takes my hand. The crowded hall erupts with applause, a roar of cheers washing over me as my skin ripples in gooseflesh.

  I smile at my brother as he rises to embrace me. I wonder what the women of the Old Tribes would think if they could see all of us now. King Artagan and Branwen the Mab Ceridwen, monarchs of the new Middle Kingdom in a free and peaceful Wales.

  The noise wakes Tristan from his slumber, but he quiets his cries once Rowena hands him back to me. Gavin tugs at my leg before Artagan lifts him up with one arm. I plant a kiss on each of their little brows. My two children are now heirs to the largest kingdom in Wales. Heaven help us, we seem to be blessed with both fortune and yet also a heavy burden. There will be many years of work ahead rebuilding this war-torn realm. But the spirit of the people remains strong and united.

  With so much of Wales under Artagan and me, we are closer than ever before to uniting all the Welsh under a single banner. It may take years, even decades, but at least we have peace now among the North, South, and Middle Welsh. Best to put aside all other worries for another day. Tonight we have peace and a newly united country to call home.

  Artagan kisses my cheek and puts his other arm around me. I rest my head on his shoulder, shutting my eyes a moment to take in the warmth of my family all crowded around me. Each of them safe and sound. For the first time since I was a child, I see a clear horizon ahead of me. Or at least the hope of brighter days ahead.

  The flow of cider from newly opened Christmas kegs freely fills every drinking horn. The crowd begins a mantra, not for me or Artagan but for all of us. One people, one tribe, one family. Artagan and I join in with the rest, chanting in unison.

  “The Middle Kingdom! The Middle Kingdom! Long live the Middle Kingdom!”

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  The Picts remain an enigmatic people in the annals of history, and I’ve certainly chosen to emphasize certain aspects of what we know of their history over others. Just as some of the place names in my book really exist within Wales and some are amalgamations of multiple sites, the culture of the Picts I’ve depicted relies on a mix of fact and legend. I find both historical and mythological texts to be of crucial value, especially since even a legend conveys grains of real truths.

  As for the Welsh themselves, once again, I’ve chosen to emphasize certain aspects of early Medieval Welsh culture over others, and I’ve also simplified some people and place name spellings to make them a bit easier for English-speakers to pronounce.

  Some of the most influential texts I consulted include the works of St. Gildas, as well as Peter Berresford Ellis’ incomparable Celtic Myths and Legends, and, of course, the Welsh Mabinogion. Portions of the saga are inspired by recorded events, others by folklore and legends, and a touch from my own imagination, but ultimately Branwen and Artagan are creations of my heart.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Heartfelt thanks to my wife, who continues to inspire me in all of my writing, including this book. Thank you to my family and friends whose love makes all things possible

  A big thanks to my agent, Rena, who first asked me after reading Between Two Fires, “so where’s the sequel?” Dark Winds Rising has come about due to her hard work and support. Thank you, Rena, for making this sequel a reality.

  I also wish to thank Thomas Dunne Books and St. Martin’s Press, especially Pete and Jennifer. Your candid advice and attention to detail has been invaluable in making this novel what it is today.

  Thank you as well to all of my fellow readers and writers online, as well as my pals from writer’s conferences. Each of you continues to spur me on to keep writing and to continually find the beauty of the written word.

  And a final thanks to God, who continues to teach me every day.

  ALSO BY MARK NOCE

  Between Two Fires

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MARK NOCE writes historical fiction with a passion. Born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area, he has been an avid traveler and backpacker. He earned his bachelor of arts and master of arts from Cal Poly, San Luis Obispo, where he also met his beautiful wife. By day, he works as a technical writer, having spent much of his career at companies including Google and Facebook. He also writes short fiction online. When not reading or writing, he’s probably listening to U2, sailing his dad’s boat, or gardening with his family. You can sign up for email updates here.

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  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One: Spring, A.D. 602

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part Two: Summer, A.D. 602

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Part Three: Autumn, A.D. 602

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part Four: Winter, A.D. 602

  Chapter 20

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Mark Noce

  About the Author

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  DARK WINDS RISING. Copyright © 2017 by Mark Noce. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press
, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Cover design by Young Jin Kim

  Cover photographs: woman © Yolande de Kort/Trevillion Images; sunset © Mitchell Krog/Shutterstock.com; rocks © Olivier Tabary/Shutterstock.com; ship © Esteban De Armas/Shutterstock.com; ocean waves © Olivier Tabary/Shutterstock.com; sea © Pascal Lagesse/Shutterstock.com

  The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-1-250-07263-4 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-4668-8444-1 (ebook)

  eISBN 9781466884441

  Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

  First Edition: December 2017