Dark Winds Rising Page 2

  “Maybe I was wrong.” Artagan winks at me. “We won the archery and the North won the joust, but the South Welsh look like they’re in trouble in the sword competition.”

  My husband smirks at Griffith’s growing agitation. Artagan palms his own sheathed longsword beside his throne. Unlike most of our woodland folk, who fight with longbows, Artagan has always been a master with the longsword. It earned him the nickname Artagan Blacksword in his youth, and rival kingdoms still refer to him as such. He still has enough spunk in his sword hand to probably best every challenger in the melee, but I’d prefer he not put it to the test. A king’s place is at the head of a banquet or issuing edicts from a throne, not waving a blade in the face of every man he meets. Even though my beloved no longer lives day to day by his sword as he once did as a hedge knight, no amount of kingship will ever break him of his old habits.

  This tourney has not turned out as I hoped. Instead of providing a friendly atmosphere of fun and trust, the rival groups only seem to antagonize each other all the more. Can this day get any worse?

  My stomach gurgles again, making me wince. I need to excuse myself before I collapse and make a fool of myself. Why couldn’t these pangs wait just a few more hours? Then I could retire discreetly to my bedchamber and while the day away in bed with my books. Reading legends about the fairy folk or old magic would do more to settle my nerves than any amount of herbals and fresh air.

  King Griffith continues growling between clenched teeth as his champion falters under the blows of swordsmen with black and green armbands. It looks as though the South Welsh will not win their favored event after all. I might roll my eyes if all these noblemen didn’t take sparring so seriously. Men and their pride. No better than overgrown boys with pointy sticks in their hands.

  Griffith unsheathes his own sword and steps into the ring, grabbing a cleft shield from the mud. Heaving as though he might fall over, the monarch stands between his vanquished champion and the remaining two swordsmen. Both antagonists exchange looks, unsure what to do. Striking a king usually merits death by beheading. My pulse jumps in my throat. Damn Griffith for being such a haughty fool!

  Artagan leaps forward from his seat, his blade still sheathed but at his side. The two kings eye one another as the remaining combatants back off. The crowds run silent. Artagan speaks loud enough for all to hear.

  “What are you doing, Griffith? Let these men finish their fight without interference.”

  “Stand aside, Blacksword! If these men mean to sully the reputation of South Welsh swordsmen, I intend to teach them a lesson or two.”

  Artagan glances back at me as though looking for guidance. I merely shake my head. If Griffith wants to make a fool of himself, let him. Why did Artagan have to get involved? His stupid ideas about fairness and chivalry mean nothing to the vanity of lords and kings. Artagan sighs, speaking lower.

  “Griffith, you are deep into your cups. Let us retire from this field together. We once fought Saxons side by side, let us not cross swords here over a few men in a tourney.”

  Griffith bristles at Artagan refusing to call him king. But when have kings ever recognized other monarchs as equals? Griffith aims his blade at Artagan.

  “I’m not some old man to be trifled with, young pup! I fought Saxons while you were still at your mother’s tit. Now stand aside while I teach these other sellswords a lesson, or I’ll cut you down myself!”

  Artagan tightens his jaw. Damnation. I rise, putting Gavin in Rowena’s arms again. I can smell the liquor on King Griffith’s breath from a dozen paces away. God help us, neither of them plan to back down. I’ve got to stop this, but how?

  Queen Olwen and her husband exchange glances, looking on silently. They probably enjoy the spectacle of this tourney turning into a debacle. Artagan grips his sword, starting to pull it from its scabbard.

  “This is my land, Southron. Lower your blade or I shall lower it for you.”

  Guards on both sides take up arms, but Griffith stays them with a raised palm.

  “The rest of you stand down! If the Blacksword thinks he can best me, he’ll have to bloody well do it himself.”

  I stagger onto the grass, lifting my skirts over my ankles so that I don’t trip. I’ll throw myself between the two of them if I must. I sway on unsteady feet, perspiration running down my back beneath the folds of my gown. I should be in bed, but I cannot let this confrontation between kings happen. Artagan will defeat Griffith in a heartbeat, but Griffith will never quit. It will mean war, and worse, a bloodbath in my own front yard. Damn these prideful men! Their stubbornness does them courage in battle, but it makes for poor diplomacy.

  As I reach Artagan’s side, a horse whinnies loudly in the distance. All eyes turn as a pair of riders gallops headlong down from the mountain passes and into the thick of the crowd. Peasants curse and jostle out of their way as the two horsemen rear up their mounts directly before Artagan and me. Both heralds gasp for air, their mounts bathed in sweat. Each man bears a spear in one hand and a calfskin shield in the other. My eyes widen. I’d recognize such rawhide shields anywhere. These riders come from Dyfed.

  The lead rider bends down in the saddle, addressing the crowd of kings and queens.

  “We bear ill tidings from Dun Dyfed by the sea. Our fortress has fallen to the barbarians and we ask for aid.”

  Hushed murmurs break out amongst the crowd. Griffith and Artagan’s showdown has been momentarily forgotten. News of barbarians on the move makes my skin run cold. I grasp one of the horses by the bridle, looking up into the faces of these worn warriors. Blood and dirt smudge their cheeks. They clearly have had a rough fight just getting here.

  “Barbarians on our shores?” I ask. “When? How? Why would the Saxons break the truce now of all times?”

  The lead rider shakes his head.

  “I said barbarians, fair Queen. Not Saxons. Those who attacked us came on ships with black sails and animal-skin hulls.”

  My eyes narrow. What on earth does he babble on about? Saxons rarely use ships, and when they do, they’re made of wood. The second rider explains.

  “Their warriors had white lime in their hair and blue woad on their skin. The ancient enemy of our ancestors has returned from the northern wastes. Dyfed has fallen and all our kingdoms are now in peril! We were attacked by the Picts!”

  I stagger backward, steadying myself on Artagan with one arm. Impossible. The Picts on our shores? Painted in white and blue like in the legends of old? They’re a fairy tale, a bedtime story meant to frighten young children. They cannot be here now.

  My gut betrays me as hot fluid rises in my throat. The tumult inside me will no longer be contained. I retch onto the grass, coughing up my breakfast of oats near Artagan’s feet.

  2

  King Griffith paces in the main hall, scoffing before Artagan’s throne.

  “This must be some kind of trick! Isn’t that obvious? The Picts could not have done this.”

  “Why not?”

  Artagan stares down at the fat monarch. The other royal families gather in the central chamber of our castle, seated or standing around the otherwise deserted mead benches. Green-clad guards man the entranceways, keeping everyone else out of the main hall. The din of the tourney outside has ended, the stone archways of the keep and the fairgrounds eerily silent save for the dull hush of the wind. Gray clouds on the horizon blot out the afternoon sun, as though the mere mention of the Picts has chased the daylight away.

  On my throne beside Artagan, I glance at Queen Olwen and King Iago across the floor. Neither say a word, but even their normally calm faces look unusually pale. Griffith continues to pace, his wife and stepson, Arthwys, seated nearby. The round king still looks half-peeved that he and Artagan didn’t get a chance to cross swords earlier at the tournament. I bite my tongue, trying to exude a bit more diplomatic poise rather than vent my frustrations aloud. Headstrong oafs! Even with the threat of war and bloodshed on our very borders, these kings and knights still want to test
each other’s steel.

  The two riders from Dyfed wait on foot, their clothes torn and besmirched from their journey. Each has brown hair and freckled cheeks, looking like cousins at least. The first one steps forward, directly addressing Artagan and me.

  “My name is Sir Bowen and this is my brother, Sir Carrick. We have risked life and limb to reach here and call for aid. Many of our countrymen lie dying thanks to the treacherous Picts. If you do not believe our words, believe our wounds, inflicted by the barbarous sea pirates this day!”

  Bowen outstretches his arms, his brother doing likewise. Both knights bear cuts and welts all along their exposed skin. Clearly, they have barely escaped with their lives after their run-in with the barbarians. Griffith holds up a thick palm, shaking his head.

  “That’s no proof! Anyone could’ve parried blows with you today.”

  Unable to contain my rising heat, I leap toward Griffith with a heavy finger aimed at him.

  “What reason have you to doubt these men? What could they possibly gain by such a lie?”

  Taken aback by my rising voice, King Griffith narrows his gaze on me.

  “You were born in Dyfed, Queen Branwen, and it clouds your judgment. These so-called heralds might be in league with our enemies. If we ride to their aid, it would leave our own kingdoms defenseless. Did you think of that?”

  “Dyfed may be a troubled kingdom, my lord, and many other things besides, but never have they aligned themselves with the Saxons or anyone else against Wales, and you know it!”

  Griffith reddens at my calling him “lord” instead of “king.” Once upon a time, he and his people united with us against the Saxons. Have a few years of kingship made him so distrustful of his Welsh neighbors, simply because they do not swear allegiance to his particular throne?

  Artagan rises and places himself between us.

  “Everyone, sit down! This is still my hall, and I will clear all of you from it if you cannot control yourselves.”

  Artagan eyes both Griffith and me as we retreat to our seats. I ball my fists at my sides. When my husband, of all the hot-blooded people in the world, tells me to calm down, I know I have gone too far. Nonetheless, hearing Griffith badmouth Dyfed sets something afire inside me. The people there have suffered so much in the past few years—war, famine, plague, and now this.

  Lady Olwen clears her throat from across the hall. All eyes turn toward her as she crosses her legs beneath her skirts, reclining against the table behind her. Although she speaks loud enough for everyone in the room to hear her, she keeps her steady violet eyes on my husband and no one else. That northern Queen is still mooning over Artagan.

  “I’m sure these two heralds mean what they say,” she begins, “but let’s all be reasonable. Picts? On these shores? No one has seen them venture out of their abode in the frozen North for generations.”

  Iago nods beside her.

  “My wife speaks true. This so-called attack is a fairy tale, nothing more.”

  Bowen grimaces and moves toward him, but his brother Carrick holds him back. No man likes to be called a liar to his face. Gripping the arms of my seat, I cannot keep silent.

  “The Picts were the fiercest enemies of the Old Tribes, whose blood lives on in most of us in this room. It was the Picts, after all, whose raids first forced the Romans to invite Saxon mercenaries here.”

  “Aye,” Artagan adds. “Then the Saxons turned on ancient Rome and started carving up the island for themselves.”

  Griffith folds his arms as a mead bench sags under his weight.

  “You forget the most important part of that story. Once the Saxons arrived, the Picts never showed themselves on our shores again.”

  “But we have driven the Saxons back,” I counter. “For now, at least. Perhaps the Picts have come to seize an opportunity while both we and the Saxons maintain an uneasy truce.”

  Silence fills the hall, save for the drip of torches blazing along the stony walls. The overcast light dims in the high windows and arrow slits as clouds rumble outside. A storm is coming.

  In some ways, I can’t blame the others for not wanting to see the truth. Saxon armies coming overland from the east have proved bad enough in years past. And now Pictish raiders landing from the sea to the west and north? The Welsh kingdoms would be stuck between an anvil and a hammer. The four horsemen in the Book of Revelation might as well start riding the length and breadth of Wales. Saxons on one side and Picts on the other? Between two such threats, our people won’t stand a chance.

  Legend has it that the Picts dwell beyond the northern winds that buffet our coasts in winter. Many a bedtime tale oft ends with the warning to children to beware the bad things that dwell beyond the north wind. The possibility of encountering such boogeymen face-to-face suddenly seems all too unreal.

  Artagan reclines in his chair beside me, sighing as he glances my way. The burden of kingship weighs heavy on his shoulders on days like today. Do we risk riding to Dyfed’s aid while weakening our own defenses? What if the Saxons should find out and take advantage of our reduced strength? What if one of the other kings in this room betrays us? No easy decisions lie before us.

  Nonetheless, something in my heart tells me that we cannot simply leave Dyfed to fend for itself. The people there are Welsh even if they do not swear allegiance to my husband. Dyfed and the Free Cantrefs both run strongest in the blood of the Old Tribes, especially when compared to any other province in Wales. Do we forsake the ancient bonds of our Celtic forebearers? I return Artagan’s gaze with a pleading look. He knows what I think we should do, but I do not want to risk contradicting him in front of our rivals here. If only we had more time to talk, alone.

  He looks me up and down, his eyes lingering a moment on the damp hem of my gown. The fabric still bears the stain from when I lost my breakfast on the greens. Blast my morning sickness for such ill timing! My gut still swirls even now. Artagan must know, or at least suspect my condition. Then again, men can be oddly blind to such things. God in heaven, why must everything go wrong at once?

  Artagan raises his voice. I recognize the familiar tone, firm and beyond the point of compromise.

  “If these two riders from Dyfed wanted to deceive us, they certainly could have thought up a better lie. Nor would they have come and humbled themselves before us unless the utmost necessity required them to. Whomever has returned to harry our shores, whether Picts or otherwise, I will go and find out myself. And I will not go alone. My men ride out with me at first light tomorrow. Have any of the other kingdoms the stomach to come with us? Or do they still fear the flicker of shadows in the night?”

  My husband stares down the other two monarchs, both King Iago and King Griffith returning his gaze with steely glares. I wince slightly. Brave and forthright as he is, Artagan has never hid his intentions under a bushel. He ought to tread a bit more carefully when challenging other men’s courage, especially if such men have thousands of warriors at their command.

  Dark-haired, gray-eyed, lanky Iago rises to his feet. He offers an arm to Olwen, clearly intending to leave. His voice sounds cold as ice.

  “These Dyfed riders run from their own shadows. They’ll lead you on a fool’s errant, nothing more.”

  Iago bows respectfully my way before leading himself and his wife outside. Olwen casts a long look back over her shoulder at my husband and me. Even when exiting a room, her curvy figure has a sultry movement that draws every eye upon her.

  King Griffith takes his turn to rise, his plump queen and young Arthwys accompanying him. The rotund monarch frowns through his heavy, bearded jowls at my husband. A chill runs down to my feet. None of this has turned out as I hoped. Griffith sighs through his deep grimace.

  “There was a time, Artagan Blacksword, when you and I saw more eye to eye. When the Saxons were our shared foes and things were simpler. I regret that those days have passed.”

  Without another word, the contingent from South Wales turns to leave. Arthwys gives me one last basilisk sta
re before stepping out under the archway with the others. Despite all that has befallen us today, his fiery eyes give me the most pause. May the Virgin help us if ever that boy becomes a king. Let us hope that Griffith will rule as steward over the South Welsh for many years to come. He may disagree with us at times, but at least he does not despise us.

  The two heralds from Dyfed kneel at our feet, now that my husband and I are alone with them in the great hall. Artagan bids them to rise, never being one to stand on ceremony or courtly courtesies. Bowen beams at Artagan with renewed enthusiasm.

  “You are a wise and good man to come to our aid. Thank you for believing us, King Artagan.”

  “I trust your honesty and sense of honor, but I did not say I believe you.”

  Bowen and Carrick exchange looks. Even I cannot help staring at Artagan. I must interrupt.

  “But husband, you just said that you would ride to their aid.”

  “Aye, and I shall. Something foul is afoot in Dyfed, and I would find out what. I’m sure you men believe what you have told me, but I have my doubts. Pictish warriors are something out of legend, like monsters and magic. I have difficulty believing they’ve arisen suddenly after more than a century just so they could haunt our coasts.”

  Carrick speaks before his brother can reply.

  “When you come with us tomorrow, my liege, you will see for yourself.”

  “I shall. But I hope to God you are wrong.”

  I turn to call out to my servants in order prepare rooms for our two weary guests. Both brothers look much alike with their chestnut mops and youthful grins. Bowen seems the more talkative, whereas Carrick chooses his few words very carefully. Nonetheless, something Carrick said gives me pause. When he called my husband “liege” and not “lord” or “king.” I spin on my heels and call back to them.

  “Sirs, we’ve had little reliable news of Dyfed these past few seasons. You neglected to tell us, whom you serve there? Who rules as king in Dyfed now?”