Dark Winds Rising Read online

  Both brothers pause, exchanging sidelong looks. Clearly, I’ve hit upon something they had rather not shed light upon. Artagan strokes his chin, scrutinizing our two guests. Not mentioning the current monarch of Dyfed seems an odd thing to omit. Bowen looks to the floor.

  “My Queen, as you know, your late father reigned as king in Dyfed for many years, but when he died in battle against the Saxons several years ago, many claimed his throne.”

  “I know. Father had many bastards, but I was his only noble-born heir.”

  “And you are remembered fondly in Dyfed still, my lady. But many of your late father’s base-born sons have sought to control Dyfed. In the last three years we have had half a dozen rulers proclaim themselves king, each besting the other until all of them were … dead.”

  Artagan and I exchange quick looks. Bowen cannot mean what he implies. I must have misunderstood. My gaze narrows on his freckled face.

  “Sir Bowen, are you saying that all my father’s bastard-born sons have perished?”

  “Aye, Your Grace. Between internal feuds and this latest Pict ambush, we have no king in Dyfed now. The land is in chaos.”

  “But that would mean…”

  I trail off, almost not daring to complete my thoughts aloud. Carrick steps in front of his brother and finishes my thought.

  “That would mean you might claim the throne of Dyfed, Queen Branwen. You or anyone else with an army to back them. You understand now, perhaps, why we did not wish to bring this up.”

  Bowen steps forward, his shoulders tense.

  “We need aid, true, but we do not wish to invite another dynasty to come in and claim Dyfed as its own. Please do not misunderstand us, wise King and Queen. We do only what we feel is best for our people.”

  The two knights seem to sag under the weight of their burdens. Their calfskin shields and spears hang low in their arms. I put a palm on each of their shoulders and smile cordially.

  “We all do what we must for our people. I am a child of Dyfed, and I promise you that we come as allies, not conquerors. You have served your people well, and are surely weary. We can talk more of this tomorrow.”

  The warriors nod, doubtless relieved that they can rest after such a perilous day of barbarians and kings. My servants take them to fresh quarters as Artagan calls out for the castle seneschal. The light begins to fade in the arrow slits lining the hall. We have much work to do and many troops to summon on the morrow. Artagan slumps in his chair as the pair of us sit alone in the great hall. He parts his lips to speak. I fear he will ask me about the scene earlier on the lawns when I was sick. I do not want to have to lie to him again.

  “Those two Dyfed men seem honorable,” I begin, “but they are wrong about one thing.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “One of my father’s bastard-born children still lives.”

  “Who?”

  I smirk at Artagan as his eyes narrow on the lone figure entering the hall. One-eyed Ahern, loyal seneschal and grizzled defender of the castle, he has served me since before the last war with the Saxons. He lost one eye to the barbarians and ever since has worn a patch over the empty socket, but never has it prevented him from keeping Aranrhod safe. He stands at attention with spear and shield in hand.

  “You summoned me, my King.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Artagan replies, covering his mouth.

  “Sire?”

  I stifle a laugh before trying to enlighten my seneschal.

  “Ahern, you have served this household for years, but you are also my half brother.”

  “Born on the wrong side of the blanket, aye, my Queen. What of it?”

  Artagan winks at me before turning to my kinsman.

  “How would you like to be King of Dyfed, Ahern?”

  “My liege?”

  “Never mind.”

  My husband and I cannot repress our mirth, grinning from ear to ear. Poor Ahern. He has dedicated his whole life to soldiering, but he much prefers to take orders rather than give them. Much as I care for him, I don’t think he has the right temperament to rule, nor would I want him to have to run the entire realm of Dyfed when I need him here at my side as my loyal seneschal and steward. A throne would be more a curse than a blessing to him.

  I rise from my throne. The darkness reminds me that Gavin will soon have to go to bed. I excuse myself, planting a kiss on first Artagan and then Ahern’s cheek. Let the two warriors plan out the details of corralling their knights and bowmen. I have a castle to run.

  Passing by the castle chapel, I can almost hear the scratching of pens on parchment as a few resident clerics scrawl away at the small but growing collection of manuscripts we keep within the priory. I first started our library collection with the books of my mentor, the late Abbott Padraig. Although he has long since perished under the Saxon scourge, his memory lives on in the life of his books and the great wisdom and stories recorded in their pages. I smile, thinking of the balding monk and all the things he taught me as a youth, both in the healing arts and in how to live a good life. Every day his passing stings a little less, but his memory remains emblazoned within my heart as strongly as ever.

  So many graves mar the chapel yards across Wales, so many great figures lost in the struggle to preserve the Welsh Lands from barbaric invasions. The Abbot who first taught me to read. My husband’s mother, Lady Annwyn, who instructed me in the Old Ways of magic and other ancient wisdom long since lost from our foremothers amongst the Old Tribes. And my own mother, Queen Vivian, slain by the Saxon menace when I was but a child. But those dark days are long past us, or so I’ve thought.

  Upstairs in one of the ancient tower chambers, I find Rowena with a small herd of children running about her skirts. Her two little girls, Mina and Mora, twirl a rolling hoop across the floor. Several tiny straw-stuffed dolls litter the floorboards. In the corner, Gavin and another toddler arrange a small army of miniature wooden soldiers painted in green and black. Their toy spearmen and knights collide as the two boys crash their armies together in a mini-Armageddon. Rowena shrugs her shoulders at me as I enter the boisterous children’s room of chaos and toys.

  My eyes linger on the small dark-haired boy playing with my son. Young Cadwallon is the same age as my Gavin, and the two have been constant companions since birth. They look so opposite, my son with his fiery hair and Cadwallon with his charcoal mop, and yet at heart they play and fuss as though they were brothers. I frown despite myself, knowing it dangerous to let these two boys get close. Cadwallon may be my foster son, but he is no ordinary boy. One day Gavin and he may find themselves enemies when they grow up.

  Rowena whispers in my ear.

  “Cadwallon’s mother is here. She’s waiting outside. Shall I let her in?”

  I start, surprised even though I should not be. She is his mother, after all. How could I not expect her to look in on her only son? I nod to Rowena as she opens the stairwell door.

  Olwen steals quietly into the room, unnoticed by the quartet of noisy children playing across the chamber. Rowena gives me and the northern Queen plenty of room, tending to the scattered jacks and knucklebones strewn all over the floor. I speak low so that only Olwen can hear me. We watch our children playing with their toys.

  “I thought you’d be gone by now,” I begin. “Your husband has little mind to stay.”

  “With nightfall coming on, he will wait. Better to leave at first light. How fares my son?”

  “Cadwallon grows strong. Well cared for and reared with the other children of the castle. Just as I promised, when you first sent him here, three years ago. Would you like to see him alone?”

  “No, let him play. He seems quite involved with your own son.”

  Olwen bites her lip, blinking back the water behind her eyes. She watches Cadwallon play, the children oblivious of us standing across the bedchamber like a pair of motherly statues. Even with her eyelashes glistening with tears, Olwen still looks like a carven figure of a goddess. I know I should pity her
as she looks longingly at her only child, but in her low-cut gown and perfumed tresses I cannot forget all the things that have gone before between us. She has tempted men and used them for her own purposes, but I’m sure others whisper the same about me. How can she and I be so akin in some ways yet so different in others? Olwen has always remained a mystery to me.

  She clears her throat to steady her voice. It must irk her to show any weakness before me. She wipes a tear from her cheek, pretending only a bit of lint landed in her eye.

  “How ironic that of all the people in Christendom, I can trust only you with the care of my boy.”

  “He can stay as long as he likes. Unless of course you wish to take him back with you.”

  Olwen levels her purples irises on me.

  “You know I can’t do that. Cadwallon is my boy, but he is not Iago’s son. My husband may eat out of my palm at times, but even I would not trust him should I bring my natural child to live at his court.”

  “Does he know who the father is?”

  Olwen flashes a cat’s smile.

  “Tired of the rumors that Cadwallon is your husband’s bastard?”

  “We both know that’s not true.”

  My skin flushes hot, knowing she enjoys scratching that old wound. The fact that Artagan was her lover before I met him. She probably still thinks I stole him from her. And now our children must grow up in the mess we’ve made. So many secrets we share, Olwen and I. How we have fought and been forced to ally from time to time to save our own skins. Olwen examines her fingernails as though unconcerned about our conversation.

  “Fostering my son has advantages for you too. So long as you have him, you know I will keep the peace between our kingdoms.”

  “So long as you keep Iago under your spell. Do not think I don’t see the game you play, Olwen. Despite our mutual … history … you know that Aranrhod is the safest place for your son. And one day, when he is grown and Iago no longer useful to you, you’ll put your own boy on the northern throne.”

  Olwen tilts her head back in a silent, mock laugh.

  “Why, Branwen, what an imagination you have. Must I remind you that I’ve saved both your life and your husband’s when you needed me most?”

  “Only because it suited your purposes. And because you’re still in love with him.”

  The North Welsh Queen glares at me, her lavender eyes smoldering like hot coals. How strangely God works. He made Olwen and me antagonists yet gave us each the ability to read the other’s soul like an open book. I almost can’t blame her for loving Artagan still. Almost. He is a good man, but he is my man. Our children play happily a few paces away while Olwen and I stare one another down. Cadwallon’s babyish voice perks our ears.

  “Mumma?”

  The small boy stares at Olwen across his field of fallen toy soldiers. Smart for his age, Cadwallon has seen Olwen only half a dozen times since coming to live at Aranrhod, but he clearly remembers her. Olwen swallows the lump in her throat at hearing her child call out to her. She presses her lips tightly together, failing to control a trembling hand as she strides over and touches the young boy’s cheek. Cadwallon wraps his arms around her skirts and presses his head to her hip. Olwen kneels down to embrace him, hiding her face from me as she hugs the child who has been forced to live apart from her.

  Gavin glances at me with a puzzled look, his playmate no longer beside him and their wooden figurines. My son is perceptive as well, and he watches Olwen closely as she kisses the boy he considers his brother. I give Olwen and her son a moment, pretending to pick up scattered toys.

  She rises and pats Cadwallon on the head, stifling her sniffles as she fakes a smile and heads toward the door. Part of me wants to say something to comfort her, something that might make everything all right. But of course there is nothing I can say. Olwen pauses on the threshold and whispers my way without sparing me another glance.

  “I trust you’ll continue your exemplary treatment of my boy. Oh, and congratulations. It seems you are with child once again. I wonder whether Artagan knows.”

  My cheeks burn hot, my lips suddenly lost for words. She retreats down the turret steps with a half-grin on her face. I bite my fist as I watch her go. That nosy shrew! Just when I start to let down my guard, Olwen shows me her fangs once again. After I threw up on the lawns this afternoon, she must have guessed my predicament. I grind my teeth with half a mind to go after her. Instead I silently fume until her footsteps fade down the stairwell.

  Without turning around, I call out to Rowena and the children. My tone brooks no argument.

  “Time for bed!”

  The children whine as Rowena tries to pull them away from their playthings. Gavin cuddles onto my lap while the other little ones chant in unison. Song, song, song. I sigh, knowing it will take more effort to fight their demands than to sing them an evening lullaby. Even in my own castle, the children rank higher than me, it seems. I clear my throat and hum a soft lai, one that my mother used to sing to me. I don’t have a good singing voice, not as full throated as my husband’s, anyway, yet the children demand another and so I sing a second ballad about lords and ladies at a courtly dance. One by one, the children’s eyelids start to sag with sleep.

  After I finish, I leave Rowena with Cadwallon and her girls as I pick up Gavin and head for the door. He squirms within my grasp, still clutching a small wooden knight in his fist. We trek back down the steps and across the dark courtyard, heading toward my own tower where my husband and I keep our solar chamber.

  All runs quiet, most of the castle inhabitants doubtless already tucking themselves into their beds for the night. Only the clack of my shoes on the cobblestones sounds through the darkness. It seems unusually dark in the central yard tonight, all of the torches snuffed out and the braziers smoldering with dowsed ashes. I’ll have to talk to Rowena about that tomorrow. We shouldn’t waste precious fuel on needless fires, but I do like to keep the courtyard lit at least a little. It’s a small matter, of course, and can wait until morning.

  Gavin is already fast asleep in my arms. His heavy breathing stirs my cheek. A few paces from the entranceway of my tower stairwell, an odd clicking sound stops me dead in my tracks. A short snap like a coiled spring perks my ears. I turn around to see a lone figure silhouetted against the castle ramparts, looking down at me. My eyes widen. Aside from this stranger, there are no guards in sight.

  He cocks a crossbow in his arms, his silent shadow taking aim as I stand paralyzed with fear in the courtyard below. Gavin still nods innocently against my shoulder. I part my lips to cry out, but I know that as soon as I do, the assassin will loose his arrow and all will be over. I have only a moment before the inevitable happens. The dark figure shifts his aim, pointing the bolt in his crossbow not at me but at the little boy in my arms. He has come for my son.

  3

  A falcon’s cry pierces the night air. A mass of wings and claws descends on the assassin’s weapon, tearing at the bowstring just as the bolt lets loose. The man in the shadows curses as the bird of prey throws off his aim. A feathery dart whistles through the darkness, scratching my cheek before embedding itself in a wooden pillar behind me. Hot blood runs down my jaw.

  Atop the battlements, the winged raptor continues to caw and menace the man with the crossbow. Even in the blackness, I recognize the shriek of the aerial creature. Vivian! My hunting falcon.

  Without a moment to spare, I duck into the tower entranceway and scale the steps two at a time. Gavin stirs in my arms as I jostle him over the threshold of my bedchamber. I slam the door shut and throw the latch. My heart drums against my ribs. For the first time in what seems an eternity, my voice returns to me.

  I scream.

  Within moments, half the garrison appears on the castle parapets. Bowmen and guards crowd the courtyard. From my darkened solar, I peer down into the yard, not daring more than a glance in case the assassin should take a shot at my upstairs window. Artagan and Ahern emerge from the main hall with torches in hand and
their weapons drawn. My husband snaps at Ahern.

  “Why the devil aren’t the braziers lit? It’s black as pitch out here.”

  “Something’s afoul, my King. None of the guards I posted are on watch.”

  “I swear that scream sounded like Branwen.”

  I call out to my husband and kinsman. Even though they cannot see me, they instantly recognize my voice. I only hope I’m not too late.

  “Artagan! Ahern! On the eastern wall, a man with a crossbow. Hurry!”

  The shuffle of weapons and footfalls murmurs throughout the darkened citadel. My falcon cries out again, somewhere under the dim starlight. Heavy footsteps rumble up the stairwell. A fist bangs against the locked door.

  I flinch, still clutching my sleepy child in my arms. My birch wood bow hangs on the wall. I’ve half a mind to grab it, but I do not want to put Gavin down. A hand knocks again on the door.

  “Branwen! It’s me! Open up.”

  I heave a sigh of relief, recognizing Artagan’s voice. I throw the hasp and let him inside. Two of his most trusted knights follow close on his heels, gray-bearded Sir Emryus and broad-shouldered Sir Keenan. The two knights slam the door shut behind them, illuminating the room with their torches as they search out every nook and cranny. Emryus nods toward Artagan.

  “The room is safe, sire. We’ll stand watch outside.”

  I call out to Sir Keenan, glancing at the wedding ring on his finger.

  “Keenan, make sure your wife and children are safe. I left Rowena just moments ago.”

  “I passed their chambers first, my Queen. My family is unharmed.”

  I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. Praise the Lord. Rowena, Keenan, and their two little ones are like family to me. The two knights bar the door behind them as they leave to stand watch outside our tower steps. Artagan holds up my chin to the flickering torchlight. His eyes narrow on the bloodstain across my cheek.

  “Branwen, you’re bleeding! What happened?”

  “Just a nick. It could’ve been much worse. Did you catch him? The man who attacked me?”