Dark Winds Rising Read online

  “Ahern’s leading the search now. Even though he has only one eye, he’s got a bloodhound’s nose. He’ll find the fiend who did this.”

  Artagan grabs a cloth and washbowl, dabbing the dried blood along my jawline. I wince as he finishes. Laying Gavin down in his cot beside our bed, I keep my voice low to prevent waking him. My little son sleeps fitfully in his tiny bed. Artagan holds me close as I speak into his ear.

  “It was an assassin, Artagan. But he didn’t come for me. He wanted the boy.”

  “Gavin? Are you certain?”

  I nod, my hands starting to shake. It all happened so fast. A few horrid moments. The cocked bow, the menacing black figure, and then the cry from my hunting bird. I lean my head against Artagan’s chest, his body emanating warmth through his thin tunic. My own flesh feels cold as frost.

  As the daughter of a king myself, I survived several assassins in my youth, but I was a teen at the time. What black-hearted monster would try to kill a child? And to what purpose? My little boy couldn’t harm or offend anyone. I clench my hands, drubbing them against my husband’s broad chest.

  “This was planned, Artagan! Someone nearly killed our boy and maybe me. If it hadn’t been for my falcon, the assassin would have succeeded.”

  Clenching my teeth and wringing my hands by turns, I oscillate between fear and anger as I explain the story to Artagan. Several times he has me repeat key elements of what I remember. The dowsed braziers, the crossbow, and the arrowhead aimed not at me but at our son. Artagan growls as he paces the floor, his naked longsword in hand. His blue eyes blaze like fiery embers. He looks fit enough to strangle a wild boar.

  A knock comes at the door again. Artagan opens it a crack, his sword hand ready. Ahern steps inside with something wrapped under his arm. He bolts the door behind him.

  “The assailant is dead, by his own hand. Looks like poison.”

  “Damn it, Ahern! I wanted the culprit alive. He can’t tell us anything dead.”

  “I did recover this, my liege.”

  Ahern uncovers a crossbow. The blood in my veins turns to ice as he holds up the assassin’s weapon for us to see. Just having the evil thing in the same room as my son gives me tremors. I instinctively put myself between the spent weapon and my sleeping boy. Ahern grimaces.

  “Crossbows are rare and expensive. Neither we nor the Saxons use them. It probably comes from the continent across the sea.”

  “You think the assassin was a foreigner?” Artagan asks. “A mercenary?”

  “Perhaps, my King. Hard to tell. The bow looks torn and wrecked—”

  “My falcon,” I interrupt. “Vivian attacked when the assassin let loose his quarrel.”

  Ahern’s good eye widens into a full moon.

  “Your hawking bird came to your aid? I’ve ne’er heard of such a thing. Even the animals come to the defense of Mab Ceridwen, it seems.”

  The seneschal crosses himself, closing his one good eye as he bows toward me. Mab Ceridwen, the local pet name the commoners have for me. It means Fairy Queen in the Old Tongue, and although they speak the title with reverence, I don’t think I’m half the sorceress they seem to believe I am. Peering closely at the crossbow, I smell a pungent odor between the gears and springs.

  “Animal fat. The bowman greased his weapon recently. Vivian probably smelled it and it reminded her of prey. I let her hunt for bats and field mice after nightfall.”

  Artagan shakes his head with a smirk.

  “Call it magic or luck, but either way that bird shall have want for nothing the rest of its days. Food from the kitchens, a warm nest, and a roost full of male falcon suitors if she is so inclined.”

  I smile at my husband. Even in the throes of the terror I’ve seen tonight, he still manages to lighten the mood. Just think, my spotted she-falcon, all fat, happy, and surrounded by a nest full of sharp-beaked chicks. A fine reward indeed for any winged beast.

  Ahern gives me a sidelong glance with his single eye, as though still convinced I willed Vivian to my rescue through some sorcery. Doubtless, word of this will spread to every servant and field hand in Aranrhod by morning. Whatever the explanation, God’s providence seems to have spared me and my child this night.

  Artagan and Ahern continue going over plans to have their guards scour the grounds tonight, just in case any more assailants lurk nearby. I recline on the bed beside my sleeping boy.

  Gavin’s chest rises and falls in a peaceful slumber, blissfully unaware of the dangers he has encountered this night. Whatever Artagan or Ahern plan to do, I know I shall not sleep a wink. I will keep watch over my son, like a hawk over her young. Many hours of darkness await and I will need them. Time to mull over the numerous possibilities. But who in Christendom would dare make an attempt on my son’s life?

  I take down my longbow from the wall and clutch it close to my chest as I watch over Gavin. Whether the next day, next month, or next year, I will find out who did this, and they will taste the steel of my arrowheads before I am through.

  * * *

  “I want to see him.”

  Ahern frowns at my request. We stand alone down in the dungeons of the castle. A cool draft pervades the murky, damp cell walls that drip with green lichens. Few shafts of dawn light penetrate this deep under the fortress. The seneschal hesitates, holding the end of a sheet over a corpse on the stony floor.

  “The poison has disfigured him, Your Grace. It’s not a pretty sight.”

  “Just do it, Ahern. I have to see for myself.”

  He sighs before pulling back the grimy sheet. A faceless cadaver blotched with crimson fuzz and blackened flesh buzzes with flies. The carcass lies still as a slab of butchered meat on the cold ground. I put a palm over my nose to stifle the smell. Ahern paces nervously beside me.

  “My lady, the King and his retinue ride for Dyfed within the hour. If we do have a run-in with the Picts, I must prepare my men.”

  “Just a few moments, Ahern. Then you can see to your duties.”

  What with all the turmoil of last night’s events, the possibility of Pictish raiders on Dyfed’s shores suddenly seems such a remote threat. A killer was right here, in my very own castle. I shudder, trying not to think of all the terrible things that might have happened last evening.

  Pacing around the rotting body, I try to make out the soiled clothes. Simple woolens and leathers, nothing out of the ordinary for a Welshman or a Saxon traveler. The crossbow itself suggests a foreigner, but any man anywhere is capable of using a foreigner’s weapon if he should somehow get hold of one. I sigh with exasperation. This dead man only raises more questions than answers.

  I glare at his faceless corpse. Who are you, you son of a bitch-dog? Who paid you? And why did they want to harm my son, of all people?

  Nothing comes to mind. Just the repeating mantra in my head: dead, dead, dead. I’m glad this stranger is dead. He came to kill my son and possibly myself. Did he ever think I would be looking over his cold corpse instead? I nod toward Ahern, who promptly covers the body with the stained shroud.

  Only the dead man’s hand protrudes from beneath the sheet. Strange purple markings mar the wrist and left palm. A prickly feeling rises along my spine, although I know not why. It’s just a dead hand, after all.

  I trail Ahern back up the dungeon steps. Passing through the underbelly of the castle, the architecture of its many centuries of inhabitants shows through the ground in sections. Like rings of a tree.

  Huge megalithic stones mark the period of the Old Tribes, archways and aqueducts from the Romans, and icons of saints from the first Christian missionaries. Much stonework has been repaired and other portions buttressed with timbers, thanks to the hard work of our people over the past few years. Although we lack the knowledge of the ancients in construction, our smiths and masons still retain the know-how to restore the wonders that our forebearers built. What little wisdom we have we must pass on to our children. The Saxons and other barbarians have robbed us of enough of our heritage over the ce
nturies.

  In the main courtyard, Ahern and I part ways. He sees to his men. Scores of archers prep their longbows and stuff their leather satchels with provisions. My husband is nowhere to be seen, yet I know he must be preparing to depart. A sudden yearning to hold Artagan close overtakes me, to smell the scent of his skin and run my hands through his tousled black hair. He will soon ride into peril again, as he has many times before. No matter how often he rides away, I never get used to it.

  Across the yard, Carrick and Bowen crowd around Ahern, their voices too low for me to make out their words. Ahern purses his lips, nodding his head as he listens closely to them. Both warriors pat his shoulders before joining my husband’s companies of archers arranged along the front gates. Sir Bowen’s voice carries as he bids farewell.

  “Think it over, Sir Ahern.”

  I sidle alongside my half brother, keeping my voice nonchalant yet low.

  “What’s that all about?”

  “Nothing,” Ahern grumbles. “Those two knights are good men, but they fret about anyone other than a Dyfed man sitting on our late father’s throne.”

  I perk an eyebrow. These Dyfed knights may very well prefer someone like my brother on Dyfed’s throne now that he is the last living son of our deceased father. But surely Ahern wouldn’t consider such a thing. To rule a rival kingdom, possibly against my husband and me? He has always been my loyal guardsman and seneschal. He wouldn’t wish things otherwise, would he?

  I decide against asking him, quickly shaking such odd thoughts from my head. Ahern sees a pair of soldiers fastening on their bedrolls wrong and goes over to chastise them. Ever the veteran soldier. I cannot help but frown with approval.

  Excusing myself from the boisterous courtyard full of soldiers, I slip off toward more familiar haunts across the inner keep. Scaling the steps to the rookery, I slowly open the door where the castle’s hunting hawks are kept. I tiptoe inside, careful not to disturb the birds of prey as they sleep in their roosts. I stifle a yawn, rubbing my eyes. A sleepless night watching over my son has done my body little good, but I need answers now more than I need rest. Answers that only the dead man down in the dungeons can possibly provide.

  A lone falcon at the end row squawks my way. I smile at the brown-spotted bird as she stares up at me with one black-marble eye. Her mottled feathers bear marks from last night’s attack, but otherwise she looks fit and scrappy as ever. I put on a leather glove and gently pet the she-falcon’s mane.

  “Thank you, Vivian. I named you after my mother, and you have proved as wise, caring, and brave as she was.”

  Vivian squawks again in reply, cocking her neck as she gazes up at me. Almost as if she understands. Perhaps I fool myself. I’ve spent so many hours hawking and hunting with my favorite bird that it oft times seems we are of one mind. But how could a bird, or any creature, for that matter, truly comprehend human speech? Nonetheless, I owe this falcon my life and the life of my babe.

  She paws at my gloved hand with her formidable talons. I smile, noticing how long and thick her claws curve, claws that have taken down large prey many a time in the forest.

  My cheeks suddenly sag, that familiar cold feeling creeping into my bones. The talons. Of course. My eyes widen. How could I have been so blind? Suddenly, the disparate details of last evening’s attack coalesce in my mind. The crossbow, the strange marks on the dead man’s wrist, and now the talons. I give Vivian a quick peck on the cheek.

  “Thank you again, my soaring huntress. That’s two debts I owe you.”

  I descend the steps double quick. I must be careful how much I reveal to others. My heart beats faster with every step. The danger to my family remains more prevalent now than ever. I must tread carefully in order to set things aright.

  Ahern runs into me in the courtyard, his face set in a stony frown. The rest of the archers assemble in the main yard, hundreds of them stretching in long lines out the open main gates. A few riders stand ready at the head of the column, Artagan and his knights among them. Ahern still looks grim.

  “Brother, whatever disturbs you so?”

  “Just my pride, my lady. The King readies to march, but he has ordered me to stay behind in order to look after you and the castle.”

  I put a hand on the seneschal’s shoulder. Poor soldier, worried he will miss all the excitement. Most men would see it as an honor to remain behind and guard the queen, but Ahern was born for battle. He will only see this as further evidence that the King thinks him an old, one-eyed warrior past his prime. I gently squeeze my half brother’s arm.

  “Let me talk to him, Ahern. You’re the only one he trusts to look after me.”

  He nods as I stride toward the head of the column of green-clad troops. Artagan rears his mount, a large black stallion named Merlin. The old warhorse sniffs my palm as I rub his neck. Both Artagan and I have had many adventures with this faithful stallion. It belonged to my first husband before he died. I hold Artagan’s hand as he looks down from the saddle.

  “You’re leaving Ahern behind. He thinks you believe him unfit for battle.”

  “Because of his one eye? Quite the opposite. I want him guarding you and our son like a wolfhound.”

  “I know. I’ll smooth things over with him. How long will you be gone?”

  Artagan shrugs. He grins, giddy as a shepherd boy readying for an adventure in the hills. Why do men always get to have all the excitement while queens and mothers must stay at home to keep watch over the castle? But Artagan rides possibly to war, and if the rumors are true, the bloodthirsty Picts are waiting for him. Artagan leans down and presses his lips to mine.

  For a long moment I cup his face between my hands. He still kisses me with the same longing he had when we first met. When I belonged to another man, another husband. My heart smarts, the back of my eyes tearing up. If only the two of us could stay in one another’s arms forever, wrapped in our warm bed with our son sleeping peacefully nearby. But the lives of kings and queens are rarely so tranquil.

  Artagan draws his longsword, shouting out to the few hundred bowmen awaiting his command. Bowen and Carrick ride out in front as scouts, while Emryus and Keenan hang close to Artagan’s side. Sir Keenan blows a kiss to Rowena and their children watching from a nearby tower. She keeps Gavin and Cadwallon near her as she waves back.

  The King digs his heels into his steed, leading the column of fleet-footed archers down into the green dales that lead to the western passes in the mountains. I stand beside the front gates, watching until the last soldiers disappear into the misty distance. A lump rises in my throat. Not just because my husband has gone, but because I have not told him all the truth. About last night or the child quickening inside me.

  I grab Ahern by the shoulder, ducking into a side entranceway. I draw a deep breath, trying to clear my mind. A long trial lies before me, and I need all of my faculties if we are to survive this. Ahern furrows his brow at my suddenly serious tone.

  “We need to talk.”

  “My lady?”

  I peer down each corridor, making sure we are quite alone.

  “One of your guards has gone missing, correct?”

  “How did you know that? He was the one who relieved the other guards last night, or so they say. He must have been paid off by the assassin, but I’ve yet to locate the missing man.”

  “That’s because your guardsman is already dead. He’s lying in the dungeon under a sheet.”

  Ahern gives a start, blinking furiously with his good eye.

  “What? That’s impossible.”

  “Your missing guardsman, was he left-handed?”

  “He drew his bowstring with his left, aye. How did you know that?”

  “The body in the dungeon has calluses and marks on the left hand, as a left-handed archer would have.”

  “But the body in the dungeon is the assassin’s!”

  “No. The assassin I saw last night held his crossbow right-handed. Furthermore, whoever the assassin was would have scars all over him
from Vivian. My falcon has very long, very sharp talons. The body you have down in the dungeon neither has the scars from a bird of prey nor was he right-handed.”

  Ahern’s cheeks blanch white.

  “But then that would mean…”

  “That the assassin is still alive and among us.”

  Just saying the words aloud makes my flesh run cold. Ahern gulps, looking like he has swallowed some bad food. Unfortunately, the cold logic of what I’ve said still holds true. The assassin didn’t take any poison last night to avoid capture and torture. Instead, he caught up with his paid-off guard and forced the poison down his throat. Possibly with a subtle drink or otherwise. I bet the welts on the dead man’s wrist came from a struggle with the assassin, but only once he realized he had been double-crossed and was dying. In other words, when it was already too late.

  “We must post more guards outside the children’s room,” Ahern begins. “Rowena is with your son and the others, yes?”

  “Not just yet, Ahern. If we do that, the assassin will know we’re on to him. I have another plan that will require all of your skill. But you’re not going to like it.”

  “I am seneschal of the castle and defender of its queen. I’ll do whatever you command.”

  “I knew you would.” I smile. “Now we must move quickly, but quietly, understood?”

  I whisper in his ear, detailing my plot as quickly as I can. Ahern grimaces by turns, but each time he tries to speak I shush him and press on. When I finish, he hangs his head.

  “This is either the most brilliant or most foolhardy thing you have ever asked me to do, my lady.”

  “Maybe both,” I admit. “Can I count on you, brother?”

  He nods his head. We part ways without another word. Time is of the essence, and unless I am very much mistaken, our assassin will keep a keen eye on us. He probably will wait for cover of darkness before striking again, but should we give away our hand too early he might strike sooner. Everything hinges on what happens in the next turn of the hourglass. I know what to do, but I still wish to God I knew who was doing this to us and why.