Dark Winds Rising Page 7

  A few shafts of golden light penetrate the clouds. Green dragon banners fly over the encampment while bowmen erect spiked barricades. Diggers form a perimeter trench around the circle of tents. I speak low in Artagan’s ear, so as not to awake the children.

  “Planning on staying awhile?”

  “We’re in hostile country now. The Romans always built a fortified camp when in new territory. That’s how they conquered most of Britain.”

  “All except for the Picts,” I remind him.

  He nods, the name itself making him shiver slightly.

  “Aye, except for them.”

  He turns toward me with a kiss, but I can tell by the look in his eyes that his mind has already ventured many miles away from me. Artagan was such a jovial, carefree hedge knight when I first met him. I don’t think he ever wanted to be a king, but fate thrust the mantle on him and he has had to think for an entire kingdom ever since. His hawkish gaze surveys the woods and moors as though expecting some imminent trouble.

  “Still glad you came along?” he asks. “You and Gavin are no safer here than at Aranrhod.”

  “We’re always safer together. Always.”

  My voice sounds comforting and calm, although I fight hard to keep Artagan from knowing how defensive and worried I really am. I rub his brows, wrinkled with heavy thoughts. Artagan tries to play the part of a coolheaded soldier, but it doesn’t become him. I know he remains a hot-blooded Celt under that kingly exterior. He needs my calming touch now more than any words I can give him. I wonder if he knows how deeply I love him. Deeper than the roots of the mountains or the bottom of the sea. Deep enough to swallow my own pride and worries when I know he needs me most.

  A strange din slowly rises from the heaths and scattered woodlots to the west, like a flock of birds murmuring just beyond the rise. Artagan and I exchange looks as the sound looms closer. Several guardsmen hear it too and look up from their work along the barricades.

  A throng of peasants on foot appears all along the western marches, many of them women and children and elders. Some tote baskets on their backs while others hang bindles from walking staffs. A few of them herd a handful of sheep or hogs, but the majority have nothing but what they carry. A few bear bloodied bandages across their brows and arms.

  My eyes wax into half-moons. There must be at least a few hundred of them. Although women of every age appear in their ranks, I hardly spot a man between sixteen and sixty. They stagger as though having traversed many leagues of hard travel. A lone figure leads them, wearing a dark cloak with white trim. The attire of a nun.

  “Refugees,” Artagan remarks. “They must be villagers from Dun Dyfed by the sea. Whoever attacked the old capital has driven out the inhabitants.”

  “Those poor people,” I reply. “Word must have spread of your army here. We must give these people shelter.”

  “Shelter? Half my men don’t even have tents. How are we supposed to provide for such a multitude?”

  I grasp his hand, entwining his fingertips with mine.

  “We have always found a way, you and I. Please, Artagan. I was born in Dyfed. Even though I am your Queen of the Free Cantrefs, these too are my people. They need our help.”

  Artagan sighs as though weighed down by invisible stones.

  “I’ll have my men split their rations with them. We’ll do what we can.”

  I plant a kiss on his lightly stubbled cheek. There is no more honorable man in Christendom than my man. He turns to give orders to his knights.

  Rowena arises and tries to herd the children together as they go about investigating the camp. Mina and Mora stick relatively close to the tent, but Gavin and Cadwallon are in their element. The two boys eagerly palm bows and daggers cast aside by the soldiers. They gaze wide-eyed at woodsmen constructing the defenses. I turn to grab both toddlers by the wrist.

  But something gives me pause. The lead nun from the refugees catches my gaze. The holy woman and I lock eyes, her fair hair somehow familiar despite a shock of white woven through it.

  “Una?”

  “Lady Branwen.”

  She bows toward me. I stride over and embrace her. Her blinking eyes seem to smile with surprise. It takes an effort to breathe enough air into me. I never thought to see Una again this side of paradise.

  “Una, what brings you here? It’s been years since you took to the holy cloth.”

  “A nun’s life differs much from a queen’s lady-in-waiting, but I enjoyed both very much.”

  I smile until I notice Rowena from the corner of my eye. She holds one daughter in her arms while standing close to the other. Her gaze never wavers from Una. Both women once served as my ladies-in-waiting, until a man came between them. One took the habit and the other married him.

  Their choices in life have aged them differently. Rowena has grown plump with children while Una has grayed slightly and turned skinny as a rod in the service of God. I swallow for a moment, lost for words between the two women. We lived close as sisters in the old days, but the flinty stares between the two of them dowses any hopes that things might go back to the way they once were.

  Both Rowena and Una glance at Sir Keenan across the camp. The man who unintentionally drove them apart. He smiles as he works with the other lumbermen, unaware of the stares of his wife and his former mistress. Una and Rowena nod curtly to one another.

  “Una.”

  “Rowena.”

  I try to break the unnatural silence as the wind howls through the standing stones on the nearby hill.

  “Have you left the cloister, Una? I thought your order allowed their sisters to leave only under exceptional circumstances.”

  Una puts a hand on my shoulder, her cheeks starting to sag.

  “The cloister was destroyed. As was the monks’ abbey nearby. Both pillaged and sacked by the Picts.”

  A leaden weight sinks in my throat. The nunnery and the monastery, both destroyed? Many clerics called those refuges home. The pride of Dyfed and all Christians in Wales, those two holy sites housed hundreds of priceless books. Many original copies handwritten by generations of monks and nuns now forever lost. More knowledge, history, and irreplaceable heritage gone! And how many innocent holy men and women died cruel deaths? I shut my eyes. The End of Days has truly come upon us all. My voice quivers.

  “So it’s true, then? The Picts have really returned from the northern wastes?”

  “I saw them myself. Painted in blue, howling like demons from hell. They spared no one in their path.”

  Una glances back at Rowena, almost daring her to defy her word. Rowena says nothing, unusually cool for her normally sunny countenance. Lost in my own thoughts, the whinny of horses jars my focus back to the present.

  Artagan mounts his steed. His knights and most of his men have already grabbed their arms. Word of the massacre by the sea has clearly reached their ears. Artagan has his longsword drawn, barking orders at his men and looking like he could take on a pack of wild hounds himself. So much for the coolheaded general. Once Artagan’s blood is up, the only thing that can sate it is more blood.

  Instinctively, I lift Gavin into my arms. He starts to squall and cry, but I pay him no heed as I rush toward Artagan. If only my little boy would keep quiet a moment, but oft times there’s no reasoning with a toddler. It takes an extra effort to think clearheaded, knitting my brows as I stand beside my husband’s horse.

  Artagan could be riding right into a trap. Who knows how many Pictish barbarians await him at the coast. The King orders Ahern to remain behind and command the camp. Ahern nods, too bloodied and spent to argue. Artagan gives him a few last orders.

  “I’ll take two hundred bowmen with me and leave a hundred with you to guard these people.”

  “Understood, my liege.”

  I interrupt, raising my voice so that Artagan will hear me over Gavin’s whining moans.

  “You plan to attack them, don’t you?”

  “And grind them into the ground!” Artagan growls.

>   I shake my head. He’s thinking with his sword now, not his head.

  “Artagan, did it ever occur to you that the Picts might expect this? They pillage the monastery and cloister only a few dozen leagues from where your army has encamped. It’s a perfect trap!”

  “They’re the ones backed against the water. I’ll drive the devils into the sea!”

  “But you don’t even know how many of them await you. What if you’re outnumbered?”

  Artagan says something back, but I do not hear. Gavin screams, deafening me to all else. Ever the saint, Rowena appears and takes him from me. He struggles in her grip, wanting her to set him free, but I cannot let him wander the camp, what with moving horses and troops hastening about. Artagan shouts some last bit that I barely catch over the wind.

  “… innocent men and women have died today. Their only crime was that they were Welsh. Today, it’s our turn to stain the sea red with barbarian blood!”

  He yaws into the ear of his stallion, Merlin whinnying loudly before galloping headlong into the West. Half a dozen knights and two hundred archers follow close behind. Glancing from my son to my husband, my body and soul threaten to tear themselves apart. I should stay behind and guard Gavin. That assassin remains at large somewhere in the hinterland. But Artagan has his battle-rage on him and will listen to no one if he encounters overwhelming odds today. I’m the only person who has a chance of reasoning with him. How can I protect my son and still keep his father alive with so many perils threatening us all at once? I’ve only moments and must make my decision quick.

  Ahern, Una, and Rowena all stand nearby, the closest thing to family I have outside of my husband and my son. The three of them give me sidelong looks, still taking in all the commotion swirling around us. Warrior. Missionary. Caretaker. Each of them has unique strengths, but together they are stronger. I lean in close to them, raising my voice so that they will hear me over the din.

  “I leave you three in charge. Secure the camp, but above all protect the children. They are the key to all of this. Our future, our hope. I’m trusting you with the life of my son, heir to the crown.”

  The three of them exchange looks, still trying to grasp the enormity of what I have just laid upon them. But there is no more time to explain. Ahern bellows after me as I grab my longbow and mount a spare pony.

  “Where in thunder do you think you’re going?”

  “To make sure my husband doesn’t lose his life or his throne before my son comes of age!”

  I dig my heels into the pony’s flanks, bolting toward the open moors to the west. A faint dust trail hangs in the air where my husband’s army has gone. Their rear guard remains just within my vision as they traverse the undulating downs. I urge my mount on faster until the noise of the camp fades behind me, and I smell the first salty hint of the sea.

  A fierce headwind buffets my cheeks. The elements seem to swell in tandem with the maelstrom rising inside me. What have I done? Taken my family into the perils of the wilds. And chosen others to guard my son while I attempt to save my husband.

  I’ve even endangered Olwen’s boy by bringing him along. If anything should happen to him, it would mean war between the Free Cantrefs and the North Welsh for sure. But I have already made my cast and must wait for the dice to fall. Too late for second guesses now. I never was the type of noblewoman to stay by the hearth while the men rode into battle, anyway. As my father always used to say with the shake of his head, the blood of the Old Tribes runs strong in me.

  As the sun moves through the sky, I seem to lose ground. Artagan’s men disappear completely from view. He must be driving them hard. My pony slows her pace, panting fiercely as we finally find a hill overlooking the sea. The scent of ash and cinders fills the air.

  Far below, along the frothy crags and sandy beachheads, columns of black smoke rise along the shoreline. Charred ruins smolder where the monastery and cloister once stood, overlooking the endless waves of blue water extending far to the west. In the distance, the dark silhouette of the hill fort, Dun Dyfed, looms at the end of the peninsula. Its stone walls crawl with scores of blue-painted figures. Like some strange plague has infected the rocks of the old stronghold itself.

  I catch my breath, not having seen my birthplace since I was sixteen. My father wed me to the Hammer King and I never came back. By the time I’d run off and married Artagan, I never thought I would lay eyes on Dun Dyfed again. Now smoke billows from the countryside. Dozens of fires crackle amidst burnt-out hovels from the ruined villages.

  The clang of steel and the roar of mingled voices reverberate farther down the shore. Dozens of black ships line the shallows, anchored with mooring lines tied to stones. Each vessel bears black or crimson sails, the prow of every boat emblazoned with an evil eye painted on either side. The symbol of the Picts.

  I clutch a hand to my throat. Until this moment, I didn’t truly believe it. The boogeymen from the old bedtime stories have returned to harry our shores once again.

  Hundreds of blue-painted warriors clash with the green-clad bowmen of the Free Cantrefs. Arrows whistle through the air while slingstones thud against timber shields. In the heart of the fray, Artagan and his knights cut a swath through the throngs of screaming, raging barbarians. A trail of bloodied blue bodies lies in their wake. Artagan lifts heads from shoulders, his longsword deadly as a scythe amongst the barbarians. Inspired by his example, his men chant a rallying cry behind him. Blacksword, Blacksword! My husband and his famed dark blade look fierce enough to conquer the gates of hell itself. No wonder his men love him.

  But it does no good. From my vantage, I see that at least twice as many Picts grapple with Artagan’s men. The azure barbarians slowly bend the line of Free Cantref troops back until the green crescent of archers can barely keep the Picts from encircling them. Artagan has bitten off more than he can chew, and the Picts know it.

  My pony neighs as I put my heels to her, charging down the switchbacks and onto the bloodied sands. I have to make Artagan see reason and pull back. If not, the Pictish raiders will turn this battle into a massacre, and take my husband along with it.

  The first lifeless bodies I pass make my mount rear up. Sweat pours down my temples, my heart drumming in my ears. The dead Picts don’t even look human. As the tide washes over their corpses, the blue woad doesn’t leach from their pale flesh. Instead, the swirling cobalt designs seem actually etched into their skins, as though they were born with these ungodly blue markings. Several of their mouths hang open, displaying filed teeth, sharp as saws. Many have white lye greased into their hair, making it stand on end.

  These Picts go nearly naked into battle, save for a loincloth and weapons. Most carry clubs of bone or wood, while others hold spears with stone heads. I blink at several motionless bodies in the surf. Dozens of warriors among them are women!

  Drawing back my bowstring, I guide my pony forward with only my legs. I’ve only ever tried this in practice, and never when Artagan or anyone else was looking. But I need both hands for my bow. Loosing several arrows into the crowd, I wound multiple warriors as my pony charges into the fray. I must reach Artagan before it’s too late. Before we all die here.

  Emryus twirls his quarterstaff and Keenan his broadax, the pair of them clearing a path for my steed. They battle on either side of me, oblivious of the danger. Only when Artagan turns around to swing his sword does he hold back. His gaze widens when he glimpses me, Pictish blood running down his hair and longsword.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Saving your behind! You’re about to be outflanked on either side. You have to retreat, now!”

  Artagan merely growls in reply, running two more Picts through with his blade. More Free Cantref archers encircle us, trying to defend us as they launch their last arrows into the crowd of Picts. They down dozens of shrieking barbarians at point-blank range. Nothing but death itself gives these blue-faced barbarians pause. Sometimes not even that, it seems. The deafening clamor of battle claws
at my ears. I wince, loosing arrows until my quiver runs empty. There are simply too many wildlings on every side.

  A hunting horn dangles from Artagan’s mount. I know the signal to fall back: three toots. Artagan may scold me for this, but he can take it up with me later. If we ever get out of this mess.

  I grab the bugle and blow three times. Artagan glances back at me with betrayed eyes. His men start to fall back.

  We find ourselves in a running battle all the way back into the foothills overlooking the beach. Despite their fury, the Picts slow their pursuit once the remnants of our tiny army reaches the high ground. Even the barbarians know better than to try to attack us uphill.

  Panting hard, Artagan, Emryus, and Keenan all exchange looks with me. Bloodied cuts and nicks mar every face. Bowen and Carrick stagger through the throng, both limping and leaving bloody footprints in their wake. Maybe half the archers Artagan took into the fight still number among us. Judging by the circling buzzards overhead, I’d wager that we slew at least double our number amongst the Picts.

  Artagan snatches the hunting horn back from my hand, too out of breath to rebuke me. Before I can think of anything to say, a figure down on the strand catches my eye. Between the two separated armies, in the carnage of bodies in no-man’s-land, she smiles menacingly up at us.

  Ropes of greased lye hair lie piled atop her scalp. Her middle-aged face might be considered almost pretty if not for the swirling teal tattoos on her cheeks and brow. A necklace of finger bones rests on her heaving, sweat-soaked chest. Black war paint circles her eyes. She lifts up a bone spear and shouts a trilled war cry, the rest of her followers replying in ululating tones.

  My blood runs cold. Her savage stare and bloodied hands leave no doubt in my mind while she glares up at us from across the battlefield. This must be the fabled Queen of the Picts.

  6

  A Pict rider approaches, his white steed speckled with blood. I instinctively reach for my longbow as the horseman nears camp. Artagan stands beside me while scores of Free Cantref warriors pick up their spears and bows. Many still nurse bloody wounds and bruises. From our vantage on the bluffs, the dark silhouette of Dun Dyfed stands out in the distance. The setting sun turns the sea the color of beaten copper, so bright it makes my eyes water.