Dark Winds Rising Read online

  “You harry our lands, slay innocent women and children, and expect us to make peace with you!”

  “I expect you to recognize the reality of the situation,” Sab replies, glancing at Artagan like a child in a temper tantrum. “I will hold up our end of the agreement, and raid no further into Welsh territory so long as you both agree to my single request.”

  “Which is?” I ask.

  “That you, Queen Branwen, come to me each day and talk with me.”

  I blink my eyes incredulously.

  “That’s it? Just to talk?”

  “Like you once did with Lady Annwyn. You and I can talk each day with words, or our warriors can draw each other’s blood instead. The choice is yours.”

  Artagan and I draw back a few steps, whispering to one another.

  “Smells like a trap,” he says with a grimace.

  “If they wanted to trap us, they could do it right now,” I reply. “This is an opportunity, Artagan.”

  “For what? To chat with a murderess?”

  “All she wants to do is talk. Think about it another way. Every day I come to her is another day we can rebuild our forces, gather more troops from afar, and seek allies. We can keep the Picts penned up in Dun Dyfed, and all we have to do is let their queen exchange a few words with me. This will buy us time without the loss of a single soldier.”

  “It also gives them time to repair their ships and maybe get reinforcements of their own.”

  “I didn’t say this was without risk. They’re playing their game and we are playing ours. It’s a double-edged blade, but it’s a gamble we have to take. Besides, think of what I might learn if Queen Sab knows something of the Old Wisdom.”

  “Branwen, our people spent generations ridding our lands of Picts in the ancient days. My mother may have known the Old Wisdom, but she would never have trusted a Pict.”

  I sigh at his stubbornness. Can’t he see that everything in life does not fall simply into categories of good and evil? Harsh as these Picts seem, they differ from other barbarians, like the Saxons. Straightforward and rough, the Saxons make no mystery of their intentions. They want land and loot, and to drive our people into the sea. These Picts, however, act much more indirect in their mannerisms, fighting us to the death one day and asking to talk the next. We must learn more about them if we are ever to deal with them successfully.

  Queen Sab clears her throat, clearly tired of Artagan and me whispering back and forth. I stare Artagan down until he hangs his head. Whether he likes it or not, he knows I am right. I turn to the Pictish Queen.

  “We would be honored to accept your offer, Queen Sab. Beginning tomorrow I will ride to Dun Dyfed each day, and in return our forces shall impose a truce on one another.”

  “Agreed,” she replies. “We shall honor the terms, but do not attempt to play us false, Queen Branwen. Should you forget to come to us, even for a single day, we shall consider this accord null. We are a patient people, but Picts do not easily forget … or forgive.”

  “I understand. See you at noontide tomorrow, my Queen.”

  Sab nods to Bal, who escorts us from the main hall. As he mounts his horse, I glance back to see Sab watching me closely. Her daughter runs her tongue over her lips as she eyes Artagan. I link my arm with my husband as Bal guides us out into the dark night, the thunder of the sea rumbling against the cliffs far below the citadel walls.

  Once outside the battlements, Bal halts his horse without a word and lets us wander back on our own. After a few dozen paces, I glance back to see that he has vanished into the evening fog. Artagan and I lengthen our strides across the dunes. My heart lightens with every step we put between us and the smoky, dank abode the Picts have made of Dun Dyfed. Although I will have to return tomorrow, at least I can keep that half-naked girl, Ness, from laying her paws on my Artagan.

  My husband walks silently beside me, lost in his own thoughts. Sab has doubtless given him much to ponder, but what part of his mind will he follow in his next move? The brash hedge knight, the plotting general, or the benign king? I suppose when it comes down to it, he will trust my judgment, as he always has. My smile broadens as I clutch him closer, our arms still entwined.

  A half-moon emerges from the cloud cover when we return to camp, illuminating every bowman and pony in a silvery hue. Artagan immediately mounts up and orders his men to make ready to march. Sir Keenan stands beside the King’s horse.

  “I feared we’d never see either of you again. What happened, sire?”

  “We’ve a temporary truce with the Picts,” Artagan replies. “We ride back to Ogham Stone tonight.”

  Both Bowen and Carrick leap to their feet, hastening toward us. Despite their limps from their wounds, Bowen sounds hot enough to go straight back into battle.

  “A truce! You made peace with those demons? We asked you here to help rid us of the barbarians, not invite them to stay!”

  Gray-bearded Emryus steps between the two Dyfed knights and Artagan.

  “Mind your tone, Dyfed man. You’re speaking to a king, and the Blacksword at that.”

  Carrick tries to hold his brother back, but Bowen’s voice continues to rise.

  “You’ve made a pact with the devil, King Artagan! Once the Picts gain a foothold, they will continue to infest the countryside until they are in every kingdom in Wales.”

  Artagan growls as he turns his mount directly toward Bowen. Merlin’s nostrils flare right in the Dyfed men’s faces, forcing them to take a step back. Artagan sounds ready for a fight himself.

  “I’m no happier about this arrangement than you! But facts are facts. The Picts already have a foothold and we cannot dislodge them, they’re dug in like ticks. But we bloodied them today and they won’t venture far from their ships. We need time to muster our full forces. Queen Branwen has negotiated this truce with the Pict Queen, and so long as she continues to meet with her, it will buy us the time we need to defeat these invaders.”

  All eyes fall on me. A mix of silent awe and maybe even fear lingers on the faces of these brave warriors. Do they think me a traitor for parleying with the enemy? Some, like Emryus and Keenan, look more like they pity me, seeing as I must now spend more time amongst the Pictish barbarians. Others, like Bowen and Carrick, glare with open hostility, as though offended by my presumption that the invaders who have ravaged their kingdom can be negotiated and reasoned with. Artagan seems put off himself, barking orders at his men as they form up for a night march back to our encampment at Ogham Stone.

  I mount my pony without looking back at any of them. What’s wrong with everyone? We should be celebrating our success. We have not defeated the Picts, but we have checked their progress and isolated them within a single hill fort. Imagine the trouble my husband and his warriors would have gotten into without me! Most of them would probably either be either dead or captured by the Pict Queen. How prideful a bunch of knights with spears can be! I’ve accomplished more with a few well-placed words than they could with a hundred soldiers.

  None of them understand the magic of words. Words have the power to inspire warriors against overwhelming odds, to broker peace between enemies, and to sow discontent amongst friends. Swords and spears alone do not make a leader great. My weapon shall be my tongue.

  PART TWO

  Summer, A.D. 602

  7

  I awake just before dawn within the privacy of our tent. The encampment runs still. I stretch out my limbs as a yawn spreads across my cheeks.

  Artagan rolls over in the blankets beside me, spooning close. Even half-awake, I can feel his roused manhood prodding my tunic. My eyes widen into half-moons. I love my husband like a second self, but even in his sleep he’s like a hound in heat. Artagan sleepily cups my breast as he nuzzles my neck in the predawn light, much of the encampment still quiet and asleep.

  His vigorous thighs rub beside me and his strong muscles do make me wet, but the sudden thought of my pregnancy stills me to the core. If I let him put his hands all over me, he is sure
to notice the subtle changes in my body. Even a man should be able to discern a breeding woman when he has his lips running down her naked skin. I’m nearly three moons gone with child, if I counted right. In another moon or so, I’ll start to show for certain. I won’t be able to hide my secret much longer.

  Artagan sleepily moans in my ear. I hate to disappoint him, but I can’t let him slip off my garments for a quick romp.

  Still, I want to make things right between us, to rekindle the intimacy we’ve always shared. Reaching beneath the blankets, I run my hands down under his belt. Fortunately, his sleepiness makes him pliable.

  Eyes still shut, he groans pleasurably as I pet and stroke him. He fondles my bosom, his breath quickening and his lips pursing with enjoyment. I move my hands faster around his throbbing loins until his wet heat spills onto the grass between us. He gasps and presses his sleepy mouth to mine.

  “What a sweet dream,” he whispers. “I adore you, Branwen.”

  I kiss him back, cleaning my sticky fingertips on the blades of grass. My goodness, how deft I’ve become with my hands. I roll my eyes. For a queen, sometimes I swear I’m no better than a common harlot beneath the sheets. But my husband doesn’t seem to mind. He droops an arm over me, cuddling close as the first beige hues of sunrise illuminate our tent canvas.

  Gavin sleeps quietly within his blankets on the far side of the tent. By now the clang of blacksmiths’ hammers and the chop of woodsmen’s axes fill the camp. The machinations of this small makeshift settlement come to life. I rub my eyes, smelling smoke from a thousand campfires. It’s getting crowded around Ogham Stone these days.

  Outside the tent, the walls of a timber keep have begun to rise. Ahern shouts at the mix of Free Cantref soldiers and Dyfed laborers working together to erect the palisade defenses. I flash a wry grin as I watch him. Although he has been in my husband’s service these past few years, he too was born in Dyfed like me. Ahern seems in his element as he berates and praises the workmen by turns. Every laborer obeys promptly, for fear of my one-eyed brother’s temper. Within a few days, he has started to raise the skeleton of a proper wooden keep. Give him a fortnight, and I bet Ahern could construct a cathedral.

  Gavin snores peacefully in his blanket. I watch the sun rise over the standing stones atop the hill. Despite the growing multitude of Dyfed refugees around our camp, none have dared set foot on the ancient tor. The hillock looms like a grassy island in the heart of a hundred ramshackle tents and wicker hovels. Each day more huts sprout like mushrooms at the foot of the hill.

  Artagan rises and offers me a goatskin of water. Not the usual cup of mead or mulled wine to start my day. Does he suspect that another child quickens inside me? No. Artagan thinks a little spirits do a breeding woman good. But his mother taught me that the Old Wisdom forbade such drinks for women heavy with child. Just one of the many such mysteries observed by the wise women of the Old Tribes, knowledge that has nearly vanished in recent generations. Perhaps today I shall learn a few more of those mysteries from Queen Sab. Perhaps.

  Artagan looks down at our son, stroking a stray lock of Gavin’s auburn hair while the boy sleeps. He loves our boy so much. What if Artagan knew I had doubts about birthing another one? How could he understand the fear of bleeding to death in childbirth? How could any man? Artagan keeps his voice low, so as not to wake the child.

  “I’ve sent Emryus and Keenan back to Aranrhod to gather reinforcements. We’ll need more men in the days to come. I’ve also got Bowen and Carrick scouring the countryside looking for more refugees and Dyfed spear-men to join our cause.”

  “How many survivors have come here to Ogham Stone?” I ask.

  “At least two thousand people by last count and more every day. Why do they come?”

  “Like a shipwrecked crew, they cling to any dry land they see. We’re the closest thing these people have to protection now. There is no one left to lead the Kingdom of Dyfed.”

  “Ahern’s got the bit between his teeth. He’ll have this new keep built in another moon if nothing stops him. Who knew the old soldier had the heart of a master builder?”

  “It would be nice to have a roof over our son’s head, instead of living in tents like wanderers in the Bible.”

  I look to my feet, knowing I will have to ride more than a league in the saddle today to reach Dun Dyfed before noon. I’ll probably have to eat my breakfast on horseback. My heart contracts like a clenched fist, realizing that Gavin may not yet awake before I have to go. Will he cry or simply go about his day without me? Both thoughts give me little comfort. Still, one trepidation remains heavy on my mind. I speak close to Artagan’s ear.

  “What news of the assassin?”

  Artagan shakes his head.

  “None. He seems to have vanished. The beggar hasn’t shown himself once since we camped at Ogham Stone.”

  I frown. Artagan’s words should give me comfort, but instead they only curdle my stomach. I wag my head.

  “Something doesn’t add up. This assassin went to great lengths to ensnare our boy back at Aranrhod and then pursued us relentlessly across the wilderness. Now that we’ve camped at the foot of some standing stones, he suddenly gives up the chase? I don’t believe it.”

  “The people here both fear and revere Ogham Stone. Some say the old rocks have power.”

  “So if Morgan’s ghost has come to kill my child, the power of the stones somehow holds him at bay?”

  Artagan grimaces.

  “The Hammer King is as dead as a dung heap. And it was no ghost that pursued you and Ahern into that thicket a few days ago. The assassin ran away from me and my soldiers. Seems like the actions of a living man to me.”

  I look away, still unconvinced. Maybe my first husband isn’t as dead as Artagan wants to believe. But if not King Morgan, then who would parade about in his old war-mask, striking at innocent children? If only there was a way to be sure. Morgan’s body lies entombed in Caerleon. I could ride there and be back again within two days. But no. I have to meet with the Pict Queen and cannot miss even a single rendezvous with her or else risk our entire truce falling apart. Besides, the inhabitants of King Griffith’s realm aren’t likely to let me dig up the grave of one of their most revered rulers just so that I can sleep better at night.

  I aim my index finger at my husband.

  “I want at least several guards, trusted men, watching over Gavin at all times while I’m gone.”

  “I’ll guard him myself. No harm will come to him. Funny to think I’m the knight and king, but it’s my wife who rides away into danger while I stay behind to mind the child.”

  I beam back at him.

  “I was never the kind of woman to stay home and tend the hearth fires, anyway. Take care of yourself.”

  “You too, my love.”

  He kisses me long and lovingly, one hand cupping my cheek. Half of me wants to surrender to his embrace, to forget about the troubles of the world, to retreat to the safety of our bedchamber and castle. But no fortress in the world can keep out assassins or barbarians indefinitely. No, the only way to give our family a peaceful future is to pursue our difficulties head-on. I heave a sigh. My bones feel weary just thinking of the lonesome ride I must make today.

  Artagan clasps my hand in his, his fingertips almost unwilling to let me go. I kneel down beside our boy’s bedding and press my lips to Gavin’s warm little head. He stirs in his sleep but does not wake.

  Saddling my pony, I walk her up the slopes of Ogham Stone. The eyes of a thousand peasants and woodsmen in the dales below watch me as I ascend the forbidden hilltop. Something about the way the wind whistles through the rugged boulders calls to me. Curse or no, I must see these stones for myself, even if no one else will.

  Despite the clamor of the encampment spread out below, the summit of the hill seems unusually quiet. A dozen slabs of ancient rock encircle me, with many more shards of rubble half-hidden in the overgrown grass. The wind stills.

  Celtic runes dot the edges of each roc
k face. I reach out to touch one, hesitating before pressing my fingertips to the worn grooves. My fingers buzz with sensation as I run them along the cold stone, my forearms rippling in gooseflesh. To think, some man or woman of the Old Tribes carved these signs into the rock hundreds of generations ago. But why? And what for? Curse or no, these bluish-gray boulders do have power. The unbroken view of the mountains to the east and the open moors to the west fills my blood with the tingling sensation of a thousand needle pricks. My pony whinnies, disturbed by the silent watch stones.

  I close my eyes and press both hands to one slab. I say a silent prayer. Keep my boy safe. Ancient ancestors, if you can hear me, watch over my son and husband. Let no harm come to them or our people while I am away. I kiss the chilled stone and make the sign of the cross. Like many folk in Wales, I find nothing wrong with praying to our Christian God while at the same time beseeching the spirits of the Old Tribes. In heaven’s eye, all divine love is one.

  I mount my pony and yaw into her ear, galloping headlong down the slopes and toward the western heaths. Una and Rowena wave to me as my mare pounds the rough trail with her hooves. The scent of salt and kelp from the nearby sea rises on the breeze as the campfires and crowds surrounding the tor shrink behind me.

  Gnawing on some waybread and dried jerky in my satchel, I urge my mount along the trackless moors toward Dun Dyfed. The journey seems much briefer than it was yesterday. Maybe because the route is familiar now. Or because the place in which I was born will forever call to me.

  In my daydreams, memories of my former teacher and mother-in-law bubble within my thoughts. Annwyn sits with me beside the hearth in her old chambers at our castle in Aranrhod. We keep our palms raised over the flames, making the fire rise and fall. One of the basic elements of nature: fire, water, earth, air. Hints of shadows dance within the blaze, figments of my imagination or the shades of things to come, I never knew. Perhaps if my lessons with Annwyn could have continued I would have learned what powers dwell within me. But then she died, leaving my tutelage under her at an abrupt end before it had really begun. Now all I am left with are tidbits of knowledge and a few parlor tricks. I’m no mistress of magic as Lady Annwyn was.