Dark Winds Rising by Mark Noce

Author:Mark Noce
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

12

I grab my third bun from the basket on the table. A serving girl deposits another bowl of piping-hot stirabout in front of me as I down my second mugful of milk. My rumbling stomach hungers for more. I seem to have become a bottomless pit of late.

Sitting in the central mead hall of the castle, I devour another plate of eggs while a servant refills my cup. Rowena, Una, and Olwen sit opposite me, nibbling at their meals while the children make a mess of their breakfasts. Gavin and Cadwallon launch spoonfuls of porridge across the table at one another, cackling behind their tiny makeshift catapults. Olwen chides them both, but they always seem to find another spoon. Rowena’s little girls keep putting their palms into their pudding, smearing it across the table.

Grabbing Gavin by the wrist, I drag my squirming boy over to my side of the table and plop him on my lap. He struggles against me with his stout, meaty arms, his thrashing subsiding only when I begin to spoon-feed him his stirabout myself. The child inside me somersaults, making the bile rise in my throat a moment. But at least Gavin is calmer now, greedily devouring the breakfast I spoon into his little gullet. I smile down at my hungry boy as I wipe some stray oats from his chin.

I hear Griffith’s footsteps before I see him. His heavy tread rattles the bench under me. After a cursory glance, I devour another handful of fresh berries. Griffith certainly keeps a well-stocked table, I’ll give him that. The King clears his throat, dispersing his servants. I understand the gesture. He wants the two of us to speak alone. I nod to Rowena, who nudges Una and Olwen. The three of them herd the children to a mead bench several table lengths away. Gavin slides off my lap to join his companions. The boys’ boisterous voices and the girls’ laughter reverberate off the rafters. Griffith sits down opposite me, the bench groaning under his weight.

“The horses are saddled, my soldiers ready to depart. Your wagon has been prepared.”

“Wagon? I already have a mount.”

“Aye, a mountain pony. Barely fit for a peasant but hardly appropriate for a queen, let alone one so far along with child.”

My eyes narrow, my skin growing hot. Griffith raises a placating hand.

“Please, this request comes from your own lady-in-waiting. She insists that a woman in your condition should not mount a horse. Bad for the baby, she says.”

I flash Rowena a glance across the room. She shrugs sheepishly, no doubt guessing the words that pass between the King and me. She is right to insist, of course, but a wagon will only slow me down. It’s hard to feel much like a warrior-queen when astride pincushions in the back of an oxcart.

Griffith stabs a sausage with his knife.

“I don’t claim to be an expert in womanly affairs, but it would certainly bode ill for both our kingdoms if the Queen of Aranrhod miscarried while in my care.

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