Between Two Fires Page 11

  Numb from the shins down, I nearly twist my ankles in half a dozen places before we halt to rest. Fell winds cut through my tattered clothes, freezing me to the marrow. No fire tonight. We cannot risk it with the Saxon patrols wandering the woods. Artagan loosens his fur mantle and curls up beneath a stand of thick sedge. He motions for me to lie down under his furs. Worn as I am, I shake my head.

  “I appreciate the gesture, but a married, Christian woman can only share her bed with her husband.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” he replies, trying to sound more jovial than either of us feel. “If we don’t huddle for warmth, we may both freeze tonight.”

  I throw him a sidelong glance, but for once he doesn’t flash one of his characteristic cocky grins. Instead, he rolls over in the dust, tugging his furry cloak over his shoulders. After a few minutes of shivering in the autumn winds, I kneel down beside the windbreak of thick hedges and crawl under the bearskin mantle with him.

  Artagan stirs slightly, already half-asleep. His chest rises and falls in his slumber, comfortable as though in his own bed at home. I wince as I pluck several jagged stones from beneath me. This hedge knight must spend more nights sleeping out of doors than under a roof.

  Despite my weary limbs, I toss and turn before making a small rut in the earth where I can curl up beneath our shared blanket. The cold eventually overcomes my sense of propriety as I spoon closer to Artagan. Even through the blankets, his skin runs hot. My shivering limbs seem to thaw somewhat beside him. The pleasant balsam scent of the woods permeates his hair and clothes.

  My heavy eyelids begin to sink just as a lone wolf call murmurs in the distance. A shiver runs down my spine. It’s going to be a very long night.

  * * *

  Daylight seeps through the treetops when morning arrives. The dawn air stings my cheeks as I curl up beneath the warm animal skin. I roll over to find the fur lies flat beside me, the earth beneath it long gone cold. I abruptly sit up.

  Heaven help me. I’m alone in the middle of the wilderness.

  Flecks of frost cover the fingers of the trees, the woods quiet except for the whistling breeze. The wooded highlands overlook a large snaking, sapphire river half a league distant. Tiny smoke trails rise along the greens. Far down by the waterfront, dozens of thatched roundhouses cluster beside the marshy banks. A village.

  My heart beats more easily just knowing some human souls live nearby, whoever they are. We followed the North Star when we fled last evening so I can only guess that I have traveled deep within the domain of the Free Cantrefs. No old Roman road nor any signs of wheel ruts mar the landscape. The untouched forests and mountains look as rugged as the day God made them.

  Fallen leaves crumple behind me.

  I spin around, grabbing a rock to defend myself. Artagan laughs, crossing his bare muscular arms. I breathe a touch easier. So he didn’t desert me after all. I still have half a mind to lob a stone right at him for startling me, but I’m just so glad right now not to be alone.

  Without a word, he wends his way down the slope toward the distant village.

  “Where are we going?”

  He points mutely toward the small settlement of huts. A dark thought suddenly strikes me. The river below marks the borderlands between the Welsh and Saxons.

  “What if it’s a Saxon village?”

  “Better than staying out here to freeze or starve to death.”

  He shrugs before descending into the woods. I drop my rock as I roll my eyes. What encouraging words. Do all hedge knights risk their lives so or is Artagan unique in not caring a fig for his?

  An overcast sky blots out the sun, but I fear we continue to head northward, away from South Wales and home. Every step takes me farther from Caerwent and any chance I have of alerting Morgan of what has befallen Griffith and the Dean Fort.

  I trail Artagan toward the village, observing him closely. He has not taken me to King Morgan’s realm as he should have. But whatever Artagan’s intents might be, I cannot yet guess. Holding Morgan’s queen captive would certainly give the Free Cantrefs a large bargaining chip when next parleying with my husband. But would the man who saved me from Saxons twice now use me as a pawn again the Hammer King? A pang of guilt lances my chest for even suspecting him, yet at the same time I cannot deny the cold logic of such a plot. Saxon evils pervade the land enough without the Welsh constantly betraying one another.

  By midday, we leave the foothills and reach the meadows alongside the riverfront. Artagan motions for me to crouch low as we stalk through the canebrakes toward the village. We squat in the mud, peering at the wattle-and-daub huts between gaps in the tall grass. When I try to speak, Artagan shushes me. His gaze never leaves the cluster of huts.

  I sit and watch the settlement with him, wondering how we can tell whether they are Saxons or Welsh. I doubt we can linger here forever without being discovered.

  A few people move amongst the hovels, their faces indistinguishable from a distance. Nothing more than a wicker fence surrounds the village proper. Meager defenses against marauders and thieves.

  Artagan cups a palm around his mouth and hoots like an owl. What the devil? After several moments of silence a birdcall answers. Artagan rises from the bulrushes, a broad smile on his face. Two men emerge from the village, one with an ax over his shoulder and the other with a staff.

  “Blacksword, is that you?” the axman shouts.

  “Well met!” Artagan replies. “Keenan, how did you reach here before me?”

  “It’s my home village, isn’t it?”

  Artagan embraces the stout woodsman with the ax. A second man in a gray beard comes after him, leaning on a quarterstaff. I recognize the two men as some of Artagan’s warriors from back at the Dean Fort. My heart nearly leaps in my throat, wondering what has happened to Rowena, Una, and the others. Artagan claps his two companions on the shoulders.

  “Allow me to introduce my merry men, Keenan the Saxon Slayer and Emryus the Bard.”

  Keenan winks at Artagan before looking me over.

  “I escorted a priest through the woods while you spent the night with a tart? Hardly seems fair.”

  “Show some respect,” Emryus chides, bowing to me. “She is still a Welsh queen.”

  I rush forward at the mention of a priest. He must mean Abbot Padraig. I grab Keenan by his fur collar, drawing his youthful brown beard close.

  “My people! Are they here with you? In the village?”

  “Easy, woman!” Keenan replies. “We got the old cleric, though his slow feet nearly got us killed.”

  “And the others?”

  “Others?” he says, glancing at Artagan, then me. “No others have yet returned.”

  I sink to my knees. Rowena, Una, and Ahern have scattered to the winds. Alone in the wilds or slain by Saxons or God knows what. Close as family, and now the three of them have vanished. Artagan rests a comforting palm on my shoulder, but I brush it away. I put my hands to my face, too distraught to weep.

  7

  The villagers whisper around me, never having seen a queen before. Darkness sets in amongst the dozen wattle-and-daub roundhouses, their smoking hearths filling the air with scents of venison and hickory. Artagan and his men stand watch at the edge of the flickering firelight. Padraig sits silent at my side. I hug my knees close to my chest, watching the flames dance along the hearth logs. We’ve still no sign of Rowena, Una, or Ahern.

  Two village women offer me bowls of bone marrow broth. I nod and fake a smile, but only take a few polite sips. Despite the last two days of arduous travel, I am not hungry. The older of the two ladies calls herself Gwen, something of a village mother who already hovers over me as though I were one of her own. Her gray locks hang like ropes past faded blue tattoos that run down her cheek and neck. I stare, fascinated to see anyone alive today who still bears such marks of the Old Tribes. I thought such things only existed in storybooks. Padraig suspiciously eyes the pagan symbols along her skin, but says nothing.

  The
second woman, Gwen’s daughter, introduces herself as Ria. Her long blond locks reach down to the small of her back. A young boy hides behind her skirts while she brings me a fresh jug of river water to drink. She has remarkable beauty, golden hair and hourglass curves. I almost say as much to her, but stop short as she stares longingly after Artagan.

  Goose bumps rise along my forearms. Her child has dark hair and striking blue eyes. I look away as though accidentally stumbling onto someone else’s secret. Ria catches my glance.

  “Something the matter, your ladyship?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not much good company right now. My friends have gone missing in a wilderness full of Saxons. Frankly, everything’s the matter.”

  “You still have your skin. In the borderlands, we prefer to dwell on what blessings we have left.”

  “Like a beautiful son. What’s his name?”

  Ria puts a protective hand over the child’s head.

  “Art.”

  “Art? Named after an uncle or his father perhaps?”

  Ria flashes a mask-like smile at my probing question.

  “We follow the ways of the Old Tribes in the Free Cantrefs. A mother’s blood is all that matters.”

  She clenches her teeth as she smiles back at me. I’ve touched a sore spot with her. Ria glances toward Artagan and the others on watch, the menfolk oblivious to the unspoken words between us women. Blind to the obvious, just like menfolk everywhere.

  Ria’s fair hair suddenly seems no longer pretty to me. More like the color of dead grass. Nonetheless, her words about the Old Tribes give me pause. Perhaps my mother’s kinfolk once lived like the people of the Free Cantrefs, free-spirited and independent if somewhat rough around the edges.

  Ria strides over toward Artagan at the verge of the settlement. She watches me from the corner of her eye. As though I care. Only their silhouettes stand out against the twilight, their outlines close enough to touch. Their muffled voices murmur amidst the chirping crickets. Ria giggles at something Artagan says. The flirt. I know I’m being unfair in my judgment of her, but something about this pretty village girl prickles my skin.

  Padraig shuffles closer to me, downing a bowlful of soup. Gwen bows and gives him another before returning to her cauldron. The Abbot prods me with a steaming cup of broth.

  “You must eat, Branwen. Your hunger will not help our lost companions fare any better.”

  I put a hand on his arm.

  “I’m glad you’re here, my old friend. I don’t think I could handle losing you.”

  “Hush, my child. Drink.”

  I gulp down a mouthful of piping hot soup. My belly rumbles as though suddenly remembering what it desires. Downing all the broth, I accept a second bowlful from Padraig before I finally pause for breath.

  Emryus and Keenan join us by the fireside. Despite missing companions of their own, they jostle and joke with one another over their meal as though all is well. I want to rage at them for such callousness, gibing and supping by a warm hearth while their friends suffer the elements or the Saxons. But after a moment, I think better of it. Everyone copes in their own way. I prefer not to eat, but the gray bard and the jovial woodsman simply pretend that no peril exists at all. As though their friends had merely gone on an evening hunt and nothing more. Perhaps their way of dealing with grief is better, but I cannot force myself to laugh at their bawdy jokes tonight.

  Excusing myself, I turn in for the night. My bones feel heavy as lead as I lie down inside one of the village huts. Turning on my side, I find just enough room on the floor between a village woman and a young boy. Everyone shares the same space in these communal dwellings, without so much as a curtain between them. I shut my eyes, pretending I recline upon my feather bed back in Caerwent. Despite my weary joints, sleep comes slowly to me in the crowded, smoky den. The last thing I hear before succumbing to slumber is Ria’s girlish giggle outside.

  At dawn, Padraig wakens me with a hand on my shoulder. Horses whicker from the village lawns. Shaggy mountain ponies paw at the earth, looking little taller than myself at the shoulder. I turn toward Padraig.

  “We plan on going somewhere?”

  The monk shrugs. Not one of these ponies has a bridle or saddle blanket, their long manes speckled with mud and catkins. Still, their muscles bulge strong and thick for such short beasts. I’ve ridden horses aplenty on the shores of Dyfed, but never have I seen steeds as wild-looking as these. It makes me smile. In the Free Cantrefs, even the ponies call no one master.

  Artagan ducks out of the adjacent hovel with Ria lingering behind him, her shift loose over a bare shoulder. I turn away, but not before Ria catches my stare. She grins as she ties up her wheat-colored locks, her womanly figure so much fuller than mine. My cheeks burn hot.

  A good-looking hedge knight like the Blacksword must have a girl like her in every village. How freely these country girls give themselves up for a pair of bold eyes and a fair face. And what must Lady Olwen think? At the feast at Caerwent, she looked at him the way only a lover does. She must have known Artagan long enough to discover his dalliances with peasant girls. The scene suddenly reminds me of Prince Malcolm chasing serving girls like Una. What am I to make of a man who fights Saxons by day and philanders with farmers’ daughters by night?

  I should have been back in Caerwent by now, warning my husband of the Saxons besieging the Dean Fort. Instead, I’m stuck in some backwater encampment while Lord Griffith battles for his life. And to top it off, I’ll probably never see Ahern, Una, or Rowena again. I hang my head. Some queen I’ve turned out to be. I can’t even protect those closest to me, let alone my subjects or the realm. I can’t even look after myself, it seems.

  Artagan, Emryus, and Keenan mount three of the ponies corralled on the greens. Astride their bareback mounts, their legs nearly reach to the ground. The knights of South Wales would laugh at such shaggy ponies, no bigger than a small cow, but I find myself longing to reach out and pet one of their furry snouts. One nuzzles close to my outstretched hand, eyeing me curiously.

  Not until the three riders begin to trot away do I realize they intend to leave without us. I dash in front of Artagan’s mount, waving my arms. His steed whinnies as the beast halts and boxes the air with its hooves. He does not attempt to hide the fury in his voice.

  “What in hell’s name are you doing?”

  “I should ask you the same question. You cannot leave Padraig and me behind. The Abbot and I will never find our way back home through this wilderness by ourselves. Besides, we have to warn the King of what befell the Dean Fort.”

  “We’re going to find our missing companions first, and rescue them if need be.”

  “Then I’m going with you. Half of them are my people too. I’m responsible for them.”

  “We ride into the wilds, probably to cross swords with Saxons! This is no task for a pampered princess.”

  “I can ride a horse as well as any man. I’m Queen of South Wales, and a daughter of Dyfed. The only way you’re leaving is either with me or over my trampled body!”

  I fix my hands on my hips, nearly nose to nose with his snorting mount. Artagan’s heels inch closer to the sides of his pony, and for a moment I fear he really intends to run me down. Every eye in the village watches us, probably wondering if all queens are as mad as I am. Artagan leans back in the saddle and laughs.

  “The blood of the Old Tribeswomen runs strong in you! Ride with us then at your own peril, but you must do as I say when things get rough. No more behaving like Branwen the Stubborn.”

  “I am not stubborn.”

  Artagan makes a noncommittal grunt.

  He whistles for two more ponies that canter up to Padraig and me. The Abbot gets one leg over his steed before the beast bucks him off into the mud. The villagers laugh while Ria’s voice rises above the din.

  “Outlanders can’t handle our wild ponies. They haven’t got the right touch.”

  Several more villagers guffaw. Helping Padraig to his feet, I wipe the mud
off his cheek before assailing my own mount. None of Artagan’s men make a move to help me. Biting my lip, I vault atop the pony, its spine arching as I wrap my legs around it. The little mare has more muscle than I thought, writhing angrily beneath me. I clamp my legs around her until my face turns purple. Finally, the she-pony neighs and relaxes. I pat her fondly along the neck, glancing back at Ria as she folds her arms and frowns. Artagan slaps his thigh.

  “Just as I always suspected, so queens do have vigorous legs!”

  Emryus and Keenan cackle behind him. The villagers seem less impressed. I lend a hand to Padraig, who respectfully declines before successfully mounting his pony on the second try. As our small retinue gallops into the woods, I suddenly question the wisdom of leaving this peaceful village behind. Suppose we do find our friends and suppose the Saxons have already found them first. What then? Artagan and his men seem like hardy warriors, but what of Padraig and me? We don’t even have so much as a kitchen knife to defend us. The Abbot trained for a life of books and I for a king’s bed. What in Christendom are we supposed to do in battle? My few glimpses of Saxons up close leave me little doubt as to who would prevail in a contest of brute strength. As though guessing my trepidations, Artagan lobs a longbow at my chest.

  “Here,” he adds with a quill of arrows. “Make sure to stick the Saxons with the pointy end.”

  He cackles and tosses a spear to Padraig. The bald clergyman catches it, but nearly tumbles off his mount, holding the upended spearhead backward. Riding amidst the tangled woods, I keep my head low beneath the gnarled tree limbs. Despite the thunder of hooves and the sweat rolling down my back, a pleasurable buzz rises through my spine. If we find our lost companions and must battle the Saxons, at least they will see a queen with a bow, unafraid to ride a wild pony with the best of them.

  * * *

  After days of trekking through misty woods, I awake in Artagan’s arms. His lips hover over mine, his breath stirring my lashes. I gasp, trying to pull back, but even in his slumber Artagan has strong arms. Beneath our shared blankets I can do little but lay my head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. He breathes heavily, relinquishing his grip before rolling over.