Between Two Fires Page 12

  Emryus and Keenan sleep beside him with Padraig on my other side, all five of us accustomed to huddling for warmth by now. What a sight we must make. A queen, a knight, and a monk all cuddled together in the brush like a bunch of woodland beggars. The dawn light cuts through the recent rain clouds that have stormed for the past few days, turning the forest paths into bogs of mud. We still do not light fires for fear of the Saxons. While the others slumber, I sit up under the bearskin coverlet and watch the Blacksword sleep.

  His placid face reminds me of a child’s, so free of creases or cares. How often do Olwen or Ria look down upon his sleeping countenance? I’ve never seen Morgan’s sleeping face, his features often hidden by the shadows of our shared solar chamber. How different Artagan’s life seems compared to my own. He roams the wilds, sleeping amongst hedgerows and village huts, living under threat of Saxons and all with a price on his head, courtesy of my husband. Despite it all, he looks content in his simple, feral life. Never knowing what he will encounter from one day to the next, he lives a perpetual adventure. If I ever return to the comforts of Caerwent, I will certainly thank heaven for hot-water baths and good food, but I also know that each day will vary little from the next. I will play hostess, read books, and bear my husband sons. A cold numbness rises through my veins. I shake such useless daydreams from my sleepy mind. What woman in her right mind would choose the company of a rogue knight over the warm bed of a king?

  The ponies whinny from their tethers beside an adjacent tree, awakening the men with the shuffle of hooves amongst the fallen leaves. After a quick breakfast of dried meats and waybread, we mount up and begin our winding trek through the woods. Dewdrops murmur through the damp dells as they drip from broad-leaves. My wet hair clings to my neck beneath my ruffled and muddied gowns. I’ve not had a fresh change of clothes since we left the Dean Fort, but none of my companions take any notice. Fashion does not seem to interest these Free Cantref men much.

  Keenan halts ahead of our small company and dismounts. Artagan soon joins him on the ground while the rest of us keep watch over the surrounding woods. Keenan points to several worn indentations in the mud.

  “Look at these tracks, Artagan. You see where they head.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “You don’t intend to follow them now, do you? It’s too dangerous.”

  “Do we have a choice?”

  My ears perk up at this first sign of hope and trouble. Maybe my brother and my serving girls still live. Artagan and Keenan both frown as they mount their ponies. I’m almost afraid to ask them why they look so glum, unsure I want to hear the answer. But I have to know.

  “Do you think it’s them?” I ask Artagan. “Have we found their trail?”

  “If it is, then God help us,” he replies. “They’ve gone to the last place on earth I’d wish to see.”

  The hairs rise along the nape of my neck. Before I can ask just where we are heading, Artagan digs his heels into the flanks of his mount and shouts into the beast’s ear. Our small company gallops at a redoubled pace through the woodlands, following fresh tracks in the wet earth. Whatever dreadful den the Saxons have taken my people to I can only guess, but it cannot bode well for us if the thought of it makes Artagan blanch.

  We ride the better part of the day until my thighs ache from clenching my mare. The canopy and overcast sky make it difficult for me to discern what direction we’ve taken. Whether we’re on the Saxon or Welsh side of the border, I can only guess.

  Under a brilliant flash of sunlight, we suddenly emerge into an open country of free rolling plains full of grass recently mowed by cattle. My eyes water under the sunshine and the unchecked wind. I blink in disbelief at a large gray silhouette in the distance, the tall outline of a castle looming across the river. I halt my horse beside Artagan, trying to find my voice.

  “It’s Caerwent! You’ve brought me home.”

  “That’s where the tracks lead,” he sighs. “And that’s where I’m taking you.”

  “I best go myself. My husband has a price on your head, remember?”

  “Whatever happened to your people, some of my men were with them. If they’re alive and Morgan’s got them, I intend to get my warriors back.”

  “Are you mad? The King’s men will attack you on sight.”

  He ignores me as he urges his mount forward. His companions exchange worried looks, but they say nothing as we gallop toward the citadel gates. Padraig, God bless his wisdom, has the good sense to raise a pocket handkerchief over his head, flapping it about like a white flag. Filthy as we are from the woods, my husband’s own guards might loose an arrow at me, thinking me just another dirty Celt from the Free Cantrefs. We halt beside the main gate, the crimson-garbed guards astonished at the appearance of the Blacksword on their very doorstep. Artagan’s voice booms throughout the fortress.

  “I’ve Queen Branwen of Dyfed with me! Tell King Morgan he owes me twice now for saving his bride.”

  Before I can blink, two dozen guardsmen swarm around our party, leveling their spears at Artagan and his men. Despite my rags, several soldiers recognize me and Padraig, ushering us away from the Free Cantref men. The guards pull Artagan and his men off their steeds, stripping them of their weapons as they call for shackles and chains. I dismount and rush toward the tumult, but several guards hold me back.

  “No, wait! They come in peace! Sir Artagan has rescued me, he means no ill.”

  The clatter of armor and chain mail drowns out my words, the guards already clapping Artagan and his companions in irons. The soldiers rush Padraig and me away toward the atrium. Artagan looks my way, his bright-blue eyes dimming with sorrow as the men rob him of his famous longsword. Both Padraig and I keep shouting, demanding the guards listen to us, but not a soul heeds our words.

  After the vivid greenery of the forests and wilds, the once-familiar stone hallways of Caerwent look whitewashed as tombstones.

  Morgan and his brother stand in conference before the throne as his thanes bring me into the main chamber. The King blinks a moment before recognizing me.

  “Branwen? Branwen!”

  He opens his arms to embrace me, but I put a hand to his chest.

  “My King, your guards have restrained Sir Artagan, who brought me here.”

  “When we heard he spirited you away from the Dean Fort, we feared the worst.”

  “He saved us! And how do you know of the Saxons attacking the Dean Fort? Have you word of my guardsman Ahern or my serving girls? Several Free Cantref men were with them.”

  “Calm yourself, my Queen.” He smiles. “We have your people, all safe and sound. We rescued them on the King’s Road from some Free Cantref warriors.”

  I shut my eyes and breathe with momentary relief. Ahern, Rowena, and Una all live. Over the King’s shoulder, Prince Malcolm wrinkles his nose at the sight of my torn and muddied clothes. Before I can question either of them further, the King takes me by the shoulder.

  “Are you all right, my Queen? Did the devils harm you in any way?”

  “Artagan rescued me. That’s what I’m trying to tell you! Where have you taken him?”

  “To the dungeons, with the other renegades from his band. You sure he did nothing to you?”

  “You’re not listening!”

  My thunderous voice silences everyone in the court. All eyes turn on me and I feel my neck flush, never having raised my voice so loud before the King. Morgan’s smile fades, his words firm and deliberate.

  “We received your bird from the Dean Fort. I led a sortie myself and relieved the settlement, chasing the Saxons out. Lord Griffith was down to his last man, but he and his household still live.”

  “God be praised, Lord Griffith will tell you the same as I. Sir Artagan led me to safety.”

  “The Blacksword has a price on his head, and he will stand trial for his crimes.”

  “For stealing a few cows and having evil rumors spread about him? He has saved me twice!”

  Morgan snaps his finge
rs as a dozen guardsmen surround me and Padraig at once. Prince Malcolm flashes a crooked smile as soldiers on either side pin back my arms. Morgan does not look at me as he addresses his court.

  “My Queen is overwrought from her odyssey in the wilderness. Take her to her chambers so that she may recover and compose herself.”

  The guardsmen usher me toward the turret steps, their grips so firm that my feet barely touch the ground. Clenching my jaw, I nearly speak out again, but think better of it. Manhandled by tall guards, with my husband’s back already turned to me, I know I have no chance of furthering Artagan’s cause or my own by making a spectacle of myself. Instead, I murmur toward Padraig, loud enough for my husband and brother-in-law to hear.

  “My mind is not unhinged. I know what I say and I speak the truth.”

  Morgan stops in his tracks but does not turn around. His men carry me up to my solar. Prince Malcolm leers my way before I disappear into the stairwell. The guards bolt the chamber door behind me, their shuffling armor on the stoop attesting to at least a pair of them standing watch outside. I stamp my foot, dashing an empty tankard at the locked door. Caged like a rat!

  Despite the comforts of silken bedspreads and lavish food laid out on the tabletop, I merely find myself once again under lock and key in my very own bedchamber. I bang against the door with my fists, but the guards on the other side make no move to answer me. I’ve no idea where they took Abbot Padraig or where my guardsman Ahern has gone. A meek voice calls to me from the shadows across the room.

  “Your Grace, is that you?”

  “Rowena? Una?”

  My serving maids emerge from the corner. They blanch at the sight of my ruined gown, rushing to the chest beside my bed in search of fresh linens. I tell them both to stop and sit down, pouring each of us a drink at the table.

  “Thank God you’re both unharmed,” I say, sighing with relief. “How long have you two been in Caerwent?”

  “For days, m’lady,” Rowena replies. “We saw your arrival in the courtyard and heard the King’s words.”

  “What happened to the Free Cantref men with you? And where’s Ahern?”

  “The guards put the Free Cantref warriors in the dungeon,” Una answers. “Even the woman warrior among them.”

  “And the King won’t let Ahern guard this room,” Rowena adds. “Don’t think he trusts him.”

  “So you’re both prisoners here too.”

  “Nay, m’lady,” Rowena says with a brave smile. “Not so long as we be with you.”

  Rowena’s effort to raise my spirits brings a slight grin to my lips. God bless her. Blinking back the water behind my eyes, I find myself unable to say any more. Thank heaven both girls survived the forest and the Saxons. I feared that none of us would ever meet again this side of the grave.

  Heavy rain begins to fall outside, thick droplets splattering along the stone windowsill. It takes Rowena and Una several tries to batten down the shutters against the howling winds. A shiver rises through me as I clutch a shawl tight about my throat. The first winter storms have come.

  Daylight turns to darkness and still the guards do not permit any of us to leave my solar. They do relieve us of our chamber pots before bringing up fresh food and wine, even a vat of steaming water with which I can bathe. I know I ought to be grateful, but I stare coldly at the guards as they leave fresh woolens before bolting the door again. I doubt Sir Artagan and his men fare so well tonight down in the dungeons.

  After ravenously eating my meal of cheese and mutton, I strip myself bare for my bath. Sliding into the wooden tub, I let out a heavy sigh. Inhaling the hot vapors, I descend up to my neck and shut my eyes a moment. The murky waters turn my skin pink with warmth. Rowena hovers over me with a bar of soap sudsed between her fingers. I wince at the heaviness in my chest.

  “My bosom feels like two clenched fists.”

  “Thank the Virgin.” Rowena laughs, touching my breast. “You’ve grown, m’lady.”

  “But I’ve had my courses this moon. I mean I can’t have a … you know.”

  “Lass, you’ve just started flowering late ’tis all. You’re already more a beauty than when you first came to live at Caerwent. Did your mother never say how old she was when she blossomed?”

  I shake my head, sinking down deeper into the steaming waters. A little girl only knows so much of her mother. My memories of her consist of a few brilliant smiles and evening gowns, the feeling of a warm lap and a gentle lullaby. I wish I didn’t remember her last day of life so vividly, the blood and the screams amongst the Saxon ships on our shores. Who knows how our lives might have intertwined had the barbarians never come. We might have fought, laughed, been close or distant, but a mother and daughter ought to at least get the chance to find out what they mean to one another.

  Gazing down at the reflection of my wet locks and fair skin, I wonder if what Rowena says will come true. Could an ugly, crow-faced girl like me ever emerge from the cocoon of girlhood to look like the beauty my mother had been? But she had so much more, a wit and a voice that overawed me even as a child. Father bellowed less in those days, either because Mother kept him in line or kept him happy in the bedchamber. Maybe both. From beyond the grave, Mother still gives me gifts, her green eyes and dark hair, and now even her figure. But how can I kindle the majesty of her mind and be a queen worthy of the Old Tribes? Somehow I must do her memory proud. But I find it difficult enough to rule as a queen when I don’t even have someone here to show me how.

  That night, Rowena, Una, and I share the large bedstead again, keeping warm while the winter wind beats against the castle walls. Morgan does not come to my bed that night or the next.

  To pass the time each day, I teach the girls how to play Celtic chess on the game board Father gave me. I try to keep patient with them. After a lifetime of losing game after game to Father, it makes me feel like a mastermind to win match after match against these two novices. But they learn fast and soon we have some enjoyably challenging competitions.

  Oft times, they try to distract me with gossip from the kitchen maids who bring us our daily allotment of soup. Apparently another serving girl is round with child. It doesn’t take an Aristotle to guess that Prince Malcolm has not been obeying his brother’s command to leave the local womenfolk alone.

  Una shivers uncomfortably. Doubtlessly, memories of her encounter with Malcolm still linger in her mind. She abruptly changes the topic as Rowena and I take a turn at the chessboard.

  “At least the Saxons have been driven back for the winter. Do you think they came solely for the purpose of capturing you again, my Queen?”

  “How could they have plotted such a thing?” I shrug, moving my queen piece across the board. “I had only just arrived at the Dean Fort mere hours before the attack.…”

  My voice trails off before I complete the thought. A coldness creeps into my limbs. How on earth could the Saxons have known I was there after only being in the Dean Fort a matter of hours? News by horseback doesn’t travel that fast and it takes days to gather the number of warriors they brought to besiege us.

  “It does seem an incredible coincidence,” Rowena adds, trying to comfort me. “But they couldn’t have known you were coming, could they?”

  “Unless a spy from Caerwent told them beforehand,” I reply solemnly.

  There it is. The threat of a traitor in our midst, hanging over us like an invisible pall. The three of us sit around the chessboard in silence as we finish our game.

  Perhaps the Saxons merely came to the Dean Fort that night to sack it for plunder or just for the joy of killing. But what are the odds they would attempt such an assault while I was there as well? It seems like far more than coincidence.

  We keep the hearth roaring hot. Even though I sweat under the thick coverlets that night, I can’t resist such a luxury. Not after all those nights exposed to the cold wilds with no more than Artagan’s bearskin cape to keep me warm.

  On the third morning of my captivity, I rise slowly, know
ing I will spend another day wandering in circles inside the confines of my solar. Even a blind woman can see that Morgan has sought fit to punish me for my outburst in the hall the other day, isolating me with my ladies-in-waiting while Artagan and his warriors rot in the prison cellars. Opening the shutters a crack, I brace myself against the rain and the cold.

  Padraig enters the chamber with a bow, a stack of books under one arm. The guards quickly shut the door behind him, locking the hasp. Brother Padraig wipes the morning dew from his balding brow as his peat-colored eyes glance my way.

  “It’s damp enough outside to drown a fish. I’ve slept on the chapel pews these past few nights, courtesy of your husband, who has denied me any other place in the castle.”

  “What?” I exclaim. “He can’t do that! You’re a man of the cloth. I can’t believe Morgan could be so spiteful.”

  Padraig merely shrugs, resigned to the injustices of life. I grimace as I usher him toward the budding hearth in order to warm his hands. It’s one thing for Morgan to punish me, but it’s another disgrace entirely to keep a good soul like the Abbot living like a beggar. I rub my palms along the monk’s worn digits, each of his fingers cold as ice.

  “It does me good to see you.” I smile. “I’m surprised the King let you visit me at all. He won’t even let Ahern guard my door.”

  Padraig flashes an uncharacteristically wry grin.

  “Like most kings, he thinks a simple cleric like me harmless. Shows what he knows.”

  He lets his stack of half a dozen books land on the tabletop with a thud, the sound waking both Una and Rowena in the nearby bed. The Abbot thumbs through the first folio, his normally placid features wrinkling under smiling eyes and a toothy grin. My brown-robed mentor is up to something.

  “There,” he says, placing a finger on an open page. “We’ve much to review today, so we’ll begin here.”

  My eyebrows rise.

  “You came up here to give me Latin lessons before breakfast?”