Between Two Fires Read online

  I awake in a sweat, the blood pounding in my ears.

  To my astonishment, I lie on a large cushion with quilts thrown over me. I pinch myself until I wince, but this is no dream. Still muddled with sleep, I palm the screens of the box-like contraption I now seem to inhabit. The floor sways like a cradle, the plush confines of my tiny, coffin-like box suddenly starting to make sense. I’m inside a litter.

  Outside the mesh screen, rows of marching spearmen wear iron helms with horsehair plumes. Soldiers of South Wales, King Morgan’s men-at-arms. A quartet of brawny servants carries my litter along the dusty coast road in the midst of the army. The King’s men must have put me in a litter after I collapsed beneath the oak grove along the main roadway. Wherever did they find such a luxurious carrier out here in the wilderness? I gasp at the sinking sun outside. Have I slept an entire day? My arms and legs ache as I sit up, the servants bringing my jostling litter to a halt. Footsteps approach and stop beside the mesh screen. I swallow, sensing danger.

  The hasp slides back and a bearded man sticks his head in, nearly nose to nose with mine. I flinch, yet his voice sounds familiar.

  “My lady, are you all right in there?”

  Ahern! My heart lightens at the sight of my kinsman.

  “Ahern, what are you doing here? And where is here? What has happened?”

  “Little much, my lady. We’re still a half day’s march from the Hammer King’s strongholds at Caerleon and Caerwent, which I can only assume is where we’re headed. Your father left orders for one of his Dyfed spearmen to ride ahead and accompany you. I volunteered. A queen should always have some kinsmen close by, no?”

  He smiles before resuming his stoic stance. Despite being born to different mothers, he is now the closest thing to family I have left. I impulsively stretch out my arms and give him a peck on the cheek. He blushes while standing at attention, straightening his shield and spear. He may have only seen half a dozen more summers than me, but he is a seasoned warrior. Just having his watchful gaze over me lifts a weight from my chest.

  Ahern passes a small wooden box through the opening in my litter.

  “A token from your father,” he explains. “To remember your home and your duty, he said.”

  Unfolding the box in my hands, several black and white chess pieces clank together along a checkered board. I flash a half-grin, knowing that this little keepsake is Father’s not-so-subtle way of reminding me to keep my eyes and ears open. Nonetheless, this little game remains one of the few bonds he and I share. The windswept crags of Father’s castle may not seem like much, but it’s the only home I’ve ever known. And my father couldn’t have sent a better guardsman than Ahern. I stick my head outside the litter in order to take in some fresh air.

  “Where is my betrothed, Ahern? I’d step out and look for him myself, but I fear I look somewhat indecent in my bedraggled robes.”

  “I know not, my lady. King Morgan rode ahead of the main army with five hundred horses. We’ve no word of him since midmorning.”

  My face flushes hot as a blacksmith’s forge. Here I am worrying about my tattered clothes while my future husband gallops headlong into the jaws of death. It seems he couldn’t stand to remain idle after all. Heaven knows how many Saxons crossed into the East Marches. Without the bulk of his army, Morgan’s tired horsemen might ride into an ambush. They might be captured or tortured. Or worse. My heart starts to pound as I shake my head. Best not to dwell on such things. As the Hammer King said to Father, climb one mountain at a time.

  If only I had a book to pass the time. I could curse myself a hundred times over for leaving Abbot Padraig’s wonderful book back at Dun Dyfed. Clerics can spend an entire lifetime copying out a handful of books, every drop of ink, every vellum page crafted painstakingly by hand. It may not be listed amongst the Ten Commandments, but to leave behind such a treasure is surely a sin.

  In my mind’s eye, I still see Padraig’s cherished library inside the abbey walls. More than a score of full volumes of books, and the kind Abbot let me read each one. My stepmother had me learning books with the monks and nuns when she first married Father. Probably hoping to put me in a nunnery, not knowing her womb would prove barren. No young princesses or princelings came along to replace me. Nonetheless, I miss those dusty tomes inside the Abbot’s stone chapel. Tales of biblical miracles, Greco-Roman poets, and legends of the fairy folk from the bards of Ireland and Wales. And of course, tales of romance. Guinevere and Lancelot, Deirdre and Naoise, Dido and Aeneas. Yet the thought of such normally enjoyable tales unsettles my stomach now.

  I may be plain to look upon, but I am still a girl, soon to be a woman. My palms sweat as I contemplate my soon-to-come consummation night. Surely, Morgan will return safe and sound, but what happens after that? The monks’ books left out the part about how a man and woman should love one another in the marriage bed. My stepmother merely dropped vague hints about submission and bearing a pleasing demeanor. My skin itches with doubts.

  My litter jolts to an abrupt halt, jarring me against the bulkhead. Och! I stick my head outside to see the commotion, but Ahern begs me to stay put. The entire army has halted in its tracks. My heart hammers faster, my tongue suddenly parched. Ahern shoulders his weapons.

  “I’ll see what the delay is, my lady. I’ll come back quick enough.”

  I don’t want him to go, but he disappears into the throngs of men before I can raise my voice. Probably nothing to fret about, but a nagging fear prickles my spine nonetheless. Soldiers sit down in the roadway to rest, several thousand of them lining the highway in opposite directions. What could’ve made them all stop so suddenly? I thumb the ring on my finger, a small bluestone trinket from my mother. It has always brought me luck. My nerves gradually still as they oft do when I remember my mother, telling myself to think calmly and collectedly as she always did. All seems well and peaceful outside. Nothing to fret about.

  A pair of arrows embeds themselves in my litter.

  Each arrowhead stops barely a hair’s breadth from my cheek. I cry out. The servants carrying me topple over, each riddled with arrows. My timber litter collapses to the ground, sending me tumbling out of the battered box. I wince as I prop myself up on one elbow, the bitter taste of blood on my tongue. Crawling through the dust, I pass several crimson-stained bodies that cover the path. Men who will never rise again.

  A deathly roar of howling men emerges from the woods. The King’s soldiers linger in scattered fragments along the winding roadway, forming thinned ranks against the unknown foes. I’ve only read about war, but even I recognize an ambush when I see one. The bellowing warriors from the woods close in on both sides. Grizzled, bearded wildlings, clad in animal skins and vests of armor. Some bear helms with eye slits and nose guards. My heart stops up inside my throat. Saxons!

  Where did they all come from? We’re still many leagues from the East Marches where King Morgan has gone to do battle. None of this makes any sense. A Saxon army should never have gotten this deep into the Welsh Lands without being noticed.

  A javelin grazes my right temple, drawing blood as I stagger to my feet. Time enough to sort everything out later. If I live to see the next hour. Scores of charging barbarians rush toward me. My knees tremble yet I cannot budge my feet.

  Ahern is nowhere in sight. The men-at-arms around me on the roadway collapse in heaps, deafening cries rending the air as they grapple with the swarming Saxon horde. Picking up a fallen spear, I try to remember how Father practiced arms in the courtyard at home. If only I had paid more attention to such things!

  A barrel-chested behemoth of a warrior leers at me from across the throng of clashing shields and spears. The Saxon wields a notched ax in hand, rushing toward me with a confident sneer. I’ve no chance. He bats my purloined spear away easily, snapping it in twain like a matchstick. Collapsing backward, I trip over my rigid feet. I shield myself with my arms, not knowing whether this barbarian intends to slay or violate me. Maybe both.

  He suddenly frown
s, dropping his ax and cradling his chest. A childlike expression crosses his face, as though something strikes him as unfair. He collapses at my feet, his backside split wide open and bloody.

  A swordsman finishes the Saxon off, his blade longer and darker than any steel I have ever seen. My breath stops as my rescuer leans closer. He wears only light leather armor and has several streaks of green war paint across his cheek. He is no soldier of my husband-to-be nor of Dyfed. The swordsman grins, his azure eyes mischievous and almost carefree despite the battle raging nearby. He extends a hand toward me.

  “Well, well. What have we here?”

  “Don’t touch me!”

  I swat his palm away, but he merely laughs. Despite looking unkempt as a barbarian, he speaks perfect Welsh. Dozens of men like him, clad in green, rush to battle the Saxons. I grab a broken spear to defend myself, warily eyeing the strange swordsman. He freely looks me up and down. Despite the nearby murder and mayhem, I blush when I realize how much skin shows through my tattered white gown.

  A horn blares across the dell, and soon the remaining Saxons retreat to the woods. Small pockets of Welshmen chase them back to the tree line. The swordsman’s rough companions gather near him as my husband’s soldiers re-form their lines farther down the roadway. He raises his sword in salute before flashing a cocky grin.

  “You sure you don’t wish to come with us, fair lady? You’d be safer than with this lot.”

  My chest swells as I summon what courage I can, still unsure whether this Welsh woodsman means to make a war prize of me or not. Father always taught me that a noble must force confidence into their voice even if they don’t feel it. Let’s hope these ruffians don’t realize my bark is worse than my bite.

  “Mind your tongue!” I rebuke. “I am betrothed to King Morgan, and he will reward or punish you accordingly.”

  “The Hammer King’s queen?”

  He laughs toward his companions, many already returning to the cover of the woods. His face might almost be considered fair to look upon if not for his ungodly war paint and that blasted self-smug grin. I tighten the grip on my broken spear shaft. My husband’s men-at-arms should come to my aid at any moment. The dark-haired swordsman smirks before turning his back on me.

  “Tell your husband he owes me for saving his bride. Tell him Artagan of the Free Cantrefs always collects on his debts.”

  The swordsman disappears into the woods with the rest of his companions, whether to pursue the Saxons or distance themselves from my husband’s soldiers, I know not. Perhaps both. I stand awhile with my broken shaft in hand even though all the remaining foes nearby lie dead or dying. Both the surviving Saxons and the stranger named Artagan have fled. I breathe easier and lower my broken weapon. Saying a silent prayer, I shut my eyes a moment and thank my Heavenly Father that I can still draw breath.

  My head aches, trying to make sense of what just happened. How odd that Artagan’s motley company fought against the Saxons, and yet they clearly bore no love for the Hammer King’s men, either. Father always says the Welshmen of the Free Cantrefs are queer folk. Until today, I never saw one up close.

  Ahern rushes to my side, a quartet of men-at-arms following behind him. The guardsman pants hard, his face marred with a few nicks, but he seems no worse for wear. His voice nearly cracks with relief.

  “My lady, did the brutes harm you? When the ambush began, I feared the worst.”

  “The Saxons very nearly had me, but some Welshmen of the Free Cantrefs intervened.”

  “Jesus of Nazareth, I’ll never forgive myself! Those ruffians are almost as bad as the Saxons.”

  Ahern looks at my broken spear, a mixture of admiration and self-reproach in his eyes. As my bodyguard, he will doubtlessly see this as a stain against his honor. Nonetheless, he seems genuinely pleased I at least made an effort to defend myself. I smile and place my hand on Ahern’s shoulder. What did I ever do to deserve such a loyal guardsman?

  Knots of soldiers slowly re-form their ranks. A party of horsemen gallops headlong toward us. Judging by their shields and armor, they must belong to my husband-to-be’s retinue. Rearing up beside me, one doffs his helm. His trimmed brown beard and shapely jaw remind me of my betrothed, but he appears to be a few years younger than Morgan. He has a similar build, but his eyes blaze hazel instead of gray. The nobleman bows with a fist clenched to his chest.

  “My lady, I am Prince Malcolm, the King’s younger brother. Did the Saxons lay a hand on you?”

  “Very nearly, my Prince, but all is well. Have you word of King Morgan?”

  “Only his orders to take you directly to Caerleon myself, and to keep you safe until his return.”

  Malcolm impatiently snaps his fingers before several serfs bring forward a new litter. So that’s where the first litter came from. Prince Malcolm must have remained behind to command the infantry while his elder brother rode ahead with all the horsemen. I start to politely protest, seeing all the trouble he goes to in bringing up another litter, but he shakes his head.

  “Ladies are fragile things, my Queen. Let men decide what is best and care for you.”

  Taken aback, my voice deserts me. Does he mean to compliment me or put me in my place? Too tired to argue, I acquiesce to his request and step into the litter. Four fresh servants lift me up. Malcolm waves them along, exasperated with the poor serfs no matter how fast they move. Although similar in looks, he has a haughtier temperament than his elder brother. Malcolm stops to examine the dozens of slain Saxons and Welshmen lying along the highway, the dusty track stained vermillion with pools of blood. It takes an effort for me not to retch. The Prince orders Ahern and more guardsmen to surround my litter. Malcolm remarks to himself and his men, probably thinking I cannot hear.

  “Look at the dead! The Saxons blocked up the road with fallen trees farther ahead, but the worst fighting was right here. This was no mere ambush. The Saxons were after something. They meant to take my brother’s Queen.”

  My skin goes cold. The litter lurches forward as the foot soldiers resume their march. My lips tremble, my nerves frayed from my first brush with death. The Saxon savages had me in their power. But how did they know I would be here? Just yesterday, I myself couldn’t have even imagined that I would be traveling the old coast road with the Hammer King’s army.

  If not for that swordsman Artagan, and his strange Welsh woodsmen, I might be a captive in some Saxon’s camp by now. Or worse. As I succumb to a fitful slumber, my litter bobs through the crowd of soldiers toward the castle strongholds of my husband’s kingdom. There I should be safe, at least for the time being.

  * * *

  I awake to the scent of soapy water and hot steam. My torn clothes have vanished and I lie naked on a pillowed cot. Warm vapors cloud the large, stone-walled room. I try to hide my nakedness with my bare hands. This seems like some strange dream. So much has happened in the last few days, nothing seems impossible now. Rising from my cot, I find a short hallway that ends at a window, offering me little in the way of escape. My pulse quickens as a soft breeze wafts through the archway. Green fields and a shimmering river loom several stories below. May the Virgin save me, I’m higher than a hawk! My palms sweat as I back away from the windowsill, still trying desperately to hide my private areas with two pillows from the adjacent bed.

  “I hope you don’t intend to take cushions into the bath with you, m’lady.”

  Startled, I turn around to find a young serving girl with her hands on her hips. Although she looks to be about my age, she stands a full head shorter than me. She points toward a large vat. The steaming waters fog my face as she gently strips me of my pillows and ushers me into the tub.

  “No need to hide God’s creations, m’lady. Just me here, and I gots them too. Call me Rowena.”

  At first I resist her hands, but the first shock of the heated water runs like wildfire through my flesh. I let out a heavy sigh as I sink up to my shoulders in the warm bathwater. All the weariness in my bones dissolves in the lavender-scent
ed tub. Rowena suds a brush with an ivory bar and soaps up my back. Whatever has befallen me, I have surely landed in paradise. Breathing in the warm steam, I stop Rowena’s brush with my hand.

  “Where am I? Is this a bathhouse?”

  Rowena cackles, resuming her scrubbing.

  “This is the castle of Caerleon. Prince Malcolm’s seat, m’lady.”

  “This isn’t my husband’s castle?”

  “Well, I suppose they all are, dearie, but the Prince garrisons this one and less than a day’s ride to the east lies the King’s castle at Caerwent. Have you ne’er been in the kingdom of South Wales before, Your Grace?”

  I give Rowena a sidelong glance. Our ways may seem odd to the Saxons and Romans, but we Welsh consider it a matter of pride that everyone from servants to kings may speak their minds freely. I’m sure our enemies would scoff and remark that our people’s free, independent-minded ways will doom us in the end. But take away that freedom and you take away what makes us Welsh.

  Rowena busies about the bath towels while I continue soaking up the hot waters of my tub. So this is the Kingdom of Gwent. I may never have journeyed more than a day’s ride from Dyfed before, but I’ve seen enough of maps to know that the twin castles of Caerleon and Caerwent lie at the heart of the Hammer King’s realm. Each stronghold stands about a day’s gallop apart within the southeast corner of Wales. With the advent of our marriage, Morgan’s fortresses of Caerleon and Caerwent will continue to shield South Wales as well as Dyfed from the Saxon invaders to the east.

  Rowena hums to herself after washing me down and toweling me off. Despite being about my age, her hands are rough as an old woman’s from working with lye soap. Her honey-brown locks lie piled atop her head in a fascinating chignon, which must be the current fashion for damsels in this part of Wales. The influence and styles of the ancient Romans run strongest in the castle towns of the South, or so my stepmother always says.