Between Two Fires Read online

  “I know it was you who stood by me and nursed me back to health, my lady. Although I could not stir to speak, I remember you hovering over me like a guardian angel.”

  “’Twas not just I, my King. My serving girl, Rowena, and Abbot Padraig watched over you as well.”

  “And they shall be rewarded, as shall you. Our betrothal has lasted long enough. You and I will wed tonight!”

  He squeezes my hand fondly. I find myself warm in the chest, both alarmed and excited at the suddenness of his declaration. The other South Welsh clerics protest all at once, their mingled voices decrying the King’s still feeble strength. Just to prove them wrong, the Hammer King puts both feet on the ground and drags his war-hammer toward him. Everyone takes a step back from his bed, the King grinning with a challenging look as he lifts his massive weapon. It clearly pleases him to see the others cower back from his sickbed. Even on his deathbed, a king must seem strong and invincible to his thanes. He turns to Padraig, pointing with his hammer.

  “Make the preparations, Abbot. What day is this?”

  “The day before Hallowmas, my liege. Well into autumn, and if memory serves, also the anniversary of Lady Branwen’s birth.”

  All eyes turn to me, making me squirm. What with all our labors and sleepless nights watching over the King, the number of days has slipped my mind. Today marks my seventeenth name day, and now it seems, the day in which I shall wed a king. Perhaps Morgan’s recent brush with death has made him impatient to hold me in holy wedlock. And so the first night of my marriage bed shall be in his brother’s castle at Caerleon.

  Ushering me from the room, Rowena plucks and prods me as she chitters away happily as a spring bluebird. Her expression oscillates between broad smiles and thoughtful frowns. Much work remains for us to do before the ceremony.

  Herded into one room after another, I acquiesce to her demands. Heated water for a fresh bath, crushed red ochre for my nails, beet juice to rouge my cheeks, and a buttermilk plaster for my already fair skin. Afterward, she slips me into a crepe and topaz gown, draping gold rings, silver bracelets, and a pearl necklace over me. I catch glimpses of myself in a bronze mirror as she stuffs wheat stalks and berries into my headdress. I can’t tell if I look like a beautiful bride or some kind of harvest goddess. Rowena gaily smoothes out the wrinkles in my gown as she makes last-minute alterations. Despite my approaching wedlock, I can’t help but dwell on thoughts of my birthday as well.

  On that fateful Hallowmas Eve night seventeen autumns ago, Father doubtlessly paced back and forth outside my mother’s solar, waiting to hear the first cries of his much-awaited son. Instead, he got me. Only once did he ever tell me of that night, and in an offhand way, while in one of his drunken reveries. He recalled the broad smile on my mother’s face the evening afterward, she belonging to the Old Tribes who prized daughters more over sons. A primitive custom, Father called it.

  The sun sets outside the castle. Rowena and the other women close up every shutter, bolt every external door, and turn every mirror to face the wall. All Hallows also marks the time when the spirit world crosses over into our own. A time when apparitions appear in the mists, and graveyards murmur with the revelries of those beyond the grave. Tonight, Rowena makes sure to turn in three circles and spit each time she crosses a threshold. Christian or no, some beliefs from the Old Tribes never die.

  In a way, I actually prefer to have my marriage on this night. Perhaps my mother herself will watch over me as her only daughter weds the greatest king of South Wales. Assuming the spiritual realm cares for the pains and joys of mortals anymore.

  When I reach the chapel in my new dress, my footsteps jingle with silver bracelets that bedeck my damask gown. I hide my trembling palms under my bouquet. Everything has happened so fast. Morgan seems a good man, but in so many ways the Hammer King remains a stranger to me.

  Morgan awaits me at the stone altar. He steadies himself on his upended war-hammer, using it like a makeshift cane. A broad smile creases his face, a bronze crown and several golden chains belying his otherwise plain linen tunic. Padraig stands beside him with a Bible in hand, the chapel crucifix peering down at all of us. A dozen witnesses join the quiet ceremony, Ahern and the clerics filtering into the pews. Rowena looms close by my side while Prince Malcolm stands at a respectful distance from his brother.

  As I approach the sacristy, I admit that this is not at all the way I envisioned royal marriages. No laborious ceremony, flower petals, or throngs of cheering onlookers throwing grains and chaff. The simplicity of the ceremony makes me breathe easier, as though an iron weight has lifted from my shoulders. Boisterous crowds have never much appealed to me. Tonight the chapel sounds quiet as a monastic library. Just my groom and me, a few witnesses, and God.

  Morgan smiles as he takes my hand. Padraig turns to the altar and invokes the Almighty in Latin, the language of long-ago Rome. I know the tongue from all my reading lessons in the Abbot’s care. Brother Padraig turns to Morgan and asks for the rings. Only when Morgan hesitates do I realize the King doesn’t speak Latin. I gently whisper to him in Welsh.

  “If you have a token, my King, you may present it now.”

  He pats my hand, seemingly pleased at both my translation and my discretion, even in front of so small an audience. Morgan pulls out a pair of golden rings and slips one onto his finger and the other on mine. Its golden heft weighs heavy upon my hand. Padraig makes the final incantation in the air, spreading sweet-smelling incense. Before I know it, Morgan has his lips on mine, his brown beard tickling my cheeks. With a single kiss, I am now made a queen.

  Our guests smile as they offer congratulations. Morgan and I soon find ourselves alone in his brother’s private chambers, set aside just for us tonight. I keep my gaze to the floor, feigning interest at cracks in the limestone tiles. I’ve only vague notions of what to do next. I fold my palms, wiping the perspiration from my fingers.

  Morgan kisses me on the neck, his hands gentle as they unlace my gown. I gasp at the cold touch of his skin against mine, unused to pressing myself so closely to another. His heavy thighs soon find mine on the bed, our kisses and tongues mingling until I can’t tell him from me. A fiery pain pierces me to the core and I cry out against my will. Morgan stops.

  “Are you all right?”

  I rightly don’t know how to answer him. Despite the mingled pleasure and pain, I nod and we continue.

  Before I know it, the consummation ends and Morgan snores in the darkness beside me. He proves himself to be a gentle lover, if somewhat hasty in the bedchamber. I toss and turn beside him, feeling the bedsheet wet beneath me. So the deed is done. For some reason I blink back water in my eyes. I am a woman now, a wife, and a queen.

  * * *

  We ride into Caerwent the next day at the head of a procession of mounted knights and an endless train of foot soldiers. Morgan did not wish to waste any time getting to his capital, and after the rumors of his purported death, he needs his subjects to see their leader alive and well. Thousands of inhabitants line the roadway to greet us, cheering and waving while Morgan and I ride side by side atop a pair of tall mounts. I wince in the saddle, my thighs still sore from last night, but I wave and smile at the cheering crowds, pretty as a painting. My featherheaded stepmother would be proud.

  The local maidens wear long skirts and bonnets, whereas the men have hose breeches and woolen shirts. A far cry from the tartans my kinsfolk prefer in Dyfed or the skins and furs of the Free Cantref Welsh. Morgan has his full armor on, shining like a polished silver coin. I canter beside him in a pure white garb like the virgin I no longer am.

  Caerwent’s tall towers loom before us. Red-tile-roofed homes crowd the streets, and stone chapels surround the old Roman amphitheater. The fortress walls themselves stand much taller and broader than those at Caerleon. Their stone bastions bear pockmarks from fire and battering rams. Caerwent is a base of war first and a settlement second. No doubt, the fortress has seen many sieges in its time.

  As we
enter through the western gates, red banners hang above every tower, window ledge, and archway. The crimson dragon standard of the Hammer King’s realm flies everywhere. Only when the iron grating of the gates closes with a thud behind us do I realize I have arrived at my new home. A prickly sensation rises along my scalp. These lofty towers and gray stone keeps will never let me out.

  Shaking such childish thoughts from my head, I dismount in the main courtyard between the outer defenses and the interior halls. High above, pikemen patrol the upper embrasures, keeping watch over the East Marches. Rowena accompanies me as Morgan and Malcolm lead us to our new accommodations. My serving maid beams with rosy cheeks, sporting a new dun-colored dress. She is now my permanent lady-in-waiting, a wedding gift from my new brother-in-law, Prince Malcolm.

  Wide stone arches reinforced with wood support the interior halls. The sheer volume of these cathedral-like interiors takes my breath away. I recall reading in ancient monastic annals that the bulk of all South Welsh castle walls were laid down by the Romans centuries ago. Unfortunately, our people no longer know how to erect such monstrous stone battlements anymore. One of many arts lost to our wise men since the coming of the barbaric Saxons. Even though Father calls our hill fort in Dyfed a castle, it seems like little more than some rocky walls and wooden palisades compared to the majesty of Caerwent. I run my hand along the cool interior bulwarks, touching worn inscriptions carved by heroes and knights long dead. Only fragments of chiseled words within the stone remain. SPQR. AP ARTHUR. CYMRY.

  With arms spread, Morgan presents his pride and joy within the castle. His throne room, or atrium as he calls it in the old Roman fashion. A large, circular chamber several stories above the heart of the complex, it has tall open archways that overlook the greens and rivers beyond the city walls. Our footsteps echo off the whitewashed pillars and polished marble floors. Miniature statues of Arthurian knights carved into the stone columns look down at us like silent sentinels. Only the twittering birds reach us this high above the city floor. At the center of the room stands a pair of thrones, one large chair of black schist and another, smaller seat made of cream limestone. Morgan pats the smaller stone chair.

  “I had it installed before I set out for your hand in Dyfed. Give it a try, my Queen.”

  I flash Rowena a wry, sidelong glance before reaching out for the limestone chair. Cold to the touch, I recline in it as I would a pool of water. Once in the seat, the entire atrium seems dwarfed beneath me, save for the King’s seat to my right. I tap my slippers against the base of my perch, betraying a giddy smile. My very own throne.

  A child comes running into the throne room, a young boy with dirty-blond locks. No more than ten years old. At first I think the youth one of the serving staff until I notice his silken collar and well-tailored tunic. The child leaps up into Morgan’s arms.

  “Father!”

  The room suddenly contracts as though I stare down a long narrow tunnel. Nothing but Morgan and this little boy stand at the end of it. The child glances at me suspiciously. How could I have been so naïve? Morgan has ten years on me. I should have expected he would know women and have sired heirs of his own. Did Father know of Morgan’s young son when he betrothed me to the Hammer King? Of all the possible outcomes that could befall me, I never envisioned myself as someone’s stepmother. And at seventeen years of age no less. Instead of being the put-upon child, I am the strange new woman in the household. My palms begin to sweat.

  Morgan ushers the child forward, the boy sliding reluctantly toward me. He has the King’s straight nose and regal jaw, but the yellowish hair must come from the mother, whomever she was. Morgan ruffles the boy’s hair.

  “Allow me to present my son, Arthwys. My only son and heir to the throne of South Wales.”

  Arthwys, a Welsh variant of Arthur. By the time this boy grows up, his father may very well have made him the next King Arthur of a united people. Still seated, I bow from my throne toward the boy. He forces a crooked smile, glancing up at his father as he hides behind the King’s frock. My own smile must look equally forced.

  Across the atrium, Prince Malcolm folds his arms as he smirks at me and the boy in our first encounter. My brother-in-law is actually enjoying my discomfort for some reason. Why, I cannot imagine, but he only flashes his eerie grin when his elder brother’s back is turned. His brief sneer quickly evaporates into his usual smile, and I wonder for a moment whether I simply imagined it.

  King Morgan soon excuses the boy. Arthwys bounds away into the arms of a serving woman, eyeing me warily as the lady ushers him out of the throne room. Morgan folds his hands behind his back, frowning thoughtfully.

  “Let’s show you to our solar.”

  Morgan and Malcolm walk ahead to a set of turret stairs. They climb the steps before I’ve even risen from my limestone seat. Rowena hangs back with me, keeping her voice low.

  “His previous queen perished in childbirth last winter. They’ve only the one boy. I thought you knew, m’lady.”

  “Evidently, there is much my father did not tell me.”

  “Look at the silver lining, m’lady. With a male heir, the King’s less likely to set you aside should you not produce a son soon enough.”

  Her words cut me as deeply as they comfort. True, Morgan has a son, and feels secure in his heir. But he will doubtlessly expect more children before long.

  My skin turns uncomfortably hot. Some lords set their wives aside if no heir comes forth during their marriage. Such sonless marriages of noblemen the Church annuls, leaving the king free to seek a new wife. There are no ex-queens. Either childbirth kills them or a nunnery accepts them, and never do they venture out into the world again. The very walls of the castle suddenly seem to close in on me as we ascend the staircase. I’ve not been wed yet a day and already all eyes watch my womb for any sign of quickening.

  Lush burgundy pillows cover an expansive curtained mattress inside the bedchamber. A warm fire in the hearth illuminates a tabletop full of pewter plates, silver carafes, and fresh bread. Rowena and I sit at the benches, filling our bellies after our long ride. With fresh wine in my goblet and warm bread in my stomach, I can finally stretch my limbs after having spent hours in the saddle. Morgan and Malcolm seem to have forgotten us entirely, the two brothers giving one another stern looks as they converse across the room. Morgan leans in close to his brother, nearly beard to beard.

  “Impossible! How could the Saxons have known where my bride would be on the road?”

  “Isn’t it obvious, King Brother? We have a spy in our midst.”

  “No Welshman would spy for the Saxons.”

  “But not all Welshmen wish us well, and might let the Saxons do their dirty work for them.”

  Morgan shoots me a glance across the room. Pretend as we might, Rowena and I keep our eyes to our food even though we now hang on every word between the two men. Morgan lets out a heavy sigh.

  “Then we’ve only one choice,” he begins. “To call a gathering of rulers here at court.”

  “You mean to invite the North Welsh and those of the Free Cantref folk inside our walls?”

  “Better to have our rivals close where we can keep an eye on them. We’ll propose a united alliance against the Saxons, all Welsh kingdoms acting as one.”

  “Psh!” Malcolm scoffs. “They’ll never agree to such a thing!”

  “Of course not, but by their words and looks, we might discern which of them betrayed us.”

  Both men look one another over, their gazes meeting in agreement. These princes have clearly dealt with deceptive foes before, both on the battlefield and in the shadows of courtly intrigue. Mesmerized by Morgan’s cool, calculating logic, I wish I had such insight into the hearts of others. With the two lords of South Wales more at ease, I venture to add my own thoughts.

  “Perhaps the Welsh are ready to unite with us. After all, it was a band of warriors from the Free Cantrefs who saved me the day the Saxons attacked my litter on the King’s Road.”

  T
he two men exchange looks, but I carry on nonetheless.

  “Their leader called himself Artagan. He seemed a self-assured sort of man, and he had a message for you.”

  “Artagan Blacksword?” Morgan replies, raising a dark eyebrow.

  “Artagan. Yes, that was it. He told me you now owe him for having saved your bride.”

  Morgan brings his fist down onto the tabletop so hard it cracks one of the wooden planks. Rowena and I jump back in our seats, spilling wine and bread crumbs across the floor. He leans in close to me, the Hammer King’s voice graver than I have ever heard it before.

  “I put a price on that blackguard’s head not two summers ago for stealing my cattle and women’s virtue! You’re telling me that I owe this outlaw anything?”

  It takes me a moment to shake my head. Whatever my husband’s history with this man, I have a prickly intuition that he does not tell me all. Nonetheless, his stern face has taught me an abrupt lesson. No matter the circumstance, never mention the name Artagan Blacksword in the King’s presence ever again. A thief and a violator of women? So much for the warrior who saved me from the Saxon savages. Prince Malcolm smirks in the corner, though whether at me or his brother, I cannot tell.

  “Looks like we know the man who betrayed us?” Malcolm remarks.

  “Call the gathering anyway,” Morgan replies. “We’ll learn more secrets if we get all of these snakes into one room together.”

  Both the King and Prince leave the chamber. Rowena and I pick up the pieces of splintered wood and chipped crockery. Wise as Morgan and Malcom may be, they have failed to ask one very important question. If this brigand Artagan Blacksword really meant me harm, why did he spare me? Why save me from the Saxons? It nettles my thoughts like a splinter in my mind. Why, indeed.

  4

  His hand lies across my naked skin. Morgan rolls over in his sleep as the first sliver of sunlight cuts across our bedsheets. Over the past few weeks, the King has come to my bed with the predictability of a water clock. Around sundown each evening, his caresses and lips rise pleasingly over my body before he loosens his belt and takes me to the bed. His ardor matches his efficiency and within a few dozen lightning strokes he dispatches with his kingly duty for the night. Sleep comes upon him quite suddenly afterward, but I find myself lying awake and staring up at the scarlet canopy of our bedstead. My courses have come upon me this morning and I have hidden the towels in my chamber pot. Once the servants clean out my toiletries, the news will doubtlessly disseminate throughout the castle. Another moon passes and the Queen has not yet conceived.