Between Two Fires (17 page)

Down past the main gatehouse, a small band of soldiers marches out past the fortress walls. Several animals whinny in their midst. My eyes widen. Even from atop my tower solar, I would recognize those shaggy beasts anywhere. Mountain ponies.

Red-caped guardsmen back away from the mares, revealing a handful of men in furs and soiled green tunics. The prisoners! I lean halfway out the window, straining my eyes. Even from a distance, I can make out purple welts along their skin. The guards have not dealt easily with them. One by one, the men in green mount their ponies, but not one of them has the flowing dark hair or the longsword of Artagan.

The riders gallop toward the woods, leering back over their shoulders at the men-at-arms of Caerwent as they go. I wipe the drizzle from my brows, straining to see. Artagan is definitely not among them. But why would Morgan let his other companions go? Even Emryus, Keenan, and the she-warrior were released. My brows narrow as an iciness seizes my chest. My husband must have kept Artagan for some ulterior purpose.

Or else Artagan is already dead.

 

PART TWO

A.D.
598

 

8

By midwinter, I know I am with child. After weeks of confinement, Morgan allows me to join him for meals and walks about the grounds. He even visits my bed at night again. More frequently now especially since my bosom has filled out, heavy with milk for our coming son. My husband says he
knows
it will be a boy. I leave such divining to him. Only two moons have passed since I last had my courses, but every servant in the castle treats me like I am already nine months gone with child. Anticipation for another heir to the kingdom reverberates in every whispered conversation when I enter a room.

The toll of the bell tower calls me to supper. Una guides me down the winding stairwell by candlelight, my steps no longer guarded by anyone other than Ahern. He nods my way as he stands at attention, stoic as always when on duty. Crossing the castle toward the King's solar, I pass Rowena in the central portico. She stoops beside me, pretending to rearrange a bundle of folded linens. I lean down beside her, also pretending to help with the fallen sheets. We whisper without looking one another in the eye.

“What news?” I ask.

“He lives, m'lady.”

“You certain?”

“Saw him me'self. He fares well enough, though the dungeons grow mighty frigid this time of year.”

My skin runs cold, thinking of the deprivations he must suffer only a few rods beneath my feet. But at least Artagan lives. In reward for saving my life, he now rots in a prison cell, while I dine with his captors. I clench my jaw. Justice runs short within the walls of Caerwent these days.

Several of the Bishop's clerics pass, murmuring their evening vespers under their breath. Rowena and I pause, forcing ourselves to smile as she piles the spilled linens back into her basket, both of us pretending ours was but a chance meeting. Una clears her throat behind us.

Prince Malcolm watches us across the gallery. Rowena and Una leave me, trying to seem casual about it. We dare not risk saying any more while Malcolm lurks within earshot. Malcolm blocks my path to the King's solar. Morgan and Arthwys await us, sitting at table for a private dinner.

Malcolm ogles my serving girls as they depart. His eyes linger far too long on my low-cut gown, the cups of flesh once insignificant now proving increasingly difficult to hide. A prickly sensation rises along my spine as he leans down beside my ear.

“You look well, dear sister-in-law. How fare your servant girls of late?”

So the young rooster still watches the hens in my coop. I ball my fists beneath the folds of my azure gown, feeling undressed by his wandering eye. Summoning every ounce of poise I can, I smile cordially back at him.

“We all do well, my Prince. And what latest news have you from your betrothed in Cornwall?”

Malcolm's gaze darkens. I pretend not to notice his displeasure as we enter the small dining hall. Rumors of his betrothed heiress suggest she possesses as much girth as her landed inheritance. The heralds call her Lady Cordelia, but the peasant minstrels nickname her the Round Baroness. Her belt supposedly stretches long enough to saddle a horse. A great political match, engineered by Malcolm's elder brother, but surely a bitter draught to swallow for the self-proclaimed rake of Caerleon. The Prince says nothing, sitting at the far end of the table while King Morgan and Arthwys rise to greet me.

Servants fill our table with roast duck, beef stew, and enough warm bread to silence the growling in all our stomachs. Once the last serving woman retires, Morgan asks Arthwys to shut the door. The little boy does so before taking his place silently at his father's side. Morgan speaks without taking his attention from his food.

“Your appetite looks well, my Queen. Keep Arthwys's little brother well fed in the womb.”

“I intend to, my King. Although I am not so very far along as of yet. I read to him, though.”

“To the child inside you? I wonder what he hears.”

“Abbot Padraig lends me books. Histories, poetry, and scripture. Tales of the Old Tribes.”

Malcolm paws at his food across the table, looking past me toward his brother.

“No good comes from a woman filling her head with rubbish. The Old Tribes are dead.”

“I've blood of the Old Tribes,” I reply to Malcolm. “They live on in Dyfed and the Free Cantrefs. Even here.”

“Well, we do our best to breed them out.”

He and Morgan chuckle, little Arthwys following suit. I savage my bread with a table knife, ignoring all of them. Am I just a relic of barbarous heritage? Something to be diluted until less than a trace remains?

Let my husband and brother-in-law laugh. Padraig's books tell of a proud people, tribesmen and tribeswomen of the Celts who resisted the Romans. Despite the influx of Romans, Picts, and churchmen, the Welsh people themselves are still Celts to the core. The peasants in every realm have the dark locks and fair skin of the Old Tribes even if many of our nobility now have light-colored hair from centuries of invaders. Our Celtic ancestors possessed a rugged, independent spirit, a sense of honesty and honor that many subsequent conquerors of our island lacked. And the Old Tribes knew how to respect their women.

Laugh as they may, even Morgan and Malcolm's blood, peppered though it may be with Romans, still originates with the first tribes of Wales. They have forgotten who they are and where their people come from. But I do not.

Morgan and Malcolm relax. It always makes men in a good mood to put a woman down. I run a finger around the rim of my chalice as the brothers drink deeper into their cups.

They ruminate over their latest troubles, as only privileged nobles can. I half-listen, stabbing my food. Morgan put down a peasant revolt in the westernmost province of his kingdom, the serfs there beset by famine and disinclined to provide their yearly harvest tithes to the King. The Hammer King of course changed their minds, with a hundred mounted knights and an iron fist.

I sip from my goblet, trying to keep my food down. It turns my stomach to think that while I went on a peaceful mission to the Dean Fort, my husband was busy trampling villagers without a kernel of grain to their name. Is this the same man who came to fetch my hand from Dyfed less than a year ago? He certainly lives up to his namesake as the Hammer King. When Morgan mentions pulling his troops out of the Dean Fort, my mind returns to the conversation.

“I'm sorry, my King. Did you say you removed soldiers from the Dean Fort?”

“I only sent men there in the first place to rescue you, not to save a single outpost.”

“But you sent me there as an envoy when Lord Griffith requested reinforcements.”

Morgan levels me with his gaze. I swallow hard, suddenly understanding his meaning.

“You sent me there simply to buy time,” I realize aloud. “You never intended to aid Griffith at all.”

“If I send reinforcements every time he begs for help, the Saxons won't attack him. I want the Saxons to waste their manpower on a worthless holdfast like the Dean Fort. Lord Griffith fights best when cornered, and behind their walls his men kill three Saxons for every Welshman we lose. It's simple numbers. The Saxons have more and we won't beat them by playing nice.”

It takes an effort to chew my bread as I try to hide my dismay.

“But you play with a man's life,” I argue. “Griffith is loyal to you. You'd sacrifice him just to weaken your foes?”

“A king must make such decisions if he wishes to keep his throne.”

Morgan downs another horn of wine, watching me closely. Even after a few bottles, he still has keener wits than anyone in the room. No wonder he is such a powerful warlord.

Heat rises in my chest as I clench my fists under the table where no one can see. My own husband used me as a pawn. I'm not sure what's worse, the fact that he lied to me or that he'd sacrifice Griffith. Or that he's locked Artagan in the dungeons. And I'm to have a child with this man? My gaze narrows on Morgan. He has yet to bring up that which continues to irk me most.

“Do you not find it odd, husband, that the Dean Fort was attacked mere hours after I arrived?”

“Not odd at all. The spy we've been trying to sniff out must have alerted the Saxons of your presence.”

“But who?”

“Isn't it obvious? The Blacksword.”

I do a double blink, barely keeping my rising voice in check.

“Preposterous! Sir Artagan kills Saxons, he doesn't sell them information.”

Morgan eyes me like I'm a foolish dolt.

“I've had him locked up how long now? And not one single attempt has been made on your life in that time nor has anyone tried to kidnap you since. It's him, my Queen. Trust me.”

I don't believe my ears. Artagan rescued me from the Saxons when he could have easily turned me over to them. For all his cunning, Morgan has let his personal hatred of the Blacksword cloud his judgment. The spy, the traitor in our midst, is still out there.

Before I can think of a reply, Malcolm interrupts by drubbing the tabletop with his fist. He aims a finger at his elder brother.

“We ought to hang the Blacksword and be done with it! Why do we wait, brother?”

Morgan sits stiffly in his chair. Neither brother has spoken of Artagan in my presence for many weeks. I down another mouthful of wine, trying to pretend I don't hang on every word. The last time I openly defended Sir Artagan, I got locked in a tower. I feign interest in my food as Morgan leans across the table toward his brother.

“You know why he lives. I set his men free to tell Cadwallon I hold his bastard son hostage.”

“You mean to bind Cadwallon in an alliance, using his son as bait?”

“Very good, brother.”

“But Cadwallon is prideful, he'll never bend the knee to us.”

“He doesn't have to. So long as I hold the Blacksword prisoner I have leverage on Cadwallon.”

Malcolm scoffs. Morgan stares him down with a frosty gaze.

“Artagan dies when
I
say, little brother, and not before. His time will come.”

“So long as he never leaves the dungeons alive.”

Malcolm belches and excuses himself from his seat. Morgan gives me a sidelong glance before dismissing all of us for the evening. We adjourn from our meal, each returning to our separate chambers.

My mind whirls as I stumble back toward my solar. The only thing keeping Artagan alive is his use as a chess piece against his powerful father, King Cadwallon. So long as Morgan holds Artagan in the dungeons, Cadwallon will not risk open war with South Wales. That would relieve Morgan's need for soldiers guarding the border with the Free Cantrefs. Men my husband could use against the Saxons. I don't know whether to congratulate the Hammer King for his statesmanship or slap him for his cunning. My husband truly is a ruthless chess player.

The bile turns bitter in the back of my throat, my skin suddenly hot. How have I become the slave-wife of such a man? A killer of defenseless villagers, a plotter of death, a man cold as iron. What kind of seed will such a man spawn inside me? My stomach churns as though a tiny dragon inhabits it.

I pause at the foot of the turret stairs, lost in thought. Most of the castle occupants have already gone to bed, leaving the hallways deserted. Only Ahern lingers nearby, still dutifully on watch outside my room. His gaze narrows.

“Are you ill, my Queen?”

“Ahern, do you ever feel like a pawn amidst a game of kings?”

“I'm not much of a chess player. But even a pawn can threaten a king, is that not so?”

“I no longer trust kings, not even my own husband. He seemed kind when we first met, but now the darkness in his heart becomes all too clear. He is the worst sort of villain, the kind that knows how to smile.”

Ahern glances from side to side, making sure we stand alone in the deserted hallway.

“My lady, you are with child now, perhaps it has aggravated your fears.”

I stomp my foot, my voice rising.

“My mind is sound, Ahern! I know what I'm saying. I should have listened to my heart long ago.”

He bows, almost shrinking before me.

“I apologize, my lady. What does your heart tell you now?”

I shake my head. My heart asks the impossible, but how can I tell Ahern that? I hardly dare admit to myself what my own heart tells me anymore. How it wishes to flee this castle and the king who keeps me caged here. Such dreams are folly. I let out a heavy sigh.

“Morgan is only one problem. Three attempts have been made on my life. Two by Saxons and one by an assassin. Next time, I may not be so fortunate.”

“Then you need a powerful man like King Morgan to protect you from such foes.”

“And who will protect me from Morgan? God, if only I were a man, free to choose my own way!”

“If you were a man, Morgan would lock you in the dungeon instead of a plush tower.”