Between Two Fires (25 page)

“My heart is willing, but my love blossoms at its own pace. It's been trampled on so much before, it needs time and room to grow.”

Artagan lowers his gaze and nods. He'd risk life and limb for me, but restraining his love is a bitter draught for him to swallow. He fakes a smile and kisses my forehead as he embraces me. I linger as long as I can inside his strong arms, listening to his beating heart. Caressing his brow, I tilt my face up toward him for another kiss, this one long and sweet. A knock comes from the door.

“Blacksword, are you in there?”

Enid pounds on the door. Artagan rolls his eyes and puts a finger to his lips. He murmurs in my ear.

“She's like an old mother hen. I best go out the back entrance.”

He throws a leg over the windowsill. I stifle a laugh, still in my towel as I try to pull him back from the ledge. It's a long drop and he'll probably twist an ankle hopping out of my bedchamber window. Little does he guess, Enid doesn't concern herself so much with my own safety as she does with keeping Artagan and I pried apart. Halfway out the window, Artagan and I giggle as our arms entwine. Enid opens the door with Ahern right behind her. The warrior-woman freezes, her mouth ajar. Only Ahern manages to stutter a reply.

“We heard a struggle, my lady. Blacksword … what's the meaning of this?”

“At ease, kinsman,” I reply. “I'll admit whom I wish to my chambers.”

Enid frowns, glaring at Artagan.

“Evidently, you'll admit just about anyone.”

Glaring back at her, I put both hands on my hips. How bitter she has become of late. Artagan laughs it all off, coming back into the room from the window ledge.

“They're just mad that I snuck by both of them. No secrets in this household.”

Artagan gives me a peck on the cheek before excusing himself. He walks out the doorway, past Ahern and Enid unabashed. No secrets indeed. If the villagers of Cadwallon's Keep are anything like the servants of Caerwent, word will have reached every corner of the castle before noon. The runaway queen and the renegade knight, sneaking kisses behind closed doors. Just wait until rumor of this reaches Morgan in South Wales.

A shudder runs through me. The memory of his wrathful eyes watching me flee Caerwent all those nights ago flashes into my mind. The Hammer King is not the sort of man to rest until he gets even.

My cheeks sting as though I stand between two fires. Morgan's wrath burns on one side and Artagan's love on the other. Always, always I live in the space between two all-consuming flames. Saxons try to destroy my world from without, and traitors try to destroy it from within. And all the while I must decide whether I can save my people and yet still remain true to the desires of my own heart. Between two fires, indeed.

Ahern takes up his post outside my door, but Enid remains in the room. I can tell she wants to share a piece of her mind with me, and my experience thus far suggests that people of the Free Cantrefs seem even more inclined to share their minds than most. I turn my back to her, dressing behind a screen. Her voice is cold as ice.

“If your presence didn't bring war upon us before, courting Cadwallon's son certainly will.”

“Conflict is inevitable. You don't know King Morgan or my father like I do. They'd have clashed with your people's kingdom sooner or later. I'm just the excuse.”

Uttering these words, I realize the truth in them for the first time. Even if I played the mild lamb and remained in Caerwent, Cadwallon would never have bent his knee to the Hammer King. Morgan always planned to deal with the Blacksword's people sooner or later. But Enid's anger is more personal, and we both know it has nothing to do with wars or kings. She grimaces.

“Have your fun while you can. It matters not. Artagan is betrothed to Lady Olwen.”

Half-clothed, I spin around on my heel and glare at her over the screen. Before I can call her a liar, her level gaze silences me. There is no falsehood in her. She turns and goes, leaving me alone with my churning stomach.

The rainfall outside my window subsides.

Lady Olwen? The Welsh Venus I met at the gathering back in Caerwent all those moons ago, a dark-haired beauty with violet eyes. I knew she looked upon Artagan with more than friendly knowing, but a betrothal? How could I have been so blind? Of course. Her father, King Urien, rules in the more northerly Free Cantrefs around Powys. An alliance between him and Cadwallon via their children would strengthen the Free Cantrefs against their enemies, both Saxon and Welsh. Balling my fists at my sides, I stomp through the halls of the keep, searching for the Blacksword.

In the fortress yard, a few dozen warriors dressed in green saddle their ponies. Keenan and Emryus number among them, stringing their longbows and stuffing their packs with provisions. Evidently some gathering of men is afoot. What else goes on these days that I don't know about? My garments are only half-fastened in place, my shoulder bare and my hair let down. More than a few warriors pause to look my way. Artagan laughs beside his mount, sharing a joke with his comrades as he preps Merlin. He smiles with surprise when I corner him.

“My lady?”

“Don't you ‘my lady' me! Is it true? Your betrothal?”

The grin vanishes from his lips. His companions give him a wide berth. He glances over my shoulder at Enid, who stands beneath the eaves of the inner courtyard with her spear in hand. Artagan clenches his jaw, giving her a look that could curdle milk. I cannot help from seeing red. I need to hear it from his lips one way or the other. I want the truth.

“Answer me!”

“Branwen, you have my heart. The rest matters little now. I've no intention of going through with it.”

“Does your father know that?”

“He will. No one can make me wed against my will.”

“How easy it is then to be a man instead of a woman! What happens when your heart changes? Lady Olwen is a good match for you.”

“Branwen, why do you talk like this? You know my heart.”

“Yet you did not see fit to tell me about this small, little wife-to-be of yours? I've seen her beauty myself. The two of you should be quite happy together!”

Turning to go, tears well up behind my eyes. To think how close I came to letting my guard down with Artagan. His charm, his looks, all of it just a façade. Artagan growls at Enid, chasing after me as I return to my room. He grabs my wrist. The two of us struggle over the threshold before Ahern pushes himself between us.

“I believe the lady wishes to be left alone,” my brother says in a stern voice.

Artagan shouts over Ahern's shoulder.

“Branwen, just listen! Please!”

I slam the door and press my back against it. Slumping down to the floor, I bury my face in my hands. Is there not one good nobleman left in all Wales? Father sold me like a heifer to Morgan who in turn planned to use me like a broodmare. Artagan alone seemed like a man with some sense of honor, and now I find him no better than the others. How long might he have led me on before he threw me over for his beautiful heiress waiting in the wings? Olwen! I never thought I could dislike a woman more than I did that village girl Ria, but the temptress of King Urien's court has outdone even her. Hugging my legs to my chest, I lie still a long while. I am done with being a plaything for men.

Someone knocks on my door. Rising to my feet, I smooth the folds out of my gown. Rowena's voice murmurs through the door frame.

“Your Grace, can I do anything for you this morn?”

“Assemble yourself and the others in the courtyard, Rowena. We're leaving.”

“Leaving, m'lady?”

“You and Una must gather provisions. Have Ahern and Padraig saddle the horses.”

Even with the door still shut between us, I sense the hesitation in her steps before she leaves. I rest my forehead against the wooden door. Half the world turns against me and the other half would sell me back to my husband to save their own skins. I clench my fist, banging it against the wood. I'll be damned if I spend another night under this roof! I never wish to hear mention of the name “Blacksword” ever again.

Outside, Ahern gathers the horses. Rowena and Una stand dutifully by their mares while Padraig frowns. The Abbot seems disturbed, but at least he has the good grace not to openly question me. Bystanders all along the inner keep silently watch us as my thanes mount up. Ahern leans down from the saddle.

“Take my horse, my Queen. We only brought four with us, and haven't a spare steed.”

“Then take one of mine,” a voice interrupts.

Cadwallon steps forward and hands me the reins of a mountain pony. He shrugs.

“She's small, but sturdy if you know how to handle her. The mare's name is Gwenhwyfar.”

His sudden generosity stops up my throat, and my resolve to leave almost falters. Almost. Nonetheless, I repeat the name of the shaggy, cream-and-dapple mare under my breath. “Gwenhwyfar.” A queenly Welsh mare indeed. I bow toward Cadwallon.

“Thank you, generous King. I've come to prefer mountain ponies.”

“I would that you preferred mountain people a bit more. It saddens me to see you leave us.”

He glances out the wide-open keep gates. Thirty-odd warriors decked in green depart through the open pastures. Artagan and his companions number among them. Their ponies whicker as gray storm clouds spread across the sky. The Blacksword gazes back at the keep before spurring his stallion forward. Enid brings up the rear of the company as they descend into the thickening mists. A tremor runs down my spine, as though I've just glimpsed Artagan and his warriors for the last time. Cadwallon helps me into the saddle.

“My troops must patrol the East Marches. The war season has begun, but the Saxons have been quiet. Nonetheless, I pray you take caution wherever you go, Lady Branwen. You are always welcome under my roof.”

“Thank you for your shelter and hospitality, King Cadwallon. If only other men were as generous and honorable as you.”

I lean down from my mare and give him a kiss on the cheek. The round monarch blushes until his cheeks match the color of his thinning red hair. He waves and watches us go.

Villagers line the greens to see us off, silently bowing or kneeling before me. Fighting the urge to reach out and touch them, my heart contracts as I recognize the familiar faces I've come to know over the past moons. Farmwives, milkmaids, and herdswomen cross themselves in reverence, some with newborns in their arms. What did I do to deserve the love of such honest, hardworking people? How odd I must seem atop my stout pony, a full head shorter than my follower's mounts. But the people of the Free Cantrefs respect their wild mountain ponies and only seem to look on me more as their true
Mab Ceridwen
. It almost makes me smile. Fairy Queen indeed.

Once out of earshot of the village and keep, Ahern rides beside me.

“Where do we make for, my Queen?”

“I'd hoped to go to the ruins of Aranrhod. I went there once … once before.”

Nearly breaking my own rule about mentioning Artagan's name, I cannot lie to myself. We once went there together when we fled my husband's realm. Ahern and the others exchange pale looks at my mention of Aranrhod. Padraig sidles up beside me.

“That place is haunted, Your Grace. Surely, we can find refuge with the living instead.”

“There is one other place, a fool's hope, but our last hope nonetheless. We could go to the Dean Fort.”

The Abbot grimaces, but Ahern and my serving girls do not look quite as subdued or pale. I purposely mentioned Aranrhod first, knowing that if I suggested the Dean Fort outright, it would scare them just as much. Now with the choice being between ghosts and the living, the Dean Fort suddenly doesn't sound so bad. Nonetheless, in my heart the misty crags of Aranrhod still call to me with my mother's voice. Perhaps I might go there again someday. Perhaps, but not today. Padraig alone speaks up.

“Your Grace, the Dean Fort is not much better. Lord Griffith is still King Morgan's vassal.”

“Griffith is a good man. He will shelter us.”

“Only before returning you to your husband. Is that what you want, Branwen? He will have no other choice.”

Turning to Padraig, I halt my mount.

“We have no other choice. This is the last alternative left open to us.”

“We should've stayed at Cadwallon's Keep. I'm sure you have your reasons, my child, but your decisions of late seem rather hasty and ill-advised. It's not too late to turn back.”

“Go your own way if you wish! I've made my choice. We make for the Dean Fort.”

Padraig grimaces, stung by my words as he silently keeps pace. I dig my heels into the flanks of my mare as our tiny cavalcade bolts forward into the woods. Damn my quick tongue. I've crossed words with the only man who has ever been a real father to me. The wise cleric who gave me a love of books and taught me everything I know. Even he doubts me now. I turn to apologize for my harshness, but he has already let his steed drop several lengths behind in order to avoid talking to me. Dear God, what have I done? The path before me seems so twisted and dark.

The five of us ride on in silence throughout the rest of the day. Although we've no proper guide, I've ridden enough in the East Marches to know that once we come upon the River Sabrina, we need only follow it south until we reach the Dean Fort. Depending on where we find the river, we will undoubtedly come upon Ria's village halfway through our journey.

Will Ria smile smugly when she sees me riding alone with no Blacksword to accompany me? Perhaps I'm being unfair. Does she know of Artagan's betrothal? Would she even care if she did? She seems content to have Artagan's babies whether he ties the knot with her or not. Riding harder through the thick woods, I grit my teeth and resolve not to think on either of them.

At nightfall, we bivouac in a woodland glade. Rowena and Una try to keep my mind off my troubles, playfully disagreeing about the best way to cook rabbit stew in a cauldron in the middle of the woods. As they stir the pot for our evening supper, I stoke the flames with wood chips. Ahern stands watch by the tree line while Padraig immerses himself in his books, not once glancing up from the page. My courage fails me each time I try to work up the nerve to talk to him. Rarely have I seen the Abbot so cross. I've wounded him. Clergyman or no, he might curse me just as much as he'd accept my apology.