Between Two Fires (30 page)

Lady Olwen still lives. Somehow, she is the only soul inside the citadel without a speck of dust or smudge of blood on her. She sits atop one of the old towers and scrawls endlessly on parchment, attaching notes to messenger birds. She has sent out ravens since midnight, in all directions, but none have returned. The Saxons probably downed a few and roast them over their morning campfires now. Their glowing hearths surround us in a ring, smoke rising over their besieging armies.

Who could possibly come to our aid? My husband? My father? Even if they had half a mind to, would that really be a better fate than falling to the Saxons? No matter. Morgan and Father will not risk their precious armies to save the renegade Blacksword and a faithless queen.

I sit up on the floor of my chamber, unwilling to move any farther. Outside the window, Olwen's scratching quill murmurs from the opposite tower. Does she really intend to spend her last hours penning correspondence that no one will ever read? The Saxons will wipe their arses with it after they've reduced this place to ashes.

Artagan slumbers beside me, the two of us having spent the night side by side. Just two weary souls, curling beside one another for warmth. A faint moon lingers in the brightening sky. To think, in only a few short moons I should turn another year older. I never thought I would perish before my eighteenth birthday.

I get up to make my morning water. Artagan snores on the floor behind me, his clothes still torn and bloodied from last evening's fight. Down the stairwell, the mingled voices of giggling women catch my ears. Narrowing my brows, I stalk down the steps. At the foot of the stairs, three figures lie beneath blankets covering a nest of straw. My footsteps give them pause.

Keenan sheepishly looks up from beneath the coverlet, Una and Rowena on either side. Coloring from ear to ear, I leave with a nod. Their giggles reverberate up the turret steps after me. I certainly can't begrudge them. Let them find what happiness they can in the hours that remain to us. Perhaps I'm a fool not to do the same.

When I return to my bare chamber, Lady Olwen awaits me. I glance back at the stairs. How could she have snuck by me? These old towers must have secret passageways within. Olwen flashes a wry smile at my discomfort. Artagan still lies sleeping on the floor between us, his chest rising and falling with the peacefulness of a child. I gaze past her as the sun rises in the window.

“Any news from your birds?” I ask.

“I've sent ravens in every direction. My father's motte in Powys lies closest to here.”

“That's still days away. How many men could he possibly send to our aid?”

Olwen hangs her head.

“Not enough. Perhaps Dyfed or South Wales will save us.”

I reply with a harsh laugh.

“Morgan is a calculating man. He will not risk his soldiers to save a rival kingdom.”

“Perhaps Dyfed then.”

“My father is like my husband. The bonds that once bound us have long since broken.”

My gaze falls to the floor with hers as Artagan stirs between us. Olwen didn't come to my chamber merely to banter words with me. Perhaps she intends to have a last go with Artagan before the Saxons loose us from our mortal coils. She seems to sense my thoughts, watching me from the corner of her eye. I plant my feet firmly with no intention of going anywhere. Before I can reply, another ox horn sounds from outside the castle walls. Two riders gallop toward the eastern gate. Olwen sounds grim.

“The Fox and the Wolf. They've come to offer terms.”

Artagan abruptly awakens and joins us at the windowsill, rubbing his sleepy eyes. He spits at the sight of the two Saxon war-chiefs before drawing his sword and descending the turret steps. His raw voice echoes up the stairwell behind him.

“Terms? They want terms? My blade will show them terms!”

Olwen and I dart after him, but he already has found his horse. He leads Merlin out the smoldering east gate, his greased dark hair streaming behind him. The hot-blooded Celt! He'll get himself killed, and the two Saxon chieftains will laugh over his grave. Leaping onto my mountain pony, I bolt after him. Olwen joins us on the greens outside the walls. Grabbing Artagan's stallion by the bridle, I bring his steed to a halt.

“Put that sword away before you make things worse than they already are!”

“Worse, Branwen? Worse! How could things possibly get any worse?”

Before I can reply, both Cedric and Beowulf halt their mounts before us. They bear a white banner overhead, signaling a truce for a parley. They still have axes and swords slung across their saddles beside many a bloody scalp. I clench my jaw. Maybe Artagan is right not to trust these barbarians, even under a flag of truce. These Saxons have no honor.

I swallow hard, never having been so close to the Fox and the Wolf before. They look even more fearsome than I imagined, their cheeks flecked with dueling scars and their arms thick as tree trunks. Cedric the Fox is the shorter of the two, with a reddish tint to his ruddy beard. Beowulf the Wolf sits tall as a mountain in the saddle, his sausage-like fingers pawing his yellow beard with one hand while gripping a massive battle-ax in the other. Their eyes focus squarely on me.

Each brother makes a grim smile. How long have these two brigands hunted me? And for what dark purpose, I can only guess. If not for Artagan and his drawn blade, I doubt either Saxon would restrain himself from laying hands on me this very instant, flag of truce or no. I sidle my pony closer to Artagan's horse, trying to look calm. It was a mistake for me to have come to this parley. Cedric breaks the silence.

“Beauteous Branwen and Lovely Olwen. Blacksword, you're a lucky ram between two ewes.”

Artagan raises his blade, clenching his teeth.

“Speak your piece quick before I lop off both your heads!”

Cedric and his brother laugh.

“I've a thousand men ready to storm your walls. Is it just you, the women, and children left?”

“Come and see, Saxon dogs! We'll bleed two of yours for every one of ours.”

“That still leaves me victorious by day's end. But I've a less bloody alternative to offer.”

“Surrender the womenfolk as slaves and leave the men to rot? I think not.”

“Nay, I ask only two things. Your people swear allegiance to us, and you become our permanent guest to ensure the peace.”

“You mean captive! You'd just as soon lift my head from its shoulders. That's no offer at all!”

Artagan spits at his feet. The Saxon brothers exchange dark looks. Sweat beads along my forehead. We still have an opportunity here, an opportunity that is rapidly slipping away. Bitter a draught as it seems, the Saxons have offered us a way out of death. A peace that involves neither massacre nor slavery. Olwen seems to sense my thinking too, and leans forward in the saddle.

“What if one of
us
came with you willingly, instead of Sir Artagan?”

“Like Queen Branwen perhaps?” Cedric smiles.

The blood drains from my cheeks. He planned this. The Fox and the Wolf intend to get me one way or the other. Cedric only mentioned Artagan as a bargaining chip first because he knew we would never agree to it. But why have they striven so much to take me? Perhaps they plan to barter me back to Morgan in Caerwent or to use me in order to gain the submission of Dyfed. I'm still heir to one Welsh kingdom and wedded to the warlord of another. Maybe one of these Saxon war-chiefs plans to marry me himself. A sickening sensation rises in my throat.

Artagan flexes his fingertips along the pommel of his blade. This time he really intends to take one of the war-chief's heads. I raise a palm to stop him and Artagan stares at me with wide, unbelieving eyes. He really is just a boy. He does not understand. This is the only way. I try to steady my voice as a queen ought, looking Cedric the Fox directly in his yellow eyes.

“I must confer with my people first. We need time to discuss this amongst ourselves.”

“I give you one hour. If I don't receive your answer by then, you shall certainly receive mine.”

Cedric bows in the saddle toward Olwen and myself before departing. Beowulf sneers at Artagan, his bass laughter lingering behind him as he rides back toward the Saxon lines. Returning to the walls of Aranrhod, I feel Artagan's gaze boring into me. Once inside the castle fortifications, we dismount. Artagan grabs me by the shoulders.

“Branwen, you can't be seriously considering their offer?”

“Artagan, don't make this any harder than it already is.”

“Listen to yourself! These men killed my father and your mother. You would put yourself in their power?”

“To save those I love, yes.”

Looking up into his soft blue eyes, I've given up all pretenses. By now, all eyes from the battlements are on us, but I don't care. I've been fool enough not to admit my own feelings to myself. Now, at the end, I might as well be honest with those I love most. Artagan fights the water behind his eyes, drawing me into his arms. Despite his tight grip and bulging strength, he stammers like a helpless child.

“I … I won't let you go!”

“Yes, you will. Because I ask you to.”

Cupping my palms around his jaw, I press my lips to his. Stubble flecks his cheeks and dirt mars my own, but his mouth tastes like paradise. The two of us linger in our shared embrace, awash in our mingled kiss and the small space between our beating hearts.

Untangling my hand from his, I remount my pony and make for the gate. By now, the castle inhabitants have guessed my purpose and begin calling out to me from the bastions. “M'lady, m'lady. Don't leave us. Come back. Stay.” Brave, foolhardy friends, they would fight to the death rather than surrender one, lonesome woman to the clutches of the Saxons.

I cannot look back at Artagan. One glance would be enough to break my will. Goodbye, my love. Goodbye.

Rowena and Una weep from the walls while Padraig and Ahern stand silent. Olwen cannot bear to meet my eye. Farewell, friends and rivals. My life seems to have come full circle. Once given away by my father to make peace between warring kingdoms, now I am to be the peace-weaver once more.

I prod my mare down past the shadow of Aranrhod toward the spiked helms and tall spears of the Saxon lines. May the Virgin give me strength. I clench the reins with balled fists, willing myself forward with every step. Tears stream down my cheeks.

 

14

Cedric crosses his arms with a smug grin. Beowulf towers behind him, thumbing his razor-sharp battle-ax. Shifting uncomfortably in the saddle, I slow my pony to a trot. Best to get this over with. Barely a hundred paces from the Saxon lines, every breath seems like agony. My entire life stretches like an endless, deserted plain before me. I shall be a Saxon prisoner for the rest of my days, probably chained to some barbarian's bed. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I hold my head up high. The Fox and the Wolf may have me in their clutches, but I am still a Welsh queen at heart.

A high bugle call rings across the valley. Brining my mare to a halt, I stand alone in the center of the field between the Saxons and the walls of Aranrhod. My eyebrows knit together. That is no Saxon horn. More bugle calls reverberate from the woods and hills, the piercing blare of bronze trumpets shaking the trees. It sounds like the Second Coming.

Cedric and Beowulf exchange frowns, their men looking every which way. Figures crowd the heights of Aranrhod, equally furtive in their glances. Whoever keeps blowing those horns, they don't hail from the Free Cantrefs either. A deep thunder rolls across the foothills, beneath a mostly clear morning sky. Dust clouds rise above the ridges to the north.

Hundreds of horsemen emerge from the woods and gallop into the open fields between the Saxons and Aranrhod. Sunshine glints off their armor, the shuffle of chain mail reverberating throughout the glens. Every warrior bears a long pike as tall as the treetops. It looks like the wood itself is moving. Black banners snap atop their lances.

My breath stops up. Only one kingdom in all Wales flies black dragon banners. Belin the Old of North Wales! But have they come to treat with us or the Saxons? As the cavalcade comes to a halt, a pair of riders canters forward in heavy armor with black horse plumes running down their helms. Rhun and Iago, Belin's sons. It must be.

Their heralds lower their brassy trumpets. Lathered horses paw the earth, snorting and whinnying. They must have ridden hard to come this far south in so short a time. Both the Saxons and the people in Aranrhod take up arms, equally uncertain what these northern horsemen intend here. Rhun and Iago trot several lengths toward the besieged castle. They raise their spears in the air.

In unison, hundreds of riders dip their banners toward the fortress. The universal signal of respect and friendship. With a sigh, I begin to breathe again. The North Welsh of Gwynedd have come to lend a hand.

I'm still alone in the open field between three separate armies. The Fox and the Wolf glare at me across the open space.

I dig my heels into the flanks of my mare and bolt back toward the castle. A roar rises from the Saxon camp behind me. Several spearheads fly past my head. All bets are off now.

With another blare of trumpets, the northern men charge down the vale toward the Saxons. The rumble of their galloping stallions shakes the earth like an avalanche. The Saxons brace themselves, making a wall of spears as the wedge of horsemen near their lines.

Rhun and Iago charge forward in the lead, but I've little time to admire them. Javelins from Cedric and Beowulf's men rush by my ears. If they can't have me, they don't intend to let anyone else have me either. The walls of Aranrhod still stand a thousand paces away. In the blink of any eye, I will soon be at the center of a storm of clashing cavalry and spears. Ride, my stout mountain pony, ride!

The crush of spears, bone, metal, and flesh rends the air with a cacophony of cries and ringing steel. A wave of North Welsh riders cuts through the Saxon ranks, leaving a swath of trampled red bodies in their wake. Daring a glance over my shoulder, I glimpse a dozen Saxons running close behind me, Cedric and Beowulf amongst them. A Saxon spear embeds itself in my pony's hindquarters. She bucks me off with a shrill cry.