Between Two Fires (32 page)

“All hail, King Artagan! Lord of Aranrhod, shield of his people!”

Cheers erupt from both within the chamber and without, the applause booming off the rafters. Some of the North Welshmen exchange looks, but clap politely with the rest. Lady Olwen plants a kiss on Artagan's cheek. Heat rises through my veins. She is still his betrothed. Have I just made her a queen as well? She certainly seems to think so. In my haste to support Artagan, it never occurred to me that I might be playing into her hand.

I sink back into the shadows as others rise to clap Artagan on the back and congratulate him. Lady Olwen hovers close by his side. I hang my head. Olwen and the Blacksword make a powerful match. Although I'd rather crawl over hot coals, I must admit it. Wedding Olwen would be the kingly thing to do. With her House allied to his, Artagan might someday unite all the Free Cantrefs under his sway, not just Aranrhod. No nobleman in Christendom could resist bedding a woman both beautiful and well landed in fortune.

Artagan glances my way, searching for me in the crowd. I cannot face him. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I slip out of the main chamber and down a quiet corridor. I lay my forehead against the cool stone walls. Stupid girl! I've lost him forever. By my own hand I've put an end to my own happiness. Lingering in the hallway beside a guttering torch, I pound my fist into the stone bulwarks. Footsteps shuffle down the corridor.

“My lady, have I intruded upon you at an ill time?”

Rhun stands in the archway, his tall figure nearly touching the low ceiling. He politely takes my hand and kisses it. I fake a smile, something I seem to do more often these days.

“What can I do for you, brave Prince?”

“That was a bold thing you did back there. Not many women or men hold enough sway to make a king with a few simple words. Yet you seem troubled.”

“These are trying times. A dear friend and companion of mine fell during the siege.”

“You have my deepest sympathies, my lady.”

He bows, placing a hand over his heart. His high cheekbones and trimmed beard cut a dashing figure. Not since we first met at Morgan's court has he ever spoken to me in private before. Why has he cornered me here in a lone corridor? He did not come just to banter about Artagan's impromptu coronation.

“You've something on your mind, Prince.”

“You're as perceptive as you are beautiful, Lady Branwen. I confess, I did not ride to Aranrhod's rescue merely to fight Saxons. I came to ask for your hand in marriage.”

I glance up at him with a start. Perhaps I heard wrong. His deep brown eyes search mine. Feigning something in my eye, I look away.

“My lord, I am flattered, but I need time … time to…”

He smiles, taking my hands in his.

“I know you have an eye for the Blacksword. What woman does not? But I am not a jealous man. As I understand it, he is already betrothed to Lady Olwen.”

My cheeks burn hot, but I cannot look away with him standing so close. He cuts me to the quick with his words. With Olwen as Artagan's queen, there will certainly be no place for me here at Aranrhod. These people whom I have come to love and care for will be the ward of another queen, their beloved Blacksword the bedfellow of another woman. Rhun rubs my palm with his fingertips.

“Morgan treated you ill. You were right to run away from that life. But you've no nobleman to shelter you, no one strong enough to protect you from Morgan's wrath, and believe me, he will come for you again. You need someone to look after you, someone with as many strongholds and soldiers as your former husband.”

“Why do you wish to wed me? I've nothing. I'm merely a runaway queen.”

“You command the respect of the people, not only here, but across all Wales. Word of your good deeds has spread. The commoners love you. And you're still the only heir to the kingdom of Dyfed. Joining our two houses would bring peace between the northern and southern Welsh Lands, a peace that has not been seen since the days of Arthur.”

So that's it. Belin the Old was wise to send his eldest son to come courting me. With one stroke, he would have the sympathy of the Free Cantrefs and the loyalty of Dyfed.

And my father's no fool either. Upon hearing word of my betrothal to Rhun, he would gladly switch sides in an alliance with King Belin. With their combined forces, they would equal Morgan's strength in the South. It would seem preposterous if it wasn't so true. Simply by putting a ring on my finger, Rhun would make his father effective ruler of half of Wales, with the other half likely to follow sooner or later. Morgan hasn't been the only one with designs on uniting all of Wales. Apparently, the wily Old King Belin has been plotting the same thing from his castles in the North.

Rhun combs back a stray lock of my hair with his hand, looking deeply into my eyes. I'd be a fool to refuse his offer. His father's armies and lands would keep me safe from Morgan. I'd certainly live in more luxury than I've had since fleeing to the Free Cantrefs. But am I simply trading one warlord husband for another? What do I know of Rhun? Little more than I did of King Morgan when we first wed. I'll not be a broodmare again. Never. Rhun senses my indecision.

“I'm a patient man, Branwen. Think over my offer. I ride for home on the morrow. You can tell me your answer then.”

He presses his lips to my knuckles once more, bowing before he leaves. Rowena finds me in the hallway while toting a fresh jug of cider close to her chest. I stare blankly past her, still absorbed by the full weight of the decision I must make.

“M'lady, are you well?”

“Prince Rhun has just asked me to be his wife.”

Rowena raises both eyebrows, flashing a timid smile. She knows to whom my heart belongs, but she also knows the political realities of the age in which we live. She tries to make the best of it.

“Congratulations, m'lady. Do we leave for North Wales then?”

Still in a daze, I cannot find the words to answer her. Wandering the empty hallways, the boisterous revelry from the main hall reverberates throughout the bones of the castle. Retiring to my empty tower, I lean against the windowsill overlooking the valley. Bonfires dot the night, the survivors of the siege celebrating their newfound home and king. Many are undoubtedly happy just to be alive. With so much suffering, the people deserve a respite from all their grief.

Putting my chin in my hand, I breathe in the smoky peat fires and the wet fog coming down from the mountains. How straightforward the villagers' lives seem, despite all their hardships. Free to love whom they wish, to farm or hunt as their vocation demands, to keep their loved ones close to them all of their days. Queen or no, with Padraig gone, I am all but an orphan in this world. A world in which men only look at me based on what I'm worth, and how much land comes with my dowry. My eyelids begin to sag. Perhaps I've been unfair to think such thoughts. I'm tired and spent.

Footsteps murmur up the stairwell behind me. I know the sound of that brisk tread without even having to turn around. Artagan pauses in the chamber doorway. A cool evening breeze brushes my cheek as I keep my gaze to the window.

“How's your newfound queen, Lady Olwen? Neither she nor your people should be without their king on his coronation night.”

“Branwen, why did you run off? One moment, you're declaring me the next King Arthur, and the next you've vanished.”

Lowering my gaze, I still do not look at him.

“Prince Rhun proposed to me this evening.”

“What?”

“He expects my answer in the morning. I suppose you'll wed Olwen soon enough yourself.”

Artagan grabs me by the wrist, spinning me around to face him. Clenching my teeth, I push back against him. King or no, I'll not let some hedge knight manhandle me. I drub my fists against his chest, but he refuses to let me go. His knit brows and pursed lips nearly touch mine, his voice rough as gravel.

“My father arranged my betrothal to Olwen. But I'm king now and I'll do as I please!”

“No king can do as he pleases! You've a duty to your people now, to make the best match for their sake, not yours.”

“Then I renounce my throne! You made me king. You want the crown so badly, you take it!”

“Don't be absurd!”

“I don't want to be king … I want you.”

He releases my arms. His deep blue eyes search mine. Rubbing my wrists, I stand close enough to feel his breath on my lashes. Why does he ask the impossible of me? My heart and mind tell me two different things. Lowering my head, I swallow the knot in my throat.

“It's a good match, wedding Olwen. It will bring peace and stability to your kingdom, to all the Free Cantrefs. It's the right thing to do.”

“And you wedding Rhun is supposed to solve everything? The people here need you.”

“Whoever weds me will have a war on his hands! Morgan will never give me up!”

“I already have a war with the Saxons. I'm not afraid of the Hammer King.”

“Then you are a fool.”

“Do you care nothing for me?”

“Artagan…”

Biting my lip, I lose my voice when I look up into his flickering azure stare. I should lie. With all of my strength, I should tell him I care nothing for him, and send him out of my life forever. Instead, I let him kiss me. Surrendering to his touch, we hold one another beside the dark archway of the window. Artagan lowers himself down on one knee, taking my hands in his. His lip trembles before he steadies his voice.

“I love you, Branwen. I always have, and I always will. Be my bride. Be my Queen. Be my wife.”

Pressing my lips tight together, I squeeze his hands in mine. Never have I wanted something more, to share my days with this carefree hedge knight. Together we've wandered the wilds, defied kings, and faced life and death side by side. If only the world of kings and Saxons would leave us alone. The two of us could be happy in a small cottage bower with no more than some thatch over our heads and warm woolens for a bed. I heave a heavy sigh as Artagan looks up at me with expectant, loving eyes. If only he understood. My heart rises in my throat because I know what my answer must be.

 

15

The North Welsh horsemen depart before dawn. Not a good sign. Word must have reached them during the night. Faint dust trails hang over the northern mountain passes as the rear guard of their cavalcade disappears in the distance.

Olwen's and Artagan's voices reverberate through the castle walls. Half the citadel must hear them. Crockery and pots clatter to the floor behind their closed door. The sun rises over my bedchamber in the opposite tower as I listen and wait. Olwen's tone raises the hairs along the nape of my neck.

“You bog-brained, black-hearted, no-good, lying dog! You made me a promise, Blacksword!”

“Our fathers made a promise, not me! Damn it, Olwen, don't act so surprised!”

With a grunt, Olwen hurls something metallic across the chamber. Artagan curses, no doubt ducking. Whatever kitchen implement she tosses his way clangs about the floor. Her raised voice scares a murder of crows from the tower rooftop.

“She's a trollop, Artagan! Her own father disowned her and her last husband will bleed half of Wales dry just to get her back! You'll be dead or a cuckold or
both
within a year, mark my words.”

A door slams. Olwen emerges at the foot of the stairs, glaring up at my tower. Even from the shadows of my windowsill, her violet stare feels like frost in my veins. Her snowy-white mare whinnies before Olwen darts out the eastern gates at full gallop. Her figure diminishes in the distance. A weight lifts from my chest, but a shadow still gnaws at the back of my mind. What if her words come true? Have I signed Artagan's death warrant and mine own? I cross myself, praying to both the Virgin and Abbot Padraig up in heaven. Help me, please. Help us all.

Artagan saunters into my chamber, rubbing the back of his head.

“Well, that's over and done with.”

“I fear we've made more enemies than friends.”

“King Belin and Urien aren't our enemies. But they won't ride to our aid anytime soon.”

He shrugs it off, wrapping his arms around me as though we hadn't a care in the world. Pressing my ear to his chest, his heartbeat stills my nerves. But a few lingering splinters stick in my mind. Belin's sons and Olwen will not forget the turn we gave them this day.

Outside, Keenan's and Emryus's voices boom off the archways.

“Hark, all welcome to attend the marriage of King Artagan and Queen Branwen, sovereigns of Aranrhod! Cider and mead for all!”

The two warriors slur their words, stumbling slightly and already well into their cups. I cannot help but smile as the two men raise their drinking horns up toward our tower window. Artagan rubs my chin with his thumb and kisses my brow. I sigh, letting all the tension out of my limbs. Lovebirds tweet from a nest in the tower eaves.

We gather for the ceremony in a small roofless chapel amidst the ruins of the eastern wall. Archways overgrown with ivy and honeysuckle blossom with wildflowers. A few puffy clouds dot an otherwise clear summer sky overhead. Although only a few dozen of us fit inside the shell of the old church, the murmur of crowds attests to the throngs outside. Gray-bearded Emryus strums a tune on his harp as I walk down the aisle in an emerald gown with lavender trim, the last of my old wardrobe from Caerwent. Artagan beams from the altar, his mother beside him with her arms upraised. An old priestess, inside an ancient chapel, wedding two Christian souls. I could laugh at the madness of it all, but it will do. All will be right in God's eyes, or so my heart says. Such is the voice Abbot Padraig always told me to follow.

Rowena and Una hold the train of my gown before retreating to the corner, exchanging sly glances with Keenan. I playfully roll my eyes. Many children will doubtlessly be sired in the revelries later tonight. Ahern and Enid cross spears with several warriors overhead. My half brother gives me a nod, ever the stoic soldier. Enid casts longing glances Artagan's way. As always, my beloved man is oblivious to the spear-wife's pining eyes. Poor thing. Perhaps God will grant her happiness someday with some other man. Perhaps.