Between Two Fires (33 page)

Artagan takes my hand as we stand before the worn stone cross, overgrown with clover. Annwyn waves her arms over us, murmuring in the Old Tongue as she sprinkles us with water. If Padraig were here, he would have wed us himself, but the old priestess's ritual still seems oddly Christian. Blessed with holy water, we wrap a cloth around our wrists, bound and tied in a knot. Whatever Annwyn consecrates, in whatever tongue or religion, I know it carries the blessings of the divine. She finishes with a wand, making a sacred sign in the earth before smiling at us.

“You may now kiss one another.”

Artagan cups my cheeks in his palms, his warm lips on mine. Smiling through our kisses, our audience hoots with approval. I thank God with a silent prayer. In the year of our Lord 598, I am finally married to the man who has truly earned and won my heart.

We march outside the chapel hand in hand and greet the people outside. Keenan bellows on a large ox horn, garnering cheers from the crowds as Artagan and I wave. A calfskin drum and minstrel pipes murmur through the vale, the villagers breaking into dance and drink. I smile so much my cheeks hurt.

Now this feels like a real victory feast. No more looking back at the sorrows of the past, but instead focusing on the bright future that lies ahead.

Artagan lifts me into his arms as we cross the threshold of our tower. He grins while I pepper his neck with kisses. Artagan scales the steps two at a time with me still in his arms, lifting me as though I weighed no more than a feather. He kicks open the door atop the stairwell. The scent of candles and incense permeates the chamber.

“What's this?” I ask as he puts me down.

“Our new home. Una and Rowena helped put it together.”

A warm fire crackles in a brazier, casting a bronze glow across a makeshift bed of furs and woolens. My birch longbow hangs on one wall and a shelf with several books lines the other. Rushing toward the bookshelf, I thumb through the half dozen tomes. Classics, scripture, and legends all on vellum sheets bound by hardback. I recognize these stories. They're Brother Padraig's books from the abbey in Dyfed. He must have still had them on his person when we fled to Aranrhod. Each book took generations of clerics to ink, their heavy pages worth their weight in gold.

Even my book of the tales of Branwen the Brave is here. I fondly pet the spine of the book Padraig once gave to me. Another token from the man I loved as a father. For the first time since his passing, I can recall fond memories of my teacher without sorrow. His words and his legacy live on in these books and in me.

Artagan shuts the door behind us.

“I could think of no better place for the start of our castle library than by your bedside.”

“It's wonderful—the books, the room, all of it.”

“Maybe you could continue teaching me my letters.”

“Is that how you wish to spend your wedding night, King?”

I flash a wry smile. Artagan loosens his tunic, dropping his mantle and shirt to the floor. In a few quick strides, he has me in his arms. The sap begins to rise behind his deep blue eyes. Pressing my mouth to his, I cannot get my own clothes off fast enough. We've put this off for far too long. How many evenings did we share a bed of wild rushes or a stone floor? Never doing more than cuddling for warmth. His lips travel down my blouse, nuzzling between my breasts. I pull him down onto our soft bedspread, running my palms along the hardened muscles of his back and thighs. Every stretch of skin toned and pulsating with life.

The rhythm of drums and pipes fills the dusk air outside, the music drifting up into our torch-lit lair. Artagan's manhood rises against the inside of my smooth legs, his fingertips in my hair and his kisses on my neck. I grasp his firm, clenched buttocks as he moves inside me, his hardened nipples brushing mine. Our mingled breath warms our cheeks as we move to the quick tempo of the drumbeat. Awash in the touch and taste of his flesh, I gasp.

“Artagan …
Artagan,
my love.”

We move faster, my palms pressing against his hard abdomen. His hands cup my bosom. He arches atop me, his heat spilling inside me. I pant harder, clasping him tight as my core peaks under his feverish thrusts. Still short of breath, we gaze into one another's eyes, two pools of liquid love entranced with one another. I reach up and kiss him again and again, reveling in his love inside me. The first of many such times we shall enjoy one another tonight.

*   *   *

“No, no, more to the left.”

I wave with half-feigned exasperation at the stonemasons. Workmen hoist large blocks of limestone from wooden rollers. The clank of hammers and chisels reverberates throughout the castle. Day by day, over the past few months, the towers and walls of Aranrhod have risen once again with the construction of stone buttresses and timber scaffolds. With a sketch in hand, I direct the laborers as they aright fallen columns and bulwarks neglected since the days of the Romans. Teams of lumbermen hack away at logs in the courtyard whilst carpenters plane wood for the new gates. Artagan folds his arms and shakes his head with astonishment.

“I've never seen such dedication in artisans before. The people must truly adore you.”

“They labor for themselves as much as they do for us. This castle provides defense for them and their families in times of need. The granaries will safeguard their grain stores, and the smithies provide fresh forges for their tools.”

“An allotment of land for each worker sweetens the pot too, no doubt.”

“I don't expect them to work for nothing. No one has claimed the lands around Aranrhod for generations. Now we can settle crofters, herders, and huntsmen on parcels where good soil has rested untilled for years. Autumn should bring forth a good harvest.”

“If we last that long. We had another skirmish in the south passes this morn.”

Artagan's gaze darkens. My skin grows cold, as though a cloud had suddenly blotted out the sun. Steeling my nerves, I try to put on a brave face. It pinches my heart to see darkness in Artagan's normally sunny countenance. I speak low enough for only the two of us to hear.

“How many this time?”

“We lost two dozen men, but gave the bastards as good as we got. That's twice in the last fortnight. Morgan's raids grow more and more frequent.”

“It's the summer season, the war season. Your merry men are no strangers to a tough fight.”

“I've barely a hundred warriors left. The rest work on the castle or still recover from wounds after the Saxon siege. One day, Morgan will come over those mountain passes and I won't have enough men to stop him. It's only a matter of time, Branwen.”

Sighing, I look back at the reconstruction of the fortress. Like so many ants, dozens of craftsmen move about the masonry and timberworks. If only we had more time or more men, or both. Ironically, the very Saxons who besieged us are probably all that keep Morgan's army from launching a full-scale invasion against us. Barbarians will harass Morgan's eastern borders this time of year, like so many gnats coming out in the summer heat. The Hammer King will have half his troops occupied defending his own settlements until the winter freeze, still many moons away.

Artagan's green-clad bowmen have bought us time by guarding the mountain passes, but even the best warriors cannot hold out forever against overwhelming odds. If Morgan's troops pierce the mountains and surround our fortress, we'll be done for. We cannot afford another siege so soon. The reinforced walls might protect us for a time, but our newly planted wheat and oats need time to ripen and flourish. A poor harvest will spell famine come wintertime.

A patchwork of green fields dots the open meadows amidst the woods that surround our emerald vale. I shut my eyes and say a quick prayer. God preserve us, God give us the time to grow strong once again.

Wrapping my arms around Artagan's neck, I lay my forehead against his. Fresh nicks mar his forearms, and he walks with a slight limp. How close did a Southron warrior come to wounding him today? Gaining a kingship has done nothing to curb his willful, hedge knight ways. He still leads every sortie against our foes, earning the love of his men, but making himself an easy target for our numerous foes. The thought of his steed returning empty haunts my steps every time he rides away. Courage makes Artagan an attractive lover, but it only adds lines to my face now. Why won't Morgan simply leave us alone? Artagan deserves to grow old with a loving wife, warm and safe in this happy valley tucked away in the highland fastness. I will remind him of all the goodness in the world tonight in our bedchamber. Flashing a half-grin, I take him by the hand as we retreat to our tower.

At the foot of the turret steps, a voice calls out to us. Enid storms the catwalk toward us, her spear stained crimson. I pause, my shoulders sinking. My foray into the bedchamber with my husband will have to wait, it seems. It's still daylight and the demands on a king and queen are many. Enid halts before Artagan, still muddy from the field.

“How many times must this happen before you'll heed my words? We need the beacons!”

“It hasn't been done in a hundred years,” Artagan scoffs. “Who will man them?
You?
”

I raise an eyebrow. What on earth do they bicker about? Enid seems to find many a reason to argue with Artagan since he took my hand in marriage. She doesn't even look my way. Her tone toward her new king makes me bristle a touch, but then again Enid has fought by Artagan's side a long time and she is doubtlessly accustomed to snapping at him as she might an older brother. I step between the two of them, trying to shelter my exhausted husband.

“What are you two squabbling about? It's been a long day. Can't this wait until tomorrow?”

“It can always wait.” Enid frowns, still glaring at Artagan. “We'll wait until it's too late.”

Artagan sighs and looks my way, at least trying to answer my question.

“She wants to relight the beacons in the hills. In days of yore, the people set watchmen in the passes, each outpost with a large tinder pile ready to light at a moment's notice in times of danger.”

“A chain of far-apart beacons can spread word of an enemy faster than horses,” Enid interrupts. “If we set up new beacons in the hills, we would have better warning when foes come calling.”

Artagan shakes his head.

“Unless there's a fog. Or no one left to man the beacons at all! I won't ask good men to sit and rot in the high mountain gaps just so I can sleep better at night in a snug, warm castle.”

Enid stamps the butt of her spear hard against the floor.

“Then you're a fool, and no king at that! We've been lucky so far, but it's only a matter of time before Morgan's men slip past our nets and march on our gates. Beacons would give us early warning.”

“I may be a fool, but I am King, huntress! And my word stands. The answer is
no
!”

Enid spins on her heel, stalking off in a huff. I rub Artagan's tense shoulders, his muscles tight as knotty roots under my fingertips. He sulks like an angry bear as we ascend to our solar. The Blacksword pours himself a tall goblet of wine and sinks down in a cushioned chair beside the flickering hearth. After he has endured a hard day's ride and a sharp fight with Morgan's men, I know better than to broach any serious topics with him.

Brave and truehearted, my Artagan can still easily forsake reason once he has exhausted his body. Loath though I am to admit it, Enid has a point. A wise ruler would take her advice to heart. Bonfire beacons may be just what our kingdom needs, but our new king does not want to hear it. He would not wish to guard a frozen outpost in the high summits and so he will not ask any of his warriors to. It makes him a worthy war-captain, but not a smart monarch. Sometimes a king must learn to send men to difficult fates for the greater good of his realm.

Trying to make small talk, I break bread at our table. Food always brings Artagan around sooner or later. He slices mouthfuls of cheese while I pour him some fresh wine.

“We're short of clerics here,” I comment. “But several village women tell me they wish to become nuns.”

“Probably promises they made to God if we ever survived the siege.”

Artagan laughs between bites. I simply shrug. Some of these poor farm girls probably suffered much at the hands of the Saxons. Who could blame them for wishing to rid themselves of the world of men? I take a swig of wine myself.

“I put them to work, making copies of the few books we have.”

“You're teaching them to read as well? Already a queen, do you plan to become an abbess too?” he gibes.

“I enjoy the fruits of this earth far too much to forsake them, dear husband.”

Pinching his thigh with my hand, we exchange grins. Artagan has gotten much better at his letters, but he'll never make a scholar. He has a knack for remembering stories, reciting the words in each book more from memory rather than by deciphering the Latin script. What a bard he might have been, but he could never be a man of the cloth. Thank heaven.

I laugh to myself, trying to picture Artagan with a shaven head, repressing his manly urges behind a Bible. Ha! A monk's habit would fit him as well as ostrich feathers. Padraig would've rapped his knuckles with a stick if ever he had the Blacksword for a pupil. But that kind monk never struck me once. Always, his round face lit up when we read together at his abbey by the sea. Pressing my lips together, I look away as my eyes water. If ever we have enough tomes to fill a proper library at Aranrhod, I'll name it after St. Patrick. Abbot Padraig's patron saint. He would have liked that.

Downing a bowl of soup, I have to remind myself that life is for the living. Despite all those dear ones we've lost in days gone by, we do them no honor by brooding over the shades of the past. Carpe diem, as the Abbot's books would say.

At nightfall, I kick off my shoes and pull Artagan down to the bed. Our lips meet as I run my hands through his tousled hair, his fingers eagerly pulling the laces from my gown. I grin with feigned exasperation at the vigor with which my husband nearly rips our clothes to the floor. He has all the impatience of a stallion in season, his manhood already brimming wet. I put a soft palm to his chest and give him a lengthy kiss to ease his pace. He calms slightly, his heart still racing beneath his muscled chest. His strong arms lift my hips up onto his lap as we sit atop the bedsheets, our bare legs wrapped around one another. His lips travel down my bosom as I surrender to his rising heat.