Between Two Fires (35 page)

The wagon suddenly rolls to a halt. My head glances off the timber frame and I let out a sharp whimper, savaging my lip. A spear butt jabs the small of my back. Owen towers over me.

“Awake, are we, Princess? Out of the cart!”

His men loosen my bonds just enough so I can shuffle over the lip of the wagon bed and onto the cold ground. Blood dampens my ankles where the ropes have scratched my skin. Limping toward a tree, I rest my back against the trunk. Owen's men give us a wide berth as he prods my skirt with his spear tip, lifting the hem of my gown.

“A fine jewel of virtue betwixt your legs. Don't think because we're kin that it would stop me from taking it from you, Princess. You're heir to the Kingdom of Dyfed. The man who mounts you mounts the throne.”

My throat runs dry as he flashes another wicked grin. He can't be serious! Owen may be one of Father's bastards, but the same blood flows in my veins as his. I instinctively press my bare legs together but Owen parts them again with his spear butt. I fight to keep my voice calm. The firm, confident-sounding demeanor of a queen is the only weapon I have left.

“I'm with child. I carry King Vortigen's grandchild in my womb.”

Owen sneers, giving me a suspicious glance.

“He has children aplenty, bastards and otherwise.”

“But no grandson or granddaughter, born of his only legitimate heir. Whatever Father's feelings for me, he would want that grandchild safe and sound. The child I carry inside of me.”

“You lie!”

“Ask Ahern, if you don't believe me.”

“He's gone! He would not come with us.”

Owen turns away in disgust, pacing back and forth in the dark. His men water their steeds by a trickling mountain stream while others repair a wobbly wheel beneath the wagon. We must have journeyed halfway through the mountains by now. Owen will not dally long in this glade. He'll whip his men with all possible speed toward Dyfed, knowing anyone else could steal me just as easily as he did himself only yesterday. My only hope of preserving my virtue is to convince Owen that the child in my womb is more valuable to King Vortigen than gold. It may be true or may not. Thankfully, Father is not here to say otherwise.

Sir Owen holds his spear over my belly, his brows knitted in thought. I repress a half-smile. Despite his ungodly urges, I've planted a seed of doubt in his thick skull. Owen raises his spear-point to my face.

“Back in the cart! We've a ways to go before we get you home, sister.”

The wagon bounces forward as soon as I recline on the straw once more. Running my thumb along my abdomen, I cradle the unborn life inside me. I coo and shush the child, reassuring my babe as much as myself. The stars seem to swirl overhead. Whatever black fate awaits us in Father's realm, I will not let them harm my baby. If the mothers of the Free Cantrefs taught me anything during the siege of Aranrhod, it was that one mother defending her cubs was worth ten warriors fighting for plunder and booty. May the Virgin give me strength.

Half-asleep in the cart, my eyes stir as thunder murmurs through the foothills. Sitting up, I blink at the dim woods. The riders hear it too as they halt their mounts. Horses, more horses! Owen shouts to his men.

“Do not let them take her! If the battle goes ill, slit her throat first!”

Clasping one hand to my throat, my fingertips tremble as much for my own life as for the life inside of me. Does this bastard Owen have any semblance of a human heart? Before his spearmen can reply, a flurry of arrows whistles into the nocturnal glade.

Several arrowheads find their mark and topple spearmen from their horses. My heart quickens. Few archers in all of Wales could make shots like that in the dark. The bowmen from the Free Cantrefs have come.

Artagan roars loud enough to split the night in twain. Somehow, against all odds or reason, he is here! Enid's piercing war cry, along with Keenan's and Emryus's baritone shouts, mingle with the clash of steel. Silhouettes of dark figures wrestle on all sides of the wagon, the spearmen of Dyfed grappling with the archers of Aranrhod. Dim shadows fill the narrow wagon road.

Owen hurls his spear, its biting steel grazing my cheek. I gasp at the sting of metal on flesh, and my palm comes away red from my right cheekbone. I roll and stumble out of the wagon bed onto the ground, still bound and bleeding. Owen glares at me with wide, wildcat eyes under the pale sliver of a moon. He pulls a knife from his belt, racing toward me to finish the job.

I tug at my bonds until my wrists bleed. No, no, no! Even though I gnaw at the hempen bonds with my teeth, the ropes still won't relinquish their grip. Owen wraps one hand around my bloody cheek, his thumb pressing into the wound. I wince with pain. The knife flashes in his other fist.

Bound like a calf for the slaughter, a searing fire rises within me. Butting my head against his, I fight like a cornered animal. I bite Owen's flesh. His howl rises above the din of clashing warriors. The metallic taste of blood runs down my teeth. Owen stumbles backward, his knife clanging to the ground. Rolling onto my side, I grab the blade and begin sawing away at my ropes.

Owen stumbles around, his hand clasping his marred face. Blinded by pain, he circles me while I cut at my bonds. The frayed fibers loosen around my feet and hands. Breaking free, I rush him with the knife. Time the blackguard got a taste of his own steel.

I stab at his face, but Owen bats me across the jaw. I reel backward from the heavy blow. Beneath the starlight, he retreats to the woods. Staggering on my hands and knees, the pain makes me drop my knife. Unable to locate the dagger, I paw the earth in search of something with which to defend myself. A hand grasps me by the shoulder.

“Branwen! Are you all right?”

My pulse stops until I see Artagan's face. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I hold him close enough to feel his heart beating against my ribs. The fighting around us dies down. Only Free Cantref warriors surround us in the dark. Bathed in sweat, Artagan pants hard as he wipes the bloodstains from his longsword. I search his chest with my palms.

“I'm fine,” he says, eyeing the bloody cut on my cheek. “My God, what did they do to you?”

“Nothing I didn't do right back to them. It was Owen of Dyfed, one of Father's bastards.”

“I know. Ahern told me.”

“Ahern? But you don't understand. It was Ahern who—”

“Who betrayed you. He told me himself. Confessed not long after he did it. If he hadn't told us, we might not have known of your capture until it was too late.”

“Did he say why he betrayed me in the first place?”

“You'll have to ask him. I have him in the dungeons back at Aranrhod.”

Artagan frowns, his hard-set jaw clenched tight. It probably took every fiber of his self-restraint not to gut Ahern when he learned the news of my capture. As I press my lips to his cheek, Artagan softens before lifting me onto his horse. He mounts Merlin behind me, grasping me tight about the middle. I seethe with frustration.

“Owen got away.”

“With one less eyeball, I'll wager.” Artagan smirks. “If you got him better than he got you.”

“We're on the Dyfed side of the mountains. There may be more of them out there.”

“Then we best make haste back to Aranrhod.”

“Not too fast, my love. I wanted to tell you at a better time, but you must know. I'm with child.”

Artagan's chest stiffens. The shadows hide his face as he sits like a statue in the saddle. I bite my lip, waiting for him to reply. Perhaps I should have waited until we returned to the castle. But I'll not risk this pregnancy to a bumpy road on horseback without speaking my mind. Maybe Artagan recalls his children with Ria, and the cruel fate they met at the hands of the Saxons. As a man, I only assumed he would welcome heirs with joy. But being bastard-born himself, childhood may not hold the fondest memories for him. I rush to touch his cheek.

“I'm sorry, my love. I should have waited to tell you until—”

He presses his lips to mine. His smile warms my mouth as his arms squeeze me tight. His eyes sparkle by twilight before he puts a hand on my stomach.

“You and I?” he asks.

“Yes, you and I, and a child.”

Nuzzling noses, I let out a sigh of relief. Only moments ago I thought my babe would be born in captivity, under my father's thumb or worse. Now we shall live in freedom in our own castle, safe and sound. Artagan kisses me again. Enid scoffs beside us.

“Come on, you lovebirds, we've a long ride back to Aranrhod.”

She digs her heels into her mare's flanks, leading the column of bowmen back down the trail into the mountains. Artagan grasps me gently, urging our steed forward at an even trot. Leaning my head back against his shoulder, I shut my eyes and breathe in the dry-grass summer air. Home, we're heading home to Aranrhod and our castle in the mountains.

*   *   *

I practice with my longbow in an abandoned corridor deep within the castle. Barrels line the walls, the servants utilizing this cool stony chamber as a wine cellar most likely. Alone by torchlight, I draw back my bow and loose another arrow toward a distant calfskin target at the far end of the dim passageway. My shot lands with a thud near the center of the bull's-eye. Months of practice have steadied my arm and my aim, but I do not smile.

Cool evening winds swirl leaves outside a chink in the masonry, allowing a hint of the fading light outside to seep into the otherwise dark abode. I instinctively pause to run a palm over my growing abdomen. A few months along, yet my pregnancy has not prevented me from improving my aim with a bow. But I know that I must be even better if I am to defend myself when it counts. If I am to protect my child whenever he or she comes into the world.

The sound of footsteps shuffles to a halt behind me.

“So this is where you steal away to,” Annwyn says with a smile, a torch in hand. “At the rate you're improving, you'll be the best shot in the citadel in a few months' time.”

“I'll be going into labor in a few months' time,” I reply with a grin and a shrug. “The cold autumn storms outside would've ruined my outdoor practice schedule if not for this passageway I found. Come springtime I hope to be able to hit a target at twice the distance I can now.”

Annwyn stands beside me with her dripping torch as I loose another shot at the rawhide target. The arrow lands a few finger-lengths to the left of where I wanted it, so I notch another feathery dart and try again. Annwyn watches me while I practice.

“How fares your brother?” she asks.

I pause between my shots before resuming again. Despite trying to pretend the conversation doesn't bother me, I find my aim going even wider of the mark. We do not mention Ahern by name any longer, almost as though he were dead.

“The prisoner, you mean?” I reply. “Still in the dungeons. He won't speak to me or anyone else. Artagan doesn't want me going down there anyway. Thinks the fumes are bad for the baby.”

Annwyn nods solemnly.

“Were he not your blood, he probably would've been put to the rack by now. But I suppose languishing in a prison cell is torture enough.”

“Artagan endured a stint in a dungeon himself once,” I reply, recalling those dark days at Caerwent before I broke Artagan and myself free from Morgan's grip. “But I thought you didn't believe in violence.”

She puts a steady hand on my bow, forcing me to stop my practice.

“Even I have my limits. My faith values all living things, yet I am still human. My own grandchild was threatened while still in the womb. Even my vows of nonviolence would've been tested had we not gotten you back so soon.”

I smirk at her in a jovial manner, giving her a sidelong look.

“What are you saying, Annwyn? That you would've come charging into Dyfed with a spear and bow to rescue me if your son hadn't already done it?”

Her lips smile, but her eyes do not.

“I thank the Goddess that I was not put to such a test.”

This is a new side to Annwyn. Of course, I've only known her less than a year, and she has lived a long life. No telling what she might have been like in her younger days, before becoming a mystic and hermit. Back when she took up with men like Cadwallon and raised her son.

Annwyn makes a strange face, her lips caught between a smile and a grimace. Her eyes glaze over as though she looks at some distant scene that I cannot see.

“This bow was intended as a gift for my daughter,” she begins. “Crafted by a skilled fletcher, who was my lover for a time. But my young Niniane was taken from me.”

The longbow, its curves so familiar to me, now suddenly feels heavy as lead in my arms. No wonder Artagan said nothing when he first saw me use it during the siege. He must have recognized the longbow for what it was, for whom it was originally meant.

“Niniane, your daughter,” I begin, making a guess. “Artagan's sister?”

“He does not speak her name, nor do I much, for that matter,” Annwyn admits. “They were close, even though she was much younger and they had very different fathers. Her death nearly drove my son to madness for a time. The Saxons have lost a hundred men because they took that one girl from us. Painful as the memory is, it has made Artagan the warrior and leader he is today. And now the bow that seemingly had no purpose has found its way into the hands of someone worthy of it. A queen who rules in the manner of the Old Tribes.”

I glance to my feet, unsure what to say. In the short time I've known her, Annwyn has given me so much. She gave me a bow intended for her daughter, she wed me to a son originally intended for another, and she even gave me a glimpse of a woman who may not have been that different from my own long-lost mother. Herself.

“Why do you tell me all this?” I ask. “These must be painful memories for you.”

“They are. But even when things seem dark, there is a plan, a purpose to everything in our lives even though we may not be able to see it at the time. I think you are now in a place within your life where I too have once been. Beset by enemies from within and without, trying to bring a child into this cruel world, and all the while struggling to find the voice of God in all of it.”