Between Two Fires (37 page)

“Why do you laugh?” He smiles.

“How could two raven-haired folk such as us have a red-haired babe?”

“You've been saying that these past three moons. My father had auburn locks.”

Gavin nurses contentedly in my arms, his eyes closing as though half-dreaming. Despite the sleepless nightly feedings, every morning I still marvel at the miracle that is my new son. He has my button nose and his father's sea-blue eyes. Gently stroking his soft cheek with my finger, I cannot help but breathe easier when my child is near. Artagan leans closer, eyeing his son.

“How fares Rowena?” he asks.

“She brought her newborn by yesterday. A little girl, named Mina.”

“And Keenan's the father, eh?”

“I was told once that in the Free Cantrefs, a mother's blood is all that matters.”

I smirk up at Artagan as he purses his lips, feigning indignation.

“I was merely curious. You ought to put Gavin to nurse with Rowena. I'm sure she's got enough milk for two.”

“And not feed my own babe?”

Artagan's eyes flash down toward my bare chest. My bosom swells daily, heavy with milk. Artagan has barely been able to keep his hands off me, his azure gaze lingering long on my generous bust. Was it only a few years ago I was a flat-chested, crow-headed girl in Dyfed? I might laugh at Artagan's attentions, but his frisky palms rarely give me a moment's peace now that I have Gavin to suckle. From cradle to the grave, men really never change. They always want the tit, one way or the other.

With Gavin asleep on my lap, I fold up the lacing on my loose gown. Artagan looks away, seemingly disappointed as I tighten my bustle. Sitting in the warm sunlight, I bask in the verdant glow of spring. Green fields blossom around the castle grounds. Artagan stomps his foot in the corner, deep in thought. I put a calm hand against his chest.

“Something else is on your mind, love.”

“A raven brings news from North Wales. Lady Olwen and Prince Rhun have wed.”

I suddenly feel hollow to my bones. It's a powerful match. I never doubted a ravishing woman like Olwen wouldn't remain a spinster for long. Does my husband still think of her? Of course not, what a foolish notion.

Yet Artagan taps his fist along the lintel of the door, biting his lip. We've not seen Olwen or Rhun since the North Welsh came to our rescue during the siege of Aranrhod. More than a year ago now. It was tall, handsome Rhun who asked for my hand in marriage then. Lady Olwen assumed Artagan would make her the next Queen of Aranrhod. How strange that our fates should have reversed so. I keep my gaze to the floor.

“You wish that you had wed her instead?” I reply a touch impishly, indulging in my own insecurities perhaps more than I should.

“What?”

“It would've secured all the Free Cantref lands to you. Now Rhun will claim her father's territory as his own.”

Artagan kneels down, taking my chin in his hand. His sapphire eyes search mine, one hand stroking my hair.

“I chose you then and I choose you now. My heart belongs to Branwen Mab Ceridwen, and no other.”

I smile despite myself, hearing him refer to me as the Fairy Queen. Our local subjects still call me such. Although months have passed since the trial of childbirth, I clasp Artagan's hand now as tightly as I did then when our son first came into the world. Just the three of us in our solar chamber, with no need of anyone else in the whole wide world. I wonder. Had we been born commoners, with no more expectation than to farm and have children, would we have been any less happy? I kiss Artagan longingly, our mingled lips warmed by the streaming sunlight.

To think, we've a newborn son less than a year after our wedding day. The year 599 is already looking to be the best year of my life, thus far. I smile fondly at Gavin slumbering against my chest.

A bugle horn blares in the distance. Its piercing boom makes me shiver down to the spines of my feet. Gavin stirs in my arms. I rise in order to walk and shush him back to sleep. Artagan squints out the window, his hand on his sword. His voice sounds grim.

“The beacons are lit in the mountains. Danger approaches.”

Three smoke trails rise over the foothills, the nearest bonfire flickering like a ruby set against the forest slopes. Thank heaven Enid made Artagan see reason and install outposts with beacon bonfires in the mountains. After my kidnapping, no one wants to risk falling unawares into an enemy's trap. Whatever peril approaches, at least it will come to us in full daylight and not steal upon us in the dark of night.

Artagan shouts down into the courtyard below. Dozens of green-clad bowmen scurry toward the battlements. Enid surveys the beacons atop the southern ramparts and waves Artagan over to join her. He turns to me and draws his sword.

“Stay here. Don't open the door for anyone.”

Without another word, he disappears down the stairwell, and I bar the door behind him. Keenan and Emryus soon join him as he scales the wall where Enid and a score of other archers gather. Whatever the threat, it seems to originate from a southward direction.

A knock comes at my door.

Clutching Gavin close to me, I stand quiet as a mouse. A fist bangs against the door again. What has come over me? No queen in her own castle ought to fear to open her bedroom door. I'm being silly. Nonetheless, I put Gavin down in the cradle before stalking toward the door. I pull down my longbow from the wall before loosening the hasp on the lock.

“M'lady?”

I sigh, recognizing Rowena's voice. As I usher her inside, she holds her newborn close to her breast. Little Mina whimpers in her mother's arms. I shut the door behind her and bar it again.

“Rowena, what brings you here?”

“I'm still your lady-in-waiting, am I not, Your Grace? Babe or no, I had to look in on you.”

“Where's Una?”

“I know not, m'lady.”

“I'm beginning to worry. Una went on some errand to a neighboring village over a week ago and still no word.”

“I wouldn't fret.” Rowena shrugs. “I'm sure she'll be back soon.”

Rowena looks away, hiding her face. She does not tell me everything behind Una's mysterious absence, yet I sense it is not over some life-or-death matter, so I let the subject pass. For the moment at least. Nonetheless, as little Mina stirs in her arms, a vague intuition forms in the back of my mind. Both Una and Rowena once shared Sir Keenan as a lover. Before he fathered Rowena's daughter. Perhaps the closeness between the two women is not what it once was.

Whatever the cause, it will unfortunately have to wait while we have mysterious strangers at our gates. Reassuring her, I sit my lady-in-waiting down on the bed.

“I'm fine, Rowena. But you should not be out of bed.”

“Me own mum worked the fields the day after I was born. I've had rest aplenty, m'lady.”

“Well, I'm sure there's nothing to be frightened of,” I fib, trying to sound a bit more confident than I feel. “The castle's well protected.”

“Do you not recognize that horn, my Queen? Only one lord in all Wales uses an ivory bugle.”

My veins run cold. Turning toward the window, I steady my palm on the stonework. A large cavalcade breaks from the forest, cantering straight for the castle gates. I drop my bow to the floor, instinctively reaching back toward Gavin in his cradle. The crimson dragon banners of South Wales fly over the approaching horsemen.

“Rowena, has my old husband returned for vengeance?”

“I know not, m'lady. But that's not his horn, like I said. Only the Lord of Caerleon uses an ivory bugle call. That's Prince Malcolm, that is.”

My hairline runs damp with sweat. Malcolm? Even worse.

The mere thought of that blackguard lurking outside the walls where my child sleeps makes me grind my teeth. Lifting my bow, I dart toward the door and sling a quill of arrows over my shoulder. Whatever black fate has come to our doorstep, I'll not hide in my chambers like a frightened sheep. Aiming a finger back at Rowena, my voice reverberates off the rafters.

“Look after my boy! Whatever happens, do not open this door.”

Giving her the advice I hardly heeded myself, I close the door and descend the steps before Rowena can reply. I know my place now. On the battlements, defending my husband and my son. I'll put an arrowhead right into Prince Malcolm's heart if need be. Time those lordly knights of South Wales see how well a mother of the Free Cantrefs fights when cornered with her cubs. Artagan's eyes narrow as I scale the embrasures. He struggles to keep his voice low.

“The battle line is no place for a nursing mother!”

“I'll be the judge of what a mother can and cannot do. Why have we not loosened a volley of arrows yet?”

Still plum-faced, Artagan cannot find the words to rebuke me. Instead, Enid leans forward, her spear in one hand and a longbow in the other.

“They're flying a flag of truce. They wish to parley.”

“I'll give those blackguards an answer,” I retort, drawing back my bow.

“Hold!” Enid shouts. “Something doesn't make sense. They've brought maybe a hundred soldiers, not enough for a siege. If they meant us ill, they'd have brought more men.”

“If they'd meant us well, they'd have left us alone.”

Glancing at the woods, I wonder how many more troops Malcolm may have hidden behind those trees. It doesn't suit someone like Malcolm to come under a white banner with his tail tucked between his knees. And why no Morgan? The Hammer King is up to something for sure.

Malcolm's riders fan out in a large crescent beneath our walls, their chain mail jangling in the early afternoon light. The South Welsh of Gwent have neither the fast steeds nor long lances like the horsemen of the North, but on foot, an armored Southron can often handle double his number in the melee. Let's hope our arrowheads can pierce Southern chain mail today if necessary.

Artagan descends the steps to the courtyard and mounts his warhorse, Merlin. The very same horse we once rode when we fled from Caerwent all those moons ago. The very same steed that once belonged to the Hammer King himself. Artagan orders the guards to open the gates.

“I'll go out to meet him. Alone.”

“To be fodder?” I scoff. “Not likely. Whatever we face, we face it together.”

Whistling for my mare, I mount Gwenhwyfar beside him. Enid, Emryus, and Keenan all saddle their own steeds and join us under the gateway. Artagan digs his heels into Merlin's flanks, trotting off in a huff. He mumbles under his breath.

“What good is it to be king when no one heeds your word?”

Keenan and I exchange grins. The young knight touts a green dragon banner over our small company. Galloping into the emerald pastures outside Aranrhod's walls, we halt before the cavalcade of Southern warriors and their bloodred banners. Local peasants look on from farmsteads and the castle walls, watching us behind closed doors and arrow slits.

Prince Malcolm looks the same as ever. A well-trimmed, chestnut-bearded version of his older brother. A scowl spreads across his lips when he sees me. His guardsmen stand around him at perfect attention, their dark eyes watching us through the eye slits in their helmets. Our ponies curl back their lips, flaring their teeth. Neither side speaks.

Malcolm's gaze runs the length of my silhouette. He still makes me feel naked before him. My neck flushes, but I clutch the reins tight in one hand while carrying my bow in the other. I'm not the scared little King's wife he knew back at Caerwent. Artagan nudges his stallion forward. Malcolm grimaces, recognizing the warhorse as formerly his brother's. The Blacksword smirks, suddenly looking like the cocky hedge knight he was when he first crossed swords with Malcolm all those moons ago.

“You're a long way from your own borders, princeling,” Artagan begins.

“I've urgent tidings, for the Lord of Aranrhod alone.”

Malcom swallows as though tasting a bitter draught. Doubtlessly, referring to Artagan as anything other than a brigand leaves a sour taste on Malcolm's tongue. I narrow my gaze, closely watching Malcolm and his massive mace. Why the courtesy? Despite his royal blood, Malcolm has the breeding of a pig. He would sooner trade blows with the Blacksword than speak cordially to him. Artagan smiles back, enjoying the Prince's discomfort.

“The name's
King
Artagan now. I keep no secrets from my subjects. Speak freely.”

Malcolm grips his horse's reins in a fist, speaking through clenched teeth.

“My brother, King Morgan, calls on you for aid. A Saxon army has crossed into the Welsh Lands. We need every man we can get.”

Artagan and I exchange glances. Malcolm cannot be serious. Since when does the mighty Hammer King call on other kingdoms for aid? Something must be terribly amiss in South Wales for Morgan to send his own brother to beg troops from his former enemies. Artagan utters a quick laugh.

“Your brother calls on
me
for aid? Me. Doesn't he still have a price on my head?”

“Old squabbles must be put aside,” Malcolm retorts. “Ten thousand Saxons attacked the Dean Fort yesterday. They slaughtered the garrison and razed it to the ground. They march on Caerwent as we speak.”

My skin turns to ice. Artagan's knights murmur amongst themselves. Ten thousand Saxons? Malcolm must exaggerate. With a force that size they could conquer all of Wales before harvest time. I lean forward in the saddle, still unable to fathom Malcolm's tale.

“You're sure the Dean Fort has fallen? What of Lord Griffith?”

“Taken hostage by Chief Beowulf, last we heard.”

I shut my eyes. Such a sorrowful fate for such a worthy man. Lord Griffith was always kind to me. Artagan and I first danced hand in hand under his roof. Now the old nobleman is doubtlessly chained like a dog to the Wolf's war wagons. A plaything for the barbarians as they ravage the Welsh countryside. Artagan aims a hard finger at the Prince.