Between Two Fires (40 page)

Ahern raises a skeptical eyebrow, but I can think of no reason the priest ought to lie. Many a cleric gives succor and last rites to the dying on the battlefield. Nonetheless, I give the priest a stern look.

“Well, I cannot let you go, Father. Should someone capture you they might learn our whereabouts. I intend to get my people home as safely and secretly as possible.”

“I would not talk, your ladyship.”

“Unfortunately, their blades would hack away at you until you did. I'm sorry, Father David. But you'll have to be our guest for now.”

“You heard Her Highness,” Ahern says, pushing the parson along.

The priest protests a moment before surrendering to the march. Turning my pony around, I halt in front of the cleric. Perhaps he saw more of the battle's aftermath than my scouts did.

“You say you saw the field after the fight was over? Did you see a man named King Artagan?”

David stops, the rain glancing off his bald scalp. He nods solemnly, his voice very low.

“I've news of both Kings Morgan and Artagan. One is captured and the other dead.”

I waver in the saddle, the black woods suddenly turning into complete darkness.

*   *   *

The fire burns low in the grate. Flames dance along the peat logs, crackling embers echoing across the dark, quiet bedchamber. Folding my arms, I stand and stare at the flickering blaze. The orange fireglow shrinks from the empty bed behind me. A knock comes at my bedchamber door.

Ahern sticks his head in when I do not answer, my eyes still entranced by the blaze in the hearth. We stand silent in my tower room, listening to the crickets chirping outside. Droplets rattle the roof tiles high overhead. My kinsman holds his spear and shield, an eye patch over his left socket.

“The rains started again,” he murmurs.

When I fail to reply, he paces toward the windowsill. A few hearth fires dot the otherwise dark confines of the castle. The halls of Aranrhod once echoed with laughter and revelry even into the wee hours, but not tonight. My guardsman frowns.

“I've watchmen patrolling the walls. All quiet tonight. The harsh weather will slow the Saxons.”

Ahern sighs with exasperation as I continue gazing wordlessly into the fire.

“My Queen, you are the ruler of Aranrhod now. I need you to give me orders. The people need you to lead us.”

“Maybe I don't want to. Maybe my days of thinking for everyone else have ended.”

“You don't eat, you barely speak. You've hardly glanced at your son since our return!”

“Rowena cares for him. I love him dearly, but his face reminds me of his father too much.”

Hanging my head, I shut my eyes. The movement of armies, shifting alliances, courtly intrigues all seem like some pointless chess game now. What does any of it mean without Artagan by my side? With the Saxons running amuck in South Wales and along the eastern borders, Aranrhod will soon fall under siege to the barbarians once more. It is only a matter of time.

The Saxons have broken the back of all Welsh resistance now. Since our defeat near Caerwent, word has spread of the slaughter and betrayal. The peasantry call it the Battle of the Bloody Fords. I call it a massacre. Most Welsh forces have either surrendered, fled, or perished against the encroaching Saxon onslaught. And I haven't the faintest idea what to do. What can a lone woman do when all the world turns against her? I heave a heavy sigh.

“Bring me the priest, Ahern. I wish to talk with him alone.”

Ahern nods and exits the chamber. My kinsman has proven faithful since his return to duty. As de facto seneschal of the castle, the few guards remaining in the garrison seem to follow Ahern's orders without issue. It seems a small comfort when my most loyal warrior is a man who once betrayed me. But a comfort it is. Nonetheless, Ahern is no strategist. I cannot debate ideas with him as I might a true advisor. He said it himself: he wants to take orders, not give them.

A few minutes pass before he returns with Father David in tow. Ahern shuts the door, leaving the cleric and myself alone in my dimly lit chamber. Heavy rain pelts the roof as the storm intensifies.

“Have you any word from the outside world, Father David?”

“I sent ravens as you asked, Your Grace, but birds travel slow in such weather.”

“But you have learned something.”

“Aye. I received one reply yesterday from a layman I trust in a western monastery.”

“Well?”

The balding priest hesitates.

“It merely confirms what I first told you. King Morgan was slain at the Bloody Fords by King Penda and the Wolf. Your husband, the Blacksword, remains a prisoner of King Belin in North Wales. They've taken him to the fortress at Mount Snowden.”

My heart convulses, wrenched sideways. Snowden. The frozen mountain fortress of the North. Few outside of Belin's realm have ever seen it, but its reputation reaches far. Once brought to Snowden, there is no coming back. The fortress has never been taken nor any of its prisoners ever escaped. Second only to Belin's palace on the isle of Mona, Snowden typically falls under the sway of the heir apparent. Prince Rhun and Lady Olwen must be the lords of Snowden now. Keeping my voice steady, I turn back to the fire so that the priest will not see the fear in my eyes.

“Why does Belin hold Artagan prisoner? What does he hope to gain?”

“I'm a simple parson, my lady, but I can guess. Belin is Penda's ally now, no?”

“The Saxon king and Belin clearly have an understanding. The Saxons will leave Belin's kingdom alone while the barbarians gobble up the other half of Wales. Little does the fool realize, the devils will break their word once they've subjugated the rest of the country.”

“Perhaps, my Queen, but Belin is as clever as he is pitiless. He may hold Artagan hostage in order to gain your allegiance.”

“My allegiance? He betrayed us at the Bloody Fords and took my husband prisoner! Why would I ever bend the knee to him?”

“To save Artagan's life. Think about it, Your Highness. In exchange for your husband, he'll demand Aranrhod ally itself to him. In doing so, he could control half of Wales without losing a single soldier.”

Raising an eyebrow, I turn toward the priest and look him over. For a wandering holy man, the priest has an unusually keen perception of things. Perhaps fate alone did not put him in my path the night he came across our retreating army. Maybe someone placed him here to spy on me. I've seen enough traitors around me these past few years to smell them out on sight. I narrow my gaze.

“How does a country parson grow so wise in the ways of kingly politics?”

“That's simple, Your Grace. Because I was a king once.”

I blink in disbelief.

“You jest, Father.”

“Nay, your ladyship. I'm cousin to the dying King Urien of the northernmost Free Cantrefs in Powys.”

“You're kin to Olwen's father?”

“Many years ago, we both had a claim to the throne, but I ruled only a few years before Urien ousted me in a coup. He gave me two choices, either die a king or take holy orders and renounce the throne.”

“And you chose life.”

“It changed my life. God guided me through countless trials in the wilderness since that day many years ago. My soul belongs to Christ, but my mind has not forgotten the lessons of a kingship.”

I nod, impressed. His story seems too outrageous to believe, yet I sense that a liar would have concocted a much more believable falsehood if they wished to deceive me. Father David holds my gaze. His simple cloak and callous hands bespeak a man who has indeed lived a rough rural life, yet his eyes sparkle like a true believer. A baptizer in the wilderness. I forgot such pious men of God still existed.

“We've no ordained man of God to lead our parish here at Aranrhod. You interested?”

“Does that mean you'll let me go if I decide to leave?”

“If that is what you wish.”

David flashes a half-smile.

“God has led me to you. Perhaps I should stay and see if your flock needs a shepherd.”

I smile back, the first time I have done so in many weeks. He bows slightly before excusing himself from my chamber. Ahern stands guard outside my door. I ask him to send for Rowena and my child. He grins broadly before seeing to my request.

When Rowena returns with Gavin in her arms, my little boy slumbers against her chest. I reach out for him, daring to wake him even if only to hold my babe close to my heart. He stirs and whimpers a moment before snoozing against my breast.

Rowena sits by the fireside with me, stoking the flames with fresh kindling. I gently rock Gavin in my lap.

“How fares my son?” I inquire.

“He thrives, m'lady. I've enough milk for both he and my Mina.”

A pang of guilt sweeps through me. Although she doesn't mean it, I feel it as a rebuke. Instead of continuing to nurse my own boy, I rode off to war with his father. Now I've nearly made him fatherless, and I a widow. Stroking his soft cinnamon hair, I speak quietly with Rowena.

“Any word of Una? Is she still missing?”

“She turned up, m'lady. Joined a cloister of nuns over in Dyfed, she has.”

“A nunnery? Why?”

Rowena blushes, looking at her feet.

“We shared Keenan between us, but once I got with child Una started to change. She said it was a sin, and if she took the veil it would free Keenan to marry me and set things aright.”

“I'm sorry, Rowena. You two were close as sisters.”

I suddenly miss Una with a pang, realizing I may never see the poor girl ever again. What kind of friend was I to her? What kind of friend have I been to anyone? Rowena sniffles.

“Worst of it is, Keenan lies in the infirmary still. His wounds may still get the best of him.”

“Don't say that. He may yet recover. I'll see to him myself. He's a brave knight and will make you a fine husband someday.”

Her eyes water over as she looks up and takes my hand.

“M'lady, do we stand a chance now, any of us? People say it's the end of the world and that the Saxons will come here to wipe us out.”

“I don't know, my dear. I, for one, will not submit. Not so long as I have Aranrhod, and my son to fight for. I don't know how, but we will save our homeland somehow. We must.”

“I hope you're right, Your Grace. I hope you find a way. I hope we all do.”

She dries her cheeks and rises to go, offering to take Gavin back to the nursery. I shake my head, preferring to keep him in the cradle beside me tonight. He has grown big for a baby, and after a good evening feed from Rowena, he can sleep through the night without getting hungry enough to awaken. Nonetheless, Rowena offers to come in the night should I need her. I thank her as she shuts the door.

Cradling Gavin in my arms, I stay up watching the fireplace. Rainfall brushes against the shutters and the wind whistles through chinks in the walls, but the hearth keeps the stones of my bedchamber warm and snug. Somewhere out there, my Artagan shivers in a cell atop Mount Snowden. And Saxons ravage the land from one end to the other with no one to resist them. The two greatest foes of the Saxons, Morgan and Artagan, are both defeated, one dead and the other in chains. My first husband is a ghost and the other in bondage. Who remains to stand up to the barbarian hordes? Just me and a handful of archers in an ancient castle. I whisper softly as I kiss my boy atop his sleepy head.

“I'll get your father back, my son. Somehow, I will set all the wrongs to right.”

Before the fire dies down in the grate, I nod off with Gavin in my arms. The sound of the rain penetrates my dreams, thundering in my ears like the roll of the surf.

Like the sound of the sea where I was born.

The roar of the tide wanes, and I see Mother again. She smiles at me through the vertical threads of the loom. My fat, barefoot toddler feet bump against the small stone counterweights that dangle beneath the massive timber loom set. Mother moves the shuttle with one hand, poking me with a fingertip between the forest of taut, half-woven threads. I cackle in a high babyish voice, my mother flashing a pearly grin every time I laugh. She hums a lullaby while she works.

Her song suddenly stops. A man's voice murmurs from the chamber threshold. I cannot see him over the loom, but I know by his voice that he is not my father. Mother puts a finger to her lips to quiet me, her eyes sad. Something is wrong. I freeze like a hare in its hole.

Mother and the man speak in low, heated tones. The rumble of the sea outside Dun Dyfed masks much of what they say, but I can still glean something from their muffled voices. His words sound warm and stern by turns, yet oddly almost pleading. Mother seems angry, yet her voice remains smooth and calm as ever. The man refuses to go. Still hidden behind the loom, I start to tremble.

She rises, her voice growing loud. Mother tells the man to leave. He gets quiet, his feet shuffling away as he says something in a growl under his breath. Once he departs, I rush into Mother's arms and put my head in her lap. Mother pats my back, resuming her song, only humming much fainter this time. The stranger's footfalls fade down the stairwell.

Blinking my eyes awake, I find myself once again inside my bedchamber at Aranrhod. Yet my dream was no dream. It must have been something long forgotten, fragments that only a young child's memory can carry.

I rarely recall Mother ever entertaining any men without Father present. Even as a child, I knew Father's temperament could easily turn to jealousy. Yet who was this strange man who seemed to be on familiar terms with Mother, and why did his presence distress her so? His shadowy, formless face looms like a dark vision in the echoes of my memory. With a shiver and a yawn, I try and push such thoughts far to the back of my mind. Time enough to ruminate on such odd musings later.

When I arise at dawn, the gentle thud of the ceaseless downpour reverberates across the castle. Gavin wriggles in my arms and begins to cry for breakfast. I turn my head, massaging a crick in my neck. Rowena pads barefoot into the room with Mina already at her breast. She pulls out another large nipple from within her shift and begins to suckle Gavin. Ahern blushes from the stairwell, looking away as though he has not noticed. I might almost smile, but a shadow appears on the stairs.