Between Two Fires (5 page)

I give Rowena a sidelong glance. Our ways may seem odd to the Saxons and Romans, but we Welsh consider it a matter of pride that everyone from servants to kings may speak their minds freely. I'm sure our enemies would scoff and remark that our people's free, independent-minded ways will doom us in the end. But take away that freedom and you take away what makes us Welsh.

Rowena busies about the bath towels while I continue soaking up the hot waters of my tub. So this is the Kingdom of Gwent. I may never have journeyed more than a day's ride from Dyfed before, but I've seen enough of maps to know that the twin castles of Caerleon and Caerwent lie at the heart of the Hammer King's realm. Each stronghold stands about a day's gallop apart within the southeast corner of Wales. With the advent of our marriage, Morgan's fortresses of Caerleon and Caerwent will continue to shield South Wales as well as Dyfed from the Saxon invaders to the east.

Rowena hums to herself after washing me down and toweling me off. Despite being about my age, her hands are rough as an old woman's from working with lye soap. Her honey-brown locks lie piled atop her head in a fascinating chignon, which must be the current fashion for damsels in this part of Wales. The influence and styles of the ancient Romans run strongest in the castle towns of the South, or so my stepmother always says.

After putting me in a soft, green gown with a fur collar, Rowena shows me a mirror. The ivy cloth brings out the green in my eyes and the slim fabric makes even my sixteen-year-old body seem queenly. The royal wardrobes of South Wales put my old linens from Dyfed to shame. As Rowena belts a gold-threaded sash around my waist and pins two silver earrings on me, I begin to feel like a true queen for the first time. She combs my hair, rubbing a hint of jasmine into my dark locks.

“You look like a right proper princess now,” Rowena says, smiling back at me in the mirror. “Won't be long before you've got little princesses and princelings of your own.”

My stomach tightens at her mention of children. She surely means it as a compliment, but I cannot help recalling the many birthings of lambs and foals I've assisted Abbot Padraig with in Father's stables back in Dyfed. Nonetheless, I've never had a hand in the delivery of a woman heavy with child. All I know are the cries of anguish echoing from the nunnery once they begin their songs to draw the newborn into the world. Such was the way my mother brought me into the world and every mother of the Old Tribes before her. Only many such mothers didn't survive the ordeal. I swallow the lump in my throat, trying to push such thoughts from my mind.

I constantly keep thanking Rowena for tending to me, unaccustomed to having my own handmaid. Back in Dyfed, Father always considered it a frivolous luxury, even though he allowed my stepmother to indulge in several ladies-in-waiting. Even now, I feel a touch guilty. Betrothed to a king or not, I'm still perfectly capable of dressing myself. Nonetheless, Rowena seems to have an eye for fashion, which I unfortunately lack, so I happily smile at my reflection in the mirror as she works wonders with my green garment.

Outside the tower window, the red-tile-roofed houses of Caerleon surround the castle and crowd the banks of the nearby river. Never have I seen so many people all living together before. Girls herd chickens and sheep through the narrow sandy streets while young boys help their fathers shod horses in the smoking blacksmiths' shops. Mothers with babes in hand gather produce from the boatmen unloading their wares along the waterfront. A bustling settlement, Caerleon makes Dyfed look like a backwater by comparison. Rowena gives me a quick tour as she points out sights from our windowsill.

“King Morgan's castle at Caerwent be just as big as Caerleon if not grander,” she says. “The twin citadels lie near each other, with the King's Wood betwixt them. To the east, the old Roman road traverses the forest.”

Folding my arms, I survey the pleasant scene of well-tended gardens and fields. Beyond lie the tall oak groves of the King's Wood and the brown Roman road cutting through it. Somewhere down that path lies my lord's castle and my new home.

A herald's horn blows from the battlements. Small dust clouds rise farther down the roadway. A long column of cavalry canters down the winding path, bearing the red dragon banners of South Wales atop their lances. Morgan! It must be. The cavalcade of riders comes on slowly, their mounts clearly tired. I cannot make out more than specks of horsemen in the distance as I squint over the windowsill. Peasants all along the citadel gather to see the approaching riders. Doubtless, many of them have husbands, brothers, and sons amongst the Hammer King's troops.

An arm bangs on the door of our castle apartment. The thud of a metal fist on the solid oaken door makes me jump. Rowena cranes her face next to the keyhole.

“Who begs entrance to her ladyship's chambers?”

“I am Lady Branwen's guardsman! Who the devil has barred this door?”

I recognize Ahern's voice and nod to Rowena to loosen the hasp. My brother bangs on the door again. She reluctantly lets Ahern in, prodding him in the chest with a thick finger.

“Her Grace was taking a bath, and I'll lock whatever doors I bloody well please! For her privacy.”

Ahern grumbles under his breath, but says no more beneath Rowena's challenging stare. The cuts on his face have small bandages, but look to have begun healing well. He turns to me and stands at attention, honorable and formal to the last even though we've known one another since childhood.

“My lady, the King's horsemen have been sighted near the castle walls.”

“We know that, you oaf!” Rowena butts in. “We've a better view than you.”

Despite my efforts to hide it, I smile at the two of them sparring. Rowena already clucks like a mother hen around me. I stifle my giggles at seeing Ahern's feathers so ruffled.

Rowena glances back out the window, her cheeks suddenly turning pale. A leaden weight sinks in my stomach as all the color drains from her face. She points at the approaching horsemen and their dragon banners, much like the old Pendragon flags King Arthur once flew over his armies. Something about the way the dragon banners flap in the wind, their staffs tilted forward at an awkward angle, only deepens my foreboding. My hands turn cold as I begin to understand. The serving girl raises a hand to her mouth, barely speaking above a whisper.

“They've dipped their banners, m'lady. Someone has died.”

 

3

Shuffling feet echo under the castle gateway. The soldiers bring Morgan in on a pallet, his face pale as a ghost. Prince Malcolm rushes toward his injured brother as the procession of downcast warriors passes under the main gate. My gut clenches tight when they halt in the entranceway. Morgan's eyelids flutter, a few faint breaths escaping his lips. Even wounded, he clutches his great war-hammer as though its weight can keep his soul weighed down to earth. Although the King still lives, his men dip their banners anyway. Not even they expect him to last the night.

Malcolm demands to know what happened, but I only catch pieces of mingled replies from the guards. One soldier's voice manages to rise over the others as he reports to the Prince.

“We hit them hard, my liege. The Saxons didn't expect us so soon, but our numbers were near equal. The King crossed arms with their captain, the Chieftain Beowulf.”

Malcolm suddenly turns as pale as his wounded brother. I grab the Prince's sleeve, still not understanding.

“Who is this Beowulf? Was he the one who did this to my betrothed?”

The host of armed men exchange silent glances. Malcolm growls at his men.

“Everyone out! Except for the healers.”

The troopers' heads sink, their shoulders sagging as they leave amidst the shuffle of chain mail. I do not move. My husband-to-be is badly hurt, and I refuse to leave his side. His mangled body reminds me of a broken bird unable to fly. Whether he was a king or peasant, I could not find it in my heart to abandon such a man at death's door. Abbot Padraig taught me to be a Good Samaritan as well as a healer, and I'll not neglect such lessons now.

Decked in white cleric robes, several healers lift the King's makeshift mattress of straw and sticks before heading toward a tower stairwell. Morgan groans with every tilt of his pallet. When I move to follow the healers upstairs, Malcolm restrains me by the wrist. His grip tightens hard enough to make me wince, but he looks past me almost as though he forgets I am there. The two of us stand alone in the deserted alcove.

“This is the Fox and the Wolf's doing,” he says with a growl.

“My Prince?” I ask, confused.

“Brothers. Saxon chieftains, both of them. Cedric the Fox is crafty as the devil himself and his brother Beowulf is so strong that the soothsayers think him a wolf born into man's flesh.”

“And so Beowulf did this to the King?”

“Aye. And I believe his brother Cedric must have led the raid that was meant to capture you, my lady.”

I swallow hard. For the life of me, I cannot understand why these two chieftains I have never met should bear such ill will against me. But then I realize that I can no longer think of myself as insignificant Branwen of Dyfed. I am soon to be a queen of South Wales. A valuable chess piece for a conniving Saxon foe, especially if I were taken hostage by our enemies. I succeed in gently removing Malcolm's hand from my sleeve.

“Then two traps were set today, one for my soon-to-be husband and the other for me?”

“Leave these matters to men, my lady. Your prayers are all that can help my brother now.”

He turns away, ignoring me with a raised palm as he saunters out of the room. Twice now, he has shoved me away like a petulant child. I ball my fists even as my stepmother's voice inside my head checks my tongue. No lady would speak ill to her lord's kinsman, no matter how discourteous he may be. The shock of seeing his brother so bloodied seems to have temporarily addled Malcolm's thoughts. Alone in the alcove, I summon what poise I can as I draw in a deep breath. I'll show the Prince that this lady can do more than a knight at times like these.

Scaling the turret stairs, I find my husband-to-be in the uppermost solar. A quartet of clerics huddle around him, all of them men with balding tonsure haircuts atop their pallid heads. One monk sharpens a blade whilst another settles a bowl under the unconscious king. The clergymen exchange looks as I enter the room, the eldest of them scratching his white beard.

“My lady, what are you doing here?”

“What do you intend to do to him?” I ask, pointing at the King.

“Why, bleed him, Your Grace. We must purge the ill humors from his blood.”

I raise an eyebrow. Surely, this old holy man jests. Haven't the Saxons' swords drawn enough of Morgan's blood already? Unfortunately, the monks' grave faces seem quite serious. Clearing my throat, I try to sound as commanding as Father does when he is cross with his servants.

“Put away your tools! Bring me freshwater, needles, and thread. Now!”

“Your ladyship—”

“I've tended wounded men and beasts alike before. I am also a king's daughter and soon to be a king's wife. Now do as I say and fetch my serving girl as well. Or do you wish to explain to the Prince why his brother died whilst you were busy bantering words with his brother's widow?”

The monks quickly get to their feet and scuttle down the turret steps. Alone for a moment with Morgan, I peel back his bloodied clothing to examine the wounds. I've seen livestock mauled by wolves before, but the sight of the King's open gashes makes the room start to spin. A pair of open slashes runs the length of his torso, like claw marks from a bear. I steady myself with a hand on the bedstead.

Thankfully Morgan sleeps deeply, else he would be roaring with pain right now. This Chief Beowulf must have wielded a large ax. Something like the weapon of the Saxon who tried to capture me. A shudder runs through me, thinking that I too might have ended up cut to pieces like this. I put a palm to Morgan's forehead, his scalp hot and bathed in sweat.

Rowena creeps up the stairs, carrying all the items for which I asked. She gasps upon seeing the King's injuries. The serving girl curtsies before jabbing a thumb over her shoulder.

“Some grumpy clerics told me to find you. Do you truly know how to heal such wounds, m'lady?”

“In my father's kingdom, I used to mend the cattle and horses when our livestock were attacked by wild beasts.”

She gives me a blank, unreadable look and for a moment I wonder if the clerics were in the right after all. Perhaps I should relinquish my future husband's care to them. Then the thought of Malcolm's dismissal of me boils my blood. No, I must try to save the King's life if I can.

Rowena says nothing, but we both know the odds are slim for my betrothed tonight. It may not matter after all who tries to save him. Whether under the care of the monks or myself, King Morgan's fate lies in God's hands.

We set to work, cleaning and sewing up the King's bleeding wounds. The candle burns low in the bedchamber while the sky outside turns from red to purple to black as night falls. Even as I work bent over the wounded King, I take a bit of Prince Malcolm's advice, and say a silent prayer over Morgan for both his body and his soul.

*   *   *

For two weeks, I hardly sleep. Rowena and I take turns at the King's bedside while the castle kitchens brew soup and herbals at my instruction. When not cleaning bandages or taking a catnap in an armchair, I write letters to the abbey in Dyfed asking for Brother Padraig. I trust his skills in medicine far more than these South Welsh clerics, who daily insist on new remedies that make my skin crawl. Bloodletting, leeches, and salting wounds with the sign of the cross. I'd trust an old hag in the woods before I'd let these misguided “healers” anywhere near the King. Prince Malcolm has only borne with my insistence because my efforts have somehow kept his brother from slipping beyond our reach. Yet Morgan still remains very weak and does not yet have the strength to rise from bed.