Between Two Fires (12 page)

“No, I mean, why do you offer me this?”

“To mend the rift between us. To show you I value your diplomacy as much as a man's.”

We stand only a few paces apart, our breath fogging the space between us. Although he has not said it, I know he offers this as a way of apologizing for the words between us, when he and his brother thought me a “foolish girl.” Perhaps this is the closest a monarch comes to saying he is sorry. Morgan takes my hand, his cold fingers rubbing warmth into mine.

In the days of yore, the Old Tribes often sent women as envoys, but since the coming of the Romans and Saxons, such traditions have faded in the Welsh Lands. Morgan of all people would be the last kind of man I would suspect of honoring such an age-old tradition. Perhaps making amends with me supersedes any concerns he may have about contemporary propriety.

The day the assassin struck, and Morgan sequestered his brother, son, and me together, he said he only trusted the three of us and no one else. Now I see in the intensity of his stare that he meant it. He entrusts me to settle issues along his eastern frontier, the gateway to his kingdom. I don't know whether to feel honored or put upon. It is a chance to prove myself, yet also a nearly impossible task.

Nonetheless, I firmly clasp Morgan's hands and look up into his gray eyes with gratitude. I never wanted to be just a bed warmer to a king, and it lightens my heart to see that Morgan understands.

“When do I leave?” I ask.

“Today.” He smiles, kissing my palm.

Morgan leaves me to prepare. Rushing down to the stables to saddle a mount, I find Brother Padraig squatting in the hay amongst the stalls. I cock my head to the side, wondering what on earth the monk is doing down in the sty of a horse bed. Without looking up, the cleric waves me over.

“Lend me a hand, my lady. This mare's time is near.”

“Abbot, I leave within the hour on an errand for the king. You should be with me.”

“Plenty of time for that. I've trained you as a healer of both man and beast. Or are you too good to get down in the muck now that you're a queen?”

He says this last part with a wink, but I put on a feigned smirk of indignation anyway. I bend down beside him as a mare lying in the hay begins her labors. The Abbott loves all of God's creations, whether man or animal, and I've helped him when whelping everything from pups to lambs before. We let the mare do most of the work, shifting her legs and flapping her lips as she pushes her foal into the world. With a gulp, I wonder if I might not groan or worse if I found myself in childbed.

With a splash, the foal's hooves spill out onto the earth, followed by the body and head. The Abbot and I cut the cord and push the afterbirth aside before the mother can eat it. Padraig insists that horse placentas have healing properties necessary for certain potions. I hope I never have to drink one though.

Despite the muck and gore, I cannot help but smile as the youngling struggles onto its wobbly feet. Within a matter of minutes, the foal can move about and suckle from its mother. The Abbot elbows me with a grin as we share a washbowl for our hands.

“God made mankind stewards of the earth. If more kings and knights realized the effort it takes to bring a life into the world, they might not be so swift to snuff it out with steel and iron.”

I beam with pride at the balding holy man. Few men, clergy or otherwise, glow with grace as often as my Padraig does. I'm not worthy to unlace his sandals.

Yet despite all the wondrous things Padraig has taught me over the years, there is one lesson he left out. Taking advantage of the good mood, I try to broach the topic.

“When are you going to let me help you deliver a human child?” I ask with a smile.

“When you're ready,” he replies noncommittally.

“And when will that be?”

“You'll know.”

I frown, trying to hide my disappointment. Despite all the healing arts and calvings in which I've assisted him, he has left this last mystery to me without explanation. Perhaps it's no easy thing for a monk sworn to God to discuss the medical facets of handling a woman's parts when in labor. Nonetheless, I cannot help a nagging fear that he perhaps doesn't believe I'm ready to help with something as important as bringing human life into the world.

Without a word, the monk cleans his hands as he exits the stables. Some mysteries must simply wait for another day, I suppose.

Before the next chapel bell from the cathedral tolls, I saddle my mount beside the castle gates. Morgan comes alone to see me off, apologizing that he cannot spare a large escort for me, but assures me that the journey will be short and the roads clear of foes this time of year. The cold weather keeps the enemy at bay better than a thousand spears. I lean down from my horse and give Morgan a kiss. He pats my mare on the rump and waves as my small party rides east.

Only four companions join me, my personal household all on horseback. Ahern, Padraig, Rowena, and Una canter behind me as my falcon, Vivian, descends to my gloved hand. My heart beats with the rhythm of horseshoes padding along the muddy highway. Not since I left Father's court at Dyfed have I been at liberty to travel. I feel free as a hawk.

Just as Morgan promised, the day passes quickly and without trouble.

We arrive in Lord Griffith's territory just before sunset. I smile at the broad curves of the great sapphire Sabrina River and the emerald Forest of Dean beyond. Perhaps this errand will not be so trying after all.

Lord Griffith's fort consists of a wooden palisade with timber watchtowers set beside the river. Both the Welsh and Saxons mostly build their castles out of wood like this one. Stone fortresses like Caerleon and Caerwent are the exception, their quarried foundations first laid down by Roman engineers. Since those ancient days, the building of stonework has been lost to us. Such have I gleaned from Padraig's books of history and legend that he carries in his satchel. I wonder what other great things we have lost since the coming of the Saxons. Only the Almighty knows for certain.

Ahern hails the gatekeepers of the fort, announcing my title and that we come in the King's name. The guardsmen open the large, spiked doors. We trot inside the wooden keep, and dismount in the muddy courtyard.

A man helps me off my horse, careful to keep my skirts out of the mud. I turn to thank him when my voice fails me. Sensing my alarm, Vivian starts squawking on my arm. The man before me is Artagan Blacksword.

He unsheathes his longsword, its ringing steel flickering silvery one moment then onyx the next. A half dozen of his companions surround us with drawn spears and bows. Ahern raises his own spear and shield, but too late. Artagan checks him with the flat of his long blade. My brother halts, seething red at having walked into an ambush. The Blacksword laughs and aims his sword at me.

This fort belongs to my husband and should be garrisoned by his troops, but I only see Free Cantref warriors in greens and furs. My heartbeat drums in my ears, my palms moist with sweat as I stare down the length of Artagan's blade. The hedge knight smiles at me. God help us. We've been captured by an outlaw.

 

6

Torches cast pools of light in the otherwise darkened timber keep, the tap of dripping water echoing through the cavernous hall. We stagger inside at spear-point. Half a dozen rugged archers and spearmen encircle us, decked in drab furs and green tunics. They smell of mud and the piney woods. A rawboned woman warrior amongst them watches me with disdain in her eyes.

Artagan eyes my falcon warily. With a piercing caw, Vivian ascends to the rafters. I glare at Artagan, unable to restrain my anger any longer.

“Unhand us! We come on the King's errand to his vassal, Lord Griffith. What right have you to bear arms inside an outpost of King Morgan's domain?”

“Because I asked him to,” a deep voice answers from the darkness.

Several watchmen kindle additional torches along the interior walls, casting light upon an oaken throne. A lone man with a dark beard streaked in gray reclines in the half shadows atop his seat. Despite his stern appearance, he grins warmly at me.

“Be not alarmed, Queen Branwen. I am Lord Griffith of the Dean Fort and am honored to have you here. Sir Artagan is also our guest. He and his warriors generously offered to help garrison our walls.”

“My husband would not be pleased to find you sheltering someone he deems an outlaw,” I reply, pointing at Artagan.

Lord Griffith rises from his chair.

“Tread easy, young Queen. I serve King Morgan loyally as I did his father before him. I have scarce fifty men to defend this fort, and most of them farmers. I see no harm in allowing six Free Cantref warriors to lend us a hand.”

“Then these are all the men Sir Artagan has?”

“More than you brought, my lady. As I recall, I urged King Morgan for reinforcements.”

My cheeks sting at his remark. With only Ahern, a monk, and two serving girls, I hardly have much help to offer Lord Griffith. Perhaps Morgan should never have sent me. Somehow, I must appease a loyal vassal who needs troops that his king cannot provide. I must find a way to make bricks without straw.

Artagan stands uncomfortably close to me, flashing another cocky smile as though I am the butt of some joke. His unabashed stare makes me cringe. I approach Lord Griffith, doing my best to ignore Artagan.

“Then we are not prisoners here, my lord?”

“Far from it.” Griffith smiles. “You must forgive Sir Artagan. He is not skilled in courtesies.”

“Never claimed to be,” Artagan gibes, getting a laugh from his men.

Lord Griffith claps his hands, calling for his servants to stoke the baking kilns. Artagan's warriors back away from me and my small retinue, Ahern still giving them the evil eye as they linger nearby. Griffith descends his throne and bows before kissing my hand.

“What meager fare we have we shall share with you tonight, Queen Branwen. Guests to the Dean Fort are never turned away, whether they be a simple hedge knight or the Queen of the realm herself.”

Despite his mottled salt-and-pepper beard, and careworn face, I cannot help but smile back at Lord Griffith. His countenance reminds me much of Father, only less into his drink and far kinder in his speech.

He gives me a tour of the grounds while his people prepare the evening feast. The dusky skyline turns purple along the forest riverfront. The sweet scent of pinesap permeates the evergreens and small crofter fields. Such a tranquil place. I might mistake it for Eden if I didn't know it was a border settlement. If only the Saxons would let us alone, communities like the Dean Fort might flourish without the ever-present shadow of war.

Although he does not directly mention it again, I can see plainly why Lord Griffith needs more support from my husband. Dozens of women and children from every farmstead huddle inside the stockade as night falls. Hardly a man between fifteen and fifty mans the walls. The summer fighting has taken its toll on the settlement. I shiver as I tug my shawl tight about my shoulders. Thank God for the cold weather, the only thing keeping the Saxons at bay.

By the time we return to the main keep, the hall has transformed from a dank abode to a place of light and warmth. Women string meat and apples over the blazing hearths while minstrels pipe away at their flutes. A small circle of boys and girls begins to dance, some with legs of mutton still in hand.

I clap in time with the music while Lord Griffith offers me a seat of honor next to him at table. He cuts the choicest venison for me. Griffith politely excuses himself a moment, swapping drink and stories with his guardsmen across the room. His people seem quick to celebrate, probably accustomed to finding prosperity one day and death the next. Such is life along the Saxon border. And why not make the best of every moment? Especially when one does not know which moment may be their last.

Dancing revelers grab both Una and Rowena by the arms. My handmaids surrender to such persistence and join in. I nearly drop the goblet from my mouth, giggling at such a mirthful sight.

Rowena's jovial smile and ample curves earn her several dance partners, including a few Free Cantref revelers. Una grimaces, far more timid as she tries to keep time with the beat of calfskin drums. I cackle gleefully, both girls smiling at me by turns as they spin through the circle. For a moment, I forget I am anything but a girl at a country dance. I've no more worries than a dairymaid.

“Do you dance, my lady?”

Artagan sits beside me. I shift my seat, not wishing to be alone with the Blacksword. I keep my gaze to my food.

“Why are you here?” I demand.

“My followers and I travel the borderlands to guard against the Saxons, keeping the river villages safe whether they belong to the Free Cantrefs or not.”

“No, I mean why are you
here,
sitting next to me?”

“Isn't it obvious, Your Highness? You're the only woman in the hall not yet dancing.”

I pick at my meal, still not deigning to look at him. What must I do to make him leave me alone? Something Morgan once told me arises in my mind.

“My husband says that you steal cattle and ravish peasant girls. Is that true, Sir Artagan?”

He suddenly grows very still.

Perhaps if I get Artagan to show his true aggressive nature, Lord Griffith will see why Morgan wanted to lock up the Blacksword in the first place. Instead, Artagan pulls a thread of twine from around his neck, clenching it in his fist.

“I only took cows from rich barons, and gave them to poor villagers who didn't have enough meat to last the winter.”

“And what of defenseless womenfolk?”

“The only girl I ever knew who was ravished was my sister, and that was the Saxons' work before they killed her.”

Artagan presses the token into my hand. A small, soapstone figurine of a young girl. The tiny idol suddenly feels heavy as a boulder in my palm. I shut my eyes. The screams from the night the Saxons took my mother reverberate in my ears.