Authors: Mark Noce
I arch my eyebrows, my skin suddenly abuzz. The dungeons! Of course. I begin to pace, talking to myself.
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
“My Queen?”
“Something I read in one of Abbot Padraig's books once. âFind an ally in the foe of your foes.'”
“But between Morgan and these assassins, you don't even know who all your enemies are.”
“Then I suppose I need someone who's everyone's enemy.”
He shrugs, rubbing his temples as though he has a headache. I snap my fingers, knowing for the first time in a long while exactly what I must do. I give Ahern a peck on the cheek.
“Brother, I need your help tonight.”
He eyes me warily as I whisper in his ear. Even with half the castle asleep, we can waste no time. He looks crossly at me once I explain my intent. Ahern tries to talk me out of it, but to no avail. The guardsman bites his lip and shakes his head.
“We could both lose our heads for this.”
“Please, brother.”
He sighs before nodding reluctantly. I wait while he steals down to the lower levels of the castle. Minutes pass before I creep down the dark staircase after him. My soft slippers help muffle my footsteps, but I pause every so often to listen for sounds throughout the complex. Should anyone catch me, it may be to Ahern's doom and my own.
A hint of sulfur pervades the dungeons, the steady drip of water murmuring in the shadows. Ahern kindles a torch and ushers me to his side. He whispers as he takes a position by the doorway.
“I relieved the guard, but I will stand watch in case anyone comes. There's still time to reconsider, Branwen.”
“Thank you, Ahern, but I've made up my mind.”
Taking the torch, I proceed alone into the damp vaults. Empty cells line the walls. Rotten hay and gray puddles cover the stony floors, the occasional rat scampering across my path. Turning a corner in the labyrinth, I come face-to-face with a forgotten prisoner behind rusty bars.
A bleached skull and a mangled skeleton stare back at me from inside the cell. I jump back, barely stifling my cries. A voice murmurs in the darkness behind me.
“He's harmless, my lady. Old Bones, as I call him, has kept me company these past weeks.”
“Artagan?”
He squints, raising a chained hand to shield his eyes as I bring my torch closer. His normally clean-shaven cheeks have sprouted a thin beard. Faded bruises mar his skin. It seems the guards who once roughed him up have now abandoned him to neglect. I sink to my knees before the bars, overcome by the sight of him chained like a hound. This hedge knight, who has saved me from more foes than my husband ever did, has more nobility in one little finger than all the kings of Wales. And he rots in a prison cell while Saxons roam the land and Welsh lords plot against one another. What kind of upside-down world do we live in? Seated on the floor, he looks up at me from behind the jail bars.
“Why have you come to visit me?”
“Because you are everyone's enemy.” I smile warmly.
“Huh?”
“I'll explain later. Poor man. I must get better food sent to you, clean water, maybe even a shave.”
He eyes me suspiciously before his features soften. His sad blue stare reminds me of the forlorn gaze of a baited bear that knows it will never escape its cage. He rises to his feet, the chains binding his wrists to the wall snagging taut as he approaches me.
“You grow more beautiful every time I see you, Branwen.”
“Artagan, please.”
“Can a dead man not speak the truth? Would that I had been born a king, or you a commoner.”
I look away, not daring to lock eyes with him. Even in a dank dungeon, his azure eyes and chiseled face could make any country girl swoon. Why does he speak to me thus? Have I given him the wrong impression? I am still a married Christian woman, and to a vengeful king no less. It shames me to stand bedecked in silks and jewels while Artagan shivers half-naked in a cell.
When I finally meet his gaze, he makes a half-smile. Probably trying to put on a brave face for me even though he is the one in a cage. Beholding that soft grin and those honest eyes, I know I already trust him more than any man in Caerwent. I smile back, timidly, as though my soul were exposed before him. His grin quickly fades.
“Somebody's coming.”
Footsteps clack down the corridor. I press my back against the cell bars. No way out and nowhere to hide. I raise the firebrand in my hand when the trespasser rounds the corner.
“My lady, come quick! The next guard will take his watch soon.”
I heave a sigh of relief when I recognize Ahern. He takes my hand, but I do not budge, still transfixed by Artagan's gaze. Ahern tugs my arm.
“Come, my Queen. The dungeon fumes are not good for the child.”
Artagan's cheeks stiffen, his gaze wandering down to my abdomen. My stomach balls into a tight knot. Although I have no right to, I frown at Ahern. Why did he have to mention my condition before Artagan? The Blacksword stares at me as my guardsman pulls me back down the hallway. Artagan's voice grows so faint I barely hear him.
“A baby?”
My mouth hangs open, but I've nothing to say. Artagan's gaze sinks to his feet. Before I can reply, Ahern has me moving up the stairs with him. He urges me to hurry, before the next guardsman takes his post.
Ahern sends me scampering off toward my tower. He remains behind so that the next guard will not grow suspicious. An unguarded dungeon would certainly raise eyebrows.
I wander through the empty halls, still lost in thought. Why did Ahern have to tell him? Now Artagan knows I carry another man's child inside me. I bang my fist into a cold stone column in the castle galleries, mad at myself for being mad at Ahern. What in perdition is wrong with me?
A married woman ought to bear children and feel pride in it. So why does an overwhelming bitterness rise in my throat?
I stumble up the stairs to my solar chamber, both Una and Rowena already abed. I fall into a dreamless stupor once my head hits the pillow. All of my thoughts turn to endless darkness.
The next morning, I lie half-awake in bed, not wanting to get up. I cling to a half memory in the fog between rest and wakefulness, remembering my mother. Barely a few years old, I sit on her lap as she combs my hair. Long raven-dark locks like hers. She talks to me, the warm timbre of her voice comforting as her soft touch. Her last words stick in my mind:
God is love and he lives in your heart. The cunning and powerful think the heart a weakness, but they are wrong, my child. Love is the greatest strength we have
.
My eyes open, the memory fading from my hazy thoughts. Love. Would that I knew where to find it, Mother. Men like my husband and brother-in-law seem to have forgotten God's greatest teaching.
With a sigh, I sit up in the blankets and greet the dawn.
I join Morgan and Malcolm for breakfast in the King's solar. They both ignore me, talking of the Prince's upcoming marriage to Lady Cordelia of Cornwall. Malcom bears no torch for the Round Baroness, but he eagerly rubs his palms together as the two brothers discuss the potential wealth to be made in trade and commerce with Cornish lands.
Despite lowering their voices, I overhear them discuss how advantageously Cordelia would be placed in line to the Cornish throne should the King of Cornwall's only son meet with a mishap. I nearly choke on a piece of blood pudding, but neither brother notices. To listen to these men plot against another man's child turns my stomach. I down a flagon of spiced wine, trying to clear my throat.
Since Malcolm's return from his visit to supposedly woo Lady Cordelia, rumors have circulated throughout the castle of how poorly Cornwall fares against the West Saxon tribes. We share a common Celtic heritage with the Cornish, but I fear they too shall soon succumb to the ever-present Saxon threat. All the world seems destined to fall into darkness. Even if Morgan and Malcolm held some sway in Cornwall, I doubt they would help the people there. Especially if the Hammer King won't protect his own border vassals at the Dean Fort. Just another chess piece in their game against the Saxons and each other. I excuse myself from the table, unable to breathe in this nest of vipers. I need some air.
Scaling the courtyard steps, I pace the bastion walls, alone save for the occasional guardsman on watch. Winter's cold breath feels like heaven against my flushed cheeks. Snowcapped peaks dot the mountains in the distance. Cradling my palms against my still-flat belly, I try to feel life stir within me. Instead, my stomach gurgles with this morning's breakfast. What kind of world will I bring this child into? A land where a child's father has other children murdered, and his own uncle chases scullery maids?
Something Ria once said gives me pause:
A mother's blood is all that matters
. Such is the way of the Free Cantrefs, and the Old Tribes before them. Perhaps my mother's wisdom speaks to me through the lips of that village girl. But the memory of Ria emerging from Artagan's hovel with her collar loose about the shoulder leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
Artagan is right. If only I had been born a commoner instead of a queen. At least then I might choose who I love.
Padraig calls out to me, his hands hidden in the folds of his brown robes. I stop to wait for him before the pair of us continue on a circuit along the castle walls. His bald brow creases with concentration, his gaze darting over his shoulder to ensure we walk alone.
“Something worries me. May I speak to you in confidence?”
“You know you can, Abbot.”
“It regards the attempts on your life. They have happened with uncanny regularity.”
“I know. That's why I fear a spy must still lurk in our midst, betraying our every move.”
“Yes, but that's what troubles me, Branwen. I'm not convinced there is a spy, or ever was.”
“I don't understand, Padraig.”
“You were first attacked after your betrothal, on the road to Caerleon, but it was only the day after Morgan offered you his hand in marriage. What spy could have informed the Saxons of your whereabouts in just one day? It would take the Saxons several days at least just for their ships to land on the coast where they attacked you.”
A leaden weight sinks in my gut. I never thought of the logistics involved in betraying such secrets before. I swallow hard as he continues.
“The second attack involved an assassin, but the assassin found you in your stepson's room, which you yourself had little intention of going to. If you never typically visit Arthwys's room, how could a spy inform an assassin that that's where you might be? Of all places, the killer should have gone to your solar, but he didn't.”
Padraig speaks the truth. I never visited Arthwys's room before then, nor have I since. My running into the assassin there seemed like happenstance. I was so overwhelmed by the ordeal and so relieved simply to have survived that I never questioned why the killer would have waited for me in there of all places. I even thought at first that the assassin was there for the boy, not me. The Abbot further explains his reasoning.
“Thirdly, the Fox and the Wolf, the very same Saxons who sought to capture you on the King's Road, conveniently besiege the Dean Fort the very evening you arrive there. Yet, no one knew of your coming there. Even the King himself did not suggest the mission to you until the very hour in which you left. How could anyone have known such things, let alone some mysterious spy? How could a spy set so many plans into motion all at once?”
“But if a spy wasn't responsible for all these things, then how did they come to pass?”
Padraig sighs, his shoulders drooping.
“That is what I keep asking myself. My logic has only taken me so far. The incident with the assassin particularly befuddles me. The only person who knew of your whereabouts before the first and third attacks was King Morgan himself.”
My blood runs cold as I halt in my tracks.
“Morgan has no scruples. Does my own husband want me dead?”
“I rule no one out, Branwen, but it makes no sense for the King to wish you ill. In fact, he has more reason than anyone to see you safe and well cared for. You give him a legitimate hold on the lands of Dyfed. For that reason alone, he cannot risk anything happening to you.”
“He does covet Dyfed's lands and soldiers, and he only gets that through marriage to me.”
“More than that, my dear. You carry his child, and will provide more heirs to his kingdom.”
“So if not Morgan, who then? Who have I angered so? Who would hate me with such wrath?”
I wince at the idea of such unrestrained malice. Why must this happen to me? I hang my head. Padraig takes my hand.
“It is a cruel world in which we live, dear child. I doubt you've ever done anything wrong by anyone in your life, but your privilege and position as a queen make you a target for many.”
“Even if I survive, how long before the Saxons come and cut all our throats?”
“Do not talk like that, Branwen! I did not tutor you in books and the Word of God just so you should lose faith when you need it most.”
Even in his supposed anger, I sense him trying to lift my spirits more than chide me. He gently lifts my chin with his hand, the same way he oft did whenever I came to him with my troubles as a teary-eyed child. How I long for the quiet hours of books and the tranquility I had under the Abbot's tutelage back in my childhood days at Dyfed by the sea. I rest my hand on the monk's shoulder.
“I should've been a nun.”
“No, my child.” He smiles. “With your beauty, I don't think you should've stayed a nun for long.”
We smile at one another, each trying to put on a brave face. A hot, sticky sensation suddenly wells up inside me. I take a step back on the parapet. Padraig's eyes narrow in concern, trying to steady me as I bend over at the waist. My vision starts to spin. I put a hand under my skirts and feel a wet heat between my legs. Pulling my fingers out from under my dress, I find my fingertips streaked with blood. The Abbot shouts to the guards for help as I reel in his arms. More blood runs down my legs before I collapse, the clamor of guardsmen and servants murmuring over me as the world turns dark.