Authors: Mark Noce
Morgan's footsteps clack heavy as horseshoes across the cobblestone floors. He carries a huge iron war-hammer, slung behind his back. I doubt any men in the room would have the strength to lift it. He pauses first before Father and my stepmother before turning toward me. The Hammer King removes his riding gloves as he looks me over. Even through the eye slits of his mask, I feel his gaze appraising me as a knight might observe a horse. My cheeks burn hot as I dig my fingernails into the flesh of my palms. What did I expect after all? He is a warlord called the Hammer King, not some charming troubadour with a harp. He has not come to woo me, but to bed me. The King removes his helmet-mask and smiles.
I swallow. He wears his brown beard short and well trimmed, his gray eyes sparkling with a hint of starlight. Morgan flashes another friendly grin. He even has all of his teeth! Other than an old scar along his left eye, he has an unblemished face. My stepmother's ladies-in-waiting would surely blush if he ever glanced their way.
Bowing slowly, I regain my composure. He is a king, after all, and is only being courteous. It must make him retch, to have an ugly youngling like me for a bride. Morgan has at least ten years on me, maybe more. He could have any queen he might desire, but he has chosen a crow-faced girl barely halfway through her teens. I can guess his thoughts. Morgan sees my father's lands when he looks at me. He sees all the green pastures, windswept rocks, and stout spearmen of Dyfed in my eyes. I represent an extension of his ever-growing kingdom, nothing more.
Father clears his throat. Were the situation not so tense, I might stifle a giggle at seeing my father so lost for words. He and the Hammer King bow to one another, their warriors leering at each other across the room. Father never takes his eyes off King Morgan.
“I present my daughter, Lady Branwen of Dyfed. May she bear you many sons!”
I flush from ear to ear. The Hammer King frowns with approval and nods. He takes my hand, his fingers so much larger and rougher than mine. I feel small as a mouse in his grasp. Father raises his hands, signaling to the minstrels that they may resume playing their lutes and pipes. The din of clanking drinking horns and mirth making fills the hall. Serving wenches smile as they bring mead to soldiers from both armies. Father leans in close to Morgan's ear.
“Let us retire to my private chambers, Lord Morgan.”
The Hammer King bristles at Father calling him “lord” instead of “king,” but he nonetheless nods in reply. He seems a silent sort of man. What must my boisterous father make of his new son-in-law? The Hammer King releases my hand, but I remain beside him, uncertain what to do next. My stepmother intrudes with a curtsy, batting her eyelashes at King Morgan.
“My liege, I summoned a banquet from our larders for your wedding feast. Forgive our unprepared tables, but we had little warning of the newly announced betrothal.”
“No need, Queen Gwendolyn. I march at dawn back to Caerwent. My bride and I will be wed there.”
“Oh, IâI see,” my stepmother stammers.
She curtsies again, her eyes glazing over with distracted thoughts. Morgan's words clearly disappoint her, but I can't help from flashing a dark smile. At least I won't have to deal with any more of my stepmother's pomp and fuss, struggling to make me a lady after years of neglect. At the same time, the finality of my wedlock weighs down my steps. Come tomorrow, I'll leave my childhood home beside the sea forever, belonging to a strange man in a strange castle far to the east.
Father detects none of his queen's disappointment, nor my own foreboding, as he ushers Morgan toward his chambers. I trail after them, still not knowing what to do with myself. Father gives me a sharp glance. He clearly doesn't want anyone disturbing his meeting with Morgan, but I loathe the thought of remaining behind with my stepmother and the other chattering serving girls in the main gallery. I've never been one for festivities. Reading one of Abbot Padraig's books beside the fire, alone in my solar, has always appealed to me more than the drinking songs of the mead hall. As I stand alone, save for my guardsman, Ahern, King Morgan turns back and takes me by the hand.
“I would have my Queen-to-be remain at my side. I brought an army all the way to Dyfed for her hand, and I don't intend to let her out of my sight.”
He smiles again, and I find myself stupidly grinning back. Hopefully, he doesn't notice my crooked eyeteeth or the pockmark of acne on my left cheek. Did he really assemble an army just to make a woman out of a stick-thin girl like me? Father raises a stern eyebrow before he shrugs. He mumbles under his breath.
“Womenfolk are too dim to betray secrets they do not understand anyway.”
The three of us snake up the spiral staircase to Father's solar overlooking the cliffs. Ahern remains at the foot of the stairwell, guarding the entrance. Father shuts and locks the door.
A chill runs down my spine as a fell wind blows in through the window. Icy stars glimmer over a rising blue moon. Father rarely allows anyone inside his private quarters. Although a Welshman to the bone, Father is proud of the blood of Romans and Irishmen in his veins, distant though those ancient links may be.
An imperial eagle standard from a long-lost legion of defeated Rome hangs in one corner. Celtic tapestries with knot-work deck the stone interiors. Father lights a candelabra beside his desk before unfolding several parchments and charts. He stoops down beside the chamber hearth, rekindling a fire in the glowing embers. Morgan pores over the largest map on the desktop, a drawing of Wales sketched out by long-dead monks with insect ink on calfskins. I've seen the Abbot's clerics do as much when they recopy the tomes of the ancients in their chapel by the sea. I retreat to the corner of the chamber, more comfortable in the shadows where I can see without being directly seen.
The fire in the grate blazes to life, lengthening the shadows that line Father's face. Without warning, he brings his fist down hard on the center of the map on the table. I jump back at his snarling face, but Morgan doesn't move, almost as though he expected this outburst. The two kings stare one another down as the blaze in the fireplace snaps and crackles across the peat logs. Father breaks the silence first.
“Do you think to steal my throne from under me? My lineage is twice as ancient as yours!”
“
Might
will unite Wales under a single king someday, not pedigrees,” Morgan replies calmly. “And I've more than enough spears to drive your tiny kingdom into the sea, Lord Vortigen.”
Father sneers at Morgan in turn calling him a mere lord in his own castle. Backing against the wall, I suddenly wish I hadn't poked my nose into Father's affairs. If only the Virgin would provide me a tactful way to flee the room. Foolishly, I placed myself in the corner opposite the door. With Father's blood up, I've no intention of crossing his path while he and Morgan stare one another down. Father bangs his fist against the tabletop again, raising his voice loud enough to shake the rafters.
“Aye, you might,
might
scale our walls, but we'd bleed your army dry if you tried it!”
“I've no intent of shedding blood before my wedding night. Nor do I wish to interfere with your castle and kingship. You knew what type of alliance I wanted. Your daughter's hand unites our houses.”
“But I still rule as sovereign in my own lands!”
“Of course. Dyfed belongs to you and your sons ever afterward, but when I call on you, I expect Dyfed's spearmen to join my army. I am a patient man in many things, Vortigen, but in the days to come, you either stand with me against the Saxons or not. That promise I will keep in blood.”
At mention of the Saxons, my heart sickens. Those cruel pagans have conquered more than half our lands and every year eat away at the borders of Wales. Their hordes of bloodthirsty warriors have filled every cemetery in the Welsh Lands with countless men, women, and children. I ball my fists at my sides and shut my eyes. Only once have I seen the Saxon brutes up close, long ago. The flames of the longhouses and the screams of womenfolk still ring in my ears from that night. Father's stern face sobers with sadness at the mention of the Saxons. He glances at me as I bite my lip in the shadowy corner.
“Ever will I stand against the Saxon invaders, Morgan. It was they that took my first wife and nearly made an orphan out of my daughter the night their longships arrived on our shores.”
I look Father in the eye, my own green eyes burning hot as embers. Almost never do we speak of Mother, not after that night all those years ago. Suddenly, Father's mild contempt for me becomes so plain. He lost my mother, a beautiful wife of the Old Tribes with midnight locks and emerald eyes. In her place, all he has left is me. A daily reminder of a lesser, uglier version of the queen he lost. Who can fault Father for despising me? He only managed to save me that fateful night, not Mother. The Saxon swords did the rest. Morgan steps between us, for the first time really looking at me without the pretense of a half-forced smile.
“Not a family in Wales hasn't lost someone to the Saxons,” Morgan begins. “Since my father was slain by their chiefs, I have ever waged war against them to keep my kingdom and all of Wales safe.”
Morgan faces Father again.
“We are natural allies, Vortigen. Every year the Saxons push our borders back. Lands that the Welsh once peopled peacefully now lie burnt and broken under Saxon rule. We must unite all the Welsh Lands or it is only a matter of time before the Saxon war-chiefs push all our kingdoms into the sea.”
“You'll never unite all the Welsh,” Father says, hanging his head. “Not since the days of Arthur has it been done. Maybe these are the last days of the Free Welsh. Perhaps the Saxons come to bring about the end of the world as the priests have foretold.”
Rarely have I seen the wind knocked out of Father so, and never have I seen him show his despair before a stranger. Despite still wearing my white wedding gown, I throw a horse blanket around my shivering shoulders. His words chill me to the marrow. All our once-great castles and sacred sites have fallen to the Saxon invaders in the last few generations. Londinium, Camelot, and Avalon are all mere memories in the folklore of our people now. Far to the west, on our rocky peninsula of Dyfed, it seems easier to sometimes forget the Saxon threat that daily besets the eastern borders of the Welsh Lands. But I sometimes wonder whether I'll ever live long enough to sprout gray hairs on my head, before the Saxons extinguish our race from the free kingdoms in the west. According to the priests, it has been nearly six hundred years since the coming of Christ and already it looks as though the End of Days is upon us.
Father collects himself and grimaces at the map. The mountainous, wooded terrain of Wales has helped defend us just as much as the sword and spear, but the many rivers and valleys also divide us into separate fiefdoms all calling their own lords king. From the northern realms of Gwynedd to the southernmost territories of Gwent, no Welshman acknowledges a single monarch as ruler over all Wales. Father shakes his head.
“Even with you and I united in the South, the rest of Wales will never bend the knee to you, Morgan. Belin the Old rules North Wales with an iron fist, and the Free Cantrefs in between are just as likely to raise the sword against us as they are the Saxons. Our Welsh love of independence and infighting may be what helps the Saxons to finish us off in the end.”
“Leave Old Belin and the Free Cantrefs to me,” Morgan assures him. “Climb one mountain at a time.”
Father nods and grasps Morgan's hand in the Roman fashion, the two noblemen clutching one another's forearms firmly. Goose bumps cover my skin. Only yesterday, Morgan's armies were our enemies, and tonight they become our friends.
Morgan lost his own father to the Saxons and so we both know what it means to lose a parent. Perhaps that should comfort me, but instead a prickly feeling rises in my gut. Something about this unnaturally calm Hammer King unsettles me.
By wedding me, he has united Father's kingdom with his own, obtaining control over all South Wales without losing a single soldier. Whether Father knows it or not, he has for all intents and purposes bent his knee to Morgan. The spearmen of Dyfed will now fight beside the knights of Morgan's army. Like a spectator of a chess game, I've watched Morgan put my father into checkmate and Father doesn't even seem to know it. This husband of mine is no fool to be trifled with. Perhaps he will someday be king of all the Welsh. Perhaps.
Both men look at me as I clear my throat. It takes a moment to find my voice. What do the likes of kings care for the thoughts of a sixteen-year-old girl? But I've the blood of Celts and queens in me, and among our people, women still have the strength to speak up. Even a tiny mouse like me.
“There is one thing you wise men have forgotten.”
Morgan and Father exchange looks.
“It will take more than swords to defeat the Saxons,” I continue. “Their numbers are greater than ours.”
“Speak when spoken to, child,” Father fumes, before apologizing to Morgan. “She reads too much from the Abbot's books, and you can see how it addles a feminine mind.”
“No,” Morgan interrupts with a hand. “I would hear what my Queen has to say.”
Father gives Morgan a sidelong glance, probably wondering why he indulges me so. The Hammer King looks me up and down, not as a horse this time, but sizing me up as though I were a man. Before either of them can change their mind, I press on with my point.
“Suppose you do the impossible, and unite Wales, and push back the Saxons. We will be too weakened and new infighting will begin. New invaders will come. Whether Saxons or Picts at our gates, an iron fist will not keep the free-spirited Welshmen loyal to any man's crown.”
“Bah!” Father protests. “Let us worry about that day whence and if it ever comes.”
“No, the lady is right,” Morgan says, still looking at me. “What would you do, Lady Branwen?”