Between Two Fires (20 page)

Merlin trots to a halt in a moonlit glade, plumes of steam rising from his nostrils. I pat his slick sides, the valiant beast pushed beyond exhaustion. You gave it your best try, Merlin. We all gave it our best try. Artagan turns us around, lowering his blade.

“Ride on. I'll dismount and fight from here. They'll get no quarter from me. I've seen enough of dungeons to last me a lifetime.”

“Merlin is spent and so are we. We'll meet our fate together.”

Artagan's shoulders sink, too tired to argue. Malcom gallops into the wooded glen with at least a dozen riders behind him. So much for my well-laid plans. Artagan's sword got us past the fortress walls, but we cannot outrun the entire garrison even on the best of horses. If fault lies with any part of this escape, it lies with me.

Hurtling toward us, Malcolm swings his huge mace overhead as he growls through clenched teeth. Artagan raises his sword, bellowing back as he spurs Merlin to make one last charge. I clutch Artagan's chest tightly, wincing before the coming crush of bodies and horses.

Every steed in the cavalcade comes to an abrupt halt, shrieking with terror. Dozens of arrows hiss through the glade, downing riders and stallions alike on the forest path. Several figures emerge from the surrounding trees, loosing arrows and lobbing spears at the King's men. I blink in disbelief, my heart suddenly rising anew.

Archers of the Free Cantrefs! Green-clad woodsmen form a protective crescent around Artagan and me. I recognize Emryus and Keenan among those defending us under the moonlight.

The bowmen howl like savages as they surround Malcolm and his guards, the Prince's shield bristling with arrows. Malcolm's mount rears back, the Prince cursing all the while as he and his surviving riders retreat back toward the main road. Several red-clad men-at-arms lie lifeless on the trail, their riderless steeds dashing every which way into the woods. Artagan lowers his blade, looking with wide-eyed astonishment at our rescuers.

“Keenan? Emryus?”

“He sounds surprised to see us,” Emryus remarks to Keenan.

“We kept watch long enough in these woods,” Keenan replies. “I hoped to nab a king or prince, better to bargain for Artagan's release. Lo and behold, he spoils it by rescuing himself!”

“Actually, I'm the one who rescued him,” I interject. “Freed him from his cell, at least.”

His followers exchange looks, eyeing me like some quaint curiosity. Maybe they think me a liar. My husband underestimated me, so I see no reason why these wild-haired woodsmen should not. Artagan ignores me, embracing the gray bard and youthful axman like brothers. Only a handful of soldiers number amidst their motley company, and yet somehow they defeated a sizable force of Malcolm's men. These Free Cantref folk fight like banshees.

They corral several ponies from the woods and mount up beside us.

The rumble of hooves renews along the Roman road behind us. The citadel's cavalry will return soon and in greater numbers. My pulse quickens. Morgan and Malcolm will not give me up without a fight. Artagan calls out to his men as they part ways.

“Split up. Lead the buggers on a merry chase. We'll rendezvous at my father's keep. Godspeed!”

Darting into the next thicket, our horse picks up speed. Merlin may be tired from galloping at full tilt, but he can still trot at a decent pace. Artagan guides our stallion on a winding course through brambles and briar patches. We ascend into the wooded foothills before pausing along an outcrop overlooking the castle fields and woodlots far below. I shiver beneath the cold stars, listening to the distant whinny of horses. Scores of horsemen must be pursuing us into the forest, and by the sound of it, at least half of them now chase Artagan's companions in the opposite direction. Many still doubtlessly follow our own trail, Morgan and Malcolm perhaps among them. I tug my shawl tight around my throat, shutting my eyes against the night.

I've incurred the wrath of a powerful warlord. What price shall I now pay for it? Morgan may very well pursue me to the ends of the earth. He kept me well fed and cared for at Caerwent, but I was still a pet. A broodmare, he called me. I will never let him take me back to that gilded cage. Artagan may have been condemned to the dungeons, but every noblewoman in Christendom lives in a prison once she takes the vows of holy wedlock. I smack my fist into an open palm. I'll never be owned by another man again.

The Church may frown on divorce, but the Pope doesn't interfere in the shifting marriages of nobles so long as peaceful alliances are maintained. The Old Tribes followed the Ancient Harmonies, cohabiting with whom they wished for as long or little as they wished. Is that not more sensible? Ever since the coming of the priests, queens have certainly wed new husbands once their old husband perished or if she was captured by another warlord.

My head starts to ache. No use mulling over this anymore tonight. I had to flee Morgan and his court before it suffocated me, before it killed me. Before whoever spied upon me made another attempt on my life. All the laws of man and God could not convince me otherwise.

I remove the gold wedding band from my finger. Probably worth a hefty sum. But I am not some nag to be bought and sold at market. I toss the golden ring aside into the muddy brush. May it never see the sunshine again.

My hand rests on Artagan's arm, but a sticky sensation along my skin causes me to draw my palm away. My fingertips are red with blood.

“You're wounded.”

“One of those spearmen got me when we tried to breach the gate,” he admits with a shrug.

“Slow the horse.”

I bend down in the saddle, eyeing a tall stand of overgrown weeds. Pulling a handful of green stalks, I select the softest ones under the moonlight. Poultice Plant, as Padraig oft calls it, using it when any of the lambs at the abbey is attacked by a lone wolf. A common enough weed, it grows year-round in most of Wales. I crumple a wad of green sprouts and chew them in my mouth. After a few moments, the bitter taste gives way to a slightly sweet flavor. Artagan winces slightly when I apply the green paste to his wounds, but he lets me go about my work without complaint.

“This will help mend your cuts and slow the bleeding,” I explain.

He flashes a half-grin.

“You've some skill as a healer,” he replies, impressed. “You're full of surprises tonight.”

“I've only practiced this on lambs and cattle before,” I answer, omitting that I once tended Morgan when he was badly wounded. Just one of many thoughts I would rather not dwell on now. Artagan flashes a wry smile as I staunch his cuts.

“Let's hope I live then.”

How he can joke with such gashes in his arm I can only guess. I doubt I could sit astride a horse with such wounds. Nonetheless, I smile politely at his words, even though I don't feel much like laughing tonight. The seriousness of the decisions I've made this evening weigh me down. Too much has changed forever.

Merlin continues to keep a good pace, stout as any mountain pony despite his massive size. How odd it seems that the night I first met my husband we rode this very same mount out of Dyfed. Tonight, Merlin takes me deep into the mountains of the Free Cantrefs, to begin a new life, whatever that may be.

For one last time, I glimpse the tall towers of Caerwent on the plain far below. Rowena, Una, and Padraig must have heard about what has happened by now. I hope that Ahern can make them understand why I had to hatch my plot in secret, for all our sakes. Goodbye, my friends. I pray that we meet again in better times.

Artagan leads our steed deeper into the mountain passes. Even after the sounds of pursuing horses fade behind us, he still asks me no questions. He has the arms of a wrestler and the skill of a dancer with his long blade, but he seems given to unusually long silences as well. Does he think me a treacherous woman for leaving my husband? Or worse yet, a loose woman? The quiet drives me to speak up.

“I did not come to this decision lightly. I had to flee. Someone in Caerwent wants me dead.”

“So how exactly does this concern me?”

“Don't you care?”

“Of course I care,” he replies testily. “The Hammer King and I have been at odds for years, but this is pretty extreme even for the likes of me. I've never been involved in … wife stealing before.”

My eyes widen.
Wife stealing
? Is that what he thinks this is? I'm not some sack of grain to be bandied about by whichever man happens to have me astride his horse. This conversation is going all wrong.

“Would you rather be back in the dungeons?” I say, a bit more grumpily than I intend. “You needed to get out of Caerwent just as badly as I did. I thought we were helping each other.”

“We've saved each other's skins a couple of times now, for that I'm grateful. But you understand what this means for our peoples now that we've been seen riding off together? Morgan will summon his armies, and come springtime the South Welsh and the Free Cantrefs will be at war over this.”

I swallow a lump in my throat, my brow breaking out in perspiration anew. I hadn't thought of that. If Morgan has a vendetta against me, he should only put a price on my head. Waging war against an entire kingdom simply because I no longer desired to live under his roof seems like the height of injustice. I reply in a small voice, looking down at my hands.

“I care for all the people of Wales, Artagan. We're all children of the Old Tribes. I never wanted to bring harm to anyone. Do you think me a fool for freeing you from the dungeons tonight and riding off into the wilds?”

He stops our horse, turning in the saddle to look me in the eye. My breath quickens under his direct gaze. Artagan flashes a half-grin, looking me up and down with his sapphire eyes.

“You've a fair face, a brave heart, and a beautiful mind, Lady Branwen. The Hammer King doesn't deserve you.”

“That's not what I asked you.”

He grins again.

“You did what you had to do.”

He slaps the reins against Merlin's back as we canter farther into the night woods. The more leagues we put between us and Caerwent, the lighter my limbs feel, but a nagging fear remains in the back of my mind. If Artagan is right about open warfare between Gwent and the Free Cantrefs come spring, then such infighting amongst the Welsh Lands could easily spread. What will Father think once he learns of my running off? Some chess piece I turned out to be. His alliance with Morgan hinged on my betrothal.

As the night wears on, I lay my head against Artagan's back, my eyelids heavy as lead. His skin feels warm through his threadbare shirt despite the evening fog. Hopefully, the misty mountaintops will shroud us from the eyes of any pursuers. The steady clack of Merlin's hooves lulls me into a deep yawn. I sway in the saddle before succumbing to the numbness of a dreamless slumber.

*   *   *

When I awake, gray sunlight glows through the overcast clouds. I sit up with a start, no longer atop the horse, but buried in a bed of warm leaves and a fur coverlet. Artagan stands over me, eating an apple. He chews loudly as his lips smack together. The pitter-patter of raindrops taps the forest leaves.

“We should move on,” he says. “I won't sleep well until I'm safe in my father's kingdom.”

“Will we truly be safe at Cadwallon's court?”

“Safe as anywhere.”

Rising to my knees, I try keeping my gaze to the grass. Artagan washes his arms and legs in a nearby stream, his skin flecked with goose bumps by the cool waters. Droplets run down his muscular arms and thighs, reminding me of a young Adonis. His eyes rise to meet mine before I look away.

He lays a breakfast of nuts and berries at my feet. Glancing at the deceptively gray sky, I wonder how long he has let me sleep. A twinge of guilt sticks in my throat. The first green buds of early spring dot the trees overhead. How different these wooded hillsides seem from the open fields of Caerwent. I speak without thinking, almost desperate to fill the silence between us as we finish our meal.

“After we fled the Dean Fort, you eventually returned me to Morgan. Why? Most men wouldn't have risked capture to bring me back to Caerwent in the first place.”

“I'm not most men. Besides, he had some of my people held captive and I had to get them back. On top of that, I promised to bring you home, and so I did.”

“And then you would have returned to Ria's village? Or Lady Olwen's court?”

Artagan stops midway through eating his apple, keenly observing me with his gaze. Men think their secrets are so safe, never guessing that anyone with half a mind can read their stories as easily as an open book. He clears his throat, looking away, almost as though embarrassed.

A crow caws from a nearby branch. Dark clouds of ravens and rooks circle high overhead, the cacophony of shrieking carrion birds deafening us both. Artagan grabs his sword.

“Something disturbs them. Something behind us in the forest. We must move on. Now.”

Artagan whistles for Merlin. Whatever stalks the wolds behind us, whether the King's men or something worse, I pray it never finds us.

We ride on through rugged peaks and down switchbacks, away from the murder of crows swarming in the woodlands to the south. All the world seems turned to wilderness, as though Artagan and I are the only man and woman left. No longer certain of my bearings, I can only hope Artagan knows where he takes us. Such thick oak and evergreen groves tangle our paths, ancient woodlots that I doubt have ever suffered from a woodsman's ax.

Finally descending from the wall of mountain ridges, we enter a series of river valleys equally awash in birch and hazel groves. Small wonder that neither the armies of South Wales nor the Saxons have ever conquered the people of the Free Cantrefs. With the ring of mountains that encircles their lands, scarcely a crow could invade without carrying its own rations.

As the day wears away, an evening mist descends from the mountaintops. Fog coats the valley floor as we skirt along the edge of a small river. A lone hill within the valley stands above the blanket of mists, its summit peppered with stone ruins. The skeleton of broken stonework shines like teeth beneath the rising moon. Reaching around Artagan's thighs, I grab the reins. We halt before the distant hillside.