Between Two Fires (27 page)

I draw a deep breath. It's now or never.

Artagan joins me as we gallop headlong into the mists. Whatever fate awaits me up in those ancient hallows, I will meet it head-on. As a free woman worthy of the Old Tribes.

Halfway up the slopes, we lose sight of all else but one another. Our steeds suddenly grind to a halt, boxing the air and whinnying fiercely. Bucking us off their backs, both Merlin and my mountain pony desert us in the fog. Artagan helps me to my feet as we dust ourselves off. Never have I seen Merlin or Gwenhwyfar so startled, the two horses retreating farther down the slopes. I wince as I rub my sore tailbone.

A deep roar from some unknown creature echoes off the heights. Loud as a lion, its unholy bellow sets my teeth on edge. Artagan draws his sword.

“You still convinced this place isn't haunted?” he murmurs.

We plunge ahead into the gray vapors that enshroud the hillside. Rocky walls emerge from the fog as we advance into the complex. Cracked battlements, overgrown archways, and several crumbling towers overshadow us like ancient stone sentinels. A cool breeze chills my skin. Every shadow and dark nook feels like it has a pair of watchful eyes. I never read about this ruin in any history book, but like much of our past, its memory has gone up in Saxon flames. Stalking silent as the grave, I whisper to Artagan, trying to ignore my wobbly knees.

“What happened here?”

“Amongst the Free Cantrefs, we've some scattered legends about this place, told around campfires on late nights, but nothing written down. Like I said before, it was the last stronghold of the Old Tribes. They resisted the Romans for years.”

“But the Abbot's history books say the Roman legions conquered all Britain.”

“Eventually, they captured the whole garrison, but the survivors used their magic to curse the grounds, and despite rebuilding the fortress, every Roman soldier here succumbed to a mysterious plague. Centuries later, monks came to build towers and make a monastery of Aranrhod, but the old magic held strong and soon they too abandoned the place to ruin.”

“What kind of spell did the ancients cast here?”

“One that was not meant to be undone, but by one of their own. Alas, the secrets of the Old Ways are long since lost.”

A baritone growl booms out from the mists.

Artagan and I freeze. We press our backs to one another. The deep howl reverberates off the stonework and seems to come from all sides before it fades. Maybe the others were right. Maybe we should never have come here. Whatever dwells inside these hollows, death itself seems to linger within them. Artagan descends into the fog.

“Wait here. Whatever hunts us, it is not human.”

“Artagan, wait! Come back.”

He disappears into the gauze of gray mist. The bravehearted hero. Unfortunately, I now stand alone in the middle of a haunted castle. Calling out as loudly as I dare, I hear no reply from Artagan.

A lilting voice rises on the wind. My skin turns cold, hearing the familiar song I've heard only once before. In my dreams. A woman's song rises in my ears. Turning around, a figure chants a melancholy melody from atop one of the broken towers. I gasp.

“Mother?”

The figure fades back into the mist, her voice fading with her. It cannot be. The Saxons took my mother years ago. Only a few years old at the time, I saw them strike her down. So much blood. No, it could not be her. Not here, not now.

A hand grabs me from behind. I jump as Artagan tries to shush me. I cannot keep still.

“Artagan, did you see her? Did you hear her song?”

“Huh? All I found were some animal droppings. Big too. Something lives up here.”

“No, no. There was a woman. I think … I think she was my mother.”

Artagan raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“I didn't hear anything.”

Another forceful growl shakes the cobblestones. No need to ask, I know he heard that. Enough of this! I bend down and pull flint and tinder from my satchel. Artagan raises his arms.

“What are you doing?”

“Find some wood, dry wood. We must make the dark places light.”

Within a few minutes, I have a fire going. Kindling a torch, I descend into the dark archways of the castle interiors. Artagan follows close behind, his longsword in hand. The flickering flames illuminate the strange mixed architecture of the ancient fortress. Rough-hewn stonework forged without mortar by the Old Tribes. Arches and aqueducts run through the veins of the complex, crafted by Roman engineers. Circular turrets and water cisterns constructed by the monks who failed to make the hilltop their permanent monastic home. Our footsteps echo far into the darkness. Such a vast place. It must have been quite a palace in the ancient days.

Turning a corner, I come nearly nose to nose with a pair of small, furry creatures. The tiny, four-legged cubs whimper and nuzzle us. I smile before Artagan abruptly pulls me back.

“It's no monster that lives here,” he deduces. “It's become a cave for bears.”

A deep growl emanates from behind us. We spin around on our heels, a huge she-bear snarling in our faces. Her claws cut deep gashes in the walls, her coal-black eyes reflecting the torchlight. Her fangs foam as she tries to get at her cubs, but within the confines of the narrow corridor, we cannot seem to get out of her way.

Artagan swings his sword, but the massive beast swats his blade away like a toothpick. I wave the flaming branch at the creature's snout, but to no avail. My heart hammers in my ears as the bristling predator charges us.

A woman appears behind the bear, raising her arms and voice. She coos at the two cubs, the baby bears scampering around us to lick her hands. Golden honey drips between the woman's fingertips. She chants toward the she-bear in some ancient tongue. Something like a spell.

My heart stops.

It is the woman from the mists. The mother bear turns to her, following her scampering cubs. Humming a soft lullaby, the woman leads the cubs and she-bear away.

Moments later she returns on her own. She has dark locks with faint streaks of silver. My voice shrinks down to a whisper.

“Mother?”

“No, child. Although, you have the look of the Old Tribes. No, I'm not your mother. I'm his.”

Artagan frowns, lowering his blade.

“Annwyn? What are you doing here?”

“Is that any way to greet your own mother?”

“So you're the old ghost haunting the ruins of Aranrhod,” he replies with a frown.

Doing a double-take, I grab Artagan by the shoulder.

“
She
is your mother?” I ask, still trying to convince myself that this lady named Annwyn is real.

“We haven't spoken in years,” Artagan replies. “She isn't your typical mother. She follows the Old Ways.”

“Old Ways?” I echo, remembering Artagan once mentioning such about his mysterious mother. I turn my gaze back toward Annwyn. “You're a pagan.”

“I worship the old gods,” she replies with a nod. “In truth, I worship nature. I'm a healer, much like your mother once was.”

“
You
knew my mother?”

Now I know I'm dreaming. First this mysterious enchantress appears out of the mists and now she claims to have known Mother. Annwyn smiles as she patiently explains herself.

“Vivian was a chieftain's daughter from the Dyfed side of the mountains. Strong in the blood of the Old Tribes, although she followed the new religion.”

“You're the one singing the song. I heard you, I saw you in the mists.”

“I've many haunts, Aranrhod among them. I prefer the tranquility of quiet places, away from the prying eyes, torches, and pitchforks of Christians who are less understanding than yourselves.”

Artagan steps between us.

“The reunion has been heartwarming, but we've a war on,
Mother
. Saxons may be coming this way and we've got to fortify this old derelict before they get here.”

“Wars are the realm of men and folly, son. Have I taught you nothing? Only love can conquer hate.”

Artagan winces as he turns to me.

“You see why we didn't get along? Saxons are pagans too, but no amount of love is going to halt their blades of steel.”

“Some thanks I get,” Annwyn retorts. “I just saved your lives, without the aid of any weapons but patience and love. I simply asked the bears to leave. Why not do the same with the Saxons?”

Artagan shakes his head, turning his back on his mother. I bow before Annwyn, trying to salvage the situation. This is not the time for some philosophical family dispute.

“Please, your ladyship. The people of the Free Cantrefs are depending on us. This place was a haven for their ancestors of old. We must make it a refuge once again.”

Annwyn looks from her son to me, her dark hair and hazel eyes eerily reminiscent of my own mother. Despite having only just met her, I cannot help but feel my mother's hand guiding me to this wandering enchantress. Annwyn has a trustworthy face, but does that mean she will aid us in our hour of need? We certainly need all the assistance we can get right now.

She puts her hands on her hips, flashing a smile.

“How can I help?”

*   *   *

By dusk, a few hundred more villagers arrive in the valley. The westernmost survivors herd their animals through the mountain passes, their cattle, sheep, and hogs drinking at the small river that cuts through the valley floor. Fog still blankets the mountains, but clears enough along the plains for the people to find their way up the grassy path leading to the fortress gates. Or what used to be the fortress gates. Little more remains than crumbling archways of cracked stonework.

Artagan's woodsmen work by torchlight, digging in along the crumbling battlements. Every hour counts. A steady cacophony of clanking tools fills the night air. The Blacksword's bowmen shore up the defenses by piling up stones and timbers. Village women kindle bonfires for light whilst others gather water from the river. For the first time in centuries, the splash of freshwater fills the ancient cisterns. If the enemy does show up, we'll need every drop if we have to withstand a siege.

A constant stream of women and children trickles in throughout the evening, some bearing bindles whilst others have no more than the tunics on their backs. A few lucky peasants find family members or neighbors amongst the refugees, but far too many call out the names of missing loved ones in vain.

Directing the growing multitude from atop one of the bastion towers, I pore over a brittle, torn map with Annwyn. An old parchment, probably left over from the long-ago monks, it lays out a basic floor plan of the grounds. Rowena and Una sweep out the interiors of the old solar chamber behind me, cursing the animal droppings and cobwebs that fill the neglected chambers. I lean over the map as I address Lady Annwyn.

“We have to plug every gap in the defenses. We cannot risk any Saxons finding a way inside.”

“I've visited this site for years and have still never fully explored the labyrinth of passageways beneath it,” she replies. “This isn't one fortress but several, one built right atop the other. A Celtic hill fort beneath a Roman outpost, beneath a monastery of towers. Just be thankful there aren't more bears living inside … as far as I know.”

Hanging my head, I scoff at the futility of it all. We've a matter of days, maybe only hours, to make habitable a castle that has fallen apart over the centuries. Regaining my composure, I point at the outline of the outer embrasures on the chart.

“What about the walls themselves? The gates are just gaping holes in the stonework now.”

“Four walls and two gates that I know of,” Annwyn begins, with a hand on her chin. “The west and south wall stand too high to assail, the best remnants of the Old Roman period. But the northern and eastern segments have crumbled so low in places that rabbits and badgers sometimes find their way inside. The ancient gates were made of wood, and of course burned down long ago, or so the legends say.”

“Then that's where the Saxons will most likely attack us, the lowest walls and beside the missing gates. And they'll be a lot worse than a few rabbits and badgers.”

“The Old Tribes rolled boulders down against the legions, routing the Romans many times.”

“Did they run out of boulders eventually? Is that how they lost?”

“No, they were betrayed, by one of their own. The Romans captured everyone in a single night.”

A knot tightens in my throat. How often have the Welsh been defeated by their own kind? Betrayed by spies from within. I shake my head, knowing that I must show some backbone. Nonetheless, I find myself watching Rowena and Una from the corner of my eye as they clean out our new quarters. Such young girls, they have followed me through thick and thin. I do them a disservice by doubting them in my heart.

A ram's horn blares from outside the walls. My pulse quickens. I race to the windowsill. Rowena, Una, and Annwyn all join me as we gaze eastward. A snaking column of torches makes its way down the valley toward the river fords.

No! If the Saxons have come already, we don't stand a chance. Our defenses look like rotten cheese in places, so many cracks and holes pockmark the masonry. Artagan's warriors drop their hammers and shovels, manning the broken ramparts with spears and longbows.

These new arrivals from the eastern passes crowd the fields outside our crumbling walls. Artagan calls out from the defenses, cupping his palms around his mouth.

“Stand down! Lower your weapons! They're Free Cantref folk!”

I sigh with relief. Thank heaven. Rowena and Una exchange smiles with me, each of us breathing a bit easier.

To my surprise, Annwyn hands me a quiver of arrows.

“Here, you'll need this. I've used it for game, but I confess I was never very good with it.”

She offers me a bow of birch wood, its handle emblazoned with Celtic runes. Brimming with questions, I don't know where to start. No one has ever given me such a gift.