Between Two Fires (36 page)

“God?” I reply. “I thought you worship the Goddess of the Old Tribes.”

She smiles knowingly.

“It is all one. That is something priests today will not admit. You know, when the first Christians came to these islands, they worshiped the Goddess side by side with their Christ God? They made our spirits into their saints, even applying the trinity of our goddess mysteries to their own religion. All true faiths in this world worship the same divine love.”

It warms my heart to hear her say things aloud I've often felt all my life, but never had the words to express. She speaks true, for how many Welsh folk, particularly those of the Free Cantrefs, attend a Christian church yet still make offerings to spirits of their ancestors? Is not the Virgin the Mother of God just like the ancient Celtic Goddess who was mother to the spirits of the Old Tribes? I put a gentle hand on Annwyn's arm.

“You have a gift for expressing things in a beautiful way, Annwyn. Perhaps you could tell me more of such things sometime.”

“I would like that,” she replies, fondly squeezing my arm back.

She turns to go, leaving me to my archery. As I notch another arrow to the bowstring, she stops and calls back to me through the dark vaults under the castle.

“And Branwen. Your brother may have betrayed you, but take my advice. We only have so much time with those we love. Whatever he has done, he still meant something to you once. Do not let him pass out of this world without trying to make amends first.”

Annwyn departs without another word. The tunnels beneath the castle suddenly turn cold under an icy draft. I twist my lips, trying to conjure up an image of Ahern that does not remind me of the day he sold me out to my enemies. I draw back my bow, launching an arrow at the target so hard that it embeds itself up to the feathery end of its shaft. Whatever amends I have to make with him, they shall not happen today.

*   *   *

My belly has swollen to the size of a large melon. This afternoon I work with needle and thread beside the fireplace in my solar. Rowena and Una card wool in the corner as they chitchat. While I sew beside my tower window these many months, the fields outside have turned golden with autumn wheat, then frosty white under the first winter snowdrifts. I practice archery by day and work at the loom by dusk. Despite my worst fears, I've lived to see my eighteenth name day, and I'll soon be a mother at that.

My woven tapestry now spans half the room, running the length of the wall on one side of the chamber. With Rowena and Una's help, we've wrought the history of the rebirth of Aranrhod in spun wool and thread. Three segments depict the Saxon siege, the arrival of the North Welsh horsemen, and finally the crowning of myself and Artagan. Obtaining proper colors has proved trying during this cold time of year, but trades with passing merchants and monks have helped us manage. Every color was painstakingly chosen. Fiery and golden silk threads for Artagan's crown. Gossamer threads for the castle towers. Black sackcloth for my hair.

A knock comes at my bedchamber door. Una and Rowena look up from their weaving as Artagan paces quietly into the room. He wears a hard look and barely raises his gaze from the floor. Several days of stubble often cover his cheeks nowadays, as though he is too weighed down with other thoughts to remember to shave. My ladies-in-waiting instinctively rise and curtsy before excusing themselves. The King waits until their footfalls fade down the turret steps. I put down my needle and thread in my lap as he paces the length of the room.

“What gives you that dark look, my love?”

“How fares the child?”

“We're both fine. We've a few weeks yet. But you didn't come here to banter about birthing.”

“He still will not speak. Your brother is a stubborn man.”

“Half brother, yes. Stubborn, but strong as well.”

It still cuts too deep to talk of him much. We skirt around his name as though he were a ghost. Languishing in chains for near on nine months seems as close to death as a man can come. Although many weeks have passed, Annwyn's advice comes back to my mind. I reach out and grab Artagan's hand.

“Let me try again.”

“In your condition? I'll not let you down in the dungeons now.”

“He's the only one who knows who's behind all the attempts on my life, when I lived at Caerwent and when the Saxons tried to capture me. I must know, Artagan. For my sake and our child's.”

“He's kept silent all winter, what makes you think he'll talk now?”

“Let me try, Artagan. Please.”

He squints into the frosty draft whistling in through the window. Without looking my way, he squeezes my palm before nodding. I put down my embroidery and give him a comforting peck on the cheek, then hasten down the steps before he changes his mind.

Enid accompanies me to the dungeons. Once the turnkey lets us in, the two of us stand alone with Ahern in his cell. Water drips in the darkness. Few shafts of light penetrate the depths of Aranrhod's ancient dungeons. Green sludge pockmarks the porous walls. A full beard and shaggy hair hide Ahern's face, his thick chains binding him close to the stone bulkhead. Enid glares at the prisoner.

“We should have put the screws to him.”

“Chained in a dungeon is torture enough,” I reply.

“Excuse me, Queen. I've a castle to keep watch over.”

Enid hastens from the chamber. Since Ahern's disgrace, Artagan has appointed Enid as the new seneschal of the castle. Nonetheless, she has kept her duty of standing watch as my personal guard more often than not. Though I doubt so much for my safety as for the child in my womb. Enid's attitude toward me remains cool as ever, but I carry Artagan's heir and Enid often asks after my unborn babe as though it were her own. The spear-wife's loyalties flow in strange ways.

Alone with my half brother, a draft chills my skin. Tugging my shawl about my shoulders, I stand awhile in silence. Ahern makes no move to speak. He doesn't seem to breathe until his eyes finally blink. I heave a heavy sigh. My kinsman simply lets himself rot, silent as a crypt. Setting my torch in a brazier, it casts a bronze glow across the gloomy cell. Out of habit, I palm the sides of my rounded belly.

“The midwife says my time comes soon. All those birthings I assisted, yet I've never had a birth of mine own. I'm a little scared.”

Ahern keeps his gaze to the floor, but I continue anyway.

“I'll ask the King to let you have a trim, and some fresh meat to keep up your strength.”

“No.”

Startled to hear his ragged voice, I crane my ear closer. His unused vocal cords make him sound hoarse as a frog. Leaning close to his face, I fight the urge to wrinkle my nose. His unwashed britches stink of refuse.

“What did you say?”

“No!”

He lunges forward in his restraints. Leaping back, I feel my heart race as his taut chains jangle along the wall. Unable to advance farther, he slinks back toward the floor. I wipe the sweat from my brow.

“Why won't you let me help you?”

“Because I deserve this! I betrayed you. Don't you hate me? Don't you feel anything at all?”

“You betray yourself, by keeping silent to protect whomever put you up to such folly in the first place.”

He growls, facing the corner. His voice suddenly softens.

“Does the child fare well?”

“Stirs all the time.” I smile. “As restless as its father.”

“I wonder, will it be a boy or a girl?”

“We'll all find out soon enough.”

Ahern hangs his head.

“I was supposed to go with them, Owen's men, and accompany you to Dyfed. But you told me only that morning you were with child, so I turned back to Aranrhod.”

“To confess to Artagan in time to save my life. It seems there's some good in you still.”

“There is no good left in me, Branwen. Leave me to rot.”

I push the air out my nose. Pacing the floor, my heavy footsteps echo off the empty dungeon cavern. Around and around I go with Ahern, still getting nowhere. Is there no key that will unlock the secrets inside his heart? His mixed actions managed to endanger and save my unborn child all in one day. I'd like to kiss his furry beard and wring his neck all at once. Steadying my breath, I lower my voice.

“My child is in danger. Death stalks us already.”

“Do you feel ill?”

“I've my health, but once my babe comes into this world, the same foes who sought to quell my freedom will seek to destroy this child. My girl or boy will be heir to the thrones of Dyfed and the Free Cantrefs. Every Welsh and Saxon warlord will strive to kill or capture such a child so long as men war over Wales. I doubt my babe will live to see its first year.”

Venting my fears, I hardly know the thoughts in my mind until I speak them. Ahern stares up at me speechless, knowing that my words hide no deception. Still as a stone, I make no move to blink back the water welling up behind my eyes. Ahern moistens his lips, his neglected voice wavering and raw.

“I've been the Judas in your midst all along, although at first I did not know it.”

“That makes no sense, brother.”

“I've always been your loyal guardsman, but I remained loyal to Dyfed as well. When I first accompanied you when you wed King Morgan, I sent regular messages back to your father. I reported on your welfare and whereabouts as he asked me to. Only later did I learn that those messages had been intercepted.”

“By whom?”

“At first I did not know. Believe me, Branwen. I had no idea.”

“Ahern, you don't know how to read. Who wrote and deciphered these letters for you?”

“It wasn't the Abbot. I think Padraig suspected though. Bishop Gregory helped me.”

“King Morgan's cleric?”

“Aye, he was the go-between, sending messages back and forth.”

“So Bishop Gregory has been my enemy all this time?”

Ahern begins to chuckle, almost darkly.

“Nay, girl. Listen. The Bishop merely did the writing. Someone else was reading the letters. I thought the Saxon attacks mere coincidence, but after the assassin at Caerwent, I began to have suspicions. Your father had his own plots, but hurting you wasn't one of them. You were his prize, the bond that bound his kingdom to Morgan's. No, it wasn't King Vortigen who made you bait for Saxons and assassins.”

“Then who? Ahern, tell me! If not for my sake, then for the sake of my unborn babe.”

Ahern sighs.

“I don't rightly know. That's the rub. Word came from your father when Owen last visited Aranrhod. Owen told me himself. Your father realized someone had been reading his messages from the Bishop. The wax sealing had been tampered with.”

As I pace the prison cell, the gears in my mind begin to spin. Each time Ahern reported my whereabouts to Father, whoever read those letters set the Saxons on me. First on the road to Caerwent for my marriage, then again when I rode to the Dean Fort. Every time something bad befell me, Ahern had always been with me or arrived only the day before. But something doesn't fit. My eyes suddenly harden, turning on Ahern.

“I understand your loyalty to both me and my father, and how that must have torn you in two. I understand that you were a pawn of wiser and cleverer men. What I don't understand is how you could betray me to Owen! By then you knew your spying had consequences. You knew what would happen!”

“Aye. Owen came to me in secret the night before, to set the trap for you. Saying your favorite falcon had resurfaced. Offered me land and a lord's title, but ultimately it was an order from my king. The last such one I ever intend to obey.”

Ahern lowers his face into his hands, shivering as he fights the sobs. My temples throb. I don't know whether to pity or spurn the man. He saved my life more than once, and helped me free Artagan and myself from Caerwent's dungeons many moons ago. Divided by his loyalty to his king and myself, he was used by both. If only the mystery could have ended with his confession! Now I only have more questions. Who was reading his messages to Father? Who used Ahern's letters as intelligence regarding my whereabouts? Using each correspondence as a tool by which to lay the next trap.

The Bishop. No one, least of all myself, ever accredited Caerwent's high cleric with an overabundance of brains. Padraig often chided the man for paying more attention to his altar boys than to Holy Writ. But the Bishop must be the key. He read and wrote the letters, and he must have sent them. So who got to the Bishop first? A sickening, slithery chill uncoils in my stomach.

Gregory is Morgan's pet. He'd do anything his king asked of him. Morgan could easily have read every letter. So could his brother Malcolm, for that matter. But why? Morgan had every reason in the world to keep me alive as his bride and broodmare. Malcolm then? The Prince of Caerleon has a malicious streak for certain. But it still doesn't add up. I now know how I was betrayed, but I still don't know who was ultimately behind it all. The person who has been plotting my demise from the very start. Pursing my lips, I put a hand to my brow. My forehead feels hot and heavy as a blacksmith's anvil.

The room begins to swim in my vision. Ahern rises in his chains, trying to steady me. His voice trembles.

“Branwen, are you all right? Guards! Guards! The Queen is ill!”

Footfalls from the guards murmur down the stairwell. Ahern's eyes glaze over as he stares at me in wide-eyed fear. Foolish man. Does he not understand? Grasping my hands about my middle, the contractions surge up through my sinews and bones. The baby stirs inside me.

 

PART THREE

A.D.
599

 

17

The baby shifts from the left to the right breast. He nuzzles my bosom before suckling contentedly in my arms. Birds twitter outside the tower windowsill as I recline on a settee with my son, golden, warm sunlight pouring over his soft scalp. Tufts of auburn hair freckle his tiny head. Laughing to myself, I press my lips to his small brow. Little Gavin. Named after King Arthur's bravest Welsh knight, Sir Gawain. Artagan leans in the doorway, crossing his arms as he watches me feed our boy.