Between Two Fires (6 page)

I awake with a groggy yawn, unsure what day it is or the hour. Horseshoes clack along the cobblestones of the castle's front walk outside. Rowena and the King both lie asleep on their pallets. Bending over the tiny upstairs window, I squint under the blinding midday sun at a lone rider cantering atop a donkey. His voice carries on the wind, strong as a sermon in a cathedral.

“God bless all under this roof, Your Grace! I hear you have need of me?”

“Abbot Padraig!”

Rubbing my eyes, the sight of my former mentor brings my weary limbs back to life. The guards let him upstairs and soon Padraig stands beside me, leaning over the King's bedstead. Balding as ever, his old skin wrinkled as crumpled parchment, Padraig thumbs through the books in his satchel. He nods and hums to himself, as though deep in conversation with someone I can neither see nor hear. Padraig clicks his tongue in disapproval.

“The steel that did this to him had something on it, a rust or mold or poison. You have cleaned his wounds and kept him fed marvelously, Lady Branwen, but it is a malady within his flesh that the Hammer King now battles.”

“Will he live?”

“It depends. If the festering comes from rust or mold, he will recover. If poison, it remains but a matter of time before his lifeblood fails.”

“When will we know for certain?”

“You've tended him these past few weeks. Either his humors have been healing inside him or they have been wilting. We should know which whenever he next comes to.”

My heavy eyelids sag, the Abbot's words making my heart sink all the more. Morgan sleeps, his pink eyelids flickering, yet I'm certain he knows I am here. His hand grasps mine firmly as I put my palm in his. In his weakness, I have come to know my betrothed in a way that only a nurse or a mother might. The King lost his parents years ago to the Saxons, and now, in a way, he has no one to watch over him but myself. Without Rowena and me, those castle clerics would have probably killed him by now with their misguided doctoring.

Padraig elbows me with a large book.

“You seem to have misplaced this.”

My eyes alight on the Abbot's wedding gift to me, the tome I foolishly left on the mead bench back in my father's castle. I press my lips to the monk's bald head, making the old man blush.

“You brought it all the way from Dyfed? Thank you, Abbot! I promise never to let it out of my sight again.”

He smiles before retiring across the room.

“I wish I could be of more use, my dear. But it seems I've come a long way for nothing. All we can do now for King Morgan is wait.”

“At least we now know the cause of his malady, thanks to you. Just having you here raises my spirits.”

Rowena awakens and I soon introduce my new friend to my old teacher. The two talk in low tones for a while, making polite conversation whilst I watch over Morgan. With little more to do than wait, I open my book and caress the first page as I read the opening lines written in Padraig's steady hand.

In the Year of Our Lord Five Hundred and Ninety Seven are written these ancient tales of Branwen the Brave, Queen of the Old Tribes in the centuries before the coming of the Romans and Christ. Praise be his name.

As the hours pass, I read by a sliver of waning sunlight cutting through an arrow slit. It has been some time since I first read such stories as a child. Of how Branwen was born by the sea, in the days when women ruled the Old Tribes as equals to men. Mothers became druidesses and daughters ruled as high chieftains beside men who were warriors, smiths, and bards. It was an era of magic and wisdom long since obscured by the mists of time.

Despite my fascination with the narrative, my eyelids start to sag just as I reach the pages that describe how and where Branwen met the man with whom she would fall in love. I yawn, my head growing heavy. Before I know it, the Abbot puts his hand on my shoulder. The light in the arrow slit grows dim.

“Get some rest, Branwen,” he whispers. “The book and the King will still be here on the morrow.”

Too tired to protest, I stagger to my own cot against the far wall. I nod off the moment my head hits the goose-feather pillow. My mind passes out of time and thought.

When I finally rise, a snuffed-out candle smolders beside me. A cold wind whistles through the castle, the first breath of winter heavy on the autumn wind. The purple haze of dawn glimmers through the arrow slit overhead. I sit bolt upright in bed, realizing I've overslept.

Voices murmur in low tones across the chamber. Throwing a blanket across my shoulders, I suddenly realize that the room is full of silent strangers.

Malcolm, the clerics, Brother Padraig, and several servants all gather around the King's bed, obscuring my view. My throat tightens. It looks like a cloistering for a funeral. Padraig must guess my mind, but oddly enough he smiles and guides me to the bed as he clears a way through the crowd. I blink, finding a small pile of mutton legs at the foot of the bedstead. King Morgan grins at me as he sits upright in the sheets, gnawing on a bone.

“Forgive me, my Queen, but I did not wish to awaken you. I arose with such a hunger and the kitchen women have been kind enough to provide me with enough lamb shank to make me belch.”

I laugh, relieved to see him alive and well. He eats as a man might after a long fast. The clerics all offer humble “amens” and make the sign of the cross in the air. Morgan takes me by the hand.

“I know it was you who stood by me and nursed me back to health, my lady. Although I could not stir to speak, I remember you hovering over me like a guardian angel.”

“'Twas not just I, my King. My serving girl, Rowena, and Abbot Padraig watched over you as well.”

“And they shall be rewarded, as shall you. Our betrothal has lasted long enough. You and I will wed tonight!”

He squeezes my hand fondly. I find myself warm in the chest, both alarmed and excited at the suddenness of his declaration. The other South Welsh clerics protest all at once, their mingled voices decrying the King's still feeble strength. Just to prove them wrong, the Hammer King puts both feet on the ground and drags his war-hammer toward him. Everyone takes a step back from his bed, the King grinning with a challenging look as he lifts his massive weapon. It clearly pleases him to see the others cower back from his sickbed. Even on his deathbed, a king must seem strong and invincible to his thanes. He turns to Padraig, pointing with his hammer.

“Make the preparations, Abbot. What day is this?”

“The day before Hallowmas, my liege. Well into autumn, and if memory serves, also the anniversary of Lady Branwen's birth.”

All eyes turn to me, making me squirm. What with all our labors and sleepless nights watching over the King, the number of days has slipped my mind. Today marks my seventeenth name day, and now it seems, the day in which I shall wed a king. Perhaps Morgan's recent brush with death has made him impatient to hold me in holy wedlock. And so the first night of my marriage bed shall be in his brother's castle at Caerleon.

Ushering me from the room, Rowena plucks and prods me as she chitters away happily as a spring bluebird. Her expression oscillates between broad smiles and thoughtful frowns. Much work remains for us to do before the ceremony.

Herded into one room after another, I acquiesce to her demands. Heated water for a fresh bath, crushed red ochre for my nails, beet juice to rouge my cheeks, and a buttermilk plaster for my already fair skin. Afterward, she slips me into a crepe and topaz gown, draping gold rings, silver bracelets, and a pearl necklace over me. I catch glimpses of myself in a bronze mirror as she stuffs wheat stalks and berries into my headdress. I can't tell if I look like a beautiful bride or some kind of harvest goddess. Rowena gaily smoothes out the wrinkles in my gown as she makes last-minute alterations. Despite my approaching wedlock, I can't help but dwell on thoughts of my birthday as well.

On that fateful Hallowmas Eve night seventeen autumns ago, Father doubtlessly paced back and forth outside my mother's solar, waiting to hear the first cries of his much-awaited son. Instead, he got me. Only once did he ever tell me of that night, and in an offhand way, while in one of his drunken reveries. He recalled the broad smile on my mother's face the evening afterward, she belonging to the Old Tribes who prized daughters more over sons. A primitive custom, Father called it.

The sun sets outside the castle. Rowena and the other women close up every shutter, bolt every external door, and turn every mirror to face the wall. All Hallows also marks the time when the spirit world crosses over into our own. A time when apparitions appear in the mists, and graveyards murmur with the revelries of those beyond the grave. Tonight, Rowena makes sure to turn in three circles and spit each time she crosses a threshold. Christian or no, some beliefs from the Old Tribes never die.

In a way, I actually prefer to have my marriage on this night. Perhaps my mother herself will watch over me as her only daughter weds the greatest king of South Wales. Assuming the spiritual realm cares for the pains and joys of mortals anymore.

When I reach the chapel in my new dress, my footsteps jingle with silver bracelets that bedeck my damask gown. I hide my trembling palms under my bouquet. Everything has happened so fast. Morgan seems a good man, but in so many ways the Hammer King remains a stranger to me.

Morgan awaits me at the stone altar. He steadies himself on his upended war-hammer, using it like a makeshift cane. A broad smile creases his face, a bronze crown and several golden chains belying his otherwise plain linen tunic. Padraig stands beside him with a Bible in hand, the chapel crucifix peering down at all of us. A dozen witnesses join the quiet ceremony, Ahern and the clerics filtering into the pews. Rowena looms close by my side while Prince Malcolm stands at a respectful distance from his brother.

As I approach the sacristy, I admit that this is not at all the way I envisioned royal marriages. No laborious ceremony, flower petals, or throngs of cheering onlookers throwing grains and chaff. The simplicity of the ceremony makes me breathe easier, as though an iron weight has lifted from my shoulders. Boisterous crowds have never much appealed to me. Tonight the chapel sounds quiet as a monastic library. Just my groom and me, a few witnesses, and God.

Morgan smiles as he takes my hand. Padraig turns to the altar and invokes the Almighty in Latin, the language of long-ago Rome. I know the tongue from all my reading lessons in the Abbot's care. Brother Padraig turns to Morgan and asks for the rings. Only when Morgan hesitates do I realize the King doesn't speak Latin. I gently whisper to him in Welsh.

“If you have a token, my King, you may present it now.”

He pats my hand, seemingly pleased at both my translation and my discretion, even in front of so small an audience. Morgan pulls out a pair of golden rings and slips one onto his finger and the other on mine. Its golden heft weighs heavy upon my hand. Padraig makes the final incantation in the air, spreading sweet-smelling incense. Before I know it, Morgan has his lips on mine, his brown beard tickling my cheeks. With a single kiss, I am now made a queen.

Our guests smile as they offer congratulations. Morgan and I soon find ourselves alone in his brother's private chambers, set aside just for us tonight. I keep my gaze to the floor, feigning interest at cracks in the limestone tiles. I've only vague notions of what to do next. I fold my palms, wiping the perspiration from my fingers.

Morgan kisses me on the neck, his hands gentle as they unlace my gown. I gasp at the cold touch of his skin against mine, unused to pressing myself so closely to another. His heavy thighs soon find mine on the bed, our kisses and tongues mingling until I can't tell him from me. A fiery pain pierces me to the core and I cry out against my will. Morgan stops.

“Are you all right?”

I rightly don't know how to answer him. Despite the mingled pleasure and pain, I nod and we continue.

Before I know it, the consummation ends and Morgan snores in the darkness beside me. He proves himself to be a gentle lover, if somewhat hasty in the bedchamber. I toss and turn beside him, feeling the bedsheet wet beneath me. So the deed is done. For some reason I blink back water in my eyes. I am a woman now, a wife, and a queen.

*   *   *

We ride into Caerwent the next day at the head of a procession of mounted knights and an endless train of foot soldiers. Morgan did not wish to waste any time getting to his capital, and after the rumors of his purported death, he needs his subjects to see their leader alive and well. Thousands of inhabitants line the roadway to greet us, cheering and waving while Morgan and I ride side by side atop a pair of tall mounts. I wince in the saddle, my thighs still sore from last night, but I wave and smile at the cheering crowds, pretty as a painting. My featherheaded stepmother would be proud.

The local maidens wear long skirts and bonnets, whereas the men have hose breeches and woolen shirts. A far cry from the tartans my kinsfolk prefer in Dyfed or the skins and furs of the Free Cantref Welsh. Morgan has his full armor on, shining like a polished silver coin. I canter beside him in a pure white garb like the virgin I no longer am.

Caerwent's tall towers loom before us. Red-tile-roofed homes crowd the streets, and stone chapels surround the old Roman amphitheater. The fortress walls themselves stand much taller and broader than those at Caerleon. Their stone bastions bear pockmarks from fire and battering rams. Caerwent is a base of war first and a settlement second. No doubt, the fortress has seen many sieges in its time.

As we enter through the western gates, red banners hang above every tower, window ledge, and archway. The crimson dragon standard of the Hammer King's realm flies everywhere. Only when the iron grating of the gates closes with a thud behind us do I realize I have arrived at my new home. A prickly sensation rises along my scalp. These lofty towers and gray stone keeps will never let me out.