Between Two Fires

by Mark Noce

  “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?”

  My gaze falls and I feel hot in the face for having brought the subject up. I see the problem too clearly, but a solution does not arise in my mind. My voice dies down to almost a whisper.

  “I know not, my liege. I only know that bloodied spears and swords are not enough to bind the Welsh people together. You must do something else to unite them … something that speaks to their hearts, to earn the love and admiration of all Free Welsh folk.”

  I straighten my spine. Father blows air between his lips and turns to stoke the fire. Morgan says no more, observing me with his unfathomable gray eyes. Just like the people of Wales, I too would prefer Morgan win my heart before claiming my loyalty. I know not whether my words have touched him or if he thinks me more the fool. Probably just some little, insignificant girl, whose only purpose is to provide a bedmate and heirs for the royal line. Just what a proper lady ought to be, my stepmother would say. I grind my molars, half-mad at myself for speaking my mind and half-frustrated that my stepmother’s view of a woman in this world might be right after all. But she doesn’t have the blood of the Old Tribes running through her veins like me.


  Without another word, the two kings descend the stairwell toward the din of boisterous revelers in the mead hall. Traversing the stairs, I feel Morgan close to me and smell his musk, a hint of pinesap and peat smoke on him. He must spend many a day in the field, under a tent, rather than at home in his castle. My palms sweat, feeling his breath so close to mine own. Will he wait until our wedding before putting me in his bed, or will he take me aside tonight? Wed by a priest or not, I’m to be his property soon enough.

  Descending the turret steps, Father and Morgan outpace me as the two of them resume speaking in low tones. At the foot of the stairs, I head down an adjacent corridor, needing a moment to myself. A salty evening breeze cools my face as I stand beside an arrow slit overlooking the orange glow of the chapel windows down by the cliffs. Hymns from the monks’ and nuns’ evening vespers reverberate along the dark moors as the clerics pray to God.

  A pair of footsteps shuffles beside me in the dim corridor.

  “I hope I’m not too late to wish the bride-to-be congratulations and a long, happy life.”

  “Abbot Padraig,” I reply, smiling at the balding holy man. “What brings you up from the abbey?”

  “A little memento for my best pupil,” he says with a grin.

  He pulls a large tome out from beneath his brown robes, opening to the first page. I put a hand to my mouth at the sight of such a magnificent manuscript, fine yellow vellum replete with perfectly tilted script. An illuminated image of a dark-haired woman wearing a crown shows on the opening page, her gown painted with bright azure, beryl, golden, and ruby hues. The Abbot places the heavy book in my hands.

  “It’s written in my own hand, a record of the ancient days of the Old Tribes, and Queen Branwen the Brave.”

  “Branwen the Brave? My mother named me after her.”

  “Because Queen Branwen was the most beloved queen of all Wales,” he says, beaming. “Wise, good-hearted, and courageous.”

  I raise a curious eyebrow.

  “She also met an unfortunate end, if I recall.”

  “Sometimes sad stories teach us the most. But I pray that you will draw inspiration from this book when you live in your new castle, far from home.”

  I reach out and take the old man’s hand. Books are rare as gold, and this is no small present even for the head of a monastery. No one has ever given me such a treasure before.

  “Thank you, Padraig. I shall read it often, and when I do I will think of you, my friend.”

  He smiles and bows, still vaguely formal in his mannerisms, despite the two of us having been student and teacher for years. His vestments smell faintly of crushed herbs, doubtlessly having just come from the monastery apothecary. The patient monk spent many hours not only instructing me in scholarship, but also in the ways of the healing arts. I’m going to miss his steady voice and fatherly countenance.

  The hymns from the abbey down by the sea gradually change their tune, the new melody perking my ears. An ancient lay in the Old Tongue. I swallow a lump in my throat, recognizing the familiar evensong. They only chant like that when a woman begins childbirth, using the song to draw the babe into the world. Local womenfolk heavy with child often go to the abbey to receive help and blessings as they bring their newborns into the world. Of course, not all mothers survive the ordeal.

  Morgan will surely expect me to bear him sons before long. How many moons before I find myself on a birthing bed? Will the nuns sing of my deliverance or my funeral dirge? A knot forms in my throat.

  Father and Morgan’s suddenly harsh voices echo down the hall. I beg Padraig’s forgiveness as I excuse myself and hurry back toward the foot of the turret stairs. The guardsman Ahern bows toward them, his face flushing with color.

  “Forgive me, sires, but a rider has arrived bearing ill news. The East Marches are under attack! A Saxon army has crossed into the Welsh Lands.”

  I feel the color drain from my face. Several other guards exchange worried looks. The roar of wenches and soldiers in the nearby mead hall reverberates off the ceilings. Most of the revelers still do not know of the evil tidings. Tomorrow many of them may be widows or dead. Perhaps this alliance between Father and the Hammer King has come too late.

  Morgan loosens his giant war-hammer from his back. He hangs his head and speaks under his breath, although whether praying to God or cursing the Saxons, I cannot tell. His war-hammer seems nearly as tall as I am. He turns to Father as he dons his helmet, the mask portion still drawn up so we can see his face. Whatever his feelings, he speaks with the stoicism of a veteran soldier.

  “I leave posthaste, Vortigen. My army is needed elsewhere, but I will call upon the spearmen of Dyfed before long.”

  “God go with you.” Father nods.

  A hush falls over the entire castle and I no longer hear the minstrels playing. Word has clearly reached every corner of the keep. Morgan orders his warriors about. His men scurry out from alcoves to get their armor on whilst maidens pull on their disheveled shifts and wipe fresh kisses from their tender mouths. A few older soldiers guzzle down the last mead in their drinking horns.

  As I step back quietly, others bustle about without seeming to notice my presence. It looks like I won’t be going anywhere after all. Morgan is halfway out the hall entranceway, his thanes saddling their horses. A mixture of relief and regret bubbles up inside me. With a war on, the Hammer King hardly has time to make a wife of me just now and take me away from my childhood home. At the same time, it will be another monotonous month or more of listening to my stepmother’s chatter and the snide remarks of her ladies-in-waiting.

  I set down my new book from the Abbot on a nearby table, gazing at the image of the ancient Queen Branwen on the first page. What would she do in my stead? I’m no great matron of the Old Tribes as she was.

  Morgan calls out above the chaos of mingled soldiers and serving wenches, drawing my attention with his commanding voice.

  “Lady Branwen, we must make haste.”

  He speaks politely, but firmly, and at first I do not understand. Morgan beckons me forward while drawing his black mount nearly to the lintel of the hall entrance. My eyes widen before I cross the floor and take his hand.

  He means to take me with him. Tonight. This very minute.

  My pulse jumps in my throat. I move to speak, but nothing comes out. With one swift motion, King Morgan hoists me atop his dark stallion. He mounts the monstrously large beast and wraps an arm around my middle. His massive war-hammer dangles from the other fist. A single kick of his heels jolts the horse forward as we gallop off into the night. Dim torchlights and the whoosh of the sea fade behind us.

  I’ve not even had a moment to say farewell. To Father, Ahern, the Abbot, or even my stepmother. I’ve nothing but the wedding gown I’m wearing. And my new book still sits half-open on a mead table in the main hall! Curse my empty-headedness.

  Morgan and his horsemen canter through the darkness, neither sparing a glance toward me nor each other as they follow the old coast road east. An argent moon emerges from the clouds, lighting our path ahead. Despite the cool night air, I sweat like a roast. My temples ache as I glance back at my new husband, holding me astride his horse like a stolen bride. Morgan grimaces as though already deep in thoughts of battle. He intends to take me with him against the Saxons, and into the heart of danger.

  2

  My wedding gown hangs in shreds. A night astride a warhorse has reduced my linen dress to frayed ends and torn, mud-flecked skirts. I wince as a red sun rises in the east, my bloodshot eyes and sore joints worn from a sleepless evening in the saddle. Rocky coves and gray-sand beaches stretch across the seafront, the naked borderlands between Dyfed and South Wales. Once I wed King Morgan, these will remain borderlands no longer, but will lie within the heart of the Hammer King’s ever-growing dominions.

  In a single night, I’ve ridden farther than I’ve ever been from home. Far from the goose-feather pillows and sealskin coverlets of my solar bedchamber. Instead, my new husban
d holds me by the waist as I loll in the saddle, the ever-present rumble of hooves thundering in my ears. Morgan brings our steed to a halt as one of his thanes raises his sword in salute. The King frowns.

  “Why the slowing pace? We’re halfway to Caerleon already.”

  “Apologies, sire,” the soldier replies. “Your horsemen have outpaced the foot soldiers. Half the army is strung out several leagues behind us.”

  “Then we continue on with just the horsemen!” Morgan barks. “Every moment we delay, Saxons steal deeper into the East Marches.”

  “My lord, if I may,” the soldier says with a bow. “Even the horses grow fatigued and need water. At this pace, we will reach the Saxons completely worn out and hardly able to lift our heads, let alone our swords and shields.”

  Morgan grimaces, looking away toward the distant sun in the east where he wishes he and his army already were. My head sags down onto my chest, heavy as a lodestone. I can hardly stomach another half hour atop this bucking stallion. Morgan tightens his fists on the reins, ready to ride on. He has the stamina of iron and the will to match it. My future husband seems content to ride his horse to death if it gets him to the East Marches faster.

  Just before he digs his heels into the flanks of his steed, I reel back in the saddle. Moaning at the ache in my limbs, I can no longer hide my discomfort. I never rode farther than the length of the beach outside my bedroom window before today. Morgan reaches out for me, but everything in my vision turns into a groggy blur. He dismounts and lowers me down from the saddle, speaking tersely to his guard.

  “We’ll wait for the rest of the army to catch up. Everyone must gather their strength.”

  If I could move my hand, I would cross myself in thanks to God. Morgan must carry me, because I don’t feel my feet on the ground. He lays me down beneath a small grove of trees. The dry scent of oak leaves and acorns pervades the soft grass around me. My eyelids sag heavy as church bells as I succumb to the happy oblivion of sleep.

  Thoughts of Father cloud my murky dreams. I stand on a chessboard shrouded in mist, petrified as though I were a giant queen piece made of stone. Horsemen and druids line up around me, but I cannot move. A large king piece advances through the fog, its stony base grinding along the ground and hurtling toward me like a swift torrent. But I cannot budge, cannot even move as the king piece comes down on me like a sledgehammer in the mist.