Between Two Fires

by Mark Noce

  After putting me in a soft, green gown with a fur collar, Rowena shows me a mirror. The ivy cloth brings out the green in my eyes and the slim fabric makes even my sixteen-year-old body seem queenly. The royal wardrobes of South Wales put my old linens from Dyfed to shame. As Rowena belts a gold-threaded sash around my waist and pins two silver earrings on me, I begin to feel like a true queen for the first time. She combs my hair, rubbing a hint of jasmine into my dark locks.

  “You look like a right proper princess now,” Rowena says, smiling back at me in the mirror. “Won’t be long before you’ve got little princesses and princelings of your own.”

  My stomach tightens at her mention of children. She surely means it as a compliment, but I cannot help recalling the many birthings of lambs and foals I’ve assisted Abbot Padraig with in Father’s stables back in Dyfed. Nonetheless, I’ve never had a hand in the delivery of a woman heavy with child. All I know are the cries of anguish echoing from the nunnery once they begin their songs to draw the newborn into the world. Such was the way my mother brought me into the world and every mother of the Old Tribes before her. Only many such mothers didn’t survive the ordeal. I swallow the lump in my throat, trying to push such thoughts from my mind.

  I constantly keep thanking Rowena for tending to me, unaccustomed to having my own handmaid. Back in Dyfed, Father always considered it a frivolous luxury, even though he allowed my stepmother to indulge in several ladies-in-waiting. Even now, I feel a touch guilty. Betrothed to a king or not, I’m still perfectly capable of dressing myself. Nonetheless, Rowena seems to have an eye for fashion, which I unfortunately lack, so I happily smile at my reflection in the mirror as she works wonders with my green garment.

  Outside the tower window, the red-tile-roofed houses of Caerleon surround the castle and crowd the banks of the nearby river. Never have I seen so many people all living together before. Girls herd chickens and sheep through the narrow sandy streets while young boys help their fathers shod horses in the smoking blacksmiths’ shops. Mothers with babes in hand gather produce from the boatmen unloading their wares along the waterfront. A bustling settlement, Caerleon makes Dyfed look like a backwater by comparison. Rowena gives me a quick tour as she points out sights from our windowsill.

  “King Morgan’s castle at Caerwent be just as big as Caerleon if not grander,” she says. “The twin citadels lie near each other, with the King’s Wood betwixt them. To the east, the old Roman road traverses the forest.”

  Folding my arms, I survey the pleasant scene of well-tended gardens and fields. Beyond lie the tall oak groves of the King’s Wood and the brown Roman road cutting through it. Somewhere down that path lies my lord’s castle and my new home.

  A herald’s horn blows from the battlements. Small dust clouds rise farther down the roadway. A long column of cavalry canters down the winding path, bearing the red dragon banners of South Wales atop their lances. Morgan! It must be. The cavalcade of riders comes on slowly, their mounts clearly tired. I cannot make out more than specks of horsemen in the distance as I squint over the windowsill. Peasants all along the citadel gather to see the approaching riders. Doubtless, many of them have husbands, brothers, and sons amongst the Hammer King’s troops.

  An arm bangs on the door of our castle apartment. The thud of a metal fist on the solid oaken door makes me jump. Rowena cranes her face next to the keyhole.

  “Who begs entrance to her ladyship’s chambers?”

  “I am Lady Branwen’s guardsman! Who the devil has barred this door?”

  I recognize Ahern’s voice and nod to Rowena to loosen the hasp. My brother bangs on the door again. She reluctantly lets Ahern in, prodding him in the chest with a thick finger.

  “Her Grace was taking a bath, and I’ll lock whatever doors I bloody well please! For her privacy.”

  Ahern grumbles under his breath, but says no more beneath Rowena’s challenging stare. The cuts on his face have small bandages, but look to have begun healing well. He turns to me and stands at attention, honorable and formal to the last even though we’ve known one another since childhood.

  “My lady, the King’s horsemen have been sighted near the castle walls.”

  “We know that, you oaf!” Rowena butts in. “We’ve a better view than you.”

  Despite my efforts to hide it, I smile at the two of them sparring. Rowena already clucks like a mother hen around me. I stifle my giggles at seeing Ahern’s feathers so ruffled.

  Rowena glances back out the window, her cheeks suddenly turning pale. A leaden weight sinks in my stomach as all the color drains from her face. She points at the approaching horsemen and their dragon banners, much like the old Pendragon flags King Arthur once flew over his armies. Something about the way the dragon banners flap in the wind, their staffs tilted forward at an awkward angle, only deepens my foreboding. My hands turn cold as I begin to understand. The serving girl raises a hand to her mouth, barely speaking above a whisper.

  “They’ve dipped their banners, m’lady. Someone has died.”

  3

  Shuffling feet echo under the castle gateway. The soldiers bring Morgan in on a pallet, his face pale as a ghost. Prince Malcolm rushes toward his injured brother as the procession of downcast warriors passes under the main gate. My gut clenches tight when they halt in the entranceway. Morgan’s eyelids flutter, a few faint breaths escaping his lips. Even wounded, he clutches his great war-hammer as though its weight can keep his soul weighed down to earth. Although the King still lives, his men dip their banners anyway. Not even they expect him to last the night.

  Malcolm demands to know what happened, but I only catch pieces of mingled replies from the guards. One soldier’s voice manages to rise over the others as he reports to the Prince.

  “We hit them hard, my liege. The Saxons didn’t expect us so soon, but our numbers were near equal. The King crossed arms with their captain, the Chieftain Beowulf.”

  Malcolm suddenly turns as pale as his wounded brother. I grab the Prince’s sleeve, still not understanding.

  “Who is this Beowulf? Was he the one who did this to my betrothed?”

  The host of armed men exchange silent glances. Malcolm growls at his men.

  “Everyone out! Except for the healers.”

  The troopers’ heads sink, their shoulders sagging as they leave amidst the shuffle of chain mail. I do not move. My husband-to-be is badly hurt, and I refuse to leave his side. His mangled body reminds me of a broken bird unable to fly. Whether he was a king or peasant, I could not find it in my heart to abandon such a man at death’s door. Abbot Padraig taught me to be a Good Samaritan as well as a healer, and I’ll not neglect such lessons now.

  Decked in white cleric robes, several healers lift the King’s makeshift mattress of straw and sticks before heading toward a tower stairwell. Morgan groans with every tilt of his pallet. When I move to follow the healers upstairs, Malcolm restrains me by the wrist. His grip tightens hard enough to make me wince, but he looks past me almost as though he forgets I am there. The two of us stand alone in the deserted alcove.

  “This is the Fox and the Wolf’s doing,” he says with a growl.

  “My Prince?” I ask, confused.

  “Brothers. Saxon chieftains, both of them. Cedric the Fox is crafty as the devil himself and his brother Beowulf is so strong that the soothsayers think him a wolf born into man’s flesh.”

  “And so Beowulf did this to the King?”

  “Aye. And I believe his brother Cedric must have led the raid that was meant to capture you, my lady.”

  I swallow hard. For the life of me, I cannot understand why these two chieftains I have never met should bear such ill will against me. But then I realize that I can no longer think of myself as insignificant Branwen of Dyfed. I am soon to be a queen of South Wales. A valuable chess piece for a conniving Saxon foe, especially if I were taken hostage by our enemies. I succeed in gently removing Malcolm’s hand from my sleeve.

  “Then two traps were set today,
one for my soon-to-be husband and the other for me?”

  “Leave these matters to men, my lady. Your prayers are all that can help my brother now.”

  He turns away, ignoring me with a raised palm as he saunters out of the room. Twice now, he has shoved me away like a petulant child. I ball my fists even as my stepmother’s voice inside my head checks my tongue. No lady would speak ill to her lord’s kinsman, no matter how discourteous he may be. The shock of seeing his brother so bloodied seems to have temporarily addled Malcolm’s thoughts. Alone in the alcove, I summon what poise I can as I draw in a deep breath. I’ll show the Prince that this lady can do more than a knight at times like these.

  Scaling the turret stairs, I find my husband-to-be in the uppermost solar. A quartet of clerics huddle around him, all of them men with balding tonsure haircuts atop their pallid heads. One monk sharpens a blade whilst another settles a bowl under the unconscious king. The clergymen exchange looks as I enter the room, the eldest of them scratching his white beard.

  “My lady, what are you doing here?”

  “What do you intend to do to him?” I ask, pointing at the King.

  “Why, bleed him, Your Grace. We must purge the ill humors from his blood.”

  I raise an eyebrow. Surely, this old holy man jests. Haven’t the Saxons’ swords drawn enough of Morgan’s blood already? Unfortunately, the monks’ grave faces seem quite serious. Clearing my throat, I try to sound as commanding as Father does when he is cross with his servants.

  “Put away your tools! Bring me freshwater, needles, and thread. Now!”

  “Your ladyship—”

  “I’ve tended wounded men and beasts alike before. I am also a king’s daughter and soon to be a king’s wife. Now do as I say and fetch my serving girl as well. Or do you wish to explain to the Prince why his brother died whilst you were busy bantering words with his brother’s widow?”

  The monks quickly get to their feet and scuttle down the turret steps. Alone for a moment with Morgan, I peel back his bloodied clothing to examine the wounds. I’ve seen livestock mauled by wolves before, but the sight of the King’s open gashes makes the room start to spin. A pair of open slashes runs the length of his torso, like claw marks from a bear. I steady myself with a hand on the bedstead.

  Thankfully Morgan sleeps deeply, else he would be roaring with pain right now. This Chief Beowulf must have wielded a large ax. Something like the weapon of the Saxon who tried to capture me. A shudder runs through me, thinking that I too might have ended up cut to pieces like this. I put a palm to Morgan’s forehead, his scalp hot and bathed in sweat.

  Rowena creeps up the stairs, carrying all the items for which I asked. She gasps upon seeing the King’s injuries. The serving girl curtsies before jabbing a thumb over her shoulder.

  “Some grumpy clerics told me to find you. Do you truly know how to heal such wounds, m’lady?”

  “In my father’s kingdom, I used to mend the cattle and horses when our livestock were attacked by wild beasts.”

  She gives me a blank, unreadable look and for a moment I wonder if the clerics were in the right after all. Perhaps I should relinquish my future husband’s care to them. Then the thought of Malcolm’s dismissal of me boils my blood. No, I must try to save the King’s life if I can.

  Rowena says nothing, but we both know the odds are slim for my betrothed tonight. It may not matter after all who tries to save him. Whether under the care of the monks or myself, King Morgan’s fate lies in God’s hands.

  We set to work, cleaning and sewing up the King’s bleeding wounds. The candle burns low in the bedchamber while the sky outside turns from red to purple to black as night falls. Even as I work bent over the wounded King, I take a bit of Prince Malcolm’s advice, and say a silent prayer over Morgan for both his body and his soul.

  * * *

  For two weeks, I hardly sleep. Rowena and I take turns at the King’s bedside while the castle kitchens brew soup and herbals at my instruction. When not cleaning bandages or taking a catnap in an armchair, I write letters to the abbey in Dyfed asking for Brother Padraig. I trust his skills in medicine far more than these South Welsh clerics, who daily insist on new remedies that make my skin crawl. Bloodletting, leeches, and salting wounds with the sign of the cross. I’d trust an old hag in the woods before I’d let these misguided “healers” anywhere near the King. Prince Malcolm has only borne with my insistence because my efforts have somehow kept his brother from slipping beyond our reach. Yet Morgan still remains very weak and does not yet have the strength to rise from bed.

  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.