Between Two Fires

by Mark Noce

  As I roll out of bed, I frown at my scarecrow frame in the brassy mirror. Lords like their ladies thick and plump, but my ribs still show through the skin in places and my bust lags several years behind the other young womenfolk at court. Small wonder why the King goes about our lovemaking with such a businesslike demeanor. The same cool logic that convinced him to take my hand and bind together the southern kingdoms also compels him to get another heir upon me. Not so much for passion’s sake, but for the good of the realm. I sigh as I watch a pair of starlings nesting alongside my bedchamber window. Birds may mate for love, but kings and queens have their duty to attend. Far be it from me to dishonor the tradition.

  The blare of silver trumpets reverberates along the castle walls. Morgan rises beside me, both of us looking out over the windowsill. Beyond the gates of Caerwent, two separate processions approach the citadel, one from the north road and another to the west. The leaders called to the gathering have come. Both companies bear dragon banners, one contingent with green dragons and the other black. Guardsmen from the citadel greet them beneath the red dragon standard of the Hammer King. All the kingdoms of Wales bear dragon flags like King Arthur once did, only differing in the colors they choose to follow. Red, green, and black. Every warlord wishes to be the head dragon of the land without bowing down to the others. I shake my head at the iron-headed pride of the Welsh. A blind man could see why the Saxons continually prevail against such a brave, but divided people.

  Morgan pulls on his clothes, fastening on his best gold brooch and crimson cape. His crown hangs on the bedstead beside his large war-hammer. He grabs them both before descending the stairwell to the throne room. The King calls back to me, his voice echoing along the turret steps.

  “Put something impressive on, my lady. Kings judge each other by the manner of their queens!”

  My heart convulses as I turn toward the mirror. Disheveled raven hair and a threadbare nightgown make me look more like a peasant’s daughter than a monarch’s wife. Rowena arrives with a basket full of linens and shawls, rubbing her sleepy eyes as the bugles outside sound again. The entire citadel must know by now of the approaching envoys and their armed escorts.

  After cycling through several gowns that could hardly pass for horse blankets, Rowena threads my arms through a beige woolen with azure fringe. I bite my lip as Rowena runs a brush through the tangled knots of my midnight locks, every stroke burning like fire at the roots of my hair. Morgan calls for me from the atrium. I shuffle into a pair of fur-lined shoes, our guests’ horses whinnying inside the castle courtyard far below. Our visitors dismount and approach the throne room. Morgan’s voice booms across the hall again, reverberating up toward my tower solar.

  “Branwen!”

  I scurry down the tower steps, Rowena holding up the train of my garments. We both nearly trip half a dozen times, descending the stairwell two steps at a time. As I settle into my seat beside the King, my face flushes enough without any artificial rouge. Rowena curtsies to leave, stopping to pluck a few stray threads from the hem of my gown. Morgan looks me over quickly, his face betraying none of his thoughts. I cannot tell whether he approves or disdains my choice of attire. No time for alterations now. The footsteps of our guests clack along the tile floors of the entranceway. Rowena finishes pruning my skirts and exits the atrium just as the first heralds announce their lordships.

  “Belin the Great, King of North Wales! And his sons, Princes Rhun and Iago!”

  A man with a sable cloak and a snowy-white beard approaches King Morgan’s throne. “Belin the Old,” as Father and most others outside the North call this king. Although not to his face. Two young men flank either side, both with dark hair and beards, their plate-mail shirts jangling with every step. Rhun and Iago, I presume. Judging by the sackcloth tunics beneath their armor, these horsemen must have ridden under the black banners. I inwardly chide myself, knowing I ought to spend more time studying the bloodlines of the royal houses to determine who is related to whom. These first guests follow the Black Dragon sigil of the North. Best not to forget such things.

  Belin and his sons nod toward Morgan, showing respect, but not quite stooping to bow either. After all, in the northlands of Gwynedd, they rule supreme and bend their knees to no one. Morgan returns the gesture with a cordial nod.

  From a side entranceway, the tardy Prince Malcolm shuffles into the throne room while tying up his belt. The Hammer King throws him a sharp look before Malcolm reclines in the shadows. Thank the Virgin I did not show up late to the atrium. Morgan will doubtlessly have a long talk with his younger brother later. The herald announces the next batch of envoys.

  “King Cadwallon of the Free Cantrefs! And Lady Olwen, daughter of King Urien in the northern Powys Free Cantrefs!”

  A large, round man with thinning red hair and a beard to match saunters into the atrium with a woman holding his hand. King Cadwallon looks large enough to swallow a wild boar for breakfast. His green doublet, bristling with buttons, leaves little doubt as to which company rode under the green banners. He turns to the lady holding his arm.

  “King Urien is ill, and although I do not rule his lands, I offered to escort his daughter, the Lady Olwen, to these proceedings that she might stand in his place.”

  Morgan edges forward in his seat while the onlookers of the court murmur amongst themselves. Goose bumps rise along my forearms. A woman to stand in a council of men? These Free Cantref folk follow the ways of the Old Tribes even more than I first thought.

  Lady Olwen wears a white linen gown and has dark locks like me, only hers hang straight whereas mine wave slightly. Our similarities end there. She has a full-bodied figure of a grown woman, and God as my witness, her irises twinkle with a hint of violet. Every man in court stares at her, and who wouldn’t? She is a Welsh Venus.

  Cadwallon clears his throat, his face turning the same shade as his auburn beard. I cannot help but stare. These Free Cantref folk are simultaneously a fascinating and yet strange lot, harkening from the wilds of the mountains and forests. Cadwallon looks angry, but keeps his voice marginally calm as he eyes King Morgan.

  “Amongst the Free Cantrefs, our womenfolk may speak amongst men in council. I would expect to find that same right honored anywhere in the Welsh Lands.”

  Morgan leans back in his seat, staring at Cadwallon until every other onlooker in the room begins to shift uncomfortably. Tapping the arm of my chair, I can hardly remain still. My husband flashes a curt smile.

  “For such a gracious noblewoman, we would be honored to have Lady Olwen listen in her father’s stead.”

  “Thank you, King Morgan.” Olwen nods. “You do my father great honor.”

  Her voice runs deep for a woman, and rich like one gifted with song. Morgan’s polite smile turns into a genuine grin, and I find my own neck flushing hot. Lady Olwen has charm enough to mold even the likes of the Hammer King to her whims. My fists tighten, contemplating how many men only value a woman for her allure and beauty. Though it be unchristian, a seed of malicious envy takes root inside me. A crow-face like me doesn’t even have half the good looks Lady Olwen possesses. I bite my tongue until it smarts.

  Morgan’s guardsmen line the walls, each man-at-arms bedecked in chain mail vests and crimson capes. They clutch their spears and shields tightly, as though preparing to use them. All three parties eye each other warily, their red, black, and green dragon pennants nearly touching the domed ceiling of the spacious atrium.

  The herald clears his throat to announce a final guest.

  “Also, hailing from the Free Cantrefs, Sir Artagan Blacksword!”

  My heart freezes up as the dark-haired swordsman strides into the throne room. Morgan rises from his seat and Malcolm quickly rushes to his side. The King grips his war-hammer and the Prince reaches for his large mace as they leer at the Blacksword. Artagan takes his place beside the other Free Cantref members, King Cadwallon and Lady Olwen. His longsword hangs in a cinch diagonally down his back. He smirks at the Hammer King’
s and Prince Malcolm’s livid faces before turning his striking sapphire eyes on me. I blush scarlet as the black-haired swordsman stares unabashedly at me, his gaze running from my eyes to neckline.

  “Lady Branwen, or Queen, I should say. It has been too long since our last meeting.”

  He bows toward me, ignoring Morgan and Malcolm. I slink lower in my chair, wishing for the world he hadn’t brought me into the center of this. Why does he have to speak to me? I suddenly wish I could simply disappear. The Hammer King aims his weapon at Artagan, clenching his teeth.

  “I’ve a price on this brigand’s head! Guards, seize the devil where he stands!”

  A ring of crimson-cloaked guardsmen level their spearheads at Artagan. The swordsman merely grins, not even drawing his blade. Instead, King Cadwallon steps between the knight and a dozen men-at-arms, the girth of his belly urging the soldiers to stand back. Cadwallon’s roar seems to shake the rafters.

  “This is a knight of the Free Cantrefs and he comes to this gathering under my protection! Any hand laid against him is a hand laid against me, and will answer to my archers for it!”

  Several bowmen clad in green tunics and brown leathers draw back their creaking bowstrings. In response, a dozen more red-caped guards tromp into the room, the din of their chain mail murmuring off the ceiling. Belin’s lot from the North do not draw their swords, but instead stand apart, flexing their fingers along their black ash lances. Clutching the sides of my throne, I wonder whether this limestone seat will shield me from spears and arrows if a brawl takes place. Morgan stands at the center of the throne room, his gray-eyed stare never flinching from Artagan.

  “This so-called knight,” Morgan begins coolly, “stands accused of crimes against my people.”

  Cadwallon steps between Artagan and Morgan, his stomach nearly touching the Hammer King.

  “And half the men in this room stand accused of crimes against the Free Cantrefs! Did you call this gathering to talk peaceably or to cross swords?”

  Morgan seethes through his teeth before calming his breath. My husband’s hot rage subsides. He stands a full head taller than Cadwallon as he stares him down, raising his voice for all to hear.

  “While at this gathering here in Caerwent, I grant temporary amnesty to all present!” Morgan declares. “All grudges must be set aside until after all parties have safely returned to their respective provinces. But once this conference has concluded, each lord may seek justice as he sees fit.”

  A silence pervades the room. Cadwallon and Belin exchange looks before they both nod in agreement. Artagan makes no move, his mischievous azure eyes glancing from the Hammer King to me.

  Morgan bangs the handle of his hammer against the tile floors, echoing throughout the hall. At this signal, bondservants enter the chambers carrying carafes of wine and pewter goblets. The various parties retire to their new quarters in order to refresh themselves after their long journey to Caerwent.

  King Morgan and Prince Malcolm quickly exit the atrium. I soon find them speaking in confidence at the foot of the turret stairs, their voices low and tense.

  “I cannot believe the gall of that Blacksword!” Morgan fumes. “Provoking strife in my own court!”

  “We should strip our visitors of their arms before the conference this afternoon,” Malcolm replies.

  “Try to take away their weapons and violence will ensue. No, little brother, you would only be playing into the Blacksword’s hand.”

  Neither man seems to notice me as I stand in the alcove with them. Perhaps I seem too harmless a personage to eavesdrop on their secrets. I put a hand on Morgan’s shoulder, rubbing his knotted shoulders and speaking soothingly in his ear.

  “Why does King Cadwallon protect this outlaw, my King?”

  “Because Artagan is rumored to be Cadwallon’s bastard, and clearly his favorite knight.”

  Morgan turns back to his brother, his voice running cold once more.

  “And where were you, Prince Brother?”

  “Forgive my tardiness.” Malcolm sheepishly shrugs. “I was delayed.”

  “You dabble under milkmaids’ skirts too often, boy. Do not be late again.”

  The recollection of Malcolm tightening his belt as he entered the atrium earlier suddenly resurfaces in my mind. Lords have always had a taste for pretty women regardless of rank. The Prince has not yet taken a wife, but I had not imagined him the sort to dally with serving wenches to excess.

  I clench my jaw, suddenly imaging Malcolm cornering some poor serving girl who is too afraid to defy the nobleman who haunts her steps with a lustful eye. And my husband allows such injustices under his roof? I take a deep breath. Perhaps I am being too hasty, imagining crimes I have not even witnessed. Still, I cannot help but eye my new brother-in-law a touch more warily than before.

  Outside, armed companies of newcomers stable their mounts in the castle yards, covering the cobblestones with small beds of hay. Northern cavalrymen with tall, black lances sit astride armored chargers, coolly eyeing the green-clad bowmen of the Free Cantrefs who sheath their longbows beneath mantles of animal skins. All the while, King Morgan’s red-caped foot soldiers keep close watch over their new guests, their short-swords concealed behind broad shields. The tension in the armed camp is palpable even from the safety of my window.

  My palms sweat. It would take little indeed to set these horsemen, archers, and men-at-arms at each other’s throats. With all these lords and ladies gathered together under one roof, more than a few secrets will doubtlessly pass from ear to ear over the next few days.

  Morgan and Malcolm continue to whisper about the gathering of leaders scheduled for later this afternoon. Would that I were a fly on the wall in that council, to sit in a circle with lords and kings deciding the fate of our people. If only I had been born a man. But what am I thinking? Moments ago, I flushed scarlet when the Blacksword came into the atrium, drawing attention upon me as he purposefully ignored my husband. What would the ancient Queen Branwen have done in my stead? I doubt she or any other woman of the Old Tribes would have stood idly by and blushed. Clearing my throat, I summon what courage I can as I interrupt the two royal brothers.

  “My King, I notice one important group absent from this gathering. None from Dyfed have come.”

  Both brothers exchange looks.

  “Dyfed is part of my realm now,” Morgan replies coolly, clearly perturbed by my interrupting his conversation with Malcolm.

  “Your guests already show much distrust,” I press on. “Better to show proof of Dyfed’s allegiance to you.”

  “Speak plainly, my Queen. What proof can I offer, other than my word?”

  “I will join you at the council this afternoon and represent Dyfed. Showing solidarity with your kingdom. That is why you wed me, is it not?”

  Morgan’s eyes widen, doubtlessly surprised by my insistence. My father told me to look out for Dyfed’s interests, and I cannot do that if I’m shut out of the gathering of Welsh lords. While Morgan contemplates my proposal, Prince Malcolm scoffs beside him.

  “You cannot seriously consider this, Morgan? A girl in the council!”

  “Lady Olwen represents her father!” I retort. “And I shall stand in place of mine. My presence shows that Dyfed supports my husband, reminding the others that King Morgan now has the largest combined kingdom in all Wales. No small feat.”

  Morgan looks me over as though trying to pierce me to my soul. He folds his arms and slowly nods. His voice brooks no argument.

  “Vortigen breeds sharp-witted queens. You will listen in council, and not speak. Understood?”

  I nod, not sure whether I have gained a victory or simply entered a lion’s den. Malcolm sulks, leaving without another word. Morgan ignores him and places a hand on my shoulder, his voice almost fatherly, yet stern.

  “Remember, Branwen, we call this council to discuss a united front against the Saxons, but we also must keep our wits sharp toward a more immediate threat.”

  “The spy now in
our midst?”

  “Precisely. One of those sitting in this council tried to have me killed and you kidnapped. Although the Saxons were the instruments of this plan, they must have had Welsh help. I’m sure of it.”

  My throat runs dry. Memories of the Saxons and their bloody steel on the King’s Road make my skin turn cold. To think that I will sit at table with someone who wished me such harm gives me an inward shudder. But I am a daughter of kings and a wife of one too now. I cannot play the part of a child forever. My husband doubtlessly suspects Sir Artagan, yet I am not so sure. The Blacksword saved me on the King’s Road, and that doesn’t sound like the act of someone plotting my demise. Of course, since when is anything in this world as simple as it first appears? Unlike the chess matches I once played with Father, this game of kings and queens is real, and the losers may forfeit their very lives. I swallow hard, watching the sundial by the window, counting the hours until the council begins.

  * * *

  A cleric chimes the evening vespers with the chapel bells, announcing the commencement of the council. Ahern escorts me through the atrium to the side room containing Morgan’s round counselor’s table. The large alcove overlooks the verdant pastures and blue rivers of the East Marches, the circular room itself replete with marble archways and stone columns that recall the architectural majesty of Rome and the Holy Church. At the entranceway, a pair of stone sentinels leer at all trespassers with gargoyle eyes, as though the dead kings of old sit in council with the living still. I squeeze Ahern’s hand before leaving him at the door and entering the council chamber alone.