Between Two Fires

by Mark Noce

  “Pardon, Your Grace, but I should get back to the kitchens now.”

  “No, you shan’t.” I smile. “I’ve need of a second lady-in-waiting to serve me. If you’ll agree, of course.”

  Una and Rowena exchange equally surprised glances. My needs are few, but hopefully I haven’t offended Rowena by bringing a second servant into our midst. Rowena can certainly handle all the chores about me, but something in my heart demands that I shield this girl Una. How many women just like her have been manhandled all across Wales, by barbarians and locals alike? Besides, I’m not a terribly demanding queen and whatever tasks I set Una to doing, it ought to be easier than slaving away in the castle kitchens. At least with me she should be safe from further reprisals, whatever the cause of her misfortune in the mead hall tonight. Una eyes me hesitantly before nodding and agreeing to my request.

  As the night wears on, Morgan does not come to my bedchamber. Perhaps he stays up late, trying to heal the rift between the bickering lords down in the banquet hall. Cold blasts of wind hit the castle, whistling through chinks in the walls and gaps in the shutters. Both Rowena and Una share the large bed with me in order to conserve heat, each of us lying head to toe.

  At daybreak, the whicker of horses from the courtyard outside awakens me. Nestled between my snoring servant girls, I roll out of bed. I clutch a shawl around my throat as I peer through the window shutters.

  Two columns of troops snake down the roads leading away from Caerwent, the black banners of North Wales going one way and the green dragon flags of the Free Cantrefs marching the other. A few watchmen in red tunics look on from the bastion towers, but no bugle calls or friendly goodbyes ring from the battlements. It looks as though the great gathering has ended already.

  Heading toward the stairs, I open my bedchamber door to find a guardsman posted on the top step. I gasp, nearly running into the spearman before recognizing Ahern. I smile at my half brother, but he merely frowns back at me through his beard.

  “Sorry, my Queen, but all royals are to remain in their quarters this morn. King’s orders.”

  “Ahern, what do you mean? Am I prisoner in my own bedchamber? What’s going on?”

  Ahern leans closer, pleading with me.

  “Stay up here in your solar, safe and sound. Please, Lady Branwen.”

  My voice fails me upon seeing such worry in his normally placid eyes. A draft from the tower window chills my skin. The only royals in this household are myself, Arthwys, Malcolm, and the King. What madness is this? I doubt Morgan has confined himself to any particular room. Whatever vexes my husband this morning, I do not see why it applies to me. I’ve done nothing worthy of punishment, nor do I intend to be kenneled like a dog in my own home. I lean in close to Ahern, nearly nose to nose.

  “Brother, you are a warrior of Dyfed, guardsman to the Queen, and part of my household, not my husband’s. Either you will stand aside, or you will be my guardsman no more.”

  The spearman blinks, taking a half step back. He narrows his gaze and for a moment I fear he has seen through my bluff. Instead, he stands aside with his spear and shield at attention.

  “As you wish, my Queen. I will die before I betray a noblewoman of Dyfed and my own blood.”

  I put a gentle hand on his forearm.

  “Thank you, Ahern. You are a good man, and an honorable one.”

  Although he tries to hide it, Ahern’s chest puffs out a little broader at the mention of honor. He may not hold a knighthood, but Ahern’s sense of duty gives him more chivalry than any knight in Wales. He keeps his lonely vigil, guarding the door to my solar as I descend the stairs.

  Now to find out what mischief is afoot in the castle this morn. My husband has tried to cage me like a rat, and I must find out why.

  Avoiding the archways leading to the atrium, I steal down to the kitchens. Morgan will not think to look for me amongst the servants’ quarters, hiding amidst the foggy steam of boiling cauldrons. Whatever has happened, the Hammer King is still accustomed to having his orders obeyed. I wonder with a sinking feeling what will happen if Morgan finds me creeping about the castle against his command.

  The long tunnels beneath the main floor of the castle allow servants to navigate Caerwent easily and out of sight, running their daily errands without clogging the narrow hallways used by knights and lords. But today, the corridors appear almost empty. I peer around each corner, never spying more than an occasional scullery maid passing by, going about her chores. Since the Welshmen of the North and Free Cantrefs left, the fortress seems eerily silent. Perhaps I’m behaving foolishly, tiptoeing around my own castle like a thief.

  I reach the south end of the castle where several apartments of the King’s knights and household keep their beds. Ducking into one room, I find the walls covered in tapestries of boyhood squires and pages in battle. Wood and clay toys cover the floor, a set of dull-pointed sparring spears leaned in the corner. A young noble boy’s room. Above the doorway hangs the red dragon crest of the Hammer King. This must be Arthwys’s bedchamber.

  I peer about his bedroom, but find no one within. Where are the guards that should be posted outside the doorway? Ahern said that the King ordered all royals confined to their rooms, and my brother has no reason to lie to me.

  I scoff at myself for acting like such a child. I should march right into the throne room, just as I ought to have done in the first place, and confront Morgan face-to-face. Turning to leave Arthwys’s room, I gasp as a hooded figure looms in the doorway before me.

  “Who are you, sir?”

  The cloaked man stalks closer, silent as a wraith. I back up against the cold stone wall, cornered beside a tapestry of young Arthur pulling the sword from the stone. I’d give half my dowry to have Excalibur in my hand right now, or any blade for that matter. I put on my haughtiest face, failing to keep the tremors out of my voice.

  “Ex-explain yourself, st-stranger, or I’ll call my guards outside!” I lie. “Guards!”

  Under his hood, a crooked grin spreads across the stranger’s thin cheeks. He removes a long, shiny dagger from the folds of his cloak and rushes toward me. I cry out, dodging the steel blade aimed at my throat.

  I reach for the nearest object with which to defend myself. Tearing at the fabrics on the wall behind me, the large tapestry tumbles down on both of us. The man curses, his dagger ripping through woolen seams.

  The world turns dark and heavy beneath the drapes of woven thread.

  I scream, hoping someone will hear me. The assailant’s blade slashes at my legs and sides, each thrust getting closer to my vitals. I kick and grunt and head butt the foe tangled in the draperies with me, but he only tightens his grip through the thick woolens. He draws me closer despite my flailing arms and legs, our limbs tangled in a heap of shredded tapestries on the floor. In a matter of moments, he’ll have coiled around me like a snake, ready to strike. Then I’ll be dead.

  A din like thunder rumbles through the castle. My attacker suddenly stops, pushing the last shreds of covering off us both. He pins me to the floor with one hand and wraps his fingers around my neck, drawing back his dagger high above his hood. I shut my eyes, still pushing hopelessly against his chest. Blood pounds in my ears. I don’t want to die.

  Opening my eyes, my palms still press against the stranger’s chest. A spearhead opens up inside him, its razor-sharp edge coming up through the breastbone. His blood runs down my fingers. The cloaked man wets himself, dropping his blade as it clatters harmlessly to the ground. His lifeless body slumps over me as Ahern draws the spear out of the man’s corpse.

  “Branwen! Speak to me!”

  Ahern helps me to my feet. Blood runs down my torn shawl and nightgown, but aside from a few flesh wounds, none of it is mine. My brother keeps asking me whether I am all right, but I cannot even nod in reply, still transfixed by the bleeding corpse lying across the floor. A dozen more men-at-arms flood the room, their chain mail jangling loud as a storm.

  “I followed you when you left
the tower,” Ahern says between breaths. “Nearly lost you in the servants’ quarters though. Then I heard the noise in here.”

  Morgan pushes his way into the chamber, his hammer in hand and his vest of mail on as though he expects to go into battle. He puts a hand on my shoulder and shakes me, but I do not hear him, my tongue still tied. The King looks to Ahern.

  “The Queen’s had quite a fright, sire,” Ahern reports. “But she seems well enough.”

  Morgan reluctantly releases me, bending over the bloodied body in the corner. The Hammer King folds back the dead man’s hood. A bluish snake tattoo runs along the cadaver’s eyebrow.

  “An assassin!” Morgan says with a hiss. “Pictish by the look of him. The would-be killer waited in my son’s room, and then fell upon my unsuspecting bride.”

  He picks up the crimson-stained ribbons of Arthwys’s boyhood wall hangings, the image of a young King Arthur dismembered in scraps of bloodied cloth. The thought of Arthwys jars my mind to life. A little boy against the likes of this assassin wouldn’t stand a chance. I grab Morgan by the sleeve.

  “Arthwys, the young prince, where is he?”

  “Safe with his uncle in Prince Malcolm’s care.”

  “But then … you knew some danger was afoot?”

  “I suspected. You should have stayed in your bedchamber as I ordered.”

  The King flashes Ahern a stern glance and leaves. I trail after Morgan, Ahern’s footsteps following close behind. My torn and bloodied rags earn me more than a few curious stares from soldiers and servants throughout the halls, doubtlessly drawn out of hiding by my earlier screams. No one dares to meet the Hammer King’s eye as he marches through the fortress, his metal greaves clacking loud as horse hooves along the stone floors. We wind our way up to my solar chamber where Malcolm and Arthwys await us. Like his brother, Prince Malcolm wears full armor and clutches his battle mace. The young boy rubs his red eyes. He has been crying. Ahern shuts the door behind me and stands watch outside. Where Una and Rowena have gotten to, I have no idea.

  I splash cold water on my face from the washbasin before hiding behind my changing screen. The two men and young boy drink at the table while I strip out of my bloodied gown and put on a clean robe. Malcolm glances my way a moment before eyeing his elder brother.

  “Well?”

  “Dead,” Morgan replies. “Before I could question him.”

  “Damn! I would have tortured him for days, whether he talked or not.”

  “He would have talked,” Morgan replies grimly. “I’d have made him talk.”

  Stepping out from behind my screen, I tighten my robes and approach my husband.

  “You confined me to quarters with no explanation. Why not tell me of the assassin?”

  “I do not always have time to explain my decrees, but I expect them to be followed.”

  Morgan gives me a stern sidelong glance and I say no more. Husband or no, he rules as king in South Wales and his word is law for all subjects, including me. The Hammer King brings his fist down hard against the table and for a moment I fear he will strike one of us. Malcolm, Arthwys, and myself stand silent as statues. Morgan slumps down into his seat, his eyes glazed over in thought.

  “At this moment, I trust no one outside this room,” he begins. “Someone has betrayed us.”

  “Give us time and we’ll weed out the traitor,” Malcolm replies. “We should raise an army.”

  “And do what? Attack who? Winter approaches and my men have returned to their farms.”

  Stepping between the brothers, I pour them each a new drink, trying to soothe their tempers. I pet Arthwys on the head, but the boy pushes away from me and sulks in the corner. Sighing, I let the child go. Will I ever be more than a stranger to him? My hands still tremble a touch, my nerves worn from my encounter with the assassin. If Ahern had not followed me, I would be cold as a corpse now. I pour myself a drink, quickly finishing the cup.

  “The assassin had a Pictish tattoo,” I begin. “Who would hire a Pict?”

  “Old Belin wed a Pict queen once,” Morgan recalls. “He has certain ties to those barbarians.”

  “The old king’s not fool enough to use a Pict!” Malcolm scoffs. “It’s too suspicious.”

  Morgan remains silent.

  “You think someone used a Pict assassin to make it look like Belin was behind the attack?” I ask.

  “The Blacksword is behind this,” Malcolm says with a growl. “I’d stake my life on it!”

  “It could be the Saxons too,” I reply.

  “Use your head, foolish girl!” my brother-in-law retorts. “There’s no Saxons here. Someone from the gathering left an assassin behind after the council broke up. Artagan’s had it out for us since we put a price on his head.”

  “Is that why you fought with him last eve in the mead hall?”

  Malcolm clenches his jaw, the skin around his left eye still swollen purple. I’ve only asked a simple question, yet my brother-in-law looks like he would like to take a crop to me. The King and the Prince exchange looks before Morgan intervenes.

  “Last night doesn’t concern you,” my husband says to me in a flat voice.

  His rebuke stings and I speak out without thinking.

  “If it’s the reason why an assassin almost killed me today, then I believe it does concern me!”

  “Mind your tongue, wife.”

  “I can’t help it. I’m just a foolish girl after all.”

  Throwing Malcolm’s words back at them both, I glare at each man until the meat behind my eyes hurts. I stomp out of the room, heading past Ahern and down the stairwell. Neither King nor Prince makes a move to stop me, continuing their privy council behind closed doors. With both of them using my chamber, I’ve no place to go for privacy, no room to shut out the prying eyes of servants and soldiers that fill the halls. Against my will, tears run down my cheeks, blurring my vision. I sit down in a deserted stairwell and dry my cheeks.

  The horror of the assassin’s knife renews itself again in my mind. All seventeen years of my life nearly came to an abrupt and bloody end, and with so much left undone. No children or family or whatever else I am supposed to want. I’d be replaced tomorrow by a new queen, and all the while the wise lords of Caerwent call me a foolish girl!

  Gentle hands caress my shoulders. Rowena and Una sit on either side of me, wrapping a blanket around me as the three of us crouch in the stairwell. My sniffles gradually subside. Rowena offers me a hot mug of mint tea, neither woman asking me any questions. Whether a commoner or a queen, it goes without saying that a woman has little weight in a world of kings and knights. We are all chess pieces in the hands of men. Una smiles, trying to brighten my spirits.

  “At least you’re not lying on the floor while two big oafs brawl over you, m’lady.”

  I fake a half-smile, recalling Una huddled on the ground between Malcolm and Artagan. I venture to see if Una will tell me the truth about last evening. No lords or knights can overhear us now.

  “My husband would not tell me what the fight between his brother and Artagan was about.”

  “Small wonder, it was over me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Prince Malcolm has a wandering eye. I did not reciprocate his … advances last evening.”

  “I feared as much,” I reply, cradling her bruised forearm. “And he actually did this to you?”

  “Sir Artagan saw and told the Prince to leave me be. The rest of the fight you saw yourself.”

  My head begins to hurt. Malcolm certainly has a taste for servant girls; Morgan chides him about it often enough. Nonetheless, I had hoped I was somehow wrong about my brother-in-law’s transgressions. Yet Una’s purple welts are damning proof that Malcolm is indeed the kind of man to force himself upon a maiden. Why would Artagan Blacksword, of all people, defend Una? That doesn’t sound like the act of a cattle thief and a purported violator of women, as my husband accuses him of being.

  Rowena adds her own bit of common sense as she
leans closer to Una.

  “Them two probably just wanted an excuse to get at each other. You was just the spark that set them off.”

  “It was enough to dissolve the council from convening again,” I add. “That spark dashes any hopes of an alliance against the Saxons, and brings us no closer to discovering who tried to have me kidnapped or assassinated.”

  Assassinated. The word rings in my ears. It’s as though I’m talking about someone else, somebody far away. But this is my life we’re talking about and there’s no guarantee it will have a happy ending. I almost lost my life today and nothing under heaven could have brought me back. I reach out and clasp Rowena tightly by the hand, my fist trembling in hers. The words spill out of me before I can stop them.

  “I’m so scared, Rowena,” I confess, biting my lip. “God help me, I’m scared.”

  She pats my hand, sidling closer beside me. Una hangs her head in sympathy with us. Perhaps I burden these two serving girls with my tales of woe, but they’re the only women in the entire kingdom I can talk to. I’ve known Rowena only a few moons, and Una is practically a stranger, yet I trust them as much as Padraig or Ahern. Odd and inexplicable as that may seem, my heartstrings will burst asunder if I don’t confess my fears to someone. Rowena pats my hand.

  “There, there, m’lady.” Rowena smiles. “You’re not alone. You got loyal folk like Una and myself, and powerful men like your father and husband to protect you.”

  “But it is because of my relationships to men such as Father and my husband that my life is in peril,” I reply. “Both of them scheming and plotting, not caring who gets hurt.”

  Rowena shrugs.

  “Me Pa oft took a stick to me whether I ’twas good or bad. Especially after me Mum died of the plague one winter. But I lived through it and through all the fellows trying to put their paws on me when I worked at the castle back in Caerleon.”