by Mark Noce
By the time I reach the dungeons, Ahern has a torch ready for me.
“My lady, please reconsider.”
I do not answer him.
Instead, I accept the firebrand from him and descend to the lower cells alone while Ahern keeps watch at the top of the stairs. The prize wrapped in my shawl weighs heavy under my arm. Threading a skeleton key into the rusty lock, the creaking hinges awaken Artagan as I open his cell. I tower over him with a dripping torch.
“Branwen? The guards told me about the child. I’m so very sorry.”
I wince slightly. The sting of losing my pregnancy and yet the relief at not having to bear Morgan’s child fill me with a mingled joy and guilt that I do not wish to speak about to anyone right now. But that is not what I’ve come to discuss with Artagan tonight. I thank him for his concern with a brief nod.
“Perhaps it happened as it was supposed to,” I add.
He rises to his feet, his sapphire eyes looking me over.
“You look beautiful, Branwen.”
Even in a prison cell, Artagan remains ever the charmer. I change the subject before his words make me blush.
“I see the guards let you bathe, and gave you better food. A shave too. Good, I bribed them to.”
He steps closer, his muscles flexing beneath his rags. His gaze searches my face, his brows furrowing in confusion as I pull out another skeleton key and loosen his iron bonds. They clatter to the floor. Not too difficult to do really; the jailer leaves his keys by the dungeon entranceway. Artagan flexes his arms, rubbing his sore wrists. I resist the urge to reach out and touch him.
“Are you fit enough to ride?” I ask.
“Fit enough to fight my way past a hundred guardsmen.”
“Good. You’ll need this, then.”
I unfold the shawl under my arm, revealing a long naked blade with darkened hues in its steel. Artagan’s eyes alight on his longsword, before feeling its familiar heft in his hands once more. He starts to smile, before grimacing at me.
“Morgan and Malcolm will punish you for this, Branwen. I can’t let that happen.”
“They won’t. I’m not just rescuing you, I’m rescuing myself. I’m coming with you.”
My heart beats faster as I take Artagan’s hand in mine. He leans forward, our lips only a breath apart. Ahern’s voice echoes down the dungeon corridor. A shiver runs down my spine.
“My lady, you must hurry! The guards have been alerted! They’re coming.”
9
The peal of chapel bells rings in the belfry. I clasp a hand to my throat as the din of guardsmen’s voices and jangling armor reverberates atop the dungeon stairwell. We’ve been betrayed.
Ahern grabs me by the shoulder.
“You know what to do, Branwen. Use the rear entranceway while I remain behind.”
“No, it’s too dangerous now. You’ll have to come with us.”
He shakes his head.
“Too late to change our minds now. If we stick to the plan, I’ll be fine remaining behind. Besides, you need someone’s ear inside this castle while you’re away.”
I put a hand on my brother’s arm. He possesses a bravery worthy of the Old Tribes. I nod in agreement with his decision.
“Look after Padraig and my serving girls while I’m gone,” I begin. “They may not understand. This is the only way I can keep them all safe.”
“Please, Branwen. Go. There’s little time.”
The glow of torchlight looms brighter atop the stairs. Every moment we delay, the guards draw nearer. Artagan flexes his wrists, newly freed from their fetters. His gaze darts from Ahern’s face to mine.
“Does someone want to tell me what in perdition is going on?”
“There’s no time to explain,” I reply. “I need you to knock Ahern out, quickly.”
“Come again?”
“Hurry! It must look like he tried to prevent our escape. Now, Blacksword!”
Artagan and Ahern exchange looks before the Blacksword shrugs. He apologizes as he draws back his fist and slugs my brother across the jaw. Ahern slumps down onto the slick dungeon floors, his spear clattering behind him. Leaning down beside the welt on his face, I feel his pulse to make sure he still breathes. My poor, loyal kinsman. It seems a sin to leave my own half brother on the prison cell floor, but he agreed with me that it is the only way. The only way to save us all. I beckon Artagan to follow me.
“Quickly!”
“Where to now? We’re trapped like rats down here.”
He follows me to the opposite end of the cell block. Clearing a mound of damp hay away from a stone bulkhead, I find the warped iron lock of a small wooden door. Just where Ahern said it would be. The ancient handle comes away brittle in my hand. I scoff as I drop the useless metal shards to the floor.
“It’s rusted shut!”
The guards’ voices echo close behind us. They must have already discovered Ahern on the dungeon floors. Maybe this was a foolhardy plan after all. Once they round the corner, they will have us at their mercy. Artagan curses before kicking in the small door. Splinters fly every which way before the two of us duck through the low entranceway. We stagger into a dark room filled with damp straw. Artagan whispers in my ear.
“Where the blazes have you taken us?”
“To our salvation.”
Feeling my way along a wooden stall, I reach out for a blanket on the wall. Shafts of moonlight penetrate chinks in the timber boards. A large beast paws at the earth, whickering as I shush the creature in a soothing tone. Artagan bumps into me in the shadows.
“The stables?”
“The King’s stables to be exact. This is his horse, Merlin. Fastest steed in the kingdom.”
“You mean you plan to just ride out the front gates?”
“My brains got us this far. I need your brawn to get us past the guards at the gate.”
He helps saddle the horse before the pair of us mount up. Artagan grasps the stallion’s reins in one hand, brandishing his longsword in the other. I clasp my arms tight around Artagan’s middle as Merlin boxes open the stable doors and bolts into the castle courtyards.
In the darkness of the open yard, soldiers scurry about as they don their tunics and armor, some half-dressed whilst others fumble with scabbards and helmets. Several of them soon surround us in a circle of spears. Artagan roars in our mount’s ear as he charges into the melee, hacking down guardsmen and lopping the heads off their spear-points. One man-at-arms grabs me about the leg, trying to pull me from the saddle. I cry out before shoving him full in the chest with my foot, sending him hurtling backward.
More soldiers spill out of the barracks, drawn by the commotion of clashing steel and Merlin’s whinnying cries. I point Artagan toward the castle gates. Steel chains restrain the heavy grating that bars the main gateway.
“Aim for the hempen bonds below the chains! They connect to the gears in the gatehouse.”
Artagan digs his heels into our steed’s flanks, parting the crowd of soldiers at full gallop. With one slash of his blade, Artagan severs the hempen bonds attached to the iron links. The cogs within the gatehouse groan as pulleys snap and the chains begin to move.
The iron grating of the gate rises just enough for us to duck under its inverted steel spikes. Several spearheads hurtle past our heads, embedding themselves in the cobblestone walk. Merlin’s muscles turn slick with sweat beneath the rising moon. Watchmen atop Caerwent’s towers shout out to one another as we ride out of range.
Far behind us, moonlight bleaches the castle white, like a palace of crystal and ice. A lone figure looms atop the highest parapet, still as a stone gargoyle. His black silhouette stands out against the full moon, his dark crown and massive war-hammer unmistakable. Even from a distance, Morgan’s silver eyes gaze right at me, like a pair of smoldering, burnt coals. A shiver runs down my back before I look away.
I’ll not go back there ever again. Not inside those imprisoning walls. Never again in the Hammer King’s bed.
&nbs
p; Horse hooves thunder from the far-off citadel gates as dozens of horsemen pursue us down the old Roman road. Artagan guides Merlin off the beaten path and into the nearby woods, darting between trees as twigs and branches snap about our flanks. We gallop through a tunnel of dark oak groves, my hair whipping behind me in the wind. A familiar voice booms behind us.
“Blacksword! Blackswoooord! Run if you can! You are mine! Do you hear me, hedge knight?”
A chill overcomes me as I recognize Prince Malcolm’s voice filling the shadows of the wood. He leads the King’s horsemen and if he catches us first, I doubt either Artagan or myself will ever live to see the inside of Caerwent’s dungeons alive. The Prince will gut us first.
Merlin trots to a halt in a moonlit glade, plumes of steam rising from his nostrils. I pat his slick sides, the valiant beast pushed beyond exhaustion. You gave it your best try, Merlin. We all gave it our best try. Artagan turns us around, lowering his blade.
“Ride on. I’ll dismount and fight from here. They’ll get no quarter from me. I’ve seen enough of dungeons to last me a lifetime.”
“Merlin is spent and so are we. We’ll meet our fate together.”
Artagan’s shoulders sink, too tired to argue. Malcom gallops into the wooded glen with at least a dozen riders behind him. So much for my well-laid plans. Artagan’s sword got us past the fortress walls, but we cannot outrun the entire garrison even on the best of horses. If fault lies with any part of this escape, it lies with me.
Hurtling toward us, Malcolm swings his huge mace overhead as he growls through clenched teeth. Artagan raises his sword, bellowing back as he spurs Merlin to make one last charge. I clutch Artagan’s chest tightly, wincing before the coming crush of bodies and horses.
Every steed in the cavalcade comes to an abrupt halt, shrieking with terror. Dozens of arrows hiss through the glade, downing riders and stallions alike on the forest path. Several figures emerge from the surrounding trees, loosing arrows and lobbing spears at the King’s men. I blink in disbelief, my heart suddenly rising anew.
Archers of the Free Cantrefs! Green-clad woodsmen form a protective crescent around Artagan and me. I recognize Emryus and Keenan among those defending us under the moonlight.
The bowmen howl like savages as they surround Malcolm and his guards, the Prince’s shield bristling with arrows. Malcolm’s mount rears back, the Prince cursing all the while as he and his surviving riders retreat back toward the main road. Several red-clad men-at-arms lie lifeless on the trail, their riderless steeds dashing every which way into the woods. Artagan lowers his blade, looking with wide-eyed astonishment at our rescuers.
“Keenan? Emryus?”
“He sounds surprised to see us,” Emryus remarks to Keenan.
“We kept watch long enough in these woods,” Keenan replies. “I hoped to nab a king or prince, better to bargain for Artagan’s release. Lo and behold, he spoils it by rescuing himself!”
“Actually, I’m the one who rescued him,” I interject. “Freed him from his cell, at least.”
His followers exchange looks, eyeing me like some quaint curiosity. Maybe they think me a liar. My husband underestimated me, so I see no reason why these wild-haired woodsmen should not. Artagan ignores me, embracing the gray bard and youthful axman like brothers. Only a handful of soldiers number amidst their motley company, and yet somehow they defeated a sizable force of Malcolm’s men. These Free Cantref folk fight like banshees.
They corral several ponies from the woods and mount up beside us.
The rumble of hooves renews along the Roman road behind us. The citadel’s cavalry will return soon and in greater numbers. My pulse quickens. Morgan and Malcolm will not give me up without a fight. Artagan calls out to his men as they part ways.
“Split up. Lead the buggers on a merry chase. We’ll rendezvous at my father’s keep. Godspeed!”
Darting into the next thicket, our horse picks up speed. Merlin may be tired from galloping at full tilt, but he can still trot at a decent pace. Artagan guides our stallion on a winding course through brambles and briar patches. We ascend into the wooded foothills before pausing along an outcrop overlooking the castle fields and woodlots far below. I shiver beneath the cold stars, listening to the distant whinny of horses. Scores of horsemen must be pursuing us into the forest, and by the sound of it, at least half of them now chase Artagan’s companions in the opposite direction. Many still doubtlessly follow our own trail, Morgan and Malcolm perhaps among them. I tug my shawl tight around my throat, shutting my eyes against the night.
I’ve incurred the wrath of a powerful warlord. What price shall I now pay for it? Morgan may very well pursue me to the ends of the earth. He kept me well fed and cared for at Caerwent, but I was still a pet. A broodmare, he called me. I will never let him take me back to that gilded cage. Artagan may have been condemned to the dungeons, but every noblewoman in Christendom lives in a prison once she takes the vows of holy wedlock. I smack my fist into an open palm. I’ll never be owned by another man again.
The Church may frown on divorce, but the Pope doesn’t interfere in the shifting marriages of nobles so long as peaceful alliances are maintained. The Old Tribes followed the Ancient Harmonies, cohabiting with whom they wished for as long or little as they wished. Is that not more sensible? Ever since the coming of the priests, queens have certainly wed new husbands once their old husband perished or if she was captured by another warlord.
My head starts to ache. No use mulling over this anymore tonight. I had to flee Morgan and his court before it suffocated me, before it killed me. Before whoever spied upon me made another attempt on my life. All the laws of man and God could not convince me otherwise.
I remove the gold wedding band from my finger. Probably worth a hefty sum. But I am not some nag to be bought and sold at market. I toss the golden ring aside into the muddy brush. May it never see the sunshine again.
My hand rests on Artagan’s arm, but a sticky sensation along my skin causes me to draw my palm away. My fingertips are red with blood.
“You’re wounded.”
“One of those spearmen got me when we tried to breach the gate,” he admits with a shrug.
“Slow the horse.”
I bend down in the saddle, eyeing a tall stand of overgrown weeds. Pulling a handful of green stalks, I select the softest ones under the moonlight. Poultice Plant, as Padraig oft calls it, using it when any of the lambs at the abbey is attacked by a lone wolf. A common enough weed, it grows year-round in most of Wales. I crumple a wad of green sprouts and chew them in my mouth. After a few moments, the bitter taste gives way to a slightly sweet flavor. Artagan winces slightly when I apply the green paste to his wounds, but he lets me go about my work without complaint.
“This will help mend your cuts and slow the bleeding,” I explain.
He flashes a half-grin.
“You’ve some skill as a healer,” he replies, impressed. “You’re full of surprises tonight.”
“I’ve only practiced this on lambs and cattle before,” I answer, omitting that I once tended Morgan when he was badly wounded. Just one of many thoughts I would rather not dwell on now. Artagan flashes a wry smile as I staunch his cuts.
“Let’s hope I live then.”
How he can joke with such gashes in his arm I can only guess. I doubt I could sit astride a horse with such wounds. Nonetheless, I smile politely at his words, even though I don’t feel much like laughing tonight. The seriousness of the decisions I’ve made this evening weigh me down. Too much has changed forever.
Merlin continues to keep a good pace, stout as any mountain pony despite his massive size. How odd it seems that the night I first met my husband we rode this very same mount out of Dyfed. Tonight, Merlin takes me deep into the mountains of the Free Cantrefs, to begin a new life, whatever that may be.
For one last time, I glimpse the tall towers of Caerwent on the plain far below. Rowena, Una, and Padraig must have heard about what has happened by now. I hope th
at Ahern can make them understand why I had to hatch my plot in secret, for all our sakes. Goodbye, my friends. I pray that we meet again in better times.
Artagan leads our steed deeper into the mountain passes. Even after the sounds of pursuing horses fade behind us, he still asks me no questions. He has the arms of a wrestler and the skill of a dancer with his long blade, but he seems given to unusually long silences as well. Does he think me a treacherous woman for leaving my husband? Or worse yet, a loose woman? The quiet drives me to speak up.
“I did not come to this decision lightly. I had to flee. Someone in Caerwent wants me dead.”
“So how exactly does this concern me?”
“Don’t you care?”
“Of course I care,” he replies testily. “The Hammer King and I have been at odds for years, but this is pretty extreme even for the likes of me. I’ve never been involved in … wife stealing before.”
My eyes widen. Wife stealing? Is that what he thinks this is? I’m not some sack of grain to be bandied about by whichever man happens to have me astride his horse. This conversation is going all wrong.
“Would you rather be back in the dungeons?” I say, a bit more grumpily than I intend. “You needed to get out of Caerwent just as badly as I did. I thought we were helping each other.”
“We’ve saved each other’s skins a couple of times now, for that I’m grateful. But you understand what this means for our peoples now that we’ve been seen riding off together? Morgan will summon his armies, and come springtime the South Welsh and the Free Cantrefs will be at war over this.”
I swallow a lump in my throat, my brow breaking out in perspiration anew. I hadn’t thought of that. If Morgan has a vendetta against me, he should only put a price on my head. Waging war against an entire kingdom simply because I no longer desired to live under his roof seems like the height of injustice. I reply in a small voice, looking down at my hands.
“I care for all the people of Wales, Artagan. We’re all children of the Old Tribes. I never wanted to bring harm to anyone. Do you think me a fool for freeing you from the dungeons tonight and riding off into the wilds?”