by Mark Noce
“I am Owen, herald of King Vortigen of Dyfed, ally of King Morgan in South Wales.”
“Enough with the pleasantries, young pup,” Cadwallon bellows. “What do you want?”
“My sire desires to negotiate for the return of his daughter, Queen Branwen.”
“I’m right here,” I interrupt. “If you want to negotiate, do so with me.”
Owen keeps his gaze directly on the King.
“My liege gave instructions to treat with King Cadwallon and only King Cadwallon.”
Pursing my lips, I’ve half a mind to wallop this little upstart right in the mouth. The smug foundling. I can’t remember him from the countless illegitimate children Father peopled his castle with, but this newfound half brother of mine lacks any of the courtesy or loyalty of Ahern.
Owen smirks, giving me a sidelong glance. The young warrior actually seems to enjoy my discomfort.
Cadwallon leans his chin on his fist, closely eyeing the herald. A messenger arriving from Dyfed the same day that a sortie of Morgan’s men assailed the mountain passes seems too coincidental for my taste. Father and my husband remain in league with one another for certain, hedging their best advantages. While Father negotiates peacefully for my recapture on the one hand, Morgan’s men attempt to take me by force. One offers a peaceful solution and the other the sword, but their intent remains the same. They would have me back in Caerwent, a prisoner forever, a slave to bear Morgan more young brats in order to keep Father’s lands tied to his. If it comes to that, I’ll throw myself from a cliff first. I’ve come too far to be traded back to my father’s people like some horse in the marketplace.
When King Cadwallon glances my way, I begin to sweat. I live under the protection of his household and his son. If he withdraws that shield, I’ll be as defenseless as a beggar before the likes of Morgan and Father. Hunted into the bogs and wilds like a hare until they finally take me or I take my own life. My God, has it already come to that?
Artagan rests his hand on his sheathed sword. It suddenly occurs to me that whatever his father decides, Artagan has no intention of giving me up. Even if I never requite his affections, he’d rather defy his own kin than betray me. What have I done to deserve such a faithful knight? Ria was wrong. The better woman has not captured Artagan’s heart. I’ve been as selfish and conniving as the men who seek to subdue me, and all the while the so-called renegade Blacksword has been the most honorable man of them all.
Owen steps forward, too close for comfort.
“What say you to my sire’s offer, wise King?”
Cadwallon laughs in reply, his voice filling the empty hall. Owen begins to sweat, his shirt damp under the arms. The King pulls a hair from his head, splitting a single red lock on the razor-sharp edge of his ax.
“Among the Old Tribes, when the Romans sent a herald to parley, if that messenger proved himself to be a liar or dishonest in any way, they sent back his headless body on a horse in reply.”
Beads of perspiration run down Owen’s temples, his voice trembling.
“Great King, my liege wishes most honorably to compensate you for the return of his daughter.”
“Codswallop! This very day a band of raiders attempted to cross my lands, doubtlessly intent on taking my guest here by force. Speak carefully, boy, your life depends on your next words. Are you saying that your noble lord had nothing to do with that?”
Owen takes a step back, bumping into Enid. Her spear urges him back toward the King. I cross my arms, repressing a grin as Father’s herald squirms under their deadly gazes. No way out for the cocksure messenger boy now. He stutters before Cadwallon.
“But—but, Your Grace … those raiders bore the red banners of South Wales, not Dyfed.”
“Did they? But how would you know that, herald? I never mentioned who the raiders were.”
Owen gulps, knowing himself caught like a rat in a trap. He sinks to his knees while Cadwallon rises from his throne, his double-headed ax in hand. Artagan draws his own blade, surrounding the herald along with Enid and myself. Although I’ve no weapon, I step forward and grasp him by the collar.
“You have your answer, herald. Go back to your master and tell him that Branwen is no man’s property anymore.”
“You’d let him go?” Artagan asks in astonishment.
“With the King’s permission,” I reply, bowing toward Cadwallon. “Unless I’m mistaken, this Owen is another of my father’s bastards. I may be many things, but I’m not a killer of my own kin, no matter how distant or dishonest they may be.”
Cadwallon lowers his ax and nods.
“Because he is your kin and a king’s son, however much a liar, we’ll spare him. Make haste, boy! Before I change my mind.”
Owen bows, nearly sweeping the floor with his nose. He throws me a dark look before hastening from the hall. Some gratitude.
Turning back to Cadwallon, I approach the throne and bow my head.
“Thank you for your continued protection and support, brave King. I’m sure it would alleviate many of your problems if you simply turned me over to my father or my former husband.”
Cadwallon grins from ear to ear.
“And miss all the fun? No, I prefer to remain a thorn in the side of anyone who would do harm to a daughter of the Old Tribes, especially one as fair and gracious as you.”
I color slightly, unused to such compliments. Cadwallon may like to eat and fight more than any king I’ve ever known, but he also has the most chivalrous heart of any ruler in Christendom. I’m fortunate indeed to have a friend like him.
Owen’s horse whinnies outside, the sound of its hooves dissipating into the distance. Artagan and I step out onto the timber battlements, watching the dust trail from his galloping steed fade into the sunset. With the two of us alone beside the embrasures, I look up into Artagan’s azure eyes as though seeing him for the first time. The wind whips through our hair.
“You had your sword drawn before your father even answered the herald. You wouldn’t have let them take me even if your father hadn’t opposed it, would you?”
“My allegiance, like my heart, can have only one mistress.”
He takes my hand and kisses my palm. His lips feel soft as rose petals on my skin. As though abashed at his own forwardness, he excuses himself and descends the steps to the main hall once more. I’ve never seen the bold Blacksword suddenly so shy around anyone, let alone me. The brave fool. Today he tussled with warriors who sought to steal me away, and yet he seems more fearful of my reply to his advances. A smile steals across my lips.
The next morning, I arise early in my bedchamber. Fixing my hair in a bronze mirror, I ask Enid for a few odds and ends from the household servants. Dipping my hands in a bowl of rose water, I scrub my fingernails clean, polish my teeth, and wash the grime from my face. Enid returns with my requested items, giving me a sidelong glance in the mirror.
“I’m a warrior, not a lady-in-waiting. What do you need all these trinkets for anyway?”
“Just a little rouge for my cheeks and a touch of lavender for my hair.”
“Aye, and a gown fit for a noblewoman. This used to belong to the lady of the castle.”
“Who? Artagan’s mother perhaps?”
“Nay, one of Cadwallon’s other wives over the years. He’s had many, some all at once.”
She hands me the gown, green cloth with golden trim. A bit musty, but I clap it out before threading my arms through it. Fitting it over my slim frame, it clings tightly to my curves and runs low across my bust. Enid raises an eyebrow as I primp up my dark locks.
“You getting ready for a special occasion?”
“It’s May Day, the start of summer. In Dyfed, the girls always dress their best on this holiday.”
“Not dressing up for any man in particular, are you?”
She glares at me in the reflection. Despite bridging the gap between us over the past few weeks, it all evaporates in an instant. Boyish and plain as she may be, Enid’s candle burns only f
or one man. Before I can reply, a horse whickers below the nearby windowsill.
Artagan looks up at my window from atop a chestnut steed. Merlin! The very same stallion that brought us safely through the wilderness. Artagan sits tall in the saddle, wearing a leather jerkin and a woolen tartan that rides up over his knees. His bare arms and thighs bulge with muscle as he steadies the powerful beast beneath him. His blue eyes sparkle like a pair of cobalt gems.
“My lady, the villagers are raising a maypole. They need a May Day queen for the festivities.”
He extends his hand toward my window, his usual self-assured grin spreading across his clean-shaven cheeks. Enid frowns, but I cannot help from flashing a pearly grin down at Artagan. Lifting the hems of my skirts, I race down the steps and hallways, dodging serving girls before reaching the fort gates. I suddenly slow my pace.
Best not come running out of the keep like a hussy. Taking my time, I come up alongside Merlin and pat the horse’s mane. Artagan looks me over, taking in my hourglass figure in my borrowed emerald gown. He stutters.
“Branwen, you look … you look so…”
“Are you going to offer me a ride or not?” I smile impishly.
He grins and lifts me into the saddle behind him. As Artagan kicks his heels into Merlin’s flanks, we bolt from the keep walls and out into the open fields beside the woods. Villagers wave at us, wearing their brightest garments for the day. They pour milk and honey into the fields, celebrating the sunny start of summer. I cry out with glee as we skirt the river at full gallop, sprinting faster than the wind. My arms wrap tight around Artagan’s taut abdomen as he slows to a canter beside the riverbank.
Artagan closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath, inhaling the balsam scent of the nearby woods. He recites something as though from a long-ago memory.
I’ve been many things:
A sword to my foes,
A shield to my people,
A quivering string on a lover’s harp.
I’ve wept tears with the sky,
I’ve been a flickering star at twilight,
A rune carven on an ancient oak tree,
A child born of the world’s first kiss.
His words set my skin abuzz, stirring something deep within me. I watch him a long while in silence, my arms still wrapped around his middle. It takes me a moment to find my voice.
“That’s beautiful. I never took you for a poet.”
“A warrior-poet,” he corrects me with a half-grin. “Alas, I did not compose that one. It was sung by Taliesin the Great Bard, and is one of my favorites.”
Just when I think I’ve figured out this hedge knight’s quaint ways, he surprises me again by reciting poetry. I’m sure plenty of woodsmen know bawdy songs, but how many ruffians memorize poetry from Taliesin the Bard? Taliesin won renown as the greatest poet and wise man of all Wales back in King Arthur’s time. Today Artagan speaks with enough passion to do the old druid proud.
My heart beats fast against him as I lean close.
“I want to thank you, for bringing me to the Free Cantrefs, for saving my life.”
“You rescued me, remember?”
I smile back at his playfulness.
“I still know so little about you.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Where you were born, your family, your favorite songs, what you like to read. You do read?”
“Whoa, you can’t just open up my life and start reading from the middle.”
“You already know so much about me, my family and past. It’s only fair.”
We dismount and walk beside one another past the brooks that feed into the river, striding through the tall green grass. Merlin grazes in the bulrushes behind us, the two of us otherwise quite alone. The wooden keep looks like a miniature model of a castle beneath the woods and green peaks in the distance.
Artagan takes my hand. My fingertips warm under his touch, my skin rippled with goose bumps. He sighs.
“I grew up in a village not far from here. My mother raised my sister and me.”
He only mentioned his sister once before, and she was taken by the Saxons like my mother. We’ve both lost so much to the barbarians, and I’ve no desire to dredge up our sad stories. I stroke his hand in mine.
“I’ve never heard you speak of your mother.”
“She rarely leaves her home, something of a village chieftess. She still keeps strictly to the ways of the Old Tribes.”
“Is she the one who gave you your good looks?”
“She certainly gave me my hardheadedness. And my sense of right and wrong.”
I stop, turning away from him with our fingers still entwined. Right and wrong. With my life so upended in the last few months, the line between good and bad has blurred until I hardly know one from the other. I disobeyed my father and husband, breaking the bonds made by men who were supposed to be my betters. Instead, I stayed true to myself. Remaining a broodmare and pawn for Morgan and Father would’ve been a greater betrayal than I could ever stomach. But so many lives may suffer for my deeds. My eyes begin to water. Artagan touches my wet cheek.
“What’s wrong?”
“Enid is right. I’ll only bring destruction down on the people of the Free Cantrefs if I stay. Sooner or later the people here will suffer Morgan’s wrath for having sheltered me. I must go.”
“Go where? This is where you’re safe. This is where you belong.”
“I’ve come to care for the people here, but fleeing may be the only way to save them.”
“The people here love you. Does that mean nothing to you?”
He leans over me, drawing me close. My hands rest on his chest, his heart drumming against mine. I part my lips to speak, but I’ve no words. No words at all. He wipes away my tears with his thumb, our eyes searching one another’s. Our lips touch before I surrender in his arms.
11
“Riders at the gates!”
Enid bursts into my bedchamber, torchlight flickering in the nearby brazier. Artagan and I sit on my bedspread, several books open as we read by firelight. The warrior-woman narrows her gaze, probably wondering why she should find the two of us alone together and poring over dusty old tomes.
My pulse quickens at the sound of horses whinnying outside the keep walls. Artagan and I exchange looks as we dart to the windowsill. Outside the gate, several torches dot the otherwise pitch-black night. I place my hand on Artagan’s.
“Raiders?”
“Too few of them, unless more wait in ambush.”
“How did they get so close to the keep undetected?”
He frowns, undoubtedly wondering the same thing. Enid prods the open pages of yellowed parchment on the bed. Quickly gathering them together, I shut the book covers. Enid grabs one.
“What were you two doing?”
“Never mind,” Artagan answers. “Wake my father and summon guards to man the walls.”
Enid reluctantly obeys. Once she has gone, I hide the hardbacks under a blanket. Artagan unsheathes his blade, pausing in the doorway. He glances at the mound of hidden books.
“We’ll continue this later?”
“I hope so,” I reply, smiling.
He nods with a grin, darting down the dim corridors toward the main gate. I shake my head. He should not be so embarrassed. Even amongst noblemen, few warriors know how to properly read. It never occurred to me that Artagan might have learned all of Taliesin’s poetry from listening to bards and minstrels instead of reading about it in books.
Nonetheless, Artagan learns quickly. A few more weeks of lessons and I’ll have him reading as well as any monk. Tucking the last of the books away, I put on my shawl before heading outside.
I’ve no intention of hiding in my chamber while a potential enemy waits at the gates. Whatever fate has in store for me, I would rather meet it openly than cower behind closed doors. What gang of cutthroats has my former husband sent after me now? When I reach the lookout tower, Enid, Artagan, and several other guards man t
he battlements. The glow of torches emanates from a small company of horsemen clustered in the darkness. Artagan bellows down from the walls.
“Who goes?”
“Someone you once gave a cracked jaw.”
My ears perk up. I know that voice. Leaning over the embrasures, I shout to the guards.
“Open the gates! It’s my kinsman, Ahern.”
Enid and a handful of Free Cantref men reluctantly unbar the large timber doors, letting the small cavalcade inside the muddy courtyard. King Cadwallon arrives as the riders dismount, their faces lit by torchlight. Rushing forward, I embrace Ahern and kiss his bruised cheek. He winces a moment, the old wound still not entirely healed. Nonetheless, he cannot help but smile at me.
“My lady, a queen ought not to be without her household, so I’ve brought them to you.”
Three other riders dismount and step into the light: Padraig, Rowena, and Una. The balding cleric and my two serving girls smile broadly at me as I step forward to put my arms around them. Before I reach them, Cadwallon thrusts his meaty arm in my way. He shouts to his guards.
“Seize them! Guards, search them for weapons.”
Enid and the other Free Cantref warriors surround the newcomers in a ring of spearheads. Ahern turns his own spear on them, bristling with anger. Of all the warriors in the yard, only Artagan does not draw his blade. I turn toward the King in disbelief.
“What’s the meaning of this? These are my friends, my family, my sworn household!”
“Aye, and how conveniently they’ve been released from Caerwent just when all King Morgan’s plots have failed. You really think they just blundered upon us in the dead of night by happenstance?”
Unarmed, Abbot Padraig approaches the ring of spears.
“We are no spies, Your Grace. Morgan does not even know our destination. We escaped three days ago.”
“So you say, monk.” Cadwallon frowns. “So you say.”
“How did you find your way here?” Artagan asks, more curious than accusatory. “The mountains are treacherous.”
“I can answer that,” a voice calls out.