by Mark Noce
“I thought ladies don’t stoop to such menial labor,” he says.
“Then I’m not a lady.”
Hefting rocks beside him, we pile the stones higher at a low spot in the walls. The bald monk still looks cross with me, his brows tightly nettled. Who can blame him? I’ve played the part of a petulant brat the past few days, and yet Padraig and Ahern have stayed with me. Padraig stops his work, dusting off his hands. He looks me in the eye for the first time in days. Ahern and I pause in our work as the monk sighs.
“You’ve grown into a beautiful, intelligent woman, Branwen,” Padraig begins. “You followed your heart when most of us would have balked and you’ve become a leader of our people, not just those of Dyfed or South Wales or the Free Cantrefs, but of all the Welsh. For these reasons and others, I’m proud to call you my pupil. You’re the closest thing to a daughter an old man like me is ever likely to have. I may be a lot of things—cross, testy, and a sinner—but Branwen, my girl … I’m no spy.”
I hang my head, his words bringing water to my eyes. I’ve been on the run for my very life for so long, my enemies have me seeing assassins and traitors everywhere I look. Even in the midst of my own household and kin. God forgive me, how I’ve let my fears blind me. I place an arm on Padraig’s and Ahern’s shoulders.
“It’ll be a cold day in purgatory before I give up my trust and love in the two of you.”
Padraig raises my chin with his fingertips, like he often did when I was a child. Ahern smiles at me, somewhat choked up himself. My guardsman’s complexion suddenly turns pale, his eyes fixed on the dark horizon.
“My lady, look! The refugees … they’ve led them right to us.”
Hundreds and hundreds of blazing torches fill the night woods surrounding the castle. The din of steel knives banging against timber shields murmurs through the darkness. Clasping my hands to my throat, all the air seems to go out of me. The Saxons have come.
13
Saxon war drums thunder in the night. Smoky pine tar from their torches fills the evening air. The ground shakes with the din of marching feet. Ahern and Padraig exchange looks, the firelight of a thousand Saxon torches reflecting in their eyes. They stare back at me like it’s the end of the world. Perhaps it is.
“Get everyone else inside!” I shout, grabbing them by the shoulders. “Now!”
Nodding dumbly at first, Padraig and Ahern help stragglers in through the open gates. The Abbot and my guardsman seem to regain some composure after their initial shock, having something meaningful to do. My palms tremble along the wood grains of my bow. The black silhouettes of innumerable Saxon spearmen encircle the citadel, only a few hundred paces away.
Walking the battlements, it takes every fiber of will for me to tear my eyes away from the nearing danger. I remind myself that I must keep moving, I must stay focused. Pacing the walls, I keep my strides steady. I dare not stop. If I stop, I’ll crumble just like these old walls.
The remaining refugees outside the walls usher their livestock in through the gates. Children cry out in their mothers’ arms. Panic starts to fester on the faces of every Welshman and Welshwoman inside the citadel.
Artagan and his men form a defensive line along the eastern battlements, the jagged walls and timber palisades little better than waist high in places. I grab Artagan by the shoulder, his firm muscles steadying me. It takes a moment to swallow. My palate runs dry.
“Blacksword, how many Saxons are out there?”
“A thousand, maybe two. Maybe more, if both the Fox and the Wolf have come.”
“We have just as many.”
“Mostly women and children. I doubt we’ve more than three or four hundred who can fight.”
“Plenty of women here can fight.”
He nods, eyeing the longbow in my hands again. He must know it belongs to his mother, yet he still says nothing. Is there more to this bow than Annwyn first told me? Or perhaps Artagan is just getting used to seeing me with a weapon in hand.
Despite the impending arrival of our foes, he manages a cocky smile. His enthusiasm gives me courage. No wonder his men love him.
“Do we have anything resembling a plan, my lady?”
“Concentrate your warriors where the walls are weakest,” I begin, remembering the map of the compound. “The east and north portions are particularly vulnerable.”
“What about the south and west walls? They’re high, but they still need defenders.”
“We’ve villagers and stones aplenty. They’ll hold those walls as well as a pack of she-bears. Let the Saxons come and see how well the mothers of the Free Cantrefs fight when their children are in peril.”
Artagan raises an eyebrow, clearly impressed. Unfortunately, I already see a flaw in my battle plan. A pair of gaping holes remain in the east and north walls.
“We’ve still got another problem: the two broken gates. The Saxons will pour right through them.”
“Let me handle that. Go rally your she-bears.”
He grins, drawing his longsword. Carefree as a child, he looks as calm as he might at a country dance. Someday, he needs to tell me how he does that. If we last the night, first. Reaching out for him, I touch his arm one last time. So much I want to say, so much left unsaid. My voice falters.
“Blacksword … Artagan … look after yourself.”
He winks in reply. I dart down toward the inner courtyard, scaling a shattered pillar in order to stand above the crowd. Glancing back, I catch my last glimpse of Artagan amidst the tumult. He urges his warriors into position, several dozen men upending a pair of oxcarts to block the open gateways. Good thinking, Blacksword. But how long will those rickety barricades hold? If our garrison is overrun tonight, no one will ever know what happened to us. The last stand of the Free Cantrefs.
When I raise my arms over my head, scores of villagers recognize me and pause. Mothers hush their young and the few elderly women scold young boys into silence. I clear my throat, fighting to keep my tone low, yet strong. If I sound afraid, if I squeak out a few hollow words, it will only spread despair. The people need to hear the voice of a queen.
“Free folk, hear me! The Saxons come to slay our children, to make corpses of our menfolk and slaves of our women. They are many, we are few. They have steel and we have stones, but we have something they do not. Our strength lies not in numbers, or arms, or the height of our walls. No.”
I pause to gain my breath, and the entire castle falls silent. Men lining the walls and children poking their heads out of the dusty stables all have their eyes on me. Artagan’s blue gaze finds me across the sea of people, his azure stare giving me strength. I renew my voice.
“We fight to defend those we love! As a cornered bear defends her young, so too shall we resist the Saxon hordes with every tooth and nail of our being. We are no barbarians. We do not fight for pay or loot or lands or captives or because some king orders us to. We fight for our children, for our mothers, for our friends, and for our lovers. We fight for love, and that makes us mighty!”
A great cheer rises from the crowd, rippling my skin in goose bumps. I’m out of breath, and my mind runs blank. I’ve nothing left to say, yet all eyes still focus on me. Artagan smiles, and for a moment it seems as though only he and I occupy the ruins together. Somehow, I find the words once more, my voice rising.
“Will you let the Saxons come and steal away your children?”
The crowd responds in unison. “No!”
“Will you let them ravish your women?”
“No!”
“Will you stand by while they kill your men?”
“No!”
“Then let them hear you, brothers and sisters! Let them hear the voices of a thousand Welsh inside the walls of Aranrhod who are still free!”
A deafening roar from the throng washes over the castle. Even the Saxons across the border must have heard that. Men beat their spear butts against the ground and women stamp their feet. The clatter rises as the people line the walls, taking hol
d of whatever weapons they can. Stones, pitchforks, spears, and bows line the defenses. Artagan nods at me with approval.
I lead scores of womenfolk up the open staircases along the highest walls. They tote rocks and small boulders between them, many stones simply scraps of the castle itself that have long since crumbled into heavy shards. Rowena and Una take up positions, and even Lady Olwen joins us along the bulwarks. Let’s hope her spear is as sharp as her tongue. Only one figure remains among the children in the courtyard. Turning back, I find Lady Annwyn as placid as a sage in meditation. She raises a hand before I can question her.
“I do not believe in violence, young one,” she says. “Peace remains my guiding star.”
“But the Saxons—”
“I will prepare some medicines and bandages. I have a feeling we’ll need both rather soon.”
Nodding, I leave her to her ways. We will certainly require her healing skills before the night is through. Perhaps I should do the same, but with a bow in my hand and two thousand Saxons outside, I know that my place is on the wall. My loved ones man those walls, and I must join them.
Ahern and Padraig guard the north wall along with some of Artagan’s warriors, and so I accompany them. This looks as good as any place to make a last stand. I draw back my bow, wishing not for the first time that I had more chance to practice. I must make each of my arrows count tonight.
My brother shoulders his shield and spear while Padraig makes a club out of an old walking stick. I almost grin at the sight of a monk playing the part of a warrior, but his grim tone soon drains all the mirth from my lips.
“Many monasteries have fallen to the Saxons over the years,” Padraig recalls. “They do not favor long sieges. They will come at us with all their strength.”
The Saxons drub their shields with knife handles and ax heads. The deafening clamor makes me wince. Their iron helms and long knives glimmer by torchlight, a pair of animal skin banners fluttering over their lines. A foxtail and a wolf skin. My hand trembles on the bowstring. The war-chiefs Cedric and Beowulf are out there somewhere. The very same who first tried to capture me once on the King’s Road, and again at the Dean Fort. Tonight, they intend to make good their past failures.
As though in answer to the roaring Saxons outside our defenses, Artagan begins a chant of his own. His men take up the tune. The ancient verse pricks my ears, another line from Artagan’s favorite poet, the old Arthurian bard Taliesin. My history of poetry may be a bit rusty, but if I recall correctly, it is an oft-forgotten line recording an ancient conflict known as the Battle of the Trees, when the people of the Old Tribes used both magic and swords to defeat their enemies. Goose bumps ripple my skin as Artagan’s men repeat the mantra.
Call me sword, call me spear.
Call me bow, call me fear.
Call me harp, call me steel.
Call me shield to all my people!
The Saxons are quiet a moment and although they cannot understand Welsh, even they know a spell when they hear one. I smile at the Blacksword. Only he would think to use poetry as a weapon against our foes.
Our warriors’ chants gradually fade as Artagan disappears from view, moving amongst the throngs of his men as he encourages them with his presence. His woodsmen continue to ready their positions, still piling a few last stones and buttressing the barriers with timbers. They pile dirt around the oxcarts that block the two open gates, makeshift barricades that will have to hold back our foes. They must hold.
The Saxons renew the clacking of their axes against their shields once more. The noise reaches a crescendo before suddenly dissipating. I don’t know what it signifies, but I doubt it means anything good.
Two warriors stride out between the Saxons and our walls. Broadshouldered and bearded, they wear long capes that snap behind them in the breeze. No one doubts who they are. The barbarians howl at the backs of their two war-captains. Together, the Fox and the Wolf raise a pike with something round atop its head. Squinting across the dark fields, I whisper to Padraig.
“What is that?”
“Not what, but who.” Padraig frowns. “That is the head of King Cadwallon.”
My breath withers inside me. Moonlight emerges from the clouds, illuminating the grizzled features of the former Free Cantref king. I look away, unable to shut out the image of his empty gaze and protruding tongue. The brigands could have traded a valuable man like Cadwallon back to us. They might have used him to barter concessions, maybe even offering to swap me for him. Lord knows, I might have done it to save the good king who once sheltered me. Cadwallon’s head on a pike means only one thing. The Saxons intend to besiege us without further delay. There will be no quarter.
I can’t see Artagan amidst the eastern embrasures, but I know he is there. Would he even want my hand on his shoulder now? If the Blacksword didn’t see red before, he will certainly want to slake his blade in Saxon blood now. Ria, Gwen, their children, and now his father. Most of Artagan’s family has fallen under the Saxon sword in the last few days. The Saxons haven’t just come to raid and pillage, they’ve come to wipe us out.
A bloodcurdling battle cry pierces the air as the Saxon troops rush forward. Hundreds upon hundreds swarm toward Aranrhod from all sides, a ring of torches coiling about our walls like a fiery serpent. More than half of them concentrate toward the lowest defenses. Artagan’s baritone voice booms out across the fortress, like the unseen voice of an archangel over the din.
“Archers! Make ready!”
A few hundred warriors in green drop their spears and axes, drawing back longbows at Artagan’s command. Even some village huntresses and mothers have a spare arrow or two that they notch to their bows. I pull back my bowstring as far as it will go. The longbow, the famed weapon of the Free Cantrefs. Will it be enough against cold Saxon steel at night? May God guide our arrows.
The Saxon hordes draw closer. The clang of their armor and the musky odor of their unwashed bodies make me wrinkle my nose. What does Artagan wait for? The brigands will be upon us in moments! Artagan’s voice roars above the crowd.
“Bowmen, loose!”
There is a hiss as hundreds of arrowheads soar into the darkness. Firing blind, I let my arrow go before quickly restringing another. By the time I notch my next feathery dart, the archers around me let loose at every Saxon they see. Some arrows thud harmlessly into timber shields or the soft grass. Others find their mark.
Howls and whimpers of pain surround me in the dim moonlight, like the lamentations of the damned. I never expect to hear such a sound this side of hell again. Bodies of Saxons collapse in heaps at the base of our bulwarks, some writhing with multiple arrows protruding from their chests and limbs. Others lie still in neat rows, piled like cordwood. I continue notching and loosing my arrows, pouring them into the crowd of foes below. As I draw the last arrow shaft from my quiver, my hand trembles so much that I cannot even string the dart.
The Saxons respond by lobbing their torches over our walls. Several fireballs crackle over my head, some landing in the yard behind me whilst others knock Welshmen down from the barricades. Women and children rush to dowse the fires with buckets, wineskins, and anything else that will hold water.
A series of large thuds slam against the stone ramparts. Long timber poles land along the wall beside me. My eyes widen. Ladders! Swallowing a knot in my throat, I stand back as I notch my last shot. My aim hasn’t mattered much thus far, what with a multitude of enemies below. Why did I spend my arrows so freely? I’d give half a chest of silver for just a few more deadly quills. Blinking the sweat from my eyes, I raise my birch wood bow. I must not miss. I must not miss.
A grizzled Saxon emerges over the ramparts, his dirty-blond beard flecked with sweat and spit. With an ax in one hand and a round shield in the other, he leaps toward me. I loose my arrow toward his heart.
It thuds harmlessly into his wooden shield. I missed!
He swings his massive ax down toward me while I raise my empty longbow overhead. As though a t
hin birch bow could shield me from the weight of an ax head. I squeeze my eyes shut, wincing before the blow.
The Saxon pauses, his face contorting in pain. A spearhead rises up through his chest before disappearing in a fountain of blood. The barbarian keels over. Enid withdraws her spear from his huge corpse, wiping the grime from her cheek.
Bile rises in the back of my throat. The Saxon’s blood pools around my feet. Bending over the back of the parapet, I spew what little food remains in my stomach. Enid pats my back as I wipe the spittle from my face. She knits her brow.
“Artagan sent me to look after you.”
“What for?”
She shrugs.
“I didn’t ask for the honor,” she adds.
We’ve no time to argue. I stand shoulder to shoulder with her as more assailants scale the ladders below. I palm my chest and head, but find no wounds. I’m alive! Before I can blink, more Saxons swarm over the battlements. Enid tosses me the short-sword from her belt. She skewers invaders with her red spear tip while I fumble with the small sword. If only I had half her skill. All the book learning in the world does me little good now. My empty stomach churns over. The raw hate in the Saxons’ wild eyes makes my skin crawl.
With my spent bow in one hand and a short blade in the other, I claw and hack at the bearded, oily-smelling Saxons struggling over the embrasures. Together, Padraig and I send one man tumbling backward over the defenses. Ahern and Enid grapple with warrior after warrior while Welshmen and Saxons fall all around us. Flagstones turn slick with blood.
Women and children pummel the assailants with rocks. Archers down enemies right in our midst. More than one spearhead or dart brushes my cheek, narrowly missing my face before lodging itself in a howling Saxon. An eerie bullhorn booms through the darkness, like a staccato Minotaur bellowing in the night. The wave of Saxon troops recedes from the walls, scores of warriors limping back to their own lines. Others drag wounded no longer able to walk. A cheer rises from our own lines. I raise my arms with the others, jeering at the retreating barbarians. Only Enid looks grim.