Between Two Fires

by Mark Noce

  Rhun combs back a stray lock of my hair with his hand, looking deeply into my eyes. I’d be a fool to refuse his offer. His father’s armies and lands would keep me safe from Morgan. I’d certainly live in more luxury than I’ve had since fleeing to the Free Cantrefs. But am I simply trading one warlord husband for another? What do I know of Rhun? Little more than I did of King Morgan when we first wed. I’ll not be a broodmare again. Never. Rhun senses my indecision.

  “I’m a patient man, Branwen. Think over my offer. I ride for home on the morrow. You can tell me your answer then.”

  He presses his lips to my knuckles once more, bowing before he leaves. Rowena finds me in the hallway while toting a fresh jug of cider close to her chest. I stare blankly past her, still absorbed by the full weight of the decision I must make.

  “M’lady, are you well?”

  “Prince Rhun has just asked me to be his wife.”

  Rowena raises both eyebrows, flashing a timid smile. She knows to whom my heart belongs, but she also knows the political realities of the age in which we live. She tries to make the best of it.

  “Congratulations, m’lady. Do we leave for North Wales then?”

  Still in a daze, I cannot find the words to answer her. Wandering the empty hallways, the boisterous revelry from the main hall reverberates throughout the bones of the castle. Retiring to my empty tower, I lean against the windowsill overlooking the valley. Bonfires dot the night, the survivors of the siege celebrating their newfound home and king. Many are undoubtedly happy just to be alive. With so much suffering, the people deserve a respite from all their grief.

  Putting my chin in my hand, I breathe in the smoky peat fires and the wet fog coming down from the mountains. How straightforward the villagers’ lives seem, despite all their hardships. Free to love whom they wish, to farm or hunt as their vocation demands, to keep their loved ones close to them all of their days. Queen or no, with Padraig gone, I am all but an orphan in this world. A world in which men only look at me based on what I’m worth, and how much land comes with my dowry. My eyelids begin to sag. Perhaps I’ve been unfair to think such thoughts. I’m tired and spent.

  Footsteps murmur up the stairwell behind me. I know the sound of that brisk tread without even having to turn around. Artagan pauses in the chamber doorway. A cool evening breeze brushes my cheek as I keep my gaze to the window.

  “How’s your newfound queen, Lady Olwen? Neither she nor your people should be without their king on his coronation night.”

  “Branwen, why did you run off? One moment, you’re declaring me the next King Arthur, and the next you’ve vanished.”

  Lowering my gaze, I still do not look at him.

  “Prince Rhun proposed to me this evening.”

  “What?”

  “He expects my answer in the morning. I suppose you’ll wed Olwen soon enough yourself.”

  Artagan grabs me by the wrist, spinning me around to face him. Clenching my teeth, I push back against him. King or no, I’ll not let some hedge knight manhandle me. I drub my fists against his chest, but he refuses to let me go. His knit brows and pursed lips nearly touch mine, his voice rough as gravel.

  “My father arranged my betrothal to Olwen. But I’m king now and I’ll do as I please!”

  “No king can do as he pleases! You’ve a duty to your people now, to make the best match for their sake, not yours.”

  “Then I renounce my throne! You made me king. You want the crown so badly, you take it!”

  “Don’t be absurd!”

  “I don’t want to be king … I want you.”

  He releases my arms. His deep blue eyes search mine. Rubbing my wrists, I stand close enough to feel his breath on my lashes. Why does he ask the impossible of me? My heart and mind tell me two different things. Lowering my head, I swallow the knot in my throat.

  “It’s a good match, wedding Olwen. It will bring peace and stability to your kingdom, to all the Free Cantrefs. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “And you wedding Rhun is supposed to solve everything? The people here need you.”

  “Whoever weds me will have a war on his hands! Morgan will never give me up!”

  “I already have a war with the Saxons. I’m not afraid of the Hammer King.”

  “Then you are a fool.”

  “Do you care nothing for me?”

  “Artagan…”

  Biting my lip, I lose my voice when I look up into his flickering azure stare. I should lie. With all of my strength, I should tell him I care nothing for him, and send him out of my life forever. Instead, I let him kiss me. Surrendering to his touch, we hold one another beside the dark archway of the window. Artagan lowers himself down on one knee, taking my hands in his. His lip trembles before he steadies his voice.

  “I love you, Branwen. I always have, and I always will. Be my bride. Be my Queen. Be my wife.”

  Pressing my lips tight together, I squeeze his hands in mine. Never have I wanted something more, to share my days with this carefree hedge knight. Together we’ve wandered the wilds, defied kings, and faced life and death side by side. If only the world of kings and Saxons would leave us alone. The two of us could be happy in a small cottage bower with no more than some thatch over our heads and warm woolens for a bed. I heave a heavy sigh as Artagan looks up at me with expectant, loving eyes. If only he understood. My heart rises in my throat because I know what my answer must be.

  15

  The North Welsh horsemen depart before dawn. Not a good sign. Word must have reached them during the night. Faint dust trails hang over the northern mountain passes as the rear guard of their cavalcade disappears in the distance.

  Olwen’s and Artagan’s voices reverberate through the castle walls. Half the citadel must hear them. Crockery and pots clatter to the floor behind their closed door. The sun rises over my bedchamber in the opposite tower as I listen and wait. Olwen’s tone raises the hairs along the nape of my neck.

  “You bog-brained, black-hearted, no-good, lying dog! You made me a promise, Blacksword!”

  “Our fathers made a promise, not me! Damn it, Olwen, don’t act so surprised!”

  With a grunt, Olwen hurls something metallic across the chamber. Artagan curses, no doubt ducking. Whatever kitchen implement she tosses his way clangs about the floor. Her raised voice scares a murder of crows from the tower rooftop.

  “She’s a trollop, Artagan! Her own father disowned her and her last husband will bleed half of Wales dry just to get her back! You’ll be dead or a cuckold or both within a year, mark my words.”

  A door slams. Olwen emerges at the foot of the stairs, glaring up at my tower. Even from the shadows of my windowsill, her violet stare feels like frost in my veins. Her snowy-white mare whinnies before Olwen darts out the eastern gates at full gallop. Her figure diminishes in the distance. A weight lifts from my chest, but a shadow still gnaws at the back of my mind. What if her words come true? Have I signed Artagan’s death warrant and mine own? I cross myself, praying to both the Virgin and Abbot Padraig up in heaven. Help me, please. Help us all.

  Artagan saunters into my chamber, rubbing the back of his head.

  “Well, that’s over and done with.”

  “I fear we’ve made more enemies than friends.”

  “King Belin and Urien aren’t our enemies. But they won’t ride to our aid anytime soon.”

  He shrugs it off, wrapping his arms around me as though we hadn’t a care in the world. Pressing my ear to his chest, his heartbeat stills my nerves. But a few lingering splinters stick in my mind. Belin’s sons and Olwen will not forget the turn we gave them this day.

  Outside, Keenan’s and Emryus’s voices boom off the archways.

  “Hark, all welcome to attend the marriage of King Artagan and Queen Branwen, sovereigns of Aranrhod! Cider and mead for all!”

  The two warriors slur their words, stumbling slightly and already well into their cups. I cannot help but smile as the two men raise their drinking horns up towar
d our tower window. Artagan rubs my chin with his thumb and kisses my brow. I sigh, letting all the tension out of my limbs. Lovebirds tweet from a nest in the tower eaves.

  We gather for the ceremony in a small roofless chapel amidst the ruins of the eastern wall. Archways overgrown with ivy and honeysuckle blossom with wildflowers. A few puffy clouds dot an otherwise clear summer sky overhead. Although only a few dozen of us fit inside the shell of the old church, the murmur of crowds attests to the throngs outside. Gray-bearded Emryus strums a tune on his harp as I walk down the aisle in an emerald gown with lavender trim, the last of my old wardrobe from Caerwent. Artagan beams from the altar, his mother beside him with her arms upraised. An old priestess, inside an ancient chapel, wedding two Christian souls. I could laugh at the madness of it all, but it will do. All will be right in God’s eyes, or so my heart says. Such is the voice Abbot Padraig always told me to follow.

  Rowena and Una hold the train of my gown before retreating to the corner, exchanging sly glances with Keenan. I playfully roll my eyes. Many children will doubtlessly be sired in the revelries later tonight. Ahern and Enid cross spears with several warriors overhead. My half brother gives me a nod, ever the stoic soldier. Enid casts longing glances Artagan’s way. As always, my beloved man is oblivious to the spear-wife’s pining eyes. Poor thing. Perhaps God will grant her happiness someday with some other man. Perhaps.

  Artagan takes my hand as we stand before the worn stone cross, overgrown with clover. Annwyn waves her arms over us, murmuring in the Old Tongue as she sprinkles us with water. If Padraig were here, he would have wed us himself, but the old priestess’s ritual still seems oddly Christian. Blessed with holy water, we wrap a cloth around our wrists, bound and tied in a knot. Whatever Annwyn consecrates, in whatever tongue or religion, I know it carries the blessings of the divine. She finishes with a wand, making a sacred sign in the earth before smiling at us.

  “You may now kiss one another.”

  Artagan cups my cheeks in his palms, his warm lips on mine. Smiling through our kisses, our audience hoots with approval. I thank God with a silent prayer. In the year of our Lord 598, I am finally married to the man who has truly earned and won my heart.

  We march outside the chapel hand in hand and greet the people outside. Keenan bellows on a large ox horn, garnering cheers from the crowds as Artagan and I wave. A calfskin drum and minstrel pipes murmur through the vale, the villagers breaking into dance and drink. I smile so much my cheeks hurt.

  Now this feels like a real victory feast. No more looking back at the sorrows of the past, but instead focusing on the bright future that lies ahead.

  Artagan lifts me into his arms as we cross the threshold of our tower. He grins while I pepper his neck with kisses. Artagan scales the steps two at a time with me still in his arms, lifting me as though I weighed no more than a feather. He kicks open the door atop the stairwell. The scent of candles and incense permeates the chamber.

  “What’s this?” I ask as he puts me down.

  “Our new home. Una and Rowena helped put it together.”

  A warm fire crackles in a brazier, casting a bronze glow across a makeshift bed of furs and woolens. My birch longbow hangs on one wall and a shelf with several books lines the other. Rushing toward the bookshelf, I thumb through the half dozen tomes. Classics, scripture, and legends all on vellum sheets bound by hardback. I recognize these stories. They’re Brother Padraig’s books from the abbey in Dyfed. He must have still had them on his person when we fled to Aranrhod. Each book took generations of clerics to ink, their heavy pages worth their weight in gold.

  Even my book of the tales of Branwen the Brave is here. I fondly pet the spine of the book Padraig once gave to me. Another token from the man I loved as a father. For the first time since his passing, I can recall fond memories of my teacher without sorrow. His words and his legacy live on in these books and in me.

  Artagan shuts the door behind us.

  “I could think of no better place for the start of our castle library than by your bedside.”

  “It’s wonderful—the books, the room, all of it.”

  “Maybe you could continue teaching me my letters.”

  “Is that how you wish to spend your wedding night, King?”

  I flash a wry smile. Artagan loosens his tunic, dropping his mantle and shirt to the floor. In a few quick strides, he has me in his arms. The sap begins to rise behind his deep blue eyes. Pressing my mouth to his, I cannot get my own clothes off fast enough. We’ve put this off for far too long. How many evenings did we share a bed of wild rushes or a stone floor? Never doing more than cuddling for warmth. His lips travel down my blouse, nuzzling between my breasts. I pull him down onto our soft bedspread, running my palms along the hardened muscles of his back and thighs. Every stretch of skin toned and pulsating with life.

  The rhythm of drums and pipes fills the dusk air outside, the music drifting up into our torch-lit lair. Artagan’s manhood rises against the inside of my smooth legs, his fingertips in my hair and his kisses on my neck. I grasp his firm, clenched buttocks as he moves inside me, his hardened nipples brushing mine. Our mingled breath warms our cheeks as we move to the quick tempo of the drumbeat. Awash in the touch and taste of his flesh, I gasp.

  “Artagan … Artagan, my love.”

  We move faster, my palms pressing against his hard abdomen. His hands cup my bosom. He arches atop me, his heat spilling inside me. I pant harder, clasping him tight as my core peaks under his feverish thrusts. Still short of breath, we gaze into one another’s eyes, two pools of liquid love entranced with one another. I reach up and kiss him again and again, reveling in his love inside me. The first of many such times we shall enjoy one another tonight.

  * * *

  “No, no, more to the left.”

  I wave with half-feigned exasperation at the stonemasons. Workmen hoist large blocks of limestone from wooden rollers. The clank of hammers and chisels reverberates throughout the castle. Day by day, over the past few months, the towers and walls of Aranrhod have risen once again with the construction of stone buttresses and timber scaffolds. With a sketch in hand, I direct the laborers as they aright fallen columns and bulwarks neglected since the days of the Romans. Teams of lumbermen hack away at logs in the courtyard whilst carpenters plane wood for the new gates. Artagan folds his arms and shakes his head with astonishment.

  “I’ve never seen such dedication in artisans before. The people must truly adore you.”

  “They labor for themselves as much as they do for us. This castle provides defense for them and their families in times of need. The granaries will safeguard their grain stores, and the smithies provide fresh forges for their tools.”

  “An allotment of land for each worker sweetens the pot too, no doubt.”

  “I don’t expect them to work for nothing. No one has claimed the lands around Aranrhod for generations. Now we can settle crofters, herders, and huntsmen on parcels where good soil has rested untilled for years. Autumn should bring forth a good harvest.”

  “If we last that long. We had another skirmish in the south passes this morn.”

  Artagan’s gaze darkens. My skin grows cold, as though a cloud had suddenly blotted out the sun. Steeling my nerves, I try to put on a brave face. It pinches my heart to see darkness in Artagan’s normally sunny countenance. I speak low enough for only the two of us to hear.

  “How many this time?”

  “We lost two dozen men, but gave the bastards as good as we got. That’s twice in the last fortnight. Morgan’s raids grow more and more frequent.”

  “It’s the summer season, the war season. Your merry men are no strangers to a tough fight.”

  “I’ve barely a hundred warriors left. The rest work on the castle or still recover from wounds after the Saxon siege. One day, Morgan will come over those mountain passes and I won’t have enough men to stop him. It’s only a matter of time, Branwen.”

  Sighing, I look back at the reconstructio
n of the fortress. Like so many ants, dozens of craftsmen move about the masonry and timberworks. If only we had more time or more men, or both. Ironically, the very Saxons who besieged us are probably all that keep Morgan’s army from launching a full-scale invasion against us. Barbarians will harass Morgan’s eastern borders this time of year, like so many gnats coming out in the summer heat. The Hammer King will have half his troops occupied defending his own settlements until the winter freeze, still many moons away.

  Artagan’s green-clad bowmen have bought us time by guarding the mountain passes, but even the best warriors cannot hold out forever against overwhelming odds. If Morgan’s troops pierce the mountains and surround our fortress, we’ll be done for. We cannot afford another siege so soon. The reinforced walls might protect us for a time, but our newly planted wheat and oats need time to ripen and flourish. A poor harvest will spell famine come wintertime.

  A patchwork of green fields dots the open meadows amidst the woods that surround our emerald vale. I shut my eyes and say a quick prayer. God preserve us, God give us the time to grow strong once again.

  Wrapping my arms around Artagan’s neck, I lay my forehead against his. Fresh nicks mar his forearms, and he walks with a slight limp. How close did a Southron warrior come to wounding him today? Gaining a kingship has done nothing to curb his willful, hedge knight ways. He still leads every sortie against our foes, earning the love of his men, but making himself an easy target for our numerous foes. The thought of his steed returning empty haunts my steps every time he rides away. Courage makes Artagan an attractive lover, but it only adds lines to my face now. Why won’t Morgan simply leave us alone? Artagan deserves to grow old with a loving wife, warm and safe in this happy valley tucked away in the highland fastness. I will remind him of all the goodness in the world tonight in our bedchamber. Flashing a half-grin, I take him by the hand as we retreat to our tower.

  At the foot of the turret steps, a voice calls out to us. Enid storms the catwalk toward us, her spear stained crimson. I pause, my shoulders sinking. My foray into the bedchamber with my husband will have to wait, it seems. It’s still daylight and the demands on a king and queen are many. Enid halts before Artagan, still muddy from the field.