Between Two Fires

by Mark Noce

  Whatever the cause, it will unfortunately have to wait while we have mysterious strangers at our gates. Reassuring her, I sit my lady-in-waiting down on the bed.

  “I’m fine, Rowena. But you should not be out of bed.”

  “Me own mum worked the fields the day after I was born. I’ve had rest aplenty, m’lady.”

  “Well, I’m sure there’s nothing to be frightened of,” I fib, trying to sound a bit more confident than I feel. “The castle’s well protected.”

  “Do you not recognize that horn, my Queen? Only one lord in all Wales uses an ivory bugle.”

  My veins run cold. Turning toward the window, I steady my palm on the stonework. A large cavalcade breaks from the forest, cantering straight for the castle gates. I drop my bow to the floor, instinctively reaching back toward Gavin in his cradle. The crimson dragon banners of South Wales fly over the approaching horsemen.

  “Rowena, has my old husband returned for vengeance?”

  “I know not, m’lady. But that’s not his horn, like I said. Only the Lord of Caerleon uses an ivory bugle call. That’s Prince Malcolm, that is.”

  My hairline runs damp with sweat. Malcolm? Even worse.

  The mere thought of that blackguard lurking outside the walls where my child sleeps makes me grind my teeth. Lifting my bow, I dart toward the door and sling a quill of arrows over my shoulder. Whatever black fate has come to our doorstep, I’ll not hide in my chambers like a frightened sheep. Aiming a finger back at Rowena, my voice reverberates off the rafters.

  “Look after my boy! Whatever happens, do not open this door.”

  Giving her the advice I hardly heeded myself, I close the door and descend the steps before Rowena can reply. I know my place now. On the battlements, defending my husband and my son. I’ll put an arrowhead right into Prince Malcolm’s heart if need be. Time those lordly knights of South Wales see how well a mother of the Free Cantrefs fights when cornered with her cubs. Artagan’s eyes narrow as I scale the embrasures. He struggles to keep his voice low.

  “The battle line is no place for a nursing mother!”

  “I’ll be the judge of what a mother can and cannot do. Why have we not loosened a volley of arrows yet?”

  Still plum-faced, Artagan cannot find the words to rebuke me. Instead, Enid leans forward, her spear in one hand and a longbow in the other.

  “They’re flying a flag of truce. They wish to parley.”

  “I’ll give those blackguards an answer,” I retort, drawing back my bow.

  “Hold!” Enid shouts. “Something doesn’t make sense. They’ve brought maybe a hundred soldiers, not enough for a siege. If they meant us ill, they’d have brought more men.”

  “If they’d meant us well, they’d have left us alone.”

  Glancing at the woods, I wonder how many more troops Malcolm may have hidden behind those trees. It doesn’t suit someone like Malcolm to come under a white banner with his tail tucked between his knees. And why no Morgan? The Hammer King is up to something for sure.

  Malcolm’s riders fan out in a large crescent beneath our walls, their chain mail jangling in the early afternoon light. The South Welsh of Gwent have neither the fast steeds nor long lances like the horsemen of the North, but on foot, an armored Southron can often handle double his number in the melee. Let’s hope our arrowheads can pierce Southern chain mail today if necessary.

  Artagan descends the steps to the courtyard and mounts his warhorse, Merlin. The very same horse we once rode when we fled from Caerwent all those moons ago. The very same steed that once belonged to the Hammer King himself. Artagan orders the guards to open the gates.

  “I’ll go out to meet him. Alone.”

  “To be fodder?” I scoff. “Not likely. Whatever we face, we face it together.”

  Whistling for my mare, I mount Gwenhwyfar beside him. Enid, Emryus, and Keenan all saddle their own steeds and join us under the gateway. Artagan digs his heels into Merlin’s flanks, trotting off in a huff. He mumbles under his breath.

  “What good is it to be king when no one heeds your word?”

  Keenan and I exchange grins. The young knight touts a green dragon banner over our small company. Galloping into the emerald pastures outside Aranrhod’s walls, we halt before the cavalcade of Southern warriors and their bloodred banners. Local peasants look on from farmsteads and the castle walls, watching us behind closed doors and arrow slits.

  Prince Malcolm looks the same as ever. A well-trimmed, chestnut-bearded version of his older brother. A scowl spreads across his lips when he sees me. His guardsmen stand around him at perfect attention, their dark eyes watching us through the eye slits in their helmets. Our ponies curl back their lips, flaring their teeth. Neither side speaks.

  Malcolm’s gaze runs the length of my silhouette. He still makes me feel naked before him. My neck flushes, but I clutch the reins tight in one hand while carrying my bow in the other. I’m not the scared little King’s wife he knew back at Caerwent. Artagan nudges his stallion forward. Malcolm grimaces, recognizing the warhorse as formerly his brother’s. The Blacksword smirks, suddenly looking like the cocky hedge knight he was when he first crossed swords with Malcolm all those moons ago.

  “You’re a long way from your own borders, princeling,” Artagan begins.

  “I’ve urgent tidings, for the Lord of Aranrhod alone.”

  Malcom swallows as though tasting a bitter draught. Doubtlessly, referring to Artagan as anything other than a brigand leaves a sour taste on Malcolm’s tongue. I narrow my gaze, closely watching Malcolm and his massive mace. Why the courtesy? Despite his royal blood, Malcolm has the breeding of a pig. He would sooner trade blows with the Blacksword than speak cordially to him. Artagan smiles back, enjoying the Prince’s discomfort.

  “The name’s King Artagan now. I keep no secrets from my subjects. Speak freely.”

  Malcolm grips his horse’s reins in a fist, speaking through clenched teeth.

  “My brother, King Morgan, calls on you for aid. A Saxon army has crossed into the Welsh Lands. We need every man we can get.”

  Artagan and I exchange glances. Malcolm cannot be serious. Since when does the mighty Hammer King call on other kingdoms for aid? Something must be terribly amiss in South Wales for Morgan to send his own brother to beg troops from his former enemies. Artagan utters a quick laugh.

  “Your brother calls on me for aid? Me. Doesn’t he still have a price on my head?”

  “Old squabbles must be put aside,” Malcolm retorts. “Ten thousand Saxons attacked the Dean Fort yesterday. They slaughtered the garrison and razed it to the ground. They march on Caerwent as we speak.”

  My skin turns to ice. Artagan’s knights murmur amongst themselves. Ten thousand Saxons? Malcolm must exaggerate. With a force that size they could conquer all of Wales before harvest time. I lean forward in the saddle, still unable to fathom Malcolm’s tale.

  “You’re sure the Dean Fort has fallen? What of Lord Griffith?”

  “Taken hostage by Chief Beowulf, last we heard.”

  I shut my eyes. Such a sorrowful fate for such a worthy man. Lord Griffith was always kind to me. Artagan and I first danced hand in hand under his roof. Now the old nobleman is doubtlessly chained like a dog to the Wolf’s war wagons. A plaything for the barbarians as they ravage the Welsh countryside. Artagan aims a hard finger at the Prince.

  “Ten thousand? Impossible. The Saxons on our borders don’t even have that many men.”

  “They do now. It’s no longer just the West Saxons under the Wolf who come against us. He has allied with the Anglo-Saxon king, Penda, who marches with him. Never before have the bickering factions of the Saxon kingdoms united like this against us. Our scouts report axmen, spear-throwers, and armored infantry amongst their ranks. Not since the days of Arthur have the Saxons arrayed such a force against us.”

  “And I suppose your brother thinks himself the next Arthur?” Artagan retorts. “Just snap his fingers and we’ll come running to help him. Do you th
ink me a fool, princeling? I won’t shed the blood of my warriors to protect the Hammer King’s castle. He’d just as soon plant spies in my court to capture back my wife. I ought to send your head back in a basket.”

  Artagan draws his blade. Malcolm’s men raise their spears in response. Enid, Emryus, and Keenan draw their bows in turn. I might roll my eyes if all our lives didn’t depend on the next few moments. These noblemen are fighters, but they’ve none of the nuances required for negotiation or diplomacy.

  Nudging my mare between both groups, I extend my hands toward either side. South Welsh spears aim at me from one end and Free Cantref arrowheads from the other. I raise my voice.

  “Stop this madness! I’ve more reason for grievance against King Morgan than anyone, but we will not shed blood here. Not under a flag of truce, not while every Saxon in Britain storms over the border into Wales. You would only be doing the barbarians a favor by fighting each other now. We’re going to need every Welsh warrior we can get.”

  Artagan lowers his blade with an incredulous look on his face.

  “You don’t actually believe this liar, do you?”

  “If he meant to deceive us, Morgan would’ve sent a raven or a cleric or someone from Dyfed,” I reply. “Instead he sent his only brother, knowing full well we might kill him or take him prisoner. It’s an act of desperation, but it’s also an honest act as well.”

  Malcolm trots forward, making his men lower their arms.

  “We’ve sent word all across Wales to gather our forces,” he adds. “Vortigen of Dyfed has pledged to come, and Bishop Gregory has gone to North Wales to plead our common cause.”

  “The North Welsh will not come.” Artagan waves dismissively.

  “If you joined us, they would,” Malcolm replies. “If not, the Saxons will gobble up our kingdoms one by one. If we do not make a stand against them now, all is lost. They’ll raise their banners over each of our castles by Christmastide.”

  “And who’s to command this combined Welsh army?”

  “All the Welsh kings jointly, together as equals.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  Artagan sheathes his blade and folds his arms. Malcolm throws up his hands in exasperation. Both men would gladly rather draw one another’s blood than fight back to back against an enemy. But the Prince has a point. We cannot sit behind our walls and wait for another endless siege. The Saxons will wear us down until we’ve run out of warriors and bread.

  Several arguments break out simultaneously amongst the South Welsh and the Free Cantref warriors, each remembering past grievances and wrongs done by the other. I hold up a single palm and wait until both sides run silent. Turning in the saddle, I face Malcolm with the sternest queenly countenance I can summon.

  “Prince, tell your king he shall have our answer in several days’ time, beneath the walls of Caerwent. Our army will come or I will come alone myself.”

  * * *

  “Saxons!”

  Enid’s voice carries through the forest as she points toward the plains beyond. Artagan and I halt our mounts at the edge of the woods, squinting into the misty dawn along the riverfront. At first, nothing but thin fog banks dot the gray river that cuts through the lowlands. The drumbeat of calfskin and timber shields murmur through the morning vapors. Tall pikes pierce the mists, some bearing bloody, golden, and orange banners. The colors of the Saxon tribes. I swallow hard. The heavy tread of men in chain mail echoes across the wetlands.

  In the distance, the slate silhouette of Caerwent overlooks the river. Its imposing towers and fortified bastions array themselves like rows of stone teeth. If the battle should go ill, does the citadel have enough room to house our troops? That would be a slow death, starved out and bombarded by sling stones. No, far better to fight in the open and risk it all in a single contest with our barbaric foes. Artagan touches my arm, his gaze soft as blue felt.

  “Are you sure about this?” he asks.

  I clench his hand. When was the last time I was certain about anything? We’ve come too far to turn back now. Maybe we never really had a choice to begin with. But what kind of mother am I? What kind of wife? Leaving my child behind in Rowena’s care to join my husband on the battlefield. I fight today not only for my own life, but for the life of my son. My place is here in the borderlands, battling for his future. If we fail today, there won’t even be a free Wales for him when he grows up.

  So, am I sure we’ve made the right decision? I nod toward my husband.

  “I’m sure. The rest lies in God’s hands.”

  Artagan kisses my cheek. Turning back toward his men, he hardens his features. No longer my softhearted lover, he wears the face of a warrior now, of a king. Drawing his blade, he calls out to the long column of archers on foot. Tall bowmen clad in green, interspersed with a few spear-wives wielding birch bows like mine own. Artagan raises his voice.

  “For Aranrhod, for the Free Cantrefs, for Wales! For Mab Ceridwen!”

  “Mab Ceridwen!” the warriors reply in unison.

  Goose bumps rise along my skin. Their pet name for me has become something more. A battle cry, a plea for freedom. Artagan puts his heels to his stallion’s sides, charging into the open plain while his troops jog close behind. I ride beside the column to make sure no stragglers linger.

  Everyone we can muster has come. Amidst the crowd, familiar faces glance my way before taking the field. Farmers, huntsmen, and smiths. Fathers, brothers, and sons of the womenfolk who’ve helped make Aranrhod what it is. Now we defend the approaches to Caerwent, not because we care for King Morgan, but because we care for the fate of Wales. All Wales. Emryus, Keenan, and Enid nod my way as they pass with more companies of green-clad troops in tow. Last in line comes a lone soldier on foot, his spear and shield immaculate despite his long beard and wild hair. Ahern halts beside my horse, pausing to catch his breath.

  “Dungeon air has not done much for my lungs. You afraid I might desert, my Queen?”

  “It was King Artagan’s decision to offer you your freedom if you joined us on the battlefront.”

  “I ask no freedom for myself. Merely to fight by your side once again. Can things ever go back to the way they once were, sister?”

  Eyeing him a long while, I turn my mount.

  “Keep pace beside me, guardsman. Someone has to keep an eye on you.”

  He smiles and nods before abruptly regaining his stoic composure. Happy as a pup to be at my side once more, he jogs beside my cantering mountain mare. How strangely the fates twist and entwine our lives together. We’ve the same father and different mothers, once close as kin, then enemies, and now allies once again. The seesaw of fortune continues its ceaseless tilt.

  Down in the plain, King Morgan’s troops stand in square checkerboard formations beneath their red dragon pennants. Thousands of men-at-arms, their glaives and helms polished for the day. Let’s hope it’s enough to turn the tide against the Saxon hordes. A long line of drab spearmen with cowhide shields array themselves on the flank. Hearty sons of Dyfed. My heart beats faster with the rhythm of my pony’s clacking hooves. Though long at odds with my father, it still lightens my soul to fight beside the people of my birthplace.

  King Morgan’s bannermen meet in the center of the field. Both Father and my former husband will be there. I swallow hard, clutching my bow tight. I’d rather go up against a hundred Saxons than face Morgan or Father again. A chill runs up my back. By day’s end, I may get my wish.

  Galloping forward astride my Gwenhwyfar, I join Artagan and his retinue beneath their green dragon banners. Ahern, although on foot, runs until red in the face in his effort to keep up. Artagan orders his warriors to halt, wishing to proceed alone. I ride beside him anyway. Whatever we must face, we shall face it together. Nonetheless, my spine tingles thinking of the hundreds of bowstrings and thousands of spears that will soon clash on these fields.

  Morgan must realize we’ve far more to gain as allies than as foes. If not, all is lost. The jangling rum
ble of the nearing Saxon army looms louder through the fog, but aside from a few flags, their forces remain hidden from view. Like a sea serpent lingering just beneath the surface.

  Artagan and I halt our steeds a few paces from Morgan and his knights. All eyes turn on me. Malcolm, the Bishop, Father, and Morgan himself. The Hammer King’s dark gaze narrows on me, much the way a wolf might look at a guarded sheepfold. Both wary and wanting all at the same time. My flesh grows cold with sweat. So he still desires me in his bed? Probably wishing to embrace me and wrap his fingers around my neck all at once. Such are the mixed passions of men. I straighten my spine and sit high in the saddle. Morgan won’t see me flinch, not this day. His deep voice greets Artagan, but his eyes never stray from my face.

  “Blacksword. It’s been a long time.”

  “I’m not here for you, Hammer King. I expect something in return for my participation today.”

  “You want me to relinquish my claim on Branwen, is that it?”

  Morgan keeps his gaze fixed on me, but Artagan sidles his mount between us.

  “I’ve brought a thousand archers.”

  “Pah! Vortigen alone brought a thousand spearmen.”

  “With ten thousand arrowheads? One of my men is worth two of yours.”

  Morgan looks Artagan in the eye for the first time. The two monarchs stare one another down. Artagan’s force may be small compared to the thousands Morgan has mustered, but our archers will slay at least twice their number in the coming fight. No small balance in our favor against the Saxons. Morgan gives me a sidelong glance. Which matters to him more? Me back in his bed or a thousand Free Cantref bowmen on his side? Such is the price of maintaining a kingdom. But I’d sooner slit my throat than go back to Morgan, and every man here knows it. The Hammer King reins his horse back, eyeing Artagan’s mount.