Between Two Fires

by Mark Noce

  “That’s my old warhorse. You ride two mounts I used to, one a stallion, the other a broodmare. Do you possess anything I didn’t once fondle?”

  Malcolm and several other soldiers guffaw behind Morgan. My face blushes crimson. That son of a bitch-dog. I clutch my bow until my knuckles turn white. Steely as ever, Artagan leans his face close to Morgan’s.

  “Have I your word, that you’ll never bother us again?”

  Morgan clenches his jaw, his venomous gaze piercing right through me. Artagan flexes his fingertips along the handle of his longsword. God help us. We may come to blows with the rest of the Welsh army before the Saxons ever reach us. Morgan snorts through his nose like a bull.

  “I swear it,” he says. “Place your archers on the left flank. I’ll send Vortigen’s spearmen to support you.”

  Nudging my mare forward, I cannot keep silent. Morgan holds something back, I see it in the twitch of his eyes. Something doesn’t smell right, and I’ll have it out of him if it’s the last thing I ever do.

  “Why so few men?” I ask. “Where are the rest?”

  Morgan’s eyes harden like rocks in their sockets. He and Father exchange looks before the Hammer King edges closer.

  “Have you not heard?” Morgan begins. “We lost a thousand men at the Dean Fort, and a plague hit Dyfed not two moons ago. Many perished, including your father’s bride, Queen Gwendolyn.”

  “My stepmother?” I reply with an open mouth.

  I never got along with the old woman of propriety, but that doesn’t mean I wished her ill. The plague in Dyfed must have been dreadful indeed if it took down nobles and commoners alike. Such maladies can oft strike a kingdom without warning and disappear just as mysteriously. I take a deep breath. Time enough to deal with such losses later. Today, we’ve a war to fight.

  Morgan motions over his shoulder toward my father’s spearmen.

  “Thanks to that damnable pestilence, less than half your father’s army is fit for the field.”

  “Then how many warriors do we have?”

  “Five thousand in my contingent, a thousand from you, and a thousand from Dyfed.”

  “And the Saxons have over ten thousand? We’ll be overwhelmed!”

  Bishop Gregory raises his palm over his miter.

  “Not if Belin’s North Welsh come. He’s pledged three thousand horsemen to our aid.”

  Artagan scoffs, leering at Morgan.

  “The Old Man will never come. He despises you almost as much as I do.”

  “We’ll see,” Morgan says knowingly. “Just hold the left flank, Blacksword, and I’ll do the rest.”

  The gathering of kings disperses, each heading to their respective portions of the battle line. Artagan and I ride back among our green-clad bowmen, but even from a distance, Morgan, Malcolm, and Father’s stares make the hairs rise along the nape of my neck.

  Ahern may have been the one who betrayed me in days past, but one of those lords across the field was the mysterious puppet master, plotting against me from the shadows. But who? The Bishop is the key, but I can’t exactly question him now with thousands of men arrayed for battle and my hidden enemy possibly within earshot. Climb one mountain at a time, Morgan once said. We’ll have to work together in order to deal with the Saxons first, but with God as my witness, I will root out the man who has been seeking my downfall. Sooner or later, I will. I must.

  Artagan draws his blade beside me, bringing my attention back to the task at hand.

  “I’m not sure whether to fight the enemy in front or behind me,” he grumbles.

  “We have to trust them,” I counter. “We’ve no choice. Those are Saxons out there, coming to loot and plunder our homes. Deal with the treachery of other Welsh kings another day. Right now, it’s the barbarians from across the border that are our greatest threat. They’ll show us no more mercy than they ever have. Think of your father. Think of my mother. Think of our son.”

  Artagan’s eyes glaze over as he puts a palm on my shoulder.

  “Speak to the men. You have such a way with words, Branwen. Better than I.”

  “Now? Before the battle?”

  “Give them the will to win. Show them that Mab Ceridwen is with them.”

  Drawing a deep breath, I canter out in front of our warriors. Seven thousand Welsh against more than ten thousand Saxons? What can I say to encourage them? Few will live to see sunset this day. As my white mare trots the length of the long line of yew bows, every man and she-warrior in the ranks quiets down.

  Father leads his thousand Dyfed spearmen into line, well within earshot of us. It feels like ages since we have been within a hundred leagues of one another, yet I cannot bear to glance his way. Nonetheless, whatever I say, it must mean something not just to Free Cantref folk or Dyfed men, but all Welsh everywhere. I close my eyes, clearing my throat. May the Virgin give me strength.

  “Bowmen, spear-wives, spearmen, hear me! We did not come here today to fight for ourselves, but for those who can no longer fight. Who here has lost someone to the Saxon hordes? Someone dear to them. A mother, a brother, a sister, a child.”

  One by one, each and every member of both the Free Cantref and the Dyfed contingents raise their palms. Artagan raises his arm, along with Enid, Emryus, Keenan, and Ahern. Water wells behind my eyes, but I blink it back. Thinking of Mother, of Padraig, and many others, I too raise my hand with my longbow and arrows clutched tightly in my fist.

  “Let these be your tears! Your arrows, your slings, and spears. Weep for your loved ones with the blood of their murderers upon your steel. Show all Wales and all Christendom that today was the day we wiped the Saxon scourge from the earth forever!”

  The Free Cantref folk begin to chant, many of the Dyfed spearmen joining in with raised weapons high over their heads.

  “Branwen! Branwen! Branwen!”

  Artagan beams at me from across the throngs of troops. Even Father, farthest down the line atop his horse, nods my way. I dare to return his glance, trying to remember that after all he is still my own blood. Despite the distance between us, his strong gaze makes me feel tall in the saddle. Never, never has he looked at me that way. Not as an ugly daughter, but as he might have looked at Mother. Maybe even how he might look at a king.

  I look away, unsure what to make of the bittersweet taste of remembered hate and love stirring in the back of my throat. Does Father know of his grandson yet? Would it change anything if he saw the innocence and beauty in little Gavin’s eyes?

  A deadly quiet fills the field as the cheers die down.

  The fog along the riverfront begins to clear. Across the fords, the splashing of water and the whinny of horses fill the air. The Saxons have already crossed the river. We should have struck them first, but for this damned fog. Heaven help us now.

  Row upon endless row of spearheads emerge from the mists. The thunder of their chain mail and the heavy tread of their boots scatter crows across the field, like the gathering of clouds before a storm. On and on they pour, clad in furs and dented helms. The stink of their unwashed army wafts across the grass. I wrinkle my nose at the stench of musk, sweat, and piss. Rams’ horns echo down the battlefront as two lead riders come into view. The Wolf and King Penda.

  Small as they look from this vantage, the Wolf’s towering frame and King Penda’s glistening gold crown make them seem like lords of the earth surrounded by their massive army. No longer a collection of individuals, their forces swarm about the greens like a gigantic, living creature. A monster with ax heads and spear-points instead of arms and legs. The Wolf will want vengeance against us after Artagan slew his brother last summer at Aranrhod. He will offer us no quarter for certain. I cross myself as Artagan orders our archers to ready their bows.

  A clatter of new horse hooves sounds far to our left. My pulse quickens. More Saxons? Have the barbarians somehow forged a second army out of thin air? If so, the buzzards will pick our bones within the hour.

  Instead, Belin the Old comes galloping out of the dus
t, followed by his sons and a large retinue of horsemen riding under the black banners of the North. Hurrahs rise all along our lines as Belin’s men take up positions on our flank. Now we have evened the odds against the Saxon brutes! Artagan grabs me by the hand.

  “We’ve a chance now! I’ll lead some of our men in with Dyfed’s spearmen, to give cover for the archers. You stay here and make sure our bowmen get off as many arrows as possible. Belin’s men will ride in to finish the job.”

  “But I want to come with you!”

  “No, I need someone I can trust back here. Keep an eye on Morgan’s half of the field to the right. Just in case he plays us foul.”

  I reluctantly nod my head. Artagan marches forward with the best of our woodsmen and his knights. Father leads Dyfed’s spearmen beside him just as Morgan’s men-at-arms far to the right advance. Lockstep, the Welsh contingents move out into no-man’s-land between the armies.

  The Saxons howl like wild animals, closing the gap as the two armies near one another along the fords and plains beneath Caerwent. Ahern stands by my side, intent on guarding me to the last. I raise my voice so that all our warriors can hear me.

  “Archers, loose!”

  The hiss of a thousand longbows sounds through the field. The sky grows dark under the mass of arrowheads, temporarily blotting out the sunlight. Sweat drips down my brow. The sun itself seems to stall in the sky. Both armies charge headlong toward one another, men shouting and roaring until my ears hurt. Our arrows land in the rearward ranks of the advancing Saxon columns. Their cries pierce the air.

  “Archers, again!” I shout. “Loose!”

  We fire two more volleys into the barbarian crowd. Downstream, the river runs red. I order our bowmen to hold their bows in check as both sides tangle with one another. I’ve no desire to hit our own troops while trying to get at the Saxons. My eyes search the mass of shoving, warring, bleeding bodies, but I can no longer see Artagan or any of his men amidst the fray. God go with them. It looks like a scene from hell itself beside the crimson-stained fords.

  Risking another volley, I order our archers to pick off the Saxon horsemen far to the rear. King Penda moves his riders far to the other end of the field, well out of range. Those barbarian riders are Morgan’s problem now. Hopefully, he has enough men-at-arms to repel them.

  The Wolf’s bloody battle standard wavers near where our own lines and Dyfed’s intersect. Despite the back and forth of intermingled armies, the Saxon troops begin to give ground. More and more of them retreat into the shallows of the river, fighting hand to hand with Welshmen clad in green and red. We’re pushing them back!

  I notch another arrow to my bow. The Saxons’ lines start to buckle. Ahern tugs my tunic, drawing my attention toward our own lines.

  “My lady, look!”

  Belin sits astride his fat horse, he and his sons still as boulders in front of their arrayed horsemen. Other than a few swishing tails and bobbing snouts, not a single horse moves. I blink, doubting my own eyes. What on earth is Belin doing? Why do his men not charge in like they did at the siege of Aranrhod? They’re just sitting there, as though waiting. I suck in a sharp breath.

  “No … no.”

  The North Welshmen dip their sackcloth banners. Far in the rear of the Saxon host, King Penda’s horsemen likewise dip their golden and bloody standards in return. White-bearded Belin faces me and my archers. The old king smirks before drawing in his horse and heading to the rear. Rhun and Iago trail their father off the battlefield.

  The North Welshmen follow en masse, retreating back into the wood. I pull at my hair until the roots sting. Ahern looks up at me with furrowed brows.

  “What is King Belin doing?”

  “Betraying us. He dipped his banners toward Penda’s Saxons. The two kings have an understanding.”

  “You mean he sided with our enemies?”

  “Worse than that. He has sealed our doom.”

  18

  Rain comes down in torrents. Thunderheads rumble across the evening sky, gray as headstones. Soaked locks dangle over my face, my head down as my mare stumbles along the muddy switchbacks in the woods. My very bones ache under the relentless downpour. I list in the saddle before Ahern steadies me with his arm.

  I nod in thanks, too weary to speak. He blinks up at me with his one good eye, the other hidden beneath a bloody bandage made from the hem of my tunic. My kinsman will probably never see through that eyeball again. He got off lightly. Glancing over my shoulder, I see the remnants of our tattered army stagger along the slippery trail. Most limp or cradle a bloodied arm. Some will not survive the march. Crimson footprints mark our path.

  My fingers smart from the cold rain and my coarse bowstring. How many arrows did I loosen toward our foes? More than I can count. It mattered not how many Saxons we felled with our deadly darts. More and more poured over us until they overwhelmed the line. Raindrops run down my cheeks like tears, but my eyes have run dry. As the woods darken in the fading blue light, I sink farther into myself. This is truly the End of Days.

  Like a good soldier, Ahern feels the need to report. I barely listen, not wishing to burden my soul with further heartache. But it keeps up his spirit to serve as an efficient guardsman, so I let him mumble on.

  “I’ve garnered the figures in my head as best I can, my lady. At least half our army lies dead, dying, or captured on the battlefield. My last head count found three hundred bowmen left in our ranks, many walking wounded amongst them. The South Welsh lost at least several thousand men, and the Dyfed contingent was completely wiped out.”

  Ahern lowers his head. Even his stoicism begins to crack at the mere mention of Dyfed. I shut my eyes. The wet road lies long before us, a dark endless retreat into the night. It would almost be a mercy if the Saxons cut us down now, but the storm will probably finish us off if the rough forest trails do not.

  Dyfed, Dyfed, Dyfed. My homeland will have nothing but widows left. Amidst the fray, I saw Father fall, pierced by half a dozen Saxon spears. His head probably lies atop a pike now. He was a drunkard and a bully, but it matters not what he might have been in the past. He was still ruler of Dyfed, and my father. The only one I’ll ever have. Struggling to raise my voice, I lean down close to Ahern’s ear.

  “Any word of Artagan?”

  Ahern bites his lip.

  “Nothing certain. Rumor has it he was wounded. Our scouts think Belin’s horsemen took him prisoner.”

  I ball my fists, grinding my teeth. Belin the Old. Belin the Traitor! His men deserted the line and watched as the Saxons swarmed over us like locusts. Falling into his hands seems as bad as being captured by the Saxons. I aim my forefinger at Ahern.

  “Bring these scouts to me. I must have word of my husband.”

  “The scouts are spread out in the rearguard, my lady. We may not see them again until well after nightfall or even dawn.”

  I blow air past my lips. I doubt the sun will ever rise again. Not out of this foggy night. But I cannot fault a single warrior in our ranks, for each fought with valor and skill. The Saxons simply proved too many. Barely speaking above a whisper, I tightly clutch Ahern’s shoulder.

  “What of our own people? Do we know anyone’s fate for certain?”

  “Sir Emryus and Keenan both lie wounded. Their horses carry them now, farther back in the column.”

  Ahern looks down a moment, struggling to regain his voice.

  “But I saw Enid Spear-wife fall myself.”

  I put my face in my hands. Enid. When I close my eyes, I still see her the day I came to Cadwallon’s Keep. Stern as ever, she showed her strength and willfulness amongst the other male warriors and gave me the fortitude to stand tall when fate thrust a warrior’s bow into my own hands. I never gave her credit for inspiring me so. Now I shall never have the chance to tell her. First Father, now Enid, maybe even my beloved husband.

  No. Artagan must still live. I refuse to accept otherwise. But we must push on. No more thoughts tonight. We must make our way back t
o Aranrhod, where the survivors can gather.

  Even in the darkness, the carrion crows caw through the night. The ravens and buzzards feast on the battlefields far behind us, swarming for miles to harvest the corpses of our loved ones. Before the moon rises, bats and wolves will join the unholy banquet.

  My eyelids begin to sag when a thicket of sedge shakes nearby. Ahern immediately orders several men to investigate, leading them through the shadows despite his one good eye. Instinctively grabbing my bow, I realize I have no arrows left. A gruff voice growls from the brush.

  “Unhand me!”

  Ahern returns, tugging a man by the elbow. The rain lets up to a slight drizzle, a pocket of moonlight peeking through the cloud cover. An old, balding man in black sackcloth struggles under Ahern’s grip.

  “What have you found, Ahern?”

  “A spy perhaps, my lady.”

  The man tries to shove Ahern’s firm hand off his arm.

  “I’m a priest, you blockhead!” the man answers, before bowing toward me. “Father David, Your Grace.”

  “Why do you spy upon us from the bushes, Holy Father?” I ask.

  “I was shivering with cold. I’m a wandering parson and gave aid to the wounded at the late battle before the Saxon curs drove me off.”

  Ahern raises a skeptical eyebrow, but I can think of no reason the priest ought to lie. Many a cleric gives succor and last rites to the dying on the battlefield. Nonetheless, I give the priest a stern look.

  “Well, I cannot let you go, Father. Should someone capture you they might learn our whereabouts. I intend to get my people home as safely and secretly as possible.”

  “I would not talk, your ladyship.”

  “Unfortunately, their blades would hack away at you until you did. I’m sorry, Father David. But you’ll have to be our guest for now.”

  “You heard Her Highness,” Ahern says, pushing the parson along.

  The priest protests a moment before surrendering to the march. Turning my pony around, I halt in front of the cleric. Perhaps he saw more of the battle’s aftermath than my scouts did.