by Mark Noce
I can see only but one conclusion, but I must know for certain. I turn to my guardsman.
“Ahern, fetch me the priest! Quickly!”
Annwyn raises an eyebrow, flashing a knowing smile, as though she senses the change in me. Whatever spirit guides me now, I have no time to question it. Ahern returns with Father David at his side, the holy man panting hard. I snap my fingers at the priest.
“Father, did you yourself see Morgan fall at the Bloody Fords?”
“Aye, the Wolf struck him down with his own hands.”
“But Malcolm got away with Bishop Gregory close beside him. Neither Belin nor the Saxons pursuing them?”
“As a matter of fact, they did, come to think of it. I thought it odd at the time, but the battle was all chaos. How did you know about that?”
“I didn’t.”
A frown creases my cheeks. It is worse than I feared. All this time, my shadowy foe has employed several highly placed conspirators in every plot against me. There may be a single author who has attempted to pen my demise, but this implacable villain has also arranged a small cadre of allies to ensnare me and all those I hold dear.
Wise old Annwyn leans her hard-set face close to mine.
“You sense now who conspired against you, child, from the very beginning, don’t you?”
“Not just one, but multiple conspirators. But yes, I think I know the root now. But I must test my intuition to make sure before we strike.”
Ahern and the priest exchange looks. Each of them questions me as to who my mysterious enemy might be. Malcolm? The late Morgan? King Penda? I shake my head, refusing to answer anyone directly.
“Just give me time to think, no more questions now,” I reply. “I shall have some important tasks for each of you soon. But I need time to sort it all out first. When I’m ready, I’ll call on each of you. The fate of all Wales and our very lives may well depend upon what we do in the next few days.”
I shall have to risk everything on one last gamble. The time for playing it safe has long since passed. But will my enemies see this coming? I bite my lower lip, contemplating how to best use the chess pieces that remain in this game of life and death.
Despite my troubled face, Annwyn flashes a half-grin.
“So you know what to do then?”
“I have a plan. Not much, but a plan nonetheless.”
* * *
We gather our mounts beneath a broad oak tree outside the castle gates. Drizzling mists obscure the mountains that surround Aranrhod and the vale, filling the air with a damp, cool piney scent. Ahern and Annwyn sidle up next to me atop their mounts. Rowena and the priest remain on foot. My pony Gwenhwyfar sidesteps beneath me as I gently shush her and smooth her dew-covered mane. We’ve a long journey ahead of us, girl. You’ll need every ounce of strength before the week runs out. I sit tall in the saddle.
“Does everyone know what to do?”
They nod their heads. Good. Father David glosses over a crumpled parchment.
“Another raven has come from my friend in the western monastery. Word has it that King Urien has died of old age in the northern Free Cantrefs.”
I sigh. How will Olwen take the news of her father’s passing? There will be more bloodshed once Rhun’s horsemen try to claim Urien’s Motte from the Free Cantref bowmen there. As though Wales hasn’t suffered enough. But there’s nothing I can do about that now. Father David clears his throat, still reading.
“Another piece of news as well: a knight named Sir Owen has claimed the crown in Dyfed.”
Ahern smacks his fist into his other palm.
“The upstart! The coward should’ve died at Bloody Fords with his kin, instead of playing sick. I’d like to give him a taste of my cold steel.”
I grab my kinsman’s mount by the bridle.
“You’ve your own task, brother. You ride for Caerleon and Annwyn will go to Dyfed.”
“And you, my lady?”
“I ride for North Wales and Belin’s court.”
Thunder rumbles in the distance. Another storm moving in. We’ve little time. Annwyn, Ahern, and I each nod toward one another before parting our mountain ponies. Let our desperate gamble begin. Each of us trots off in different directions into the wet woods. Calling back over my shoulder, I wave toward Rowena and the cleric.
“Look after my son and Aranrhod until I return. Pray for us!”
The priest makes the sign of the cross while Rowena stifles her tears behind her hand. As I ride alone through the dripping woodlands, a flash of lightning splits an ancient oak tree nearby. Halting my whinnying mare, I see the silhouette of Aranrhod’s towers looming in the distance. Perhaps the closest place I ever had to a true home, and perhaps the last time I shall ever look upon it. Lowering my gaze, I dig my heels into Gwenhwyfar’s flanks as the rain renews its strength. Godspeed.
Before an hour runs out, my soaked locks plaster themselves against my face. Biting, cold winds chill me to the bone. I urge my mare northward through the wilds. Winding through brambles and thickets, we push on during a letup in the rain.
In spite of the harsh weather, my stout pony moves fast as a hawk across the damp landscape, splashing through mud and mires. Yet with every mile I come to dread reaching my destination more and more. Despite my well-laid plans, I know I have overlooked something. The plot against me may be about politics and kingships, but there’s more to it than that. Something personal lurks in the malice of these deeds set against me, whether from an assassin’s knife or a Saxon ax. A knot tightens in my stomach, but still I spur my mare on.
After dark, a milky moon rises over the clouds and lights my way along the trail. Nothing but the sound of wind, dripping leaves, and my pony’s clacking hooves sound through the still night. Despite my mare’s panting breath, I push her harder still. We’ve so little time. My thighs ache and my head feels heavy as lead.
As I bob in the saddle, Annwyn and Ahern continually come to mind even though they’re many leagues away by now. Did I give them clear enough instructions? Perhaps I have forgotten something important. I may never see either of them again. Maybe I’ve even sent us all to our deaths. Shaking my head, I struggle to stay focused. Ride, just ride on. The time for doubts has passed. I’ve staked everything on this. We must succeed. We must.
The salty breath of the sea washes over the near hills. The scent of the ocean. Good. The castles of Belin the Old cannot be far. I’ve probably already crossed into their dominions. Despite the many ridges and rivers that intersperse our country, Wales isn’t a large realm as the crow flies, at least not compared to the sprawling Saxon domains far to the east. A single rider unburdened by armor can traverse much of it if they throw safety to the wind.
Galloping through a ravine, my pony suddenly lurches beneath me and cries out. Sending me vaulting from her back, I collapse in the mud. Gwenhwyfar stumbles on a limp leg, her hoof entangled in briar snares. Damnation! Now I’ll never reach Belin’s castle in time. Certainly not on horseback anyway. Poor creature. I try to shush her and pat her neck. She perks her ears, still favoring one foreleg.
My gaze narrows. Those snares don’t belong to anything natural, merely rough ropes with thorns woven into them. My eyes suddenly widen. I’ve stumbled into a trap.
The rumble of horseshoes fills the shadowy dell. Dozens of horsemen encircle me. Their tall pikes seem to pierce the overcast sky. The lead rider halts before me, lowering his long spear near my jugular. He grins as a sliver of moonlight cuts across his dark beard. My throat runs dry when Rhun edges his spear-point closer.
“What have we here? A princess pretending to be a queen? My father will wish to see you.”
He nods toward one of his cavalrymen, the man drawing a short blade. Before I can blink, he slashes at my pony’s throat. The mare’s red blood spills across her white flanks. My heart twists sideways.
“No!”
I reach out for my dying mare as hands ensnare me from behind.
19
Belin laughs
.
“You must be the stupidest little girl ever born.”
He paces the stony floors of the empty castle hall, fierce winds howling through cracks in the vaulted ceilings. A lone hearth fire flickers in the corner while Rhun waits in the doorway behind me. The bald, white-bearded king stops and smirks. My drenched, frayed garments hang limp from my shivering limbs, bespeckled with mud and mare’s blood. Poor Gwenhwyfar. I ball my right fist, wishing I could knock the old man’s jaw off. If only Rhun’s men hadn’t taken my bow. King Belin grins, amused at my consternation.
“You’re a fool to come to Snowden alone. Did you think I’d simply hand your husband over to you?”
“I thought you’d have some honor left!” I reply, only half-telling the truth. “To make amends for what you did at Bloody Fords.”
Belin shakes his head with a laugh, pacing the floors again.
“Queens. So arrogant. Just like your mother.”
My eyebrows rise.
“What do you know of my mother, old man?”
Belin stops, clenching his jaw. A frosty blue coldness in his gaze reminds me of a serpent. All the jovialness fades from his face.
“You look just like her. She was a beauty in her youth. But willful, arrogant, unyielding.”
“She was a kind woman, a healer, and a stewardess of her people.”
“Bah! She betrayed her people. She had the same choice you have before you now.”
“What choice? What are you talking about?”
“She could have united our people, all Wales against the Saxons. Instead she spurned me.”
An icy, prickly sensation wends its way down my neck. Suddenly an image of my dream the other night comes unbidden to my mind, the memory of my mother at the loom and the strange man who scared her. Belin. Younger, his hair was darker then, but it was definitely him in that half-forgotten memory of early childhood. It’s as though my mother were trying to speak to me from beyond the grave. My gaze narrows on the old king.
“You offered her your hand in marriage? To my mother?”
Belin knocks a dish from a nearby tabletop, the pewter plate rattling against the cobblestone floor. I back up against a wall. Despite the airiness of the empty mead hall, it feels like a prison cell all the same. Artagan must be held captive here somewhere. One problem at a time. I must focus on the task at hand. Belin turns his back to me. The old man’s shoulders sag with regret.
“She went and married that dog, Vortigen of Dyfed, instead! She and I could have changed Wales forever. With her people in the South and mine in the North, we might have bound up all Wales into a single nation. Like I said, she betrayed her people.”
The old man bares his soul to me, almost on a whim. But why? Belin the Old, Belin the Cunning, Belin the Traitor, these are his names. He is not a man known for initiating a heart-to-heart. Quietly spinning his plots from his kingdom in the North, he has sought to subjugate all Wales under his rule before his rivals realized what was happening. And all the while my very existence as a queen of the Old Tribes has been a constant thorn in his side. My marriages to rival Welsh kings in Caerwent and later Aranrhod have provided an unwitting counterweight to his plans.
Belin walks to an arrow slit, staring at the cold barren crags outside Snowden castle. Leagues upon leagues of upland wastes. The worn, time-carven land reminds me of the lines on his ancient face.
Coldness creeps into my bones. Belin would only tell me these things for one reason. He never intends to let me go. And there is only one reason he would keep me prisoner now. My lips tremble as I strive to speak.
“My mother didn’t betray her people. She betrayed you. Is that what this is all about?”
“What is any of this life about? Power? Love? Power lost and gained. Love gained and lost.”
Glaring at his back, I struggle to keep my voice even.
“You’re the one who has sought to destroy me. All along, it was you at the root of it.”
“I wondered when we would come to that.”
He turns his steely gaze upon me. The spider at the center of so many webs. Like a fool, I have strayed into his nest. The man who sought to destroy me from the outset now has me in his power.
Sweat beads along my brow. I came here for two reasons, to free my husband and to find out for sure who has been plotting my demise all these years. And now I know for certain, but little good it does me in trying to free Artagan.
But Belin does not fool me now. His unrequited love for my mother was merely the seed of his enmity toward me and my family. I see it clear as day on his face. He fed his vengeful heart ever afterward on his lust for power and his greed for more land. A true warmonger, he only finds pleasure and meaning in life through wealth and dominance, all the while hiding it behind the mask of a quiet old man. No matter how much of Wales he takes, it will never fill the emptiness inside him. It will never be enough.
I swallow hard, stalling for time. Trying to think.
“How did you manage it?” I begin. “Saxons? Assassins? A lot to send against one young girl.”
He paces around the fire, eyeing me with the calculating patience of a hungry wolf.
“By now I suppose you know of your guardsman’s messages to your father, sent via Bishop Gregory.”
“You were the one intercepting and reading those letters.”
“It goes much deeper than that, little girl. I had my spies in several courts, men who sought the power I’ve now given them.”
My mind races, trying to keep up. The signs were in front of me all along, but I had neither the insight nor the will to see it. I’ve been looking at the kings in power when I should’ve been looking at their next of kin, the heirs who would inherit their thrones once men like King Morgan and my father were dead.
I begin to pace, so as to keep the distance between us.
“Owen and Malcolm,” I deduce. “They betrayed their kings so that they might rule in their stead.”
“Very good. And now they will swear allegiance to me, because I and I alone have a treaty with the Saxons and can restrain them. I also have the only sizable army left in all Wales. Our entire country will be united under one banner. Mine.”
“Not so long as I live. My marriage to Morgan united half of Wales against you. Even when I ran off with Artagan, that still posed too strong a threat to your power.”
He merely scoffs in reply, not even remotely intimidated by my continued defiance. But something in his words still does not add up. After all, it was his army that came to our aid when the Saxons first cornered us at Aranrhod.
“But you saved us during the siege of Aranrhod,” I counter. “Why?”
“For the same reason I offer to save you now. The prospect of marriage. I sent my son to woo you, but you proved as evasive as your mother.”
“Rhun is wed to Olwen, and I to Artagan. That’s marriages aplenty.”
“But not to me. With you as my queen, the rest of Wales will fall into line. It is the choice I offered your mother once, and the choice I offer you now.”
My stomach turns over. Me marry him? He’s mad. Not to mention I already have a husband, who I’m sure would suffer an accident as soon as Belin took me as his bride. The mere thought of anything evil befalling Artagan lances my heart. Backing up against the cold stone wall, I wish I could run. The man before me is no king, only a monster.
“You cannot be serious! I’ve been married twice. That’s more than enough. You’ve tried to kill me, for God’s sake! Sending Saxons and assassins after me. You say this is all about uniting Wales, about kingships and kingdoms, but we both know that’s only half the story. You see my mother when you look at me. This is your chance to set right the supposed wrongs you’ve suffered.”
Belin bangs his fist against a tabletop.
“I can never right the wrongs that have been done! If I cannot have her, I will have the kingdom our marriage should have brought under my rule. The entire Welsh nation.”
I slowly shake my head.
“I was wrong. You cared nothing for my mother. You only wanted the lands that her hand in marriage would’ve brought you.”
He shrugs, lost in his own recollections for a moment.
“It was I who gave the Saxons their boats when they raided Dyfed all those years ago. They were supposed to take her prisoner after you and Vortigen had been killed.”
My eyes widen, my hand rushing to my throat. Mother dead because of him? Because of him! Before I can think, I have my hands around his collar. I can see only red, the sound of pumping blood rising in my ears. The old man tries to push me off, but my palms tighten around his fat throat. A rough hand grabs me about the middle, pulling me off as I kick and shout. Rhun restrains me with an iron grip, but I lash out for Belin all the same. Damn him! Damn them both. Belin rubs his sore neck.
“Put her in the dungeons! She will wed me one way or the other. If she comes willingly, I’ll let her precious Artagan live. Maybe. Otherwise, I’ll hang him tomorrow. Let her cool her heels and think on that.”
More guards hold back my arms as Rhun takes me down into the frigid dungeons. Thrown in a cell, I lie sprawled on the floor, cradling my wrists. The cell door shuts with a squeak. Rhun gives me a last smirk before closing the dungeon entranceway. All turns to impenetrable darkness.
I hug my knees close to my chest, shivering in the frozen blackness. It cannot end like this. Belin cannot win. He decided long ago that if he couldn’t have my mother, no one could. And now he has laid the same ultimatum upon me, the daughter of the woman he once both loved and hated. Now that he has me at his mercy, he’d rather keep me as a caged pet, the final feather in his cap after a life spent plotting and scheming, first against my mother and then against me.
The wheels spin in my mind, recalling every step of Belin’s endless plots. When the Saxons first attacked me on the King’s Road before my betrothal, it must have been Belin who unleashed the Fox and the Wolf against me.
Owen was already a herald in Father’s court, but I hardly knew him then and paid him no mind. He could have easily gotten word to Belin, who in turn would’ve lent the Saxons the same ships they used against my mother all those years ago.