by Mark Noce
I shut my eyes, shaking my head. The same man who made me motherless would have had me rent apart by the very same barbarians. God, is there no justice in the world anymore?
The Pictish assassin had to also be Belin’s doing. His long-dead queen was a Pict, or so Morgan always said. All the while, Morgan suspected Artagan when in fact his own brother conspired with Belin against him. Malcolm must have coveted his brother’s throne as much as Owen wanted my father’s.
With Malcolm, the Bishop, and Belin intercepting Ahern’s messages to my father, they would’ve easily known my whereabouts at all times. Hence the Saxons lying in wait when we reached the Dean Fort. That was almost two years ago, and if not for Artagan’s fortuitous appearance, I might have suffered death, capture, or worse at the hands of the Fox and the Wolf.
But even when I reached the safety of the Free Cantrefs, I could not entirely escape beyond Belin’s long reach. Blinded by Morgan and Father’s persistent efforts to recapture me, I never gave a thought to the king in the North who secretly worked against me all the while. But all my enemies still remain each other’s enemies too, and even Belin didn’t want the Saxons conquering the Free Cantrefs. After all, Belin wants to rule all Wales himself, and he certainly doesn’t plan to share it with the Saxons. Both the Welsh and Saxon warlords use each other. Are we any better than barbarians ourselves?
When Rhun’s horsemen lifted the siege, Belin seized the opportunity to try and wed his eldest son to me, thus securing his plans for dominating all Wales. But I would only wed Artagan and none other. So Belin changed his mind, once again seeking to kill me and remove me as a threat. Now that he has me in a Snowden dungeon, he can afford to let me live again. So long as I become his meek slave-bride.
I spit on the floor, drubbing my fist uselessly against the brick walls. Since his betrayal of our armies at the Battle of the Bloody Fords, Belin has the only army and diplomatic alliances left to save Wales. Whether they love him or not, the people will flock to his banners, if only to save their children from slavery at the hands of the Saxons.
Maybe the old King is right. Perhaps I am a fool. A fool to have come here alone, a fool to hope against hope that one woman could make a difference against a world of men bent on destruction and mayhem. All my best-laid plans have landed me in a dank dungeon, alone in a prison fortress high in the frosty peaks of North Wales.
I begin to pray, so utterly alone as tears stream down my cheeks. Hear me, God. Help me, please.
The prison door opens a crack.
A shaft of bronze light penetrates my dark abode. Blinking back my tears, I squint into the bright torchlight as a lone figure descends the steps to my cell. A woman with a round, pregnant belly stops beside the lock, her violet eyes reflecting the ruby torchlight. I rise to my feet.
“Olwen? Did you receive my raven?”
“That was risky of you. Anyone might have intercepted your message. You’re lucky I’m one of the few who can read at this court.”
“I had to try. Will you help me?”
“No.”
My heart sinks. Staggering back, I steady myself on the bulkhead. All is lost. I was truly a fool to apply to Olwen for help. Heavy with child, she carries the next heir to the northern throne. She has no reason under heaven to help me. Has she come to gloat then? I’m the one in a cell while she is the mighty Queen. I won’t beg, if that’s what she’s come to see. For Artagan or my boy, I might, but for my own life, no. I won’t give her the satisfaction. Olwen lowers her face close to the bars.
“I won’t do it for you, but for Artagan’s sake alone do I do this.”
She pulls a key out from beneath her robes and opens the lock. My mouth hangs open, but I do not budge. Still in disbelief, I walk into the light. Purple bags hang under her eyes, her Venus-like face and figure marred by the weight of pregnancy. And something else, I sense. Perhaps life as a queen in frozen Snowden has not proven as pleasant as she might have hoped. Olwen tosses the keys at me, but I still don’t understand.
“What are you doing?”
“The third key will open Artagan’s cell. Come quick. I relieved the guard, but he will return.”
“You free him,” I reply. “I’m not leaving just yet. I have unfinished business with Belin.”
“You truly are crazy.”
Olwen arches an eyebrow, looking at me as though I sprouted a second head. She takes the keys back from me. I pull her close, our breath fogging the other’s face. I still don’t know whether to trust her or not, but I have no choice. She eyes me warily. I ask her the only question that matters.
“You love him still, don’t you?”
Olwen pauses a moment before answering.
“And I always will. Now go. You’ll find everything you need out in the passageway.”
We part, possibly never to see one another again. But our shared love for the same man will always bind us together. Olwen rushes noiselessly down the next hallway while I turn toward a small alcove. All my possessions lie wrapped in a small calfskin bundle, including my bow and quiver. Good. Let’s hope this works. Otherwise, I won’t make it past the first guardhouse.
Scaling the steps back to the main hall, I hear Rhun and Belin speaking together in low tones. It’s well after midnight on a foggy evening, and no other guards stand watch. Probably a few soldiers man the watchtowers outside, but none patrol the interior corridors. Why would they? Threats to a castle normally come from without, not within. And we are deep within northern territory.
Tiptoeing noiselessly to the doorway, I eavesdrop on them. Rhun pours wine into a pair of goblets.
“Something still gnaws at me,” Belin says. “Why did she come all this way by herself?”
“You said it yourself,” Rhun replies. “She’s a woman, and a foolish one at that.”
“Nay, that was just bluster. She’s survived too long to have that much folly.”
“Whatever she planned, it matters not now. She’s our prisoner, and that’s that.”
Rhun takes a full draught of his cup, quickly refilling it with a fresh flagon. Belin taps his chalice, too deep in thought to take a sip. Rhun’s goblet suddenly clatters to the floor, spilling wine across the flagstones. The Prince clutches his throat, his cheeks turning purple. Belin grabs him by the shoulder.
“Rhun? Rhun!”
I loosen the calfskin bundle and withdraw my bow. Notching an arrow to the string, I step into the hall, silent as a wraith. Time for kings and princes to learn that a queen can be just as ruthless as a man.
Belin looks up at me with wide eyes as I stalk into the chamber with my bow. The hearth flames rise and crackle behind him just as the heat rises in my blood. I take aim at his heart. Rhun chokes on the floor, writhing like a fish out of water. Belin growls, knocking over his undrunk cup.
“You’ve poisoned the wine! But you couldn’t have escaped your prison cell, not so quickly.”
“The wine is Lady Olwen’s, as are the jailer’s keys, but the bow is mine own.”
Red in the face, Belin stalks toward me, only to check himself as I draw back my bowstring. He grimaces, stopped cold in his tracks. One shout to the guards will kill us both. Even if his men come running, I can lodge a dart in his throat before they take me down. With one flick of my fingertips, I can send him to the next world. Rhun gurgles on the floor, no longer struggling. King Belin clenches his teeth, his pale blue eyes full of smoldering fury.
“Why? How?”
“Sorry, old man. No sweet speeches from me. This one is for my husband.”
I loose an arrow into his gut. He staggers back against a mead bench, black blood pooling about his feet. It will take some time for him to bleed to death. He cries out. His guards will have heard and arrive soon. I notch another arrow to my longbow.
“This one is for my mother.”
My next arrow embeds itself in his groin. The old man howls like a banshee, his screams echoing off the rafters. The footfalls of boots murmur through the corridors behind m
e. I’ve only a matter of moments. I string one more arrow on my bow.
“And this one is for me.”
The third shot goes through his throat. Red spittle foams over his mouth. The light fades from his icy blue eyes, his head slumping back against the tabletop. So much for the cunning king who would’ve had me dead or caged while he ruled all Wales. Dead as a dog, he lies pinned to his own mead bench by a woman. No more shall Belin’s plots haunt my steps or the steps of my child. I turn around, not even drawing my bow as the clatter of foot soldiers comes my way. There will be too many, and I haven’t a chance. My deed is done. I’m prepared to pay with my life.
Artagan bolts down the hall with his longsword in hand. My pulse quickens as I rise on my feet. He rushes into my arms, his stubble beard grown scraggly and his hair wild. Olwen must have given him his weapons back. Blood runs down his blade.
“Come, I can’t hold them off forever!”
“I thought I was rescuing you.”
“Let me return the favor.”
He blinks at Belin and Rhun’s lifeless bodies on the floor. His eyes dart from my bow to the arrows riddling the old King. Artagan’s mouth hangs open, but we’ve no time for questions. His wife is a killer, guilty as charged. I’ve done it to save us all, and I’d do it again. I take his hand.
Artagan leads me down several winding passageways until I’m quite lost. Obviously, he has learned plenty about the layout of this prison fortress since his incarceration. The roar of foot soldiers echoes behind us, their footsteps getting closer. If Artagan hadn’t bloodied several of them, I doubt the rest would be so timid in trailing us. The Blacksword still strikes fear into men, even when he has languished in a dungeon for a fortnight or two.
We duck out a doorway into a side yard where a tall black stallion waits. Merlin! Olwen holds the steed by the bit, steadying the warhorse while Artagan and I mount the black beast’s broad back. Artagan leans down in the saddle toward Olwen.
“We cannot leave you here!”
“Go!” she replies. “I’ll lead them another way. Promise me you’ll look after him, Branwen.”
Olwen reaches up and places her lips against Artagan’s. My cheeks flush hot as I grit my teeth. Before either my husband or I can respond, Olwen disappears into the shadows. Heavy with another man’s child, her love for Artagan still gives her strength. I know the feeling.
Grabbing Merlin’s reins, I shout into his ear. Astride our mount, Artagan and I gallop out an open side gate, left ajar by Olwen. We ride hard into the night mists while the clatter of steel and voices from Snowden castle rage behind us, all in chaos.
* * *
Artagan speaks softly in my ear as we ride Merlin through the wet woods in daylight. We’ve ridden many leagues without pause, but he can no longer contain his curiosity.
“So Belin was behind the attempts on your life all along?”
“He was the root, but many enemies still remain. Our work is not yet finished.”
My husband halts our horse on the forest road, looking at me with incredulous eyes.
“Your entire plan to free me from Mount Snowden hinged on Olwen betraying her husband and King Belin? You conspired with her based on a single note sent by a messenger raven. That’s beyond risky, Branwen. That’s reckless!”
“I was desperate to get you back. I had no choice but to be reckless.”
“But how could you have known Olwen would help you? You two aren’t exactly friends.”
“No, we’re not.” I smile. “But, you see, she loves you. Almost as much as I do.”
He gives me another sidelong glance, probably wondering if I’m serious or not, so I explain it to him.
“Your mother was right,” I begin. “Love is the most powerful force in the world. Warmongers like Belin and Morgan see love as a weakness, something that has no place in this harsh world of barbarians and plotting warlords. But you see how it has actually proven to be stronger than all their swords and armies and conniving put together. I used love, Olwen’s love for you specifically, and I wielded it like a lightning bolt.”
Artagan blinks as though seeing me for the first time. He smiles before leaning over to give me a kiss on the cheek.
“Thank you, Branwen. For saving my life. For saving our life together.”
“Don’t thank me just yet,” I reply with a smile as I start our horse forward again. “We’ve much work to do yet if we are to save our kingdom and our people too.”
The fog banks part over the valley as Aranrhod comes into view. My heart skips a beat at the sight of home. My husband’s arms wrap warmly around me. Suddenly weary, I realize that I have not slept in two days. I’ve ridden hard, as though hell itself followed in my wake. Artagan guides our stallion down the switchbacks into the green vale as a hunting horn sounds from the battlements.
My ears perk up. That can only be Ahern’s horn. He has returned! Perhaps Annwyn has as well.
Hardly able to sit in the saddle, I collapse into Artagan’s arms once we dismount in the castle courtyard. Rowena blanches at the sight of us, rushing forward with a bucket of water. The Blacksword and I must look like a pair of bloodied beggars. My eyelids hang heavy. I stagger toward my bedchamber, intent on reaching my cot before I pass out. Ahern bows to both myself and the King, begging to report. I breathe in deeply, making one last effort to focus my mind. My temples ache.
“Well, Ahern?”
“It’s been arranged. King Malcolm will meet you at the rendezvous tomorrow at dawn.”
Artagan steps between us.
“What in perdition is he talking about?”
Waving my husband away, I reach out for Ahern. I’ve no time to explain just yet.
“Any word from Annwyn?” I ask my brother.
“None, Your Grace. None at all.”
He frowns. I nod absentmindedly, the walls starting to swim in my vision. Heaving myself onto my bed, I sink into the mattress in my grimy and dirty rags. No matter. The world descends into a deep, dreamless sleep.
I awake after dark to the sound of pouring water. Rowena stands behind a steaming vat, much as she did the first time we met at Caerleon. Blinking at the fire in the brazier, I wonder for a moment if the past few days have been a dream. Maybe the past few years as well. Am I any different from that sixteen-year-old girl who first rode to Morgan’s wedding?
My son’s cries echo from across the chamber. Rowena quits prepping the bath in order to see to the child, but I raise a hand to stop her. I am a mother now, not some scared child-bride after all. It is no dream. This is my castle and my life. This is where I belong.
Rubbing my eyes, I stagger toward the hot water before I pause over Gavin’s cradle. He stops wailing, his azure eyes smiling up at me. I flash a grin and touch his tiny nose. Removing my ragged garments, I slip into the bath and brush myself clean before taking Gavin into the lukewarm waters with me. Together we sit a while in the warm vapors, just looking at one another. Rowena wraps him up afterward in a towel and prepares him for bed.
My stomach rumbles. Gnawing on a plate of food beside the firelight, I devour three apples down to their cores, a leg of mutton, and a bowl of porridge. Enough provender to choke a pig, but after my recent journeys I seem to have a bottomless stomach. I pause to kiss Gavin on the brow before Rowena takes him to his nursery.
Alone in my room, I take a moment to peruse my bookshelves. After all my perils and near scrapes with death in the last few days, the comfort of a book by the fireside seems like heaven itself. I thumb through one of Abbot Padraig’s old tomes, thinking on the late monk with a smile.
A passage from the legends of my namesake, Branwen the Brave.
And though all had come to naught, the strong and beloved Queen Branwen gave her life to save her people. Just as Our Savior did so to save the world, so too did Branwen know that the greatest act of love is sacrifice. And though her life ended, her people endure to this day.
My fingertips tremble as I put down the book.
I often wondered why my mother named me after such a tragic figure from the folklore of the Old Tribes. It is as though both Padraig and Mother speak to me through these worn pages even now. Such is the magic of books. They allow the living to converse with those long gone, but not forgotten. I ruminate over the passage again, hearing those words first in the Abbot’s voice and then my mother’s. The greatest act of love is sacrifice, indeed.
Footsteps on the stairwell suddenly draw my attention. Father David enters the room with Artagan and Ahern close behind. They all look grim. My spine tenses. Barring the door behind them, the priest speaks first.
“My Queen, a raven arrived while you slept. More news from my monastic friends.”
“And what have the monks written that gives you that long face?”
“I’m sorry to bear such ill tidings, my Queen. Lady Annwyn is dead.”
My throat stops up. Unable to swallow, I look up at Artagan. He turns aside, his profile cast in shadows by the orange glow of the hearth. Although cleaned and dressed, he looks more dejected than I have ever seen him. A lone tear streams down his face, his eyes red. He has been weeping. Rising to my feet, I embrace him from behind, whispering in his ear.
“I’m sorry, my love. So sorry. She wanted to go. She knew she was dying.”
Artagan nods, unable to speak. Perhaps he already knew of her condition as well, but it doesn’t make this any easier to accept. I hold him close, feeling his heartbeat through his ribs. Father David clears his throat.
“There is more, my lady. She was killed in Dyfed, by King Owen’s guardsmen.”
Ahern grimaces.
“Owen’s no proper king, the blackguard! Tell her the rest, Father.”
“The guards killed her because…,” the priest trails off. “Because when she met with Owen as your envoy, she drew a knife and stabbed him to death. By the time the guards intervened, both Annwyn and Owen had perished.”
Artagan and I exchange looks, but neither of us speaks. So his mother forwent her famed pacifism in order to save her family. To save her son’s life, and mine, and that of our child. I shut my eyes. This was her last sacrifice. I knew in my heart that it would come to something like this, but I never dared admit it aloud to myself. Nonetheless, both Annwyn and I knew what she had to do. My heart weighs heavy in my chest as I hang my head. I will never see such a woman of the Old Tribes again, the woman who taught me to believe in myself and to be the queen I was born to be.