by Mark Noce
“Mother?”
“Yes, child. It is I.”
“But how? Am I…? What is…?”
She shushes me with a gentle finger to my lips. My limbs relax, my head suddenly lighter than a feather. My voice sounds no stronger than a child’s.
“Mother, you won’t leave me now, will you?”
“I never left. I’ve watched you, shared your suffering and your joys. I’m very proud of you.”
“Can I stay with you?”
“Soon enough. But you must rest. Know that I love you and will always be with you.”
I sense that despite what she says, she will leave me, but I cannot seem to voice it. Warmth radiates from her touch. I nuzzle her cheek.
“I don’t want to be alone.”
“No one with love is ever alone. And you, Branwen, you have many who love you.”
“Mother? Mother!”
Everything dims. Awash in an inky darkness, I hear muffled voices surrounding me. They sound close but indistinguishable, as though I listen through a clay jar. Golden shafts of light glow behind my eyelids.
“Shh. She’s coming around.”
Blinking back the sunlight from the window, I see Rowena leaning over me with a careworn face. Lying on my cot inside my bedchamber, I find that I can barely move my head. A soreness envelops me, making me groan. When I try to rise, Rowena presses her palms against my chest.
“Easy, m’lady. You’ve been out for three days. I thought more than once that you’d left us.”
“Rowena? Are you really here?”
“Of course.” She smiles. “We all are.”
Gavin coos from Artagan’s arms as he sits on the bed beside me. Artagan presses his lips to mine, our little boy murmuring between us. I smile at my husband and my son. My men. Breathing deeply, I try to flex my wrist. I wince as a sting runs up my elbow. My left arm lies in a sling and my skin aches from a dozen different wounds, but at least I can wriggle my toes and sit up in the covers.
Familiar faces smile from across the room, all gathered around my bedstead. Gray-bearded Emryus and bald Father David. Sir Keenan with his infant daughter Mina in his arms. Ahern sniffles, wiping the tears of joy from his beard. I almost chuckle until a woman in a dark habit nods from across the alcove.
“Una?”
She curtsies.
“I prayed when I heard what happened, and received permission from the cloister to come here as soon as I could.”
Rowena smiles beside her, one arm wrapped around her friend, now a woman of God. Pressing my lips together, I feel the water welling up behind my eyes. Their love, like their warm smiles, is as tangible as the blankets on my bed. So many loved ones no longer number amongst us though. Enid, Padraig, Cadwallon, Annwyn, Father, Mother. But I sense their presence with us still, arm in arm with the living who make this castle home.
Turning to Artagan, I kiss him again. My love. I’ve so many questions, but I don’t know where to begin.
“Tell me everything.”
“I shall,” he says with a wink. “But first, we’ve a feast to attend, and you’re the matron of honor.”
I narrow my eyes. A feast? The unseasonable rains have dampened the harvest. I don’t see how we could have much left to eat at all. But I shan’t argue. My stomach growls, and I still feel a touch lightheaded. Artagan guides me down to the courtyard and out the castle gates. Despite my unsteady steps, it feels like heaven to feel warm sunshine on my cheek. Everything seems out of season, first rain in summer and now warmth in the early days of autumn. I seem to have strayed out of time entirely.
Villagers gather along the lawns outside Aranrhod, bundling sheathes of ripened wheat and toting sacks of grain. Womenfolk reach out to touch the hem of my robes, familiar faces of mothers and daughters who stood with me during the siege last year and helped rebuild the castle afterward. Bowmen salute by raising their longbows overhead, defenders of the vale in war and huntsmen in times of peace. Children scurry playfully about the blankets laid out on the greens, their ever-present focus untroubled by worries about the future or memories of the past. Minstrels pipe dancing airs as the peasants form circles for jigs. The scent of roasting meat permeates the grounds as venison sizzles over hearths and spits. Stopping to clutch Artagan’s hand, I whisper in his ear.
“How is all this possible? Plenty of food, meat, smiles on every cheek?”
“All in good time. First we eat.”
Mead benches from the main hall cover the lawns, reminding me of market fairs we once had in Dyfed when I was a child. I’ve not seen such gatherings since peacetime. Barrel taps fill flagon after flagon with glistening cider and foaming ales. Artagan stands atop a table, raising his goblet high overhead.
“To Queen Branwen, who gave us victory when all the world had turned to defeat. To my wife, Mab Ceridwen!”
“Mab Ceridwen!” the crowds reply.
My household joins me around the table, bringing over fresh plates of mutton, deer, and beef. Steaming barley bowls and tall piles of oat cakes fill the platters before me. Even with one arm in a sling, I manage to empty several dishes in a matter of breaths. Downing a cup of cider, I finally sit back with a belch. My fingertips buzz with a hint of inebriation. I pat my sated stomach. I’ve earned this day and I intend to enjoy it. But it all still seems a dream. I half-expect my mother to come walking amongst the tables. How is this all possible?
Father David appears with a scroll under one arm and leans down beside Artagan’s ear. The King nods, turning toward me with a steer’s bone in hand. He smiles at me between bites.
“Let the Queen hear,” Artagan says to Father David as the priest shows him the scroll in hand. “These tidings may help answer some of her questions.”
“As you wish, my liege,” the priest says with a bow. “I’ve word from Queen Olwen. She has wed Iago, the new king of North Wales. King Iago reports pleasure in his new kingship and offers peace between our kingdoms. He also sadly reports that his father and elder brother perished in a mysterious attack by wolves, but that the matter has been put to rest.”
I exchange looks with Artagan. Wolves indeed. Young Iago seems thirsty enough for the throne, so much so that he didn’t even blink at the assassination of his father and brother. In some royal families, no amount of blood relation can quell ambition. Olwen must have Iago wrapped around her finger as well as in her bed. And yet it was love that drove her to help Artagan escape, allowing me to try to save Wales. She loves my husband enough to betray the father of her child and marry his brother. But how can I fault her? Artagan’s love could drive any woman to any lengths. I stare into my empty cup.
“We owe Queen Olwen a great debt,” I admit.
“She has one request of us,” the cleric adds. “But it is no small matter.”
“Anything. We owe her as much.”
“Very well then. She recently gave birth to a healthy baby boy, and has sent us her newborn son to be fostered here at Aranrhod. I believe she fears what her new husband may do to his brother’s boy, since it will be a rival to any heirs he plans to have. Meanwhile, our fostering of the boy will ensure the peace between us and the North.”
“Does the child have a name?” I inquire.
“Cadwallon.”
Artagan raises an eyebrow.
“Like my father,” the King remarks.
“When did you say this child would arrive?” I ask.
“The infant is already here,” David says with a bow.
Rowena sits beside a cradle and a basket, one with Mina and the other with Gavin sleeping soundly. In her arms she holds another tiny, bald baby wrapped in a swaddling cloth of royal purple. I tiptoe quietly beside Rowena. My goodness, our household will be boisterous as a cattle pen with three young ones soon running around within the next year. Gavin, Mina, and young Cadwallon. Perhaps Olwen’s son and mine will have a chance to grow up together, close as friends in a way that Olwen and I never could. Perhaps this is the best way to unite Wales in the years ahead.
By forging strong ties of friendship and fosterage from birth instead of marriage beds and assassins in the night.
“Forgive me, my Queen,” Father David quietly interrupts, drawing me aside. “There is more.”
“More?”
“I’ve word from Gwent in South Wales, although only a few ravens have gotten through. It seems a certain falcon nesting in the tower eaves is scaring them off.”
Glancing up at my tower within the fortress walls, I spy a falcon circling the ramparts. Its cry pierces the azure sky. I cannot help but grin. Vivian. She has chosen to nest beside my own tower windowsill. Good. I shall take her out to hunt all the field mice she can stomach. Father David warily eyes the soaring raptor, doubtlessly concerned about his beleaguered ravens.
“Who sent us a message from the South?” I ask. “King Malcolm is dead, no?”
“The new ruler of Caerleon, Your Grace. King Griffith.”
“Lord Griffith, now a king? I thought him captured by the Saxons.”
“Evidently, he escaped and rallied the survivors at Caerleon where they made him their sovereign. He has accepted the role of royal steward until the boy, Prince Arthwys, comes of age. King Griffith has offered terms of peace between our kingdom and his.”
Holding my good hand to my head, I blink incredulously. Could fortune smile on us so? A favorable king rules Caerleon in the South, an allied queen controls the monarchy in the North, and both have made peace with us. If only we had word from Dyfed, but I fear they have been made impotent by their own civil strife. Plague and war have weakened them as well. At least they no longer pose a sizable threat, not so long as they bicker amongst themselves. Putting a palm on Father David’s shoulder, I give the old priest a kiss on the cheek. He colors marvelously.
“I take it you accept King Griffith’s offer of peace?” the priest asks.
“I do, but what of the Saxons? We’ve slain the Fox and the Wolf, yet their forces remain.”
“You’ve not heard, my lady? Of course not. You’ve been convalescing. After the capture of Caerwent, the beleaguered Saxon armies fought amongst themselves over the spoils. King Penda’s forces and the West Saxons have begun feuding along each other’s borders.”
“You mean the Saxons are actually fighting each other?”
“Better than that, my Queen. Despite their victories, their armies suffered substantial losses. While the West Saxons remain our foes, they are much diminished in strength. As for King Penda, he has honored the peace treaty made with North Wales and extends his pact of nonaggression with any who call King Iago and Queen Olwen friends.”
“Alleluia.”
Just think of it. Barbarians fighting barbarians. Peace or no, the Saxons will doubtlessly break their word sooner or later, but for now, at least we will have a respite from war.
That’s all I ask, Lord.
Just time enough to heal our country’s wounds, for the next generation to grow up, and our fields to fill with crops again instead of graves. The threat to Wales has not vanished, but it has been held at bay for at least another generation. I close my eyes, a leaden weight lifting from my chest. At least my son will inherit the same country my mother and father left me.
And all my enemies are dead. This will take more than a few days to properly sink in. The year 599 has brought us much pain, pleasure, and promise all at once. God gave me a son, but also took many loved ones from us in the defeat at Bloody Fords. Yet he ultimately delivered us from evil and has given us peace in our day. The Lord truly works in mysterious ways.
Across the castle stables, a boy gives a bucket of feed to Merlin, my stallion limping from the spear wound he received from the Saxons. The horse will recover, but will bear the scars of this war for the rest of his life. Perhaps all we can do is thank God for the life we have, and do our best to live well with the days we’ve been given.
After thanking the priest, I return to the festivities. By now, many of the villagers have joined dancing circles, sloshing drink and porridge along the grass. Mingled voices, laughter, and song fill the meadows beside the castle and the woods. Wrapping my good arm around Artagan’s neck, I kiss his clean-shaven cheek while he pours himself another drink. He cackles with glee.
“Can you believe the wonders God has bestowed on us? A fortnight ago, all seemed lost. Look at us now! And we all have you to thank for it, Branwen. You truly are an amazing woman, you know that?”
“One thing still puzzles me. With such a meager harvest, how did you manage such a banquet?”
“Did Una not tell you? Her cloister shared their grain stores with us. In exchange, I’ve offered them protection and patronage.”
“Una arranged that? That will prevent us from starving this winter. And I thought she’d forgotten about us.”
“Who could ever forget you? Everyone loves you! And I most of all.”
His lips travel down my throat. It takes me a moment to playfully push him away. Women and men alike throw us knowing looks, smiling at their King’s friskiness with his wife. I plant a long kiss on Artagan’s cheek, whispering a few vivid scenes from our bedchamber that ought to tide him over until nightfall. He beams at me with the eagerness of a young stag in season. I cannot help but grin back at him.
The joyfulness on everyone’s faces reminds me much of our wedding night. Like that festival, many more children will doubtlessly be sired tonight. And why shouldn’t it be so? We’ve had enough widows and orphans to last a lifetime. The hills and dales of Wales will fill with the laughter of children once more, and the steady heartbeats of men and women in love.
Looking out over the rolling downs and verdant woods beneath the mountains, the vale has never seemed brighter. Green dragon banners fly proudly over Aranrhod’s towers. A good castle, my castle. How far I have traveled from that long-ago day when I was a scared girl living by the sea, betrothed to a man I had never seen. Now I have my true love by my side, my husband and my child. I have many guises, yet within me they all coalesce into one.
Wife, mother, lover, friend, and, of course, queen.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my family and friends, whose support and love continue to inspire me. A special eternal thanks to my wife, my muse. I love you.
I have to thank my agent, Rena, for first seeing the potential in my book, and giving me the wings to give it flight. Thank you a hundred times over, Rena. I will always be indebted to you.
I’d also like to thank everyone at Thomas Dunne Books and St. Martin’s Press, especially Pete, Emma, Annie, Elizabeth, and Elsie. Your hard work and dedication helped make this novel what it is today.
Thank you to my beta readers and fellow bloggers, too numerous to count, but all valuable friends who offered their precious time and advice out of the goodness of their own hearts. I am truly humbled by your generosity and kindness.
Finally, I’d like to thank God. You really do work miracles.
About the Author
MARK NOCE writes historical fiction with a passion. Born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area, he has been an avid traveler and backpacker. He earned his bachelor of arts and master of arts degrees from Cal Poly, San Luis Obispo, where he also met his beautiful wife. By day, he works as a technical writer, having spent much of his career at places such as Google and Facebook. He also writes short fiction online. When not reading or writing, he’s probably listening to U2, sailing his dad’s boat, or gardening with his family. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Part One: A.D. 597
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part Two: A.D. 598
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part Three: A.D. 599
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
BETWEEN TWO FIRES. Copyright © 2016 by Mark Noce. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Elsie Lyons
Cover photographs: woman © Sandra Cunningham/Trevillion Images; knight © Stephen Mulcahy/Trevillion Images; Celtic knot © Triling Studio Ltd./Shutterstock
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Noce, Mark, author.
Title: Between two fires / Mark Noce.
Description: First edition.|New York: Thomas Dunne Books/St. Martin’s Press, 2016.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016002481|ISBN 9781250072627 (hardback)|ISBN 9781466884434 (e-book)
Subjects: LCSH: Nobility—Wales—History—To 1063—Fiction.|Great Britain—History—Anglo-Saxon period, 449-1066—Fiction.|Wales—History—To 1063—Fiction.|BISAC: FICTION / Historical.|GSAFD: Historical fiction.