by Mark Noce
Every fiber of my being wants to sink to my knees and beg Artagan not to go. Just run, run away from all of this. We could live happy and poor as sparrows in some mountainside cottage with our family. Deep in the wilds we could simply flee and forget the rest of this troubled world. I know we could.
But Artagan will not yield as an enemy seeks to subjugate our people, and why should he? He is a king, after all, and I am his queen. I will not send him into battle without the blessing of the woman he loves. I squeeze his hand, summoning the last false confidence into my face. My voice barely rises above a whisper as I glance at Bal, then back at my husband.
“Bring me his heart, lover. If he has one. Bring me back his black, bloody heart.”
Without a second glance, I lead my mare and my husband’s stallion back toward our own lines. All eyes seem to rest on me, but the soldiers give me a wide berth. Only one soul dares sidle her horse next to me. Olwen sits still in the saddle, not saying a word as she waits beside me. We will watch Artagan’s fate together, whatever it may be. The two women in all the world who love him most.
Across the greens and the river between us, Sab’s black-and-blue figure stands apart from her army. Despite the ten thousand souls who surround us, I know her eyes rest only on me. As though the two of us were alone together, on opposing sides of the same chessboard.
She has outwitted me at nearly every turn, playing me like a child. Me! The Mab Ceridwen who defied a kingdom by forsaking the Hammer King in favor of the man I loved, wedding Artagan and defeating the Saxons despite the odds. My heart thuds faster, my fingertips all atremble. I’d rather face ten thousand Saxons than battle Queen Sab and her plots this day.
At the center of the thin river dividing our armies lies a tiny islet. A grassy spit of land in the shallows, no more than a few dozen ells long. As though previously agreed upon, both Artagan and Bal advance into the waters, wading up to their thighs until they reach the small isle. Something about the knee-high grass and gray silt of the islet reminds me of the scalp of a giant, half-submerged in the river. The top of a mossy skull upon which two men will meet, but only one will come away alive.
Artagan takes off his shirt. Despite the cool air, I know his skin will already be hot and pink just like our little boy’s. Unlike some kings, Artagan has never let sitting on a throne soften his physique. Active in the field as ever, the same courage that has gained the adoration of his men has also kept him fit as any other nobleman in Christendom. With taut pectorals and bulging arms, my husband wields his famous longsword with its unusual silver and onyx hues. The Blacksword.
Bal likewise strips until barefoot, wearing only a simple loincloth. His blue tattoos wriggle like snakes across his pallid flesh, bobbing and weaving as he flexes his muscles. Almost statuesque, the silent Pict towers a full head over my husband. Artagan’s dark hair flows loose and wild about his shoulders while Bal’s short bleached locks stand on end, like spikes greased with lye. Both are warriors, yet the King and the assassin could not look more different.
Artagan takes the first swing. Perspiration breaks out afresh across my temples. Without a word or signal, the fight begins. No decorum. No fancy speeches. Just a battle to the death.
My husband’s initial lunges take Bal slightly off balance, the tall Pict teetering on one foot as he leans back. A cheer rises along our lines as the Welsh warriors in our army praise Artagan’s aggressive stance. I might smile if it weren’t my own love down in the grassy arena. He is brave and was never one to let the enemy take the fight to him. But this is no sparring match where both contenders can merely walk away when finished.
Bal squats down. I cock my head to the side, unable to understand why he bends his legs so. In the blink of an eye, the Pict springs into the air, vaulting well over Artagan’s head and landing behind him. Twirling the bone spear like a pendulum of death, he nearly strikes Artagan from behind. The Blacksword ducks and parries with his blade, but only just in time.
My pulse quickens in my throat. This Bal is not human. No Welshman born of a woman can jump like that. He uses some strange Pictish fighting techniques unknown to us. I grimace until my cheeks sting. This is more of Sab’s witchcraft. More of her queer Pictish ways. I can almost feel her sneering at me across the divide between us.
Artagan growls loud enough for all to hear, his blood up. Lightning strokes and flashes of steel glint under the gray sun as he puts Bal to the test. Artagan’s quick movements would make mincemeat of most men, but Bal does not stay still for long. He dodges and weaves like a dancer. Even while parrying Artagan’s blows with his spear, the Pict manages to kick Artagan full in the gut, sending my husband reeling backward. I gasp with a hand to my mouth.
A hush falls over our lines as our enemies across the way cheer their champion. Artagan staggers to his feet, bent over as though he had the wind knocked out of him. Quick to take advantage, Bal pounces with the tip of his white spearhead. Artagan turns aside just in time as the spear narrowly misses him and embeds itself in the dirt.
Pressing my lips together, I look down at my trembling hands. I cannot watch. The clang of steel and bone murmurs from the islet in the stream, both men breathing heavy enough for all to hear. Both armies quiet down. It’s so silent I can hear my heartbeat drumming in my ears.
A hand reaches out and grasps mine. Olwen’s palm feels cold to the touch, yet she squeezes mine without taking her gaze from the duel. Lost for words, I simply hold on to her long fingertips, forcing my eyes to focus on the two combatants circling one another in no-man’s-land.
Both men have drawn blood, each harboring at least half a dozen scars and nicks that show crimson against their fair skin. The two warriors grunt with every thrust and deflection, their breath steaming against their faces in the cool midmorning air. Several ravens circle high overhead. Every man and beast knows that the conclusion between the two titans draws near. I clutch Olwen’s palm all the tighter, fighting the urge to look away or charge the field with my longbow drawn. Every moment slides by glacially slow.
Bal growls. He delivers several blows and a roundhouse kick to Artagan, stunning his opponent in an instant. The massive Pict thrusts his spear into Artagan’s side until the scarlet spearhead protrudes through the King’s back.
I cry out, clenching Olwen’s fingers hard enough to break bone.
Artagan staggers back, he and Bal locked in an awkward embrace. The Pict shoves the spear deeper into my husband’s flesh. They glare eye to eye, the entire field of ten thousand onlookers silent as the grave.
Still impaled on Bal’s bone-white spear, Artagan lifts his longsword. With a bloodcurdling howl, Artagan brings his blade crashing down on the spear shaft, snapping it in half. Bal has little time to widen his eyes. With the last reserves of his strength, Artagan swings his blade high overhead. A mist of blood sprays through the air as Artagan’s longsword whirls in a wide arc.
The Pict’s boyish head rolls off his shoulders and into the grass.
Bal’s pale face seems almost frozen, still stunned in the last moments of death. Artagan stands upright a moment, looking down at his beheaded foe. In a heartbeat, he collapses in the bloodstained grass, his side still pierced by the broken bone spear. Neither the headless Bal nor my stabbed husband move where their bodies lie. A deathly stillness envelops the moors between both armies.
Tears stream down my face as I reach out, my lips trembling.
“Artagan?”
Before I can contemplate the loss of my one true love forever, a scalding, hag’s cry screeches out from the Pictish lines. Sab draws a club in one hand and a bone sword in the other, vociferating in her barbaric tongue. It takes no translation to recognize a curse when one hears it. The Pict Queen turns red in the face, her blue woad flushing purple across her skin. Sab finally speaks in words that both I and her North Welsh allies can understand. Her voice runs hoarse with hate.
“Foul! Foul! They’ve played us foul! Both champions are dead, no quarter! No quarter!”
> My eyes dart back to Artagan’s still body down on the islet in the stream. I don’t understand until the deathly howls arise from the Pict and North Welsh armies. Their warriors advance across the greens toward the riverbank. My eyes go wide.
Sab has no intention of honoring the agreement one way or the other. Now that things have not gone her way, she intends to have a battle anyway. The traitorous witch!
My mind wanders, lost in a fog, water still brimming over my eyes. Artagan, Artagan, Artagan. I only want to hold him in my arms. But the blood. There is so much blood. Red grass and red sand.
I clench my teeth, the blood pounding in my ears. Bubbles start to rise down in the narrow stream, the shallow waters gurgling like mudpots as the two armies near one another. The heat rises in my face. I only see red.
Digging my heels into my pony, I move forward more from instinct rather than any conscious thought. Olwen stops me with a hand, her own eyes wide and wet.
“Don’t, Branwen! You and the baby must stay safe. That’s how Artagan would have wanted it.”
I shake my head, only half-understanding. By now our own warriors howl with rage, drawing their swords and bowstrings. But the worries of battle and the chaos that will ensue seem like remote issues, belonging to someone else. Artagan. Only Artagan matters. I must reach Artagan.
King Griffith charges ahead of our troops, waving his blade high overhead. Despite his girth, the old warrior urges his horse forward with the vigor of a much younger man. Tears stream down the fat king’s beard as he cries out to the Free Cantref and South Welsh soldiers alike.
“To the Blacksword! The Blacksword, men! Rally around the Blacksword! For the Blacksword!”
My husband’s fellow knights join Griffith. Sir Emryus and Sir Keenan sprint headlong toward the enemy with Bowen and Carrick close on their heels. Together they charge the riverbank and into the shallows. Both armies converge in a cacophony of clashing steel and deathly cries, grappling in the water. Like two hornets’ nests swarming over the landscape.
At the center of the vortex of battle, Griffith leads our warriors onto the tiny islet where only moments ago two men dueled for the fate of all Wales. Artagan and Bal’s bodies disappear from view as the two armies surge over the isle. My heart clenches like a closed fist, pinching so tight it makes me wince through my tears. Dear God, what is happening? Where is my Artagan? Please, please, Holy Virgin, Mother in Heaven. My heart is fit to burst. Too much. This is all too much.
I reel from the saddle, falling into a pair of arms. Blinking up into Ahern’s face, his one eye squints with concern. Even in the midst of Armageddon, he refuses to leave my side. Some brave warrior-queen I turned out to be. I cannot rise to my feet or stay in the saddle. Cannot even draw my bow and exact vengeance for my beloved husband. I am as powerless as a moth before the flame.
“My lady? Your Highness? Branwen? Branwen!”
Ahern’s voice looms over me, but I can do little more than shake my head in my half-numb stupor. Everything seems to happen from very far away now. As though I listened and watched the world through a glass jar.
The hiss of arrowheads scratches the sky. Our bowmen and spear-wives will blot out the sun with arrows for my Artagan. For my love. I shut my eyes. Every one of those arrows shall be my tears. Weep with me, Free Cantref and Dyfed warriors. Weep with your tears of iron arrowheads. Let the Picts feel the steel of your grief.
Olwen and Ahern’s voices hover over me, but I can barely manage to listen. Like a mute spectator within my own life. My kinsman sounds grim.
“We have to get her out of here.”
“She’s in shock,” Olwen replies, stifling her own sniffles. “We all are.”
“This is no time for a tizzy spell, damn it! Find Rowena and Una. They should have the children in a wagon. We can put the Queen in the cart.”
“But the battle?”
“Blast the battle! It’ll go on with or without us. We need to get Branwen to safety.”
I blink my eyes, but all I can see are gray shapes. My clammy forearms shake, my legs refuse to answer me. I cannot stand. I cannot see. I cannot think. God, God, God. Where is my Artagan? Struggling against my own delirium and the roar of battle, I claw at Ahern’s sleeve. My voice croaks out, raw as a frog’s.
“Artagan … You must get Artagan … his body … please, Ahern…”
My voice fails me and I collapse in his arms. My brother pats my back, murmuring soothingly into my ear. Did he even understand me? Maybe my words came out as garbled nonsense. I part my lips again to speak, but nothing comes out. My tongue feels dull as a wad of willow fluff.
The creak of a timber axle grinds to a halt beside me. Hands lift me up while the wailing of children echoes in my ears. Gavin? My babe must be nearby. A solid wooden surface materializes beneath me. Una and Rowena’s voices argue over me. Even now must they fight?
“Just do it!” Una shouts.
“Fine!” Rowena stammers. “Be it on your head!”
A cold splash of frigid water hits my face, hard as a slap. I suck in a sharp, involuntary breath of cool air, my eyes furiously blinking back the chilled water. Sitting up on my wobbly elbows, the world crystallizes into view again as I find myself laid out in the back of a straw-filled wagon. Water drips from my soaked dark locks. Una, Rowena, Olwen, and Ahern crowd around me with the children sobbing beside us. The deafening din of bloodshed surges closer. We must be less than a bowshot from the fighting.
A beam of sunlight pierces the overcast cloud cover, illuminating the face of my red-haired boy. Gavin nestles up beside me, burying his wet face against my bosom. My boy, my beautiful little boy. You are all of Artagan that I have left. I draw in another deep breath. A steely cold numbness rises up my spine. I can weep later. I have the rest of my days to grieve my loss, but today, now, this very instant my son needs me. He needs his mother, and my people need their Queen.
Clenching my jaw, I sit upright on the lip of the cart, my legs hanging down. My suddenly cool countenance takes my companions aback as I shout out commands. Despite the feigned confidence in my voice, I think almost mechanically. The gears of logic turn even though my soul still seems lost in some fading nightmare. I point a finger at my kinsman.
“Ahern! Are you prepared to risk your life for your Queen?”
“My lady? You are not quite well.”
“Your Queen is speaking to you, seneschal. Listen!”
Despite the nearby battle, my companions focus their attention on my voice.
“Ahern, you will lead a sortie into the melee. I want the King’s body. Artagan has been a hero to our people. I’ll not have what’s left of him falling into Pictish hands, to be dishonored … or worse.”
Ahern stiffens, suddenly the dutiful soldier again. He bows toward me.
“As you wish, my Queen. It shall be done.”
“Go.”
He leaves without another word, and I do not spare him a second glance. My faithful brother is dearer to me than gold, but I must be a queen now. Hard things must be done, and personal feelings must be buried deep. After this is all over, then we can sort out our mixed love and grief. If any of us survive this.
The battle surges back and forth on either side of the stream, the hardest fighting concentrated right along the isle where Bal and Artagan previously dueled. Pictish warriors scream out their battle cries as Dyfed spearmen and Free Cantref warriors grapple with them. Farther down the flank, Iago’s North Welsh riders make charge after charge into the lines of South Welsh swordsmen. Welsh and Pictish bodies mar the stream as its waters turn crimson before spilling into the sea.
Turning to my women, I continue issuing commands. Much must be done. Even if I cannot stand, I must use what wits remain to me.
“Rowena, gather the children. Shelter them behind the wagon. Some of those Pictish slingers probably have us in range by now. And Una, search out another cart, a farmer’s wagon, anything. We will need another conveyance for … for my husband’s body.”
The Pict Queen glares at me across the sea of clashing soldiers. It may be my imagination, but I know she gazes directly at me. Whether or not we lock horns, this battle is as much between her and me as it is between the ten thousand bloodied men. Our armies are equally matched and we’ll doubtless bleed each other dry before one side prevails over the other. Sab must be smiling her wicked grin. No matter what befalls us this day, she still wins. Wales will be too weak to resist any barbarians after this bloodbath.
Only Olwen remains beside me, the others going about the tasks I’ve set them to. She suddenly points across the field. Her voice fights to be heard over the din.
“Branwen, look! Griffith’s horse has no rider. The South Welsh King has been struck down!”
Indeed, his steed whinnies and wanders the field without a rider. Not a sign of Griffith anywhere, and he is not a small enough man for my eyes to miss. He is at least wounded, if not worse. My eyebrows rise. With Griffith down or missing, that means his command devolves to another. Across the melee, Prince Arthwys directs his men from astride a white stallion. The teenage ruler pulls his steed back from the brink of battle and inexplicably turns his gaze back toward me.
My heart convulses within my chest. His gray eyes darken, malevolently boring into me from a hundred paces away with his cold stare. An icy hate that I have seen before in only one man. His dead father, the Hammer King. Arthwys has loathed me and bided his time for many years. A cruel half-grin spreads across his cheeks. Without taking his gaze off me, he raises one palm, signaling to his bannermen.