by Mark Noce
The red dragon pennants waver back and forth, a signal to his troops. All the South Welshmen pull back, giving ground before Iago’s northern horsemen. My eyes widen. Arthwys is pulling his men out of the battle. He is ordering his troops to abandon the fight. Jesus, help us.
Across the way, Sab beams at Arthwys, her hands on her hips. Arthwys nods back at her, raising his sword in a brief salute. Lightning shoots through my veins.
That conniving bastard! Prince Arthwys is no stranger to Sab. Somehow the two of them have a prearranged agreement. My sweat-soaked skin sends chills up and down my spine. I turn to Olwen, realizing we have no time to lose.
“We are betrayed, Olwen. Prince Arthwys has sided with Sab. Without his troops we’re outnumbered two to one.”
“What are you saying?”
“We’ve lost. If we do not retreat, we shall be slaughtered, every last one of us.”
My brave archers have seen the betrayal by now, but they refuse to budge. A hail of arrows from their bowstrings rains down death and mayhem amongst the ranks of Iago’s cavalry. But it will stall them only a short while. We cannot battle the Picts to our front and the North Welsh on our flank. Not without Arthwys’s soldiers. The enemy is now simply too many.
Turning to Olwen, I try to decide whom to send her to. She must get word to whoever is left in command on the battlefield. Perhaps Sir Emryus or even one of the Dyfed knights. But what can they do in the face of such odds?
Before I can speak, a convulsing pressure surges up inside me. My eyes widen, sweat pouring down my face. Olwen clutches my shoulder, steadying me as I sway in the back of the wagon.
“Branwen, are you all right?”
Hardly able to answer her, I wrap both hands around my swollen stomach.
“The baby … the baby is coming.”
17
We arrive well after nightfall. Dull stars flicker over Dun Dyfed. The wagon grinds to a halt amidst the chirp of crickets and the dim hush of the nearby sea. I bite my lower lip, groaning as the contractions twist and pinch inside me.
Olwen has pulled off a miracle, urging our steeds all day and into the night to bring me here. The horses slump in their traces, their mouths foaming and their knees buckling. She has nearly ridden them to death in order to bring me to this hill fort. I’ve plenty of pragmatic reasons for seeking shelter here. Ogham Stone has too few defenses to protect us, and Aranrhod is too far into the mountains. I’d never survive such a journey right now through those winding switchbacks. Besides, Dun Dyfed provides as good a rallying point as any for the survivors of our armies. If there are any.
But one reason above all others has driven me to return to Dun Dyfed. Perhaps my birth pangs have warped my reason, but I was drawn to this ancient castle as surely as a bird flying south in winter. I was born here in Dyfed. If I am to meet my end, I might as well die in Dyfed.
Heaven knows how many hours I’ve spent jostling in the back of a cart. My joints ache and my bones creak. Rowena and Una help me inside the castle walls. Other than a few peasants tending the grounds, the citadel has been nearly abandoned. After all the Pictish raids earlier in the season, it’s little wonder that few settlers were eager to return to this place. And yet, the dull thunder of the surf ruminating through the bones of the old castle comforts me. Flashing a shadow of a grin, I inhale the familiar aroma of smoky peat fires kindled in the chamber hearths.
Long before my serving women get me to a proper bedchamber, I know something is wrong. My birthing pangs surge with ever intensifying pain, burning like fire from the very core of my body. But I do not feel like I can push yet. My labors go ill already, nothing like Gavin’s birth. This child will prove difficult to bring into the world tonight. I wonder if I will live to see the dawn.
Olwen takes the children into another chamber, bedding them down for the night. At least I need not worry about an assassin. Bal and his severed head can no longer haunt my son’s steps.
Rowena and Una prepare hot compresses for me, filling the room with steam as they warm buckets of water over sizzling braziers. A cool draft through the tower window offers some much needed fresh air. Despite my pains, I recognize the view and the cobblestone walls. This solar was my childhood bedchamber. How long ago it all seems tonight. A shooting star crosses the twilit sky outside. Perhaps my mother birthed me in this very same room on a still autumn night much like this. All those years ago.
Raising an eyebrow, I turn to Rowena.
“What date is today? The exact day?”
“Why, ’tis All Hallows’ Eve, m’lady. Your very own birthing day.”
I grunt, breathing faster as another series of contractions overtakes me. Una urges me to focus on my inhalations. I try, only halfway succeeding. So today is my birthday. How fitting that it might be the last evening of my life as well. Dear God, if I cannot live, at least let my babe come forth intact. Let my child share my birthing day too, let the babe live and taste the fullness of a long, healthy life.
But what life will there be for any in Wales now? The Picts will ravage Wales from the north, and sooner or later the Saxons will overwhelm us in the east. Will my children live free or as slaves? Either way, I doubt I will live to see what becomes of my family and my country.
Wincing with pain, I cry out. The blood rushes through my skull, and I am unable to see or dwell on anything other than the life stirring inside me. Strong tugs and pulls rise and ebb within me, like the waves advancing and retreating along the nocturnal shore. Exasperated, I bellow to anyone who will hear me. My women, the stars, even God.
“Why does the child not come?”
Una ducks under my skirts, examining me briskly with a few prods and murmurs. I shudder as another wave of contractions flows through me, my limbs trembling with exhaustion. I try to steady my mind. All women must do battle in childbirth, sooner or later. I have done this before. Whatever befalls me tonight, I can do it again. As my mother and her grandmothers did before her, all the way back to the Old Tribes. I know I can do this. I must.
Una emerges from my skirts and glances at Rowena. She frowns, shaking her head. Rowena blanches but says nothing. The child does not come forth. Something is wrong, yet my women try to keep it from me. Amidst my groans, I manage to get a few words out.
“Tell me true, Una. I deserve as much.”
“The child has not turned, Your Grace. Without help, the babe cannot be born.”
I lean my head back against the cool stone walls. Damnation. Everything in my vision threatens to come true. The moans, the pain, the blood. My doom is nigh upon me. If only the vision had told me whether the child lives or not. Then at least I might have some hope. But I must try and trust in the Almighty’s angels of mercy.
A horse whinnies outside. I sit upright, craning my ears. Someone has arrived at the gates. Rowena and Una exchange looks with me. Other than Olwen and the children, we brought no one else with us. We are virtually defenseless in this half-empty castle. Completely at the mercy of any who may come upon us, whether they be friend or foe.
If not for my children, I would welcome death. Then at least I could be reunited with my Artagan. I bite my tongue, trying to blot out any further thoughts. No, not now. I cannot think of him or anything else this night. Bring this child into the world. That is my sole purpose now. After that, I’ll have all eternity to dwell on other things.
Footfalls echo off the citadel steps. I clench my jaw, trying to stifle my birthing moans. Rowena and Una each take up a stool as they wait on either side of the chamber doorway. We’ve nothing in the way of weapons. Whoever the approaching stranger is, he’ll meet little more resistance than a pair of broken footstools. May the Almighty watch over us.
“Your Highness?”
We all sigh with collective relief at the sound of a familiar, albeit tired voice. Ahern edges onto the threshold, averting his eyes so as not to intrude within the sanctified female sphere of birthing. The glowing fireplace colors his face, set in profile in the doorway. Rowen
a and Una rush toward him.
“She cannot be disturbed,” Una begins. “Her time is close.”
“I’ll not interrupt, but I have something to tell her.”
“Not now, man!” Rowena whispers thickly. “Can’t it wait?”
Ahern frowns, the lines on his face lengthening by firelight.
“I’ve done as she asked and found her husband. Only he is not dead but still clings to life by a thread.”
Almost at my will, my contractions momentarily subside. I lean forward on my wooden stool, calling out to Ahern.
“My Artagan lives? But how? Is he here now?”
“In the next room, my lady,” Ahern replies. “But he still has the spearhead in him and is very weak.”
“I want to see him.”
My pains overtake me again and I shut my eyes tight, trying to breathe in and out as Una instructed. My women-in-waiting shake their heads. Ahern bows from the doorway.
“The King is not conscious, my Queen. I will watch over him myself. As I said, he’s in the next room. If he comes to or his condition changes, you will be the first to know.”
Without another word, my kinsman excuses himself, nearly stumbling with exhaustion as he descends the stairs. Rowena and Una rush to my side once more, urging me to keep breathing. But my thoughts spin with visions of Artagan. Alive? He lives! If only I could go to him now, hold his hand, be by his side. But if the spear still pierces his side, he must have bled badly. Ahern would have left it in only for fear of making the King bleed to death. My husband’s life must indeed hang by a thread. Perhaps tonight we both battle to keep our souls held fast to their mortal coils.
Una places her palms over my stomach, feeling for the child within me. Rowena starts humming down near the crock of my legs, trying to draw the baby with sound. The urge to push overcomes me as a blinding white light flashes against my eyeballs. I bite my tongue until I taste blood. My nostrils flare as sweat runs down my skin.
Unable to contain my anguish, my cries reverberate across the hill fort. Both Rowena and Una urge me to push as my breathing grows sharp and shallow. I clench my teeth, bearing down with all my might. A trickle of blood runs down my legs. Dear God, let this not be the last of earth that I see.
* * *
All is darkness. Neither touch nor sounds reach me, as though I lie curled up in the bottom of a deep, deep well. I am alone. So alone, and so cold.
A fragrance of lavender and incense permeates the void. Then the faint smell of woodsmoke and the snap of kindling fills my dark abode. A small fire glow waxes beside me, silhouetting the back of a woman with long, dark locks. She watches over the budding flames. I sit up on one elbow. Just me, the woman, the fire, and the distant chirp of crickets in the dark.
The green-eyed lady turns her gaze on me, the profile of her face lit by the glow of the hearth. She smiles. I blink my groggy eyes.
“Mother?”
“Yes, my little sparrow, I am here.”
I forgot that she used to call me that. Little sparrow. Looking at the unnatural darkness, I struggle to keep my voice even.
“Am I dead?”
She smiles again, returning her gaze to the fire as she stokes the flames.
“You are … in between, let’s just say. I always liked the dark just before the dawn.”
She sits cross-legged, her breathing as calm as the black stillness that surrounds us. A strange tranquility pervades the emptiness, like starlight reflected in a quiet pond. As my eyes adjust to the dimness, the first pinpricks of constellations fill the cosmos encircling us.
Looking up at Mother again, I reach out for her. As though the peace and serenity emanating from her were tangible as a blanket. As though I might wrap myself in her essence and feel complete contentment with all creation.
I call out to her, knowing in my heart that we will be parted once more.
“Mother, help me. I’m all alone against the darkness. Dark winds rising against me.”
She beams serenely back at me.
“Haven’t I told you before? I am always with you, my child. You are never alone.”
“But it’s too big, Mother. All of it is too much for me.”
She comes close, planting a soft kiss on my eyelid.
“Grace comes not from the will to change things, but to accept what comes, with love in your heart.”
Mother and her fire gradually diminish, disappearing into one of the many stars fixed in the firmament. Then all returns to blackness once more. I am alone with my thoughts and half thoughts, adrift in the dark.
Someone calls my name, a woman’s voice. Her warm touch seems to breathe life back into me. My eyes flicker open, the room gradually coming into focus. A cozy fire crackles in the grate across the chamber. Warm sheets and pillows surround me in bed.
“Branwen … Branwen…”
Olwen smiles at me, holding a tightly wrapped bundle in her arms. I try to sit up but find my limbs incredibly weak. Touching my skin, I prod myself to make sure this is no dream. I heave a long sigh. I’m in my old bedchamber again at Dun Dyfed. Olwen leans down beside me.
“Congratulations, my Queen. Meet your new little son.”
“Another boy?”
For some reason, deep in my heart, I assumed I would bear a daughter this time. A girl-child of the Old Tribes destined to follow after me, just as Gavin will be Artagan’s son and heir. But God placed another princeling inside me this time around. Another heir. My husband will doubtless be beside himself with mirth.
Any pangs of disappointment quickly dissipate as I wrap my arms around my newborn babe, my eyes welling up with water. An unexpected euphoria overtakes me, leaving me awash in warm, buzzing emotions that I neither understand nor have a name for. My tiny pink-faced boy slumbers beside my breast as I gaze down at his perfectly round head.
Olwen grins, her beaming countenance far prettier than I ever recall her looking before. The faint cries of gulls murmur outside over the tide as the sky ripens blue under the first rays of sunrise. She puts a palm to my clammy forehead.
“After the child came, there was much blood. We feared we’d lost you in the night.”
“I feared as much myself. I cannot believe it. Last of a noble line, I was born an only child, yet here I am, holding my second son.”
Olwen folds her arms, raising an eyebrow.
“Believe it. You had a hard labor as any I’ve ever seen, and it would’ve been a death sentence for most women. But you have the resilience of a phoenix, Branwen Mab Ceridwen. I have to admit, whatever life throws your way, you always seem to rise from the ashes.”
I give Olwen a sidelong glance, staring at her as though seeing her for the first time. Not some trollop or a petty queen but a woman who has seen no small share of her own troubles and tribulations. An equally resilient phoenix with ash-colored hair who recognizes another firebird when she sees one. I wave her over to my bedside, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. Olwen colors like a child before we both grin at one another. We best not be too nice to one another or it’ll go to our heads.
Kissing my newborn child atop his warm scalp, I cradle him against my beating heart. He nuzzles against my breast in his half slumber. A light copper fuzz tops his scalp. Another redhead? A grin spreads across my face. My goodness, how the servants will gossip. Artagan and I are dark of hair and yet we seem to produce auburn babies as easily as the Irish.
Olwen leaves the two of us alone, gently closing the chamber door behind her. I lean my head back against a goose-feather pillow. The cares of the outside world seem so distant from the tranquility of my tower window beside the frothing sea.
So did my vision ultimately come to pass? I was near certain I had seen my doom in the scry bowl. But what did I actually behold? The cries, the blood, the difficult birth. I assumed the vision could end only one way, all part of one long defeat. But I suppose I was on a different path all along. Not a journey ending in fear and darkness, but one leading to a shiny bright dawn.
/> I close my eyes and say a silent prayer, to God, to the angel who came to me in the night. My mother.
* * *
Several weeks have passed since the defeat at the Battle of All Hallows. Or so the common folk now call it. Enough blood soaked up the banks of that tiny, nameless stream to fill the Welsh countryside with ghosts for the next hundred years. God help us.
Two storms have already come off the ocean, battering the crags along Dyfed’s shores while we huddle close to hearth fires inside the deep stone halls of my father’s old castle. A stout reprieve from the storm, a bastion of warmth and peace amidst the troubles that beset the Welsh Lands now. Word of many of Sab’s foul deeds reaches our ears here, rumors of burnt villages and tortured peasants. But as of yet, not a single Pict has shown up at our gates.
I tread carefully down the steps in the morning light, my baby sated with milk as he naps in my arms. We turn the key to another bedchamber, where a man wrapped in bandages sits beside a flickering lamp. The window is tightly fastened against the rain and wind. Gavin looks up from his father’s cot.
“Mama!”
I shush him with a smile, kneeling down beside Artagan’s bed. My husband sits up on his elbows, wincing with pain. He hovered at death’s door for nigh over a moon before he finally came around. But he is still wan and weak, his bandages around his abdomen slightly bloodied each morn.
Nonetheless, a smile gradually creeps across his face as he looks down at our newborn.
“What shall we name him, my love?”
Only one name comes to mind.
“Tristan.”
Artagan raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised at my giving our child another old Arthurian knight’s namesake. He leans over and kisses me. Gavin thrusts his large auburn head between us, peering at his new brother.
“So little,” he smiles.
Artagan wraps one arm around our elder boy, the pair of them observing Tristan’s small face.
“You’re a big brother now, my son. You must always look after him as you would your own mother.”