Between Two Fires (10 page)

“I crowned King Morgan in the Caerwent cathedral and I ought to have wed him and his bride here too! You overstep your place, little monk. Whence do you return to your monastery of rocks?”

“I serve Queen Branwen and God, Bishop Gregory. If you have a problem with that, I suggest you call an audience before your liege, the King. I doubt that news of your strangely afflicted altar boys has yet reached his ears.”

The Bishop nearly gags on his wine. Padraig continues supping his bread and broth as though nothing happened. I bite my lip to keep from giggling. No one backs Brother Padraig into a corner. Not kings nor bishops, not even the Pope himself. I wish I had half the Abbot's poise.

Rowena suddenly cries out beside me, her hand on my sleeve.

The crash of crockery mingles with raised voices across the hall. I jump up from my seat while Rowena ducks behind me. Chalices and clay bowls across the feast hall clatter to the tile floors. A crowd of men tumble over upended tabletops while guardsmen try to pull the bloodied brawlers apart.

A fight.

At the heart of the fray, two men grapple over a fallen serving girl. Both young men swing fists at one another with the experience of veterans. I step closer to the combatants, both curious and dismayed all at once. Prince Malcolm and Artagan Blacksword have their hands at one another's throats. So much for our hopes of peace.

 

5

Morgan enters the hall with his war-hammer in hand. He thrusts himself between the two unarmed combatants. Artagan nurses a split lip while Malcolm holds a palm up to his black eye.

Lords and knights shout at each other, some holding their comrades back from the fight. Every guardsman in the castle tries to keep the bickering antagonists apart, but I doubt even they can prevent all these trained warriors from getting at each other's throats. Morgan keeps a hand pressed against his brother's chest, all the while prodding Artagan back with the head of his war-hammer.

A lone servant girl lies on the floor between the two brawlers, clutching a bruise on her left wrist, the skin turned purple. Her disheveled sandy hair hides her face. The poor girl seems like no more than a bone disputed between two snapping dogs. Something inside me starts to boil over at the sight of this poor defenseless girl in a room full of drunken louts.

My stepmother would doubtlessly remind me that no proper lady in her right mind would intrude into such a fray, especially with more than a few hidden daggers bulging beneath every man's tunic. But the sight of that lone bondservant huddled on the floor shames me. Am I the lady of this castle or not? Its citizens are my responsibility. If I don't speak up, who will?

I stride into the circle of menfolk and raise the young woman to her feet, her eyes going wide when she recognizes the thin diadem crown on my head. She curtsies, wincing as she clutches the welts on her arm. Rowena comes to my side, shooing away warriors as she might a barnyard full of roosters. The knights and lords halt their quarrel upon seeing me and the wounded girl in their midst.

“What is your name, fair maiden?” I ask her.

“Una, Your Grace.”

“And who did this to you, Una?” I say, pointing at her arm.

Every man in the hall turns silent. The fight that had been all about Artagan and Malcolm's spat suddenly turns into a solemn trial over a wronged serving girl. Una gives the onlookers a sidelong glance, like a mouse surrounded by a herd of hungry cats. How foolish of me to ask such an open question. A servant girl dares not point a finger at men who carry blades and call themselves knights. Una lowers her eyes.

“I tripped, my Queen. Must have banged into one of the fallen tabletops.”

The men immediately recommence hostilities, throwing insults and a few wild fists at one another. Rowena and I draw Una aside before more guardsmen gradually pry the two sides of bickering knights apart. Artagan and Malcolm glare back at one another. If not for King Morgan and his fifty men-at-arms crowding the hall, we would have bloodshed aplenty in the very heart of Caerwent tonight.

Rowena and I bring Una up to my solar chamber, away from the roaring din of the mead hall. Whatever the cause of the brawl between Artagan and Malcolm, Una must be at the crux of it. She remains silent while Rowena tends to her bruises with a damp washcloth. The girl has been through enough tonight already and needs no interrogation from me, but I cannot escape the nagging feeling that she knows something more. Something important enough to cause the Prince and the Blacksword to come to blows. Una bows her weary head.

“Pardon, Your Grace, but I should get back to the kitchens now.”

“No, you shan't.” I smile. “I've need of a second lady-in-waiting to serve me. If you'll agree, of course.”

Una and Rowena exchange equally surprised glances. My needs are few, but hopefully I haven't offended Rowena by bringing a second servant into our midst. Rowena can certainly handle all the chores about me, but something in my heart demands that I shield this girl Una. How many women just like her have been manhandled all across Wales, by barbarians and locals alike? Besides, I'm not a terribly demanding queen and whatever tasks I set Una to doing, it ought to be easier than slaving away in the castle kitchens. At least with me she should be safe from further reprisals, whatever the cause of her misfortune in the mead hall tonight. Una eyes me hesitantly before nodding and agreeing to my request.

As the night wears on, Morgan does not come to my bedchamber. Perhaps he stays up late, trying to heal the rift between the bickering lords down in the banquet hall. Cold blasts of wind hit the castle, whistling through chinks in the walls and gaps in the shutters. Both Rowena and Una share the large bed with me in order to conserve heat, each of us lying head to toe.

At daybreak, the whicker of horses from the courtyard outside awakens me. Nestled between my snoring servant girls, I roll out of bed. I clutch a shawl around my throat as I peer through the window shutters.

Two columns of troops snake down the roads leading away from Caerwent, the black banners of North Wales going one way and the green dragon flags of the Free Cantrefs marching the other. A few watchmen in red tunics look on from the bastion towers, but no bugle calls or friendly goodbyes ring from the battlements. It looks as though the great gathering has ended already.

Heading toward the stairs, I open my bedchamber door to find a guardsman posted on the top step. I gasp, nearly running into the spearman before recognizing Ahern. I smile at my half brother, but he merely frowns back at me through his beard.

“Sorry, my Queen, but all royals are to remain in their quarters this morn. King's orders.”

“Ahern, what do you mean? Am I prisoner in my own bedchamber? What's going on?”

Ahern leans closer, pleading with me.

“Stay up here in your solar, safe and sound. Please, Lady Branwen.”

My voice fails me upon seeing such worry in his normally placid eyes. A draft from the tower window chills my skin. The only royals in this household are myself, Arthwys, Malcolm, and the King. What madness is this? I doubt Morgan has confined himself to any particular room. Whatever vexes my husband this morning, I do not see why it applies to me. I've done nothing worthy of punishment, nor do I intend to be kenneled like a dog in my own home. I lean in close to Ahern, nearly nose to nose.

“Brother, you are a warrior of Dyfed, guardsman to the Queen, and part of
my
household, not my husband's. Either you will stand aside, or you will be my guardsman no more.”

The spearman blinks, taking a half step back. He narrows his gaze and for a moment I fear he has seen through my bluff. Instead, he stands aside with his spear and shield at attention.

“As you wish, my Queen. I will die before I betray a noblewoman of Dyfed and my own blood.”

I put a gentle hand on his forearm.

“Thank you, Ahern. You are a good man, and an honorable one.”

Although he tries to hide it, Ahern's chest puffs out a little broader at the mention of honor. He may not hold a knighthood, but Ahern's sense of duty gives him more chivalry than any knight in Wales. He keeps his lonely vigil, guarding the door to my solar as I descend the stairs.

Now to find out what mischief is afoot in the castle this morn. My husband has tried to cage me like a rat, and I must find out why.

Avoiding the archways leading to the atrium, I steal down to the kitchens. Morgan will not think to look for me amongst the servants' quarters, hiding amidst the foggy steam of boiling cauldrons. Whatever has happened, the Hammer King is still accustomed to having his orders obeyed. I wonder with a sinking feeling what will happen if Morgan finds me creeping about the castle against his command.

The long tunnels beneath the main floor of the castle allow servants to navigate Caerwent easily and out of sight, running their daily errands without clogging the narrow hallways used by knights and lords. But today, the corridors appear almost empty. I peer around each corner, never spying more than an occasional scullery maid passing by, going about her chores. Since the Welshmen of the North and Free Cantrefs left, the fortress seems eerily silent. Perhaps I'm behaving foolishly, tiptoeing around my own castle like a thief.

I reach the south end of the castle where several apartments of the King's knights and household keep their beds. Ducking into one room, I find the walls covered in tapestries of boyhood squires and pages in battle. Wood and clay toys cover the floor, a set of dull-pointed sparring spears leaned in the corner. A young noble boy's room. Above the doorway hangs the red dragon crest of the Hammer King. This must be Arthwys's bedchamber.

I peer about his bedroom, but find no one within. Where are the guards that should be posted outside the doorway? Ahern said that the King ordered all royals confined to their rooms, and my brother has no reason to lie to me.

I scoff at myself for acting like such a child. I should march right into the throne room, just as I ought to have done in the first place, and confront Morgan face-to-face. Turning to leave Arthwys's room, I gasp as a hooded figure looms in the doorway before me.

“Who are you, sir?”

The cloaked man stalks closer, silent as a wraith. I back up against the cold stone wall, cornered beside a tapestry of young Arthur pulling the sword from the stone. I'd give half my dowry to have Excalibur in my hand right now, or any blade for that matter. I put on my haughtiest face, failing to keep the tremors out of my voice.

“Ex-explain yourself, st-stranger, or I'll call my guards outside!” I lie. “Guards!”

Under his hood, a crooked grin spreads across the stranger's thin cheeks. He removes a long, shiny dagger from the folds of his cloak and rushes toward me. I cry out, dodging the steel blade aimed at my throat.

I reach for the nearest object with which to defend myself. Tearing at the fabrics on the wall behind me, the large tapestry tumbles down on both of us. The man curses, his dagger ripping through woolen seams.

The world turns dark and heavy beneath the drapes of woven thread.

I scream, hoping someone will hear me. The assailant's blade slashes at my legs and sides, each thrust getting closer to my vitals. I kick and grunt and head butt the foe tangled in the draperies with me, but he only tightens his grip through the thick woolens. He draws me closer despite my flailing arms and legs, our limbs tangled in a heap of shredded tapestries on the floor. In a matter of moments, he'll have coiled around me like a snake, ready to strike. Then I'll be dead.

A din like thunder rumbles through the castle. My attacker suddenly stops, pushing the last shreds of covering off us both. He pins me to the floor with one hand and wraps his fingers around my neck, drawing back his dagger high above his hood. I shut my eyes, still pushing hopelessly against his chest. Blood pounds in my ears. I don't want to die.

Opening my eyes, my palms still press against the stranger's chest. A spearhead opens up inside him, its razor-sharp edge coming up through the breastbone. His blood runs down my fingers. The cloaked man wets himself, dropping his blade as it clatters harmlessly to the ground. His lifeless body slumps over me as Ahern draws the spear out of the man's corpse.

“Branwen! Speak to me!”

Ahern helps me to my feet. Blood runs down my torn shawl and nightgown, but aside from a few flesh wounds, none of it is mine. My brother keeps asking me whether I am all right, but I cannot even nod in reply, still transfixed by the bleeding corpse lying across the floor. A dozen more men-at-arms flood the room, their chain mail jangling loud as a storm.

“I followed you when you left the tower,” Ahern says between breaths. “Nearly lost you in the servants' quarters though. Then I heard the noise in here.”

Morgan pushes his way into the chamber, his hammer in hand and his vest of mail on as though he expects to go into battle. He puts a hand on my shoulder and shakes me, but I do not hear him, my tongue still tied. The King looks to Ahern.

“The Queen's had quite a fright, sire,” Ahern reports. “But she seems well enough.”

Morgan reluctantly releases me, bending over the bloodied body in the corner. The Hammer King folds back the dead man's hood. A bluish snake tattoo runs along the cadaver's eyebrow.

“An assassin!” Morgan says with a hiss. “Pictish by the look of him. The would-be killer waited in my son's room, and then fell upon my unsuspecting bride.”

He picks up the crimson-stained ribbons of Arthwys's boyhood wall hangings, the image of a young King Arthur dismembered in scraps of bloodied cloth. The thought of Arthwys jars my mind to life. A little boy against the likes of this assassin wouldn't stand a chance. I grab Morgan by the sleeve.

“Arthwys, the young prince, where is he?”

“Safe with his uncle in Prince Malcolm's care.”

“But then … you knew some danger was afoot?”

“I suspected. You should have stayed in your bedchamber as I ordered.”