Between Two Fires (19 page)

*   *   *

Another moon passes before I can rise from bed without bleeding. The men in the castle keep away, fearing that they might somehow suffer ill effects from my womanly curse. Una keeps close watch over me, although I tell her I am fine, and would much prefer hawking with my falcon. The King once again forbids me to leave my tower. For my
health,
he says.

I pace the floorboards, my eyes tired from endless days of reading. Padraig left me some of my favorite classics to peruse, all of which lie open on the table. Dido and Aeneas
,
Deirdre and Naoise
,
Guinevere and Lancelot
.
But my most favorite, of course, is the one he gifted to me, the tales of Branwen of the Old Tribes. She too lost a child, and I find myself rereading those passages of her life, looking for some kind of solace.

Rowena brings me my evening meal of soup, which I sup while she returns to the door. The King questions her on the threshold, several of his men crowding the turret steps behind him.

“How long?” he demands.

“She's well now, Your Highness,” Rowena replies with a curtsy. “But I suggest waiting another moon. Let her gather strength.”

“In another moon, spring comes, and the war season with it. I'll not wait that long.”

“Miscarriages are quite common, Your Grace. Give her time. You'll have another heir, surely.”

“Do not lecture me, girl. She is
my
broodmare, and I'll ride her as often as I like.”

A fire rises through my spine, my fingertips starting to shake. As often as
he
likes? Kings can never have enough sons, especially when pestilence or warfare constantly threatens the bloodline. But how many miscarriages has he suffered? I refuse to look at him.

Although Morgan continues to address Rowena, I can see he glares darkly at me from the corner of my eye.

“Bring her to my solar tomorrow night. No more delays. No more excuses.”

Morgan descends the stairs with his men, the clatter of their chain mail fading down the tower steps. My jaw tightens. I stare at the shut door, my heart beating fast long after the King and his knights have left.

My God, the man actually intends to have his way with me whether I agree to it or not. Tomorrow, no less. He would actually violate his own wife on our marriage bed! My fists tighten at my sides, the bitter bile rising in the back of my throat. In the eyes of the Law and the Church, he owns me, like a piece of chattel that he may do with as he pleases. But I've seen Morgan's true face unmasked now, and no amount of pretty words or fine clothes can hide his inner darkness from me. He is no better than a Saxon brute when it comes to women.

I've lost the life of the child in my womb and nearly had my own life bled out in the process, and all he can think about is our next rut! I am no man's broodmare.

For more than a fortnight, I've wet my pillow with tears, some for my lost babe and some for myself. Better the child returned to God before it could come into the world. Is it wrong for a would-be mother to think such thoughts? God forgive me, but I'll not harbor another of Morgan's spawn inside me. Everything he touches turns to poison. Never again will I let him touch me. Never.

Finishing my bowl, I have the girls dress me before the open window. The snowcaps on the mountains have shrunk and the frosted fields have turned to mud. The worst of winter has passed and soon the first buds of spring will appear. The cool air feels good on my hot cheeks.

“Braid my hair tonight.”

“Braid it before bed, m'lady?” Rowena asks.

When I do not reply, both Una and Rowena exchange looks before acceding to my request. Together they section my dark locks into three parts, gradually folding it up into a single, long, thick braid running down my back. In the mirror, I eye my knee-high boots beneath the bed and my shawl draped over an armchair. I stay up reading until the girls dowse the hearth for bed. The three of us lie on the large single mattress, myself sleeping on the end tonight.

When the milky light of the full moon seeps through chinks in the window shutters, I rise from bed, careful not to disturb Una or Rowena in their slumber. I quietly grab my boots and shawl before descending the steps.

Ahern bumps into me at the foot of the stairs. He raises his eyebrows in surprise. I silence him with a finger to my lips before whispering in his ear.

“It's now or never.”

He looks at me doubtfully, eyeing my boots. I put my hands on my hips and stare him down. He finally agrees and marches off to do as I bid. After he goes, I steal across the deserted hallways of the castle toward the King's bedchamber.

The door creaks as I push it open, yet I find no guard standing watch within. Small wonder, my husband is a formidable warrior and probably doesn't consider himself in need of a guard to watch over him while he sleeps. Morgan snores with his war-hammer leaned beside his bed. Even in his slumber he breathes like a lion. I squint through the darkness of the room, glimpsing his chest rise and fall beneath the covers.

Where is it? He must keep it here.

A glint of moonlight directs me to my prize, shining on the wall like a huge trophy. I gather it into my shawl and wrap it up tight. Morgan stirs as I stand over his bedstead. My heart stops until he begins to snore again. Even in his sleep he is a restless man. I tiptoe back toward the door, taking one last look at the man who calls himself my husband. After tonight there will be no going back.

By the time I reach the dungeons, Ahern has a torch ready for me.

“My lady, please reconsider.”

I do not answer him.

Instead, I accept the firebrand from him and descend to the lower cells alone while Ahern keeps watch at the top of the stairs. The prize wrapped in my shawl weighs heavy under my arm. Threading a skeleton key into the rusty lock, the creaking hinges awaken Artagan as I open his cell. I tower over him with a dripping torch.

“Branwen? The guards told me about the child. I'm so very sorry.”

I wince slightly. The sting of losing my pregnancy and yet the relief at not having to bear Morgan's child fill me with a mingled joy and guilt that I do not wish to speak about to anyone right now. But that is not what I've come to discuss with Artagan tonight. I thank him for his concern with a brief nod.

“Perhaps it happened as it was supposed to,” I add.

He rises to his feet, his sapphire eyes looking me over.

“You look beautiful, Branwen.”

Even in a prison cell, Artagan remains ever the charmer. I change the subject before his words make me blush.

“I see the guards let you bathe, and gave you better food. A shave too. Good, I bribed them to.”

He steps closer, his muscles flexing beneath his rags. His gaze searches my face, his brows furrowing in confusion as I pull out another skeleton key and loosen his iron bonds. They clatter to the floor. Not too difficult to do really; the jailer leaves his keys by the dungeon entranceway. Artagan flexes his arms, rubbing his sore wrists. I resist the urge to reach out and touch him.

“Are you fit enough to ride?” I ask.

“Fit enough to fight my way past a hundred guardsmen.”

“Good. You'll need this, then.”

I unfold the shawl under my arm, revealing a long naked blade with darkened hues in its steel. Artagan's eyes alight on his longsword, before feeling its familiar heft in his hands once more. He starts to smile, before grimacing at me.

“Morgan and Malcolm will punish you for this, Branwen. I can't let that happen.”

“They won't. I'm not just rescuing you, I'm rescuing myself. I'm coming with you.”

My heart beats faster as I take Artagan's hand in mine. He leans forward, our lips only a breath apart. Ahern's voice echoes down the dungeon corridor. A shiver runs down my spine.

“My lady, you must hurry! The guards have been alerted! They're coming.”

 

9

The peal of chapel bells rings in the belfry. I clasp a hand to my throat as the din of guardsmen's voices and jangling armor reverberates atop the dungeon stairwell. We've been betrayed.

Ahern grabs me by the shoulder.

“You know what to do, Branwen. Use the rear entranceway while I remain behind.”

“No, it's too dangerous now. You'll have to come with us.”

He shakes his head.

“Too late to change our minds now. If we stick to the plan, I'll be fine remaining behind. Besides, you need someone's ear inside this castle while you're away.”

I put a hand on my brother's arm. He possesses a bravery worthy of the Old Tribes. I nod in agreement with his decision.

“Look after Padraig and my serving girls while I'm gone,” I begin. “They may not understand. This is the only way I can keep them all safe.”

“Please, Branwen. Go. There's little time.”

The glow of torchlight looms brighter atop the stairs. Every moment we delay, the guards draw nearer. Artagan flexes his wrists, newly freed from their fetters. His gaze darts from Ahern's face to mine.

“Does someone want to tell me what in perdition is going on?”

“There's no time to explain,” I reply. “I need you to knock Ahern out, quickly.”

“Come again?”

“Hurry! It must look like he tried to prevent our escape. Now, Blacksword!”

Artagan and Ahern exchange looks before the Blacksword shrugs. He apologizes as he draws back his fist and slugs my brother across the jaw. Ahern slumps down onto the slick dungeon floors, his spear clattering behind him. Leaning down beside the welt on his face, I feel his pulse to make sure he still breathes. My poor, loyal kinsman. It seems a sin to leave my own half brother on the prison cell floor, but he agreed with me that it is the only way. The only way to save us all. I beckon Artagan to follow me.

“Quickly!”

“Where to now? We're trapped like rats down here.”

He follows me to the opposite end of the cell block. Clearing a mound of damp hay away from a stone bulkhead, I find the warped iron lock of a small wooden door. Just where Ahern said it would be. The ancient handle comes away brittle in my hand. I scoff as I drop the useless metal shards to the floor.

“It's rusted shut!”

The guards' voices echo close behind us. They must have already discovered Ahern on the dungeon floors. Maybe this was a foolhardy plan after all. Once they round the corner, they will have us at their mercy. Artagan curses before kicking in the small door. Splinters fly every which way before the two of us duck through the low entranceway. We stagger into a dark room filled with damp straw. Artagan whispers in my ear.

“Where the blazes have you taken us?”

“To our salvation.”

Feeling my way along a wooden stall, I reach out for a blanket on the wall. Shafts of moonlight penetrate chinks in the timber boards. A large beast paws at the earth, whickering as I shush the creature in a soothing tone. Artagan bumps into me in the shadows.

“The stables?”

“The King's stables to be exact. This is his horse, Merlin. Fastest steed in the kingdom.”

“You mean you plan to just ride out the front gates?”

“My brains got us this far. I need your brawn to get us past the guards at the gate.”

He helps saddle the horse before the pair of us mount up. Artagan grasps the stallion's reins in one hand, brandishing his longsword in the other. I clasp my arms tight around Artagan's middle as Merlin boxes open the stable doors and bolts into the castle courtyards.

In the darkness of the open yard, soldiers scurry about as they don their tunics and armor, some half-dressed whilst others fumble with scabbards and helmets. Several of them soon surround us in a circle of spears. Artagan roars in our mount's ear as he charges into the melee, hacking down guardsmen and lopping the heads off their spear-points. One man-at-arms grabs me about the leg, trying to pull me from the saddle. I cry out before shoving him full in the chest with my foot, sending him hurtling backward.

More soldiers spill out of the barracks, drawn by the commotion of clashing steel and Merlin's whinnying cries. I point Artagan toward the castle gates. Steel chains restrain the heavy grating that bars the main gateway.

“Aim for the hempen bonds below the chains! They connect to the gears in the gatehouse.”

Artagan digs his heels into our steed's flanks, parting the crowd of soldiers at full gallop. With one slash of his blade, Artagan severs the hempen bonds attached to the iron links. The cogs within the gatehouse groan as pulleys snap and the chains begin to move.

The iron grating of the gate rises just enough for us to duck under its inverted steel spikes. Several spearheads hurtle past our heads, embedding themselves in the cobblestone walk. Merlin's muscles turn slick with sweat beneath the rising moon. Watchmen atop Caerwent's towers shout out to one another as we ride out of range.

Far behind us, moonlight bleaches the castle white, like a palace of crystal and ice. A lone figure looms atop the highest parapet, still as a stone gargoyle. His black silhouette stands out against the full moon, his dark crown and massive war-hammer unmistakable. Even from a distance, Morgan's silver eyes gaze right at me, like a pair of smoldering, burnt coals. A shiver runs down my back before I look away.

I'll not go back there ever again. Not inside those imprisoning walls. Never again in the Hammer King's bed.

Horse hooves thunder from the far-off citadel gates as dozens of horsemen pursue us down the old Roman road. Artagan guides Merlin off the beaten path and into the nearby woods, darting between trees as twigs and branches snap about our flanks. We gallop through a tunnel of dark oak groves, my hair whipping behind me in the wind. A familiar voice booms behind us.

“Blacksword! Blackswoooord! Run if you can! You are mine! Do you hear me, hedge knight?”

A chill overcomes me as I recognize Prince Malcolm's voice filling the shadows of the wood. He leads the King's horsemen and if he catches us first, I doubt either Artagan or myself will ever live to see the inside of Caerwent's dungeons alive. The Prince will gut us first.