Between Two Fires (23 page)

“He did not want me or my children to go without. He's not coming with us.”

“Typical.”

“Be not too hard on him, my Queen. He and I followed the Ancient Harmonies in innocence before he grew apart from me. The better woman has his heart now. Be gentle with it, m'lady.”

She pinches my shoulder before walking on, her touch both a caress and a subtle threat. Somehow I have difficulty believing the sincerity of her words. She doesn't think I'm the better woman and I certainly know I'm not. Ria will probably bide her time, waiting for Artagan's infatuation with me to run its course. To my surprise, Ria halts again and calls back to me over her shoulder.

“Thank you for coming into my hut that morning,” she adds, raising her newborn in one hand. “My children and I will always be in your debt.”

A dust cloud rises in their wake as Ria's kin trek back toward the East Marches. My heart rises in my throat, proud of the life I helped her bring into the world. And yet, a pang of jealousy lances my chest too. Ria has such a clear purpose and a family to keep her going. In many ways, her life is much richer than mine. She is a mother, a daughter, a farmer, and a lover. She is happy and fulfilled in who and what she is.

Enid jogs back from the keep, her shadow lengthening beside me. What brings her back so soon? My shoulders sag, as I'm still lost in thought about Ria and the bliss of knowing one's purpose in life. Enid pants, her chest heaving.

“The King summons you. A messenger has arrived.”

My heart freezes up. Something is wrong.

Following Enid back toward the fort, I cannot help but wonder. Perhaps King Cadwallon no longer intends to shelter me under his roof. For the past moon, I've hidden at his keep deep within the Free Cantrefs, blissfully cut off from the tumult of the outside world. What a fool I've been to think that the mountains that ring these lands could keep my past from catching up with me.

Cadwallon waits in his near-empty hall, mud-splattered boots on the dais of his oaken throne. The large man breathes heavily, a massive two-handed ax lying across his thighs. Artagan stands behind him, wiping his longsword clean with a rag. The cloth is stained crimson. Enid bows and retreats to the doorway of the throne room. My voice echoes off the wide rafters.

“You summoned me, my King?”

“This morn, my men and I sparred with some South Welshmen trespassing in the mountain passes. We fended them off, but they doubtlessly came with a single purpose.”

I swallow hard, exchanging looks with Artagan. A sortie of Morgan's horsemen on our borders can only mean one thing. My husband must have sent a task force of mounted warriors to steal me back. Evidently, the sweaty Cadwallon had more than one pony thrown from under him, judging from his breeches and ax marred by dirt and grime. Artagan sheathes his great sword behind his back.

“There's more. A herald arrived at midday. He waits outside. The man comes from Dyfed.”

Mention of my homeland makes my heart leap and then go still all at once. The herald must have come from Father. I inwardly shudder, imagining his wrath with me. The peace between his kingdom and Morgan's hinges on my betrothal to unite their realms. Without me, their alliance remains tenuous at best.

Why did I have to be born the daughter of a king? Father will curse my name now that I have rejected the man he gave me to in holy wedlock. If only I could make Father understand. But the time for such understanding and compromise has passed.

Cadwallon gives permission for the herald to enter. A lanky warrior with thin brown wisps of hair falling along one side of his face, he bears a calfskin shield and long spear like most men of Dyfed. The color of his eyes and the set of his cheeks give me pause. Doubtlessly another one of Father's bastards. If only it were Ahern instead. The messenger doesn't even give me a glance as he addresses the King.

“I am Owen, herald of King Vortigen of Dyfed, ally of King Morgan in South Wales.”

“Enough with the pleasantries, young pup,” Cadwallon bellows. “What do you want?”

“My sire desires to negotiate for the return of his daughter, Queen Branwen.”

“I'm right here,” I interrupt. “If you want to negotiate, do so with me.”

Owen keeps his gaze directly on the King.

“My liege gave instructions to treat with King Cadwallon and
only
King Cadwallon.”

Pursing my lips, I've half a mind to wallop this little upstart right in the mouth. The smug foundling. I can't remember him from the countless illegitimate children Father peopled his castle with, but this newfound half brother of mine lacks any of the courtesy or loyalty of Ahern.

Owen smirks, giving me a sidelong glance. The young warrior actually seems to enjoy my discomfort.

Cadwallon leans his chin on his fist, closely eyeing the herald. A messenger arriving from Dyfed the same day that a sortie of Morgan's men assailed the mountain passes seems too coincidental for my taste. Father and my husband remain in league with one another for certain, hedging their best advantages. While Father negotiates peacefully for my recapture on the one hand, Morgan's men attempt to take me by force. One offers a peaceful solution and the other the sword, but their intent remains the same. They would have me back in Caerwent, a prisoner forever, a slave to bear Morgan more young brats in order to keep Father's lands tied to his. If it comes to that, I'll throw myself from a cliff first. I've come too far to be traded back to my father's people like some horse in the marketplace.

When King Cadwallon glances my way, I begin to sweat. I live under the protection of his household and his son. If he withdraws that shield, I'll be as defenseless as a beggar before the likes of Morgan and Father. Hunted into the bogs and wilds like a hare until they finally take me or I take my own life. My God, has it already come to that?

Artagan rests his hand on his sheathed sword. It suddenly occurs to me that whatever his father decides, Artagan has no intention of giving me up. Even if I never requite his affections, he'd rather defy his own kin than betray me. What have I done to deserve such a faithful knight? Ria was wrong. The better woman has not captured Artagan's heart. I've been as selfish and conniving as the men who seek to subdue me, and all the while the so-called renegade Blacksword has been the most honorable man of them all.

Owen steps forward, too close for comfort.

“What say you to my sire's offer, wise King?”

Cadwallon laughs in reply, his voice filling the empty hall. Owen begins to sweat, his shirt damp under the arms. The King pulls a hair from his head, splitting a single red lock on the razor-sharp edge of his ax.

“Among the Old Tribes, when the Romans sent a herald to parley, if that messenger proved himself to be a liar or dishonest in any way, they sent back his headless body on a horse in reply.”

Beads of perspiration run down Owen's temples, his voice trembling.

“Great King, my liege wishes most honorably to compensate you for the return of his daughter.”

“Codswallop! This very day a band of raiders attempted to cross my lands, doubtlessly intent on taking my guest here by force. Speak carefully, boy, your life depends on your next words. Are you saying that your noble lord had nothing to do with that?”

Owen takes a step back, bumping into Enid. Her spear urges him back toward the King. I cross my arms, repressing a grin as Father's herald squirms under their deadly gazes. No way out for the cocksure messenger boy now. He stutters before Cadwallon.

“But—but, Your Grace … those raiders bore the red banners of South Wales, not Dyfed.”

“Did they? But how would you know that, herald? I never mentioned who the raiders were.”

Owen gulps, knowing himself caught like a rat in a trap. He sinks to his knees while Cadwallon rises from his throne, his double-headed ax in hand. Artagan draws his own blade, surrounding the herald along with Enid and myself. Although I've no weapon, I step forward and grasp him by the collar.

“You have your answer, herald. Go back to your master and tell him that Branwen is no man's property anymore.”

“You'd let him go?” Artagan asks in astonishment.

“With the King's permission,” I reply, bowing toward Cadwallon. “Unless I'm mistaken, this Owen is another of my father's bastards. I may be many things, but I'm not a killer of my own kin, no matter how distant or dishonest they may be.”

Cadwallon lowers his ax and nods.

“Because he is your kin and a king's son, however much a liar, we'll spare him. Make haste, boy! Before I change my mind.”

Owen bows, nearly sweeping the floor with his nose. He throws me a dark look before hastening from the hall. Some gratitude.

Turning back to Cadwallon, I approach the throne and bow my head.

“Thank you for your continued protection and support, brave King. I'm sure it would alleviate many of your problems if you simply turned me over to my father or my former husband.”

Cadwallon grins from ear to ear.

“And miss all the fun? No, I prefer to remain a thorn in the side of anyone who would do harm to a daughter of the Old Tribes, especially one as fair and gracious as you.”

I color slightly, unused to such compliments. Cadwallon may like to eat and fight more than any king I've ever known, but he also has the most chivalrous heart of any ruler in Christendom. I'm fortunate indeed to have a friend like him.

Owen's horse whinnies outside, the sound of its hooves dissipating into the distance. Artagan and I step out onto the timber battlements, watching the dust trail from his galloping steed fade into the sunset. With the two of us alone beside the embrasures, I look up into Artagan's azure eyes as though seeing him for the first time. The wind whips through our hair.

“You had your sword drawn before your father even answered the herald. You wouldn't have let them take me even if your father hadn't opposed it, would you?”

“My allegiance, like my heart, can have only one mistress.”

He takes my hand and kisses my palm. His lips feel soft as rose petals on my skin. As though abashed at his own forwardness, he excuses himself and descends the steps to the main hall once more. I've never seen the bold Blacksword suddenly so shy around anyone, let alone me. The brave fool. Today he tussled with warriors who sought to steal me away, and yet he seems more fearful of my reply to his advances. A smile steals across my lips.

The next morning, I arise early in my bedchamber. Fixing my hair in a bronze mirror, I ask Enid for a few odds and ends from the household servants. Dipping my hands in a bowl of rose water, I scrub my fingernails clean, polish my teeth, and wash the grime from my face. Enid returns with my requested items, giving me a sidelong glance in the mirror.

“I'm a warrior, not a lady-in-waiting. What do you need all these trinkets for anyway?”

“Just a little rouge for my cheeks and a touch of lavender for my hair.”

“Aye, and a gown fit for a noblewoman. This used to belong to the lady of the castle.”

“Who? Artagan's mother perhaps?”

“Nay, one of Cadwallon's other wives over the years. He's had many, some all at once.”

She hands me the gown, green cloth with golden trim. A bit musty, but I clap it out before threading my arms through it. Fitting it over my slim frame, it clings tightly to my curves and runs low across my bust. Enid raises an eyebrow as I primp up my dark locks.

“You getting ready for a special occasion?”

“It's May Day, the start of summer. In Dyfed, the girls always dress their best on this holiday.”

“Not dressing up for any man in particular, are you?”

She glares at me in the reflection. Despite bridging the gap between us over the past few weeks, it all evaporates in an instant. Boyish and plain as she may be, Enid's candle burns only for one man. Before I can reply, a horse whickers below the nearby windowsill.

Artagan looks up at my window from atop a chestnut steed. Merlin! The very same stallion that brought us safely through the wilderness. Artagan sits tall in the saddle, wearing a leather jerkin and a woolen tartan that rides up over his knees. His bare arms and thighs bulge with muscle as he steadies the powerful beast beneath him. His blue eyes sparkle like a pair of cobalt gems.

“My lady, the villagers are raising a maypole. They need a May Day queen for the festivities.”

He extends his hand toward my window, his usual self-assured grin spreading across his clean-shaven cheeks. Enid frowns, but I cannot help from flashing a pearly grin down at Artagan. Lifting the hems of my skirts, I race down the steps and hallways, dodging serving girls before reaching the fort gates. I suddenly slow my pace.

Best not come running out of the keep like a hussy. Taking my time, I come up alongside Merlin and pat the horse's mane. Artagan looks me over, taking in my hourglass figure in my borrowed emerald gown. He stutters.

“Branwen, you look … you look so…”

“Are you going to offer me a ride or not?” I smile impishly.

He grins and lifts me into the saddle behind him. As Artagan kicks his heels into Merlin's flanks, we bolt from the keep walls and out into the open fields beside the woods. Villagers wave at us, wearing their brightest garments for the day. They pour milk and honey into the fields, celebrating the sunny start of summer. I cry out with glee as we skirt the river at full gallop, sprinting faster than the wind. My arms wrap tight around Artagan's taut abdomen as he slows to a canter beside the riverbank.

Artagan closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath, inhaling the balsam scent of the nearby woods. He recites something as though from a long-ago memory.

I've been many things:

A sword to my foes,

A shield to my people,

A quivering string on a lover's harp.

I've wept tears with the sky,