Between Two Fires (26 page)

By the firelight, I look at my empty hands in my lap. Some queen. The last people loyal to me in all the world now camp with me beneath the open stars. Like vagabonds in the wilderness.

I close my eyes, using my folded cloak as a pillow. Memories of the hush of the unfathomably distant sea fill my ears. Once more, I can see the guttering candles inside the stony vaults of the monastery at Dun Dyfed. A younger version of myself sighs, reading illuminated manuscripts with Padraig looking over my shoulder. Despite the wintry draft outside, within the monastery, the tallow pages of each open tome glow with the colors of spring. Red ochre, hot saffron, and royal purple glisten from the inscriptions etched on warm-hued vellum. I still keep the book he gave me about Branwen the Brave tucked away in my satchel.

I awake with a start the next morning, finding myself back in the glade surrounded by my four companions. I pat my face and chest, no longer the young girl I once was by the shores of Dyfed. Now I'm just a lost queen in the wooded wilderness. Camp smoke rises from our smoldering fire pit.

We break camp at dawn, heading toward the rising sun. By midday, we reach a break in the forest. The teal curves of the great Sabrina River wind their way through the valley below. It almost makes me smile. Who needs a guide? Just follow the sun and the rivers. A couple years ago, I hardly knew much of the world beyond the rocky shores of Dyfed. Now I wend my way through the wilds like a seasoned scout. Smudged as I am with grime and dirt from spending a night on the forest floor, what would Morgan and his brother make of me now? Not quite such a helpless little woman anymore.

Ahern points eastward. Several columns of black smoke rise along the riverfront far below. A foul stench of burnt rubble and rotting flesh fills the air. A murder of crows circles high overhead. My heart rises in my throat.

I gallop headlong down the wooded slopes, heedless of Padraig and Ahern calling after me. My mare descends the foothills to the lowlands, fumes of dark smoke choking the woods. Coughing into my fist, I find myself alone in the black fog. When the trees part before me, I immediately recognize the place. Ria's village.

Heaps of ash and charred timbers remain where huts and longhouses once stood. Bloodied bodies litter the ground, peasants and animals slaughtered right outside their very homes. Crackling fires smolder so thickly they blot out the sun. The morning seems black as night.

I dismount and begin to search the bodies. Ahern and Padraig rein back their horses at the sight of such carnage, both Una and Rowena close behind them. Ahern looks furtively over his shoulder.

“My lady, we cannot linger here! It is not safe. Whomever did this cannot be far off.”

“Have you any doubts who did this?” Padraig adds, pulling a broad spearhead out of a corpse. “This was done by Saxon steel.”

Ignoring them both, I crouch over several mangled cadavers, some so disfigured that I cannot tell whether they belonged to men or women. The butchered livestock look like someone dropped them from an immense height. Wide, crimson stains cover the grass. Men could not have done such things. This looks more like the work of demons. Both Rowena and Una throw up behind their horses. I freeze, stopping over several bodies all laid out together. As I sink to my knees, my shoulders suddenly feel heavy as lead.

I touch Ria's white cheek, her flesh cold as ice. Recoiling as though death itself were somehow contagious, I clutch my palms to my mouth. Her clothes hang off her bloodied limbs in shreds. Beside her, the little boy Art lies next to his lifeless baby sister. The girl I first helped bring into the world.

My lips quiver with rage. They were only children! What kind of men could do such things?

Gwen's body lies a little farther off, a large reaping hook in her hand. She must have taken at least one Saxon brute down with her. These village women were made of sterner stock than I. Squeezing my eyes shut, I stop up my ears against the crackling of dying fires.

Ahern dismounts his steed and grabs me by the arm. Tugging me back to my mount, he suddenly stops as his eyes grow round with fear. A dull thunder of horse hooves murmurs through the smoky dells. Ahern barely speaks above a whisper.

“Someone is coming.”

 

12

If only I had a knife. Or a spear or bow or anything other than just my two hands. On the run from Welsh warlords and Saxon raiders, I have little more protection than a common peasant. Standing my ground, I swallow hard as the rumble of nearing horses thunders through the smoke. Flames linger amidst the smoldering remains of the charred riverside village.

Ahern stands beside me, shouldering his shield and spear. A brave man, but only one warrior against God knows how many. If the Saxons take me alive it will be a fate worse than death. Many of the bloodied women's bodies at my feet testify to the savagery of these inhuman barbarians. I cross myself as the lead rider emerges from the smoke. A score of horsemen follow in his wake.

The motley cavalcade of rugged men comes to a halt, their garments bloodied and torn in places. Several horses limp, licking wounds on their sides. These men wear green.

Artagan dismounts, but doesn't seem to see me. My gut clenches tight. Not two days have passed and already our paths cross again. Despite my cool stare, he still doesn't look my way.

He staggers toward the bodies of Ria and her family. A fresh cut bleeds on his cheek, and a pair of new welts pockmarks his arms. He and his men must have crossed swords with the enemy. The Blacksword sinks to his knees beside Ria and her children. His children. Reaching out to touch them, he hesitates. His hands shake over their blank, lifeless stares. He balls his fists and looks up at me for the first time.

His piercing blue eyes seem to hold me against my will. How much more can the Saxons take from this man? First his sister, now his lover and their children. Whatever might have been, whatever wrongs he might have wanted to set aright, the chance for all of that has passed. Artagan hangs his head as I place a hand on his shoulder. Both his men and mine keep their distance.

“I'm so sorry, Artagan. My Abbot will give them a proper burial.”

He shakes his head, pounding his fist into the ground. His knuckles bleed. He doesn't even seem to notice the blood on his throbbing hand.

“There's no time for burials. We move posthaste. You're coming with us.”

“I was leaving the Free Cantrefs,” I gently remind him. “I thought you didn't want me around anymore.”

I suddenly feel foolish, our spat over his betrothal to Olwen seeming like such nonsense compared with the perils that face us now. But I sense that Artagan barely hears me, his eyes still glazed over from the destruction of Ria's village.

“You haven't heard then?” he begins. “Of course not. This isn't the only massacre this day. My father's keep has been attacked. The Saxons took him captive.”

As I take a step back, my voice fails me. Cadwallon a prisoner? Heaven knows what the barbarians will do to him. And what of the people living near the keep, the place I called my home until only yesterday? Faces of every babe and elder I nursed back to health flash through my mind. The world has changed overnight. Artagan rises to his feet, his jaw clenched.

“Two Saxon armies crossed into the Free Cantrefs yesterday—one struck here and the other at my father's keep. We clashed with them twice, but my company is too small and the Saxons were too many.”

“The Fox and the Wolf.”

“Aye. Cedric and Beowulf each lead their own war bands. Rarely have the Saxons struck so deep into our territory before.”

“Why now?”

“Isn't it obvious? They're looking for you.”

My lower lip starts to tremble.

“But I only left Cadwallon's Keep yesterday, which means—”

“Which means the only way they could've known your whereabouts was if a spy was in our midst.”

Artagan's words sink into me like daggers. This feels like Caerwent all over again, when assassins and intrigue surrounded me at every turn. Only this time, many innocent people have paid with their lives. All because of me. My heart suddenly weighs heavy as a brick. But I dwelt at Cadwallon's Keep for months without any danger, so why now does the enemy move against me? What has changed?

A coldness creeps into my bones as the four members of my household exchange looks from atop their mounts. Ahern, Padraig, Rowena, and Una arrived only a few days ago, and only since then has my life been in peril. It strains reason to assume such a thing could be mere coincidence. Had it not been for my hasty departure from Cadwallon's Keep yesterday, I would've still been there when the Saxons attacked.

My temples begin to throb. Oh, God, please let it not be true. Have one of my own betrayed me? It cannot be. It simply cannot. Artagan takes my hand.

“Mount up. The enemy is still close. Once the Fox and the Wolf combine their forces, they will be too many for us to resist them.”

“But where will we flee to?”

“Flee? I intend to take the villains head-on, and crush one war party then the other before they unite. I will have their heads!”

My head aches fiercely now. The hot-blooded Blacksword, he only sees red. His men have exhausted themselves in two fights already. If he leads them into a headlong charge against the Saxons, they may take many down with them, but it will be the Fox and the Wolf who triumph. They will take Artagan's head, not the other way around. I prod my finger into his chest.

“Listen to yourself! You only want revenge, but your first responsibility must be to your people. By now entire villages of Free Cantref folk must be scattered across the mountains and valleys. They need a place to rally, a safe haven, a place to gather our strength.”

“Where? Saxons are crawling all over my father's domain. There isn't a safe castle within a hundred leagues of us.”

“There's one place we might go. A stronghold deep in the mountains. Somewhere the Saxons would be loath to follow us. We could go to Aranrhod.”

Artagan blinks, looking at me as though snakes just sprouted from my head. The crackling fires dwindle around us. Once the smoke clears, the Saxons will surely come looking for us. We haven't much time.

“Aranrhod?” Artagan scoffs. “The place is haunted. It's nothing but a pile of ruins and rocks.”

“It was once a refuge for the Old Tribes, and it can be once more. It was built by our ancestors. I will not fear something made by their hands.”

“This is madness, Branwen!”

“It's this or we flee south to Caerwent and the Dean Fort. Would you prefer we throw ourselves at the mercy of my husband? I'm willing to swallow that bitter draught if it will help save the people of the Free Cantrefs, but that is our only alternative. It's that or Aranrhod. Make your choice.”

Artagan makes a sour face at the mention of King Morgan. He takes a deep breath, peering at me as though trying to pierce my being to its core. I do not flinch. I meant every word I said. I care for all the Welsh, not just those in Dyfed, South Wales, or the Free Cantrefs. All of us are children of the Old Tribes one way or another, and despite our differences, we all share the same foe. Either we start looking after each other or Wales will perish under the Saxon hordes one kingdom at a time.

Every life we save is one more person who can help resist the ever-rising tide of Saxon barbarians in our lands. I am tired of running, from Morgan, from Saxons, and from the traitor in my midst. It's time we made a stand.

Artagan steps close to me until we are only a breadth apart.

“Whatever course we take, you would come with me?”

“It seems we're somewhat lost without each other.”

He flashes a wisp of a smile before turning to his men.

“Send out riders and ravens to spread the word. We rally at Aranrhod. The Blacksword and the Fairy Queen will make their stand there, come what may.”

Mounting my mountain pony, the same that Cadwallon gave me, I join Artagan's men as we gallop into the west. Emryus and Keenan nod toward me, both warriors sporting purple bruises. Enid does not glance my way once, although it gladdens me to see her alive.

My household trails close behind. Spies or no, I cannot bear to think ill of any of them. Someone has betrayed me, but I will not believe it one of them. I have larger tasks ahead of me now. We must reach Aranrhod and make peace with the ghosts there or risk becoming ghosts ourselves.

*   *   *

The crags of crumbling stone walls loom above the mists of Aranrhod. Our company has gained in numbers over the past few days as bowmen, stray villagers, and even a few spear-wives join our ranks. We've over a hundred followers, with more appearing every hour. If our riders and ravens successfully reach the other scattered settlements and homesteads of Cadwallon's domain, more refugees should come. Or so I keep telling myself.

Over the last two days, we saw signs of the Saxons' destruction that pockmark the countryside. Burnt-out huts, slaughtered livestock, and murdered peasants. Somehow we evaded the Fox and the Wolf, riding through the darkest thickets of the forest where even the bravest Welsh rarely go. The woods and mountains of the Free Cantrefs help defend us from the Saxons just as much as our spears and bows.

Thank the Virgin for guiding us here safely. The old fortress of Aranrhod sits on a lone hilltop in an otherwise misty plain, surrounded by a crescent of high ridges that wrap around the environs like a half shield. Artagan leans close as the two of us halt at the head of our company.

“The steep mountains will deter attack from most directions, but if the Saxons corner us here we will have nowhere to go. Aranrhod is as much a stronghold as it is a death trap. I hope you know what you're doing.”

“The largest pass lies to the east. Set some keen lookouts there, ones that won't fall asleep.”

“It's not just the Saxons that worry me.”

He shivers, looking up at the green and rocky slopes. We ride toward the ruins together. The rest of our company holds back. Artagan and I trade looks. It seems this quest is up to us. If we don't emerge safe from the ruins, no one else will dare venture into them.