Between Two Fires (28 page)

“Lady Annwyn, I cannot accept such an exquisite—”

She gently shushes me with a smile. “I think you shall have more need of it than I.”

I bow, deeply humbled by such generosity. Despite her peaceful philosophy, Annwyn truly does adhere to the ways of the Old Tribes, who sent their womenfolk into battle beside their men. I pray I have the strength to draw the bowstring and do justice to this finely crafted piece of woodwork.

Gazing out over the windowsill, my eyes widen at the sight of such a large contingent of refugees. There must be a thousand of them! So many villagers and homesteaders. Entire stretches of the Free Cantrefs must be empty of people now.

A lone rider astride a white horse leads the swarm of survivors up the slope toward the missing gates. She must be some local noblewoman.

My gaze suddenly narrows on the unmistakable figure of a fair woman with long, straight, jet-black hair. Her violet gown glistens with fine silks and jewels. Only one woman in Christendom could match such beauty. Lady Olwen.

Artagan rushes forward to greet her. Straining my eyes, I can only see their distant figures meet amidst the crowd of refugees pouring into Aranrhod. The bottom drops out of my stomach. Both Una and Rowena glance my way with sympathy in their eyes. Why would Artagan want me now? Especially since I've rejected him and he has a perfectly gorgeous paramour that his father betrothed him to already. My ladies-in-waiting both abruptly resume their tasks, pretending not to have noticed the look of consternation on my face.

Throngs of more Free Cantref folk pass through the open gateways. We'll need all the room this old castle can afford us. Every nook and cranny within these walls will be filled by midnight. Descending the turret steps, I inspect the construction along the weaker segments of the walls. Artagan and Olwen are sure to be there. Natural leaders always throw themselves into the thick of things. I bring along my new quiver of arrows and my birch longbow.

Many of the new arrivals turn and wave to me, survivors from Cadwallon's Keep. Half the villagers from Cadwallon's settlement must have escaped to the woods in order to avoid the Saxons. I embrace several mothers and farmwives. It seems as though we haven't seen each other in years. Has it only been a matter of days since the Saxons turned the world upside down? My heart sinks when I realize how few of the elders have made it. The journey to Aranrhod must have been rough. Only the young survive.

Amidst the multitude, I hear Lady Olwen's voice before seeing her. Dismounted, she tugs her white mare behind her, her other hand upon Artagan's arm. Her deep, sensual voice could cast a spell on any man. She and Artagan suddenly halt before me, the rest of the crowd parting around us like a rock in a river. Olwen speaks to the Blacksword as though I'm not even here.

“Artagan, you didn't! Stealing another man's wife? That's bold, even for you.”

The Blacksword shuffles uncomfortably. Lady Olwen keeps her hand on his arm. I stare down her haughty gaze.

“Actually, I rescued him,” I reply matter-of-factly. “To what do we owe the pleasure, Lady Olwen?”

“I've come to rescue you, or at least your people. But they're not even that, are they? I suppose you're a queen of nothing now that you've thrown it all away.”

My cheeks burn, but I've no reply. Despite her sharp words, she speaks the truth. I've no kingdom under my sway, no family nor husbandly ties to fall back upon. A queen without a country. Little better than a beggar-maid. Artagan removes Olwen's palm from his wrist, his gaze darkening.

“Branwen has done more for the people of the Free Cantrefs than anyone. She cares for every villager like a mother, and for no benefit but the goodness of her own heart. The people love her.”

Olwen purses her lips. I glance at Artagan, unsure what to say. Such sternness has clearly taken Olwen aback as well. He nods toward both of us before excusing himself.

“Pardon me, Lady Olwen, but I've battlements to rebuild. Queen Branwen is in charge here. If you've come to lend a hand in our defense, I suggest you take it up with her.”

He goes without another word, although he does glance back at my new bow with a curious expression. Olwen makes a sour face, her violet eyes lingering upon Artagan as he leaves. Puffing out her chest, she looks me up and down as she might appraise a horse.

“I brought as many survivors here as I could. The rest is up to you, Lady Branwen.”

“You have my thanks,” I reply cordially. “I'm sure we can find a useful task for you.”

“I'll manage myself, thank you.”

She motions to leave, but stops, as though remembering something she wishes to tell me.

“You've turned his head, Branwen. Nothing more. You think yourself the first? He'll come around, sooner or later. He always does. Always.”

Olwen brushes past me, her shoulder glancing mine. My fingernails dig into my palms until they leave marks. I've a sudden, very unchristian urge to practice bow shots on her. But I've little enough arrows for our enemies as it is.

Striding back inside the fortress, I thumb the grip of my new longbow. Annwyn must be of a similar height as me, because when I pull back the bowstring, the nock comes right to my jaw. As though the bow was crafted for me. My skin buzzes with a thousand pinpricks, wondering what Mother would think if she could see me now. Me wielding a longbow in a stronghold of the Old Tribes. I've no formal training in arms and none of the experience of a proper spear-wife, but I think I can at least manage to loose an arrow or two if need be. I suppose if the Saxons come, I'll find out.

Men and women nod to me as I walk the battlements. Artagan's warriors erect a row of wooden pikes in the earth, angling them outward. With his naked blade, the Blacksword lops the heads off each log. Each wooden tip is razor-sharp. A row of sharpened timbers, these barriers will not stop the enemy, but may slow them down.

Amidst the burning bonfires and torches, everyone lends a hand. Keenan and Emryus cut wood, Rowena and Una dig entrenchments, while Ahern and Padraig pile rocks along the walls. Stooping beside them, I join the Abbot and my kinsman as they rebuild the walls one stone at a time. Padraig does not look up from his work.

“I thought ladies don't stoop to such menial labor,” he says.

“Then I'm not a lady.”

Hefting rocks beside him, we pile the stones higher at a low spot in the walls. The bald monk still looks cross with me, his brows tightly nettled. Who can blame him? I've played the part of a petulant brat the past few days, and yet Padraig and Ahern have stayed with me. Padraig stops his work, dusting off his hands. He looks me in the eye for the first time in days. Ahern and I pause in our work as the monk sighs.

“You've grown into a beautiful, intelligent woman, Branwen,” Padraig begins. “You followed your heart when most of us would have balked and you've become a leader of our people, not just those of Dyfed or South Wales or the Free Cantrefs, but of all the Welsh. For these reasons and others, I'm proud to call you my pupil. You're the closest thing to a daughter an old man like me is ever likely to have. I may be a lot of things—cross, testy, and a sinner—but Branwen, my girl … I'm no spy.”

I hang my head, his words bringing water to my eyes. I've been on the run for my very life for so long, my enemies have me seeing assassins and traitors everywhere I look. Even in the midst of my own household and kin. God forgive me, how I've let my fears blind me. I place an arm on Padraig's and Ahern's shoulders.

“It'll be a cold day in purgatory before I give up my trust and love in the two of you.”

Padraig raises my chin with his fingertips, like he often did when I was a child. Ahern smiles at me, somewhat choked up himself. My guardsman's complexion suddenly turns pale, his eyes fixed on the dark horizon.

“My lady, look! The refugees … they've led them right to us.”

Hundreds and hundreds of blazing torches fill the night woods surrounding the castle. The din of steel knives banging against timber shields murmurs through the darkness. Clasping my hands to my throat, all the air seems to go out of me. The Saxons have come.

 

13

Saxon war drums thunder in the night. Smoky pine tar from their torches fills the evening air. The ground shakes with the din of marching feet. Ahern and Padraig exchange looks, the firelight of a thousand Saxon torches reflecting in their eyes. They stare back at me like it's the end of the world. Perhaps it is.

“Get everyone else inside!” I shout, grabbing them by the shoulders. “Now!”

Nodding dumbly at first, Padraig and Ahern help stragglers in through the open gates. The Abbot and my guardsman seem to regain some composure after their initial shock, having something meaningful to do. My palms tremble along the wood grains of my bow. The black silhouettes of innumerable Saxon spearmen encircle the citadel, only a few hundred paces away.

Walking the battlements, it takes every fiber of will for me to tear my eyes away from the nearing danger. I remind myself that I must keep moving, I must stay focused. Pacing the walls, I keep my strides steady. I dare not stop. If I stop, I'll crumble just like these old walls.

The remaining refugees outside the walls usher their livestock in through the gates. Children cry out in their mothers' arms. Panic starts to fester on the faces of every Welshman and Welshwoman inside the citadel.

Artagan and his men form a defensive line along the eastern battlements, the jagged walls and timber palisades little better than waist high in places. I grab Artagan by the shoulder, his firm muscles steadying me. It takes a moment to swallow. My palate runs dry.

“Blacksword, how many Saxons are out there?”

“A thousand, maybe two. Maybe more, if both the Fox and the Wolf have come.”

“We have just as many.”

“Mostly women and children. I doubt we've more than three or four hundred who can fight.”

“Plenty of women here can fight.”

He nods, eyeing the longbow in my hands again. He must know it belongs to his mother, yet he still says nothing. Is there more to this bow than Annwyn first told me? Or perhaps Artagan is just getting used to seeing me with a weapon in hand.

Despite the impending arrival of our foes, he manages a cocky smile. His enthusiasm gives me courage. No wonder his men love him.

“Do we have anything resembling a plan, my lady?”

“Concentrate your warriors where the walls are weakest,” I begin, remembering the map of the compound. “The east and north portions are particularly vulnerable.”

“What about the south and west walls? They're high, but they still need defenders.”

“We've villagers and stones aplenty. They'll hold those walls as well as a pack of she-bears. Let the Saxons come and see how well the mothers of the Free Cantrefs fight when their children are in peril.”

Artagan raises an eyebrow, clearly impressed. Unfortunately, I already see a flaw in my battle plan. A pair of gaping holes remain in the east and north walls.

“We've still got another problem: the two broken gates. The Saxons will pour right through them.”

“Let me handle that. Go rally your she-bears.”

He grins, drawing his longsword. Carefree as a child, he looks as calm as he might at a country dance. Someday, he needs to tell me how he does that. If we last the night, first. Reaching out for him, I touch his arm one last time. So much I want to say, so much left unsaid. My voice falters.

“Blacksword … Artagan … look after yourself.”

He winks in reply. I dart down toward the inner courtyard, scaling a shattered pillar in order to stand above the crowd. Glancing back, I catch my last glimpse of Artagan amidst the tumult. He urges his warriors into position, several dozen men upending a pair of oxcarts to block the open gateways. Good thinking, Blacksword. But how long will those rickety barricades hold? If our garrison is overrun tonight, no one will ever know what happened to us. The last stand of the Free Cantrefs.

When I raise my arms over my head, scores of villagers recognize me and pause. Mothers hush their young and the few elderly women scold young boys into silence. I clear my throat, fighting to keep my tone low, yet strong. If I sound afraid, if I squeak out a few hollow words, it will only spread despair. The people need to hear the voice of a queen.

“Free folk, hear me! The Saxons come to slay our children, to make corpses of our menfolk and slaves of our women. They are many, we are few. They have steel and we have stones, but we have something they do not. Our strength lies not in numbers, or arms, or the height of our walls. No.”

I pause to gain my breath, and the entire castle falls silent. Men lining the walls and children poking their heads out of the dusty stables all have their eyes on me. Artagan's blue gaze finds me across the sea of people, his azure stare giving me strength. I renew my voice.

“We fight to defend those we love! As a cornered bear defends her young, so too shall we resist the Saxon hordes with every tooth and nail of our being. We are no barbarians. We do not fight for pay or loot or lands or captives or because some king orders us to. We fight for our children, for our mothers, for our friends, and for our lovers. We fight for
love,
and that makes us mighty!”

A great cheer rises from the crowd, rippling my skin in goose bumps. I'm out of breath, and my mind runs blank. I've nothing left to say, yet all eyes still focus on me. Artagan smiles, and for a moment it seems as though only he and I occupy the ruins together. Somehow, I find the words once more, my voice rising.

“Will you let the Saxons come and steal away your children?”

The crowd responds in unison. “No!”

“Will you let them ravish your women?”

“No!”

“Will you stand by while they kill your men?”

“No!”

“Then let them hear you, brothers and sisters! Let them hear the voices of a thousand Welsh inside the walls of Aranrhod who are still free!”