Between Two Fires (31 page)

I hit the ground with a heavy thud, all the breath knocked out of me. My limbs sting from the impact. My mare, Gwenhwyfar, limps in circles, braying over her crippled leg. Cedric charges me with spear and sword in hand, Beowulf and his warriors following close behind. Trying to sit up, I feel my trembling arms and legs fail to rise, still stunned from the fall. I shut my eyes as Cedric towers over me, his yellow eyes burning bright as hot coals.

A roar of voices utters a strange battle cry over the din.

“Branwen, Mab Ceridwen!”

Opening my eyes, I see Cedric falter back before me. Artagan and the surviving warriors from Aranrhod have come out from behind their walls, charging headlong into the field on foot. The green-clad Free Cantref folk cry out as they loose stones and arrows at the Saxons. “Mab Ceridwen, Mab Ceridwen!” It takes a moment to realize they're chanting for me.

The Blacksword rushes over me, slashing at Cedric with his famous long blade. In an instant, Artagan runs his sword through the Saxon's chest before raising his weapon again. He severs Cedric's skull from his shoulders. The lopped-off head of ruddy-blond hair rolls over toward me on the ground.

Cedric's blank yellow stare looks up at me from the crook of my legs. His contorted face begins to swim in my vision. I stagger to my feet, Artagan steadying me with a hand on my elbow.

“Get behind me!” he shouts.

My head bobs, heavy as a lodestone, my palms still sluggish after my fall. A wounded color-bearer collapses beside me. An emerald dragon of the Free Cantrefs does not belong in the dirt. My blood starts to pump faster.

I lift the green banner up from the crimson-stained grass. Raising the ivy flag high, I hear the Welshmen cheer as I trail close behind Artagan. Even amidst the screams and clanging shields, their battle cry pierces the air. “Mab Ceridwen, Mab Ceridwen!” More and more fallen Saxon warriors cover the grass.

A Saxon ram's horn signals their retreat. Rhun and Iago's horsemen continue to pursue them into the woods, their cavalcade trampling wounded barbarians underfoot. While I wave my bloodied, green dragon banner overhead, the Blacksword continues lifting Saxon heads beside me.

Amidst the fray, Beowulf's towering figure glares back at me. I feel the searing heat of the Wolf's hatred on my cheeks. He disappears into the wood with the last of his fleeing countrymen.

Rhun gallops toward us, his armor dented and his lance splintered in twain. Iago nurses a cut along his thigh. Artagan raises his bloodied blade in salute. Beneath the mingled black and green banners, Welshmen from both the North and the Free Cantrefs cheer together over their fallen foes. Breathing hard, it takes some time before any of us have enough breath to speak. Dark-bearded Rhun halts his limping steed.

“We heard rumors of Saxon forces along our south borders when we received one of Lady Olwen's ravens. We feared we might arrive too late.”

“You are most timely and brave,” I say to both brothers. “Another few moments and I would have been in the clutches of the Fox and the Wolf.”

Artagan raises Cedric's yellowed head.

“Here's one Fox that'll never haunt our henhouses again.”

Iago frowns. “Aye, but I fear the Wolf has gotten away.”

In the distance, a few dozen Welsh cavalrymen continue to pursue the Saxons into the forest. But both sides are already spent. Half the Saxons will probably make it back across the border. Beowulf included. The other half will never leave these fields where they fell. Wiping the blood and grime from my face, I steady myself against Artagan's shoulder. He leans his head against mine, whispering in my ear.

“I thought I'd lost you.”

“You'll never lose me. Not now, nor ever.”

He wraps an arm around me as Keenan and Emryus join us. The women and children of Aranrhod filter out the gates onto the field, nursing the wounded and embracing the victors. Young women kiss strangers while children pet the horses of the North Welshmen who rode to our aid. My skin buzzes from my toes to my fingertips. It feels so good to be alive! Wrapping my arms around Artagan's neck, I press my lips to his. Only when Rhun clears his throat do I remember we're not alone.

“It was bold of you to advance out of your walls, Sir Artagan.”

“It was bold of you to come to our aid, Prince Rhun. We could not have won without you.”

“My father would've come himself, but age prevents him. We may come from different kingdoms, but we're all Welsh and I'd rather see a Welshman rule the Free Cantrefs than a Saxon.”

Artagan nods solemnly.

“Alas, the Saxons slew my father. We are without a king now.”

Rhun and Iago exchange looks.

“Our condolences, Sir Artagan. Or
King
Artagan, I should say. You were Cadwallon's eldest.”

Artagan blinks, glancing my way. Ever the merry-making hedge knight, I can see that the thought of kingship has never crossed his mind. Nor mine for that matter. My goodness, who would've ever imagined the Blacksword wearing a crown? Artagan shakes his head.

“My father never named an heir. He had many bastards besides me. We follow the Old Welsh Law here, where land is divided equally amongst all a man's sons, not just his eldest.”

“That may be so,” Rhun replies. “But it looks to me as though you've already won an inheritance here at Aranrhod. You have many loyal subjects.”

“Queen Branwen led us to Aranrhod. If this victory belongs to anyone, it is her.”

He squeezes my hand. Victory. The word has a strange taste on the lips. We saved our people and repulsed the Saxons, but I cannot resist my own selfish impulse. To stand here holding Artagan's hand, alive and well, means more to me than all the treasures under the earth. All the petty trivialities I fretted about before have fallen away from me. I nearly let the Saxons make me a slave for life. How quickly life can change in an instant.

Rowena and Una come down the slopes of Aranrhod. Rushing to greet them, their long faces stop me in my tracks. Something is wrong.

Behind them, Ahern marches down the grass with a limp corpse in his arms. My cheeks suddenly turn cold as death. My kinsman halts in front of me, his beard tinged with teardrops. In his strong arms, Padraig lies still and pale. A large scarlet wound runs down his side, bloodied by a Saxon spear. My lip trembles as I touch the Abbot's cold hand. I sink to my knees, unable to restrain my sobs. He sleeps with the angels now.

*   *   *

We bury Padraig in a mound beside King Cadwallon. Small piles of overturned earth mark fresh graves along the western mountains where the people have collected our dead. The Saxon bodies we pile into a deep pit and set ablaze. Artagan holds me close as the smoke wafts over the barrows of his father and the Abbot. Padraig was like a father, at least in all the ways that matter. My own blood-sire wants me dead or living as a slave-wife to the Hammer King. Padraig gave me the gift of books and taught me that the loving voice in my heart was God. Hanging my head, I bury my sobs against Artagan's chest. My guide, my holy father, now Padraig is gone forever.

Nearby, Annwyn stares at Cadwallon's burial mound, her face a stony mask. Yet I sense an inner turmoil behind her wavering azure gaze. Long ago, Cadwallon was her lover, and although Artagan's parents never wed, surely some tender feelings still lingered between them. But now Cadwallon is dead, one of many souls now lost to us. I move to comfort Annwyn, but Artagan waves me off. Some folk deal with their grief better alone, and so we leave the old enchantress to her own thoughts as Artagan and I walk arm in arm toward the castle.

Planning the victory festivities has taken a toll on my hours of sleep. Rowena and Una scurry beside me, polishing stone floors and chipped tables that have gone to rot over the last hundred years. But God bless them. In a few days, we've resurrected this ancient ruin from the dead. Aranrhod seems like a castle fit for habitation once more.

I force a smile during the feast, still unable to fathom a world without Padraig. But I am not the only one to have lost someone dear to me. Artagan makes merry with his men, drinking from mead horns and jugs of fresh cider, even while his own father and loved ones now lie buried in the ground. Drowning himself in drink, Artagan mourns in his own way. I put on a cordial face for the sake of our people, who need mirth and merriment now more than ever. But my red eyes betray the tears shed over my prayers every night.

Scarce a soul inside Aranrhod hasn't lost someone dear to them. How selfish of me to wallow in my own misery when so many have had to bury kin, lovers, and friends. Preferring to bury myself in work, I bustle about the castle, attending to all the details of the feast. After centuries of silence, the main hall of Aranrhod echoes once more with laughter and turns bright under the warm glow of hearth fires.

In the main hall, I order the long tables to be arranged in a great circle. This way no lord or chieftain will feel slighted for having a place too near or too far from the head table. Much like Queen Guinevere's idea of a Round Table in Arthur's time. Although I draw inspiration from the past, I do not delude myself enough to believe that the glory days of our grandsires have returned. The Free Cantref folk and Northern Welsh are brave and true, but our disorganized rabble are a far cry from the Arthurian knights of legend. We do not even have a king to unite us.

Some of our most honored guests sit at my table, Princes Rhun and Iago, and of course Artagan. Lady Olwen joins us, smirking my way as Rhun offers her a seat between us. I smile cordially back at her. Her lavender gown shimmers by firelight. My own emerald mantle suits me well enough, one of the few pieces of clothes my serving girls smuggled out of Caerwent when they departed. Most members of the feast don skins and woolens. The Free Cantrefs may remain free, but they are still a poor people.

Emryus and Keenan stoke the hearth fires as the evening mists roll in outside. These hardened warriors grin like boys as they roast pigs over spits. With foodstuffs at a premium, nearly all the fare at our feast consists of wild game. Boar, stag, and geese sizzle over the crackling flames. I eat as best I can, but soon put down a half-gnawed bone. I'd give every silk in my clothes chest to have Abbot Padraig sharing tonight's meal with us.

Artagan rejoins us at our table, chewing on a haunch of stag meat. He banters with Rhun, Iago, and Olwen awhile. My mind wanders distractedly, thinking about Padraig. But something Rhun says perks my ears.

“With no king in this part of Wales now, my father Belin would willingly offer his protection to these people and its lands.”

Olwen flashes her teeth in a not entirely friendly manner.

“And place half the Free Cantrefs under North Wales's rule? My father, King Urien, is the highest-ranking monarch in the Free Cantrefs now. Surely the people here would rather fall under his reign.”

“If Urien lives out the year,” Iago mumbles. “He's older than our own sire.”

Olwen throws Iago a piercing stare, so unlike her usual demeanor. Artagan tries to smooth things over, drawing the subject onto more convivial things like the delicious venison on the table. If I could not eat much before, I now find my appetite gone entirely.

Suddenly, Rhun and Iago's rushing to our rescue becomes painfully clear. Not any simple do-gooders, they came at the behest of their father, intent on securing more lands for his northern kingdom. Belin the Old never does anything without expecting something in return. Meanwhile, Olwen hopes to secure these lands for her own kin, even though they never set foot here. Even in victory, our own fratricidal Welsh politics threaten to defeat us as much as Saxon blades. Without looking at anyone in particular, I raise my voice loud enough for all at the table to hear.

“These were Cadwallon's people and they are a free, independent lot. They will never follow someone who isn't one of their own. Not Saxon, nor even North or South Welsh.”

All eyes turn on me, even some members of nearby tables putting down their table knives and plates to listen. Some of the Northern Welsh guests shift uncomfortably in their chairs. Rhun turns toward me, looking past Olwen.

“Who would you have rule here, Lady Branwen? Perhaps some of your Dyfed kin?”

“Nay. You said it yourself after the battle, Prince Rhun. Someone has already carved out a new kingdom here at Aranrhod. Someone who defended the people when no one else would, someone who has always fought for their welfare and enjoyed their loyalty and support. Someone of Cadwallon's line. Artagan Blacksword should be king.”

This last pronouncement garners silence from the rest of the hall. Have I overstepped my bounds? My cheeks redden somewhat, but I stand and take Artagan's arm by the wrist, raising it up. In this mad world of wars and spies, I cannot feel shame for speaking the truth. Or common sense. Artagan is the best man to lead these people. The best man in many respects. He has more goodness and honor in him than any man I've ever met, so why can't I simply put that into words? When I say no more, Keenan steps forward to join me. He bends his knee before the Blacksword.

“By my life or death, I pledge my fealty to the man who led us at Aranrhod. Where you lead, I will follow.”

Several men in green second Keenan's words with hearty “aye-ayes.” Emryus takes a knee before Artagan, just like Keenan. Enid joins them. One by one, every Free Cantref man, woman, and child in the room takes a knee. Milkmaids I knew from Cadwallon's Keep, mothers who defended their children during the siege at Aranrhod, and spearmen who served in Artagan's company since before he was a knight. Even Ahern, Rowena, and Una bow before the Blacksword. I raise an eyebrow, but say nothing as I stifle a smile of surprise. When I move to bow myself, Artagan grasps me by the wrist in turn. He actually looks wide-eyed with apprehension.

“Not you too,” he whispers. “You got me into this. You best stand with me now.”

Lady Annwyn joins us and raises Artagan's other arm, her powerful voice carrying outside the hall to the throngs in the courtyard.