Between Two Fires (38 page)

“Ten thousand? Impossible. The Saxons on our borders don't even have that many men.”

“They do now. It's no longer just the West Saxons under the Wolf who come against us. He has allied with the Anglo-Saxon king, Penda, who marches with him. Never before have the bickering factions of the Saxon kingdoms united like this against us. Our scouts report axmen, spear-throwers, and armored infantry amongst their ranks. Not since the days of Arthur have the Saxons arrayed such a force against us.”

“And I suppose your brother thinks himself the next Arthur?” Artagan retorts. “Just snap his fingers and we'll come running to help him. Do you think me a fool, princeling? I won't shed the blood of my warriors to protect the Hammer King's castle. He'd just as soon plant spies in my court to capture back my wife. I ought to send your head back in a basket.”

Artagan draws his blade. Malcolm's men raise their spears in response. Enid, Emryus, and Keenan draw their bows in turn. I might roll my eyes if all our lives didn't depend on the next few moments. These noblemen are fighters, but they've none of the nuances required for negotiation or diplomacy.

Nudging my mare between both groups, I extend my hands toward either side. South Welsh spears aim at me from one end and Free Cantref arrowheads from the other. I raise my voice.

“Stop this madness! I've more reason for grievance against King Morgan than anyone, but we will not shed blood here. Not under a flag of truce, not while every Saxon in Britain storms over the border into Wales. You would only be doing the barbarians a favor by fighting each other now. We're going to need every Welsh warrior we can get.”

Artagan lowers his blade with an incredulous look on his face.

“You don't actually believe this liar, do you?”

“If he meant to deceive us, Morgan would've sent a raven or a cleric or someone from Dyfed,” I reply. “Instead he sent his only brother, knowing full well we might kill him or take him prisoner. It's an act of desperation, but it's also an honest act as well.”

Malcolm trots forward, making his men lower their arms.

“We've sent word all across Wales to gather our forces,” he adds. “Vortigen of Dyfed has pledged to come, and Bishop Gregory has gone to North Wales to plead our common cause.”

“The North Welsh will not come.” Artagan waves dismissively.

“If you joined us, they would,” Malcolm replies. “If not, the Saxons will gobble up our kingdoms one by one. If we do not make a stand against them now, all is lost. They'll raise their banners over each of our castles by Christmastide.”

“And who's to command this combined Welsh army?”

“All the Welsh kings jointly, together as equals.”

“I'll believe it when I see it.”

Artagan sheathes his blade and folds his arms. Malcolm throws up his hands in exasperation. Both men would gladly rather draw one another's blood than fight back to back against an enemy. But the Prince has a point. We cannot sit behind our walls and wait for another endless siege. The Saxons will wear us down until we've run out of warriors and bread.

Several arguments break out simultaneously amongst the South Welsh and the Free Cantref warriors, each remembering past grievances and wrongs done by the other. I hold up a single palm and wait until both sides run silent. Turning in the saddle, I face Malcolm with the sternest queenly countenance I can summon.

“Prince, tell your king he shall have our answer in several days' time, beneath the walls of Caerwent. Our army will come or I will come alone myself.”

*   *   *

“Saxons!”

Enid's voice carries through the forest as she points toward the plains beyond. Artagan and I halt our mounts at the edge of the woods, squinting into the misty dawn along the riverfront. At first, nothing but thin fog banks dot the gray river that cuts through the lowlands. The drumbeat of calfskin and timber shields murmur through the morning vapors. Tall pikes pierce the mists, some bearing bloody, golden, and orange banners. The colors of the Saxon tribes. I swallow hard. The heavy tread of men in chain mail echoes across the wetlands.

In the distance, the slate silhouette of Caerwent overlooks the river. Its imposing towers and fortified bastions array themselves like rows of stone teeth. If the battle should go ill, does the citadel have enough room to house our troops? That would be a slow death, starved out and bombarded by sling stones. No, far better to fight in the open and risk it all in a single contest with our barbaric foes. Artagan touches my arm, his gaze soft as blue felt.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks.

I clench his hand. When was the last time I was certain about anything? We've come too far to turn back now. Maybe we never really had a choice to begin with. But what kind of mother am I? What kind of wife? Leaving my child behind in Rowena's care to join my husband on the battlefield. I fight today not only for my own life, but for the life of my son. My place is here in the borderlands, battling for his future. If we fail today, there won't even be a free Wales for him when he grows up.

So, am I sure we've made the right decision? I nod toward my husband.

“I'm sure. The rest lies in God's hands.”

Artagan kisses my cheek. Turning back toward his men, he hardens his features. No longer my softhearted lover, he wears the face of a warrior now, of a king. Drawing his blade, he calls out to the long column of archers on foot. Tall bowmen clad in green, interspersed with a few spear-wives wielding birch bows like mine own. Artagan raises his voice.

“For Aranrhod, for the Free Cantrefs, for Wales! For Mab Ceridwen!”

“Mab Ceridwen!” the warriors reply in unison.

Goose bumps rise along my skin. Their pet name for me has become something more. A battle cry, a plea for freedom. Artagan puts his heels to his stallion's sides, charging into the open plain while his troops jog close behind. I ride beside the column to make sure no stragglers linger.

Everyone we can muster has come. Amidst the crowd, familiar faces glance my way before taking the field. Farmers, huntsmen, and smiths. Fathers, brothers, and sons of the womenfolk who've helped make Aranrhod what it is. Now we defend the approaches to Caerwent, not because we care for King Morgan, but because we care for the fate of Wales. All Wales. Emryus, Keenan, and Enid nod my way as they pass with more companies of green-clad troops in tow. Last in line comes a lone soldier on foot, his spear and shield immaculate despite his long beard and wild hair. Ahern halts beside my horse, pausing to catch his breath.

“Dungeon air has not done much for my lungs. You afraid I might desert, my Queen?”

“It was King Artagan's decision to offer you your freedom if you joined us on the battlefront.”

“I ask no freedom for myself. Merely to fight by your side once again. Can things ever go back to the way they once were, sister?”

Eyeing him a long while, I turn my mount.

“Keep pace beside me, guardsman. Someone has to keep an eye on you.”

He smiles and nods before abruptly regaining his stoic composure. Happy as a pup to be at my side once more, he jogs beside my cantering mountain mare. How strangely the fates twist and entwine our lives together. We've the same father and different mothers, once close as kin, then enemies, and now allies once again. The seesaw of fortune continues its ceaseless tilt.

Down in the plain, King Morgan's troops stand in square checkerboard formations beneath their red dragon pennants. Thousands of men-at-arms, their glaives and helms polished for the day. Let's hope it's enough to turn the tide against the Saxon hordes. A long line of drab spearmen with cowhide shields array themselves on the flank. Hearty sons of Dyfed. My heart beats faster with the rhythm of my pony's clacking hooves. Though long at odds with my father, it still lightens my soul to fight beside the people of my birthplace.

King Morgan's bannermen meet in the center of the field. Both Father and my former husband will be there. I swallow hard, clutching my bow tight. I'd rather go up against a hundred Saxons than face Morgan or Father again. A chill runs up my back. By day's end, I may get my wish.

Galloping forward astride my Gwenhwyfar, I join Artagan and his retinue beneath their green dragon banners. Ahern, although on foot, runs until red in the face in his effort to keep up. Artagan orders his warriors to halt, wishing to proceed alone. I ride beside him anyway. Whatever we must face, we shall face it together. Nonetheless, my spine tingles thinking of the hundreds of bowstrings and thousands of spears that will soon clash on these fields.

Morgan must realize we've far more to gain as allies than as foes. If not, all is lost. The jangling rumble of the nearing Saxon army looms louder through the fog, but aside from a few flags, their forces remain hidden from view. Like a sea serpent lingering just beneath the surface.

Artagan and I halt our steeds a few paces from Morgan and his knights. All eyes turn on me. Malcolm, the Bishop, Father, and Morgan himself. The Hammer King's dark gaze narrows on me, much the way a wolf might look at a guarded sheepfold. Both wary and wanting all at the same time. My flesh grows cold with sweat. So he still desires me in his bed? Probably wishing to embrace me and wrap his fingers around my neck all at once. Such are the mixed passions of men. I straighten my spine and sit high in the saddle. Morgan won't see me flinch, not this day. His deep voice greets Artagan, but his eyes never stray from my face.

“Blacksword. It's been a long time.”

“I'm not here for you, Hammer King. I expect something in return for my participation today.”

“You want me to relinquish my claim on Branwen, is that it?”

Morgan keeps his gaze fixed on me, but Artagan sidles his mount between us.

“I've brought a thousand archers.”

“Pah! Vortigen alone brought a thousand spearmen.”

“With ten thousand arrowheads? One of my men is worth two of yours.”

Morgan looks Artagan in the eye for the first time. The two monarchs stare one another down. Artagan's force may be small compared to the thousands Morgan has mustered, but our archers will slay at least twice their number in the coming fight. No small balance in our favor against the Saxons. Morgan gives me a sidelong glance. Which matters to him more? Me back in his bed or a thousand Free Cantref bowmen on his side? Such is the price of maintaining a kingdom. But I'd sooner slit my throat than go back to Morgan, and every man here knows it. The Hammer King reins his horse back, eyeing Artagan's mount.

“That's my old warhorse. You ride two mounts I used to, one a stallion, the other a broodmare. Do you possess anything I didn't once fondle?”

Malcolm and several other soldiers guffaw behind Morgan. My face blushes crimson. That son of a bitch-dog. I clutch my bow until my knuckles turn white. Steely as ever, Artagan leans his face close to Morgan's.

“Have I your word, that you'll never bother us again?”

Morgan clenches his jaw, his venomous gaze piercing right through me. Artagan flexes his fingertips along the handle of his longsword. God help us. We may come to blows with the rest of the Welsh army before the Saxons ever reach us. Morgan snorts through his nose like a bull.

“I swear it,” he says. “Place your archers on the left flank. I'll send Vortigen's spearmen to support you.”

Nudging my mare forward, I cannot keep silent. Morgan holds something back, I see it in the twitch of his eyes. Something doesn't smell right, and I'll have it out of him if it's the last thing I ever do.

“Why so few men?” I ask. “Where are the rest?”

Morgan's eyes harden like rocks in their sockets. He and Father exchange looks before the Hammer King edges closer.

“Have you not heard?” Morgan begins. “We lost a thousand men at the Dean Fort, and a plague hit Dyfed not two moons ago. Many perished, including your father's bride, Queen Gwendolyn.”

“My stepmother?” I reply with an open mouth.

I never got along with the old woman of propriety, but that doesn't mean I wished her ill. The plague in Dyfed must have been dreadful indeed if it took down nobles and commoners alike. Such maladies can oft strike a kingdom without warning and disappear just as mysteriously. I take a deep breath. Time enough to deal with such losses later. Today, we've a war to fight.

Morgan motions over his shoulder toward my father's spearmen.

“Thanks to that damnable pestilence, less than half your father's army is fit for the field.”

“Then how many warriors do we have?”

“Five thousand in my contingent, a thousand from you, and a thousand from Dyfed.”

“And the Saxons have over ten thousand? We'll be overwhelmed!”

Bishop Gregory raises his palm over his miter.

“Not if Belin's North Welsh come. He's pledged three thousand horsemen to our aid.”

Artagan scoffs, leering at Morgan.

“The Old Man will never come. He despises you almost as much as I do.”

“We'll see,” Morgan says knowingly. “Just hold the left flank, Blacksword, and I'll do the rest.”

The gathering of kings disperses, each heading to their respective portions of the battle line. Artagan and I ride back among our green-clad bowmen, but even from a distance, Morgan, Malcolm, and Father's stares make the hairs rise along the nape of my neck.

Ahern may have been the one who betrayed me in days past, but one of those lords across the field was the mysterious puppet master, plotting against me from the shadows. But who? The Bishop is the key, but I can't exactly question him now with thousands of men arrayed for battle and my hidden enemy possibly within earshot.
Climb one mountain at a time,
Morgan once said. We'll have to work together in order to deal with the Saxons first, but with God as my witness, I
will
root out the man who has been seeking my downfall. Sooner or later, I will. I must.