Between Two Fires (41 page)

Annwyn strides noiselessly into my room. Her once dark-and-silver hair has gone completely gray since news of the capture of her son. She smiles down at her grandson in Rowena's arms, even as tears form behind her sad eyes. She too sees Artagan in the little boy's face. I ask Rowena and Ahern to give us a moment. Once alone, I sit Annwyn down and pour us both some spiced wine. She doesn't touch her cup, hunched over the empty hearth. I rekindle the fire. Her cold palms linger near the budding flames. She seems to have aged a hundred years.

“I'm dying, Branwen.”

My brows narrow, but something in her steady gaze unnerves me. She takes my hand to her breast. I start to pull away, but she keeps my palm there. A large, unnatural lump protrudes from her bosom. I swallow hard. A few times I've seen the same symptom in elderly village women. It often precludes a lengthy demise. Her ailment is beyond my skill to heal, or anyone else's for that matter. I shake my head, but Annwyn touches my cheek with a smile.

“No words, sweet child. I will be with your mother soon, and have no more troubles of this earth. But we must talk of what remains undone.”

“I will get Artagan back. You should enjoy your time with your grandson.”

“You cannot give in to Belin or the Saxons. If you do, my grandson will have no kingdom to inherit nor a homeland to grow up in. You have a hard road ahead of you, Branwen, but I am here to help you.”

I sigh at the unending rain. What can I and one old woman accomplish?

“Whatever we do, we must wait for these unseasonable rains to pass. It bogs down all travel.”

“No,” Annwyn says firmly. “Whatever you plan to do, it must be done now. While our enemies are idle and bogged down by Mother Nature. Fate has given us this opportunity, and we must use it wisely.”

Never have I heard her talk with such forcefulness before. Not once does she mention peace or compromise, but instead stares stoically ahead like a spear-wife. She has grayed into a stony-faced crone since the capture of her son. Before I might have flinched from the sight of such a transformation, but having a child of my own now, I know all too well what lengths I would go to in order to protect my boy.

These ungodly rains present both a blessing and a curse. They've worn summer away with heavy showers, flooding rivers, and swelling every lake and stream. They have made much of Wales impassable for the Saxon armies, as though the land itself were fighting back to save us. But they will only stall the barbarians for a season or two at most. Unfortunately, these very same storms will dampen the crops this year, making for a meager harvest. Come winter we will have a twofold problem, both war and famine. Yet I only see troubles and no solution. I shake my head, laying my hands in Annwyn's lap.

“What can I do? I've no army, no treasure, and no way to stall the Saxons or save my husband. I'm not even a great warrior. What can I possibly do to save us?”

“You are a queen! And whatever has come before you in life has prepared you for this moment. I feel it as surely as I do the coming storm in my bones or the call of my own mortality in my breast. I am here to help you, young one, but it is
you
who was born to lead.”

Despite our impending doom, despite our losses at the Bloody Fords, a glowing warmth stirs inside me. As though my entire life has suddenly made a complete circle. As though all the travails of my existence somehow culminate in the abyss in which I find myself. As though if I simply step back and look at the whole, the entire picture might suddenly fit into view. My eyes slowly widen.

The Saxons, the assassin, my kidnapping, the defeat at Bloody Fords, all weave together with a common thread. How could I have been so blind? Holding a hand to my head, the gears in my mind begin to spin. I've been playing chess with my life for so long that I've forgotten to ask myself the most elemental question about my shadowy opponent.

What do they hope to
gain
from my downfall?

Despite all my travails, they have a single aspect in common that I have overlooked. A very select few could possibly benefit from
all
these misfortunes that have nearly befallen me. Shutting my eyes, the hazy silhouette of my true enemy begins to take shape. They would have to be a ruler, a noble who stood to benefit directly by my death or kidnapping. That narrows the suspects down to a handful of monarchs and their heirs. Secondly, they must somehow be benefitting from the Saxon incursions as it weakens their rivals. So that rules out anyone from Aranrhod or Dyfed, as the armies from those two realms have either been decimated or destroyed at Bloody Fords. It would also require someone merciless enough to risk using assassins and Saxons for their own ends, yet someone who also prefers to fight indirectly behind a mask of secrecy rather than challenge me openly. My list of suspicious foes runs short now indeed.

I can see only but one conclusion, but I must know for certain. I turn to my guardsman.

“Ahern, fetch me the priest! Quickly!”

Annwyn raises an eyebrow, flashing a knowing smile, as though she senses the change in me. Whatever spirit guides me now, I have no time to question it. Ahern returns with Father David at his side, the holy man panting hard. I snap my fingers at the priest.

“Father, did you yourself see Morgan fall at the Bloody Fords?”

“Aye, the Wolf struck him down with his own hands.”

“But Malcolm got away with Bishop Gregory close beside him. Neither Belin nor the Saxons pursuing them?”

“As a matter of fact, they did, come to think of it. I thought it odd at the time, but the battle was all chaos. How did you know about that?”

“I didn't.”

A frown creases my cheeks. It is worse than I feared. All this time, my shadowy foe has employed several highly placed conspirators in every plot against me. There may be a single author who has attempted to pen my demise, but this implacable villain has also arranged a small cadre of allies to ensnare me and all those I hold dear.

Wise old Annwyn leans her hard-set face close to mine.

“You sense now who conspired against you, child, from the very beginning, don't you?”

“Not just one, but multiple conspirators. But yes, I think I know the root now. But I must test my intuition to make sure before we strike.”

Ahern and the priest exchange looks. Each of them questions me as to who my mysterious enemy might be. Malcolm? The late Morgan? King Penda? I shake my head, refusing to answer anyone directly.

“Just give me time to think, no more questions now,” I reply. “I shall have some important tasks for each of you soon. But I need time to sort it all out first. When I'm ready, I'll call on each of you. The fate of all Wales and our very lives may well depend upon what we do in the next few days.”

I shall have to risk everything on one last gamble. The time for playing it safe has long since passed. But will my enemies see this coming? I bite my lower lip, contemplating how to best use the chess pieces that remain in this game of life and death.

Despite my troubled face, Annwyn flashes a half-grin.

“So you know what to do then?”

“I have a plan. Not much, but a plan nonetheless.”

*   *   *

We gather our mounts beneath a broad oak tree outside the castle gates. Drizzling mists obscure the mountains that surround Aranrhod and the vale, filling the air with a damp, cool piney scent. Ahern and Annwyn sidle up next to me atop their mounts. Rowena and the priest remain on foot. My pony Gwenhwyfar sidesteps beneath me as I gently shush her and smooth her dew-covered mane. We've a long journey ahead of us, girl. You'll need every ounce of strength before the week runs out. I sit tall in the saddle.

“Does everyone know what to do?”

They nod their heads. Good. Father David glosses over a crumpled parchment.

“Another raven has come from my friend in the western monastery. Word has it that King Urien has died of old age in the northern Free Cantrefs.”

I sigh. How will Olwen take the news of her father's passing? There will be more bloodshed once Rhun's horsemen try to claim Urien's Motte from the Free Cantref bowmen there. As though Wales hasn't suffered enough. But there's nothing I can do about that now. Father David clears his throat, still reading.

“Another piece of news as well: a knight named Sir Owen has claimed the crown in Dyfed.”

Ahern smacks his fist into his other palm.

“The upstart! The coward should've died at Bloody Fords with his kin, instead of playing sick. I'd like to give him a taste of my cold steel.”

I grab my kinsman's mount by the bridle.

“You've your own task, brother. You ride for Caerleon and Annwyn will go to Dyfed.”

“And you, my lady?”

“I ride for North Wales and Belin's court.”

Thunder rumbles in the distance. Another storm moving in. We've little time. Annwyn, Ahern, and I each nod toward one another before parting our mountain ponies. Let our desperate gamble begin. Each of us trots off in different directions into the wet woods. Calling back over my shoulder, I wave toward Rowena and the cleric.

“Look after my son and Aranrhod until I return. Pray for us!”

The priest makes the sign of the cross while Rowena stifles her tears behind her hand. As I ride alone through the dripping woodlands, a flash of lightning splits an ancient oak tree nearby. Halting my whinnying mare, I see the silhouette of Aranrhod's towers looming in the distance. Perhaps the closest place I ever had to a true home, and perhaps the last time I shall ever look upon it. Lowering my gaze, I dig my heels into Gwenhwyfar's flanks as the rain renews its strength. Godspeed.

Before an hour runs out, my soaked locks plaster themselves against my face. Biting, cold winds chill me to the bone. I urge my mare northward through the wilds. Winding through brambles and thickets, we push on during a letup in the rain.

In spite of the harsh weather, my stout pony moves fast as a hawk across the damp landscape, splashing through mud and mires. Yet with every mile I come to dread reaching my destination more and more. Despite my well-laid plans, I know I have overlooked something. The plot against me may be about politics and kingships, but there's more to it than that. Something personal lurks in the malice of these deeds set against me, whether from an assassin's knife or a Saxon ax. A knot tightens in my stomach, but still I spur my mare on.

After dark, a milky moon rises over the clouds and lights my way along the trail. Nothing but the sound of wind, dripping leaves, and my pony's clacking hooves sound through the still night. Despite my mare's panting breath, I push her harder still. We've so little time. My thighs ache and my head feels heavy as lead.

As I bob in the saddle, Annwyn and Ahern continually come to mind even though they're many leagues away by now. Did I give them clear enough instructions? Perhaps I have forgotten something important. I may never see either of them again. Maybe I've even sent us all to our deaths. Shaking my head, I struggle to stay focused. Ride, just ride on. The time for doubts has passed. I've staked everything on this. We must succeed. We must.

The salty breath of the sea washes over the near hills. The scent of the ocean. Good. The castles of Belin the Old cannot be far. I've probably already crossed into their dominions. Despite the many ridges and rivers that intersperse our country, Wales isn't a large realm as the crow flies, at least not compared to the sprawling Saxon domains far to the east. A single rider unburdened by armor can traverse much of it if they throw safety to the wind.

Galloping through a ravine, my pony suddenly lurches beneath me and cries out. Sending me vaulting from her back, I collapse in the mud. Gwenhwyfar stumbles on a limp leg, her hoof entangled in briar snares. Damnation! Now I'll never reach Belin's castle in time. Certainly not on horseback anyway. Poor creature. I try to shush her and pat her neck. She perks her ears, still favoring one foreleg.

My gaze narrows. Those snares don't belong to anything natural, merely rough ropes with thorns woven into them. My eyes suddenly widen. I've stumbled into a trap.

The rumble of horseshoes fills the shadowy dell. Dozens of horsemen encircle me. Their tall pikes seem to pierce the overcast sky. The lead rider halts before me, lowering his long spear near my jugular. He grins as a sliver of moonlight cuts across his dark beard. My throat runs dry when Rhun edges his spear-point closer.

“What have we here? A princess pretending to be a queen? My father will wish to see you.”

He nods toward one of his cavalrymen, the man drawing a short blade. Before I can blink, he slashes at my pony's throat. The mare's red blood spills across her white flanks. My heart twists sideways.

“No!”

I reach out for my dying mare as hands ensnare me from behind.

 

19

Belin laughs.

“You must be the stupidest little girl ever born.”

He paces the stony floors of the empty castle hall, fierce winds howling through cracks in the vaulted ceilings. A lone hearth fire flickers in the corner while Rhun waits in the doorway behind me. The bald, white-bearded king stops and smirks. My drenched, frayed garments hang limp from my shivering limbs, bespeckled with mud and mare's blood. Poor Gwenhwyfar. I ball my right fist, wishing I could knock the old man's jaw off. If only Rhun's men hadn't taken my bow. King Belin grins, amused at my consternation.

“You're a fool to come to Snowden alone. Did you think I'd simply hand your husband over to you?”

“I thought you'd have some honor left!” I reply, only half-telling the truth. “To make amends for what you did at Bloody Fords.”

Belin shakes his head with a laugh, pacing the floors again.

“Queens. So arrogant. Just like your mother.”

My eyebrows rise.

“What do you know of my mother, old man?”

Belin stops, clenching his jaw. A frosty blue coldness in his gaze reminds me of a serpent. All the jovialness fades from his face.