Between Two Fires (44 page)

The men still stare at me as though I have suddenly grown ten hands taller. No longer just mistress of a castle, I have had to become a ruler. A queen as conniving and adept as any king. Men use their advantages in battle and I employ my tactics in my own way. I need not explain my actions to any of them any more than I already have, nor do I intend to. One by one, I have dealt blows to our enemies, without the benefit of an army or even a sword. By cutting off the head of each enemy kingdom, I have thrown them into chaos.

So far, I have eliminated half my enemies. Belin dead. Rhun dead. Owen dead. And before the week is through, not a soul in all Wales will doubt who was behind each execution. It is a chess game of life and death, and I intend to win.

Sitting down, I give my orders. If Artagan wants to contradict me, he can. Instead he stands silent with the rest, trusting me to lead them even though only I know the full details of my plan. I aim a finger at each of them.

“Ahern, ready every available warrior to depart before daybreak. Father David, continue sending ravens to every friend you have in every kingdom. The more we know before our enemies do, the better. Artagan, I need your strong arm. Are you ready to lead our warriors in battle?”

My husband smiles, a bit of his cocky hedge knight countenance returning to his face.

“Against the Saxons or anyone else, the Blacksword will lead his men into hell if Mab Ceridwen wishes it.”

“My lady,” Ahern interrupts. “We've maybe three hundred archers at best. Whether facing King Malcolm or the Saxons, we will doubtlessly be outnumbered.”

“Let
me
worry about that, Ahern. Our enemies will walk into our trap, and no amount of numbers can save them.”

“You sound quite certain, Your Grace,” Father David says.

I crack a tiny, wicked smile.

“Trust me, Father. They'll fall into my trap for one simple reason. Because I will be the bait.”

 

20

Father David makes the sign of the cross, absolving me after my confession. Kneeling in the castle chapel, I silently make my prayers of penance for the lives that I've taken and those I am about to take. A wooden roof now covers the ancient stone church, its timber rafters shaking with the thunder of another coming storm. The rains have drowned away summer just before harvesttime. Perhaps the archangel will reap the final harvest from Wales soon enough. That, or the Saxon crows. I rise from the pew, my limbs rested, steady, and prepared for the task at hand. Tomorrow marks All Hallows Eve, and my nineteenth name day.

I pace outside the chapel as the stars begin to fade overhead. I gird on my quiver of arrows and longbow. It will be dawn soon.

Artagan lies asleep in our bed with little Gavin snoozing beside him. They look like a pair of angels sprawled amongst the coverlets. I bend down and kiss my son atop his warm scalp. Before turning to go, I press my lips to each of Artagan's soft eyelids. Covering my mouth, I stifle a sigh. If ever I live to see another day, I pray only for the bliss of this bed and my two boys sleeping in it.

Without fanfare, I steal into the stables and saddle my husband's stallion, Merlin. I'll need the strongest horse in Christendom today. Alone, I ride out the castle gates and into the dark hills as the first flicker of blue light glows in the east.

The wooded foothills steepen as Merlin climbs the southernmost ridges, heading toward the towering mountain gaps. The rush of fast water murmurs through the dells. Waterfalls and cataracts swell with rainwater, dumping their tears down the many ravines along this stretch of green peaks. Foaming brooks splash about my ankles as Merlin fords the last streambed before reaching the highland pass. The whicker of horses echoes from atop the heights. Someone already awaits me at the summit.

A large company of horsemen graze in a mountainside clearing. Steam rises from their steeds' nostrils in the dawning light. Crimson dragon banners of South Wales snap in the cold breeze. Malcolm's voice emanates from the brush.

“Did you come alone?”

I nod, halting my horse a stone's throw away. The new king of South Wales trots forward, a brazen crown atop his head. He smirks through his trim brown beard, his eyes provocatively running the length of my silhouette.

At least a hundred men-at-arms accompany him on horse and double that number on foot, maybe more farther down the pass. My heart sinks. Even if I turn back now, I doubt I could outride all of them. Malcolm has me well in his clutches and he knows it. He snaps his fingers and waves a soldier forward. The guardsman holds something under his cape, cradling it with both hands. Malcolm waves the man away after handing me the shroud.

“A wedding present. Consider it a token of my fidelity.”

Fidelity? This farce makes my stomach turn over, but I keep a cordial smile on my lips. Beneath the folds of the cloak a bird squawks. My falcon! Placing the raptor's talons on my leather glove, I click my tongue and make soothing noises at my winged pet. Vivian. How long since I last went hawking with her! Not since I lived at Caerwent. Back when I still called myself King Morgan's wife. My half-smile fades as I remember again why I am really here.

“Thank you. I have missed hawking with my bird.”

“You can do so every day if you like. I shan't have much need of you apart from our bed.”

The next words turn to ashes in my mouth.

“I agreed to marry you given certain conditions. Have they been met?”

“Your guardsman, Ahern, was quite clear about the terms. In exchange for your hand in marriage, I am to provide three assurances. Two I've already done. As my Queen, you will retain Aranrhod as your personal castle. Secondly, any children you had by previous marriages shall be recognized as mine own.”

Assurances? Pah! Does he think me fool enough to believe his word? With me at his side, Malcolm would have a claim not only on South Wales, but Dyfed and the Free Cantrefs as well. With half of Wales under his sway, I doubt he would honor any of the assurances he gives me now. But like all warlords, his greed blinds him. The chance of me coming willingly into wedlock with him provides too rare an opportunity to forgo. But he has neglected the most important item I had Ahern request of him. Pulling my lips tight, I must let him know I won't bargain my life away so easily.

“What about the last request? I want the Bishop of South Wales delivered into my power.”

“That I cannot do. The Bishop is dead. Slain by Saxons during the siege of Caerwent.”

“What?”

“We had too few troops and the citadel fell. The barbarians plundered it.”

“But you escaped?”

“I rallied my men at Caerleon, my new capitol. The Saxons lost many troops taking Caerwent.”

Looking away, I try to take in all these changes. Caerwent fallen? One of the most fortified castles in all Wales now lies in the hands of the barbarians. This could upset everything. With the Saxons based at Caerwent, it will be near impossible to dislodge them from the Welsh borderlands now. With a barbarian stronghold so deep in our territory, the Saxons could send raiding parties against half of Wales with less than a day's notice. Malcolm has proven so greedy to solidify control over his brother's former realm that he doesn't realize he will soon lose half of his kingdom to the Saxons come next summer. His gaze makes my skin crawl.

“From my brother to Artagan then back to me. You're quite the ewe among such rams.”

“I'm a queen,” I reply through clenched teeth. “I do what I must for my people.”

“Belin will never let the Blacksword go, nor would I let him. I can't have you running off again.”

Arching an eyebrow, I struggle to keep my features complacent. So he doesn't yet know. Just as I hoped! He thinks Belin still lives and word of my deed upon Mount Snowden has not yet reached the South. Any hour now, a raven might arrive, informing Malcolm that Belin and Rhun are dead, and the Blacksword set free. If Malcolm learns just how badly I'm double-dealing him, he would have my head right here and now. A droplet of sweat trickles down my brow. Malcolm rambles on, his horse pawing the dirt.

“Your son will come to live with us at Caerleon, as an assurance that you will remain loyal. My nephew, Arthwys, will be a stepbrother to him. That will ensure the peace between you and me.”

I swallow a lump in my throat. A hard bargain, but I must make it seem that it pains me to agree with him. I'd never send my son within a hundred leagues of Malcolm's court, but he must believe I will, even if grudgingly. I solemnly nod my head, pretending I am too spent for words. King Malcolm grins, seeing me so cowed before him. He thinks he has won. But who am I to judge? If things should go awry today, he may prove himself right after all.

The sun rises over the mountaintops, playing hide-and-seek between gray thunderheads. Another storm is brewing. Just another half hour, at most. If I can simply stall Malcolm long enough, my own forces can lay our trap down in the ravines below. But we need more daylight. Those gullies will prove treacherous and steep. Even the best Free Cantref warriors will need some sunlight in order to navigate those crevices and set up an ambush. Time. I need to somehow buy us more time.

A ram's horn sounds from the mountain passes, echoing eerily off the cliff faces. My spine tightens. It cannot be my own men, it's too early. Malcolm exchanges looks with me, his eyes suddenly suspicious.

“What devilry is this?” he demands.

“I came alone. Do you have more men in the woods?”

More horns bellow through the forest, the clash of ringing steel reverberating farther up the mountainside. Fur-clad warriors with round shields and broad axes storm the heights, charging headlong into Malcolm's companies of men-at-arms. A surge of lightning runs through my veins.

Saxons!

A lead rider emerges from the woods, a massive brute with a double-headed ax swung high over his head. His yellow eyes lock on me and Malcolm. The Wolf! I freeze in the saddle, unable to move or think for an instant. The Saxons aren't supposed to be here. Of all possible outcomes, this will spell the doom of us all. So much for my best-laid plans. I sought to lay an ambuscade and find myself ambushed instead. Malcolm draws his long mace.

“Shite. Welshmen, rally to me!”

Malcolm and his foot soldiers form a wall of spears and shields, but their lines break apart almost immediately against the ferocity of the Saxon onslaught. With hundreds of warriors at his side, the Wolf has brought more than enough bloodthirsty brutes to finish us all off. Ax heads and knives whirl through the air, embedding themselves in the helms and faces of Malcolm's men. Streams of blood redden the muddy hillside.

Releasing my falcon, I set her free. If only I could fly too. Save yourself, Vivian. Only death lingers here now.

I draw my bow, knowing I might lodge an arrow in Malcolm's neck and put an end to him once and for all. But the Wolf charges into the melee, downing Welshmen two at a time with his broad ax. What is a queen to do? The enemy of mine enemy is only my friend so long as the battle lasts. In another moment, Malcolm could be my foe once more, but right now I need to save my scalp from these blood-drinking Saxons. I aim my arrow for the Wolf, but mingled amongst so many Welsh and Saxons, I cannot get a clear shot.

Malcolm swings his mace at Beowulf, narrowly missing him before splintering the war-chief's shield. The Wolf growls, tossing his shield aside as he raises his ax with two hands. Before I can blink, he brings it down atop Malcolm's crown, splitting him in twain from skull to collarbone.

The spittle turns bitter in the back of my throat.

Malcolm's body wriggles, headless atop his mount before slumping to the ground. Already broken, the South Welsh flee in all directions as the Saxons loot the dead. Beowulf turns his steed toward me, his saffron eyes flickering like flames. My throat runs dry as I dig my heels into my stallion's flanks. Run, Merlin! Run faster than you have ever run before.

Bolting downhill into the undergrowth atop my steed, I charge through the foliage, heedless of briars and dips in the land. One false move and my horse will break his leg, and I'll go tumbling into a ravine. The crash of tree limbs behind me grows louder as the Saxons on horseback gallop after me. Daring a glance over my shoulder, I draw back my bow and loose a shot. My arrow scratches the Wolf's cheek, drawing blood, but he only growls all the louder. The venom in his stare curdles my insides. He will skin me alive and have me raped by his men before granting me death. I bellow louder in Merlin's ear.

When I face forward, a branch snaps across my nose. Reeling in the saddle, stars sparkle in my vision. Gripping the reins, I hang on as my nose throbs. Hot, sticky blood runs down my chin, but I do not stop, urging Merlin to fly all the faster. Rivulets of perspiration run down my back. There is no world, no conscious thought, no plots or plans. Only life and death. I must ride, ride unto the ends of the earth before Beowulf guts me like a sow.

Hand axes and knife blades whir past my head, some embedding themselves in tree trunks. The Saxons roar as they close in on me from behind. Their spearheads nudge into the corners of my vision, their sour breath and sickly musk permeate the groves. Merlin rears up with a shrill cry.

I crash through the treetops, my feet no long gripping my steed. No saddle sits between my legs. Slamming into a thicket of brambles and sedge, my arm bends backward with a snap. It takes a moment to recognize the screaming voice as my own.

Shooting, fiery pain runs from my fingertips to my shoulder, my forearm cocked at an unnatural angle. Staggering to my knees, the thunder of horses surrounds me. Merlin whinnies in a cloud of dust, a Saxon spear dug into his hindquarters. Beowulf lunges from his steed like a bird of prey, the sharp edges of his double-headed ax spread before him like talons.

His agility in midair seems impossible, but in a flash he is upon me. Clutching my broken arm, I stare like a hare frozen in a hunter's trap. I shut my eyes. Dear God, let this end my surging pain. Let it be swift.