Between Two Fires (45 page)

“Mab Ceridwen!”

A roar of voices booms from the woods. Opening my eyes, I see a sword parry the ax rushing toward my head.

Beowulf and Artagan snarl at one another, their weapons locked together over my head. I try to rise between them, but sway with dizziness. My legs seem unable to move as well. Am I crippled or already dead? Artagan pushes the Wolf away with his longsword, the two battling like giants over my crumpled frame.

Arrows hiss through the trees, felling Saxons from their horses as their cries fill the wold. More barbarians arrive on foot, but many lose their footing as Free Cantref archers send them toppling down into the narrow ravines. Bodies riddled with arrows litter every gully and dell. Pawing the earth for my bow, I find it broken in twain from my fall. Blast. I must rise to fight. I must.

More cries of “Mab Ceridwen!” rise above the din, but the Saxons are many, and for every one we down, two more arrive to take their place. It is the same story over and over again. The barbarians always have more men, always. Meanwhile, we dwindle down to our last reserves. The priests were right. This is the end of the world. God forgive me my sins, I did it all as a mother, as a wife protecting her loved ones. I did it all as a queen ought. I've few regrets.

Artagan staggers back, his arms and head flecked with flesh wounds. Beowulf circles him, equally rent and bruised. The two combatants eye one another like wary predators, each trying to sink their fangs into the other for the final kill.

My bow may have broken, but my arrows still work. Limping forward, I lunge for the Wolf with an arrowhead in hand. Diving forward with my good arm, I stab into the soft flesh of his foot.

Beowulf howls with pain, kicking me aside. Sprawled faceup in the ivy, I stare up at him in a daze. Fresh blood runs down my cheek. The Wolf raises his good foot over my skull, his eyes red with rage.

Suddenly his head drops into my lap, his tongue lollygagging on my chest. Shrinking from his skull, I roll his head aside as his decapitated body collapses to the ground. Artagan stands over me, panting hard as the Wolf's blood trickles down his blade. He kneels and takes me in his arms.

“Branwen! Branwen, can you hear me? We did it! The Saxons are breaking, they're falling back.”

Victorious chants of “Mab Ceridwen” fill the woods. My eyelids feel heavy as I collapse in his embrace. His voice seems far away as he doubles in my vision. Artagan keeps calling my name, but my lips refuse to move. The breath goes out of me. All turns to darkness. So this is the last of earth.

*   *   *

A lullaby murmurs in my ears. Soft, hazy light clouds my eyes, the world an indistinguishable aura of shadow and glowing effervescence. A hand caresses my face, materializing out of the blur.

“Branwen. My sweet girl. How you've grown up.”

Blinking, I still cannot move. A fair-skinned woman with long raven locks and emerald eyes smiles down at me. Her purple gown and lavender scent seem somehow familiar, but I cannot place her. My gaze suddenly widens, my palms trembling.

“Mother?”

“Yes, child. It is I.”

“But how? Am I…? What is…?”

She shushes me with a gentle finger to my lips. My limbs relax, my head suddenly lighter than a feather. My voice sounds no stronger than a child's.

“Mother, you won't leave me now, will you?”

“I never left. I've watched you, shared your suffering and your joys. I'm very proud of you.”

“Can I stay with you?”

“Soon enough. But you must rest. Know that I love you and will always be with you.”

I sense that despite what she says, she will leave me, but I cannot seem to voice it. Warmth radiates from her touch. I nuzzle her cheek.

“I don't want to be alone.”

“No one with love is ever alone. And you, Branwen, you have many who love you.”

“Mother? Mother!”

Everything dims. Awash in an inky darkness, I hear muffled voices surrounding me. They sound close but indistinguishable, as though I listen through a clay jar. Golden shafts of light glow behind my eyelids.

“Shh. She's coming around.”

Blinking back the sunlight from the window, I see Rowena leaning over me with a careworn face. Lying on my cot inside my bedchamber, I find that I can barely move my head. A soreness envelops me, making me groan. When I try to rise, Rowena presses her palms against my chest.

“Easy, m'lady. You've been out for three days. I thought more than once that you'd left us.”

“Rowena? Are you really here?”

“Of course.” She smiles. “We all are.”

Gavin coos from Artagan's arms as he sits on the bed beside me. Artagan presses his lips to mine, our little boy murmuring between us. I smile at my husband and my son. My men. Breathing deeply, I try to flex my wrist. I wince as a sting runs up my elbow. My left arm lies in a sling and my skin aches from a dozen different wounds, but at least I can wriggle my toes and sit up in the covers.

Familiar faces smile from across the room, all gathered around my bedstead. Gray-bearded Emryus and bald Father David. Sir Keenan with his infant daughter Mina in his arms. Ahern sniffles, wiping the tears of joy from his beard. I almost chuckle until a woman in a dark habit nods from across the alcove.

“Una?”

She curtsies.

“I prayed when I heard what happened, and received permission from the cloister to come here as soon as I could.”

Rowena smiles beside her, one arm wrapped around her friend, now a woman of God. Pressing my lips together, I feel the water welling up behind my eyes. Their love, like their warm smiles, is as tangible as the blankets on my bed. So many loved ones no longer number amongst us though. Enid, Padraig, Cadwallon, Annwyn, Father, Mother. But I sense their presence with us still, arm in arm with the living who make this castle home.

Turning to Artagan, I kiss him again. My love. I've so many questions, but I don't know where to begin.

“Tell me everything.”

“I shall,” he says with a wink. “But first, we've a feast to attend, and you're the matron of honor.”

I narrow my eyes. A feast? The unseasonable rains have dampened the harvest. I don't see how we could have much left to eat at all. But I shan't argue. My stomach growls, and I still feel a touch lightheaded. Artagan guides me down to the courtyard and out the castle gates. Despite my unsteady steps, it feels like heaven to feel warm sunshine on my cheek. Everything seems out of season, first rain in summer and now warmth in the early days of autumn. I seem to have strayed out of time entirely.

Villagers gather along the lawns outside Aranrhod, bundling sheathes of ripened wheat and toting sacks of grain. Womenfolk reach out to touch the hem of my robes, familiar faces of mothers and daughters who stood with me during the siege last year and helped rebuild the castle afterward. Bowmen salute by raising their longbows overhead, defenders of the vale in war and huntsmen in times of peace. Children scurry playfully about the blankets laid out on the greens, their ever-present focus untroubled by worries about the future or memories of the past. Minstrels pipe dancing airs as the peasants form circles for jigs. The scent of roasting meat permeates the grounds as venison sizzles over hearths and spits. Stopping to clutch Artagan's hand, I whisper in his ear.

“How is all this possible? Plenty of food, meat, smiles on every cheek?”

“All in good time. First we eat.”

Mead benches from the main hall cover the lawns, reminding me of market fairs we once had in Dyfed when I was a child. I've not seen such gatherings since peacetime. Barrel taps fill flagon after flagon with glistening cider and foaming ales. Artagan stands atop a table, raising his goblet high overhead.

“To Queen Branwen, who gave us victory when all the world had turned to defeat. To my wife, Mab Ceridwen!”

“Mab Ceridwen!” the crowds reply.

My household joins me around the table, bringing over fresh plates of mutton, deer, and beef. Steaming barley bowls and tall piles of oat cakes fill the platters before me. Even with one arm in a sling, I manage to empty several dishes in a matter of breaths. Downing a cup of cider, I finally sit back with a belch. My fingertips buzz with a hint of inebriation. I pat my sated stomach. I've earned this day and I intend to enjoy it. But it all still seems a dream. I half-expect my mother to come walking amongst the tables. How
is
this all possible?

Father David appears with a scroll under one arm and leans down beside Artagan's ear. The King nods, turning toward me with a steer's bone in hand. He smiles at me between bites.

“Let the Queen hear,” Artagan says to Father David as the priest shows him the scroll in hand. “These tidings may help answer some of her questions.”

“As you wish, my liege,” the priest says with a bow. “I've word from Queen Olwen. She has wed Iago, the new king of North Wales. King Iago reports pleasure in his new kingship and offers peace between our kingdoms. He also sadly reports that his father and elder brother perished in a mysterious attack by wolves, but that the matter has been put to rest.”

I exchange looks with Artagan. Wolves indeed. Young Iago seems thirsty enough for the throne, so much so that he didn't even blink at the assassination of his father and brother. In some royal families, no amount of blood relation can quell ambition. Olwen must have Iago wrapped around her finger as well as in her bed. And yet it was love that drove her to help Artagan escape, allowing me to try to save Wales. She loves my husband enough to betray the father of her child and marry his brother. But how can I fault her? Artagan's love could drive any woman to any lengths. I stare into my empty cup.

“We owe Queen Olwen a great debt,” I admit.

“She has one request of us,” the cleric adds. “But it is no small matter.”

“Anything. We owe her as much.”

“Very well then. She recently gave birth to a healthy baby boy, and has sent us her newborn son to be fostered here at Aranrhod. I believe she fears what her new husband may do to his brother's boy, since it will be a rival to any heirs he plans to have. Meanwhile, our fostering of the boy will ensure the peace between us and the North.”

“Does the child have a name?” I inquire.

“Cadwallon.”

Artagan raises an eyebrow.

“Like my father,” the King remarks.

“When did you say this child would arrive?” I ask.

“The infant is already here,” David says with a bow.

Rowena sits beside a cradle and a basket, one with Mina and the other with Gavin sleeping soundly. In her arms she holds another tiny, bald baby wrapped in a swaddling cloth of royal purple. I tiptoe quietly beside Rowena. My goodness, our household will be boisterous as a cattle pen with three young ones soon running around within the next year. Gavin, Mina, and young Cadwallon. Perhaps Olwen's son and mine will have a chance to grow up together, close as friends in a way that Olwen and I never could. Perhaps this is the best way to unite Wales in the years ahead. By forging strong ties of friendship and fosterage from birth instead of marriage beds and assassins in the night.

“Forgive me, my Queen,” Father David quietly interrupts, drawing me aside. “There is more.”

“More?”

“I've word from Gwent in South Wales, although only a few ravens have gotten through. It seems a certain falcon nesting in the tower eaves is scaring them off.”

Glancing up at my tower within the fortress walls, I spy a falcon circling the ramparts. Its cry pierces the azure sky. I cannot help but grin. Vivian. She has chosen to nest beside my own tower windowsill. Good. I shall take her out to hunt all the field mice she can stomach. Father David warily eyes the soaring raptor, doubtlessly concerned about his beleaguered ravens.

“Who sent us a message from the South?” I ask. “King Malcolm is dead, no?”

“The new ruler of Caerleon, Your Grace. King Griffith.”

“Lord Griffith, now a king? I thought him captured by the Saxons.”

“Evidently, he escaped and rallied the survivors at Caerleon where they made him their sovereign. He has accepted the role of royal steward until the boy, Prince Arthwys, comes of age. King Griffith has offered terms of peace between our kingdom and his.”

Holding my good hand to my head, I blink incredulously. Could fortune smile on us so? A favorable king rules Caerleon in the South, an allied queen controls the monarchy in the North, and both have made peace with us. If only we had word from Dyfed, but I fear they have been made impotent by their own civil strife. Plague and war have weakened them as well. At least they no longer pose a sizable threat, not so long as they bicker amongst themselves. Putting a palm on Father David's shoulder, I give the old priest a kiss on the cheek. He colors marvelously.

“I take it you accept King Griffith's offer of peace?” the priest asks.

“I do, but what of the Saxons? We've slain the Fox and the Wolf, yet their forces remain.”

“You've not heard, my lady? Of course not. You've been convalescing. After the capture of Caerwent, the beleaguered Saxon armies fought amongst themselves over the spoils. King Penda's forces and the West Saxons have begun feuding along each other's borders.”

“You mean the Saxons are actually fighting each other?”

“Better than that, my Queen. Despite their victories, their armies suffered substantial losses. While the West Saxons remain our foes, they are much diminished in strength. As for King Penda, he has honored the peace treaty made with North Wales and extends his pact of nonaggression with any who call King Iago and Queen Olwen friends.”

“Alleluia.”

Just think of it. Barbarians fighting barbarians. Peace or no, the Saxons will doubtlessly break their word sooner or later, but for now, at least we will have a respite from war.

That's all I ask, Lord.

Just time enough to heal our country's wounds, for the next generation to grow up, and our fields to fill with crops again instead of graves. The threat to Wales has not vanished, but it has been held at bay for at least another generation. I close my eyes, a leaden weight lifting from my chest. At least my son will inherit the same country my mother and father left me.