Between Two Fires (7 page)

Shaking such childish thoughts from my head, I dismount in the main courtyard between the outer defenses and the interior halls. High above, pikemen patrol the upper embrasures, keeping watch over the East Marches. Rowena accompanies me as Morgan and Malcolm lead us to our new accommodations. My serving maid beams with rosy cheeks, sporting a new dun-colored dress. She is now my permanent lady-in-waiting, a wedding gift from my new brother-in-law, Prince Malcolm.

Wide stone arches reinforced with wood support the interior halls. The sheer volume of these cathedral-like interiors takes my breath away. I recall reading in ancient monastic annals that the bulk of all South Welsh castle walls were laid down by the Romans centuries ago. Unfortunately, our people no longer know how to erect such monstrous stone battlements anymore. One of many arts lost to our wise men since the coming of the barbaric Saxons. Even though Father calls our hill fort in Dyfed a castle, it seems like little more than some rocky walls and wooden palisades compared to the majesty of Caerwent. I run my hand along the cool interior bulwarks, touching worn inscriptions carved by heroes and knights long dead. Only fragments of chiseled words within the stone remain.
SPQR
.
AP ARTHUR
.
CYMRY
.

With arms spread, Morgan presents his pride and joy within the castle. His throne room, or atrium as he calls it in the old Roman fashion. A large, circular chamber several stories above the heart of the complex, it has tall open archways that overlook the greens and rivers beyond the city walls. Our footsteps echo off the whitewashed pillars and polished marble floors. Miniature statues of Arthurian knights carved into the stone columns look down at us like silent sentinels. Only the twittering birds reach us this high above the city floor. At the center of the room stands a pair of thrones, one large chair of black schist and another, smaller seat made of cream limestone. Morgan pats the smaller stone chair.

“I had it installed before I set out for your hand in Dyfed. Give it a try, my Queen.”

I flash Rowena a wry, sidelong glance before reaching out for the limestone chair. Cold to the touch, I recline in it as I would a pool of water. Once in the seat, the entire atrium seems dwarfed beneath me, save for the King's seat to my right. I tap my slippers against the base of my perch, betraying a giddy smile. My very own throne.

A child comes running into the throne room, a young boy with dirty-blond locks. No more than ten years old. At first I think the youth one of the serving staff until I notice his silken collar and well-tailored tunic. The child leaps up into Morgan's arms.

“Father!”

The room suddenly contracts as though I stare down a long narrow tunnel. Nothing but Morgan and this little boy stand at the end of it. The child glances at me suspiciously. How could I have been so naïve? Morgan has ten years on me. I should have expected he would know women and have sired heirs of his own. Did Father know of Morgan's young son when he betrothed me to the Hammer King? Of all the possible outcomes that could befall me, I never envisioned myself as someone's stepmother. And at seventeen years of age no less. Instead of being the put-upon child,
I
am the strange new woman in the household. My palms begin to sweat.

Morgan ushers the child forward, the boy sliding reluctantly toward me. He has the King's straight nose and regal jaw, but the yellowish hair must come from the mother, whomever she was. Morgan ruffles the boy's hair.

“Allow me to present my son, Arthwys. My only son and heir to the throne of South Wales.”

Arthwys, a Welsh variant of Arthur. By the time this boy grows up, his father may very well have made him the next King Arthur of a united people. Still seated, I bow from my throne toward the boy. He forces a crooked smile, glancing up at his father as he hides behind the King's frock. My own smile must look equally forced.

Across the atrium, Prince Malcolm folds his arms as he smirks at me and the boy in our first encounter. My brother-in-law is actually enjoying my discomfort for some reason. Why, I cannot imagine, but he only flashes his eerie grin when his elder brother's back is turned. His brief sneer quickly evaporates into his usual smile, and I wonder for a moment whether I simply imagined it.

King Morgan soon excuses the boy. Arthwys bounds away into the arms of a serving woman, eyeing me warily as the lady ushers him out of the throne room. Morgan folds his hands behind his back, frowning thoughtfully.

“Let's show you to our solar.”

Morgan and Malcolm walk ahead to a set of turret stairs. They climb the steps before I've even risen from my limestone seat. Rowena hangs back with me, keeping her voice low.

“His previous queen perished in childbirth last winter. They've only the one boy. I thought you knew, m'lady.”

“Evidently, there is much my father did not tell me.”

“Look at the silver lining, m'lady. With a male heir, the King's less likely to set you aside should you not produce a son soon enough.”

Her words cut me as deeply as they comfort. True, Morgan has a son, and feels secure in his heir. But he will doubtlessly expect more children before long.

My skin turns uncomfortably hot. Some lords set their wives aside if no heir comes forth during their marriage. Such sonless marriages of noblemen the Church annuls, leaving the king free to seek a new wife. There are no ex-queens. Either childbirth kills them or a nunnery accepts them, and never do they venture out into the world again. The very walls of the castle suddenly seem to close in on me as we ascend the staircase. I've not been wed yet a day and already all eyes watch my womb for any sign of quickening.

Lush burgundy pillows cover an expansive curtained mattress inside the bedchamber. A warm fire in the hearth illuminates a tabletop full of pewter plates, silver carafes, and fresh bread. Rowena and I sit at the benches, filling our bellies after our long ride. With fresh wine in my goblet and warm bread in my stomach, I can finally stretch my limbs after having spent hours in the saddle. Morgan and Malcolm seem to have forgotten us entirely, the two brothers giving one another stern looks as they converse across the room. Morgan leans in close to his brother, nearly beard to beard.

“Impossible! How could the Saxons have known where my bride would be on the road?”

“Isn't it obvious, King Brother? We have a spy in our midst.”

“No Welshman would spy for the Saxons.”

“But not all Welshmen wish us well, and might let the Saxons do their dirty work for them.”

Morgan shoots me a glance across the room. Pretend as we might, Rowena and I keep our eyes to our food even though we now hang on every word between the two men. Morgan lets out a heavy sigh.

“Then we've only one choice,” he begins. “To call a gathering of rulers here at court.”

“You mean to invite the North Welsh and those of the Free Cantref folk inside our walls?”

“Better to have our rivals close where we can keep an eye on them. We'll propose a united alliance against the Saxons, all Welsh kingdoms acting as one.”

“Psh!” Malcolm scoffs. “They'll never agree to such a thing!”

“Of course not, but by their words and looks, we might discern which of them betrayed us.”

Both men look one another over, their gazes meeting in agreement. These princes have clearly dealt with deceptive foes before, both on the battlefield and in the shadows of courtly intrigue. Mesmerized by Morgan's cool, calculating logic, I wish I had such insight into the hearts of others. With the two lords of South Wales more at ease, I venture to add my own thoughts.

“Perhaps the Welsh
are
ready to unite with us. After all, it was a band of warriors from the Free Cantrefs who saved me the day the Saxons attacked my litter on the King's Road.”

The two men exchange looks, but I carry on nonetheless.

“Their leader called himself Artagan. He seemed a self-assured sort of man, and he had a message for you.”

“Artagan Blacksword?” Morgan replies, raising a dark eyebrow.

“Artagan. Yes, that was it. He told me you now owe him for having saved your bride.”

Morgan brings his fist down onto the tabletop so hard it cracks one of the wooden planks. Rowena and I jump back in our seats, spilling wine and bread crumbs across the floor. He leans in close to me, the Hammer King's voice graver than I have ever heard it before.

“I put a price on that blackguard's head not two summers ago for stealing my cattle and women's virtue! You're telling me that I owe this
outlaw
anything?”

It takes me a moment to shake my head. Whatever my husband's history with this man, I have a prickly intuition that he does not tell me all. Nonetheless, his stern face has taught me an abrupt lesson. No matter the circumstance, never mention the name Artagan Blacksword in the King's presence ever again. A thief and a violator of women? So much for the warrior who saved me from the Saxon savages. Prince Malcolm smirks in the corner, though whether at me or his brother, I cannot tell.

“Looks like we know the man who betrayed us?” Malcolm remarks.

“Call the gathering anyway,” Morgan replies. “We'll learn more secrets if we get all of these snakes into one room together.”

Both the King and Prince leave the chamber. Rowena and I pick up the pieces of splintered wood and chipped crockery. Wise as Morgan and Malcom may be, they have failed to ask one very important question. If this brigand Artagan Blacksword really meant me harm, why did he spare me? Why save me from the Saxons? It nettles my thoughts like a splinter in my mind. Why, indeed.

 

4

His hand lies across my naked skin. Morgan rolls over in his sleep as the first sliver of sunlight cuts across our bedsheets. Over the past few weeks, the King has come to my bed with the predictability of a water clock. Around sundown each evening, his caresses and lips rise pleasingly over my body before he loosens his belt and takes me to the bed. His ardor matches his efficiency and within a few dozen lightning strokes he dispatches with his kingly duty for the night. Sleep comes upon him quite suddenly afterward, but I find myself lying awake and staring up at the scarlet canopy of our bedstead. My courses have come upon me this morning and I have hidden the towels in my chamber pot. Once the servants clean out my toiletries, the news will doubtlessly disseminate throughout the castle. Another moon passes and the Queen has not yet conceived.

As I roll out of bed, I frown at my scarecrow frame in the brassy mirror. Lords like their ladies thick and plump, but my ribs still show through the skin in places and my bust lags several years behind the other young womenfolk at court. Small wonder why the King goes about our lovemaking with such a businesslike demeanor. The same cool logic that convinced him to take my hand and bind together the southern kingdoms also compels him to get another heir upon me. Not so much for passion's sake, but for the good of the realm. I sigh as I watch a pair of starlings nesting alongside my bedchamber window. Birds may mate for love, but kings and queens have their duty to attend. Far be it from me to dishonor the tradition.

The blare of silver trumpets reverberates along the castle walls. Morgan rises beside me, both of us looking out over the windowsill. Beyond the gates of Caerwent, two separate processions approach the citadel, one from the north road and another to the west. The leaders called to the gathering have come. Both companies bear dragon banners, one contingent with green dragons and the other black. Guardsmen from the citadel greet them beneath the red dragon standard of the Hammer King. All the kingdoms of Wales bear dragon flags like King Arthur once did, only differing in the colors they choose to follow. Red, green, and black. Every warlord wishes to be the head dragon of the land without bowing down to the others. I shake my head at the iron-headed pride of the Welsh. A blind man could see why the Saxons continually prevail against such a brave, but divided people.

Morgan pulls on his clothes, fastening on his best gold brooch and crimson cape. His crown hangs on the bedstead beside his large war-hammer. He grabs them both before descending the stairwell to the throne room. The King calls back to me, his voice echoing along the turret steps.

“Put something impressive on, my lady. Kings judge each other by the manner of their queens!”

My heart convulses as I turn toward the mirror. Disheveled raven hair and a threadbare nightgown make me look more like a peasant's daughter than a monarch's wife. Rowena arrives with a basket full of linens and shawls, rubbing her sleepy eyes as the bugles outside sound again. The entire citadel must know by now of the approaching envoys and their armed escorts.

After cycling through several gowns that could hardly pass for horse blankets, Rowena threads my arms through a beige woolen with azure fringe. I bite my lip as Rowena runs a brush through the tangled knots of my midnight locks, every stroke burning like fire at the roots of my hair. Morgan calls for me from the atrium. I shuffle into a pair of fur-lined shoes, our guests' horses whinnying inside the castle courtyard far below. Our visitors dismount and approach the throne room. Morgan's voice booms across the hall again, reverberating up toward my tower solar.

“Branwen!”

I scurry down the tower steps, Rowena holding up the train of my garments. We both nearly trip half a dozen times, descending the stairwell two steps at a time. As I settle into my seat beside the King, my face flushes enough without any artificial rouge. Rowena curtsies to leave, stopping to pluck a few stray threads from the hem of my gown. Morgan looks me over quickly, his face betraying none of his thoughts. I cannot tell whether he approves or disdains my choice of attire. No time for alterations now. The footsteps of our guests clack along the tile floors of the entranceway. Rowena finishes pruning my skirts and exits the atrium just as the first heralds announce their lordships.