Between Two Fires (14 page)

The rest of our party ascends from the tunnel, quietly fanning out into the trees with Artagan and me. A few of the Free Cantref warriors eye the backs of the two Saxon war-chiefs, brandishing their spears under the moonlight. Artagan shakes his head and motions for them to get back. His men reluctantly retreat deeper into the woods. Fine as it would be to strike down these two Saxon war-chiefs, if we did so, hundreds of their howling warriors would be upon us in an instant.

Creeping slowly back into the trees, I cannot take my eyes off the burning fires kindled along the fort walls. Scores of good Welsh men and women will die tonight, all the while trying to protect me. I should be there, standing beside Griffith and his thanes.

Instead, I stop in my tracks as a large twig snaps underfoot. My blood seems to freeze in my veins.

Cedric and Beowulf turn around. Their eyes widen, possibly guessing who I am by my dark locks and green eyes. Artagan grabs me by the hand as we both bolt into the depths of the forest.

The Saxons raise a cry behind us. Arrows whistle after us in the dark, embedding themselves in trees mere paces from our heads.

Artagan shouts commands to his men, pairs of us splitting up into separate groups as we descend into the timberlands. The better to confuse our pursuers and hopefully divide their numbers in order to even the odds a bit. I catch glimpses of Rowena and Una, both paired off with other men as they go different directions into the nocturnal groves. Artagan and I separate from the others as we run through dark thickets and briar patches. Thorns snag my hair and claw at my cheeks, but I do not stop. The torches of the Saxons glow behind us.

Months of sitting on pincushions and sleeping in feather beds have not prepared me for a midnight run through the wilderness. Despite my heaving breath, I push on until my lungs burn. I used to run all day as a child along the strands of Dyfed's shores, and I'll not lose a footrace now that my life depends upon it. I pause only to tear the hem of my gown beneath the knees, lengthening my stride as I take to my heels once again and follow Artagan through the labyrinth of trees. The clash of swords and spears echoes through the woodlots behind us. I do not stop to look back.

We finally stop at a stream trickling through a quiet dell. I sink to my knees, bent over the brook as I cup mouthfuls of water in my palms. The frigid water stings my throat, but I cannot swallow enough of it. Artagan searches the woods with his eyes, the distant murmur of battle fading. He grabs me by the arm and pulls us into the creek, cold water splashing about our ankles.

“What are you doing?” I demand. “We have to find the others.”

“We'll cross paths with them later. First, we have to move upstream to cover our tracks. I need you to trust me.”

Staggering to my feet, I follow him through the shallows. I've little choice but to trust him anyway. Without a guide, I might wander these woods in circles. I stumble blindly over river stones while the stars glow fiercely overhead.

Numb from the shins down, I nearly twist my ankles in half a dozen places before we halt to rest. Fell winds cut through my tattered clothes, freezing me to the marrow. No fire tonight. We cannot risk it with the Saxon patrols wandering the woods. Artagan loosens his fur mantle and curls up beneath a stand of thick sedge. He motions for me to lie down under his furs. Worn as I am, I shake my head.

“I appreciate the gesture, but a married, Christian woman can only share her bed with her husband.”

“Don't flatter yourself,” he replies, trying to sound more jovial than either of us feel. “If we don't huddle for warmth, we may both freeze tonight.”

I throw him a sidelong glance, but for once he doesn't flash one of his characteristic cocky grins. Instead, he rolls over in the dust, tugging his furry cloak over his shoulders. After a few minutes of shivering in the autumn winds, I kneel down beside the windbreak of thick hedges and crawl under the bearskin mantle with him.

Artagan stirs slightly, already half-asleep. His chest rises and falls in his slumber, comfortable as though in his own bed at home. I wince as I pluck several jagged stones from beneath me. This hedge knight must spend more nights sleeping out of doors than under a roof.

Despite my weary limbs, I toss and turn before making a small rut in the earth where I can curl up beneath our shared blanket. The cold eventually overcomes my sense of propriety as I spoon closer to Artagan. Even through the blankets, his skin runs hot. My shivering limbs seem to thaw somewhat beside him. The pleasant balsam scent of the woods permeates his hair and clothes.

My heavy eyelids begin to sink just as a lone wolf call murmurs in the distance. A shiver runs down my spine. It's going to be a very long night.

*   *   *

Daylight seeps through the treetops when morning arrives. The dawn air stings my cheeks as I curl up beneath the warm animal skin. I roll over to find the fur lies flat beside me, the earth beneath it long gone cold. I abruptly sit up.

Heaven help me. I'm alone in the middle of the wilderness.

Flecks of frost cover the fingers of the trees, the woods quiet except for the whistling breeze. The wooded highlands overlook a large snaking, sapphire river half a league distant. Tiny smoke trails rise along the greens. Far down by the waterfront, dozens of thatched roundhouses cluster beside the marshy banks. A village.

My heart beats more easily just knowing some human souls live nearby, whoever they are. We followed the North Star when we fled last evening so I can only guess that I have traveled deep within the domain of the Free Cantrefs. No old Roman road nor any signs of wheel ruts mar the landscape. The untouched forests and mountains look as rugged as the day God made them.

Fallen leaves crumple behind me.

I spin around, grabbing a rock to defend myself. Artagan laughs, crossing his bare muscular arms. I breathe a touch easier. So he didn't desert me after all. I still have half a mind to lob a stone right at him for startling me, but I'm just so glad right now not to be alone.

Without a word, he wends his way down the slope toward the distant village.

“Where are we going?”

He points mutely toward the small settlement of huts. A dark thought suddenly strikes me. The river below marks the borderlands between the Welsh and Saxons.

“What if it's a Saxon village?”

“Better than staying out here to freeze or starve to death.”

He shrugs before descending into the woods. I drop my rock as I roll my eyes. What encouraging words. Do all hedge knights risk their lives so or is Artagan unique in not caring a fig for his?

An overcast sky blots out the sun, but I fear we continue to head northward, away from South Wales and home. Every step takes me farther from Caerwent and any chance I have of alerting Morgan of what has befallen Griffith and the Dean Fort.

I trail Artagan toward the village, observing him closely. He has not taken me to King Morgan's realm as he should have. But whatever Artagan's intents might be, I cannot yet guess. Holding Morgan's queen captive would certainly give the Free Cantrefs a large bargaining chip when next parleying with my husband. But would the man who saved me from Saxons twice now use me as a pawn again the Hammer King? A pang of guilt lances my chest for even suspecting him, yet at the same time I cannot deny the cold logic of such a plot. Saxon evils pervade the land enough without the Welsh constantly betraying one another.

By midday, we leave the foothills and reach the meadows alongside the riverfront. Artagan motions for me to crouch low as we stalk through the canebrakes toward the village. We squat in the mud, peering at the wattle-and-daub huts between gaps in the tall grass. When I try to speak, Artagan shushes me. His gaze never leaves the cluster of huts.

I sit and watch the settlement with him, wondering how we can tell whether they are Saxons or Welsh. I doubt we can linger here forever without being discovered.

A few people move amongst the hovels, their faces indistinguishable from a distance. Nothing more than a wicker fence surrounds the village proper. Meager defenses against marauders and thieves.

Artagan cups a palm around his mouth and hoots like an owl. What the devil? After several moments of silence a birdcall answers. Artagan rises from the bulrushes, a broad smile on his face. Two men emerge from the village, one with an ax over his shoulder and the other with a staff.

“Blacksword, is that you?” the axman shouts.

“Well met!” Artagan replies. “Keenan, how did you reach here before me?”

“It's my home village, isn't it?”

Artagan embraces the stout woodsman with the ax. A second man in a gray beard comes after him, leaning on a quarterstaff. I recognize the two men as some of Artagan's warriors from back at the Dean Fort. My heart nearly leaps in my throat, wondering what has happened to Rowena, Una, and the others. Artagan claps his two companions on the shoulders.

“Allow me to introduce my merry men, Keenan the Saxon Slayer and Emryus the Bard.”

Keenan winks at Artagan before looking me over.

“I escorted a priest through the woods while you spent the night with a tart? Hardly seems fair.”

“Show some respect,” Emryus chides, bowing to me. “She is still a Welsh queen.”

I rush forward at the mention of a priest. He must mean Abbot Padraig. I grab Keenan by his fur collar, drawing his youthful brown beard close.

“My people! Are they here with you? In the village?”

“Easy, woman!” Keenan replies. “We got the old cleric, though his slow feet nearly got us killed.”

“And the others?”

“Others?” he says, glancing at Artagan, then me. “No others have yet returned.”

I sink to my knees. Rowena, Una, and Ahern have scattered to the winds. Alone in the wilds or slain by Saxons or God knows what. Close as family, and now the three of them have vanished. Artagan rests a comforting palm on my shoulder, but I brush it away. I put my hands to my face, too distraught to weep.

 

7

The villagers whisper around me, never having seen a queen before. Darkness sets in amongst the dozen wattle-and-daub roundhouses, their smoking hearths filling the air with scents of venison and hickory. Artagan and his men stand watch at the edge of the flickering firelight. Padraig sits silent at my side. I hug my knees close to my chest, watching the flames dance along the hearth logs. We've still no sign of Rowena, Una, or Ahern.

Two village women offer me bowls of bone marrow broth. I nod and fake a smile, but only take a few polite sips. Despite the last two days of arduous travel, I am not hungry. The older of the two ladies calls herself Gwen, something of a village mother who already hovers over me as though I were one of her own. Her gray locks hang like ropes past faded blue tattoos that run down her cheek and neck. I stare, fascinated to see anyone alive today who still bears such marks of the Old Tribes. I thought such things only existed in storybooks. Padraig suspiciously eyes the pagan symbols along her skin, but says nothing.

The second woman, Gwen's daughter, introduces herself as Ria. Her long blond locks reach down to the small of her back. A young boy hides behind her skirts while she brings me a fresh jug of river water to drink. She has remarkable beauty, golden hair and hourglass curves. I almost say as much to her, but stop short as she stares longingly after Artagan.

Goose bumps rise along my forearms. Her child has dark hair and striking blue eyes. I look away as though accidentally stumbling onto someone else's secret. Ria catches my glance.

“Something the matter, your ladyship?”

“I'm afraid I'm not much good company right now. My friends have gone missing in a wilderness full of Saxons. Frankly, everything's the matter.”

“You still have your skin. In the borderlands, we prefer to dwell on what blessings we have left.”

“Like a beautiful son. What's his name?”

Ria puts a protective hand over the child's head.

“Art.”

“Art? Named after an uncle or his father perhaps?”

Ria flashes a mask-like smile at my probing question.

“We follow the ways of the Old Tribes in the Free Cantrefs. A mother's blood is all that matters.”

She clenches her teeth as she smiles back at me. I've touched a sore spot with her. Ria glances toward Artagan and the others on watch, the menfolk oblivious to the unspoken words between us women. Blind to the obvious, just like menfolk everywhere.

Ria's fair hair suddenly seems no longer pretty to me. More like the color of dead grass. Nonetheless, her words about the Old Tribes give me pause. Perhaps my mother's kinfolk once lived like the people of the Free Cantrefs, free-spirited and independent if somewhat rough around the edges.

Ria strides over toward Artagan at the verge of the settlement. She watches me from the corner of her eye. As though I care. Only their silhouettes stand out against the twilight, their outlines close enough to touch. Their muffled voices murmur amidst the chirping crickets. Ria giggles at something Artagan says. The flirt. I know I'm being unfair in my judgment of her, but something about this pretty village girl prickles my skin.

Padraig shuffles closer to me, downing a bowlful of soup. Gwen bows and gives him another before returning to her cauldron. The Abbot prods me with a steaming cup of broth.

“You must eat, Branwen. Your hunger will not help our lost companions fare any better.”

I put a hand on his arm.

“I'm glad you're here, my old friend. I don't think I could handle losing you.”

“Hush, my child. Drink.”

I gulp down a mouthful of piping hot soup. My belly rumbles as though suddenly remembering what it desires. Downing all the broth, I accept a second bowlful from Padraig before I finally pause for breath.

Emryus and Keenan join us by the fireside. Despite missing companions of their own, they jostle and joke with one another over their meal as though all is well. I want to rage at them for such callousness, gibing and supping by a warm hearth while their friends suffer the elements or the Saxons. But after a moment, I think better of it. Everyone copes in their own way. I prefer not to eat, but the gray bard and the jovial woodsman simply pretend that no peril exists at all. As though their friends had merely gone on an evening hunt and nothing more. Perhaps their way of dealing with grief is better, but I cannot force myself to laugh at their bawdy jokes tonight.