Between Two Fires (15 page)

Excusing myself, I turn in for the night. My bones feel heavy as lead as I lie down inside one of the village huts. Turning on my side, I find just enough room on the floor between a village woman and a young boy. Everyone shares the same space in these communal dwellings, without so much as a curtain between them. I shut my eyes, pretending I recline upon my feather bed back in Caerwent. Despite my weary joints, sleep comes slowly to me in the crowded, smoky den. The last thing I hear before succumbing to slumber is Ria's girlish giggle outside.

At dawn, Padraig wakens me with a hand on my shoulder. Horses whicker from the village lawns. Shaggy mountain ponies paw at the earth, looking little taller than myself at the shoulder. I turn toward Padraig.

“We plan on going somewhere?”

The monk shrugs. Not one of these ponies has a bridle or saddle blanket, their long manes speckled with mud and catkins. Still, their muscles bulge strong and thick for such short beasts. I've ridden horses aplenty on the shores of Dyfed, but never have I seen steeds as wild-looking as these. It makes me smile. In the Free Cantrefs, even the ponies call no one master.

Artagan ducks out of the adjacent hovel with Ria lingering behind him, her shift loose over a bare shoulder. I turn away, but not before Ria catches my stare. She grins as she ties up her wheat-colored locks, her womanly figure so much fuller than mine. My cheeks burn hot.

A good-looking hedge knight like the Blacksword must have a girl like her in every village. How freely these country girls give themselves up for a pair of bold eyes and a fair face. And what must Lady Olwen think? At the feast at Caerwent, she looked at him the way only a lover does. She must have known Artagan long enough to discover his dalliances with peasant girls. The scene suddenly reminds me of Prince Malcolm chasing serving girls like Una. What am I to make of a man who fights Saxons by day and philanders with farmers' daughters by night?

I should have been back in Caerwent by now, warning my husband of the Saxons besieging the Dean Fort. Instead, I'm stuck in some backwater encampment while Lord Griffith battles for his life. And to top it off, I'll probably never see Ahern, Una, or Rowena again. I hang my head. Some queen I've turned out to be. I can't even protect those closest to me, let alone my subjects or the realm. I can't even look after myself, it seems.

Artagan, Emryus, and Keenan mount three of the ponies corralled on the greens. Astride their bareback mounts, their legs nearly reach to the ground. The knights of South Wales would laugh at such shaggy ponies, no bigger than a small cow, but I find myself longing to reach out and pet one of their furry snouts. One nuzzles close to my outstretched hand, eyeing me curiously.

Not until the three riders begin to trot away do I realize they intend to leave without us. I dash in front of Artagan's mount, waving my arms. His steed whinnies as the beast halts and boxes the air with its hooves. He does not attempt to hide the fury in his voice.

“What in hell's name are you doing?”

“I should ask you the same question. You cannot leave Padraig and me behind. The Abbot and I will never find our way back home through this wilderness by ourselves. Besides, we have to warn the King of what befell the Dean Fort.”

“We're going to find our missing companions first, and rescue them if need be.”

“Then I'm going with you. Half of them are my people too. I'm responsible for them.”

“We ride into the wilds, probably to cross swords with Saxons! This is no task for a pampered princess.”

“I can ride a horse as well as any man. I'm Queen of South Wales, and a daughter of Dyfed. The only way you're leaving is either with me or over my trampled body!”

I fix my hands on my hips, nearly nose to nose with his snorting mount. Artagan's heels inch closer to the sides of his pony, and for a moment I fear he really intends to run me down. Every eye in the village watches us, probably wondering if all queens are as mad as I am. Artagan leans back in the saddle and laughs.

“The blood of the Old Tribeswomen runs strong in you! Ride with us then at your own peril, but you must do as I say when things get rough. No more behaving like Branwen the Stubborn.”

“I am not stubborn.”

Artagan makes a noncommittal grunt.

He whistles for two more ponies that canter up to Padraig and me. The Abbot gets one leg over his steed before the beast bucks him off into the mud. The villagers laugh while Ria's voice rises above the din.

“Outlanders can't handle our wild ponies. They haven't got the right touch.”

Several more villagers guffaw. Helping Padraig to his feet, I wipe the mud off his cheek before assailing my own mount. None of Artagan's men make a move to help me. Biting my lip, I vault atop the pony, its spine arching as I wrap my legs around it. The little mare has more muscle than I thought, writhing angrily beneath me. I clamp my legs around her until my face turns purple. Finally, the she-pony neighs and relaxes. I pat her fondly along the neck, glancing back at Ria as she folds her arms and frowns. Artagan slaps his thigh.

“Just as I always suspected, so queens do have vigorous legs!”

Emryus and Keenan cackle behind him. The villagers seem less impressed. I lend a hand to Padraig, who respectfully declines before successfully mounting his pony on the second try. As our small retinue gallops into the woods, I suddenly question the wisdom of leaving this peaceful village behind. Suppose we do find our friends and suppose the Saxons have already found them first. What then? Artagan and his men seem like hardy warriors, but what of Padraig and me? We don't even have so much as a kitchen knife to defend us. The Abbot trained for a life of books and I for a king's bed. What in Christendom are we supposed to do in battle? My few glimpses of Saxons up close leave me little doubt as to who would prevail in a contest of brute strength. As though guessing my trepidations, Artagan lobs a longbow at my chest.

“Here,” he adds with a quill of arrows. “Make sure to stick the Saxons with the pointy end.”

He cackles and tosses a spear to Padraig. The bald clergyman catches it, but nearly tumbles off his mount, holding the upended spearhead backward. Riding amidst the tangled woods, I keep my head low beneath the gnarled tree limbs. Despite the thunder of hooves and the sweat rolling down my back, a pleasurable buzz rises through my spine. If we find our lost companions and must battle the Saxons, at least they will see a queen with a bow, unafraid to ride a wild pony with the best of them.

*   *   *

After days of trekking through misty woods, I awake in Artagan's arms. His lips hover over mine, his breath stirring my lashes. I gasp, trying to pull back, but even in his slumber Artagan has strong arms. Beneath our shared blankets I can do little but lay my head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. He breathes heavily, relinquishing his grip before rolling over.

Emryus and Keenan sleep beside him with Padraig on my other side, all five of us accustomed to huddling for warmth by now. What a sight we must make. A queen, a knight, and a monk all cuddled together in the brush like a bunch of woodland beggars. The dawn light cuts through the recent rain clouds that have stormed for the past few days, turning the forest paths into bogs of mud. We still do not light fires for fear of the Saxons. While the others slumber, I sit up under the bearskin coverlet and watch the Blacksword sleep.

His placid face reminds me of a child's, so free of creases or cares. How often do Olwen or Ria look down upon his sleeping countenance? I've never seen Morgan's sleeping face, his features often hidden by the shadows of our shared solar chamber. How different Artagan's life seems compared to my own. He roams the wilds, sleeping amongst hedgerows and village huts, living under threat of Saxons and all with a price on his head, courtesy of my husband. Despite it all, he looks content in his simple, feral life. Never knowing what he will encounter from one day to the next, he lives a perpetual adventure. If I ever return to the comforts of Caerwent, I will certainly thank heaven for hot-water baths and good food, but I also know that each day will vary little from the next. I will play hostess, read books, and bear my husband sons. A cold numbness rises through my veins. I shake such useless daydreams from my sleepy mind. What woman in her right mind would choose the company of a rogue knight over the warm bed of a king?

The ponies whinny from their tethers beside an adjacent tree, awakening the men with the shuffle of hooves amongst the fallen leaves. After a quick breakfast of dried meats and waybread, we mount up and begin our winding trek through the woods. Dewdrops murmur through the damp dells as they drip from broad-leaves. My wet hair clings to my neck beneath my ruffled and muddied gowns. I've not had a fresh change of clothes since we left the Dean Fort, but none of my companions take any notice. Fashion does not seem to interest these Free Cantref men much.

Keenan halts ahead of our small company and dismounts. Artagan soon joins him on the ground while the rest of us keep watch over the surrounding woods. Keenan points to several worn indentations in the mud.

“Look at these tracks, Artagan. You see where they head.”

“I'll be damned.”

“You don't intend to follow them now, do you? It's too dangerous.”

“Do we have a choice?”

My ears perk up at this first sign of hope and trouble. Maybe my brother and my serving girls still live. Artagan and Keenan both frown as they mount their ponies. I'm almost afraid to ask them why they look so glum, unsure I want to hear the answer. But I have to know.

“Do you think it's them?” I ask Artagan. “Have we found their trail?”

“If it is, then God help us,” he replies. “They've gone to the last place on earth I'd wish to see.”

The hairs rise along the nape of my neck. Before I can ask just where we are heading, Artagan digs his heels into the flanks of his mount and shouts into the beast's ear. Our small company gallops at a redoubled pace through the woodlands, following fresh tracks in the wet earth. Whatever dreadful den the Saxons have taken my people to I can only guess, but it cannot bode well for us if the thought of it makes Artagan blanch.

We ride the better part of the day until my thighs ache from clenching my mare. The canopy and overcast sky make it difficult for me to discern what direction we've taken. Whether we're on the Saxon or Welsh side of the border, I can only guess.

Under a brilliant flash of sunlight, we suddenly emerge into an open country of free rolling plains full of grass recently mowed by cattle. My eyes water under the sunshine and the unchecked wind. I blink in disbelief at a large gray silhouette in the distance, the tall outline of a castle looming across the river. I halt my horse beside Artagan, trying to find my voice.

“It's Caerwent! You've brought me home.”

“That's where the tracks lead,” he sighs. “And that's where I'm taking you.”

“I best go myself. My husband has a price on your head, remember?”

“Whatever happened to your people, some of my men were with them. If they're alive and Morgan's got them, I intend to get my warriors back.”

“Are you mad? The King's men will attack you on sight.”

He ignores me as he urges his mount forward. His companions exchange worried looks, but they say nothing as we gallop toward the citadel gates. Padraig, God bless his wisdom, has the good sense to raise a pocket handkerchief over his head, flapping it about like a white flag. Filthy as we are from the woods, my husband's own guards might loose an arrow at me, thinking me just another dirty Celt from the Free Cantrefs. We halt beside the main gate, the crimson-garbed guards astonished at the appearance of the Blacksword on their very doorstep. Artagan's voice booms throughout the fortress.

“I've Queen Branwen of Dyfed with me! Tell King Morgan he owes me twice now for saving his bride.”

Before I can blink, two dozen guardsmen swarm around our party, leveling their spears at Artagan and his men. Despite my rags, several soldiers recognize me and Padraig, ushering us away from the Free Cantref men. The guards pull Artagan and his men off their steeds, stripping them of their weapons as they call for shackles and chains. I dismount and rush toward the tumult, but several guards hold me back.

“No, wait! They come in peace! Sir Artagan has rescued me, he means no ill.”

The clatter of armor and chain mail drowns out my words, the guards already clapping Artagan and his companions in irons. The soldiers rush Padraig and me away toward the atrium. Artagan looks my way, his bright-blue eyes dimming with sorrow as the men rob him of his famous longsword. Both Padraig and I keep shouting, demanding the guards listen to us, but not a soul heeds our words.

After the vivid greenery of the forests and wilds, the once-familiar stone hallways of Caerwent look whitewashed as tombstones.

Morgan and his brother stand in conference before the throne as his thanes bring me into the main chamber. The King blinks a moment before recognizing me.

“Branwen? Branwen!”

He opens his arms to embrace me, but I put a hand to his chest.

“My King, your guards have restrained Sir Artagan, who brought me here.”

“When we heard he spirited you away from the Dean Fort, we feared the worst.”

“He saved us! And how do you know of the Saxons attacking the Dean Fort? Have you word of my guardsman Ahern or my serving girls? Several Free Cantref men were with them.”

“Calm yourself, my Queen.” He smiles. “We have your people, all safe and sound. We rescued them on the King's Road from some Free Cantref warriors.”

I shut my eyes and breathe with momentary relief. Ahern, Rowena, and Una all live. Over the King's shoulder, Prince Malcolm wrinkles his nose at the sight of my torn and muddied clothes. Before I can question either of them further, the King takes me by the shoulder.

“Are you all right, my Queen? Did the devils harm you in any way?”