Between Two Fires (21 page)

“What is that place?”

“The ruins of Aranrhod. A stronghold of the ancients. That place is haunted.”

“Haunted? You don't believe in ghosts, do you?”

“The magic of the Old Tribes built it. The Romans couldn't hold it, nor anyone after them.
Something
keeps people away. If not ghosts, what then?”

He spurs Merlin onward, not wishing to linger a moment longer beneath the shadow of Aranrhod. Although he clearly fears the place, Artagan shows wisdom in taking us this way. A native of the Free Cantrefs, even he hardly dares ride near the ruins. Certainly, no horsemen from Caerwent or the Saxon lands would come within a hundred leagues of this place. Nonetheless, as I gaze back over my shoulder at the moonlit walls, half-crumbling like a jagged crown, I cannot help but sense a presence watching over me. As though something with eyes looks out from those marred towers, something the Romans and Saxons could never understand. Something only a daughter of the Old Tribes might come to know.

We ride on far into the night, the constant pace of the horse rocking me to sleep like a cradle. Slumped against Artagan's back, I dream of the gray watchtowers of Aranrhod. A faint voice calls my name from deep within the ruins, a lilting feminine tone that lingers in the mists.
Branwen
.
Branwen
. It is the voice of my mother.

I awake with a start. Crickets chirp in the darkness. I must have nodded off in the saddle.

A hunting horn bellows through the night air. Figures with torches emerge from the woods, making Merlin rear up. My pulse jumps in my throat as the intruders surround us.

Artagan does not draw his sword, instead smirking over his shoulder at me. The people around us call out in shrill birdcalls and boisterous hoots. Beneath the flickering glow of orange firebrands, Emryus, Keenan, and the others greet us with hearty cheers. My eyes widen, adjusting to the dark before I see their green tunics and fur mantles by torchlight. Men and women, peasants and warriors all crowd around us, emerging from the woods like fairies in the night. I blink in disbelief. How could so many Free Cantref folk live in the thick of the forest?

Only when we turn a bend in the thickets does a narrow vale come into view. Sandwiched between tall woods and a snaking riverbank, a wooden fortress overlooks a small plain full of village huts and farmland. Artagan raises his hand in a sweeping gesture.

“Welcome to my father's domain. Cadwallon's Keep. Home of the defenders of the free folk.”

Astride our tall mount, we part the throng of commoners crowding around the keep gates. Lookouts toot their hunting horns several more times. Villagers reach out to touch Artagan's bearskin cloak or grasp his hand. He leans over and smiles, calling many of them by name. These people are not merely thanes and serfs; they are his tribe, his family. Several bystanders hush and look at me between whispers. The Blacksword has brought home a queen of the Old Tribes, they seem to say.

Dismounting at the keep gates, the wooden castle reminds me much of the Dean Fort, only rougher in appearance. Blankets of moss and ivy grow upon the fortress walls as though the greenery of the forest seeks to turn the felled timbers back into living trees once more. Keenan and Emryus jostle merrily beside us as we pass through the palisade gates, gibing that they gave Morgan's Southrons a merry chase indeed.

The Hammer King's horsemen are probably wandering in circles in the mountains still. Keenan and Emryus's grins prove infectious. I cannot help but smile back at Artagan's warriors, each nearly as carefree and childlike as Artagan himself. A roaring voice hails us from the main hall.

“Merlin's Beard, my boy! It's not enough for you to break free from the dungeons, but you've got to steal away a king's bride to boot!”

“Sire, allow me to present the heroine who freed me from Caerwent, Queen Branwen of Dyfed.”

Artagan bows to King Cadwallon and I in turn curtsy before the round monarch. With a mutton bone in one hand and a mead goblet in the other, Cadwallon steps forward to embrace me. The scent of liquor hangs heavy in his red beard, the girth of his belt nearly toppling me over. He winks at me as he speaks to his son.

“She's got a goddess's figure and the stamina of a filly, I bet. No wonder you let her rescue you!”

Artagan winces at the King's comment, while I color from ear to ear. Although I've not seen Cadwallon since the gathering at Caerwent last year, he seems somehow even wider and louder than before. The King claps Artagan on the back, his father laughing at something he seems to find particularly amusing. I smile back at the King, tickled to see the normally self-assured Blacksword so disarmed by his boisterous father. Already well into his cups, Cadwallon raises his drinking horn.

“A toast to Queen Branwen! For returning my son to me. Ever shall you be welcome under my roof, so long as it annoys the
mighty
Hammer King in Caerwent. I pray you may never leave us.”

Artagan leads the other men and women in the hall as they all raise their cups, everyone replying with hearty “hear hears.” He drinks from his chalice before handing it to me. Artagan watches me closely as I down his goblet of cider, tasting where his lips touched the rim. King Cadwallon has his minstrels start up a tune with pipes and drums, several men and women in green garb holding hands as they dance amidst the roasting hearths of venison and wild boar.

Artagan stands close enough for me to smell the fresh pine scent of the woods on his loose shirt. The cider must have gone to my head, but I cannot take my eyes off him. Firelight reflects off his high cheekbones and pearly grin. Drinking down the last of his cup, I hand Artagan his chalice back, our fingers briefly entwined. He leans down close to my ear.

“It seems only yesterday we danced together at the Dean Fort.”

“I've danced with no other since then,” I admit.

His eyes search mine before he glances at his feet, as though slightly nervous.

“I want to thank you, Branwen. For saving me.”

“We did it together. We make a formidable pair, when we're not at each other's throats.”

He laughs before his face suddenly grows serious.

“I've a confession to make. I lied to you.”

I smile back, trying to laugh it off, but his comment stops my breath. This man and I have risked life and limb together against both the Saxons and Caerwent's legions. Even Ahern himself, suspicious of everyone, bade me to trust the roguish Blacksword. If Artagan has betrayed me, then whom can I truly trust? Artagan swallows a lump in his throat.

“I didn't just return to Caerwent to get my people back or because it was the right thing to do.”

“No?”

“I couldn't bear the thought of returning you to the likes of the Hammer King. Whatever your fate, I didn't wish to be parted from you.”

“Whatever for?” I joke. “Surely, the Blacksword doesn't lack for the company of women?”

“Women? Since I first saw you on the King's Road, I've known no other. Nor do I wish to.”

As his words sink in, a sudden heat rises in my chest. His blue eyes seem to pierce my very soul, as though the two of us stand alone despite the crowded room. Why does he tell me this? I've seen the way Lady Olwen and Ria look at him. Commoner or noble, no woman in her right mind would do otherwise. He is strong, brave, and yes, even handsome. Mischievous and cocky to a fault at times, but honest as Abbot Padraig and loyal as Ahern to those he loves. I must have misunderstood him. No man in his right mind would want me now. I'm a runaway queen, probably disowned by both my former husband and father. I've no dowry, no fortune, no lands, not even my virginity to offer. I part my lips, but find my voice has abandoned me.

Artagan bows his head at my silence before excusing himself. He walks slowly from the hall, several of his half-drunken compatriots waving for him to come join them. The Blacksword shrugs them off with a friendly shake of his head. He gives me one last glance, lingering under the archway. I turn to go after him, stumbling over my numb feet as though rooted to the floor. A hand grasps me by the shoulder.

“Lady, I've been tasked with guarding you during your stay at Cadwallon's Keep. My name is Enid Spear-wife.”

My mind is still awash with Artagan's last words as I try and focus on the woman standing beside me. She wears a bow strung across her green tunic and holds a large spear in one hand. A long brown braid runs down to the small of her back, her shoulders nearly as tall as a man. No wonder they call her “spear-wife.” I recognize her as the warrior-woman amongst Artagan's war band of archers. These Free Cantref folk are the only people in Wales who still send their women to fight alongside their men as the Old Tribes once did.

Enid narrows her gaze. Even by the dim hearth light, I can tell she likes me little. I move to get around her, still looking for Artagan in the far archway, but he has turned away. Enid looks at him too, with loyalty and longing in her eyes. Another woman who would do anything for the Blacksword, if he only asked her.

I sigh with exasperation. Are there any she-devils in Wales who don't have eyes for Sir Artagan? By the time I push past her, Artagan has already gone.

“Come,” Enid says briskly. “I'll show you your quarters.”

Winding our way through the wooden complex, I peer down each narrow hallway, hoping to catch a glimpse of Artagan, but he has disappeared somewhere. With a frustrated frown, I force myself to keep up with Enid's long strides. What would I even say if I did find Artagan alone? My head starts to throb. Too much has befallen me in the last few days, too many brushes with death and enough conflicting emotions to befuddle the clearest mind. Why did he have to confess his feelings to me? I ought to be pondering the fate of my friends back in Caerwent. Nor have I deduced who the mysterious person is that continues to plot my downfall. Instead, I keep thinking of all the times Artagan saved my life in the last few moons, never once asking for anything in return. He has done so much for me and I've not even had the courtesy to thank him.

Enid halts outside an oaken door. Trying to bridge the gap between us, I smile cordially at her. I am a guest here, after all.

“Thank you for all you have done. Risking your life to aid Artagan and me. You are truly brave.”

“Do not thank me. I have done a graver ill to my people than I ever imagined.”

“An ill?”

“Are you deaf as well as dumb?”

Taken aback, I apologize if I have said anything to offend her, but she simply waves me away.

“You have endangered us all by coming here,” she says with a scowl. “It will mean war with South Wales and many good free folk will die, all because of you. Whatever your reasons for taking refuge here, I hope they were worthwhile.”

She leaves without another word, taking up her position as guardian down the hallway. I retreat inside my new quarters, shutting the door softly behind me. Water wells up behind my eyes as I think on my family back in Dyfed and my loyal household at Caerwent. I fled to prevent further harm, not to draw down destruction on those I love.
I'm
the one hunted by the Saxons, imprisoned like a broodmare by my husband, and stalked by an unknown foe who sends assassins to kill me in the night. I could not live another fortnight under Caerwent's walls, and yet I fear everyone I touch will only turn to ashes.

My small chamber is warm, complete with a soft bed and many furs. A tiny window overlooks the village longhouses surrounding the keep. Curling up into a ball, I sink into the downy skins of the bedspread. I can do no more tonight, my limbs and heart weary from two days of journeying on horseback.

Sleep eventually takes me, memories of Caerwent and even Dyfed growing hazy within my thoughts. I dream of the ruins of Aranrhod again, standing atop the rubble on the misty hilltop. My mother's voice has vanished, replaced instead by a lone figure in the fog. A mysterious man embraces me before placing his lips upon mine, his dark hair flapping in the wind. My heart rises within my breast as I kiss him within the mists of the old castle.

I awake with a start, finding myself alone in a dark room. Cadwallon's Keep stands silent, the revelers having long since fallen asleep. Reclining within the warm folds of blankets once more, I touch my lips, still warm with another's breath. It was a dream after all, wasn't it? I lie wide-eyed in the darkness, murmuring to myself. Just a dream. It was all just a dream.

 

10

A woman moans in the predawn darkness. I sit up in bed, taking a moment to remember where I am. The groaning grows louder, an all-too-familiar tone I recall from the women's quarters at Dyfed. Rolling out of bed, I wrap a loose shawl about my shoulders, tramping barefoot down the dark hallways of Cadwallon's Keep. My guardswoman, Enid, sits half-asleep outside my chamber, her spear leaned against a bulkhead. Startled, she rises to her feet.

“What are you doing?” she demands.

Ignoring her, I follow the sound of the wailing woman, her murmurs echoing like a ghost in the morning mist. Enid's footsteps trail after me as I exit the fort gates. The cold mud chills my bare feet. No time to turn back for slippers now. The wailing emanates from a nearby hovel, a faint smoke trail wafting from the apex of the thatched hut. Inside, an old woman and a little boy lean over a young woman on the floor, her belly round and swollen. I stop dead in my tracks, Enid bumping into me from behind. The woman on the floor clenches her teeth, breathing hard between moans as her blond locks spill across her face. Her eyes widen when she sees me.

“You!”

“Ria?”

My voice quivers, recognizing the old lady as Gwen and the young boy as Art, his azure eyes more like Artagan's than ever. Enid pushes herself between us.

“Why have you come?” she asks me. “Do you know this woman?”

“This woman is going to have a baby,” I say to Enid before turning toward Ria. “But something's wrong. Why have you left your village?”