Between Two Fires (16 page)

“Artagan rescued me. That's what I'm trying to tell you! Where have you taken him?”

“To the dungeons, with the other renegades from his band. You sure he did nothing to you?”

“You're not listening!”

My thunderous voice silences everyone in the court. All eyes turn on me and I feel my neck flush, never having raised my voice so loud before the King. Morgan's smile fades, his words firm and deliberate.

“We received your bird from the Dean Fort. I led a sortie myself and relieved the settlement, chasing the Saxons out. Lord Griffith was down to his last man, but he and his household still live.”

“God be praised, Lord Griffith will tell you the same as I. Sir Artagan led me to safety.”

“The Blacksword has a price on his head, and he will stand trial for his crimes.”

“For stealing a few cows and having evil rumors spread about him? He has saved me twice!”

Morgan snaps his fingers as a dozen guardsmen surround me and Padraig at once. Prince Malcolm flashes a crooked smile as soldiers on either side pin back my arms. Morgan does not look at me as he addresses his court.

“My Queen is overwrought from her odyssey in the wilderness. Take her to her chambers so that she may recover and compose herself.”

The guardsmen usher me toward the turret steps, their grips so firm that my feet barely touch the ground. Clenching my jaw, I nearly speak out again, but think better of it. Manhandled by tall guards, with my husband's back already turned to me, I know I have no chance of furthering Artagan's cause or my own by making a spectacle of myself. Instead, I murmur toward Padraig, loud enough for my husband and brother-in-law to hear.

“My mind is not unhinged. I know what I say and I speak the truth.”

Morgan stops in his tracks but does not turn around. His men carry me up to my solar. Prince Malcolm leers my way before I disappear into the stairwell. The guards bolt the chamber door behind me, their shuffling armor on the stoop attesting to at least a pair of them standing watch outside. I stamp my foot, dashing an empty tankard at the locked door. Caged like a rat!

Despite the comforts of silken bedspreads and lavish food laid out on the tabletop, I merely find myself once again under lock and key in my very own bedchamber. I bang against the door with my fists, but the guards on the other side make no move to answer me. I've no idea where they took Abbot Padraig or where my guardsman Ahern has gone. A meek voice calls to me from the shadows across the room.

“Your Grace, is that you?”

“Rowena? Una?”

My serving maids emerge from the corner. They blanch at the sight of my ruined gown, rushing to the chest beside my bed in search of fresh linens. I tell them both to stop and sit down, pouring each of us a drink at the table.

“Thank God you're both unharmed,” I say, sighing with relief. “How long have you two been in Caerwent?”

“For days, m'lady,” Rowena replies. “We saw your arrival in the courtyard and heard the King's words.”

“What happened to the Free Cantref men with you? And where's Ahern?”

“The guards put the Free Cantref warriors in the dungeon,” Una answers. “Even the woman warrior among them.”

“And the King won't let Ahern guard this room,” Rowena adds. “Don't think he trusts him.”

“So you're both prisoners here too.”

“Nay, m'lady,” Rowena says with a brave smile. “Not so long as we be with you.”

Rowena's effort to raise my spirits brings a slight grin to my lips. God bless her. Blinking back the water behind my eyes, I find myself unable to say any more. Thank heaven both girls survived the forest and the Saxons. I feared that none of us would ever meet again this side of the grave.

Heavy rain begins to fall outside, thick droplets splattering along the stone windowsill. It takes Rowena and Una several tries to batten down the shutters against the howling winds. A shiver rises through me as I clutch a shawl tight about my throat. The first winter storms have come.

Daylight turns to darkness and still the guards do not permit any of us to leave my solar. They do relieve us of our chamber pots before bringing up fresh food and wine, even a vat of steaming water with which I can bathe. I know I ought to be grateful, but I stare coldly at the guards as they leave fresh woolens before bolting the door again. I doubt Sir Artagan and his men fare so well tonight down in the dungeons.

After ravenously eating my meal of cheese and mutton, I strip myself bare for my bath. Sliding into the wooden tub, I let out a heavy sigh. Inhaling the hot vapors, I descend up to my neck and shut my eyes a moment. The murky waters turn my skin pink with warmth. Rowena hovers over me with a bar of soap sudsed between her fingers. I wince at the heaviness in my chest.

“My bosom feels like two clenched fists.”

“Thank the Virgin.” Rowena laughs, touching my breast. “You've grown, m'lady.”

“But I've had my courses this moon. I mean I can't have a … you know.”

“Lass, you've just started flowering late 'tis all. You're already more a beauty than when you first came to live at Caerwent. Did your mother never say how old she was when she blossomed?”

I shake my head, sinking down deeper into the steaming waters. A little girl only knows so much of her mother. My memories of her consist of a few brilliant smiles and evening gowns, the feeling of a warm lap and a gentle lullaby. I wish I didn't remember her last day of life so vividly, the blood and the screams amongst the Saxon ships on our shores. Who knows how our lives might have intertwined had the barbarians never come. We might have fought, laughed, been close or distant, but a mother and daughter ought to at least get the chance to find out what they mean to one another.

Gazing down at the reflection of my wet locks and fair skin, I wonder if what Rowena says will come true. Could an ugly, crow-faced girl like me ever emerge from the cocoon of girlhood to look like the beauty my mother had been? But she had so much more, a wit and a voice that overawed me even as a child. Father bellowed less in those days, either because Mother kept him in line or kept him happy in the bedchamber. Maybe both. From beyond the grave, Mother still gives me gifts, her green eyes and dark hair, and now even her figure. But how can I kindle the majesty of her mind and be a queen worthy of the Old Tribes? Somehow I must do her memory proud. But I find it difficult enough to rule as a queen when I don't even have someone here to show me how.

That night, Rowena, Una, and I share the large bedstead again, keeping warm while the winter wind beats against the castle walls. Morgan does not come to my bed that night or the next.

To pass the time each day, I teach the girls how to play Celtic chess on the game board Father gave me. I try to keep patient with them. After a lifetime of losing game after game to Father, it makes me feel like a mastermind to win match after match against these two novices. But they learn fast and soon we have some enjoyably challenging competitions.

Oft times, they try to distract me with gossip from the kitchen maids who bring us our daily allotment of soup. Apparently another serving girl is round with child. It doesn't take an Aristotle to guess that Prince Malcolm has not been obeying his brother's command to leave the local womenfolk alone.

Una shivers uncomfortably. Doubtlessly, memories of her encounter with Malcolm still linger in her mind. She abruptly changes the topic as Rowena and I take a turn at the chessboard.

“At least the Saxons have been driven back for the winter. Do you think they came solely for the purpose of capturing you again, my Queen?”

“How could they have plotted such a thing?” I shrug, moving my queen piece across the board. “I had only just arrived at the Dean Fort mere hours before the attack.…”

My voice trails off before I complete the thought. A coldness creeps into my limbs. How on earth could the Saxons have known I was there after only being in the Dean Fort a matter of hours? News by horseback doesn't travel that fast and it takes days to gather the number of warriors they brought to besiege us.

“It does seem an incredible coincidence,” Rowena adds, trying to comfort me. “But they couldn't have known you were coming, could they?”

“Unless a spy from Caerwent told them beforehand,” I reply solemnly.

There it is. The threat of a traitor in our midst, hanging over us like an invisible pall. The three of us sit around the chessboard in silence as we finish our game.

Perhaps the Saxons merely came to the Dean Fort that night to sack it for plunder or just for the joy of killing. But what are the odds they would attempt such an assault while I was there as well? It seems like far more than coincidence.

We keep the hearth roaring hot. Even though I sweat under the thick coverlets that night, I can't resist such a luxury. Not after all those nights exposed to the cold wilds with no more than Artagan's bearskin cape to keep me warm.

On the third morning of my captivity, I rise slowly, knowing I will spend another day wandering in circles inside the confines of my solar. Even a blind woman can see that Morgan has sought fit to punish me for my outburst in the hall the other day, isolating me with my ladies-in-waiting while Artagan and his warriors rot in the prison cellars. Opening the shutters a crack, I brace myself against the rain and the cold.

Padraig enters the chamber with a bow, a stack of books under one arm. The guards quickly shut the door behind him, locking the hasp. Brother Padraig wipes the morning dew from his balding brow as his peat-colored eyes glance my way.

“It's damp enough outside to drown a fish. I've slept on the chapel pews these past few nights, courtesy of your husband, who has denied me any other place in the castle.”

“What?” I exclaim. “He can't do that! You're a man of the cloth. I can't believe Morgan could be so spiteful.”

Padraig merely shrugs, resigned to the injustices of life. I grimace as I usher him toward the budding hearth in order to warm his hands. It's one thing for Morgan to punish me, but it's another disgrace entirely to keep a good soul like the Abbot living like a beggar. I rub my palms along the monk's worn digits, each of his fingers cold as ice.

“It does me good to see you.” I smile. “I'm surprised the King let you visit me at all. He won't even let Ahern guard my door.”

Padraig flashes an uncharacteristically wry grin.

“Like most kings, he thinks a simple cleric like me harmless. Shows what he knows.”

He lets his stack of half a dozen books land on the tabletop with a thud, the sound waking both Una and Rowena in the nearby bed. The Abbot thumbs through the first folio, his normally placid features wrinkling under smiling eyes and a toothy grin. My brown-robed mentor is up to something.

“There,” he says, placing a finger on an open page. “We've much to review today, so we'll begin here.”

My eyebrows rise.

“You came up here to give me Latin lessons before breakfast?”

“We've an opportunity now. Imprisoned in style you may be, but we must learn to turn our disadvantages into advantages. Let us begin with the healing arts. I've copies of Hippocrates the Greek Physician, Saint Brigit the Irish Healer, and Taliesin the Welsh Shaman.”

“Abbot, you taught me the basics of medicinals long ago. Why go into all this now?”

“You are a queen, and as such must know more than just the birthing of goats or the sewing of stiches. The health of the entire realm rests on your shoulders. The peasantry still believe that when a just lord rules, the people and the land flourish, but when a poor monarch rules, the people and the fertility of Wales suffers. The well-being of all your subjects is both your royal and ethical responsibility. Never forget that.”

Padraig has a point. Regardless of what border some king draws on a map, we're all descended from the Old Tribes one way or another, all the same blood, the same Welsh nation. As a queen, I've a responsibility to protect them all, to care for them. Both my mother and the ancient Branwen the Brave would've certainly done the same.

As for the health of the nation, most commoners see the fortunes of the community as directly related to the kingship itself. Just rulers are favored by heaven and their people enjoy good health and good harvests. Bad rulers receive pestilence sent by God and his angels. A ruler who wishes to keep his or her throne more than a fortnight best look to the welfare of their subjects.

Thumbing through the books on the table, something in the flowery texts immediately catches my eye. Descriptions of women in childbirth, ancient druidic practices of purifying water, and diagrams of dissected body parts. These are not topics that a churchman like Brother Padraig should know about, especially women's organs and pagan charms. My round eyes glance up at the tonsured cleric.

“Abbot, where did you get these heretical books? The Bishop would make me say a hundred paternosters as penance just for reading such graphic descriptions.”

The monk smiles.

“I was taught in the Irish school of monastic healing. The clerics there preserve some more … unorthodox methods of healing that were banned elsewhere in Christendom. It is these secrets that I intend to teach you.”

By now, both Rowena and Una join us at the table. Neither one of them can read her own name, but the vivid illuminations on the pages leave little doubt as to the content of these forbidden medical tomes. Rowena puts a hand on each hip, eyeing Padraig with a smirk.

“And what, pray tell, does a monk know about what's beneath a lady's undergarments?”

Abbot Padraig blushes with a half-smile.

“I wasn't born a monk. I'm an Abbott, not a saint.”

The girls exchange looks with stifled giggles. My jaw hangs open at this admission of guilt from my mentor. The man who first taught me about God seems to have a seedier past than he has let on. Before I can question him further, the jangle of chains from the main castle gates draws my attention to the window.