Free Between Two Fires by Mark Noce

snowy-white beard approaches King Morgan’s throne. “Belin the Old,” as Father and most others outside the North call this king. Although not to his face. Two young men flank either side, both with dark hair and beards, their plate-mail shirts jangling with every step. Rhun and Iago, I presume. Judging by the sackcloth tunics beneath their armor, these horsemen must have ridden under the black banners. I inwardly chide myself, knowing I ought to spend more time studying the bloodlines of the royal houses to determine who is related to whom. These first guests follow the Black Dragon sigil of the North. Best not to forget such things.
    Belin and his sons nod toward Morgan, showing respect, but not quite stooping to bow either. After all, in the northlands of Gwynedd, they rule supreme and bend their knees to no one. Morgan returns the gesture with a cordial nod.
    From a side entranceway, the tardy Prince Malcolm shuffles into the throne room while tying up his belt. The Hammer King throws him a sharp look before Malcolm reclines in the shadows. Thank the Virgin I did not show up late to the atrium. Morgan will doubtlessly have a long talk with his younger brother later. The herald announces the next batch of envoys.
    â€œKing Cadwallon of the Free Cantrefs! And Lady Olwen, daughter of King Urien in the northern Powys Free Cantrefs!”
    A large, round man with thinning red hair and a beard to match saunters into the atrium with a woman holding his hand. King Cadwallon looks large enough to swallow a wild boar for breakfast. His green doublet, bristling with buttons, leaves little doubt as to which company rode under the green banners. He turns to the lady holding his arm.
    â€œKing Urien is ill, and although I do not rule his lands, I offered to escort his daughter, the Lady Olwen, to these proceedings that she might stand in his place.”
    Morgan edges forward in his seat while the onlookers of the court murmur amongst themselves. Goose bumps rise along my forearms. A woman to stand in a council of men? These Free Cantref folk follow the ways of the Old Tribes even more than I first thought.
    Lady Olwen wears a white linen gown and has dark locks like me, only hers hang straight whereas mine wave slightly. Our similarities end there. She has a full-bodied figure of a grown woman, and God as my witness, her irises twinkle with a hint of violet. Every man in court stares at her, and who wouldn’t? She is a Welsh Venus.
    Cadwallon clears his throat, his face turning the same shade as his auburn beard. I cannot help but stare. These Free Cantref folk are simultaneously a fascinating and yet strange lot, harkening from the wilds of the mountains and forests. Cadwallon looks angry, but keeps his voice marginally calm as he eyes King Morgan.
    â€œAmongst the Free Cantrefs, our womenfolk may speak amongst men in council. I would expect to find that same right honored anywhere in the Welsh Lands.”
    Morgan leans back in his seat, staring at Cadwallon until every other onlooker in the room begins to shift uncomfortably. Tapping the arm of my chair, I can hardly remain still. My husband flashes a curt smile.
    â€œFor such a gracious noblewoman, we would be honored to have Lady Olwen listen in her father’s stead.”
    â€œThank you, King Morgan.” Olwen nods. “You do my father great honor.”
    Her voice runs deep for a woman, and rich like one gifted with song. Morgan’s polite smile turns into a genuine grin, and I find my own neck flushing hot. Lady Olwen has charm enough to mold even the likes of the Hammer King to her whims. My fists tighten, contemplating how many men only value a woman for her allure and beauty. Though it be unchristian, a seed of malicious envy takes root inside me. A crow-face like me doesn’t even have half the good looks Lady Olwen possesses. I bite my tongue until it smarts.
    Morgan’s guardsmen line the walls, each man-at-arms bedecked in