Free Between Two Fires by Mark Noce Page A

chain mail vests and crimson capes. They clutch their spears and shields tightly, as though preparing to use them. All three parties eye each other warily, their red, black, and green dragon pennants nearly touching the domed ceiling of the spacious atrium.
    The herald clears his throat to announce a final guest.
    â€œAlso, hailing from the Free Cantrefs, Sir Artagan Blacksword!”
    My heart freezes up as the dark-haired swordsman strides into the throne room. Morgan rises from his seat and Malcolm quickly rushes to his side. The King grips his war-hammer and the Prince reaches for his large mace as they leer at the Blacksword. Artagan takes his place beside the other Free Cantref members, King Cadwallon and Lady Olwen. His longsword hangs in a cinch diagonally down his back. He smirks at the Hammer King’s and Prince Malcolm’s livid faces before turning his striking sapphire eyes on me. I blush scarlet as the black-haired swordsman stares unabashedly at me, his gaze running from my eyes to neckline.
    â€œLady Branwen, or Queen, I should say. It has been too long since our last meeting.”
    He bows toward me, ignoring Morgan and Malcolm. I slink lower in my chair, wishing for the world he hadn’t brought me into the center of this. Why does he have to speak to me ? I suddenly wish I could simply disappear. The Hammer King aims his weapon at Artagan, clenching his teeth.
    â€œI’ve a price on this brigand’s head! Guards, seize the devil where he stands!”
    A ring of crimson-cloaked guardsmen level their spearheads at Artagan. The swordsman merely grins, not even drawing his blade. Instead, King Cadwallon steps between the knight and a dozen men-at-arms, the girth of his belly urging the soldiers to stand back. Cadwallon’s roar seems to shake the rafters.
    â€œThis is a knight of the Free Cantrefs and he comes to this gathering under my protection! Any hand laid against him is a hand laid against me, and will answer to my archers for it!”
    Several bowmen clad in green tunics and brown leathers draw back their creaking bowstrings. In response, a dozen more red-caped guards tromp into the room, the din of their chain mail murmuring off the ceiling. Belin’s lot from the North do not draw their swords, but instead stand apart, flexing their fingers along their black ash lances. Clutching the sides of my throne, I wonder whether this limestone seat will shield me from spears and arrows if a brawl takes place. Morgan stands at the center of the throne room, his gray-eyed stare never flinching from Artagan.
    â€œThis so-called knight,” Morgan begins coolly, “stands accused of crimes against my people.”
    Cadwallon steps between Artagan and Morgan, his stomach nearly touching the Hammer King.
    â€œAnd half the men in this room stand accused of crimes against the Free Cantrefs! Did you call this gathering to talk peaceably or to cross swords?”
    Morgan seethes through his teeth before calming his breath. My husband’s hot rage subsides. He stands a full head taller than Cadwallon as he stares him down, raising his voice for all to hear.
    â€œWhile at this gathering here in Caerwent, I grant temporary amnesty to all present!” Morgan declares. “All grudges must be set aside until after all parties have safely returned to their respective provinces. But once this conference has concluded, each lord may seek justice as he sees fit.”
    A silence pervades the room. Cadwallon and Belin exchange looks before they both nod in agreement. Artagan makes no move, his mischievous azure eyes glancing from the Hammer King to me.
    Morgan bangs the handle of his hammer against the tile floors, echoing throughout the hall. At this signal, bondservants enter the chambers carrying carafes of wine and pewter goblets. The various parties retire to their new quarters in order to refresh themselves after their long journey to Caerwent.
    King Morgan and Prince Malcolm