Caradoc of the North Wind (10 page)

‘Then let’s be the king’s eyes and ears,’ said Iwan. ‘If Llew ap Gelert proves false, let us be the ones who reveal it.’

Branwen nodded. ‘A good plan,’ she said. ‘We shall watch his every move.’

Aberfa’s deep voice broke the silence that followed Branwen’s words. ‘Will the Shining Ones aid us when the great battle comes?’ she asked.

Branwen turned to her, oddly surprised by the question, although she supposed she should not have been. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Blodwedd has always told me that the Shining Ones only hold power within Brython.’

‘Meaning that even if they are still friendly towards us, they may be unable to help if we are fighting on Saxon ground?’ murmured Iwan.

‘
If
they are still friendly,’ added Banon. ‘We turned away from them to come here. Will they have forgiven that?’

‘I think they have,’ said Branwen. ‘They do not show themselves to me, but I know they are close by. How else have we done such things these past months and come to so little harm?’

‘What of Linette?’ Iwan asked mildly.

‘She will recover,’ said Branwen. ‘The Shining Ones won’t let any of us die.’ She stood up. ‘Have any of you seen Fain?’

Aberfa pointed with the spearhead to a high beam in the roof. Branwen saw the falcon perched up there, warm and snug in the rising heat of the fire.

‘Good. Let him rest, he has deserved it,’ said Branwen. ‘I will go now and see how Linette is doing. Oh, and the king wants us all to attend the feast tonight.’

‘Then we shall,’ said Iwan, springing up. ‘With a light heart and a ready wit.’

Branwen eyed him. ‘With neither, for my part,’ she said. ‘But we shall obey.’

Branwen arrived at Linette’s hut to find the girl asleep in the firelight while Blodwedd and Rhodri sorted herbs from a large basket and used a mortar and pestle to mash the half-Saxon healer’s miraculous pastes and unguents.

‘Pendefig has been here,’ Rhodri told Branwen. ‘He has given me herbs and roots from his own store. I think they will help.’

‘He gave us a charm of nine herbs that he believes will make a great difference,’ added Blodwedd, gesturing towards where small bundles of herbs lay ready on the ground. ‘Mugwort, waybread, lamb’s cress, cockspur grass, camomile, nettle, chervil, fennel, crab apple – we have them all.’

‘And a rhyme that addresses each of them,’ said Rhodri. ‘Pendefig says to speak the charms into Linette’s mouth and into both her ears and also recite it over her injury.’

‘All the herbs were picked at judicious times and with the appropriate rituals,’ said Blodwedd, floating her hand over them. ‘I can feel their power.’

‘That’s all to the good.’ Branwen crouched at Linette’s side. ‘How is she?’

‘No better, no worse,’ said Blodwedd, her eyes burning like two setting suns in the light of the flames. ‘You humans heal so slowly!’

With a single extended finger, Branwen stroked a stray curl from Linette’s pale forehead. ‘I will tell the king we will not venture out again until she is able to join us,’ she said. She smiled down at Linette’s peaceful, slumbering face. ‘Be well! That is an order.’

The braying of horns sounded.

‘That is the call to the feast,’ said Branwen, getting up. ‘I must go – but I need you to stay with Linette, if you’re willing.’ Her comment was addressed to Rhodri – Blodwedd never came to the Hall of Arlwy. She had done so once, upon their arrival at Pengwern – but the people had shrunk away as though she carried the plague, and the king’s dogs had set up such a barking and howling that the rafters had rung with it. From that time on, the owl-girl had kept out of sight as much as possible.

‘Of course,’ said Rhodri. ‘We’ll watch Linette through the night. Perhaps a new dawn will show some improvement in her.’

Branwen walked to the doorway. ‘Come for me if there is any change,’ she said.

‘For better or worse, we will,’ said Blodwedd.

‘It will not be for the worse,’ said Branwen.

‘Pray the Old Ones it is so,’ murmured Blodwedd, glancing at Rhodri.

‘I have,’ said Branwen, dipping her head as she came under the low lintel and stepped into the cold night. ‘I have prayed and they have heard me.’

CHAPTER NINE

The hall of the great King Cynon is bright tonight

Cold is banished, and the fires leap high

Oxen roast on the bone

and mead fills the cups of horn and gold

The warriors sing of victory,

the women listen with shining eyes.

The retinue of the king have hastened forth

Armed and well shod into the bitter winter

Saxons to pursue and victories to win.

But now they feed together around the wine-vessel

Oh, my heart is full with the telling of it,

My heart swells with pride in the tale of fell deeds

But grief mingles with joy;

too many of my true kinsmen are gone

Out of three hundred that rode

forth wearing the golden torques,

Fully one hundred never returned from the battles in the east

The exalted men went from us;

they ate a final meal of wine and mead.

I am sorrowful for the loss of them in this harsh winter

May our shields resound like thunder as we remember them!

May the Three Saints lead them to their long home

And we who remain, to sweet victory!

T
he bard finished his song and the chime of his harp strings faded. A moment later, the quiet of the Hall of Arlwy was overturned by raucous cheering as the audience erupted into roaring approval.

The tall, grey-haired singer bowed low and then stepped away from the firelight with his ash-wood harp cradled lovingly in his arms.

Branwen and her band clapped along with all the other men and women of King Cynon’s court. Gorsedd ap Gruffud was a fine singer and Aberfa stamped her feet and Iwan whistled shrilly between his teeth to show their appreciation of his skills. Branwen knew how easy it was to get caught up in the excitement and the drama of such battle songs even though the ‘victories’ spoken of were nothing more than passing skirmishes, as akin to the war that was coming as spring breezes were to the worst of Caradoc’s blizzards.

The feast to welcome the two princesses of Doeth Palas was at its height. Meredith and Romney sat in a gaggle of court ladies at the far end of the chamber, close to the king. Branwen and her band were gathered in a little knot near the doors. Peering down the crowded hall, Branwen could see that the princesses were dressed now in fine gowns and had their hair braided and bejewelled. They were clearly glad to be at their journey’s end. They hadn’t been brought up to endure the hardships of the wild. She smiled to herself, quietly proud of her lean, strong body and of the skills that had kept her and her folk alive all these long months. To be soft and spoiled like them? It would be unendurable.

The warriors and merchants and ladies of Pengwern sat at their ease all around the hall, eating heartily from bowls carried to them by servants, and drinking from earthenware vessels brimming with wine or spicy, honey-flavoured mead. Branwen and her folk were glad of the hot meat and cheese and bread, but they drank only watered wine, and avoided the mead altogether. It was a sweet but dangerous brew, and one night’s unguarded drinking could dull the senses for two entire days.

The king and his closest advisers sat at the far end of the hall, amid draperies of purple silk. Captain Angor was with them, and Branwen noticed that often his head and the head of the king were together as though they were exchanging private words.

Among Cynon’s counsellors sat representatives of the courts of the other three kingdoms of Brython, stern and powerful men who had journeyed far to be here. They had gathered from the court of King Maelgwn Hir, ruler of Gwynedd, from King Dinefwr of Dyfed and from King Tewdrig of Gwent. They were here to witness the marriage between Princess Meredith and Prince Drustan, to take back to their masters assurances that the civil conflict that had shaken the kingdom of Powys was truly ended.

When the Gwyn Braw had set out to rescue the princesses, the representatives of Gwent had not yet arrived, but Branwen saw them now, three grizzled warriors and one younger lad with bright, sharp eyes and a pleasant, open face. The son and heir of some powerful lord of Gwent, she assumed the boy must be. She wondered whether any of the three older men were from the house of Eirion. Half a year ago she had been sent out from her home to marry into that family. Oh, but what a strange and astonishing path her destiny had led her down since those simple times!

‘I like songs of victory and triumph!’ boomed Aberfa, slapping Branwen on the back. ‘They warm my blood better than the hottest fire!’

‘It would be a fine thing if we could defeat the Saxons by singing alone,’ remarked Banon, her milk-white skin glowing in the firelight, her freckles like flecks of gold on her cheeks and arms. ‘That’s a contest we’d easily win.’

‘Two famous bards facing one another on the battlefield to decide the fate of nations in a bloodless tournament!’ added Iwan. ‘I like the way you think, Banon!’

‘All the same,’ remarked Dera. ‘The wine of victory tastes the sweeter when mingled with the blood of an enemy slain.’ She looked at her companions with her deep black eyes. ‘What are we, old women to wish an easy victory? Ha! I’d sooner slay the Saxons with bright iron that have them slink away untested!’ She frowned, as though a sudden thought had struck her. ‘And these old songs – they sound well enough, I grant – but where are recalled the deeds of warrior women such as ourselves?’

‘
Men
write the songs,’ Banon said with a wry smile.

‘We need a song to the Gwyn Braw!’ agreed Aberfa, her mouth half full of juicy meat. ‘That would be a fine thing.’

‘Rhodri the Druid has a way with a rhyme,’ said Iwan. ‘I shall speak to him about it.’ He brandished his knife, running with meat juices. ‘A song of Iwan ap Madoc, the fount of all that is brave and noble and comely!’

Aberfa almost spat her meat out. ‘The wellspring of all that is conceited, arrogant and swollen-headed, rather!’ she cackled. ‘It’s we women who deserve the praise!’

Iwan laughed. ‘It’s true that you’re good enough warriors … for a bunch of weak little girls.’

‘“Weak”? “Little”?’ growled Aberfa, her eyes shining. ‘Would you care to arm-wrestle me, man-child?’

‘Not me,’ said Iwan in mock horror. ‘I’d as soon play tag with the Brown Bull of Cwley. He probably weighs less than you, for a start!’

With an affronted howl, Aberfa snatched at Iwan and he only just managed to scramble out of her way in time.

‘Teach him some manners, Aberfa!’ chuckled Dera.

Branwen smiled. It was heartening to see her friends at play like this – a pleasant reward for their perilous labours out in the wild.

A man came up behind the laughing band, his arrival unheard in the clamour of the feasting. The first Branwen knew of his presence was a heavy hand coming down on her shoulder.

She turned and looked into the grim, fierce face of Dagonet ap Wadu, a high captain of the king’s army and the father of dark-haired Dera.

Seeing him, Dera scrambled to her feet and stood with her head bowed. ‘My lord,’ she said meekly. ‘My greetings and duty to you, as always.’

Dagonet didn’t even glance at his daughter, his eyes fixed instead on Branwen. ‘The king would have you attend him,’ he said.

‘I am at the king’s command,’ Branwen said, standing up.

Dagonet nodded and walked back the way he had come. Following him, Branwen cast a sympathetic look towards Dera, who had sat down again, biting her lip and staring into the fire. As resolute and deadly as any man in combat, the raven-haired warrior girl was forever cowed in the presence of her father.

Branwen felt a stab of heartsickness as she thought of her own dear, lost father. Unlike Dagonet ap Wadu, he had been a man of infinite love and compassion.

‘A word with you, sir,’ said Branwen, walking quickly to catch up with Dagonet.

He looked at her without interest.

‘Why do you treat your daughter so?’ Branwen asked. ‘She loves you dearly, and seeks only to please you.’

‘Dera knows what she must do to earn my forgiveness,’ said Dagonet. ‘She alone chose the path she is on.’

‘You’d have her part with the Gwyn Braw?’ asked Branwen.

‘I would.’

A response to this screamed in Branwen’s head.
Why do you hate me? What have I ever done but strive
ceaselessly for the good fortune of Powys?

But what would be the purpose of such questions? She already knew the answers. She was the shaman girl of the Shining Ones. The cat’s-paw of ancient forces feared by everyone.