Caradoc of the North Wind (13 page)

‘You worry too much,’ Branwen said, resting her hand on his shoulder. ‘And I love you for it!’ She glanced over his shoulder into the glowing hut, where the owl-girl was making Linette comfortable under her furs. ‘I spoke to Blodwedd about her dream. She saw some demon that she feared would destroy me. I’m warned now and all will be well.’ She tugged the hem of her cloak close as a gust came searching out of the cold north. ‘I think I’ll walk the walls a little to clear my mind. I still have a bad taste in my mouth from witnessing the arrival of the prince.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘I wish this winter was at an end – I’ve had my fill of snow!’

‘A horseman approaches!’

Branwen had grown weary of staring out over the bleak snowscape of the north and was about to head back to the long house to be with her companions, when the voice from the gate tower stopped her in her tracks.

She ran back up the log steps to the palisade, making her way as quickly as she could along the narrow walkway.

‘Where away?’ called a voice from the bailey.

‘From the south,’ cried the first voice, and Branwen saw an arm pointing from the top of the tower.

‘Friend or foe?’

‘I cannot say.’

Branwen leaned over the parapet of the high wall, twisting herself to try and see the coming rider.

There! A solitary horseman, helmeted and cloaked, carrying something that she took to be a spear. But it was still a few moments before she saw the black beard and knew for sure that the man must be Saxon.

Now more sentries leaned over the walls. Arrows were put to bows as vigilant eyes watched the horse and rider come cantering across the bridge towards the gates.

‘Halt and declare yourself!’ a warrior shouted from the wall. ‘Die, else!’

The rider brought his horse up and untied some strings that bound something to the top of his spear shaft. He shook it out and a red banner fluttered, emblazoned with a white dragon.

‘My name is Eanfrid Hunwald,’ called the man. ‘I have no weapon upon me. I come as emissary from General Horsa Herewulf Ironfist, Lord of Winwaed, commander of King Oswald’s armies in Mercia.’

‘You come with messages from Ironfist?’ Branwen called down. ‘Is he to surrender, then?’

‘My message is for the ears of King Cynon,’ called the man. ‘Will you allow me entry?’

There were a few muttered exchanges between the warriors on the wall. Branwen cut through the debate. ‘I will come down,’ she called to the Saxon horseman. ‘You will be given leave to enter.’

She ran quickly down into the bailey, shouting orders to the guards to throw back the bar and open the gates. Although she had no real authority among the men of Pengwern, they were sufficiently awed by her to do as she asked – the great heavy gates were opened within moments.

Branwen strode out to meet the Saxon, her shield on her arm, her hand on her sword hilt. Eanfrid Hunwald swung down from the saddle, and Branwen saw that he wore no armour or mail and had no sword and no visible seax in his belt. But she knew of old that the loose Saxon garments could easily hide a dagger. She was not going to be taken unawares by this unexpected visitor.

He looked at her with this head tilted a little, like a man may look at a young doe he has a mind to bring down. ‘Who are you, child?’ he asked.

She returned his steady gaze. ‘Do you not know me?’ she asked. ‘Has Ironfist not told you of me?’

His eyes widened and he seemed about to take a step back before he halted himself. ‘You are Branwen ap Griffith,’ he said. ‘The accursed and vile waelisc shaman girl!’

‘That is me,’ said Branwen.

CHAPTER TWELVE

‘Y
ou speak our language very well, Master Hunwald, with hardly a trace of a foreign accent,’ said Branwen. ‘Why are you here?’

‘To speak with King Cynon.’

‘So you said. But how am I to judge your honesty?’

Hunwald opened his cloak. ‘Test my honour for yourself.’

Warily, Branwen moved in closer and patted his clothing for weapons hidden under the folds. There was nothing. ‘Follow me,’ she told him. ‘Bring your horse. He will be fed and watered while you wait upon the king’s pleasure.’

She was aware of many eyes watching her as she led the Saxon emissary in through the gates of Pengwern.

Branwen found the king in the Hall of Araith. She waited at the doors while a guard took her message down to where Cynon sat on his throne under the awnings and flags of Powys. Eanfrid Hunwald stood behind her, the spears of two door wardens pointed at his heart.

The hall was a hundred paces long, but even at that distance, Branwen could see quite clearly what was going on at the far end of the high, columned chamber.

Meredith and Drustan sat on low stools in front of the throne, some five paces separated, but facing one another. Behind Meredith stood Prince Llew and Romney, along with Angor and some other of Llew’s warriors. At Drustan’s back were his mother and a small group of councillors. Representatives of the other three kingdoms were gathered behind the throne, looking on.

Clearly, bride and groom were meeting formally for the first time. But Branwen’s mind was entirely overtaken by conjecture concerning what message the Saxon emissary might have brought from Ironfist.

The guard spoke briefly to one of the king’s men, and the message was then relayed to Cynon himself. Every head turned to the doors. Branwen stepped into the open and bowed.

‘Bring him to me,’ Cynon called. Then he spoke some quiet words to the people assembled around him. The peaceful tableau broke up, the women departing to some side-chamber, and the men lining up beside the throne, grim-faced as Branwen led Eanfrid Hunwald forward.

The king sat back in his throne, leaning on one arm and regarding the Saxon messenger with a cool detachment.

Eanfrid Hunwald dropped to his knees in front of the throne. ‘Great King of Powys, I bring greetings from my lord Horsa Herewulf,’ he said, his voice showing no trace of fear, although Branwen guessed he must be feeling uneasy among so many armed enemies.

‘Indeed?’ said the king, his voice low and laconic, his eyes hooded as though to conceal any hint of his true thoughts about this unexpected visitation. ‘And what words does the warlord of the east have for we whose blood he has so infamously shed?’

Branwen stood close behind the Saxon, her hand on her sword hilt, her nerves tingling and her whole body alert for any treacherous move. One step wrong on his part and her sword would be in his back up to the hilt.

Eanfrid Hunwald raised his head and spoke in a loud, clear voice.

‘My lord Horsa Herewulf bids me speak these words to you.’ His voice boomed to the rafters. ‘Great King of Powys, you have fought with honour these past months, and you should have no shame that you have not done your duty to your realm. But ranged against you are forces so mighty that you cannot ever hope for a victory. All the lands to the east and to the north and to the south, is my lord Horsa Herewulf emptying, and into his great encampment at Chester are these men pouring in their multitudes. Surrender now to the mercy of King Oswald’s great general, and many lives will be spared. Continue in your obstinate refusal to acknowledge the overlordship of King Oswald, and General Herewulf will unleash his armies to flow as an unstoppable tide over your lands. If General Herewulf is forced to come across the borders in arms, be most certain, not a man will be left alive to tell the tale, not a woman will escape servitude, not a child shall live to see freedom again.’

Branwen’s eyes flickered across the gathered faces that surrounded the throne. There was anger and outrage in most faces, but trepidation in none. If Ironfist’s words were intended to intimidate, then they had failed. Apart from a hard gleam in the king’s eyes, Branwen could see no reaction from him.

‘Here’s our answer!’ shouted Angor, drawing his sword and taking a step forward. ‘To send you on your way without a head to your shoulders for your impudence!’

The king lifted a hand and Angor halted, his arm shaking with fury.

‘We are not barbarians, Captain,’ said Cynon. ‘We do not kill messengers because we like not the message they have been sent to deliver.’ He looked long and thoughtfully at the Saxon. ‘These are hard words,’ he said at last. ‘And we need time to consider them.’ He rose from the throne. ‘Take this man to where he can find food and drink. Keep close guard on him. He shall be called when our deliberations are done.’

Branwen turned, meaning to leave with the Saxon.

‘Branwen, stay awhile,’ said the king. ‘We desire your counsel. You alone have met General Ironfist face to face.’

Is that so? Then do you forget, my king, that Captain Angor has knelt at his foot and done his bidding in the past?

But Branwen was wise enough to hold back her thoughts – opening old wounds would do no good, and might do harm while the treaty between Llew and the king was so young and tender.

Dark looks followed Ironfist’s messenger as he was led at spear-point from the Hall.

‘Well now,’ said the king. ‘What are we to make of this?’

‘Nothing, my lord father, by your leave,’ said Drustan. ‘Only the bully seeks to cow an opponent with haughty words.’

‘It’s not the words themselves we should sift,’ said Llew, ‘but the thought behind them.’

‘We and the Saxons have beaten our heads together like stags these six months gone,’ said one of the king’s men. ‘Why does Ironfist choose this moment to threaten us so?’

‘Indeed,’ said the king. ‘That is my question also. Branwen? Have you any insights into Ironfist’s thinking?’

‘None beyond this,’ said Branwen, remembering what Iwan had said to her some days previously. ‘Ironfist was content to let us fight brother against brother while he stood by and watched. But if word of the marriage treaty has reached him, he may realize his time of standing aside is all but done.’

‘So he seeks to frighten us with fell words before setting his dogs loose on us?’ said Angor, and Branwen was quick to notice a hint of respect for her in his voice. ‘Goes this with the turn of his mind, girl?’

‘I think so,’ said Branwen.

‘Belike he has other motives for such threats,’ added Dagonet. ‘If all we have been told of the forces mustered outside Chester are true, then he must have an army of four or five thousand in camp. Men in such numbers need much feeding and watering, and many will have horses, too, that will need fodder. How will the town of Chester cope with such numbers? Ironfist’s army must be bleeding the town white, and this winter is a friend to us in so far as it has blocked the trade routes from the east and made the bringing of supplies from afar almost impossible.’

‘That is a good thought,’ said Llew. ‘And if true, it means that he must either seek provisions by dint of conquest, or see his army starve.’

‘Will he let loose war in such weather as this?’ asked another counsellor. ‘Surely not?’

‘If need drives him, he may have no other choice,’ said the king. ‘A hard reply from us may force his hand.’ He looked around at the other men. ‘Are we prepared for the hordes of the east to come at us?’

‘We must try to hold him back for a little,’ said one of the men from Gwynedd. ‘For the passage of a moon, at least, to allow us time to return to our king and have him send the levies across the mountains. Two thousand men can we provide for the succour of Powys, but they cannot be gathered all in a moment.’

‘I would say the same,’ added Hywel al Murig, among the men of Gwent. ‘Can we send some serpentine response that will set him on his heels for a while? King Tewdrig will send warriors now that the conflict in Powys is ended, have no fear, but it is many leagues to the southern kingdom, and many leagues back.’

‘A cunning reply, my lord, will maybe forestall an attack,’ said Angor.

‘But what words of ours might make him think we wish to negotiate a peaceful settlement?’ asked Drustan.

‘Why do we not suggest an old course of action?’ said Prince Llew. ‘In times past, the mayhem of warfare was often averted by the surrender of tracts of land to a strong enemy. Perhaps we could let him believe we will offer to hand over some of our eastern cantrefs to him, if he calls his army off.’

‘Land for peace,’ said Dagonet. ‘That may work, at least to give him pause.’

‘He may feel the need to send word to King Oswald before he makes such a bargain,’ said Drustan. ‘And we can reinforce the eastern citadels while he waits on a reply.’

‘Good, good,’ said the king, his eyes glinting. ‘Gull the mighty general with false promises, then.’

‘To lie would make us no better than a Saxon,’ blurted Branwen. ‘We cannot win the day with falsehoods, my lord. And he will surely not believe we would truly give up our lands to him uncontended?’

‘In his arrogance, he may,’ said Dagonet.

‘But my own home of Cyffin Tir lies on the eastern borders!’ cried Branwen. ‘He cannot think I would surrender my homeland to him!’

‘That need not be a problem,’ said Llew. ‘We shall tell him that Branwen ap Griffith is dead or fled … or devoured by the demons she worships.’

‘Or imprisoned by the king for her dark sorceries and insolent ways,’ added Angor with a cold smile. ‘That would not be hard for Ironfist to believe.’