Caradoc of the North Wind (14 page)

Indeed, not! As it’s something you already wish were true!

‘My lord king,’ said Branwen, looking into Cynon’s unreadable face. ‘Ironfist is a liar and an oath-breaker – but must
we
walk that same path?’

‘For the charging bull, an arrow to the heart will suffice,’ replied the king, eyeing Branwen sharply. ‘But for the venomous serpent, slithering through the long grass, stealth and subtlety are the tools best suited to the task.’ He raised a hand. ‘We will slow the great general of Mercia down with talk of treaties, and of land to be given over to King Oswald. We will send word that we wish for a meeting between our most wise counsellors – his and ours – in some place where the safety of all is guaranteed. Some neutral ground where none should fear ambush.’

‘And while we negotiate the terms of this meeting, so we shall send to Gwent and to Gwynedd and to Dyfed for reinforcements,’ said Llew. ‘I like this council, my lord. And by the time Ironfist realizes he has been fooled, we’ll have gathered an army to hold him back!’

The king rose and reached out his hand to the prince. ‘And you, my noble lord of Bras Mynydd, shall be our General-in-Chief, to lead our armies to victory.’

Branwen stared at the king in alarm and dismay. This was getting worse by the moment! Cynon was handing over the army to Prince Llew? To the man who had till a few weeks past been seeking his death on the battlefield? It was madness.

‘My lord, may I speak with you alone?’ she asked the king. She had to make him realize Llew could not be trusted. If Cynon gave the prince of Bras Mynydd command of the army, he might as well hand over his crown at the same time.

‘Thank you for your counsel, Branwen of the Gwyn Braw,’ said the king. ‘Go you now and fetch the Saxon messenger while we debate the exact nature of the words we would send back to General Ironfist.’

‘But, my lord—’

‘Do as the king commands,’ said Angor, glaring at her. ‘Or do you think the demons you worship allow you to question the king’s wishes?’

‘No, Captain, I do not,’ Branwen replied, holding back her anger. ‘But I know twisted counsel when I hear it, and I would rather face Ironfist in open battle than defeat him by stealth and falsehoods.’

Bowing to the king, she turned and strode quickly from the hall, well aware that malevolent eyes followed her.

‘It is called
diplomacy
,’ Iwan said earnestly. ‘Branwen, we have spoken of these things before. More wars are won by lies and deceits than by swords and axes.’

‘I know!’ Branwen replied sullenly. ‘But I hate it all the same.’

‘You are too honourable,’ said Banon.

‘Maybe I am,’ sighed Branwen. ‘But this kind of trickery sickens me.’ She jumped up. ‘Banon! Come, spar with me! I need to clear my head!’

It was the afternoon of the same day. The Saxon messenger had been sent back with the king’s reply and as he had departed snow had begun to fall. Although Branwen had brought Eanfrid Hunwald to the Hall of Araith, she had been sent away without hearing exactly what was said to him. Not that she wanted to listen to such shameful, dissembling words.

Now she was with her followers in the long house, joining in with their arduous training regime, trying to block out her apprehension with hard physical effort.

She worked every muscle as she fought sword against sword with Banon. The gangly warrior girl was a wily, lithe opponent who seemed never to be quite where Branwen expected, and who moved around the field of contest like a hare made mad in the spring. Banon was not the strongest of her followers, but all the same, Branwen found it hard to get the better of someone who in two long-legged springs could be behind her and swinging her sword at the back of her neck almost before she could turn round.

They fought till Branwen found an opening in her opponent’s guard. Sweeping Banon’s sword arm aside, she brought her blade to a stop a hair’s-breadth from piercing the lanky girl’s exposed stomach. They stood panting, looking at one another with shining eyes.

‘One day I shall get the better of you, Branwen,’ said Banon.

Branwen gave a crooked smile. ‘But not today.’ She turned. ‘Aberfa? A little exercise?’

‘Indeed,’ said Aberfa, getting to her feet and hefting her spear.

Branwen spread her feet, raising her shield to her eyes, gripping her sword tightly, preparing herself for battle. Aberfa stood gazing at her. Smiling, she raised a hand and beckoned. Narrowing her eyes, Branwen moved in.

Aberfa was powerful and deadly – it was like attacking a tree, but a tree that could swing around with startling speed and give Branwen a buffet on the side of her head. Two or three times in their contest, Branwen fell back, her head ringing and eyes full of stars.

‘Well hit!’ Iwan roared as Branwen retreated again from Aberfa’s attack, feeling as if wasps swarmed in her burning ears. ‘Are you half asleep, barbarian princess?’

‘If she was, that blow will have woken her!’ declared Dera, watching the contest with excited eyes.

Branwen narrowed her eyes, pushing back the annoyance she felt at having been bettered like that. Had Aberfa’s spear shaft been a Saxon axe, her skull would have been cloven in two!

Pay attention! Forget everything but the foe in front of you! Focus your mind!

But that was easier said than done when images of Prince Llew kept drifting into her head, breaking her concentration and making her vulnerable.

Aberfa came at her like a raging bear. Instinct took over from thought in Branwen’s mind. She dived forward, curling up, her shoulder striking the ground first as she rolled at the advancing girl’s feet.

Aberfa stumbled, taken off balance as Branwen’s shoulder and back took her feet out from under her. The ground shook as Aberfa came down in a sprawling heap. Branwen bounded to her feet again, pivoting, her sword held high above her shield, the point angling down.

She came down heavily astride Aberfa’s back, the sword point at her neck.

Dera and Iwan and Banon applauded. Aberfa spluttered and shook herself.

‘Are we done?’ Branwen asked her gasping opponent.

‘We are!’ puffed Aberfa. ‘Put up your sword, before you snick my head from my shoulders in your zeal!’

‘Ha!’ Branwen sheathed her sword. A moment later, Aberfa rose up under her like a mountain. Branwen was thrown on to her back as Aberfa’s spear point pressed against her throat.

Branwen stared at her in surprise. Aberfa’s face was grim, her cheeks flushed red. ‘Do you see the lesson I am teaching you, Branwen?’ she said, withdrawing the cold iron from Branwen’s flesh. ‘It is as Iwan has told you – deception is a sure road to victory, when all else fails.’

Branwen sat up.

‘And if even Aberfa knows this, imagine how it thrives in the minds of men like Ironfist,’ added Iwan.

‘What do you mean – “
even
Aberfa”?’ asked the huge warrior girl.

Branwen sat looking up at Aberfa, her elbows on her knees, her breathing still rapid from her exertions. ‘I was brought up always to speak the truth and to treat even the vilest enemy with honour,’ she said. ‘Was I taught wrong?’

‘I’d not say
wrong
,’ replied Dera. ‘But to the Saxons, truth is foolishness – honour, a sign of weakness.’

Iwan reached down and Branwen grasped his hand, allowing him to haul her to her feet. She looked from one to the other of her companions. ‘If Saxons are deceitful and treacherous,’ she said slowly and heavily, ‘then all the more reason for us to be honest and truthful!’

‘Ahh, Branwen,’ sighed Iwan. ‘What manner of barbarian are you?’

‘An enlightened one, I hope,’ said Branwen. ‘And one with a throbbing head, thanks to Aberfa!’

‘Dera ap Dagonet.’ It was a man’s voice, sounding out unexpectedly from the door to their private house. They all turned. Branwen recognized the man as one of Dera’s father’s warriors, who had come with him from Gwylan Canu.

‘What is it?’ asked Dera, stepping forward.

‘Your father summons you,’ said the man.

There was a moment of silence. Dagonet ap Wadu wished to speak with his daughter? That was something that had not happened since they had come to Pengwern. Perhaps Branwen’s words to the grim warrior in the Hall of Arlwy had touched him after all?

Dera seemed stunned at first, then she quickly stepped forward, her face filled with hope and barely suppressed excitement. ‘Then take me to him,’ she said.

She left the house without even a backward glance at her companions.

‘Well!’ said Iwan, blowing out his cheeks. ‘And what are we to make of that?’

‘Father and daughter reconciled?’ puzzled Banon. ‘After all these months?’

‘Let us hope so,’ said Branwen. ‘The estrangement from her father eats at Dera’s heart like a canker.’

Iwan gazed thoughtfully out through the doorway. ‘We shall learn more of it when she returns, I do not doubt,’ he said. He turned, whipping his sword from its sheath. ‘So now? Who dares stand against the finest swordsman in Powys?’ he called, making a few rapid passes.

‘Only Powys now, is it?’ laughed Banon. ‘I thought it was all of Brython!’

‘Modesty forbids!’ said Iwan with a grin as Banon drew her own sword and lifted her shield to her eyes in preparation for battle. ‘With me, modesty always forbids!’

As he advanced on Banon, he winked at Branwen and smiled, and not for the first time, Branwen was puzzled that something so ordinary should set her heart racing.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

T
hat evening, Branwen and her friends sat in their long house to eat a meagre meal of watery cheese and hard bread and the last of the small, wrinkled apples from the storehouses. All washed down with snow-melt water and thin goat’s milk.

Dera had not yet returned, although Fain was making his presence known, having been out hunting somewhere in the wilds and returning with a woodpigeon in his claws. He took his prize up to the rafters. Feathers occasionally drifted down, sometimes with blood on them.

After the meal, Branwen stood at the door, staring out into the ghostly-white night, missing her other companions and wishing Linette would heal quickly so that the Gwyn Braw might be sent off on some urgent mission.

Despite the danger, she would even have been glad to be ordered east across the river – anything would be better than this endless watching and waiting while Llew and Angor hatched dark schemes for the downfall of King Cynon … and probably for her own death as well.

She could feel the heat of the fire on her back, and hear the voices of her companions as they chatted of the things they had seen and done over the long winter months.

Guards moved like wraiths of silk on the ramparts of the citadel, and still the snow fell.

Iwan came and stood at her side, leaning against the doorframe, balancing his knife on his palm, dropping it, catching it deftly, throwing it up to cartwheel before catching it again.

She saw in the corner of her eye the dull gleam of the blade as he tossed and snatched at it, and all the while as he played with the knife, he hummed softly to himself under his breath. It was as though he was idly waiting for her to say or do something.

Branwen reached out and caught the knife by the handle as it was about to drop into Iwan’s palm for the twentieth time.

‘Do I disturb you, Branwen?’ he asked mildly as she handed the knife back to him, hilt first.

‘Deeply and often,’ she said without looking at him.

‘Good. I’m glad,’ he replied. ‘Then we are even.’ There was a pause. ‘You worry me, barbarian princess,’ he continued. ‘A surfeit of honour in such times as these may catch in the throat and choke a person to death. And I wouldn’t have you fall, Branwen – not for the world.’

‘I shan’t fall,’ she said, still staring out into the never-ending snowfall.

‘I’d say that was pride running wild if anyone but you said it,’ Iwan replied. ‘But even you are not indestructible, Branwen. And you’re not indispensable. If you die, the Shining Ones will find another …’

She turned her head to look at him now, and there was genuine concern in his face.

‘It might be as easy as picking up windfall apples in the autumn for the Shining Ones to replace you, Branwen,’ he said. ‘But there are those among us who will find it much harder.’ He rolled the knife over his open palms. ‘I’m only saying be careful. You’re not as unbreakable as you think.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a shame, but it’s true.’

Branwen frowned. ‘Why do you always do that?’ she asked.

‘What?’

‘Turn everything into a joke.’

‘Is that what I’m doing?’ he said, looking into her eyes. ‘Then perhaps it’s because I’m waiting for some sign from you.’

She let out a breath, white as steam into the night air. ‘We’re all waiting on a sign,’ she said, her eyes turning broodingly to the west again. ‘I’d hoped the Shining Ones would show their goodwill towards us by making Linette better – but she still lingers in the sickbed, and from the looks of Rhodri and Blodwedd, you’d think she might die.’ She checked herself. ‘She won’t, of course – but a quick healing would be some proof that Rhiannon and Govannon are with me still.’