Caradoc of the North Wind (6 page)

Oh, yes – Branwen remembered the grizzled warrior very well.

‘And whose mischievous idea was it that I challenge him?’ asked Branwen.

‘Mine,’ Meredith admitted. ‘But Iwan was quick enough to egg you on once I had put the idea in his head.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘Iwan has changed, as well. I mean, he is still sharp-witted and quick of tongue, but I no longer see the frivolous boy I knew from Doeth Palas.’ She sighed. ‘But I do not understand how he could fight against my father. How he could ally himself with that weak man …’

Branwen half turned in the saddle, trying to look into Meredith’s face. ‘What “weak man”?’

‘Cynon of Pengwern,’ said Meredith, her voice grown quieter now, as if she preferred not to be overheard saying such things. ‘He is not the warrior king we need in such times as these. He should have stepped aside and let my father lead our armies into battle. All this bloodshed, all this death – it was all so unnecessary.’

Branwen was astonished at this. ‘Meredith, your father betrayed us to the Saxons,’ she said, also keeping her voice low. ‘He made a secret pact with Herewulf Ironfist. He plotted against us all.’

‘You don’t understand,’ said Meredith. ‘My father is not a traitor. He explained it to me. He never intended to keep faith with the Saxon general – he
pretended
to be his friend in order to lure him to his death. All would have been well if not for your interference at Gwylan Canu. You ruined all my father’s carefully laid plans when you brought down those forest-goblins on to the Saxons. Ironfist escaped my father’s trap, and lived to fight again. I know you meant no harm, but it was your fault – you and those dreadful demons you worship.’

Branwen hardly knew where to start in response to this. The distortions and lies Meredith’s father had been feeding her beggared belief.

‘To begin with, Meredith, I do not
worship
the Shining Ones,’ Branwen said, keeping her voice calm and low despite her despair at the wrong-headedness of the princess’s allegations. ‘My allegiances have always been to Brython, and everything I do is aimed at keeping the Saxons at bay. I was at Gwylan Canu, Meredith – I saw what happened. I saw Angor bend the knee to Herewulf Ironfist. I saw the men of Gwylan Canu led off to death in the east. I saw the slaughter and the triumph of the Saxons.’ Her eyes narrowed as the memories ignited in her mind. ‘And I was there to witness their downfall and defeat at the hands of those so-called “dreadful demons”. Strange and unknowable the Shining Ones may be, Meredith, but they are part of our homeland and they work only to protect it – and us.’

‘Poor Branwen,’ sighed Meredith, her tone condescending and sympathetic. ‘I wish there was something I could say to break the old demons’ hold over your mind, but I don’t have the learning or the skill to do that for you.’

Branwen bit down the urge to slap some sense into the girl’s head. The princess of Doeth Palas knew nothing, and the things she did know were entirely false. But what purpose would it serve to try and turn a daughter from her father? Words alone could hardly do it, not when Prince Llew had been whispering his poisoned lies into her ear for all her life.

They rode on in heavy silence for a while, forging their way through the deep snow while the cold bit at their hands and the cruel north wind threw spiteful ice into their eyes. Fain was ahead of them for much of the time, a black dot low in the eastern sky, seeking out landmarks in the white desolation and then returning to Branwen’s shoulder for respite.

After a while, Branwen fetched a hunk of stale bread from her saddlebag and handed it to Meredith. Looking back past the other riders, she was surprised and pleased to see how far away the mountains now seemed. They were making good progress under the circumstances and already the snow lay less deep.

On and on they plodded, the long and weary line of horses and riders. Every now and then they would find themselves in a valley where the snow was too deep to push their way through. Then they would need to make the difficult scramble up the hillsides, their cloaks clawed by gorse, their faces slapped raw by lithe branches. At these times, they detached Linette’s stretcher from the saddle and carried it up between them, fearful that they might slip and fall and cause her more harm. Fortunately, Rhodri’s medicines kept her in a deep sleep, although Branwen was concerned by the bluish tint that coloured her lips.

Then the land would open out and Branwen would look up to see the steadily falling snow turned black against the jaundiced sky, and her eyes would swim and the blood would pound in her head until all she wanted to do was slip from the saddle and curl up in the soft whiteness and fall asleep.

Sleep. That would be good. All work finished, all duties done. A sleep resonant with happy memories of better winters. Yuletide adventures with her father and mother and her brother Geraint. Jaunts into the snows that ended with good food and blazing fires and tales and songs and laughter in the Great Hall of Garth Milain.

‘Do you know Prince Drustan?’ Meredith’s question broke Branwen from her giddying daydreams. She blinked herself back into grievous reality.

‘I do,’ she replied thickly, disturbed by how her mind had wandered.

‘What’s he like?’

Branwen paused for a moment, gathering her wits. ‘Have you never met him?’

‘Never.’

‘I think you will like him,’ Branwen said slowly, conjuring an image of the nineteen-year-old heir to the throne of Powys in her mind’s eye. ‘He is tall and dark, like his father. Not overly sturdy, but no weakling. Well-knit, I’d call him. He has some skills with a sword and a bow and he has a sharp mind, I think.’

She omitted speaking aloud her other impressions.
The boy is more open and frank than his father, I’d say. There is something about King Cynon that always makes me feel he’s keeping his true thoughts and desires secret. The king never laughs, but Drustan is often merry. Perhaps the burdens of kingship weigh too heavy for mirth. But, given all for all, I’d say Drustan has a kindlier and more generous heart than his father
.

‘Do you think he will like me?’

The question took Branwen aback a little. ‘Why would he not? You have a comely face, and you know how to behave in highborn company. When I left Pengwern he was away on some urgent errand, meeting with the lords of the southern citadels. But I am sure he will hurry back to meet his intended bride.’ She wrinkled her brow as a sudden thought struck her. ‘How do you feel about being sent to marry a boy you have never met?’

‘It is my bounden duty to Powys, and to the house of my father,’ Meredith said quickly, as though repeating a carefully learned lesson. ‘I will be the mother to a long line of kings. It is an honour to do this. A great joy.’

‘Really?’ Branwen twisted to look into Meredith’s face. ‘Do you feel a great joy inside you then, Meredith?’

‘I must,’ said the girl, shifting her eyes away from Branwen’s face.

‘I certainly had no feelings of joy when I set off on the journey that was to end with me becoming the bride of Hywel ap Murig of the house of Eirion in Gwent,’ Branwen replied. ‘In fact, I resented it, if I am honest with you. But then, I had already met Hywel and knew him to be a spiteful little wretch with the face of a sickly, bloated toad.’

How curious that seemed, now she thought of it. It would not have occurred to Branwen to think for a moment that she had anything in common with the princess – and yet both of them had been sent from home to marry a stranger for the greater good of Powys. That was a bond of sorts, to be sure.

Meredith smiled a little. ‘Is Drustan handsome, then?’

‘I suppose he is, all in all.’

A spark came into Meredith’s eyes. ‘As handsome as Iwan, for instance?’ she asked pointedly. ‘I seem to recall he had eyes for you in Doeth Palas – and you liked him, too, I think.’

Branwen turned away from the princess, feeling her cheeks redden. ‘Where has Fain got to? I don’t like it when he’s away too long.’

At her back, Meredith sang softly a snatch of a song that Branwen had never heard before.

… and the maiden she cried, I will not be your bride,

For your looks and your antics I cannot abide.

But the plain truth was this, that for heart’s ease and bliss

She would give all she owned for a single sweet kiss …

And now Branwen was very glad indeed that she was facing away from the princess of Doeth Palas, as she felt her cheeks begin to burn like a raging fire.

On and on through the snow. Horses struggling where the drifts were high, moving more easily when the snow was only fetlock deep. But all the time, the unending whiteness of the world seeping into Branwen’s brain so that her thoughts were deadened and senses numbed.

‘
Caw!
’

Branwen was jerked out of a waking stupor by Fain’s harsh cries. The light had changed since last she had been paying attention. The day had grown more grey, the distances more indistinct. Was it late afternoon or early evening?

‘
Caw! Caw!
’

These were not Fain’s usual cries. He was agitated – alarmed.

‘Enemies approach from the north!’ shouted Blodwedd from the end of the line. ‘Many Saxons on horseback!’

Branwen was alert now, all drowsiness banished. She stared into the dim and grainy north. Across the grey blanket of snow, she thought she could see a moving darkness. An oncoming clot of night, pulsating with danger.

‘How many riders?’ shouted Dera.

‘
Caw! Caw! Caw!
’

‘A score counted twice,’ called Blodwedd. ‘They are at the gallop.’

‘A scout must have espied us,’ shouted Captain Angor. ‘How far is it to Pengwern? Can we outrun them?’

Branwen stared out ahead, trying to orient herself. The land rose before them in a long-backed hill. Patches of dark woodland stood atop, the trees huddled together as though in some strange tryst. She knew this place!

She pointed. ‘Pengwern lies half a league beyond the hill!’ she called.

‘Then we must make all speed!’ retorted Angor. ‘The dying girl will hold us back no longer! We must race for the hill – for the safety beyond! By all the saints, this cannot be countermanded!’

There was consternation among the riders. Branwen heard the scrape of swords being drawn. Meredith gave a sob of fear. Dera’s horse reared and neighed as she struggled to bring it out of line, pushing through the snow to get to Branwen.

‘Take the princesses away from here at all speed,’ Dera said fiercely. ‘I’ll stay behind with Linette and Iwan. We will hold the Saxons back for as long as we can.’

‘I’ll not desert Linette!’ boomed Aberfa.

‘Nor I!’ added Banon.

Branwen hesitated, torn by indecision.

‘By Saint Cadog!’ howled Angor. ‘Would you have us all slaughtered, fool?’

His hard words cut through Branwen’s moment of doubt. ‘Dera – come closer,’ she called. ‘You must take Meredith from me!’

‘No!’

‘Do as I say!’ Branwen commanded. Her eyes burning, Dera urged her horse to come alongside Branwen’s. ‘Meredith – go with Dera. She will see you safe to Pengwern.’

Awkwardly, the girl clambered from Branwen’s horse on to the other.

‘Angor? Go now with Dera! Your men may go with you if they wish. We will follow as we may!’

Angor stared at her. ‘Yours will be a pointless death!’ he said.

Branwen returned his gaze. ‘Just be sure the king leaves the gates of Pengwern open for us,’ she replied.

Angor gave her a final look then slapped the reins upon his horse’s neck. ‘On!’ he roared.

The horse broke into a canter, and then to a gallop. Dera was close beside him, and the four men of Doeth Palas not far behind, their horses slowed by the double weight of men they had to bear as they made for the long hill.

Branwen saw Meredith look back as they came to the rise, but she was too far away for the princess’s expression to be guessed at.

‘Do we stand and fight or do we flee?’ called Iwan.

Branwen turned her eyes to the approaching Saxon riders. Their galloping horses had already eaten up half the ground between them. She could see axes and swords being brandished, cloaks cracking, bearded faces fierce and wild under iron helmets.

To stand or to run?

A dismal choice, and either could mean Linette’s death.

CHAPTER SIX

‘W
e run while we can!’ Branwen called, urging Terrwyn back down the broken line of horses. She leaped from the saddle, her sword in her hand. ‘Help me with Linette – cut the stretcher loose. She must ride now, no matter what the cost!’

In an instant, Aberfa and Blodwedd were with her in the snow. The thongs were cut and the stretcher lowered to the ground. Branwen tore the blankets away and sliced through the bonds that held Linette safe on the stretched cloaks.

‘Iwan shall bear her before him,’ shouted Branwen. ‘Iwan, take these thongs – tie her to you so that you can fight if needs be.’