Caradoc of the North Wind (8 page)

Branwen stared dizzily up into Dera’s face.

‘No,’ she gasped, amazed to find herself alive. She stared around. One Saxon horse lay dead in the bloody snow, and several Saxons were sprawled motionless on the battlefield. But of the Gwyn Braw, none seemed to have been injured.

‘Why were the gates closed?’ shouted Rhodri.

‘They were closed on Angor’s orders,’ said Dera, her face angry. ‘Only by threatening death to any who disobeyed me was I able to force the gate guards to raise the bars and come to your aid.’

‘Treacherous lickspittle of a treacherous lord!’ snarled Branwen. ‘He would have seen us cut to collops before the gates and not raised a finger in our aid.’

‘It was in good time that you came, Dera,’ growled Aberfa. ‘Much longer and we may have been overborne.’

Branwen hunkered down, wiping her sword on the cloak of a dead Saxon. Now that the immediate danger was past, she began to feel a new, sharp anger building in her. She stood up, sheathing her sword and striding over to where Terrwyn stood snorting and sweating, the steam rising from him in clouds.

‘I will speak with Angor ap Pellyn,’ she said, climbing into the saddle. ‘I will have a reckoning with him, even if it comes to death blows.’

She twitched the reins and rode Terrwyn back across the causeway. She passed Iwan, who watched her with shining eyes. One of his arms was about Linette’s waist, the other hand held her forehead so that her head was resting on his shoulder. Her eyes were blearily half open. She smiled weakly and Branwen nodded in response. Old Gods be praised! The injured girl had survived the journey.

Despite the best efforts of Captain Angor of Doeth Palas, they had all survived the journey.

The king’s court at Pengwern stood in a bend of the wide River Hefren, guarded from the east by the deep, fast-flowing waters and by a high dyke that had been thrown up in ages past on the river’s western bank. Only by crossing the river and climbing the steep dyke could an enemy come to the citadel of the kings of Powys from that side, and then they would find themselves trapped under a timber palisade that reared up to the height of five grown men.

To the west, a deep ditch and the continuation of the solid wall of tree trunks guarded the citadel. A narrow earthen bridge led to the gateway, upon either side of which stood defensive towers of square-trimmed timbers. Even if an enemy stormed the wooden wall and broke through the gates, they would only have gained access to an empty bailey, and would be confronted by a high rampart of packed stone.

A path wound up the side of the rampart to another gateway that could be closed against invaders and defended to the last. Only if that second gate were burst open would the enemy have reached the heart of the citadel, where over five hundred peasants, merchants, lords and soldiers had their homes.

Some said that the king was unwise to keep court in such an exposed place, hardly a day’s hard ride from the Saxon stronghold of Chester, but never in all the wars that had raged over the wide, wild lands east of the Clwydian Mountains had an armed Saxon ever set foot within its walls.

And while Branwen had breath in her body and a sword in her hand, none ever would! She rode through the wide-thrown gates and into the circular bailey that ringed the inner ramparts of the citadel. A few soldiers watched her from the walls, shrouded in their cloaks, stamping their feet for warmth.

She had led the warrior band that had brought the daughters of Prince Llew of Bras Mynydd safe to Pengwern, and yet there was no cheering for her return, no glad faces, no hands reached up in friendship as she passed.

Branwen of the Old Gods, she was, a useful tool in the wars, but trusted no more than a snake whose venom might be used to poison the enemy.

She urged Terrwyn on to the slithery earthen slope that wound up to the second gateway. The path had been cleared and the snow lay in heaps on either side. There was no sign of Meredith or her sister. Captain Angor waited for her astride his horse, alone in the open gateway, his sword sheathed, his manner unconcerned, watching her with cold eyes.

Branwen brought Terrwyn up sharp, a few paces from Angor. Beyond him she could see the crowded thoroughfares of Pengwern, the granaries upon their thick timber stilts, the long houses with walls of yellow and tan daub, the paddocks and pens for animals, and the smaller huts and shanties and workshops that gathered around the lofty walls of King Cynon’s two Great Halls. Gate guards stood nearby, wrapped in winter cloaks, leaning on their spears, watching them closely, their white breath gusting. Other people went about their everyday tasks, some intrigued by the two riders, others indifferent, busy with their own affairs and wanting only to be out of the piercing cold.

‘You ordered the gates shut in our faces, Angor ap Pellyn,’ Branwen said, her voice trembling with suppressed fury. ‘To have us killed, in the name of revenge for whatever slight you feel I have done you.’

‘Is that so?’ Angor retorted. ‘And are you not protected by the Old Gods, Branwen ap Braw? Were I to wish you dead, would not your guardians save you?’

Branwen shook with pent-up rage, fighting the urge to fling herself at the scornful old warrior and answer him with cold iron.

Angor leaned forward, as though to share secrets. ‘But know this, shaman girl, I
would
have you dead if I could, because you are more dangerous to the heart and the soul of Powys than ten times ten thousand Saxons. You would drag us back to the old ways, the
dead
ways.’ His eyes flashed. ‘I would rather see Oswald of Northumbria seated upon the throne of Powys than allow you to unleash the terrors of the Shining Ones upon our people.’ He thumped his chest. ‘We are
men
, and we will not be ruled by wood demons and water sprites!’

And with that, Angor flicked the reins, turned his horse round and rode away from her into the bustle of people. Branwen swallowed her anger. He hated her and feared her in equal measure, that much she saw. Was it always going to be like that? Would her own people never accept her while she held her faith in the Shining Ones?

A soldier of the king’s guard stood on the ramparts above her, his booted feet rising and falling rhythmically as he struggled to keep the chill from his bones. From his expression, Branwen could tell that his thoughts ran in agreement with those of Captain Angor. She caught his eye for a moment, but he looked quickly away.

‘They say that the heralds of great change are never loved by their kinsfolk.’ Branwen turned at Blodwedd’s voice. She and Rhodri had climbed the path unheard by her, Rhodri leading his sweating horse.

‘I don’t need their love,’ snapped Branwen. She turned and looked down beyond her two friends to where Iwan was approaching on foot, carrying Linette in his arms. Banon and Aberfa were at his back, leading their exhausted horses. Dera was by the gates, speaking with the king’s riders, who had turned back from their pursuit of the fleeing Saxons and seemed in fine spirits. Others were pulling the gates together and hefting the two great timber beams into place.

Branwen slid down from the saddle and strode to meet Iwan.

‘How is she?’ Branwen asked gently.

Linette’s eyes opened, but the usual brightness was not in them. ‘I am alive, at least,’ she whispered. ‘It was a foolish thing you did, Branwen – risking all our lives to bring me here.’

‘Hush now!’ Branwen chided gently. ‘Rest. Sleep. I’ll see you safe abed before I do anything else.’ Linette’s eyes closed, but her pretty face was shadowed and corroded with pain. Branwen touched her cheek. It was as cold as death. ‘You will be well again, my friend,’ she said, leaning in to kiss the ashen forehead. ‘I promise.’

Even before she went to speak with the king, Branwen was determined to see that Linette was made comfortable. She had fallen into a deep slumber as they laid her with utmost care on a low straw palette in a clean and spacious hut close to the western ramparts. There were no windows under the deep-stooping thatch, but the doorway looked out towards the mountains and the fire-pit in the middle of the floor gave out a fierce, welcome heat.

All of the Gwyn Braw crowded into the hut as Rhodri knelt at Linette’s side, bathing her forehead with warmed water infused with herbs.

Branwen looked at her companions. They were tired and worn down by their efforts, bone-cold and wet through. But the emotion that burned most brightly in their faces was anxiety for their wounded comrade.

‘Can we do anything for her?’ asked Banon.

‘More than anything else, she needs rest and quiet,’ said Rhodri. ‘Branwen? Could you send for Pendefig ap Dyfed?’

‘The king’s physician?’ said Branwen. ‘Of course – but his skills are no greater than yours.’

‘But he will have remedies and herbs that I do not.’ Rhodri looked up at the worried faces. ‘Blodwedd will stay with me, the rest of you should leave us now.’

‘Use all your skills, Druid,’ said Iwan. ‘Call me if she awakes. Seeing a handsome face when first she opens her eyes may hasten her recovery.’

Druid. That was a new nickname Iwan had given Rhodri, half in jest, half seriously. Branwen had no idea whether it was true or not, but Rhodri had told her he believed he came of the ancient Druid stock – that hundreds of years ago the last of the Druid priesthood had fled their final stronghold of Ynis Môn and had hidden themselves away in the lands where his father had been born.

She hoped it was true – the Druids were said to have had formidable powers of healing and prophecy. So far, Rhodri had not shown any ability in foreseeing the future, but when it came to wounds and ailments, his skills were second to none.

‘Hot food, dry clothes and a warming hearth for all,’ Branwen said, looking at her companions. ‘We have earned it today!’ She rested her hand on Rhodri’s shoulder. ‘Call me if I am needed,’ she said, giving Linette a final worried glance. ‘I must go and speak with the king.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
he two Great Halls of King Cynon towered up side by side at the highest point of the ancient citadel of Pengwern. The Halls of Arlwy and Araith, they were named, the Halls of Feasting and of Debate. They were roofed with wooden shingles, their outer walls painted a vibrant yellow, making them shine like gold in the sun. Not that the Great Halls had seen much of the sun in recent weeks; the roofs were white with snow as Branwen strode up the slushy hill towards them.

It still rankled a little that the people of Pengwern moved away when she approached, as though they feared contagion. They were happy enough for the Gwyn Braw to risk their lives by riding out on one of the king’s lethal missions, but few would meet her eye as she walked among them, and fewer still had kind words for her.

Branwen and her followers were housed in a modest long house a little behind the Great Halls – out of sight. Branwen didn’t care overmuch; they had warm beds, food, and stabling for their horses when they were not out in the winter-choked wildernesses. And as much as she felt like the outsider – always treated with suspicion and doubt by Cynon’s counsellors – she at least had access to the king when she needed it. She had that much power!

The Great Hall of Arlwy was a meeting place and a feasting place, its high roof rising above a single long room lit by torches and braziers, a stone fire-pit in the middle of the hard-packed earthen floor, its walls draped with banners and hung with shields, swords and spears.

The other hall, the Hall of Araith, was divided into several smaller chambers: separate apartments where the king’s family lived and slept, bowers to accommodate his most trusted counsellors and guests, alcoves and antechambers where the business of the two-edged war was considered, plans and tactics decided.

Branwen had been privy to some of these debates, called in when she and her people were needed for some especially dangerous task. A sortie across the river to snatch Saxon prisoners for interrogation. A hard ride north to learn where Prince Llew’s forces were gathering. An assault from cover upon a supply line, charged with capturing the enemy’s wagons and bringing much-needed food back to Pengwern.

And most recently, of course, the mission into the mountains to find and rescue the daughters of Llew ap Gelert. Branwen found it hard to reconcile her hatred of the traitorous prince with the plan for his daughter to marry the king’s son. It felt to her that the king was offering Prince Llew everything that he wanted – power, influence, the expectation of his own grandsons upon the throne of Powys. And what had he done to earn these rewards? He had risen up in arms against King Cynon and thrown Powys into utter turmoil when they most needed to unite against the Saxons.

‘It’s sheer madness to reward him so,’ she had said to Iwan, when the truce had first been mooted. ‘He deserves to have his head struck from his neck – no more, no less!’

Iwan had smiled wryly at her. ‘It is not madness, barbarian princess,’ he had replied. ‘It is diplomacy. Would you have this war go on for ever?’

‘Of course not! But I’d see Llew defeated and humiliated, as he deserves.’

Again there had been the crooked smile. ‘Were the king able to crush Prince Llew by force of arms, he would have done so by now,’ Iwan had said. ‘The civil war is at an impasse. And while we fight, we lose precious lifeblood that we will need to keep the Saxons at bay.’

Branwen had pondered this. Iwan was right, of course. The war had to be brought to an end somehow – but it still seemed wrong. ‘I do not understand why the Saxons hold off,’ she had added. ‘Were I in Ironfist’s place, I’d use this fight of brother against brother to attack.’