Caradoc of the North Wind (9 page)

‘He’s a more cunning tactician than that,’ Iwan had told her. ‘He knows that if he launches an assault, the king and the prince will unite to keep him at bay. He’d prefer to wait while we spill our own blood.’

Branwen nodded. ‘To hold back till he can attack us in our deepest weakness.’ She had sighed and sullenly kicked at the ground. ‘You’re right. There must be a truce before it’s too late. Princess Meredith must marry Drustan.’ She had given a curt laugh. ‘And may he have as much joy in her company as I did in Doeth Palas!’

But that had been said before Branwen had met Meredith for the second time. Now she thought the princess might make Drustan a good wife after all, despite all the damage that her father had done with his whispered deceits. Not that Drustan was at Pengwern to greet his bride; Branwen had already heard word that Cynon’s son had not yet returned from his tour of the southern cantrefs, although he was expected imminently.

Guards stood at the doors of the Great Hall of Araith, drawing aside to allow Branwen access. There was a main chamber, narrow and lofty, bestridden by heavy timber columns, the high vaulted roof bridged by beams. At the end of this chamber stood the king’s throne draped with banners and standards and backed with long silken curtains emblazoned with the red dragon of Powys, depicted with its foot upon the throat of the defeated dragon of the Saxons, corpse-white and vile.

As if wishing would make it so!

The king was upon the throne, his chief counsellors around and behind him. Sprawling or sitting at his feet were six muscular, long-limbed, liver-coloured dogs – the king’s hunting hounds.

Captain Angor was bowed before the king, Meredith on one side, Romney on the other. The sight of the throne and the man who sat upon it twisted a knife in Branwen’s heart. In her mind she saw again the double thrones of Garth Milain, where her mother and father had sat. Burned now in the flames that had engulfed the citadel of her home. Burned and gone, and her father dead.

In Branwen’s mind, King Cynon did not measure up to her father. He was tall enough, and wide-shouldered, his forehead high, his eyes dark and sharp, his face showing both wisdom and intelligence. But there was a thinness in his lips that worried her a little, a sense that this was a mouth as apt to the cunning lie as to the generous truth. Not that she had any reason to think the king unworthy of his throne; she had been brought up to believe that all the peoples of Powys owed Cynon their allegiance. If she didn’t still believe that, she would never have come here. All the same, she did wonder sometimes when she looked into his deep, dark eyes what subtle thoughts were winding through his mind.

Branwen made her way down the chamber, stopping in the shadow of one of the pillars. She could clearly hear Angor’s voice reverberating between the walls.

‘Most puissant and mighty King of the Western Lands, I bring greetings and fealty from the prince of Bras Mynydd,’ he was saying. ‘Through me, his loyal messenger and captain, he kisses your ring and bends the knee.’

‘You are most welcome, Captain Angor,’ replied the king, his voice smooth and deep. A voice that gave nothing away. ‘We receive the greetings of our brother Llew ap Gelert, and acknowledge his fealty as is our due as his king.’

Court manners!
Branwen thought irritably, hating the convoluted mode of speech used in these formal situations.
They’re no brothers. They’d see one another dead in a ditch if it could be contrived
.

The king stood up now, his yellow robes hissing and swishing as he stepped down from the throne, his arms outstretched, his fingers bejewelled with golden rings. The six hounds all rose to their feet, their eyes filled with a watchful loyalty. The king had no more loyal bodyguards than them. A wrong move from any in that room, and the dogs would be upon them in an instant.

‘And the most welcome of all are these two gifts that you bring with you, Captain,’ the king said, extending a hand to the princesses. ‘Two pearls of the west, offered into my safekeeping.’ Meredith and Romney lifted their hands to his, their heads bowed. ‘My court welcomes you,’ the king continued. ‘I hope the hardships you have suffered will be washed away by our hospitality.’

‘We have suffered no hurt, my lord,’ Meredith replied, and Branwen was impressed by the clear tones in her voice – after all, she must be feeling overawed to be here. ‘Our father sent many gifts with us, but they were lost on the mountain, so we offer only ourselves and the gowns we stand in as proof of our undying loyalty.’

‘Proofs that I readily accept,’ smiled the king, looking from one to the other. ‘Would that my dear son were here to welcome you, but alas, Drustan was needed in the south to give encouragement to our lesser lords so that the bulwark of Powys should have no weak links. But this is no time for talk of warfare – this is a time of merriment. Drustan will return shortly and you shall meet him and be glad!’ The king released their hands and turned to the lords and warriors at his back, gesturing towards the two princesses. ‘No greater gifts could the citadel of Doeth Palas have sent me, not if they had plundered the gold mines of Dolaucothi.’

‘We did have gold,’ replied Romney, her voice a little shrill and wavery. ‘We had gold, jewels and the finest cloth you would ever have seen – but the Saxons took it all. Even my own casket.’ Her voice caught in her throat. ‘Someone should be sent to find the Saxons and get our things back. It’s not fair.’

The king released their hands and gestured to one side, almost as if he hadn’t heard Romney’s petulant request.

Servants appeared from some nook.

‘Go now, daughters of Prince Llew,’ the king said. ‘Bathe and be refreshed. We shall see you anon – tonight, there is to be a Feast of Welcoming.’

The two girls were led away to some antechamber, two or three of the dogs snuffing at their clothes as they went.

Now Branwen made her presence known, stepping out and bowing to the king. ‘The Gwyn Braw have done as you commanded, my lord,’ she said. ‘We await your further pleasure.’ If she was honest with herself, Branwen preferred to be out on perilous missions than stuck brooding in this place. Even the cruellest of winter winds was less chilling than the cold contempt of the people of Pengwern.

The king reached out his arms to her. ‘Branwen ap Griffith,’ he declared, his voice slightly
too
cordial. ‘We are glad to see you return in safety. Are all your folk in good health?’

‘Linette ap Cledwyn was hurt, but she will be well anon,’ said Branwen. ‘What news from the north, my lord? Will the prince come?’

This was yet another strand of the treaty to end the war – the arrival at the court of Prince Llew himself. For several months now he and his army had been laying siege to Gwylan Canu, the great fortress that held the paths between the mountains and the north sea. As proof of good faith, he had raised the siege and the gates had been thrown open to him. What Madoc ap Rhain must have thought of allowing the prince into his citadel, Branwen could only guess. Six months ago, on the prince’s orders, the citadel had been given over to Herewulf Ironfist. But as Madoc’s son Iwan had said, ‘There is bitter medicine to be swallowed if this war is to end – my father knows that. He will drink to the dregs for the good of Powys, as great leaders must always do.’

And once the prince had been welcomed into Gwylan Canu, he would ride down the Great South Way and be in Pengwern in time for the wedding of his daughter and the king’s son.

‘Messengers arrived this morning,’ the king replied to Branwen’s question. ‘Prince Llew will arrive on the morrow.’

‘Glad tidings indeed,’ said Angor. ‘And does his army accompany him, my lord?’

‘Madoc ap Rhain will hold a strong force at Gwylan Canu,’ said the king. ‘Lest the Saxons seek to enter our heartlands along the Northern Way. The rest of the army will travel south with the prince to strengthen Pengwern’s defences.’

One of the king’s counsellors stepped forward now. ‘With regard to our defences against General Ironfist, would it not be prudent now, my lord, to speak with Captain Angor so that we may learn what forces the prince can put under your command? I believe he has such knowledge.’

‘I do,’ said Angor. ‘That and many other pressing matters are ripe for discussion, my lord.’ He threw a hostile glance towards Branwen. ‘In some private place, where improper ears cannot intrude.’

Branwen gave him a calm, cold look then turned to the king again. ‘I am at your command, my lord,’ she said.

‘Go now, rest you and your folk,’ said the king, one hand idly fondling the head of one of his dogs. ‘We shall meet again at this evening’s feast.’

‘I beg leave to be absent from the feast, my lord,’ said Branwen. ‘I should rather be with my injured companion.’

‘We would have you at our side,’ replied the king simply.

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Branwen, hiding her annoyance at this. The last thing she wanted was to have to sit through one of the king’s feasts.

The king made a slightly dismissive gesture. ‘You may leave us, Branwen ap Griffith. I shall summon you if you are needed.’

Branwen bowed low, then turned and strode quickly down the hall. Glancing back as she passed out through the gates, she saw the king’s hand on Angor’s shoulder as they and the gaggle of counsellors made their way into a side-chamber to talk their secrets.

Branwen went to the long house set aside for the Gwyn Braw. A grey, bleak dusk was falling over Pengwern and the wet mud was turning brittle underfoot as the temperature dropped. Torches lit up the ramparts, and here and there bonfires burned with thick black smoke, surrounded by soldiers warming themselves at the snapping flames. Lights glowed in the doorways of the houses and huts; the ordinary people of Pengwern were tucking themselves away for another frozen night. But the torches burned brightly at the entrance to the Hall of Arlwy, and Branwen could smell meat being roasted in preparation for the feast.

In the long house, she found Aberfa, Banon and Iwan basking in the heat of the fire-pit. Aberfa was sharpening a spear point on a whetting stone. Banon was changing out of her wet clothes, having seen that their horses were fed and watered and secure in the stable barn close by. Iwan lay on his back by the fire, his hands behind his head, chewing a stalk of straw.

One wall of the long house was divided by wicker screens into individual sleeping places. Branwen went to her private alcove and changed into dry clothing before spreading her wet garments on the hearthstones and then squatting at Iwan’s side to tell him of the things she had heard in the Hall of Araith.

‘Doesn’t it rankle with you that Prince Llew was allowed into Gwylan Canu?’ Branwen asked him at last. ‘Angor threatened to torture you to death outside its walls not six months ago, and yet, since our meeting in the mountains, not once have you seemed angered by his past deeds.’

Iwan opened an eye. ‘What purpose would anger serve?’ he asked. He made a gesture in a vaguely eastward direction. ‘We have greater concerns, Branwen. Ironfist is ready to unleash his army as soon as the weather clears. Do you remember the size of the camp outside Chester when last we looked?’

Very well, Branwen remembered it. The Gwyn Braw had been sent on a scouting mission across the frozen River Hefren to assess the strength of Ironfist’s army. They had found it greatly engorged with new soldiery since they had been there in the summer. At that time there had been maybe two thousand men encamped outside Chester – but now they guessed the number must be at least double that as Ironfist drew armies from north, south and east to bolster his forces.

Branwen looked pensively into the fire.

‘A kiss for your thoughts.’

She turned to stare at Iwan, only half hearing his comment. ‘What was that?’

He smiled. ‘You were frowning,’ he said, sitting up. ‘I wondered what you were thinking about.’

‘I was wondering what would happen when Prince Llew arrives and Meredith is married to Drustan,’ she said.

‘There will be feasting and merrymaking, and many will wake the next morning with heads as thick and heavy as holm oak logs,’ Iwan said.

Branwen shook her head. ‘I meant what would happen to
us
.’

‘The Gwyn Braw will continue the fight against Ironfist,’ Iwan said.

Banon came and sat with them while Aberfa listened from close by, rhythmically drawing the spearhead across the stone.

‘And are we strong enough to hold back the Saxon tide?’ Banon asked.

Iwan raised an eyebrow. ‘We eight warriors alone? Ha! Of course we are. We need do no more than have Branwen call Ironfist out to single combat. The last time they fought, he lost an eye. Perhaps on a second tournament he will return to his folk minus his swollen head.’

‘Fain took out his eye,’ Branwen reminded him. ‘But I wonder more at the moment what sweet words Angor is pouring into the king’s ears about us. He hates us with a vengeance, and he is nothing more than the mouthpiece of Prince Llew.’

‘No matter what Llew and his trained fighting-dog may think of us, they cannot afford to lose us yet,’ Iwan reassured her. ‘The king will be true to us, have no fear. He also needs us while the Saxon threat looms.’

‘I trust the king,’ Branwen muttered, staring into the flames. ‘But I do not trust the prince. I have a bad feeling about this truce.’