‘I like songs of victory and triumph!’ boomed Aberfa, slapping Branwen on the back. ‘They warm my blood better than the hottest fire!’
‘It would be a fine thing if we could defeat the Saxons by singing alone,’ remarked Banon, her milk-white skin glowing in the firelight, her freckles like flecks of gold on her cheeks and arms. ‘That’s a contest we’d easily win.’
‘Two famous bards facing one another on the battlefield to decide the fate of nations in a bloodless tournament!’ added Iwan. ‘I like the way you think, Banon!’
‘All the same,’ remarked Dera. ‘The wine of victory tastes the sweeter when mingled with the blood of an enemy slain.’ She looked at her companions with her deep black eyes. ‘What are we, old women to wish an easy victory? Ha! I’d sooner slay the Saxons with bright iron that have them slink away untested!’ She frowned, as though a sudden thought had struck her. ‘And these old songs – they sound well enough, I grant – but where are recalled the deeds of warrior women such as ourselves?’
‘Men write the songs,’ Banon said with a wry smile.
‘We need a song to the Gwyn Braw!’ agreed Aberfa, her mouth half full of juicy meat. ‘That would be a fine thing.’
‘Rhodri the Druid has a way with a rhyme,’ said Iwan. ‘I shall speak to him about it.’ He brandished his knife, running with meat juices. ‘A song of Iwan ap Madoc, the fount of all that is brave and noble and comely!’
Aberfa almost spat her meat out. ‘The wellspring of all that is conceited, arrogant and swollen-headed, rather!’ she cackled. ‘It’s we women who deserve the praise!’
Iwan laughed. ‘It’s true that you’re good enough warriors … for a bunch of weak little girls.’
‘“Weak”? “Little”?’ growled Aberfa, her eyes shining. ‘Would you care to arm-wrestle me, man-child?’
‘Not me,’ said Iwan in mock horror. ‘I’d as soon play tag with the Brown Bull of Cwley. He probably weighs less than you, for a start!’
With an affronted howl, Aberfa snatched at Iwan and he only just managed to scramble out of her way in time.
‘Teach him some manners, Aberfa!’ chuckled Dera.
Branwen smiled. It was heartening to see her friends at play like this – a pleasant reward for their perilous labours out in the wild.
A man came up behind the laughing band, his arrival unheard in the clamour of the feasting. The first Branwen knew of his presence was a heavy hand coming down on her shoulder.
She turned and looked into the grim, fierce face of Dagonet ap Wadu, a high captain of the king’s army and the father of dark-haired Dera.
Seeing him, Dera scrambled to her feet and stood with her head bowed. ‘My lord,’ she said meekly. ‘My greetings and duty to you, as always.’
Dagonet didn’t even glance at his daughter, his eyes fixed instead on Branwen. ‘The king would have you attend him,’ he said.
‘I am at the king’s command,’ Branwen said, standing up.
Dagonet nodded and walked back the way he had come. Following him, Branwen cast a sympathetic look towards Dera, who had sat down again, biting her lip and staring into the fire. As resolute and deadly as any man in combat, the raven-haired warrior girl was forever cowed in the presence of her father.
Branwen felt a stab of heartsickness as she thought of her own dear, lost father. Unlike Dagonet ap Wadu, he had been a man of infinite love and compassion.
‘A word with you, sir,’ said Branwen, walking quickly to catch up with Dagonet.
He looked at her without interest.
‘Why do you treat your daughter so?’ Branwen asked. ‘She loves you dearly, and seeks only to please you.’
‘Dera knows what she must do to earn my forgiveness,’ said Dagonet. ‘She alone chose the path she is on.’
‘You’d have her part with the Gwyn Braw?’ asked Branwen.
‘I would.’
A response to this screamed in Branwen’s head. Why do you hate me? What have I ever done but strive ceaselessly for the good fortune of Powys?
But what would be the purpose of such questions? She already knew the answers. She was the shaman girl of the Shining Ones. The cat’s-paw of ancient forces feared by everyone.
As she walked with Dagonet to the far end of the hall, she saw that Cynon’s queen was seated with Meredith and Romney. She was a pale, thin woman with anxious, nervous eyes and a look about her of a dog that was used to unkind treatment. She spoke little, and Branwen had the impression that she was scared of her husband, although she had never seen him do anything to make her afraid. In fact, Cynon hardly even acknowledged her existence.
How different from the loving and respectful partnership that had thrived between Branwen’s mother and father.
She shook her head, pushing away thoughts of her dear mother. It was still too painful for her to dwell on Alis ap Owain – the warrior maiden of Brych Einiog; too hard to endure the thought of the long leagues of warfare and the long months of despair that separated them. Would she ever return to her homeland? And what if she did? What if even her own mother now feared and hated her? No! It was too much to bear.
Don’t think of such things! My mother would never turn away from me.
Branwen stepped over one of the king’s dogs, sprawling among the reeds, its belly full of treats and titbits, its long tongue lolling.
The king beckoned her and she moved through his counsellors to kneel respectfully at his side. ‘You wished to see me, my lord?’
‘Not I,’ said the king, his lips greasy from roasted pork and his eyes gleaming with private amusement. ‘But someone from Gwent asked after you.’ He turned and gestured to the boy that Branwen had noticed from before. ‘Hywel ap Murig – come, here’s the answer to your question. Here is the daughter of Prince Griffith ap Rhys.’
The boy turned and looked appraisingly at Branwen.
She stared back at him, dumbstruck.
This handsome young man was Hywel ap Murig – the fat-faced toad-boy to whom she had been betrothed as a small child?
‘What do you make of her, Hywel?’ asked the king, clearly revelling in Branwen’s discomfort. ‘Would she have made a worthy bride?’ He chuckled. ‘An ornament to the house of Eirion? The mother of future kings of Gwent?’
A spasm of something close to distaste crossed Hywel’s face as he looked at her, but it was gone in an instant and he fixed his expression into one of polite interest as he bowed.
‘Greetings, Branwen ap Griffith,’ he said, his voice clear and strong. ‘We meet again under curious circumstances.’ He smiled uneasily. Branwen supposed he had never encountered a warrior girl like her before. ‘It has been a long time. Do you remember me at all?’
‘A little,’ Branwen answered. ‘I was very young.’
Hywel nodded. ‘We both were.’ He paused, as if searching for something more to say. ‘I hear you are a … great warrior now.’
‘I do what I can …’
Hywel looked awkwardly at her. ‘You need have no fear that I am come to carry you off to a wedding bed. The tryst between our families is quite broken. Indeed, I am betrothed to Lowri ap Garan, of the House of Morfudd in Gwynedd. A fine match, so they say.’
‘Oh.’ Branwen could see the relief on his face as he told her this. As though he had been dreading the thought of having her as his wife! Not that she should be surprised at that. He must have heard many tales of her exploits over the past few months; and what boy in his right wits would want to be tied to a half-crazed shaman girl who worshipped demons?
All the same, it was a shock to see Hywel again like this, and to be made so acutely aware that he wanted their marriage even less than she did. And to think that he had grown up so courteous and handsome, too!
The tricks that fate plays! If not for her encounter with Rhiannon of the Spring in the high passes of the mountains, she might by now be wed to Hywel ap Murig.
How different her life could have been.
She could be far from here, safe and secure in the d
eep south, protected by fortified walls and by the loving kindness of her new family. Wandering the halls of her new home, dressed in fine silk, her hair styled into intricate loops and coils, woven with jewels.
She smiled, knowing herself – knowing how she would have chafed and railed at such a life. She knew who she was! Branwen of the Shining Ones – Destiny’s Sword! The Emerald Flame! The Bright Blade of Powys!
She thrust out her hand to Hywel and he gripped it in some surprise.
‘I’m glad you’ve found a more suitable wife,’ she said. ‘My blessings on your union, Hywel ap Murig! All happiness be with you.’ She looked at the king. The smile was gone from Cynon’s face. Branwen guessed he had been looking forward to watching her squirm. In that at least, she was pleased to disappoint him. ‘Is there anything else you would wish of me, my lord?’ she asked. ‘I am yours to command, but my folk are weary from our travels in your service, and I’d have them retire for the night, if it please you.’
‘It pleases me,’ the king said with a casual wave of his hand, and he turned to Captain Angor, seated at his side, as though continuing a conversation that her arrival had interrupted.
As she turned to leave, she saw Angor look at her with hard, amused eyes and with a sardonic smile on his lips.
Like that cat that’s had the cream, she thought as she walked back down the hall to be with her companions. That cannot bode well for me and mine. All the same, if he has ill plans for us, we’ll doubtless learn of it in good time. Or bad time, more likely!
CHAPTER TEN
A strange dream. Not terrible or daunting – but somehow full of a significance that Branwen could not quite grasp.
She was alone in a wide field of deep, untrodden snow. It was daytime, although the clouded sky was the colour of beaten iron and the air was brittle and grainy. She turned round, hoping to see something to show her where she was. But there was nothing. Not even a trail of footsteps in the snow to reveal how she had come to this place.
A distant sound made her start. A dark shape was moving towards her across the snow. It had come out of nowhere, kicking up great spouts and jets of whiteness as it ambled forwards.
A bear!
Some twenty paces from her, the bear came to a halt, its dark eyes staring straight into hers, wild and dangerous and brimming with an unknowable intelligence. Branwen found herself calling out to the great silent creature.
‘What do you want?’ Her voice sounded shrill. ‘Are you going to eat me?’
The bear reared up on its thick back legs and let out a shivering roar.
Branwen fell to her knees in the crisp snow, her ears full of the noise, her eyes fixed on the mighty animal.
And then, the bear began to shrink and dwindle, like tallow in a fire. Its contours melted and changed and suddenly it wasn’t a bear at all – it was the goraig-creature that Branwen had met in a previous dream.
‘Nixie?’ she called, scrambling to her feet.
The slender silvery creature danced across the snow, leaving no trace of her passing on the surface. Her dress floated about her delicate limbs like water spray, her hair as white as moonlight.
‘I am she,’ called the goraig in her high, clear voice. ‘And I am come again to tell you two things of great import.’
When last she had dreamed of the goraig, Branwen had been gifted her white shield. Shortly afterwards, Blodwedd had told her of a sword that went with the shield.
‘What things?’ Branwen called, her breath billowing. ‘Are you going to tell me more about the sword now?’
‘Ahh, the sword,’ called Nixie. ‘In good time and if all goes well for you, then you shall hold the sword in your hand. But you shall grasp it for but a short time, before passing it to the other.’
‘ “The other”?’ Branwen remembered that Blodwedd had spoken of another champion – a boy, chosen like she was. A child of great destiny. ‘Will I meet him? Will he help me in the wars?’
Nixie ignored the question. ‘The first thing of great import is this,’ she sang. ‘Beware the eyes like two black moons. Death lies behind those eyes!’
‘Eyes like black moons?’ Branwen stammered. ‘I don’t know what that means. Is it a person or a demon or what?’
‘Secondly,’ continued the graceful goraig-girl, as though Branwen hadn’t spoken. ‘When all is done for good or ill, and if you survive the ordeal that is coming to you, your destiny lies at the end of the young bear’s path.’
And with that, the goraig began to spin ever more rapidly. Snow came flying from her like darts of ice and Branwen threw her arms up over her face and yelled out in alarm.
‘Branwen?’ Iwan’s voice was urgent in the darkness beyond her closed eyelids. ‘What’s the matter?’
Branwen sat up, gasping, clutching at his offered arm. She stared at the pale blur of his face, only faintly recognizable in the grey of an early dawn.
‘A dream!’ she panted. ‘Only a dream.’
‘A dream?’ echoed Banon, standing at the foot of her mattress. ‘It sounded deadly!’
‘Is all well?’ called Dera’s voice.
‘Yes – Branwen had a bad dream is all,’ Iwan called back.
From a little way off, Aberfa’s snores rang out like ten men sawing ten logs.
‘Get back to bed, both of you,’ said Branwen. ‘It was night fears. Nothing more.’
Banon nodded and slipped back to her bed. Iwan was hunkered down at Branwen’s side, looking keenly into her face.
‘Will you tell me your dream?’ he asked gently.
‘It had no sense to it,’ Branwen said lightly. ‘Hobgoblins dancing in my head, that’s all.’
He frowned.
‘What?’ she asked, puzzled by his expression.
‘I wish you would confide in me more,’ he said.
She lifted her eyebrows. ‘I have no secrets from you, Iwan. What do you mean?’
‘Are we friends, Branwen?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’
There was a strange pause.
‘And is that enough for you?’ he asked in a voice barely above a whisper.
She narrowed her eyes. ‘What do you want from me, Iwan?’ she asked, surprised to hear a tremor in her voice.
‘What would you give me, barbarian princess?’ he whispered. ‘If we were—’
‘Ho!’ called a loud voice in the gloom, cutting Iwan’s words dead. ‘Enemies at the gates! The Saxons are upon us!’
For a moment, alarm flared in Branwen’s heart. But then she heard an answering call.
‘Hoy, Aberfa!’ shouted Banon. ‘You’re dreaming, girl! A little peace, for pity’s sake!’
And as the echo of her voice faded, so Iwan slipped quietly away, leaving Branwen to lie back in the darkness and ponder sleeplessly over what he had left unsaid.
It was a raw, gnawing dawn with a wind that bit to the bone and a sky the colour of dead flesh. Branwen wrapped herself tight in her ermine cloak as she made her way across the deserted courtyards of Pengwern towards Linette’s little hut. The churned-up, muddy slush was as hard as knives under her feet, and so slippery that she had to lift her legs high and stamp down hard to keep from falling.
A thin white mist wreathed the palisades, the patrolling guards looking like ghosts as they kept their bitter watches.
By the time Branwen came to the hut, her cheeks were burning and the air was in her chest like frozen stone.
The fire was burning strongly within, and the small round room was full of its rosy light. Linette lay sleeping. Rhodri was alone, grinding herbs in the granite mortar. Branwen glanced at the disturbed cloaks of his bed and the depression in the straw mattress where two bodies had lain together.
‘How is she?’ Branwen whispered, leaning over Linette and gazing down into the pale, peaceful face.
‘She had a quiet night,’ said Rhodri, looking up from his work. ‘The lavender buds help her sleep, and Pendefig’s charmed herbs must do the rest.’
‘How long will i
t be before she shows signs of healing?’ she asked.
‘It may be several days,’ Rhodri replied.
‘You are concerned for her?’
He shook his head. ‘She has a good chance to be well, I think. Pendefig’s charms were wonderfully potent.’ He lifted a hand, waggling the fingers. ‘I can feel the power tingling in the tips of my fingers when I speak them. The hair stands up on the back of my neck. It’s good medicine, Branwen.’
‘Then what’s wrong?’
Rhodri’s brow creased. ‘Blodwedd had a bad dream,’ he said. ‘She woke up wailing and crying. I’ve never seen her so upset. It was like trying to comfort a wounded animal.’
‘She is still an owl, Rhodri,’ Branwen reminded him gently.
‘I have never forgotten that,’ said Rhodri.
‘You love her, though, don’t you?’
‘I do.’
‘And she you?’
‘In her way, I think,’ he said, looking into her eyes. ‘It’s not a love such as grows and flourishes between a man and a woman, but in so far as an owl can love, yes, I believe she loves me.’
When she had first noticed the affection growing between Rhodri and Blodwedd, Branwen had found it perverse and a little disgusting. But she had come to accept it over the months, and now the sight of them together made her glad. It had taken Blodwedd a while to get used to sleeping as a human sleeps – lying down, curled up under furs with her head on a pillow. But now she could not sleep at all unless Rhodri was with her, his arm protectively across her body, his warmth making up for the feathers that she missed so much. But still a question burned on Branwen’s lips. An intimate question she had never felt able to ask. For the hundredth time she bit it back unspoken. ‘Where is she now?’ she asked instead.
‘I don’t know,’ said Rhodri. ‘She ran out without even a cloak to her back. I could not leave Linette.’ His eyes pleaded. ‘Will you find her for me – try to learn from her what was in the dream that frightened her so much?’
Branwen straightened up. ‘I will.’ She picked up Blodwedd’s cloak and stepped out into the icy dawn. ‘And I’ll bring her back if I can.’
Caradoc of the North Wind Page 8
