She found Blodwedd on the northern ramparts, squatting in the crusted snow, her arms wrapped around herself, her breath gusting. She shivered, staring into the mist.
Branwen crouched at her side, throwing the cloak over her. Blodwedd’s head turned. There were tears frozen on her cheeks and desolation in her huge amber eyes.
‘Come back into the warm,’ said Branwen, tightening the cloak around the thin owl-girl, chaffing her arms with her hands.
‘I…am…a…coward…’ The voice seemed to issue from a broken and ice-bound heart. ‘… such … a . . coward…’
‘That’s not true. Why do you say that?’
Blodwedd shook her head. ‘I came here to do something that I find I cannot do,’ she gasped. She gazed into Branwen’s face with haunted, harrowed eyes. ‘Did you dream the dream?’
‘I dreamed of a bear that turned into a goraig,’ said Branwen.
‘ “Two things of great import”,’ breathed Blodwedd. So! She had dreamed Branwen’s dream. But it had affected her far worse than it had Branwen. A thin, hooked hand darted from under Blodwedd’s cloak and caught Branwen’s wrist. ‘When you encounter the creature with the eyes like two black moons you must strike swift and hard, do you understand me?’ she hissed. ‘You must kill it. Let nothing stop you.’
‘Do you know what this creature is?’
Blodwedd shuddered. ‘I know,’ she said heavily, her voice quivering.
‘Is it human or otherwise?’
‘It has not one shred of humanity in it,’ said Blodwedd. ‘It is a foul and corrupt demon. It will betray you to your death, Branwen. Kill it before it kills you.’ Blodwedd’s curved nails dug into Branwen’s flesh, making her wince. ‘When you see the eyes like two black moons, do not hesitate – not for love, nor honour, nor compassion nor friendship.’
‘What does it look like?’ asked Branwen, frightened to the very soul by Blodwedd’s dread. ‘Apart from the eyes, I mean.’
‘You will know it when you see it,’ said Blodwedd.
‘Can’t you tell me more?’
Blodwedd shook her head.
Branwen gave her a bleak smile. ‘Then I’ll do as you say – I’ll watch for the black moon eyes, and the moment I see them, I’ll cut the demon’s heart out.’ She thumped again at Blodwedd’s narrow shoulders, trying to beat some warmth into her fragile frame. ‘There. All’s well. I have been warned. No Saxon fiend will get the better of me, Blodwedd. Now! Will you return willingly to the hut, or must I carry you?’
Blodwedd stood up, her eyes turning into the misty north. ‘The traitor prince approaches,’ she said softly. ‘He has two hundred warriors at his back, riding upon two hundred war-horses. There are five wagons, also – laden with food and with gear for the war.’
‘Prince Llew,’ murmured Branwen, ‘come at last to fill his hands with his ill-gotten treasures!’ She shivered. ‘I hope the king does not regret this truce.’
‘I do not fear for this king of men,’ said Blodwedd. ‘I fear for you, Branwen of the Shining Ones.’
Branwen gazed northwards again, thinking that maybe now she too could just make out a heart of moving greyness in the white blur of the fog.
‘Llew ap Gelert can do me no harm,’ said Branwen, putting an arm around the owl-girl’s shoulders and turning her, leading her back to the hut where Rhodri was waiting.
‘What did you make of the goraig’s other thing of import?’ Branwen asked as they crunched along. ‘The young bear.’
‘The young bear will be a great warlord and leader in his time,’ said Blodwedd. ‘And he will never be forgotten.’ She frowned. ‘I see images of him in far-flung times. They confuse me. They are flat and yet they have life – like patterns drawn upon silk, but bathed in light, moving, alive, huge in the sky. Most strange, it is. Most uncanny.’
‘So, Nixie was speaking again of the boy you told me lived in the south-east – in the kingdom of Wessex. The other champion?’
‘Yes. He is the young bear. If you survive the coming ordeal, you will meet him, I think. Yes, you will be of service to him, unless you are already dead – and then it must be another.’
‘I will not be dead!’ Branwen growled, tightening her arm about Blodwedd’s shoulders. ‘Have no fear on that score. I will endure, whatever Ironfist can throw at me – and we shall travel together to the distant land of Wessex, and we shall see what we shall see.’
‘Perhaps we shall,’ whispered Blodwedd. ‘If hope outstares fate!’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The morning mists had faded away by the time Prince Llew and his entourage arrived at the gates of Pengwern. The sun burned pale behind thin cloud and the air was so crystalline and clear that an eagle perched on the roof of the Hall of Arlwy could have seen a hare running on the high mountains to the west, or looking eastwards, might even have spied the glinting spearhead of a Saxon sentry walking the walls of Chester.
At least, that was what Blodwedd had told Branwen’s band shortly before they had left her in the sick-hut to gather on the ramparts above the inner gate. They stood together, blowing white breath and pulling their cloaks about them against the cold north wind. All Branwen knew now was that she was chilled to the heart, and uncertain of how to greet a man whom she despised beyond words.
Both sets of gates were flung wide for the prince, and an escort of mounted warriors lined his route as he rode imperiously over the earthen bridge and came to where King Cynon awaited him in the bailey.
Cynon was on a white stallion, his shoulders covered by a great fur cloak that hung about him in swathes, pinned at the neck by brooches of solid gold, encrusted with yellow garnets. The golden circlet of the kings of Powys was about his brow, and a sword in a golden, finely engraved scabbard was at his waist.
At his side sat the representatives of the other three kingdoms, and at his back were gathered his counsellors and captains. And his son was there now, also. Prince Drustan, tall and erect in the saddle, his black hair swept back over his shoulders, his face as strong and proud as his father’s, but smooth and youthful, and untouched by the burdens of kingship. Branwen guessed that Drustan must have returned overnight from his mission in the south. She wondered whether Meredith had seen him yet, and if so, what she made of him.
Horns rang out as Llew rode in through the gates and brought his horse up sharp in front of the king. More warriors gathered at the prince’s back, reining in their horses. Hooves stamped, cold breath blew. Manes shook. The warriors were silent in the saddle. None moved. There was tension in the air, sharp as tempered iron.
Branwen’s hand slid instinctively to her sword hilt.
Unspeaking, Prince Llew slipped down from the saddle and strode the last few steps to the king’s horse. Branwen watched with narrowed, suspicious eyes as the prince knelt, reaching up to touch the hem of the king’s cloak.
‘My undying fealty, my lord king,’ called the prince in a loud voice that he clearly intended everyone to hear. ‘The saints be praised for the coming of this day when all misunderstandings and all grievances shall be at last expunged from the hallowed land of Powys.’
‘Thrice welcome you are, Prince of Bras Mynydd,’ replied the king, also speaking so that all the people gathered in the bailey and on the palisade and ramparts could clearly hear his voice. ‘What animus or friction stood between our royal heart and the love of our most noble lord is all swept away by the unbreakable bonds of a newer and deeper alliance between our two families.’ He gestured towards Drustan. ‘My son will wed with the Princess Meredith, and thus shall the kingdom of Powys endure for a thousand years!’
There was a lot of cheering and the beating of swords on shields at this, but Branwen still wasn’t convinced. Even when the king dismounted and the two men embraced like long-lost brothers, she still mistrusted Llew ap Gelert.
She was even less happy when she saw Captain Angor step forward and kneel in front of the prince of Doeth Palas. There was a pretty pair of vipers to hold to the king’s bosom! There was foul t
reachery fermenting in the egg!
Now Drustan dismounted and was enfolded in Llew’s embrace, while the rest of the prince’s soldiery and wagons came feeding in behind to fill the bailey.
‘Close fast the gates!’ cried the king. ‘Let’s to the Hall of Arlwy, where food and fires and friendship await our honoured guests.’
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ muttered Branwen. ‘I’ll not be able to keep down my breakfast if I have to endure any more.’ She turned away and pushed through the crowds to the inner slope of the ramparts. The others followed her, and she could tell by their pensive faces and their silence that they were no more convinced by Llew’s acts of public contrition and reconciliation than she was.
‘But even if Llew’s true face is hidden behind a humble mask of devotion, what can he do?’ asked Banon as the small band made their way to Linette’s hut. ‘The king is surrounded by warriors that love him – and there’s not one of us who would hesitate to plunge a knife into Llew’s dark heart if he proved false.’
‘All the same,’ muttered Dera. ‘I’d sooner he had been dragged here defeated and bloodied than ride in with such pomp and ceremony. How that must swell his treacherous heart.’
‘I don’t believe Llew will act against the king,’ said Iwan. ‘Not here – not overmatched by five to one. It would be madness to do that.’ He shook his head. ‘And yet …’
‘And yet we do not trust him.’ Branwen finished his thought. ‘And so we must be vigilant and see what comes.’ She held the wicker door of Linette’s hut open for the others. ‘And in the meantime, let’s show smiling faces and merry hearts to our ailing sister.’
‘Rhodri, ho!’ called Iwan. ‘How fares our comely comrade?’
Following the others, Branwen stooped to come in under the low thatch. She heard gasps and exclamations of delight from Aberfa and Dera and Banon and Iwan, who had gone in ahead of her. A moment later she saw the cause of their joy. Linette was propped on furs, a food bowl in her hands – and her eyes were open at last.
Praise be to the Shining Ones, thought Branwen, running forward. They have brought you back to us, just as I knew they would!
Linette was weak and ashen, but she was able to speak a little and take some nourishment. Blodwedd sat at her side, lifting every now and then a spoonful of broth to her lips. Branwen saw that she had difficulty swallowing, and behind her eyes was a lot of pain.
The rest of the Gwyn Braw sat around her, all gloom lifted as they told her of the things that had happened while she had slept, and chided her for her lethargy and sloth.
‘To fake an injury just to avoid the ride home!’ said Aberfa, patting Linette’s knee under the fur coverings.
‘And are Meredith and Drustan married yet?’ Linette asked, her voice so soft that they had to strain to hear her.
‘No, you’ve not been slumbering that long,’ said Iwan. ‘My guess is that Llew and the king will be doing a lot more talking before any marriage vows are spoken. Llew will want it in writing that his daughter’s children will sit upon the throne of Powys. And you can bet he’ll demand an amnesty for all his rebellious people and some kind of reward for himself for laying down his arms. I’d not expect to hear the wedding horns ringing out for some days yet.’
‘Does the king have more work for us to do?’ asked Linette.
‘Nothing so far,’ said Dera. She stood up, hands on hips. ‘I wish he would give us some task,’ she said. ‘I do not like this inaction. I’d rather be away in the wilderness and carving Saxon flesh than wasting my time hanging around here making small-talk with the king’s lackeys.’
And you’d rather be far from the disapproval of your father, thought Branwen. How cruel that you’ve lost the affection you crave more than anything else.
‘As soon as Linette is well enough, I will go to the king and seek some assignment in the east,’ Branwen said, smiling at the sick girl. ‘But for the moment, you must do as Rhodri tells you and be a good and humble patient.’
‘A little rest and quiet will help her best,’ Rhodri said. ‘Go now. All of you.’ With a few final words for Linette, they allowed themselves to be shooed like a gaggle of geese to the door of the hut.
‘Who’s for some training?’ asked Aberfa. ‘A few passes with sword and spear to drive the cold away.’
As they were about to head for their long house, Rhodri appeared at the doorway. ‘Branwen,’ he called, beckoning.
She walked back to him. ‘What is it?’
He kept his voice low, leaning in so only she could hear. ‘Don’t let Linette’s wakefulness fool you,’ he murmured. ‘She is still very sick. The hardness in her stomach has not gone away and there are other signs in her body that I do not like.’
Branwen frowned at him. ‘But she is better than she was, yes?’
Rhodri looked solemnly at her. ‘Yes, perhaps,’ he said. ‘But she’s on a long path, Branwen, and even with all of Pendefig’s charms, I don’t know how it will end.’
‘You worry too much,’ Branwen said, resting her hand on his shoulder. ‘And I love you for it!’ She glanced over his shoulder into the glowing hut, where the owl-girl was making Linette comfortable under her furs. ‘I spoke to Blodwedd about her dream. She saw some demon that she feared would destroy me. I’m warned now and all will be well.’ She tugged the hem of her cloak close as a gust came searching out of the cold north. ‘I think I’ll walk the walls a little to clear my mind. I still have a bad taste in my mouth from witnessing the arrival of the prince.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘I wish this winter was at an end – I’ve had my fill of snow!’
‘A horseman approaches!’
Branwen had grown weary of staring out over the bleak snowscape of the north and was about to head back to the long house to be with her companions, when the voice from the gate tower stopped her in her tracks.
She ran back up the log steps to the palisade, making her way as quickly as she could along the narrow walkway.
‘Where away?’ called a voice from the bailey.
‘From the south,’ cried the first voice, and Branwen saw an arm pointing from the top of the tower.
‘Friend or foe?’
‘I cannot say.’
Branwen leaned over the parapet of the high wall, twisting herself to try and see the coming rider.
There! A solitary horseman, helmeted and cloaked, carrying something that she took to be a spear. But it was still a few moments before she saw the black beard and knew for sure that the man must be Saxon.
Now more sentries leaned over the walls. Arrows were put to bows as vigilant eyes watched the horse and rider come cantering across the bridge towards the gates.
‘Halt and declare yourself!’ a warrior shouted from the wall. ‘Die, else!’
The rider brought his horse up and untied some strings that bound something to the top of his spear shaft. He shook it out and a red banner fluttered, emblazoned with a white dragon.
‘My name is Eanfrid Hunwald,’ called the man. ‘I have no weapon upon me. I come as emissary from General Horsa Herewulf Ironfist, Lord of Winwaed, commander of King Oswald’s armies in Mercia.’
‘You come with messages from Ironfist?’ Branwen called down. ‘Is he to surrender, then?’
‘My message is for the ears of King Cynon,’ called the man. ‘Will you allow me entry?’
There were a few muttered exchanges between the warriors on the wall. Branwen cut through the debate. ‘I will come down,’ she called to the Saxon horseman. ‘You will be given leave to enter.’
She ran quickly down into the bailey, shouting orders to the guards to throw back the bar and open the gates. Although she had no real authority among the men of Pengwern, they were sufficiently awed by her to do as she asked – the great heavy gates were opened within moments.
Branwen strode out to meet the Saxon, her shield on her arm, her hand on her sword hilt. Eanfrid Hunwald swung down from the saddle, and Branwen saw that he wore no armour or mail and had no sword and n
o visible seax in his belt. But she knew of old that the loose Saxon garments could easily hide a dagger. She was not going to be taken unawares by this unexpected visitor.
He looked at her with this head tilted a little, like a man may look at a young doe he has a mind to bring down. ‘Who are you, child?’ he asked.
She returned his steady gaze. ‘Do you not know me?’ she asked. ‘Has Ironfist not told you of me?’
His eyes widened and he seemed about to take a step back before he halted himself. ‘You are Branwen ap Griffith,’ he said. ‘The accursed and vile waelisc shaman girl!’
‘That is me,’ said Branwen.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘You speak our language very well, Master Hunwald, with hardly a trace of a foreign accent,’ said Branwen. ‘Why are you here?’
‘To speak with King Cynon.’
‘So you said. But how am I to judge your honesty?’
Hunwald opened his cloak. ‘Test my honour for yourself.’
Warily, Branwen moved in closer and patted his clothing for weapons hidden under the folds. There was nothing. ‘Follow me,’ she told him. ‘Bring your horse. He will be fed and watered while you wait upon the king’s pleasure.’
She was aware of many eyes watching her as she led the Saxon emissary in through the gates of Pengwern.
Branwen found the king in the Hall of Araith. She waited at the doors while a guard took her message down to where Cynon sat on his throne under the awnings and flags of Powys. Eanfrid Hunwald stood behind her, the spears of two door wardens pointed at his heart.
The hall was a hundred paces long, but even at that distance, Branwen could see quite clearly what was going on at the far end of the high, columned chamber.
Meredith and Drustan sat on low stools in front of the throne, some five paces separated, but facing one another. Behind Meredith stood Prince Llew and Romney, along with Angor and some other of Llew’s warriors. At Drustan’s back were his mother and a small group of councillors. Representatives of the other three kingdoms were gathered behind the throne, looking on.
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