Caradoc of the North Wind
Page 18
Branwen watched the passing Saxon soldiery with angry, narrowed eyes, wishing she had a sword to hand so that she could strike them down. She felt again that slightly dream-like state created by Merion’s crystals – the eerie sensation of being present but unseen, of being among her enemies, and of hearing their voices speaking a language she hardly knew, and yet at the same time being able to understand their speech.
The Saxons were evidently in some confusion.
‘What has happened?’
‘Have the waelisc mountain rats attacked?’
‘I think not! More likely something has gone amiss at the execution of the witch girl. Did you see the owls? They were not here by chance! Remember how they flocked to save that demon creature last summer? They’re bringing some similar mischief now, I’d swear that by Wotan’s beard!’
‘Cut out your jabbering and run, you fools! The general needs us!’
Keeping tight to the walls, Branwen and Iwan managed to slip away through the open gate. Ironfist’s mighty encampment confronted them now. When Branwen had been brought this way the previous night to attend the feast in the Great Hall, she had only been able to guess at the size and scale of the army – but now she saw it under a clear sky, and her heart turned cold.
Stretching away as far as the eye could see was an ocean of tents and huts and paddocks, of smithies, and storehouses and barns. There were horses by the hundred, wagons loaded with weapons, barrels filled with arrows and spearheads. The camp had become a whole city of dwellings and work places to house and support the vast Saxon army.
And despite the scores that had run at the summoning of the horns, thousands upon thousands of warriors still swarmed in the camp.
Iwan tugged gently at her sleeve and Branwen turned away from the awesome and fearsome sight, following him as he slipped alongside the outer southern walls of Chester towards the River Dee.
‘We can’t risk crossing the river here,’ he murmured close in her ear. ‘Someone might notice the disturbance in the river. We’ll head south a way and find some secluded spot to swim over.’
She nodded silently, her mind still glutted with the image of Ironfist’s gigantic army. She could almost see them in her mind – flooding through Powys like an unstoppable disease.
Even if she survived – even if she returned alive and battle-ready to Powys – how could she ever hope that the warriors of Brython could hold back such a tide of hate and death?
They followed the meandering loops of the river southwards, till Chester and the army camp were lost behind hills and ridges and bare winter woodlands. Then they travelled silently a little further into the wilds, seeking for some place where the river seemed less wide.
They found a likely crossing place at last, where the river narrowed between high, grassy strands, backed by thick woodlands. They slithered down the muddy, pebbled banks and stepped hand in hand into the icy flow.
But the moment that Branwen’s foot touched the water, it began to bubble and churn, foaming and spitting and drawing away from her. She gave a cry of surprise as the running water pulled back, revealing a broad arrowhead of muddy, pebble-strewn riverbed.
‘What’s this now?’ hissed Iwan, staring at the boiling and eddying lips of retreating water. ‘What new tricks have you learned while you were in prison, Branwen?’
‘None, I’ve learned none,’ she breathed. ‘This is not my doing.’
They grasped each other’s hands again, fingers twining tightly as they watched the waters curl back into two long, seething bulwarks of frothing and swirling foam. The dank riverbed lay exposed now in a deep water-walled ditch all the way to the far bank.
‘Run!’ said Iwan. ‘Quickly. While we can.’
Branwen went leaping down with him between the rising dykes of ever-moving water. The bubbling crests of the two poised walls rose high above their heads, roaring like cataracts, spitting a fine hail of drops down on to them as they pounded along the slithery and slippery channel.
Branwen glanced anxiously from side to side as they flung themselves towards the western riverbank, their heels kicking up mud and ooze, their lungs gasping for air in the fine haze of water droplets.
The towering, howling, thundering banks of racing water would give way – they had to give way! This was beyond all reason! They would be crushed under the weight of falling water.
Yet they were not. There was a final frantic scramble up the far bank, their feet sinking deep in the slime, mud squelching between their fingers. And then, breathlessly, they were up out of the river and on to firm, dry land again.
Branwen hardly had time to turn before there was a crash and a boom and a great spurt and fountain of white spray, as the vertical walls of water fell in on themselves. The water moiled and eddied for a moment, then the foam spread out and vanished and the river was flowing again as it had ever done.
‘That was Rhiannon’s doing,’ Branwen murmured in a daze of astonishment. ‘It must have been.’ She turned to Iwan. ‘She has not forsaken me!’
‘So it would seem,’ he said with a grin. A moment later he frowned. ‘But why has she waited so long to hold out her hand to you? Were you being punished for refusing Merion of the Stones – and is that punishment over?’
‘Maybe so,’ said Branwen, feeling light-headed. ‘Or perhaps the Lady in White was not able to come to me in Saxon land.’ She turned to Iwan, the full realization of what had happened dawning on her. ‘They have not abandoned me, Iwan!’
‘No, they have not!’ Iwan took her hand and together they walked up through the black-boned trees that bordered the river. They came to a small clearing, and as though to offer them yet more comfort, the sun burned down hot in that lonely place. They stood facing one another, dry from the miracle of the river crossing, but still cold and exhausted and far from home.
Wherever home might be now!
‘Where must we go?’ Branwen asked. ‘To meet with the others?’
‘West, and then north,’ said Iwan. ‘We need first to find some high ground so I can judge where we are. A shame we have no horses – I think we have a long slog ahead of us, Branwen.’
She gave him a glad smile. ‘I am alive and whole,’ she said. ‘That is enough for now. Wishing for horses might be—’ She stopped, hearing sounds through the trees.
Iwan drew his sword and stepped in front of her. His bow was still across his back, but Branwen saw that there were no arrows.
‘Saxons?’ she whispered, stooping and feeling through the leaf-mulch for any handy missiles.
‘Perhaps.’
She stood up again, a decent-sized rock in either fist. The first soldier to come at her would get a well-aimed stone in his face before he laid a hand on her, she was determined of that.
‘Horses,’ Iwan whispered. ‘Two or three, I think.’
‘Yes! I see them.’ Dark shapes moving through the trees. One horse for sure, maybe more. Branwen judged the weight of the stones in her hands, ready to hurl them as soon as she saw a target.
They stood poised as the horses came closer.
Thub-thub-thub-thub through the trees. The faint snort of horse breath in the stillness of the woods.
Iwan wiped a lock of hair off his face, licking his lips as he shifted his balance from foot to foot.
The dark forms drew closer. Branwen’s blood pounded in her head. Two horses. But with no riders!
Iwan straightened up, his sword arm drooping as he stared at the two horses that came clopping into the clearing. They were saddled and bridled, and on the saddles of both were strapped bulging leather panniers. Upon the saddle of the leading horse hung a shield and a sword.
‘What’s this new wonder?’ Iwan asked in astonishment as he stared at the two familiar horses. Branwen recognized them as well, a dun mare with a cream-coloured coat and a black mane and tail, accompanied by a tall bay destrier with a fiery eye. ‘These are our own horses, or my eyes are playing me false!’ he gasped. ‘Gwennol Dhu and Terrwyn in the ver
y flesh! But how?’
‘I do not know,’ said Branwen with a thrilled smile. ‘But see their eyes! They are a gift!’
She had noticed the green light in the eyes of the two horses from the moment they had emerged from the shadows. She had seen that same flickering emerald light before – in the eyes of animals under the enchantments of Govannon of the Wood.
‘The Shining Ones again!’ Iwan breathed, sheathing his blade and stepping forward quickly to grasp the hanging reins of Gwennol Dhu. He stared at Branwen in amazement. ‘Their favours come thick one upon the other, Branwen. This is welcome relief, indeed.’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Branwen, her throat thickening, tears of joy pricking behind her eyes. She threw her arms about Terrwyn’s broad, muscular neck, breathing in his scent for a moment. ‘I never thought to see you again, my lad!’ she murmured. ‘This meeting is a great joy.’ Terrwyn nodded his great head and snorted.
Branwen moved to the saddle and opened the pannier. She found warm clothing and a cloak within, as well as cheese and bread and a stoppered bottle of water. She would have wished for her mystical white shield to have been returned, but any weapons were welcome in the wilderness.
‘But why now, when the Old Gods could have come to our rescue a thousand times in the past?’ asked Iwan.
‘I don’t know,’ Branwen gasped, hardly able to speak for the solace and bliss that filled her. ‘Blodwedd always said we could not fathom the ways of the Shining Ones.’ She looked at Iwan. ‘But we are saved! We have food and clothes and beloved horses to bear us!’
He smiled a true, merry smile for the first time. ‘We are saved,’ he agreed. ‘I will ask no more questions. Come, give me back my cloak and put on the clothes Govannon has sent you. Bear the shield on your arm and strap the sword about your waist, they are surely meant for you. We can eat on the way! And it would not surprise me to find that these steeds have a clearer idea of our destination than we have!’ He laughed aloud as he looked at her. ‘Branwen of the Shining Ones! Branwen the shaman girl! You are a marvel to me, by all the saints, you are!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Iwan had been absolutely correct – the two horses had known where to take them. No sooner had they climbed into the saddles, than the beasts had turned and set off at a lively canter through the trees, down the long hillside and northward through the heather and spinneys and wild grasslands of eastern Powys. The speed of their travelling made conversation virtually impossible, and so Branwen had to wait a while longer for answers from her rescuer.
As dusk descended they were riding at a tireless trot through a long, narrow valley, and as the moon came up full in the starry sky, they found themselves under a high cliff of pale, bare rock. Without warning, the two horses stopped.
Branwen peered around. ‘And is this the place where we were to meet the others?’ she asked.
Iwan shook his head. ‘I don’t know where we are.’
‘Our steeds do, it seems,’ said Branwen. ‘What should we do, do you think? Dismount and make camp for the night?’
‘It’s a bleak place to seek for shelter,’ said Iwan.
‘All the same.’ Branwen was certain that they had been brought here for a reason. She swung down from the saddle; but as her feet hit the ground, she felt the world tremble under her.
With a deep creaking, growling groan, the face of the grey cliff yawned open in front of them like a sideways mouth. The horses stood calm and unperturbed, their heads down to tear at the long grass, seemingly indifferent to the uncanny gaping of the raw stone wall. Iwan jumped down to be at Branwen’s side, his eyes wide and thrilled.
The fissure in the cliff face became still and the ground was quiet again under Branwen’s feet. A broad, low-roofed cave was revealed, and in the middle of the even, earthen floor, under the sheltering arch of solid rock, a fire of hewn wood was burning brightly.
Branwen moved forward and rested her hands on the cold cliff face. ‘Thank you,’ she called. ‘Merion of the Stones – thank you!’
They unsaddled the horses, tethered them where there was good grass to eat, and carried the panniers inside.
They ate and drank, seated close to the jumping flames, and for the first time in an age of torment, Branwen felt genuine warmth and comfort seeping into her body so that her cheeks glowed and her fingers and toes tingled with new life.
‘Now will you tell me how you came to save me at the very last moment?’ Branwen asked Iwan, basking in the heat of the fire and watching his face through the licking flames.
‘It’s a long story, if you want to know it all,’ he replied.
‘I do. Leave nothing out.’
And so he told her the tale of how the king and Prince Llew and twenty-five warriors on horseback set off for their tryst with Ironfist, and how the Gwyn Braw stood on the walls of Pengwern, staring into the west, waiting for Branwen and Dera to return. And it was not only the two warrior girls who had vanished – Fain was gone, too. Rhodri guessed the faithful bird had departed with Branwen, but no one knew for certain.
Neither Fain nor the two maidens returned that day, but the king and the prince did, in the early evening, full of good news from the east. The talks had gone well and Ironfist had been bought off with vague promises and the offer of further negotiations, they were told. What the Gwyn Braw did not notice was the swathed and gagged figure who was bundled into the citadel and locked away in a chamber of the Hall of Araith. Thus they had no inkling then that Dera had been brought back as a captive.
Days passed and still Branwen and Dera did not return from the west. Rumours circulated that the two girls were dead, or that they had fled the king’s citadel in fear of Saxon attack. Others said they had indeed met with the Shining Ones and that the Old Gods had devoured them.
‘We did not believe this last tale,’ Iwan told her, grimacing at evil memories. ‘At least, the others did not. I was not so resolute at first, and the thought that I had lost you for ever seared me through and through …’ He paused. ‘It was Rhodri who convinced me to have faith. He never doubted the Shining Ones for a moment. He was certain that you and Dera would return, and the rest of us fed off his belief.’
Branwen smiled tenderly at him; dismayed to think that he had known such grief, but glad that Rhodri’s stout heart had brought them all through.
Then, Iwan told her how the passage of a whole moon went by with no word from Branwen or Dera. At the same time, scribes and wise men were sent to speak with Ironfist’s representatives in the east, while reinforcements began to arrive from Dyfed and Gwynedd and Gwent, swelling the numbers in Pengwern and preparing for war.
‘And then, when some were beginning to lose all hope, Blodwedd came back to us,’ Iwan carried on. ‘I don’t know how she got into the citadel – certainly not through the gates – but she woke us at dead of night as we slept in the long house.’ He stopped, snapping his head around to face the cave mouth. ‘Someone is out there!’ he hissed, standing up and drawing his sword.
A small figure stepped into the firelight. A slender shape with a tumble of tawny hair and with great, reflective golden eyes in her round face.
‘Well met,’ said Blodwedd. ‘I came first to be sure you were not enemies, although I guessed what I would find!’
Branwen leaped up, running headlong towards her friend. She grasped Blodwedd in her arms, clinging to her, burying her face in the long hair. Startled as she was by this display of human affection, the owl-girl smiled and patted Branwen’s shoulders. ‘Well met, I say again, Branwen of the Shining Ones,’ she said. ‘I bring good news from the west.’
‘I know it!’ cried Branwen, almost too choked with emotion to speak. And as though seeing Govannon’s messenger again after so long were not enough, Branwen saw the others of the Gwyn Braw step forward into the cave mouth. Dera and Banon and Aberfa gathered around her, laughing and weeping and throwing their arms about her. And Rhodri, too – his dear face wreathed in smiles as she turned to embrace him.
As if these blessings weren’t enough for Branwen, Fain came flying in under the roof, crying out again and again as he circled the joyous gathering.
‘But how did you find us?’ Iwan asked as they all gathered around the fire.
‘Fain came to me and told me that you were under the protection of the Shining Ones and that you had been brought to this place,’ Blodwedd told her.
‘The owls held back the Saxon horsemen long enough for us to get far away from them,’ said Aberfa. ‘And I’ll warrant they’ll not find us now.’
‘Let’s hope not,’ said Dera, looking at Branwen with a haunted light in her eyes. ‘I was such a fool, Branwen – to have led you into treachery.’
‘All’s done, Dera, my friend,’ said Branwen, reaching out to grasp her hand. ‘I do not hold you to blame for what happened to me. Others must bear that burden!’ She looked around at them. ‘But I would know how you came to me at that last moment in Chester.’ She turned to Blodwedd. ‘Iwan told me you returned to Pengwern at dead of night.’
‘Indeed I did,’ said the owl-girl. She reached out her long slender fingers to Branwen, the white nails curling. ‘See now, Branwen, what I saw. See how you are loved!’
As Blodwedd’s fingers touched her forehead, Branwen felt a sudden giddiness. The world spun in an arc of whirling red flame and she felt herself tumbling and tumbling.
It was an uncanny sensation, one that Blodwedd had forced upon Branwen once before. She felt as though she were no more than two watching eyes, bodiless, remote, floating on the air, as events unfolded before her.
She saw Blodwedd climbing into forested hills, deep in snow, and somehow she knew that the owl-girl had been wandering in the cold mountains for many a long and weary day. She saw Blodwedd standing upon a lonely crag, calling out in a loud, urgent voice.