by Frewin Jones
“Don’t let them get away!” shouted Dera, leaping corpses as she ran in hot pursuit. “Cut them down!” Aberfa and Linette raced after her, howling in triumph.
“No!” bellowed Gavan. “Do not be drawn into the woods! We must keep together!”
“Do as he says!” shouted Branwen. “Come back!”
Dera skidded to a halt and spun around, her eyes blazing. “Will you let them escape? We can destroy them to a man!”
“Or they you, child!” boomed Gavan. “You do not know their full numbers. The retreat may be a ruse to draw us to our destruction.”
With grim faces, Dera and the others returned. Branwen turned to see Andras approaching, Dillon at his side, pale and trembling.
“They cried out Redwuld’s name,” said Iwan. “But I have not seen him.”
“Like as not he stands off in the forest with more men, hoping to draw us into a trap!” said Gavan. “How many horses are alive still? Have we enough to quit this place?” His face paled. “Where is my daughter?”
“She ran into the trees when we were first attacked,” said Aberfa. “I have seen nothing of her since.”
“Then we must seek for her!” Gavan declared.
But Branwen was hardly listening to him. Four horses lay dead on the forest floor; of the others there was no sign. Scattered in terror into the forest, she guessed. A swift gallop from danger was not an option—not unless they could make a sortie to where the Saxon horses were tethered and take some of them from the enemy.
Stalwyn lay on the ground a little way off. Motionless. No breath in his stalwart body. A stain of blood around the arrow that stood out from his neck. He was dead. Branwen knew it. Because of her obstinacy and pride a great friend was dead. It was a sight to crush the heart.
But it was a sly movement from behind the body of the fallen animal that took Branwen’s attention. The glint of a Saxon helmet, the hump of a scarlet cloak. Someone was on the ground, hiding behind the dead horse. She moved forward, sword and shield ready.
Gavan came leaping past her, springing over Stalwyn’s body, his bloodstained sword in his gnarled fist.
“Get to your feet!” he shouted.
The man rose, Caradoc’s casket half hidden in the folds of his cloak.
It was Redwuld Grammod, Ironfist’s son. Not so handsome and haughty now as he stood trembling in front of Gavan, his head bowed, his eyes full of fear. He must have secreted himself there when his warriors fled, hoping to take possession of the casket and slip away among the trees without being seen.
“Do not kill me,” said Redwuld, his eyes darting from Gavan to Branwen. “My father will pay great wergild for my safe return.”
“Then he is a fool, and his money were better thrown in the midden!” Gavan’s eyes narrowed in distaste. “I have heard tell of you, Redwuld Grammod,” he spat. “A drunkard and a braggart, so they say. And must I now add coward to the list of your inadequacies?”
“My sword is broken,” said Redwuld, his voice tight in his throat. “Would you strike down a weaponless man?”
Branwen walked around Stalwyn’s pitiful body, trying not to look at the noble creature so cruelly slain. “I’d have that casket from you, son of Ironfist,” she said.
He slid it from under his cloak. “Here, take it,” he whined. “But have mercy and spare my life; I can do you no hurt.”
She lifted the casket out of his hands, disgusted by his cringing words. “Do you know what it contains?” she asked.
“It is a prized possession of my father,” said Redwuld. “Some relic of victory from the distant past given to him by King Oswald as a token of good luck in the war. I have never seen it opened.”
“Think yourself lucky you have not,” said Branwen. “Your men have taken to their heels and deserted you, Redwuld Grammod. What treatment do you believe you deserve at our hands?”
Redwuld looked into her face, his lips quivering. “You are the one my father spoke of,” he said, falling to his knees. “The waelisc shaman! Do not set demons upon me! Take me prisoner if you must, but do not slay me, I beg you.”
Branwen turned away, sickened by his cowardice. “I would not soil my blade with such as you,” she said.
“You will not be killed,” said Gavan. “You will be bound and taken to King Cynon, and he will do justice on you, son of Ironfist, chicken-hearted child of a formidable father!”
“Thank you!” gasped Redwuld, falling onto his face at Gavan’s feet. “A blessing on your mercy!”
A shrill voice sounded from among the trees. “Do not kill him!”
Branwen turned to see Alwyn rushing from some hiding place, her face distraught as she looked at her humbled lover.
Gavan turned to her, his eyes blazing with anger. “Do you see him?” he cried. “On his knees in the dirt, craven and broken although no hurt has been done to him? Is this the man you would wed, Alwyn? Is this the creature for whom you would forsake your homeland?”
“Ware!” shouted Rhodri. “Gavan—beware!”
Branwen spun around, alarmed by the panic in Rhodri’s voice. Redwuld had risen to his feet at Gavan’s back, his cloak thrown open, a seax glinting in his fist. His face vicious and exultant, he thrust the knife into Gavan’s back, driving it in hard to the hilt, twisting it as the old warrior arched backward with a cry of agony.
“Treacherous dog!” Aberfa’s voice rang out in horror. Her arm drew back, and she let a javelin fly. It skimmed Gavan’s shoulder and sank into Redwuld’s throat, the narrow iron tip emerging from the back of his neck in a cascade of blood.
In two bounds Branwen was at Gavan’s side, her arms out to support him as he fell backward. But he was too heavy for her; and as he fell, she was dragged down to the ground with him, dimly aware of a thud as Redwuld struck the ground.
A piercing shriek rang out. “No!”
Shaking with dread and anguish, Branwen fought to get to her knees, dragging Gavan’s head into her lap, leaning close over him.
“Have no fear,” she gasped, her voice choking in her throat. “All’s well. Rhodri will save you!” She lifted her head, her eyes blinded by tears. “Rhodri! Quickly! He is badly hurt!”
Alwyn came to a stuttering halt, standing there for a moment among the carnage, swaying, her face white, her grieving eyes moving from Gavan to Redwuld. Then with a groan she fell to her knees at her father’s side, her face wrung with agony, tears flooding her cheeks. “Father, no! Father—please …”
Through the veil of her tears, Branwen was aware of people surrounding her.
“The cur Redwuld is dead,” she heard Dera exclaim. “A curse on us that we did not finish him ere he gave this dolorous blow!”
“Alwyn?” Gavan’s voice was like the last flicker of a dying candle, thin but clear in Branwen’s ears.
“Yes, Father. I am here.” Alwyn’s voice cracked as she caught up Gavan’s trailing hand.
A pale smile lit the old warrior’s face for a moment.
“Tell … Branwen ap … Griffith …” He coughed, and there was blood on his lips. “Tell her … to be true … to … her people….” He paused, blood bubbling. “Tell her to go to … the … king….” Another pause, and now his breathing was rapid and shallow.
“I am here, Gavan ap Huw!” Branwen said,weeping. But he did not hear her.
“Tell her … if she honors me … she will do as I ask…. She will ally herself with King … Cynon….”
Gavan’s gray eyes opened wide and he seemed to be looking into Branwen’s eyes, but she knew that he did not see her.
“I come …,” he whispered, and there was a strange gladness and peace in his voice now. “You have waited long, my love … my wife … my dearest one … but your wait is … done…. I … am … coming….”
And as those words trailed from his lips like the last wisps of a dying fire, Branwen saw the light go out of his eyes. There was a final soft breath and then a great aching stillness and the lifeless weight of his head on her knees.
A red st
orm came racing into Branwen’s head. Lightning forked. Thunder growled and roared. The old warrior was dead.
An unquenchable pain swelling in her chest, Branwen lifted her head and howled her impotent anger to the sky.
28
“WE CANNOT LEAVE our master to lie among the Saxon carrion,” exclaimed Bryn, his voice distraught as he shouted into Branwen’s face. “Gavan ap Huw must be buried with all honor! You owe him that much—his death is on your hands!”
Branwen looked blankly at him. She felt numbed. Her heart was a stone in her chest. The grief and the guilt had been too much to bear; all that was human in her seemed to have fled her with Gavan ap Huw’s last breath.
She was standing a little way from the old warrior’s body although she had no clear memory of having moved from his side. Alwyn was kneeling over him still, holding his one hand in both of hers, her bowed face hidden behind hanging hair. Branwen could hear her sobbing. The others stood around in shock and disbelief, unspeaking, their eyes hollow, faces pale and drawn.
“We have no time for such niceties,” said Dera, coming to Branwen’s side. “There are Saxons still in the forest—and many more riding us down out of the east, if the falcon is to be believed. If we linger here now, our bones will lie in this place forever.”
Branwen turned to her. The fierce warrior girl’s emotions were etched deeply in her face, but the fire in her eyes did nothing to awaken Branwen’s stupefied feelings. “We could build a pyre of fresh-cut logs,” she murmured dully. “There is wood enough to hand. The old warrior could be laid on the top—as my brother, Geraint, was laid on the pyre below the hill of Garth Milain.”
Dera stared at her, and now there was confusion and anxiety in her face. “What are you saying?” she asked. “We do not have the time to build a funeral pyre!”
Rhodri stepped forward. “We need horses if we’re to reach the mountains before Ironfist catches up with us,” he said. “Bryn? Dera? Can you organize a search for horses? Some of ours may still be close by—and there’s a chance that the fleeing Saxons may have left some behind.”
Bryn stared sourly at him. “Do you give orders now, Saxon lickspittle?” he growled.
“Watch your mouth, Bryn!” spat Iwan. “The runaway deserves better.”
“And it is half Saxon lickspittle, by your leave,” Rhodri replied mildly. “And no, I do not give orders. I simply make suggestions. But if you would rather stand here arguing till Ironfist arrives, then by all means do as you will.”
“No,” said Dera. “It is well thought, Rhodri. Horses indeed! I’ll get to it. Bryn? Come, be of help—we have little time.”
For a moment Bryn stood glowering at Rhodri as if wishing to dash his fist into the other’s face. Then he turned and stomped away, calling to Andras and Padrig as he went.
“Well now, that is one thorn removed from your side,” Rhodri said gently, gazing compassionately into Branwen’s eyes. “I shan’t ask how you are,” he continued. “Such things do not need to be explained between true friends.”
She returned his gaze but said nothing.
“You do know we cannot build a pyre, don’t you?” he asked. “Or at least, if we tarry here to build one, then we should build it wide enough for all of us to lie on.” He frowned. “That would be a way out for you, I suppose—to chop wood and heap it up and up until General Ironfist comes to put you out of your misery.” He smiled bleakly. “But it will be hard on those of us who still wish to live, Branwen.” He sighed. “I had hoped to die in bed at a great age, surrounded by doting grandchildren.”
“Do you mock me, Rhodri?” she murmured.
“Yes, a little, perhaps,” he said.
“Gavan ap Huw lies dead because of me,” she said, her voice thick and graveled. “Stalwyn is food for crows.” She thumped her fist against her heart. “Because of me, Rhodri! Because of my conceit and vanity. I deserve death!”
“Well, let’s not debate who deserves what bad fate,” Rhodri said. “We’ll all hang from the gibbet if we take that path!” He rested his hand on her shoulder. “Do you know the difference between a wise man and a fool?”
She shook her head.
“A wise man learns from his mistakes; a fool is doomed forever to repeat them.” He brought his head closer to hers, looking deeply into her eyes, his voice lowering to a compelling whisper. “Learn from your mistakes, Branwen. This is your greatest test; this is the moment when you learn who you truly are—what you are truly capable of. Would you die of shame and remorse, or would you make amends for past lapses of judgment and leadership?”
“Become who I am, you mean?” she breathed. “The Emerald Flame?” Her voice choked with bitterness. “The Bright Blade?”
“Indeed. All that and more.”
She felt a painful thawing in her soul. “It’s hard to carry on,” she said heavily. “Easier to wait here for death, I think.”
“Much easier, I’d say,” agreed Rhodri. “But here’s the rub, Branwen—if you choose to stay here and die, Blodwedd will wish to face death at your side. And if Blodwedd stays, then so must I.” He gave her a comically remorseful look. “Our futures are in your hands, no matter what you decide to do. Personally, I’d opt for life—but maybe that’s just me.”
“Hush, Rhodri,” she said fondly, placing her hand on his and squeezing his fingers. “Your point is well made, and I thank you for it from the bottom of my heart.” She shook her head. “But it’s a hard taskmaster you are, Rhodri, descendent of the Druid lords of Ynis Môn! Like a wasp trapped in my hair you are to me"—she smiled—"and I love you for it, dearest of friends!”
“Then are you resolved?” Rhodri asked. “Shall we flee this place? Shall I be allowed to die ancient in years and in the comfort of my own bed?”
She laughed softly. “If it’s in my power, then you shall,” she said. She took a long, slow, cleansing breath. “Let’s to it, then!” She gave his hand a final squeeze, then squared her shoulders and strode away from him.
Dera and Linette and Bryn and Padrig were gone into the woods, seeking horses. Andras stood with Dillon. Aberfa and Banon talked quietly together to one side while Asta sat under a tree, her legs drawn up and her face buried in her folded arms. Blodwedd was standing over Stalwyn, her head bowed in sorrow. Alwyn knelt still at her father’s side; and Iwan was close by, his eyes thoughtful on Branwen.
“We have no time to bury our dead, nor to speed them to heaven with the purifying fire,” Branwen called. “But let us do what honor we can to Gavan ap Huw! Strip all these Saxon dead of their weapons and pile them at his feet! Let any who come nigh this place know that he was a great hero!”
Iwan walked up to her. “Are you yourself again, Branwen?” he asked.
She looked candidly into his face. “I am.”
“Thanks to …” He paused as if judging his words carefully. “Thanks to Rhodri?”
“Yes.”
There was an odd silence between them. “You have great affection for him, I think,” Iwan said.
“I do. Of course I do.”
“You know there are others of this company who would wish for …” He stopped, as if his glib tongue had for once forsaken him.
“Speak your mind, Iwan,” Branwen said softly.
He reached out toward her. She held his eyes, not flinching as his fingers gently brushed her cheek. There was soreness—she had all but forgotten her injury. “You are wounded,” he said. “Best have Rhodri tend it lest it fester.”
She lifted her hand to where the blood was drying from the shallow cut on his forehead. There was strange delight in the feel of his skin under her fingertips. “You also,” she said, her mouth suddenly dry. “Does it hurt?”
“A little,” he said, his eyes huge and dark and dangerous. “Branwen …?”
She felt as though the ground was shifting under her feet. “Yes?”
“Horses, ho!” shouted Aberfa. “We shall ride from this charnel pit after all!”
Branwen broke Iwan
’s gaze and turned to where Linette and Dera were emerging from the forest, leading a half dozen horses. Two of them were their own: Iwan’s Gwennol Dhu and the great bay destrier of Skur Bloodax. The others she did not know—Saxon horses, she assumed, from the look of their saddles and bridles.
Six steeds and fourteen of them.
Branwen was still puzzling over how to accommodate so many on so few horses when there was a commotion from the other side of the forest, and Bryn and Padrig appeared, riding two more Saxon horses and leading another one by the reins.
“It seems we gave them such a beating that they did not even pause to gather up the horses of their dead comrades ere they fled!” shouted Bryn. “And the forest floor is scattered with fallen weapons!”
“Did you see any Saxons?” called Branwen.
“One or two wounded, left behind,” said Bryn. “We helped them on their way to the next world!”
“But no sign of them rallying to attack again?”
“None,” said Padrig. “Judging by the trail of discarded war-gear, I’d say they took flight eastward.”
“Perhaps to join up with Ironfist’s horsemen,” said Iwan, his eyes glowing as he looked at Gwennol Dhu, alive when many others had died. “Let’s be gone ere they arrive. We have horses enough now, and there’s nothing more to be done here.”
“There is one thing I’d do,” said Dera. “Should we not make sure that Ironfist’s son gives his father a fitting welcome when he rides into this place? Banon! Bring me a sturdy spear; I’ve a job of butchery to perform!”
“Be swift then,” said Branwen, preferring not to ask what the grim warrior girl had in mind. “All others to horse! Take what provisions we may need, but waste no more time here. Asta! On your feet, now! You’ll ride with me on Skur’s destrier. Rhodri—you are with Blodwedd. Padrig, keep Dillon with you! And Linette—look to Alwyn! I do not fear she will try to escape, but I’d have you ride with her.”
There was much activity now as people chose horses and attached what traveling gear they had to the saddles. Linette drew Alwyn away from her father’s side. The once proud and contemptuous young woman seemed utterly crushed by Gavan’s death, her shoulders shrunken, her face grimed with endless tears.
