Warrior Princess

by Frewin Jones

  It was still early and the air was cool as Branwen stepped from her room into the main chamber of the Great Hall. The doors were open, and the courtyard beyond was striped with long shadows from the slanting sun. Her father and mother were seated on the double throne. Several warriors of the court stood close by; and Prince Llew was with them, seated on a chair brought in especially and flanked by a few of his own men.

  Branwen was aware of how plain and simple her people’s clothes seemed against the opulence of Prince Llew’s and his men’s. But the prince was a good man and a true friend to her father, and she felt no envy of his wealth and power. Besides, she had a fierce pride and loyalty to her home and to her parents; after all, they lived on the disputed borderlands of Brython—they had more important concerns than jewels and finery.

  “Branwen, come here,” Lady Alis said, holding out her hand. Branwen saw that the sword of the House of Owain hung from her mother’s belt. Branwen knew her mother had wielded that deadly weapon in the wars that had raged across Brython before she herself had been born, but she had never seen it at her mother’s hip before. It was an ominous sign of the conflict that was coming.

  Branwen stood in front of her parents, knowing that her fate was already decided. Waiting for the hammer-blow to fall.

  “Most of our riders have returned,” her father told her. “The news is not good, Branwen. I had hoped to send you on the direct road south, but bands of Saxon marauders have been seen all the way from here to Hen Drewyn and beyond.”

  “Let no one be in any doubt that Oswald is mustering an army,” said Prince Llew. “These raids are intended to test our defenses.”

  “And each day they carry off more weapons and cattle,” Lady Alis added. “By this thievery they would weaken us and strengthen themselves—using our own weapons against us, their army made strong on our meat so that they would swallow us in one gulp as the hunting owl swallows a mouse.” Her fingers gripped the arm of the throne till her knuckles were white. “But they will find us a hard morsel to get down!”

  “Am I to stay, then?” Branwen asked, a gleam of hope coming into her mind.

  “It is clear that the direct way southward is too dangerous to attempt,” her father said. “But there are other roads that may be less perilous.” Branwen’s spirits sank. There was to be no reprieve.

  “Prince Llew has agreed to take you over the mountains to his own land,” her father continued. “You will reside for a few days in the citadel of Doeth Palas. And when the next party of traders leaves for Gwent, you will accompany it on the safer roads to the west of the mountains.”

  “Have no fear, Princess Branwen,” said Prince Llew. “You will find a warm welcome in Doeth Palas. My daughters will be glad to share their chamber with you while you are under my roof.” He looked at Lady Alis. “And for a brief time perhaps, my wife, the Lady Elain, will be as an aunt to your daughter before the princess goes south to her new life.”

  A roaring sound filled Branwen’s ears. She thought she had been prepared; but now that it came to it, the idea of being torn from her home was almost unbearable. But she kept her emotions off her face as she turned to Prince Llew and gave a bow.

  “Thank you for your kindness,” she said, struggling to keep her voice level. “I hope I will not be a burden to you.”

  “A burden, Princess?” Llew replied with a smile. “Yes, you will be a burden—a burden of care that I am honored to take, the burden of the jewel of the House of Rhys.”

  Branwen bowed a little lower. “The honor is mine, my lord.”

  “Then it is settled,” said Prince Griffith. “Prince Llew will be departing at dawn tomorrow, Branwen. Make sure you are ready.”

  “I will, Father.” Branwen turned and walked slowly down the length of the chamber. She clenched her fists at her sides until her nails dug into her palms, but her stride never faltered until she came to the door of her own room. She stepped inside and closed the door. The air was thick with a silence like deep, cold water.

  Branwen sank to her knees, her head falling into her hands.

  No! No! No!

  Branwen sat cross-legged on the hay-filled mattress that lay on the rush-strewn earth floor. She watched with little interest as Inga took garments from the wooden trunk that stood at the foot of her bed.

  “I’ll take that,” she said of a linen shift. “Yes, that can go.” It was a yellow woolen cloak with a cowl, warm enough for the bitterest of winters. As Inga folded and packed the cloak, a fresh wave of grief beat over Branwen’s spirit; she had last worn that cloak in the deep snows of winter, wading waist high with Geraint and many others, shouting in plumes of white breath and beating swords on shields and spoons on iron pans to scare off the wolf packs that a raging hunger had driven down from the mountains.

  The items she approved were folded into a smaller chest that would accompany her on her journey.

  “All that I leave you may take for your own,” she told Inga.

  “Thank you, my lady,” Inga said, her face revealing her surprise at this unexpected generosity. Her bony fingers traced over a woolen tunic. “This will keep the chills out, my lady.”

  “Don’t bother thanking me,” Branwen said. “I shan’t be needing them. I won’t be coming back anytime soon.”

  “Will you not, my lady?”

  Branwen looked into Inga’s timid eyes. “I suppose I will be allowed to come here with my husband now and then to visit, once the Saxons are defeated and the roads are safe again,” she said dully. “But that could be years from now, and even then the garth won’t be my home anymore. My home will be in Gwent.” An odd thought entered her mind. “You were taken from your home, weren’t you, Inga?” she said. “Do you hate us for doing that?”

  The woman’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, and her thin fingers plucked nervously at the tunic. Branwen couldn’t tell whether the question had confused her or whether she was simply too frightened to give a truthful answer.

  “Oh, never mind,” Branwen said. “I daresay I already know.”

  “Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady.” Inga shuffled about, picking up the discarded clothes while Branwen watched her.

  Lady Alis came into the room with a bundle of cloth in her arms. Inga dropped to her knees with her head bowed low.

  “Continue with your work,” Lady Alis said.

  “The packing is almost done,” Branwen told her mother.

  “I have gifts here for you to give to Lady Elain and the two princesses,” Lady Alis said, holding out the bundle of fine violet cloth.

  Branwen looked curiously at it—there was enough cloth to make a gown or a light summer cloak. Enfolded in it were a pair of golden brooches encrusted with deep red garnets and a long, silver spoon. “The cloth is for Lady Elain; the other things are for the princesses,” Lady Alis said. “Meredith is a year older than you; and I would suggest you give her the spoon, as she will understand its value. Her sister, Romney, is fourteen—old enough to appreciate the brooches, I think.”

  “Have you ever met them?” Branwen asked.

  Lady Alis thought for a moment. “You were one year old the last time I was in Doeth Palas. Meredith was a toddler, and Lady Elain was a moon or so from giving birth to the little one.” She looked keenly at Branwen. “If you’re asking me what kind of companions they’ll be, I can’t tell you. But if they are anything like Lady Elain, then they will be both sophisticated and cultured.” She paused before continuing. “Doeth Palas is a much grander place than Garth Milain, Branwen; you must try not to allow yourself to be overawed by it. Remember that you are a princess of Cyffin Tir, the child of a long and noble line of warriors.”

  “I’ll try,” Branwen said. She was wondering whether she would get on with the two princesses.

  “Good.” Her mother put the bundle of lilac cloth in Branwen’s lap. “But I don’t think you’ll need this,” she said, slipping Branwen’s slingshot out of her waist-sash. “I doubt very much whether Lady
Elain will give you leave to go hunting.”

  Branwen frowned. “Why not?”

  “Because in Doeth Palas that is not a thing that princesses do,” Lady Alis said.

  “Please let me keep it,” Branwen begged. “Just to remind me of…here.”

  Her mother looked into her face for a long time, then handed back the slingshot. “Keep it hidden,” she warned. “Lady Elain will not understand.”

  Branwen clutched at the soft strip of leather. “I will,” she promised.

  Her mother touched her hand gently against Branwen’s cheek. “I know you will,” she said, and Branwen saw tears shining in her eyes as she turned and left the room.

  A few moments later, the door opened again and Prince Griffith strode in. “Well, Branwen?” he said, smiling at her as she got to her feet. “Is all well with you?”

  “All is well, Father,” she replied. It was rare for the prince to come to her private chamber.

  He turned to Inga. “Woman—go, now. Finish your work later.”

  Clutching her bundle of clothing, Inga shuffled from the room.

  Prince Griffith stood awkwardly in the middle of the floor. Branwen was puzzled. It was unusual for her father to seem so distracted…so uncertain.

  “Father, is there…,” she began.

  “Branwen,” he said suddenly. “I would not have you leave with anger in your heart.” He touched his chest. “Anger for me, I mean.”

  Branwen lifted her eyebrows. “I don’t feel anger toward you, Father,” she said.

  “But you would not marry the boy, Hywel, if you had your choice, I think.”

  She gave a half smile. “If I had my choice, I wouldn’t marry anyone at all,” she replied. “At least, not yet.”

  The prince frowned. “What would you do?”

  She took a step toward him and looked up into his troubled face, knowing she could not say anything that might hurt him or cause him concern. “I would do my duty to the House of Rhys,” she said. “I would make you and Lady Alis proud of me. Even Hywel ap Murig may be bearable as a husband once I’ve knocked him into shape.”

  “You are your mother’s daughter!” the prince said, almost laughing as he looked down at her.

  “I am,” Branwen said proudly. “And I am your daughter too.” She gave him a questioning look. “Mother told me she didn’t like you very much when you both first met. She said you were sulky and wouldn’t talk to her.”

  Her father looked at her in astonishment and then smiled and opened his arms. Branwen stepped forward and pressed herself against his chest, feeling his arms strong around her back.

  “She spoke the truth,” he said. “But it was not all one-sided. I doubt that she told you of the time she became so angry that she threw stones at me.” He laughed. “I had the bruises for many long days. Your skill with a slingshot and your love of the forest remind me of Alis ap Owain when she was much younger.” He held her face between his hands. “I have lost one child, Branwen. I could not bear to lose another. I send you south to keep you safe. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Father,” she said, hugging him tightly. “I do understand.”

  Branwen stood in Geraint’s room in the chill time before dawn. She was dressed in her shift and holding a beeswax candle. The candle burned pure and clear in the stillness of the night, lighting up the corners of the room and revealing her brother’s familiar things. His mattress on the floor in one corner, and three chests: one for clothes, one for other possessions, and the third for his sword and battle gear.

  Branwen knelt at the third chest and heaved it open. A gray cloth covered the things within. She drew it aside. She ran her hands gently over her brother’s bow and the quiver of arrows. She could almost hear the whine of a loosed arrow, the singing of the string and the thunk as the barbed shaft struck its target. With the bow and quiver of arrows, lying half-wrapped in a scrap of cloth, was his hunting knife—as long from tip to base as her forearm. It had a brown bone handle pierced by iron rivets that held the slender, triangular blade in place.

  She picked up the knife, remembering how she had held it in her two fists as she had sat over Geraint’s dead body. She thought back to the first time Geraint had put the knife into her hands, and how he had taught her to gut and dress deer and grouse and salmon. How she had raised the bloodied knife for his approval, and how he had smiled and praised her.

  Long, long ago.

  She laid the knife in her lap and continued to look through his possessions. A dark green cloak with the golden brooches still attached. A leather fighting jerkin, sewn with hundreds of small iron disks to ward off sword blows. Thick leather boots with thongs that tied to the knee. His round, wooden shield and his sword. The sword was an old weapon, simple and functional, the leather-bound hilt worn from generations of hands, the dull blade notched and scratched.

  Branwen had been struck with envy when her father had presented him with the sword on his tenth birthday.

  Guard it well, my son, for it was borne by me in my youth and by my father before me and by his father before him and by his grandsire and his father’s grandsire.

  For four years Branwen had waited impatiently for her tenth birthday, convinced that she too would receive a sword. After all, her mother was a great warrior—why should she not be given some prized weapon? The lavish gifts of clothing and jewelry that she received on the longed-for day did nothing to stem the bitter tears that she shed alone in her room that night.

  I am a warrior! I am! I will be a warrior when I grow up. No one can stop me!

  Branwen smiled bleakly as she gazed at her dead brother’s sword.

  Did I really believe that?

  She placed the ownerless objects back into the chest and closed the heavy lid. Then she realized that the hunting knife was still in her lap. She picked it up and turned the blade so that the flickering candlelight shone on the polished iron. She ran a fingertip along the blade, feeling its keen edge. Her parents had no need of one more knife; why should she not take it? She wrapped the knife in the length of cloth and stood up, holding it close as she left the room.

  She returned to her own room. Closing the door, she walked over to the traveling chest. She lifted the lid and pushed the knife deep in among her clothing.

  She would keep the knife secret and safe. And maybe one day she would have the opportunity to look into the face of the Saxon raider who killed her brother and thrust the blade deep into his murderous heart.

  8

  THE FOLLOWING DAY dawned bright and fair; Branwen sat astride her bay stallion with a warm south breeze in her hair and the rising sun as fierce as flames in her eyes. She had ridden Stalwyn up onto the hill that overlooked Garth Milain—the same hill from which only a few brief days ago she had sat and watched the children playing by the pool of white water. But her mood was so changed from the last time that she might have been a different person.

  Prince Llew’s warriors and wagons were gathering at the foot of the sloping pathway. Branwen tried to fix in her mind every detail of what she was seeing.

  Geraint’s pyre lay in the dale in the deep shadow of Garth Milain: no more now than a black stain from which thin wisps of faint smoke rose and drifted. Her eyes followed the hazy trails of smoke high into the sky. “Why did you let yourself be killed?” she shouted into the air.

  The breeze brought her no reply.

  A tiny movement caught her attention. At first she thought it was just part of the smoke—a fleck of ash or soot borne upward by the wind. But as she watched, it circled and descended, moving with a definite purpose.

  A bird.

  It cut slow arcs down the sky.

  A falcon.

  Branwen could make out the narrow, scythe-shaped wings, colored like wet slate, and the dark-hooded head and cream-colored chest and throat. It was an adult male, its eyes like bright black beads and its curved beak like a splinter of flint.

  It came at her out of the white disk of the sun. She sudde
nly realized that it was not going to swerve aside and she ducked with a cry as the falcon swept by, its claws grazing her back.

  She twisted in the saddle, her heart thumping. The falcon adjusted its wings and flew across the face of the forest. Its yellow claws reached down; and a moment later it landed on the same low branch that the wood pigeon had perched on three days before, when Geraint had grabbed Branwen from behind and dragged her into the forest.

  Was that only three days ago?

  It felt so very much longer.

  The bird turned and stared at her, its head held high, its eyes filled with sunlight.

  Branwen had never known falcons to behave in that way. Why had it flown at her? And why was it staring like that?

  Her mother and father owned hunting falcons, but Branwen knew them all and this was not one of them. It had none of the jesses or leather leashes that would be tied to the legs of tamed birds. It must be wild.

  The falcon moved from leg to leg, lowering its head and ruffling its feathers.

  She swung down from the saddle and began to walk along the slope toward the bird. It lifted its head, its eyes still on her, but now with a haughtier look. It let out a series of shrill cries. Branwen expected at any moment that it would rise from the branch in a flurry of wings and go soaring off into the sky.

  But it didn’t move.

  “Have you escaped from somewhere?” she murmured, stopping at the foot of the tree. She couldn’t believe that this was not a tame bird. A wild falcon would never allow anyone to come so close.

  The falcon gave two sharp, carping caws.

  Branwen reached up, and to her amazement the bird allowed her to run her fingers gently down its flanks. “There now,” she crooned. “Who do you belong to? I know you’re not one of ours. Have you come from far away?”

  The bird gave a single croak.

  Branwen lifted her arm higher and held her wrist out toward the bird. It spread its wings, scooped the air, and made the jump to her wrist. The needle-sharp talons bit into her skin as the bird settled. The creature was obviously used to being with people.