by Frewin Jones
She stood in the stirrups. “Here!” she called, waving to the closest rider, no more than a good arrowshot below her.
The man acknowledged her with a salute and waited on the road as she encouraged Stalwyn down the grassy slope toward him. Even as she approached the man, it felt to her as if her time on the foggy mountain had been no more than an uneasy dream…and the beggarly young stranger just a part of that dream.
She had never even thought to ask his name.
Not that she would ever see him again.
12
AS BRANWEN BROUGHT Stalwyn down onto the winding road, Prince Llew rode back along the line of horsemen and wagons. There was profound relief on his face.
“I am glad beyond words that you have returned to us unharmed, Branwen,” he said. “I feared greatly for your safety. There are many perils in the high passes. You could have fallen to your death or been killed by vagabonds or wild animals.”
“I’m sorry to have caused you anxiety, my lord,” Branwen said. “The fog took me by surprise.”
Prince Llew smiled. “A sudden fog can be treacherous in the mountains,” he said. “And I have never known one to come in so swift and lie so heavy. But you are safe and so all’s well! But we must make haste now if we are to reach Doeth Palas by nightfall.”
“It is my fault.” Branwen gave him a rueful look. “I am being a burden, as I told you I would.”
“Not at all,” said the prince. “Come, ride at my side, if you will.” He turned and cantered his horse to the front of the line, his white silk cloak rising, floating like swansdown on the air.
Branwen urged Stalwyn to follow. The prince spoke briefly to Angor and the Captain gave a shout of command. Horsemen and wagons moved off, following the road as it wound its way down the western flanks of the mountains and out into the rolling hills of Bras Mynydd.
Branwen rode silently alongside the prince for a while, gazing all around. The forested hills and wide, green valleys rose and fell in smooth waves, as though sculpted by gentle, creative hands. In Cyffin Tir, much of the landscape had the look of something hacked into existence by axes and mattocks.
“I’ve often heard visitors to Garth Milain speaking of Cyffin Tir as a very wild land,” she said. “I never really understood what they meant till now. This land looks…” She paused, struggling to put her thoughts into words. “…so different.”
“It has been tamed,” said the prince. “Shaped and disciplined by the hand of man.”
“Yes! Yes, that’s exactly it,” Branwen agreed. “In Cyffin Tir, the hamlets and farmsteads have been cut out of the wilderness. But here there is no wilderness.”
“We have the mountains to thank for that,” said the Prince. “Prosperity thrives with peace. Cyffin Tir has no such natural defense and is ever at the forefront of Saxon aggression.” His voice lowered. “But I do not think the mountains will guard us in the coming war. We need other stratagems. New alliances maybe with foreign kings from across the seas. For I fear that the old alliances will not…” He broke off, glancing warily at her as though he had suddenly realized he was speaking his thoughts out loud.
“Will not what, my lord?” Branwen prompted.
“Will not hold against the Saxon threat, I was going to say,” he replied. “But while there is light in Garth Milain and courage and strength in its lord and lady, Brython will not fall. Have no fear, Branwen.”
“You have an army, my lord,” she said. “And all the lords of Powys will unite behind King Cynon; and every Saxon who crosses our borders will have his head lopped off. And all their severed heads will be sent back to the king of Northumbria as a warning! See how he likes that!”
Branwen smiled as she spoke, imagining herself riding with the warriors of Powys, clad in chain mail with an iron helmet on her head, a shield on her arm, and a sword in her hand.
If wishes could only come true!
“Well said.” The prince laughed. “You have your mother’s brave heart. I have seen her in battle, Branwen, the fury and the glory of her. None could stand against Alis ap Owain!”
Branwen felt a glow of pride as the prince spoke of her warrior-mother.
If only I did have her brave heart, maybe I too could stand and fight!
Try as she might, Branwen could not shake the growing feeling that by leaving Garth Milain she had run away from something that she should have stood and faced.
They passed hamlets and townships with smithies and tanneries and wheelwrights. So many people—so much coming and going. But strangest and most marvelous of all to Branwen was the cut and shaped stonework that formed the foundations and walls of many of the huts and buildings. There was nothing like it in Cyffin Tir. The only memories harbored by the land east of the mountains were of races from the very dawn of time—the mysterious peoples who had built the hillock of Garth Milain and the lost folk who had raised the standing stones on the hilltops.
“I’ve never seen houses made of stone,” she told the prince. “I’ve heard stories about the Romans, and their skill with stone. They say that once there were great fortresses in Brython, with tall stone walls and with every building made of stone—even to the roof.”
Prince Llew nodded. “And now sheep graze where once the mighty Romans lived,” he said. “All that remains in Brython of their power and skill is their enduring stonework, and we use their stones for barns and to strengthen our own walls.”
“I can’t imagine what the Romans were like,” Branwen said as they rode past a lonely ruin, the ancient stone roofs fallen in, the walls crumbling and overgrown. “Why did they come here, and why did they go away?”
“I’m no scholar, Branwen,” said the prince. “It’s said that they all fled into the east long, long ago, taking ships across the sea. But where they went and why I do not know.”
As they rode past those echoes of the long-distant past, Branwen tried to imagine the people who had built such houses, but she couldn’t hold them in her mind; their skills were beyond her understanding. Yet the sight of the ruins did make her wonder how so mighty and accomplished a people as the Romans—conquerors, after all, who had ruled over this land for many centuries—were now gone, their power broken, their skills forgotten. Would her people vanish one day, leaving nothing but a battered palisade and a handful of brooches?
The long, warm day ebbed into a golden evening.
They passed farmsteads that lay among fields of ripening grain—yellow barley and golden wheat and green swaths of flax. There were cattle and goats in stalls and pigs in drystone sties and herds of sheep that roamed free on the hillsides.
Branwen could not help lifting her eyes to follow the flight of birds as they swooned across the sky, swooping and gliding on the warm air, catching insects in the glowing twilight. She narrowed her eyes, trying to make out the shape of a particular bird. A falcon? Her falcon? No. A crow. A magpie. A blackbird. No falcons.
She wondered whether the bird had followed them over the mountains. It seemed unlikely.
“Lights, ho!”
Angor’s voice cut through the air. Branwen looked ahead. The road went winding its way up a long, broad hillside. The distant crest of the hill was lined with blazing torches, lighting up the high horizon with a ribbon of white fire.
“Seren, ride ahead,” called Prince Llew. “Tell the Lady Elain that her lord is coming. And tell her of our sorrow and of the guest we bring.”
One of the warriors broke away from the line and went galloping full tilt up the hillside, dwindling quickly to a dot on the long, pale thread of the road.
“Are we almost at Doeth Palas?” Branwen asked.
“Yes, my lady,” said Angor, riding up to her side. “We have made good time.”
At the top of the hill the road passed through a narrow gap in a stone wall that stretched away into the darkness to either side. Old stone, crumbling away, overgrown and gnawed by green and gray lichen. Roman stone.
Iron braziers stood on top of the wall—a score
of them to either side, the flames leaping and cracking. Warriors lifted their swords in salute as horses and wagons passed through the gap.
Branwen rose in her stirrups to get a clearer view.
Across a gulf of black air, Doeth Palas blazed with a multitude of lights. For a moment the shining fortress appeared to hang rootless in the sky, sheathed in silver and threaded with stars. But then she saw that the hill she was on fell steeply away into a dark, forested valley, the snaking road lined with more torches as it climbed the high crag upon which the fortress of Prince Llew was founded.
Doeth Palas stood atop the huge tooth of rock, its ramparts built of sloping white stone, its rearing walls topped with torchlight. Hanging above the night-black vale, it seemed to Branwen like something out of legends, too marvelous for mere mortals. A place where gods might live.
The horsemen and wagons made their way up the steep incline to the ramparts of Doeth Palas. A slot was cut through the towering fortifications—a narrow chasm overhung with sheer, white stone walls, only wide enough for a single wagon to pass at a time. Branwen stared up at the stone bastions that loomed on either side of the roadway, feeling dwarfed by the scale of the construction.
The road sloped upward to where great wooden gates led into a wide earthen courtyard teeming with people, who let out cheer after cheer as their prince rode in. Many were soldiers, Branwen saw, clad in white linen and with long, white cloaks and helmets of polished iron. But some were simple peasant folk, like the farmers and artisans of Garth Milain—men and women and children gathered to welcome their lord home.
Prince Llew rode among them with his hand raised in salute.
Branwen noticed that the thatched huts and dwellings that surrounded the courtyard were similar to those of Garth Milain—but many of them had drystone walls, or stones pressed in among the daub and wattle. It was clear that Doeth Palas was many times the size of Garth Milain.
The prince turned to her. “Journey’s end,” he said, his eyes shining. “Lady Elain and my daughters will be at the Great Hall to greet you.”
The Great Hall of Doeth Palas stood at the far end of a wide roadway lined with iron braziers. Massive walls of gray stone and oak timbers supported its high, thatched roof, and broad stone steps led up to the open doors. Torchlight shimmered on the door-timbers; and as Branwen came closer, she saw that the doorposts were encased in sheets of beaten gold and silver and that the doors themselves were also sheathed in patterned gold. A rearing dragon hung above the doorway, engraved with exquisite workmanship from a sheet of polished gold.
Three figures stood waiting on the top step. Branwen guessed that they must be Llew’s wife, Lady Elain, with the two princesses, Meredith and Romney, at her side. She took a deep breath, smoothing out her skirts, hoping her journey over the mountain had not left her looking too disheveled.
Lady Elain was tall and slender, her chestnut brown hair framing a pale, narrow face with flashing blue eyes. Meredith, the elder of the princesses, was almost as tall as her mother and had the same white skin and glowing brown hair; but she was so thin that she looked as if a breath of air might blow her away. Princess Romney was shorter and sturdier than her sister, her body less graceful and her face broader and rounder and her hair much darker.
Branwen gazed at the elegant purple gowns they were wearing, surprised to see Lady Elain and her daughters dressed so splendidly on such an ordinary day. Her mother had gowns that were almost as fine, but she only wore them on saints’ days and at festivals. All three had elaborately dressed hair—braided and drawn up in loops and coils, adorned with golden combs and pins, and hung with strings of jewels. Branwen had never seen a woman’s hair dressed in such a way.
She swung down from the saddle and mounted the steps toward them, very aware of her own ragged black hair hanging down past her shoulders and of her travel-stained gown and grubby boots.
Lady Elain smiled and stepped down to greet Branwen, both hands reaching out to her. “Branwen, my child,” she said, “it is good to see the daughter of the valiant Lady Alis and the mighty Lord Griffith, although it wounds my heart to have to greet you under such evil circumstances.” She took Branwen’s hands, her fingers soft and warm as she looked compassionately into Branwen’s face. “Our hearts ache for you and for your parents. I met Geraint only twice, once when he was but five years old and again when he was a well-grown lad of twelve. But I remember him fondly. He would have made a great lord of Cyffin Tir.”
“Yes,” Branwen said heavily. “He would.”
Lady Elain looked into Branwen’s eyes. “My poor child,” she said. “You are tired and worn from the road. But, come, meet my daughters. You will be great friends, I’m sure.”
“Thank you for your hospitality, my lady,” Branwen said as she was drawn up the final step to meet the princesses.
Meredith smiled and made a graceful bob. “Welcome to our home, Branwen,” she said. “All that is ours is for you to share for the duration of your stay.”
“Thank you, your generosity does you honor,” Branwen replied, longing for these necessary formalities to be over so she could sleep.
“Welcome, Branwen,” Romney chirped. “Mama said that you would be dirty and wretched and that we should do everything we could to make you feel at home.” She gave an innocent smile. “You do look like a beggar! But a bath and a change of clothes will make you seem less disgusting, I’m sure.”
Lady Elain put her hand on Romney’s shoulder. “Romney, hush now.” She looked at Branwen. “My daughter means well,” she said. “Please do not take her remarks amiss.”
“Not at all, my lady,” said Branwen, controlling her indignation. The young princess had entirely ignored the traditional rituals of welcome; that was no way to greet the daughter of a prince! Still, Branwen was determined to be polite, despite Romney’s rudeness. “I am dirty from the journey,” she added. “And a bath would be very welcome.”
“Excellent,” said Lady Elain. “I shall leave you in the hands of my two daughters. They will show you where you will be sleeping. Your things will be brought to you there.”
“Thank you.”
Lady Elain was being a gracious host, but Branwen couldn’t help feeling a little overwhelmed. Doeth Palas was an extraordinary, wonderful place—but its splendor only made her long for her own home and her mother and father, and…most painful of all…for Geraint.
Her heart sank as she thought of her disturbed, rootless future.
Will I ever go home again? she wondered. Do I even have a home now?
The two sisters led Branwen into the Great Hall. The vaulted roof soared above her head to ten times her height, supported by a complex lacework of massive oak timbers. The floor was flagged with gray stone, and the high walls were hung with banners and standards and studded with weapons. The main chamber was lined with iron candelabra and lit by a hundred beeswax candles. A great stone hearth stood at the center, filled with logs that burned with a sweet, clear flame. An iron tripod rose above the fire, and suspended from it was a black iron cauldron giving off a haze of aromatic steam. A few Saxon servants went about their duties, tending the fire and sweeping the floor and trimming the candles.
At the far end of the chamber, under a canopy of red silk, stood the prince’s throne, an immense, raised chair covered all over with plates of decorated gold.
“Where is your mother’s chair?” Branwen asked.
Meredith gave her a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”
“Doesn’t the Lady Elain sit with your father when they discuss the business of Bras Mynydd?” Branwen prompted.
“What an odd question,” Meredith said. “Our father rules alone, Branwen.”
“I know why she asked that,” said Romney. “Don’t you remember what Mama told us? Lord Griffith and Lady Alis rule together.”
Meredith nodded. “Yes, I remember now.” She looked at Branwen. “Does your father have trouble making up his own mind? Does he need the counsel of others before co
ming to a decision—even that of his wife?” She tilted her head inquiringly. “I’m sorry, but I know very little about the wild lads east of the mountains. Please don’t be offended by my questions.”
“Of course not,” Branwen said. “My mother is wise and well respected; it’s quite normal for Father and Mother to make decisions together. I thought it would be the same everywhere.”
“Really?” Meredith said in obvious surprise. “Oh, well, Mama did tell us that you had strange ways and customs in Cyffin Tir.” She looked over Branwen’s shoulder.
Two elderly male servants had come into the hall, carrying Branwen’s traveling chest between them. They were Saxons, of course, little more than skin and bone, their stooped bodies clad in gray tunics and leggings, their hair long and their beards ragged.
“Take it to our chamber,” Romney ordered. “And see that you don’t drop it.”
The two men shuffled off toward a side door, their hooded eyes never lifting from the floor.
“You have to watch them every moment of the day,” Romney said, rolling her eyes at Branwen. “I sometimes think these Saxon servants are more trouble than they’re worth.”
Branwen followed the two princesses in the wake of the stooped old men.
The princesses’ chamber was bright and comfortable, with furred animal-skins underfoot and many candles set in iron sconces on the walls. A mattress lay at either end of the room, and six wooden chests were lined up along one wall. Stone shelves jutted from the walls, holding jewelry and trinkets and small wooden or stone ornaments and playthings.
The servants put down Branwen’s chest and turned to leave.
“Not so fast, you,” Meredith said. The servants turned toward her, their heads down, backs bent, eyes on the ground. “Fetch another mattress for our guest, and be quick about it,” Meredith ordered. “And then heat water and lay out some linen in the tub—and tell Aelf and Hild to attend us. Go.”
