Warrior Princess

by Frewin Jones

  “Thank you,” she murmured, crimson to the ears.

  Meredith leaned toward her. “We don’t thank them,” she hissed.

  Branwen nodded and gave her a tight smile. She heard the woman at Daffyd’s side whisper under her breath, “Our guest seems to know little of cultured behavior. Let’s hope her stay here gives her some understanding of how to behave properly.”

  Branwen gave her a furious look but swallowed an angry retort.

  Keep calm. Say nothing. Show them that you’re not an ill-mannered savage.

  Branwen turned to her food, watching the others from the corners of her eyes, determined not to make any other mistakes. She was used to feasts in Garth Milain. There, as the night wore on, the children and many of the women would drift off; and the warriors, made bold by too much ale, would start challenging one another to physical contests.

  Branwen smiled to herself as she remembered the High Feasts at home, when the hearth was heaped with fresh logs till the flames roared. Warriors would leap through the flames while the others cheered them on. There would be wrestling matches and races and mock sword fights. There would be bruises; sometimes there would be broken limbs, sometimes spilled blood.

  She remembered Geraint and her father wrestling to the whoops and yells of the onlookers. Geraint never won those matches. Her father was too strong and too wily a fighter. Sometimes he would overpower Geraint; other times he would slip out a foot, catching Geraint off-balance and throwing him to the ground with a force that shook the hillock! Then he would reach down an arm and haul the dizzy Geraint to his feet.

  “One day,” he would say, slapping his son on the back. “One day you will beat me, boy! But not today!” And he would bellow with laughter. “Not today!”

  A voice rose above the others, jogging Branwen out of her bittersweet memories.

  “Gavan! Come, Gavan! Entertain us!”

  Branwen looked up. It was Llew’s voice, but other voices were joining in now.

  “Gavan! Get up, Gavan!”

  A thickset, grizzle-haired man rose from a couch near to where Prince Llew and his wife were seated. He had a rugged face, like a weather-worn crag, his eyes dark as slate under his brow. He had the usual shaggy mustache of the men of Brython, still thick and dark but threaded with gray. A long, white scar snaked down the left side of his cheek, all the way from his hairline to his jaw. Branwen had the strong feeling she had seen him before—a long time ago, when his hair had been less gray. She vividly remembered the scar.

  She turned to Daffyd. “Who is that man?”

  “Gavan ap Huw, my lady,” Daffyd told her. “Hero of the battle of Chester. He fought at Cadwallon’s side when the House of Maelgwn Fawr rose against Edwin.”

  “Yes!” Branwen said, memory flooding back. Gavan had visited Garth Milain when she had been a small child. Geraint had told her tales of his courage. “He was standard-bearer at the battle of Meigen, when Cadwallon took Edwin’s head from his shoulders,” she said, her eyes wide as she gazed across the room at the hero. “I didn’t know he lived here.”

  “He was born in Caernarfon,” said Daffyd. “But after the death of Cadwallon, he entered Prince Llew’s service; and now he trains our young men for the coming war.”

  While they were speaking, Gavan had stepped out into the middle of the hall. He walked slowly around the hearth, swinging a long iron sword with casual ease.

  “Hearken to me now!” he roared. “Hearken to me as I bespeak the lineage of Cadwallon the Great, sword-master, horse-master, lord of men, he of blessed memory. Cadwallon, son of Cadfan, best of all kings of Gwynedd, whose renown rings forth from valley and hill, shaking the limbs of the Saxon dogs and shattering their swords.” Branwen shivered. “Cadfan, son of Idwal Foel, son of Anarawd, son of Rhodri Mawr, whose ancestry can be traced back to Gwrtheyrn and Anna of Legend,” he went on.

  A murmur of excitement and anticipation grew in the hall as Gavan circled the hearth. “This blade!” He held the sword high above his head. “This blade was ever at my lord’s command. It is an ancient blade of glorious lineage. Come, who will try his mettle against it? Whose callow bones will feel its bite? Whose veins will it empty? This blade is hungry; this blade thirsts for a blood sacrifice. Who will try this blade of mine?”

  “Not I, by my faith!” called someone from the crowd, and there was general laughter.

  “Nor I. I love life too much!” shouted someone else.

  “Come, Gavan,” called Lady Elain. “You give too hard a task. Put up your sword and give our young men a fighting chance!”

  “Very well.” Gavan lay down his sword by the hearth. “There I place it; there let it rest. Give me but a stout wooden staff, and I will match any man who dares to come against me be he armed with sword or spear or knife or ax.”

  A long staff was fetched for him. He stood against the hearth, swinging the staff around his back and shoulders in a dizzying whirl, bringing it down with a sharp crack on the stones before turning on his heels and cutting the air in a swift arc.

  “A gold coin for any man who will stand against him!” called Prince Llew.

  A few warriors stood up this time. Prince Llew nominated one and he came out, sword in hand, to face Gavan.

  Quicker than the blink of an eye, Gavan sprang, the staff thrusting forward. He gave a sideways twist; and the challenger went sprawling on the floor, his sword chiming as it skidded over the stones. The staff came down, halting a hairbreadth above the man’s skull. There was laughter and applause.

  A second challenger appeared.

  Then a third.

  Then a fourth.

  Gavan dispatched them all.

  “My mother would show him a trick or two,” Branwen murmured under her breath, remembering the times she had spent watching her mother practice her skills with sword and spear and staff. “He’s strong and quick, but I believe I could avoid that staff of his.”

  She heard Romney suppressing laughter; she had not realized that anyone had heard her. Romney whispered something to Meredith, and a wide grin spread across the older princess’s face. Branwen felt herself go red.

  She tried to ignore them, watching how Gavan moved, how he used the staff, how he would catch his opponents off guard. It was curious how similar his fighting skills were to those of Lady Alis. Branwen was vaguely aware that Meredith got up from her couch and wandered off somewhere. The next time Branwen noticed her, she was with the young men in the far corner.

  An older warrior had taken up Gavan’s challenge, and he had called for a staff as well. The two hardened veterans were trading blows that would have felled an ox, the striking of their staves shivering the air. At last, with both men grunting and panting from the effort, Gavan managed to get in under the other man’s guard and gave him such a buffet on the chest with the end of his staff that he was knocked clean off his feet. The cheers rang to the roof as Gavan helped his beaten opponent up and the two of them marched around the hearth with their arms around each other’s shoulders.

  Branwen was suddenly aware that someone had come up behind her and was crouching at her shoulder.

  She looked around. It was Iwan. Her heart leaped in her chest, but she was determined not to make a fool of herself this time.

  “Princess Branwen, how do you like the entertainments we have on offer?” His voice had a faint lilt of amusement.

  “I am enjoying them very much,” Branwen said, wishing she could think of something quite natural to add. But nothing came.

  “I saw you when you first arrived in Doeth Palas,” Iwan continued. “If I may say so, you’ve cleaned up well. You look quite the princess now.” He grinned disarmingly at her. “Although I must say I liked the look of you when you rode in with Prince Llew, wild and shaggy haired and feral.” He laughed gently and without mockery. “That’s just the way I had always imagined a princess from the eastern cantrefs should look.”

  “I…oh…thank you…,” Branwen mumbled, her hopes of making a good impression
on him falling all to pieces.

  “Forgive me if I am speaking out of turn,” Iwan said. “But am I right in saying that your mother is Lady Alis ap Owain, also known as the Warrior Maiden of Brych Einiog?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Branwen said, glad that he had finally said something to which she could respond intelligently. “She was born in Brych Einiog, and she learned her fighting skills there when she was very young. She fought in her first battle when she was my age, before she married my father.”

  “Then I take it you are also skilled in fighting?” Iwan asked.

  “Yes…a little…I suppose…,” Branwen stammered. This wasn’t entirely true. She had watched her mother sparring with warriors in Garth Milain, and she had practiced the moves herself in the privacy of the forest. But neither of her parents had wanted her to be taught the craft of warfare, and so the only tutoring she had ever received had been from Geraint—and he had only been prepared to show her defensive strokes with a sword of wood, taught occasionally and in secret.

  Iwan leaned close to her, speaking in a confidential undertone. “Do you know what would please the prince and his lady?”

  “No…”

  “It is considered a great honor if a guest is seen to challenge Gavan.” His eyes sparked. “It is only an idea, Branwen; but I think everyone would be very impressed if the daughter of Lady Alis ap Owain issued a challenge to our best warrior.”

  Branwen stared at him in surprise. “Do you really think so?”

  Iwan nodded.

  She looked over to where Gavan was standing, his legs spread, the staff ready in his hands. She knew she had no hope of standing against the great warrior; but if it would help the people of Doeth Palas accept her, then it was worth making the challenge. She just hoped the defensive moves Geraint had shown her would save her from being knocked flat on her back in the first few moments!

  She hesitated for a heartbeat more, then stood up and stepped out into the middle of the floor.

  “I challenge Gavan ap Huw!” she called, her voice cracking a little with nerves.

  Silence came down over the hall.

  Branwen looked around, confused. The only sound she could hear now was the cracking of the fire and the thundering of her own heart. Something was wrong. The people were staring at her—and the expressions on their faces were of embarrassment and outrage and amusement.

  The silence was broken by Gavan throwing his head back and letting out a roar of laughter. Within moments, everyone in the hall was laughing at her.

  Lady Elain hurried up to her, catching her by the arm and pulling her into a corner. “What are you thinking, child?” she hissed. “A girl cannot challenge a warrior!”

  Branwen looked around, trying to find Iwan. He was on the far side of the chamber, sitting with his young friends, laughing as loudly as everyone else.

  Branwen felt her face burning. “Let me go,” she murmured, pulling her arm free. With the laughter ringing in her ears, she walked to the doors of the Great Hall and stepped out into the night. As soon as she was out of sight of the feasters, she broke into a run.

  Iwan ap Madoc had made a fool of her! She had allowed herself to be duped by his pretense of friendship. She had been so charmed by his kindly, lying words that the feeling of betrayal was almost worse than the humiliation of having fallen for his cruel joke.

  15

  DARK CLOUDS HAD snuffed out the stars and the night was cave-black as Branwen made her way through the round huts and wooden buildings of Doeth Palas, walking off her anger and mortification.

  It wasn’t so much that she had made a fool of herself in the Great Hall that incensed her; she could live with that, and she could even survive being laughed at. What wounded her most was the fact that Iwan had deliberately tricked her. Guests in Garth Milain would never be treated so badly. She felt sick at heart and ached for her home and for the kindness of her parents.

  She reached the outer ramparts, where a long, stone stairway hugged the towering stone wall. She climbed the stairs and stared out into the night. There was a sound from far below, a strange sound that she didn’t recognize. It had a regular pulse to it, a kind of slow, rolling boom. But there was a hiss and a sizzling in the sound, too. And something that made her think of swords clashing on shields and arrows skimming deadly through the air. She stood on the very brink of empty space and peered down. She sensed rather than saw an uneasy movement far below, like a restless sleeper turning and turning in a welter of bad dreams.

  The Western Ocean.

  Was that the sound she could hear: the beating heart of the ocean?

  She sat, legs dangling, cool air on her face as the ocean rumbled and purred beneath her.

  I wish Geraint were with me.

  She could bear it, then.

  Perhaps.

  A flurry of wings. The click of sharp claws on stone. A single caw, so close that it made her jump.

  “You again!”

  The falcon stared up at her with eyes so black that they paled the sky. Branwen let out a breathless gust of laughter. The bird croaked again and walked across the stones until it was almost at her side. She reached out and smoothed its feathers.

  “Where have you come from?” she asked. “How did you find me?”

  The bird looked unblinkingly at her with jeweled, predatory eyes.

  “I watched out for you, you know,” Branwen said. “All the way from the mountains.” She laughed again—how foolish to be sitting there talking to the bird as if it could understand her! “The way things are going, you may be my only friend in this place.”

  Caw!

  She smiled, then looked reluctantly over her shoulder. The lights of Doeth Palas burned bright below her. She could see the high roof of the Great Hall.

  “I should go back,” she said. “I can’t sit here forever. I have to go and face them. Mother and Father would want me to.”

  The falcon was watching her with oddly wise eyes.

  “Will you stay?” she asked the bird, stroking its silky feathers again. “Stay nearby for me? Please?”

  The bird bobbed its head and gave a single cry.

  She sighed and stood up. “I hope that was a yes,” she said. “One true friend could make all the difference.” She walked down the long stairway and headed back to the feast. She heard the sound of wings behind her. She turned, smiling.

  The falcon was following her.

  Branwen stood at the doors to the main chamber of the Great Hall.

  The falcon had come to rest on the top step. As she paused on the threshold, it looked at her for a moment, then half spread its wings and bobbed its head, its legs shifting so that it swayed from side to side. It was almost as if the falcon were dancing.

  She let out a long, slow breath, transfixed by its extraordinary behavior.

  Its strange dance completed, the bird sprang into the air and flew soundlessly into the night.

  Gathering her courage, Branwen stepped into the chamber. A few heads turned to her. There were one or two mocking smiles. The odd whispered comment. But most of the people were watching a pair of tumblers who were performing in the middle of the floor.

  Branwen looked over to the group of young men. Iwan was with them. He didn’t seem to have noticed her return. She fought down an urge to go over there and smack him around the head.

  Oh, yes, and wouldn’t that be the perfect way to prove once and for all what a savage you are!

  A better idea occurred to her, if only she could hold her nerve. She made her way around the walls, her eyes on the tumblers. They were good—tucking and rolling, leaping and twisting like salmon. One crouched and the other somersaulted over him, his hand coming down on the crouching man’s head. He managed to catch himself so that he balanced one-handed, upside down, his legs high in the air. The lower man rose to his feet and walked around the hall with his partner balanced on his head. There was applause and cheering from the crowd.

  Branwen came up behind Iwan. She stoope
d and put her hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her, and wariness flickered across his face.

  “Iwan ap Madoc,” she said calmly. “Will you speak with me a moment?”

  Iwan got to his feet, his expression cautious. He eyed her without speaking, as if waiting for her to make the first move.

  Branwen reached out her hand. He looked puzzled but took it. She smiled.

  She was aware that all his friends were looking at them, and that she had also gained the attention of a few others nearby. “You tricked me very sweetly, Iwan,” she said, loudly enough for them all to hear.

  “It was meant in fun, Princess Branwen,” Iwan said. “Don’t people joke with each other in Garth Milain?”

  “They do,” Branwen said. “Although not usually so unkindly.” She lifted her free hand and rested it on his shoulder. “You are a merry prankster, Iwan. You should perform for your lord. I’m sure he’d admire your antics.”

  “I would not presume to take the place of someone whose mere presence makes us all laugh,” Iwan said, inclining his head a little as though the quick jibe had been a compliment. There was a murmur of amusement at this among the others, but Branwen kept her smile steady.

  “And thank the saints for the gift of laughter,” Branwen said. “But in Cyffin Tir we know the difference between humor and mockery. It’s a distinction you’d do well to learn, my friend.”

  She gave him no time to respond. Instead she broke away from him, fighting the shaking in her legs as she walked away without once looking back.

  She came to where the two princesses were sitting and folded herself up on the outspread furs. She didn’t even glance at them, although she was very aware of them staring at her. She reached for some food, refusing to give in to the urge to crawl away and hide. She had been made a fool of in front of all these people, but she was determined to stay and claw back all the self-respect she could.

  As she ate, she shot a quick look across the hall. Iwan was watching her. There was a smile on his face, but there was also a wary curiosity in his eyes now—and he looked quickly away when he caught her eye.