Warrior Princess

by Frewin Jones

Was there no one in the world she could trust?

  The evening meal was a miserable ordeal. The only relief was that once Lady Elain had lectured her on how close she had come to having her throat cut in the forest, Branwen was left entirely alone. Most of the men were missing from the Great Hall, and the women wanted only to talk of the depraved Saxon spy and of what swift punishments he would receive once he was caught.

  Angry as she was with Rhodri, Branwen did not like to listen to their discussions of the cruel ways in which the truth would be forced out of him, nor of the fate that awaited him once the questioning was done. She sought refuge on the battlements, but the voice of the night-shrouded sea did nothing to soothe her.

  Now that her rage had calmed a little, images flashed through her mind. Confusing images that came to her unbidden and unwanted—of Rhodri, the first time she had encountered him, sitting waist deep in a rushing stream with clouds of mist around his shoulders and his blood welling into the running water. She had called him a Saxon swine. Swine I may be, mistress, he had retorted, but don’t insult me further than that.

  She had hit him with a branch and sent him tumbling down a cliff face—and he had responded with humor and forgiveness. How could such a person be a Saxon spy? Surely she would have known? She remembered his tenderness in healing Fain, and the mischievous light in his hazel eyes when he made gentle fun of her. And she remembered, too, the expression on his face when she spoke of her wish to go home and fight Saxons.

  I hate the Saxons above all things in this world.

  Had he been lying?

  He’s a spy. A villainous Saxon!

  But was he?

  Branwen went to her bedchamber late, hoping that the princesses would already be asleep. Walking through the agitated, wakeful fortress, she heard nothing to suggest that Rhodri had been captured yet. She felt curiously relieved.

  The chamber was in darkness.

  “Branwen?” It was Meredith.

  “Yes,” she whispered back, as she slipped into her bed.

  “A Saxon spy—isn’t it dreadful to think of!”

  “Yes. Dreadful.”

  “Such a man could cut our throats while we sleep.”

  “Don’t worry; they’ve closed the gates. He can’t get in. Besides, I expect he’ll be far away from here by now. Don’t be afraid.”

  “You’re not scared?”

  “No. I’m not scared.”

  Not scared. Bewildered and torn apart by uncertainty—but not scared.

  Meredith said nothing more, and soon Branwen heard her breathing deepen into sleep.

  She was awakened by a hand coming down across her mouth and a fierce voice whispering close in her ear.

  “Don’t cry out, Branwen. I’m not going to hurt you. I need to talk to you.”

  She squirmed onto her back, grabbing the hand and pulling it away from her mouth. She looked up into Rhodri’s face, lit by the faint glow of a rushlight. He looked demonic, his face striped with deep shadow, his eyes mere points of burning light.

  “How did you find me?” Her voice was a harsh whisper.

  “We must talk, but not here. Will you come with me? Please?”

  She could let out a shout that would bring Prince Llew’s warriors down on him like an avalanche. He must know that, too, and yet he had come to find her. She had to give him the chance to explain himself—not only for him, but for her own sake as well.

  She slipped out of bed and quickly pulled on her jerkin and leggings. At the chamber door, Rhodri doused the light between his finger and thumb. They came out into the hall where the hearth-fire was low and red, the fitful flames sending shadows dancing across the floor.

  Branwen and Rhodri skirted the side wall, staying in deep shade. The night sky was sullen with clouds that blotted out the stars. At the back of the long building they paused in a place where animals were penned in wicker stockades. The smell of the cattle was thick in the sultry night air.

  “Are you a spy?” Branwen demanded.

  “No. Believe me, Branwen. I’m not.”

  “Then Gavan was wrong about your accent?”

  “No. He was right. I’m half Saxon. My father was born in Gwynedd, but my mother is Saxon. I was brought up in Northumbria. But I’m not spying for Herewulf Ironfist. I was his servant, and I’m running away from him.” There was anxiety in his face. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”

  “What difference would that have made?”

  “Wotan’s blood, Branwen!” Rhodri exclaimed. “I could have warned you if I’d known you were Griffith ap Wynn’s daughter.”

  “Warned me of what?”

  “Herewulf Ironfist commands King Oswald’s army in the west,” Rhodri said urgently. “I was a household servant in his camp outside Chester. I heard things. Plans. War is coming, Branwen. The Saxons are almost ready to invade Brython.”

  “That’s old news,” Branwen said. “My mother and father have been expecting it since the spring snows melted.”

  “But you don’t know how they will come,” Rhodri insisted. “They mean to avoid battles as much as they can. They plan on taking down the eastern citadels one by one. Attacking with stealth—striking like lightning out of a clear sky. Murdering everyone, burning the fortresses, and then disappearing again before your people can muster an army to fight them.”

  Branwen shuddered. In her mind she could see the fortresses burning, bodies consumed by the leaping flames, victorious Saxons galloping away in triumph. “Why didn’t you tell anyone about this?”

  “Who could I tell?” Rhodri asked. “Who would believe me? You saw how that old warrior reacted. What chance was I given to speak with his hand at my throat?”

  “He would have taken you to Prince Llew. The prince would have listened.”

  “I’m half Saxon, Branwen. Yes, maybe he would have listened—and then maybe he would have tortured me to try and learn more. But certainly he would have had me killed in the end. Do you think I’m that brave?” There was agony in his eyes. “The courage was beaten out of me long ago, Branwen.”

  Compassion filled Branwen’s heart as she looked at him. “It’s a foolish coward who risks his neck the way you have done tonight,” she said. “But tell me—how did you know where to find me?”

  “I knew that a princess would lodge in the Great Hall,” Rhodri said. “I was lucky—or perhaps fate was on my side—because yours was the first room I came to.”

  “And how did you get into the citadel in the first place? The gates were locked and barred at nightfall.”

  “I climbed in,” Rhodri said. “These ramparts are built to hold back an army of thousands, but they offer plenty of hand- and footholds for a single man.”

  “Then get out the same way you came,” Branwen said. “And get as far away from here as you can; there are men out searching for you. I will tell Prince Llew what you’ve told me.”

  “I haven’t told you everything yet.”

  “What else?”

  “The name of the first citadel to be attacked.” He put his hand on her arm. “They are going to destroy your home, Branwen. They mean to start the war by burning Garth Milain to the ground.”

  Branwen’s heart stopped. “My mother and father will prevent that,” she said, but her voice trembled, and the words sounded unconvincing in her ears.

  “No, they will be deceived,” Rhodri insisted. “The Saxons will come as emissaries, pretending to offer hopes of peace. That is what I heard in Ironfist’s camp the night before I fled. That is what I came to tell you tonight. By Wotan’s blood, Branwen, you must get word to your people before they die.”

  31

  BRANWEN WATCHED AS Rhodri glided owl-quiet between the buildings, heading for the ramparts. At the last moment, he turned and lifted a hand in a gesture of farewell. Then he was gone, swallowed by shadows.

  She had promised to give him some time to get clear of the fortress before she woke Prince Llew with the information he had given her. But the wait was a torm
ent to her. It was agonizing to think of her parents guilelessly opening their gates to the Saxons, only to have their faith in the honesty in men’s hearts betrayed by sharp iron and leaping flame.

  At least now there would be time for the prince to send riders over the mountains to warn the people of Garth Milain. Branwen felt certain that her parents would survive any Saxon attack once they knew that it was coming.

  She sent her good wishes out to Rhodri. He could have lost himself deep in the forest; instead he had risked everything to bring her the news. Whatever he thought about himself, he was wrong to say he was not brave.

  She turned, intending to go back into the Great Hall.

  A noise stopped her in her tracks.

  Shouting.

  She spun around, staring into the gloom.

  The yells of alarm were coming from the same direction as Rhodri had taken. Several voices were calling out, the shrill, urgent noise cracking the night wide-open.

  Rhodri!

  Without thinking, she ran toward the sound.

  She came to a huddle of storage huts, rough daub-and-wattle structures where grain and hay were kept. The huts were in darkness, but torchlight flickered on the brown walls. There was a knot of hectic movement against one of the huts.

  Three young men were punching and kicking a fourth figure that was hunched on the ground with knees up to his chest and arms covering his head. Even though she could see little of him between the flying feet, Branwen knew who was getting the beating. It was Rhodri. They must have caught him before he reached the walls.

  The boys surrounded their victim like wolves, their blows raining down on him with a sickening thudding sound. Branwen could hear Rhodri’s groans and grunts mingling with the shouting and catcalling of the boys. She recognized them all: Bryn was leading the attack; and Padrig was there, too; and Iwan, standing slightly aloof, holding a torch.

  “Stop it! Stop it!” Branwen shouted. “You’ll kill him!” She launched herself at Padrig, dragging him backward and sending him flying. “Leave him alone!” she howled.

  She grabbed for Bryn next, but Bryn’s head snapped around, and he brought up his elbow hard into her face. Her head exploding with pain, Branwen stumbled and fell back into the dirt. Shouting, she tried to get up again despite the pain that flared in her cheekbone. But a knee came down on her chest, and two hands pinned her shoulders to the ground.

  “Branwen! What are you doing?” It was Iwan, his face close to hers as he leaned heavily over her. “Are you out of your wits? We’ve caught the Saxon spy!”

  “He isn’t a spy,” Branwen gasped, fighting to get free of him. “I know him. You have to let him go.”

  “Shut your mouth, you fool!” Iwan hissed. “Do you want to share his fate?”

  There was concern for her in his voice. And he was right: She would be in severe danger if people found out that she’d secretly been spending time with a Saxon.

  “Let me up,” she said.

  He pulled her to her feet. By then several guards had arrived from the gate, their white cloaks billowing and their swords ready in their fists. Others were coming, men roused from sleep by the noise, furs thrown hastily over their shoulders. One of the guards pushed the boys aside and dragged Rhodri to his feet. Another took his other arm. He hung limp between them, his head dangling, blood smeared on his face.

  Captain Angor strode through the gathering throng of townsfolk. He was fully dressed and armed with a sword, his eyes glinting as he lifted Rhodri’s head by the hair and looked into his face.

  “How often have you come creeping into Doeth Palas at dead of night, I wonder?” he snarled. “Sniffing like a rat for secrets to take back to your masters. Well, no more, boy.” Rhodri’s mouth hung open, the blood dripping from his lips. He hardly seemed to know where he was. Branwen ached to say something on his behalf, but this was not the time or the way. Angor would not listen to her; it was best to wait till she could speak to Prince Llew.

  “Now it’s our turn to seek for answers,” Angor continued. “Rest overnight, boy. There’s stern work ahead of you in the morning. Can you hear the fires spitting in the braziers? By dawn the gouging tongs and the blinding irons will be white-hot. Be sure of this: Death will be a relief by the time we’re done with you.” He let Rhodri’s head fall again. “Take him away.”

  The two guards dragged Rhodri off, his feet hardly able to stumble along as he was hauled between them. Branwen had listened to Captain Angor’s threats with growing horror, and she couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

  “I have to speak with Prince Llew,” she told the captain. He gave her a surprised glance. “Immediately!” she snapped. “You will wake him for me, or I will wake him myself. I have information that cannot wait.”

  He gave a curt nod. “Very well, my lady,” he said. “Come. At the very least, the prince will be glad to hear that the Saxon dog has been captured.”

  Branwen tried not to think of the instruments of torture that he had described. Unless she said something on his behalf, Rhodri would suffer unimaginable agonies when the next day’s sun dawned.

  Prince Llew sat on his high chair in the Great Hall, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak of purple silk, newly roused from his bed and watching Branwen with doubtful, narrowed eyes. Candles had been lit, and other sleepers had been awakened. Gavan ap Huw was there, along with Captain Angor and many other warriors of the prince’s court. Branwen could feel their disbelief growing as they listened to her.

  What is this? She’s a child! What does she know?

  “Garth Milain will be taken by treachery, unless you send riders to warn my father and mother,” Branwen finished. “Rhodri is no spy. He was telling the truth. Why should he lie?”

  Prince Llew’s voice rolled like thunder. “You ask why a Saxon spy would tell untruths? For the same reason that he befriended you in the first place—to protect himself and to sow confusion among the people of Doeth Palas.”

  “What did he tell you of himself?” asked Gavan, his voice less harsh than the prince’s.

  “He said he was an escaped captive of the Saxons,” Branwen said. “He said his family lived in Gwynedd.” She looked desperately from one to another of them, hoping for a single sympathetic face. There was none. “He was trying to get back home.”

  “That was a lie, my lady.”

  “You don’t know that for certain….”

  “Enough of this!” exploded the prince. “I do not know what madness possessed you to trust that boy, Branwen, but understand this: If any person other than the daughter of Griffith ap Wynn had given succor to an enemy of Powys, they would pay the price with their head!”

  “He was not lying to me!” she shouted. “He risked his life to warn me about the threat to Garth Milain.”

  “There is no such threat,” said Captain Angor. “The Saxon dog risked his life, that much is true, but not to bring you the truth.” He looked at the prince. “My lord, if the boy says Cyffin Tir is to be attacked, then be assured, the truth is otherwise!” His eyes glinted. “And I will get at that truth before he dies, if I have to tear it from his filthy heart with my own fingers.”

  “Then you will not send riders to warn my people?” Branwen gasped.

  “A rider will be sent in due time,” Prince Llew said. “But there is no urgency. Garth Milain is in no danger, and Captain Angor will learn the truth from the boy.” He gave a grim smile. “And more easily, I suspect, after he has had a sleepless night in which to consider his fate.”

  “If you refuse to send anyone else, then let me go,” Branwen begged. “Saddle Stalwyn. I’ll ride alone over the mountains if I have to.”

  “You will not!” said the prince. “News has arrived from the south. The roads are clear and safe to travel. A group of traders will be leaving Doeth Palas early tomorrow morning.” His eyes gleamed. “You will go with them, Branwen.”

  “No!”

  “Get you to bed, Branwen ap Griffith,” the prince growled. “And think yourself lucky
that you are your father’s daughter—or a far worse fate would await you when tomorrow’s sun rises!”

  Branwen took a step toward the throne, clenching her fists. How dare he speak to her like that!

  “Enough!” shouted the prince. “Take her from my sight. Put her to bed! Chain her down if need be!”

  Gavan was the first to step forward. “Come, my lady,” he said, resting his hand on her shoulder. “No good will be served by this.”

  She allowed herself to be led toward her chamber. “Rhodri is innocent,” she said to the old warrior.

  “No, my lady. He is not.” Gavan looked sternly at her. “Must I put a guard on your door?”

  “No,” she murmured, her anger draining away. “That won’t be necessary.”

  She walked alone to the far end of the chamber. Shadows flickered on the walls, tormented shapes that writhed around her and filled her mind with dark images of the tortures that awaited Rhodri when the sun arose.

  If not for her, he would have been far away by now. In trying to help Branwen and her family, Rhodri had condemned himself to death.

  32

  THE FALCON IS on the roof! Two tongues tell the truth!

  Branwen lay a long while sleepless on her mattress, her eyes full of troubled darkness. She was adamant that she would not do the bidding of the Shining Ones—but for some reason she could not stop brooding over the rhyme that her own voice had shouted to her out of Rhiannon’s pool.

  “A life depends on it.” She mouthed the words silently. “Remember this.”

  The falcon—that could refer to Fain. But two tongues? What did that mean?

  What has two tongues? Serpents have forked tongues. Was she to be guided by a snake?

  No, no. That makes no sense.

  What else could have two tongues?

  A man could—a man who speaks two languages.

  Branwen’s eyes stretched wide in the darkness.

  A man who speaks both the Brythonic and the Saxon languages. A man with a father from Cefn Boudan and a mother from Northumbria.