by Frewin Jones
She snatched the sword from his fingers as he fell. The fire roared with a hungry voice. Her nostrils filled with the stench of burning hair and flesh. Branwen sprang up, armed now and ready to face the third Saxon.
It was the scarred man—Geraint’s slayer. His face was contorted with rage as he ran toward her, a bloodied sword in one hand, a knife in the other. Branwen’s heart froze. Screaming filled her head; but whether they were the screams of real people or just phantoms of terror howling in her own mind, she could not tell.
A galloping horse. A whirling ax. Eyes filled with madness.
“No!” she shouted. “No!”
A bloodred fog came down over her mind. Fear would not claim her this time. As the hated man bore down on her, she could hear Gavan’s voice in her head, feel his guiding presence at her back. She adjusted her stance, breathing slow, feeling the hard earth of her home solid under her feet. She tensed her body, her muscles straining for release. Soon! Very soon! She gripped the sword hilt in both hands, swinging the long blade back over her right shoulder until she felt its tip against her left hip.
The man was almost upon her now. She kept her eyes on his sword hand as he hurtled forward, his eyes blazing, his red mouth howling.
“For Geraint!” she shouted. “For the House of Rhys!”
The Saxon slashed at her neck. Springing to one side, she brought her sword over and down in a smooth movement that had all her weight and power behind it. Iron clashed on iron, and his blow was swept aside.
He stumbled, caught off-balance; but even as he staggered forward, he swung his sword arm at her, the blade cutting a long, sweeping arc through the air that would have torn her belly open if she had not leaped back. Roaring with anger, he fell to his knees. Branwen bounded in, aiming a blow at his head, meaning to finish him off before he got to his feet again. But she hurried the stroke; and instead of bringing the sword slicing down from her shoulder, she stabbed from the hip.
Her opponent’s sword blocked the weak blow, the collision of iron on iron jolting her arms and almost jarring her sword out of her hand. He was on his feet in an instant, swinging again and again with his sword. Branwen staggered backward, overwhelmed by his strength and savagery. The Saxon’s blade struck her own sword close to the hilt, knocking it out of her hands. She looked into the crazed blue and brown eyes and saw her death in them.
The Saxon raised his sword for the killing blow; but as Branwen backed away in defeat, her heel caught on one of the stones that ringed the hearth, and she fell. The Saxon’s wild swing unbalanced him; and he toppled forward, crashing down on her, crushing the breath from her lungs. She struggled to get free, her arm reaching out blindly. Her fingers closed around a hearthstone; and she took a grip on it and lifted it, bringing it down with all her remaining strength on his sword hand. He bellowed with pain as the sword was struck from his fingers. But he still had the knife in his left fist. Branwen let the stone go and threw both her arms up to grip the wrist of his knife hand. His face was close to hers, his foul breath on her cheek, his mad blue and brown eyes blistering with rage. She had no strength to throw him off. In a moment the weakening muscles in her arms would fail her and the knife would stab downward and all would be over.
But then a tall figure rose above him, and a long blade cut down through the air. The man arched up, his face knotted with agony. Branwen used her last ounce of strength to tip him off her.
Her mother was standing over them, her gown and her face spattered with gore. She drew the sword out of the dead man’s back.
“Mother!”
But Lady Alis didn’t seem to hear her. Instead she turned, the blood spraying across Branwen’s face as she swung her sword in a great arc and held it high. “What Saxon still lives?” she shouted. “Come, you dogs! Come, you vermin! I am Alis ap Owain! I am the blood-drinker, the wrath of heaven! Come!”
Trembling, Branwen scrambled to her feet. “Mother?”
Her mother rounded on her, her teeth bared.
“They are all dead, Mother,” Branwen said. She reached out to the fierce, blood-soaked warrior woman. “Mother—it’s me!”
Lady Alis stared at Branwen as if she didn’t recognize her, then a veil seemed to fall from her eyes. She gave a gasp, dropping her sword and opening her arms wide.
“Branwen!”
Branwen fell into her mother’s arms, holding her so tightly that her head spun and her legs threatened to give way under her.
“Branwen? Are you hurt, child?”
It was her father’s voice, but for the moment she could not respond. She was lost in her mother’s embrace, held by her strong arms.
“She is all right,” said Lady Alis, her hand stroking Branwen’s hair. “Give her a moment, Griffith.”
She heard Captain Owen’s voice. “They are all dead, my lord.”
“And of our own?”
“Three slain, four wounded. Healers and herbalists have been called for.”
“Are the gates secure? The walls manned?”
“Yes, my lord. Lady Branwen ordered the gates closed.”
Branwen took a deep breath and lifted her head to look at her father. There was blood on his fine blue mantle, and a cut along his cheek. She reached a hand toward him. “I came as quickly as I could,” she said.
“How is it you are here, child?” he asked.
Branwen gazed at him, lost for a simple answer.
“Time for questions later, my lord,” her mother said. “It is enough that she is here and we have been saved from a great danger.”
Branwen looked down at her feet. A lifeless face stared up at her, one eye blue, the other brown. There was blood on the lips and in the beard.
Geraint’s murderer was dead.
She looked around for Rhodri. The floor of the hall was scattered with the remains of the feast. A handful of warriors were checking the Saxon dead. Rhodri was among them, helping to lift one of the bodies and carry it from the hall.
She called to him, and he came over to where they were standing. He kept his head low, and Branwen could see the unease in his eyes as he approached her parents.
“This is Rhodri,” she told them. “We have him to thank for our victory here. He told me what the Saxons were planning.”
Lord Griffith brought his hand down on Rhodri’s shoulder. “You have our gratitude, lad,” he said. “And when time allows, you will tell us the full tale.”
“Thank you, my lord; I shall, gladly,” Rhodri said.
Lady Alis looked sharply at him. “You are a Saxon, by your voice.”
“Half Saxon, my lady. But my allegiance is wholly to Brython.”
Lord Griffith turned to Branwen. “Do you trust this boy, my daughter?”
“I do, Father. With my life.”
He nodded. “Then so shall we.”
Finally, Rhodri dared to look into the lord’s face. “I will strive to prove worthy of your faith, my lord,” he vowed.
There was the sound of running footsteps, and a guard came stumbling into the hall.
“An army!” he gasped. “A Saxon army comes, a thousand strong. And they bear sheaves of flame, my lord—fire enough to burn Garth Milain to its foundations!”
37
PRINCE GRIFFITH RAN from the hall with Captain Owen. Branwen heard them calling out orders. The Saxon army was coming. Garth Milain would soon be under siege.
“The gates are closed,” she reminded her mother. “We can withstand them within the walls, surely, even if they come in thousands.”
Lady Alis’s eyes were grave. “That we cannot do, Branwen,” she said. “If we lock ourselves away within our walls, they will turn and ravage the countryside. Our people will be murdered and their homes and crops burned. You saved us from being cut down while we feasted, but now we must meet their onslaught in open battle.”
Beyond the doors of the Great Hall, Branwen could hear shouting and running feet. Lord Griffith’s war-horns were blowing, warning the people of Garth Milain that
danger was upon them.
“I want to fight!” she said, looking determinedly into her mother’s eyes. “Please let me fight!”
Lady Alis rested her warm hand against Branwen’s cheek, her face filled with sorrow. “You shall fight, Branwen,” she said. “It is clear that fate has brought you to us here at this time. You shall fight at my side.” She took Branwen’s hand. “Come.”
“Wait for me here,” Branwen said to Rhodri.
“I shall.”
Branwen allowed herself to be led to the door of Geraint’s bedchamber. Taking a candle, Lady Alis entered the darkened room and guided Branwen to the chest that held her brother’s battle gear. She knelt, opening the chest and drawing aside the gray blanket to take out the bow and arrows.
“I hoped to spare you this.” Lady Alis sighed, lifting the dark green cloak from the chest and revealing the leather jerkin studded with overlapping rings of mail. “But fate will have its head, so they say.”
“Mother, the man you killed—the man with the strange eyes—he was the one who murdered Geraint,” Branwen said in a sudden rush.
Her mother paused and then slowly turned her head to look up at her. “That is good, Branwen. Blood has avenged blood.”
Branwen swallowed hard. “I thought…I thought it would feel…different,” she said. “Knowing he was dead and that Geraint was avenged.”
“And how does it feel?”
“It feels…empty…,” Branwen murmured.
Her mother nodded. “Vengeance has no flavor, Branwen,” she said. “A life taken is not a life given, no matter how just the cause. The slaughter of tens of thousands of Saxons would not return breath to the body of a single one of their victims.” She sighed. “That is a truth worth knowing, Branwen.”
“Yes, it is. But I’m glad he’s dead, all the same.”
“As am I.”
Branwen stooped and took Geraint’s shield and sword from the chest. The round, wooden shield was painted with a red Brythonic dragon on a white field. It felt good on her arm. The sword was old, its leather-bound hilt smoothed by the grip of generations.
“Don’t fear for me, Mother,” Branwen said. “I can defend myself. And attack, too, I hope. I have learned some fighting skills since I left here.”
Her mother looked surprised. “How so?”
“I convinced Gavan ap Huw to help me.”
She frowned. “Prince Llew allowed this?”
“He did not know.”
Her mother gave a sad smile. “I knew that you had talked Geraint into teaching you sword-play when you thought none saw,” she said. “But to have beguiled Gavan ap Huw? I did not know you could be so persuasive, Branwen.”
“I am your daughter,” Branwen said, a shiver of pride running through her.
“Indeed you are.” Lady Alis stood up, the smile gone. “Come now. Put on the mail jerkin, Branwen, and the woolen cloak. It is thick and will protect you from a glancing blow. But we must find you a suitable helmet.”
Branwen dressed quickly in her brother’s clothes. The chain mail jerkin felt heavy, but she found she was able to move quite freely in it. Her mother clasped the cloak at her daughter’s throat and then paused, resting her hands on Branwen’s shoulders.
“Are you sure you wish to do this? You have nothing to prove, Branwen. There is no dishonor in prudence.”
Branwen met her mother’s gaze. “How old were you when you first fought?”
“I was a year younger than you are now.”
Branwen smiled, and her mother returned the smile.
“Very well,” said Lady Alis. “Let’s find you a helmet, and then let us get to the gates. We shall fight side by side, my daughter and I; and the saints willing, we will prevail.”
Branwen and Lady Alis stepped together from the Great Hall, with Rhodri just one pace behind them. Branwen felt honored to be walking at her mother’s side, wearing her brother’s armor and carrying his sword.
Geraint would have been so proud of her!
Torches flared up into the night. Branwen felt the tension thrumming in the air. A battle was coming. Her heart faltered when she saw the warriors gathered by the gates. A battle was coming!
Prince Griffith had an army of foot soldiers two hundred strong, well-trained men clad in chain mail jerkins and with iron helmets on their heads. Some carried spears or battle-axes, but most had iron swords and round, wooden shields. They stood silently, their faces grim. Branwen saw a flicker of fear in some eyes, and it comforted her to know she was not the only one who was afraid.
Prince Griffith sat astride his black stallion, Dirwyn, surrounded by fifty horsemen—Garth Milain’s warrior elite—carrying spears and axes and bright blades thirsty for blood. A kind of hush hung over the fortress, pierced by the rattle of leather on iron and the sound of chain mail chinking and of horses’ hooves thudding on the ground. Beyond the gates, Branwen could hear a growing noise—shouting and howling, the clash of spears beating on shields, the noise of the approaching Saxon army, all the more fearsome for being unseen. For a moment she stared in alarm at the walls. The pales were too thin, like sticks in a windstorm—a child’s attempt at a fortress, about to be blown away to leave them all naked and exposed on that earth mound. She felt like a goat in a pen as the wolves prowled by night.
Why fight? Offer your throat to the wolves. Let your end be quick.
No!
You have no courage. You know this.
She gritted her teeth, her fingers gripping her sword until her knuckles flared white.
The ordinary people of the garth stood back from the warriors, mothers with children clinging to them, old men and women with fearful eyes, boys wishing they were old enough to fight.
Branwen turned to Rhodri. “Well, then, my friend,” she said. “See where your blabbing mouth has got you?”
He smiled. “When will I ever learn the value of silence?” Then his face clouded. “I’ve never used a sword, Branwen. I don’t know what use I can be in a battle, except perhaps to trip the Saxons up with my dead body.”
“Those without weapons will stand on the ramparts and pelt the Saxons with stones,” Branwen said. “Go with them—knock a few Saxon heads off their shoulders.”
“And you?”
“I’ll be with my mother. Quiet now; my father is giving his orders.”
The warriors of Garth Milain were packed tight in the space behind the gates, divided into three distinct groups. Prince Griffith’s horsemen were in the center under the pennant of the galloping green stallion; Captain Owen’s men formed up under the crossed swords of Cyffin Tir; and Lady Alis’s stood under a yellow crescent moon on a field of dark blue.
“The company of Lady Alis will take the right flank,” the prince called. “Captain Owen’s the left. Let the horsemen engage the enemy while the foot soldiers circle around and strike from the sides and the rear.” He stood in the stirrups, lifting his sword high. “May all the saints look down kindly upon us this night,” he called. “By Saint Dewi! By Saint Cynwal! By Saint Cadog! Open the gates!”
Branwen ran to stand with her mother as the bars were thrown down off the gates.
Lady Alis turned to her. “Remember! Keep close to me!”
“I will.”
The gates were swung open into the night. At the same moment a swarm of flaming arrows came hissing over the ramparts, thudding to the ground or striking wood and thatch. But the people of the garth who were not to fight in the battle were prepared for this: They ran to douse the flames, pulling the arrows down from the roofs with rakes and pikes, flailing at the fires with lengths of wetted cloth or heaping earth on them.
As Lady Alis’s company began to surge forward, Branwen looked over her shoulder. Despite the efforts of the hurrying people, the dry thatch of several roofs was already alight, and a woman whom Branwen had known all her life was lying in the earth, an arrow jutting from her smoldering back.
Branwen was drawn to the gates by the crush of soldiers. Her shie
ld was pressed to her chest, her sword arm pinned at her side, her helmet knocked as she fought to keep on her feet. Above the mass of people she could see the horsemen moving forward down the steep pathway; but she still could not see the enemy, although she could hear their racket and smell their burning torches.
The surge of soldiers got even worse as they pushed through the gates; but Branwen managed to keep close behind her mother, and soon things got easier as the horses went galloping down the earthen ramp and she no longer had to concentrate on staying upright. Lady Alis’s warriors poured down, scrambling and tumbling into the dark dale and flooding along the high flank of the hill.
At last Branwen caught her first sight of the Saxon army. It had gathered in a mass at the foot of the ramp, horsemen and foot soldiers all thrown together, many holding flaming torches for archers to ignite more arrows. The sky above Branwen’s head was filled with fire as volley after volley was sent into the fortress.
She thought briefly of Rhodri. Then a horde of Saxons came hurtling into Lady Alis’s warriors, screaming their savage war cries and striking out with sharp iron. She heard them shrieking the names of their cruel gods.
“Tiw! Tiw!”
“Ganghere Wotan!”
“Hel! Gastcwalu Hel!”
But the voices of the men of the garth sang out just as loud.
“By Saint Cadog!”
“For Prince Griffith and Lady Alis!”
And Branwen found herself shouting out fit to burst her lungs: “Death to the Saxons!”
She had no time to think, no time to summon up her half-learned skills. All she could do was react to save her life as swords and axes came sweeping and thrusting at her and she was buffeted by shields and jostled by friend and foe alike. She had no idea how long the mayhem heaved and pitched around her. The taste of death was thick in her mouth; the stench of blood clogged her nostrils. Men were falling all around her. She stepped on them in her desperation to stay alive, her boots slipping on gore, her face spattered with other people’s blood, her sword running red as she stabbed and slashed.
A Saxon towered over her. She was aware of a snarling mouth and of pale, glittering eyes. A double-headed battle-ax scythed down toward her with a force that would have split her from shoulder-bone to belly. She fended it off with her shield, her arm numbed by the power of the falling ax. She thrust blindly and felt her sword cut into flesh. Blood splashed into her eyes. There was a bellow of pain and the man came crashing down, almost knocking her off her feet. She stumbled sideways. Something hit her from behind, sending her tumbling to the ground. Feet stamped all around her; her ears were full of the dreadful clamor of battle, and there was a bitter taste in her mouth.
