He called out to the skinny fool of a hearth guard. “You, Scan; the Princess has not come to the hall this day. Is she ill?”
Scan walked toward Blaise and leaned down to his ear. “Cuthred has arrived. Princess Branda keeps to her chamber to avoid him but she will come to sup at the feast this eve.”
“Ah, Cuthred is here.”
“Yes.” The guard nodded his head.
This would be the best time to make his escape—during the commotion of a betrothal feast—but how would he get out of the chains? Branda and Scan were so kind-hearted they would unknowingly aid in Blaise’s escape. He just didn’t know how, as of yet.
* * * *
Branda entered the hall and rushed to Scan. “My sire and Cuthred are in the council room with the door closed. You must stand guard there so you can hear what they say.”
Scan stared at her with a blank expression.
“Go on.” She waved him toward the council room. She would find a way out of this betrothal.
The guard turned on his heel and in a slow, reluctant stride went to do her bidding.
“My congratulations, Princess.” Blaise grinned wryly. “I understand you are to be betrothed.”
Gods teeth, not him too! Did everyone know she was to marry Cuthred of Wessex? She turned to face the hostage.
“Never,” she retorted with a quick jerk of her head.
His laughter burned her ears as she hurried to the long table. She plopped down on the bench, feet flat on the rush-covered floor, and gripped the edge of the oaken table. Seething, she tried to ignore the warrior who sat hearthside in a pile of cinders, but she caught herself staring at his mass of red hair, sprinkled with ash. She couldn’t take her eyes off the muscles bulging beneath the soot- covered tunic. She’d never been attracted to a man before and it unnerved her on the day she needed her composure the most.
She sensed someone’s approach. Scan. He has word, she thought, as she gazed with anticipation at the rangy youth. As he bent his lips to her ear, she twirled a strand of flaxen hair around her finger.
“Your sire called for the scribe.”
She banged her small fist on the oaken table. “Christ’s bones! It cannot be. I shan’t be wed to Cuthred the cur.”
“Shh, shh,” Scan cautioned. “If your sire hears, you will suffer his wrath. He is a bretwalda, one of the greatest kings, a ruler of Britain. M’lady, his word is law.”
Am I not his daughter, a Princess of Mercia? “My sire needs fathom what my life would be, married to Cuthred of Wessex.” If I may but speak to him alone I will have my way. I always get my way.
“Shush, I hear footsteps.” Scan scurried to his position at the hearth where he stood at attention.
Ethelbald and Cuthred strode into the hall with wide grins across their weatherworn faces. Branda crossed her arms over her blue woolen tunic dress. Her burning anger rose as she looked at Cuthred, the man who would be her husband, the brute, the boar, and the end of life as she knew it.
She unfolded her arms, grasped her hips and gazed boldly at Cuthred. “M’lord, I see you are well pleased. No doubt Wessex plots another battle against Mercia, for I believe that is your fondest means of frolic.”
With a tilt of his thick neck, Ethelbald raised his firm-set chin. “What know you of battles? Hold your tongue, for the King of Wessex is my guest this day.”
“Yes, my sire. So often has he been our foe that I, a mere woman, forgot he was here as our friend...this eve.”
Ethelbald dropped his jaw.
Branda shut her mouth but she didn’t regret her words. Her father shouldn’t have promised her to Cuthred.
“Princess Branda, you speak the truth. Often I have been your foe, but neither am I here as friend. From this day forth I shall be more to you than friend or foe.” Cuthred smirked, flashing a row of yellow-stained teeth.
Her skin crawled as if covered by snakes.
King Ethelbald raised his muscular arm and declared, “Here you, people of Mercia: I declare blessed tidings. I have granted King Cuthred, a brave and strong adversary...” he paused and patted the Wessex King on the back, “betrothal to my youngest daughter.”
He brought his arm broadside, pointing toward her. She stepped back, wanting to be anywhere but here.
He continued, “Thus bringing about an alliance between Wessex and Mercia.” He dropped his arm at his side. The timbered hall shook with huzzahs.
Cuthred held out his fist. She stood her ground but flinched for a moment. Will he hit me, Branda thought. She knew nothing of men. Everything she’d heard about Cuthred involved his temper.
He unfolded his fingers, revealing a thick, golden ring in his palm. “M’lady your betrothal gift.”
Her hands quivered as she picked up the gaudy ring. It was engraved with a lion, bordered by decorative swirls. Grudgingly, she slipped it around her finger. She wanted to scream, yet could not risk it. She’d raised her father’s ire by insulting King Cuthred. Determined to charm him into releasing her from this dreadful fate, she schooled her composure to that of a model daughter. Branda could turn this around. She just needed time.
She strode to her father’s side at the long table and eased down into an oaken chair between her sire and Cuthred. Servants set steaming bowls of hare and barley and tankards of golden mead upon the board.
She cast her gaze downward in feigned meekness. “My King, when shall the marriage take place?”
“In a sennight,” he replied firmly.
A deep cough spurted from Branda’s lips as she almost choked on a chunk of hare she chewed. Having managed to swallow the stringy meat, she took a swig of mead and mustered her resolve.
With sweetness and charm, she bobbed her head and said, “It is good.” She needed to make her move as soon as possible.
Branda kept her gaze upon the bowl, unable to look her sire in the eye, while discussing this curse of a wedding. Holding a spoonful of stew to her lips, she blew upon it, taking comfort in the pleasing scents of sage, bay, garlic and leeks the hare simmered in. She flinched at the obnoxious slurping sound of Cuthred devouring his stew. Had he no manners? This was not a battle camp. It was a betrothal feast.
“Sweet Mother Mary!” she exclaimed as she accidentally bit her tongue.
Ethelbald glared at her.
Smile, smile, smile, Branda thought. She would please her sire so he would want to please her and release her from this betrothal, but her tight-lipped grin was undone as she glanced at Cuthred’s beard sodden with hare broth and the bits of barley stuck to his chin. It was the first and last time she would sup with him. Marry him? Never. She glanced at Scan but he was staring off in space, the dunce. He needed to help her find a way out of this.
Her gaze fell upon the hostage and she gulped. He stared at her dead on, with a bold smirk. It seemed he laughed at her fate. Well, he should be afraid, with Wessex and Mercia aligned what chance would Powys have? Ethelbald and Cuthred had both fought the Welsh often enough.
Silly goose, Branda thought. I need to rid myself of this betrothal. She didn’t have time to ponder the hostage, a wild Welshman, but why did he seem so different than the other men?
Blaise smiled. Heat flickered in her chest, but, as she wasn’t used to the feeling, she flicked her gaze away and stared at the bowl of stew.
Her father pounded his fist on the table. The servants scurried to clear the bowls and bring on the betrothal sweets. Serving maids rushed to the hearth where the hostage was chained. He didn’t budge but just looked at them as they turned the upside down cauldron aright and lifted a pot from the embers. The aroma of baked apples, honey and roasted hazelnuts tempted the feasters as plates were filled with generous helpings of apple and hazelnut crumb.
Branda raked her spoon back and forth across the golden-brown crust of crumbs and hazel
nuts. Horrid as Cuthred was, she should be able to persuade her father of the error he made in betrothing her to that cur. She would remind him of Cuthred’s atrocities in battle, burned villages and ravaged women. While the King of Mercia had honor in battle and strove for peace, Cuthred fought to win at all cost.
She recalled all the bloody, wounded men she and her sister tended after battle with Wessex. She thought of her sister Judith, her long blonde hair and large, almost round, blue eyes. She was closest to Branda and had taught her to stitch wounds and mix herbs. She would love her sister’s company. Poor Judith was in Caledonia, forced to marry the Pict King Brude. Ethelbald gave Judith to a woad-painted Pict and Cuthred was little better. She would persuade her father to dissolve the contract. She must.
Branda scooped up a spoonful of apple crumb, but the sweet treat was almost bitter on her tongue. An inner voice whispered, I fear my charm can’t get me out of this dilemma. Cuthred’s loud belch knocked her from her musings. Disgusting. She’d have to get away.
“M’lord,” she called sweetly to her father. “I am so excited with the tidings that I have no appetite. I have much to do to prepare for the wedding, be it in a sennight. May I retire to my chamber?” She couldn’t stand another moment with the Wessex cur.
Ethelbald waved his hand, dismissing her.
Oh, ignore me now if you like; I will have your ear later, she silently swore before rising. She gave the expansive over-tunic and narrow under-tunic skirts a brisk shaking. Crumbs fluttered to the floor. After a quick, slight curtsy to King Cuthred, she walked away.
Once in her chamber with the door tightly shut, Branda plopped down on the bed, folded her legs beneath her. She brushed her fingers across her lips and into her mouth, nibbling on the end of her nails. She had to think. She always got her way; she just needed to find the perfect words to persuade her father to forgo this match.
Hours passed, and the din of feasting died down. She heard the firm footsteps of King Ethelbald pass her door. Branda stood.
“It’s anon or nevermore.” She pulled open the chamber door, made her way to the King’s bower and knocked.
“Enter,” he mumbled.
“M’lord, I would speak with you, the most honored King in all of England.” She flashed her most dazzling smile and walked toward him. “Father, I am saddened by the thought of leaving you. Will you not miss me?”
“Yes.” He smiled. “Now that is how a proper daughter should act. I like it when you are like this: sweet and maidenly.”
“Do you?” She reeled him in with a coy, downward roll of her blue eyes, stepped to his side and sat on the bed beside him. “When will we see each other again?”
“You are not yet wed.” He chuckled in a low tone. “I said a sennight, remember.” He gazed with fondness upon her. “Mayhap longer. A sennight is too brisk for a royal wedding. I should have told Cuthred that.”
“Do you think so, Father?”
“Yes, indeed a wedding of this magnitude requires at least a moon-time to prepare for. I shall tell Cuthred in the morning.”
Branda pulled her arms behind her back and squeezed her balled-up hands to contain her excitement. She got the wedding put back for three sennights and would get it postponed, permanently! The heavy ring weighted down her left hand, but soon she would toss it back at Cuthred. She could take care of this with no trouble at all, and she smiled to herself, forgetting her father’s presence.
“Do you not want this wedding?” He pierced her with his lucid, blue gaze.
Torn from her musings, his words caught her off-guard.
“It is your duty.” Ethelbald drew his brows together.
“Yes, m’lord. I’m always willing to do my sire’s bidding.” She mustered her dearest, dimpled smile.
He arched his salt-and-pepper brows and turned his mouth down into a scowl. “Since when?” He stood and looked down at her. “You are forever questioning my orders.”
“No.” She stood. “It’s not true.” Branda moved toward him so they stood but a breath-span apart. “I do everything asked of me, within reason.” With a defiant toss of her head, she flung back her long, uncovered hair.
Ethelbald’s face went bright pink.
Branda realized her grave error. He would not give in to her now. Heaviness pressed down upon her. She had lost.
“Daughter, you will marry Cuthred to ally Wessex with Mercia. You shall birth many sons so Cuthred will have an heir as well as princes to fight in his army. Do you hear me?”
With her back against the wall her charm was useless. All Branda could do was fight.
“No! Never shall I marry that brute, that man who waged war against Mercia. I spit upon the King of Wessex.”
“Wed him you will, and in a sennight.” Ethelbald wagged his finger at her. “Get you to your chamber now and stay there!”
Branda fled to her bower and fell upon the bed. She swore like a soldier and cried like a Princess until her shallow breathing slowed to a steady rate. She wiped her tear-stained eyes, strolled from her chamber and paced the halls. A burly figure stepped from the shadows of the manor entrance and loomed over her. She gasped as the man pushed her back against the wall.
“Christ’s bones, ‘tis you, Cuthred.”
“M’lady, I didn’t dare hope for such a warm welcome.”
“What say you?” she asked warily.
He winked. “Come now. No need to be shy. I know you meant to meet me for a tryst.”
She dropped her mouth open and froze. Was he crazed?
He let out a deep chortle. “No need to feign such coyness, m’lady. Why else would you pace the halls in the dead of night, if not to sneak into my chamber?” He grinned.
“Indeed, Lord Cuthred, my reason for being up is to...to...” She turned her head and spotted Scan. “Well, if you must know, I serve my father. He bid me deliver a missive to the hearth-guard regarding your accommodations and that of your men. So if you will allow, I need do my duty. I am a most obedient daughter.”
“Obedient?” He paused. “Yes, I like obedience in a woman. It is good.” He smirked again and eyed her lustily. “Very good.”
“Yes, indeed.” She squeezed out of his heavy embrace and darted toward Scan as an excuse to get away from Cuthred. She had never been so glad to see the guard, but as she neared him her heart almost stopped beating. He was not Scan. The cinder boy, the hostage Prince, hid his flame-red hair under a soft conical cap and wore a Saxon cloak pinned with a dull brooch at the right shoulder. The braided hem hung at knee length over a brown woolen tunic loosely belted below the waist. The Saxon trousers of natural-colored wool hung at his ankles rather than draping over his shoes as was the custom, for he was too tall for those britches. He wore Scan’s clothes. “Oh, no!”
Standing over her, smiling down, he whispered, “Why are you creeping about in the middle of the night?”
“I could not sleep, if it’s any business of yours. Where is Scan? Those are his clothes.”
“Scan has a lump on his head but will waken in the morn. He looks very handsome in my black- and red-checkered pants.”
“I want to see him.”
“Really? Why? Is he your lover?”
“How dare you? What are you about anyway? Do you mean to harm my sire?”
“I have not the time. I’m escaping.”
A flash of hope sparked in Branda. “Departing…unseen…to be free?”
“Yes, the hearth-guard is chained to the hearth as I thought it only fitting.”
“He will be fine?” She couldn’t have any harm come to Scan. He was her only friend.
“Yes.” The Prince spoke in a low whisper.
The sound sent a warm flutter through her, but she had no time to wonder about the strange feelings he invoked. “I am also fleeing.”
�
��What are you escaping?” He arched his red brows.
“My sire has ordered me to wed King Cuthred, but I shan’t.”
“Cuthred is a barbarian. He and his men rape women afore running swords through them. I would kill him myself if I had the time, but I must flee before I am spotted.”
“But you have been.”
“What mean you?” His tone was arrogant.
“I, Princess Branda of Mercia, have spoiled your escape.” How dare he not recognize her authority?
“Call the guards.” He crossed his arms and stared. “I thought not. What you would say: ‘I ran into the hostage while I sneaked out of the palace, refusing to obey my father’s command to marry Cuthred, the only chance my people have for an alliance of peace with Wessex.’?”
“I can say what I wish. The guards would believe me, not you. I am the Princess of—”
“Mercia! This I know.” He dropped his muscular arms to his side.
“I can help you escape.” She flashed her most beguiling smile. “Take me with you.”
“Why should I?” His eyes glinted with the sheen of mischievousness.
“I will aid you in getting a horse. All I ask is that you escort me to Caledonia. My sister Judith is wed to Brude, King of the Picts. I can stay there until my father comes to his senses. Once he sees he cannot make me wed Cuthred, he will let me come back home.”
Blaise rested his hand on his belt. “Brude?” He widened his eyes. “You want me to take you to the King of the Picts?”
“Yes, do you know him?” She was filled with new-found hope.
“I know of him. Apparently, you do not.” He chuckled softly.
She moved closer to Blaise. “Brude will offer me safe haven.”
“Oh, he will, will he?” His smile turned to a thin scowl. “Be cautious. Cuthred is watching us,” he said beneath his breath.
“He thinks you are the guard. I need give you an order,” she whispered. She raised her voice and commanded, “Scan, make sure the King’s horses and those of his men are washed down and fed. Send mead, and if there be willing women to comfort him and his men, send them as well.”
The Prince of Powys Page 2
