“Whose sword is it?” Leri asked with a tinge of wonder.
“Nuada’s,” Brochfael said in a rapt tone. “It’s the magic sword of Nuada of the Silver Hand.”
“It’s magic?” She couldn’t take her eyes off the gleaming blade.
“Yes, it’s one of the treasures of the Tuatha De Danann, the ancient tribe of Ireland. They had great magic.” Leri parted her lips in awe and her eyes twinkled.
“Nuada’s sword cleaved all his enemies in two.” Brochfael’s voice held a rasp of amazement.
Chapter Nine
Branda cuddled up against her pillow as she listened to the chirping songs of morning birds. She opened her eyes to the soft dawn light which shone in through the ample grianan windows. As she sat up in bed, the first thing she saw was the clay pitchers of daffodils. They’d wilted.
Languidly, she climbed out of bed and padded over to the flowers. She touched each petal, wishing she could bring the daffodils back to life. Yet, at the same time, she had an odd feeling the wilted flowers were a sign Blaise would come home today.
With a jug of daffodils in each hand she stepped outside and tossed the dead flowers away then plopped down on the boulder by the castle gate. As she dangled her feet and stared down the misty hillside of Dinas Bran, she spied two men, plaid brats wrapped around them, riding up the narrow mountainside path. They looked like tartan tents mounted on horses. Blaise and the messenger.
She remembered the ransom and felt shaky but shook off the feeling of dread upon realizing she wouldn’t have to leave this mystic place. She’d found Bran’s treasure. The god promised. She belonged among the Cymry of Powys and, more importantly, she belonged with Blaise.
She climbed on top of the boulder and waved to the Prince, then waited as he rode closer to her. Once Blaise was close enough for her to see his expression, he appeared startled as if he’d been deep in thought and just noticed her. He frowned. Perhaps he wasn’t pleased to see her? What could be wrong? What happened in Mercia?
“Blaise.” She flashed a wide smile to brighten his mood. “I have good tidings. The god Bran knows I belong at Dinas Bran. I can stay here. I will not have to marry Cuthred.”
“Your father has no wish to marry you to Cuthred, that much is true.” He deepened his scowl and didn’t look her in the eye. “Princess, I cannot speak to you now. I have dire news to deliver to my father.”
“What has happened?” Branda gulped.
“We will speak of it later. What are you doing alone, outside the fort’s gates?”
“Druid Neilyn was to keep me company, but he said it was best he guard me in his head. He is in the temple watching over me in his mind.”
“Neilyn! That cranky old Druid has grown too crafty to carry out Elisedd’s commands. Watching you in his mind, indeed.”
“Blaise, pull your steed to a stop right now. Look at me. Speak to me. Did you not hear what I said about Bran?” She stomped her foot.
“I must be off to my father’s hall.” He turned to the messenger. “Escort the Princess to her bower and guard her until I give you leave.”
“How dare you!” With a jerk of her head she spewed, “I am given free run of the castle. I need no guard.”
“Princess, there is much you do not know. I will speak to you later,” he said in a low, sad tone. “For now, keep to your bower until the King calls for you.”
“But I found Bran’s treasure, the sword of Nuada.”
“The sword of Nuada?” He paused, baffled. “Very well, Princess, we will talk of it later. Hasten to your bower now.” He waved his hand airily, gesturing her to go away.
She called after him. “Blaise!”
He rode on by as if he no longer saw or heard her. What happened?
The messenger eased off his horse and gently rested his hand on her shoulder. “Come with me, Princess Branda.”
“Why did he not speak to me?” She wiped a single tear from her eye with the back of her hand. “He gave me daffodils before he left. I belong here. I found the treasure. How can he not know that I belong in Powys, with him?”
There was a glint of sadness in the guard’s eyes, but he was silent.
“Leave me alone. I want to be by myself. I found the sword of Nuada. It will cleave all Powys’s enemies in two. Now I can stay in Dinas Bran forever. You need not guard me.”
“You should not be alone now. Come, Princess,” he said in a pleading tone.
With her head downcast she exhaled. “You must tell Blaise what Bran said. He will not listen to me.”
In a tender voice the guard replied, “Yes, Princess, I will.”
With leaden steps she followed him to the sunroom.
* * * *
Blaise pulled his horse to a stop outside the King’s hall. As he briskly entered, he brushed the dust off his shoulders and nodded to his father, seated in the oaken throne.
Elisedd turned his head toward him, keeping his chin at a slight upward tilt. “My son, what word do you bring from Ethelbald?” He wore his special crown of twisted gold, which gleamed regally as it hugged his brow in a perfect fit.
“I need speak to you alone.” Blaise tilted his broad shoulders back and stood with his body straight and rigid.
The King’s expression grew stern, his eyes as alert as a hawk’s. “Leave us.” With a wave of his arm, servants scurried from the room. “What tidings could be so disarming? Does Ethelbald refuse to pay the ransom and means to attack Dinas Bran instead?”
“My sire, I bring unforeseen tidings. Ethelbald of Mercia does refuse the ransom, for he does not want his daughter.”
Elisedd gripped the arms of the heavy chair and leaned forward. “What say you?”
Blaise tightened his mouth and stiffened his stance. “He says she is a stain on Mercia and has banished her from his kingdom.”
“Her own sire does not want her!” Elisedd let out a roar like dragon’s fire. “There is only one reason a man would do such to his daughter. She has lain with the enemy. With you!”
A rage of anger arose in Blaise, and he abruptly stepped up to Elisedd. “I told Branda I would take her to her sister. She got me a horse and we rode through the gate of Mercia.”
Elisedd’s face was less than a breath span from Blaise’s. A muscle flicked angrily at his jaw. “You met no resistance in this escape?”
“No.” Blaise jerked his shoulders in anger. “I’ve told you, I wore a Saxon hearth guard’s uniform, and Branda told the men at the gate she rode on an errand for her sire.”
“Indeed!” Elisedd snapped. “When the King found his daughter and his hostage gone, he questioned the guards. They reported she rode with you of her own free will.”
“She rode of her own will for she thought I was taking her to the Picts.”
Elisedd’s brows drew together in an angry frown. “Ethelbald doesn’t know that. A Saxon Princess ran off with a Cymry Prince. His daughter is ruined. No one will wed her.” His voice was full of venom.
“I never touched her.” Blaise lifted his chin and met the King’s glare with a hard stare. “Her honor is intact.”
“I still cannot believe how foolish she was, to deem you aided her in escaping Cuthred rather than fathom she’d been taken hostage by you.”
“It was not her fault.” Blaise clenched his jaw. “She was desperate to escape her betrothal. Ethelbald should have listened to her.”
“You should have listened to me, then you would not have raided Mercia, been taken captive and had to escape with this girl in tow.” Elisedd’s eyes darkened as his accusing gaze burned through Blaise.
“In truth, it is my fault.” Blaise swallowed hard.
“That it is.” Elisedd leaned forward. “I have grown fond of the maiden. How can her father not want her? The heartless Saxon.” He rubbed his foreh
ead. “How will you get her and Powys out of this mess?”
The room hung in an unbearable silence. Blaise’s thoughts raced dangerously. He brought Branda here to please his father. Instead, he angered him and ruined her reputation. There was but one way out of this. Elisedd would win the ransom, and Branda would be wed and no longer ruined. However, did he dare betray her, knowing how she felt about Cuthred? He let out a sigh of exasperation. He knew no other way to right the wrong.
He steeled his churning emotions and spoke in a controlled voice. “There is Cuthred. The Wessex King will pay her ransom.”
“Would he want her?” Elisedd arched his brows.
“Any man would want her,” Blaise said in a choked voice. He wanted her. Branda belonged with him, not Cuthred. He burned for her, but he’d caused this wrong and he had to right it. Tensing his shoulders, he balled his hand into a tight fist.
“We must send word to Cuthred. Wessex has no lands I covet, but we can make the Saxon cur pay in gold—that will at least make all this trouble worth our while. The Princess will be married and no longer ruined. She should be happy of that.”
“She hates Cuthred,” Blaise managed to say through his clenched jaw and tight lips.
“Her father made that bargain. If Cuthred wants her, then he shall have her as long as the ransom is paid.”
“Do you want me to carry word to King Cuthred?” Blaise’s tone was cold. He couldn’t bear the thought of bargaining with Cuthred for Branda’s ransom.
“No, I shall send Brochfael. Cuthred would have heard of Ethelbald’s accusation that you slept with Branda, his own betrothal. If you show up in Wessex he will surely kill you. This task must fall to your brother. He is the heir and this sorry business will give him a taste of what it is to be King.” Elisedd waved his hand in dismissal. “Leave me so I may call for your brother and send him on this doleful errand.”
Blaise shook his head and cast his gaze downward. All had turned out wrong. He could not part with Branda, much less turn her over to that Wessex cur, yet he had given his word to his father, his King. Branda was banished from Mercia. If he ran away with her he would be banished from Powys. They would live as outcasts, traitors not only to their country and their kings, but to their own fathers. He was split in two. Would he throw away his honor for love, or tear out his heart for honor?
He scuffed his booted feet against the dirt floor, turned and walked to his bower to wash, rest, and hide from Branda. Once inside the sanctuary of his own chamber, he plopped down on the edge of his narrow bed and yanked off his boots. Dust swirled in the air.
There was a rap at the door. “Enter,” he called.
Carthann strode in, laid down a laver of heated water and kissed both his cheeks. “Welcome home.”
“My thanks, but my tidings aren’t welcome.” Blaise paused. “Ethelbald won’t pay the ransom. He thinks I have dishonored Branda.”
Carthann’s lucid blue gaze comforted him. “I know the King was not pleased. I take it he will request ransom from Cuthred?”
“Yes, but if Cuthred does not pay, what then? If he does pay, I cannot let her go.
“Elisedd could never bring himself to harm Branda. She makes him smile the way he did when he played with you as a babe. She is a sweet girl, the Princess. The daughter he never had. Do you not think so?”
“No.” He couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t think of Branda as a sister.”
“That is apparent enough.” Carthann’s eyes gleamed with amusement.
“Naught can come of my desire for Branda.” He sighed. “She is the daughter of the King of Mercia. Even if she stays here forever, she will always be an enemy of Powys.”
“I do not think so,” Carthann said indulgently.
“What say you?”
“Why do you not ask Elisedd to gift you the Princess as your wife?” She flashed a sly smile.
“What!”
“Elisedd holds her hostage. Her sire has refused the ransom. Elisedd can do with her what he will.” Carthann spread her hands. “He can betroth her to you.”
“Father will never allow one of his blood to marry a Saxon. He has said as much.”
“Elisedd says many things. This girl is like the sun: warm, bright and strong.”
“My sire will have my head if he hears I have given thought to marrying Ethelbald’s daughter.”
“I shall keep my opinion secret, but I see the way you look at her and she at you.” Carthann arched her right brow prominently.
“She hates me,” Blaise said under his breath.
“Really?” Carthann shook her head from side to side. “Go to her after you bathe. It’s best she hears this news from you.” She grinned wryly and exited the bower, giving him privacy.
He dipped his hands into the warm water and splashed his face. Having tugged his tunic off over his head, he tossed it to the floor and pulled off his britches. After scrubbing his tired body until his skin prickled, he put on a pair of clean clothes and pulled on his boots, then ran a sliver comb though his thick mass of hair.
He had lied to her, misled her. She thought he took her to Pictland. How could she be so trusting? Such an innocent. He pushed open his chamber door and trod slowly to the sunroom. As soon as he reached the grianan, Carthann opened the door before he even knocked.
* * * *
“Enter, the Princess has been waiting for you,” Carthann said as she followed Leri out of the sunroom.
Branda sat in the corner near the window, busy with her embroidery. When she looked up at him her eyes were such a clear, sky blue. It was hard for him to speak knowing those eyes would soon mirror the sadness of his words. She set her embroidery down on the window ledge.
“Beautiful,” he said gazing at the embroidered daffodils and mustering the courage to reveal the dismal news. “I have come to tell you of the missive from your sire to mine.”
“No matter what the missive says I will not go back to Mercia.” Branda cocked her head.
“Who told you?”
“The Celtic god Bran. While you were in Mercia, Bran sent me on a quest for the sword of Nuada.”
“What say you, Branda? Bran the Blessed has nothing to do with this.”
“Your gods gave me a boon for finding the sword of Nuada. I can stay at Dinas Bran. I know now this is where I belong.”
“What do you mean, you belong here?”
She stared at him. “Bran is a god. He says I belong here.”
“Neilyn has been telling you old tales while I was in Mercia. The Druid has you thinking you are seeing gods.”
“No, Neilyn did not believe me at first, but when the sword was found, he knew it was true.”
What was she babbling on about? “Branda you will not be going back to Mercia but you cannot stay here. You are to be ransomed.” His words came out in a curt tone due to anger at himself for causing all this heartache.
“What mean you, I cannot stay here?” She lifted her head and pushed her hair to the back of her neck.
“King Ethelbald refused to pay the ransom.” Blaise’s throat tightened, causing his tone to sound sharp.
“Why would he do that?” Her soft voice was etched with a sad tone, and her eyes were moist.
“He thinks you’ve betrayed him. He thinks I am your lover.”
“How could he think that?” She lifted her head and wiped her eyes. “No matter; it proves I belong here.”
“My father has deemed otherwise.”
“If not to Mercia, then where would he send me?” Suddenly, her face went pale, and she widened her eyes in shock. “Cuthred?”
Blaise didn’t like her downtrodden tone, so weak, so sad. He had become used to the vibrant defiance that often spilled forth from Branda’s lips. “Princess, when I am sad, Queen Carthann has a way of c
omforting me. She is like a mother to all of Dinas Bran. It’s best you speak with her.”
“Yes, send in the Queen. She is always gentle and kind.”
“I know this is my fault. I hope you can forgive me.” He’d never felt lower, more worthless, not even when held captive in Mercia, for he’d let down the one person who meant the most to him—Branda.
“You took a hostage and requested a ransom from your enemy.” Branda shrugged. “It’s the way of kings.”
He’d feel better if she was angry with him. She struck him as too quiet, not like her usually spirited self. “I hasten to fetch the Queen.”
Blaise strode from the chamber as Branda slumped down on her bed and wept.
* * * *
The thick, savory scent of venison, dripping with juniper berry sauce, filled the hall along with smoke form the roaring hearth fire as Blaise supped at the King’s board for the evening meal. A serving girl with a loving spoon dangling from her slender neck clutched a small cauldron and scooped out a generous portion of turnips and leeks onto his plate. As he stared at the steam rising from the heap of vegetables, another servant laid a slab of juicy stag on the side.
Carthann picked up a slice of brown bread and spread it with creamy, churned butter. “Princess Branda has chosen to dine alone in the sunroom.”
Blaise starred at Branda’s empty chair as he sliced off a hunk of venison drenched in berry sauce. Heaviness pressed on his heart. What had he done? The sound of hard, fast footsteps interrupted his musings.
One of Elisedd’s guards swiftly approached the dais. “We have captured an intruder, my King. A man disguised as a woman in skirts and shawl.”
“What kind of coward is he?” Elisedd mumbled with food in his mouth.
“A Saxon, my King,” the burley guard stated.
Elisedd grunted. “The worst kind.” He grabbed his silver goblet and took a long gulp of ale.
The guard nodded in agreement. “We found him with Princess Branda in the sunroom.”
The Prince of Powys Page 9
