“Cariad,” he whispered. “My love, you must live. We have all we want now. You cannot die.”
She moved her head to and fro and babbled as if she was talking in her sleep but he could make no sense of it. As he sat at her side he threaded a needle, but before he began suturing, Blaise lifted her head. He poured small gulps of mead down her throat for the pain, one after the other, so she could swallow easily. He stitched the wound as best he could, wishing he had her knack for small, straight stitches. He’d done his best. Now it was up to her.
“Live, Branda. Don’t you dare go dying on me; do you hear?”
She blacked out again. He lay at her side, never leaving during the night. At dawn, he nudged her awake. To his relief, she came to. Lifting her shoulders, he coaxed her to part her parched lips and, bringing the spoon to her mouth, he fed her some broth Kip brewed.
“You need to keep up your strength, Princess. We ride hard today. All the way to Dinas Bran as fast as we can, so Neilyn and Carthann can heal you. They will, you know. I promise.”
He hoped he hadn’t lied. No. She could not die. Would the gods be so cruel to give her to him just so he could lose her? He wiped broth off her chin with the back of his hand.
She opened her eyes. “Blaise? I am here. I can’t see you clearly, but I know you are there. Hold my hand. Do not leave me.”
“Branda, can you not see me?”
“You are a blur. I think it’s just my eyes or my head. It hurts to look at anything.”
“Close your eyes. I will not let go of your hand, you hear? I will not leave you.”
“You killed Cuthred and now I am free.” Her pallid face spread into a smile.
“Yes, free to marry me as soon as you are hale and hearty.”
She nodded. “I will be well soon.” Her voice betrayed the weakness in her body. She slipped back into unconsciousness.
He laid her close to the fire and tucked a blanket around her, but he never let go of her hand. He bathed her forehead until the men broke camp. He released her hand only to mount his horse.
Kip handed Branda to him. Blaise cradled her in his arms as he led his men at a fast, hard ride through the rough terrain of hills and valleys. His legs felt stiff and heavy, and his horse was sodden with sweat. Still he pressed on. The long, hard ride paid off when he spotted Dinas Bran rising above the mist of the mountain in the distance.
If only Dinas Bran held the cauldron of regeneration, he’d lay Branda in it and she would rise with her wounds fully healed. However, the cauldron had been destroyed long ago, and the gods could take her life at any moment. Anguish pressed upon him like a weight of steel. He would be desolate without her. There was no one else for him but this Saxon Princess.
On the jolting and rough ride, he comforted her with soft words as he brushed his fingers through her hair. At least Cuthred had paid for his vile deeds. Dead, he could no longer hurt her.
After following the murmuring Dubr Duiu River to a bright-green valley, he stared at the thousand-foot mountain and the hill fort of Dinas Bran sitting atop, amid the clouds.
“It’s a place of magic and legends, Branda. You will be healed there. You must,” he said with conviction, determined somehow it would be so.
Cradling her, he nudged his horse up the steep path of sprouting grass and small rocks. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the huge walls jutting from the summit.
“Do not let me bring her home just to have her die here at Dinas Bran. Please,” he prayed to the gods as he neared the dark, circular fort rimming the mountaintop.
Chapter Fourteen
As he passed beneath the stone archway, Blaise clutched Branda’s limp figure to his chest, never wanting to let her go. Clicking with his tongue and pulling on the reins, he brought the horse to a halt before the crowd that came to meet him. Word of her injury had spread through the castle by way of the messenger. He dismounted and handed the bag of gold to Elisedd, who was more concerned with how Branda fared.
“Ah, the sweet maiden.” Elisedd gestured with his hand. “Bring her inside. Make haste.”
Blaise kissed Carthann on the cheek. “Mother.”
“Fear not, my son. We will make her well.” She gently patted his shoulder.
Strengthened and comforted by the love his parents had for the Princess, he picked up her hot, fevered body and carried her into the bower. Scan, Leri, Neilyn, Elisedd, Carthann and Brochfael followed.
“Wound fever.” Neilyn turned to Scan. “Go to the temple and get the vial of dried yarrow to brew a tea. Give her the yarrow to drink and make a poultice of it as well to lie on the wound.”
“I shall help you so it will go faster,” Leri said as she followed the blonde bard.
“You need rest, my son. We can tend her now.” Carthann’s voice held an intense tone of compassion.
“No. I swore I would not leave her.” Blaise took a seat in a wooden chair beside the bed and clutched Branda’s hand. “I will stay.”
Carthann opened her mouth as if to speak, but Neilyn interrupted. “Let him be.”
“She will heal, will she not?” A tone of guilt tinged Elisedd’s query.
“I will do my best to see she recovers, my King,” Neilyn answered with a quiet emphasis.
Elisedd lowered his gaze and his voice. “My son, I know not what to say.”
“She saved my life. Her wound was meant for me.”
“Cuthred did this!” Brochfael’s mouth was tight.
“Yes.” Blaise had to pause, the anger almost choking him. “I killed Cuthred. He is dead.”
“It is good.” Elisedd’s mouth was taunt and grim, and he drew his red brows together. “I would like to have delivered the fatal blow myself.”
Scan returned, and Neilyn asked all to leave except Carthann and Blaise. He needed the Queen’s assistance, and the Prince wouldn’t leave.
* * * *
Day and night Carthann and Neilyn took turns tending the Princess. Blaise stayed by Branda’s side, clutching her hand and never letting go. Many times, he leaned his ear down to her lips to make sure she still breathed. Throughout each day he checked her brow, hoping the fever had broken. Nausea overtook him, but it gave him a strange sense of happiness for in being ill he felt less guilty—as if he suffered some punishment for kidnapping her in the first place.
He prayed out loud. “Gods, if you take her then you must take me as well. If not in this world, then we shall be together in the next.” He whispered, “I love you, Branda.”
She showed no sign of hearing him.
“Fight, Branda, fight. You can win. Live.” He laid his face in his hands and sighed. After a long pause, he lifted his head and pleaded in an almost helpless tone, “Princess, you must not die. You promised.”
Carthann put her hand on Blaise’s shoulder. “You do not eat nor sleep. You will soon become ill yourself.”
“I shan’t leave her,” he answered Carthann, without removing his gaze from Branda.
Blaise barely noticed when Neilyn changed places with Carthann. He heard the Queen bid him a good eve but he didn’t reply. He was exhausted but continued his vigil day in and day out. It took all his strength to concentrate on Branda.
Bending down toward her lips he listened for the faint murmur of her breath. He heard nothing. He clutched his chest as if his own heart had stopped. He listened again. Nothing.
“Druid Neilyn! Branda does not breathe. Help her. She has stopped breathing.”
“Get away, lad. Let me see.” The gray-bearded Druid shoved him aside and leaned over her. Neilyn raised his head with a faint smile on his lips. “What say you? She breathes, my Prince. She breathes. Do you not see the soft rise and fall of her breast?”
“I heard nothing.”
Neilyn cupped Blaise’s forehead. “You are hot. My Prin
ce, you have worked yourself into a fever. You have neither slept nor eaten for three days.”
“It matters not. I care only for Branda.”
“You cannot help her if you get sick,” Neilyn scolded. He stirred a mixture in a cup and handed it to him. “Yarrow tea. Drink it for your fever.”
He sipped the steamy tea. His shallow breath slowed and become fuller, more normal. She breathed. She was still alive. A moment ago he was sure she was dead, and his heart with her.
“Branda, Branda,” he cried out.
Carthann heard the commotion from the hall and ran into the bower. “Is she dead?”
“No, she is not.” Neilyn leaned forward. “The Prince’s mind is befuddled with lack of sleep and food.”
“Blaise, you need to eat and rest.” Carthann reached out and took his hand in hers.
“I won’t leave.”
The Queen shook her head and glanced at the window ledge. “When she wakes, the daffodils will cheer her. They are her favorite flowers.”
“Yes, Elisedd picked them for her.” Neilyn managed a slight, hesitant smile.
“A warrior can pick a daffodil now and then.” Carthann rolled her eyes.
The Druid released a soft chortle.
Blaise breathed in the fresh, lively scent of the wild flowers. It renewed his belief that he and Branda would live a long life together.
“What say you, Neilyn? The fever will soon break, will it not?” He clutched Branda’s hand tighter.
“The yarrow takes time. She is gravely ill. If it was anyone else I would not be so sure of recovery, but the Princess has a lot of fight in her. She will pull through.”
“Lady Carthann, fetch the sword of Nuada.” Blaise held his head high “It is in my bower wrapped in a silken cloth.”
She turned her face toward him. “Why would you want the sword, now?”
“She is connected to it. Bran gave it to her and her name means sword. In her tongue Branda means blade. She told me.”
“I ken what you hope, Prince, but I do not think it will heal her.”
He tilted his head to the side. “The sword is magical, is it not?”
“That it is, but it does not revive life as the cauldron did.” Neilyn’s voice was calm, his gaze steady.
“How do you know this? Bran wanted her to have it.” How could Nuada of the Silver Hand not save her? Whose magic could be stronger? Neilyn was wrong. “By the gods, Bran, Nuada, save my love,” he prayed.
Neilyn turned to the Queen. “Bring the sword, Lady Carthann, hasten!”
Carthann inclined her head in compliance. When she returned, Blaise unwrapped the silk cloth around the sheath. He didn’t draw the blade forth but took the sheath with the sword still inside and wrapped Branda’s thin fingers around the thick swirls of bronze that made up the hilt. He laid the mid-section of the sheath against her face. The engraved heads of the entwined snakes pressed upon her, fighting the foul fever with powerful magic.
Branda lay under the power of the sword with Blaise at her side. Her body jerked. He gasped. She writhed from the magic working on her body.
He whispered, “You must fight. Let the power of Nuada heal you.” His voice choked as a tear formed in his eye. “You cannot leave me, Branda.”
“Her soul and the power of the sword have connected. I feel a potent power in the air.” Neilyn’s voice rang with hope.
Blaise grasped her still hand. “Branda, Branda,” he called in the fervid tone of prayer. He turned his head and blinked away the tears that had formed when she did not stir. He felt the warmth of the Druid’s hand upon his shoulder.
“Take the sword from her face and bathe her forehead and cheeks. She needs a rest from the weight of Nuada’s magic,” Neilyn said in a calm, soothing tone.
Blaise picked up the sword. It was heavier. He felt weighed down and quickly laid it aside, then he patted her face with a cool cloth. He set the rag down and wrapped his fingers around hers, clinging tightly.
* * * *
Branda felt someone squeeze her hand but wasn’t sure where she was. She heard herself mumbling aloud, not knowing what she was saying. She seemed to float through the air. The overpowering thought, I am dying, broke into her mind. She fought it. She would not die. Not now. She couldn’t open her eyes. She tried to lift her head but didn’t have the strength to budge a single muscle.
Even in this dazed state she felt warmth in her hand. Someone gently pressed their fingers against her. Instinctively she knew it was Blaise. She felt his presence as she felt his touch. Blaise was with her. She would be all right. She mustered all her strength to try to open her eyes but she couldn’t do it. It seemed like hours had passed. A period of awareness gave way to senselessness when she couldn’t bring forth a single thought.
Alert once more, she felt a source of power nearby radiating a healing heat around her. Somehow, she knew it was Nuada’s sword.
Bran’s voice called out to her as he had in her dream. “Open your eyes. Fight. Live.”
She realized it wasn’t Bran’s voice, but that of Blaise. All the muscles in her body tightened as she strained to open her eyes and answer his call. Her eyelids fluttered open.
“Neilyn, she wakens!”
It was Blaise’s voice. She tried to look at him but everything was a blur of colors and shapes. She felt a rough, gnarled hand on her forehead. It must be Neilyn, she thought.
“She is out of danger. The fever has passed. She will be all right.” The Druid’s tone was a mixture of gratitude and relief.
“Am I in the bower in Dinas Bran?” Branda asked.
“Yes, Princess, you’ve been ill but you are recovering now.” Carthann’s tone was faint and breaking as if she’d been crying.
It made Branda think of the way mothers always wept at their daughter’s nuptial feast. “Did I miss my wedding?”
Blaise let out a warm chortle. “No! We could not have the wedding without you.”
“In truth!” Branda heartily agreed.
“We will wed as soon as you are well.” He gazed at her tenderly.
“Why do you say that?” She cocked her head to one side. “Did you ask me?”
“Ask you what?”
“If I would wed you?”
“Yes, I did. Do you not remember?”
“Yes, I do remember. I remember that I have yet to give you my answer.”
* * * *
A sudden fear clutched Blaise’s heart. Would she want to return to Mercia now that the betrothal to Cuthred was no longer a threat? He hoped she would stay with him but she’d never said so. He thought she felt the same way about him as he did her. Yet, she never said as much. It was his fault. She wouldn’t have been injured if he hadn’t tricked her and taken her hostage. Did she blame him for all of that? An invisible weight pressed against his chest. “Would you return to Mercia then, Branda?”
Before she could answer Elisedd strode in.
“I hear she is well.” Elisedd scanned the room, and then his eyes fell upon Branda’s face. “Good to have you back, Princess. I picked daffodils for you.”
She glanced at the window ledge and the bright golden flowers. “My thanks, King Elisedd.” She winked at him.
“It is good to have you well, girl,” he said then turned to Blaise. “My son, you have proven yourself a true Prince of Powys. You shall have the honor of escorting the Princess to her father.” He flashed Branda a toothy grin and curved his lips down into his usual scowl as he continued to address Blaise. “I command you to return the Princess and the ransom taken from Cuthred to King Ethelbald of Mercia. Let him know the kingdom of Powys wishes peace. Tell him of his honorable daughter who risked her life for yours, and of the Druid of Powys, who, with the powers of the sword of Nuada, healed her wound and nursed her from the edge
of death to full recovery.” He placed his hand affectionately on Blaise’s shoulder. “Let Ethelbald know that life is precious and there has been too much bloodshed between the people of Powys and Mercia. Use the gold and the return of his daughter as a treaty of peace, my son.”
“I shall, Father.”
Branda sat up. “Have I no say in this? You asked me to wed you, did you not?”
“But you said no.”
“I have not given you any answer.” She leaned her head back and gazed into his eyes.
“Then what do you say?” Blaise was speechless. He couldn’t breathe as he waited for her response.
The room fell silent.
“I cannot decide such until I know why you wish to marry me.”
He bent down on one knee beside the bed and took her hand in his. “Branda, if you pledge your troth to me I will be the most fortunate man on Earth. There is no other woman like you in all of Powys, Wessex or Mercia.”
“You say you wish to wed me because I am like no other woman? What is that? You must have a better reason to show you love me.”
“Princess, you make me laugh.”
“Good, very good. That is reason enough to wed.”
He sat on the bed at her side and tipped his head to hers. Their lips collided in a heady explosion of heat. Shivers of delight spiraled through them. They were no longer aware of the onlookers. Blaise and Branda floated on a soft wispy cloud in a world all their own where their hearts beat as one.
About the Author:
Drawing on her love of a happy ending, Cornelia Amiri has written over a dozen books, including the Celtic/Romances: Druid Bride, Queen of Kings, The Prince of Powys, The Wolf and The Druidess, A Fine Cauldron of Fish, Timeless Voyage, The Celtic Fox, The Scottish Selkie, The Celtic Vixen, and Druid Quest. She has two Steampunk/romances To Love A London Ghost and As Timeless As Stone under her pen name of Maeve Alpin.
The Prince of Powys Page 13
