Caradoc of the North Wind

chapter TEN

A strange dream. Not terrible or daunting – but somehow full of a significance that Branwen could not quite grasp.

She was alone in a wide field of deep, untrodden snow. It was daytime, although the clouded sky was the colour of beaten iron and the air was brittle and grainy. She turned round, hoping to see something to show her where she was. But there was nothing. Not even a trail of footsteps in the snow to reveal how she had come to this place.

A distant sound made her start. A dark shape was moving towards her across the snow. It had come out of nowhere, kicking up great spouts and jets of whiteness as it ambled forwards.

A bear!

Some twenty paces from her, the bear came to a halt, its dark eyes staring straight into hers, wild and dangerous and brimming with an unknowable intelligence. Branwen found herself calling out to the great silent creature.

‘What do you want?’ Her voice sounded shrill. ‘Are you going to eat me?’

The bear reared up on its thick back legs and let out a shivering roar.

Branwen fell to her knees in the crisp snow, her ears full of the noise, her eyes fixed on the mighty animal.

And then, the bear began to shrink and dwindle, like tallow in a fire. Its contours melted and changed and suddenly it wasn’t a bear at all – it was the goraig-creature that Branwen had met in a previous dream.

‘Nixie?’ she called, scrambling to her feet.

The slender silvery creature danced across the snow, leaving no trace of her passing on the surface. Her dress floated about her delicate limbs like water spray, her hair as white as moonlight.

‘I am she,’ called the goraig in her high, clear voice. ‘And I am come again to tell you two things of great import.’

When last she had dreamed of the goraig, Branwen had been gifted her white shield. Shortly afterwards, Blodwedd had told her of a sword that went with the shield.

‘What things?’ Branwen called, her breath billowing. ‘Are you going to tell me more about the sword now?’

‘Ahh, the sword,’ called Nixie. ‘In good time and if all goes well for you, then you shall hold the sword in your hand. But you shall grasp it for but a short time, before passing it to the other.’

‘ “The other”?’ Branwen remembered that Blodwedd had spoken of another champion – a boy, chosen like she was. A child of great destiny. ‘Will I meet him? Will he help me in the wars?’

Nixie ignored the question. ‘The first thing of great import is this,’ she sang. ‘Beware the eyes like two black moons. Death lies behind those eyes!’

‘Eyes like black moons?’ Branwen stammered. ‘I don’t know what that means. Is it a person or a demon or what?’

‘Secondly,’ continued the graceful goraig-girl, as though Branwen hadn’t spoken. ‘When all is done for good or ill, and if you survive the ordeal that is coming to you, your destiny lies at the end of the young bear’s path.’

And with that, the goraig began to spin ever more rapidly. Snow came flying from her like darts of ice and Branwen threw her arms up over her face and yelled out in alarm.

‘Branwen?’ Iwan’s voice was urgent in the darkness beyond her closed eyelids. ‘What’s the matter?’

Branwen sat up, gasping, clutching at his offered arm. She stared at the pale blur of his face, only faintly recognizable in the grey of an early dawn.

‘A dream!’ she panted. ‘Only a dream.’

‘A dream?’ echoed Banon, standing at the foot of her mattress. ‘It sounded deadly!’

‘Is all well?’ called Dera’s voice.

‘Yes – Branwen had a bad dream is all,’ Iwan called back.

From a little way off, Aberfa’s snores rang out like ten men sawing ten logs.

‘Get back to bed, both of you,’ said Branwen. ‘It was night fears. Nothing more.’

Banon nodded and slipped back to her bed. Iwan was hunkered down at Branwen’s side, looking keenly into her face.

‘Will you tell me your dream?’ he asked gently.

‘It had no sense to it,’ Branwen said lightly. ‘Hobgoblins dancing in my head, that’s all.’

He frowned.

‘What?’ she asked, puzzled by his expression.

‘I wish you would confide in me more,’ he said.

She lifted her eyebrows. ‘I have no secrets from you, Iwan. What do you mean?’

‘Are we friends, Branwen?’ he asked.

‘Of course.’

There was a strange pause.

‘And is that enough for you?’ he asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

She narrowed her eyes. ‘What do you want from me, Iwan?’ she asked, surprised to hear a tremor in her voice.

‘What would you give me, barbarian princess?’ he whispered. ‘If we were—’

‘Ho!’ called a loud voice in the gloom, cutting Iwan’s words dead. ‘Enemies at the gates! The Saxons are upon us!’

For a moment, alarm flared in Branwen’s heart. But then she heard an answering call.

‘Hoy, Aberfa!’ shouted Banon. ‘You’re dreaming, girl! A little peace, for pity’s sake!’

And as the echo of her voice faded, so Iwan slipped quietly away, leaving Branwen to lie back in the darkness and ponder sleeplessly over what he had left unsaid.

It was a raw, gnawing dawn with a wind that bit to the bone and a sky the colour of dead flesh. Branwen wrapped herself tight in her ermine cloak as she made her way across the deserted courtyards of Pengwern towards Linette’s little hut. The churned-up, muddy slush was as hard as knives under her feet, and so slippery that she had to lift her legs high and stamp down hard to keep from falling.

A thin white mist wreathed the palisades, the patrolling guards looking like ghosts as they kept their bitter watches.

By the time Branwen came to the hut, her cheeks were burning and the air was in her chest like frozen stone.

The fire was burning strongly within, and the small round room was full of its rosy light. Linette lay sleeping. Rhodri was alone, grinding herbs in the granite mortar. Branwen glanced at the disturbed cloaks of his bed and the depression in the straw mattress where two bodies had lain together.

‘How is she?’ Branwen whispered, leaning over Linette and gazing down into the pale, peaceful face.

‘She had a quiet night,’ said Rhodri, looking up from his work. ‘The lavender buds help her sleep, and Pendefig’s charmed herbs must do the rest.’

‘How long will it be before she shows signs of healing?’ she asked.

‘It may be several days,’ Rhodri replied.

‘You are concerned for her?’

He shook his head. ‘She has a good chance to be well, I think. Pendefig’s charms were wonderfully potent.’ He lifted a hand, waggling the fingers. ‘I can feel the power tingling in the tips of my fingers when I speak them. The hair stands up on the back of my neck. It’s good medicine, Branwen.’

‘Then what’s wrong?’

Rhodri’s brow creased. ‘Blodwedd had a bad dream,’ he said. ‘She woke up wailing and crying. I’ve never seen her so upset. It was like trying to comfort a wounded animal.’

‘She is still an owl, Rhodri,’ Branwen reminded him gently.

‘I have never forgotten that,’ said Rhodri.

‘You love her, though, don’t you?’

‘I do.’

‘And she you?’

‘In her way, I think,’ he said, looking into her eyes. ‘It’s not a love such as grows and flourishes between a man and a woman, but in so far as an owl can love, yes, I believe she loves me.’

When she had first noticed the affection growing between Rhodri and Blodwedd, Branwen had found it perverse and a little disgusting. But she had come to accept it over the months, and now the sight of them together made her glad. It had taken Blodwedd a while to get used to sleeping as a human sleeps – lying down, curled up under furs with her head on a pillow. But now she could not sleep at all unless Rhodri was with her, his arm protectively across her body, his warmth making up for the feathers that she missed so much. But still a question burned on Branwen’s lips. An intimate question she had never felt able to ask. For the hundredth time she bit it back unspoken. ‘Where is she now?’ she asked instead.

‘I don’t know,’ said Rhodri. ‘She ran out without even a cloak to her back. I could not leave Linette.’ His eyes pleaded. ‘Will you find her for me – try to learn from her what was in the dream that frightened her so much?’

Branwen straightened up. ‘I will.’ She picked up Blodwedd’s cloak and stepped out into the icy dawn. ‘And I’ll bring her back if I can.’

She found Blodwedd on the northern ramparts, squatting in the crusted snow, her arms wrapped around herself, her breath gusting. She shivered, staring into the mist.

Branwen crouched at her side, throwing the cloak over her. Blodwedd’s head turned. There were tears frozen on her cheeks and desolation in her huge amber eyes.

‘Come back into the warm,’ said Branwen, tightening the cloak around the thin owl-girl, chaffing her arms with her hands.

‘I…am…a…coward…’ The voice seemed to issue from a broken and ice-bound heart. ‘… such … a . . coward…’

‘That’s not true. Why do you say that?’

Blodwedd shook her head. ‘I came here to do something that I find I cannot do,’ she gasped. She gazed into Branwen’s face with haunted, harrowed eyes. ‘Did you dream the dream?’

‘I dreamed of a bear that turned into a goraig,’ said Branwen.

‘ “Two things of great import”,’ breathed Blodwedd. So! She had dreamed Branwen’s dream. But it had affected her far worse than it had Branwen. A thin, hooked hand darted from under Blodwedd’s cloak and caught Branwen’s wrist. ‘When you encounter the creature with the eyes like two black moons you must strike swift and hard, do you understand me?’ she hissed. ‘You must kill it. Let nothing stop you.’

‘Do you know what this creature is?’

Blodwedd shuddered. ‘I know,’ she said heavily, her voice quivering.

‘Is it human or otherwise?’

‘It has not one shred of humanity in it,’ said Blodwedd. ‘It is a foul and corrupt demon. It will betray you to your death, Branwen. Kill it before it kills you.’ Blodwedd’s curved nails dug into Branwen’s flesh, making her wince. ‘When you see the eyes like two black moons, do not hesitate – not for love, nor honour, nor compassion nor friendship.’

‘What does it look like?’ asked Branwen, frightened to the very soul by Blodwedd’s dread. ‘Apart from the eyes, I mean.’

‘You will know it when you see it,’ said Blodwedd.

‘Can’t you tell me more?’

Blodwedd shook her head.

Branwen gave her a bleak smile. ‘Then I’ll do as you say – I’ll watch for the black moon eyes, and the moment I see them, I’ll cut the demon’s heart out.’ She thumped again at Blodwedd’s narrow shoulders, trying to beat some warmth into her fragile frame. ‘There. All’s well. I have been warned. No Saxon fiend will get the better of me, Blodwedd. Now! Will you return willingly to the hut, or must I carry you?’

Blodwedd stood up, her eyes turning into the misty north. ‘The traitor prince approaches,’ she said softly. ‘He has two hundred warriors at his back, riding upon two hundred war-horses. There are five wagons, also – laden with food and with gear for the war.’

‘Prince Llew,’ murmured Branwen, ‘come at last to fill his hands with his ill-gotten treasures!’ She shivered. ‘I hope the king does not regret this truce.’

‘I do not fear for this king of men,’ said Blodwedd. ‘I fear for you, Branwen of the Shining Ones.’

Branwen gazed northwards again, thinking that maybe now she too could just make out a heart of moving greyness in the white blur of the fog.

‘Llew ap Gelert can do me no harm,’ said Branwen, putting an arm around the owl-girl’s shoulders and turning her, leading her back to the hut where Rhodri was waiting.

‘What did you make of the goraig’s other thing of import?’ Branwen asked as they crunched along. ‘The young bear.’

‘The young bear will be a great warlord and leader in his time,’ said Blodwedd. ‘And he will never be forgotten.’ She frowned. ‘I see images of him in far-flung times. They confuse me. They are flat and yet they have life – like patterns drawn upon silk, but bathed in light, moving, alive, huge in the sky. Most strange, it is. Most uncanny.’

‘So, Nixie was speaking again of the boy you told me lived in the south-east – in the kingdom of Wessex. The other champion?’

‘Yes. He is the young bear. If you survive the coming ordeal, you will meet him, I think. Yes, you will be of service to him, unless you are already dead – and then it must be another.’

‘I will not be dead!’ Branwen growled, tightening her arm about Blodwedd’s shoulders. ‘Have no fear on that score. I will endure, whatever Ironfist can throw at me – and we shall travel together to the distant land of Wessex, and we shall see what we shall see.’

‘Perhaps we shall,’ whispered Blodwedd. ‘If hope outstares fate!’