Caradoc of the North Wind

chapter TWELVE

‘You speak our language very well, Master Hunwald, with hardly a trace of a foreign accent,’ said Branwen. ‘Why are you here?’

‘To speak with King Cynon.’

‘So you said. But how am I to judge your honesty?’

Hunwald opened his cloak. ‘Test my honour for yourself.’

Warily, Branwen moved in closer and patted his clothing for weapons hidden under the folds. There was nothing. ‘Follow me,’ she told him. ‘Bring your horse. He will be fed and watered while you wait upon the king’s pleasure.’

She was aware of many eyes watching her as she led the Saxon emissary in through the gates of Pengwern.

Branwen found the king in the Hall of Araith. She waited at the doors while a guard took her message down to where Cynon sat on his throne under the awnings and flags of Powys. Eanfrid Hunwald stood behind her, the spears of two door wardens pointed at his heart.

The hall was a hundred paces long, but even at that distance, Branwen could see quite clearly what was going on at the far end of the high, columned chamber.

Meredith and Drustan sat on low stools in front of the throne, some five paces separated, but facing one another. Behind Meredith stood Prince Llew and Romney, along with Angor and some other of Llew’s warriors. At Drustan’s back were his mother and a small group of councillors. Representatives of the other three kingdoms were gathered behind the throne, looking on.

Clearly, bride and groom were meeting formally for the first time. But Branwen’s mind was entirely overtaken by conjecture concerning what message the Saxon emissary might have brought from Ironfist.

The guard spoke briefly to one of the king’s men, and the message was then relayed to Cynon himself. Every head turned to the doors. Branwen stepped into the open and bowed.

‘Bring him to me,’ Cynon called. Then he spoke some quiet words to the people assembled around him. The peaceful tableau broke up, the women departing to some side-chamber, and the men lining up beside the throne, grim-faced as Branwen led Eanfrid Hunwald forward.

The king sat back in his throne, leaning on one arm and regarding the Saxon messenger with a cool detachment.

Eanfrid Hunwald dropped to his knees in front of the throne. ‘Great King of Powys, I bring greetings from my lord Horsa Herewulf,’ he said, his voice showing no trace of fear, although Branwen guessed he must be feeling uneasy among so many armed enemies.

‘Indeed?’ said the king, his voice low and laconic, his eyes hooded as though to conceal any hint of his true thoughts about this unexpected visitation. ‘And what words does the warlord of the east have for we whose blood he has so infamously shed?’

Branwen stood close behind the Saxon, her hand on her sword hilt, her nerves tingling and her whole body alert for any treacherous move. One step wrong on his part and her sword would be in his back up to the hilt.

Eanfrid Hunwald raised his head and spoke in a loud, clear voice.

‘My lord Horsa Herewulf bids me speak these words to you.’ His voice boomed to the rafters. ‘Great King of Powys, you have fought with honour these past months, and you should have no shame that you have not done your duty to your realm. But ranged against you are forces so mighty that you cannot ever hope for a victory. All the lands to the east and to the north and to the south, is my lord Horsa Herewulf emptying, and into his great encampment at Chester are these men pouring in their multitudes. Surrender now to the mercy of King Oswald’s great general, and many lives will be spared. Continue in your obstinate refusal to acknowledge the overlordship of King Oswald, and General Herewulf will unleash his armies to flow as an unstoppable tide over your lands. If General Herewulf is forced to come across the borders in arms, be most certain, not a man will be left alive to tell the tale, not a woman will escape servitude, not a child shall live to see freedom again.’

Branwen’s eyes flickered across the gathered faces that surrounded the throne. There was anger and outrage in most faces, but trepidation in none. If Ironfist’s words were intended to intimidate, then they had failed. Apart from a hard gleam in the king’s eyes, Branwen could see no reaction from him.

‘Here’s our answer!’ shouted Angor, drawing his sword and taking a step forward. ‘To send you on your way without a head to your shoulders for your impudence!’

The king lifted a hand and Angor halted, his arm shaking with fury.

‘We are not barbarians, Captain,’ said Cynon. ‘We do not kill messengers because we like not the message they have been sent to deliver.’ He looked long and thoughtfully at the Saxon. ‘These are hard words,’ he said at last. ‘And we need time to consider them.’ He rose from the throne. ‘Take this man to where he can find food and drink. Keep close guard on him. He shall be called when our deliberations are done.’

Branwen turned, meaning to leave with the Saxon.

‘Branwen, stay awhile,’ said the king. ‘We desire your counsel. You alone have met General Ironfist face to face.’

Is that so? Then do you forget, my king, that Captain Angor has knelt at his foot and done his bidding in the past?

But Branwen was wise enough to hold back her thoughts – opening old wounds would do no good, and might do harm while the treaty between Llew and the king was so young and tender.

Dark looks followed Ironfist’s messenger as he was led at spear-point from the Hall.

‘Well now,’ said the king. ‘What are we to make of this?’

‘Nothing, my lord father, by your leave,’ said Drustan. ‘Only the bully seeks to cow an opponent with haughty words.’

‘It’s not the words themselves we should sift,’ said Llew, ‘but the thought behind them.’

‘We and the Saxons have beaten our heads together like stags these six months gone,’ said one of the king’s men. ‘Why does Ironfist choose this moment to threaten us so?’

‘Indeed,’ said the king. ‘That is my question also. Branwen? Have you any insights into Ironfist’s thinking?’

‘None beyond this,’ said Branwen, remembering what Iwan had said to her some days previously. ‘Ironfist was content to let us fight brother against brother while he stood by and watched. But if word of the marriage treaty has reached him, he may realize his time of standing aside is all but done.’

‘So he seeks to frighten us with fell words before setting his dogs loose on us?’ said Angor, and Branwen was quick to notice a hint of respect for her in his voice. ‘Goes this with the turn of his mind, girl?’

‘I think so,’ said Branwen.

‘Belike he has other motives for such threats,’ added Dagonet. ‘If all we have been told of the forces mustered outside Chester are true, then he must have an army of four or five thousand in camp. Men in such numbers need much feeding and watering, and many will have horses, too, that will need fodder. How will the town of Chester cope with such numbers? Ironfist’s army must be bleeding the town white, and this winter is a friend to us in so far as it has blocked the trade routes from the east and made the bringing of supplies from afar almost impossible.’

‘That is a good thought,’ said Llew. ‘And if true, it means that he must either seek provisions by dint of conquest, or see his army starve.’

‘Will he let loose war in such weather as this?’ asked another counsellor. ‘Surely not?’

‘If need drives him, he may have no other choice,’ said the king. ‘A hard reply from us may force his hand.’ He looked around at the other men. ‘Are we prepared for the hordes of the east to come at us?’

‘We must try to hold him back for a little,’ said one of the men from Gwynedd. ‘For the passage of a moon, at least, to allow us time to return to our king and have him send the levies across the mountains. Two thousand men can we provide for the succour of Powys, but they cannot be gathered all in a moment.’

‘I would say the same,’ added Hywel al Murig, among the men of Gwent. ‘Can we send some serpentine response that will set him on his heels for a while? King Tewdrig will send warriors now that the conflict in Powys is ended, have no fear, but it is many leagues to the southern kingdom, and many leagues back.’

‘A cunning reply, my lord, will maybe forestall an attack,’ said Angor.

‘But what words of ours might make him think we wish to negotiate a peaceful settlement?’ asked Drustan.

‘Why do we not suggest an old course of action?’ said Prince Llew. ‘In times past, the mayhem of warfare was often averted by the surrender of tracts of land to a strong enemy. Perhaps we could let him believe we will offer to hand over some of our eastern cantrefs to him, if he calls his army off.’

‘Land for peace,’ said Dagonet. ‘That may work, at least to give him pause.’

‘He may feel the need to send word to King Oswald before he makes such a bargain,’ said Drustan. ‘And we can reinforce the eastern citadels while he waits on a reply.’

‘Good, good,’ said the king, his eyes glinting. ‘Gull the mighty general with false promises, then.’

‘To lie would make us no better than a Saxon,’ blurted Branwen. ‘We cannot win the day with falsehoods, my lord. And he will surely not believe we would truly give up our lands to him uncontended?’

‘In his arrogance, he may,’ said Dagonet.

‘But my own home of Cyffin Tir lies on the eastern borders!’ cried Branwen. ‘He cannot think I would surrender my homeland to him!’

‘That need not be a problem,’ said Llew. ‘We shall tell him that Branwen ap Griffith is dead or fled … or devoured by the demons she worships.’

‘Or imprisoned by the king for her dark sorceries and insolent ways,’ added Angor with a cold smile. ‘That would not be hard for Ironfist to believe.’

Indeed, not! As it’s something you already wish were true!

‘My lord king,’ said Branwen, looking into Cynon’s unreadable face. ‘Ironfist is a liar and an oath-breaker – but must we walk that same path?’

‘For the charging bull, an arrow to the heart will suffice,’ replied the king, eyeing Branwen sharply. ‘But for the venomous serpent, slithering through the long grass, stealth and subtlety are the tools best suited to the task.’ He raised a hand. ‘We will slow the great general of Mercia down with talk of treaties, and of land to be given over to King Oswald. We will send word that we wish for a meeting between our most wise counsellors – his and ours – in some place where the safety of all is guaranteed. Some neutral ground where none should fear ambush.’

‘And while we negotiate the terms of this meeting, so we shall send to Gwent and to Gwynedd and to Dyfed for reinforcements,’ said Llew. ‘I like this council, my lord. And by the time Ironfist realizes he has been fooled, we’ll have gathered an army to hold him back!’

The king rose and reached out his hand to the prince. ‘And you, my noble lord of Bras Mynydd, shall be our General-in-Chief, to lead our armies to victory.’

Branwen stared at the king in alarm and dismay. This was getting worse by the moment! Cynon was handing over the army to Prince Llew? To the man who had till a few weeks past been seeking his death on the battlefield? It was madness.

‘My lord, may I speak with you alone?’ she asked the king. She had to make him realize Llew could not be trusted. If Cynon gave the prince of Bras Mynydd command of the army, he might as well hand over his crown at the same time.

‘Thank you for your counsel, Branwen of the Gwyn Braw,’ said the king. ‘Go you now and fetch the Saxon messenger while we debate the exact nature of the words we would send back to General Ironfist.’

‘But, my lord—’

‘Do as the king commands,’ said Angor, glaring at her. ‘Or do you think the demons you worship allow you to question the king’s wishes?’

‘No, Captain, I do not,’ Branwen replied, holding back her anger. ‘But I know twisted counsel when I hear it, and I would rather face Ironfist in open battle than defeat him by stealth and falsehoods.’

Bowing to the king, she turned and strode quickly from the hall, well aware that malevolent eyes followed her.

‘It is called diplomacy,’ Iwan said earnestly. ‘Branwen, we have spoken of these things before. More wars are won by lies and deceits than by swords and axes.’

‘I know!’ Branwen replied sullenly. ‘But I hate it all the same.’

‘You are too honourable,’ said Banon.

‘Maybe I am,’ sighed Branwen. ‘But this kind of trickery sickens me.’ She jumped up. ‘Banon! Come, spar with me! I need to clear my head!’

It was the afternoon of the same day. The Saxon messenger had been sent back with the king’s reply and as he had departed snow had begun to fall. Although Branwen had brought Eanfrid Hunwald to the Hall of Araith, she had been sent away without hearing exactly what was said to him. Not that she wanted to listen to such shameful, dissembling words.

Now she was with her followers in the long house, joining in with their arduous training regime, trying to block out her apprehension with hard physical effort.

She worked every muscle as she fought sword against sword with Banon. The gangly warrior girl was a wily, lithe opponent who seemed never to be quite where Branwen expected, and who moved around the field of contest like a hare made mad in the spring. Banon was not the strongest of her followers, but all the same, Branwen found it hard to get the better of someone who in two long-legged springs could be behind her and swinging her sword at the back of her neck almost before she could turn round.

They fought till Branwen found an opening in her opponent’s guard. Sweeping Banon’s sword arm aside, she brought her blade to a stop a hair’s-breadth from piercing the lanky girl’s exposed stomach. They stood panting, looking at one another with shining eyes.

‘One day I shall get the better of you, Branwen,’ said Banon.

Branwen gave a crooked smile. ‘But not today.’ She turned. ‘Aberfa? A little exercise?’

‘Indeed,’ said Aberfa, getting to her feet and hefting her spear.

Branwen spread her feet, raising her shield to her eyes, gripping her sword tightly, preparing herself for battle. Aberfa stood gazing at her. Smiling, she raised a hand and beckoned. Narrowing her eyes, Branwen moved in.

Aberfa was powerful and deadly – it was like attacking a tree, but a tree that could swing around with startling speed and give Branwen a buffet on the side of her head. Two or three times in their contest, Branwen fell back, her head ringing and eyes full of stars.

‘Well hit!’ Iwan roared as Branwen retreated again from Aberfa’s attack, feeling as if wasps swarmed in her burning ears. ‘Are you half asleep, barbarian princess?’

‘If she was, that blow will have woken her!’ declared Dera, watching the contest with excited eyes.

Branwen narrowed her eyes, pushing back the annoyance she felt at having been bettered like that. Had Aberfa’s spear shaft been a Saxon axe, her skull would have been cloven in two!

Pay attention! Forget everything but the foe in front of you! Focus your mind!

But that was easier said than done when images of Prince Llew kept drifting into her head, breaking her concentration and making her vulnerable.

Aberfa came at her like a raging bear. Instinct took over from thought in Branwen’s mind. She dived forward, curling up, her shoulder striking the ground first as she rolled at the advancing girl’s feet.

Aberfa stumbled, taken off balance as Branwen’s shoulder and back took her feet out from under her. The ground shook as Aberfa came down in a sprawling heap. Branwen bounded to her feet again, pivoting, her sword held high above her shield, the point angling down.

She came down heavily astride Aberfa’s back, the sword point at her neck.

Dera and Iwan and Banon applauded. Aberfa spluttered and shook herself.

‘Are we done?’ Branwen asked her gasping opponent.

‘We are!’ puffed Aberfa. ‘Put up your sword, before you snick my head from my shoulders in your zeal!’

‘Ha!’ Branwen sheathed her sword. A moment later, Aberfa rose up under her like a mountain. Branwen was thrown on to her back as Aberfa’s spear point pressed against her throat.

Branwen stared at her in surprise. Aberfa’s face was grim, her cheeks flushed red. ‘Do you see the lesson I am teaching you, Branwen?’ she said, withdrawing the cold iron from Branwen’s flesh. ‘It is as Iwan has told you – deception is a sure road to victory, when all else fails.’

Branwen sat up.

‘And if even Aberfa knows this, imagine how it thrives in the minds of men like Ironfist,’ added Iwan.

‘What do you mean – “even Aberfa”?’ asked the huge warrior girl.

Branwen sat looking up at Aberfa, her elbows on her knees, her breathing still rapid from her exertions. ‘I was brought up always to speak the truth and to treat even the vilest enemy with honour,’ she said. ‘Was I taught wrong?’

‘I’d not say wrong,’ replied Dera. ‘But to the Saxons, truth is foolishness – honour, a sign of weakness.’

Iwan reached down and Branwen grasped his hand, allowing him to haul her to her feet. She looked from one to the other of her companions. ‘If Saxons are deceitful and treacherous,’ she said slowly and heavily, ‘then all the more reason for us to be honest and truthful!’

‘Ahh, Branwen,’ sighed Iwan. ‘What manner of barbarian are you?’

‘An enlightened one, I hope,’ said Branwen. ‘And one with a throbbing head, thanks to Aberfa!’

‘Dera ap Dagonet.’ It was a man’s voice, sounding out unexpectedly from the door to their private house. They all turned. Branwen recognized the man as one of Dera’s father’s warriors, who had come with him from Gwylan Canu.

‘What is it?’ asked Dera, stepping forward.

‘Your father summons you,’ said the man.

There was a moment of silence. Dagonet ap Wadu wished to speak with his daughter? That was something that had not happened since they had come to Pengwern. Perhaps Branwen’s words to the grim warrior in the Hall of Arlwy had touched him after all?

Dera seemed stunned at first, then she quickly stepped forward, her face filled with hope and barely suppressed excitement. ‘Then take me to him,’ she said.

She left the house without even a backward glance at her companions.

‘Well!’ said Iwan, blowing out his cheeks. ‘And what are we to make of that?’

‘Father and daughter reconciled?’ puzzled Banon. ‘After all these months?’

‘Let us hope so,’ said Branwen. ‘The estrangement from her father eats at Dera’s heart like a canker.’

Iwan gazed thoughtfully out through the doorway. ‘We shall learn more of it when she returns, I do not doubt,’ he said. He turned, whipping his sword from its sheath. ‘So now? Who dares stand against the finest swordsman in Powys?’ he called, making a few rapid passes.

‘Only Powys now, is it?’ laughed Banon. ‘I thought it was all of Brython!’

‘Modesty forbids!’ said Iwan with a grin as Banon drew her own sword and lifted her shield to her eyes in preparation for battle. ‘With me, modesty always forbids!’

As he advanced on Banon, he winked at Branwen and smiled, and not for the first time, Branwen was puzzled that something so ordinary should set her heart racing.