Caradoc of the North Wind

chapter THIRTEEN




That evening, Branwen and her friends sat in their long house to eat a meagre meal of watery cheese and hard bread and the last of the small, wrinkled apples from the storehouses. All washed down with snow-melt water and thin goat’s milk.

Dera had not yet returned, although Fain was making his presence known, having been out hunting somewhere in the wilds and returning with a woodpigeon in his claws. He took his prize up to the rafters. Feathers occasionally drifted down, sometimes with blood on them.

After the meal, Branwen stood at the door, staring out into the ghostly-white night, missing her other companions and wishing Linette would heal quickly so that the Gwyn Braw might be sent off on some urgent mission.

Despite the danger, she would even have been glad to be ordered east across the river – anything would be better than this endless watching and waiting while Llew and Angor hatched dark schemes for the downfall of King Cynon … and probably for her own death as well.

She could feel the heat of the fire on her back, and hear the voices of her companions as they chatted of the things they had seen and done over the long winter months.

Guards moved like wraiths of silk on the ramparts of the citadel, and still the snow fell.

Iwan came and stood at her side, leaning against the doorframe, balancing his knife on his palm, dropping it, catching it deftly, throwing it up to cartwheel before catching it again.

She saw in the corner of her eye the dull gleam of the blade as he tossed and snatched at it, and all the while as he played with the knife, he hummed softly to himself under his breath. It was as though he was idly waiting for her to say or do something.

Branwen reached out and caught the knife by the handle as it was about to drop into Iwan’s palm for the twentieth time.

‘Do I disturb you, Branwen?’ he asked mildly as she handed the knife back to him, hilt first.

‘Deeply and often,’ she said without looking at him.

‘Good. I’m glad,’ he replied. ‘Then we are even.’ There was a pause. ‘You worry me, barbarian princess,’ he continued. ‘A surfeit of honour in such times as these may catch in the throat and choke a person to death. And I wouldn’t have you fall, Branwen – not for the world.’

‘I shan’t fall,’ she said, still staring out into the never-ending snowfall.

‘I’d say that was pride running wild if anyone but you said it,’ Iwan replied. ‘But even you are not indestructible, Branwen. And you’re not indispensable. If you die, the Shining Ones will find another …’

She turned her head to look at him now, and there was genuine concern in his face.

‘It might be as easy as picking up windfall apples in the autumn for the Shining Ones to replace you, Branwen,’ he said. ‘But there are those among us who will find it much harder.’ He rolled the knife over his open palms. ‘I’m only saying be careful. You’re not as unbreakable as you think.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a shame, but it’s true.’

Branwen frowned. ‘Why do you always do that?’ she asked.

‘What?’

‘Turn everything into a joke.’

‘Is that what I’m doing?’ he said, looking into her eyes. ‘Then perhaps it’s because I’m waiting for some sign from you.’

She let out a breath, white as steam into the night air. ‘We’re all waiting on a sign,’ she said, her eyes turning broodingly to the west again. ‘I’d hoped the Shining Ones would show their goodwill towards us by making Linette better – but she still lingers in the sickbed, and from the looks of Rhodri and Blodwedd, you’d think she might die.’ She checked herself. ‘She won’t, of course – but a quick healing would be some proof that Rhiannon and Govannon are with me still.’

‘I see you don’t mention the others. Are Merion and Caradoc not your friends, then?’

‘Blodwedd believes they may be angry with me – she thinks I made a mistake in coming here against their wishes.’

‘Let’s hope she’s mistaken,’ said Iwan. ‘Although this endless winter might suggest that Caradoc has little love for you.’

‘Blodwedd says the snow is not a punishment,’ said Branwen, gesturing to the sky full of snow. ‘She thinks Caradoc is at play, full of his own self-importance and willing to do anything to amuse himself.’ She gave Iwan a sidelong glance, her lip curled in a smile. ‘A little like you.’

Iwan pursed his lips, tapping the flat of his knife against his palm. ‘If I had the power of the winds,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t torment you with blizzards. I’d bring you warm southern breezes and clear blue skies.’ He looked into her eyes, no hint of mockery in his gaze. ‘And if I had Govannon’s power over living things, I’d have the birds sing you to sweet sleep every day’s eve.’

Branwen’s heart galloped as she held his gaze. His hand moved to push a lock of hair off her face. She lifted her own hand and thrilled at the touch of his skin. Her mouth was dry, her throat tight, and for a few moments it felt as though her legs might fail under her.

‘You are a marvel to me, Branwen ap Griffith,’ he murmured, his fingers still warm against her cheek. ‘This is no time for troth-plighting, not when our lives hang by a thread, but when peace comes at last, if we two are still alive, then we shall speak again …’ His eyes pierced her to the soul. ‘If you wish it.’

‘I do wish it,’ she whispered. With all my heart I wish it!

He smiled, withdrawing his hand. ‘There,’ he said. ‘And all said without a taunt or a tease.’ He frowned into the snowy night. ‘Let’s close the door, barbarian princess – and banish the cold as much as we can.’

And so they drew the wicker door close and pulled the woollen curtain across to keep out the cold. And together, with hands almost touching, they walked to sit with their companions by the cheering firelight.

Branwen was awoken in the middle of the night by a stealthy step close by the end of her bed. She was alert in an instant, one hand reaching for her sword.

A shadow slid across the ruddy firelight. A familiar shape.

She let go of her sword hilt and got quickly to her feet, wrapping herself in the fur bed covering.

Dera was sitting on a hearthstone, her shoulders hunched, her eyes hidden as she stared into the flickering flames. Branwen knelt at her side, looking searchingly into her face.

‘Is all well?’ Branwen whispered.

‘All is well,’ Dera replied softly.

‘You were gone a long time,’ said Branwen. ‘Did you and your father speak much together?’

‘We did,’ Dera replied. ‘Mostly we ate and watched the entertainments in the Hall of Arlwy, but we spoke as well.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ urged Branwen, wanting to know more and growing impatient with her taciturn friend. ‘Are you reconciled?’

Dera turned her head away. ‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘Can we speak of this another time?’

Branwen rested her hand on Dera’s knee. ‘Did he ask you to choose between his love and mine?’

‘It is not so simple as you may …’ Dera’s voice faded away with the rest of her words going unspoken. ‘I’m tired,’ she said again, getting up this time. ‘I want to sleep.’

For a few minutes, Branwen knelt alone by the fire.

What had passed between father and daughter?

Denounce the shaman girl and return to the bosom of your family!

No! Never!

Or …

Yes! I cannot bear it! I will do as you ask, Father. I will renounce the Gwyn Braw.

Branwen shook her head to rid herself of these pointless thoughts. Dera would not turn from them – the sky would fall first!

Dera was no more forthcoming the next morning when the rest of the Gwyn Braw awoke. All they could learn from her was that she and her father had spoken, and that Dagonet had made no demands on her to shift her loyalties. Beyond that, she remained tight-lipped, although it was clear to Branwen that she was leaving something unsaid.

The morning was spent sparring in the long house and checking that their horses were comfortable and as well fed as possible in the circumstances. In ones and twos they made trips to visit Linette. Branwen noticed she was quieter than the previous day, as though the effort of showing them a brave face had drained her. The ailing warrior girl lay either gazing into the fire or with her eyelids closed, but not asleep.

Some time in the latter part of the afternoon a commotion at the gate alerted Branwen that Eanfrid Hunwald had returned. He must have had quite the gallop to get to and from Chester so rapidly.

Branwen strode impatiently up and down the long house, waiting for a summons from the king, so that she could learn what word had been brought from Ironfist.

She saw the Saxon general’s scarred one-eyed face in her mind. He was laughing at her. Mocking her. She snarled and ground her heels into the earthen floor, every sinew tense in her body, every muscle aching to strike out at the jeering vision that filled her head.

In the end she lost patience and stormed across the compound to the Hall of Araith. The doors were closed and guards stood sentry with spears in their hands.

‘Let me pass,’ she said.

‘The king says none may enter,’ replied the guard, and she saw his knuckles tighten on the spear shaft.

‘Is the Saxon within?’ asked Branwen.

‘He is.’

‘And I am not to know what is being said?’

The guards did not reply.

She considered trying to force them aside – but to what purpose? If Cynon did not want her in there, then breaking in would do her no good.

This is Llew’s doing, she thought bitterly as she turned away. He murmurs his lies in the king’s ears and stops me from speaking to him. Well! If that is the way the wind blows, perhaps my duty here is at an end. Perhaps it’s time to take my people out of Pengwern and return to the path the Shining Ones would have me follow.

The unbidden idea appealed to her; beaming out in her mind like a shaft of sunlight through heavy storm clouds. To be away from the machinations and deceits of the court would be a fine thing indeed. And what further use was she here? She was unloved and feared by almost everyone in the king’s service. Who would mourn if the Gwyn Braw rode out through the gates of Pengwern never to return?

And as the idea grew in her mind, so she found herself longing for the freedom of the wild hills and eager to see once again the beautiful face of Rhiannon, the Woman in White upon her milk-white steed, and to look again into the glorious, sad eyes of Govannon of the Wood, lord of the forests.

Yes! I will do it! I will be rid of the fetid stink of this place. I’ll no longer be Branwen the witch girl, the tamed and shackled monster of King Cynon’s court. I’ll be the Emerald Flame! The Bright Blade! The Warrior Child of the Shining Ones!

The urge to escape blossomed in her until she almost felt like running to saddle up Terrwyn at that very moment, to ride out into the dying day. Anything to be out of here as quickly as possible.

But she stifled her growing desire to be gone. Even if she were to take such an extreme step, and even if all her followers chose to depart with her, she would not think of quitting the king’s citadel without Linette.

Her enthusiasm waned as reality flooded her mind.

I cannot leave Linette, not even if Llew chose to send an army of assassins to cut me down where I sleep. No, patience will be my guide till Linette is healed.

But then …

When the time came, the king would not even know they were gone until they were three leagues from this place, galloping full-tilt westwards to the mountains.

‘Rhodri, Blodwedd, go! Stretch your legs – walk on the walls perhaps – or go and sit with the others for a while. You haven’t been out of this hut in days!’

Branwen had entered Linette’s hut to find Blodwedd sitting huddled with her arms wrapped around her shins and her chin on her knees, watching while Rhodri sorted herbs from a wicker pannier. Linette lay sleeping by the fire, loaded up with woollen cloaks and furs. The hut smelled of the crushed and pounded herbs, not an unpleasant mix of odours, but very strong and pungent and heavy, especially when Branwen first stepped inside from the clear chill air.

Rhodri looked uncertainly at her. ‘I’ll keep watch,’ Branwen assured him. ‘If she so much as flutters an eyelash, I’ll fetch you.’

Rhodri got slowly to his feet. ‘My aching back,’ he groaned. ‘A walk would do me good, I think.’ He gazed down at Blodwedd. ‘Will you come with me?’

‘I will.’ Blodwedd rose to her feet. She padded to their bed and picked up their two ermine cloaks.

Swaddled in furs to ward off the worst of the late-afternoon chill, the two stepped out, Rhodri’s arm about the owl-girl’s shoulders. Branwen watched them with fond eyes as they went crunching side by side through the mash of grey snow.

The snow had stopped falling and there were tears and rips and holes in the cloud-wrack, through which the sky showed, pale blue and distant, like the promise of a spring that might never come.

Branwen tiptoed to Linette’s side and stooped to lift an edge of a fur covering up higher over her shoulder. Linette’s eyes fluttered open.

Branwen smiled, although the pain in Linette’s eyes clawed at her stomach.

‘Well met,’ she murmured softly. ‘Did I wake you?’

‘I heard voices,’ whispered Linette. Her breath was unpleasant in Branwen’s face – sour, sickly and unwholesome.

‘I sent Rhodri and Blodwedd away for a while,’ said Branwen, determined that Linette would not see her distaste. ‘Rhodri says you are improving mightily with each passing day,’ she lied. ‘You’ll soon be up and about again. By the saints, but you must be sick of this place.’

A weak smile twitched at the corner of Linette’s mouth. ‘You could do one thing for me,’ she whispered. ‘Prop me up a little, so I can see out through the doorway. I’d like to see the mountains, if that’s possible.’

‘Of course.’ Branwen carefully lifted Linette with an arm around her thin shoulders, while she tucked furs under her back and head. She tried not to show how troubled she was by the wasted look in Linette’s face, nor by her rank breath nor the soft groans that escaped her friend’s lips as she was moved.

She went again to the entrance, pinning back the woollen curtain and opening the wicker door.

The distant mountains had torn the clouds open and the snowy peaks were bright as burnished brass where the sun struck them, dark as lead in the deep shadows of the coming evening. Even the looming clouds were tinted pink and orange so that as Branwen gazed out at them, they hardly seemed real.

‘The world is putting on its best finery for you, Linette,’ said Branwen, deeply moved by the stark beauty of the scene before her. ‘It must have known you wished for something glorious to send you sweet dreams.’ She turned and looked at Linette. The pale girl was gazing way beyond her, a bright light glowing in her eyes.

Branwen smiled and turned again to the mountains, leaning in the doorframe, her arms folded against the chill air. ‘I’d say the Shining Ones sent this twilight to us,’ she said with a sigh in her voice. ‘They are still watching over us, I know it in my heart.’ She paused. ‘I have been thinking that it is time we quit the king’s employ. What do you say, Linette? Once you are well, shall we be gone from here? Back to the mountains and the forests. I have done my duty, haven’t I? My duty to the king, I mean, and my duty to Gavan ap Huw, of course, rest his soul.’

She looked again at Linette. The pale girl’s eyes still gazed into the west, but she did not respond to Branwen’s words.

‘I am worried for the king,’ Branwen continued, looking out towards the mountains again. ‘He’s taking a dangerous course in trusting Prince Llew. Should I stay and protect him against treachery, do you think? I don’t know. Is it even safe for me to stay here with Llew in the ascendancy? Might he convince the king to be rid of me once and for all? I wouldn’t put it past him …’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘I shall ask Rhodri, he always gives good counsel.’ She smiled to herself. ‘I already know what Blodwedd’s advice would be.’ She deepened her voice in affectionate imitation of the owl-girl. ‘ “This small king of men is no more to you than a pebble on a beach, Branwen – yours is a higher calling!” ’ She laughed softly at the thought. ‘That is what Blodwedd would tell me, for sure. And she may be right. All these months with the king may have been time wasted.’ Her thoughts shifted. ‘Or maybe Iwan will give me wise advice.’ Her voice lowered, almost as if she had forgotten that Linette was within earshot. ‘I know I could trust him with my life …’ She let out a sigh, wondering whether to pursue this line of thought. Linette might have some advice for her, or maybe just the act of voicing her confusion aloud might give her some clarity.

‘Linette? What does it feel like to be in love? Do you know? My mother and father loved one another very deeply, and it was a calm love – easy, respectful. Is that what love is like always? Because if it is, then I don’t know what I am feeling for Iwan. Sometimes he drives me to a frenzy with his glib tongue … and at other times he is so gentle and kind that …’ The words stalled in her throat, too big and heavy to be brought up into her mouth. She stood listening to her heart beating. A tingling heat burned under her ribs. She could as easily have wept as burst out laughing.

After a while, she carried on speaking, in a voice little above a whisper. ‘Sometimes when he smiles at me, I feel … oh, I don’t know how to describe how I feel … powerful … vulnerable … strong and weak all at once.’ She turned to look once more at her friend. ‘Love is such … a …’

The words died in her throat. She took a faltering step towards her still and silent friend.

‘… Linette … ?’