Caradoc of the North Wind

chapter SEVENTEEN




Branwen huddled under scabby furs, her head tucked into her shoulders, her knees clamped to her chest, her arms wrapped around her empty belly. She stared up at a single narrow slot high in the stone wall, a thin, raw gap just under the ceiling through which the meagre, watery daylight oozed. It was the only glimpse she had of the world outside her cell.

That lean sliver of light was a blessing and a curse. Through it she could see a fraction of the sky. On good days when the clouds were being herded along under the whip of the wind, she would sit staring up for hours at the constantly changing shapes that coiled and rolled across her field of vision. On bad days, it was blank white or grey or yellowish and had no life to it at all. Early on in her imprisonment, snow had fallen frequently, sometimes so thickly that it almost blocked her view. But more recently there had been no snow. She guessed that in the world outside her prison, the long hard winter was finally coming to an end.

Sometimes the cold air would trickle down the wall from the raw slot and come creeping across the floor like icy water. Sometimes the gap allowed a vicious wind to gust into the cell and bite at her with its frozen teeth.

Voices and other sounds of everyday life in Chester bled down to her in her chilly cell. The shouting and calling of Saxon men and women – sometimes the laughter of a child. The pattering of feet. The creak of wheels. The clop of horses or the muddled percussion of hooves and the plaintive bleating of animals being driven to market. On days when the bustle of the busy townsfolk was especially loud, she longed for the absolute silence of the black night. To know that people were living free lives just beyond her reach was a torment that she found hard to bear. And yet, in the throbbing dark, she yearned for some sound to prove she was not dead and in her grave. By day and by night the torture in her mind never ceased.

‘Rhiannon!’ she cried in her despair. ‘Govannon of the Wood! Come to me! Help me!’

But the Old Gods did not come.

I am no longer of use to them – no longer under their protection, no longer destiny’s chosen child.

She had lost count of the days she had been here in this sunken box of cold, sweating, lichen-stained stone. Once a day the heavy wooden door opened a fraction and a hand would throw in some scraps of food and a wooden bowl of water. Sometimes the bowl tipped over on the uneven floor and the water was spilled. Then she had to soothe her parched lips with muddy rainwater dripping from the gash in the stones. When it did not rain, she went thirsty.

Branwen had given up shouting and beating on the door – it gained her nothing but a ragged throat and bruised hands. No one ever came in response to her howls, no one cared when she threw herself with all her strength at the solid oak of her prison door. She was like a caged animal, kept barely alive and in torment for the amusement of unseen eyes.

All her possessions had been taken from her – sword, shield, her leather hunting clothes, the golden comb that her mother had gifted her and which she had carried with her always. Her slingshot and the leather bag of stones, her tinder and flint. Everything. She had been thrown in here wearing nothing but a brown linen shift and with nothing but a pair of mangy hides to keep out the cold.

They didn’t. She was cold all the time. So cold that sleep seemed impossible – and yet she did sleep, fretfully, shallowly, waking often from hideous nightmares to a nightmare that was even worse, and from which there was no way of waking.

She had not seen Ironfist since she had been thrown sprawling in here and the door had slammed behind her with the crack of hard timbers and the clang of iron.

At first she had dreaded the moment when the cell door would be flung wide and soldiers would rush in to drag her to her death. As days followed days and nothing happened, dread turned to anger, and anger to bewilderment, and bewilderment to dull apathy. She dreaded now that the soldiers might never come – that she would be left here frozen and hungry for the rest of her life. Sometimes in the deep dark silence of the night, she wished she had something sharp that she could draw across her wrists to put an end to her dreary, aching, wretched existence.

Sometimes her own thoughts terrified her more than anything that happened outside her head.

Sometimes she thought of Iwan and Rhodri and Blodwedd and Dera and the others, but as the hellish days bled one into the other, she found she could no longer see them in her mind – no longer hear their voices.

It was as if the hunger and the cold and the misery and the loneliness were hollowing her out from the very roots of her soul and leaving her as nothing but wasted skin over a frame of brittle bones.

Branwen gnawed at the chicken carcass, holding it to her mouth with both hands, pulling the bones apart, tearing at the scraps of meat with her teeth. A whole carcass was a rare delicacy and despite the fact that most of the meat had already been cut off, there was still plenty to eat for someone famished enough to grind the gristle and sinew and cartilage between her teeth.

She was barely aware of the guttural, animal noises she was making as she ate; of how she squatted in the corner of her cell, her knees up to her chest, her feet splayed filthy on the straw-matted stones, the fur hides draped over her shoulders, her hair matted and tangled, her hands black with grime.

She lifted the bowl to her lips and swigged the icy water. It went down like knives into her stomach. She made a grunting noise and attacked the chicken bones again, her eyes darting this way and that as she ate.

It occurred to her that she was losing her mind. But what did that matter? Who would ever know or care?

Her head snapped round at a sharp noise from the door. Her mad eyes narrowed. What was this? She had been fed. Why was the door opening? What was happening now?

Two Saxon soldiers armed with spears entered, one of them carrying a thick round chunk of log. They saw Branwen squatting in the corner and they turned their spears to point at her, their eyes wary, as though they feared she might fly at them with nails and teeth. The log was placed in the middle of the floor.

A third man swept into the cell. Branwen bared her teeth at the sight of him.

Ironfist!

The general was wearing his great red cloak, and there was a sword at his hip, but he wore no armour and seemed to be at his ease. He said something to the two guards and they left, slamming the prison door behind them.

He looked around the cell and sniffed, pursing his lips at the stink that Branwen no longer even noticed. Then he sat astride the log, as a man might sit on a stool, his elbows on his wide knees, his back bent and his chin in his hands as he looked at Branwen with his one good eye.

His one bad eye, rather – blue as ice and filled with wickedness. The eye of a snake staring out from a mind that seethed like the blood of wolves.

For a long time the two of them stared at one another without speaking. Until a growing pain in her chest made her suck in air, Branwen had not even been aware that she was not breathing. She had not used her voice for so long that talking seemed odd.

‘How long have I been here?’ she croaked.

‘Thirty-five days,’ Ironfist replied blandly.

‘So,’ she said, ‘are you here to gloat over me or to kill me at last?’

‘Neither, Branwen,’ Ironfist replied, his voice strangely soft and mild. He straightened his back and let his two hands dangle between his knees. ‘I’ve come to see if we can come to some understanding.’

She glared at him, waiting for treachery and malice.

‘We have quite the history, don’t we, Branwen?’ he said after a few moments of heavy silence. ‘It was on my orders that your brother and your father were killed and your home burned – and it was on your orders that my son Redwuld was murdered in the forest and his head impaled on a spike.’

Branwen lowered the gnawed carcass to the ground. ‘What of it?’

Ironfist sighed. ‘Do you know what they call you in Pengwern?’ he asked, his voice strangely casual, as though they were passing the time of day in some ordinary market square. ‘They call you the thorn that has no rose,’ he said. ‘And sometimes they call you the flea that worries the hound. And when they are feeling especially vindictive they call you the …’ He paused, shaking his head. ‘No. I’ll not repeat it – I’m sure your dealings with the Old Powers are not so base as that.’

‘What do you want?’ Branwen murmured.

Ironfist rubbed his two hands together. ‘What do I want?’ he echoed. His pale eye glittered. ‘I want you to understand that we need not be enemies.’

Branwen gave a hard croak of laughter.

‘You disagree?’ he asked with a trace of disappointment in his voice. ‘Listen, Branwen, and tell me the truth – were you loved by the people of Powys? Were you cherished by them?’

Branwen rose slowly to her feet, drawing the hides around her. She didn’t answer him. But she was very aware how he kept using her name. Branwen. Over and over. As though they were old friends. A new trick to addle her mind?

‘You need not answer,’ Ironfist said with a wave of his hand. ‘I know the truth of it. They hate you. They loathe and fear and despise you, those people to whom you have given every last breath of your life.’ He shook his head. ‘Did you see how readily Llew ap Gelert and the moist-handed king gave you up to me? Do you know how long it took them to agree to hand you over into my custody in the hope of saving their own skins?’ He snapped his fingers, a sharp sound that startled Branwen. ‘That is how long! They were glad to be rid of you, Branwen. Trust me on this; they were pleased that the thorn without a rose was taken from their sides.’

Branwen wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, suddenly aware of the chicken grease and scraps that clung about her lips, suddenly embarrassed by her appearance. ‘I never asked for their love,’ she said. ‘I did what I had to do to save my homeland from you and your savage hordes. I’d have done the same had every last man and woman and child in Powys spoken out against me.’

‘Well answered,’ said Ironfist. ‘You’d follow your destiny wherever it led you, is that so?’

‘I would!’ Branwen said, a rekindled defiance and pride glowing in her heart.

‘And your destiny has led you here,’ said Ironfist. ‘And where are your guardians now, Branwen? Where are your Old Gods?’

Branwen’s eyes glittered. ‘Do not dare to ridicule them, Saxon,’ she warned. ‘You’ve seen what they can do – you were there at Gwylan Canu when Govannon unleashed the wind that sank your ships and set loose the forest creatures that devoured your men. Don’t laugh at them, for they have long ears and long arms and they will not be mocked.’

‘I do not mock them,’ said Ironfist. ‘I respect them. I bow down in awe to the power of the Old Ones.’ He stood up now, and she found herself backing away although he had made no move to approach her. ‘Listen to me, Branwen,’ he said. ‘We are not so very different, you and I. We hold to the old ways – we revere the ancient powers and we follow the paths set out for us by them.’ He sighed and a curiously sad look passed over his face. ‘Do you know where I would be, Branwen, if fate allowed? I would be on my estates in Winwaed in the north, riding to hunt through the long days of summer, feasting and merrymaking and listening at the winter fireside to the old sagas.’ A wistful tone came into his voice, and Branwen got the impression he was seeing faraway things. ‘Winwaed once belonged to the kingdom of Elmet – before you were born, Branwen. It was a broad and prosperous land, bordered by rivers to the east and west, with the kingdom of Deira to the north and the vast expanse of Mercia to the south. It was a fine place, my homeland, swallowed up long ago by King Oswald of Northumbria.’

The kingdom of Deira? Where had Branwen heard that name before? Yes! She remembered. Rhodri had been born in Deira – it was the homeland of the half-Saxon boy’s mother.

‘But destiny had other plans for me, Branwen,’ Ironfist continued. ‘Destiny decreed that I become a warrior, a general – a man of violence and conflict.’ He looked at her, tilting his head slightly, angling it as though to focus better on her face with his one eye. ‘Is my destiny so very different from yours?’ he asked.

‘Yes, it is,’ she replied grimly. ‘Because you want to conquer and to kill, and I want only to protect what is mine.’

‘Is that so?’ said Ironfist. ‘To protect what is yours, is it? Do you think your family ruled in Cyffin Tir since the world was formed, Branwen? No, they did not. Before your father’s family came, your homeland was governed by the Romans. And before the Romans came, there were other peoples. And before them, yet other folk, who had in their turn conquered and killed those that came before them, and so on and so on through to the dawn of time when the first man set foot upon the soil that is now called the kingdom of Powys and claimed it for his own.’

Branwen stared at him.

‘The tides of man are a constant swirl,’ said Ironfist. ‘Powers come and powers go as fortunes and destinies ebb and flow.’ He rested his hand on his chest. ‘At this time, in this season of man, it is we Saxons who are in the ascendancy, Branwen. It is the natural order of things.’ His eye glowed with fervour. ‘And as the Saxon armies move, so their gods move with them. And thus are the destinies of the gods themselves in constant flux. Our gods grow more powerful, and the gods of Brython diminish. The great Lord Ragnar is a mighty and a benevolent god, Branwen. He will love you if you put your faith in him. He will show you a better destiny – a truer destiny.’ He spread his arms wide, his head tilting upwards. ‘And you will be loved, Branwen. I promise you this – in my world, the followers of the Old Powers are loved and revered and honoured. If you choose, you will be a priestess of the Old Ways, and your life will be filled with purpose and meaning and a greater destiny than the Shining Ones of Brython could ever imagine.’

She stared at him in shock. Now she understood the point of his soft and persuasive words. He wanted her to turn her back on the Shining Ones and offer herself to Ragnar, hellion of the Saxons, blood-letter and reaver.

‘You’d have me put my trust in Ragnar?’ she asked incredulously. ‘A petty god I saw fly beaten and wailing from Merion of the Stones and Caradoc of the North Wind? I should betray all that I hold dear to sit at the feet of one such as he, feeble and weak as he is?’

There was no trace of anger or impatience in Ironfist as he responded. ‘Ragnar is neither weak nor feeble, Branwen,’ he said. ‘His power is waxing as the powers of the Shining Ones diminish. Come, join with me – with us – use your strength and your wits to a better purpose. What would you rather have, Branwen? Your old life among people who detest and dread you, or a new life of joy and fulfilment with people who will honour and adore you?’

He smiled encouragingly. ‘I don’t expect you to change allegiances all in a moment. I will leave you now. Think over what I have said.’ He looked around the filthy cell. ‘This is no place for one such as you, Branwen. This terrible hole! Had I known you were being kept in such circumstances, I would have done something about it. Forgive me, other duties have detained me. But later is better than never. Give me but a few moments and I shall send servants to you, so that you be washed and fed and found finer accommodation.’ He turned and thumped on the door with his fist. ‘Be the shaman girl of the waelisc no more, Branwen – be all that you can be! Be a priestess of Ragnar!’

‘The gown suits you, my lady. You have a fine strong shape, and the material hangs very well upon you, do you not think?’

Branwen stared emptily at the elderly servant woman, unable to come up with a response. She was some distance away from being able to think clearly about anything at all, never mind how clothes looked on her.

Enough time passed after her outlandish encounter with Ironfist for her to feel certain that the whole thing had been set up to confound her and to amuse him. But then her prison door had opened and servants had bustled in and she had been led out and taken to a room above ground. There she had been bathed and fed and had the tangles combed out of her hair and the grime pared from beneath her fingernails. Sweet-smelling oils were rubbed on her body and fine garments laid out for her to put on.

She allowed herself to be dressed in a kind of daze, as a puzzled child might. The gown was of a fine, slinky material she had never encountered before, the flowing skirts coloured brown while the close-fitting bodice was covered in silvery embroidery, trimmed with gold thread. The gown was gathered at the waist by a belt of supple leather, etched with intertwining Saxon designs and held at the front with a golden clasp of intricate workmanship.

And as if to make her confusion complete, attached to the belt was her golden comb, and her pouch of flint and tinder – and even her slingshot with its accompanying leather poke filled with small rounded stones.

‘General Herewulf has told us that you do not like to have your hair braided or styled,’ said another of the servant women, standing in front of Branwen and using her fingers to arrange Branwen’s long dark hair over her shoulders. ‘Is that so, my lady?’

Branwen gazed absently at her and nodded.

‘Then you are quite ready!’ said the first woman.

Branwen blinked at her. ‘Ready for what?’

‘Why, for the feast, of course, my lady. For the great feast in your honour!’

Branwen had been in the Great Hall of General Ironfist once before – but in very different circumstances. That time she had crept along the high walls, cloaked in the invisibility of Merion’s magical stones, seeking Gavan’s daughter as the revelries of her enemies went on around her.

Now she found herself seated at a long table at Ironfist’s side, surrounded by cheering and howling Saxon warriors and with a dish piled high with food in front of her and an overflowing wine cup in her fist.

It was as if the world had turned upside down between sunrise and evening. She could not have been more stupefied by events if she had walked from her prison cell to find the sky turned green and the long winter changed to burning midsummer!

As she gazed amazed around the high, crowded chamber with its long tables filled with Saxons and its walls hung with enemy flags and banners, she was aware of a chant rising around her. She frowned, not understanding at first what was being said. Then her own name leaped out at her.

‘Branwen aefter Ragnar! Branwen aefter Ragnar! Branwen aefter Ragnar!’

The chant grew louder and louder, the warriors now beating on the hollow tables with knives and fists and cups and even with their wooden platters.

‘Branwen aefter Ragnar!’

The repeated words echoed to the rafters, ringing in Branwen’s ears.

She turned to Ironfist, and saw that he too was pounding his fist on the table and calling out along with all the others.

‘What does it mean?’ she shouted over the noise. ‘What are you saying?’

Ironfist grinned at her, his face glowing from drink, but his eye still sharp and cunning. ‘They are calling out a hope for the future,’ he said, leaning close so she could hear him over the racket.

‘What hope?’ demanded Branwen.

‘The hope that you will become a priestess of Ragnar,’ Ironfist declared. He made a sweeping gesture of his arm around the room. ‘See, Branwen? See what can be yours if you turn away from those that hate you and join with us at Ragnar’s table? See what delights will be yours for the taking? What honour? What glory?’ He leaned closer to speak into her ear. ‘Let me tell you of the future that is coming, Branwen. The snows are all but gone, and all talking is done. Within a few days I shall lead my army into the west. We are a mighty force. We will take Pengwern, and King Cynon will be slain. Then Prince Llew of Doeth Palas will kneel to me and all of Powys will be mine. And with Powys in my grasp, it will only be a matter of time before I hold all the Four Kingdoms in the palm of my hand. You can be part of that, Branwen. Say but the word, and all past enmities between us will be forgotten and forgiven and you will ride at my side as my most trusted captain.’

She stared at him, nonplussed, bereft of hope, feeling herself standing at the brink of some dreadful precipice. ‘What word would you have me say?’

He smiled. ‘It is as they say – Branwen aefter Ragnar – Branwen for Ragnar.’

‘And what of my friends? What of my mother?’

‘You have my word that you will be reunited with the Gwyn Braw, and that they shall not be harmed.’ He nodded enthusiastically, as if all the wine he had quaffed was getting the better of him. ‘Indeed, if they agree to remain under your command, they shall keep their weapons and ride with us to victory. And your mother shall be allowed to dwell in rebuilt Garth Milain in honour and peace.’ He thumped his chest, spilling wine. ‘My oath upon it!’

‘And all this shall come to pass if I turn from the Shining Ones and pledge myself to Ragnar?’ Branwen asked. ‘I’ll be revenged on those who hate me, and I will be revered among the Saxons?’

‘Oh, but you will, Branwen,’ said Ironfist.

She looked closely at him. ‘And I have your oath on this?’

‘You do!’ She saw his eye shining now, as though he knew his triumph was close.

‘And if I refuse?’ she asked.

He frowned. ‘Do not refuse,’ he said. ‘Be true to yourself, Branwen – do not turn from this new life I am offering you.’

She leaned back in the chair, her forehead creasing, her eyes roving over the revelling Saxons that hemmed her in on all sides. She had a very clear vision of the options that lay in front of her. To do as Ironfist asked and to live, or to deny him and probably die.

And who in Powys would care if she died? Not the king, for sure – and certainly not Prince Llew. Not Dagonet ap Wadu, nor any other of the soldiers of Powys. They would be glad to be rid of her. The Gwyn Braw would mourn of course, and Dera would never forgive herself for having led Branwen to this end. But what would it matter? Ironfist’s army would still sweep over Powys – the Gwyn Braw would most likely die in the defence of Pengwern. Garth Milain would fall and her mother’s grief would be brought to a swift and sharp end.

And if she agreed to become a priestess of Ragnar? What then?

The Shining Ones did not deserve her loyalty – they had shown precious little of that to her in her time of great need. They had discarded her, after all the things she had done for them. They had left her to rot in a Saxon prison.

She saw Blodwedd’s face in her mind – rounded, huge-eyed, framed by the feathery fall of tawny hair. The amber eyes pierced her and she heard the owl-girl’s voice quite clearly in her head over the cacophony of the Saxon feasters.

‘Do not do this thing, Branwen. Remain true to your homeland. Remain true to your heart.’

Yes, that was the one thing she could cling to in all her misery and despair and loss. The true voice of her own heart.

The heart of a warrior maiden. The heart of a child of Powys. The heart of the proud daughter of Griffith ap Rhys and Alis ap Owain.

Branwen turned her head to look at Ironfist. There was greed in his face, and a hint of the victory that he seemed certain would be his.

‘Do I have your oath on all that you have told me?’ she asked. ‘Your deathless oath, General Ironfist?’

‘You do!’

She laughed then, throwing her head back. ‘Then I understand fully the value of all these things you offer, Saxon!’ she shouted, her eyes flashing hatred at him. ‘They are as worthless as your word, faithless and vile lord of a brutal and merciless people!’ She sprang up, seething with anger. ‘Do as you will, you filth! I’ll never turn away from the land of my birth! I’ll never worship Ragnar!’

Ironfist surged up out of his chair, his face contorted by frustrated anger, his hand rising, a metal goblet in his fist.

She laughed in his fuming face. ‘So now your true aspect is revealed once more, Saxon cur!’ she shouted. ‘That is good – your pretences of civility sickened me to my stomach!’ She spat at him. ‘Know this – I would gladly die a thousand deaths before I betrayed Brython.’

‘Then die you shall, shaman of the waelisc!’ Ironfist bawled. ‘Die and be damned!’

He brought the heavy cup down with vicious strength against her skull. White agony exploded in her head and Branwen fell forward into oblivion.