Caradoc of the North Wind

chapter NINETEEN




It had been a futile effort – Branwen’s attempt to force the Saxon guards to kill her in her cell. They knew too well the price they would pay if they failed to deliver her alive and in one piece to the marketplace in the town of Chester on that bright and cloudless morning.

As she rushed at them, so they beat her to the ground, kicking her and stamping on her arms and legs to subdue her, then hauling her upright again, so she hung breathless between them, gasping and spitting blood.

But she refused to be dragged along by them. At the very least she would go to her death on her own two feet. Surrounded by the guards, she climbed an uneven stone stair and came into daylight. She blinked in the unfamiliar sunshine as they passed through a high arched doorway of cut and shaped stone and stepped into a wide, open area where an expectant crowd was gathered. Most were on foot, but behind the throng she could see warriors on horseback, chatting among themselves or straining forward to get a better view.

She knew where she was. She had seen this open space before in daylight, when she and Blodwedd had infiltrated the Saxon town of Chester in search of the casket-prison of Caradoc of the North Wind.

The cell in which Ironfist had incarcerated her for the last month was in the bowels of a huge old Roman structure, long ruinous and decayed.

A susurrus murmur rose from the gathered townsfolk and soldiery as Branwen appeared in front of them. She stumbled but balanced herself quickly, refusing to show weakness. Above her, the cracked shell of the Roman building lifted to the clear sky, its impossibly tall walls rounded, and circled with broken stone pillars as thick as forest oaks.

General Ironfist was there, decked out in his finest clothes, his cloak as red as fresh blood, spilling down off his broad shoulders and foaming at his feet. A golden helmet was on his head, etched with coiling serpent shapes, their scales of inlaid silver, their eyes green jewels that flashed and sparkled as he moved under the burning morning sun.

‘Welcome, Branwen of the Petty Gods,’ he called, spreading his arms to her as she walked forward in the ring of armed men. ‘The sun shines down upon us on this most blessed of days.’

‘I see I’ve drawn quite a crowd,’ Branwen called to him, staring unafraid at the multitudes with their eager faces, greedy for bloodshed. Women were there as well as men, their expressions choked with blood lust even as they gathered their children close to watch the evil shaman girl meet her doom. Further off, the helmets and spear tips and chain-mail of the mounted warriors flashed in the sunlight.

Branwen eyed them all with a stony face, determined to show Ironfist and the gawping Saxons no hint of the fear that clenched so hard and fierce in her stomach.

‘Indeed you have,’ said Ironfist. He turned to the gathered people and shouted something in his own language. The congregation let out cheers and catcalls and jeers of laughter.

Ironfist turned back to her. ‘I would not have you die alone and friendless, Branwen,’ he told her, his single blue eye glinting in his ugly face. ‘Call upon your gods, shaman girl. Beg the Shining Ones to save you.’

Branwen lifted her chin and stared challengingly at him, saying nothing.

She knew better than to cry out for help from Rhiannon or Govannon or Merion or Caradoc. They would not come, and her pleas would only serve to amuse the Saxon spectators. She would not perform for them like that! She would show them what fortitude a child of Powys could present as death took her.

‘No?’ Ironfist said, thrusting out his lower lip in pretence of disappointment. ‘Well, if you will not, you will not.’ He walked over to her. The guards stepped aside to let him through. He put his hand on Branwen’s shoulder and turned her, pointing upwards with his other hand.

She followed the line of his finger. Upon the head of one of the stone pillars perched a large raven, watching her with baleful eyes that flickered with an unhallowed red fire.

‘To tell you the truth,’ Ironfist murmured in her ear, as though passing on some amusing secret, ‘had they come, they would have been unable to do anything but watch you suffer. In this place, Branwen, in this land, Ragnar reigns supreme.’

Such a horror came into Branwen’s heart as she looked up at the hideous raven that she didn’t dare to speak in case her voice broke and let her down.

Ironfist stepped back and said something to her guards in his own language.

Branwen was held by the arms as four horses were led forward. Branwen watched them with growing apprehension. Was she to be trampled to death? It would be a horrible way to die, but it was hardly the dreadful new manner of death that Ragnor had threatened her with.

Four Saxon guards began unravelling coiled ropes. They brought them to Branwen and each tied a rope around her elbows and knees, knotting them excruciatingly tightly.

Biting her lip to prevent herself from crying out with the pain, Branwen saw the four ropes being fed out to where the horses stood, stamping their hooves and tossing their heads.

Four ropes and four horses.

Branwen shuddered as an inkling of what Ironfist had planned for her came into her mind.

The other ends of the ropes were knotted to the horses’ saddles. Ironfist shouted instructions and the four horses were led away from one another, two to points at Branwen’s left, two to her right.

More soldiers moved through the crowds, parting them so that four wide aisles were formed. Nausea filled Branwen’s throat. Her legs weakened under her and had she not been held to the pillar, she might have fallen to her knees.

The long ropes hung slack between her limbs and the four horses. The animals now faced outwards to where the four passages had been cleared in the crowd.

Blood pounded in Branwen’s head, louder even than the growing noise of the excited Saxon audience. A chant grew among them, swelling and swelling till it sounded like thunder.

‘Waelisc abreatan! Waelisc abreatan! Waelisc abreatan!’

Ironfist swung round to face her again, his face exultant. ‘They call for you to be destroyed, shaman girl,’ he shouted over the howling of the crowds. ‘Would you beg for clemency, Branwen? Even now, if you give yourself to Ragnar, you will be spared.’

Branwen swallowed hard. ‘Let it be over!’ she shouted, her voice sounding frail and weak against the tumult of the crowd and the beating of blood in her temples. ‘I die for Powys! I die defiant! Brython will never be yours, Ironfist! Never!’

‘So be it!’ howled Ironfist, lifting his arm. Four men stood holding the bridles of the horses. Four others stood at their rumps, armed with thick wooden staves, holding them ready to be brought down hard on the animal’s backsides to spur them forwards.

On Ironfist’s command, the struck horses would gallop away from Branwen. The ropes would tighten, thrumming as they became taut. There would be a torment of utter agony as Branwen’s limbs were jerked from her body.

She would be torn apart.

‘Caw!’ She stared up in pure terror. Ragnar was glaring down at her, and in the raven’s fiery eyes she saw her fate revealed.

Not to die. To be ripped to pieces, but to survive.

To be a trophy of the Saxon armies.

To live for ever in agony and despair.

To see Brython overrun.

To witness everything she had ever loved be destroyed.

To never know peace.

Ironfist’s voice rang out. ‘Nu oa!’

Now!

The four rods came down hard on the horses’ rumps. The four animals sprang forwards, kicking up dust. The ropes hissed as they straightened out.

Branwen closed her eyes and filled her mind with the image of her dear mother. A final shred of comfort as she prepared to meet her doom.