Caradoc of the North Wind

chapter TWENTY




A sharp sound made her force her eyes open again in wide surprise. Thwick! It was a familiar sound. The sound of a speeding arrow. She felt a pulling and then a release of tension in her right arm.

And at exactly the same moment she heard a murmur of consternation rise in the crowd, while above her head she became aware of yet another noise – a humming, buzzing turbulence coming down to her from high in the air.

She saw a second arrow come whizzing over the heads of the crowd. Aimed sure and true, it cut the rope that led from her right leg. And even as the rope fell slack, she saw cloaked figures dart from the crowd, arms raised, shouting, standing in the way of the two horses that were still drawing out the ropes from her left side.

The horses came to a startled halt, one of them rearing so sharply that it lost balance and fell back on to its rump. It writhed on the ground, trying to find its feet. But before it was able to get up again, the cloaked and cowled figure leaped forward and slashed at the rope.

Meanwhile, the other figure had hold of the last horse’s bridle and was holding it steady while its sword stroke severed the final rope.

Branwen stood dumbfounded in her bonds.

Not ripped apart!

Not destroyed yet!

A raucous darkness swept down over her. She looked upwards. She was under a shadow cast by a great flock of owls. The birds came flooding in their hundreds over the top of the stone building, gathered together as dark and thick and threatening as thunderclouds scudding across the sun.

The raven demon gave a cry of fury and anger, taking to the air as the owls swarmed, but their great downy bodies surrounded and engulfed it.

A bellow of rage took her attention away from the upper airs. Ironfist had his sword in his hand. He was howling orders to his discomforted men. But a moment later a third arrow flew, striking Ironfist in the chest, glancing off his chain-mail, but sending him staggering backward with its force. He stumbled and fell, his golden helmet rolling in the dirt.

Scores and scores of owls descended upon the crowds, screaming now, reaching out with their huge claws, raking the air so that the terrified people cowered and fell, or fled in panic, trampling one another in their desperation.

But in all the chaos, Branwen saw two horses riding towards her, ignored by the owls, buffeting their way through the milling throng.

One of the horses bore two cloaked and cowled riders, the other, slightly in the lead, carried just the one figure, his cowl stripped back, a bow across his shoulders and a bright sword flashing in his hand.

‘Iwan!’ Branwen’s voice escaped involuntarily from her throat.

It was Iwan, beyond all hope, beyond all delusion, beyond all reason – it was Iwan! Iwan ap Madoc come to save her!

One or two soldiers, rallying themselves in all the mayhem, blocked Iwan’s path. He cut them down like dry grass as he urged his horse out through the mêlée and galloped towards her, his bloodied sword spinning in his fist.

‘Gwyn Braw!’ he shouted. ‘Gwyn Braw to Branwen!’

Gasping in wonder and disbelief, Branwen now saw who rode the other horse. It was Banon, with Blodwedd clinging on behind. And the two figures that had stalled the wild gallop of the roped horses were Dera and Aberfa.

The Gwyn Braw had come to her rescue!

Sweet gods of water, wood and stone! Am I to be saved?

Bringing his horse up short, Iwan leaped down from the saddle. His sword flashed in front of Branwen’s eyes – once, twice, three times. The ropes fell away from her and she lurched forward into his arms.

‘Do exactly as I say,’ he panted, pulling her after him as he ran to one side. ‘Say nothing. Trust me.’

He drew her into the space between two of the stone pillars, pressing himself up against the ancient stone wall, holding her tight against him in both arms. She was shaking so much that she could hardly stand. She felt him press something small and hard and cold to the side of her neck.

‘Be silent!’ he hissed.

Too shocked and stunned to disobey, she leaned against him, breathing hard, her face up close to his, her eyes staring into his eyes. He grinned a fierce grin and winked, lifting his mouth to kiss her forehead, then bringing his lips close to her ears.

‘I have two of Merion’s crystals,’ he whispered. ‘Blodwedd brought them to us. If we keep still and make no sound, we may go unseen in all this uproar. Do not fear – we have a plan.’

Merion’s crystals. Six small white stones that the Mountain Crone had imbued with a part of her powers, so that anyone wearing one of the stones against their flesh would be able to move unnoticed among their enemies. Not invisible as such – but unobserved so long as the eye of a foe was not drawn to them by a sudden word or action.

Branwen huddled against Iwan, feeling the heat of his body seeping into her through the thin rag that covered her, feeling his breath warm and sweet on her cheek, feeling his arms enclosing her.

‘Give me your sword,’ she hissed. ‘I must fight!’

‘No!’ he insisted, his arms tightening around her. ‘Let others do it – they are better equipped to escape alive! Be calm and still, for pity’s sake, Branwen! I know what I’m doing.’

A terrible conflict was taking place in the airs above Branwen’s head. She could hear screaming and hooting and croaking from the mass of owls that had mobbed the raven. But Ragnar was no easy prey. Every few moments, the body of an owl would come tumbling down from the affray, bloodied and torn and bereft of life, to thud pitifully on to the ground. A few of the injured creatures tried to move, but most lay stiff and still, their feathers clogged with gore.

But the remainder of the great flock was still causing disorder and pandemonium among the Saxons, tearing flesh, pecking eyes, beating at faces and limbs with their wide, sturdy wings. The occasional soldier stood his ground, swinging blindly with a sword, or thrusting into the air with a spear, his other arm flung up to protect his face. But most had scattered or lay writhing under the ferocious weight of the attacking birds.

The passage of events was too swift for Branwen to take in. It seemed to her that only a few beats of her heart ago she had been on the brink of a horrible fate – but now, in the blink of an eye almost, it seemed – the turn of a head, the time it might take to draw in a breath – the world had come alive again around her and she was filled with new hope and new anxiety and new life.

She watched in a daze as the owls rose and gathered, leaving blood and dread and disorder in their wake. She saw them flocking above Blodwedd and the others of the Gwyn Brawn. She saw that Dera and Aberfa were horsed now. She saw Banon turn her steed away and go riding hard and fast towards the gate of the city, Aberfa and Dera close behind.

Ironfist staggered to his feet, roaring orders to the remnants of his soldiery, running after the fleeing horses. And through the power of the white crystals, Branwen could now understand his words, even though he was speaking his own tongue.

‘Stop them!’ he howled. ‘To horse! They must not get away! They have the shaman girl with them! A bag of gold to the man who brings down the waelisc witch!’

Iwan whispered in Branwen’s ear again. ‘See now what we had planned? Dera will lead the others to the bridge and over the River Dee while you and I slip quietly away in the opposite direction.’

‘They will be run down and killed!’

‘With good fortune, they will not. The owls will do all they can to cover their escape! They are loyal birds and brave fighters, and they will do Blodwedd’s bidding, even to the death. While the owls keep Ironfist’s men busy on the bridge, Dera will lead the others north and around in a wide circle. If they outrun the Saxons we will meet with them in a place we have already chosen. The two of us shall approach it from the south, and there will be no Saxons on our trail.’

‘And if they do not outrun the Saxons?’

‘Then you at least shall be saved,’ Iwan replied. ‘The Chosen One of the Old Gods will not be lost, and neither shall the great destiny that she is meant to fulfil.’

Branwen stared into Iwan’s dancing eyes. ‘How did you know where to find me?’

‘That’s a tale for a less precarious time and place,’ said Iwan. ‘Are you able to walk?’ His eyes were anxious. ‘You are grown so thin,’ he said under his breath, a catch coming into his voice. ‘I’ve fretted for this day for a month and more!’ He touched his forehead against hers. ‘I feared you were dead, Branwen. Truly, I did!’

She lifted her hand to touch his lips. ‘Hush, now!’ she said. ‘I’m alive, Iwan. And I can walk, barefoot though I am and half naked in such cruel weather!’

‘In that at least, I can help you.’ Iwan undid the clasp that held his cloak and threw it around her shoulders, pulling it tight around her and clipping it at her throat. He looked into her face again, and for a moment the longing in his eyes took her breath away. But then he lifted the hood to cover her head and leaned forward, peering out over her shoulder.

‘The plan goes well,’ he said. ‘Let’s slip away now. Remember – move as quietly as possible and say nothing. We will need to pass close by the army camp, and I’d not count much on our survival if they get wind of us!’ She shivered. ‘Have you seen their numbers, Branwen? I’d say Ironfist has mustered six or seven thousand.’

‘I’ve seen them,’ Branwen replied. ‘Come, Iwan. Give me the crystal.’

He opened his palm and she took the small, cold crystal and closed her fist around it. She looked up. The sky was clear now, but she had noticed that there were no black feathers among the tawny bodies of the slaughtered owls. It seemed that the raven had fled. But where might he have gone, that was the question.

Ragnar was not a demon to be defeated by owls, no matter how thick they flocked around him.

So where was the dark god of the Saxons?

Where was Ragnar?

Branwen and Iwan made their stealthy way to the south gate of the town. On the way, they were often forced to step aside or to dart into cover as warriors came running past them in the opposite direction. From the centre of Chester, battle horns were blowing a strident call as Ironfist gathered his troops to hurl them in pursuit of Dera and the escaping Gwyn Braw.

Branwen watched the passing Saxon soldiery with angry, narrowed eyes, wishing she had a sword to hand so that she could strike them down. She felt again that slightly dream-like state created by Merion’s crystals – the eerie sensation of being present but unseen, of being among her enemies, and of hearing their voices speaking a language she hardly knew, and yet at the same time being able to understand their speech.

The Saxons were evidently in some confusion.

‘What has happened?’

‘Have the waelisc mountain rats attacked?’

‘I think not! More likely something has gone amiss at the execution of the witch girl. Did you see the owls? They were not here by chance! Remember how they flocked to save that demon creature last summer? They’re bringing some similar mischief now, I’d swear that by Wotan’s beard!’

‘Cut out your jabbering and run, you fools! The general needs us!’

Keeping tight to the walls, Branwen and Iwan managed to slip away through the open gate. Ironfist’s mighty encampment confronted them now. When Branwen had been brought this way the previous night to attend the feast in the Great Hall, she had only been able to guess at the size and scale of the army – but now she saw it under a clear sky, and her heart turned cold.

Stretching away as far as the eye could see was an ocean of tents and huts and paddocks, of smithies, and storehouses and barns. There were horses by the hundred, wagons loaded with weapons, barrels filled with arrows and spearheads. The camp had become a whole city of dwellings and work places to house and support the vast Saxon army.

And despite the scores that had run at the summoning of the horns, thousands upon thousands of warriors still swarmed in the camp.

Iwan tugged gently at her sleeve and Branwen turned away from the awesome and fearsome sight, following him as he slipped alongside the outer southern walls of Chester towards the River Dee.

‘We can’t risk crossing the river here,’ he murmured close in her ear. ‘Someone might notice the disturbance in the river. We’ll head south a way and find some secluded spot to swim over.’

She nodded silently, her mind still glutted with the image of Ironfist’s gigantic army. She could almost see them in her mind – flooding through Powys like an unstoppable disease.

Even if she survived – even if she returned alive and battle-ready to Powys – how could she ever hope that the warriors of Brython could hold back such a tide of hate and death?

They followed the meandering loops of the river southwards, till Chester and the army camp were lost behind hills and ridges and bare winter woodlands. Then they travelled silently a little further into the wilds, seeking for some place where the river seemed less wide.

They found a likely crossing place at last, where the river narrowed between high, grassy strands, backed by thick woodlands. They slithered down the muddy, pebbled banks and stepped hand in hand into the icy flow.

But the moment that Branwen’s foot touched the water, it began to bubble and churn, foaming and spitting and drawing away from her. She gave a cry of surprise as the running water pulled back, revealing a broad arrowhead of muddy, pebble-strewn riverbed.

‘What’s this now?’ hissed Iwan, staring at the boiling and eddying lips of retreating water. ‘What new tricks have you learned while you were in prison, Branwen?’

‘None, I’ve learned none,’ she breathed. ‘This is not my doing.’

They grasped each other’s hands again, fingers twining tightly as they watched the waters curl back into two long, seething bulwarks of frothing and swirling foam. The dank riverbed lay exposed now in a deep water-walled ditch all the way to the far bank.

‘Run!’ said Iwan. ‘Quickly. While we can.’

Branwen went leaping down with him between the rising dykes of ever-moving water. The bubbling crests of the two poised walls rose high above their heads, roaring like cataracts, spitting a fine hail of drops down on to them as they pounded along the slithery and slippery channel.

Branwen glanced anxiously from side to side as they flung themselves towards the western riverbank, their heels kicking up mud and ooze, their lungs gasping for air in the fine haze of water droplets.

The towering, howling, thundering banks of racing water would give way – they had to give way! This was beyond all reason! They would be crushed under the weight of falling water.

Yet they were not. There was a final frantic scramble up the far bank, their feet sinking deep in the slime, mud squelching between their fingers. And then, breathlessly, they were up out of the river and on to firm, dry land again.

Branwen hardly had time to turn before there was a crash and a boom and a great spurt and fountain of white spray, as the vertical walls of water fell in on themselves. The water moiled and eddied for a moment, then the foam spread out and vanished and the river was flowing again as it had ever done.

‘That was Rhiannon’s doing,’ Branwen murmured in a daze of astonishment. ‘It must have been.’ She turned to Iwan. ‘She has not forsaken me!’

‘So it would seem,’ he said with a grin. A moment later he frowned. ‘But why has she waited so long to hold out her hand to you? Were you being punished for refusing Merion of the Stones – and is that punishment over?’

‘Maybe so,’ said Branwen, feeling light-headed. ‘Or perhaps the Lady in White was not able to come to me in Saxon land.’ She turned to Iwan, the full realization of what had happened dawning on her. ‘They have not abandoned me, Iwan!’

‘No, they have not!’ Iwan took her hand and together they walked up through the black-boned trees that bordered the river. They came to a small clearing, and as though to offer them yet more comfort, the sun burned down hot in that lonely place. They stood facing one another, dry from the miracle of the river crossing, but still cold and exhausted and far from home.

Wherever home might be now!

‘Where must we go?’ Branwen asked. ‘To meet with the others?’

‘West, and then north,’ said Iwan. ‘We need first to find some high ground so I can judge where we are. A shame we have no horses – I think we have a long slog ahead of us, Branwen.’

She gave him a glad smile. ‘I am alive and whole,’ she said. ‘That is enough for now. Wishing for horses might be—’ She stopped, hearing sounds through the trees.

Iwan drew his sword and stepped in front of her. His bow was still across his back, but Branwen saw that there were no arrows.

‘Saxons?’ she whispered, stooping and feeling through the leaf-mulch for any handy missiles.

‘Perhaps.’

She stood up again, a decent-sized rock in either fist. The first soldier to come at her would get a well-aimed stone in his face before he laid a hand on her, she was determined of that.

‘Horses,’ Iwan whispered. ‘Two or three, I think.’

‘Yes! I see them.’ Dark shapes moving through the trees. One horse for sure, maybe more. Branwen judged the weight of the stones in her hands, ready to hurl them as soon as she saw a target.

They stood poised as the horses came closer.

Thub-thub-thub-thub through the trees. The faint snort of horse breath in the stillness of the woods.

Iwan wiped a lock of hair off his face, licking his lips as he shifted his balance from foot to foot.

The dark forms drew closer. Branwen’s blood pounded in her head. Two horses. But with no riders!

Iwan straightened up, his sword arm drooping as he stared at the two horses that came clopping into the clearing. They were saddled and bridled, and on the saddles of both were strapped bulging leather panniers. Upon the saddle of the leading horse hung a shield and a sword.

‘What’s this new wonder?’ Iwan asked in astonishment as he stared at the two familiar horses. Branwen recognized them as well, a dun mare with a cream-coloured coat and a black mane and tail, accompanied by a tall bay destrier with a fiery eye. ‘These are our own horses, or my eyes are playing me false!’ he gasped. ‘Gwennol Dhu and Terrwyn in the very flesh! But how?’

‘I do not know,’ said Branwen with a thrilled smile. ‘But see their eyes! They are a gift!’

She had noticed the green light in the eyes of the two horses from the moment they had emerged from the shadows. She had seen that same flickering emerald light before – in the eyes of animals under the enchantments of Govannon of the Wood.

‘The Shining Ones again!’ Iwan breathed, sheathing his blade and stepping forward quickly to grasp the hanging reins of Gwennol Dhu. He stared at Branwen in amazement. ‘Their favours come thick one upon the other, Branwen. This is welcome relief, indeed.’

‘Yes, it is,’ said Branwen, her throat thickening, tears of joy pricking behind her eyes. She threw her arms about Terrwyn’s broad, muscular neck, breathing in his scent for a moment. ‘I never thought to see you again, my lad!’ she murmured. ‘This meeting is a great joy.’ Terrwyn nodded his great head and snorted.

Branwen moved to the saddle and opened the pannier. She found warm clothing and a cloak within, as well as cheese and bread and a stoppered bottle of water. She would have wished for her mystical white shield to have been returned, but any weapons were welcome in the wilderness.

‘But why now, when the Old Gods could have come to our rescue a thousand times in the past?’ asked Iwan.

‘I don’t know,’ Branwen gasped, hardly able to speak for the solace and bliss that filled her. ‘Blodwedd always said we could not fathom the ways of the Shining Ones.’ She looked at Iwan. ‘But we are saved! We have food and clothes and beloved horses to bear us!’

He smiled a true, merry smile for the first time. ‘We are saved,’ he agreed. ‘I will ask no more questions. Come, give me back my cloak and put on the clothes Govannon has sent you. Bear the shield on your arm and strap the sword about your waist, they are surely meant for you. We can eat on the way! And it would not surprise me to find that these steeds have a clearer idea of our destination than we have!’ He laughed aloud as he looked at her. ‘Branwen of the Shining Ones! Branwen the shaman girl! You are a marvel to me, by all the saints, you are!’