Caradoc of the North Wind

chapter TWENTY-EIGHT




All around Branwen, stunned and frightened warriors were picking themselves up and staggering ankle deep through the impossible snow while horses stood shivering, or galloped away over the battlefield with their reins flying.

The dead and wounded were mantled in the fresh snow, but already blood was staining the whiteness and in places it had become pools of red slush from which jutted broken spears and shield rims and clawing dead fingers.

Above the field of carnage, the sky was blue. To the north a tail of dark cloud flicked for a moment as it fell below the horizon.

Branwen walked forward in a daze, the shield of Cudyll Bach on her left arm, the sword Caliburn in her right fist. She stood over the fallen head of Herewulf Ironfist, one time Thain of Winwaed, commander of King Oswald’s armies.

She heard voices around her. Angry voices.

‘Awyrigende waelisc galdere!’

‘Astyrfan awyrigende!’

She glanced around herself, seeing Saxon warriors moving towards her from all sides. She slung her shield over her back and stooped. She grasped Ironfist’s head by the hair and raised it high. She turned slowly in a circle, showing the bloody trophy to the advancing warriors – showing them their dead general.

They hesitated, watching her with eyes filled with hate and fear.

‘I am Branwen of the Shining Ones!’ she howled. ‘I am the shaman girl of the waelisc! I am the witch girl of Pengwern! Fly from here if you value your lives!’

She did not know if any of them understood her words – but she knew they would respond to the deadly and ruthless tone in her voice.

The ring of Saxons wavered as she stood defying them. One or two turned and ran. Others followed. Soon they were all running, running hard to the north, throwing down their weapons, slithering and sliding on the snow, trampling the slain in their panic.

And as they ran, Branwen heard war horns blowing from within the walls of Pengwern.

Grimacing with distaste, she released the grisly head, watching dispassionately as the Saxons fled. Like ripples in a lake, the word was spreading across the battlefield. ‘Ironfist is dead! The shaman girl killed him! The witch girl brought the storm down upon us! Run! Run for your lives!’

The whole wide field was alive now with fleeing Saxons. Bands of King Cynon’s warriors pursued them, some on foot, others mounted, whooping and shouting and cutting down any who lagged behind. A troop of riders came bursting from the ruined and charred gateway, and Branwen saw the gallant standard of the king being carried along with them.

The blizzard had doused the flames, and of the evil black raven and the golden boy-god there was no sign. Whether Caradoc had brought Ragnar to his doom, or whether the hellion of the Saxons had escaped, Branwen could not know.

She lifted the marvellous sword up in front of her eyes. There was no blood upon its burnished blade, and as she looked closely she saw her reflection staring back at her from the slender strip of metal, as clear as if she was looking into still water. She gazed mesmerized into her own eyes, hardly recognizing herself – hardly able to believe that she was looking into the face of Branwen ap Griffith.

She heard a snort and the thud of hooves close by. She broke free of the enchantment of the sword and turned as Terrwyn thrust this heavy head against her shoulder. She slipped the sword into her belt and threw her arms around the horse’s wide neck, pressing her face into his coat for a moment of comfort.

‘I thought you were dead,’ she murmured. ‘I thought the whole world was dead.’

She was still pressed up against Terrwyn’s soft hide when other hoofbeats sounded and joyful voices called out to her.

‘You are alive!’

Yes. I am alive. It is strange and I cannot quite believe it – but I am alive!

‘Beyond all hopes, Branwen! Beyond all hope!’

‘And see – the great general is dead!’

Branwen turned, smiling as the Gwyn Braw leaped down from their horses and threw themselves upon her with wild delight. As she embraced them, she saw Rhodri standing slightly apart, smiling, too, but with a deep sadness in his eyes.

‘I knew you would not come to harm,’ said Iwan, his eyes shining as he looked at her. ‘Fate could not be so cruel!’

‘Fate can be cruel enough, Iwan,’ she said, pushing past her friends and going to stand in front of Rhodri. For a brief time they looked silently into one another’s eyes. “I would give my life if it would restore Blodwedd to you,’ she murmured at last, for his ears only. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

He nodded.

‘Can you love me still, Rhodri, after what I did?’

His eyes glimmered with unshed tears. ‘Would I lose my dearest friend as well as my true love?’ he whispered, his voice cracking. ‘No, be sure, Branwen – our lives are bound together a while longer yet.’

‘I called on Caliburn, as you said I should – and it came to me,’ she told him, sliding the silken sword from her belt and showing it to him. ‘Where does it come from, Rhodri? What is it?’

He frowned. ‘I cannot tell you,’ he said. ‘But it is not yours, Branwen. It belongs to another.’

‘Ahh. So this is the sword that Blodwedd spoke of. I thought it was so, but I could not be sure. It belongs to the other Chosen One – the boy. Must I take it to him now? Do you know where I might find him?’

‘All things in their right time,’ said Rhodri, gazing out past her shoulder. ‘The king of Powys comes – you should speak with him, I think.’

Branwen narrowed her eyes. ‘Oh, I shall do that, Rhodri! I shall certainly do that!’ She turned, her face tight with anger. Several riders were approaching. Above them flew the king’s standard.

She searched the faces of the mounted warriors, puzzled not to see Cynon among them. Prince Drustan she recognized, and Dagonet ap Wadu, and other captains of Pengwern and warriors of Dyfed, Gwynedd and Gwent. But of the king, she saw no trace.

The horses were reined up and Drustan dismounted. There was blood on his face and his cloak was torn, but he seemed otherwise unhurt.

‘My people quailed when the fireball came blazing across the sky towards us,’ he called, his eyes bright and eager as he strode towards her through the snow. ‘But I saw how it dismayed that great black bird of ill omen. I saw how the demon of the Saxons fled before it! And I knew in my heart that you had returned to us, Princess Branwen.’ He glanced around them. ‘And this unimaginable snowstorm – that was your doing also, I am sure.’ He shook his head. ‘A powerful shaman, you are, Princess. You command formidable sorceries, indeed. I understand now why my father feared you, although I think he was wrong to do so.’

‘What of the king?’ demanded Branwen. ‘Is he afraid to face me, after the treachery he worked upon me?’

Drustan looked solemnly at her. ‘My father is dead,’ he said. ‘He led the first charge from the citadel and was cut down by many Saxon warriors as he fought to prevent them crossing the causeway. Prince Llew is also among the slain, as are Captain Angor and many another brave warrior of Doeth Palas.’ Drustan looked steadily at her. ‘I owe you a blood-debt, Branwen of the Gwyn Braw. You have done nothing but good for us, and we have treated you shamefully.’ His eyes flashed. ‘Be assured that the new king of Powys will ever be your friend, Branwen of the Shining Ones.’

Branwen gazed at him, not quite able to grasp the reality of what he had told her. King Cynon dead? And Llew ap Gelert too? She had always imagined that she and the prince of Bras Mynydd would face one another at sword’s length before the feud between them was ended. But he had been killed, after all, defending the land he had tried to betray. There was at least some strange kind of justice in that.

Her attention was taken from Drustan as Dagonet ap Wadu came forward, bowing his head to her. ‘For my part in your betrayal, I offer you my atonement,’ he said. ‘I was too ready to listen to the whispered words of the prince of Bras Mynydd – as was my king.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘We were wrong to do so.’

‘You were!’ said Dera, trembling as she confronted her father, her dark eyes burning with outrage. ‘You should throw yourself upon the ground and beg her mercy for your actions! It was base and it was wrong!’

‘A warrior cannot question the commands of his king, Dera,’ Drustan said mildly. ‘Forgive your father, as you would forgive all those who believed in Prince Llew’s twisted counsel.’ He looked out over the battlefield, his forehead creased in sorrow. ‘Much damage has been done this day, and some can never be put right. But in one thing the new king of Powys will not fail.’ He looked at Branwen. ‘You will be honoured, Princess, and you will have for ever a high place among my counsellors. I will have my captains search the fallen and see if any can be saved. The rest shall be laid to rest, be they warrior of Brython or of Mercia. In the meantime, I will hold true to the pledge between my father and the prince of Bras Mynydd. I will wed the daughter of Llew ap Gelert and our children will rule in Powys for a hundred generations.’ He reached out his hand to her. ‘Come, Branwen. Enter the citadel at my side. You and all the Gwyn Braw with you. I promise that you will receive the welcome you deserve – for it is by your hand and the hands of those great ones you follow that we have won this victory today.’

‘I will go with you, King Drustan,’ said Branwen. ‘I will enter Pengwern with my people, because they deserve warmth and rest and comfort after all they have been through. But as for the rest – as for a seat at your right hand – well … that is something I cannot promise. My destiny may make other demands on me.’ She glanced at Rhodri. He was watching her closely, but his expression was unreadable. ‘For I am Destiny’s Child,’ she continued, ‘and my burdens and my duties go beyond the kingdom of Powys!’

‘So be it,’ said the new king, and they all mounted and with slow, sombre dignity rode together across the battlefield and in through the burned gates of Pengwern.