Caradoc of the North Wind

chapter EIGHT




The two Great Halls of King Cynon towered up side by side at the highest point of the ancient citadel of Pengwern. The Halls of Arlwy and Araith, they were named, the Halls of Feasting and of Debate. They were roofed with wooden shingles, their outer walls painted a vibrant yellow, making them shine like gold in the sun. Not that the Great Halls had seen much of the sun in recent weeks; the roofs were white with snow as Branwen strode up the slushy hill towards them.

It still rankled a little that the people of Pengwern moved away when she approached, as though they feared contagion. They were happy enough for the Gwyn Braw to risk their lives by riding out on one of the king’s lethal missions, but few would meet her eye as she walked among them, and fewer still had kind words for her.

Branwen and her followers were housed in a modest long house a little behind the Great Halls – out of sight. Branwen didn’t care overmuch; they had warm beds, food, and stabling for their horses when they were not out in the winter-choked wildernesses. And as much as she felt like the outsider – always treated with suspicion and doubt by Cynon’s counsellors – she at least had access to the king when she needed it. She had that much power!

The Great Hall of Arlwy was a meeting place and a feasting place, its high roof rising above a single long room lit by torches and braziers, a stone fire-pit in the middle of the hard-packed earthen floor, its walls draped with banners and hung with shields, swords and spears.

The other hall, the Hall of Araith, was divided into several smaller chambers: separate apartments where the king’s family lived and slept, bowers to accommodate his most trusted counsellors and guests, alcoves and antechambers where the business of the two-edged war was considered, plans and tactics decided.

Branwen had been privy to some of these debates, called in when she and her people were needed for some especially dangerous task. A sortie across the river to snatch Saxon prisoners for interrogation. A hard ride north to learn where Prince Llew’s forces were gathering. An assault from cover upon a supply line, charged with capturing the enemy’s wagons and bringing much-needed food back to Pengwern.

And most recently, of course, the mission into the mountains to find and rescue the daughters of Llew ap Gelert. Branwen found it hard to reconcile her hatred of the traitorous prince with the plan for his daughter to marry the king’s son. It felt to her that the king was offering Prince Llew everything that he wanted – power, influence, the expectation of his own grandsons upon the throne of Powys. And what had he done to earn these rewards? He had risen up in arms against King Cynon and thrown Powys into utter turmoil when they most needed to unite against the Saxons.

‘It’s sheer madness to reward him so,’ she had said to Iwan, when the truce had first been mooted. ‘He deserves to have his head struck from his neck – no more, no less!’

Iwan had smiled wryly at her. ‘It is not madness, barbarian princess,’ he had replied. ‘It is diplomacy. Would you have this war go on for ever?’

‘Of course not! But I’d see Llew defeated and humiliated, as he deserves.’

Again there had been the crooked smile. ‘Were the king able to crush Prince Llew by force of arms, he would have done so by now,’ Iwan had said. ‘The civil war is at an impasse. And while we fight, we lose precious lifeblood that we will need to keep the Saxons at bay.’

Branwen had pondered this. Iwan was right, of course. The war had to be brought to an end somehow – but it still seemed wrong. ‘I do not understand why the Saxons hold off,’ she had added. ‘Were I in Ironfist’s place, I’d use this fight of brother against brother to attack.’

‘He’s a more cunning tactician than that,’ Iwan had told her. ‘He knows that if he launches an assault, the king and the prince will unite to keep him at bay. He’d prefer to wait while we spill our own blood.’

Branwen nodded. ‘To hold back till he can attack us in our deepest weakness.’ She had sighed and sullenly kicked at the ground. ‘You’re right. There must be a truce before it’s too late. Princess Meredith must marry Drustan.’ She had given a curt laugh. ‘And may he have as much joy in her company as I did in Doeth Palas!’

But that had been said before Branwen had met Meredith for the second time. Now she thought the princess might make Drustan a good wife after all, despite all the damage that her father had done with his whispered deceits. Not that Drustan was at Pengwern to greet his bride; Branwen had already heard word that Cynon’s son had not yet returned from his tour of the southern cantrefs, although he was expected imminently.

Guards stood at the doors of the Great Hall of Araith, drawing aside to allow Branwen access. There was a main chamber, narrow and lofty, bestridden by heavy timber columns, the high vaulted roof bridged by beams. At the end of this chamber stood the king’s throne draped with banners and standards and backed with long silken curtains emblazoned with the red dragon of Powys, depicted with its foot upon the throat of the defeated dragon of the Saxons, corpse-white and vile.

As if wishing would make it so!

The king was upon the throne, his chief counsellors around and behind him. Sprawling or sitting at his feet were six muscular, long-limbed, liver-coloured dogs – the king’s hunting hounds.

Captain Angor was bowed before the king, Meredith on one side, Romney on the other. The sight of the throne and the man who sat upon it twisted a knife in Branwen’s heart. In her mind she saw again the double thrones of Garth Milain, where her mother and father had sat. Burned now in the flames that had engulfed the citadel of her home. Burned and gone, and her father dead.

In Branwen’s mind, King Cynon did not measure up to her father. He was tall enough, and wide-shouldered, his forehead high, his eyes dark and sharp, his face showing both wisdom and intelligence. But there was a thinness in his lips that worried her a little, a sense that this was a mouth as apt to the cunning lie as to the generous truth. Not that she had any reason to think the king unworthy of his throne; she had been brought up to believe that all the peoples of Powys owed Cynon their allegiance. If she didn’t still believe that, she would never have come here. All the same, she did wonder sometimes when she looked into his deep, dark eyes what subtle thoughts were winding through his mind.

Branwen made her way down the chamber, stopping in the shadow of one of the pillars. She could clearly hear Angor’s voice reverberating between the walls.

‘Most puissant and mighty King of the Western Lands, I bring greetings and fealty from the prince of Bras Mynydd,’ he was saying. ‘Through me, his loyal messenger and captain, he kisses your ring and bends the knee.’

‘You are most welcome, Captain Angor,’ replied the king, his voice smooth and deep. A voice that gave nothing away. ‘We receive the greetings of our brother Llew ap Gelert, and acknowledge his fealty as is our due as his king.’

Court manners! Branwen thought irritably, hating the convoluted mode of speech used in these formal situations. They’re no brothers. They’d see one another dead in a ditch if it could be contrived.

The king stood up now, his yellow robes hissing and swishing as he stepped down from the throne, his arms outstretched, his fingers bejewelled with golden rings. The six hounds all rose to their feet, their eyes filled with a watchful loyalty. The king had no more loyal bodyguards than them. A wrong move from any in that room, and the dogs would be upon them in an instant.

‘And the most welcome of all are these two gifts that you bring with you, Captain,’ the king said, extending a hand to the princesses. ‘Two pearls of the west, offered into my safekeeping.’ Meredith and Romney lifted their hands to his, their heads bowed. ‘My court welcomes you,’ the king continued. ‘I hope the hardships you have suffered will be washed away by our hospitality.’

‘We have suffered no hurt, my lord,’ Meredith replied, and Branwen was impressed by the clear tones in her voice – after all, she must be feeling overawed to be here. ‘Our father sent many gifts with us, but they were lost on the mountain, so we offer only ourselves and the gowns we stand in as proof of our undying loyalty.’

‘Proofs that I readily accept,’ smiled the king, looking from one to the other. ‘Would that my dear son were here to welcome you, but alas, Drustan was needed in the south to give encouragement to our lesser lords so that the bulwark of Powys should have no weak links. But this is no time for talk of warfare – this is a time of merriment. Drustan will return shortly and you shall meet him and be glad!’ The king released their hands and turned to the lords and warriors at his back, gesturing towards the two princesses. ‘No greater gifts could the citadel of Doeth Palas have sent me, not if they had plundered the gold mines of Dolaucothi.’

‘We did have gold,’ replied Romney, her voice a little shrill and wavery. ‘We had gold, jewels and the finest cloth you would ever have seen – but the Saxons took it all. Even my own casket.’ Her voice caught in her throat. ‘Someone should be sent to find the Saxons and get our things back. It’s not fair.’

The king released their hands and gestured to one side, almost as if he hadn’t heard Romney’s petulant request.

Servants appeared from some nook.

‘Go now, daughters of Prince Llew,’ the king said. ‘Bathe and be refreshed. We shall see you anon – tonight, there is to be a Feast of Welcoming.’

The two girls were led away to some antechamber, two or three of the dogs snuffing at their clothes as they went.

Now Branwen made her presence known, stepping out and bowing to the king. ‘The Gwyn Braw have done as you commanded, my lord,’ she said. ‘We await your further pleasure.’ If she was honest with herself, Branwen preferred to be out on perilous missions than stuck brooding in this place. Even the cruellest of winter winds was less chilling than the cold contempt of the people of Pengwern.

The king reached out his arms to her. ‘Branwen ap Griffith,’ he declared, his voice slightly too cordial. ‘We are glad to see you return in safety. Are all your folk in good health?’

‘Linette ap Cledwyn was hurt, but she will be well anon,’ said Branwen. ‘What news from the north, my lord? Will the prince come?’

This was yet another strand of the treaty to end the war – the arrival at the court of Prince Llew himself. For several months now he and his army had been laying siege to Gwylan Canu, the great fortress that held the paths between the mountains and the north sea. As proof of good faith, he had raised the siege and the gates had been thrown open to him. What Madoc ap Rhain must have thought of allowing the prince into his citadel, Branwen could only guess. Six months ago, on the prince’s orders, the citadel had been given over to Herewulf Ironfist. But as Madoc’s son Iwan had said, ‘There is bitter medicine to be swallowed if this war is to end – my father knows that. He will drink to the dregs for the good of Powys, as great leaders must always do.’

And once the prince had been welcomed into Gwylan Canu, he would ride down the Great South Way and be in Pengwern in time for the wedding of his daughter and the king’s son.

‘Messengers arrived this morning,’ the king replied to Branwen’s question. ‘Prince Llew will arrive on the morrow.’

‘Glad tidings indeed,’ said Angor. ‘And does his army accompany him, my lord?’

‘Madoc ap Rhain will hold a strong force at Gwylan Canu,’ said the king. ‘Lest the Saxons seek to enter our heartlands along the Northern Way. The rest of the army will travel south with the prince to strengthen Pengwern’s defences.’

One of the king’s counsellors stepped forward now. ‘With regard to our defences against General Ironfist, would it not be prudent now, my lord, to speak with Captain Angor so that we may learn what forces the prince can put under your command? I believe he has such knowledge.’

‘I do,’ said Angor. ‘That and many other pressing matters are ripe for discussion, my lord.’ He threw a hostile glance towards Branwen. ‘In some private place, where improper ears cannot intrude.’

Branwen gave him a calm, cold look then turned to the king again. ‘I am at your command, my lord,’ she said.

‘Go now, rest you and your folk,’ said the king, one hand idly fondling the head of one of his dogs. ‘We shall meet again at this evening’s feast.’

‘I beg leave to be absent from the feast, my lord,’ said Branwen. ‘I should rather be with my injured companion.’

‘We would have you at our side,’ replied the king simply.

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Branwen, hiding her annoyance at this. The last thing she wanted was to have to sit through one of the king’s feasts.

The king made a slightly dismissive gesture. ‘You may leave us, Branwen ap Griffith. I shall summon you if you are needed.’

Branwen bowed low, then turned and strode quickly down the hall. Glancing back as she passed out through the gates, she saw the king’s hand on Angor’s shoulder as they and the gaggle of counsellors made their way into a side-chamber to talk their secrets.

Branwen went to the long house set aside for the Gwyn Braw. A grey, bleak dusk was falling over Pengwern and the wet mud was turning brittle underfoot as the temperature dropped. Torches lit up the ramparts, and here and there bonfires burned with thick black smoke, surrounded by soldiers warming themselves at the snapping flames. Lights glowed in the doorways of the houses and huts; the ordinary people of Pengwern were tucking themselves away for another frozen night. But the torches burned brightly at the entrance to the Hall of Arlwy, and Branwen could smell meat being roasted in preparation for the feast.

In the long house, she found Aberfa, Banon and Iwan basking in the heat of the fire-pit. Aberfa was sharpening a spear point on a whetting stone. Banon was changing out of her wet clothes, having seen that their horses were fed and watered and secure in the stable barn close by. Iwan lay on his back by the fire, his hands behind his head, chewing a stalk of straw.

One wall of the long house was divided by wicker screens into individual sleeping places. Branwen went to her private alcove and changed into dry clothing before spreading her wet garments on the hearthstones and then squatting at Iwan’s side to tell him of the things she had heard in the Hall of Araith.

‘Doesn’t it rankle with you that Prince Llew was allowed into Gwylan Canu?’ Branwen asked him at last. ‘Angor threatened to torture you to death outside its walls not six months ago, and yet, since our meeting in the mountains, not once have you seemed angered by his past deeds.’

Iwan opened an eye. ‘What purpose would anger serve?’ he asked. He made a gesture in a vaguely eastward direction. ‘We have greater concerns, Branwen. Ironfist is ready to unleash his army as soon as the weather clears. Do you remember the size of the camp outside Chester when last we looked?’

Very well, Branwen remembered it. The Gwyn Braw had been sent on a scouting mission across the frozen River Hefren to assess the strength of Ironfist’s army. They had found it greatly engorged with new soldiery since they had been there in the summer. At that time there had been maybe two thousand men encamped outside Chester – but now they guessed the number must be at least double that as Ironfist drew armies from north, south and east to bolster his forces.

Branwen looked pensively into the fire.

‘A kiss for your thoughts.’

She turned to stare at Iwan, only half hearing his comment. ‘What was that?’

He smiled. ‘You were frowning,’ he said, sitting up. ‘I wondered what you were thinking about.’

‘I was wondering what would happen when Prince Llew arrives and Meredith is married to Drustan,’ she said.

‘There will be feasting and merrymaking, and many will wake the next morning with heads as thick and heavy as holm oak logs,’ Iwan said.

Branwen shook her head. ‘I meant what would happen to us.’

‘The Gwyn Braw will continue the fight against Ironfist,’ Iwan said.

Banon came and sat with them while Aberfa listened from close by, rhythmically drawing the spearhead across the stone.

‘And are we strong enough to hold back the Saxon tide?’ Banon asked.

Iwan raised an eyebrow. ‘We eight warriors alone? Ha! Of course we are. We need do no more than have Branwen call Ironfist out to single combat. The last time they fought, he lost an eye. Perhaps on a second tournament he will return to his folk minus his swollen head.’

‘Fain took out his eye,’ Branwen reminded him. ‘But I wonder more at the moment what sweet words Angor is pouring into the king’s ears about us. He hates us with a vengeance, and he is nothing more than the mouthpiece of Prince Llew.’

‘No matter what Llew and his trained fighting-dog may think of us, they cannot afford to lose us yet,’ Iwan reassured her. ‘The king will be true to us, have no fear. He also needs us while the Saxon threat looms.’

‘I trust the king,’ Branwen muttered, staring into the flames. ‘But I do not trust the prince. I have a bad feeling about this truce.’

‘Then let’s be the king’s eyes and ears,’ said Iwan. ‘If Llew ap Gelert proves false, let us be the ones who reveal it.’

Branwen nodded. ‘A good plan,’ she said. ‘We shall watch his every move.’

Aberfa’s deep voice broke the silence that followed Branwen’s words. ‘Will the Shining Ones aid us when the great battle comes?’ she asked.

Branwen turned to her, oddly surprised by the question, although she supposed she should not have been. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Blodwedd has always told me that the Shining Ones only hold power within Brython.’

‘Meaning that even if they are still friendly towards us, they may be unable to help if we are fighting on Saxon ground?’ murmured Iwan.

‘If they are still friendly,’ added Banon. ‘We turned away from them to come here. Will they have forgiven that?’

‘I think they have,’ said Branwen. ‘They do not show themselves to me, but I know they are close by. How else have we done such things these past months and come to so little harm?’

‘What of Linette?’ Iwan asked mildly.

‘She will recover,’ said Branwen. ‘The Shining Ones won’t let any of us die.’ She stood up. ‘Have any of you seen Fain?’

Aberfa pointed with the spearhead to a high beam in the roof. Branwen saw the falcon perched up there, warm and snug in the rising heat of the fire.

‘Good. Let him rest, he has deserved it,’ said Branwen. ‘I will go now and see how Linette is doing. Oh, and the king wants us all to attend the feast tonight.’

‘Then we shall,’ said Iwan, springing up. ‘With a light heart and a ready wit.’

Branwen eyed him. ‘With neither, for my part,’ she said. ‘But we shall obey.’

Branwen arrived at Linette’s hut to find the girl asleep in the firelight while Blodwedd and Rhodri sorted herbs from a large basket and used a mortar and pestle to mash the half-Saxon healer’s miraculous pastes and unguents.

‘Pendefig has been here,’ Rhodri told Branwen. ‘He has given me herbs and roots from his own store. I think they will help.’

‘He gave us a charm of nine herbs that he believes will make a great difference,’ added Blodwedd, gesturing towards where small bundles of herbs lay ready on the ground. ‘Mugwort, waybread, lamb’s cress, cockspur grass, camomile, nettle, chervil, fennel, crab apple – we have them all.’

‘And a rhyme that addresses each of them,’ said Rhodri. ‘Pendefig says to speak the charms into Linette’s mouth and into both her ears and also recite it over her injury.’

‘All the herbs were picked at judicious times and with the appropriate rituals,’ said Blodwedd, floating her hand over them. ‘I can feel their power.’

‘That’s all to the good.’ Branwen crouched at Linette’s side. ‘How is she?’

‘No better, no worse,’ said Blodwedd, her eyes burning like two setting suns in the light of the flames. ‘You humans heal so slowly!’

With a single extended finger, Branwen stroked a stray curl from Linette’s pale forehead. ‘I will tell the king we will not venture out again until she is able to join us,’ she said. She smiled down at Linette’s peaceful, slumbering face. ‘Be well! That is an order.’

The braying of horns sounded.

‘That is the call to the feast,’ said Branwen, getting up. ‘I must go – but I need you to stay with Linette, if you’re willing.’ Her comment was addressed to Rhodri – Blodwedd never came to the Hall of Arlwy. She had done so once, upon their arrival at Pengwern – but the people had shrunk away as though she carried the plague, and the king’s dogs had set up such a barking and howling that the rafters had rung with it. From that time on, the owl-girl had kept out of sight as much as possible.

‘Of course,’ said Rhodri. ‘We’ll watch Linette through the night. Perhaps a new dawn will show some improvement in her.’

Branwen walked to the doorway. ‘Come for me if there is any change,’ she said.

‘For better or worse, we will,’ said Blodwedd.

‘It will not be for the worse,’ said Branwen.

‘Pray the Old Ones it is so,’ murmured Blodwedd, glancing at Rhodri.

‘I have,’ said Branwen, dipping her head as she came under the low lintel and stepped into the cold night. ‘I have prayed and they have heard me.’