New cries erupted among the Saxons.
‘Awyrigende galdere! Awyrigende Waelisc galdere!’
A fierce smile widened on Branwen’s face. She had heard those fearful cries before – many times.
‘It is the accursed shaman! The damned waelisc shaman girl!’
In their brutal language waelisc simply meant foreign. They, the invaders of Brython, referred to its native people as foreigners in their overweening arrogance! But there was fear now in the Saxon voices. They had not reckoned on confronting the fearsome waelisc shaman and her followers.
Branwen swung her sword. ‘Astyrfan!’ she howled. ‘Astyrfan!’ A Saxon word she knew well. Kill! Kill!
Her followers took up the war cry till the snowy hills rang with it.
Kill! Kill!
Arrows flew from Rhodri’s bow. Dera’s sword weaved a net of gleaming fire around her head as she plunged into the fray. Iwan pursued fleeing Saxons and cut them down.
‘Do not follow them!’ Branwen shouted as the last of the Saxons went pounding away through the trees. ‘Let them limp home, if they can, to tell others of the dread of the Gwyn Braw of Powys!’
It had become her custom always to leave someone alive to spread the word about the dreadful shaman girl and her warriors. The more the stories were told, the greater would be their fear. Fear was a greater weapon than any forged of iron. If men fled from her, she would not need to slaughter them, and already she felt the weight of too many deaths upon her head. Not that she flinched when need drove her to aim for throat or heart. But her own blood lust in battle worried her. She dreaded that one day the red mist would fall down over her eyes never to rise again. On that day she truly would become the thing that everyone feared.
She strode from the trees, sheathing her sword and slinging her shield over her back.
Angor was standing close to the tower’s entrance, panting a little, his sword bloody and two Saxons dead at his feet. Of his soldiers, five lay dead, three were injured and another two showed no sign of hurt.
Iwan turned from the forest, grinning from ear to ear. ‘This Mercian rabble grows more cowardly by the day!’ he called.
Banon’s voice was raised in response. ‘They are like vermin before the broom of the good housekeeper of Brython!’
Aberfa and Linette came out of the trees, Aberfa’s weighty arm about Linette’s slim shoulders. Rhodri and Blodwedd were not far behind them, the owl-girl wiping the blood off her face with her sleeve.
Iwan came to a halt, staring at Angor with narrowed eyes. A muscle jerked in his cheek; Branwen knew he was recalling his last encounter with the captain, at the gates of Gwylan Canu. Angor had promised his parents that their son would suffer an agonizing death if they did not open the gates of their citadel to him.
Iwan never took his eyes off Angor. ‘You are in our debt, Captain,’ he said with a sly smile. ‘But you need give us no word of thanks; it is enough to see the gratitude in your kindly eyes.’
Angor scowled but said nothing.
Dera was less insouciant. She confronted Captain Angor, her black hair like a banner down her back as she looked into the old warrior’s face. ‘Well now, you are saved from your folly by the Gwyn Braw, and yet I see no gratitude in your eyes, old man.’
Angor stared her down, his face stern and grim. ‘Have you no shame, daughter of Dagonet ap Wadu?’ he snarled. ‘To take arms with the witch girl of the dead gods? Your father must howl his misery to the stars that ever you were born.’
Dera gave a hiss of rage and half drew her sword. Banon leaped forward and caught her arm, dragging her away from the sneering captain.
‘Peace, Dera,’ Branwen demanded, standing between her and the captain. ‘Remember why we are here.’
‘I remember well enough!’ spat Dera. ‘And it was not my will that we should play nursemaid to Llew ap Gelert’s brats. For all of me, we should leave them to this man’s care and see them all dead ere nightfall!’
‘That would have no honour in it,’ Blodwedd responded, gliding up to Angor and gazing up into his face. ‘You believe that Branwen follows dead gods, human?’ she hissed, her voice as soft and deadly as snakes. ‘The Shining Ones are not dead. Look you, man – their eyes are upon you even now.’ Her own eyes widened to golden wheels, and Branwen saw alarm and distaste battle in Angor’s face before he tore his gaze from hers and turned to stare fixedly at Branwen.
‘Do you have no control over the demons and fools in your charge?’ he said, a note of derision entering his voice. ‘Do your worst. I do not fear you, Branwen ap Braw!’
Branwen ap Braw – Branwen, Death’s daughter.
‘Branwen ap Braw, is it?’ Rhodri said mildly. ‘I think her mother would take offence at that jibe, Captain Angor.’
‘Why waste words on this wretch?’ demanded Aberfa. ‘Let us fetch the girls from their hiding holes and get away from here as quick as we may. The wind is getting up and I’d be under shelter before the night falls.’
‘We shall depart in a moment,’ agreed Branwen. She held Angor’s eyes. ‘Your path is yours to choose,’ she said calmly. ‘You will release the daughters of Llew ap Gelert into our custody, but whether you come with us to Pengwern or make your way elsewhere, I care not.’ She eyed the three injured men. ‘It is a long path that will take you back to Doeth Palas, Captain Angor. For your men’s sakes, I’d have you in my party – so long as you will obey my commands.’
Angor’s eyes blazed. ‘That I shall never do!’
‘Then they will likely perish of their wounds,’ Iwan said. ‘Cursing you for a stubborn fool with their last breaths.’
‘I have healing skills, Captain Angor,’ added Rhodri. ‘I will tend your men whether you come with us or no.’
‘He will take the road to Pengwern with you, do not doubt it,’ said a new voice from the half-blocked entrance to the tower; a female voice, young but full of authority. ‘Captain Angor will follow my commands, or my father will have his head!’
And so saying, Meredith ap Llew, eldest daughter of the prince of Bras Mynydd, stepped out over the rubble and came into the open.
‘Greetings to you, Branwen ap Griffith,’ she said. ‘Far have we both travelled since last we saw one another under my father’s roof in Doeth Palas.’ She bowed her head. ‘My life is in your hands. I know we were never friends, but I hope you will see me safe to my wedding with the king’s son.’
CHAPTER THREE
It was so strange for Branwen to encounter the daughter of Llew ap Gelert under such circumstances that for a few moments she could do no more than gaze at her in silence.
They had last seen one another during the long-lost summer before the war had begun. They were of an age, the two girls, but shared nothing else in common. Spoilt and pampered, Branwen had thought Meredith and her younger sister Romney, forever preening themselves, their soft bodies draped in silken gowns, their minds empty and vain.
They in turn thought her quite the barbarian – an unsophisticated ruffian from the eastern wildernesses. And they were not slow to show her their disdain, nor their amusement at her unkempt appearance.
But it seemed the journey across Bras Mynydd and over the mountains had taken their toll on the elder sister. Meredith’s usually immaculate hair was a ruin of half-fallen braids and knots, gleaming here and there with displaced green and yellow jewels. There was grime on her face and her thick woollen cloak was dirtied and frayed about the hem. Her slender face was still beautiful, but there was a new, haggard look to her features, and in her eyes Branwen saw fear and misery.
After the space of maybe five heartbeats, Branwen found her voice. ‘Well met, Meredith,’ she said in as kindly a tone as she could manage. ‘You need have no fear. Where is your sister? I was told she would be travelling with you.’
‘She is in an upper room,’ said Meredith. ‘She is very frightened and she is sick with cold and hunger.’ A tear crept down her face. ‘Our servants are dead and our carriage and horses taken by
the Saxons. How are we to get to Pengwern now?’
Captain Angor dropped to one knee in front of her. ‘I gave a promise to your father to deliver you and the Lady Romney safe and well into the king’s court,’ he said. ‘I won’t fail you.’
‘I will find Princess Romney,’ said Rhodri, stepping up on to the rubble that spilled from the entrance way. ‘Then we should get away from here. Blodwedd is right – the Saxons may rally in the forest and return.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Branwen. ‘Linette, Banon? Go and fetch our horses. We shall have to ride double to give everyone a seat, but speed is of the essence.’ She looked up into the sky. The sun was gone now, dusk seeping across the pale wintry blue, throwing down long shadows. She turned to Captain Angor. ‘Are you with us or not? Choose swiftly.’
‘He is with you, Branwen,’ said Meredith.
Angor gave a curt nod to the princess and stood up, avoiding Branwen’s gaze as he went to check on his wounded men.
A fine foe to have with us on the way back, she thought. I’ll be needing one eye open for Saxons and one eye for Captain Angor on the long road to Pengwern.
As was usual in the aftermath of a skirmish, Branwen’s band moved among the slain Saxons, stripping from the corpses anything that might be of use and was light enough to be carried. Weapons were always of value, as were the thick winter cloaks and any provisions. In this hard winter, every morsel of food was worth more than gold, and as the months dragged by even the storehouses of the king were beginning to look disturbingly lean.
Fain came gliding from the filigree of bare forest branches and alighted on Branwen’s shoulder, folding his wings and rubbing his beak against the side of her face in greeting. Branwen walked through the steaming bodies, one hand on her sword hilt, the fingers of her other hand lightly stroking the falcon’s soft feathers. In her mind, she was already tracing the journey back down the mountains. They would overnight in the deep cave known as Cêl Crau, then make an early start down into the rough and tumble of lands that led to the king’s court at Pengwern. With good luck and no unwelcome interruptions, they would be with King Cynon before nightfall the same day. Another mission accomplished. And all without a drop of Gwyn Braw blood spilled.
She smiled to herself. The Shining Ones may have withdrawn from her over the past months, but she felt sure that Rhiannon and Govannon must still be watching her with kindly intent. How else could such luck have travelled with them?
Not for the first time, she roved the horizon with her eyes, seeking among the barren trees and rocky heights for some sign that she was right. The glimpse of antlers against the sky to show that Govannon of the Wood was at hand. A star-bright jewel among the branches that would reveal that Rhiannon of the Spring was close.
She sighed, seeing nothing, but still convinced of their presence and guardianship. She knew who she was! She was Branwen of the Shining Ones. The Warrior Child whose destiny it was to be the saviour of Brython.
That would never change.
She turned to see Rhodri leading Romney out over the rubbled entrance and on to the bloodstained snow. The younger princess was short and sturdy, with dark hair and a broad, sullen face. Like her sister, Romney was swathed in a tattered cloak and showed clear signs of her hard journey in the wild, but unlike Meredith, when she saw Branwen there was only cold dislike in her eyes.
She stumbled on a loose stone as she came into the open. Rhodri reached a hand to help her but she glared at him and drew off. ‘Get away from me,’ she spat. ‘Do not presume to touch a princess of Doeth Palas!’
So, her travels had done nothing so far to improve her personality, more was the pity. Branwen shook her head. It was going to be a long trip home, playing nursemaid to Romney and suffering Angor’s barbed loathing. A merry jaunt, indeed!
Rhodri bowed to Romney, stepping back to let her make her faltering way to her sister’s side. A small smile flickered on his lips. Romney saw it and scowled. She turned to Captain Angor, who was kneeling at the side of a wounded man.
‘Fetch a carriage,’ she demanded of him. ‘I’m cold and hungry. Bring me some food immediately, and then get us away from this place and these people.’ She said ‘people’ as though she meant vermin.
Angor’s voice was clipped and strained. ‘Your carriage was destroyed by the Saxons, my lady,’ he said. ‘Our horses and all our provisions are lost. What would you have me do?’
Just then, Banon and Linette came into the clearing, leading the eight horses of the Gwyn Braw. Among them was Branwen’s great bay destrier, once the steed of Skur the Viking warrior, but now taken by Branwen and named Terrwyn, meaning The Brave.
Romney jerked a finger towards the horses. ‘We can take those,’ she said.
Angor glanced at the horses. ‘They belong to others,’ he said.
Romney looked at Branwen’s followers. ‘What of it?’ she said. ‘Does a princess of Doeth Palas need to ask permission of vagabonds? Take the horses and whatever food they have, and be quick about it, Captain!’
Angor’s jaw twitched, as though he was biting back some inappropriate retort.
Aberfa burst out laughing, and even Dera was forced to smile.
‘Oh, the audacity of the child!’ roared Aberfa, clapping her hands together. ‘She’s a queen among us peasants to be sure!’
Iwan grinned, shaking his head. ‘Angor ap Pellyn does not command here, Romney,’ he told her. ‘If you seek special treatment, ask Branwen.’
‘But I’d keep a civil tongue, if I were you,’ added Banon, drawing the horses to a halt.
‘How dare you!’ Romney exploded, her cheeks red with anger.
Blodwedd gazed at the young girl. ‘If not for Branwen and the Gwyn Braw, you would likely be dead in your own blood by now,’ she said. ‘If you cannot be grateful, then at least be silent.’
The look that Romney gave the owl-girl was of uttermost disgust, but she kept her lips together, letting her expression speak for her.
‘Let’s not rebuke the child overmuch,’ Linette said, looking at Romney with a gentle smile. ‘She is cold and tired and far from home.’
‘Keep your pity, savage!’ said Romney. ‘I don’t want it.’
‘You have it, nonetheless, little one,’ Linette said.
Branwen walked up to Romney, gazing deep into the small girl’s angry, frightened eyes. ‘You are under my protection, Romney, whether you like it or not. You will have food shortly, but we must ride some way first.’ She turned, doing a quick head count. ‘Eight horses and sixteen riders – it can be done.’
‘Fifteen riders,’ said Angor, standing up. The man at his feet was staring sightlessly into the evening sky. ‘Colwyn ap Arion will not be travelling with us.’
Branwen looked at the other two injured men. One had an arrow wound to the thigh, another a deep cut on his forehead. ‘There is no time to bury the dead, and for that I am sorry,’ she said. Angor nodded, as though he understood the importance of moving on as quickly as possible. Branwen continued: ‘Such men of yours that are unhurt will each ride with an injured man. Linette will ride double with Romney. Meredith will ride with me. Rhodri? Tend the injured men as best you can, but do not delay us. I’d not pick my way down to Cêl Crau in darkness.’
The riders made their long, slow way down through the forested hills as the day gradually ebbed into a deep, silvery gloaming. Fingers of evening cold came creeping through the trees, nipping at toes and ears, turning breath to white fog. The snow-mantled landscape shone with an eerie ghost-light, and even the darkest shadows glowed.
Fain came and went, sometimes flying ahead and at others slowly circling the line of horse-riders, calling out sharply every now and then as if to spur them on. Stars began glittering like frost on the eastern hem of the sky. Their journey was silent, save the rattle and slap of harness and reins, the snorting of horses and the padded crunch of hooves in snow; and the occasional stifled groan from an injured man. But these sharp sounds only made the profound silence of the wint
er forest all the more unearthly.
Aberfa led the way, Banon riding double with her. Behind her the others rode in single file – Rhodri and Blodwedd, followed by Linette and Romney and then Angor, alone in the saddle. Branwen wasn’t quite sure why she had decided to let the captain of Doeth Palas ride solo. Possibly because she knew none of her party would wish to share with him, possibly to isolate him.
Meredith’s arms were wrapped tight around Branwen’s waist. Both princesses had baulked at the idea of riding astride the horses, and Romney had been forcibly put in the saddle by Aberfa, the enraged child planted on the horse’s back like a bag of grain.
Branwen could feel Meredith trembling at her back through many layers of clothing, and when Terrwyn’s hoof faltered or slid, the princess’s arms tightened so she could hardly breathe. Behind Branwen rode the four soldiers, two to a horse, and behind them, keeping a sharp eye out, were Dera and Iwan.
They came to a gloomy place where a sheer wall of rock reared on one side, and the trees fell away down a steep decline on the other. Icicles as long as Branwen’s arm hung from the overhanging ridges.
Fain was ahead of them again, lost in the gathering twilight.
Aberfa halted her steed and turned in the saddle. ‘The way ahead is dangerous,’ she called, her breath billowing like a cloud. ‘Melt-waters have turned to ice on the stones. We should dismount for a little and lead the horses on foot.’
‘Can you get down?’ Branwen asked Meredith.
‘I think so,’ came the quavering reply.
‘Take my hand, and mind your footing,’ said Branwen. Meredith slid awkwardly from the saddle.
All but the injured men dismounted. The ground was slick and treacherous underfoot, and their progress was slow as they made their cautious way down over the shelving icefields. All the same, more than one person slipped and fell as they descended, and the horses were jumpy at the feel of the slithery ice under their hooves.
‘What is that noise?’ called Iwan from the rear. Branwen had heard it too, a strange grumbling, rumbling sound that seemed to drift down to them from out of the sky.