Caradoc of the North Wind

chapter FOUR




T his is wrong. This is not how I was meant to die. Not like this. Not in this place. Not at this time. No! No! No! I will not allow this! I am the Bright Blade! The Emerald Flame!

Fighting against the weight that bore down on her, Branwen pulled her shield round from her back and pressed upwards with it, forcing the snow away from her head and shoulders. She felt around blindly for Meredith, concerned that the girl had been crushed. But she found her alive and gasping for breath. With her free hand, she clawed the snow out of Meredith’s face. Now they had a pocket of clear air to breathe. Meredith coughed and choked, her breath warm on Branwen’s cheek. But Branwen could see nothing. They were in a place of utter blackness.

Annwn, surely? She was dead and did not realize it!

‘No!’ she snarled. ‘No!’

Using every ounce of strength, she heaved up against the burden of snow, teeth gritted, muscles straining until her ears rang.

With a cry of triumph and relief, she felt the pressure lift away from her shield arm. A crack of pale evening light broke through the carapace of snow. She struggled to her knees and then to her feet, pushing upwards, using the shield like a plough, heaving the snow back, widening the hole in which she was standing.

She dreaded to see a dead world all about her – a world of thick, suffocating snow in which nothing had survived.

But by some turn of fortune, the aftermath of the avalanche was not nearly so dire. She and Meredith had sought shelter under a low dip in the cliff face, and it was over them that the snow had fallen most thickly. All along the leaning line of the cliff, she saw horses and people alive and seemingly unhurt.

Even Terrwyn had lived through the onslaught of the mountain. He stood close by, head down, eyes wide, snorting white fog as he shook the snow from his mane.

The dazed survivors of the avalanche rallied themselves, slapping the snow off their clothes, picking possessions out of the ankle-deep drifts, comforting their horses. They were caught in a narrow furrow that hemmed them in between the cliff foot and a high wall of snow. Occasional rocks toppled off the cliff, arcing over their heads and plunging into the dense snow dyke.

Aberfa’s warning had saved them all. Had they tried to outpace the avalanche, they would have been swept away. Even the wrath of the winter-clad mountains could not harm them. The guardianship of the Shining Ones made them invincible! Branwen smiled despite the intense chill of the snow. With wet clothes, getting quickly to Cêl Crau was all the more urgent now.

An alarmed voice cut through her thoughts. Iwan’s voice.

‘Linette? Sweet saints, she’s hurt! Rhodri – quick. Come here.’

Her heart in her throat, Branwen heaved herself out of the snowdrift and ran to where Iwan was kneeling over Linette. Romney was nearby, pressed up against the cliff, wide-eyed and shivering.

Linette was half sitting, her back against the cliff. Her long pale hair was thick with snow, her face ashen and wracked with pain. Her hands were clutched to her abdomen.

Rhodri dropped to his knees at her side. ‘How were you hurt?’ he asked.

‘I was hit,’ Linette gasped. ‘A boulder, I think. My stomach.’ She grimaced. ‘Help me up. I will be all right in a moment.’

She lifted her arms and Iwan took her hands. She tried to stand, but fell back with a groan.

‘Wait!’ Rhodri said. ‘Let me check the injury first.’

Others were gathering around Linette. Romney began to weep, her hands over her face. Meredith folded her in her arms and held her close.

Branwen heard Dera’s voice, giving orders she knew she should have given herself. ‘Angor ap Pellyn, stand where you are! Any of your men who would seek to use this as a chance to escape will be cut down.’

Branwen crouched at Linette’s side. In her mind she saw again how Romney had run into danger. How Linette had pursued her. How Linette had cried out and dropped to her knees …

‘Will she be able to ride?’ Branwen asked Rhodri. ‘Cêl Crau is not far from here. We can carry her if needs be.’

‘A moment,’ Rhodri said. He looked into Linette’s eyes. ‘I must test the place where you were hit. Say if I give you pain.’

Linette nodded sharply, her eyes narrowed and her lips pressed tight together.

Rhodri slipped his hand inside her cloak.

‘I will be as gentle as I can,’ he said.

She winced as his hand moved over her abdomen. Suddenly, she convulsed, her legs thrashing, her mouth opening in a terrible scream of agony.

Rhodri drew his hands back. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Branwen saw that his face was white, as though Linette’s violent reaction to his gentle probing had cut him to the heart. ‘I will get you something for the pain. I will be as quick as I can.’

‘What do you need?’ asked Blodwedd, poised at his back.

‘In my saddlebag,’ said Rhodri. ‘There is some white willow bark, and some dried flowers of feverfew and skullcap.’

Blodwedd went skittering away through the snow.

Branwen reached for Linette’s hand. ‘All will be well,’ she said, but it disturbed her how her own voice cracked as she spoke. ‘Rhodri will have you up and hale in no time.’

Linette gave a weak smile and squeezed Branwen’s fingers.

Branwen glanced at Rhodri again and was alarmed by the unease in his face. She released Linette’s hand and stood up. Iwan was still at Linette’s side, smiling into her face as he smoothed the hair out of her eyes.

The handsome young prankster of Doeth Palas had always enjoyed the company of pretty little Linette. Sometimes, when they had ridden together talking and laughing so easily, Branwen had envied Linette her sweet good looks and the light-brown tumble of her hair. Memories of such petty jealousies stabbed now at Branwen’s heart.

Banon and Aberfa were close by, their faces concerned. Angor and his four men were a little way off, the two injured men seated in the snow. Dera watched them closely, her hand on her sword hilt. None of the horses strayed. Fain flew watchfully overhead. All was well – or would be, once Rhodri’s herbs and potions worked their magic on Linette.

Above them, the sky was afire with stars, glittering in the cold air. A biting wind came sweeping down the mountain. Branwen narrowed her eyes against its sting.

Rhodri! Work swiftly, my friend. Let’s be off this bleak mountainside soon. Once we have Linette in the cover of Cêl Crau and warmed by a roaring fire, all will be well.

I know it!

The fire crackled and spat, the flames quickly eating up the tangled tracery of gorse branches and bracken. Often in this endless winter, Branwen and her followers had been grateful for the shelter and relative comfort of the cave they called Cêl Crau. They used it as a storage place, a stopping-off point for their forays into the mountains. A hidey-hole from which they could issue, alert and refresh, to battle with Prince Llew’s incursions.

Hidden away deep in the long, winding tunnels of the cave, they kept barrels of dried fish and meat, rye grain to make flat stone-cooked loaves, oats for broth, dry straw for fodder, and a plentiful supply of fresh water. Here they stored captured weapons and garments, the spoils of many successful skirmishes with the rebellious Prince’s soldiery.

Although the entrance was little wider than a doorway, the cavern opened out into a yawning chamber as large as any Great Hall of a Brythonic chieftain. There was easily enough space for their horses, and the dry, sandy floor made for as good a mattress as any they could wish for.

Not that any were sleeping now, save for Linette. While still on the mountain, Rhodri had urged her to swallow a handful of small purple-blue buds, crushed to a mash between two stones. She had fallen into a deep drowse soon afterwards, and Iwan had carried her in his arms all the way to this place, refusing any offer of help.

Now Linette was lying close to the fire on a thick bed of furs, her slim body covered by three woollen cloaks. Rhodri was at her side, his hand on her brow, muttering softly to himself a low rhythmic healing rhyme.

White willow bark, white willow bark

So blood may not thicken nor eyes become dark

Skullcap, oh, skullcap, wound-healing flower

I sing to you, petals of blossoming power

Feverfew subtle in spirit and soul

Work soft your wyrding to make this girl whole.

Branwen herself was busy pounding another batch of feverfew, white willow bark and skullcap into a sticky paste between two flat stones. Linette had already been given one dose of this medicine before she had been moved, and Rhodri wanted more ready for when she awoke. Fain perched close by, watching Branwen intently, as though to ensure she mixed the healing herbs properly.

Blodwedd knelt beside her, feeding branches of rowan into the fire, tree-limbs that Rhodri had insisted they gather, although they were wet from the snow and sizzled and smoked as the owl-girl threw them into the yellow flames.

Banon, Dera and Iwan stood nearby, their faces anxious in the firelight. A little way from the fire, the men of Doeth Palas were gathered against a stooping wall, seated and gnawing meat and bread while Aberfa guarded them from a boulder, her spear across her knees. Meredith and Romney were with them, Romney huddled in her cloak so that only her dark eyes were visible, Meredith watching the scene at the fireside with an uneasy gaze.

‘The wet wood smokes badly,’ Iwan commented, flapping a hand at the drifting and coiling fume. He gestured to a large store of pre-cut wood against a wall. ‘We have plenty of dry stuff. It’ll burn better, and it won’t blind us.’

Rhodri broke off his chanting and glanced up at Iwan. ‘Rowan wood has especial properties,’ he said. ‘Trust me. Linette will feel the benefit, even if we do not.’

Iwan shook his head. ‘Your ancient Druid remedies will have us all choked to death, Rhodri. Are you entirely sure you know what you’re doing?’

‘He knows very well!’ growled Blodwedd, giving Iwan a cold look.

‘Pay no attention, Blodwedd,’ said Branwen. ‘Iwan is being Iwan. He means nothing by it.’ She was glad that she could say that and mean it. Six months ago, Iwan’s mockery would have had more bite to it. Six months ago, Iwan refused even to use Rhodri’s name, referring to him as ‘the half-Saxon’ or ‘Master Runaway’ – when he deigned to speak to him at all. The brotherhood of warfare had put a stop to that, but nothing could quench Iwan’s mischievous spirit.

Branwen scraped up the greenish paste with the edge of her knife, kneading it together as the green juice ran over the blade. She passed the knife to Rhodri. He spoke soft words over it then peeled back the layers that covered Linette and squeezed the juices out on to her stomach. Very gently, he smoothed his fingertips over her white skin, spreading the liquid evenly. He frowned, seeming more worried than before.

‘What is it?’ Branwen asked.

‘Her belly grows hard,’ Rhodri said. ‘I’m afraid there is some damage inside her that I cannot remedy.’ He sighed and covered her up again. ‘When she wakes I’ll feed her as much of the potion as she can take. Then all we can do is to make her as comfortable as possible for the ride to Pengwern.’

‘And what then?’ asked Banon.

‘The hope of better medicines,’ said Rhodri. ‘Wiser heads, perhaps. A quiet bed and the peace in which to recover.’

Branwen touched his arm. ‘Don’t worry, Rhodri,’ she said. ‘You’re as skilled as any of the king’s healers. Linette will get better. I know it. She is under my protection, and I will not let anything happen to her.’

Rhodri gave her a long, thoughtful look.

‘All’s well, then,’ he said at last.

It was deep night. The fire glowed like dragon’s breath in the flickering darkness of the cave. Many slept, and those awake nodded in the warmth, their bellies full. Branwen stood sleepless at the cave mouth, gazing out into the sky.

Low cloud had come heaping in from the north – mountains of thick, bronze-coloured cloud moving over the stars like a creeping sickness. And with it had come more snow, falling in great slow swathes as though intent to drown the world.

‘At least the wind is still,’ said a soft voice at her back. ‘Pray that it remain so, Branwen.’ Blodwedd stood at her side, gazing up into the snow-laden sky. ‘Caradoc is in lazy mood this night. Let us hope he does not wake with spite in his heart.’

Branwen looked at the owl-girl. ‘Is it Caradoc, do you think?’ she asked. ‘Why would one of my guardians act against me? Especially one whose freedom was won by my own hand?’

Blodwedd’s eyes glowed amber. ‘Do you think this winter was created to hinder and discomfort you alone, Branwen?’ she asked, a hint of amusement in her deep voice. ‘You are a great soul, my friend, and your destiny is awesome indeed, but not all the world revolves around you.’

‘So it’s not the doing of Caradoc?’

‘Oh, his hand it is that draws these snow clouds over us, for sure,’ said Blodwedd. ‘And it is his breath that drives the blizzards. One hundred years trammelled in a box of sorcerous wood has not changed him, deathless and eternal spirit that he is.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Blodwedd sighed. ‘No, you do not.’ She looked at Branwen. ‘The feet of Merion of the Stones stand upon the very foundations of the world. Lord Govannon of the Wood has roots that bind him to the soil. Rhiannon of the Spring may flow and dance and rise at times like mist to the heavens – but she too is weighed down by the burden of the land that demands her stewardship. They are all bound to the earth, Branwen. But Caradoc of the North Wind holds no allegiance to any of these things. He leaps free, dancing his wild dance from mountain-top to moonbeam, from the eagle’s back to the very lap of the sun.’

‘You mean, Caradoc is … different from the others?’ Branwen asked uncertainly, trying to understand what the owl-girl was telling her. ‘More dangerous?’

‘I would not say more dangerous,’ mused Blodwedd. ‘Forest, river and rock are each most dangerous in their way. Say instead, Caradoc is less predictable, less constant, less troubled by the passing things that crawl upon the world’s face. He will act for his own pleasure, Branwen – for his own diversion and amusement. And a merry trickster he can be; his breath can bring death and mayhem, his whims unleash slaughter and misery.’ She gestured up into the ocean of steadily falling snow. ‘This is not an attack upon you, Branwen – nor upon any living thing. This is Caradoc at his sport. We endure it or we perish – to him, it is all the same.’

‘But what of my destiny?’ Branwen asked. ‘Does he not care that this winter may hinder me in what the Shining Ones would have me do?’

‘He does not care,’ Blodwedd replied. ‘And during the months of the year’s turning, his powers are in the ascendancy. He revels in his freedom and his strength, Branwen. He cares for nought else.’

‘And I let him loose,’ groaned Branwen. ‘Why didn’t you warn me of this before I opened the casket that held him?’

Blodwedd looked affronted. ‘You were acting upon the wishes of Merion of the Stones,’ she said. ‘I cannot speak against the will of the Shining Ones.’

‘And what of them?’ asked Branwen. ‘Can’t they keep Caradoc under control?’

Blodwedd’s eyes shone with an eerie, inner light. ‘Does the mountain control the wind, Branwen?’ she asked. ‘Does the forest make demands of the gale that rushes through its branches? Does water tell the gust of air which way to blow?’

Branwen’s reply was as soft as the falling snow. ‘No,’ she murmured. ‘They do not.’

‘You are not invincible,’ Blodwedd intoned solemnly. ‘You are not deathless. But he is both these things and more. Beware him, Branwen of the High Destiny. Beware Caradoc!’