Caradoc of the North Wind

chapter NINE




The hall of the great King Cynon is bright tonight

Cold is banished, and the fires leap high

Oxen roast on the bone

and mead fills the cups of horn and gold

The warriors sing of victory,

the women listen with shining eyes.

The retinue of the king have hastened forth

Armed and well shod into the bitter winter

Saxons to pursue and victories to win.

But now they feed together around the wine-vessel

Oh, my heart is full with the telling of it,

My heart swells with pride in the tale of fell deeds

But grief mingles with joy;

too many of my true kinsmen are gone

Out of three hundred that rode

forth wearing the golden torques,

Fully one hundred never returned from the battles in the east

The exalted men went from us;

they ate a final meal of wine and mead.

I am sorrowful for the loss of them in this harsh winter

May our shields resound like thunder as we remember them!

May the Three Saints lead them to their long home

And we who remain, to sweet victory!


The bard finished his song and the chime of his harp strings faded. A moment later, the quiet of the Hall of Arlwy was overturned by raucous cheering as the audience erupted into roaring approval.

The tall, grey-haired singer bowed low and then stepped away from the firelight with his ash-wood harp cradled lovingly in his arms.

Branwen and her band clapped along with all the other men and women of King Cynon’s court. Gorsedd ap Gruffud was a fine singer and Aberfa stamped her feet and Iwan whistled shrilly between his teeth to show their appreciation of his skills. Branwen knew how easy it was to get caught up in the excitement and the drama of such battle songs even though the ‘victories’ spoken of were nothing more than passing skirmishes, as akin to the war that was coming as spring breezes were to the worst of Caradoc’s blizzards.

The feast to welcome the two princesses of Doeth Palas was at its height. Meredith and Romney sat in a gaggle of court ladies at the far end of the chamber, close to the king. Branwen and her band were gathered in a little knot near the doors. Peering down the crowded hall, Branwen could see that the princesses were dressed now in fine gowns and had their hair braided and bejewelled. They were clearly glad to be at their journey’s end. They hadn’t been brought up to endure the hardships of the wild. She smiled to herself, quietly proud of her lean, strong body and of the skills that had kept her and her folk alive all these long months. To be soft and spoiled like them? It would be unendurable.

The warriors and merchants and ladies of Pengwern sat at their ease all around the hall, eating heartily from bowls carried to them by servants, and drinking from earthenware vessels brimming with wine or spicy, honey-flavoured mead. Branwen and her folk were glad of the hot meat and cheese and bread, but they drank only watered wine, and avoided the mead altogether. It was a sweet but dangerous brew, and one night’s unguarded drinking could dull the senses for two entire days.

The king and his closest advisers sat at the far end of the hall, amid draperies of purple silk. Captain Angor was with them, and Branwen noticed that often his head and the head of the king were together as though they were exchanging private words.

Among Cynon’s counsellors sat representatives of the courts of the other three kingdoms of Brython, stern and powerful men who had journeyed far to be here. They had gathered from the court of King Maelgwn Hir, ruler of Gwynedd, from King Dinefwr of Dyfed and from King Tewdrig of Gwent. They were here to witness the marriage between Princess Meredith and Prince Drustan, to take back to their masters assurances that the civil conflict that had shaken the kingdom of Powys was truly ended.

When the Gwyn Braw had set out to rescue the princesses, the representatives of Gwent had not yet arrived, but Branwen saw them now, three grizzled warriors and one younger lad with bright, sharp eyes and a pleasant, open face. The son and heir of some powerful lord of Gwent, she assumed the boy must be. She wondered whether any of the three older men were from the house of Eirion. Half a year ago she had been sent out from her home to marry into that family. Oh, but what a strange and astonishing path her destiny had led her down since those simple times!

‘I like songs of victory and triumph!’ boomed Aberfa, slapping Branwen on the back. ‘They warm my blood better than the hottest fire!’

‘It would be a fine thing if we could defeat the Saxons by singing alone,’ remarked Banon, her milk-white skin glowing in the firelight, her freckles like flecks of gold on her cheeks and arms. ‘That’s a contest we’d easily win.’

‘Two famous bards facing one another on the battlefield to decide the fate of nations in a bloodless tournament!’ added Iwan. ‘I like the way you think, Banon!’

‘All the same,’ remarked Dera. ‘The wine of victory tastes the sweeter when mingled with the blood of an enemy slain.’ She looked at her companions with her deep black eyes. ‘What are we, old women to wish an easy victory? Ha! I’d sooner slay the Saxons with bright iron that have them slink away untested!’ She frowned, as though a sudden thought had struck her. ‘And these old songs – they sound well enough, I grant – but where are recalled the deeds of warrior women such as ourselves?’

‘Men write the songs,’ Banon said with a wry smile.

‘We need a song to the Gwyn Braw!’ agreed Aberfa, her mouth half full of juicy meat. ‘That would be a fine thing.’

‘Rhodri the Druid has a way with a rhyme,’ said Iwan. ‘I shall speak to him about it.’ He brandished his knife, running with meat juices. ‘A song of Iwan ap Madoc, the fount of all that is brave and noble and comely!’

Aberfa almost spat her meat out. ‘The wellspring of all that is conceited, arrogant and swollen-headed, rather!’ she cackled. ‘It’s we women who deserve the praise!’

Iwan laughed. ‘It’s true that you’re good enough warriors … for a bunch of weak little girls.’

‘“Weak”? “Little”?’ growled Aberfa, her eyes shining. ‘Would you care to arm-wrestle me, man-child?’

‘Not me,’ said Iwan in mock horror. ‘I’d as soon play tag with the Brown Bull of Cwley. He probably weighs less than you, for a start!’

With an affronted howl, Aberfa snatched at Iwan and he only just managed to scramble out of her way in time.

‘Teach him some manners, Aberfa!’ chuckled Dera.

Branwen smiled. It was heartening to see her friends at play like this – a pleasant reward for their perilous labours out in the wild.

A man came up behind the laughing band, his arrival unheard in the clamour of the feasting. The first Branwen knew of his presence was a heavy hand coming down on her shoulder.

She turned and looked into the grim, fierce face of Dagonet ap Wadu, a high captain of the king’s army and the father of dark-haired Dera.

Seeing him, Dera scrambled to her feet and stood with her head bowed. ‘My lord,’ she said meekly. ‘My greetings and duty to you, as always.’

Dagonet didn’t even glance at his daughter, his eyes fixed instead on Branwen. ‘The king would have you attend him,’ he said.

‘I am at the king’s command,’ Branwen said, standing up.

Dagonet nodded and walked back the way he had come. Following him, Branwen cast a sympathetic look towards Dera, who had sat down again, biting her lip and staring into the fire. As resolute and deadly as any man in combat, the raven-haired warrior girl was forever cowed in the presence of her father.

Branwen felt a stab of heartsickness as she thought of her own dear, lost father. Unlike Dagonet ap Wadu, he had been a man of infinite love and compassion.

‘A word with you, sir,’ said Branwen, walking quickly to catch up with Dagonet.

He looked at her without interest.

‘Why do you treat your daughter so?’ Branwen asked. ‘She loves you dearly, and seeks only to please you.’

‘Dera knows what she must do to earn my forgiveness,’ said Dagonet. ‘She alone chose the path she is on.’

‘You’d have her part with the Gwyn Braw?’ asked Branwen.

‘I would.’

A response to this screamed in Branwen’s head. Why do you hate me? What have I ever done but strive ceaselessly for the good fortune of Powys?

But what would be the purpose of such questions? She already knew the answers. She was the shaman girl of the Shining Ones. The cat’s-paw of ancient forces feared by everyone.

As she walked with Dagonet to the far end of the hall, she saw that Cynon’s queen was seated with Meredith and Romney. She was a pale, thin woman with anxious, nervous eyes and a look about her of a dog that was used to unkind treatment. She spoke little, and Branwen had the impression that she was scared of her husband, although she had never seen him do anything to make her afraid. In fact, Cynon hardly even acknowledged her existence.

How different from the loving and respectful partnership that had thrived between Branwen’s mother and father.

She shook her head, pushing away thoughts of her dear mother. It was still too painful for her to dwell on Alis ap Owain – the warrior maiden of Brych Einiog; too hard to endure the thought of the long leagues of warfare and the long months of despair that separated them. Would she ever return to her homeland? And what if she did? What if even her own mother now feared and hated her? No! It was too much to bear.

Don’t think of such things! My mother would never turn away from me.

Branwen stepped over one of the king’s dogs, sprawling among the reeds, its belly full of treats and titbits, its long tongue lolling.

The king beckoned her and she moved through his counsellors to kneel respectfully at his side. ‘You wished to see me, my lord?’

‘Not I,’ said the king, his lips greasy from roasted pork and his eyes gleaming with private amusement. ‘But someone from Gwent asked after you.’ He turned and gestured to the boy that Branwen had noticed from before. ‘Hywel ap Murig – come, here’s the answer to your question. Here is the daughter of Prince Griffith ap Rhys.’

The boy turned and looked appraisingly at Branwen.

She stared back at him, dumbstruck.

This handsome young man was Hywel ap Murig – the fat-faced toad-boy to whom she had been betrothed as a small child?

‘What do you make of her, Hywel?’ asked the king, clearly revelling in Branwen’s discomfort. ‘Would she have made a worthy bride?’ He chuckled. ‘An ornament to the house of Eirion? The mother of future kings of Gwent?’

A spasm of something close to distaste crossed Hywel’s face as he looked at her, but it was gone in an instant and he fixed his expression into one of polite interest as he bowed.

‘Greetings, Branwen ap Griffith,’ he said, his voice clear and strong. ‘We meet again under curious circumstances.’ He smiled uneasily. Branwen supposed he had never encountered a warrior girl like her before. ‘It has been a long time. Do you remember me at all?’

‘A little,’ Branwen answered. ‘I was very young.’

Hywel nodded. ‘We both were.’ He paused, as if searching for something more to say. ‘I hear you are a … great warrior now.’

‘I do what I can …’

Hywel looked awkwardly at her. ‘You need have no fear that I am come to carry you off to a wedding bed. The tryst between our families is quite broken. Indeed, I am betrothed to Lowri ap Garan, of the House of Morfudd in Gwynedd. A fine match, so they say.’

‘Oh.’ Branwen could see the relief on his face as he told her this. As though he had been dreading the thought of having her as his wife! Not that she should be surprised at that. He must have heard many tales of her exploits over the past few months; and what boy in his right wits would want to be tied to a half-crazed shaman girl who worshipped demons?

All the same, it was a shock to see Hywel again like this, and to be made so acutely aware that he wanted their marriage even less than she did. And to think that he had grown up so courteous and handsome, too!

The tricks that fate plays! If not for her encounter with Rhiannon of the Spring in the high passes of the mountains, she might by now be wed to Hywel ap Murig.

How different her life could have been.

She could be far from here, safe and secure in the deep south, protected by fortified walls and by the loving kindness of her new family. Wandering the halls of her new home, dressed in fine silk, her hair styled into intricate loops and coils, woven with jewels.

She smiled, knowing herself – knowing how she would have chafed and railed at such a life. She knew who she was! Branwen of the Shining Ones – Destiny’s Sword! The Emerald Flame! The Bright Blade of Powys!

She thrust out her hand to Hywel and he gripped it in some surprise.

‘I’m glad you’ve found a more suitable wife,’ she said. ‘My blessings on your union, Hywel ap Murig! All happiness be with you.’ She looked at the king. The smile was gone from Cynon’s face. Branwen guessed he had been looking forward to watching her squirm. In that at least, she was pleased to disappoint him. ‘Is there anything else you would wish of me, my lord?’ she asked. ‘I am yours to command, but my folk are weary from our travels in your service, and I’d have them retire for the night, if it please you.’

‘It pleases me,’ the king said with a casual wave of his hand, and he turned to Captain Angor, seated at his side, as though continuing a conversation that her arrival had interrupted.

As she turned to leave, she saw Angor look at her with hard, amused eyes and with a sardonic smile on his lips.

Like that cat that’s had the cream, she thought as she walked back down the hall to be with her companions. That cannot bode well for me and mine. All the same, if he has ill plans for us, we’ll doubtless learn of it in good time. Or bad time, more likely!