‘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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Branwen stood upon the ramparts of Pengwern, gazing northwards and thinking of her mother. Of Caradoc’s storm, all trace had gone; the snow melted away, the freezing wind abated. But it was bitter cold all the same, and Branwen stared out over a bleak winter landscape of mud and brown earth and bare black trees.
Three days had passed since the battle had been won. Three days filled with hard, bitter toil. Too many had died on the battlefield for the survivors to rejoice in their victory, and the manner of their delivery from the Saxons was too uncanny for them to feel at ease with it. But at least Branwen and the Gwyn Braw were saved the outright hostility of former times. As fearsome as the witch girl might be, and as dreadful were the gods she followed, she had proved herself an invincible enemy of the Saxons.
And so Branwen and the Gwyn Braw had helped the people of Pengwern to try and put back together the fragments of their shattered lives. There was silence and awe as they passed, but the hatred and rancour were gone.
Riders had been sent out, north, east and south, and they had returned with good news. Not a Saxon could be found west of the River Dee, and those who rode furthest and sought hardest learned that General Ironfist’s great army had fallen to pieces. The levies had fled back to their homes and the captains had ridden north to give the grievous news to the king of Northumbria. His general was dead. His dreams of conquest were done.
The burned gate towers of Pengwern had been pulled down and the timber used to make a great pyre upon which King Cynon and Prince Llew had been burned. Lesser fires had taken the rest of the dead, while Rhodri and the physicians of Pengwern worked tirelessly to save those that could be saved, and to give some measure of peace to those who could not.
New towers were already under construction, trees being felled on the western hill and the timbers being shaped and cut while new postholes were dug for the founding piles.
Now a kind of heart-sore quiet had come over the citadel – a storm-wrecked stillness, as though the stunned soul of Pengwern had succumbed at last to a much-needed sleep. In a few days the citadel of the king of Powys would reawaken for the wedding of Drustan and Meredith, but on this cold and blustery winter’s day, all Branwen could do was clutch her cloak close around her body and stare longingly at the northern horizon and wish for home.
‘It’s a cold morning to be admiring the view, Branwen.’ Startled from her daydreams, Branwen turned at the sound of Meredith’s voice. The young princess stood swathed in a long, thick ermine cloak with a deep hood that left only her pale face visible.
‘How is your sister?’ Branwen asked. She had not seen the two girls since the funeral of their father. Romney had been inconsolable as the consuming flames had leaped, clinging to Meredith and weeping as though her tears had no end.
‘She is as you would expect,’ sighed Meredith, stepping up to stand at Branwen’s side. ‘She loved our father with all her heart.’ She glanced sidelong at Branwen. ‘They were very similar,’ she said. ‘Stubborn, proud and headstrong.’ She paused as though weighing her words. ‘Not always wise in their choices. Not always fair.’
Branwen looked at her, not sure how to respond.
‘I have had long talks with Drustan these past days,’ Meredith continued. ‘We are both the children of great fathers, but we are not like them.’ Her eyes burned into Branwen’s face. ‘I am not like my father, and Drustan is not like his father. I wanted you to know that.’
Branwen nodded.
Meredith’s voice softened. ‘My father was not a traitor, Branwen,’ she said. ‘I will never believe he was a traitor. He died fighting for Powys.’
‘He did,’ Branwen agreed, although she could have said a great deal more.
‘Drustan would like you to stay here,’ Meredith said. ‘Will you stay?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Meredith bit her lip, her hand slipping from her cloak to touch Branwen’s arm. ‘Stay,’ she said. ‘If not for our sakes, then for your own. The gods you worship will destroy you, Branwen, I am sure of it.’
‘I do not worship them,’ Branwen murmured. ‘And do you forget how you were saved by one of those gods?’
‘No, I don’t forget,’ Meredith replied. ‘But fire is a friend when tamed and a great foe when set loose. You do not control these powers, Branwen, and I fear you will be burned to death by them.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Branwen.
‘The Saxon menace is gone,’ Meredith persisted. ‘Be at peace now with us. What more could the Old Powers ask of you?’
Branwen thought of the white shield and the silvery sword that lay together on her bed in the long house of the Gwyn Braw. She said nothing.
Meredith frowned. ‘I know you follow a great destiny, Branwen,’ she said. ‘But if you cannot stay, where will it take you next? Do you know?’
‘I’m waiting,’ Branwen said quietly.
‘Waiting? Waiting for what?’
A bleak smile curled Branwen’s lips. ‘For a sign,’ she said. ‘Rhodri is sure it will come soon. He has told me as much.’
‘What sign?’
‘The young bear,’ whispered Branwen. ‘I’m waiting to follow the young bear.’
It was in the deep dark of the night before the wedding day of King Drustan and Princess Meredith that Branwen was awoken by a hand on her shoulder.
Rhodri leaned over her, a rushlight illuminating his face. ‘Come,’ he said softly. ‘I have something to show you. Bring your sword and shield.’
She dressed in warm clothes, slinging the shield over her shoulder and sliding the glowing sword into her belt. Following Rhodri, she studied for a moment each of her sleeping companions. Fearless Dera with her mass of black hair half covering her face. Banon, lying on her front with her long limbs sprawling and her red hair glowing like fire. Iwan. He looked so innocent, lying there asleep. Too handsome for his own good. Too clever. And Aberfa, lying on her back, snoring like a boar. She loved them all.
She slipped silently out the door in Rhodri’s wake.
The moon was full and round in the sky,
so bright that it cast shadows on the ground. Rhodri took her to the southern ramparts, putting his arm around her shoulders and pointing over the walls of the citadel.
‘What do you see?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ she said, shivering a little in the chill. ‘Shadows, that’s all.’
‘Look more closely.’
Now she saw it. A small dark shape that she had taken to be no more than a boulder, some fifty or sixty paces from the walls, close by a bend in the River Hefren. She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. The shape moved, lifting a blunt head, the long snout turning from side to side. Then it rose clumsily on to its haunches and she knew for certain that it was a young bear.
A sudden sense of fear and loss pierced her. She gripped Rhodri’s hand. ‘Must I?’ she asked, her voice thick with misery. ‘Do I have no choice?’
‘You always have a choice, Branwen,’ Rhodri replied.
‘Then I choose to throw this shield and this sword into the river,’ she said bitterly. ‘I choose to go north. I choose to return to Garth Milain and be with my mother. There! It is done – I have made my choice.’
Rhodri nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said.
She frowned at him. ‘As easily as that?’
‘I am not your keeper, Branwen. I will guide you if you wish it, and I will stand aside if not.’
‘Then stand aside! I’m going back to bed, and tomorrow I will attend the wedding of the king, and when that is done I will take Terrwyn and ride north and be free of destiny for ever.’
Rhodri said nothing.
‘This is no jest, my friend!’ she insisted. ‘I am done with hardship and strife.’ She turned from the walls and walked steadily away from him.
After a few paces, she halted and turned back. ‘What will you do?’ she called softly.
‘I don’t know.’ His eyes seemed very large as she looked into his face. ‘You still have the sword and shield, Branwen. Weren’t you going to throw them into the river?’
She ran back to him and stood quivering in front of him. ‘I hate this!’ she cried.
‘I know.’
‘I want to go home.’
‘Who’s to say you won’t?’ Rhodri asked gently.
‘But first I must follow my destiny, is that it?’
‘If you choose.’
She frowned at him, holding back her anger. ‘Who is this boy?’ she asked. ‘This other Chosen One? Is he like me? Does he have a choice?’
‘The same choice given to you,’ said Rhodri. ‘Except that your choices will touch him, whether he wills it or not.’ He nodded at the sword glimmering in her belt. ‘This belongs to him, Branwen.’
‘And if I do not give it to him?’
‘No one is told what would have happened at the end of a path not taken,’ said Rhodri.
‘But will he do great things if I give him the sword?’
‘Yes. You both will.’
‘And will he be able to do them if not?’
Rhodri didn’t answer.
‘Then I have the same choice as I have always had,’ said Branwen. ‘The choice between doing good and doing as I would wish.’
‘We all must make that choice,’ said Rhodri.
She rested her hand on the sword hilt. It felt warm under her fingers. She had noticed that about it before – even in the worst cold, the silvery sword was always warm.
‘Will you come with me?’ she asked.
‘If you wish it.’
‘The others deserve to be spared this quest,’ she said. ‘They would come willingly if I asked, and I think they might follow me even if I told them to stay behind.’
‘Terrwyn and another horse are saddled and ready,’ said Rhodri.
She arched an eyebrow. ‘Are they, indeed? Am I so predictable then, Rhodri?’
‘The moon is high and there are no gates to bar our exit from Pengwern,’ Rhodri said. ‘The young bear is waiting. If you wish it, we can leave now.’
‘The two of us together alone as it was in the beginning?’ said Branwen.
‘The two of us together alone.’
‘Shall I ever see any of them again?’ she asked with a deep pang of sadness and loss. ‘Shall I ever see Iwan again?’
‘I cannot say.’
Branwen linked her arm with his as they turned and walked away from the walls. ‘I hope I shall see him again,’ she said, barely above a whisper. ‘There is something I need to tell him – something I want him to know.’
Silent as ghosts, the two friends slipped into the stable and led their horses out across the deserted courtyards of Pengwern. They took the path down from the ramparts and into the bailey where the half-rebuilt gate towers stood stark and white under the moon.
Branwen ached with the weight of her destiny. To have done so much only to be given another task seemed cruel beyond belief. And to know that she was leaving Iwan to awake and find her gone was perhaps hardest of all to endure. If he felt about her the way she believed he did. As she felt about him.
They mounted and rode around to the southern palisade of the citadel.
The young bear stood on a low mound, its eyes shining green with moonlight as it stared towards them.
It turned, ambling away, and they rode after it, side by side in the still night.
But they had not gone far when a sound behind them made Branwen turn in the saddle.
It was the rapid pulse of hoofbeats.
She frowned as she saw a rider chasing after them at speed.
‘I had the feeling I would not be rid of him so easily!’ sighed Rhodri.
‘Who?’ asked Branwen, trying to make out the face of the approaching horseman. And then she did see his face, and her heart leaped. He was grinning as he came alongside them, reining his horse up sharply.
‘Praise the saints that I am a light sleeper!’ he said. ‘You’d have got away from me else!’
‘Iwan, don’t try to stop me,’ pleaded Branwen. ‘I must go. I have to.’
‘Of course you do,’ Iwan replied. ‘But I cannot leave you all alone with this dull-witted and gloomy Druid!’ He leaned forward over his horse’s neck, smiling at her with shining eyes. ‘Where you go, barbarian princess, I must go, too. If you will have me.’
‘I will,’ said Branwen, her heart filling with gladness. ‘Yes, Iwan, I will have you.’
A haunting yowling cry sounded from ahead of them. ‘The young bear becomes impatient,’ said Rhodri.
‘Then let’s not keep him waiting!’ said Branwen, flicking the reins so that Terrwyn broke into a canter. ‘Let’s follow destiny’s path together and see where it leads.’
And so, with the night wind rushing in her ears and the moon shining down on her and with her two fond companions riding at her side, Branwen ap Griffith, Branwen the shaman girl, Branwen of the Shining Ones went flying southwards to new and unknown adventures.
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Table of Contents
Title
By the Same Author
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
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Caradoc of the North Wind Page 24