Warrior Princess

by Allan Frewin Jones

  Lady Alis lifted her head and looked into her husband’s face. “Our future?” she echoed bleakly. “Our son is dead, and my heart is broken…. I cannot think of our…future.”

  Branwen rested a hand on her mother’s arm, trying to offer some crumb of comfort. Lady Alis took Branwen’s hand and pressed her fingers to her lips. The desolation in her mother’s face was more than she could bear. Branwen began to sob, and suddenly she was clinging to her mother, all hope of holding back the agony gone as they wept in each other’s arms.

  Branwen felt her father’s arms around her as he crouched beside them, and through her tears she heard his voice.

  “We have not lost all,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “We have hope still.”

  Lady Alis pulled away from Branwen, wiping the tears from her face and straightening her back. “Yes, we do,” she said, her hand warm in Branwen’s. “All our hopes and wishes rest in you now, my precious daughter.”

  Branwen felt a pain like a knife in her chest as she heard her mother’s words. How could she live up to such faith? Geraint had been the hero; she was just a child.

  Prince Griffith rose to his feet again. “Stand, daughter,” he said.

  Branwen got up. Her legs trembled, and she could feel the eyes of the warriors and their ladies burning into her.

  “The years of peace are gone,” said Griffith, his voice carrying so that everyone in the hall could hear him. “The Saxons gather on our border. The great King Cadwallon is dead, and Oswald of Northumbria wishes to gorge himself on the blood of the men and women of Brython. We have not looked for war, yet war is here, and we must fight for King Cynon and for our homeland.” A murmur of agreement and approval ran through the hall. “My son is dead, but we must put aside our grief and face the threat that is coming. But a prince must also think of his family.”

  He turned and looked at Branwen, and she saw with agonizing clarity the pain that lay behind his eyes. “Branwen, you are now the future of the House of Rhys. I cannot keep you here when such peril beats at our gates. You shall be sent south to Gwent immediately—and there you will marry Hywel ap Murig of the House of Eirion, as has long been arranged. By this marriage an alliance shall be forged between Powys and Gwent that not even cold Saxon iron can break.”

  Branwen reeled. “No, Father! Don’t send me away!”

  There was sad understanding in her father’s eyes. “I know this is against your wishes,” he said. “But the danger here is too great.”

  “I don’t care,” Branwen cried. “I want to stay. I have to stay.”

  Her mother stood behind her with her long-fingered hands on Branwen’s shoulders. “You came close to death today,” she said. “Only the protection of the saints saved you from suffering your brother’s fate. You must go, not only for your own safety, but because you have a duty to the House of Rhys.”

  Branwen turned and looked into her mother’s eyes. The pity and fear she saw there were too much to bear. Her shoulders slumped. She turned back to her father.

  She was not a great warrior like her mother. She did not have the courage of her dead brother. What use would she be if she stayed? To be burned in the Great Hall while the battle raged around her?

  She bowed her head, tears pouring again down her cheeks and her voice barely above a whisper.

  “As you wish, Father,” she said.

  5

  BRANWEN LONGED TO blot everything out in the oblivion of sleep, but a torch burned with a fierce white light in her mind and sleep would not come.

  She felt broken, like an earthenware pot dashed to pieces on a stone floor.

  All Garth Milain was sleepless that night. With no word from Prince Llew’s rider, Prince Griffith sent more men out to seek news of the Saxon raiders. The gifts that Llew had brought over the mountains lay forgotten under the skins on the wagons. Instead of a great feast of welcome for Llew’s men, the warriors had eaten a simple meal together. The outer gates were closed, and armed men walked the torch-lit ramparts staring uneasily into the darkness.

  Branwen abandoned her bed and sat on the rampart, huddled in her cloak, staring into the west with sore and aching eyes.

  Below her, in the vale where that morning she had watched children playing, men were constructing Geraint’s funeral pyre. Timbers were brought down the path from the fortress while other men, working by torchlight, felled more trees on the forest’s eaves.

  Come the dawn, Geraint’s body would be anointed with sacred oils and laid on top of the pyre; and as the sun rose over the eastern hills, a flame would be thrust into the woodpile and his spirit would soar into the sky as his body was consumed by fire.

  A hand rested gently on her shoulder.

  “Branwen, why aren’t you sleeping?” her mother asked. “You should rest.”

  “I can’t,” whispered Branwen.

  Lady Alis sat at her side, gathering her cloak around herself against the cool of the night. “We have sent a messenger to King Cynon at Pengwern,” she said. “If war is coming, then we must all band together.”

  “And I will be sent on the southward roads,” Branwen said quietly. “To safety and to a long, slow death.”

  Lady Alis looked sharply at her. “Why do you say that?”

  Branwen avoided her mother’s eyes. “I’m not complaining,” she said. “It’s what I deserve. I should have died at Geraint’s side.”

  “I give thanks to Saint Cadog that you did not!” Alis exclaimed.

  “You don’t understand,” Branwen mumbled.

  Lady Alis stood up, taking Branwen’s hand. “Come, walk with me, and tell me what I don’t understand.”

  Branwen rose, gripping her mother’s hand tightly, her eyes fixed on her shoes. As they walked the ramparts she began to tell her mother what had happened at the farmstead. Her voice cracked and quavered, but she managed to get to the end.

  There was a long silence. Branwen lifted her eyes. They had come around to the far side of the hill, and beyond the wall of sharpened staves all of the eastern world lay shrouded in shadow. Just over the horizon, the Saxons were preparing for war. Branwen shivered, and her mother opened her cloak and brought it around her daughter’s shoulders.

  Finally, Branwen dared to look into her mother’s eyes, expecting to see disappointment or reproach. She was surprised to find that her mother’s face was full of love and understanding.

  “My poor child,” she murmured. “You must not think ill of yourself.”

  Branwen swallowed painfully. “I always thought I would be brave,” she whispered. “Why wasn’t I brave?”

  “It is not cowardice to avoid certain death,” Lady Alis told her. “There was nothing you could have done to save your brother. It wasn’t lack of courage that stayed your hand but rather good sense. And I thank the saints for it or else we would be building two pyres this night.”

  Branwen put her hands up over her face. “I wish I had died.”

  Her mother dragged her hands down again. “No!” she said sharply. “Never say that again. That’s cowardice, Branwen! You must have the courage to face what happened today and to live with it in your heart and to use the memory of it to grow and be strong.”

  “And how do I do that if Father sends me to be Hywel’s wife?”

  “Remember, Branwen, I too was sent by my father to become the wife of a man I hardly knew. Courage and strength come from within; and when you go to be Hywel ap Murig’s wife, the strength you already have will travel with you.”

  “But I don’t even like Hywel,” Branwen said, her voice sounding weak even to herself. “The only time we met, he pulled my hair and knocked me into the mud.”

  “The boy was only six years old, Branwen!” her mother said. “And I daresay he had little enough reason to like you at the time. But that was ten years ago. He will have changed as you have changed.” She gave a pale smile. “I didn’t think much of your father when I first met him. He was sullen and moody and would not even speak to me. But ove
r time, love and respect grew as we got to know each other. And from that love, two children were born. Geraint is dead, and now you are our heir. In your father’s place, Branwen, what would you do? Would you have your only child put on armor and face a Saxon army—or would you send her away to be the mother of heroes and to keep the House of Rhys alive?”

  Branwen didn’t reply.

  Lady Alis turned, bringing Branwen around with her so they were both looking down into the huddled village. Many lights still burned.

  The Great Hall looked so safe and so proud, standing in the middle of a gathering of lesser wooden buildings—dwellings for her father’s warriors and their families. Branwen could not imagine what it would be like to leave her home.

  She let out a long, sad breath. “And what about you and Father?” she asked. “What will you do?”

  “We will fight for this land,” her mother said, her fingers closing over the hilt of the golden knife that she always wore at her waist. “No Saxon warrior has ever set foot within Garth Milain, and none shall while I draw breath. And I will fight better knowing that you are far from here and safe from harm.”

  “I would rather fall in battle than live in exile,” Branwen said bitterly.

  “It is not exile,” Lady Alis said. “You may yet have to fight, Branwen, although if Saint Cadog wills it, and I have my wish, that day will never come. But for now, your duty to the House of Rhys must come first. You will go south, and you will marry Hywel ap Murig.”

  6

  BRANWEN’S EYES STUNG as she stared into the bitter dawn. The night sky had drawn all the heat away from the land; and even with a thick cloak around her shoulders, she felt cold.

  Torches guttered and sparked in the wind as the first light of day began to seep over the hill, but the vale below Garth Milain was filled with a lake of clogged darkness as the funeral procession wound its way down the ramped pathway. Four warriors of Cyffin Tir carried Geraint at shoulder height on a wooden bier, his body draped with a purple cloth that covered him to the chin. Branwen walked between Prince Griffith and Lady Alis, their faces pale and set as they followed the warriors. Her heart ached to see her brother’s upturned face so white and waxen; it was awful, but she could not look away.

  Keep a steady pace behind the warriors, she told herself. Don’t fall apart in front of everyone. Stay on your feet! Do proper honor to Geraint!

  Behind the family, the warriors of Garth Milain walked in silence, followed by Prince Llew and his own warriors. Every other soul from the garth was already gathered around the looming pyre of interlocked logs. It had been built with painstaking care through the night, and now it reared up five times Branwen’s height.

  They halted at the side of the pyre. A ladder led up. Two warriors scaled the pyre, and ropes were used to lift Geraint’s body. The bier rose with jerky movements, catching on the edges of the logs as it was pulled slowly to the summit. He was placed on an altar of leafy branches. The warriors climbed down again, and for a few moments, time held its breath.

  Then Prince Griffith turned to the east, raising his arms toward the still-hidden sun. His voice rang out clearly over the hiss of the wind.

  “I bow to the east, to the coming sun, to the new dawn, to new life. Shine now upon this, our child, formed from the green forests, formed from the bones of the mountains, formed from the sweet wild waters, formed from the rushing wind. He is laid upon the lap of the green forest; his body will kindle to the flame of the firestone of the mountain; he is anointed with the sweet water; and to the rushing wind will he be given.”

  He held out a hand, and one of his warriors placed a torch in his fist. He turned to face the pyre. Branwen stood shivering at his side.

  Her father turned to her. “Daughter, you were with our son when the life left him,” he said. “It is only fitting that you should kindle his journey into the Land Beyond the Summer Stars.”

  Branwen found herself gripping the torch, the wood rough and cold beneath her fingers. The flames leaped and spat in the wind, as if the fire were trying to escape.

  “Go,” Lady Alis murmured to Branwen. “Don’t think of yourself; think only of Geraint.”

  Branwen’s legs shook as she took the first steps toward the foot of the ladder. The heat of the flames drew tears from her smarting eyes as she began to climb. The ladder seemed to stretch up to the clouds. She climbed rung by rung, clinging on with one hand as the wind picked at her clothes and pinched her body with cruel, chill fingers.

  She would never reach the top of the ladder. She would be climbing forever, chilled by the wind, scorched by flame, a pain like knives in her heart, her limbs water-weak, her mind clouded in a red fog. This was worse than the terror she had endured in the clearing. This was worse than seeing her brother cut down. Worse than watching the bloody ax swinging at her head.

  But she had to do her duty by her brother, light the oil-soaked logs under his bier and help him on his way to the Land of Forever.

  She came to the top of the pyre, walking carefully on the creaking timbers to where he lay. Gold disks covered his eyes, and a gold circlet was on his forehead. Branwen stood gazing down at him for a long while. She could smell the oil that had been poured over wood and cloth. She was acutely aware of the watching crowd that stood far below her.

  Geraint, wake up now! You’re frightening me! Geraint! This isn’t funny anymore! Wake up!

  “Branwen? What a strange dream I had! I dreamed that I was dead and that you were here to light my funeral pyre.”

  That is why I’m here. I’m sorry, Geraint. I’m sorry I didn’t help.

  “Don’t weep, Branwen. There was nothing you could have done.”

  Filled with agony and loss and despair, Branwen thrust the torch into the piled wood and held it there. The oil-soaked kindling caught, and flames began to leap.

  Branwen released the torch and stood up straight, her eyes fixed on Geraint’s face.

  You must have the courage to face what happened today and to live with it in your heart and to use the memory of it to grow and be strong.

  “Good-bye, Geraint,” she whispered.

  She turned as the flames leaped and with slow, deliberate steps climbed down to the ground. She stood between her parents as the rim of the sun climbed above the eastern hills and the flames of Geraint ap Griffith’s funeral pyre were turned in an instant to burnished gold.

  7

  THE FIRE BURNED fiercely all through the morning, the smoke swelling upward like the blooming of a dark and dreadful flower. As the sun stood at the top of the sky, its disk pale and weak through the smoke, the great mass of timber suddenly caved in on itself with a shower of sparks.

  At twilight, Branwen stood alone on the ramparts, watching small flames licking among the blackened remains of the pyre. She kept her lonely vigil into the darkest part of the night when the embers glowed as red as dragon-breath in the dale.

  Branwen was shaken out of sleep by a hand on her shoulder.

  “My lady.”

  Groggy from too brief a time in bed, Branwen turned over, pushing off the hay-stuffed quilt. She stared up into the eyes of Inga, an elderly Saxon woman who had served Branwen’s family for as long as she could remember.

  “The lord and lady would have you attend them in the great chamber,” Inga said with long-practiced mildness and respect.

  Branwen sat up, knuckling her eyes, wondering what her mother and father wanted of her. She had a blissful moment of forgetfulness before cruel memory stabbed into her mind. The world she knew had ended. Geraint was dead. She was going to be sent away.

  She stared at the old woman, sparrow-thin in her shapeless gray dress, her hair like cobwebs on her shoulders, her face pinched and anxious. A Saxon woman—a woman of a race that Branwen hated above all others.

  “How long have you been with us, Inga?” she asked.

  “Many, many years, my lady.”

  “Did you bear sons before you were captured?”

  Inga’s brow w
rinkled as if she was trying hard to remember the life she had led before captivity. Branwen got up and picked some clothes from the chest at the foot of her bed. Inga had still not replied.

  “Well?” Branwen demanded. “Did you have children or not?”

  “I had a son, long ago…but he was killed in battle, my lady.”

  Good! I’m glad! Branwen thought.

  Branwen looked into the old woman’s frightened face. The malice she had been feeling melted away, leaving her feeling empty and sick at heart. Was this what true hatred was like—the need to lash out at people simply because they were born Saxon? Even people as helpless as Inga?

  “Go away,” she said. “Tell them I am coming.”

  She must look her best for her audience with her mother and father.

  It was her duty.

  She put on her white shift with its long, narrow sleeves and then chose a woolen gown of pale olive, dyed by club moss and greenweed. The gown was fastened at either shoulder by a pair of golden brooches and then bound at the waist by a silken sash—an expensive adornment that had been a betrothal gift from Hywel’s parents all those years ago on the only occasion that they had met.

  As was the custom, Branwen attached a few special personal objects to the sash, among them a golden hair comb given to her by her mother. She seldom spent much time dressing her hair, but she liked to keep her mother’s gift close by. She also had a small leather pouch with some pieces of crystal in it—crystal that Geraint had found for her in the mountains. The glossy stones were translucent white with a sparkling surface; and if they were held to the sun in exactly the right way, a flickering rainbow could be seen at each crystal’s heart. There was also a pouch that contained two firestones and a scrap of dried moss for kindling. The final item was a small golden key that her father had given her on her tenth birthday. It had been found in the ruins of an old Roman temple. Branwen liked to imagine what the key might be for, what treasures might be discovered if the lock it fitted were ever found.