Warrior Princess

by Allan Frewin Jones

  “His was not the destiny,” she said.

  “But you could have saved him. You let him be killed.”

  “Peace, child,” said Rhiannon. “It was his destiny to die at that time and in that place.” She smiled. “Come, Branwen, accept your destiny. Come with me now into the elder forest. Come and begin your new life!”

  “No!” Branwen howled. “I’ll never go with you! You let my brother die!” Her anger was like a red fog billowing in her mind; and she ran forward, drawing Geraint’s knife from her waistband, wanting to strike out at this cold-hearted creature.

  But she had not gone more than two steps before she was tripped and brought down. The grass beneath her had come alive, coiling around her feet and gripping her ankles, holding her fast. She pulled herself up onto her knees and threw the knife with a yell of anger and frustration.

  Rhiannon lifted her hand, and the knife exploded into a hail of silvery droplets.

  “Let go of me!” Branwen howled, the grass cutting into her flesh as she fought to get free.

  A deep, ground-shaking voice roared from within the forest. “Enough of this, sister! She must come!”

  The voice stunned Branwen into stillness. Panting for breath, she stared into the trees. She could see nothing.

  Or was there something…in deep shadow…a great, dark bulk…and huge, many-branched antlers…?

  “No, brother,” Rhiannon said, and there was sadness in her voice. “She must come of her own free will.” She made a gesture with her hand, and Branwen felt the fetters of grass loosen.

  She stood up. She was still angry, but the wild, red mist had gone.

  Rhiannon looked at her. “Child—will you come?”

  “No!”

  “So be it.” She lifted her hand again and pointed at Branwen. “But listen to me, Branwen, listen and remember. As you caught and released the salmon, so I have captured and released you. But there is a price to be paid.” As she spoke, her voice grew louder, until it echoed in Branwen’s head like a storm. The light around her grew brighter and brighter, until Branwen had to cover her eyes and turn away.

  “I do not make the future, Branwen, but I see it as clearly as a picture mirrored in still water. In fire did you leave your home and in fire will you return! Two choices will you be given—two lives to save; but by your choice will one life be lost.”

  “I won’t listen to you!” Branwen blundered blindly into the forest, but the voice followed her.

  “You will run in a circle, Branwen ap Griffith, and I will be there. We shall meet again in the place where the men of mud dance beneath the moon of blood. And there you will learn the truth, and perhaps a little wisdom!”

  23

  HER SIGHT BLURRED from the dazzling white light, Branwen stumbled on into the trees with the voice of Rhiannon rushing like floodwater through her head. She had no thought but the need to get away from that fearsome creature—to silence the voice in her head, to be free of the Shining Ones and their unwanted destiny.

  She tripped and fell with a cry of pain. She lay panting, facedown in the endless stillness of the forest, listening to the drumming of blood through her body, seeing the light, red as embers now, burning behind her closed eyelids.

  The Shining Ones were real. Rhiannon of the Spring had called her to some outlandish, impossible destiny; and Branwen had fled from her.

  But what did it mean? What did anything mean now? Had the world gone mad—and had it taken her with it?

  At last the beating of her heart slowed, and she lifted her head and gazed around. She blinked a few times, and the cloud of darkness that floated in front of her eyes gradually faded away.

  It was evening now, and a stifling gloaming had come creeping under the canopy of branches. The air was so heavy with the musty scents of the forest that Branwen could hardly catch her breath. The smells of leaf mold, sap, damp earth, and decaying wood filled her head. She got to her feet and walked toward a place where the glancing light was pouring through the trees.

  She came out onto the road.

  Thank the saints!

  All she wanted now was to get to a human place—a place where the world made sense. She walked quickly along the road, trying not to think. The fortress towered above her like a fire-flecked giant. She labored up the long path between the ramparts. At last the noise and the bustle of Doeth Palas was all around her. She was back in the real world.

  She didn’t have the heart for another confrontation with Romney and Meredith. In fact, she wanted nothing to do with any of the fine folk of Doeth Palas. She made her way to the knot of servant huts behind the Great Hall. Hild was there, hunched over, sewing by the light of smoldering rushes. Branwen swayed in the doorway, battered and exhausted by her experiences in the forest—weary, worn down, but horribly awake.

  “Go to the hall,” Branwen said. “Tell the Lady Elain that I will dine alone tonight. Then bring me food and drink here.”

  “Yes, my lady princess.” Hild’s eyes were puzzled. “Are you ill, my lady princess?”

  “No, not ill.” Branwen stepped into the hut. Her legs folded under her, and she sat down heavily on the dirt floor. “Just tired.”

  “Yes, my lady princess.” Hild got up and made for the doorway.

  “Do not tell her where I am, please,” Branwen called after her. She looked around at Hild’s meager possessions. Earthen floor, daub-and-wattle walls. Straw for a bed. Untanned hides for blankets. A small hearth over which thin, yellow flames played.

  She sat by the fire, staring into the flames.

  She had met one of the Shining Ones. She had refused to do as Rhiannon had wished.

  What else could she have done? Rhiannon had let Geraint die! How could that ever be forgiven?

  Destiny?

  What did she care about destiny?

  “You can be a warrior, if you choose to be.”

  Was it really that simple?

  She remembered a conversation with her mother on the night of her brother’s death.

  “Why wasn’t I brave?”

  “It is not cowardice to avoid certain death. There was nothing you could have done to save your brother.”

  And in her grief and misery she had allowed herself to be swept along by events, to be sent away from home and brought to this place. …to find her destiny…

  Not the destiny of the Shining Ones, but her own destiny. A destiny she would forge by the power of her own will. She would not go south with the traders. She would not meekly give into marriage with Hywel ap Murig. She would learn to be a warrior. Not for the Shining Ones, but for herself. She would fight back and avenge her brother’s death.

  At Doeth Palas she had come to a fork in the road of her life—and the path she would take did not head south.

  “You can be a warrior, if you choose to be.”

  “Yes!” she said aloud. “I choose to be a warrior!”

  Branwen gazed at Hild across the flickering yellow firelight. She had eaten a meal of bread and cold chicken, washed down with a cup of buttermilk. The simple food and the bleak but commonplace surroundings of the old woman’s hut had helped her to anchor herself back in the world she understood.

  A world where boar did not change into grouse, and where grouse did not change into fish, and where white goddesses on shining white horses did not come ripping through reality as though it were no more than a length of threadbare linen.

  Hild was busy with her sewing, stitching together two lengths of cloth, her head bowed, her eyes screwed up in concentration in the weak light.

  “You must wish us all dead,” Branwen said suddenly.

  Hild lifted her head, her eyes wide in surprise. “My lady princess?”

  “In your heart of hearts, your fondest wish must be for the king of Northumbria’s army to come sweeping through Brython and kill each and every one of us,” Branwen said. “Then you would be released from captivity. You would be able to go home.”

  “I don’t wish death on anyone, my la
dy princess,” Hild murmured.

  “But you must want to go home?”

  A wintry smile touched Hild’s mouth. “I was taken when I was a child, my lady princess,” she said. “I don’t remember my home very well. There was a village…a river.” She lifted her head and gazed past Branwen as she spoke. “I remember mud between my toes. My father spearing trout. Riding home on his shoulders with a basket of fish in my arms. Sleeping warm under furs.” She sighed. “Then there was shouting and flames and my mother’s screams.” She shook her head. “It was all a long time ago, my lady princess. I do not think about it.”

  Branwen watched the weathered old face through the flames. It filled her with sadness and horror to think of the little girl this wretched old servant woman had been, and of the life from which she had been wrenched. To end up here, the plaything of a cruel child like Romney?

  “If it were up to me, I’d set you free,” Branwen said in a rush. “All of you. I’d let you go home.”

  “No, my lady princess,” Hild said. “That cannot be. When the Saxons come, they kill the young men of this land and take the women into servitude. When the armies of Brython go forth into the Saxon kingdoms, they also slaughter and take captives. The world is harsh, my lady princess, and the peoples of both sides are ground like wheat between quern stones.” She looked into Branwen’s eyes, holding her gaze for perhaps the first time. “Do you think that your people do not weep for the loss of their children? Even the strongest hide a burden of sorrow. The great warrior Gavan ap Huw lost a child to the wars.”

  Branwen’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know that. Was the child killed?”

  “I do not know.” A haunted light came into Hild’s dark eyes. “For the child’s sake, I would hope she died quickly. There are things worse than death.”

  Branwen shuddered. “I was brought up to believe that Saxons were savage and stupid and vicious,” she began hesitantly. “I was taught that all they were fit for was death or servitude.” She shook her head.

  “You have had a terrible life, Hild. How can you be so forgiving?”

  Hild sighed. “If I am forgiving,” she said gently, “then it is because of my life. I would not wish it on anyone, my lady princess. No one should have to live like this.”

  “No,” Branwen whispered. “No one should.”

  It was late night when Branwen walked in through the ever-open doors of the Great Hall. The fire was low in the hearth of the long main chamber, the fading flames glowing on the underbelly of the cauldron. The shadowy chamber was deserted; and apart from the crackling of the settling logs in the fire, all was quiet. Branwen had deliberately waited until everyone would be asleep.

  As she passed close to the fire, a low voice growled out of the gloom. “Sleepless awhile, my lady?”

  Surprised by the voice, she walked around the hearth. Gavan was seated on the outer stones, his shoulders hunched, his craggy face picked out in red and black by the fire. He was gazing at something in his upturned palm. A small gray stone. Not quite round—but good enough to be launched from a slingshot and to cause an arrogant lad to misshoot with his bow.

  “You taught them a fine lesson this morning,” Gavan said, turning the black wells of his eyes on her. “Did it please you to do that?”

  She sat near him, feeling the fire hot on her back. “A little,” she said.

  “Then take back the stone. It may serve you again.”

  Branwen held the stone in her fist for a few moments, feeling the warmth of Gavan’s hands on its surface; then she slipped it into the leather pouch. “I’m not going south,” she whispered.

  “Is that so?”

  “People talk to me of my duty. You should do this; you should do that. Wear your hair just so. Behave in this way. You are a princess of Cyffin Tir. Go, marry a boy you don’t even know.” She looked into Gavan’s shadowed face. “No one has ever said: ‘Branwen, what do you want to do?’ No one. Ever.”

  “If you do not go south, what will you do?”

  “I want to become a warrior.”

  “And how would you do that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  There was a long silence. The flames gnawed at the logs. Smoke drifted aromatic to the roof. Branwen’s heart was full of sadness, but not solely for herself now: for all the other people who were suffering in the world.

  “Do you have a family, Gavan ap Huw?” she asked softly. “A wife? Children?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “But you did once,” Branwen persisted. “A child who was killed?”

  “I had a daughter.” Gavan sighed like a wolf growling. “Perhaps I have her still.”

  Branwen leaned forward. “I don’t understand.”

  “Alwyn was my only child. She was younger than you when she was taken by the Saxons,” Gavan said. “Perhaps they killed her; perhaps they took her away to be a servant. I never knew. Her mother was killed. I begged King Cadwallon to release me from his service so that I could follow the Saxon trail and find my daughter and bring her back. Or, if I found that she was dead, to cut such a path through the men who had killed her that they’d talk of it around their fires for a hundred years.”

  Branwen guessed what was coming next. “The king wouldn’t let you go?”

  “‘Gavan ap Huw,’ he said to me, ‘you are my captain; you are my strong right arm. I cannot let you depart on this errand.’ I fell on my knees and begged him, but he would not grant my wish. ‘Great is the need for you by my side at this time,’ he said. ‘The Saxons mass at Rhos and must be defeated, or all Brython will be lost.’”

  “Rhos?” Branwen echoed. “Cadwallon was killed in the battle of Rhos.”

  “He was,” said Gavan. “And I was at his side when he fell. But despite our loss, we threw back the Saxons…for a while. And when the battle was won, and my duty done, I took to the road and sought for my daughter. But the trail was long cold, and after a year in the wilds I gave up all hope.” His eyes glinted as he looked at her. “So you see, Branwen ap Griffith, princess of Cyffin Tir, I too know the burden of duty and the pain of loss.”

  “I’m sorry,” Branwen said. “At least I saw Geraint die. At least I was able to mourn for him and light his funeral fire.”

  “It is cruel. But we endure. We live on. And we fight back as best we may.”

  “That’s what I want to do,” Branwen said. She twisted around on the flat stone and asked impulsively, “Will you help me?”

  “What would you have me do?”

  “Teach me your battle-skills. I have some small ability with a sword—Geraint taught me with swords of willow; but he only taught me how to defend myself. I need to know how to attack. How to kill.”

  Gavan rested his heavy hand on Branwen’s shoulder. “Do you believe you have the heart of a warrior?” he asked.

  Branwen held his gaze. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

  There was a long silence. Gavan stared into the fire, his gaze focused on something much farther away than the leaping orange flames. At last he turned back to her. “I shall help you, Branwen ap Griffith, in what small ways that I can. If I had taught my daughter the skills that I have with sword and staff, perhaps she would not have been seized from me so easily. For your father, and your mother, I shall teach you. But I cannot tutor you openly. Prince Llew would not countenance that.” He paused. “Does Lady Elain keep watch on your movements?”

  “No, she has lost all interest in me.” Branwen almost smiled.

  “Are you able to awake early?”

  “Very early if the need arises.”

  “Good. Then rise early tomorrow, when the first cocks crow, and make your way from the fortress. A little way along the road, you will see an old oak tree that has been blasted by lightning. Turn in to the forest at that point. The way is marked with white stones. Follow the stones until you come to a clearing. I will meet you. Now, get you to bed.”

  Branwen stood up. “Thank you,” she said; but Gavan’s head was turned away, and h
is face was lost in shadow.

  24

  THE EARLY SKY was scattered with a mosaic of white cloud when Branwen reached the lightning-blasted oak tree. Its trunk had been riven in two, the main mass of wood dead and crumbling, the branches just bare claws. But the smaller part of the trunk still had living branches that were garlanded with leaves.

  Even a tree struck down from the sky can survive, Branwen thought. She stepped into the forest, scouring the ground for the guide stones.

  There! Lying in the leaf mold a few paces in, a white stone the size and shape of a man’s fist. She walked past it. Then there was another.

  Fain was perched upon the third stone.

  Branwen halted, watching the bird watching her. “I don’t want anything to do with you,” she called, her voice quavering a little. “Tell your mistress that.”

  There was no response from the bird—just those dark, predatory eyes on her, filled with a knowing light.

  “Go away!” Branwen took a step forward, stamping hard.

  The falcon did not stir so much as a single feather. The eyes blinked and glinted, hard as flint. Then, with a suddenness that took her by surprise, the bird launched itself into the air and flew straight at her. She put up her arms and ducked as the claws raked her shoulder. It wheeled in the air and came for her again, the curved beak gaping, the claws reaching. Again she managed to bob out of the way at the last moment.

  Fain perched on a branch, wings spread, poised for another rush at her. Branwen felt for her slingshot and stones. “Get away from me!” she shouted. “You come near me again and I’ll kill you—I will!”

  The bird let out a series of rising calls that was almost like cracked laughter.

  Branwen slipped a stone into the slingshot. She whirled it and let fly. The stone struck the branch a fraction away from the bird’s talons. She had missed deliberately—she didn’t want to harm the creature, just to drive it away.

  But Fain would not be driven away so easily. It came for her again, screaming.

  She dropped to a crouch, fitting another stone to the slingshot. This time she aimed true. The stone struck the bird high on the wing. But it did not fall; instead, it swerved aside, fluttering away through the trees in clumsy flight, injured but not killed.