Warrior Princess

by Allan Frewin Jones

  “Not at all.”

  “Then I’m grateful for that. So, what do you want?”

  “We are not friends,” Meredith began slowly. “But that doesn’t mean I would stand by and let you be hurt.”

  Branwen sat on her heels, waiting for more.

  “I heard Bryn ap Anerin talking to his friends,” Meredith continued in a rush. “He’s planning to challenge you to a fight because of something you said to him.” She frowned. “Why are you always saying things and doing things to offend people, Branwen? I don’t understand it. Everything you do is defiant…and…and so rude!”

  Branwen looked at her in amazement. “Me?” she said. “I’m not the rude one. You people have made me feel unwelcome ever since I came here.”

  “That’s not true,” Meredith said. “And…and if it is, well, you deserve it! The way you look at us, as if we disgust you! You make me feel as if everything I do displeases you. Are we really such terrible people that you have to hate us all so much?”

  “I don’t hate you all,” Branwen said, amazed that Meredith should be the one feeling hurt. “It’s you who hate and despise me.”

  Meredith shook her head. “I don’t.”

  “Romney does!”

  “Romney is a spoiled child,” Meredith said. Her eyes narrowed. “Mama says that your bad behavior is because you’re jealous of our wealth and status, because you come from a poor cantref beyond the mountains. But it’s not our fault that we have things and you don’t, and it’s mean of you to dislike us because of it.”

  “What about that trick that was played on me the first night I was here?” Branwen said. “When Iwan fooled me into challenging Gavan ap Huw in front of everyone? I hope I managed to amuse you all sufficiently!”

  Meredith hid a smile behind her hand. “It was rather funny,” she admitted. “And the look on your face when you stormed out! And then you snapped at Romney and shouted at Reece ap Colwyn. I thought you were half mad!”

  A smile touched Branwen’s lips. “That’s what we barbarian princesses are like,” she said. She stood up. “I’m sorry if I have offended you. Things have not been easy for me here.”

  “If you don’t want them to get even harder, then please avoid Bryn ap Anerin.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Branwen said. “But you’re too late.”

  Meredith’s eyebrows rose. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

  “No,” Branwen said with a laugh. “Though I fear for his pride!”

  “You beat him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent,” Meredith said, her eyes shining. “Bryn is a bully.” She looked at Branwen with a furrowed brow. “You should not be angry with Iwan for playing that prank on you. It’s his way of showing he’s…well—interested in you.” She smiled hopefully. “Perhaps you should be flattered. He’s very handsome.”

  “He is not!” Branwen protested. “He has a face like the hind end of a dead donkey!”

  Meredith stared at her. “You are so very strange, Branwen,” she said. “You are the strangest person I have ever met!”

  28

  DAWN LIGHT WAS just beginning to filter across the sky when Branwen slipped away to the forest carrying a bag of food for Rhodri. She had gone into the storeroom of the Great Hall and come away with a few small loaves, some dried fish, salt pork, and cheese, along with a stoppered jug of buttermilk.

  Leaving Doeth Palas so early in the morning was not a problem; it was the custom in Brython that the gates of great fortresses should be kept open throughout the night for any wayfarer seeking shelter. Only when danger threatened were the gates slammed shut and the bars thrown across them.

  She walked through the trees calling, “Rhodri!” She listened for a reply, then walked on. “Rhodri! Breakfast! Rhodri!”

  She had reached the place where they had met before; she was certain of that. He was not there. She sat under a tree and waited.

  A thrush began to sing from the branches above her. The clear, trilling notes filled the air with such a joyous sound that Branwen smiled and looked up, but the leaves were too thick for her to be able to see the bird.

  No sooner had the thrush stopped singing than the voice of a jay rang out, its cry like tearing cloth, harsh and complaining. Then came the bright, high-pitched warble of a robin, followed instantly by the chatter of an ouzel.

  So many different birds in one tree? And all their voices seeming to come from exactly the same place? Branwen stared up in puzzlement. The guttural croak of a crow sounded from among the leaves.

  Branwen laughed. Real birds of different species would not gather together like that! It was someone mimicking birdcalls. “Come down here, Rhodri!”

  “Rhodri is not up here,” replied a high, thin voice. “I am a pooka of the forest, practicing birdsong.”

  “Rhodri!”

  The branches rustled and bobbed, then two feet appeared, followed by raggedly clad legs. Rhodri dropped out of the tree, grinning widely. “I had you fooled at first, didn’t I?”

  “You did. How did you learn to do that? It was almost perfect.”

  “Well, hardly perfect,” Rhodri said.

  Branwen pointed to the bag of food. “That was as much as I could carry.”

  “Thank you.” He sat cross-legged, delving through the bag. He shoved a hunk of bread into his mouth. “Would you join me for breakfast?” he mumbled.

  She sat down. “There’s not much point in me bringing food out here for you and then eating it myself. The sealed jar has buttermilk in it. So long as it’s not in the sun too much, it should last awhile.”

  He swallowed his mouthful. “Why are you doing this for me?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “To make up for clouting you with a branch when we first met? No, that’s not true. I think it’s because you’re the only person here who doesn’t expect anything of me.” Her voice dropped. “You’re the only person who doesn’t know who I am.”

  He gave her a quizzical look. “Who are you?”

  “No. That would spoil it.”

  “Can I try and guess?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Then I shan’t.”

  They sat together in easy silence while Rhodri ate. He unstoppered the jug and took a long swig of the buttermilk. Wiping his mouth, he offered her the jug. She shook her head, but he insisted. She drank a small amount of the thick, sweet liquid and then gave him back the jug.

  “So,” he said, closing the bag, “have you decided when you’ll go home?”

  “In a few days. I need to plan my escape carefully.” She gestured in the direction of the fortress. “There are people there who mustn’t find out. The prince, for one. I’m not sure what he’d do. Tie me to a horse and send me to Gwent whether I liked it or not, probably.”

  “If they do that, I’ll rescue you,” Rhodri said. “I’ll cut you free, and we’ll escape into the forest together.” He smiled wryly. “Except that I’m not so good at hunting. Otherwise I’d have been eating better over the past few weeks.”

  “I’ll hunt for the two of us,” Branwen said, joining in with the fantasy. “I have firestones and kindling, so we’d be able to eat roast meat every day.”

  “And in a few months, there will be apples and pears and blackberries and sloes,” Rhodri added. “We’ll eat like the king of Powys.”

  “No one will ever find us!”

  “And we’ll dance by starlight with the pooka of the woods and the goraig of the streams,” laughed Rhodri.

  Mention of the wood fairies reminded Branwen too closely of other mystical creatures who dwelled in the forest—powerful, dangerous creatures who may be holding a grudge against her.

  “Maybe living in the forest wouldn’t be a good idea,” Rhodri said quietly. “No—we’ll make our way through the forest as quickly as we can. We’ll be safe from disgruntled goddesses and family duties at Cefn Boudan. My father’s family will adopt you, and we’ll spend our days fishing for sea trout.” He smiled
, trying to lift her mood. “What do you say, Branwen? Shall we start now?”

  “I should abandon my own family to live with yours?” she mused. “I don’t think so.” She put her hand lightly on his arm. “I have to go home.”

  Rhodri didn’t say anything; and when she looked at him, there was a kind of wistful sadness in his face.

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing,” he said. “Your home is to the east; mine is to the west.” He shrugged. “I had it in my mind that we might become friends.” He gave a wan smile. “I knew it wasn’t really possible…. it was just a pleasant daydream. The servants of Saxon warlords don’t get to make many friends, Branwen. And runaways even less.”

  “So, come with me. You’d have nothing to fear from my mother and father.”

  “You know, I almost-” He broke off, staring into the forest. “What was that?”

  “I didn’t hear anything.”

  A large figure burst out of the trees, pushing Branwen aside and coming down on Rhodri like a thunderbolt. Rhodri was thrown onto his back, a broad hand at his throat, a knee in his stomach.

  “A runaway servant, is it?” Gavan growled. “We’ll see about runaway servants!”

  Branwen scrambled to her feet. “Stop it!” she cried. “You’re hurting him!”

  Gavan got up, dragging Rhodri by the scruff of his neck and pinning him against a tree trunk. Rhodri writhed in his grip.

  “Keep still, boy!” Gavan snarled.

  Rhodri’s struggles ceased and he stood there, his chest heaving and his eyes on Gavan’s face.

  Gavan turned to look at Branwen. “What are you doing here with this creature, my lady?”

  “He’s my friend,” Branwen protested. “He’s done nothing!”

  “Nothing, eh?” He glared at Rhodri. “I doubt that!”

  “He’s escaped the Saxons,” Branwen explained. “He’s trying to get back to his family. I order you to let him go!”

  “You may have fooled her, my fine fellow, but you’ll not fool me,” Gavan hissed. “Do you think I don’t know a Saxon accent when I hear one?”

  “What?” Branwen gasped.

  “The boy’s a Saxon!” Gavan said. “A spy, like as not!”

  “That isn’t a Saxon accent. All our servants are Saxons. He sounds nothing like them.”

  “That is because the accent you’re used to is the Mercian one,” Gavan said. “This wretch has a Northumbrian accent—don’t you, my lad? You’re from the far north, sent here by King Oswald or one of his captains to spy out the land.”

  Branwen stared at Rhodri. That wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. “His family comes from Cefn Boudan in Gwynedd. And he was the servant of…” She struggled to remember the name. “Horsa! Yes, a man named Horsa Herewulf!”

  “Herewulf Ironfist!” Gavan cried. “Lord of Winwaed, commander of King Oswald’s armies in the west! Is that so, boy? Is Herewulf Ironfist your master? Have you come sneaking over the mountains to do his bidding?” He looked at Branwen. “I tell you true, Princess Branwen, this man is not of Brython; this man is a Saxon spy. And to think that a daughter of the House of Rhys should be found like this with him! By the saints, Branwen ap Griffith, you are lucky that it was I who discovered you! Death is the only reward for those who consort with spies—be they a peasant farmer or a princess of Cyffin Tir!”

  Branwen stared at Rhodri, fury rising inside her. The one person she had trusted was a hated enemy! And then a truly horrible thought struck her. She had met him first on the mountainous borders of her homeland. If he had been spying in Cyffin Tir, could it have been Rhodri who told the bloodthirsty Saxon raiders about Bevan’s farm?

  She stared into his face, trembling. If that was so, then Rhodri was responsible for the death of Bevan’s family. And worse even than that: He was responsible for Geraint’s slaughter.

  “It’s back to Doeth Palas for you, boy,” Gavan growled. “Then you’ll tell us the truth, and hang by the neck when we’ve learned all!”

  Rhodri stared at him with bulging eyes. “I’m innocent, sir,” he gasped. “I’m no spy!”

  “We shall see!”

  Gavan pulled Rhodri away from the tree trunk. The moment he did so, Rhodri brought his fists down hard on Gavan’s arm, knocking it away and leaping to one side. Gavan snatched at him; but Rhodri was too quick, bounding away through the trees almost before Branwen realized what was happening. Gavan gave a roar of anger and chased after him. Branwen snatched her slingshot from her belt as she broke into a run, following Gavan into the trees.

  Rhodri may be fast footed enough to outdistance Gavan, but she was as swift as a deer in the forest: She would chase him down. He had no chance of escaping her.

  29

  “NO!” BRANWEN HOWLED. “Not again! This is madness!”

  This was the third time she had come stumbling out of the trees and into Rhiannon’s clearing. The water goddess was not there—but neither was Rhodri, although Branwen had definitely been closing in on him before she plunged into the sunlit glade.

  She stared around, frustrated and bewildered and growing ever angrier. It was not natural, the way the forest seemed to turn around her like a great wheel, spitting her out into this deserted glade while her prey flitted away unseen. Some power was hindering her and helping Rhodri.

  You will run in a circle, Branwen ap Griffith, and I will be there.

  Was this what Rhiannon had meant, that her footsteps would be endlessly led back to this clearing no matter how she tried to avoid it? Branwen walked into the clearing, looking all around.

  “Come on, then!” she shouted. “Show yourself! I know you’re doing this.”

  She peered into the trees, expecting to see a moving white shape. But there was nothing. Rhiannon was toying with her.

  She heard a soft clop behind her, as if a stone had been dropped into the pool of silver gray water. She turned. Ripples were slowly spreading from the center of the pool. She walked into the reeds, going as close as firm ground permitted. She stared down at the mirrored sky as the ripples faded away.

  The reflected sky grew night-dark. There were high stars and a red glow in the air that was like the radiance of unseen flames. Branwen was keenly aware that the sky above her was still clear.

  A picture began to form in the still water. She could hear the screams and shouts of a fierce battle and the clash of weapons. And her own face stared up at her, grimed and bloodied from fighting—and she was wearing chain mail and clad with an iron helmet. Her black hair flew in the wind. On her left arm was a round shield decorated with the red dragon of Brython. A sword was in her right fist.

  Branwen tried to pull away, but she couldn’t move.

  The reflection’s mouth opened, and Branwen’s own voice rang out.

  “The falcon is on the roof! Two tongues tell the truth!” the image shouted to her. “Remember this! A life depends on it! The falcon is on the roof! Two tongues tell the truth!”

  And then the surface of the pool broke up as if with a sudden storm of rain, and the image shattered into a thousand fragments.

  Branwen stood at the poolside, gaping down at a reflected sky of pale blue.

  Was this some phantom vision conjured by Rhiannon to muddle her wits? A hint of the possible future? Or another trick?

  “I won’t do what you want!” she shouted.

  You will. You will.

  “Never! Hear me, Rhiannon of the Spring. Never!”

  She was about to leave the clearing when Gavan came running out of the trees.

  “Have you seen him?” panted the old warrior.

  “No, he outran me,” she said. “He’ll be deep in the forest by now, curse him!”

  “Never fear, my lady. He’ll be caught; have no doubt of that.” His eyes narrowed, and the muscles tightened along his jaw. “Did you speak long with him, my lady? Did he tell you anything other than lies?”

  “He told me his name was Rhodri,” she said. “He said he had escaped his Saxon master and was h
eading west to find the kinfolk of his father.” She gritted her teeth. “I liked him. I brought him food for his journey.”

  “Food, by the saints?” growled Gavan. “My lady, you showed poor judgment in this.”

  “Yes, Gavan, I know that now. It will never happen again.”

  “I must return to Doeth Palas and raise the alarm. I shall not tell of your part in this.” He rested his hand on her shoulder. “Learn from this, Princess Branwen. Trust only the trustworthy.”

  She nodded. It was a hard-won lesson, but one she would not quickly forget.

  30

  WHEN BRANWEN RETURNED to Doeth Palas, she found the fortress in a ferment of activity. Gavan had spread the word about a Saxon spy in the forest. Armed horsemen passed her as she headed up the stone-flanked path. Prince Llew was at the gates, deep in discussion with Gavan and Angor and other captains of the guard. More warriors were mounting up, and the village folk were gathered in anxious knots, their faces grim and fearful.

  Prince Llew turned to her as she came in through the gates, his brows knit, his voice sharp. “Branwen, where have you been? The hunt is up for a Saxon spy. You should not be outside the gates alone!”

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” Branwen said, glancing quickly at Gavan. “I did not know.”

  Gavan did not look at her.

  “Now you do,” said the prince. “Lady Elain has told me of your wayward nature and your desire to be alone in the forest. I have not spoken against it thus far, but it ends now, Branwen. I will not risk harm coming to the only heir to the House of Rhys. You will remain within these walls until you depart for the south.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Go now. Attend Lady Elain so that she knows you are safe.”

  “I will, my lord.”

  Branwen walked away with a heavy heart. As much as she hated the idea of being imprisoned within the high stone walls of Doeth Palas, it was nothing to the emotions that boiled through her as she thought of the way Rhodri had played her with his cunning lies.