“I created the fog that blinded you all as you crossed the mountains,” Rhiannon continued. “And when you were alone and forsaken, I summoned the gwyllion of the mountains to lead you with their lights.”
Branwen remembered the thin, white flames in the fog—the phantom lights that took her from the road.
“And when you would no longer follow the gwyllion lights, it was I who sent my falcon to lead you to the boy. And I sent Fain to you once more in the forest that skirts Doeth Palas. Although you wounded him, Fain led you to the boy again. I foresaw the danger the boy was in, and I knew that only a friend would save him.” Rhiannon’s eyes flashed. “Tell me again, Branwen, how it was that I did not save his life!”
“I didn’t know!” gasped Branwen. “But why was Rhodri’s life more important than my brother’s?” She looked apprehensively at Rhiannon. “Does he have a destiny, too?”
“All creatures that live each has its own destiny, child; but I am not the sculptor of human destiny. I merely play my role, as do all things, as did your brother—as do you.”
“You mean you were allowed to save me, but not Geraint?” she said. “And through me you also saved Rhodri.”
“The eyes open and wisdom enters in,” said Rhiannon, her voice growing softer. “You have fought me hard, Branwen; fight no more. I am not your enemy. Your enemy comes creeping over the eastern hills even as we speak, cloaked in deception.”
“Am I too late?” Branwen exclaimed in alarm. “Is Garth Milain already lost?”
“There is still time,” Rhiannon said. “Speed is your only ally now, Branwen. Fly as fast as you can, and you may still save many lives.” Her hand reached out in warning, three fingers pointing. “But heed me, child: When the battle is done, for good or ill, you must make your choice: to follow your destiny, or to turn forever from it. But choose wisely, for your decision will seal the fate of thousands. This is my final foretelling.”
The silver light began to fade; and it seemed to Branwen that although Rhiannon and her horse did not move, they fled away from her through the trees, growing smaller and smaller.
“I will weep for you,” the voice cried as it faded. “A single teardrop of ice to light your way.”
“No, wait!” Branwen shouted. “I have to know more!”
“I have opened the floodgates of fate,” came the distant voice. “All the waters of the world pour through. Wade into the water, Branwen ap Griffith. Go, find your destiny!”
36
“RHODRI! WAKE UP! We have to go!”
Branwen was trying to pull him to his feet before his eyes were open.
“It’s still nighttime…,” he gasped, peering blurrily at her. “What’s the rush?”
“We have to go now,” Branwen insisted. “I’ll explain on the way. Come on!” She ran to the horses, snatching up their bridles as she went.
Rhodri lurched to his feet. “Is it Prince Llew’s men? Have you heard something? Seen something?”
“I’ve seen Rhiannon again,” Branwen told him urgently. “The Saxons are on the move. Unless we go now it’ll be too late.”
Rhodri knuckled the sleep out of his eyes and ran to help her. They led the horses out of the cave. All was dark, but away and away, Branwen could see a thin, gray line—the far horizon—and lurking just beyond it was the sun rising on a terrible new day.
Despite the need for haste, Branwen kept watchful for uneven surfaces or holes in the road as she led them down from the high pass. A hoof misplaced and a horse lamed could ruin everything. They hardly spoke, but Branwen took comfort in Rhodri’s presence at her side as the sun rose in the east and the wind blew warm from the south.
They passed a stony plateau under a towering sheet of bleak, bare rock—the very place where Prince Llew’s company had halted for the night only a few days earlier. Below them the mountains stepped down in forested ridges into an ocean of trees. Somewhere beyond that final forest, Garth Milain lay in peril. The sun was high in the sky, and still there was far to go.
“The worst is over,” Branwen said, wiping the sweat out of her eyes. “The road gets easier now. This is the Great Forest Way.” She led Rhodri at a canter along the wide, brown trackway as it wound through the forest that cloaked the foothills of Cyffin Tir. There was a fist in her stomach, but this time it was not hunger. It was desperation—and the fear that she would emerge from the forest only to see Garth Milain already burning.
The horses were exhausted, but she could not let them rest. Their eyes rolled and foam flew as they sped between the ranks of trees. The wind had picked up; and as it rushed through the leaves, it seemed to hiss with a thousand sneering voices: too slow, too slow, too slow!
The first stars were budding in the velvet sky as Branwen came out of the forest and saw Garth Milain ahead of them. Not burning, thank the saints. Not burning!
She rode that final stretch at the gallop, leaving Rhodri in her wake, desperate to get home. She sped past the pool where the children had played. She pulled on the reins, urging her snorting horse up the ramp to the open gates.
A guard stepped out. “My Lady Branwen!” he gasped.
“Where are my mother and father?” Branwen called.
“In the Great Hall, my lady, feasting with the Saxon messengers.”
Rhodri had been right—her honorable parents had been tricked into allowing the Saxons into Cyffin Tir. Branwen jumped down from the horse as two other guards approached. “Where is Captain Owen?” she demanded.
“He is in the hall with the prince and his lady,” said one of the guards. “It is good news, my lady. There is to be no war.”
“Go to the hall,” Branwen ordered. “Say nothing of me, but tell Captain Owen that he is needed at the gate.” She stared into the man’s face. “Do nothing to give the Saxons reason to be concerned. Go!”
The guard nodded and headed toward the Great Hall.
Branwen looked back the way she had come. A dark shape was coming fast toward the hill. Rhodri.
The horse labored up the slope, snorting and stumbling. Rhodri slid from the horse’s back and would have tumbled to his knees if a guard had not stepped forward and helped him.
“Close the gates,” Branwen said. “Bar them. Now!”
The guards glanced at one another. Then one nodded and they ran to heave the heavy wooden gates closed. The oak bar came down with a reverberating crash.
Branwen turned to see Captain Owen striding toward her. “My lady, what is this?” he asked. “How is it that you are here? And why are the gates closed?”
“How many Saxons are there in the hall?”
“My lady?”
“Quickly, man!”
“Twenty, my lady. But they come in peace. There is nothing to fear. They have no armor, no weapons. They are emissaries sent from Chester to bring a peaceful end to the hostilities.”
“No,” said Branwen. “They are not. They have been sent to trick us into letting our guard down. No weapons, you say?” She frowned. “Have they been searched?”
“No, they have not. It would have been a great discourtesy to have searched them.” He looked uncertainly at her. “My lady, why do you think they are not honest brokers of peace?”
Branwen gestured toward Rhodri. “He was a servant at Herewulf Ironfist’s camp—he heard the plans. It is deception and treachery, Captain Owen. Trust me on this, or all may be lost.”
The captain looked at Rhodri, his eyes narrowing. “Who is this lad, my lady? How do you know him?”
Rhodri gave a brief bow. “My name is Rhodri,” he said. “What Princess Branwen tells you is true. Ironfist has an army encamped outside Chester no more than two days’ march from here. He sent these men to do you nothing but harm. They have weapons hidden in their clothes.”
“They are but twenty,” Owen said. “Were they to make a move against us, not one of them would live to tell the tale.” He turned to Branwen. “My lady, this is folly. I cannot go to the prince without proof of their perfidy.”
“Ironfist sent these men here to kill and be killed,” Rhodri insisted. “They know they will not survive. Their purpose is to murder the lord and lady of this court even though they pay for it with their own lives. Ironfist means to leave Garth Milain in disarray and without leadership when his army comes.”
Captain Owen shook his head, his face troubled. “We risk much on the word of a stranger,” he said.
Branwen had listened to this exchange with growing impatience. “Enough talk!” she said. “My mother and father are in danger. Believe me or not as you choose, Captain Owen; but unless you act against those Saxon dogs, I will go directly to the hall and put an end to their treachery on my own.”
The captain searched her face for a long moment and then turned, a fierce light igniting in his eyes. “Aled, gather every able man not in the Great Hall. Have them all arm and meet here. Emlyn, see that there are guards at every point on the walls.” He turned to Branwen. “Our best warriors are within the hall. They have no weapons. It will be hard to warn them without alerting the Saxons.” He frowned. “There are many women and young folk there too.”
“We need armed men in there,” Branwen said, an idea forming in her head. “Captain Owen, return to the feast as if all is well. Tell the Saxons that they will be witness to a display of fine swordsmanship between our warriors. Then pick your best men—ten men at least—and tell them to go and arm themselves for the display. I will speak with them once they are outside. I will tell them to show no sign of what is about to happen until you give the word.”
The captain smiled grimly. “A fine plan, my lady. But the Saxons will not have limited their assault on us to twenty men. If what you say is true, there must be more hidden close at hand.”
Branwen nodded. “An army, I should think, waiting for the signal to attack. But they will find the gates closed against them. Go, now, Captain Owen, and put on a good show for them.”
“By your leave.” The captain bowed briefly and then turned and ran back to the Great Hall.
Branwen noticed Rhodri looking at her with raised eyebrows.
“What?”
“Didn’t I say you were a born leader?”
“That remains to be seen,” she replied, watching as the captain entered the hall. “Many a pot cracks in the firing, Rhodri. I think this will be a long night.”
As ever, the doors of the Great Hall were wide-open. Firelight and candlelight and the smells of good food and the sound of laughter spilled out into the night. Branwen and Rhodri stood outside the doorpost with their backs to the wall, hidden from the sight of the people inside.
Branwen’s plan was laid. Twelve armed warriors had gone into the hall. She knew them all: valiant, quick-witted men skilled with sword and shield. The moment when the veil of Saxon deception was to be whisked aside was approaching fast. Her heart was beating rapidly, and the blood was surging like an ocean through her temples; but all the same she felt curiously calm, her senses sharp.
She leaned sideways a little, just enough so that she could peer into the Great Hall. The fire dominated the center of the long chamber, roaring in its stone girdle, fingers of flame sending shadows splashing up the walls. Oak logs were piled high in the hearth, and many earthenware food-pots were standing warming among the stones, tended by silent servants.
Inga, the old woman who had packed Branwen’s belongings only a few days ago, was carrying bread, her eyes lowered as she moved among the revelers, placing newly warmed rolls on their trenchers.
“What’s happening?” Rhodri whispered. “What can you see?”
“There are a lot of people in there,” Branwen murmured. “They’ve moved back to the walls to make room for the entertainment. The whole middle section of the floor around the fire is clear now. I can see some of our warriors with their wives and families; but they’re dressed in their best linen, and they have no weapons. There are merchants and craftsmen in there as well, but they’ll be of little use if the Saxons put up a fight.”
“I can hear children,” Rhodri hissed.
“Yes.” Anxiety filled Branwen’s voice. “Many children. They’re playing games, running in and out among the people. I wish there was some way of bringing them to safety before the Saxons are challenged.” She remembered the sad little bodies of Bevan’s children lying dead in the forest clearing.
“What of the Saxons?” Rhodri asked.
“They’re gathered in two groups near the double throne,” Branwen whispered back to him. Her stomach tightened and a sick shiver went through her body as she looked at the Saxon men in their hide leggings and long, tan-colored jerkins—clothes loose enough to conceal knives. Their pale eyes seemed to be filled with a wintry malice. Their full beards gave them a fierce and sinister look, their mouths opening red to eat and laugh and spill out their lies.
“Saints preserve us!” Branwen gasped with a jolt of horror. “I know one of those men!” She had seen him before. A man with a white scar crossing his left cheek and—although she could not be certain at such a distance—with one light-colored eye and one dark. “He killed Geraint! I will have his life!” she hissed, snatching her slingshot from her belt.
“Branwen, no!” Rhodri grasped her arm and dragged her back into cover. “You’ll ruin everything if you show yourself now! Wait for Captain Owen to give the word!”
Branwen glared at him. But he was right. Agonizing as it was, she must wait. If all went well, her brother’s murderer would meet his end soon enough.
Captain Owen strode into the middle of the floor where the warriors were waiting, their swords bloodred from the flames. He stood with his back to the restless fire, his arms raised for silence. “By your good graces,” he called, “let the entertainments begin!”
Applause and cheering erupted through the hall.
But instead of turning to fight one another, the twelve warriors split into two groups and ran to either side of the double throne, their faces grim, their swords aimed at the Saxons.
“Beware treachery, my lord!” Captain Owen shouted. “These men are armed—they come to start a war!”
The scarred Saxon leaped up, his mouth twisted with fury, his hand reaching into his tunic. “By Hel and Tiw and Wotan’s sacred ravens, death to you all!” A moment later a long knife glinted in his fist.
The other Saxons sprang up, reaching for their hidden weapons.
Women screamed, and men shouted in alarm. Lady Alis leaped to her feet, her hand seeking the golden dagger that she wore always at her waist. One of the Saxons thrust his knife at her, but a warrior’s sword came chopping down, severing the man’s hand from his wrist before the knife could be thrust home.
“Get the children clear!” Lady Alis cried above the clash of blades and the shouting and turmoil that filled the hall.
Another Saxon came at her, his knife held high, his face contorted with battle-madness. Branwen’s mother moved with liquid speed, spinning clear of his lunge and then bringing her own knife up in a blow that sent the blade deep into his chest.
A warrior went down at Prince Griffith’s side with a knife wound in his throat. The murdering Saxon turned to the prince, the bloody knife stabbing toward him. Lord Griffith’s arm came up, parrying the blow aside; and while the Saxon was still off-balance, the lord swept the sword from the dead warrior’s hand and drove it to the hilt in the Saxon’s stomach.
Branwen could hold back no longer. She ripped free from Rhodri’s grip and ran into the hall, her slingshot already armed with a stone as she swung it around her head.
“Branwen! Take care!” she heard Rhodri call.
But Branwen was beyond fearing for her own life. Women and children and servants flooded toward the doors, their faces panicked and fearful, their screams echoing to the rafters. Branwen pressed through the frightened crowd, hardly able to keep to her feet but desperate to get to her mother and father.
Now that their deception had been revealed, the Saxons fought with a wild savagery, slashing and stabbing with their kniv
es even as cold iron blades cut their flesh and pierced their bodies. Branwen saw one Saxon snatch a girl-child by the hair, holding her close against him with his knife to her throat as he edged away from the swordsman who faced him. She spun her slingshot and let a stone fly. It hit the hand of the man holding the child, jarring the knife out of his fingers. A second stone struck the man in the mouth, smashing his teeth and sending him reeling back while the child was snatched to safety.
Rhodri was in the hall now, helping the fallen to their feet, catching up a small child in his arms and carrying her along in the fearful human tide. Several of the Saxons lay dead, their blood soaking into the earth floor; but those still living fought with brutal ferocity. Some had taken swords from the hands of dead warriors and were trading blow for blow with Prince Griffith’s warriors.
Lady Alis was among them, her golden dagger in her left hand and a sword flashing in her right. Branwen’s heart swelled with pride and with fear as she saw her mother bring down a Saxon with a slash to the neck that sent the blood spraying high.
But her face! Her mother’s eyes were feverish with a frenzied battle-light, and her gentle features were transformed into a mask of wrath. Now Branwen understood the tales she had heard of the warrior maiden of the House of Owain; now she knew why her mother’s fighting skills were revered throughout Brython.
Three Saxons managed to hack their way past the warriors. They came pounding down the hall toward Branwen. She stood bathed in the heat of the fire, blocking their path. She swung her slingshot; and one of the three went down screaming, a stone lodged in his ruined eye socket. The second man wielded a sword snatched from a fallen warrior. The blade slashed toward Branwen, but she didn’t flinch. Spreading her feet, she waited as the Saxon bore down on her with his blond hair flying and his face misshapen by bloodlust. As the sword arm came down at her neck, she dropped to her knees. The man’s blow went wild; and he stumbled over her, tripping on the hearthstones and falling into the flames with a piercing scream.
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