Warrior Princess
Page 1
Warrior Princess
Frewin Jones
In Memory of Merlie O.
Great Friend. Much Missed.
Contents
1
BRANWEN AP GRIFFITH sat on the grassy hillside with her…
2
BRANWEN LASHED OUT with her free hand.
3
BRANWEN SAW THE leather bridle and trappings of the chestnut…
4
THE AFTERNOON PASSED with a crushing slowness.
5
BRANWEN LONGED TO blot everything out in the oblivion of…
6
BRANWEN’S EYES STUNG as she stared into the bitter dawn.
7
THE FIRE BURNED fiercely all through the morning, the smoke…
8
THE FOLLOWING DAY dawned bright and fair; Branwen sat astride…
9
THE PROCESSION OF horsemen and wagons left the dappled green…
10
WHEN BRANWEN AWOKE it was a cool, damp morning. During…
11
BRANWEN HAD NO idea how much time went by, but…
12
AS BRANWEN BROUGHT Stalwyn down onto the winding road, Prince…
13
THE LARGE, LINEN-LINED tub was in a room off the…
14
BRANEN WAS IN the Great Hall, sitting on soft furs…
15
DARK CLOUDS HAD snuffed out the stars and the night…
16
THE FEAST WAS over. Branwen lay on her mattress in…
17
“IT SEEMS THAT no traders are prepared to take the…
18
THE WESTERN OCEAN!
19
“YOU HAVE GONE too far now, Branwen. I have tried…
20
BRANWEN ROSE EARLY the next morning and was on the…
21
ROMNEY WAS IN the bedchamber, sitting on a chest while…
22
BRANWEN’S EYES WERE filled with bubbles, and her ears rang…
23
HER SIGHT BLURRED from the dazzling white light, Branwen stumbled…
24
THE EARLY SKY was scattered with a mosaic of white…
25
THE WHITE STONES led to a glade.
26
“RHODRI? ARE YOU there?” Branwen called as she pushed her…
27
IT WAS BLAZING midafternoon and the courtyard stones were hot…
28
DAWN LIGHT WAS just beginning to filter across the sky…
29
“NO!” BRANWEN HOWLED. “Not again! This is madness!”
30
WHEN BRANWEN RETURNED to Doeth Palas, she found the fortress…
31
BRANWEN WATCHED AS Rhodri glided owl-quiet between the buildings, heading…
32
THE FALCON IS on the roof! Two tongues tell the…
33
THE NIGHT SEEMED to magnify the sound of the crashing…
34
BRANWEN HARDLY BREATHED as she crawled along on her belly,…
35
NOT THE SUN—THE moon!
36
“RHODRI! WAKE UP! We have to go!”
37
PRINCE GRIFFITH RAN from the hall with Captain Owen. Branwen…
38
BRANWEN TURNED FROM the pool. The battle still raged on…
39
GARTH MILAIN WAS on fire. The smoldering gates hung open,…
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
BRANWEN AP GRIFFITH sat on the grassy hillside with her back to an oak tree, gazing out over the rugged landscape of bony hills and steep, wooded valleys that she had known since childhood. Her raven black hair hung in curls almost to her waist; her face was tanned by sun and wind; and her eyes were a smoky gray blue, like a stormy sea. She was dressed in a simple marten-skin jerkin and leggings of animal hide—peasant clothes, suited to the hunt. Behind her the forest rose up in dense swaths toward stark brown mountain peaks. At her feet the hill sloped away to a wide valley, where children played around a pool of clear, spring-fed, white water.
The voices of the children drifted up to where Branwen was sitting. They were singing an old nursery rhyme.
Water woman in the well
Stag-man waiting in the dell
Ancient crone in house of stone
Warrior by the north wind blown
Call from wood and hill and deep
Into the darkling forest creep
Child of the Spring
Child of the Wood
Chase flesh, fowl, fish
But spill no blood
Chase them through the twisted trees
Until you fall down on your knees!
Laughing and shouting, the children tumbled onto the grass. They shrieked and wrestled, but watching them play made Branwen feel sad.
Perhaps it was the thought of the coming war….
She looked beyond the children to where the round hillock of Garth Milain thrust up from the valley like the half-buried skull of a giant. The huge mound of rock and earth had been piled here thousands of years ago by a people long departed.
A huddled village of daub-and-wattle huts and wooden buildings topped the hill, circled by a tall fence of wooden stakes. A quiet pride welled in her. This was her home, and had been home to the House of Rhys for eight generations, gifted to them by the king of Brython. From the Great Hall of Garth Milain, Branwen’s father, Prince Griffith, and her mother, Lady Alis, ruled a wide cantref of land that stretched from the mountains in the west to the hazy line of cliffs in the east.
A narrow path on a steep ramp of beaten earth led up to the heavy wooden gateway atop the hill. It was the only way to approach the fortified village. Around the flattened summit of the hill, timber palisades jutted into the clear sky like a crown, and only the lofty thatched roof of the Great Hall was visible over the saw-toothed defenses. Her father’s guards stood on the ramparts, their spears needle-thin against the pale horizon.
In the middle distance beyond the hill, Branwen noticed a wispy plume rising into the sky. She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing as she stared at the pale wing of smoke.
Is that a farmer’s bonfire—or is it them? she wondered uneasily.
By them she meant Saxons. She stood up, calling down into the dale. “Cadi! Come here!”
A gangly lad of seven or eight started to scramble up the slope toward her.
Branwen watched the lazy smoke, her heart beating fast in her chest. For the first fourteen years of her life, the cantref of Cyffin Tir had been at peace, but over the last twelve months the Saxons had begun creeping back into her parents’ land. They came mostly by night, in twos and threes at first, cutting throats, thieving goods and livestock before stealing away like ghosts. The raids had lessened over the harsh, frosty winter; but with the spring the raiders had come again—and now as the summer solstice drew near, they came in groups of ten or twenty, striking like thunderbolts, leaving death and misery in their wake as they fled back to the borderlands, clutching plundered weapons and driving stolen cattle before them.
Branwen had never seen a live Saxon warrior; the only Saxons she knew were the servants who belonged to her father’s household. They were men and women who had been captured in the old wars and dragged from their homes to live among their enemies in unpaid servitude. They had no rights, they were the lowest of the low, and they were as docile and obedient as broken horses.
But Branwen knew that not all Saxons were as humbled. Beyond the edge of sight, the Saxon armies were gathering again under King Oswald of Northumbria. Branwen imag
ined them swarming like the bees in her father’s hives—cold eyed, beating their swords on their shields as they marched in a pitiless swarm that blackened the earth.
“What is it, my lady?” panted Cadi.
Branwen put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and turned him, pointing to the curl of gray in the blue sky. “Where the smoke is,” she said, keeping the urgency out of her voice so as not to alarm him. “Isn’t that your father’s farm?”
Cadi wiped his nose on his arm and peered into the distance. “Yes. He’s clearing trees and burning them to make room for more pigpens,” he said.
Not Saxons. Thank the saints!
“Good. That’s all I wanted to know. You can go now.”
Cadi gave her a respectful bob of his head and went racing back down the hill to his friends.
Branwen sat down again. She was relieved that the burning was innocent, but at the same time a tiny part of her was almost disappointed. She would like to have seen her father’s fine horsemen galloping over the hills to do battle with Saxon invaders, their banners waving and their swords flashing sunlight.
A small movement caught in the corner of Branwen’s eye. She turned her head slowly. A fat wood pigeon had landed on a low branch at the forest’s edge. The slender branch was still bobbing from the weight. Branwen’s mother liked roasted wood pigeon. Branwen pulled her slingshot from her belt. The bird would be a good gift to take home.
At her left hip hung a leather pouch of small, rounded stones. She opened the pouch and chose a white pebble about the size of the end joint of her thumb. She folded the slingshot double and with skilled fingers fitted the stone into place.
It would be an easy kill.
Before she had time to take aim, a hand gripped her arm from behind and another hand clamped across her mouth.
Too shocked even to feel scared, she was pulled over backward and dragged, kicking and struggling, into the forest. A single, terrible word hammered in her mind:
Saxons!
2
BRANWEN LASHED OUT with her free hand.
Her fist hit something solid; there was a cry, and she was suddenly released.
“Ow! Branwen! That hurt!”
She scrambled to her feet, spinning around to face her assailant.
“Geraint!”
Her older brother was sprawling in the flattened bracken, rubbing his cheekbone with the side of his hand. His dark hair hung in his eyes, and a grin was spreading across his broad, smooth-shaven face. He squinted up at her with sapphire blue eyes. “Were you scared? You looked scared.”
She glared at him, her body still tingling with shock. “You mooncalf!” she shouted. “What did you do that for?”
Geraint stood up. Despite the four-year age difference, he was only a thread taller than Branwen; but he was stocky and powerfully built, his shoulders bulging under his tunic. “Oh, calm down, Branwen.” He brushed pieces of the forest floor off his hunting clothes. “It was just a bit of fun.”
“I wasn’t scared. I was taken by surprise, that’s all,” she told him defensively. “You won’t get to do that twice.”
“We’ll see about that.” He took a couple of steps and picked up a bow and a quiver of arrows from where they had been lying behind a tree trunk. “I thought you might want to come hunting with me.”
“I was about to bring down a wood pigeon, before you grabbed me!” Branwen said. “So you can come hunting with me!” She ran back to where she had dropped her slingshot and then loped past her brother and bounded into the forest, intent on being the first to find worthy prey. A young deer, a wild boar, even a plump pheasant would do—just so long as she reached it first!
“You’ll catch nothing making all that noise!” she heard Geraint call. “What have I always told you?”
“Be calm, be silent, be swift, be still,” she shouted back as she ran. “Right now, I’m being swift!” She leaped a tumble of rocks, her arms raised to fend off low branches and ferns as she headed into the shaded depths of the forest.
Branwen slithered along on her belly. She was determined not to alert her quarry to her presence. A female grouse was sitting on its nest—a shallow scrape in the earth lined with vegetation—with its tail toward her.
Absolutely silently, Branwen loaded her slingshot. The bird turned her head, and now Branwen could see the black eye, shining brightly in a ring of white on the small brown head. One well-aimed stone and it would all be over, so quickly that the bird would not even know what had happened.
“Hoy!”
It was Geraint’s voice.
The bird took to the air and disappeared into the trees.
Branwen jumped up, seething. Was Geraint deliberately trying to ruin the hunt for her?
There was another shout—another single word, Branwen thought, called out with urgency or alarm—but it was farther away now, muffled by distance.
A sense of unease began to grow in her, turning her stride into a run. Was Geraint in trouble? Perhaps a wild boar had cornered him—those creatures could be dangerous. A gouge from the sharp-edged tusk of a full-grown boar could rip a person’s belly open!
Branwen saw light up ahead through the trees. She was approaching a patch of cleared woodland, one of many where farmers planted grain or grazed cattle and goats.
She could hear more voices now, shouting and calling. Horses were neighing, and there was the crackle of flames.
She saw red tongues of fire through the trees and coils of thick, gray smoke.
She came to the hem of the forest, and the sight that greeted her brought her to a halt like the blow of a mattock to her forehead.
There were farm buildings on the far side of the clearing—round, daub-and-wattle huts around a stockade of withies. The conical thatched roofs were ablaze, and horsemen rode cheering across the flames. Other men had dismounted and were running with blazing torches, shouting and whooping. Some of them were tearing down the stockade fences and driving out the cattle. Bodies lay in the dirt—a man, a woman, and four children—their clothes torn and smeared with blood.
The raiders wore billowing cloaks and chain mail jerkins. On their heads were riveted iron helmets with nose and cheek guards and floating white plumes. Some carried round, wooden shields and long, iron-tipped spears; others bore short stabbing swords and heavy, double-headed war-axes. But the most jarring part of their appearance was their full, bristling beards and long, pale hair. The men of Cyffin Tir wore traditional thick, heavy mustaches; but they all had clean-shaven chins. These were Saxons! Their beards made them look to Branwen like wild things—like savages.
In Branwen’s lifetime, Saxons had never penetrated this far west—they had never dared enter the forest. If anyone saw the smoke, they would simply think that it was a farmer burning stubble or bracken.
Branwen knew she should do something; but her limbs wouldn’t move, and her chest was so tight that she could barely breathe. She saw her brother running across the clearing with an arrow on his bow.
Follow Geraint! she told herself. Do something!
The twang of Geraint’s bowstring sang through the air. A horseman wheeled out of the saddle, an arrow piercing his throat. Geraint fitted another arrow. He drew the bow and loosed it in a single, fluid movement. A second Saxon stumbled with the shaft embedded deep in his belly.
Geraint reached behind for a third arrow as yet another Saxon pulled his steed around and came galloping toward him. The rider swung low in the saddle, a battle-ax whirling in his hand. The ax struck Geraint in the stomach, lifting him off his feet and throwing him backward while the blood spurted high.
“No!” Branwen screamed. “No!”
The horseman raised his head, and his battle-maddened eyes fixed on her. A grimace of bloodlust transfixed his face as he urged his horse onward. He raised the blood-wet ax and howled as his horse bore down on her.
3
BRANWEN SAW THE leather bridle and trappings of the chestnut brown horse, the foam at its lips, the flexing of m
uscles under its skin. The man’s cloak spread out from his shoulders, as dark as storm clouds, as he rode her down. His mouth gaped like a red hole in the tangled mass of his beard. Deep scars formed a white cross on his left cheek. Strangest of all, Branwen had time to consider, one of the man’s eyes was brown, but the other was blue.
Droplets of Geraint’s blood spun off the head of the ax as it scythed through the air, spattering warm across Branwen’s cheek as she stood and waited for death to come for her.
But at the last possible moment the horse swerved to one side, its hooves hammering the ground. The rider was almost tipped from the saddle. He jerked at the reins, shouting in a language that Branwen didn’t understand. The horse circled, rearing up. The Saxon raider’s head turned, his strange eyes on Branwen, his ax still raised.
A look of alarm came over his face as he stared at something behind her.
He shouted words that sounded like Ai ragda!, and Branwen saw her own fear mirrored in his bloodshot blue and brown eyes for a moment before he galloped back to his companions, shouting and pointing to the forest.
Many of the raiders stared uneasily into the trees at Branwen’s back. But then a huge man with long, golden hair and with golden studs on his shield pushed his horse forward, shouting and gesturing with his sword. Their leader, Branwen guessed. A small band of men broke away and began to gather the released cattle. Soon, all the Saxons were mounted again, riding to the edge of the clearing, herding the cattle along the trackway that led through the trees.