Warrior Princess

by Frewin Jones

  The tumblers finished their performance, and a harpist came into the center of the hall. The boisterous mood in the hall subsided to an expectant, almost reverent hush. The man was dressed in a long, gray robe, his thin face cragged and riven with age; his hair a thin, snow-white fall; his eyes the blue of a winter’s sky. He sat on a hearthstone and began to play a melancholy air, the notes spreading through the chamber like ripples on a deep lake.

  Branwen stopped eating, her hand halfway to her mouth.

  A citadel of stone stands upon deep-founded rock

  A mighty stronghold, girt by the sea

  A fine citadel that rises above the waves

  Yes, even above the ninth wave that roars and crashes

  And devours the land with salty teeth

  A fine citadel upon a deep-founded rock

  Fine men dwell there, easy at sunset

  Making merry, warriors bold of ancient lineage

  There is a fine citadel that stands above the waves

  On a high tooth of rock

  A graceful citadel of white stone

  Pure white, as the seagull’s wing.

  The citadel of Pwyll, old in story

  Let me sing you now of the companions of Pwyll

  Let me call their spirits forth from the smoke

  Let them live again in this place, those slain in glory

  Eaters of ambrosia, drinkers of honeydew

  Great warriors of Brython, glorious and glad

  I sing now of Arawn, of Hagfan, of Hyfaidd Hen

  Of Gawl and Clud and Teyrnon Tyr Liant of the five lances

  Of fiery Cigfa and Euryn of the golden torque

  Of Gwiri the steersman, of Gwyn Gohoyw of the slender bow…

  Branwen had heard many such songs before—tales of deeds of wonder and renown sung by the old bards seated at the hearth in the Great Hall of Garth Milain. Geraint had loved them, those old songs that told of battles lost and won, of noble warriors slain, and of the enemy defeated.

  But as she let the words roll over her, Branwen became aware that the spirit of the song had changed. The bard was no longer singing of the deeds of men and of the ebb and flow of battle; he was singing of quite different things.

  I sing you now of the ancient sculptor

  Creator of all that lives and dies

  From years of toil he is old and bowed

  See how he lifts his hands to the skies

  The right hand is firm as the flesh of the thunder

  The left is as gentle as rain

  The right molds the mountains and valleys hereunder

  The left smoothes the grass of the plain

  The right squeezes diamonds from blood clots of iron

  The left shapes the limbs of the tree

  The right hurled the stars that are filling the heavens

  The left traces waves on the sea

  The right is the hand that created the warrior

  The left guides the flight of the deer.

  Now no one can say that they know not the sculptor

  Before you his art is revealed

  But hearken now, for others shall follow

  The mystical fruit of his seed

  Branwen’s mind filled with strange images, the notes like raindrops, like splashes of vibrant color, like the flicker of a stag’s eye in the forest, like the flash of a trout in a pebbled stream. The rhythm of blood. The rush of breath. The beat of the heart. The ache of loss. The weight of mountains. The rumor of the sea.

  She stared wide-eyed at the bard; somehow she was not surprised to see that his summer-sky eyes, bright as jewels, were staring straight back at her.

  I sing of Rhiannon of the Spring

  The ageless water goddess, earth mother, storm-calmer

  Of Govannon of the Wood

  He of the twelve-points

  Stag-man of the deep forest, wise and deadly

  Of Merion of the Stones

  Mountain crone, cave dweller, oracle, and deceiver

  And of Caradoc of the North Wind

  Wild and free and dangerous and full of treachery

  The Old Gods are sleepless this night

  They watch and they wait

  For the land is in peril once more

  And the Shining Ones gather

  To choose a weapon, to save the land

  The Warrior

  The Sword of Destiny

  A worthy human to be their tool

  Child of the far-seeing eye

  Child of the strong limb

  Child of the fleet foot

  Child of the keen ear

  Branwen remembered Captain Angor’s words on the road from Garth Milain, recalling his unease on hearing that Geraint had spoken to her of the Old Powers and his insistence that she should not mention them again. She knew that her own mother and father would never allow such a song to be sung in Garth Milain; and yet, here, in the Great Hall of Doeth Palas, a bard was being allowed to hymn praises to the Shining Ones.

  Branwen looked around to see how people were reacting. She gave a gasp of disbelief. The great chamber and everyone in it had vanished away like mist under a fiery sun. She was seated on the grassy bank of a river, her legs stretching down and the water flowing fast and cool over her feet. The river ran through a forest girded with mountains; above them, huge white clouds streamed across the cavernous sky. And the voice that sang to her was the voice of the river and the voice of the forest and the voice of the mountains and the voice of the wind-scoured sky.

  She who will prove her worth in the triple hunt

  The hunt without bloodshed

  And she will drink of the spring

  And she will dwell in the forest

  And she will cross the mountains

  And she will breathe in the north wind

  She will know herself

  When the Shining Ones send their messenger

  When the wise bird comes

  When the wise bird dances for her

  When the wise bird reveals her destiny…

  The song ended. The river and the forest and the rearing mountains were gone.

  Branwen stared at the feasters who surrounded her. The bard was no longer looking at her. Applause rose, drowning out the dying cadences of his song.

  Amazed and light-headed, Branwen joined in the applause.

  What had the song meant?

  How had it transported her to that faraway place?

  And why had that place—a place she had never seen before—felt so much like home?

  16

  THE FEAST WAS over. Branwen lay on her mattress in the princesses’ bedchamber. The mattress had been put against the wall near to the door while the other two mattresses lay close together on the far side of the room. The chamber was lit by the frail glow of rushlights, and the two princesses were sitting facing each other on fur-covered chests while Hild and Aelf knelt behind them to undo the intricate coils of their hair. The girls were talking softly to each other as the combs and pins and strings of jewels were removed.

  Branwen had torn her own hairdo apart with great relief, refusing Aelf’s help in pulling the braids loose, delighting in the feel of her thick hair tumbling down over her shoulders again. She lay with her hands behind her head, gazing up at the sloping ceiling, her mind filled with the images wrought by the old bard’s song.

  And the Shining Ones gather

  To choose a weapon, to save the land

  The Warrior

  The Sword of Destiny

  A worthy human to be their tool

  Branwen lifted herself on one elbow. The servant women had left the room. The sisters were in their shifts, ready to get into bed. Romney was about to snuff out the last of the rushlights.

  “That song,” Branwen said. “I’ve never heard it before; is it sung often here?”

  “Too often,” Meredith said offhandedly.

  Branwen sat up, wrapping the blanket around her bare shoulders. “You don’t like it, then?”

 
“It’s as dull as ditchwater,” Romney said. “Lists of dead people from years and years ago. We get enough of that from our tutor without having to listen to it at feast times, too.”

  “They always end the feast with one of the Songs of the Eleven Heroes,” said Meredith. “I hate them all.”

  “But what about that part at the end, where he sang about how the Shining Ones will pick a hero to save the land?” Branwen persisted.

  “What?” Romney gave Branwen an odd look and then snorted with laughter. “I would like to hear the bard who’d dare to sing nonsense like that in front of Father.”

  “The Shining Ones aren’t mentioned in the ‘Song of Pwyll,’” Meredith added.

  “Yes, they were,” Branwen said in surprise. “The second half was about the sculptor and the Shining Ones, Rhiannon of the Spring, and Govannon of the Wood….” Her voice trailed off when she saw the two sisters looking at her as though she had lost her mind. “You must have heard it!”

  Meredith gave her a tight little smile. “If you want to fit in here, you really must stop being so strange. There aren’t any songs about the Shining Ones. And if there were, Father certainly wouldn’t allow them to be sung in the Great Hall. We’re not heathens, you know.”

  Romney gave Branwen a sideways glance full of mockery. “Do the people in Cyffin Tir still believe in the Shining Ones?”

  “Of course not,” Branwen said. She lay back again with her hands behind her head.

  The rushlights were soon put out. Branwen could hear the two girls whispering in the darkness.

  Let them whisper. She knew what she had heard.

  The Warrior

  The Sword of Destiny

  A worthy human to be their tool

  She turned over, pulling the blanket up to her ears.

  She will know herself

  When the Shining Ones send their messenger

  When the wise bird comes

  When the wise bird dances for her…

  Branwen opened her eyes wide in the darkness as she recalled the curious dancelike movements of the falcon at the entrance to the Great Hall.

  The bird’s outlandish dance followed her into dreams.

  17

  “IT SEEMS THAT no traders are prepared to take the southward roads for the next few days, Branwen,” Lady Elain said. “So you will be staying here with us in the meantime.”

  It was early the following morning. Branwen had been summoned to Lady Elain’s chamber and had arrived to find her seated on a low bench while two servant women worked on her hair.

  “How many days must I stay, my lady?” Branwen asked, working hard to hide her concern at the news. She wasn’t looking forward to the journey to Gwent, but she didn’t like the idea of prolonging her stay in Doeth Palas either.

  “That I cannot tell you,” said Lady Elain. “The traders have expressed fears that the Saxons may be lying in wait for them on the Great South Way. They have asked Prince Llew to send riders along the road to confirm that it is safe. He has agreed to scout the road as far south as the River Hafren. That is two days’ hard ride from here, so you will be our guest for four days at least.”

  Four days! The Saints preserve me!

  “Very well, my lady. Thank you.”

  “Under the circumstances, I think it’s only fair that we have a talk about what will be expected of you during that time.” She paused as if gathering her thoughts. “I have the greatest possible respect for your mother and for the lord Griffith, Branwen. Life is harsh and uncertain on the eastern borders, and I can only guess at the hardships and the fear under which you have lived.”

  “It’s nothing like as bad as you all seem to think…,” Branwen began, eager to put her host right about life in Cyffin Tir.

  Lady Elain frowned. “Please don’t interrupt me, Branwen. While I know that you have been brought up as well as possible under the circumstances, I feel it is my duty to say that you have not been properly instructed in the ways of the court of Gwent. I do not blame your mother and father for this—they have hardly had the time to teach you the finer points of court manners—but your life will be quite different once you marry Hywel ap Murig. The House of Eirion is as fine and cultured a family as any to be found in Brython.” Lady Elain lifted an eyebrow. “You would wish to fit in with the ways of your new husband’s family, would you not, Branwen?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  But what if the court of Gwent is like Doeth Palas? And what if Hywel has grown up as vain and self-satisfied as Romney and Meredith? I’d rather be a vagabond in the forest than spend the rest of my life among such people!

  “So, while you are living here under my roof, you will want to make use of your time by learning a little of our ways and customs.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Branwen said. “Any instruction you are able to give me to help me fit in here will be most welcome.”

  And swallows will fly to the moon to drink buttermilk!

  “I’m very glad to hear that, Branwen. I will speak with my daughters and ask them to help you as much as they are able; but a few words of advice from me will not go amiss, I think.”

  “No, my lady.”

  “While you are here, I think it best that you share in the pastimes and duties of my daughters.”

  “Would that include riding and hunting, my lady?”

  Lady Elain’s expression tightened like a fist. “No, it would not,” she said. “Hunting is best left to men.”

  “But I’ve always hunted, my lady,” Branwen explained. “My brother taught me those skills. I used to go into the forest every day, sometimes on horseback, sometimes on foot. I can bring down a hare at twenty paces with the slingshot. And I can skin it and gut it too—ready for the stew-pot or the roasting stone.”

  Branwen was aware that the two servant women were giving her uneasy glances, as though Branwen were saying something outrageous.

  Lady Elain had closed her eyes while Branwen had been speaking, a pained expression growing on her face. Now she opened them again. “That will not be necessary, Branwen. You will remain within the walls of Doeth Palas for the duration of your stay with us.”

  “But surely I will be allowed to go into the forest sometimes, my lady,” Branwen pleaded. “I would very much prefer that, if you don’t mind.” She smiled. “I could even teach Meredith and Rom—”

  “No more!” snapped Lady Elain. “Would you disobey me, to your discredit and to the disgrace of your noble family?” The two servants pulled away as if afraid that their mistress’s anger might be turned on them.

  “Not at all, my lady.” Branwen gasped. “Never, on my honor.”

  “Continue your work!” Lady Elain ordered, not even turning her head to look at the servants. Mutely, they returned to the business of dressing her hair. Lady Elain looked at Branwen. When she spoke again, her voice was icy.

  “You will do as my daughters do, Branwen. You will dress as they do and behave as they do. Your parents have arranged a fine marriage for you; but if you are to be a worthy consort to Hywel ap Murig, you must shed the free and easy ways of your childhood.”

  Several biting responses to this flashed through Branwen’s mind, but she kept silent.

  “I say this not out of anger or reproach, Branwen,” Lady Elain continued in a more conciliatory tone. “It is not your fault that life in the east has not equipped you for the great courts of Brython. You will thank me for this in the end.” Her forehead wrinkled and her eyes softened. “Look what a fool you made of yourself at the feast last night. Surely you’d rather that didn’t happen again?”

  “No, I wouldn’t want that, my lady.”

  Lady Elain smiled. “Good, then. We understand each other.”

  “Yes. I think we do.”

  “You may go, Branwen,” Lady Elain said.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Branwen stood on the top step of the Great Hall, her hands clenched into fists, her head thrown back, and her eyes tightly shut. Her nails dug hard into
her palms. She focused on the pain, using it to quell the anger that was roaring through her. In the past when something had made her wild with rage, she had always been able to burn off her anger with some physical activity—galloping Stalwyn over the eastern heaths or thrusting her way through the forest, alone with her feelings, allowing them gradually to ebb away.

  How dare Lady Elain imply that her mother and father had raised her to be a barbarian!

  It was only love for her parents that stopped Branwen from seeking out Stalwyn and riding away forever from Lady Elain and her sniggering daughters. Her duty to the House of Rhys calmed her anger, and helped her to find the courage to see this journey through to its bitter end.

  “Ouch!” Branwen cried out, wincing as the shears tore at her hair. “Stop it! Stop it! Get away from me!”

  Hild backed off. “Forgive me, my lady princess,” she said. “Your hair is very thick. It’s hard to cut through.”

  Branwen looked around at the old woman. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to shout. Don’t be frightened.” She gazed into Hild’s thin, furrowed face, paying attention for the first time to the deep-set brown eyes that gazed back at her. The face was aged and worn, like a crumpled leather bag; but there was still a spark of life in Hild’s dark eyes. How strange it was that she had never really looked into the face of a servant before. She had always taken servants for granted—like two-legged cattle, or like trained dogs, fit only for fetching and carrying.

  “How do the women in this place put up with all this nonsense?” she asked. “You say they have their hair dressed every single day?”

  “Yes, my lady princess,” Hild replied. “It’s the fashion.”

  “Then it’s a very stupid fashion.”

  Hild didn’t respond.

  Branwen looked inquiringly at her. “It is, isn’t it? A stupid waste of time!”

  The ghost of a smile touched Hild’s thin lips.

  “Oh, go on, Hild. Say it—no one will know! You won’t get into trouble, I promise.”

  “I cannot, my lady princess.”

  “No, I suppose not. But we both know the truth, don’t we.”