Warrior Princess

by Frewin Jones

  Meredith’s voice stopped short as the door burst open and Romney came charging in.

  “Merrie! Have you heard…oh!” She stopped in her tracks, staring down at the two of them. “What are you doing, Merrie?”

  The princess quickly got up. “Nothing,” she said, smoothing her gown as she walked away from Branwen.

  “Were you making friends with her?” Romney asked incredulously.

  “No!” Meredith exclaimed. “Of course not. Have I heard what?”

  “Apparently Branwen has given up talking to people. She spends her time in conversation with birds!”

  “I see Iwan’s been gossiping,” Branwen said. She couldn’t bother to be annoyed with Romney, although Meredith’s swift denial of what might have been a budding friendship rankled a little.

  “Birds?” Meredith gave Branwen a puzzled look. “What birds?”

  “Is it only birds?” Romney asked Branwen. “Or do you like to have conversations with other animals?”

  “Only birds, so far,” Branwen said. “But I’d willingly try other creatures as well. Intelligent conversation is hard to come by here, Romney, or hadn’t you noticed?”

  Romney gave her a withering look. “Perhaps you should try pigs. You should be used to how they live.”

  “We do like fresh straw for our bedding at Garth Milain, it’s true,” Branwen said. “And we like our meat fresh and raw. We drink fresh blood, too, warm from the bodies of our kill.” She put her hand down to the bottom of the chest and pulled out Geraint’s knife. “The fresher the better!”

  She tossed the knife into the air. It turned end over end twice before she caught it by the handle.

  The princesses eyed the knife with alarm. Smiling, Branwen began to polish the blade with the hem of her gown. As she rubbed at the shining tongue of iron, she spoke in a low, measured voice.

  “I remember the first time I used this knife,” she said. “I was about ten years old, and my brother had brought down a deer with an arrow. It was a hot day, and we were a long trek from home, so it was important to dress the deer so the meat wouldn’t be tainted. I asked if I could help. Geraint gave me the knife and said he’d explain exactly what to do.” She glanced at the princesses, who had moved close together, and as she spoke, she made the appropriate motions with the knife. “You start by making a cut along the belly, down by the back legs, a cut that runs right up to the ribs. But you have to be careful not to nick the entrails or that can get very nasty. Then you follow the cut right up to the neck, using your fingers to hold the cut open so you can see what you’re doing and the knife doesn’t get caught up in the ribs. You have to do some other cutting now, but I won’t go into the details; you look pale enough already.” She held the knife up to the candlelight, turning it so the blade glimmered and flashed. “Then you turn the deer onto its side and pull the entrails out with your hands. It’s a messy business so it’s wise to do it by a source of fresh water so you can wash all the blood off. Then you put the carcass over your shoulders and carry it home.”

  Meredith and Romney were staring at her with wide, horrified eyes. Branwen pulled the contents of the chest aside and placed the knife carefully down at the bottom again. She rearranged her clothes, slammed the lid shut, and got up.

  “It must be time for dinner by now,” she said, heading for the door. “Anyone hungry? I’m ravenous!” She pushed through the door, letting it swing closed behind her.

  There was not a sound from within the room.

  Grinning, Branwen left the princesses to confirm their darkest fears about her.

  20

  BRANWEN ROSE EARLY the next morning and was on the rampart overlooking the ocean before the sun had climbed above the mountains. She had bread and cheese with her, taken from the storeroom and wrapped in a cloth. She had decided to avoid eating with the others whenever she could.

  Solitude suited her mood. She had felt awkward and ill at ease throughout the previous evening’s meal. It had not been such a grand affair as the Homecoming Feast; there had been maybe twenty guests in the Great Hall; and although the food had been plentiful, it had not been anything like so lavish. But Branwen had felt even more of an outsider than she had on the previous occasion. Lady Elain and the princesses had pointedly ignored her, and Prince Llew had been so engrossed in conversation with Gavan and Captain Angor that Branwen wasn’t even sure if he realized she was there. All in all, she had been glad to get it over with, and she was not looking forward to three more days of such uncomfortable meals.

  She sat quietly on the cool stones, biting at the fresh, white bread, enjoying being alone with the salt breeze in her hair.

  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…

  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…

  When the wise bird comes…

  She had climbed the ocean-facing rampart in the hope that the falcon would be there. The wise bird. The dancing bird. But it had not come. The wind had come, the salt-heavy north wind, tugging at her hair and caressing her face with its cold fingers. The sun had come, lifting above the mountain peaks and throwing its light and heat down over her.

  But the falcon had not come.

  Am I losing my reason? Meredith and Romney didn’t hear the song that I heard. No one sings of the Shining Ones. The Druid seers who worshipped them have been dead and gone for five hundred years. Wild birds do not follow people over mountains. They do not dance for them. Oh, Geraint—am I going mad? Please don’t let me be going mad.

  “Ho, there, Andras! Lift the bow, lad! You’re meant to be firing at Saxons, not plowing a field!”

  Branwen stood up and walked to the inner edge of the parapet. She found herself looking down into a wide, unpaved area between buildings. She had assumed it was a square set aside for market traders or for cattle, but at the moment it was being used for archery practice.

  Gavan ap Huw stood with a group of seven young men. Branwen recognized them as the lads Iwan had sat with at the feast on her first night in Doeth Palas. And—oh, yes—there was Iwan, leaning against a wall and watching Andras as he struggled with his bow.

  Branwen gazed down at Iwan in confusion. How could such a captivating face hide such an unkind spirit? And why did her heart beat faster at the sight of him even when she knew what a wretched trickster he was?

  She forced herself to look away. All the lads were dressed in white linen tunics and leggings. Branwen guessed they were about the same age as Iwan, although none were as tall nor as handsome as he. Andras was skinny, all elbows and knees, with a long neck and a face like a startled chicken.

  There was a twang. The target was a life-sized human figure made of twisted and coiled wicker. The arrow missed it and sputtered into the ground. Andras gave Gavan a mournful look as laughter rippled around the courtyard.

  “You’ve a long way to go, my lad, before I’d set you against a living Saxon, unless they come for you crawling on their bellies,” Gavan growled, silencing the laughter with a flash of his dark eyes. He slapped the boy on the back. “Away now, lad, and stand with the others.” Andras crept away with shoulders slumped. “You! Padrig ap Gethin! You’re quick enough to laugh. Come, show us how it’s done!”

  A lad with black hair and a wisp of mustache under his long nose stepped from the ring and took the bow from Gavan’s hand. A bunch of feather-fletched arrows had been stabbed into the dirt near one end of the courtyard, about forty paces from the target.

  Padrig took an arrow and fitted it to the string. He lifted the bow. Branwen had spent a lot
of time watching her brother handle a bow and arrow, and she could tell just from the way Padrag stood and the way he held the bow that he would miss his target.

  She nodded as the arrow whisked past the shoulder of the wicker target and bounced off a stone wall. I knew it!

  “What did he do wrong?” asked Gavan.

  “His bow arm was too low,” Iwan said. “His elbow was drooping. He had no eye-line along the arrow. I’m surprised he came as close as he did!”

  “And can you do better?” Gavan challenged.

  “In my sleep, I could do better,” Iwan drawled to a murmur of laughter.

  Gavan took the bow out of Padrag’s hands and held it toward Iwan. Still smiling, the young man peeled himself off the wall and strolled over to where Gavan was standing.

  He’s very sure of himself! Branwen thought. She felt for the slingshot tucked into her waistband. She had not thought to bring any stones. But there were scraps and shards of stone between the main blocks on the parapet of the ramparts. She quickly found a possible candidate—a little uneven in shape, and not so smooth and rounded as she would have preferred, but it would do the job. She ran along the parapet and down the stairway. She skimmed along the wall, keeping as silent as she could, until she came to a building that formed one of the sides of the courtyard. Hugging the wall, she peered around.

  Iwan had taken the bow and was fitting an arrow to the string. Branwen folded the slingshot double and fitted the stone in place. Iwan lifted the bow, his elbow raised high, drawing the string back to his cheekbone, closing one eye to aim the better.

  Branwen swung the slingshot around her head. At the perfect moment, she opened two fingers to release one end of the whirling pouch. There was a snap and a hiss as the stone went shooting through the air. It caught the top of Iwan’s bow at the very moment that he loosed the arrow.

  The thin, pine arrow flew high and embedded itself in the thatched roof.

  “Who did that?” Iwan shouted, glaring at the others. “Who threw that stone?”

  Branwen put her hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter.

  Gavan picked up the stone and rolled it between finger and thumb. “Step from cover, Princess Branwen,” he called, lifting his eyes and looking straight to where she was hiding. “There’s no need to be bashful, my lady.”

  Branwen came out, placing her hands on her hips as she gazed at Iwan.

  “Well, it seems the princess has hidden talents,” Iwan said. “Nicely thrown, my lady, although maybe it was more luck than judgment that sent your aim so true? Perhaps you were not aiming for the bow at all?” He lifted an arm toward the sky. “Perhaps you were hoping to bring down your breakfast? Has your new friend been teaching you which birds are the tastiest?”

  “Now, then, Iwan ap Madoc,” Gavan growled. “The lady is a princess of Cyffin Tir. Watch your tongue, boy.”

  “Oh, then I apologize, of course,” Iwan said casually. “I thought that perhaps in lands where princesses threw stones from cover, such niceties were not honored.” He bowed low, but his eyes remained mockingly on her. “I am your humble servant, my lady princess.”

  “Humble?” Branwen retorted. “I doubt if that’s a trick you could pull off successfully, Iwan ap Madoc. Not if your life depended on it!”

  “Can I be of service to you, Princess Branwen?” Gavan broke in. “Would you join us? I’d like to know whether the boy was right or not. Did you aim true, or was it luck?”

  Branwen looked at him. “It was not luck,” she said. “It was skill.”

  Gavan opened his hand to her. “Then would you care to test your skill against the young men of Prince Llew’s court, my lady?”

  Branwen smiled. “I would,” she said, walking forward into the courtyard, aware that the would-be archers were all looking at her, some with open hostility, others with scorn on their faces.

  Iwan smiled as Branwen approached him, but there was a glint of darker emotion in his eyes, a kind of cool contempt. A look that said: Not only will I beat you, Princess Branwen, but I will trample you into the dust beneath my feet!

  Branwen smiled back at him.

  Iwan plucked another arrow from the ground and fitted it to the bow. Branwen ignored him as she walked around the courtyard with her eyes on the ground, seeking out a good stone or two.

  There was some muffled laughter from the lads, and she halfheard some cruel comments aimed at her. She didn’t care anymore.

  Branwen stooped to pick up a stone. She heard a twang and a thud. Iwan had loosed his arrow. Branwen straightened up and looked across at the target. Iwan’s arrow stood out from the center of the woven forehead, the flight feathers still quivering.

  There was a shout of approval and a burst of applause from the lads.

  Branwen looked at Iwan. “Forgive me, Princess,” he said. “Weren’t you ready?”

  She didn’t bother responding. She placed the newfound stone in her slingshot. She swung the slingshot around her head once, twice, three times—then loosed the stone.

  It hissed as it cut through the air. There was a sharp crack. The back half of Iwan’s arrow hung by a thread where her stone had broken it in two.

  The lads became silent. Iwan scowled.

  Gavan broke out laughing. “Nicely done, my lady,” he said. He looked around. “A lesson learned, I hope. The daughter of Lady Alis ap Owain is not easily bested! Come now, which of you will challenge the princess next?”

  No one spoke. Branwen picked up another stone and bounced it on her hand, her eyes traveling from face to face.

  “No one?” said Gavan. “Here, Bryn, step up, lad. I’ll not have the princess think we breed milk-hearted men in Bras Mynydd.”

  A tall, wide-shouldered boy with a pale, freckled face and a mop of reddish hair walked up to Iwan and took the bow from him. Branwen noticed that he never once looked her in the face.

  Gavan strode across the courtyard. He picked up two stones and placed them one on either shoulder of the wicker target. “My lady, aim for the left shoulder if you will,” he called, stepping away from the target. “Bryn, the right.”

  Bryn fitted an arrow. He had slow and deliberate movements and wasted no energy as he drew the bow and lined up the arrow. Branwen knew he would aim well.

  She fitted another stone and swung her slingshot.

  Arrow and stone were launched together. Bryn’s arrow stabbed deep into the wicker shoulder, a hairbreadth below target, the impact knocking off the stone. But Branwen’s aim was perfect, striking her target true and sending the stone flying.

  She looked at Bryn. “You’re very good,” she said, holding finger and thumb up so they were almost touching. “You only missed by that much!”

  He glowered at her and threw down the bow, stalking off the courtyard without looking back. A couple of the others followed him. Gavan stood with fists on hips, his lips pursed as he watched them go.

  Branwen frowned after them. “I did not mean to offend him.”

  “Myself excepted, Bryn is our best archer,” Iwan said. “It’s hard enough for him to be beaten by a girl without you demeaning him further with your words of consolation.” He gazed after the departing lads. “I imagine he hates you quite deeply at the moment. I’d watch your back, Princess Branwen. Bryn is not a good loser.”

  Branwen was surprised by this implied threat. “Should I be fearful of him, then?” she said.

  Iwan shrugged but didn’t reply.

  “The lesson is over!” called Gavan. “Get you gone from here, and tell Bryn that I would see him in my house at sundown.”

  The remaining lads left the courtyard in a murmuring huddle. All except for Iwan, who stood looking at Branwen with his arms folded. “I would not have missed,” he said to her.

  “Then try your luck,” Branwen replied, holding his gaze.

  “Another time.” He gave a brief bow, then turned on his heel and strode away.

  “These boys are not used to competing against women,” said Gavan. His eyes narrowe
d. “How did you learn to use a slingshot so well? It was no accident that you hit your target with each shot.”

  “My brother gave me the slingshot, but I taught myself how to use it,” Branwen said. “I prefer it to a bow and arrow.”

  “Indeed? Why so?”

  “A bow is too big and awkward in the forest,” Branwen said. “A slingshot is better for hunting.”

  Gavan looked thoughtfully at her. “That would depend on what you are hunting, my lady. What is the largest animal you can bring down with a single shot?” As he spoke, he plucked the arrows out of the ground and slid them into a quiver that hung from his shoulder.

  “A roe deer,” Branwen told him. “If the aim is true.” She walked over to the wicker figure and pulled out the two arrows, handing them to him.

  “You say a single stone would kill a deer?”

  “Not always. But I do try to kill as quickly as possible. Sometimes an animal has to be finished off with a knife.”

  “And are you as skilled with a knife as you are with a slingshot?”

  “I know how to use a knife on a carcass, if that’s what you mean.”

  “That is what I meant, my lady.” He slid the last of the arrows into his quiver, then gave a small, formal bow. “And now I must attend to my other duties.”

  Branwen didn’t want him to go. This was the closest she’d had to a genuine conversation since she’d been here. “You were a guest at Garth Milain some years ago,” she said quickly. “I remember you.”

  Gavan hesitated. “And I you, my lady,” he said. “Although you were but a child.”

  “You were King Cadwallon’s standard-bearer at the battle of Meigen, weren’t you? What was King Cadwallon like? Was he as great as people say?”

  “He was,” Gavan said. “A mighty king and a fearless warrior. His death was a great loss to our land. But we endure, my lady; we live to fight on.”