Warrior Princess

by Frewin Jones

  He shifted his weight as if intending to move leftward, but at the last moment he threw his weight onto his right foot and almost caught her with a low, swinging blow to her waist. She knocked his sword aside with her shield and leaped back out of range. She kept her feet moving all the time, springing back when he came for her and then bounding sideways, forcing him to turn as she circled.

  She watched his sword arm all the time. It was up in the primary position again, ready for the next blow. She made a stuttering move to the right and he lifted his shield, but then she brought her foot down hard and threw all her weight onto her left leg. He swung his arm down; but his sword slid off her shield, and she almost caught him under the chin as she thrust the rim at him.

  He jumped back, and she saw a slight smile on his face. She had impressed him!

  Gavan stepped away. “Do you wish to rest awhile?” he asked.

  “No! Why? Are you tired?”

  His eyes widened. “A pert maiden, indeed!” he said, and there was a hint of amusement in his voice. “Come, then, daughter of Alis ap Owain! Let us see who wearies first!”

  Branwen knew she had youth on her side, but the old warrior matched her breath for breath and move for move as the morning wore away. Although she was well aware that Gavan was holding back, he out-fought her at every step—pushing through her defenses time and time again, and time and time again striking aside her attacks. But at the end of each move, he would explain what she had done wrong and show her how to parry a blade and how to launch an attack.

  They fought together until every muscle in Branwen’s body was aching and her heart was pounding like a drum. Still she refused to call for a halt, even though her body was slick with perspiration and her hair was wet and lank on her shoulders.

  Often he would make her repeat a particular movement over and over again until she got it right. He never praised her nor condemned her, and she soon came to realize that the real battle was taking place within herself. The battle to keep her concentration steady, to force her aching muscles to respond quickly, to keep her tired legs moving, to hold her sword high and bring it down with all her might even though it seemed to weigh as much as a great forest oak in her throbbing, numbed fist. To use her shield despite the fact it was as clumsy and as burdensome as a wagon wheel.

  “You cannot defeat me with strength,” Gavan called to her. “Use your agility and your speed. You stumble around like a three-legged ox!”

  She gave a yell of rage and flung herself at him. He sidestepped and tripped her. She went headlong into the grass. She lay there, gasping for breath, her head swimming.

  He stood over her. “Do not let your emotions rule you,” he warned. “The blood may be hot, but the mind must be always cool.” He reached down and hauled her to her feet. “That is enough for today.”

  Branwen scrambled to her feet, dripping sweat and panting heavily. “Why?” she gasped. “Are…you…too…tired…for…more…?”

  “Yes,” he said, breathing easily. “You have worn me to a thread.” He rested his hand on her shoulder. “You are a brave girl,” he said. “And you have a great heart.”

  “When…can we…meet again?”

  “Tomorrow,” Gavan said. “But it must be earlier, and we must not tarry here so long again. I have my duties in the citadel. Go now—I will wait awhile.”

  She handed him the sword and shield. “Till tomorrow…early,” she said.

  He nodded. “Yes, daughter of Alis ap Owain, till tomorrow.”

  26

  “RHODRI? ARE YOU there?” Branwen called as she pushed her way through the trees. She was sure this was the place where she had met him earlier that day, but now there was no sign of him. “I’ve brought food!”

  Tired as she was and aching from the training session with Gavan, she had kept her word and had come back to the forest with bread and cheese and meat bundled up in a cloth.

  “Rhodri?”

  He appeared suddenly from behind a tree, startling her and almost making her drop the bundle.

  She held it out to him. “Food,” she said.

  “Thank you.” He took the bundle and sat on the ground, opening it in his lap. He began to eat immediately, stuffing hunks of bread into his mouth, tearing off pieces of meat with his teeth, gnawing ferociously at the cheese.

  Branwen sat at his side. “You were hungry, then,” she said.

  He nodded, unable to speak through the food crammed into his mouth.

  She watched him for a while longer. “When we first met up in the mountains, you said you didn’t think we would be traveling the same path,” she said. “And yet here we are.”

  He chewed and swallowed. “Fate plays merry tricks, does it not?”

  “You said you were a servant,” Branwen prompted. “Who was your master?”

  His face darkened. “A Saxon swine by the name of Horsa Herewulf, the saints rot his evil guts!”

  “You were a Saxon captive?” Branwen asked in surprise. “When were you taken? How long were you held?”

  “You’re full of questions today,” Rhodri said. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not talk about it. It’s something I prefer not to dwell on.”

  “No, of course not.” She eyed him with curiosity, thinking of Hild, wondering if he had been stolen away from his family as the old servant woman had been from hers.

  There was a small silence while he dealt with the last crumbs and scraps of his meal. “That will keep me going a good while; thank you, Branwen.”

  “Does it make up for knocking you off the cliff?”

  He smiled. “It does. In fact, I’m in your debt. I have a long journey ahead of me, and food is hard to come by in the wild.” His eyes brightened. “I’m going home, Branwen. Home to my father’s family. They farm a stretch of land in west Gwynedd. It’s by the sea, near a place called Cefn Boudan.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” said Branwen. “Is it far?”

  “Far enough for a poor, footsore wanderer.” He sighed, peering into the sacking that had held his food. “I don’t suppose you thought to pack an obedient little horse for me to ride?”

  She laughed. “I’m afraid not.”

  “That’s probably just as well. I haven’t ridden for a long time.”

  Branwen looked at him—at his dirty, bruised feet, his raggedy clothes and tousled hair. He must have been on the road for days. “I’m going home too,” she said.

  “Is that so? And where might that be?” His eyes narrowed. “East of the mountains, I’d guess.”

  “Would you? Why?”

  “You’d hardly declare your intention to be going home if you lived close by,” he explained. “I think your home is in one of the eastern cantrefs that border the Saxon lands. Am I right?”

  “Now who’s asking a lot of questions?”

  “A fair point,” he conceded. “But you puzzle me, Branwen. The first time we met you were wearing a fine riding gown, and you were being escorted to Doeth Palas. That was the word you used: escorted. I assumed you were the daughter of some powerful captain or land-owning noble. But now you’re wearing peasant clothes and wandering the forest alone.” He shook his head. “That makes no sense to me, unless…” He paused, looking intently at her.

  “Unless?” she prompted.

  “Unless it has something to do with Rhiannon of the Spring,” he said, his voice lowering to a reverent whisper. “Was it your meeting with her that changed everything for you?”

  “No!” Branwen said abruptly. “She was…I…” She stumbled over her words. “I will not…I am not following her….” Anger erupted in her. “The gods are pitiless and unfeeling. I will not do what they want.”

  “What did she ask you to do?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Branwen said. “I will not do her bidding! I will follow my own path.” She looked at him through a veil of unshed tears. “I should never have come to this land,” she said. “I am going home to fight the Saxons. I am going home to help my p
arents avenge my brother’s death.”

  There was a pause; and when Rhodri spoke, his voice was quiet and kind. “How did your brother die?”

  “He was murdered by Saxon raiders.” She looked into his face. “I saw him die. I lit his funeral pyre. Then I let myself be brought here because my parents wanted to keep me safe.” Her voice rose as the anger grew in her again. “But it was wrong! I should have stayed with them.”

  “And now you wish to go back and kill Saxons,” Rhodri said. “Trust me, Branwen, I have no trouble understanding that. I hate the Saxons above all things in this world. But what could you do? Anger isn’t enough, Branwen.”

  “No, anger isn’t enough,” Branwen agreed. “That is why I intend to become a warrior. Then I will fight the Saxons. Then I will avenge my brother.”

  “And what of Rhiannon of the Spring?”

  “What of her?”

  He looked anxiously at her. “Do you really think you can defy the gods? How do you run away from a goddess? Where can you hide?”

  “I’m not running or hiding,” said Branwen. “Rhiannon said I had to choose my destiny of my own free will. I have done that.”

  “And she wasn’t angered by your choice?” Rhodri asked in surprise.

  “I don’t think so,” Branwen said hesitantly. “She said…she said there would be a price to be paid if I didn’t go with her. She said I would have to choose between two lives, and that someone would die because of the choice I made.”

  “She means to kill someone to punish you?”

  “No, I don’t think that’s what she meant. I’m not sure what she meant.”

  There was a tense silence.

  “So what are you going to do?” Rhodri asked.

  Branwen squared her shoulders. “Become a warrior. Avenge my brother. Fight the Saxons.”

  He nodded slowly but said nothing.

  She stood up. “I’m going to be in the forest early tomorrow morning. If you like, I could bring you some more food.”

  “Food for my journey would be much appreciated, thank you,” Rhodri said.

  “Dawn tomorrow, then.”

  “Good-bye, Branwen—and be careful. You’ve turned away from a goddess. She may have unpleasant ways of paying you back for that.”

  As Branwen made her way through the trees, Rhodri’s warning echoed in her mind. Had she been wise to insult a goddess to her face and to run from the destiny that the Shining Ones wished for her?

  Probably not, but it’s done now. And if Rhiannon seeks vengeance on me for it, then it will only prove that I was right not to follow her.

  27

  IT WAS BLAZING midafternoon and the courtyard stones were hot under her feet as Branwen returned to the fortress.

  I will meet with Gavan tomorrow, and I’ll learn all that I can from him. Then I must go. I can’t leave it too long; Prince Llew’s scouts will be back soon, and I don’t want to risk being sent south. I’ll take as many of my things as I can carry, and I’ll ride Stalwyn over the mountains and all the way back to Garth Milain!

  Excitement ran through her as she imagined her secret flight from the fortress. Her mother and father would understand. She would make them understand.

  A young man stepped into her path, breaking her thoughts. It was Bryn, the freckle-faced boy whose arrow had narrowly missed its target.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “I thought perhaps you would be interested in a rematch?”

  She looked into his face. His eyes were cold and hard, like brown pebbles. “As you wish,” she said.

  He turned and walked between two long huts. She followed warily, not really trusting him. There had been a look in his eyes that she didn’t much like.

  Bryn led her to a narrow alleyway behind the huts. She looked around, expecting to see arrows and perhaps a target. There was nothing. She could still hear the everyday sounds of Doeth Palas, but the dusty alley was deserted and invisible from the main thoroughfares. The rampart wall loomed up high above them. An ominous feeling hung in the dry air.

  Bryn folded his arms. “Are you as skilled with the staff as you are with that slingshot of yours?” He gestured toward two long wooden staves that were resting against the wall of one of the huts. “Would you like to try your luck?”

  His simmering resentment was so strong that Branwen could almost taste it. “You want to fight with me?” she asked.

  He smiled, but his eyes were still hostile. “You bested me, slingshot against bow. Are you prepared to fight me on even terms—staff against staff?”

  She could tell from his expression that he expected to beat her with ease. And what if she refused his challenge? Then there would be yet another reason for everyone to mock the wild eastern princess.

  She nodded. “Very well.”

  He walked over to the staves, snatching them up and throwing one toward her. She caught it awkwardly. It was almost as long as she was tall, a thin length of hardwood, smooth under her hands but strange and unwieldy. She watched Bryn carefully, seeing how he held his staff, with one hand at the center and the other halfway to one end. He swung it a few times, then brought it pounding down onto the ground so that it kicked up a spray of dry earth.

  Branwen copied his grip, trying to gauge the balance of the staff, trying to remember how she had seen other people use it. She eyed him appraisingly. He was big and muscular, and there was something in his face that suggested he was quite capable of cracking her head.

  My best chance is if I…

  Bryn let out a sudden shout and lunged at her, the staff swinging toward her at head level. She ducked as the weapon hissed over her head. He stepped forward, the staff whirling in his hands. She managed to block the blow this time, but the impact almost ripped her own staff out of her hands. He was strong! She fell back, remembering the morning’s lessons, flexing her knees, keeping her back straight and her eyes on his staff. Again it came down, and she only just avoided a severe blow to her shoulder.

  Swing!

  A leap to the side.

  Swing!

  She blocked the blow this time. The crack of wood on wood echoed between the walls. Branwen’s fingers stung from the impact, and her hands felt numb.

  The air shrieked as the flying end of Bryn’s staff narrowly missed her head. She thrust forward with her own staff, trying to find a way through his defenses. But he was too quick for her, and his staff grazed her knuckles as he struck hers savagely aside. She leaped away as he jabbed the end of his staff at her stomach in a blow that would have doubled her up if it had made contact.

  She kept him at a distance, her feet constantly moving as she circled him. But she knew she could not keep this up for long. Already her muscles were protesting, sore and tender from a hard morning of training with Gavan. She had to try and end this quickly, before exhaustion overwhelmed her. Bryn showed no sign of tiring, but she could see the frustration growing in him. He had expected this to be all over with a couple of strikes, and he was getting angry. He gritted his teeth, his eyes burning as he lunged at her again.

  She remembered Gavan’s advice: The blood may be hot, but the mind must be always cool.

  “I expected more from you, Bryn,” she mocked. “Am I wearing you out? You puff and blow like an old woman!”

  Grimacing, he came at her with the staff lifted above his head. She sprang to one side and brought her own staff around to whack him on the rear end as he stumbled past her. He turned, growling, gripping his staff with white knuckles. He ran forward with his staff in both hands. Branwen made as if to dodge to the left; but as soon as the staff came whistling down toward her head, she shifted her weight and bounced to the right.

  The staff came down with a shoulder-wrenching crack on the hard-packed earth; and while Bryn was still trying to regain his balance, she brought her own staff around in a wide swing and hit his staff a fraction away from his right hand. He lost his grip, dropping his staff and falling onto his knees. She moved in and kicked his staff out of his r
each. Then she stood back, watching as he scrambled to his feet, his face red with rage.

  The sound of slow-clapping hands broke out. Branwen turned to see Iwan leaning against a wall, smiling.

  “Nicely done, barbarian princess!” he called. “Bryn, Bryn! You should have kept your temper if you wanted to beat her.”

  “Get away from here, Iwan,” snarled Bryn. “This is none of your business. If you choose to swallow her insults, then that’s to your own shame.”

  Iwan lifted his right hand and pulled a thick, golden ring off his index finger. “I’ll wager this ring that she’ll get the better of you.”

  “She’ll not!”

  Iwan chuckled. “Look in her eyes, Bryn. Do you think she’s afraid of you? Look at her!”

  Branwen stood panting, looking from one to the other.

  I’ve had enough of this!

  She threw her staff down at Bryn’s feet. “This is pointless,” she said. “If I offended you this morning, then I apologize. But I’m not going to fight you anymore, Bryn. It’s over.”

  Bryn glared at her for a moment and then turned on his heel and walked away.

  Branwen looked at Iwan and gestured toward the fallen staves. “Would you like to try your luck?”

  Iwan bowed. “Indeed not, my lady. It would hardly be fair. You look worn-out.” He spun the golden ring again. “But one day I may take up your challenge, and then we shall see.” He turned and walked away. “Oh, yes, then we shall see.”

  Meredith was in the bedchamber, sitting on her bed, picking colored beads from a small wooden box in her lap and threading them together into a necklace. Branwen’s heart sank. She had hoped to change from her hunting clothes and go to sit by herself on the rampart overlooking the ocean. She didn’t need any more confrontations.

  “There you are!” Meredith said, putting the threaded beads and the box aside and getting up. There was an odd urgency in her voice. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Why?” Branwen crouched by her chest and opened it. “Have you come up with some new way to belittle me?”