by Frewin Jones
Oh, by Saint Cadog and Saint Cynwal and Saint Dewi! Rhodri!
A life will depend on it!
She sat up. The breathing of the sleeping princesses came faintly to her across the pitch-black room. She knew what she had to do. Rhodri had risked his life for her; now she must risk hers for him.
Drawing her blanket around her shoulders, she groped her way to the door, lifting the latch as silently as she could. The hall was empty now and full of shadows. The stones were cold under her bare feet. She lit a candle from the embers and crept back to her room. She had to risk a small light.
She put the candle on the floor and knelt by her chest, glancing over her shoulder as she lifted the lid. If she was fleeing this place, possibly never to return, there were things she needed to take with her. And if she succeeded in her plan, she had a long road to travel before she could ever present herself at Prince Llew’s court again.
She dressed in her hunter’s clothes and clasped the leather belt around her waist. Her slingshot was tucked into the belt, and the pouch of stones alongside it. Then she tied her other cherished possessions onto the belt: the pouch of crystals that Geraint had given her, the pouch with the firestones and kindling in it, the comb, and the golden key given to her by her father. She felt a pang of regret that Geraint’s knife had been destroyed. A sharp blade would have been an advantage.
She looked over her shoulder again—and saw two eyes watching her from the far end of the room.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing, Romney, go back to sleep.”
“Tell me what you’re doing, or I’ll run and tell Mama and Papa.”
May the floor open up and send the wretch to Annwn!
“I’m doing something that should please you greatly, Romney,” Branwen said softly. “I’m leaving.”
“Like a thief in the dark?” said Romney, sitting up. “What are you intending to steal that you should want to sneak away in the middle of the night?”
“Nothing!” hissed Branwen. “By all the saints, Romney, I am not a thief. Your baubles mean nothing to me.”
“I’m going to Papa,” Romney said, getting out of bed. “He’ll know how to deal with you.”
A different voice sounded from the end of the room. “Romney, you stay here.” Meredith got up and snatched at Romney’s arm, pulling her back onto her mattress. “If she wants to go, let her go. She doesn’t belong here. Wouldn’t you rather just be rid of her?” Her voice took on a gentle, coaxing tone. “Then it’ll just be the two of us again; wouldn’t you like that?”
“Yes!”
“Well, let the barbarian princess sneak off. Who cares about her? Let her go and live like a wild thing in the forest. Among the wild pigs, eh, Romney? Can’t you see her snuffling around on all fours like a wild pig?”
Romney giggled. “Yes! Yes, I can!”
Meredith’s eyes turned toward Branwen, and she saw a new light in them. It was not friendship; it was not even understanding…but it was respect.
“Shall we be rid of her, then, Romney?” Meredith asked. “We can tell Mother and Father about it in the morning.”
“When you speak to your mother, tell her I’m sorry I wasn’t a better guest,” Branwen said, looking at Meredith. “And tell her…” Her voice faltered.
“Once a barbarian princess, always a barbarian princess?” Meredith offered with the slightest hint of humor in her voice.
“Yes. That will do very well.” Branwen snuffed out the candle. Moments later she was at the door, through the doorway, across the stones of the hall, and out into the night.
She kept to shadows. Braziers were burning on the ramparts on either side of the closed gate. She could see guards moving about up there. Although the Saxon spy had been captured, the fortress was still vigilant.
“So, then,” Branwen murmured under her breath, peering up into the sky, seeking for a piece of darkness blacker than the night. “Where are you?”
Fain came gliding out of nowhere. Branwen smiled. The bird flew low, passing her close by, its eye like a jewel. She followed it, knowing it would lead her true.
The falcon guided her to a huddle of daub-and-wattle huts with peaked, thatched roofs—simple huts deep in the heart of the fortress, under the lee of the sea-facing ramparts and far from the gates. Huts used to store food and other supplies.
Branwen watched as Fain came to rest on the sloping roof of one of the huts. The falcon is on the roof! Two tongues tell the truth!
Fain had brought her to the place where Rhodri was being kept. She moved out of cover, keeping close to any shade, slipping from hut to hut.
There was a guard on the door of the prison hut.
She had expected it, although she had hoped otherwise. She put her hand to her slingshot. An accurate strike could fell a small deer—but a man? Maybe a stone into the eye would disable him enough to…no! She shuddered. The soldier was only doing his duty.
She looked more closely at the guard. It was not one of Prince Llew’s burly warriors; the figure at the door was much slighter than that. A young man with light brown hair and a casual way of leaning on the doorframe that was very familiar to her.
She breathed his name. “Iwan.”
Was that good or bad?
She took a breath and stepped into the open. She was halfway to the hut when Iwan noticed her. He stiffened, his hand coming to his sword hilt. Then puzzlement filled his face. “Princess Branwen?” he said. “What do you want here?”
Branwen walked up to him, feigning a confidence that she didn’t feel. “I want to see him,” she said, nodding at the door.
“Really?” Surprised, but still in control. “Why?”
“He made a fool of me. I want to pay him back for that. I assume you’ve got him tied up in there. Open the door and let me in. I promise I won’t kill him.”
Iwan raised his eyebrows. “You don’t think he’s got pain enough coming to him in the morning? I’ve seen Captain Angor’s interrogations before. Those who come to gawk need a strong stomach.”
“He’s a Saxon dog; why should you care?” Branwen said, making her voice sound harsh and cruel. “A few extra bruises won’t show.”
Iwan looked narrowly at her. “I’m glad we never became enemies, my lady,” he said.
“Will you open the door?”
“No.”
“Are you his jailer or his protector?” she spat.
Iwan stepped in front of the door. “I won’t let you in,” he said. “Even a Saxon spy deserves better than that.” He shook his head. “Where’s the honor in this, Princess Branwen? Go back to bed. If you want to see him suffer, then rise early in the morning and come to watch the captain practicing his skills.”
“I’ll go,” Branwen said, already half turning. “But remember this, Iwan ap Madoc, before you judge me too harshly: Things are not always as they seem!” She swung back toward him, the heel of her left hand striking him on the chin and jerking his head back hard against the door while with her right hand she pulled his sword from his belt and pressed the point against his stomach.
Anger and pain flared in his face, and he made as if to rush at her; but she jabbed the sharp iron into his belly, stopping him.
“I don’t want to do you harm, Iwan,” she hissed. “But I won’t let Rhodri be hurt. If you make me choose, I’ll do damage to you that will take a long time to heal.” She glared into his eyes. “Trust me on that.”
“I do,” Iwan gasped.
“Step away from the door.”
Iwan’s dark eyes were unreadable as he moved aside. She gestured for him to stand against the wall of the hut, the sword on him constantly as she reached for the bar that held the door closed. She threw the wooden bar down and pushed the door open.
“Rhodri?” she called softly.
“Yes.”
Relief flooded through her at the sound of his voice. “Can you walk?”
“I’m bound hand and foot. Wait—I think I can get to the door.” S
he heard grunting and panting, and a few moments later Rhodri’s head appeared in the doorway at her feet.
“Lift your hands.”
She slashed the rope with a single sweep of her blade. Iwan made a sudden move toward her, but she brought the sword up again in an instant, its point at his chest. “Do not do that!” she warned in hushed tones.
He stepped back again, his hands raised.
“Can you untie your legs?” Branwen asked Rhodri.
“Yes. Give me a moment. But, Branwen, this is madness. Why did you come here? They won’t care that you’re a princess. They’ll hang you for setting me free.”
“Hopefully, they won’t get the chance,” Branwen said. “We’re leaving together.”
“What?”
“I’ve made my choice. I won’t let them kill you.”
Rhodri stood up, stamping his feet and rubbing his wrists to get the circulation going again. “The gates are closed,” he said quietly. “We’ll have to go over the ramparts.” He gestured toward Iwan. “What about him?”
“Fair exchange is no robbery,” Branwen said. “Let’s leave one prisoner to take the place of another. Is there enough rope to tie him securely?”
“I believe so.”
“If they catch you, you’ll hang side by side,” Iwan said grimly. “Branwen, give this up! Let the Saxon die—but save yourself. Why is he worth this sacrifice?”
“It’s a debt of honor,” Branwen said, as Rhodri circled Iwan to tie his arms behind him. Iwan resisted at first; but Branwen brought the sword point close to his throat, and he quickly became still again as his wrists were bound.
“Rhodri is not a spy,” Branwen hissed. “I know you don’t believe me, but it’s the truth.”
Iwan grimaced as Rhodri tightened the rope. “You’re a fool,” he said.
“Maybe so.” She looked at Rhodri. “I’ll tie his feet,” she said. She led Iwan into the gloom of the hut, the sword steady in her hand. “Sit,” she ordered.
Iwan sat down, his legs stretched out in front of him. Branwen put the sword down and tied the remaining rope around his ankles. “I need to gag you,” she warned. “I want to be far from here before you are found.” There was a scrap of cloth on the ground, a piece torn from an old grain bag.
He stared at her, his eyes bright in the darkness. “I hope we meet again under better circumstances, Princess Branwen ap Griffith.”
“As do I.”
“One last thing,” Iwan said, as she brought the gag up to his mouth.
“What?”
“My sword,” he said. “It has been in my family since the time of my great-grandfather. Will you leave it, please?”
She frowned. She had been intending to take it in case they were discovered. But in reality, how would one sword help them if a band of Llew’s warriors came upon them?
She nodded. “I’ll leave it outside the hut.”
He smiled. “Thank you, “he said. “You’re going to have an interesting life, Branwen! I wish I could have shared it.”
She gagged him and closed and barred the door.
The night was strangely quiet. Branwen could hear her heart beating as if it were the loudest noise in all of Doeth Palas. “Where’s best to climb the ramparts?” she murmured to Rhodri.
“The way I came in,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
She rested Iwan’s sword against the wall of the hut. Rhodri looked questioningly at her.
“If we have to fight, we’re already lost,” she said.
“Very well. Come.” He sprinted away through the huts. Branwen quickly caught up with him and ran at his side.
She knew that she was leaving her old life behind her, that things would never be the same again…but whatever happened, she had chosen this path herself. This was not a destiny determined for her by Rhiannon and the Shining Ones. In fleeing this land, she was also leaving them behind. Or so she hoped.
Is it possible to outrun gods?
Who could say? But for the time being, Branwen felt at last that she had taken her fate into her own hands.
33
THE NIGHT SEEMED to magnify the sound of the crashing waves until Branwen felt as if her head would crack open. She was standing on a narrow ledge, high above the ocean, with her back pressed to the cold stone. Above her the ramparts of Doeth Palas soared away into a sky teeming with stars.
One arm was stretched out, and her fingers were tightly clasping Rhodri’s hand. He had guided her safely this far, but the ledge felt uncertain under her feet and the leaping white foam below her seemed full of voices urging her to jump.
Rhodri’s hand squeezed hers. “You won’t fall. Edge toward me. I’ll keep hold of you.”
She slid one foot along the shelf of rock. She pressed down on it, testing it. It seemed firm enough. She transferred her weight.
“You don’t need to grip so tight,” Rhodri said.
“Sorry.”
“We’re going to need both hands soon, so I’d rather not have one of mine crushed.”
She risked moving her head to look at him. He was smiling reassuringly at her.
“At least…we’ve made it hard…for the guards to…follow…,” she said, attempting to smile back.
“We’ve done the hardest part,” Rhodri promised. “The ledge widens from here.”
He was right. A few steps farther and Branwen was able to let go of his hand and walk along the ledge with relative confidence, although she leaned in close to the cliff face and tested each step thoroughly before proceeding. Then there was a final wild scramble up a back-sloping rock face, as cracked and seamed as a mud-track under the summer sun. Branwen stood on the cliff top, the ocean-wind in her hair, cooling the sweat on her face, her arms and legs trembling from the climb.
Doeth Palas towered against the stars, its crown tipped with red flames. How long before Iwan was discovered? How long before riders came pouring through the gates to scour the land and bring the two of them back, bound and helpless?
“We need horses,” Branwen said. “We can’t walk all the way to Garth Milain.” She gazed into the east, where the mountains formed a high, broken, black horizon. “It’s a two-day ride,” she said. “Less if we rest as little as possible.”
“I’m not a good horseman,” Rhodri admitted. “I was a servant of the household, not of the estates.”
“Will you be able to stay on a horse if we find you one?”
“I’ll try,” he said. “But if not, then you’ll have to ride on ahead.”
“There are a lot of farmsteads between here and the mountains. Let’s find ourselves some horses before the farmers are awake.”
“Steal some, you mean.”
“Borrow some,” Branwen corrected him. “If all goes well, the House of Rhys will repay the loan tenfold.” She broke into a run. “Come, quickly,” she called. “I want to be a long way from here before the dawn.”
The sky was brightening above their heads as Branwen and Rhodri cantered their stolen horses through a field of ripening wheat. They had been lucky, finding suitable steeds quickly in a farm close to the fortress and managing to bridle them without awakening their owners. Branwen had watched Rhodri with concern as he had clambered clumsily astride the horse’s back. She did not like the idea of having to leave him behind, although she knew that if his horsemanship proved too poor, that was exactly what she would have to do.
Rhodri sat badly and looked uneasy, but he managed to keep on the horse; and after a while Branwen felt able to take them from walk to trot and finally to canter. Alone, she would have been tempted to gallop the lands like an arrow; but she knew that a galloping horse would tire sooner and need more rest than a horse taken at an even canter, and so she kept her impatience under control and thanked the saints for firm ground under their horses’ hooves.
They had ridden hard through the night, heading across country toward the foothills, taking the straighter route to save time and to avoid the roads. Branwen looked back over her should
er. Doeth Palas was lost behind a fold in the land. The road—a brown curve away to the south—was empty. Luck had been with them so far, but they still had far to travel before journey’s end.
She thought of Iwan’s parting words: You’re going to have an interesting life, Branwen! I wish I could have shared it. It was a strange thing for him to have said; she would have expected threats and anger from him. Despite the casual hurts he had inflicted on her, and despite her wiser self, she wished she could have got to know him better. It seemed a shame that she would never see him again—if only for the chance to challenge him to a fair fight and crack him over the head with a staff!
As Branwen and Rhodri moved eastward into the deep glens, they had to slow their horses to a walk. In the deeper clefts, rushing streams of clear mountain water ran through stony beds and tipped over mossy ridges, while forests of birch and elder and oak clung onto the steeply rising shoulders of the hills. The day became warm as the sun appeared over the peaks, and soon the horses’ mouths were flecked with foam. Branwen constantly had to sleeve the sweat out of her eyes.
Ever upward they went, urging their horses to climb the steepening slopes and to walk precarious ridges from one high point to another while stones and shale went tumbling into a green gully. Branwen gazed down, her stomach tightening and a cold sweat standing out on her forehead. It was all too easy to imagine plunging headlong into that yawning gulf. Shivering despite the heat, she nudged her heels into her horse’s flanks and it moved slowly onward, hoof by cautious hoof.
The farmlands of Bras Mynydd were far behind them now, glimpsed only occasionally between crags and cliffs. Branwen was still unwilling to use the winding mountain road, although she knew that she would have no option once the gulfs became too deep and the slopes too sheer. It was a long time since they had eaten, and Branwen’s stomach ached for food. It was too early in the year for fruit or berries; and in their rush to get away from Doeth Palas, neither of them had thought to steal food for the journey.
They came to a high plateau in the middle of the afternoon. The sun beat down on the mountains out of a clear blue sky. A haze was rising. Branwen shaded her eyes against the sun.