“Yes, m’lady, it shall be done.” Blaise feigned a perfect Mercian accent and bowed his head.
Cuthred strode back to his chamber, eager to await a willing woman.
“Go, get me a good horse,” Blaise whispered in a flat voice.
He followed Branda to the stable and saddled a sleek, yet muscular, gelding. She ducked into another stall.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To ready my horse.”
“No, you ride with me.”
“I need get to Caledonia before the King’s men find me. It will be faster with two steeds.”
“But we take only one.”
She placed her hand on her hips. “Why?”
“Because, m’lady, I need keep an eye on you.” Blaise vaulted into the saddle and held a hand down to hoist her up.
She studied him long enough to know charm wouldn’t work and slid her hand in his. He agreed to take her to Judith and nothing else mattered, not even whether it was on one horse or two.
He pulled her up, and she straddled the horse’s back so she sat in front of the Welsh Prince. He smelled of soot and cinders.
She pinched her nose. “You need a bath.”
“Yes, it’s the first thing I will do.”
She turned her head toward him. “Only after you take me to Caledonia.”
“Of course. What are hostages for if not to offer their host’s daughter an escort?” He curled his mouth into a smile, but his eyes didn’t change. They were unreadable.
It caused her to wonder if trusting him might not be one of her better ideas, but he was her only means of escape. Surely he would do as she said. All the men in Mercia did as she said, even Ethelbald, until now.
“Caledonia, is it?”
Blaise’s crisp query brought her from her musings. “Yes, to King Brude.” She gazed forward.
At a slow gait he rode past timber halls, crudely built cattle corrals and a pigpen full of squealing porkers. Blaise pressed his heels into the horse’s flank and rode toward the gate.
Branda yelled to two guards leaning on their spears. “Let me through. Scan and I go on an errand for my sire.” She knew the guards must have thought she wouldn’t leave the palace unless the King had ordered it. “It’s good they don’t know me well,” she said under her breath as they opened the gate.
“They were fools not to get a closer look at me. Ethelbald will have them whipped,” Blaise mumbled as their mount trotted with ease out of the Mercian stronghold.
“On my account?” She hadn’t thought of that. She realized she’d given no thought to anything save getting out of the betrothal to Cuthred.
“You didn’t make them addle-headed.” With a smirk in his voice, he added, “Unless they were overcome by your beauty.”
“You are rude to speak to me like that.” Her muscles stiffened, but the heat of his raspy chuckle made the flesh on her neck tingle. She could melt in his arms if she allowed it. She pushed those silly fancies aside. Soon she would be with Judith and wouldn’t have to give another thought to Cuthred or Blaise. “I wish to hasten to Caledonia.” Her voice sounded less steady than she wished.
She gasped for breath as Blaise kneed the horse into a hooves-hammering gallop.
* * * *
When dawn broke, Branda’s rump felt sore and her muscles ached from riding for hours. She looked at the direction of the sun. This did not seem right. “Blaise, is this north?”
Chapter Three
“Yes, north to Caledonia.” Blaise gripped Branda tighter as he kept the horse to a steady trot.
She glanced back and forth at land and sky. “Are you sure we’re heading north?”
“Yes.” Blaise gave no thought to the lie and had no fear she’d question him further. Like Scan, she had little experience with life and she’d never been outside Mercia. His father would call both Scan and the Princess young and foolish. His sire said the same of him often enough but now he rode home, returning to his King with a prize, to prove him wrong at last.
She shrugged and yawned. “I am not good at directions.”
Blaise peered at her to see she’d nodded off again. The long ride was taking its toll on her. The sleeping Princess pressed her flaxen heads against his chest and a waft of lavender from her feathery mane tempted his senses.
Comely, moreover she rides well...for a Saxon, he thought as he followed the curves of the river, its ripples glistened like a hoard of Druid crystals. He crossed into the ancient kingdom of Powys and headed for Dinas Bran.
Elation bubbled within his chest at anticipation of reaching the hill fort. His father and King, Elisedd map Gwylog of Powys, would honor him. The shame he brought to his sire when taken captive would be transformed into great pride, for he returned with Ethelbald’s daughter as his hostage.
His flesh tingled from the warmth of her body as she lay against him. Heat swirled in his chest. So sweet when she slept and her mouth was shut. No, she was a hostage. He could feel no fondness for her, though his father would treat her well, unlike the way he’d been abused in Mercia.
A warm glow flowed though him as he scanned the long grass and scattered rock, sloping hills and azure sky, the breathtaking beauty of Powys. A cry of joy broke from his lips, “So good to be home.”
He shifted his gaze to the Princess’s hair which shimmered like sunlight on the river. He recalled her dimpled smile.
The horse’s hooves clumped upon bright green grass as the purr of a waterfall urged him onward. Soon his gaze fell upon crystal water, cascading down jutting mountain rock. The Princess said he needed a bath.
He pulled the steed to a halt and with one hand steadily on Branda eased from the saddle. As he lifted her into his arms, she wriggled and mumbled something incoherent.
“Shush, Princess. Go back to sleep.”
Leaving the horse to graze, Blaise laid Branda under the leafy canopy of an ancient, gnarled and crooked oak. Free at last—as free as the gushing fountains, wandering brooks, murmuring rivers and lakes pouring forth fresh water—he ran, pounding his feet into the sod of Wales. He pulled his hat off and tossed it to the ground, then unfastened the thin Saxon belt and flung it in the grass. The guard’s tunic now hung to his calves so he tore it off, peeled off the tight-fitting trousers and ran naked into the cool, clear pond, where water tumbled down the rocks. He dived underwater and surfaced head up at the falls. Water pounded his flesh, invigorating, cleansing; the roar of the waterfall rejuvenated his soul. As the water poured down, he swept his fingers through his matted hair, kneading his scalp and washing the English soil from his flesh.
A shrill scream pierced the air, and he turned to see Branda, eyes wide and face red. A chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. The Princess saw something she couldn’t talk about. She was a maid indeed. Branda covered her eyes, turned her head and ran toward the grazing horse.
“Branda,” he called between snorts of laughter, “join me.”
“You are bare, every bit of you.” She stood with her back to him.
He dropped his gaze to the yellow curls cascading past her waist, and then skimmed the gentle curves of her willowy waist and slim hips as he wondered what she looked like nude.
“Come, the water is not cold,” he taunted in a hoarse voice.
“Put your clothes on, you cur,” she yelled without turning around. Even though she seemed shocked and angry, the set of her shoulders was regal and exuded confidence.
“Ah, there is the Princess I know. For a moment I feared you’d gone speechless. Oh, I meant for a moment I was blessed with silence.”
“Are you dressed, you big dolt?”
Still staring at her, Blaise took a deep gulp of heather-scented air and got out of the water. He shook his head, spraying droplets of water on the green grass, and pulled on the Saxon
trousers, then the tunic. He belted it to a decent length, plopped the cap back on his head, picked his shoes up in one hand and waded through the long grass toward her.
She must have heard him approach, as she suddenly shrieked and wheeled around.
He chuckled. “Did I startle you?”
“You dolt!” She stepped back.
He took pleasure in the baffled expression playing across her face.
“You shouldn’t go about naked in the presence of a lady.”
“Yes, of course you are right.” He was overcome with a sudden urge to see her smile as he peered into her large blue eyes. Not a good idea, he chided himself. He plopped down, crossing his legs in a seated position in the grass, and gestured her to join him
She eased down on the ground at his side and cocked her head. “How old are you?”
“Ten and seven years of age; and you?” He picked up a blade of grass and twirled it in his mouth.
“Ten and six turns of the year.” Branda raised her hand and grabbed the hat off his wet head. “Your hair is matted. I can comb it for you.”
“No.” Reaching out, he clutched the cap and pulled it from her grasp. His scalp felt warm and tingly just from that contact alone, he couldn’t have her caressing it. To resist her charms he focused his mind on getting the Mercian Princess to Dinas Bran before she figured out his plan and tried to escape.
He stood and pointed his hand toward the crooked tree. “I will gather elderberries yonder so you can eat, then we ride. Either Ethelbald or Cuthred will follow our trail.”
She arched her brows. “We are in Caledonia?”
“Yes,. We rode north, remember? Where else could we be?” Powys is where we are, silly goose, not Caledonia. Why would I go there? “Rest. I will return with this Saxon hat full of elderberries.”
Clutching the funny woolen cap, Blaise walked off into the high grass, slowly inhaling the fresh air, sweet with the scent of flowering heather. He plucked plump black berries from the vine.
An eagle soared overhead, emitting a lucid, strong caw which sounded like, “Home, home.” Was it the eagle that returned each year to nest in the wooden palisades atop Dinas Bran?
“Fly on,” he called out to the majestic bird. “Soon I shall soar up the steep rock to the ancient, iron-age hill fort on top of the high mountain, amidst the clouds.”
Blaise made his way back to the Princess. Even with tousled hair, a scowl of hunger on her face, and her usual sparkling eyes now a bit puffy and pale from exhaustion, she radiated a beauty and vitality that drew him like a lodestone. “Here, eat.”
Scooping her fingers into the Saxon cap full of dark berries, she shoved a handful into her mouth. She chewed fast, almost choking. Juice dribbled down her lips, and her palms were splashed with indigo from the elderberries.
“Slow down. I can get more.”
“I’m starving. I didn’t eat well last night. I had no wont of food while I sat next to Cuthred.”
Her every word made him laugh. She distrusted the King of Wessex, yet she put her trust in a Welsh hostage to take her to Caledonia. She had much to learn. Life in Mercia had been too easy for her.
Still, he couldn’t tear his gaze from her, the glow of her skin and the sheen of her hair. His palms burned with the urge to touch her. The sooner he put her into his father’s care the better. He needed to ride.
“It’s time we were off. We have a long way to go.” He helped her mount the horse and vaulted up behind her.
As they rode pillion through Wales from the moors to the foothills, her warm, smooth back pressed against his chest, Blaise breathed in the fresh-heather scent of her hair. Absently, he reached down and pulled out a twig hanging in her golden mane and then swept his fingers through the silky strands.
She leaned her neck back and met his gaze. “Why did you not want me to comb your hair?”
“I comb my own hair.”
“I like the hue of it. It is different.”
As she spoke, the soft pink shade of her curled lips captured his gaze. He blinked his eyes, trying to diminish his longing to press a kiss against her tempting mouth.
“It‘s why they call me Blaise.”
“Did your mother name you?”
“No, she died in child-bed. My father named me Bleheris, to call me Blaise by the hue of my hair. The lime wash lightens it to a reddish blonde, but it’s naturally flame red.”
“Lime wash?”
“Yes, it makes it thick as a hedgehog’s hide.”
She laughed.
He liked that. It sounded like tinkling music.
Her voice took on a tinge of sadness. “I’m sorry your mother died. Mine did as well.”
“This I did not know.”
She nodded her head. “My sire named me as well. Branda means sword. Weapons and war are all my father knows, so that was what he named me.” She chortled.
“It’s a comely name.” The sister she spoke of must be the only family she had. The gods know Ethelbald thinks of her as nothing but a pawn, to be used for an alliance. “Tell me of Judith.”
“I’ve not seen her since she was taken to Caledonia.”
“Yes, Brude does not ride into Saxon territory save for battle.”
“Of course, he has to climb over Hadrian’s Wall to get into England.” Branda lowered her voice to a dreamy tone. “I hear tell he is a great warrior and handsome.”
“In her marriage to Brude, your sister is more hostage than wife. She ensures him Ethelbald will not bring an army against Pictland.” Gazing at her pouty expression, he again fought the temptation to kiss her rosy mouth.
“Why do you speak so of Brude and Judith?”
“Princess, I just wanted to show you there are other ways to look at things. All is not as it appears. You may be more innocent of the ways of the world than you think.” He wanted to shout: Don’t you know I am betraying you? We are not in Caledonia. He knew when she discovered he held her as his hostage, she’d hate him and it shocked him to realize how that would wound him.
As she leaned against his chest, he drove his horse into a hard gallop across the moors. The sun hung low as Blaise guided his horse up the first steep mountain he came to. A maiden straight of posture with long red hair and a fresh, honest face herded her cows to the valley from grazing in high pasture. Absently, he greeted her in Welsh.
Likewise, she replied, “May the wind be quiet and the sun shine this morn.”
“Augh!” Blaise groaned at the pain in his chest. The Saxon had jabbed her elbow in his stomach. He tightened his grip on her, and though she fought hard, she was no match for his muscular build.
“She speaks Welsh, not Pictish.” Branda rocked her body hard against him as he held her in the circle of his strong arms.
“Augh, you bit my arm. Bran’s head! Calm down. You can’t escape. Stay still or you may harm yourself in the struggle.”
She bucked against him like a wild horse. How could a twig of a girl be so strong? She must have some Welsh blood in her.
He raised his voice. “If you got away from me, where would you go? You are in Wales.”
“Liar! You said we were in Caledonia.”
New pains shot through his legs and stomach as she continued the thrashing assault. “I did lie, for I said we went north, but we rode westward across marshland, then moors and now we ride up a mountain. I am a Powys Prince; where would I go but Wales?”
The Saxon horse, frightened by the fray, reared on its hind legs and released a fierce neigh. Branda screamed. Blaise held her tight while he took control of the horse. He wished he were in the saddle of a Celtic pony. Little spooked them; they would turn and fight before running away. The steed bolted at a fast gait up the hill, bits of rock and rubble tumbling down. Blaise wrapped his left arm about the Princess
and held her tight.
Suddenly he heard a woman’s voice whispering melodic Welsh, soothing the horse who came to a halt. The grazer-maid had a way with animals like all Powys folk. The bucking slowed, then the neighing and snorting halted. The horse calmed. Relieved, but still alert, Blaise held the Princess fast then turned to the redheaded maid and thanked her.
She bowed, and he gestured for her to rise. “I was riding up the mountain to look out for English soldiers. Were you on the peak? Did you spot an army headed this way?”
“Yes. Well, a small army.” The maid shrugged.
“I need see for myself.” He clutched Branda tighter. “Come, Princess, we need to discover what your sire is up to.”
He clucked the horse into a slow gait up the mountain. It tossed its large head and let loose a loud whinny. Blaise pulled the steed to a halt, dismounted and, taking a leather thong from the saddle, he tied Branda’s hands to ensure she could not make an easy escape.
Gently, he lifted the horse’s right hoof. “Bran’s head, all the sliding about on the mountain bruised its foot.”
He grasped Branda’s waist, lifted her off the saddle and took hold of her forearm, tugging her along as he climbed the steep mountain path to the peak. She plagued him all the way with the guttural Saxon curses of a common hearth guard.
He looked down and spied a small force of Saxons riding through the marshlands, into the moors. “It’s no army, but a war band—no more than fifty men. They seek to find me before I get to Dinas Bran.”
“To take you hostage again?” she asked curtly.
“No, Princess; to kill me and take you to Cuthred.” He pointed to the other side of the valley, to the threatening battlement of Dinas Bran built on a towering, cloud-crested mountain. “There is your new home while you await your sire’s ransom.”
“You cur!” She spat.
The Prince of Powys Page 3