The Prince of Powys

by Cornelia Amiri

  “You yell a lot. I recall your father said you kept close to the hearth guards. I deem he was right.”

  “I am a lady of royal blood and you shall speak to me as such.”

  “Then stop spitting, Princess.” He stressed the last word in a mocking tone and yanked her back down to where the now calm horse stood. He tugged her forearm with one hand and the horse’s reins with the other as they walked down the mountain.

  “If I can see the war band, so can the forces at Dinas Bran. For certes, my father has sent his soldiers to see what the Saxons are about,” he said in a confident tone. I need get to my father’s forces before Ethelbald’s catch me.

  “My sire’s army shall take siege on Dinas Bran,” she huffed in retort.

  He couldn’t stop laughing. “No, Princess. No force can lay siege to Dinas Bran. A war band of fifty men would all lay dead within a moment’s time if they tried to take the fortress. They intend to catch me before I get to the hill fort.”

  If the pursuing war band caught up to him, he was a dead man. He’d counted on his skill in riding over the hills and valleys of Wales to give him an advantage, but the horse’s hoof was badly bruised. At least with her hands still tied, Branda couldn’t slow his escape any further.

  Blaise scanned the clusters of huts and stalls which made up the quaint village in the valley below. Having made his way down to the foot of the mountain, he let out a loud sigh. With Branda in tow he headed to the center of the small village.

  In a loud, bard-like voice he called out, “People of Powys; I, Blaise map Elisedd, have escaped the Saxons but my steed’s hoof was bruised and a war band approaches. I know you wish to battle the Saxons, for the people of Powys are strong and brave, yet it would take a toll on your village.” No more needless battles like the last one I caused, he thought. “Instead, I ask you to hide me and the woman, so the Saxon warriors will swiftly return to Mercia where they belong.”

  “Hither,” called out a rangy man of average height, his skin brown from the sun, but cheeks still rosy, even though he appeared near the age of Blaise’s father.

  A woman with a long oval face and dark hair stood at his side and two knee-high, white-haired little girls held her hands. Blaise tugged the horse forward.

  “No one is going to hide me from my father’s men.” Branda tilted her chin defiantly.

  “Watch me, Princess.” Blaise noticed the wagon full of flowers from which the family had filled large wicker baskets of woad, madder, weld and marjoram, to make dye.

  The man winked at Blaise. “There is no more fitting place for a Powys Prince than beneath the woad.” He pointed to the wagon. “Get in.”

  Swiftly, the family cleared the wagon and Blaise climbed inside, pulling Branda with him. He lay at her side with his hand firmly covering her mouth. He couldn’t help but smile as a ton of woad flowers were tossed over him and the Princess. His nose tickled but he steeled himself and gripped her firmly, ensuring her silence.

  It seemed he lay there forever, but he never feared the ruse wouldn’t work, for the woad protected him. It was the ancient flower by which Druids of old brewed war paint to render the Cymry invincible. Blaise knew no Saxon could ferret him out amid the magic of woad.

  Muscles stiff, he strained to stay still with his arm wrapped tightly about Branda, his hand firmly clamped over her mouth. Lying deep under the soft cover of woad flowers, Blaise waited.

  A thunderous sound of horses’ hooves, snorts, neighs and the brutish shouts of threats meant the war band had arrived. From the banging and thrashing sounds, he knew the Saxons ransacked the huts and stalls. He’d make sure his sire replaced any loss of property his people faced this day.

  He found it hard to keep his muscles taught with Branda’s warm body crushed against him, yet one flinch or squirm would cost him his life. He heard footfalls approach the wagon.

  “What is this?” someone sneered in the gruff Saxon tongue.

  A hand pushed deep into the flowery haven. Blaise’s heart pounded hard. The thick fingers inched closer to him. Coming for him. It seemed at any moment they’d snatch him. The looming hand flicked upwards, shuffling the top layer of flowers. His heart nearly stopped. They may have been discovered. He prayed they were still concealed as he heard the rough voice of a soldier.

  “Look at this dye merchant. He can barely hold up against the wind, so scrawny he is, yet instead of growing food to fatten him up, he plants flowers. Daft Welshman.”

  Chuckles and sneers ensued from the guards.

  Another voice queried, “What now?”

  “We are in the heart of Powys; too close to Dinas Bran for our own good. We need turn back and report to King Ethelbald, to tell him the Welshman didn’t come this way.”

  Blaise silently gave thanks to the gods. It seemed forever until he heard the hammering hooves of the war band’s horses galloping out of the village. He waited quietly, still clutching Branda and covering her mouth. Enclosed in the cover of flowers he had no way to see when all the Saxons had left. He knew it was safe only once the dye merchant came for him.

  A shuffling of flowers and soft hands pushed the woad blossoms aside. He sat up and raised Branda into a seated position as well, for her hands were securely tied.

  He flashed a grateful smile at the merchant. “Your service done to me this day shall not go forgotten.”

  “I am your man, Prince Blaise. My family and I are proud to serve Powys.”

  Blaise stood up and brushed off yellow woad flowers still clinging to him.

  Branda spat. “My father shall come again. He will take me back to Mercia, but only after he has killed you.”

  “I thought you wanted to leave Mercia,” he said in a feigned tone of disappointment.

  “To go to Judith, not to Powys, you fool!”

  “Princess, the King didn’t come nor did he send his army. The war band of peasant soldiers returns to Mercia with no tidings of your whereabouts.”

  “No, I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe what you wish.” He turned to the newly formed crowd. “My thanks. King Elisedd will reward you well.”

  One of the older men spoke up. “It would be reward enough if he kept the English out of Powys.”

  A dark-haired man at his side, with a deep scar upon his face asked, “Who be this woman?”

  Blaise opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a safe explanation, Branda announced, “I am the Princess of Mercia, daughter of Ethelbald.”

  The scarred man turned a hard gaze upon Blaise. “Give us this daughter of Mercia as our reward. Our wives and daughters have been raped by Saxons. Sons and fathers have died battling Ethelbald’s forces. Grant us this chance to take our revenge upon his daughter.”

  Blaise grabbed the Princess and pulled her behind him. “The Princess of Mercia is my hostage.” He pierced the man with a cold, daring stare.

  A demand rung out from the crowd, “We want the Princess.”

  Blaise kept to a bold, brave composure but his inner resolve faltered, for he had no weapon. The crowd moved closer, surrounding him and Branda.

  Chapter Four

  A scream built up in Branda’s throat but she couldn’t open her mouth as an icy, shaking sensation gripped her. She recalled this was all the Prince’s fault as she rammed her body into him. “Untie me.”

  “You are mad.” Blaise flashed her a firm warning with his eyes.

  “Unbind my hands so I may have a fighting chance.”

  “I’ll protect you,” he said in a flat tone.

  “You? You’re the one who got me into this.”

  “Princess, now is not the time.”

  “Untie me, I say!”

  Silence fell. She burned from the heat of the crowd’s stare. Branda was going to die in a village somewhere in Powys. “Mar
rying Cuthred was better than this.” Her long blonde mane flapped to and fro as she glanced from side to side, trying to figure a way out.

  Blaise was right. Those stupid soldiers are no army. Surely it was a ruse? Any moment Ethelbald would ride to the rescue, wouldn’t he?

  The crowd pressed closer. She took a gulp of air to steady the hammering pace of her heart. She should have married Cuthred like a good daughter. Why must she always have her way? If only she’d listened to her father.

  Standing behind Blaise, she whispered in his ear, “We must escape.”

  “For certes, Princess. When you figure out how, be sure to let me know.” Blaise stressed the last word.

  “Well, if you untie me, I could help you.”

  “I would rather make do without your help.”

  She stomped her foot. “They want to kill me!”

  Flying dust and the thunder of pounding hooves broke from the west. She stared hard at the fast-approaching mounted men holding long spears and swords. Her eyes ached, strained from searching the charging force for a flapping pennant that bore the mark of Mercia. There were none.

  Her mind whirled as she tried to comprehend what she was seeing. Shaken, she softly uttered, “Blaise?”

  “They ride from Powys,” he exclaimed in a relieved tone, “to aid us.”

  “Us?” She shut her eyes and tried to hide the stark fear which shook every fiber of her body.

  “Yes. A force to be reckoned with—my father’s men.”

  The war band reined their mounts to a halt. Amid the roar of the crowd and the neighing and snorting of fifty sweaty horses, men in black, boiled leather, a few in mail and some with helmets saluted the young Prince.

  “Greetings!” Blaise hailed them.

  The leader of the war band yelled out, “We came to see what mischief Ethelbald’s troops were up to. It’s not like the cravens to ride deep into Powys.”

  “It’s not Ethelbald who troubles me. I am a little beleaguered by the village folk. They want my hostage.” Blaise glanced at Branda and grinned. “This is Ethelbald’s daughter.”

  “Bless the Gods; you did good, Blaise.” The leader turned to his men. “Break up the crowd so we may escort the Prince and his hostage to the King. He will be pleased.”

  Branda fretted. The Welsh soldiers saved her from the villagers, but what fate awaited her in Dinas Bran?

  “Our horse’s hoof is bruised.” Blaise furrowed his brow.

  The man of arms dismounted and offered his dun steed to the Prince. The soldier borrowed a work-worn pony from the woad merchant. Blaise clutched Branda’s waist and hoisted her to a mounted soldier to ride pillion. She gasped as the soldier kneed the horse into a pounding gallop, leaving the village in a cloud of dust. She couldn’t get away now, but, once she was in the Welsh fortress, she would find a means to escape. After all, if Blaise could escape then so could she.

  * * * *

  Branda found the land a rough terrain of hills and valleys, but breathtaking in its beauty. The air vibrated with enchantment. Many said the kings of Powys possessed ancient powers. Dinas Bran once held the Holy Grail brought over by Joseph of Arimathea. A tinge of worry crawled up her spine as she pondered whether she could she escape from such a powerful hill fort where those who dwelt within might be the keepers of the Grail. For the first time in her young life Branda was not sure she would have her way.

  The ride was jolting and rough. With her hands tied, she had to rely on the smelly, sweating soldier to keep her in the saddle. The Prince of Powys will pay for this, she silently vowed. She recalled the manner in which her father had treated him, chained to the central hearth. No matter; he was her sire’s enemy, a warrior, whereas she was but a woman and needed to receive gentle treatment. Even a Celtic cur must know that.

  Though they rode at a hard gallop, she gazed at the landscape to get her bearings so she would be ready to escape. The murmuring Dubr Duiu River brought them into a gentle, bright-green valley. Branda’s breath caught in her throat as she gazed up at the thousand-foot-high mountain and the round, impenetrable structure built atop the massif, the hill fort of Dinas Bran. Looming before her, it appeared to float in the clouds like magic.

  She didn’t know how Saxon soldiers would get up the steep mound of grass and rock. What had she done? Could her father free her from this ancient stone fortress?

  The guard goaded the horse up the steep path cluttered with sprouting grass and fallen rock. Riding into the wind, Branda’s hair slapped her face. As she inhaled, the hard wind blowing into her lungs helped calm her fears of the fate awaiting her. The soldier held her tight, yet she jerked at times, fearing the horse would slip and tumble off the mountain.

  She couldn’t pull her gaze away from the huge, bleak walls jutting from the summit. Golden gorse lined the path and ripped the embroidered hem of her fine gown. Branda’s foreboding grew as they neared the dark, circular rampart rimming the mountaintop. The surrounding hills had a dreamy look to them, as if she were gazing at them through a watery surface. To the north she spied a mammoth ridge, so clean cut it looked like man-made walls and exuded a mystical aura.

  The soldier followed her gaze. “It’s called Craig Arthur.”

  “Arthur, the Welsh King who fought the Saxons?”

  “None other. The Kings of Powys are said to be descendants of Arthur.” With a tilt of his chin and a look of pride in his eyes the solider gazed at the craig.

  “Powys has battled my people for many years.”

  “So they have, Princess.” The soldier nodded.

  She glanced to the southeast at the ditch and earthen embankments built to protect Powys from ancient foes. Before the Saxons, even the Romans, had come to this land of the dragon.

  Branda took a deep breath and held it as she passed through the stone gateway. Fear hung over her entering the dark walls of Dinas Bran, for she deemed it to be her dungeon.

  With a commanding manner, Blaise brought his horse to a standstill, vaulted off and strode toward Branda. He lifted her from the saddle and led her by the arm, past cattle pens, storage pits, granaries and round, stone huts toward what he called the chief’s house, an oblong structure which looked to hold many rooms. Though her hands quivered she faced him with full aplomb.

  “Princess, what think you of Dinas Bran? It has stood for a thousand years and been refortified many times.”

  She thought it more than a palace, it was a walled city. She might never leave it alive. Keeping her voice bland to hide her fear, she said, “Never have I seen its like.”

  He untied her hands and whispered in her ear, “Princess Branda I shall now turn you over to my sire, King Elisedd of Powys, but I shall remain at your side as your protector.”

  Strange, she thought, but his words comforted her. She had become too used to Blaise. She straightened her shoulders, brushed off her skirt, patted her wind-tousled hair and with a fluid stride entered the ancient palace.

  Stump-sized oaken tables with groups of men and women clustered around them were scattered across the floor. Looking at their attire, Branda surmised the groups were separated by means of class and occupation. The hall shone bright from the glow of a blazing hearth fire, rush lights and beeswax candles, which hung from iron scones. Six oaken posts, each carved with boars, stags and intertwining circles, ran down both sides of the great hall. A thin, raised dais with a narrow oak table and six empty chairs, which tapered at the top into crossed dragonheads, faced the banquet table.

  In the seventh chair sat a burly man. His hair resembled a red bush grown wild. A thick mustache flowed into his beard, so all to be seen of his face were two hard eyes, a prominent nose, high-set cheeks and a furrowed brow. His bearing blared he was King. He raised his chin, revealing a gold torque wrapped around his lined neck. At the corner of the dais stood a man in a white tunic draped with a
robe embroidered with gold, a priest or advisor Branda guessed.

  Blaise followed her gaze. “Manwgan map Selyfan added the dais one hundred years ago, placing it over the mound of dirt, which Kings of Powys previously sat on.”

  “A hundred years.” How could she be so close to the border, yet so distant?

  Giant, shaggy dogs frolicked about the hall, yowling. Smoke stung her eyes. She blinked then gazed back at the high board.

  “My sire is hearing the disputes of his people so he may make fair judgments. The druid Neilyn is reciting Cymry law to aid my father. We will not tarry long, for he is busy. Come.”

  Branda followed with her head held high, befitting a Saxon Princess, though her pulse raced and her stomach warbled.

  The massive man rose. “Hail, my son Blaise has returned.” Huzzahs rang out in the hall.

  “Yes, Father. I escaped the treacherous Mercians and have returned to Dinas Bran.” Blaise gestured to Branda. “I bring you a hostage: the daughter of Ethelbald.”

  The room fell silent. The King pierced her with a stone-cold stare. She glared back in an attempt to hide her fear.

  “Come here.” He gestured her forward.

  She didn’t move. Blaise took her by the arm and led her toward the dais. Her feet were leaden. She stood before the King of Powys, an invisible weight pressing down on her head and shoulders. Elisedd cupped her chin. Branda wanted to look away but she was a Princess of Mercia and would turn from no man.

  The red-headed King grinned, flashing two top teeth. “In truth, she is Ethelbald’s daughter. She doesn’t even flinch,” he told Blaise. “The Princess has spirit.”

  “Yes, sire, she does.”

  Elisedd released her chin. Branda stepped back and nibbled her lower lip. She had to get out of there.

  The King glanced at Blaise. “We shall feast tonight to your safe return.” He leaned back in his chair. “We need offer the greatest hospitality to our hostage. Take her to Queen Carthann in the sun house for she will care for the Princess until Ethelbald delivers the ransom.” He grinned at Blaise. “My son, I am glad you returned. Take pleasure in a bath, then come back to the hall and tell us of your daring escape from Mercia.”