Blaise took hold of Branda’s arm and guided her outside into the open area, within the stone walls of the fort. Day-to-day sounds of squawking geese, clucking chickens and an elderly woman milking a goat soothed her. Blaise stopped at a wooden building.
In the doorway stood a woman with dark auburn hair, mixed with strands of gray. A gold torque clung to her creamy neck above the circular collar of a red robe, and gleaming bracelets ringed her wrist. “Be you the daughter of Ethelbald the Saxon?”
“Yes,” was all Branda could say to the woman.
Blaise pointed his hand toward the Welsh lady. “Princess, this is Queen Carthann of Powys.”
As he walked away the Queen welcomed her into the chamber called the grianan, or sun house. Branda gasped at the breathtaking view of the Dubr Duiu Valley from the numerous windows lining the far wall.
Carthann turned to a younger lady. “Princess Leri, draw a basin for her and fetch one of your gowns.”
A bath. An answered prayer. Road dust caked her skin, and her head itched from the twigs and leaves tangled in her hair. Leri brought forth a basin scented with lavender. Branda sniffed the calming, soft fragrance, then shed her gown and splashed the warm water over her tired, sweat-covered body.
* * * *
Her goose-bump-covered flesh still tingled from the bath, and a warm glow of happiness filled her. Leri handed her a green robe, brocaded in gold thread. The Celtic gown was more luxurious than Branda’s dress. This Dinas Bran was not such a bad place after all. It would be but a sennight till her sire delivered the ransom to see her safely home in Mercia, no longer betrothed to Cuthred. Surely her father had missed her these many days and would no longer force her to marry a man she detested.
She glanced at her itching finger, and then stared at the heavy, gold betrothal ring. Her first thought was to cast it off, but she realized it was the only Saxon thing she wore. It was part of her identity, at least for the time being. All was doomed just moments ago, now it seemed to be working out for the best. Everything would be just fine.
She sat in a wooden chair by the wall of windows and gazed at the enthralling view of the valley below. Strange, she thought, but I feel so at home in this quaint Welsh hill fort.
The most beautiful music she ever heard floated in the air. Carthann held a harp pressed against her left shoulder while she strummed with her right hand and gazed out at the spectacular view. A knock at the door disturbed the peaceful notes.
The Queen called, “Enter.”
Elisedd stood in the doorway, waving a dagger in one hand. Blaise strode in behind him, piercing his father with a scowl. Branda gasped as the King grabbed her wrist with his free hand while brandishing the deadly blade in the other. Her hand trembled uncontrollably.
Did the mad Welsh tyrant mean to kill her? She was breathless and couldn’t speak. Elisedd peered greedily at her hand. No, it was her finger, the one with the ring on it. No, it could not be.
Elisedd nodded to Blaise. “We need take something from her to send as a missive to Ethelbald, so he knows we hold his daughter’s life in our hands.”
He means to cut off my finger so my sire will send the ransom. With a rush of anger she caught her breath. “No, not my finger!” She let out an ear-piercing scream as she tried to pull her hand away.
“Sire! She knows not what you mean to do.” Blaise shook both his hands at his father.
Elisedd stared at the Princess’s finger.
Branda’s ears were bombarded with the sound of her panting breath and hammering heart. Blaise said he would stand by her, protect her.
She yelled, unable to steel the fear which thrashed wildly in her chest. “Blaise, you said no harm would come to me. What means this?”
The Prince yanked his father’s shoulder. “Father, unhand the Princess.”
“Leave me be, Blaise. I cannot get this off with you hovering over me.” Elisedd moved his clutch up to the Princess’s palm.
Blaise grappled the King’s shoulder as he pleaded, “Tell her what you are about. She thinks you mean to sever her finger for ransom.”
The King’s brows arched in a baffled expression. “Cut off your finger?” Elisedd laughed at Branda. “Why would you think such?” He glanced at the dagger he held in his other hand.
“Please, don’t slice off my finger,” she cried out.
“I’m not going to cut your finger, girl.” He lay the knife down on the nearby table. With several hard yanks on her finger, he pulled off the gold ring of Cuthred’s betrothal.
The ring, he just wanted the ring. Before she could breathe a sigh of relief, he picked up the dagger and grabbed her hair at the roots. Her scalp stung as he yanked her hair. When she heard a slicing sound, her breath stopped.
Chapter Five
Elisedd held the dagger before her in one hand and in the other a long strand of her blonde hair. Branda couldn’t speak. He just wanted a strand of her hair and the ring, nothing more. All was well, she kept repeating in her head, but her pulse raced. She looked on as Elisedd looped a flaxen strand through the ring and wrapped it around the band several times.
Holding it in his palm, the King gazed on it with great pride. He turned to Blaise. “This will do the trick. Come; I shall have you tell the messenger where to go and what to say. Having been held in Mercia, you know the fortress and its people far better than I.”
Branda clutched her chest as if to slow the pounding rhythm. Blaise and Elisedd left as quickly as they’d come.
* * * *
After speaking with Elisedd and the messenger, Blaise was ready for the evening meal. With the weight of the gold torque about his neck, he held his head high and strode into the great hall. He took comfort from the warm roaring fire ablaze in the huge stone hearth. The tangy scent of boiled boar spiced the air. A serving maid carried in a large platter of roasted geese drenched in sauce made from cloudberries picked on the moors. She dished out various portions based on the classes of the feasters, who sat on rush pallets around small, short tables.
It’s good to be home, thought Blaise, as he strode to the dais where Elisedd sat with Queen Carthann at his side. He bowed to them and nodded to his brother Brochfael, the heir, and his wife Princess Leri, who sat to the King’s left. He’d dreamed of having his family around him, feasting on a meal like this, when he’d been fighting the dogs for scraps in Ethelbald’s hall. Blaise plopped down into the large oaken chair beside Carthann and gazed at the empty seat to his right.
Where was Branda? He leaned toward the Queen. “Will the Princess not sup with us?”
“She says she’s not hungry,” Carthann replied with a tilt of her auburn head.
“The Princess sits at the window and stares out at the hills and valley,” Leri said, taking a sip of mead.
“Well, close the shutters and command her to come to my board,” the King grumbled.
Blaise laughed at the expression on Carthann’s face.
She told him, “It’s not so easy, m’lord. The Princess is sad.”
Elisedd clanked his tankard of mead on the table, causing cups, knives and jugs to quiver. “She is a hostage; she should be sad. Was my son not sad, held like an animal in Ethelbald’s lair?”
“Yes, you are right, m’lord, the Princess should eat.” Carthann flashed an I-love-you-anyway smile at the King.
“I’ll fetch her a tray,” Leri offered.
“Good.” Elisedd grabbed his tankard and took a swig of mead.
Blaise couldn’t help but grin. His sire had learned long ago to limit commands on Cymry women. If Carthann said the Princess wasn’t coming to the board, then she wasn’t.
Thoughts of Branda’s smile loomed in the back of his mind. Lips perfectly curved opening to showcase bright, even, white teeth, but Carthann’s bell-like voice drew Blaise from his musings.
&
nbsp; “It is good you are home, my son.” She placed her hand over his.
“Yes, brother, welcome.” Brochfael raised his tankard in a salute.
The clang and clatter of cups vibrated through the hall with a toast to Blaise’s return. Dancing hearth flames caught his eye as he remembered the feel of the hard, heavy chains which had bound him in Mercia. His neck was stiff but he realized it was only his torque and chortled with relief.
Brochfael flashed a white, toothy grin while Elisedd bore an ever-steady scowl. Carthann smiled sweetly and Leri gave Blaise a slight salute of her tankard before taking a large gulp.
Blaise ran his fingers across the silver tankard and breathed in the aroma of thick honeyed mead. The audible sigh of the feasters drew his attention to the tall, muscular bard with harp in hand striding to the edge of the dais. The bard sung of his daring escape and cunning concealment in the wagon of woad flowers.
At song’s end, Carthann stood up and proclaimed, “We shall find this merchant and appoint him royal dye master of Powys from this day forth.”
The feasters cheered Carthann’s kindness. Blaise nodded along as he thought of Branda. She should be here.
He gestured to the dark-haired serving maid with the loving spoon hanging from her neck. “Go, go to the Saxon Princess. Bring her a fruit loaf of bara brith and bid her join us in the dining hall.”
The Princess probably likes sweets, he thought as he leaned back in the chair. Would her lips taste like honey? He blinked his eyes to waylay unwanted longings. The Princess was Elisedd’s hostage, he should give her no thought, yet her charming face, long silky hair which glistened like moonlight and eyes like blue fire haunted him.
“Branda,” he unknowingly whispered aloud.
“What say you?” asked Elisedd.
“I say it’s good to be home.” Blaise’s cheeks burned. It was only a matter of time until he would shake the Princess from his mind. Ethelbald would pay the ransom and he would never see Branda again. In the back of his mind, he already dreaded that day.
Branda didn’t come to the hall. He left and stumbled to his chamber where he fell asleep on a rush-filled pallet.
* * * *
Blaise awoke to a throbbing pain in his temple due to over indulgence the previous evening. He couldn’t remember how he’d made it to his bed. After sluggishly pulling on a clean tunic and braise, he met his brother in the training yard.
“You had quite a night of it.” His brother greeted him with a wide grin and a hard slap on the back. “Are you fit for sword play?” Brochfael drew his long blade from the sheath belted at his side.
“Ever am I ready, brother.” Blaise withdrew his sword and held it at the ready as he moved his feet into a battle stance.
They kept their ground, sidestepping in a circular motion, stalking each other. Blaise’s sword arm had gone weak from captivity and his head was dull from a night of revelry. As opponents go, he matched Brochfael’s level of skill but his brother’s agility was at its peak, while his own was at its weakest.
He lunged but Brochfael warded off the blow with a swift back step. Blaise moved in again, unknowingly giving his brother the advantage. Brochfael struck his shoulder and Blaise slipped back, warding off the blow. He lunged at Brochfael who sidestepped quickly. The younger brother thrust at the elder’s head, swiftly stepped back and then moved in, striking Blaise’s knee before leaping free of his reach.
He couldn’t let his oldest brother best him. He would never hear the end of it. Blaise pivoted and lunged.
Brochfael met the attack. Blades crossed in an ear-piercing grind. Their feet were as swift as their hands as they moved back and forth. Blaise saw his brother’s grip slipping and slid his foot forward, ready to lunge. An ear-piercing squeal sliced through the air, startling them.
Blaise wheeled around. “Princess, what are you doing here?”
“Saving your life, I think. He almost killed you.” She pointed to Brochfael with menace in her eyes.
Laughter bubbled up in Blaise’s throat. “Branda, this is the practice yard.”
She looked at him with a blank expression.
He rested the point of his sword on the ground and leaned his hand on the hilt. “As your sire drills his men, so do we.” He watched her arch her brows. She was getting there. “My brother and I hone our sword skills.”
“Well, you could have let me know.” She flung her arms into the air. “I ran in haste.” She flipped her hand onto her hip. “Almost fell, I did, and what do I find? You didn’t even need my help. What say you?”
He hadn’t a clue. Blaise held his hand to his brow. “What say you, Princess?” he asked, hoping she’d explain it but he didn’t care. He enjoyed the warm, pleasant sensation, the tingling in the pit of his stomach when she was near. As he gazed at the wealth of shiny hair, well-molded face, wide blue eyes full of innocence, the creamy expanse of her neck, jutting breasts and narrow waist flaring into her shapely hips and thighs, he felt vibrant, buoyant, alive.
“Brother, I think she speaks a Saxon riddle.” Brochfael crinkled his face in an expression of both bafflement and mirth.
“Branda, does your father not have a practice yard for his men to work their sword arms?” Blaise sheathed his sword.
“My sire would never allow me to watch the soldiers. I must stay inside each day. Scan is the only soldier father lets me talk to.”
Blaise couldn’t hold back his laughter. He clutched his belly. Brochfael grinned.
The Princess threw her shoulders back, folded her arms against her chest and swung her head to the side.”Oh, laugh then. I can find better ways to spend my time than in your company.”
Blaise chuckled louder.
“Men! This is what I get for my troubles. It’s always so; I know not why.” She wheeled around, her long glistening hair rippling across her back.
“By the Gods, you are lovely!” Blaise called out as she sauntered away. “Branda, do you not want to watch our sword play? I am very good.”
Brochfael sheathed his long blade and slapped his brother’s forearm. “Good luck with her; you shall need it.”
“I need no luck with the ladies, brother.” Blaise turned and strode toward the rear gate, yet he could still hear his brother chuckling.
* * * *
“Daffodils,” Blaise mumbled, glaring down at his fisted hand clasping newly picked wild flowers. Why had he picked daffodils for the Princess? Well, growing wild along the hillside as they were, someone would have picked them, so it might as well be him. Bless Bran’s head! Now he was thinking like her. He cupped his brow and walked up to the grianan door just as Leri opened it. He felt the burn of embarrassment upon his cheeks as he held out the daffodils.
“A child picked these for the Princess. Make sure she gets them.”
“A child?”
Blaise did not like the lift in Leri’s tone and the way she rolled her eyes. No, he did not like that at all. She looked like she knew what he was about. No, that was not good. If Leri suspected he picked these flowers then she would tell Brochfael, he would laugh then tell Carthann, who would tell Elisedd. The King wouldn’t laugh, not at all. He would call for the Druid to rid his younger son of bewitchment. By the Gods! How did Leri come to know what he was up to? She’d never struck him as overly bright.
“Brochfael picked daffodils for me when we were first betrothed,” she said with a smug smile on her face.
He did not want to know that and Brochfael certainly did not want her speaking of such nonsense. “A child plucked these flowers,” he said slowly.
“What child?”
“A child!” he stammered, knowing his face was as red as a strawberry. “What does it matter? Make sure the Princess gets them.” He stuck the daffodils in Leri’s hands. “That is all.”
“Very well,” s
he said politely then turned her head and yelled, “Branda, there’s someone at the door with flowers.”
Blaise slid his foot from the doorway as fast as he could, turned his back to Leri and headed in a brisk gait toward the hall.
This nonsense would soon be done. He should ask the Druid for some tonic of sorts for no doubt he’d caught some Saxon illness, which possessed him to pick silly flowers. Yes, it must be so. He couldn’t think of any other reasonable explanation. Blaise wheeled around and headed to the wooden temple. He peered into the open doorway and gazed at the wizened, gray-headed Druid hunched over an ancient, silver scrying bowl.
“Neilyn, might I enter? I need to speak with you,” he said under his breath, embarrassed about his feelings for Branda.
The Druid waved his withered hand, gesturing him to come in, then tore his eyes away from the magic bowl and glanced at Blaise. “What troubles you?”
“I strode down the hillside and picked daffodils this morn.”
“What say you, Prince?” He arched his eyebrows and furrowed his brow.
“Druid, you need to help me. I picked daffodils.” He shrugged as he gazed at Neilyn’s blank stare and open mouth.
“For whom did you pick these daffodils?”
“Princess Branda.”
“The Saxon!”
“Yes.” Was Neilyn’s hearing going bad? Why was the Druid making him repeat everything?
“Did you not know? Elisedd is ransoming the Princess. She shall soon be returned to Mercia.”
“Yes, my father told me.”
“Then why were you picking flowers for her?” he snapped.
“I know not, it’s why I came to you. Do you know what ails me?”
“Prince or not, you are daft sometimes.” He emphasized his words with a curt nod.
The Prince of Powys Page 5