“Druid or not, that’s no a way to speak to a Prince of Powys.”
Neilyn let out an exasperated curse and waved his hands, indicating he would speak any way he wished. “Listen, you must not talk to the Princess, nor look at her. Don’t sup with her in the hall. Most important of all, do not dream of her.”
“Then I will be myself again?”
“Yes, in time.” Neilyn nodded.
Content with the Druid’s answer, Blaise strode to his chamber. He thought of Neilyn’s words as he plopped down on the rush-stuffed pallet for the night. He drifted to sleep and into an ethereal dream woven of mist, magic and Branda. Heat and haze swirled in his mind. He dreamed he was in Mercia but not as a hostage. He was the daft guard Scan except he felt like himself. When he held Branda in his arms, she called him by his own name. “Blaise, my beloved.”
Ethelbald gave him Branda’s hand in marriage to honor him for a great battle he’d won, then he scooped the Princess into his arms and carried her to a chamber, which looked just like the one at Dinas Bran. Branda pressed her soft, warm lips upon his.
He awoke and peered at the crumpled bed linens and the tousled, brocaded coverlet. Why did he have to wake up? Blaise wanted to crawl underneath the coverlet and return to the dream. Apprehension gripped him. Neilyn’s voice resounded in his head, “and most important of all, do not dream of her.” By the sunlight peaking through the high window, he knew it was early morn. He shot up from the bed and tugged on his braise. Not bothering with shoes or tunic, he ran to the Druid temple.
“Oh no,” he gasped as he peered in the open doorway and saw Neilyn speaking to Branda. The Druid seemed perplexed for he rubbed his brow.
“I know you’re a priest, but still I think you must be wrong.” Branda crinkled her forehead in the cutest manner. “Tell me again.”
Neilyn seemed to grip his head even tighter. Blaise saw by the expression in the Druid’s eyes he’d been spotted.
“My Prince, enter. Branda the Saxon has interesting views on life. Mayhap you care to listen to her prattle...I mean her wisdom.”
“But you said I was not to speak―”
Neilyn interrupted the Prince. “You will guard the Princess, will you not? I need carry dire tidings to King Elisedd. I have not a moment to spare. Stay and keep the Princess company.” Neilyn walked away with a speed incredibly nimble for an old man.
Blaise stared, speechless, into Branda’s eyes. Strange, he thought, but she is doing the same. He lost all track of time until Neilyn returned with Brochfael.
“Brother, our sire calls for you. He wants you to come now.” Brochfael grabbed him by the arm.
It must be of an urgent matter, Blaise thought. He broke his gaze with Branda and walked with his brother to the great hall, which was empty save for the King, Brochfael and himself.
Elisedd sat in the oaken chair upon the dais, leaned his elbow upon the armrest, and plopped his chin upon his fist. With the other hand he gestured to Blaise to come to him.
What did he want? Blaise wondered as he stepped forward till he stood before the King.
“My son, as ruler of Powys I do not abide Saxons.”
“Yes, father, this I know. Saxons are our enemies.”
“I will have no alliance with them. Never. Do you understand?” He squeezed his chin with thumb and forefinger as he waited for Blaise to answer.
Why would he ask such? Blaise would never form an alliance with Saxons. Was his sire going daft in old age?
The King looked to Brochfael. “What was he doing when you found him?”
“Gazing moon-mad at the Saxon.”
“Moon-mad, at what Saxon?” he retorted in anger, and then it hit him. Branda. The King was speaking of Branda.
Reaching out his hands, palms upward, he said, “When I look at Branda, I don’t see a Saxon, I see a woman.”
“That is not the answer I want!” Elisedd barked.
“In truth, I know not what you want, Father.” Feeling as rattled as a shaken beehive, he knew he couldn’t halt the buzzing in his heart for the Princess.
Elisedd waved his hand in the air. “I need send you on an urgent task.” He twirled and twisted the ends of his red beard. “When did the messenger ride forth for Mercia?”
“I sent him off yesterday,” Blaise answered, unsure of where this was headed.
“Good. If you leave now, by the time you reach Mercia the messenger will have delivered the missive. Meet him at the border; there the two of you will await Ethelbald’s reply, then deliver the tidings to me.”
“Why are two men needed?”
“They just are. Do not question your King.” Elisedd twirled his hand in a circle as if trying to hasten his thoughts but nothing was forthcoming. He raised his hand in a halting gesture. “Do not get caught this time.”
Did his father think him a fool? “Your word is my command.”
Blaise turned his back, strode to the stable, saddled a rugged Cymry pony and rode down the mountainside, headed for the border.
Chapter Six
“Brave, be brave,” Branda said under her breath, striding past feasters clustered in circles around short tables. Hiking her green skirt, she stepped up to the high board and eased into a roomy chair at the Queen’s side. She peered at the empty seat between Elisedd and Brochfael.
Leri welcomed her and Branda returned the greeting before she nodded to the Queen.
“When is Prince Blaise expected to return?” she asked Carthann.
Before the Queen could answer, the King said, “Blaise will be with us in a sennight or less.”
“Why do you ask?” Carthann’s eyes glinted of sly curiosity.
“My daffodils have wilted.” Branda brushed her fingers in the air. Though the weather hadn’t changed, the air seemed cooler since he left and all things duller; even the flowers he gave her died. Her ears longed for his voice and her eyes felt tired from not seeing him. She missed Blaise.
“Daffodils?” Brochfael asked, furrowing his brow.
“Yes.” Leri grinned impishly. “Blaise needs to bring the Princess more daffodils but he’s not here.”
Druid Neilyn, seated below the dais, asked, “Did she say her daffodils have wilted?”
This was good, Branda thought. Everyone seemed interested in daffodils. It must have been a good subject to bring up. She glanced at the empty chair again. It took on the appearance of a useless piece of wood, and all the intricate carvings seemed frivolous without Blaise sitting in it. To fight this odd longing for the Prince, she turned to reason. It must have been the daffodils. She had merely confused her wont for daffodils with a wont for Blaise, for if he were there, he would have brought her fresh daffodils. She shrugged at the simple conclusion, satisfied with her logic.
“Daffodils?” The King tilted his head toward Carthann. “Did I not bring you daffodils years ago?”
“Many years ago, Lord husband.”
“Daffodils,” Elisedd repeated. “I have given no thought to daffodils in ages.” He glanced at Branda. “Princess, I shall show you where the daffodils grow on the morrow.”
With a bouncy nod toward Elisedd, Branda said, “My thanks.”
However, the sudden joy bubbling in her with that news burst as her head spun with thoughts of Blaise. Was he, even now, seated around a campfire chewing hard bread and cheese, or gulping down a skin of mead? What word would the messenger bring from her father? What would Ethelbald do when he opened the missive and saw the betrothal ring wrapped with strands of hair? He would rage. What of Blaise on the Mercia border? If something happened to the messenger, Blaise would be alone. Would Ethelbald capture him again? No. Blaise was badly wounded last time. In a fair fight, he would have escaped.
In an instant, her mind was filled with the sights and sounds of the day Blaise and Broch
fael sparred in the practice yard. She recalled his bare arms bulging with muscles and his broad chest glistening with drops of sweat. Absently, she scooped a helping of wild strawberries.
Carthann turned to the serving maid. “Begin serving the cawl.”
Branda bent her head to the Queen’s ear and whispered, “Does cawl have honey in it?”
“No.” Carthann flashed a sweet smile. “Do you want honey?”
“Look.” She showed the Queen a blemish on her forehead. “Honey causes that. I have had too much. The serving maid has been bringing me bits of a fruit loaf called bara brith.”
“Well, you need not worry.” The Queen pointed to two large brass pots hanging over the hearth fire. “Cawl is much like your Saxon stew. It has no honey.”
Even from where she sat, Branda smelled the aroma of leeks, carrots, venison and wild onions. The serving maid laid a bowl of simmering cawl before her. Branda noticed a wooden spoon hanging from the maid’s neck.
“What is it for?” She reached out and ran her finger across the shallow scoop of the wooden trinket.
“It is a loving spoon, m’lady. A sign of betrothal among the peasantry,” she whispered in Branda’s ear.
“Did your sire contract the match?”
“No, my lady, the peasantry marry for love. Nevertheless, in the laws of the Cymry, no woman can be forced to wed.”
“In truth?” Branda could hardly believe it.
“Yes, did you not know?” The servant arched her brows.
“No.” Branda ran her fingers around the smooth loving spoon. “I had a betrothal ring. Your King sent it to my sire so he will pay my ransom.”
“Sorry I am that the King took your ring, m’lady.”
“It’s the way of men.” She smiled at the sweet-faced girl. “Is your betrothed here?”
“Yes, he sits with the other guards.” She pointed him out.
“He is a guard, like Scan,” Branda said aloud as her mind flashed to memories of Blaise chained to the hearth. Even then, she couldn’t keep her eyes off him. Why did she miss him so? She wouldn’t be held hostage if not for him. He was her enemy. He tied her hands, the cur.
She dunked her spoon into the bowl of venison and vegetables swimming in a clinging brown broth. The serving maid went on about her duty as Branda shoved spoonfuls of cawl into her mouth. The royal bard stepped forth and harped a paean of King Elisedd’s feats of bravery, but Branda didn’t listen. She dwelled on thoughts of Blaise.
As the feasters disbanded, she rose and bid the King and Queen, “Good eve, until the morrow.”
Elisedd flashed an uncharacteristic grin. “Yes, daffodils it is, on the morrow.”
Branda couldn’t help but smile at the gruff but loveable King. If he were her father, he wouldn’t have forced her betrothal to a man like Cuthred. The Cymry didn’t do such.
She strode beneath the glowing opal moon, slowly making her way back to the grianan. A rapt, inner joy overtook her as she gazed out the open row of windows, at the luminescent moon. It hung so close to the mountaintop. She spread out on the bed linens and wrapped a heavy, brocaded coverlet around her. As she shut her eyes, her muscles sunk into the rush-filled pallet. The sound of her slow, deep breathing lulled her to sleep.
* * * *
She woke with a start, still caught in the daze of her dream. The strangest dream. She shut her eyes and returned to the image of herself with Blaise, who faced Cuthred armored in chainmail. As Cuthred bellowed at her, his face turned red and round. His cheeks grew puffy and smoke blew forth from his large nose. A peal of laughter escaped her lips.
Branda pulled the betrothal ring off her finger and flung it at him. She used so much strength that she stepped back and took a deep breath. The ring hit Cuthred’s forehead hard and he collapsed with a loud thud. His legs wiggled clumsily in the air as he pushed back with his arms in an effort to rise. When he managed to stand, Blaise rushed him, holding a giant wooden spoon as a weapon. He whacked Cuthred back to the ground then straddled the huge spoon. Branda climbed on behind and wrapped her arms around Blaise’s broad back. The heat of his body filled her and all her tension melted away. She was weightless, free, like ethereal mist.
“My hero,” she softly sighed in his ear.
The loving spoon flew in the air, circled the mountain seven times and landed on top of the stone gateway of Dinas Bran. Blaise helped her off the spoon. His breath blew hot against her cheeks as he leaned his head closer, then his lips found hers. Hot shivers raced through her as his wet, warm mouth covered hers in a slow, thoughtful kiss. Then she woke up.
She purred as she stretched out across the bed as if Blaise were really there and her arms were wrapped around him. The sensation of floating high above the bed, weightless in the air, engulfed her until she opened her eyes. It was a dream. Blaise wasn’t there. A tinge of disappointment lodged in the pit of her belly. He hadn’t kissed her. She hadn’t ridden off with him.
Cupping her forehead, she chided herself, “Silly notions. It’s all they are,”
She had something to do this morn? Something with the King? Daffodils! She needed to hasten. Branda jumped up from the bed and dressed in a light-blue Celtic tunic-dress, then plaited her hair into a singular long, thick braid.
She slipped a pair of soft pig-hide shoes on her feet and rushed to the great hall. Striding to the King as he broke his fast on a bowl of barley meal, she stood in his sight, waiting for him to acknowledge her and give her leave to join him.
He nodded, and she sat at his side.
“Good morn, my King. Am I late?”
With his mouth full, he waved his large fingers. “Princess Branda, have some porridge,” he mumbled.
“Is there honey in the porridge?”
He stared at her then asked, “Should there be?”
“No, too much honey can blemish the skin.”
“I know not what you speak of, but there’s no honey in my porridge.”
An urgent feeling came over Branda. She leaned closer to the King. “Hasten, we need to pick daffodils.” She had to get out of the smoky hall and into the fresh air.
He stood. “Come, Princess, I will show you where the flowers grow.”
Branda hiked up the full skirt of her blue dress as she followed Elisedd outside. They passed the stables, the great well and the huge stone gateway and headed down the steep mountain path to the daffodil field. The breeze carried the tantalizing aroma of wild flowers and knee-high grass.
“I don’t recall the path being this steep. Has it been that long since I went to these fields?” the King mumbled aloud.
She was relieved by his question. While the Welsh were sure-footed, she had to take great care in the placement of her feet or she would roll down the mountain. “You should pick daffodils now and then. A man of your standing deserves some serenity.”
“It’s true. I devote myself to the land and my people; I have no time for daffodils.”
“You must make the time, my King.”
He grunted in retort, showing how foolish he thought daffodils were though his actions indicated otherwise.
Branda spotted the wispy yellow flowers and picked up her pace. Elisedd strode through the high grass, peering at golden blossoms waving in the gentle breeze.
She took a long whiff of the sweet, fresh scent and plucked a daffodil, twisting its stem into her plaited hair.
“My Dame used to say, ‘you must sidestep through flowers to not bother the bees and butterflies that feed’.”
“That sounds like something the Cymry might say. Tell me, girl, was your mother Welsh?”
“No, she was Saxon, but I truly do not remember her saying that. She did not tell me. My wet nurse, whom I looked upon like a mother, often said those words. My Dame died in childbirth delivering me.”
; He came to a standstill. His eyes looked sad, large and paler than usual. “Blaise’s mam died in child-bed, birthing him.”
“But you have Lady Carthann.”
“Yes, she is a good woman.” He sniffed the flowers. “Lovely she is.”
“My sire never remarried. He is a hard man, mayhap too hard for marriage.”
“Yes, men like your sire and me, we are warrior kings. We have no time for pretty words and daffodils and must look after our land and our people.”
As the stern-faced King spoke those words, he twirled a daffodil in hand. Branda covered her trembling lips to keep from laughing. She gathered a bouquet of the yellow flowers and handed them to the King.
“Don’t tell Carthann you picked these flowers,” Elisedd said.
“No.” She leaned in close to him. “Are you going to give her the daffodils?”
“Yes. Let her think I picked them, for it was my intent. It’s why I offered to bring you here. I remember a time when I picked daffodils for her. The summer scents and a pretty maid meant much to me. You make me feel young again, girl.”
“It is my honor, my King.” Branda was pleased with his warm smile. “Wait. I have to get my daffodils.” She gathered the golden flowers then lifted the corners of her skirt and loaded it full of the blossoms. With careful placement of her feet, she followed the King’s sure steps up the mountain trail so not a single flower fell.
They entered the ancient gates and she pointed to the well. “Oh, we need put them in water.”
Elisedd nodded and dropped his yellow flowers into her skirt along with the others. “Sit yourself down, girl. I will fetch the pitchers.” He headed toward the hall.
She shook her skirt, causing a shower of daffodils to land at her feet. She picked up the flowers. Each time her hands gathered a bundle she laid them on the rim of the stone well. Once the flowers were picked up and the edge of the well half-covered with bunches of posies, she dusted off the stone rim and plopped down.
As she hummed a Saxon melody and waited for Elisedd’s return, her head reeled with comparisons of Mercia and Powys. There were no daffodils in Mercia. No Leri, Carthann, Elisedd, and certainly no Blaise. Scan had been her only friend before she came to Powys. Strange, but she felt more at home in the Celtic hill fort than in her own Saxon realm.
The Prince of Powys Page 6