The Prince of Powys

by Cornelia Amiri

  “Do not take me to Cuthred. I would stay with you,” she said in a breathy voice.

  He stiffened his body. She opened her eyes and gazed into his. They were wide and sad.

  “Brochfael rides to Wessex as we speak.” His voice was low and uneven. “I do not want to fail you again but I know not what I can do.”

  The fire inside her turned to anger. She slammed her fist into his broad chest, wanting to hurt him as he’d hurt her.

  He reached out and clasped her shoulders, holding her arms down. “Princess, I want you but your father has betrothed you.”

  She pushed his arms off her. Branda’s face was red as she clasped her forehead. Inner pain showed on his face as she ran weeping to her bower, slammed the door hard and fell onto her soft pallet and cool coverlet.

  She heard the door open and recognized the sound of the footsteps as Scan’s. She couldn’t speak to him now. Why had she kissed the Prince in the open, for all Powys to see? Her tears dampened the coverlet where her head lay. Sitting up, she choked back her sobs. Scan was still there gazing at her with a look of concern as she wiped her eyes with her hands.

  “M’lady, it is late. Time it is for the evening meal.”

  “Have a servant bring me a tray.”

  “Come to dinner in the hall and I shall see if there is something I can do.”

  He was so nice, but he was a captured Saxon who wanted to be a bard. Scan couldn’t help her. No one could, but she should dine in the hall to let everyone see she did not need Prince Blaise.

  “Scan, you are right; let us sup at the King’s board.”

  He wrapped a plaid cloak around her shoulders, gently took her arm, and accompanied her to the feasting hall.

  Branda held her head high and took her place next to Leri. Blaise took his seat, and Scan sat below the dais aside Neilyn. She smiled as the Druid stood and asked the King for permission to speak.

  Though Neilyn was elderly, his voice rang with a clear and melodic tone of a much younger man.

  “My King, people of Powys, a man of talent with the harp has come to be trained as a royal bard. The gods of old have advised me to take this man as my novice.” “If the gods of our ancestors feel the man is worthy, then it shall be so.” Elisedd slammed his fist on the table.

  Hurrahs rang out in the hall. Branda thought, if only the god Bran told Neilyn what he told me then the Druid would let me stay as well.

  “Who may this new bard be?” Elisedd asked Neilyn. “Do I know him?”

  “It is the Saxon Scan, my King.”

  Silence fell. Elisedd leaned back in his great oaken throne and grinned. “Well, it is better he’s a bard than a Saxon guard, hey?”

  All onlookers cheered and clunked their tankards together.

  Blaise leaned toward Branda. “Your friend has a place here at the court of Powys. It is good.”

  Saddened Blaise didn’t seem to think she had a place here, she feigned haughtiness and turned her head away. She noticed Scan and Neilyn were watching her, while they whispered to each other. Their expressions were serious, almost grim. She ached with curiosity to find out what they spoke of.

  “Leri,” she whispered, “Scan and the Druid keep a close eye on me. Wander in stealth to their table and try to hear what they are talking about.”

  “Scan and Neilyn?” Leri leaned her head closer to Branda. “It’s worthy of note for now I am curious as well.”

  Branda heard the scrape of Leri’s chair as she rose but acted like she didn’t notice she’d left the table. Time dragged until she returned.

  “Leri, what did they say?” She could hear the intake of breath in her own voice.

  “It is most strange.” Leri shifted her gaze.

  “I knew it. What is most strange?”

  “M’lady Branda, the Druid spoke of a love spell.”

  “Who is the love spell for?”

  “Contrary to a love spell, Scan wants an enchantment cast to make Cuthred abhor you and no longer claim you.”

  She absently rubbed her upper lip. “Do you mean Scan wants Neilyn to put a spell on Cuthred so he will not want me and I can stay in Powys?”

  “Yes, it’s good.” Leri smiled. “Your friend has found a way to help you.”

  “If only it will work.” She wrung her hands.

  “It must.” Leri rolled her eyes. “If not for this Cuthred, nothing would stand in the way of you and Blaise’s love for each other.”

  “The cur.” Branda fell silent when a messenger ran in.

  “My lord, I have news.” The gangly messenger spoke rapidly. “Prince Brochfael will be here on the morrow.”

  “Is his business with Cuthred concluded?” Elisedd twisted a strand of his red moustache.

  “Yes, it is. Prince Brochfael carries Cuthred’s terms. He wants the Princess returned to him.”

  Her heart fell. Scan had been too late. Leri wrapped her arms around the Princess. Branda looked up to see Blaise stomp from the hall in a rage.

  Chapter Eleven

  As Blaise looked down at the valley below, a gentle breeze blew through his thick red hair. His face prickled where strands ruffled against his cheeks. It felt like Branda’s kiss of yesterday, as if she were kissing him now.

  “Branda,” he whispered under his breath. The muscles in his chest vibrated and burned. “She must stay. By the cross I will find a way to keep her,” he swore.

  He kicked a rock, which rolled a little way down the mountain path. His intent to have Branda was as firm as the rock itself. He gazed at the cloudy sky. Let me find the way.

  He saw her image in his head: large, deep-blue eyes and her perky upturned nose. She was a mix of sunshine and lightening, warm and full of spark. He would not be the same without her and could not stand the thought of the Wessex cur having his woman. He would do anything for Branda, except tell his father he loved Ethelbald’s daughter. His sire held her as his hostage, and now it was time for her to go but Blaise could never let her go.

  He spotted Brochfael riding from the village in the valley headed toward Dinas Bran. Blaise dreaded hearing Cuthred’s terms. It seemed like half a day had passed before Brochfael neared the place where he stood.

  “I take it the messenger arrived.” Brochfael met his brother’s stare. “I’m sorry, Blaise.”

  After an awkward moment of silence he looked to Brochfael. “There is some way is there not, to keep her here?” Damn his duty to Powys, he had to claim Branda. If he let her go it would eat at him forever. With arms akimbo, he threw his shoulders back and in a deep firm voice said, “I would claim Branda as my wife.”

  “I see you have given thought to this?” Brochfael paused. “You love her.”

  “What of it?” He shrugged but stared hard at his brother. I will never let her go.

  Brochfael grinned. “You need claim her then.”

  A heavy dread pushed down upon Blaise. “I know not how to tell father.”

  “Come.”

  Blaise was relieved his older brother walked by his side into the great hall. As Brochfael nodded to the feasters who welcomed him home, Elisedd leaned back in his throne and tapped his fingers on the armrest.

  A chestnut-haired servant girl handed Brochfael a goblet, and he took a swig of ale as they approached the dais.

  “Greetings, my sire. I have returned.” Brochfael slightly raised his cup in the air.

  “Good day, Father.” Blaise nodded.

  Elisedd returned Blaise’s nod then gazed at Brochfael. “Greetings, my son. The gods have blessed me with your safe return.”

  Once Blaise and Brochfael eased into their chairs beside Elisedd, the King leaned toward his eldest son. “Was the journey a success?”

  “You may say so, my sire. I bring you Cuthred’s answer to the ransom of
the Princess.”

  Blaise could not breathe. If he could not overturn the obvious outcome, he would lose Branda. She would be given to Cuthred. A sensation of heaviness pressed down on him, and he barely heard anything Brochfael or Elisedd said. He floated into a deep abyss of sadness.

  “It must be done,” Elisedd declared.

  The words rung in Blaise’s head like the clang of a large brass bell. “Father, what say you?” he asked as he came out of his dark brooding.

  “Cuthred has agreed to the ransom. We will give the Princess over to him and collect the gold coin.”

  “I don’t think so.” At the flash of anger in Elisedd’s eyes Blaise gulped then said, “Can we trust Cuthred to keep to his bargain of ransom?”

  “Do you think me daft, boy? I will send my finest troops to escort the Princess and you will lead them. This way we shall see Cuthred keeps his bargain, for you will not release the Princess until the ransom is secured. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. You command me to turn the Princess over to the Saxon but do you glean I love her?”

  “What say you? She is Ethelbald’s daughter, betrothed to Cuthred of Wessex. She is tied to our greatest enemies.” Elisedd leaned forward in his chair. “I am fond of the Princess myself. I can see you would be taken by her charms, but by the gods, how can you love her?”

  “Father, you must listen to me.”

  Elisedd banged his fist on the dais table. “Hear me! Mind you, her father chose her fate when he banished her from Mercia. Blame Ethelbald if you must, not I. You brought me a hostage, and now I will turn her over for the ransom.”

  Blaise’s heart banged so hard against his chest he almost jumped with each beat, and his throat clenched as if a garrote twisted it. Unable to speak, unable to breath, he stood silent, shaking, needing to scream.

  “My son, you knew this day would come.”

  “Father,” Brochfael spoke up, “we have all come to care for the Princess, you as well.”

  “There is naught we can do. If Cuthred refused to pay the ransom then it would be another matter but he agreed to my terms. I will hold to the bargain.” Elisedd laced his fingers together. “I am a man of honor.”

  Elisedd turned his head toward Blaise. “Son, what say you?”

  Blaise stared at an empty space in the room, overcome with a sensation similar to sinking deeper into a bog. He was frantic to find a way out, knowing there was no way to escape and he’d suffocate soon.

  “It is not your doing, Father. As you say, her own sire gave her to Cuthred.” It is all my fault. I failed her. I never knew how much I loved Branda until this day came.

  The servant girl refilled the tankards of Brochfael and Elisedd and handed one to Blaise. Silently, the three drank together. Feeling the renewed confidence from the ale, he took leave of his sire and brother and walked to the ladies’ bower. He rapped on the door. “Branda. Branda!”

  She opened the door a crack. “It’s late, Blaise.” She flung it wide-open and placed one hand on her hip. “You are in your cups. Your feet are wavering as if you may pass out. Sit down.”

  He swaggered to the bed and plopped down. “I swear to you, I will find a way to keep you from Cuthred. I promise.”

  “I wish it were so but we ride on the morrow.”

  “That we do.” He leaned his head toward her until their lips touched. Hot currents surged through him as he caressed her warm, wet lips with his. He fed from the sweetness of her mouth as his aching craving for more of her grew stronger.

  When he released her, she pressed her head upon his shoulder. “What are we to do?” she asked in a voice choked with tears.

  “Trust me.” The thought of keeping Branda hammered his brain. We will stay together. We must.

  He crushed her against him in a tight, heavy embrace. He heard breathy sobs and felt her tears dampen his sleeve. He had to right this wrong. “I vow I will find a way.”

  With one last, lingering kiss, he choked back his own tears, bid her good eve and swaggered from the bower.

  * * * *

  After sleeping off the ale, he rose at dawn, recommitted to keeping Branda, and prepared for his mission in the old ways.

  Scan bore the woad and the limewash Neilyn mixed. Blaise washed his hair with the powdered limestone and water mix then spiked his mane until it stood as thick as a hedgehog’s coat. With the woad dye, Neilyn painted magic symbols of the gods upon Blaise’s forehead, painted tattoos likened to the sacred images engraved on the long stones in the tombs. The swirls began small and curved into larger loops. The gods shielded him with these mystical symbols.

  The Druid chanted ancient words of power as Scan strummed the harp:

  “Before the sky and the earth and the sea,

  Before the sun and the moon and the stars,

  I place a circle of safekeeping around you.

  Oh, Blaise, bind yourself to Bran’s power,

  Mighty is its strain, oh, Blaise.

  Magical energy will enliven,

  And empower you on the field of battle.

  Thrust the Saesneg with the sword of Nuada.

  Around you, I place a circle of protection,

  To bind Bran’s power to you, oh, Blaise.”

  Scan continued to strum the harp. Neilyn drew blue circles upon Blaise’s legs, arms and chest as he continued the enchantment:

  “Win your Princess as Bran foretold,

  So the two of you shall return to us,

  To live a life full of honey,

  With peace as ample as the sky.

  Be this nine times eternal.

  I place a circle of protection around you.

  Oh, Blaise, bind yourself to Bran’s power.”

  Blaise picked up a bronze mirror adorned with Celtic tracery. The image of a warrior Prince painted with the magic of the old gods gazed back at him. Pride and determination filled him with a warm, glowing sensation of peace and invincibility.

  Before he vaulted onto his steed, Neilyn presented him with Nuada’s sheathed sword of power. Blaise drew the blade from the serpent-etched sheath. The gleaming bronze hilt, curved in never-ending circles of life, mesmerized him as rays of sunlight danced upon the long, powerful sword, which glistened with an ethereal luster.

  Neilyn bent his head down and kissed the gleaming blade. Blaise brandished it high in the air as Brochfael, Elisedd and all the gathered Cymry praised its power.

  Blaise sheathed the magic sword and belted it at his side. He swung upon his horse, grasped Branda’s forearm and eased her into the saddle. With his arm wrapped about her, he nudged his horse down the mountain path. His men, clad in boiled leather and plaid cloaks, followed his lead. All the inhabitants of Dinas Bran stood outside the gates, transfixed, as Blaise of Powys, dressed in full regalia, rode onward with Princess Branda to the Saxon stronghold of Wessex.

  Chapter Twelve

  The warriors of Powys, mounted on sleek roan, sable and chestnut horses, thundered across the valley of the River Dee.

  Branda and Blaise rode pillion on a horse, which snorted and neighed as they led the war band across reedy marshes and heathery fields.

  Her silken hair exuded the scent of a meadow after a spring rain. Wayward strands fluttered against Blaise’s chin, tickling him lightly. His chest tingled at the sultry heat of her smooth back pressing into him. The hammering of the horse’s hooves and the rhythmic beat of his brat flapping in the wind wrapped him deeper in the joy of the euphoric moment, one of the last with Branda. A painful image of Cuthred holding her invaded his mind. With the thought of the balding, yellow-haired demon, Blaise’s warm inner glow gave way to scalding fury.

  He inhaled deeply to steel his temper and whispered in her ear, “If the beast harms you, I will hunt him down and kill him!”

  Branda
fell silent, and for a moment Blaise thought she hadn’t heard him.

  Then her full lips parted and in answer to his vow, she said, “I would like to be with you this night. Kiss you one last time. Do not leave me alone this eve.”

  He peered intently into her eyes, filled with love for him. “Princess, you did not have to ask. I cannot bear to be away from you for one moment this eve, for after tonight, we shall never see each other again.” The acute physical pain of the guilt piercing his heart felt no different than if a metal blade impaled him. He’d taken her to Dinas Bran, now he rode with her to Wessex. The sensation of a sword twisting and turning in him intensified. His mind reached for a spark of hope, a way to save her form Cuthred, but even more, he had to find away to stay with her.

  She remained quiet, and he didn’t know what to say either. He’d never find another woman like her, yet he’d found no way to keep her. It gnawed at him, like a raven devouring his insides.

  Blaise spotted a lush clearing with a welcoming pond fringed with lanky trees, lifting their green-leafed branches to the sky, which was a burst of crimson, saffron and salmon-pink as day gave way to night.

  “Look, Branda; is it not beautiful?”

  “Yes, it is.” She snuggled against him as he rode forward.

  As he sat in the saddle, with her soft body pressing against him, he waved his hand toward his men, gesturing them to make camp. He nudged his horse near the pond then brought the stallion to a halt. Blaise’s legs were stiff as he swung off the steed and stomped his feet in the ground to loosen up his muscles. Gently, he took hold of Branda’s waist and lifted her from the saddle. The heat from her body passed through his fingertips and into his blood. He brushed back strands of hair which had fallen from her braids, and his breath stopped. She looked ethereal in the mystical glow of the setting sun. The flush of her cheeks rivaled the dusky rose of sunset. His mouth watered for the taste of her mauve lips.