Warrior Princess Page 2

  The big man urged his horse toward Branwen, drawing his sword but keeping a tight rein. He halted a little way from her and peered into the forest. He let out a shout and then waited, as if expecting a response.

  He tilted his head as though listening and then let out a harsh burst of laughter and brought his horse closer, so that it loomed over Branwen. He towered above her, the point of his sword at her throat. She looked up into his ice blue eyes, deathly afraid but also filled with a blazing rage.

  Savages! Murderers!

  The man let out a stream of words; and although Branwen didn’t understand what he was saying to her, the contempt in his voice was obvious. He pulled the sword back and spat in her face before turning his horse around and riding off at a canter to rejoin his men.

  They disappeared through the trees, and Branwen was left alone with the leaping flames and the dead bodies and the stench of blood.

  “Geraint!” She ran to where her brother was lying. He was stretched on his back, his eyes closed and his face peaceful. But his tunic was gashed and thick, red blood welled from his chest.

  He was dead.

  Tears flooded down Branwen’s cheeks. She caught hold of his hand and pressed his fingers against her burning face.

  “Geraint…I’m so sorry….”

  She doubled up, her forehead touching his chest, his blood smearing her face. She opened her mouth, trying to release some of the pain by screaming—but the scream would not come.

  At last she lifted her head, her hair matted with Geraint’s blood and clinging wetly to her cheeks. In a daze, she let go of his hand and rested it gently on his chest. She stood up, swaying, and then turned and walked toward the six bodies that lay in the dirt outside the still-burning farmhouse.

  She felt a terrible coldness in her chest, as though her heart were encased in ice. The fierce heat of the fire scorched her face as she stood over the bodies. The man was named Bevan. The last time she had seen him, he had been arguing with Anwen the cook over the price of a calf.

  His wife lay next to him—Branwen didn’t remember her name. And there were the four children, three girls and one boy.

  All dead. She stooped and draped a corner of cloth over one little girl’s upturned face.

  Then she turned and walked back to where Geraint lay. She sat down cross-legged at his side. She gently smoothed his clothes, pulling the ripped edges of his tunic together to try and hide the wound. The dark blood had stopped flowing. She laid her hand on his chest and lifted it to her face, looking at the blood. Then she drew his hunting knife from his belt and, holding it between her two fists, she straightened her back and stared slowly around the clearing.

  She would let no Saxon come back to desecrate his body. No animal with cruel teeth and a hungry belly would be allowed to come sniffing his blood. She would not move from her brother’s side, not if the world ended and the sky came crashing down around her ears.

  4

  THE AFTERNOON PASSED with a crushing slowness.

  Branwen knelt over her brother’s dead body, her mind numbed with grief.

  There was no thought in her head other than the need to keep Geraint’s body safe. She had been unable to do anything to help him in life, but in death she would protect him. If need be she would stay there forever.

  The shadows were long and the sky was darkening when two warriors emerged from the forest on white horses, their white cloaks gleaming in the failing light. Branwen stood up on stiff and aching legs. She stepped over her brother’s body and stood between him and the oncoming riders.

  “I’m not afraid of you!” she shouted, lifting the knife high in her fist. “I won’t let you touch him!”

  More riders emerged from the forest: a dozen or more warriors followed by two heavily laden ox-drawn wagons covered by skins. One of the riders was carrying a standard—a limp, white banner. White for the Saxon dragon.

  A rider broke from the others and cantered toward her, a round, iron helmet on his head, his long, white cloak cracking. He brought the horse up short as a breath of air moved across the clearing and the white banner fluttered open to reveal the red dragon of the kingdom of Powys emblazoned proudly in the center. Not Saxons but men of Brython.

  “Branwen ap Griffith, put down your knife,” called the rider. “We are not your enemies.” He jumped down from the saddle and walked toward her.

  “Draw your sword!” Branwen howled, slashing the air with the knife. “I’ll kill you. I’ll kill all of you!”

  The man stopped. “What has happened here, Branwen?” he demanded. “Speak, girl. Who did this?”

  Suddenly Branwen looked into the man’s face and recognized the wide brow and the dark, deep-set eyes; the war-scarred cheeks; and the heavy, black mustache under the curved, hawklike nose.

  It was Prince Llew ap Gelert, lord of the cantref of Bras Mynydd beyond the mountains, her father’s closest ally. In the horror of the day Branwen had forgotten that he had been due to arrive at Garth Milain, traveling over the mountains to discuss the Saxon threat with her father and mother.

  Prince Llew stared beyond her, and his face twisted with anger. He took a step forward; but Branwen spread her arms, warding him off.

  “Don’t touch him!”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Yes. A Saxon cut him down with an ax.” She looked defiantly at the tall, battle-hardened prince. “But he took two lives for his own.”

  “How many were they?”

  “Ten. Maybe more. I was in the forest; I heard Geraint shouting. He was already in the clearing when I came out of the trees. The roofs were on fire; Bevan and his family were dead. The Saxons were releasing the cattle. Geraint shot two of them with his bow.”

  Prince Llew stepped forward, taking the knife out of her fist and resting his hand on her shoulder. “You poor child!” Branwen felt an urge to rush forward and cling to him, but she refused to lose control. Her anger was all that was holding her together; she needed to keep a tight grip on it.

  “How long ago did this happen?” Llew asked.

  Branwen drew back, looking up into his cavernous eyes, filled now with sadness and sympathy. “It was the middle of the day,” she said. She shuddered. “I did nothing to help him,” she whispered. “I stood and watched as he was cut down.”

  “What could you have done?” he said. “A child against armed men?”

  Branwen winced. He was right. She had acted as a child would, while Geraint had behaved like a warrior.

  “I will send a rider after them,” Llew said. “They have a long start on us, but the cattle will slow them down.”

  He turned and shouted instructions to his men. Some of them had dismounted and were stooping over the bodies of the farmer and his family. One was checking the two dead Saxons.

  Two men approached.

  “Put the body of Geraint ap Griffith on a wagon,” Prince Llew ordered.

  “No!” shouted Branwen. “Don’t touch him.”

  Llew gave her a look of deep compassion. “He must be taken to Garth Milain, Branwen,” he said. “His body cannot be left here for the carrion birds. And your father must be told of this tragedy as soon as possible.”

  Branwen stepped reluctantly aside as the two men stooped to pick up Geraint’s body. But she couldn’t bear to be apart from him. She leaned forward, touching his cheek with her fingertips. She gasped and pulled back her hand, shocked by the unexpected chill of his skin.

  A howl of grief rose in her throat. She fought against it. Her brother’s flesh was as cold and dead as stone. How could she bear this? Tears stabbed from behind her eyes. Her hands trembled. She felt that her legs were going to give way under her.

  But she gathered her strength, gritting her teeth to stop the howl, clenching her fists to prevent her hands from shaking. A single hot tear ran down her cheek as she managed to gain control of herself.

  She walked alongside the two warriors, keeping close, making sure they were gentle with Geraint as they carried him t
o the nearest wagon. She noticed how his head had become rigid on his neck and how his limbs and back were already beginning to stiffen with the rigor of death. She was aware of Llew’s men murmuring among themselves; she heard curses spoken against the Saxons and words of ire and grief at the deaths of Geraint and the farm family.

  Space was cleared on the wagon, and Geraint’s body was laid on the boards. Branwen climbed up next to him. The cart driver turned and looked at her, his face furious.

  “There will be retribution, my lady,” he said. “Do not fear; Prince Llew will find the Saxon dogs and make them pay!”

  She looked at him. “I hope he does not harm them,” she said.

  The man gazed at her in confusion.

  “I want them alive and healthy when I dig a knife into their bellies,” she explained with absolute calm. “I want them to die slowly and painfully, and I want to watch.”

  Hold hard to the anger. Feed the rage. Do not give in to grief. Not yet. Not now. Not in this place and in front of these people. Do not!

  The man nodded and looked away.

  Room was made for the six other bodies on the second wagon. The warriors mounted up again and Prince Llew led them out of the clearing, following the Great Forest Way toward Garth Milain.

  Branwen clung onto the side of the wagon, gazing down at the face of her brother, indistinct now in the dark shadows of the forest. She knew that she would never be carefree again. In the space of half a day—of a single ax blow—everything had changed.

  As the night darkened, it seemed to Branwen as if the Great Forest Way was a black tunnel, taking her down into the deepest pits of Annwn. The warriors were subdued and silent around her. The forest held its breath. The night gaped like an open mouth.

  The road came out of the forest, and they continued their journey beneath a cold, bleak, star-pocked sky. A gaunt man in a red cloak brought his horse up alongside the wagon, his voice startling Branwen out of her dark thoughts.

  “I am Angor, captain of the prince’s guard,” he said, holding up a water-skin. “May I offer you refreshment, my lady?”

  She looked at him, feeling strangely disoriented. He had a long, deeply lined face the color of old leather. His mustache was touched with a gray that was echoed in his heavy-lidded eyes.

  “No, thank you,” she said. Her stomach was an iron fist in the middle of her body. The thought of food or drink almost made her retch.

  Captain Angor nodded. “Call me if you need anything,” he said, urging his horse toward the front of the line.

  The path skirted a fold of land, and Branwen saw the lights of her home glowing above the palisade and shining brightly through the wide-open doors at the top of the ramp. As they approached the steep earthen slope, there were shouts from the walls.

  “Who comes to Garth Milain?”

  Captain Angor called up in response: “Prince Llew ap Gelert and men of his court. We bear with us the body of the son of the House of Rhys, slain by Saxons.”

  There were shouts of dismay and horror from the walls. The lead horses stepped up onto the ramp. Soldiers of Prince Griffith’s guard stood in the open gateway, their faces shocked.

  “The enemy may still be in Cyffin Tir,” called Prince Llew. “Close the gates when we are all safe inside.”

  The oxcarts lumbered up the steep path. Branwen rested her hand on Geraint’s chest to try and save him from being shaken about too much. At last they passed through the tall, split-log gates and into the village fortress.

  Branwen blinked tears from her eyes as she stared around at the familiar sights of her home. How could Garth Milain still look the same when the whole world had been turned on its head? Torches blazed from the palisades; and through the low doorways of the round, daub-and-wattle huts, she saw the homely flicker of firelight.

  People were going about their everyday business: cooking the evening meal, telling tales around the hearth, putting their children safely to bed under coverings of furred hide or woven cloth.

  Innocent of what had happened.

  For the moment.

  Guards swarmed around the wagon. More people came running from their homes, crying out in grief as word spread that Geraint was dead.

  A guard came up to the wagon. “My lady, are you hurt?”

  Branwen shook her head. “No, Owen, I am not.” She lowered her head and left a kiss on Geraint’s cold forehead before jumping down from the wagon. “Do as Prince Llew says: Close and bar the gates,” she ordered. “I must…” She swallowed, choking on her words. “My brother is dead; I must tell my mother and father.”

  She saw Prince Llew riding toward the Great Hall.

  It isn’t his place to tell my mother and father what has happened. I have to do that. It’s my duty.

  The Great Hall was her home—Geraint’s home—with its soaring walls of seasoned oak timber and its long, high, thatched roof. The doors were open in welcome, and on either side, red flames leaped in iron braziers. Branwen ran forward and drew level with Prince Llew’s tall black stallion, smelling the sweat of travel on the great beast’s hide.

  The prince looked down at her. “Branwen—stay with your brother. I will bring the news to the lord and lady.”

  “No!” she called up to him, gripping his reins, feeling the supple leather hard in her fist as he looked sternly down at her. As the numbness began to clear from her mind, she was intensely aware of the richness of the clothing of this wealthy and powerful prince from beyond the Western Mountains. Aware of his white silk cloak with its golden brooches, of the golden belt about his waist and the golden bracelets on his wrists. She felt small and humble in her hunting clothes—like any one of the villagers who were standing close by with dismayed and angry and terrified faces.

  But she was not one of them; she was a daughter of the House of Rhys, and she had an obligation to fulfill, whatever the richly attired Prince Llew might say.

  “I will tell them,” she said. “It’s my responsibility.”

  Branwen knew that once she stepped into the Great Hall, the news that she carried would shatter the lives of her mother and father for all time. The open doors were like the gateway into hell.

  She passed weeping men and women as she strode toward the Great Hall.

  “My lady?” A woman caught at her hand, tears flooding down her face. “Is it true? Your brother?”

  She nodded, pulling away as the woman moaned with sorrow. The weeping and cursing of the village folk was like a rising tide at her back as she came to the doors of the hall.

  She walked into her home. Rushes crackled beneath her feet. The timbered roof soared away above her head. The central hearth leaped with bright yellow flames, and there was the smell of roasted meat in the air. The evening meal was half finished, and the earth floor was scattered with food bowls and drinking cups. The men and women of the court were gathered there, making merry as they did on many a summer’s night.

  But the clamor from outside the hall had brought them all to their feet, and they stared at Branwen as she came into the long chamber.

  The double throne of the House of Rhys rested on a low dais at the far end of the chamber, but Branwen’s mother and father had already risen and were moving forward as Branwen stood swaying in front of them. She said nothing for the moment, her jaw clamped shut, her throat aching, her head pounding. She wished that this final moment of ignorance in her parents’ lives would never have to end.

  Lady Alis was as tall as her husband, her long, black hair framing her beautiful, strong-featured face. Prince Griffith stood at her side, his brown hair cut at the shoulders, his eyes dark and keen, his cheeks and chin shaven to leave only the long, thick, hanging mustache worn by all men of the kingdom of Brython.

  She saw her mother’s dove gray eyes fill with fear. Branwen knew that her appearance must tell a dreadful tale: her hair matted with gore, her face and hands streaked with dried blood.

  “There were Saxon raiders in the forest—at Bevan’s farmstead,” she sa
id, her voice oddly calm in the maelstrom of fire and ice that seethed in her head. “Geraint shot two of them before they even knew he was there.” She looked into Alis’s horrified eyes. “My brother is dead, Mother. Geraint is dead.”

  Branwen wrung a cloth into a wooden bowl of water and wiped her brother’s hands. She tried to hold back her grief by focusing on the details of straightening Geraint’s jacket, wiping dirt off his fingers. Trying not to notice the terrible trembling of her mother’s hands as she combed out his tangled hair, her face almost as pale as the dead son she tended. Tears were threading silently down Alis’s face—but Branwen was emptied of tears for the moment. She had cried herself dry in the clearing; and now she just felt hollow and terribly alone, even among people whom she had known all of her life.

  Prince Griffith stood at his son’s head, staring down into the ashen face with stricken eyes. Prince Llew was at his side, his warriors mingling with Griffith’s men, their heads bowed in sorrow. Occasional sobs and groans broke the silence like small stones dropped in a dark lake.

  The bier was laid in the rushes that covered the earthen floor, placed reverently in front of the great iron cauldron that stood over the open fire. Rushlights and candles lit the tall, wooden walls. Trenchers lay on the floor, forgotten now with food half eaten. Goblets and wine flasks stood about, but the warriors of the court and their ladies had no use for wine or mead. They stood in small groups, watching with haggard faces as Lady Alis and Branwen washed the blood from Geraint’s body and laid him out with his hands folded gently over his chest.

  “When I crossed the mountains to discuss the Saxon threat, little did I suspect that I would bring such woe with me,” Branwen heard Prince Llew say in a low, resonant voice. “The passing of Geraint ap Griffith is a sore blow, my friend; and we share your grief.”

  “And yet the sharing of such grief does not lessen its agony,” her father replied, and although his voice shook, it was clear and firm. “Our hoped-for future leaches into the ground with the blood from my son’s wounds.”