Authors: Frewin Jones
The last time Branwen had seen Ironfist like this was when he had been sprawling on the seat of the lord of Gwylan Canu, deep in drink and slow of mind. But he did not look like that now; he was sitting hunched forward, one hand gripping the arm of the chair so that the fingers were white. The other clutched a wine horn, but it hung at an angle and seemed empty.
Malevolent and sinister he looked now, like some monster of legend, brooding among his minions, his one blue eye horribly alert as it darted to and fro over the carousing warriors of his court. His mouth was set in a grim line, his brows furrowed. The raw wound burned red in the firelight, and the lost eye was a pool of crimson.
Another man sat on a low stool at his feet wrapped in a scarlet cloak, staring silently at a slender form who moved among the drinkers balancing a large ewer on her hip and pouring out ale to all who needed more refreshment.
It was Alwyn—Branwen recognized her at once. She stood out from the other servants with their drab, shabby clothes and their matted hair. Alwyn was wearing a gown of bright yellow, clasped at the shoulders by jeweled brooches and girdled with a sash of blue silk.
Silk? What’s this now? Do the Saxons dress their servants in silk? I’ve never heard it so. She must be a favorite to be adorned so—and look at her hair!
Her brown hair was plaited and drawn back from her face, held in place with sparkling pins and netted with bright strings of jasper and malachite. Very beautiful she looked, gliding among the drunken throng; but Branwen noticed that none abused her or snatched at her or even made eyes at her. Strange! Drunken men of all races had sport with pretty servant girls at the feast. And yet she may as well have been a haggard crone for all the notice Ironfist’s warriors took of her. It was as if they dared not. As if …
And then Branwen remembered Dillon’s words:
“… one woman stood out from the others. Redwuld had brought her with him from the north. Very beautiful, she was, with flowing chestnut brown hair and big eyes like a doe; and Redwuld treated her as a favorite….”
So, that explained it. Alwyn was his alone, and none dared look at her for fear of his anger. That was not good—if Redwuld never took his eyes off her, how were they to rescue Gavan’s daughter?
B
RANWEN HEARD A
sudden breath drawn behind her. She looked around. Gavan was there, at her back, staring at his daughter as she moved along the trestle tables pouring ale for the feasting warriors. A conflux of emotions choked his features: anger, longing, love, loss, remorse, hope, determination—all were there in his face.
Branwen brought her mouth up to the side of his head. “We must wait till she is alone,” she whispered. “We have no hope of escape with her among so many.”
He nodded.
But what are we to do next?
She looked more closely at Ironfist, searching for some box or cask or flask or bag close by—something in which a god could be confined. There was nothing. Her eyes moved upward to the upper half floor above his head. Private rooms lay behind the wicker
screens. A sleeping chamber, perhaps, where a man might keep the most prized of his possessions?
Blodwedd was now standing at Gavan’s side, her eyes disgusted as she looked in at the Saxon feast. Branwen remembered the owl-girl saying to her once that of all the foul attributes of humankind, the one she found most repulsive and impossible to understand was the desire to pour down their throats a liquid that had no purpose but to steal away their reason!
Well, that might be so, but at this moment that attribute was working in their favor. She gestured to Gavan and Blodwedd—discreet hand movements to suggest that they should keep close to the walls and make their way along the hall to the ladder, and thence to the upper floor.
Gavan nodded. Branwen was about to move from the doorway when Ironfist’s body suddenly tensed and he half rose from his seat, his brows drawn down, his eye seeming to stare straight at her.
She froze, her heart clubbing at her ribs. All along she had known Merion’s powers would not fool him! She was hideously aware of the white disk of her shield—bright as the full moon—shining out like a great silver coin. Drawing Ironfist’s attention to her.
But there was something curious about the way he stared—as though his eye was not quite focused on her but was looking straight through her. As though his attention had been caught by something beyond
her. And then he sat again, his face puzzled, his head tilting and angling as though he was trying to fix his gaze on something half hidden.
He senses me, but he does not see me. Dare I move? If I shift a finger will I be seen?
For a long, horrible time Branwen stood frozen in the doorway, well aware of Gavan chafing at her back but not daring to stir a muscle in case it gave them all away.
Then when she felt she could no longer stand the strain, the tension was suddenly broken. Redwuld rose to his feet.
“A song!” he cried. “Come, Alwyn, give us a pretty song!”
The noise of the feasters subsided. Obediently, Alwyn put down the ewer and glided to the far end of the hall, her head down, her face oddly serene. She curtsied to Ironfist and then turned to face the hall.
Redwuld’s act had broken Ironfist’s concentration. This was the perfect moment to slip in and along the wall, while everyone’s attention was on Alwyn.
Gavan’s daughter clasped her hands together, lifted her head, and began to sing.
Oh, the cuckoo is a pretty bird; she sings as she flies
She brings us glad tidings, she tells us sweet lies …
Branwen paused, startled as the sweet melody rippled across the silent hall. It was the same song that she had heard in her dream-vision. The song that the goraig of the lake had sung to her: Nixie’s song of the beautiful bird filled with trickery and deceit.
Branwen stared at Alwyn. What did this mean? Was it a coincidence? Surely not! Had she been forewarned by the goraig? Was Alwyn the pretty cuckoo that they could not trust? And what did that mean for her rescue?
Her mind surging with conjecture, Branwen continued to walk softly and silently along the wall behind the rapt Saxon feasters. They obviously knew better than to talk or make undue noise while Redwuld’s favorite was singing. And as Alwyn sung, Branwen saw the young man’s eyes on her—not filled with love, she thought; it was a look that a man might give a prized possession: greedy and jealous hearted.
Branwen came to the foot of the ladder and began to climb. Gavan came up after her and Blodwedd at the rear. The wooden rungs of the ladder creaked a little under their feet, but no one seemed to notice.
The three of them had just assembled on the lip of the upper floor when the song came to an end. There was a tumult of cheering and stamping and hammering of fists and mugs on the tables.
“A tune!” someone shouted. “We’d have a merry tune!”
And more voices called out in agreement.
“A lively tune!”
“Let her play something upon the harp!”
“Yes! The harp! Fetch down the harp!”
“So be it!” shouted Redwuld. “Alwyn, go fetch your harp! We’d hear a pretty tune to beguile the night and to remind us of hearth and home!”
Alwyn bowed her head and moved to the ladder. Branwen and her companions drew back from the edge.
“She comes up here!” hissed Blodwedd. “By Govannon’s horns, this is good fortune!”
“But how are we to make our escape with her?” asked Gavan, his face desperate now, his eyes almost pleading.
“You shall give her my stone,” said Blodwedd without hesitation. “It will shield her from their eyes.”
“No! What of you then?” said Branwen.
“Do not fear on my account,” said Blodwedd. “I’ll give them a fine race.” She smiled her sharp smile and looked into Branwen’s eyes. “Remember on the cliffs outside Gwylan Canu? Remember how I ran and how they could not say if I were a dog or a hare or a deer of the mountain?” She touched Branwen’s arm. “Do not fear. I will mislead them long enough to get clear of this place.”
“Very well,” agreed Branwen. “I see there is no other course. And perhaps Alwyn will lead us to Caradoc’s prison and save us the search.”
“It is to be hoped so,” said Blodwedd. “But I will
begin to look nonetheless while you show yourselves to the girl and reveal to her the purpose of our entry into this grim place.”
There was renewed noise from below, the feasters taking the opportunity of a break in the entertainment to shout for more ale and to sing raucous snatches of song as they continued their debauch.
Blodwedd unwrapped her wristband and gave it and the stone to Branwen before slipping away among the screens. Branwen looped the band through her belt and tucked the stone in with her own for safekeeping.
“How are we to reveal ourselves without frightening her?” Gavan asked, and Branwen was astonished to see that his hands were trembling. “It has been many years. Will she remember me?”
“Of course she will,” said Branwen. “Be calm, Gavan ap Huw! We will do this together. Wait till she is out of sight of those below, then I will throw my hand across her mouth so she cannot scream, and you will show yourself to her. It will take her no more than a moment to understand that we are here for her good.”
Gavan nodded, and Branwen saw him pause and gather himself. For the first time she realized how much this moment meant to him. Fearless in battle, he shook like a windblown sapling to think that he was so close to being with his child again.
Alwyn came to the head of the ladder and stepped
out onto the timber floor. Entirely oblivious of them, she walked to one side, passing behind a screen. Branwen laid down her shield and slid soft footed after her. This was a narrow chamber with a simple fur-strewn mattress on the floor and a wooden chest at its side. Against the far wall stood a small triangular beech wood harp, carved and engraved by a master craftsman, its twelve horsehair strings held taut by pegs of white bone. It was a beautiful instrument—Branwen could see that—a harp such as might once have been played by the great bard Taliesin himself.
As Alwyn passed alongside the mattress, Branwen struck. She caught the young woman from behind, one hand clamping around her waist, the other coming up across her mouth. She spun her so that she was facing her father.
Gavan rested his hands on Alwyn’s shoulders, staring into her face.
“Alwyn! Know me! See me! I am your father!”
For a few moments the young woman continued to struggle.
“Alwyn! Have no fear! I am here to release you from servitude!
Alwyn!”
Suddenly Alwyn became still, but Branwen could feel the tension thrilling in her body.
“Do not cry out! Speak softly!” Branwen hissed. She took her hand from Alwyn’s mouth.
“Father …?”
“Yes. It is I.”
“But … but how …?”
“There is no time for explanations, my beloved child,” murmured Gavan, his eyes glowing with love, his shaking hands touching her cheeks and hair as though he needed the contact to prove that this longed for moment was real. “We must slip away swiftly, before they come in search of you.” He turned to Branwen. “Wrap the cloth about her wrist—give her the stone. Hurry!”
Alwyn’s face clouded, and she pulled away from her father. “No!” She gasped. “No! What are you doing here?” She twisted her head over her shoulder, scowling at Branwen, who still held her around the waist. “Release me, you
waelisc
pig!” she hissed. “I shall call the guards! You will die for this effrontery!” She took a deep breath; and even in her amazement, Branwen had the foresight to realize she was about to scream. Her hand came slapping over Alwyn’s mouth, silencing her.
“Alwyn?” cried Gavan. “We are here to rescue you from your servitude! Do you not understand, child? I am come to take you home!”
Alwyn writhed in Branwen’s arms, her face furious, her arms flailing. Gavan managed to snatch hold of her wrists and force her arms down to her sides.
“Your daughter is moonstruck, I think!” panted Branwen as she struggled to hold Alwyn still. “Ow!” Teeth bit into her fingers, and she jerked her hand away in pain.
Alwyn took another breath, but Gavan’s hand came up and struck her across the cheek so that the air came hissing voiceless out of her mouth. Staggering, Alwyn glared at him, her face suffused with anger, a red weal blossoming across the side of her face.
“Be still, child!” growled Gavan, his voice desperate. “What is this now? Are you out of your wits?”
Alwyn back kicked Branwen, taking her by surprise, her heel hammering painfully against Branwen’s knee, sending her limping backward. Branwen’s heels caught on the edge of the mattress, and she tumbled over.
“Alwyn!” Gavan snatched at his daughter’s arm, catching her as she made to run from the chamber. The young woman pivoted in his grip and came to a sudden wrenching halt.
“Get away from me! I will not be abducted! Redwuld will have you killed for this!” Alwyn’s face was ferocious as she dug the nails of her free hand into Gavan’s arm. She ripped down his forearm, clawing red grooves in his flesh. Gavan stifled a cry of pain as Alwyn twisted her hand free.
A small, slender shape came up behind her; one thin arm was raised, something gripped in the hand. The arm fell sharply, and the object struck Alwyn a glancing blow on the back of the head. Even as Branwen was scrabbling to her feet, Alwyn let out a low moan and dropped to the floor.
Blodwedd stood over her, gripping a gold statuette of a wolf in her hand.
B
LODWEDD’S EYES SHOWED
her confusion. “What is happening?” she asked, staring down at the fallen woman. “Why does she fight us?”
“I do not know,” said Gavan, ignoring the blood welling from his wounds as he knelt at his daughter’s side. “Fear, perhaps. Or madness. I do not know!” He turned her, cradling her head on his knees.
“'Tis good they make so much riot below,” said Blodwedd. “Else we’d have been embattled by now.”
“All the same, we have to move quickly,” Branwen said. “They will soon wonder over the delay.” She knelt beside Gavan, grabbing Alwyn’s limp arm and twisting the linen strip around her wrist. She tucked the stone into the wrap, looking up at Blodwedd. “You’ve done us good service,” she said. “We would never have got her out of this place awake. Let’s trust
that she remains stunned long enough for us to get her clear of the camp.” She stood up again. “We still need to find Caradoc’s prison,” she said. “And we have little time.”
“I believe I have found it,” said Blodwedd. “Come. I will show you.”
Branwen followed the owl-girl into another of the small chambers. It lay alongside Alwyn’s—larger and more opulently appointed, with swords and shields hung from the walls and with red silk draperies across the low mattress. Several golden ornaments stood on a wooden shelf, a gap showing where the gold wolf had rested.
Blodwedd pointed to a small casket that lay under the shelf. It was of polished oak wood, strapped with silver and held closed by a richly ornamented silver lock. Branwen dropped to her knees, drawing out the small casket. “Yes!” she breathed. There was an engraving carved into the wood on the curved lid—a prowling cat shape with a blunt face and tufted ears, and with a long body and a short, thick tail.
She looked up at Blodwedd. “It is the lynx,” she said. “As Merion said it would be.” She lifted the casket in her hands; it was not heavy, being about the length of her forearm and as deep as her stretched hand.
She held the casket to her ear, listening. There was no sound. What had she expected, she wondered? A howling wind? The boom of trapped thunder? The
sizzle of contained lightning? “How can we be sure?” she asked. “What if we free the lock but open the lid only a small amount?”
“No!” Blodwedd said adamantly. “We would die; have no doubt of that!”
“Then I must trust that Caradoc is within,” said Branwen, getting to her feet, the casket held gingerly between her hands. She walked back to where Gavan sat with his unconscious daughter draped across his lap.
“Gavan ap Huw? Can you carry her in your arms?”
“I can.” The old warrior gathered his daughter and stood, one arm under her knees, the other cradling her back. Her arms and legs trailed, her head lolling, hanks of rich brown hair hanging loose, spilling jewels. Gavan’s face was grim and grieved as he held her—Branwen knew this was not how he had expected his daughter’s rescue to play out.
“Go swiftly!” urged Blodwedd. “I will remain for the moment. Do not wait for me no matter what you hear. If all else fails, I will meet you in the forest.
Go!”
Branwen nodded, hardly able to look at the owl-girl. Now her own words came back to haunt her.
No one life is more important than our mission. If I fall or am trapped or caught or hurt, do not linger to help me. And the same goes for each of us. Those still standing must escape with Caradoc at all costs.
They came to the head of the ladder. The Great
Hall was a cauldron of noise—of eating and drinking, and of loud speech and raucous laughter. Only one man seemed impatient that Alwyn had not yet returned with her harp. Redwuld was staring up at the ladder, his brows drawn down.
Like a spoiled child being forced to wait for a treat!
Branwen thought.
She helped Gavan to lift the supine form of his daughter over his shoulder so that both hands were free. Slowly and carefully he descended the ladder. Branwen watched Redwuld’s eyes. As Gavan climbed down with his burden, she noticed that Ironfist’s son did not take his eyes away from the top of the ladder.
Good! The charm is still working.
She turned, looking back to where Blodwedd stood in cover behind a screen. The owl-girl was standing quite still, her fingers curled like claws, her shoulders drawn up and her head lowered. There was a fiendish smile on her face. Her uncanny eyes stared through the thick tumbled locks of her hair, burning like the fires of Annwn. A demon in human form.
Branwen shuddered at the diabolical sight. Sometimes the owl-girl seemed almost human—but at moments such as this, Branwen was starkly reminded that not one drop of human blood ran in her veins. Branwen turned again and stared out over the hall. Gavan had reached the floor and was edging along the wall behind the feasters. Branwen waited till she
saw him reach the far doorway, intending to give him and Bryn a head start in their escape.
Picking up her shield and slinging it onto her back, Branwen stepped down onto the ladder, the casket tucked under her arm. It would not be easy to climb encumbered by the casket, but with care it was possible.
Redwuld’s voice rang out over the uproar. “What is keeping the girl? Go—someone—fetch her down! I’ll not be kept waiting!”
A young warrior from a table near the ladder stood up and began to climb.
Branwen halted, staring down at him in consternation. The man was climbing quickly. She had only moments to react.
Clutching the casket against her armpit, she brought her free arm around behind the ladder. Gripping the rung tightly from behind, she swung herself sideways off the ladder. She grimaced, her arm and shoulder taking her full weight as she hung off the back of the ladder. It was agonizing, the strain burning in her shoulder and wrist. Already she could feel her fingers slipping. The man came stamping up. Very nearly he trod on her fingers as he passed her and made his way up off the ladder.
She tried to hook her leg over the ladder again, to pull herself back onto it, but the angle made it difficult. She looked down between her feet. There were barrels beneath her. It was not a long fall, but she
feared for the noise she would make as she landed on the lids of the barrels.
But her hesitation did not last long. There was a blood-chilling cry from above. It was drowned out by a scream, not of pain but of animal rage: a feral, savage scream the like of which Branwen had never heard. But she knew it had issued from Blodwedd’s throat.
A moment later the man was hurled down off the high deck, bright red blood spilling from his torn-out throat.
He landed with a crash almost at Ironfist’s feet.
Pandemonium erupted. Tables were overturned as men surged up from their benches. There were shouts of shock and anger. Ironfist rose from his throne, drawing his sword, staring upward.
“A demon!”
“A
waelisc
devil!”
“Shoot it down!” Ironfist bellowed. “Kill it!”
Branwen let go of the rung and dropped down onto the barrels. Any noise she might have made was lost in the tumult that filled the hall. Unobserved, Branwen raced along the wall, the casket cradled against her chest.
At the door she looked around. Blodwedd stood on the lip of the raised floor, her arms stretched out, her mouth open in another terrible scream. Arrows and javelins cut through the air, but none hit her.
She’ll die here! By the love of the Three Saints, no! I cannot let her die alone!
But Branwen had the casket in her arms. Her first duty was to get it to safety; otherwise all they had done here was in vain.
She ducked out through the doorway, narrowly avoiding colliding with men who were running in to find out what was happening within.
How long can the stone hide me in this mayhem? Surely I shall be seen, and then all will be lost.
Iwan and Dera were pressed against the outer wall, keeping away from the inrush of warriors.
“Take this!” hissed Branwen, thrusting the casket into Iwan’s hands. “Go, now! I will follow if I can.”
“I’m going nowhere without you,” said Iwan, pulling his hands away, refusing to take the casket from her. “What’s happened? Where is Blodwedd?”
“She’s trapped in there. I’m going back for her,” snapped Branwen.
“By the saints, you are not!” said Dera. “You are the Chosen One—you cannot sacrifice yourself like that. Iwan! With me!”
“No!” Branwen tried to rip herself free as Dera and Iwan caught hold of her arms.
Iwan leaned in close. “Another shout like that and the Saxons will hear us and we will all die here!” he hissed. “You
will
come with us, Branwen!”
More warriors were running toward the open doorway of the Great Hall now, swords drawn, spears at the ready, alerted by the continuing uproar within.
Branwen twisted her head as she was pulled away
from the hall. “I cannot leave her,” she murmured. “Don’t make me do this!”
“You cannot save her,” hissed Dera. “All you could do is die at her side.”
“Then I’d do that.”
“Be silent!” whispered Iwan. “That is the last thing Blodwedd would wish! If we—” A running warrior crashed into him, sending him sprawling. The man reeled, staring around himself in confusion. Then his eyes turned downward, widening in sudden realization. He could see them!
His mouth opened, but the only sound that escaped him was a dull grunt. Adder-quick, Dera had thrust her sword deep between his shoulder blades. The man dropped like a log.
No one needed to give the word—none of the three moved a muscle. Men rushed past them, missing them by hairbreadths as they made for the hall.
“What’s this with Beroun?”
“Drunk as a thain, I’d say! Leave him where he lies!”
“What is happening in the hall?”
“Some wild thing has got in there.”
Iwan slowly got to his feet. Branwen stood staring back at the hall, the casket hard against her stomach, her every instinct urging her to race back and help Blodwedd. But she knew Dera and Iwan would not allow it, and she could not risk an argument that would result in them being seen—not while they were
surrounded by so many enemy warriors.
Iwan beckoned and they moved again, slipping away between the tents, halting when Saxons came too close, hardly breathing. Waiting. Moving again. Gradually making their way to the outskirts of the encampment, where the terrible screams of the owl-girl could no longer be heard and where the men still ate and drank and sang, unaware for the time being of the commotion at the heart of the camp.
At last they were beyond the negligent sentries and in among the reeds at the riverside.
Branwen halted, staring back the way they had come. “I will rot in Annwn for such a betrayal!” she said. “She will die alone and unaided. She deserved better of me!” She glared from Iwan to Dera. “You should have let me stay for her!”
“She would not have wanted that, Branwen,” said Iwan.
“She may yet survive,” said Dera. “She is not helpless.”
“She will not.” Branwen groaned, her heart aching with grief and reproach. “I know it. She will not. And it is my fault. This venture was ill planned from the outset! Only five of us should have come on this mission—and we should have kept the sixth stone for Gavan’s daughter. I am no leader! I should have thought of this before we set off!”
“Do not reprove yourself, Branwen,” said Iwan. “None of us thought of it. It is pointless to despair
over things that cannot be altered.”
“Is that the thing we came here for?” asked Dera, looking uneasily at the casket in Branwen’s arms. “Is that where Caradoc of the North Wind lies?”
“I believe it is,” said Branwen.
“Then Blodwedd will be glad of her sacrifice,” said Dera. “She gave herself up to save one of the Old Gods that she serves. Could such a creature have a worthier death, Branwen?”
“Shall we get across the bridge before we speak more?” said Iwan. “I’d be well away from this place before the alarm is sent that the mountain rats are among them! And it will! The loss of the girl and the casket will be proof enough of that.”
“What of Gavan?” asked Branwen.
“He went on ahead with his daughter slung over his shoulder,” said Iwan. “Bryn went at his heel, like a faithful hound. Did the girl faint? There was no chance to speak with him.”
“She did not faint,” said Branwen grimly. “But more of that later. You are right—let’s get away from here.” She looked one final time back to the Great Hall beyond the tents and huts of the encampment. Angry tears pricked her eyes. “Farewell, Blodwedd,” she murmured. “And how am I to break the news to Rhodri? This is one thing for which he will never forgive me.” She shook her head as she turned away. “Nor shall I forgive myself!” she murmured under her breath. “Never!”
“What is that?” Iwan turned back the way they had come, peering into the distance, across the river, toward Ironfist’s encampment. He pointed to a dark smudge low in the sky, hanging over the camp like a plume of black cloud.
Branwen stared hard. “Smoke, perhaps?” she said. It was hard to tell
what
they were looking at—the night was dark, but the thing above the camp was darker still, like a clump of shadow just above the horizon. “Is the Great Hall aflame?”
“I see no sign of fire,” murmured Dera. “I cannot make it out. It is too distant and the night is too deep.” She tilted her head as though listening. “Do you hear that sound?”
“Yes,” breathed Branwen. A strange sound on the very brink of hearing: a high-pitched sound, like the faraway babble of children’s voices, or maybe more like the sound of many knives being sharpened on whetstones—shrill and thin, now that Branwen listened more intently, frenzied and somehow unpleasant.
“Is it an omen?” murmured Dera. “Some portent of doom?”
“Perhaps,” said Branwen. “But for whom?” She shuddered, turning away and continuing up the long slope of the hill.
A portent of doom.
As if she needed sinister portents to darken her mood!