Authors: Frewin Jones
B
RANWEN RAN UP
the slope, her shield on her arm and her sword in her hand. Willow fronds brushed her face and shoulders as she lunged through them. She was aware of Iwan and Banon and Gavan close by, keeping pace with her, but gradually spreading out among the trees.
Asta had not screamed again.
Dead? Let it not be so! Can I never protect my people?
She saw Bryn first. Lying on his face in the dirt, his sword not even drawn.
Expecting at any moment to be attacked, Branwen moved through the hanging willow branches warily now, her eyes darting from side to side.
She paced soundlessly forward to where Bryn lay. She came down at his side on one knee, her nerves tingling, the knuckles of her sword hand white.
He lay unconscious, but she could find no wound on him. She heaved him onto his back. No. There was no sign of sword or arrow on him, although he had a raw graze across the side of his face as though he had been struck by some heavy object.
Gavan came to their side, sword ready. His voice was curt. “Is he slain?”
“No. A blow to the face has rendered him senseless, that’s all.”
Banon ran out of the dangling branches. “I see no Saxons,” she hissed. “Have they taken Asta?”
Branwen stood up. What had happened here?
She heard a movement to one side.
“Hail friends, do not attack!” It was Iwan’s voice, and a few moments later he came into view. Asta was at his side, her shoulders held in the curl of his arm.
“What has occurred?” asked Gavan.
There were tears streaking Asta’s frightened face. “I did not mean to hurt him,” she choked. “But he would not let me go!”
“What are you saying, girl?” growled Gavan. “Did Bryn attack you?”
Asta turned and buried her face in Iwan’s chest, her shoulders wrenched with sobs.
Iwan gave Gavan a caustic look. “Have you no control over your followers, Gavan ap Huw?” he asked. “Or is assaulting women part of their training now?”
“It is not!” exclaimed Gavan. “And well you know it, so keep your sharp tongue between your teeth,
Iwan ap Madoc.” Gavan stooped and caught Bryn by the collar of his tunic. “Wake up, boy!” he bellowed. He sheathed his sword and slapped Bryn’s beefy face. “Wake now, you lummox!”
Bryn came to his senses with a gasp and a look of shock and disbelief. The old warrior dragged him bodily off the ground and set him on his feet.
“What happened here, boy?” Gavan growled.
Bryn tottered, his hand coming up to his injured eye. “I did nothing, sir,” he mumbled, his head down, his eyes on Gavan’s shoes. “It was but in jest. I meant no harm by it.”
“You meant no harm by
what?”
snapped Branwen. “By the saints, if you sought to do injury to her, I’ll …”
“It was her bracelet,” Bryn burst out. “That was all. I wanted a closer look at her bracelet.”
Asta pulled her face from Iwan’s tunic. “He snatched at my arm,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes with the heel of her hand. “He tried to pull it off my wrist.” She glared at him. “It is all I have to remind me of my father!” she cried. “And you would steal it from me!”
“I only wanted to look at it,” blurted Bryn. “I’d have given it back!”
“Oafish lout!” said Banon. “Lucky you did not try such tricks with me or you’d have lost your fingers!”
“I don’t doubt it,” Iwan said, taking his arm from around Asta’s shoulders. Now there was a tone of
mockery and amusement in his voice. “But the question that intrigues me, friends, is how it came about that Bryn should end this encounter stretching his length on the ground with his meager wits knocked out of him.” He smiled at Asta. “And you not half his size and as slender as river reeds.”
“I was angry,” Asta said. “I struck out at him with a rock in my fist.”
“That was well done, child,” said Gavan. He glared at Bryn. “And you deserved worse, you fool! Get out of my sight before I darken your other eye for you!”
His shoulders slumping, Bryn stumbled away without another word, although Branwen did see him give Asta a bad-tempered look as he went.
“My apologies, maid,” Gavan said to Asta. “The boy means no real harm; but he keeps his brains in his britches, and sitting so often upon them has numbed his wits.” He glanced at the dull metal bracelet that wound around her wrist. “May I see your torque, maiden?”
Asta put her hand behind her back, her face suddenly wary.
“I shall not attempt to take it from you,” Gavan said. “I wish only to look at it. I had not thought of it, but it is of an unusual design—one that I have not seen before.”
Asta’s face cleared and she stepped toward Gavan, her arm held out. “Likely you have not,” she said. “It comes from my homeland and was given to me by my
father when I was but a child.”
Gavan reached out, but Asta pulled her arm away. “Please do not touch it,” she said mildly. “It is a silly thing, I know, but I do not like others to handle it.”
“Indeed, maid, I shall not.”
Branwen had never really paid any attention to Asta’s bracelet, but she leaned in now as Gavan examined it.
The torque was an open loop of tarnished bronze, dented and scored by the years and designed in the form of a triple-twined plait. Its two ends were shaped to resemble the stylized heads of birds that came together, almost beak to beak.
“What birds are those?” asked Branwen.
“They represent the gyrfalcons of Freyja,” said Asta. “They have long been the symbols of my family. They offer us protection from evil.”
“They must have been drowsing when Skur took you,” said Iwan, peering at the torque over her shoulder.
“Perhaps,” Asta said with a smile. “Or perhaps it was foreseen that I should be brought here … for some special reason.”
Branwen looked at her. Could it be so? All that she did seemed bound up with the actions of gods; how unlikely was it that Asta’s fortunes were braided with her own? The Viking maid was brave enough in a pinch, that much was obvious; and slender as she was, she had been strong enough to lay Bryn out
with a single blow. Perhaps when time allowed she would give Asta some lessons with the sword, and learn whether a warrior’s spirit lurked behind those gentle blue eyes.
Footsteps came pounding toward them, along with rasping breath. Bryn burst through the branches. “My lord Gavan!” he gasped. “It is Alwyn! She is gone!”
“How did it happen?” roared Gavan, his face thunderous. “Was she not being watched?”
“Only the half Saxon and the demon-thing were there when I returned,” Bryn gasped, meaning Rhodri and Blodwedd.
“She must have taken the opportunity of us all being called away to effect her escape,” said Iwan. “But she cannot have gone far. We should spread out. She will be heading east, I fancy—back into her lover’s waiting arms!”
Gavan flung a deadly look at Iwan, clearly stung by the casual mention of his daughter’s feelings for Redwuld Grammod.
“She should be hobbled about the ankles with strong ropes when we find her,” said Banon. “It is a wayward and an obstinate child you have there, my lord Gavan.”
They ran through the trees, gradually fanning out along the hillside, heading back into the perilous east.
Branwen darted between the drooping willow branches, angry with herself for not having thought
to tell someone to stay with Gavan’s daughter when they had all run to Asta’s aid. She had assumed they were under attack—but that was no excuse. A good leader must give thought to all possibilities. Perhaps Gavan was right: she was overconfident in her abilities, and she was making mistakes.
Sad that things were not different—sad that she and Gavan could not work together, and that she could not learn more from him.
She heard Alwyn before she saw her.
“You’re hurting me, you filthy sow! Take your hands off me!”
“I’ll hurt you a deal more if you struggle! By the saints, I’ve a mind to take out my sword and beat you black and blue with the flat of the blade!”
Branwen slowed to a walk. The second voice belonged to Dera.
She came upon them within a few steps. Alwyn was on her knees, with Dera standing behind her. Dera had hold of Alwyn’s arm and was twisting it against the shoulder joint so that Alwyn could not rise or pull herself free.
“See what woodland pooka I have snared!” said Dera as she caught sight of Branwen. “Running pell-mell to keep tryst with Redwuld Grammod, I deem!”
Alwyn writhed, letting out a scream as Dera twisted her arm more fiercely.
“Be still, woman!” said Dera. “I’ll take off your
arm at the shoulder ere you’ll get free of me!” She glowered at Branwen. “If not for the sake of her father’s renown, I’d suggest we rid ourselves of this burden once and for all. But say the word, Branwen, and I’ll snap her neck!”
Angry as she was, Branwen knew Dera’s threats were only meant to subdue her captive. Dera was of too noble a spirit to kill a helpless captive—even one so aggravating as Alwyn.
Branwen came down on her haunches, reaching out and lifting Alwyn’s furious face by the chin. “What ails you, Alwyn?” she asked quite calmly. “Are you sick in the head? Does it mean nothing to you that your father has come all this way just to bring you home? Do you care so little for him that you’d spit in his face?”
“What do you know of it?” snarled Alwyn. “He was no father to me. Always away at the wars—never at home for more than two nights at a time, and away year after year while spring turned to winter and winter to spring!”
“Not through choice,” said Branwen. “He was needed to defend our country. He loves you, Alwyn. Can you not see that?”
“Then he should have been with us when they came!” howled Alwyn, her face burning red. “He should have been at our side when they murdered my mother and bound me and dragged me away behind their horses! He should have
been
there! I shall never
forgive him for that! Never!”
Branwen stood up. She could almost sympathize with the distressed woman. Such a miserable fate as Alwyn had suffered might have crushed the strongest of souls. It seemed that the rescue of Gavan’s daughter was only the first step in bringing Alwyn safe and whole back to her home. Branwen sighed and turned away. The old warrior had heartache in plenty ahead of him.
Branwen and Dera returned to the camp with Gavan’s troublesome daughter to find that a good thing had happened in their absence. Banon was at the riverside with Asta and Rhodri and Blodwedd—and the owl-girl was awake and sitting up in Banon’s arms.
Iwan stood apart from them, his arms folded, gazing into the trees as though Blodwedd’s recovery was of little interest to him; but Branwen remembered his concern when they had found her and was not fooled by his feigned indifference.
Branwen ran down to the river, her heart leaping to see Blodwedd’s great amber eyes open again. She came crashing down in the grass at Blodwedd’s side, snatching her out of Banon’s arms and clasping her tightly.
“I thought I had left you to die,” she gasped, tears running down her cheeks. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
“Gently, gently,” said Rhodri, touching Branwen’s
shoulder. “You’ll break her in two with your gladness!”
“Oh! I’m sorry!” Branwen drew anxiously back. “Have I hurt you?”
Blodwedd smiled. “No, you have not. Did I not tell you that the Saxons would not catch me? Although I will admit that the nature of my escape was not something I had looked to.”
Dera gazed down at her. “How did you prevail against so many?” she asked. “And you without sword, spear, or shred of armor.”
“I did not do it alone,” said Blodwedd. “I had the help of many brothers and many sisters.”
Branwen frowned at her. “What do you mean? Who was it that came to your aid?”
“An army of hundreds,” said Iwan. “An army that answers the riddle of the dark cloud we saw hovering over the Saxon camp as we departed.”
Branwen knew what he was referring to, but it still made no sense to her. An army in the form of a black cloud?
“Owls!” said Rhodri. “Owls by the hundred!”
Branwen’s eyes widened. “Owls?”
“I did not call to them, but still they came,” said Blodwedd, her eyes full of a deep amber luster. “From north, south, east, and west they came, sensing my distress, flooding the skies above the Great Hall like the waters of a mighty deluge. With wing, beak, and claw they fell upon the Saxons, driving them back,
their glad and fearsome voices lifting high as they came to the place where I was embattled.”
That sound they had heard from across the river—the eerie, high-pitched noise that had set Branwen’s teeth on edge! It had been the screeching of a sky full of owls!
“I was in sore need by then,” Blodwedd continued. “And even in my uttermost peril, I was joyous indeed that my kindred had not forsaken me despite the human form that is now my cage. I had lost count of the Saxon eyes I had put out and the throats I had torn open, but I was badly wounded and surrounded on all sides. But the owls beat back my attackers, and the greatest of them plucked me by the clothes and the hair and the limbs and drew me up into the sky.”
“Wonderful! Wonderful!” gasped Branwen. “Oh! I wish I had seen such a sight! I wish I had
known!”
“I must have fainted then from my injuries,” said Blodwedd. “Because when I woke again I was here, and Rhodri was tending me.” She reached out and took his hand in hers. “My dear friend.”
“And are you able to move yet?” asked Dera. “We would stand around you with a shield wall till doomsday if we must, for the part you have played, but we’d fare better on horseback and riding hard for Powys.”
“I can ride, I believe,” said Blodwedd. She looked at Branwen. “Do you remember what I told you when first we met? I heal swift or not at all.”
“Yes, I remember,” said Branwen. “But you must
be weak still. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” She looked at Rhodri. “Is she fit to travel?”
“We
must
travel, and quickly, too,” said Blodwedd, tightening her fingers around Branwen’s wrist. “I am uneasy in my mind. In my fever I have seen visions and portents that cannot be ignored.” Her eyes became fiery. “The black bird laughs at us, Branwen! I have heard his voice in my mind. He mocks us and speaks sinister words into my ears.”