Caradoc of the North Wind (16 page)

After a while, she carried on speaking, in a voice little above a whisper. ‘Sometimes when he smiles at me, I feel … oh, I don’t know how to describe how I feel … powerful … vulnerable … strong and weak all at once.’ She turned to look once more at her friend. ‘Love is such … a …’

The words died in her throat. She took a faltering step towards her still and silent friend.

‘… Linette … ?’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I
   must find Rhodri. He will know what to do. He will make her better
.

Branwen ran like a mad thing through the wet snow, her feet slithering under her, the air like arrows cutting into her lungs. A wild panic had hold of her. Something had happened that was not possible. She must have misunderstood. She was no healer. She knew nothing of such things.

She must fetch Rhodri!

Branwen broke in through the closed doorway to their long house, panting, her heart hammering, her head swimming.

Rhodri and Blodwedd were there with the others, sitting around the fire-pit, talking and laughing a little. Not knowing. Not even imagining the horror.

Branwen stumbled to a halt, swaying, dizzy, unable to speak.

‘What is it?’ asked Iwan, jumping up before any of the others had moved. ‘What’s happened?’

Branwen tried to gather the wounded remnants of herself. ‘Linette,’ she gasped, gesturing back the way she had come.

Rhodri was on his feet in an instant and out through the doorway in a breath, Blodwedd bounding along behind him, her hair flying.

The others rushed past Branwen, fear and anguish in their faces. Only Iwan stayed with her, his hands on her arms, his face agonized as he looked into her eyes.

‘Is she dead?’ he asked, his voice cracking.

‘No, she cannot be …’ She struggled weakly to get away from him, refusing to look at him. ‘She cannot be!’

His hands gripped her upper arms. ‘Branwen? Be still, now. Is she dead?’

Branwen hung between his hands, all strength, all faith, all hope gone from her.

‘Yes,’ she choked. ‘The Shining Ones let her die!’

The small hut was a place of horror and grief and despair. Rhodri was crumpled at Linette’s side, weeping as he desperately spoke his healing rhymes over her in a broken whisper, his two hands holding hers, pressing her flesh and kneading it as though to force life back into her unmoving body.

Blodwedd stood behind him, silent as a stone, staring into Linette’s white face with wide, uncomprehending eyes.

Aberfa knelt at the dead girl’s head, stroking her hair, her face constricted with grief, her lips a tight, thin line.

Dera and Banon stared on in devastated silence, tears spilling over their cheeks.

Branwen stood in the doorway, stupefied with disbelief, hardly able to draw breath, while white flames danced around the rim of sight. Iwan was silent at her side, one arm circling her shoulders, taking her weight as she leaned against him, the world pitching and spinning around her.

The grievous scene floated like a nightmare in front of Branwen’s eyes. Her friends had turned to stone before her, their tears condensed on their cheeks into hard, sharp diamonds. She felt as though she was falling. Falling and falling and falling. Mouths opened and closed all around her – black mouths opening into nothing. Into Annwn. The faces of her companions melted into hideous shapes. Sickness heaved through her. Her bones were water, her blood was ice.

Rhodri looked up, his face contorted with remorse and wretchedness. ‘She’s gone,’ he said. ‘I can do nothing.’

Banon let out a choking cry. Aberfa’s tears dripped into Linette’s hair.

‘But she is so small,’ Aberfa groaned, staring up at Branwen as though expecting her to be able to do something to change the harshness of the world. ‘So delicate. Look – look. See how fine her skin is.’ She traced fingertips over Linette’s temples. ‘How can she be dead?’

Dera turned towards Branwen, her face stiff with anger and pain. ‘We are alone,’ she said. ‘This is proof. The Shining Ones have deserted us.’

‘No!’ Blodwedd’s voice was strangely shrill. ‘They would never do that.’

Branwen stared at her, shaking uncontrollably, trying not to hate this messenger of the Old Gods – the Old Gods who had turned their backs on her and let Linette die. ‘They have … abandoned me …’ she croaked. ‘They have … failed … me …’

‘No!’ shouted Blodwedd. ‘It is
you
who failed
them
. You brought us here – you turned away from the true path—’

‘Blodwedd! Enough!’ cried Rhodri.

Branwen stared again into Linette’s poor dead face. An unquenchable anger boiled up in her. Flames roared behind her eyes. Black clouds filled her brain.

She turned, wrenching herself out of Iwan’s grip and running from the hut.

She knew whose fault this was! She knew who to blame.

She began to run pell-mell through Pengwern, racing up the gentle incline towards the two Great Halls, drawing her sword as she ran, red rage clouding her vision.

A guard stepped across the closed doors of the Hall of Araith, his spear raised in warning.

‘None may pass!’ he said.

But he was not prepared for the fury that struck him. Branwen brought the hilt of her sword up in a hard blow at the side of his head, grabbing his tunic and dragging him aside even as he fell. She pulled the doors open, snatching a torch from its sconce in the wall.

A moment later and she was in the long, narrow chamber, only vaguely aware of the cries of the guard at her back. ‘Alarm! Madness has taken the witch girl! The king is in danger! Alarm!’

Branwen saw a servant sleeping under a blanket on the floor. She caught the startled woman by the arm and dragged her to her feet. ‘Which is the princesses’ room?’ she spat into the terrified woman’s face. ‘Where do they sleep?’

The woman pointed a shaking arm at a door in the side wall of the chamber. Branwen released her and she fell to the ground with a cry.

Bearing the sputtering torch high in her fist, Branwen kicked the door open.

It was a small room, no larger than allowed space for two mattresses and a chest.

‘Romney!’ Branwen shouted, standing quivering at the foot of the two low beds. ‘Romney! Wake up!’

The two curled forms stirred under the covers. Meredith lifted herself up, staring at Branwen with sleepy, frightened eyes.

‘Oh, saints preserve us, what has happened?’ she gasped.

‘Linette ap Cledwyn is dead!’ Branwen raged, stooping and using the point of her sword to rip the covers from the other bed. Romney huddled up in her linen shift, torn out of her sleep and utterly bewildered.

‘Do you care?’ shouted Branwen, stooping over the girl, holding the torch close to light up the drowsy, terrified face. ‘Do you care at all that someone died because they were good and noble enough to wish to save your miserable life?’

‘Merrie! Help me!’ wailed the small girl, kicking with her feet as she tried vainly to get away from Branwen’s wrath.

‘Branwen, don’t hurt her,’ pleaded Meredith, clambering across to Romney’s bed and gathering her sister up in her arms.

‘Branwen, by the saints,
stop
!’ called a voice at her back. Iwan’s voice. His hand caught her sword arm by the wrist, dragging it down. ‘What are you doing here, Branwen? What madness is this?’

‘Linette died because of her!’ Branwen spat. ‘She died to save a selfish, spiteful, mean-spirited child! I want Romney to know what that means! I want her to feel the pain of it!’

‘On the point of a sword?’ cried Iwan, still trying to pull Branwen back.

Branwen twisted to stare at him. Then she gazed down at the blade as it gleamed in the torchlight. The sight of it suddenly horrified and sickened her. Had she been so consumed and blinded with anger that she could have used the sword on a defenceless child?

‘No!’ she gasped, half speaking to Iwan, half to herself. ‘Of course not!’

‘What is this turmoil?’ It was one of the king’s warriors, newly arisen from bed, it seemed, a cloak thrown over his shoulders, a sword bare in his fist.

‘It is nothing!’ said Iwan, wresting the sword from Branwen’s fingers and slipping it into his belt. ‘It is over. Let us pass.’

‘By the saints, I’ll not!’ roared the warrior. ‘Not till I know more of this treachery!’

‘It is no treachery, my lord,’ called Dera from beyond the doorway. ‘Grief had got the better of our leader, and she acted without thought. One of our number has died this eve. Let us look to Branwen ap Griffith. We will take her from here and keep her safe till the fury of her grief is past.’

More warriors had gathered now, staring in at Branwen, their eyes and weapons glittering.

Voices murmured.

‘The shaman girl has been taken by madness!’

‘This was long in the coming – did I not say so?’

‘More deadly than the Saxons, she has always been!’

‘Take her! We’ll see justice done on her at last!’

‘Upon my father’s honour, put up your swords, my lords!’ Dera shouted. ‘Do not stop us from leaving, or blood will be spilled to no purpose! Iwan, come! Branwen, let’s away from here before every warrior in Pengwern falls upon us!’

Shivering and broken, Branwen allowed herself to be led by Iwan out of the princesses’ bedchamber and away through the gathered warriors. She felt their hatred beating on her as she passed among them in the protective circle of Iwan’s arm.

‘Take me to my death,’ she mumbled in Iwan’s ear as she stumbled along beside him. ‘I cannot bear this! For pity’s sake, let it be done.’

‘Eat something, Branwen. You must eat.’

Branwen looked up with hollow, aching eyes to where Banon stood over her.

She had no true idea of how long she had been sitting at Linette’s side, but she was aware that a faint light was growing beyond the door. Dawn already?

This was not the first time Branwen had sat benumbed at the side of the dead body of someone she loved. She’d had good practice at this over the past year!

Who had been the first? Geraint, her brother, of course. Slain by a Saxon rider at Bevan’s farm while she stood trembling at the forest’s eaves and did nothing to help him. And her dear father, cut down from his horse at the gates of Garth Milain and hurt to the death because she had chosen to go to the aid of her mother. And she could never forget Gavan ap Huw, staunch warrior of the old wars, defender of kings, Cadwallon’s standard-bearer, brought to his death by a foolish girl’s pride, fallen in a woodland ambush that could have been so easily avoided.

Yes, the tally of good people at whose side she had mourned grew long – too long by far. And how soon before it would be her body that was laid out cold and lifeless on the ground and some other soul torn asunder by her death? Rhodri, perhaps. He would grieve, yes he would, faithful and loving friend! Or Iwan. What had he said, just a brief time past?
You are a marvel to me, Branwen
. A marvel still, with the worms gorging on her flesh? A marvel, with the ravens pecking at her eyes? A marvel, with so many deaths on her lifeless, skeletal hands?

‘We must give thought to her funeral,’ said Iwan, speaking for the first time since they had returned to the hut.

‘We shall build her a pyre fifteen ells high,’ said Branwen, not looking at him. ‘She shall depart this world among leaping flames.’

‘I don’t think that will be possible,’ said Banon. ‘All cut wood is needed for winter fuel, and fresh-hewn timber will be wet and hard to stack and to burn.’

Branwen sighed. ‘No pyre, then? Does it matter? Shall we toss her from the walls and let the animals of the wild have their fill of her. Would that be honour enough?’

‘There are stones enough in Pengwern to build a cairn,’ said Aberfa. ‘The ground will be hard, but we will be able to dig her a grave. And then over her head we will pile stones to keep her safe from harm.’

Rhodri began to whisper a snatch of an old song.

Dig her grave both wide and deep,

That she shall be disturbed not in her sleep,

And on her breast plant a weeping willow tree,

To show she died for love of thee and of me
…

‘Say rather she died to save a stupid child,’ muttered Branwen darkly.

‘Romney is not to blame,’ Iwan said. ‘She ran the wrong way, that is all. Blind fate did the rest. Blame fate and this cruel winter.’

‘And who brought the cruel winter down on us?’ asked Aberfa.

Branwen glared at her. ‘Caradoc of the North Wind,’ she said, giving voice to the thoughts flooding her mind. ‘One of the Old Gods, whom I so arrogantly defied. If it be his wrath, or his sport, then … the blame rests with me.’

‘I did not mean that,’ Aberfa muttered.

‘You are too quick to apportion blame!’ said Blodwedd, sitting apart from the others by the doorway, staring out into the growing daylight. ‘Is every death then the result of ill judgement or malice? If Branwen ap Griffith chooses unwisely, is the death of every bird that falls from the sky to be laid at her foot? And when man makes war upon man, is Branwen ap Griffith there as each man gasps out his final breath?’ The owl-girl stared at Branwen, her eyes burning golden. ‘Death is not in your hands, Branwen,’ she said solemnly. ‘No more than is life. There are births. There are deaths. The world teems. The world rejoices. The world mourns. It’s none of your doing!’