Caradoc of the North Wind (21 page)

‘Yes, it is,’ she replied grimly. ‘Because you want to conquer and to kill, and I want only to protect what is mine.’

‘Is that so?’ said Ironfist. ‘To protect what is
yours
, is it? Do you think your family ruled in Cyffin Tir since the world was formed, Branwen? No, they did not. Before your father’s family came, your homeland was governed by the Romans. And before the Romans came, there were other peoples. And before them, yet other folk, who had in their turn conquered and killed those that came before them, and so on and so on through to the dawn of time when the first man set foot upon the soil that is now called the kingdom of Powys and claimed it for his own.’

Branwen stared at him.

‘The tides of man are a constant swirl,’ said Ironfist. ‘Powers come and powers go as fortunes and destinies ebb and flow.’ He rested his hand on his chest. ‘At this time, in this season of man, it is we Saxons who are in the ascendancy, Branwen. It is the natural order of things.’ His eye glowed with fervour. ‘And as the Saxon armies move, so their gods move with them. And thus are the destinies of the gods themselves in constant flux. Our gods grow more powerful, and the gods of Brython diminish. The great Lord Ragnar is a mighty and a benevolent god, Branwen. He will love you if you put your faith in him. He will show you a better destiny – a truer destiny.’ He spread his arms wide, his head tilting upwards. ‘And you will be loved, Branwen. I promise you this – in my world, the followers of the Old Powers are loved and revered and honoured. If you choose, you will be a priestess of the Old Ways, and your life will be filled with purpose and meaning and a greater destiny than the Shining Ones of Brython could ever imagine.’

She stared at him in shock. Now she understood the point of his soft and persuasive words. He wanted her to turn her back on the Shining Ones and offer herself to Ragnar, hellion of the Saxons, blood-letter and reaver.

‘You’d have me put my trust in Ragnar?’ she asked incredulously. ‘A petty god I saw fly beaten and wailing from Merion of the Stones and Caradoc of the North Wind? I should betray all that I hold dear to sit at the feet of one such as he, feeble and weak as he is?’

There was no trace of anger or impatience in Ironfist as he responded. ‘Ragnar is neither weak nor feeble, Branwen,’ he said. ‘His power is waxing as the powers of the Shining Ones diminish. Come, join with me – with us – use your strength and your wits to a better purpose. What would you rather have, Branwen? Your old life among people who detest and dread you, or a new life of joy and fulfilment with people who will honour and adore you?’

He smiled encouragingly. ‘I don’t expect you to change allegiances all in a moment. I will leave you now. Think over what I have said.’ He looked around the filthy cell. ‘This is no place for one such as you, Branwen. This terrible hole! Had I known you were being kept in such circumstances, I would have done something about it. Forgive me, other duties have detained me. But later is better than never. Give me but a few moments and I shall send servants to you, so that you be washed and fed and found finer accommodation.’ He turned and thumped on the door with his fist. ‘Be the shaman girl of the waelisc no more, Branwen – be all that you can be! Be a priestess of Ragnar!’

‘The gown suits you, my lady. You have a fine strong shape, and the material hangs very well upon you, do you not think?’

Branwen stared emptily at the elderly servant woman, unable to come up with a response. She was some distance away from being able to think clearly about anything at all, never mind how clothes looked on her.

Enough time passed after her outlandish encounter with Ironfist for her to feel certain that the whole thing had been set up to confound her and to amuse him. But then her prison door had opened and servants had bustled in and she had been led out and taken to a room above ground. There she had been bathed and fed and had the tangles combed out of her hair and the grime pared from beneath her fingernails. Sweet-smelling oils were rubbed on her body and fine garments laid out for her to put on.

She allowed herself to be dressed in a kind of daze, as a puzzled child might. The gown was of a fine, slinky material she had never encountered before, the flowing skirts coloured brown while the close-fitting bodice was covered in silvery embroidery, trimmed with gold thread. The gown was gathered at the waist by a belt of supple leather, etched with intertwining Saxon designs and held at the front with a golden clasp of intricate workmanship.

And as if to make her confusion complete, attached to the belt was her golden comb, and her pouch of flint and tinder – and even her slingshot with its accompanying leather poke filled with small rounded stones.

‘General Herewulf has told us that you do not like to have your hair braided or styled,’ said another of the servant women, standing in front of Branwen and using her fingers to arrange Branwen’s long dark hair over her shoulders. ‘Is that so, my lady?’

Branwen gazed absently at her and nodded.

‘Then you are quite ready!’ said the first woman.

Branwen blinked at her. ‘Ready for what?’

‘Why, for the feast, of course, my lady. For the great feast in your honour!’

Branwen had been in the Great Hall of General Ironfist once before – but in very different circumstances. That time she had crept along the high walls, cloaked in the invisibility of Merion’s magical stones, seeking Gavan’s daughter as the revelries of her enemies went on around her.

Now she found herself seated at a long table at Ironfist’s side, surrounded by cheering and howling Saxon warriors and with a dish piled high with food in front of her and an overflowing wine cup in her fist.

It was as if the world had turned upside down between sunrise and evening. She could not have been more stupefied by events if she had walked from her prison cell to find the sky turned green and the long winter changed to burning midsummer!

As she gazed amazed around the high, crowded chamber with its long tables filled with Saxons and its walls hung with enemy flags and banners, she was aware of a chant rising around her. She frowned, not understanding at first what was being said. Then her own name leaped out at her.

‘
Branwen aefter Ragnar! Branwen aefter Ragnar! Branwen aefter Ragnar!
’

The chant grew louder and louder, the warriors now beating on the hollow tables with knives and fists and cups and even with their wooden platters.

‘
Branwen aefter Ragnar!
’

The repeated words echoed to the rafters, ringing in Branwen’s ears.

She turned to Ironfist, and saw that he too was pounding his fist on the table and calling out along with all the others.

‘What does it mean?’ she shouted over the noise. ‘What are you saying?’

Ironfist grinned at her, his face glowing from drink, but his eye still sharp and cunning. ‘They are calling out a hope for the future,’ he said, leaning close so she could hear him over the racket.

‘What hope?’ demanded Branwen.

‘The hope that you will become a priestess of Ragnar,’ Ironfist declared. He made a sweeping gesture of his arm around the room. ‘See, Branwen? See what can be yours if you turn away from those that hate you and join with us at Ragnar’s table? See what delights will be yours for the taking? What honour? What glory?’ He leaned closer to speak into her ear. ‘Let me tell you of the future that is coming, Branwen. The snows are all but gone, and all talking is done. Within a few days I shall lead my army into the west. We are a mighty force. We will take Pengwern, and King Cynon will be slain. Then Prince Llew of Doeth Palas will kneel to me and all of Powys will be mine. And with Powys in my grasp, it will only be a matter of time before I hold all the Four Kingdoms in the palm of my hand. You can be part of that, Branwen. Say but the word, and all past enmities between us will be forgotten and forgiven and you will ride at my side as my most trusted captain.’

She stared at him, nonplussed, bereft of hope, feeling herself standing at the brink of some dreadful precipice. ‘What word would you have me say?’

He smiled. ‘It is as they say –
Branwen aefter Ragnar
– Branwen for Ragnar.’

‘And what of my friends? What of my mother?’

‘You have my word that you will be reunited with the Gwyn Braw, and that they shall not be harmed.’ He nodded enthusiastically, as if all the wine he had quaffed was getting the better of him. ‘Indeed, if they agree to remain under your command, they shall keep their weapons and ride with us to victory. And your mother shall be allowed to dwell in rebuilt Garth Milain in honour and peace.’ He thumped his chest, spilling wine. ‘My oath upon it!’

‘And all this shall come to pass if I turn from the Shining Ones and pledge myself to Ragnar?’ Branwen asked. ‘I’ll be revenged on those who hate me, and I will be revered among the Saxons?’

‘Oh, but you will, Branwen,’ said Ironfist.

She looked closely at him. ‘And I have your
oath
on this?’

‘You do!’ She saw his eye shining now, as though he knew his triumph was close.

‘And if I refuse?’ she asked.

He frowned. ‘Do not refuse,’ he said. ‘Be true to yourself, Branwen – do not turn from this new life I am offering you.’

She leaned back in the chair, her forehead creasing, her eyes roving over the revelling Saxons that hemmed her in on all sides. She had a very clear vision of the options that lay in front of her. To do as Ironfist asked and to live, or to deny him and probably die.

And who in Powys would care if she died? Not the king, for sure – and certainly not Prince Llew. Not Dagonet ap Wadu, nor any other of the soldiers of Powys. They would be glad to be rid of her. The Gwyn Braw would mourn of course, and Dera would never forgive herself for having led Branwen to this end. But what would it matter? Ironfist’s army would still sweep over Powys – the Gwyn Braw would most likely die in the defence of Pengwern. Garth Milain would fall and her mother’s grief would be brought to a swift and sharp end.

And if she agreed to become a priestess of Ragnar? What then?

The Shining Ones did not deserve her loyalty – they had shown precious little of that to her in her time of great need. They had discarded her, after all the things she had done for them. They had left her to rot in a Saxon prison.

She saw Blodwedd’s face in her mind – rounded, huge-eyed, framed by the feathery fall of tawny hair. The amber eyes pierced her and she heard the owl-girl’s voice quite clearly in her head over the cacophony of the Saxon feasters.

‘
Do not do this thing, Branwen. Remain true to your homeland. Remain true to your heart
.’

Yes, that was the one thing she could cling to in all her misery and despair and loss. The true voice of her own heart.

The heart of a warrior maiden. The heart of a child of Powys. The heart of the proud daughter of Griffith ap Rhys and Alis ap Owain.

Branwen turned her head to look at Ironfist. There was greed in his face, and a hint of the victory that he seemed certain would be his.

‘Do I have your oath on all that you have told me?’ she asked. ‘Your deathless oath, General Ironfist?’

‘You do!’

She laughed then, throwing her head back. ‘Then I understand fully the value of all these things you offer, Saxon!’ she shouted, her eyes flashing hatred at him. ‘They are as worthless as your word, faithless and vile lord of a brutal and merciless people!’ She sprang up, seething with anger. ‘Do as you will, you filth! I’ll never turn away from the land of my birth! I’ll never worship Ragnar!’

Ironfist surged up out of his chair, his face contorted by frustrated anger, his hand rising, a metal goblet in his fist.

She laughed in his fuming face. ‘So now your true aspect is revealed once more, Saxon cur!’ she shouted. ‘That is good – your pretences of civility sickened me to my stomach!’ She spat at him. ‘Know this – I would gladly die a thousand deaths before I betrayed Brython.’

‘Then die you shall, shaman of the waelisc!’ Ironfist bawled. ‘Die and be damned!’

He brought the heavy cup down with vicious strength against her skull. White agony exploded in her head and Branwen fell forward into oblivion.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T
o awake at all was something of a surprise to Branwen. She had expected to die, her head hammered to a pulp by Ironfist in his thwarted rage – her life snuffed out in a few frenzied moments. But she was alive – the agony that pulsed in her head was proof enough of that, not to mention the cold stone floor under her and the hideously familiar stench in her nostrils.

She lay still for a few moments, gathering herself. Then she sat up and saw that she was back in her cell and that her grand clothes had been torn off her and the filthy, ragged shift thrown over her body once more.

She shivered, pulling her furs around herself as she sat there in the dim light. It was day. The day following the feast, she assumed.

Despite her wretchedness, a steady, clear flame burned deep within her. Not hope – nothing
like
hope – but resolve and determination. She had thrown Ironfist’s temptations back in his face. No matter what was to come, she had bested him, and that small victory tasted sweet in all the sour debris of her life