The Emerald Flame (21 page)

B
RANWEN FELT NO
sense of triumph or achievement as she approached the camp in the high forest. She knew that they had done all that they had set out to achieve, but the success of their efforts was overshadowed by the cost; and as for Gavan, she feared that the rescue of his beloved daughter would bring him a deeper heartache than he could ever have imagined.

As they drew near to the camp, Branwen, Dera, and Iwan could hear the young woman’s raised voice piercing the night.

“Take me back! I demand you take me back! Redwuld will flay you alive for this insult! You will not escape his vengeance, no matter where you flee! His wrath will come down on you like the hammer of Thunaer! Take your hands off me!”

“Alwyn is awake then,” said Branwen.

“And in fine voice!” added Iwan. “We’d best find a way to quieten her; they’ll hear that racket all the way back in Chester, else!”

“It seems her father has little control over her,” said Dera. “This could prove a greater burden than we may have thought!”

“A cuckoo in the nest,” Branwen wondered aloud. “Let’s hope it’s not so.”

An uncomfortable scene met their eyes as they passed in under the trees and came to the small camp. Linette, Aberfa, and Banon were gathered together to one side, Asta sitting on the ground at their feet. Andras and Padrig and Dillon were standing apart from them, the horses tethered at their backs. Between the two groups stood Bryn, gripping Alwyn’s upper arms from behind, holding her back while she shouted and raved into her father’s face.

Rhodri stepped out from among the horses as Branwen’s small band came into the camp, his puzzled eyes questing for the friend who was not with them.

“You are sick in your mind, my child,” Gavan said gently. Branwen had never heard his voice so kindly or so distressed.

“I am not your child!” stormed Alwyn.

Gavan’s head lowered in sorrow. “No, you are not. Forgive me.” He looked again into her flushed, angry face. “But you are my daughter, though you have become a woman since last I saw you. And as
your father, I tell you that your wits have become distracted, Alwyn. Cease this foolishness—you are free now. Free to go home.”

“Home?” spat the enraged young woman. “What home is that? The rat holes of Brython—is that where you’d take me?” Her eyes blazed. “I have lived in a king’s hall, I have dined off gold plates, I have worn silk! And what do you offer me? A reed-strewn floor where the mountain rats gobble their food among the dogs and the vermin! I will not go with you to live like a swine in the muck!”

The faces of the onlookers showed confusion and discomfort—and also a growing dislike for the young woman. But no one spoke as Gavan gazed unhappily into her face.

Branwen had no time for these hysterics. She stalked across the clearing and confronted the disheveled woman. “Listen well, Alwyn ap Gavan,” she said. “I do not care why you abuse your father so, but know this: you
will
return with him to Brython—even though you travel slung over the saddle with a gag to your mouth and your arms and legs tied! Whatever seductions have turned you from your own people, forget them! Your life among the Saxons is ended.”

A cold smile slithered over Alwyn’s face. “Is it?” she said, her voice calm now but filled with pride and spite. “I think Redwuld, son of Herewulf Ironfist, will have something to say on that matter.” Her chin lifted. “You think I am no more than a servant to him? I am
very much more. He has proposed marriage, and I have accepted. Once this war is done and you people are crushed forever, we will return to my lord King Oswald’s palace in the North, and we shall be wed!” She looked venomously at Gavan. “Now what do you think of your chances of bearing me away? Redwuld will send an army to bring me back safely.” She stared around at the others. “All of you will die for this act! Redwuld’s anger will descend upon you like …”

“Oh! For the love of Saint Dewi, Saint Cynwal, and Saint Cadog, be silent!” Iwan burst out. “Must we listen to this demented banshee till doomsday? Gavan ap Huw, you are her father—gag her for pity’s sake! Do we not have enough to bear without the witless braying of this deluded fool?”

Gavan looked sternly at his daughter. “Alwyn, I hold more love for you than for life itself, but you must reconcile yourself to what has happened.” She opened her mouth, but he lifted a hand to quieten her. “Be silent, daughter, or I
will
have you gagged.”

Alwyn fell into a glowering silence, one hand moving up to pull a draggling lock of her wrecked hair off her face. A jeweled pin dropped into the grass.

“And as for any thoughts you may have had of marrying Ironfist’s son, forget them,” added Iwan. “Are you truly so addled in your mind that you think a great thain of the Saxons would let his eldest son marry a servant woman? You have been duped, madam! You have been a plaything to Redwuld,
and nothing more.”

Alwyn’s eyes narrowed in hate, but she turned away from him without making any retort.

Rhodri came up to Branwen, his face worried. “Where is Blodwedd?” he asked.

Iwan looked compassionately at Rhodri. “We had to leave her,” he said gently, before Branwen had the chance to speak. His eyes flickered toward her for an instant. “It was no one’s fault.”

Rhodri’s forehead contracted, his eyes on Branwen. “You
left
her?” There was disbelief in his voice. “You left her in Ironfist’s camp?”

“We had no other choice,” said Dera. “I know you had affection for her.”

Rhodri’s face drained of color. “She is dead?” he breathed.

Branwen swallowed, finding it hard to hold his distressed gaze. “Yes, I think so.”

Rhodri looked from one to the other of the three. “Did any of you see her die?”

“No,” said Iwan. “But she was in Ironfist’s hall—surrounded by hundreds—and she gave up her mystical stone for Gavan’s daughter.” He frowned, sympathy for Rhodri deepening in his voice. “She could not have escaped.”

“But you did not actually see her killed?” asked Rhodri.

“We did not,” said Dera.

“Then she is alive,” said Rhodri. “I would know
if she had died.” His eyes burned into Branwen’s. “I would know!” He turned and walked toward where the others were preparing the horses.

Branwen had the urge to chase after him, to catch his arm and to beg him to forgive her. But she dared not. She could not let the others see her weeping in Rhodri’s arms. She would have to endure the guilt and the loss on her own.

Fain suddenly appeared, floating out of the trees on stilled wings and coming to rest on Branwen’s shoulder. Caressing his feathers, she looked up into the sky. Clouds veiled the moon and hid the stars. “The night is not half gone, and we could all do with rest,” she said. “But we cannot stay here. Alwyn ap Gavan is correct in one thing: we will be pursued—but not for her rescue. Rather, for this!” She held up the casket for all to see. “This is the prison where Caradoc of the North Wind is held. We have done as Merion of the Stones asked—and now we must hasten to return to her. We will ride through the night.” She looked at Gavan. “Shall you ride with us now?”

“We shall,” he replied. “For the moment.”

Branwen nodded. “There will be no sleep now, till we are back in Brython. Make everything ready; we leave at once!”

It was a subdued and uneasy group that rode out of the western fringes of the forest in the deep watches of the night and made their way back toward Cyffin Tir.

They were all aware now that Blodwedd had been sacrificed so that the oak wood chest could be brought safely away from Ironfist’s camp. Gavan’s lads seemed indifferent to the loss—or maybe even a little relieved to be rid of the inhuman thing. Of all the girls of Gwylan Canu, Banon seemed the most upset; and Branwen saw tears in her eyes as she rode tandem with Aberfa. She and Blodwedd had bonded in the hunt, and Banon took the loss of her new friend hard.

Rhodri rode silent and a little aloof from the others, keeping to the rear of the column, constantly looking back, as though he was convinced that at any moment Blodwedd would appear in their wake.

Iwan and Linette rode together again, although this time Branwen was hardly even aware of it, save for the constant whisper of words between them. Alwyn rode with her father, seated behind him, his cloak over her shoulders, her features crabbed and hostile. Dera was astride Skur’s great destrier with Asta clinging on behind. The dead Viking’s huge battle-ax hung from a harness on the saddle—the spoils of a victory less costly than that which had won them the casket that was now strapped to Branwen’s saddle.

A great pity that Alwyn has not taken to our forced company as Asta has,
Branwen thought, one hand rising to her shoulder, her fingers gently stroking Fain’s chest feathers.
Soon I shall need to speak with Gavan ap Huw and learn his purposes now that his errand in Mercia is fulfilled. Our ways will part, I think; and we’ll all be glad
of that, I have no doubt. I shall call a halt soon, come the dawn—a brief rest will do us all good; and once the sun has risen Fain can patrol the skies at our backs and warn us of any pursuit.

The clouds slid away as they rode, and now the night sky was full of stars. The crescent moon hung low over the murmurous dark smear of a wind-ruffled forest. There was the trill of running water from somewhere nearby, a lively counterpart to the steady thud of hooves and the creak and jangle of harnesses.

Branwen was drowsing a little in the saddle, her head nodding every now and then. Fatigue was getting the best of her. She felt hollowed out, drained both physically and emotionally. The rippling of the water was almost like a melody in her weary mind. Like the song of the goraig … seeping gently into her head.

The cuckoo … yes … I will be wary of Alwyn … but what harm can she do to us…. She is her father’s burden, not mine!

The hollow, eerie hooting of an owl brought Branwen to her senses. It had come from the rear, floating like a melancholy moan on the dark air.

“Blodwedd?” It was Rhodri’s voice, calling out into the night.

Alert now, Branwen turned in the saddle. Rhodri’s horse had stopped, and he was twisted around, looking back the way they had come.

The rest of the band halted as well.

“She will not come,” called Dera. “It is but an eagle owl waking in the forest.”

“She is there!” shouted Rhodri, sliding down from the saddle and running helter-skelter through the tall grass. “I know she is!”

Iwan snorted. “Our runaway is moonstruck if he truly believes that was Blodwedd! Shall I fetch him back, Branwen?”

“No. I’ll do it.” Branwen tugged the reins, turning Stalwyn around. Fain flew from her shoulder and found a nearby branch. She set Stalwyn at the trot, passing the other riders. Rhodri was running like a mad thing, calling all the time.

“Blodwedd! Blodwedd!”

Branwen urged Stalwyn into a canter.

Rhodri had vanished into a grove of aspens. Branwen brought Stalwyn up short, jumped from the saddle, and ran after Rhodri into the deep darkness under the trees.

“Rhodri?”

There was no sign of him, nor any sound of footsteps under the trees. Branwen walked slowly forward, listening intently, trying to make sense of the deep darkness. Something glinted—ahead of her and high above the ground. Two disks of pale light that stared unblinkingly down at her.

She met the stare and moved toward it.

An owl sat on a high branch, veiled by leaves, staring down at her.

She swallowed, strangely disturbed by the silent creature.

Blodwedd’s ghost—come to haunt her?

By the saints, I pray it is not so, though I deserve no better from her!

More eyes ignited in the darkness. With a shiver of apprehension, Branwen realized that there were owls all around her, perched in the trees, watching her, their heads turning slowly as she passed, their eyes shining eerily.

They mean to kill me. For vengeance!

Then she heard a whispering voice.

Rhodri’s voice, chanting softly.

There was a pause—a yawning silence—and then Rhodri’s voice again, trembling, speaking quietly.

“Blodwedd? I have you. All is well. I have you now.”

Shaking in every limb and with a hooked claw clenching in her belly, Branwen moved deeper into the trees. She saw Rhodri kneeling on the ground with his bent back to her. A pale, slender shape lay in front of him.

Her throat as tight and painful as knotted twine, Branwen circled Rhodri, her heart thumping.

Blodwedd lay on her back, bleeding from many cuts, her dress torn to tatters, her huge eyes closed. For a moment Branwen was certain that she was dead, but then she saw the faint flutter of her chest.

She knelt, aware of a score or more round eyes watching her from above. Judging her. Condemning her.

Rhodri was running his blood-wet hands over Blodwedd’s frail body, chanting softly under his breath, tears running from his eyes. He seemed unaware that Branwen was even there.

She did not speak.

She
could
not speak.

What was there to say?

Branwen knelt listening for a long while to Rhodri’s whispered charms, then, at last, she reached out and touched her fingertips to the back of his hand.

He started, lifting his head to look into her face.

“She is hurt almost to the death,” he murmured. “But I will save her. By the healing powers of Frigé, she will not die!”

“How did she get here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did she follow … on foot … all this way … hurt as she is …?”

Rhodri didn’t reply, but his hand turned under Branwen’s, and he gripped her fingers tightly. “I shall not let her die,” he said, a fierce light in his eyes.