Drawing himself up, he stepped to the fire-blackened arch, passing through the strange portal and into the unknown.
CHAPTER 28
Stepping through the dark arch, Bran found himself holding his breath as if he were plunging into the sea, or leaping from a wall from which he could not see the ground below. On the other side of the oak arch was a hedge wall through which passed a narrow path. Two quick strides brought him through the hedge and into an enormous glade—a great wide greensward of a valley in the heart of the wood, bounded by a ring of towering trees that formed a stout palisade of solid oak around the mossy-banked clearing.
And there, spread out across the floor of the dell, was a camp with dwellings unlike any Bran had ever seen, made of brushwood and branches, the antlers of stags and hinds, woven grass, bark, bone, and hide. Some were little more than branches bent over a hollow in the ground. Others were more substantial shelters of such weird and fanciful construction that Bran was at once entranced and a little unsettled by the sight. He did not see the people who inhabited these queer dwellings, but having heard him coming a long way off, they saw him.
Moments before Bran emerged from the arch of the hedge wall beyond the shattered oak, women whisked children out of sight, men disappeared behind trees and huts, and the settlement that only moments before had been astir with activity now appeared deserted.
“Is anybody here?” called Bran.
As if awaiting his signal, the menfolk emerged from hiding, some carrying sticks and tools for weapons. Seeing that he was alone, they approached. There were, Bran estimated quickly, perhaps thirty men and older boys, ragged, their clothes patched and worn—like those the farmers gave the stick-men in the fields to frighten the birds.
“Pax vobiscum,” Bran called. When that brought no response, he repeated it in Cymry, “Hedd a dy! ” The men continued advancing. Silent, wary as deer, they closed ranks, dark eyes watching the stranger who had appeared without warning in their midst.
“Sefyll!” called Angharad, taking her place beside Bran.
Her appearance halted the advance.
One of the menfolk returned the greeting. “Hudolion!”
He was joined by others, and suddenly everyone was calling, “Hudoles!” and “Hudolion!”
Ignoring Bran, they hurried to greet the old woman as she scrambled gingerly down the mossy bank into the shallow basin of the glade. The respect and adulation provoked by her appearance impressed Bran. Clearly, she had some place of honour in this rough outcast clan.
“Welcome, hudolion,” called one of the men, advancing through the knot of people gathered around her. Tall and lean, there was something of the wolf about him; he wore a short red cloak folded over his shoulder in the manner of a Roman soldier of old. The others parted to let him through, and as he took his place before the old woman, he touched the back of a grimy hand to his forehead in the ancient sign of submission and salutation.
“Greetings, Siarles,” she said. “Greetings, everyone.” Lifting a hand to Bran, she said, “Do you not recognise Prince Bran ap Brychan when you see him?”
The man called Siarles stepped nearer for a closer look.
He peered into Bran’s face uncertainly, cool grey eyes moving over the young man’s features. He then turned to those behind him. “Call the big ’un,” he commanded, and a slender youth with a downy moustache raced away. “I do not,” Siarles said, turning once more to Bran and Angharad, “but if it is as you say, then he will.”
The youth ran to one of the larger huts and called to someone inside. A moment later, a large, well-muscled man stepped from the low entrance of the hut. As he straightened, Bran saw his face for the first time.
“Iwan?” cried Bran, rushing to meet him.
“Bran? Mary and Joseph in a manger, Bran!” A grin spread across his broad face; his thick moustache twitched with pleasure. Seizing Bran, he gathered him in a crushing embrace.
“Bran ap Brychan,” he said, “I never thought to see you again.”
“If it had not been for Angharad, no one ever would,”
Bran confessed, gazing up into the face of his father’s champion. “By heaven, it is good to see you.”
Iwan raised his hand high and called out in a voice that resounded through the glade. “Hear me, everyone! Before you stands Bran ap Brychan, heir to the throne of Elfael! Make him welcome!”