Caradoc of the North Wind - By Allan Frewin Jones Page 0,10

Dera’s voice, giving orders she knew she should have given herself. ‘Angor ap Pellyn, stand where you are! Any of your men who would seek to use this as a chance to escape will be cut down.’

Branwen crouched at Linette’s side. In her mind she saw again how Romney had run into danger. How Linette had pursued her. How Linette had cried out and dropped to her knees …

‘Will she be able to ride?’ Branwen asked Rhodri. ‘Cêl Crau is not far from here. We can carry her if needs be.’

‘A moment,’ Rhodri said. He looked into Linette’s eyes. ‘I must test the place where you were hit. Say if I give you pain.’

Linette nodded sharply, her eyes narrowed and her lips pressed tight together.

Rhodri slipped his hand inside her cloak.

‘I will be as gentle as I can,’ he said.

She winced as his hand moved over her abdomen. Suddenly, she convulsed, her legs thrashing, her mouth opening in a terrible scream of agony.

Rhodri drew his hands back. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Branwen saw that his face was white, as though Linette’s violent reaction to his gentle probing had cut him to the heart. ‘I will get you something for the pain. I will be as quick as I can.’

‘What do you need?’ asked Blodwedd, poised at his back.

‘In my saddlebag,’ said Rhodri. ‘There is some white willow bark, and some dried flowers of feverfew and skullcap.’

Blodwedd went skittering away through the snow.

Branwen reached for Linette’s hand. ‘All will be well,’ she said, but it disturbed her how her own voice cracked as she spoke. ‘Rhodri will have you up and hale in no time.’

Linette gave a weak smile and squeezed Branwen’s fingers.

Branwen glanced at Rhodri again and was alarmed by the unease in his face. She released Linette’s hand and stood up. Iwan was still at Linette’s side, smiling into her face as he smoothed the hair out of her eyes.

The handsome young prankster of Doeth Palas had always enjoyed the company of pretty little Linette. Sometimes, when they had ridden together talking and laughing so easily, Branwen had envied Linette her sweet good looks and the light-brown tumble of her hair. Memories of such petty jealousies stabbed now at Branwen’s heart.

Banon and Aberfa were close by, their faces concerned. Angor and his four men were a little way off, the two injured men seated in the snow. Dera watched them closely, her hand on her sword hilt. None of the horses strayed. Fain flew watchfully overhead. All was well – or would be, once Rhodri’s herbs and potions worked their magic on Linette.

Above them, the sky was afire with stars, glittering in the cold air. A biting wind came sweeping down the mountain. Branwen narrowed her eyes against its sting.

Rhodri! Work swiftly, my friend. Let’s be off this bleak mountainside soon. Once we have Linette in the cover of Cêl Crau and warmed by a roaring fire, all will be well.

I know it!

The fire crackled and spat, the flames quickly eating up the tangled tracery of gorse branches and bracken. Often in this endless winter, Branwen and her followers had been grateful for the shelter and relative comfort of the cave they called Cêl Crau. They used it as a storage place, a stopping-off point for their forays into the mountains. A hidey-hole from which they could issue, alert and refresh, to battle with Prince Llew’s incursions.

Hidden away deep in the long, winding tunnels of the cave, they kept barrels of dried fish and meat, rye grain to make flat stone-cooked loaves, oats for broth, dry straw for fodder, and a plentiful supply of fresh water. Here they stored captured weapons and garments, the spoils of many successful skirmishes with the rebellious Prince’s soldiery.

Although the entrance was little wider than a doorway, the cavern opened out into a yawning chamber as large as any Great Hall of a Brythonic chieftain. There was easily enough space for their horses, and the dry, sandy floor made for as good a mattress as any they could wish for.

Not that any were sleeping now, save for Linette. While still on the mountain, Rhodri had urged her to swallow a handful of small purple-blue buds, crushed to a mash between two stones. She had fallen into a deep drowse soon afterwards, and Iwan had carried her in his arms all the way to this place, refusing any offer of help.

Now Linette was lying close to the fire on a thick bed of furs, her slim