all this death – it was all so unnecessary.’
Branwen was astonished at this. ‘Meredith, your father betrayed us to the Saxons,’ she said, also keeping her voice low. ‘He made a secret pact with Herewulf Ironfist. He plotted against us all.’
‘You don’t understand,’ said Meredith. ‘My father is not a traitor. He explained it to me. He never intended to keep faith with the Saxon general – he pretended to be his friend in order to lure him to his death. All would have been well if not for your interference at Gwylan Canu. You ruined all my father’s carefully laid plans when you brought down those forest-goblins on to the Saxons. Ironfist escaped my father’s trap, and lived to fight again. I know you meant no harm, but it was your fault – you and those dreadful demons you worship.’
Branwen hardly knew where to start in response to this. The distortions and lies Meredith’s father had been feeding her beggared belief.
‘To begin with, Meredith, I do not worship the Shining Ones,’ Branwen said, keeping her voice calm and low despite her despair at the wrong-headedness of the princess’s allegations. ‘My allegiances have always been to Brython, and everything I do is aimed at keeping the Saxons at bay. I was at Gwylan Canu, Meredith – I saw what happened. I saw Angor bend the knee to Herewulf Ironfist. I saw the men of Gwylan Canu led off to death in the east. I saw the slaughter and the triumph of the Saxons.’ Her eyes narrowed as the memories ignited in her mind. ‘And I was there to witness their downfall and defeat at the hands of those so-called “dreadful demons”. Strange and unknowable the Shining Ones may be, Meredith, but they are part of our homeland and they work only to protect it – and us.’
‘Poor Branwen,’ sighed Meredith, her tone condescending and sympathetic. ‘I wish there was something I could say to break the old demons’ hold over your mind, but I don’t have the learning or the skill to do that for you.’
Branwen bit down the urge to slap some sense into the girl’s head. The princess of Doeth Palas knew nothing, and the things she did know were entirely false. But what purpose would it serve to try and turn a daughter from her father? Words alone could hardly do it, not when Prince Llew had been whispering his poisoned lies into her ear for all her life.
They rode on in heavy silence for a while, forging their way through the deep snow while the cold bit at their hands and the cruel north wind threw spiteful ice into their eyes. Fain was ahead of them for much of the time, a black dot low in the eastern sky, seeking out landmarks in the white desolation and then returning to Branwen’s shoulder for respite.
After a while, Branwen fetched a hunk of stale bread from her saddlebag and handed it to Meredith. Looking back past the other riders, she was surprised and pleased to see how far away the mountains now seemed. They were making good progress under the circumstances and already the snow lay less deep.
On and on they plodded, the long and weary line of horses and riders. Every now and then they would find themselves in a valley where the snow was too deep to push their way through. Then they would need to make the difficult scramble up the hillsides, their cloaks clawed by gorse, their faces slapped raw by lithe branches. At these times, they detached Linette’s stretcher from the saddle and carried it up between them, fearful that they might slip and fall and cause her more harm. Fortunately, Rhodri’s medicines kept her in a deep sleep, although Branwen was concerned by the bluish tint that coloured her lips.
Then the land would open out and Branwen would look up to see the steadily falling snow turned black against the jaundiced sky, and her eyes would swim and the blood would pound in her head until all she wanted to do was slip from the saddle and curl up in the soft whiteness and fall asleep.
Sleep. That would be good. All work finished, all duties done. A sleep resonant with happy memories of better winters. Yuletide adventures with her father and mother and her brother Geraint. Jaunts into the snows that ended with good food and blazing fires and tales and songs and laughter in the Great Hall of Garth Milain.
‘Do you