Caradoc of the North Wind - By Allan Frewin Jones Page 0,18

Blodwedd riding apace with Branwen. Fain flew with them, skimming on the wind above Branwen’s head, shrieking encouragement.

The Saxons were no more than three furlongs away now, and their voices could be heard, carried on the north wind.

‘Wotan! Gehata Wotan!’

Branwen leaned forward, gripping Terrwyn’s sides with her thighs, the reins gathered in one fist as the clots of snow rose like startled doves about her ears and the breath was like knives in her chest.

Iwan was riding magnificently, encumbered as he was. His sword arm was about Linette’s waist, his other hand holding the knotted reins, his hood ripped back by the wind so that his long light-brown hair was plastered to his skull.

Aberfa held the reins while Banon sat behind her, twisted to one side, gripping the horse with her knees while she aimed with bow and arrow. She would not shoot unless a target was in her eye-line. Banon was too canny a warrior to waste arrows uselessly. Rhodri’s face was clenched with determination as he urged his steed onwards. Six months ago it had been all he could do to remain upright in the saddle, but dire necessity had made a good horseman of him. Blodwedd sat behind him, her hands gripping his shoulders, her face filled with fury. Had she been able, Branwen was certain the owl-girl would have leaped into the air to get at the Saxons.

Even in the rush and confusion of their flight, Branwen gave a hard, glad grin to see that they were outrunning the Saxons. At one point she had feared that their enemies would come between them and the hill, but now they were edging away from the pounding mass of the enemy riders.

An arrow flew, skimming close behind Banon before arching down and stabbing into the snow. Now Banon let an arrow loose. There was a cry of triumph from Aberfa as one of the Saxon horses stumbled and fell, sending its rider crashing to the ground.

They came to the foot of the hill and began to pound their way up the long slope. Branwen saw the swathe that had been swept through the snow by Angor and the others – but of those leading horses there was no sign. They must have crested the hill. They would be within sight of Pengwern now. If the king were keeping close watch, as he ought, then the gates would be flung open – a sortie would ride out. The princesses would be safe, the mission accomplished.

The hill was not as smooth as the snow made it seem, and it was hard to move at speed up the steady slope for fear of a hoof plunging into a sudden hole or dip and horse and riders being felled. Branwen drew back a little, needing to have her comrades in her sight. If the Saxons were to fall upon the Gwyn Braw, then it would be over the body of Branwen ap Griffith.

Trusting in Terrwyn to guide her true, she swivelled at the waist, sword ready, shield still over her back. At a slower pace, she might have let go the reins and used her strong legs to keep in the saddle, but over such uneven rising ground and at such speed, she knew that would be impossible.

Arrows whipped through the air. One struck off her shield and snapped. Another almost struck Terrwyn.

Fain had not been far wrong in his reckoning – there were at least forty horsemen pounding up the slope at her back. Branwen could see their chieftain, clad in a leather jerkin, his arms encased in chain-mail, a round iron helmet on his head, his face hidden under a sinister iron mask. There was a round shield on his arm, stained red but bearing the design of the white Saxon dragon. He brandished a spear. The eyes of his thundering horse were rolling wild and there was foam at its lips.

A sudden thought came into the flurry and chaos of Branwen’s mind. Working to keep her balance, she sheathed her sword and fumbled for a familiar object at her waist. A long, supple strip of leather. She slipped it out of her belt and felt for her pouch of stones.

An arrow came at her and she lifted a shoulder, so that her shield fended it off. The galloping Saxons were so close behind her now that she could see the glaring eyes of those who were not wearing war-masks. Their shouting filled her ears, louder almost than the hammering