Caradoc of the North Wind - By Allan Frewin Jones Page 0,19

of her horse’s hooves and the beating of the blood in her temples.

With the skill of long practice, she managed to load the stone into her slingshot. She raised her arm, sucked in a deep breath and held it. She swung the slingshot twice around her head and with a deft flick of her fingers let the stone fly.

She couldn’t see the stone’s trajectory, but she knew she had aimed well. The chieftain jerked back in the saddle, his spear falling from his grip as his hand came up to his throat. She saw a spatter of red between his fingers before he went cartwheeling over his horse’s rump. Other riders jerked this way and that, to try and avoid trampling their fallen leader. Several fell in the mêlée. Horses screamed, iron rang on the frozen earth, men cried out in pain.

Branwen turned again to the rising hill. With a single shot she had brought down a Saxon – fortune was on their side! How could they not prevail?

Iwan was upon the very brow of the hill, Aberfa and Banon close behind. Rhodri’s horse was high on the ridge, moving fast. Blodwedd was turned towards her, the huge amber eyes blazing with furious intent.

Iwan and Linette vanished over the hill. The Saxons howled their rage. Swords and spears drummed on shields. Arrows stabbed the ground. The Saxon archers focused their arrows on Branwen, but the shield’s uncanny powers sent them all glancing away from her. There was no arrowhead forged that could pierce that mystic shield. A gift it had been, a promise of wonders to come. Made from the wood of a sacred tree, overlaid with the hide of the White Bull of Ynis Môn. An ancient thing of power and portent. While she bore it, she would know only good fortune. That was what Blodwedd had told her in the long-ago summer when she had dreamed the shield and then found it in the real world, hanging in the branches of a rowan tree.

Branwen turned to face her enemy again, and defiant words came roaring from her throat.

‘Fear me, carrion!’ she howled. ‘None that live can stand against my wrath! Do you not know me, filth of the enfeebled east? I am Branwen ap Griffith! The witch girl of Powys! Turn back or you will all perish!’ She felt a sudden wind in her hair. She turned. She was upon the breast of the hill. Her companions were riding pell-mell down the far slope. Not far away now, she saw the black line of the tall palisade of Pengwern, and beyond, the thatched and shingled roofs of the royal court.

Out on that flat, she could see four horses moving fast towards the tall gates of timber that stood closed fast beyond the deep encircling ditch. A wild elation filled her and she began to laugh as she dug her heels into her horse’s flanks and went dashing down the hill in pursuit of her comrades.

The horses bearing the two princesses were on the narrow causeway now. Branwen let Terrwyn stride out, catching up quickly with Rhodri and Blodwedd.

Now the four horses of the Gwyn Braw were galloping together on the plain that lay before the high palisade of the king’s court. Branwen flicked a glance over her shoulder. The Saxons were close behind, riding like fury, slowly gaining ground.

‘The gates!’ howled Aberfa. ‘The gates are opening!’

Yes! Branwen could see it, too. Beyond the causeway, the strong gates of Pengwern were being drawn open. Just a few furlongs more and they would be upon the narrow strip of beaten earth that spanned the deep protective ditch.

And none lost! Branwen thought. None dead!

The horses bearing the princesses and the men of Doeth Palas passed between the gates. Branwen’s blood roared in her ears. So close now! Every muscle strained as she drove Terrwyn on to even greater efforts. The noise of hooves and harness reverberated in her head. She could feel Terrwyn’s huge muscles and sinews working beneath her, his head rising and falling as he strove onwards. And on either side, she could see Iwan and Aberfa and Rhodri, their eyes on the blessed gap that had widened in the wooden fortifications of Pengwern.

Branwen gasped, staring ahead, thinking her eyes must be deceiving her. The gates were closing again. No! It couldn’t be.

So close now – less than a furlong from safety. And yet the gates were swinging shut in their faces. Branwen could see men on the high