Caradoc of the North Wind - By Allan Frewin Jones Page 0,24

unite against the Saxons.

‘It’s sheer madness to reward him so,’ she had said to Iwan, when the truce had first been mooted. ‘He deserves to have his head struck from his neck – no more, no less!’

Iwan had smiled wryly at her. ‘It is not madness, barbarian princess,’ he had replied. ‘It is diplomacy. Would you have this war go on for ever?’

‘Of course not! But I’d see Llew defeated and humiliated, as he deserves.’

Again there had been the crooked smile. ‘Were the king able to crush Prince Llew by force of arms, he would have done so by now,’ Iwan had said. ‘The civil war is at an impasse. And while we fight, we lose precious lifeblood that we will need to keep the Saxons at bay.’

Branwen had pondered this. Iwan was right, of course. The war had to be brought to an end somehow – but it still seemed wrong. ‘I do not understand why the Saxons hold off,’ she had added. ‘Were I in Ironfist’s place, I’d use this fight of brother against brother to attack.’

‘He’s a more cunning tactician than that,’ Iwan had told her. ‘He knows that if he launches an assault, the king and the prince will unite to keep him at bay. He’d prefer to wait while we spill our own blood.’

Branwen nodded. ‘To hold back till he can attack us in our deepest weakness.’ She had sighed and sullenly kicked at the ground. ‘You’re right. There must be a truce before it’s too late. Princess Meredith must marry Drustan.’ She had given a curt laugh. ‘And may he have as much joy in her company as I did in Doeth Palas!’

But that had been said before Branwen had met Meredith for the second time. Now she thought the princess might make Drustan a good wife after all, despite all the damage that her father had done with his whispered deceits. Not that Drustan was at Pengwern to greet his bride; Branwen had already heard word that Cynon’s son had not yet returned from his tour of the southern cantrefs, although he was expected imminently.

Guards stood at the doors of the Great Hall of Araith, drawing aside to allow Branwen access. There was a main chamber, narrow and lofty, bestridden by heavy timber columns, the high vaulted roof bridged by beams. At the end of this chamber stood the king’s throne draped with banners and standards and backed with long silken curtains emblazoned with the red dragon of Powys, depicted with its foot upon the throat of the defeated dragon of the Saxons, corpse-white and vile.

As if wishing would make it so!

The king was upon the throne, his chief counsellors around and behind him. Sprawling or sitting at his feet were six muscular, long-limbed, liver-coloured dogs – the king’s hunting hounds.

Captain Angor was bowed before the king, Meredith on one side, Romney on the other. The sight of the throne and the man who sat upon it twisted a knife in Branwen’s heart. In her mind she saw again the double thrones of Garth Milain, where her mother and father had sat. Burned now in the flames that had engulfed the citadel of her home. Burned and gone, and her father dead.

In Branwen’s mind, King Cynon did not measure up to her father. He was tall enough, and wide-shouldered, his forehead high, his eyes dark and sharp, his face showing both wisdom and intelligence. But there was a thinness in his lips that worried her a little, a sense that this was a mouth as apt to the cunning lie as to the generous truth. Not that she had any reason to think the king unworthy of his throne; she had been brought up to believe that all the peoples of Powys owed Cynon their allegiance. If she didn’t still believe that, she would never have come here. All the same, she did wonder sometimes when she looked into his deep, dark eyes what subtle thoughts were winding through his mind.

Branwen made her way down the chamber, stopping in the shadow of one of the pillars. She could clearly hear Angor’s voice reverberating between the walls.

‘Most puissant and mighty King of the Western Lands, I bring greetings and fealty from the prince of Bras Mynydd,’ he was saying. ‘Through me, his loyal messenger and captain, he kisses your ring and bends the knee.’

‘You are most welcome, Captain Angor,’ replied the king, his voice smooth and deep. A voice that gave nothing away. ‘We