Caradoc of the North Wind - By Allan Frewin Jones Page 0,25
receive the greetings of our brother Llew ap Gelert, and acknowledge his fealty as is our due as his king.’
Court manners! Branwen thought irritably, hating the convoluted mode of speech used in these formal situations. They’re no brothers. They’d see one another dead in a ditch if it could be contrived.
The king stood up now, his yellow robes hissing and swishing as he stepped down from the throne, his arms outstretched, his fingers bejewelled with golden rings. The six hounds all rose to their feet, their eyes filled with a watchful loyalty. The king had no more loyal bodyguards than them. A wrong move from any in that room, and the dogs would be upon them in an instant.
‘And the most welcome of all are these two gifts that you bring with you, Captain,’ the king said, extending a hand to the princesses. ‘Two pearls of the west, offered into my safekeeping.’ Meredith and Romney lifted their hands to his, their heads bowed. ‘My court welcomes you,’ the king continued. ‘I hope the hardships you have suffered will be washed away by our hospitality.’
‘We have suffered no hurt, my lord,’ Meredith replied, and Branwen was impressed by the clear tones in her voice – after all, she must be feeling overawed to be here. ‘Our father sent many gifts with us, but they were lost on the mountain, so we offer only ourselves and the gowns we stand in as proof of our undying loyalty.’
‘Proofs that I readily accept,’ smiled the king, looking from one to the other. ‘Would that my dear son were here to welcome you, but alas, Drustan was needed in the south to give encouragement to our lesser lords so that the bulwark of Powys should have no weak links. But this is no time for talk of warfare – this is a time of merriment. Drustan will return shortly and you shall meet him and be glad!’ The king released their hands and turned to the lords and warriors at his back, gesturing towards the two princesses. ‘No greater gifts could the citadel of Doeth Palas have sent me, not if they had plundered the gold mines of Dolaucothi.’
‘We did have gold,’ replied Romney, her voice a little shrill and wavery. ‘We had gold, jewels and the finest cloth you would ever have seen – but the Saxons took it all. Even my own casket.’ Her voice caught in her throat. ‘Someone should be sent to find the Saxons and get our things back. It’s not fair.’
The king released their hands and gestured to one side, almost as if he hadn’t heard Romney’s petulant request.
Servants appeared from some nook.
‘Go now, daughters of Prince Llew,’ the king said. ‘Bathe and be refreshed. We shall see you anon – tonight, there is to be a Feast of Welcoming.’
The two girls were led away to some antechamber, two or three of the dogs snuffing at their clothes as they went.
Now Branwen made her presence known, stepping out and bowing to the king. ‘The Gwyn Braw have done as you commanded, my lord,’ she said. ‘We await your further pleasure.’ If she was honest with herself, Branwen preferred to be out on perilous missions than stuck brooding in this place. Even the cruellest of winter winds was less chilling than the cold contempt of the people of Pengwern.
The king reached out his arms to her. ‘Branwen ap Griffith,’ he declared, his voice slightly too cordial. ‘We are glad to see you return in safety. Are all your folk in good health?’
‘Linette ap Cledwyn was hurt, but she will be well anon,’ said Branwen. ‘What news from the north, my lord? Will the prince come?’
This was yet another strand of the treaty to end the war – the arrival at the court of Prince Llew himself. For several months now he and his army had been laying siege to Gwylan Canu, the great fortress that held the paths between the mountains and the north sea. As proof of good faith, he had raised the siege and the gates had been thrown open to him. What Madoc ap Rhain must have thought of allowing the prince into his citadel, Branwen could only guess. Six months ago, on the prince’s orders, the citadel had been given over to Herewulf Ironfist. But as Madoc’s son Iwan had said, ‘There is bitter medicine to be swallowed if this war is to end – my father knows that. He will drink to the dregs for