Caradoc of the North Wind - By Allan Frewin Jones Page 0,29

and bread, but they drank only watered wine, and avoided the mead altogether. It was a sweet but dangerous brew, and one night’s unguarded drinking could dull the senses for two entire days.

The king and his closest advisers sat at the far end of the hall, amid draperies of purple silk. Captain Angor was with them, and Branwen noticed that often his head and the head of the king were together as though they were exchanging private words.

Among Cynon’s counsellors sat representatives of the courts of the other three kingdoms of Brython, stern and powerful men who had journeyed far to be here. They had gathered from the court of King Maelgwn Hir, ruler of Gwynedd, from King Dinefwr of Dyfed and from King Tewdrig of Gwent. They were here to witness the marriage between Princess Meredith and Prince Drustan, to take back to their masters assurances that the civil conflict that had shaken the kingdom of Powys was truly ended.

When the Gwyn Braw had set out to rescue the princesses, the representatives of Gwent had not yet arrived, but Branwen saw them now, three grizzled warriors and one younger lad with bright, sharp eyes and a pleasant, open face. The son and heir of some powerful lord of Gwent, she assumed the boy must be. She wondered whether any of the three older men were from the house of Eirion. Half a year ago she had been sent out from her home to marry into that family. Oh, but what a strange and astonishing path her destiny had led her down since those simple times!

‘I like songs of victory and triumph!’ boomed Aberfa, slapping Branwen on the back. ‘They warm my blood better than the hottest fire!’

‘It would be a fine thing if we could defeat the Saxons by singing alone,’ remarked Banon, her milk-white skin glowing in the firelight, her freckles like flecks of gold on her cheeks and arms. ‘That’s a contest we’d easily win.’

‘Two famous bards facing one another on the battlefield to decide the fate of nations in a bloodless tournament!’ added Iwan. ‘I like the way you think, Banon!’

‘All the same,’ remarked Dera. ‘The wine of victory tastes the sweeter when mingled with the blood of an enemy slain.’ She looked at her companions with her deep black eyes. ‘What are we, old women to wish an easy victory? Ha! I’d sooner slay the Saxons with bright iron that have them slink away untested!’ She frowned, as though a sudden thought had struck her. ‘And these old songs – they sound well enough, I grant – but where are recalled the deeds of warrior women such as ourselves?’

‘Men write the songs,’ Banon said with a wry smile.

‘We need a song to the Gwyn Braw!’ agreed Aberfa, her mouth half full of juicy meat. ‘That would be a fine thing.’

‘Rhodri the Druid has a way with a rhyme,’ said Iwan. ‘I shall speak to him about it.’ He brandished his knife, running with meat juices. ‘A song of Iwan ap Madoc, the fount of all that is brave and noble and comely!’

Aberfa almost spat her meat out. ‘The wellspring of all that is conceited, arrogant and swollen-headed, rather!’ she cackled. ‘It’s we women who deserve the praise!’

Iwan laughed. ‘It’s true that you’re good enough warriors … for a bunch of weak little girls.’

‘“Weak”? “Little”?’ growled Aberfa, her eyes shining. ‘Would you care to arm-wrestle me, man-child?’

‘Not me,’ said Iwan in mock horror. ‘I’d as soon play tag with the Brown Bull of Cwley. He probably weighs less than you, for a start!’

With an affronted howl, Aberfa snatched at Iwan and he only just managed to scramble out of her way in time.

‘Teach him some manners, Aberfa!’ chuckled Dera.

Branwen smiled. It was heartening to see her friends at play like this – a pleasant reward for their perilous labours out in the wild.

A man came up behind the laughing band, his arrival unheard in the clamour of the feasting. The first Branwen knew of his presence was a heavy hand coming down on her shoulder.

She turned and looked into the grim, fierce face of Dagonet ap Wadu, a high captain of the king’s army and the father of dark-haired Dera.

Seeing him, Dera scrambled to her feet and stood with her head bowed. ‘My lord,’ she said meekly. ‘My greetings and duty to you, as always.’

Dagonet didn’t even glance at his daughter, his eyes fixed instead on Branwen. ‘The king would have you attend him,’ he said.

‘I

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