Caradoc of the North Wind - By Allan Frewin Jones Page 0,30

am at the king’s command,’ Branwen said, standing up.

Dagonet nodded and walked back the way he had come. Following him, Branwen cast a sympathetic look towards Dera, who had sat down again, biting her lip and staring into the fire. As resolute and deadly as any man in combat, the raven-haired warrior girl was forever cowed in the presence of her father.

Branwen felt a stab of heartsickness as she thought of her own dear, lost father. Unlike Dagonet ap Wadu, he had been a man of infinite love and compassion.

‘A word with you, sir,’ said Branwen, walking quickly to catch up with Dagonet.

He looked at her without interest.

‘Why do you treat your daughter so?’ Branwen asked. ‘She loves you dearly, and seeks only to please you.’

‘Dera knows what she must do to earn my forgiveness,’ said Dagonet. ‘She alone chose the path she is on.’

‘You’d have her part with the Gwyn Braw?’ asked Branwen.

‘I would.’

A response to this screamed in Branwen’s head. Why do you hate me? What have I ever done but strive ceaselessly for the good fortune of Powys?

But what would be the purpose of such questions? She already knew the answers. She was the shaman girl of the Shining Ones. The cat’s-paw of ancient forces feared by everyone.

As she walked with Dagonet to the far end of the hall, she saw that Cynon’s queen was seated with Meredith and Romney. She was a pale, thin woman with anxious, nervous eyes and a look about her of a dog that was used to unkind treatment. She spoke little, and Branwen had the impression that she was scared of her husband, although she had never seen him do anything to make her afraid. In fact, Cynon hardly even acknowledged her existence.

How different from the loving and respectful partnership that had thrived between Branwen’s mother and father.

She shook her head, pushing away thoughts of her dear mother. It was still too painful for her to dwell on Alis ap Owain – the warrior maiden of Brych Einiog; too hard to endure the thought of the long leagues of warfare and the long months of despair that separated them. Would she ever return to her homeland? And what if she did? What if even her own mother now feared and hated her? No! It was too much to bear.

Don’t think of such things! My mother would never turn away from me.

Branwen stepped over one of the king’s dogs, sprawling among the reeds, its belly full of treats and titbits, its long tongue lolling.

The king beckoned her and she moved through his counsellors to kneel respectfully at his side. ‘You wished to see me, my lord?’

‘Not I,’ said the king, his lips greasy from roasted pork and his eyes gleaming with private amusement. ‘But someone from Gwent asked after you.’ He turned and gestured to the boy that Branwen had noticed from before. ‘Hywel ap Murig – come, here’s the answer to your question. Here is the daughter of Prince Griffith ap Rhys.’

The boy turned and looked appraisingly at Branwen.

She stared back at him, dumbstruck.

This handsome young man was Hywel ap Murig – the fat-faced toad-boy to whom she had been betrothed as a small child?

‘What do you make of her, Hywel?’ asked the king, clearly revelling in Branwen’s discomfort. ‘Would she have made a worthy bride?’ He chuckled. ‘An ornament to the house of Eirion? The mother of future kings of Gwent?’

A spasm of something close to distaste crossed Hywel’s face as he looked at her, but it was gone in an instant and he fixed his expression into one of polite interest as he bowed.

‘Greetings, Branwen ap Griffith,’ he said, his voice clear and strong. ‘We meet again under curious circumstances.’ He smiled uneasily. Branwen supposed he had never encountered a warrior girl like her before. ‘It has been a long time. Do you remember me at all?’

‘A little,’ Branwen answered. ‘I was very young.’

Hywel nodded. ‘We both were.’ He paused, as if searching for something more to say. ‘I hear you are a … great warrior now.’

‘I do what I can …’

Hywel looked awkwardly at her. ‘You need have no fear that I am come to carry you off to a wedding bed. The tryst between our families is quite broken. Indeed, I am betrothed to Lowri ap Garan, of the House of Morfudd in Gwynedd. A fine match, so they say.’

‘Oh.’ Branwen could see the relief on his face as he told her this. As though he had