Caradoc of the North Wind - By Allan Frewin Jones Page 0,34

you?’

Blodwedd stood up, her eyes turning into the misty north. ‘The traitor prince approaches,’ she said softly. ‘He has two hundred warriors at his back, riding upon two hundred war-horses. There are five wagons, also – laden with food and with gear for the war.’

‘Prince Llew,’ murmured Branwen, ‘come at last to fill his hands with his ill-gotten treasures!’ She shivered. ‘I hope the king does not regret this truce.’

‘I do not fear for this king of men,’ said Blodwedd. ‘I fear for you, Branwen of the Shining Ones.’

Branwen gazed northwards again, thinking that maybe now she too could just make out a heart of moving greyness in the white blur of the fog.

‘Llew ap Gelert can do me no harm,’ said Branwen, putting an arm around the owl-girl’s shoulders and turning her, leading her back to the hut where Rhodri was waiting.

‘What did you make of the goraig’s other thing of import?’ Branwen asked as they crunched along. ‘The young bear.’

‘The young bear will be a great warlord and leader in his time,’ said Blodwedd. ‘And he will never be forgotten.’ She frowned. ‘I see images of him in far-flung times. They confuse me. They are flat and yet they have life – like patterns drawn upon silk, but bathed in light, moving, alive, huge in the sky. Most strange, it is. Most uncanny.’

‘So, Nixie was speaking again of the boy you told me lived in the south-east – in the kingdom of Wessex. The other champion?’

‘Yes. He is the young bear. If you survive the coming ordeal, you will meet him, I think. Yes, you will be of service to him, unless you are already dead – and then it must be another.’

‘I will not be dead!’ Branwen growled, tightening her arm about Blodwedd’s shoulders. ‘Have no fear on that score. I will endure, whatever Ironfist can throw at me – and we shall travel together to the distant land of Wessex, and we shall see what we shall see.’

‘Perhaps we shall,’ whispered Blodwedd. ‘If hope outstares fate!’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The morning mists had faded away by the time Prince Llew and his entourage arrived at the gates of Pengwern. The sun burned pale behind thin cloud and the air was so crystalline and clear that an eagle perched on the roof of the Hall of Arlwy could have seen a hare running on the high mountains to the west, or looking eastwards, might even have spied the glinting spearhead of a Saxon sentry walking the walls of Chester.

At least, that was what Blodwedd had told Branwen’s band shortly before they had left her in the sick-hut to gather on the ramparts above the inner gate. They stood together, blowing white breath and pulling their cloaks about them against the cold north wind. All Branwen knew now was that she was chilled to the heart, and uncertain of how to greet a man whom she despised beyond words.

Both sets of gates were flung wide for the prince, and an escort of mounted warriors lined his route as he rode imperiously over the earthen bridge and came to where King Cynon awaited him in the bailey.

Cynon was on a white stallion, his shoulders covered by a great fur cloak that hung about him in swathes, pinned at the neck by brooches of solid gold, encrusted with yellow garnets. The golden circlet of the kings of Powys was about his brow, and a sword in a golden, finely engraved scabbard was at his waist.

At his side sat the representatives of the other three kingdoms, and at his back were gathered his counsellors and captains. And his son was there now, also. Prince Drustan, tall and erect in the saddle, his black hair swept back over his shoulders, his face as strong and proud as his father’s, but smooth and youthful, and untouched by the burdens of kingship. Branwen guessed that Drustan must have returned overnight from his mission in the south. She wondered whether Meredith had seen him yet, and if so, what she made of him.

Horns rang out as Llew rode in through the gates and brought his horse up sharp in front of the king. More warriors gathered at the prince’s back, reining in their horses. Hooves stamped, cold breath blew. Manes shook. The warriors were silent in the saddle. None moved. There was tension in the air, sharp as tempered iron.

Branwen’s hand slid instinctively to her sword hilt.

Unspeaking, Prince Llew slipped down from the saddle and strode the last