Caradoc of the North Wind - By Allan Frewin Jones Page 0,6
way back, she thought. I’ll be needing one eye open for Saxons and one eye for Captain Angor on the long road to Pengwern.
As was usual in the aftermath of a skirmish, Branwen’s band moved among the slain Saxons, stripping from the corpses anything that might be of use and was light enough to be carried. Weapons were always of value, as were the thick winter cloaks and any provisions. In this hard winter, every morsel of food was worth more than gold, and as the months dragged by even the storehouses of the king were beginning to look disturbingly lean.
Fain came gliding from the filigree of bare forest branches and alighted on Branwen’s shoulder, folding his wings and rubbing his beak against the side of her face in greeting. Branwen walked through the steaming bodies, one hand on her sword hilt, the fingers of her other hand lightly stroking the falcon’s soft feathers. In her mind, she was already tracing the journey back down the mountains. They would overnight in the deep cave known as Cêl Crau, then make an early start down into the rough and tumble of lands that led to the king’s court at Pengwern. With good luck and no unwelcome interruptions, they would be with King Cynon before nightfall the same day. Another mission accomplished. And all without a drop of Gwyn Braw blood spilled.
She smiled to herself. The Shining Ones may have withdrawn from her over the past months, but she felt sure that Rhiannon and Govannon must still be watching her with kindly intent. How else could such luck have travelled with them?
Not for the first time, she roved the horizon with her eyes, seeking among the barren trees and rocky heights for some sign that she was right. The glimpse of antlers against the sky to show that Govannon of the Wood was at hand. A star-bright jewel among the branches that would reveal that Rhiannon of the Spring was close.
She sighed, seeing nothing, but still convinced of their presence and guardianship. She knew who she was! She was Branwen of the Shining Ones. The Warrior Child whose destiny it was to be the saviour of Brython.
That would never change.
She turned to see Rhodri leading Romney out over the rubbled entrance and on to the bloodstained snow. The younger princess was short and sturdy, with dark hair and a broad, sullen face. Like her sister, Romney was swathed in a tattered cloak and showed clear signs of her hard journey in the wild, but unlike Meredith, when she saw Branwen there was only cold dislike in her eyes.
She stumbled on a loose stone as she came into the open. Rhodri reached a hand to help her but she glared at him and drew off. ‘Get away from me,’ she spat. ‘Do not presume to touch a princess of Doeth Palas!’
So, her travels had done nothing so far to improve her personality, more was the pity. Branwen shook her head. It was going to be a long trip home, playing nursemaid to Romney and suffering Angor’s barbed loathing. A merry jaunt, indeed!
Rhodri bowed to Romney, stepping back to let her make her faltering way to her sister’s side. A small smile flickered on his lips. Romney saw it and scowled. She turned to Captain Angor, who was kneeling at the side of a wounded man.
‘Fetch a carriage,’ she demanded of him. ‘I’m cold and hungry. Bring me some food immediately, and then get us away from this place and these people.’ She said ‘people’ as though she meant vermin.
Angor’s voice was clipped and strained. ‘Your carriage was destroyed by the Saxons, my lady,’ he said. ‘Our horses and all our provisions are lost. What would you have me do?’
Just then, Banon and Linette came into the clearing, leading the eight horses of the Gwyn Braw. Among them was Branwen’s great bay destrier, once the steed of Skur the Viking warrior, but now taken by Branwen and named Terrwyn, meaning The Brave.
Romney jerked a finger towards the horses. ‘We can take those,’ she said.
Angor glanced at the horses. ‘They belong to others,’ he said.
Romney looked at Branwen’s followers. ‘What of it?’ she said. ‘Does a princess of Doeth Palas need to ask permission of vagabonds? Take the horses and whatever food they have, and be quick about it, Captain!’
Angor’s jaw twitched, as though he was biting back some inappropriate retort.
Aberfa burst out laughing, and even Dera was forced to smile.