Caradoc of the North Wind - By Allan Frewin Jones Page 0,7
child!’ roared Aberfa, clapping her hands together. ‘She’s a queen among us peasants to be sure!’
Iwan grinned, shaking his head. ‘Angor ap Pellyn does not command here, Romney,’ he told her. ‘If you seek special treatment, ask Branwen.’
‘But I’d keep a civil tongue, if I were you,’ added Banon, drawing the horses to a halt.
‘How dare you!’ Romney exploded, her cheeks red with anger.
Blodwedd gazed at the young girl. ‘If not for Branwen and the Gwyn Braw, you would likely be dead in your own blood by now,’ she said. ‘If you cannot be grateful, then at least be silent.’
The look that Romney gave the owl-girl was of uttermost disgust, but she kept her lips together, letting her expression speak for her.
‘Let’s not rebuke the child overmuch,’ Linette said, looking at Romney with a gentle smile. ‘She is cold and tired and far from home.’
‘Keep your pity, savage!’ said Romney. ‘I don’t want it.’
‘You have it, nonetheless, little one,’ Linette said.
Branwen walked up to Romney, gazing deep into the small girl’s angry, frightened eyes. ‘You are under my protection, Romney, whether you like it or not. You will have food shortly, but we must ride some way first.’ She turned, doing a quick head count. ‘Eight horses and sixteen riders – it can be done.’
‘Fifteen riders,’ said Angor, standing up. The man at his feet was staring sightlessly into the evening sky. ‘Colwyn ap Arion will not be travelling with us.’
Branwen looked at the other two injured men. One had an arrow wound to the thigh, another a deep cut on his forehead. ‘There is no time to bury the dead, and for that I am sorry,’ she said. Angor nodded, as though he understood the importance of moving on as quickly as possible. Branwen continued: ‘Such men of yours that are unhurt will each ride with an injured man. Linette will ride double with Romney. Meredith will ride with me. Rhodri? Tend the injured men as best you can, but do not delay us. I’d not pick my way down to Cêl Crau in darkness.’
The riders made their long, slow way down through the forested hills as the day gradually ebbed into a deep, silvery gloaming. Fingers of evening cold came creeping through the trees, nipping at toes and ears, turning breath to white fog. The snow-mantled landscape shone with an eerie ghost-light, and even the darkest shadows glowed.
Fain came and went, sometimes flying ahead and at others slowly circling the line of horse-riders, calling out sharply every now and then as if to spur them on. Stars began glittering like frost on the eastern hem of the sky. Their journey was silent, save the rattle and slap of harness and reins, the snorting of horses and the padded crunch of hooves in snow; and the occasional stifled groan from an injured man. But these sharp sounds only made the profound silence of the winter forest all the more unearthly.
Aberfa led the way, Banon riding double with her. Behind her the others rode in single file – Rhodri and Blodwedd, followed by Linette and Romney and then Angor, alone in the saddle. Branwen wasn’t quite sure why she had decided to let the captain of Doeth Palas ride solo. Possibly because she knew none of her party would wish to share with him, possibly to isolate him.
Meredith’s arms were wrapped tight around Branwen’s waist. Both princesses had baulked at the idea of riding astride the horses, and Romney had been forcibly put in the saddle by Aberfa, the enraged child planted on the horse’s back like a bag of grain.
Branwen could feel Meredith trembling at her back through many layers of clothing, and when Terrwyn’s hoof faltered or slid, the princess’s arms tightened so she could hardly breathe. Behind Branwen rode the four soldiers, two to a horse, and behind them, keeping a sharp eye out, were Dera and Iwan.
They came to a gloomy place where a sheer wall of rock reared on one side, and the trees fell away down a steep decline on the other. Icicles as long as Branwen’s arm hung from the overhanging ridges.
Fain was ahead of them again, lost in the gathering twilight.
Aberfa halted her steed and turned in the saddle. ‘The way ahead is dangerous,’ she called, her breath billowing like a cloud. ‘Melt-waters have turned to ice on the stones. We should dismount for a little and lead the horses on foot.’