Caradoc of the North Wind - By Allan Frewin Jones Page 0,84
and deal with what you will find there! And remember well the words of Rhiannon of the Spring. Remember, and find you wisdom!’
And then the light went out of his eyes and the fervour left his face and he crumpled on to his hands and knees as though felled by an axe.
Rhodri was unconscious again, lying under a cloak, breathing deeply and steadily, but impossible to awaken.
The others were gathered together, sitting in a ring on the hill as the sun dipped low in the west, debating what they should do.
‘Ride south when the owls depart?’ mused Dera. ‘What did he mean by that?’
‘Could he have been referring to Blodwedd’s death?’ asked Banon.
‘In which case should we not already have quit this place?’ asked Aberfa.
‘Are we to do as he says?’ wondered Iwan. ‘Is it not possible those were the ravings of a man bereft of his wits?’
‘Those were not ravings,’ said Branwen heavily. ‘Something has happened to Rhodri, for good or ill. As she died, Blodwedd passed something to him … some spirit or power or … I do not know! Something that has come alive within him. Something that has stirred in him the blood of his ancestors.’
‘Druid blood?’ asked Iwan.
Branwen nodded.
‘So shall we go south to Pengwern?’ asked Dera, her voice dubious. ‘Is that wisdom when the king wants none of us?’
‘King Cynon is not Powys,’ said Branwen. ‘It is the land itself that we must serve, not its passing lords.’ She frowned. ‘But I do not understand about the owls.’ She glanced to where Rhodri lay. ‘Should we wait for him to awaken?’ She stood up and walked restlessly about. ‘Instead of hints and riddles, I would like for once to be given some clear sign of what I must do!’
Iwan straightened his back, his head cocked. ‘Listen!’ he said. ‘What is that sound?’
Branwen heard it too. A low thrumming in the air. ‘Where is it coming from?’ she asked.
‘From the west!’ cried Dera, springing up and pointing.
A dark shape was moving towards them above the tumble of the wildlands. It looked at first like a low cloud, but it was moving against the wind, and it did not have the form of any cloud that Branwen had ever seen.
‘It is birds!’ cried Aberfa. ‘A whole host of birds!’
‘Owls!’ gasped Branwen as the flock came closer.
The legion of owls came sweeping up the hillside, flying low so that all but Branwen ducked as they passed over them. Branwen guessed there must be a hundred or more of the great majestic creatures. They wheeled about her, their eyes burning, their wings hardly moving, their voices stilled.
And then, as though acting with some powerful instinct beyond human understanding, the wings cupped, the eyes shifted and the whole congregation of huge birds descended to the ground where Blodwedd lay. The greater part of the hill disappeared under their tawny bodies. Branwen stood her ground, but her companions drew back, silent in awe, their eyes wide.
Then the owls gave voice.
Their melancholy hooting filled the air, a lament at the passing of a beloved kinswoman, a sound to break the heart.
Branwen dropped to her knees, tears flooding her face.
While the hilltop still reverberated to the dirge of sad hooting, the owls took again to the air. They swarmed and wheeled and then flowed away into the west.
And where Blodwedd had lain, there was just a scattering of tawny feathers.
Branwen wiped the tears off her cheeks. She got to her feet, her heart clamouring in her chest, her blood flowing strongly through her veins.
‘I asked for a sure sign,’ she called to the others, all doubt and confusion gone from her mind. ‘We have been given it! Come, gather the horses, we ride into the south! We ride to Pengwern!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
They rode until night took the land. Rhodri did not recover, and they had to tie him to his horse, one rope around his waist to hold him in the saddle, and another under the animal’s belly, linking his ankles. In that manner, he rode safe enough, slumped low over his horse’s neck, while Aberfa took the trailing reins.
Fain had an injured wing – he could fly, but only for short distances, clumsily and with evident discomfort. Branwen rode with him perched upon her shoulder, grieving that she would never again know what his shrill cries meant. She had lost that advantage when she had rammed sharp metal into Blodwedd’s body.