Caradoc of the North Wind Read online

  ‘You mean, Caradoc is … different from the others?’ Branwen asked uncertainly, trying to understand what the owl-girl was telling her. ‘More dangerous?’

  ‘I would not say more dangerous,’ mused Blodwedd. ‘Forest, river and rock are each most dangerous in their way. Say instead, Caradoc is less predictable, less constant, less troubled by the passing things that crawl upon the world’s face. He will act for his own pleasure, Branwen – for his own diversion and amusement. And a merry trickster he can be; his breath can bring death and mayhem, his whims unleash slaughter and misery.’ She gestured up into the ocean of steadily falling snow. ‘This is not an attack upon you, Branwen – nor upon any living thing. This is Caradoc at his sport. We endure it or we perish – to him, it is all the same.’

  ‘But what of my destiny?’ Branwen asked. ‘Does he not care that this winter may hinder me in what the Shining Ones would have me do?’

  ‘He does not care,’ Blodwedd replied. ‘And during the months of the year’s turning, his powers are in the ascendancy. He revels in his freedom and his strength, Branwen. He cares for nought else.’

  ‘And I let him loose,’ groaned Branwen. ‘Why didn’t you warn me of this before I opened the casket that held him?’

  Blodwedd looked affronted. ‘You were acting upon the wishes of Merion of the Stones,’ she said. ‘I cannot speak against the will of the Shining Ones.’

  ‘And what of them?’ asked Branwen. ‘Can’t they keep Caradoc under control?’

  Blodwedd’s eyes shone with an eerie, inner light. ‘Does the mountain control the wind, Branwen?’ she asked. ‘Does the forest make demands of the gale that rushes through its branches? Does water tell the gust of air which way to blow?’

  Branwen’s reply was as soft as the falling snow. ‘No,’ she murmured. ‘They do not.’

  ‘You are not invincible,’ Blodwedd intoned solemnly. ‘You are not deathless. But he is both these things and more. Beware him, Branwen of the High Destiny. Beware Caradoc!’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The day came snowbound and silent. They ate a brief meal by the fading firelight, before gathering such provisions as they would need on the journey to Pengwern.

  Linette was awake and in pain. Rhodri crushed some more of the dark berries to make her sleep. She swallowed the narcotic mixture, her face twisting in agony. A little while later, a kind of fragile peace came over her features.

  ‘She cannot ride a horse,’ Rhodri said.

  ‘I could carry her,’ said Iwan. ‘She’s as light as thistledown, almost.’

  ‘You’d bear her in your arms all the long leagues to Pengwern?’ pondered Dera. ‘I think not.’

  Rhodri shook his head. ‘Lying flat would be best, if it can be contrived.’

  ‘We have wood in plenty,’ said Banon. ‘Let’s fashion a stretcher from straight branches and cloaks. It can be attached by thongs to a saddle and she can be pulled along behind a horse upon it.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ said Branwen. ‘The snow will make it less rough for her, and we can always carry her over the more uneven ground.’

  So it was agreed, and a cradle of wood and tied cloaks was constructed and Linette was laid sleeping upon it, wrapped all around with furs.

  While they were doing their best to make the ailing girl comfortable, Angor came over and looked dispassionately down at her. ‘Will she live, do you think?’ he asked.

  Branwen glared at him. ‘She will.’

  Angor eyed her with a curling lip. ‘Let us hope so,’ he said. ‘For otherwise she will slow us down when speed is of the essence.’ His eyes glittered. ‘You say there are many Saxon hordes between here and Pengwern?’

  ‘Raiding parties range far and wide, yes,’ said Branwen.

  ‘Then she is a burden that could drag us to our doom,’ insisted Angor. ‘Some of us should ride ahead with the princesses. Their safety should be uppermost in your mind, Branwen of the Dead Gods.’

  ‘And who would lead this speedy party, old man?’ growled Dera. ‘You, for instance?’

  ‘Do you not understand how vital it is that Lady Meredith gets safely to Pengwern?’ Angor snarled. ‘Do you not want to see the king and Prince Llew reconciled by the marriage of their children, thus uniting Powys against the shared enemy?’

  Branwen looked into his battle-scarred face. For once, Angor seemed to be speaking from the heart. She knew well enough what was at stake here. It had taken long months of delicate negotiations to come to this point. Even while the fighting between the king’s forces and the soldiers of Prince Llew had been at its most ferocious, counsellors and highborn lords on both sides had been working to bring the damaging conflict to an end through the marriage of Llew’s daughter Meredith to Drustan, son of King Cynon. Once the vows had been spoken and the two families united, Prince Llew would swear again his allegiance to the king of Powys, and together they would turn to face the Saxon invasion. In time, the children of this marriage would be the rulers of Powys while Brython remained a free land. Messengers had sped to and fro across the mountains with documents to bind the accord. Now all that remained was for Prince Llew to deliver his daughter safe to the king’s court in Pengwern and for the wedding ceremony to take place.

  All had been well, until a breathless and exhausted rider had come tumbling into Pengwern with the news that the princesses’ party had been trapped by Saxons in the mountains. Thus had the Gwyn Braw been dispatched to their rescue.

  And so the threads of all these great events had wound down to this point – to Branwen facing Angor across the injured body of a loved comrade, and having to weigh Meredith’s safety against Linette’s life.

  She could see many eyes upon her, waiting for her to speak.

  ‘I will not split my forces in two, Angor ap Pellyn,’ she said. ‘If we encounter Saxons in the wild and we are united, we’ll have more chance of fighting them off. Divided, all may be lost.’

  ‘Then let me ride ahead alone and with all speed,’ said Angor, and Branwen could tell from his face and tone that he was testing her. ‘I will arrive at Pengwern ahead of you and warn them of your coming. I will ask Cynon to send men to your aid – riders to meet you on the road and see you safe to journey’s end.’

  She noted that he did not say ‘King Cynon’. Still only ‘Cynon’, as though he did not yet acknowledge the man’s overlordship.

  She shook her head. ‘The clear paths to the east are lost under a cubit of snow. Alone you would never find your way to Pengwern – and I will not sacrifice one of my own to be your guide.’ She stared resolutely into his face. ‘I have decided. We travel as one, and Linette ap Cledwyn will travel with us.’

  ‘A fool’s decision,’ Angor said. ‘A weak decision! But often the squalling of an infant shouts down the wise voice of an elder. So be it; I shall have the princesses make ready. Their deaths will be upon your head.’ As he turned away from her, she saw a flicker of malice come and go in his eyes, like the flashing blade of a knife. She wondered how far he would go to bring her down. She hoped she would not need to find out.

  After the stifling warmth of the fire-lit cave, the outside world was bleak and barren, chilling to the bones. As Branwen had predicted, the world ahead of them was lost beneath the snow, the undulating white landscape broken up here and there by a black thicket or patch of woodland, or by the dark wound of a cliff or crag or bluff too steep for the lightly falling snow to settle upon.

  All else was a void, a frozen wasteland that stretched away for ever, trackless, lifeless. The cold gnawed relentlessly, smarting in the eyes, sharp as flint in the throat.

  Branwen had organized the party in a similar fashion to the previous evening, save that she now took the lead. Terrwyn was the strongest of the horses, and his task was to forge a way into the high snowdrifts, making a passage through which the others might more easily follow. After her came Banon and Aberfa, followed by Angor, to whom she had now given the charge of Romney. With the child in his care, she hoped h
e would be less likely to cause problems on the way. Branwen had noticed that the little princess had become subdued and withdrawn since the avalanche. Maybe she was feeling guilty that Linette had been hurt rescuing her. Or maybe she simply lacked the strength to carp and whine. Either way, Branwen was glad of the silence.

  Behind Captain Angor came his four soldiers, and keeping a watchful eye on them, riding alone in case she had to take some swift action, was Dera. At Dera’s back rode Iwan, the hastily made stretcher tied to his saddle, jutting down at an angle into the snow, its wooden ends jolting a little over the trampled ground. Linette slept deeply now, tied securely to her rough cradle under a heap of warming blankets, her face as bloodless as the snow.

  Bringing up the rear of the party were Rhodri and Blodwedd, Rhodri wincing at every jolt and jar of the makeshift carrier ahead of him.

  Meredith sat at Branwen’s back as before, but she did not cling on so tight now they were on more level ground; instead, Branwen could feel her fists clutching handfuls of her cloak.

  ‘How long will it take us to get to Pengwern?’ Meredith asked as they came down out of the mountains and began to tunnel their way through the featureless snow banks and into the bleak east.

  ‘A single day’s ride, even at this slow pace,’ said Branwen. ‘The further east we travel, the less deep will the snow be. I’ll see you safe and warm in King Cynon’s court before the sun goes down.’

  ‘You’ve become very sure of yourself,’ Meredith murmured. ‘You were so uncertain when you first came to my father’s Great Hall. At the welcoming feast, you were tricked into challenging Gavan to combat. Do you remember?’

  Branwen remembered it very clearly. Gavan ap Huw had been a formidable warrior of the old wars. He had become her mentor for a brief time, showing her how to fight with sword and shield in the forest outside Doeth Palas. In rescuing Rhodri from Prince Llew’s clutches, she had betrayed his trust in her – and worse had come. Much worse. It had been her poor leadership that had taken them into the forest ambush where he had been killed.

  And yet perhaps some good had come of it in the end. It had been his dying wish that had driven her to Pengwern while Merion of the Stones and Caradoc of the North Wind had wished her to follow a different path.

  Oh, yes – Branwen remembered the grizzled warrior very well.

  ‘And whose mischievous idea was it that I challenge him?’ asked Branwen.

  ‘Mine,’ Meredith admitted. ‘But Iwan was quick enough to egg you on once I had put the idea in his head.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘Iwan has changed, as well. I mean, he is still sharp-witted and quick of tongue, but I no longer see the frivolous boy I knew from Doeth Palas.’ She sighed. ‘But I do not understand how he could fight against my father. How he could ally himself with that weak man …’

  Branwen half turned in the saddle, trying to look into Meredith’s face. ‘What “weak man”?’

  ‘Cynon of Pengwern,’ said Meredith, her voice grown quieter now, as if she preferred not to be overheard saying such things. ‘He is not the warrior king we need in such times as these. He should have stepped aside and let my father lead our armies into battle. All this bloodshed, all this death – it was all so unnecessary.’

  Branwen was astonished at this. ‘Meredith, your father betrayed us to the Saxons,’ she said, also keeping her voice low. ‘He made a secret pact with Herewulf Ironfist. He plotted against us all.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ said Meredith. ‘My father is not a traitor. He explained it to me. He never intended to keep faith with the Saxon general – he pretended to be his friend in order to lure him to his death. All would have been well if not for your interference at Gwylan Canu. You ruined all my father’s carefully laid plans when you brought down those forest-goblins on to the Saxons. Ironfist escaped my father’s trap, and lived to fight again. I know you meant no harm, but it was your fault – you and those dreadful demons you worship.’

  Branwen hardly knew where to start in response to this. The distortions and lies Meredith’s father had been feeding her beggared belief.

  ‘To begin with, Meredith, I do not worship the Shining Ones,’ Branwen said, keeping her voice calm and low despite her despair at the wrong-headedness of the princess’s allegations. ‘My allegiances have always been to Brython, and everything I do is aimed at keeping the Saxons at bay. I was at Gwylan Canu, Meredith – I saw what happened. I saw Angor bend the knee to Herewulf Ironfist. I saw the men of Gwylan Canu led off to death in the east. I saw the slaughter and the triumph of the Saxons.’ Her eyes narrowed as the memories ignited in her mind. ‘And I was there to witness their downfall and defeat at the hands of those so-called “dreadful demons”. Strange and unknowable the Shining Ones may be, Meredith, but they are part of our homeland and they work only to protect it – and us.’

  ‘Poor Branwen,’ sighed Meredith, her tone condescending and sympathetic. ‘I wish there was something I could say to break the old demons’ hold over your mind, but I don’t have the learning or the skill to do that for you.’

  Branwen bit down the urge to slap some sense into the girl’s head. The princess of Doeth Palas knew nothing, and the things she did know were entirely false. But what purpose would it serve to try and turn a daughter from her father? Words alone could hardly do it, not when Prince Llew had been whispering his poisoned lies into her ear for all her life.

  They rode on in heavy silence for a while, forging their way through the deep snow while the cold bit at their hands and the cruel north wind threw spiteful ice into their eyes. Fain was ahead of them for much of the time, a black dot low in the eastern sky, seeking out landmarks in the white desolation and then returning to Branwen’s shoulder for respite.

  After a while, Branwen fetched a hunk of stale bread from her saddlebag and handed it to Meredith. Looking back past the other riders, she was surprised and pleased to see how far away the mountains now seemed. They were making good progress under the circumstances and already the snow lay less deep.

  On and on they plodded, the long and weary line of horses and riders. Every now and then they would find themselves in a valley where the snow was too deep to push their way through. Then they would need to make the difficult scramble up the hillsides, their cloaks clawed by gorse, their faces slapped raw by lithe branches. At these times, they detached Linette’s stretcher from the saddle and carried it up between them, fearful that they might slip and fall and cause her more harm. Fortunately, Rhodri’s medicines kept her in a deep sleep, although Branwen was concerned by the bluish tint that coloured her lips.

  Then the land would open out and Branwen would look up to see the steadily falling snow turned black against the jaundiced sky, and her eyes would swim and the blood would pound in her head until all she wanted to do was slip from the saddle and curl up in the soft whiteness and fall asleep.

  Sleep. That would be good. All work finished, all duties done. A sleep resonant with happy memories of better winters. Yuletide adventures with her father and mother and her brother Geraint. Jaunts into the snows that ended with good food and blazing fires and tales and songs and laughter in the Great Hall of Garth Milain.

  ‘Do you know Prince Drustan?’ Meredith’s question broke Branwen from her giddying daydreams. She blinked herself back into grievous reality.

  ‘I do,’ she replied thickly, disturbed by how her mind had wandered.

  ‘What’s he like?’

  Branwen paused for a moment, gathering her wits. ‘Have you never met him?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘I think you will like him,’ Branwen said slowly, conjuring an image of the nineteen-year-old heir to the throne of Powys in her mind’s eye. ‘He is tall and dark, like his father. Not overly sturdy, but no weakling. Well-knit, I’d call him. He has some skills with a sword and a bow and he has a sharp mind, I think.’

  She omitted speaking aloud her other impressions. The boy is more open and frank than his father, I’d say. There is something about
King Cynon that always makes me feel he’s keeping his true thoughts and desires secret. The king never laughs, but Drustan is often merry. Perhaps the burdens of kingship weigh too heavy for mirth. But, given all for all, I’d say Drustan has a kindlier and more generous heart than his father.

  ‘Do you think he will like me?’

  The question took Branwen aback a little. ‘Why would he not? You have a comely face, and you know how to behave in highborn company. When I left Pengwern he was away on some urgent errand, meeting with the lords of the southern citadels. But I am sure he will hurry back to meet his intended bride.’ She wrinkled her brow as a sudden thought struck her. ‘How do you feel about being sent to marry a boy you have never met?’

  ‘It is my bounden duty to Powys, and to the house of my father,’ Meredith said quickly, as though repeating a carefully learned lesson. ‘I will be the mother to a long line of kings. It is an honour to do this. A great joy.’

  ‘Really?’ Branwen twisted to look into Meredith’s face. ‘Do you feel a great joy inside you then, Meredith?’

  ‘I must,’ said the girl, shifting her eyes away from Branwen’s face.

  ‘I certainly had no feelings of joy when I set off on the journey that was to end with me becoming the bride of Hywel ap Murig of the house of Eirion in Gwent,’ Branwen replied. ‘In fact, I resented it, if I am honest with you. But then, I had already met Hywel and knew him to be a spiteful little wretch with the face of a sickly, bloated toad.’

  How curious that seemed, now she thought of it. It would not have occurred to Branwen to think for a moment that she had anything in common with the princess – and yet both of them had been sent from home to marry a stranger for the greater good of Powys. That was a bond of sorts, to be sure.