Warrior Princess Read online

  The servants left without speaking.

  “Aelf and Hild will help you wash and dress your hair ready for the Homecoming Feast,” Meredith explained to Branwen. “They are old, and like all Saxons they are very stupid; but they know what needs to be done.”

  “Is there to be a feast, then?” Branwen asked. After two days on the road, she had hoped for nothing more demanding than to be allowed to wash off the dust and fall into a soft bed.

  “Of course,” Romney said. “There’s always a feast when Father has been away.” She peered at Branwen. “You’re not too tired, are you?”

  “Of course she isn’t,” Meredith said. “Once she’s cleaned up and dressed in her finest clothes, she’ll be wide-awake. Won’t you, Branwen?”

  “Oh, yes,” Branwen said, trying to sound convincing. “Of course.”

  Romney dropped to her knees by Branwen’s chest. “May I look through your things?” she asked. “I love to see new clothes and jewelry. Mama says the clothes and jewels you wear in Cyffin Tir are quite different to ours.”

  Branwen smiled. “Of course you may,” she said. “Help yourself.”

  Romney loosened the leather straps that held the chest closed and threw open the lid. She began eagerly to pull out things.

  “What is this?” Romney asked as she lifted Branwen’s hunting jerkin out of its chest. “It looks like something a peasant would wear!” She looked up at Branwen. “Did you let your servants pack for you?” She shook her head. “That’s always a mistake; they’ve left out all your best clothes and filled your chest with whatever scraps they could lay their hands on!”

  Branwen crouched down, taking the marten-skin jerkin out of Romney’s hands and putting it back in the chest. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything as grand as you,” she said, gathering her clothes back together, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. She was uncomfortably aware that the two princesses were staring at her spread-out clothing as if they were looking at shabby rags that someone had thrown on the floor.

  Branwen spotted the bundle of violet cloth her mother had given her. “I have some gifts for you,” she said. “My mother chose them especially.”

  She took out the bundle and carefully unfolded it on the floor.

  Meredith fingered the cloth. “Quite nice,” she said. “I’m not sure I like the color, though. Is it meant for all of us?”

  “Oh, no,” Branwen said. “The cloth is for your mother.” She lifted an edge of the violet cloth to reveal the golden brooches and the silver spoon. “These are for you, Romney,” she said, placing the brooches in Romney’s hand. “And this for you.” She gave Meredith the spoon.

  “Thank you,” Romney said, glancing briefly at the brooches before getting up and placing them on a shelf. “They’re very…unusual.”

  It was obvious that she didn’t think much of them, and Meredith was staring at the spoon as if Branwen had slapped a dead fish in her hand.

  “I’m afraid we had no time to choose gifts for you,” Meredith said. “But we have so many lovely things, and you have so little. It’ll be easy to find something for you.” She gave Branwen a deeply sympathetic look. “It must have been hard for you to leave your home the way you did.”

  Branwen nodded. “Yes, it was…”

  “Without even time to pack your jewelry and your best clothes,” Meredith continued. She stood up, tapping the bowl of the spoon against her palm as if it were a stick of wood. “I imagine they’re being sent separately?”

  Branwen looked up at her, trying to work out whether Meredith was making fun of her or whether she genuinely assumed that wagonloads of finery were trundling over the mountains in her wake.

  “This is all I have,” Branwen said. “Nothing else is coming.”

  The princesses stared at her.

  “How awful!” Romney murmured. “Mama told us that Cyffin Tir was a barbarous place, but I had no idea….”

  “Hush!” Meredith interrupted. “Remember!”

  “Oh, yes. Sorry.” Romney put her hand over her mouth.

  Branwen gave them a hard look. “Remember what?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” Meredith said quickly. “I’ll go and see if your bath is ready.” She walked to the door and disappeared.

  Branwen looked at Romney. “Remember what?” she asked again.

  Romney gave her a coy look. “Mama said not to make you feel bad because you’re not as…what was the word?” She frowned, then her face cleared. “Not as civilized as we,” she finished, giving Branwen another of those wide, friendly smiles. “Would you like to see some of my jewelry?” she invited. “I’ve got lots. I don’t mind lending you a few things for the feast, so long as you’re careful with them.”

  “I’ll be fine, thank you,” Branwen said curtly. “I don’t really like dressing up.”

  Romney’s eyes widened. “Really?” she asked. “Oh, I love it.” She gave Branwen a patronizing smile.

  The door opened and Lady Elain came into the room. “Ah, Branwen, how are you settling in? Are my daughters treating you well?”

  If you mean, are they making me feel like a bedraggled beggar girl who has just wandered out of the forest, then yes!

  “My mother sent this for you, my lady,” Branwen said, avoiding the question and stooping to pick up the bundle of violet cloth.

  Lady Elain took it in her arms without even looking at it. “That was most generous of her—and to think of me at such a time. Have the princesses told you about the feast?”

  “They mentioned it, my lady,” Branwen said.

  “She doesn’t have anything to wear at the feast,” Romney said, nodding down at the clothes strewn on the floor. “That’s all she has!”

  Lady Elain glanced at Branwen’s things. “Then you will have to lend her one of your gowns, Romney.”

  “Meredith’s will fit better,” Romney said so quickly that it was clear she didn’t like the idea of Branwen wearing her clothes.

  “Then something of Meredith’s,” said Lady Elain. “You both have plenty to spare.” She smiled at Branwen. “But first, we need to get you washed and cleaned up, you poor child.” She put a hand on Branwen’s shoulder. “Come, your bath is ready. Aelf and Hild will help you.”

  13

  THE LARGE, LINEN-LINED tub was in a room off the main chamber of the Great Hall—a small chamber with its own hearth, over which water was being heated in iron pots.

  The Saxon servants looked anxiously at Branwen as she sat in the wooden tub, waist deep in hot water with her wet hair plastered down over her shoulders and back.

  Branwen hadn’t liked the way the two old women had plucked at her clothes as she had prepared herself for the bath. She liked it even less when the women started trying to wash her. They emptied ewers of hot water over her, then one of them held a bowl of soft soap while the other scooped up handfuls of the stuff and reached forward with the obvious intention of smearing it all over Branwen’s hair and body.

  “Leave me alone, please! I can wash myself.”

  “But we must wash you, my lady princess,” one of them said. “We will be chastised if we do not.”

  “No one will ever know,” Branwen said. “Just give me some soap and then…then…go and stand in the corner. Preferably with your backs turned.”

  “Yes, my lady princess,” said the other woman, handing her the bowl. “But…please…forgive my curiosity.” Her voice trailed off.

  “Yes? What?”

  “Do you not have servants to bathe you in Cyffin Tir, my lady princess?”

  “Of course we have servants, but they don’t wash us.”

  “And, forgive me, my lady princess, but who cuts and dresses your hair?”

  “No one does,” Branwen replied. “I like my hair the way it is.” She rubbed a handful of the soap into her hair and began to knead.

  Lady Elain walked slowly around Branwen, her lips pursed and her face perturbed.

  “We don’t have time to cut your hair properly, Branwen, I’m
afraid,” she said at last. “But we can do something with it, I’m sure.”

  Branwen was still in the washroom, sitting on a wooden bench wrapped in soft, white towels. The two servant women stood mutely behind Lady Elain as she circled.

  “I usually just wear it down, like this,” Branwen tried. “I’m not sure…”

  “No, no.” Lady Elain cut her off. “That won’t do at all.” She turned to the women. “Hild, Aelf, I am giving you charge of dressing Princess Branwen’s hair. Do your very best work and be quick; the feast is almost ready.”

  Lady Elain swept out of the room. Branwen took a deep breath. “My hair is fine as it is,” she said. “I don’t care what Lady Elain says.”

  “We will be chastised if we don’t dress it, my lady princess,” Hild murmured.

  “I’ll explain.”

  “We will still be chastised,” Aelf said sadly. “But as your lady princess wishes.”

  Branwen lifted her shoulders and let out a heavy breath. “Oh, very well, then. I don’t want you getting into trouble on my account. Do what you must,”

  “Thank you, my lady princess,” said Hild. “We will make you look glorious, don’t fear.”

  “I doubt that,” Branwen said, as the two women approached her. “I doubt that very much.”

  “And who exactly are you?” Branwen murmured as she stared at her reflection in a large, round mirror of polished silver held up in front of her by Aelf. It was a good question. The face that peered back at her was familiar enough, but that was all.

  Her hair had been plaited and twisted and drawn up on top of her head in an elaborate series of ropes and twirls, the whole astonishing pile held together with golden combs and pins and hung with strings of yellow garnets. It was impressive; Branwen had to admit that. But it wasn’t her.

  “Tell me,” Branwen said, looking over her shoulder at Hild. “Do women have their hair done like this all the time, or just on special occasions?”

  “The Lady Elain and the princesses and other great ladies have their hair dressed every morning, my lady princess,” Hild replied.

  “And undressed and combed out every night,” Aelf added. “My lady princess, are you pleased with our work?”

  Branwen regarded her reflection again. “I’m not sure pleased is the word I’d use….” She shrugged. “But I look less of a fool than I’d expected, although, if Lady Elain thinks I’m going through this every day, she will have to think again.”

  “It is the latest fashion,” said Hild. “And it makes you look very beautiful, if I may say so, my lady princess.”

  “Thank you,” Branwen said, uncertain of how she felt about the compliment. She’d never given any thought to being beautiful before. Geraint would have howled with laughter at the idea.

  She stood up. Hild stepped forward and smoothed out the folds of the scarlet silk gown that Lady Elain had chosen for her. Meredith’s, she assumed, wondering if the older princess had reacted the same way as her younger sister to the idea of Branwen borrowing her clothes.

  The radiantly colored gown had long, wide sleeves with deep yellow cuffs patterned with gold thread. Yellow bands followed the rounded neckline and formed a hem at her feet. Heavy golden brooches were pinned at either shoulder, studded with more yellow garnets, and a belt of finely crafted golden links was clasped around her waist.

  Branwen liked the gown. It would have been impossible not to; the silk felt warm and soft under her hands, and she loved the way it shimmered when she moved. They had silk garments in Garth Milain, but not very many; and they were old, handed down the generations, and of a far poorer quality than this. She turned in a slow circle, twisting her head so she could see herself in the silver mirror.

  The door to the bath chamber opened, and Lady Elain swept in, dressed in purple silk trimmed with gold. She smiled, holding out her hands to Branwen.

  “I knew there was an elegant princess hidden away under that ragamuffin exterior. Come, the feast is prepared, and all we await is the arrival of our most loved and honored guest.”

  Branwen was uneasy at the thought of being an honored guest. She felt more like a bewildered outsider, plucked from the life she had known in Garth Milain, festooned with finery that only made her feel even more awkward and gauche, and expected to behave with poise and confidence in surroundings that disturbed and alarmed her.

  14

  BRANEN WAS IN the Great Hall, sitting on soft furs with Meredith and Romney on one side and a taciturn warrior named Daffyd on the other.

  Fresh reeds had been spread over the stone floor; Saxon servants moved among the people, laying out communal wooden bowls of food and jugs of drink. The meat was mostly chicken and pork, although there were chunks of roast beef on the bone and platters of sea trout and oysters. With this was served a thick broth from the cauldron and pease porridge and hunks of yellow cheese. The drink was mead and ale for the warriors and their womenfolk, and brimming jugs of buttermilk for the younger people.

  The way food was served was quite different from how it was done in Garth Milain. There people gathered in groups of three, each group with its own trencher, a wooden tray from which food would be picked; but here each person had a roundel of flattened wheat bread placed in front of them. Branwen had been about to tear a piece off her bread and eat it when she noticed that all the others were picking food from the bowls and putting it on the bread, filling the disk of bread with food and then eating from that.

  I must keep my wits about me, she thought. It’s going to be too easy to make a fool of myself.

  Most of the diners had their own knives, with which they skewered pieces of meat or cut off chunks of cheese; but the rest of the eating was done with fingers—as it was in Garth Milain—and greasy fingers were then dipped in communal water-bowls and wiped on linen cloths.

  A trio of musicians had set up near the central hearth, playing sad melodies on harp, pipe, and the four-stringed crotta.

  “I don’t imagine you have ever seen so much food at one time, have you, Branwen?” Romney commented as they ate. “We have feasts like this all the time in Doeth Palas. This is really quite normal for us.”

  “We don’t go hungry,” Branwen responded, keeping her temper in check. “And there’s always plenty of food on special occasions.” She managed a smile. “I think you have the wrong idea of what life is like in Garth Milain.”

  “Then you will have to enlighten us,” said Meredith. “We know so little of what goes on in the eastern hill-forts.” She frowned at Branwen’s hands. “It must be a very hard life.”

  “I wouldn’t say so,” Branwen said.

  “Really?” Meredith exclaimed. “But look at your hands. They’re so…rough. And your nails are broken, and your skin is…well, look at it!”

  Branwen gazed at her hands, humiliated by Meredith’s criticisms. True, her skin was tanned from the sun and her knuckles were scuffed, and there were a few small scars here and there from her adventures in the forest; but they were strong and nimble hands, and she had never before been made to feel ashamed or embarrassed by their appearance.

  “They’re like peasants’ hands.” Romney chuckled. “Did you work in the fields, Branwen?”

  A spasm of irritation went through Branwen. “I would rather have my hands than yours,” she snapped. “Soft and flabby like bread that’s been left overnight in a water butt.” She regretted her outburst immediately, but the damage was done. The princesses looked knowingly at each other for a moment and then turned back to their food. Clearly, for the time being, at least, their conversation was over.

  Branwen realized that making friends with Meredith and Romney was going to be something of a struggle. It didn’t help that everything they said reinforced the sense that they thought she was nothing more than an unsophisticated savage from the world’s end.

  “Princess Branwen, welcome to Doeth Palas!”

  The voice came from close behind her. Startled, she turned and found herself looking into the wide, d
ark eyes of a young man who had come up so silently at her back that she had not heard a sound.

  “Thank you,” she gasped in surprise. The young man reached out a hand to her; and without quite meaning to, she lifted her arm and put her own hand in his. His grip was warm and strong and dry; and as he held her hand and looked deep into her eyes, she found her heart beating strangely fast. He was about her age, she guessed—maybe a little older. He was tall and slim, dressed in fine linen and with a deep blue mantle hanging from his shoulders. His light brown hair fell about his slender, handsome face; and as he smiled at her, Branwen’s mind went entirely and unexpectedly blank.

  “My name is Iwan ap Madoc,” he said, his voice soft and lilting.

  “Oh…I’m Branwen ap Griffith…,” she blurted. “…Princess Branwen…”

  His smile widened, and Branwen had the uncanny sensation of falling. “Yes,” he said. “I know who you are. I look forward to your better acquaintance, my lady, if your stay here permits.” He released her hand, bowed, and walked away.

  She gazed after him as he circled the room to where a group of youths were sitting. As he sat among them, his eyes turned briefly to her; but she looked away at once, embarrassed to be caught staring at him.

  You mooncalf! How could you have behaved like such a fool! They already think you’re an uncivilized wretch from the world’s end. You didn’t need to add to that the impression that you’re as dumb as an ox!

  She had no idea why the boy had affected her so intensely—beyond the simple fact that she had never before seen a young man with such beautiful eyes and with such a stunning smile. Trying to recover from her confusion, she reached awkwardly for her cup. She misjudged and knocked it over, spilling the buttermilk. She heard a stifled snigger from Romney. Meredith sighed and rolled her eyes. Branwen started to mop the spilled buttermilk with a cloth, but a servant quickly appeared at her shoulder and cleaned up for her.