The Prince of Powys (2 page)

Blaise.”

She cocked her head toward her father. “It’s my duty as the

Lady of Mercia to heal him. If not, the Prince of Powys wil die

and fetch you nary a coin as a hostage.”

Her tone was almost a dare to her sire. Even in his groggy

state, it was clear to Blaise she was angry at the King. Whatever

it was about, Ethelbald didn’t want to speak of it.

The King of Mercia waved his large, ring-covered fingers

airily. “Yes, Branda; tend his wounds, but feed him nothing and

do not loosen his chains.”

“I cannot heal him properly if he is not fed.” She roled her

large azure eyes. “It is not just, Father.” She shook her blonde

head.

“Daughter, do as I say.”

“Wel, it wil not be my fault if he is slow to mend.”

Blaise couldn’t tear his gaze away from the maiden. Comely

she was, and she stood up to Ethelbald. No, she was a Mercian

Princess. His enemy. He may have to kil her one day so he

could not develop a fondness for her, but how could he not?

She turned toward a servant. “Bring mead.” She looked at

Blaise. “Drink to lessen the pain.”

“Pul it now,” Blaise commanded, for the pain bolstered his

courage.

“No. You wil drink first.” Her crisp tone showed she was

used to giving commands. She held a goblet brimming with mead

to his lips.

to his lips.

He gulped the sweet, heady brew down to the last drop.

She unwrapped the bandage and gently puled out the rag.

She caled for another goblet and poured some of the ale on his

wound. He gritted his teeth to keep from cringing at the sting.

“I know it hurts.” Her tone was tender.

“No,” he answered curtly. “It does not hurt!”

She shook her head at him, then took a hot poker from the

fire and set it against the flames.

Two guards held him down by his arms, his neck stil chained

to the wal.

She took a deep breath. “Ready?”

He nodded. He would not yel out, yet he could not stop his

eyes watering from the pain. Branda laid the hot poker against

the wound to stop the bleeding. The burning scent of his own

flesh turned his stomach, and he closed his eyes, shutting his gaze from her for the first time.

A servant brought another goblet of golden mead, which

Blaise drank. As he handed the empty cup to the Princess, he

peered once more into her large blue eyes. That was the last

thing he saw before he passed out.

* * * *

himself up and kicked at the cur. “Be gone!”

The hounds paced about the hearth. It was their home and

now his as wel. His stomach felt holow and he craved food, but

Ethelbald ordered that he not be fed.

“I want water.” Cool water for his lips and his face. He turned

his head. The hal was empty save for one young guard. “I need

a damp cloth and a cup of water.”

“I am not to leave my post. I am here to guard you.”

At that moment, the Princess walked in. She nodded to the

Saxon. “Good morn, Scan. How fares the hostage?”

“He needs a damp cloth and a cup of water.”

Branda looked at Blaise and smiled. “I wil have the servants

fetch it.”

She went to the kitchen and returned with a servant holding a

rag and a cup. Branda held two shiny red apples. Blaise looked

up at her as she placed the rag on his forehead with a feathery-

up at her as she placed the rag on his forehead with a feathery-

soft touch. Her eyes were as bright as a ful moon. They

glistened and he could not look away.

She held the brim to his lips. “Sip slowly.”

When he finished, she handed him one of the apples and gave

the other to Scan.

Blaise bit into the ripe fruit. The gold apples of Avalon could

not have tasted better. He devoured core and al in the blink of

an eye.

“I shal bring you more food this eve. Take care not to anger

my father and it may go better for you.” She turned with poise

and stroled away.

Blaise wiped the juice off his chin with the back of his hand.

“Your Princess seems kind.”

The lean guard shrugged. “It’s her duty to tend the wounded.”

“You think she sees me more as a wounded solider than a

hostage?”

“Yes.” Scan lifted his chin in the air. “As lady of the manor,

she has nothing to do with hostages but she is in charge of the

wounded.”

“She tends wel to the wounded.” Blaise paused. “Is she

betrothed?” Now, why did he ask that?

“King Ethelbald means to use her for an aliance with Cuthred

of Wessex, but she says she won’t marry the brute.”

So, that was why the Princess was mad at her sire. “Cuthred

is a barbarian. Why does Ethelbald give his daughter to such a

man?”

“The King means to make peace. Aside from Powys, Wessex

is our greatest enemy.”

“So, he ordered the Princess to wed Cuthred. She seems

more likely to give orders than to take them.”

Scan turned the corner of his mouth upward into a lopsided

grin. “She was always bossy, even as a child. She is the King’s

daughter, and the only noble lady at the royal manor. People do

what she says, and Ethelbald spends little time with her. This is

the first and only order he ever gave her.”

The Prince’s spirits suddenly lifted. “It sounds like you know

her wel.”

“She is my friend.”

Blaise had to bite back his laughter. The Princess? His friend?

Blaise had to bite back his laughter. The Princess? His friend?

This know-nothing guard was too friendly with the King’s

daughter and with enemies of the court. The fool would say

anything. Blaise could get al the information he needed by just

asking, then he could make his escape when the time was right.

Blaise rested his head against the soot-covered wal of the

hearth. His neck stung where the heavy chain bit into his flesh.

The heat of the flames, weakness from his wound and the never-

ending haze of smoke luled him into a half-sleep state. He

focused his mind on the image of the hil fort of Dinas Bran on

top a lush green mountain overlooking the verdant valey and the

winding Dee River. Home.

He was startled out of the daze by snarling dogs. Two beasts

—poised for attack—stared each other down, growling fierce

warnings.

“Fighting again?” he asked the dogs. The beasts continued

their brawl without a glance at him. “Huh; I ignored my sire’s cal to peace and look where I am,” he said dryly. His mouth tasted

of ashes. He coughed.

He noticed the Princess entered the hal when he wasn’t

looking. He latched his gaze onto her. The Princess’s body

tensed as she spoke rapidly to her sire, hounding him into the

hal. Blaise glanced at the hearth and knew he would come upon

a way to use the flames of the fire, or the heart of the Princess, to make his escape. He preferred using the Princess.

Branda lifted her chin. “Father, you must unchain him so he

can lie in a proper bed and heal his wounds. You can’t treat a

Prince like this.”

“He is a Prince of Powys.” Ethelbald folded his arms across

his chest. “I treat him better than I should. I could simply kil

him.”

With an abrupt turn of her head, Branda tossed her hair

across her shoulder and stomped off.

Blaise stared at Ethelbald but said nothing. He must show no

fear, no weakness.

“You eat tonight, Prince. I wil order my men to throw you

and the other dogs the leftover bones. What you can take from

the hounds wil be yours to gnaw on.”

the hounds wil be yours to gnaw on.”

Ethelbald was true to his word. As the King supped, Blaise

grabbed at bits of tough meat tossed into the soot-covered

hearth. The hounds bit into him, claiming every scrap as their

own. Blaise yanked his hand away from the dogs’ fangs time and

time again. His eyes watered from the stench of their breath, and

he batted at them trying to lure them away from the scraps. They

snarled al the more. He ducked the large joint-bones greasy-

faced guards threw at him and managed to steal a piece of meat

from one of the meeker hounds by pounding the cur with his fist

until the animal simpered and gave up the saliva-soaked scrap.

With their belies ful, the Saxons left the hal and a servant

banked the fire.

Blaise lay down on the hard hearth. His flesh stung from the

bites of the hounds, and his bruised body ached from the bones

thrown at him. He finaly drifted off to sleep. When he awoke the

next morning, every pore of his body throbbed with a dul ache,

while the intense, sharp pain from his arrow-wound pierced his

chest.

He felt less than human, as useless as the soot that covered

him. The Princess had not yet come. She was as golden as

honey and he lived for the sight of her. Had Ethelbald ordered

her from the hal? Would that monster take away the one person

who bought him pleasure by her very presence?

He caled out to the skinny fool of a hearth guard. “You,

Scan; the Princess has not come to the hal this day. Is she il?”

Scan walked toward Blaise and leaned down to his ear.

“Cuthred has arrived. Princess Branda keeps to her chamber to

avoid him but she wil come to sup at the feast this eve.”

“Ah, Cuthred is here.”

“Yes.” The guard nodded his head.

This would be the best time to make his escape—during the

commotion of a betrothal feast—but how would he get out of the

chains? Branda and Scan were so kind-hearted they would

unknowingly aid in Blaise’s escape. He just didn’t know how, as

of yet.

* * * *

Cuthred are in the council room with the door closed. You must

Cuthred are in the council room with the door closed. You must

stand guard there so you can hear what they say.”

Scan stared at her with a blank expression.

“Go on.” She waved him toward the council room. She would

find a way out of this betrothal.

The guard turned on his heel and in a slow, reluctant stride

went to do her bidding.

“My congratulations, Princess.” Blaise grinned wryly. “I

understand you are to be betrothed.”

Gods teeth, not him too! Did everyone know she was to

marry Cuthred of Wessex?
She turned to face the hostage.

“Never,” she retorted with a quick jerk of her head.

His laughter burned her ears as she hurried to the long table.

She plopped down on the bench, feet flat on the rush-covered

floor, and gripped the edge of the oaken table. Seething, she

tried to ignore the warrior who sat hearthside in a pile of cinders, but she caught herself staring at his mass of red hair, sprinkled

with ash. She couldn’t take her eyes off the muscles bulging

beneath the soot- covered tunic. She’d never been attracted to a

man before and it unnerved her on the day she needed her

composure the most.

She sensed someone’s approach. Scan.
He has word
, she

thought, as she gazed with anticipation at the rangy youth. As he

bent his lips to her ear, she twirled a strand of flaxen hair around her finger.

“Your sire caled for the scribe.”

She banged her smal fist on the oaken table. “Christ’s bones!

It cannot be. I shan’t be wed to Cuthred the cur.”

“Shh, shh,” Scan cautioned. “If your sire hears, you wil suffer

his wrath. He is a
bretwalda
, one of the greatest kings, a ruler of Britain. M’lady, his word is law.”

Am I not his daughter, a Princess of Mercia?
“My sire

needs fathom what my life would be, married to Cuthred of

Wessex.”
If I may but speak to him alone I will have my way.

I always get my way.

“Shush, I hear footsteps.” Scan scurried to his position at the

hearth where he stood at attention.

Ethelbald and Cuthred strode into the hal with wide grins

across their weatherworn faces. Branda crossed her arms over

her blue woolen tunic dress. Her burning anger rose as she

her blue woolen tunic dress. Her burning anger rose as she

looked at Cuthred, the man who would be her husband, the

brute, the boar, and the end of life as she knew it.

She unfolded her arms, grasped her hips and gazed boldly at

Cuthred. “M’lord, I see you are wel pleased. No doubt Wessex

plots another battle against Mercia, for I believe that is your

fondest means of frolic.”

With a tilt of his thick neck, Ethelbald raised his firm-set chin.

“What know you of battles? Hold your tongue, for the King of

Wessex is my guest this day.”

“Yes, my sire. So often has he been our foe that I, a mere

woman, forgot he was here as our friend...this eve.”

Ethelbald dropped his jaw.

Branda shut her mouth but she didn’t regret her words. Her

father shouldn’t have promised her to Cuthred.

“Princess Branda, you speak the truth. Often I have been your

foe, but neither am I here as friend. From this day forth I shal be more to you than friend or foe.” Cuthred smirked, flashing a row

of yelow-stained teeth.

Her skin crawled as if covered by snakes.

King Ethelbald raised his muscular arm and declared, “Here