The Prince of Powys (3 page)

you, people of Mercia: I declare blessed tidings. I have granted

King Cuthred, a brave and strong adversary...” he paused and

patted the Wessex King on the back, “betrothal to my youngest

daughter.”

He brought his arm broadside, pointing toward her. She

stepped back, wanting to be anywhere but here.

He continued, “Thus bringing about an aliance between

Wessex and Mercia.” He dropped his arm at his side. The

timbered hal shook with huzzahs.

Cuthred held out his fist. She stood her ground but flinched for

a moment. Wil he hit me, Branda thought. She knew nothing of

men. Everything she’d heard about Cuthred involved his temper.

He unfolded his fingers, revealing a thick, golden ring in his

palm. “M’lady your betrothal gift.”

Her hands quivered as she picked up the gaudy ring. It was

engraved with a lion, bordered by decorative swirls. Grudgingly,

she slipped it around her finger. She wanted to scream, yet could

not risk it. She’d raised her father’s ire by insulting King

Cuthred. Determined to charm him into releasing her from this

dreadful fate, she schooled her composure to that of a model

dreadful fate, she schooled her composure to that of a model

daughter. Branda could turn this around. She just needed time.

She strode to her father’s side at the long table and eased

down into an oaken chair between her sire and Cuthred.

Servants set steaming bowls of hare and barley and tankards of

golden mead upon the board.

She cast her gaze downward in feigned meekness. “My King,

when shal the marriage take place?”

“In a sennight,” he replied firmly.

A deep cough spurted from Branda’s lips as she almost

choked on a chunk of hare she chewed. Having managed to

swalow the stringy meat, she took a swig of mead and mustered

her resolve.

With sweetness and charm, she bobbed her head and said, “It

is good.” She needed to make her move as soon as possible.

Branda kept her gaze upon the bowl, unable to look her sire

in the eye, while discussing this curse of a wedding. Holding a

spoonful of stew to her lips, she blew upon it, taking comfort in

the pleasing scents of sage, bay, garlic and leeks the hare

simmered in. She flinched at the obnoxious slurping sound of

Cuthred devouring his stew. Had he no manners? This was not a

battle camp. It was a betrothal feast.

“Sweet Mother Mary!” she exclaimed as she accidentaly bit

her tongue.

Ethelbald glared at her.

Smile, smile, smile,
Branda thought. She would please her sire so he would want to please her and release her from this

betrothal, but her tight-lipped grin was undone as she glanced at

Cuthred’s beard sodden with hare broth and the bits of barley

stuck to his chin. It was the first and last time she would sup with him.
Marry him? Never.
She glanced at Scan but he was staring off in space, the dunce. He needed to help her find a way out of

this.

Her gaze fel upon the hostage and she gulped. He stared at

her dead on, with a bold smirk. It seemed he laughed at her fate.

Wel, he should be afraid, with Wessex and Mercia aligned what

chance would Powys have? Ethelbald and Cuthred had both

fought the Welsh often enough.

Silly goose
, Branda thought.
I need to rid myself of this
betrothal
. She didn’t have time to ponder the hostage, a wild Welshman, but why did he seem so different than the other men?

Welshman, but why did he seem so different than the other men?

Blaise smiled. Heat flickered in her chest, but, as she wasn’t

used to the feeling, she flicked her gaze away and stared at the

bowl of stew.

Her father pounded his fist on the table. The servants scurried

to clear the bowls and bring on the betrothal sweets. Serving

maids rushed to the hearth where the hostage was chained. He

didn’t budge but just looked at them as they turned the upside

down cauldron aright and lifted a pot from the embers. The

aroma of baked apples, honey and roasted hazelnuts tempted

the feasters as plates were filed with generous helpings of apple

and hazelnut crumb.

Branda raked her spoon back and forth across the golden-

brown crust of crumbs and hazel nuts. Horrid as Cuthred was,

she should be able to persuade her father of the error he made in

betrothing her to that cur. She would remind him of Cuthred’s

atrocities in battle, burned vilages and ravaged women. While

the King of Mercia had honor in battle and strove for peace,

Cuthred fought to win at al cost.

She recaled al the bloody, wounded men she and her sister

tended after battle with Wessex. She thought of her sister Judith, her long blonde hair and large, almost round, blue eyes. She was

closest to Branda and had taught her to stitch wounds and mix

herbs. She would love her sister’s company. Poor Judith was in

Caledonia, forced to marry the Pict King Brude. Ethelbald gave

Judith to a woad-painted Pict and Cuthred was little better. She

would persuade her father to dissolve the contract. She must.

Branda scooped up a spoonful of apple crumb, but the sweet

treat was almost bitter on her tongue. An inner voice whispered,

I fear my charm can’t get me out of this dilemma.
Cuthred’s loud belch knocked her from her musings. Disgusting. She’d

have to get away.

“M’lord,” she caled sweetly to her father. “I am so excited

with the tidings that I have no appetite. I have much to do to

prepare for the wedding, be it in a sennight. May I retire to my

chamber?” She couldn’t stand another moment with the Wessex

cur.

Ethelbald waved his hand, dismissing her.

Oh, ignore me now if you like; I will have your ear later,

she silently swore before rising. She gave the expansive over-

she silently swore before rising. She gave the expansive over-

tunic and narrow under-tunic skirts a brisk shaking. Crumbs

fluttered to the floor. After a quick, slight curtsy to King Cuthred, she walked away.

Once in her chamber with the door tightly shut, Branda

plopped down on the bed, folded her legs beneath her. She

brushed her fingers across her lips and into her mouth, nibbling

on the end of her nails. She had to think. She always got her

way; she just needed to find the perfect words to persuade her

father to forgo this match.

Hours passed, and the din of feasting died down. She heard

the firm footsteps of King Ethelbald pass her door. Branda

stood.

“It’s anon or nevermore.” She puled open the chamber door,

made her way to the King’s bower and knocked.

“Enter,” he mumbled.

“M’lord, I would speak with you, the most honored King in

al of England.” She flashed her most dazzling smile and walked

toward him. “Father, I am saddened by the thought of leaving

you. Wil you not miss me?”

“Yes.” He smiled. “Now that is how a proper daughter should

act. I like it when you are like this: sweet and maidenly.”

“Do you?” She reeled him in with a coy, downward rol of her

blue eyes, stepped to his side and sat on the bed beside him.

“When wil we see each other again?”

“You are not yet wed.” He chuckled in a low tone. “I said a

sennight, remember.” He gazed with fondness upon her.

“Mayhap longer. A sennight is too brisk for a royal wedding. I

should have told Cuthred that.”

“Do you think so, Father?”

“Yes, indeed a wedding of this magnitude requires at least a

moon-time to prepare for. I shal tel Cuthred in the morning.”

Branda puled her arms behind her back and squeezed her

baled-up hands to contain her excitement. She got the wedding

put back for three sennights and would get it postponed,

permanently! The heavy ring weighted down her left hand, but

soon she would toss it back at Cuthred. She could take care of

this with no trouble at al, and she smiled to herself, forgetting her father’s presence.

“Do you not want this wedding?” He pierced her with his

lucid, blue gaze.

lucid, blue gaze.

Torn from her musings, his words caught her off-guard.

“It is your duty.” Ethelbald drew his brows together.

“Yes, m’lord. I’m always wiling to do my sire’s bidding.” She

mustered her dearest, dimpled smile.

He arched his salt-and-pepper brows and turned his mouth

down into a scowl. “Since when?” He stood and looked down

at her. “You are forever questioning my orders.”

“No.” She stood. “It’s not true.” Branda moved toward him

so they stood but a breath-span apart. “I do everything asked of

me, within reason.” With a defiant toss of her head, she flung

back her long, uncovered hair.

Ethelbald’s face went bright pink.

Branda realized her grave error. He would not give in to her

now. Heaviness pressed down upon her. She had lost.

“Daughter, you wil marry Cuthred to aly Wessex with

Mercia. You shal birth many sons so Cuthred wil have an heir

as wel as princes to fight in his army. Do you hear me?”

With her back against the wal her charm was useless. Al

Branda could do was fight.

“No! Never shal I marry that brute, that man who waged war

against Mercia. I spit upon the King of Wessex.”

“Wed him you wil, and in a sennight.” Ethelbald wagged his

finger at her. “Get you to your chamber now and stay there!”

Branda fled to her bower and fel upon the bed. She swore

like a soldier and cried like a Princess until her shalow breathing slowed to a steady rate. She wiped her tear-stained eyes,

stroled from her chamber and paced the hals. A burly figure

stepped from the shadows of the manor entrance and loomed

over her. She gasped as the man pushed her back against the

wal.

“Christ’s bones, ‘tis you, Cuthred.”

“M’lady, I didn’t dare hope for such a warm welcome.”

“What say you?” she asked warily.

He winked. “Come now. No need to be shy. I know you

meant to meet me for a tryst.”

She dropped her mouth open and froze. Was he crazed?

He let out a deep chortle. “No need to feign such coyness,

m’lady. Why else would you pace the hals in the dead of night, if

not to sneak into my chamber?” He grinned.

not to sneak into my chamber?” He grinned.

“Indeed, Lord Cuthred, my reason for being up is to...to...”

She turned her head and spotted Scan. “Wel, if you must know,

I serve my father. He bid me deliver a missive to the hearth-

guard regarding your accommodations and that of your men. So

if you wil alow, I need do my duty. I am a most obedient

daughter.”

“Obedient?” He paused. “Yes, I like obedience in a woman.

It is good.” He smirked again and eyed her lustily. “Very good.”

“Yes, indeed.” She squeezed out of his heavy embrace and

darted toward Scan as an excuse to get away from Cuthred. She

had never been so glad to see the guard, but as she neared him

her heart almost stopped beating. He was not Scan. The cinder

boy, the hostage Prince, hid his flame-red hair under a soft

conical cap and wore a Saxon cloak pinned with a dul brooch at

the right shoulder. The braided hem hung at knee length over a

brown woolen tunic loosely belted below the waist. The Saxon

trousers of natural-colored wool hung at his ankles rather than

draping over his shoes as was the custom, for he was too tal for

those britches. He wore Scan’s clothes. “Oh, no!”

Standing over her, smiling down, he whispered, “Why are you

creeping about in the middle of the night?”

“I could not sleep, if it’s any business of yours. Where is

Scan? Those are his clothes.”

“Scan has a lump on his head but wil waken in the morn. He

looks very handsome in my black- and red-checkered pants.”

“I want to see him.”

“Realy? Why? Is he your lover?”

“How dare you? What are you about anyway? Do you mean

to harm my sire?”

“I have not the time. I’m escaping.”

A flash of hope sparked in Branda. “Departing…unseen…to

be free?”

“Yes, the hearth-guard is chained to the hearth as I thought it

only fitting.”

“He wil be fine?” She couldn’t have any harm come to Scan.

He was her only friend.

“Yes.” The Prince spoke in a low whisper.

The sound sent a warm flutter through her, but she had no

time to wonder about the strange feelings he invoked. “I am also

fleeing.”

fleeing.”

“What are you escaping?” He arched his red brows.

“My sire has ordered me to wed King Cuthred, but I shan’t.”

“Cuthred is a barbarian. He and his men rape women afore

running swords through them. I would kil him myself if I had the

time, but I must flee before I am spotted.”

“But you have been.”

“What mean you?” His tone was arrogant.

“I, Princess Branda of Mercia, have spoiled your escape.”

How dare he not recognize her authority?

“Cal the guards.” He crossed his arms and stared. “I thought

not. What you would say: ‘I ran into the hostage while I sneaked

out of the palace, refusing to obey my father’s command to

marry Cuthred, the only chance my people have for an aliance

of peace with Wessex.’?”

“I can say what I wish. The guards would believe me, not you.