The Prince of Powys (5 page)

foothils, her warm, smooth back pressed against his chest,

Blaise breathed in the fresh-heather scent of her hair. Absently,

he reached down and puled out a twig hanging in her golden

mane and then swept his fingers through the silky strands.

She leaned her neck back and met his gaze. “Why did you not

want me to comb your hair?”

“I comb my own hair.”

“I like the hue of it. It is different.”

As she spoke, the soft pink shade of her curled lips captured

his gaze. He blinked his eyes, trying to diminish his longing to

press a kiss against her tempting mouth.

“It‘s why they cal me Blaise.”

“Did your mother name you?”

“No, she died in child-bed. My father named me Bleheris, to

cal me Blaise by the hue of my hair. The lime wash lightens it to

a reddish blonde, but it’s naturaly flame red.”

“Lime wash?”

“Yes, it makes it thick as a hedgehog’s hide.”

She laughed.

He liked that. It sounded like tinkling music.

Her voice took on a tinge of sadness. “I’m sorry your mother

died. Mine did as wel.”

“This I did not know.”

“This I did not know.”

She nodded her head. “My sire named me as wel. Branda

means sword. Weapons and war are al my father knows, so

that was what he named me.” She chortled.

“It’s a comely name.”
The sister she spoke of must be the

only family she had. The gods know Ethelbald thinks of her

as nothing but a pawn, to be used for an alliance
. “Tel me of Judith.”

“I’ve not seen her since she was taken to Caledonia.”

“Yes, Brude does not ride into Saxon territory save for

battle.”

“Of course, he has to climb over Hadrian’s Wal to get into

England.” Branda lowered her voice to a dreamy tone. “I hear

tel he is a great warrior and handsome.”

“In her marriage to Brude, your sister is more hostage than

wife. She ensures him Ethelbald wil not bring an army against

Pictland.” Gazing at her pouty expression, he again fought the

temptation to kiss her rosy mouth.

“Why do you speak so of Brude and Judith?”

“Princess, I just wanted to show you there are other ways to

look at things. Al is not as it appears. You may be more

innocent of the ways of the world than you think.” He wanted to

shout:
Don’t you know I am betraying you? We are not in

Caledonia.
He knew when she discovered he held her as his hostage, she’d hate him and it shocked him to realize how that

would wound him.

As she leaned against his chest, he drove his horse into a hard

galop across the moors. The sun hung low as Blaise guided his

horse up the first steep mountain he came to. A maiden straight

of posture with long red hair and a fresh, honest face herded her

cows to the valey from grazing in high pasture. Absently, he

greeted her in Welsh.

Likewise, she replied, “May the wind be quiet and the sun

shine this morn.”

“Augh!” Blaise groaned at the pain in his chest. The Saxon

had jabbed her elbow in his stomach. He tightened his grip on

her, and though she fought hard, she was no match for his

muscular build.

“She speaks Welsh, not Pictish.” Branda rocked her body

hard against him as he held her in the circle of his strong arms.

hard against him as he held her in the circle of his strong arms.

“Augh, you bit my arm. Bran’s head! Calm down. You can’t

escape. Stay stil or you may harm yourself in the struggle.”

She bucked against him like a wild horse.
How could a twig

of a girl be so strong? She must have some Welsh blood in

her.

He raised his voice. “If you got away from me, where would

you go? You are in Wales.”

“Liar! You said we were in Caledonia.”

New pains shot through his legs and stomach as she continued

the thrashing assault. “I did lie, for I said we went north, but we rode westward across marshland, then moors and now we ride

up a mountain. I am a Powys Prince; where would I go but

Wales?”

The Saxon horse, frightened by the fray, reared on its hind

legs and released a fierce neigh. Branda screamed. Blaise held

her tight while he took control of the horse. He wished he were

in the saddle of a Celtic pony. Little spooked them; they would

turn and fight before running away. The steed bolted at a fast gait up the hil, bits of rock and rubble tumbling down. Blaise

wrapped his left arm about the Princess and held her tight.

Suddenly he heard a woman’s voice whispering melodic

Welsh, soothing the horse who came to a halt. The grazer-maid

had a way with animals like al Powys folk. The bucking slowed,

then the neighing and snorting halted. The horse calmed.

Relieved, but stil alert, Blaise held the Princess fast then turned to the redheaded maid and thanked her.

She bowed, and he gestured for her to rise. “I was riding up

the mountain to look out for English soldiers. Were you on the

peak? Did you spot an army headed this way?”

“Yes. Wel, a smal army.” The maid shrugged.

“I need see for myself.” He clutched Branda tighter. “Come,

Princess, we need to discover what your sire is up to.”

He clucked the horse into a slow gait up the mountain. It

tossed its large head and let loose a loud whinny. Blaise puled

the steed to a halt, dismounted and, taking a leather thong from

the saddle, he tied Branda’s hands to ensure she could not make

an easy escape.

Gently, he lifted the horse’s right hoof. “Bran’s head, al the

sliding about on the mountain bruised its foot.”

He grasped Branda’s waist, lifted her off the saddle and took

He grasped Branda’s waist, lifted her off the saddle and took

hold of her forearm, tugging her along as he climbed the steep

mountain path to the peak. She plagued him al the way with the

guttural Saxon curses of a common hearth guard.

He looked down and spied a smal force of Saxons riding

through the marshlands, into the moors. “It’s no army, but a war

band—no more than fifty men. They seek to find me before I get

to Dinas Bran.”

“To take you hostage again?” she asked curtly.

“No, Princess; to kil me and take you to Cuthred.” He

pointed to the other side of the valey, to the threatening

battlement of Dinas Bran built on a towering, cloud-crested

mountain. “There is your new home while you await your sire’s

ransom.”

“You cur!” She spat.

“You yel a lot. I recal your father said you kept close to the

hearth guards. I deem he was right.”

“I am a lady of royal blood and you shal speak to me as

such.”

“Then stop spitting, Princess.” He stressed the last word in a

mocking tone and yanked her back down to where the now

calm horse stood. He tugged her forearm with one hand and the

horse’s reins with the other as they walked down the mountain.

“If I can see the war band, so can the forces at Dinas Bran.

For certes, my father has sent his soldiers to see what the

Saxons are about,” he said in a confident tone.
I need get to my
father’s forces before Ethelbald’s catch
me.

“My sire’s army shal take siege on Dinas Bran,” she huffed in

retort.

He couldn’t stop laughing. “No, Princess. No force can lay

siege to Dinas Bran. A war band of fifty men would al lay dead

within a moment’s time if they tried to take the fortress. They

intend to catch me before I get to the hil fort.”

If the pursuing war band caught up to him, he was a dead

man. He’d counted on his skil in riding over the hils and valeys

of Wales to give him an advantage, but the horse’s hoof was

badly bruised. At least with her hands stil tied, Branda couldn’t

slow his escape any further.

Blaise scanned the clusters of huts and stals which made up

the quaint vilage in the valey below. Having made his way down

the quaint vilage in the valey below. Having made his way down

to the foot of the mountain, he let out a loud sigh. With Branda in tow he headed to the center of the smal vilage.

In a loud, bard-like voice he caled out, “People of Powys; I,

Blaise map Elisedd, have escaped the Saxons but my steed’s

hoof was bruised and a war band approaches. I know you wish

to battle the Saxons, for the people of Powys are strong and

brave, yet it would take a tol on your vilage.”
No more

needless battles like the last one I caused
, he thought.

“Instead, I ask you to hide me and the woman, so the Saxon

warriors wil swiftly return to Mercia where they belong.”

“Hither,” caled out a rangy man of average height, his skin

brown from the sun, but cheeks stil rosy, even though he

appeared near the age of Blaise’s father.

A woman with a long oval face and dark hair stood at his side

and two knee-high, white-haired little girls held her hands. Blaise tugged the horse forward.

“No one is going to hide me from my father’s men.” Branda

tilted her chin defiantly.

“Watch me, Princess.” Blaise noticed the wagon ful of

flowers from which the family had filed large wicker baskets of

woad, madder, weld and marjoram, to make dye.

The man winked at Blaise. “There is no more fitting place for

a Powys Prince than beneath the woad.” He pointed to the

wagon. “Get in.”

Swiftly, the family cleared the wagon and Blaise climbed

inside, puling Branda with him. He lay at her side with his hand

firmly covering her mouth. He couldn’t help but smile as a ton of

woad flowers were tossed over him and the Princess. His nose

tickled but he steeled himself and gripped her firmly, ensuring her silence.

It seemed he lay there forever, but he never feared the ruse

wouldn’t work, for the woad protected him. It was the ancient

flower by which Druids of old brewed war paint to render the

Cymry invincible. Blaise knew no Saxon could ferret him out

amid the magic of woad.

Muscles stiff, he strained to stay stil with his arm wrapped

tightly about Branda, his hand firmly clamped over her mouth.

Lying deep under the soft cover of woad flowers, Blaise waited.

A thunderous sound of horses’ hooves, snorts, neighs and the

brutish shouts of threats meant the war band had arrived. From

brutish shouts of threats meant the war band had arrived. From

the banging and thrashing sounds, he knew the Saxons

ransacked the huts and stals. He’d make sure his sire replaced

any loss of property his people faced this day.

He found it hard to keep his muscles taught with Branda’s

warm body crushed against him, yet one flinch or squirm would

cost him his life. He heard footfals approach the wagon.

“What is this?” someone sneered in the gruff Saxon tongue.

A hand pushed deep into the flowery haven. Blaise’s heart

pounded hard. The thick fingers inched closer to him. Coming

for him. It seemed at any moment they’d snatch him. The

looming hand flicked upwards, shuffling the top layer of flowers.

His heart nearly stopped. They may have been discovered. He

prayed they were stil concealed as he heard the rough voice of a

soldier.

“Look at this dye merchant. He can barely hold up against the

wind, so scrawny he is, yet instead of growing food to fatten him

up, he plants flowers. Daft Welshman.”

Chuckles and sneers ensued from the guards.

Another voice queried, “What now?”

“We are in the heart of Powys; too close to Dinas Bran for

our own good. We need turn back and report to King Ethelbald,

to tel him the Welshman didn’t come this way.”

Blaise silently gave thanks to the gods. It seemed forever until

he heard the hammering hooves of the war band’s horses

galoping out of the vilage. He waited quietly, stil clutching

Branda and covering her mouth. Enclosed in the cover of flowers

he had no way to see when al the Saxons had left. He knew it

was safe only once the dye merchant came for him.

A shuffling of flowers and soft hands pushed the woad

blossoms aside. He sat up and raised Branda into a seated

position as wel, for her hands were securely tied.

He flashed a grateful smile at the merchant. “Your service

done to me this day shal not go forgotten.”

“I am your man, Prince Blaise. My family and I are proud to

serve Powys.”

Blaise stood up and brushed off yelow woad flowers stil

clinging to him.

Branda spat. “My father shal come again. He wil take me

back to Mercia, but only after he has kiled you.”

“I thought you wanted to leave Mercia,” he said in a feigned

“I thought you wanted to leave Mercia,” he said in a feigned

tone of disappointment.

“To go to Judith, not to Powys, you fool!”

“Princess, the King didn’t come nor did he send his army. The

war band of peasant soldiers returns to Mercia with no tidings of

your whereabouts.”

“No, I don’t believe it.”

“Believe what you wish.” He turned to the newly formed

crowd. “My thanks. King Elisedd wil reward you wel.”

One of the older men spoke up. “It would be reward enough

if he kept the English out of Powys.”

A dark-haired man at his side, with a deep scar upon his face