The Prince of Powys (6 page)

asked, “Who be this woman?”

Blaise opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a

safe explanation, Branda announced, “I am the Princess of

Mercia, daughter of Ethelbald.”

The scarred man turned a hard gaze upon Blaise. “Give us this

daughter of Mercia as our reward. Our wives and daughters

have been raped by Saxons. Sons and fathers have died battling

Ethelbald’s forces. Grant us this chance to take our revenge

upon his daughter.”

Blaise grabbed the Princess and puled her behind him. “The

Princess of Mercia is my hostage.” He pierced the man with a

cold, daring stare.

A demand rung out from the crowd, “We want the Princess.”

Blaise kept to a bold, brave composure but his inner resolve

faltered, for he had no weapon. The crowd moved closer,

surrounding him and Branda.

A scream built up in Branda’s throat but she couldn’t open

her mouth as an icy, shaking sensation gripped her. She recaled

this was al the Prince’s fault as she rammed her body into him.

“Untie me.”

“You are mad.” Blaise flashed her a firm warning with his

eyes.

“Unbind my hands so I may have a fighting chance.”

“I’l protect you,” he said in a flat tone.

“You? You’re the one who got me into this.”

“You? You’re the one who got me into this.”

“Princess, now is not the time.”

“Untie me, I say!”

Silence fel. She burned from the heat of the crowd’s stare.

Branda was going to die in a vilage somewhere in Powys.

“Marrying Cuthred was better than this.” Her long blonde mane

flapped to and fro as she glanced from side to side, trying to

figure a way out.

Blaise was right. Those stupid soldiers are no army. Surely it

was a ruse? Any moment Ethelbald would ride to the rescue,

wouldn’t he?

The crowd pressed closer. She took a gulp of air to steady

the hammering pace of her heart. She should have married

Cuthred like a good daughter. Why must she always have her

way? If only she’d listened to her father.

Standing behind Blaise, she whispered in his ear, “We must

escape.”

“For certes, Princess. When you figure out how, be sure to let

me know.” Blaise stressed the last word.

“Wel, if you untie me, I could help you.”

“I would rather make do without your help.”

She stomped her foot. “They want to kil me!”

Flying dust and the thunder of pounding hooves broke from

the west. She stared hard at the fast-approaching mounted men

holding long spears and swords. Her eyes ached, strained from

searching the charging force for a flapping pennant that bore the

mark of Mercia. There were none.

Her mind whirled as she tried to comprehend what she was

seeing. Shaken, she softly uttered, “Blaise?”

“They ride from Powys,” he exclaimed in a relieved tone, “to

aid us.”

“Us?” She shut her eyes and tried to hide the stark fear which

shook every fiber of her body.

“Yes. A force to be reckoned with—my father’s men.”

The war band reined their mounts to a halt. Amid the roar of

the crowd and the neighing and snorting of fifty sweaty horses,

men in black, boiled leather, a few in mail and some with helmets

saluted the young Prince.

“Greetings!” Blaise hailed them.

The leader of the war band yeled out, “We came to see what

mischief Ethelbald’s troops were up to. It’s not like the cravens

mischief Ethelbald’s troops were up to. It’s not like the cravens

to ride deep into Powys.”

“It’s not Ethelbald who troubles me. I am a little beleaguered

by the vilage folk. They want my hostage.” Blaise glanced at

Branda and grinned. “This is Ethelbald’s daughter.”

“Bless the Gods; you did good, Blaise.” The leader turned to

his men. “Break up the crowd so we may escort the Prince and

his hostage to the King. He wil be pleased.”

Branda fretted. The Welsh soldiers saved her from the

vilagers, but what fate awaited her in Dinas Bran?

“Our horse’s hoof is bruised.” Blaise furrowed his brow.

The man of arms dismounted and offered his dun steed to the

Prince. The soldier borrowed a work-worn pony from the woad

merchant. Blaise clutched Branda’s waist and hoisted her to a

mounted soldier to ride pilion. She gasped as the soldier kneed

the horse into a pounding galop, leaving the vilage in a cloud of

dust. She couldn’t get away now, but, once she was in the

Welsh fortress, she would find a means to escape. After al, if

Blaise could escape then so could she.

* * * *

breathtaking in its beauty. The air vibrated with enchantment.

Many said the kings of Powys possessed ancient powers. Dinas

Bran once held the Holy Grail brought over by Joseph of

Arimathea. A tinge of worry crawled up her spine as she

pondered whether she could she escape from such a powerful

hil fort where those who dwelt within might be the keepers of

the Grail. For the first time in her young life Branda was not sure she would have her way.

The ride was jolting and rough. With her hands tied, she had

to rely on the smely, sweating soldier to keep her in the saddle.

The Prince of Powys will pay
for
this
, she silently vowed. She recaled the manner in which her father had treated him, chained

to the central hearth. No matter; he was her sire’s enemy, a

warrior, whereas she was but a woman and needed to receive

gentle treatment. Even a Celtic cur must know that.

Though they rode at a hard galop, she gazed at the landscape

to get her bearings so she would be ready to escape. The

murmuring Dubr Duiu River brought them into a gentle, bright-

murmuring Dubr Duiu River brought them into a gentle, bright-

green valey. Branda’s breath caught in her throat as she gazed

up at the thousand-foot-high mountain and the round,

impenetrable structure built atop the
massif
, the hil fort of Dinas Bran. Looming before her, it appeared to float in the clouds like

magic.

She didn’t know how Saxon soldiers would get up the steep

mound of grass and rock. What had she done? Could her father

free her from this ancient stone fortress?

The guard goaded the horse up the steep path cluttered with

sprouting grass and falen rock. Riding into the wind, Branda’s

hair slapped her face. As she inhaled, the hard wind blowing into

her lungs helped calm her fears of the fate awaiting her. The

soldier held her tight, yet she jerked at times, fearing the horse would slip and tumble off the mountain.

She couldn’t pul her gaze away from the huge, bleak wals

jutting from the summit. Golden gorse lined the path and ripped

the embroidered hem of her fine gown. Branda’s foreboding

grew as they neared the dark, circular rampart rimming the

mountaintop. The surrounding hils had a dreamy look to them,

as if she were gazing at them through a watery surface. To the

north she spied a mammoth ridge, so clean cut it looked like

man-made wals and exuded a mystical aura.

The soldier folowed her gaze. “It’s caled Craig Arthur.”

“Arthur, the Welsh King who fought the Saxons?”

“None other. The Kings of Powys are said to be descendants

of Arthur.” With a tilt of his chin and a look of pride in his eyes the solider gazed at the craig.

“Powys has battled my people for many years.”

“So they have, Princess.” The soldier nodded.

She glanced to the southeast at the ditch and earthen

embankments built to protect Powys from ancient foes. Before

the Saxons, even the Romans, had come to this land of the

dragon.

Branda took a deep breath and held it as she passed through

the stone gateway. Fear hung over her entering the dark wals of

Dinas Bran, for she deemed it to be her dungeon.

With a commanding manner, Blaise brought his horse to a

standstil, vaulted off and strode toward Branda. He lifted her

from the saddle and led her by the arm, past cattle pens, storage

from the saddle and led her by the arm, past cattle pens, storage

pits, granaries and round, stone huts toward what he caled the

chief’s house, an oblong structure which looked to hold many

rooms. Though her hands quivered she faced him with ful

aplomb.

“Princess, what think you of Dinas Bran? It has stood for a

thousand years and been refortified many times.”

She thought it more than a palace, it was a waled city. She

might never leave it alive. Keeping her voice bland to hide her

fear, she said, “Never have I seen its like.”

He untied her hands and whispered in her ear, “Princess

Branda I shal now turn you over to my sire, King Elisedd of

Powys, but I shal remain at your side as your protector.”

Strange
, she thought, but his words comforted her. She had become too used to Blaise. She straightened her shoulders,

brushed off her skirt, patted her wind-tousled hair and with a

fluid stride entered the ancient palace.

Stump-sized oaken tables with groups of men and women

clustered around them were scattered across the floor. Looking

at their attire, Branda surmised the groups were separated by

means of class and occupation. The hal shone bright from the

glow of a blazing hearth fire, rush lights and beeswax candles,

which hung from iron scones. Six oaken posts, each carved with

boars, stags and intertwining circles, ran down both sides of the

great hal. A thin, raised dais with a narrow oak table and six

empty chairs, which tapered at the top into crossed

dragonheads, faced the banquet table.

In the seventh chair sat a burly man. His hair resembled a red

bush grown wild. A thick mustache flowed into his beard, so al

to be seen of his face were two hard eyes, a prominent nose,

high-set cheeks and a furrowed brow. His bearing blared he was

King. He raised his chin, revealing a gold torque wrapped

around his lined neck. At the corner of the dais stood a man in a

white tunic draped with a robe embroidered with gold, a priest

or advisor Branda guessed.

Blaise folowed her gaze. “Manwgan map Selyfan added the

dais one hundred years ago, placing it over the mound of dirt,

which Kings of Powys previously sat on.”

“A hundred years.” How could she be so close to the border,

yet so distant?

Giant, shaggy dogs frolicked about the hal, yowling. Smoke

Giant, shaggy dogs frolicked about the hal, yowling. Smoke

stung her eyes. She blinked then gazed back at the high board.

“My sire is hearing the disputes of his people so he may make

fair judgments. The druid Neilyn is reciting Cymry law to aid my

father. We wil not tarry long, for he is busy. Come.”

Branda folowed with her head held high, befitting a Saxon

Princess, though her pulse raced and her stomach warbled.

The massive man rose. “Hail, my son Blaise has returned.”

Huzzahs rang out in the hal.

“Yes, Father. I escaped the treacherous Mercians and have

returned to Dinas Bran.” Blaise gestured to Branda. “I bring you

a hostage: the daughter of Ethelbald.”

The room fel silent. The King pierced her with a stone-cold

stare. She glared back in an attempt to hide her fear.

“Come here.” He gestured her forward.

She didn’t move. Blaise took her by the arm and led her

toward the dais. Her feet were leaden. She stood before the

King of Powys, an invisible weight pressing down on her head

and shoulders. Elisedd cupped her chin. Branda wanted to look

away but she was a Princess of Mercia and would turn from no

man.

The red-headed King grinned, flashing two top teeth. “In

truth, she is Ethelbald’s daughter. She doesn’t even flinch,” he

told Blaise. “The Princess has spirit.”

“Yes, sire, she does.”

Elisedd released her chin. Branda stepped back and nibbled

her lower lip. She had to get out of there.

The King glanced at Blaise. “We shal feast tonight to your

safe return.” He leaned back in his chair. “We need offer the

greatest hospitality to our hostage. Take her to Queen Carthann

in the sun house for she wil care for the Princess until Ethelbald delivers the ransom.” He grinned at Blaise. “My son, I am glad

you returned. Take pleasure in a bath, then come back to the hal

and tel us of your daring escape from Mercia.”

Blaise took hold of Branda’s arm and guided her outside into

the open area, within the stone wals of the fort. Day-to-day

sounds of squawking geese, clucking chickens and an elderly

woman milking a goat soothed her. Blaise stopped at a wooden

building.

In the doorway stood a woman with dark auburn hair, mixed

with strands of gray. A gold torque clung to her creamy neck

above the circular colar of a red robe, and gleaming bracelets

ringed her wrist. “Be you the daughter of Ethelbald the Saxon?”

“Yes,” was al Branda could say to the woman.

Blaise pointed his hand toward the Welsh lady. “Princess, this

is Queen Carthann of Powys.”

As he walked away the Queen welcomed her into the

chamber caled the
grianan
, or sun house. Branda gasped at the breathtaking view of the Dubr Duiu Valey from the numerous