The Prince of Powys (7 page)

windows lining the far wal.

Carthann turned to a younger lady. “Princess Leri, draw a

basin for her and fetch one of your gowns.”

A bath. An answered prayer. Road dust caked her skin, and

her head itched from the twigs and leaves tangled in her hair. Leri brought forth a basin scented with lavender. Branda sniffed the

calming, soft fragrance, then shed her gown and splashed the

warm water over her tired, sweat-covered body.

* * * *

a warm glow of happiness filed her. Leri handed her a green

robe, brocaded in gold thread. The Celtic gown was more

luxurious than Branda’s dress. This Dinas Bran was not such a

bad place after al. It would be but a sennight til her sire

delivered the ransom to see her safely home in Mercia, no longer

betrothed to Cuthred. Surely her father had missed her these

many days and would no longer force her to marry a man she

detested.

She glanced at her itching finger, and then stared at the heavy,

gold betrothal ring. Her first thought was to cast it off, but she realized it was the only Saxon thing she wore. It was part of her

identity, at least for the time being. Al was doomed just

moments ago, now it seemed to be working out for the best.

Everything would be just fine.

She sat in a wooden chair by the wal of windows and gazed

at the enthraling view of the valey below
. Strange
, she thought,
but I feel so at home in this quaint
Welsh hill fort
.

The most beautiful music she ever heard floated in the air.

Carthann held a harp pressed against her left shoulder while she

Carthann held a harp pressed against her left shoulder while she

strummed with her right hand and gazed out at the spectacular

view. A knock at the door disturbed the peaceful notes.

The Queen caled, “Enter.”

Elisedd stood in the doorway, waving a dagger in one hand.

Blaise strode in behind him, piercing his father with a scowl.

Branda gasped as the King grabbed her wrist with his free hand

while brandishing the deadly blade in the other. Her hand

trembled uncontrolably.

Did the mad Welsh tyrant mean to kil her? She was

breathless and couldn’t speak. Elisedd peered greedily at her

hand. No, it was her finger, the one with the ring on it. No, it

could not be.

Elisedd nodded to Blaise. “We need take something from her

to send as a missive to Ethelbald, so he knows we hold his

daughter’s life in our hands.”

He means to cut off my finger so my sire will send the

ransom.
With a rush of anger she caught her breath. “No, not my finger!” She let out an ear-piercing scream as she tried to pul her hand away.

“Sire! She knows not what you mean to do.” Blaise shook

both his hands at his father.

Elisedd stared at the Princess’s finger.

Branda’s ears were bombarded with the sound of her panting

breath and hammering heart. Blaise said he would stand by her,

protect her.

She yeled, unable to steel the fear which thrashed wildly in

her chest. “Blaise, you said no harm would come to me. What

means this?”

The Prince yanked his father’s shoulder. “Father, unhand the

Princess.”

“Leave me be, Blaise. I cannot get this off with you hovering

over me.” Elisedd moved his clutch up to the Princess’s palm.

Blaise grappled the King’s shoulder as he pleaded, “Tel her

what you are about. She thinks you mean to sever her finger for

ransom.”

The King’s brows arched in a baffled expression. “Cut off

your finger?” Elisedd laughed at Branda. “Why would you think

such?” He glanced at the dagger he held in his other hand.

“Please, don’t slice off my finger,” she cried out.

“I’m not going to cut your finger, girl.” He lay the knife down

“I’m not going to cut your finger, girl.” He lay the knife down

on the nearby table. With several hard yanks on her finger, he

puled off the gold ring of Cuthred’s betrothal.

The ring, he just wanted the ring.
Before she could breathe a sigh of relief, he picked up the dagger and grabbed her hair at

the roots. Her scalp stung as he yanked her hair. When she

heard a slicing sound, her breath stopped.

Elisedd held the dagger before her in one hand and in the

other a long strand of her blonde hair. Branda couldn’t speak.

He just wanted a strand of her hair and the ring, nothing more.

Al was wel, she kept repeating in her head, but her pulse raced.

She looked on as Elisedd looped a flaxen strand through the ring

and wrapped it around the band several times.

Holding it in his palm, the King gazed on it with great pride.

He turned to Blaise. “This wil do the trick. Come; I shal have

you tel the messenger where to go and what to say. Having been

held in Mercia, you know the fortress and its people far better

than I.”

Branda clutched her chest as if to slow the pounding rhythm.

Blaise and Elisedd left as quickly as they’d come.

* * * *

ready for the evening meal. With the weight of the gold torque

about his neck, he held his head high and strode into the great

hal. He took comfort from the warm roaring fire ablaze in the

huge stone hearth. The tangy scent of boiled boar spiced the air.

A serving maid carried in a large platter of roasted geese

drenched in sauce made from cloudberries picked on the moors.

She dished out various portions based on the classes of the

feasters, who sat on rush palets around smal, short tables.

It’s good to be home,
thought Blaise, as he strode to the dais where Elisedd sat with Queen Carthann at his side. He bowed to

them and nodded to his brother Brochfael, the heir, and his wife

Princess Leri, who sat to the King’s left. He’d dreamed of

having his family around him, feasting on a meal like this, when

he’d been fighting the dogs for scraps in Ethelbald’s hal. Blaise

he’d been fighting the dogs for scraps in Ethelbald’s hal. Blaise

plopped down into the large oaken chair beside Carthann and

gazed at the empty seat to his right.

Where was Branda? He leaned toward the Queen. “Wil the

Princess not sup with us?”

“She says she’s not hungry,” Carthann replied with a tilt of her

auburn head.

“The Princess sits at the window and stares out at the hils and

valey,” Leri said, taking a sip of mead.

“Wel, close the shutters and command her to come to my

board,” the King grumbled.

Blaise laughed at the expression on Carthann’s face.

She told him, “It’s not so easy, m’lord. The Princess is sad.”

Elisedd clanked his tankard of mead on the table, causing

cups, knives and jugs to quiver. “She is a hostage; she should be

sad. Was my son not sad, held like an animal in Ethelbald’s lair?”

“Yes, you are right, m’lord, the Princess should eat.”

Carthann flashed an I-love-you-anyway smile at the King.

“I’l fetch her a tray,” Leri offered.

“Good.” Elisedd grabbed his tankard and took a swig of

mead.

Blaise couldn’t help but grin. His sire had learned long ago to

limit commands on Cymry women. If Carthann said the Princess

wasn’t coming to the board, then she wasn’t.

Thoughts of Branda’s smile loomed in the back of his mind.

Lips perfectly curved opening to showcase bright, even, white

teeth, but Carthann’s bel-like voice drew Blaise from his

musings.

“It is good you are home, my son.” She placed her hand over

his.

“Yes, brother, welcome.” Brochfael raised his tankard in a

salute.

The clang and clatter of cups vibrated through the hal with a

toast to Blaise’s return. Dancing hearth flames caught his eye as

he remembered the feel of the hard, heavy chains which had

bound him in Mercia. His neck was stiff but he realized it was

only his torque and chortled with relief.

Brochfael flashed a white, toothy grin while Elisedd bore an

ever-steady scowl. Carthann smiled sweetly and Leri gave Blaise

a slight salute of her tankard before taking a large gulp.

Blaise ran his fingers across the silver tankard and breathed in

the aroma of thick honeyed mead. The audible sigh of the

feasters drew his attention to the tal, muscular bard with harp in hand striding to the edge of the dais. The bard sung of his daring escape and cunning concealment in the wagon of woad flowers.

At song’s end, Carthann stood up and proclaimed, “We shal

find this merchant and appoint him royal dye master of Powys

from this day forth.”

The feasters cheered Carthann’s kindness. Blaise nodded

along as he thought of Branda.
She should be here.

He gestured to the dark-haired serving maid with the loving

spoon hanging from her neck. “Go, go to the Saxon Princess.

Bring her a fruit loaf of bara brith and bid her join us in the dining hal.”

The Princess probably likes sweets,
he thought as he leaned back in the chair. Would her lips taste like honey? He blinked his eyes to waylay unwanted longings. The Princess was Elisedd’s

hostage, he should give her no thought, yet her charming face,

long silky hair which glistened like moonlight and eyes like blue

fire haunted him.

“Branda,” he unknowingly whispered aloud.

“What say you?” asked Elisedd.

“I say it’s good to be home.” Blaise’s cheeks burned. It was

only a matter of time until he would shake the Princess from his

mind. Ethelbald would pay the ransom and he would never see

Branda again. In the back of his mind, he already dreaded that

day.

Branda didn’t come to the hal. He left and stumbled to his

chamber where he fel asleep on a rush-filed palet.

* * * *

indulgence the previous evening. He couldn’t remember how

he’d made it to his bed. After sluggishly puling on a clean tunic

and braise, he met his brother in the training yard.

“You had quite a night of it.” His brother greeted him with a

wide grin and a hard slap on the back. “Are you fit for sword

play?” Brochfael drew his long blade from the sheath belted at

his side.

his side.

“Ever am I ready, brother.” Blaise withdrew his sword and

held it at the ready as he moved his feet into a battle stance.

They kept their ground, sidestepping in a circular motion,

stalking each other. Blaise’s sword arm had gone weak from

captivity and his head was dul from a night of revelry. As

opponents go, he matched Brochfael’s level of skil but his

brother’s agility was at its peak, while his own was at its

weakest.

He lunged but Brochfael warded off the blow with a swift

back step. Blaise moved in again, unknowingly giving his brother

the advantage. Brochfael struck his shoulder and Blaise slipped

back, warding off the blow. He lunged at Brochfael who

sidestepped quickly. The younger brother thrust at the elder’s

head, swiftly stepped back and then moved in, striking Blaise’s

knee before leaping free of his reach.

He couldn’t let his oldest brother best him. He would never

hear the end of it. Blaise pivoted and lunged.

Brochfael met the attack. Blades crossed in an ear-piercing

grind. Their feet were as swift as their hands as they moved back

and forth. Blaise saw his brother’s grip slipping and slid his foot forward, ready to lunge. An ear-piercing squeal sliced through

the air, startling them.

Blaise wheeled around. “Princess, what are you doing here?”

“Saving your life, I think. He almost kiled you.” She pointed

to Brochfael with menace in her eyes.

Laughter bubbled up in Blaise’s throat. “Branda, this is the

practice yard.”

She looked at him with a blank expression.

He rested the point of his sword on the ground and leaned his

hand on the hilt. “As your sire drils his men, so do we.” He

watched her arch her brows. She was getting there. “My brother

and I hone our sword skils.”

“Wel, you could have let me know.” She flung her arms into

the air. “I ran in haste.” She flipped her hand onto her hip.

“Almost fel, I did, and what do I find? You didn’t even need my

help. What say you?”

He hadn’t a clue. Blaise held his hand to his brow. “What say

you, Princess?” he asked, hoping she’d explain it but he didn’t

care. He enjoyed the warm, pleasant sensation, the tingling in the pit of his stomach when she was near. As he gazed at the wealth

pit of his stomach when she was near. As he gazed at the wealth

of shiny hair, wel-molded face, wide blue eyes ful of innocence,

the creamy expanse of her neck, jutting breasts and narrow waist

flaring into her shapely hips and thighs, he felt vibrant, buoyant, alive.

“Brother, I think she speaks a Saxon riddle.” Brochfael

crinkled his face in an expression of both bafflement and mirth.

“Branda, does your father not have a practice yard for his

men to work their sword arms?” Blaise sheathed his sword.

“My sire would never alow me to watch the soldiers. I must

stay inside each day. Scan is the only soldier father lets me talk to.”