The Prince of Powys (8 page)

Blaise couldn’t hold back his laughter. He clutched his bely.

Brochfael grinned.

The Princess threw her shoulders back, folded her arms

against her chest and swung her head to the side.”Oh, laugh then.

I can find better ways to spend my time than in your company.”

Blaise chuckled louder.

“Men! This is what I get for my troubles. It’s always so; I

know not why.” She wheeled around, her long glistening hair

rippling across her back.

“By the Gods, you are lovely!” Blaise caled out as she

sauntered away. “Branda, do you not want to watch our sword

play? I am very good.”

Brochfael sheathed his long blade and slapped his brother’s

forearm. “Good luck with her; you shal need it.”

“I need no luck with the ladies, brother.” Blaise turned and

strode toward the rear gate, yet he could stil hear his brother

chuckling.

* * * *

clasping newly picked wild flowers. Why had he picked daffodils

for the Princess? Wel, growing wild along the hilside as they

were, someone would have picked them, so it might as wel be

him. Bless Bran’s head! Now he was thinking like her. He

cupped his brow and walked up to the grianan door just as Leri

opened it. He felt the burn of embarrassment upon his cheeks as

he held out the daffodils.

“A child picked these for the Princess. Make sure she gets

“A child picked these for the Princess. Make sure she gets

them.”

“A child?”

Blaise did not like the lift in Leri’s tone and the way she roled

her eyes. No, he did not like that at al. She looked like she

knew what he was about. No, that was not good. If Leri

suspected he picked these flowers then she would tel Brochfael,

he would laugh then tel Carthann, who would tel Elisedd. The

King wouldn’t laugh, not at al. He would cal for the Druid to rid

his younger son of bewitchment. By the Gods! How did Leri

come to know what he was up to? She’d never struck him as

overly bright.

“Brochfael picked daffodils for me when we were first

betrothed,” she said with a smug smile on her face.

He did not want to know that and Brochfael certainly did not

want her speaking of such nonsense. “A child plucked these

flowers,” he said slowly.

“What child?”

“A child!” he stammered, knowing his face was as red as a

strawberry. “What does it matter? Make sure the Princess gets

them.” He stuck the daffodils in Leri’s hands. “That is al.”

“Very wel,” she said politely then turned her head and yeled,

“Branda, there’s someone at the door with flowers.”

Blaise slid his foot from the doorway as fast as he could,

turned his back to Leri and headed in a brisk gait toward the

hal.

This nonsense would soon be done. He should ask the Druid

for some tonic of sorts for no doubt he’d caught some Saxon

ilness, which possessed him to pick sily flowers. Yes, it must be

so. He couldn’t think of any other reasonable explanation. Blaise

wheeled around and headed to the wooden temple. He peered

into the open doorway and gazed at the wizened, gray-headed

Druid hunched over an ancient, silver scrying bowl.

“Neilyn, might I enter? I need to speak with you,” he said

under his breath, embarrassed about his feelings for Branda.

The Druid waved his withered hand, gesturing him to come in,

then tore his eyes away from the magic bowl and glanced at

Blaise. “What troubles you?”

“I strode down the hilside and picked daffodils this morn.”

“What say you, Prince?” He arched his eyebrows and

“What say you, Prince?” He arched his eyebrows and

furrowed his brow.

“Druid, you need to help me. I picked daffodils.” He shrugged

as he gazed at Neilyn’s blank stare and open mouth.

“For whom did you pick these daffodils?”

“Princess Branda.”

“The Saxon!”

“Yes.” Was Neilyn’s hearing going bad? Why was the Druid

making him repeat everything?

“Did you not know? Elisedd is ransoming the Princess. She

shal soon be returned to Mercia.”

“Yes, my father told me.”

“Then why were you picking flowers for her?” he snapped.

“I know not, it’s why I came to you. Do you know what ails

me?”

“Prince or not, you are daft sometimes.” He emphasized his

words with a curt nod.

“Druid or not, that’s no a way to speak to a Prince of

Powys.”

Neilyn let out an exasperated curse and waved his hands,

indicating he would speak any way he wished. “Listen, you must

not talk to the Princess, nor look at her. Don’t sup with her in the hal. Most important of al, do not dream of her.”

“Then I wil be myself again?”

“Yes, in time.” Neilyn nodded.

Content with the Druid’s answer, Blaise strode to his

chamber. He thought of Neilyn’s words as he plopped down on

the rush-stuffed palet for the night. He drifted to sleep and into an ethereal dream woven of mist, magic and Branda. Heat and

haze swirled in his mind. He dreamed he was in Mercia but not

as a hostage. He was the daft guard Scan except he felt like

himself. When he held Branda in his arms, she caled him by his

own name. “Blaise, my beloved.”

Ethelbald gave him Branda’s hand in marriage to honor him

for a great battle he’d won, then he scooped the Princess into his arms and carried her to a chamber, which looked just like the

one at Dinas Bran. Branda pressed her soft, warm lips upon his.

He awoke and peered at the crumpled bed linens and the

tousled, brocaded coverlet. Why did he have to wake up? Blaise

wanted to crawl underneath the coverlet and return to the dream.

Apprehension gripped him. Neilyn’s voice resounded in his

Apprehension gripped him. Neilyn’s voice resounded in his

head, “
and most important of all, do not dream of her.”
By the sunlight peaking through the high window, he knew it was

early morn. He shot up from the bed and tugged on his braise.

Not bothering with shoes or tunic, he ran to the Druid temple.

“Oh no,” he gasped as he peered in the open doorway and

saw Neilyn speaking to Branda. The Druid seemed perplexed

for he rubbed his brow.

“I know you’re a priest, but stil I think you must be wrong.”

Branda crinkled her forehead in the cutest manner. “Tel me

again.”

Neilyn seemed to grip his head even tighter. Blaise saw by the

expression in the Druid’s eyes he’d been spotted.

“My Prince, enter. Branda the Saxon has interesting views on

life. Mayhap you care to listen to her prattle...I mean her

wisdom.”

“But you said I was not to speak―”

Neilyn interrupted the Prince. “You wil guard the Princess,

wil you not? I need carry dire tidings to King Elisedd. I have not a moment to spare. Stay and keep the Princess company.”

Neilyn walked away with a speed incredibly nimble for an old

man.

Blaise stared, speechless, into Branda’s eyes.
Strange,
he thought,
but she is doing the same.
He lost al track of time until Neilyn returned with Brochfael.

“Brother, our sire cals for you. He wants you to come now.”

Brochfael grabbed him by the arm.

It must be of an urgent matter,
Blaise thought. He broke his gaze with Branda and walked with his brother to the great hal,

which was empty save for the King, Brochfael and himself.

Elisedd sat in the oaken chair upon the dais, leaned his elbow

upon the armrest, and plopped his chin upon his fist. With the

other hand he gestured to Blaise to come to him.

What did he want?
Blaise wondered as he stepped forward

til he stood before the King.

“My son, as ruler of Powys I do not abide Saxons.”

“Yes, father, this I know. Saxons are our enemies.”

“I wil have no aliance with them. Never. Do you

understand?” He squeezed his chin with thumb and forefinger as

he waited for Blaise to answer.

Why would he ask such? Blaise would never form an aliance

with Saxons. Was his sire going daft in old age?

The King looked to Brochfael. “What was he doing when you

found him?”

“Gazing moon-mad at the Saxon.”

“Moon-mad, at what Saxon?” he retorted in anger, and then it

hit him. Branda. The King was speaking of Branda.

Reaching out his hands, palms upward, he said, “When I look

at Branda, I don’t see a Saxon, I see a woman.”

“That is not the answer I want!” Elisedd barked.

“In truth, I know not what you want, Father.” Feeling as

rattled as a shaken beehive, he knew he couldn’t halt the buzzing

in his heart for the Princess.

Elisedd waved his hand in the air. “I need send you on an

urgent task.” He twirled and twisted the ends of his red beard.

“When did the messenger ride forth for Mercia?”

“I sent him off yesterday,” Blaise answered, unsure of where

this was headed.

“Good. If you leave now, by the time you reach Mercia the

messenger wil have delivered the missive. Meet him at the

border; there the two of you wil await Ethelbald’s reply, then

deliver the tidings to me.”

“Why are two men needed?”

“They just are. Do not question your King.” Elisedd twirled

his hand in a circle as if trying to hasten his thoughts but nothing was forthcoming. He raised his hand in a halting gesture. “Do not

get caught this time.”

Did his father think him a fool? “Your word is my command.”

Blaise turned his back, strode to the stable, saddled a rugged

Cymry pony and rode down the mountainside, headed for the

border.

“Brave, be brave,” Branda said under her breath, striding past

feasters clustered in circles around short tables. Hiking her green skirt, she stepped up to the high board and eased into a roomy

chair at the Queen’s side. She peered at the empty seat between

Elisedd and Brochfael.

Leri welcomed her and Branda returned the greeting before

Leri welcomed her and Branda returned the greeting before

she nodded to the Queen.

“When is Prince Blaise expected to return?” she asked

Carthann.

Before the Queen could answer, the King said, “Blaise wil be

with us in a sennight or less.”

“Why do you ask?” Carthann’s eyes glinted of sly curiosity.

“My daffodils have wilted.” Branda brushed her fingers in the

air. Though the weather hadn’t changed, the air seemed cooler

since he left and al things duler; even the flowers he gave her

died. Her ears longed for his voice and her eyes felt tired from

not seeing him. She missed Blaise.

“Daffodils?” Brochfael asked, furrowing his brow.

“Yes.” Leri grinned impishly. “Blaise needs to bring the

Princess more daffodils but he’s not here.”

Druid Neilyn, seated below the dais, asked, “Did she say her

daffodils have wilted?”

This was good, Branda thought. Everyone seemed interested

in daffodils. It must have been a good subject to bring up. She

glanced at the empty chair again. It took on the appearance of a

useless piece of wood, and al the intricate carvings seemed

frivolous without Blaise sitting in it. To fight this odd longing for the Prince, she turned to reason. It must have been the daffodils.

She had merely confused her wont for daffodils with a wont for

Blaise, for if he were there, he would have brought her fresh

daffodils. She shrugged at the simple conclusion, satisfied with

her logic.

“Daffodils?” The King tilted his head toward Carthann. “Did I

not bring you daffodils years ago?”

“Many years ago, Lord husband.”

“Daffodils,” Elisedd repeated. “I have given no thought to

daffodils in ages.” He glanced at Branda. “Princess, I shal show

you where the daffodils grow on the morrow.”

With a bouncy nod toward Elisedd, Branda said, “My

thanks.”

However, the sudden joy bubbling in her with that news burst

as her head spun with thoughts of Blaise. Was he, even now,

seated around a campfire chewing hard bread and cheese, or

gulping down a skin of mead? What word would the messenger

bring from her father? What would Ethelbald do when he

opened the missive and saw the betrothal ring wrapped with

opened the missive and saw the betrothal ring wrapped with

strands of hair? He would rage. What of Blaise on the Mercia

border? If something happened to the messenger, Blaise would

be alone. Would Ethelbald capture him again? No. Blaise was

badly wounded last time. In a fair fight, he would have escaped.

In an instant, her mind was filed with the sights and sounds of

the day Blaise and Brochfael sparred in the practice yard. She

recaled his bare arms bulging with muscles and his broad chest

glistening with drops of sweat. Absently, she scooped a helping

of wild strawberries.

Carthann turned to the serving maid. “Begin serving the cawl.”

Branda bent her head to the Queen’s ear and whispered,

“Does cawl have honey in it?”

“No.” Carthann flashed a sweet smile. “Do you want honey?”

“Look.” She showed the Queen a blemish on her forehead.

“Honey causes that. I have had too much. The serving maid has

been bringing me bits of a fruit loaf caled bara brith.”