The Prince of Powys (9 page)

“Wel, you need not worry.” The Queen pointed to two large

brass pots hanging over the hearth fire. “Cawl is much like your

Saxon stew. It has no honey.”

Even from where she sat, Branda smeled the aroma of leeks,

carrots, venison and wild onions. The serving maid laid a bowl of

simmering cawl before her. Branda noticed a wooden spoon

hanging from the maid’s neck.

“What is it for?” She reached out and ran her finger across the

shalow scoop of the wooden trinket.

“It is a loving spoon, m’lady. A sign of betrothal among the

peasantry,” she whispered in Branda’s ear.

“Did your sire contract the match?”

“No, my lady, the peasantry marry for love. Nevertheless, in

the laws of the Cymry, no woman can be forced to wed.”

“In truth?” Branda could hardly believe it.

“Yes, did you not know?” The servant arched her brows.

“No.” Branda ran her fingers around the smooth loving spoon.

“I had a betrothal ring. Your King sent it to my sire so he wil

pay my ransom.”

“Sorry I am that the King took your ring, m’lady.”

“It’s the way of men.” She smiled at the sweet-faced girl. “Is

your betrothed here?”

“Yes, he sits with the other guards.” She pointed him out.

“Yes, he sits with the other guards.” She pointed him out.

“He is a guard, like Scan,” Branda said aloud as her mind

flashed to memories of Blaise chained to the hearth. Even then,

she couldn’t keep her eyes off him. Why did she miss him so?

She wouldn’t be held hostage if not for him. He was her enemy.

He tied her hands,
the cur
.

She dunked her spoon into the bowl of venison and

vegetables swimming in a clinging brown broth. The serving maid

went on about her duty as Branda shoved spoonfuls of cawl into

her mouth. The royal bard stepped forth and harped a paean of

King Elisedd’s feats of bravery, but Branda didn’t listen. She

dweled on thoughts of Blaise.

As the feasters disbanded, she rose and bid the King and

Queen, “Good eve, until the morrow.”

Elisedd flashed an uncharacteristic grin. “Yes, daffodils it is,

on the morrow.”

Branda couldn’t help but smile at the gruff but loveable King.

If he were her father, he wouldn’t have forced her betrothal to a

man like Cuthred. The Cymry didn’t do such.

She strode beneath the glowing opal moon, slowly making her

way back to the grianan. A rapt, inner joy overtook her as she

gazed out the open row of windows, at the luminescent moon. It

hung so close to the mountaintop. She spread out on the bed

linens and wrapped a heavy, brocaded coverlet around her. As

she shut her eyes, her muscles sunk into the rush-filed palet. The sound of her slow, deep breathing luled her to sleep.

* * * *

The strangest dream. She shut her eyes and returned to the

image of herself with Blaise, who faced Cuthred armored in

chainmail. As Cuthred belowed at her, his face turned red and

round. His cheeks grew puffy and smoke blew forth from his

large nose. A peal of laughter escaped her lips.

Branda puled the betrothal ring off her finger and flung it at

him. She used so much strength that she stepped back and took

a deep breath. The ring hit Cuthred’s forehead hard and he

colapsed with a loud thud. His legs wiggled clumsily in the air as he pushed back with his arms in an effort to rise. When he

managed to stand, Blaise rushed him, holding a giant wooden

managed to stand, Blaise rushed him, holding a giant wooden

spoon as a weapon. He whacked Cuthred back to the ground

then straddled the huge spoon. Branda climbed on behind and

wrapped her arms around Blaise’s broad back. The heat of his

body filed her and al her tension melted away. She was

weightless, free, like ethereal mist.

“My hero,” she softly sighed in his ear.

The loving spoon flew in the air, circled the mountain seven

times and landed on top of the stone gateway of Dinas Bran.

Blaise helped her off the spoon. His breath blew hot against her

cheeks as he leaned his head closer, then his lips found hers. Hot shivers raced through her as his wet, warm mouth covered hers

in a slow, thoughtful kiss. Then she woke up.

She purred as she stretched out across the bed as if Blaise

were realy there and her arms were wrapped around him. The

sensation of floating high above the bed, weightless in the air,

engulfed her until she opened her eyes. It was a dream. Blaise

wasn’t there. A tinge of disappointment lodged in the pit of her

bely. He hadn’t kissed her. She hadn’t ridden off with him.

Cupping her forehead, she chided herself, “Sily notions. It’s

al they are,”

She had something to do this morn? Something with the King?

Daffodils! She needed to hasten. Branda jumped up from the

bed and dressed in a light-blue Celtic tunic-dress, then plaited

her hair into a singular long, thick braid.

She slipped a pair of soft pig-hide shoes on her feet and

rushed to the great hal. Striding to the King as he broke his fast on a bowl of barley meal, she stood in his sight, waiting for him

to acknowledge her and give her leave to join him.

He nodded, and she sat at his side.

“Good morn, my King. Am I late?”

With his mouth ful, he waved his large fingers. “Princess

Branda, have some porridge,” he mumbled.

“Is there honey in the porridge?”

He stared at her then asked, “Should there be?”

“No, too much honey can blemish the skin.”

“I know not what you speak of, but there’s no honey in my

porridge.”

An urgent feeling came over Branda. She leaned closer to the

King. “Hasten, we need to pick daffodils.” She had to get out of

the smoky hal and into the fresh air.

the smoky hal and into the fresh air.

He stood. “Come, Princess, I wil show you where the

flowers grow.”

Branda hiked up the ful skirt of her blue dress as she folowed

Elisedd outside. They passed the stables, the great wel and the

huge stone gateway and headed down the steep mountain path

to the daffodil field. The breeze carried the tantalizing aroma of wild flowers and knee-high grass.

“I don’t recal the path being this steep. Has it been that long

since I went to these fields?” the King mumbled aloud.

She was relieved by his question. While the Welsh were sure-

footed, she had to take great care in the placement of her feet or she would rol down the mountain. “You should pick daffodils

now and then. A man of your standing deserves some serenity.”

“It’s true. I devote myself to the land and my people; I have

no time for daffodils.”

“You must make the time, my King.”

He grunted in retort, showing how foolish he thought daffodils

were though his actions indicated otherwise.

Branda spotted the wispy yelow flowers and picked up her

pace. Elisedd strode through the high grass, peering at golden

blossoms waving in the gentle breeze.

She took a long whiff of the sweet, fresh scent and plucked a

daffodil, twisting its stem into her plaited hair.

“My Dame used to say, ‘you must sidestep through flowers to

not bother the bees and butterflies that feed’.”

“That sounds like something the Cymry might say. Tel me,

girl, was your mother Welsh?”

“No, she was Saxon, but I truly do not remember her saying

that. She did not tel me. My wet nurse, whom I looked upon

like a mother, often said those words. My Dame died in

childbirth delivering me.”

He came to a standstil. His eyes looked sad, large and paler

than usual. “Blaise’s mam died in child-bed, birthing him.”

“But you have Lady Carthann.”

“Yes, she is a good woman.” He sniffed the flowers. “Lovely

she is.”

“My sire never remarried. He is a hard man, mayhap too hard

for marriage.”

“Yes, men like your sire and me, we are warrior kings. We

“Yes, men like your sire and me, we are warrior kings. We

have no time for pretty words and daffodils and must look after

our land and our people.”

As the stern-faced King spoke those words, he twirled a

daffodil in hand. Branda covered her trembling lips to keep from

laughing. She gathered a bouquet of the yelow flowers and

handed them to the King.

“Don’t tel Carthann you picked these flowers,” Elisedd said.

“No.” She leaned in close to him. “Are you going to give her

the daffodils?”

“Yes. Let her think I picked them, for it was my intent. It’s

why I offered to bring you here. I remember a time when I

picked daffodils for her. The summer scents and a pretty maid

meant much to me. You make me feel young again, girl.”

“It is my honor, my King.” Branda was pleased with his warm

smile. “Wait. I have to get my daffodils.” She gathered the

golden flowers then lifted the corners of her skirt and loaded it

ful of the blossoms. With careful placement of her feet, she

folowed the King’s sure steps up the mountain trail so not a

single flower fel.

They entered the ancient gates and she pointed to the wel.

“Oh, we need put them in water.”

Elisedd nodded and dropped his yelow flowers into her skirt

along with the others. “Sit yourself down, girl. I wil fetch the

pitchers.” He headed toward the hal.

She shook her skirt, causing a shower of daffodils to land at

her feet. She picked up the flowers. Each time her hands

gathered a bundle she laid them on the rim of the stone wel.

Once the flowers were picked up and the edge of the wel half-

covered with bunches of posies, she dusted off the stone rim and

plopped down.

As she hummed a Saxon melody and waited for Elisedd’s

return, her head reeled with comparisons of Mercia and Powys.

There were no daffodils in Mercia. No Leri, Carthann, Elisedd,

and certainly no Blaise. Scan had been her only friend before she

came to Powys. Strange, but she felt more at home in the Celtic

hil fort than in her own Saxon realm.

The sound of footsteps brought her from her musings. Elisedd

walked toward her with a clay jug in each hand. He set the

pitchers down on the rim of the stone wel and yanked the rope

to pul up the large wooden bucket, then filed the jugs with

to pul up the large wooden bucket, then filed the jugs with

water.

Branda took over from there. She lost herself in the pleasure

of delicately arranging the flowers just so, until they looked

perfect.

She handed a jug of daffodils to Elisedd. “For Carthann.”

“You are sweet for a Saxon.”

Feeling light and bubbly she smiled. “My thanks.”

Elisedd nodded and with long, bold steps walked toward the

sunroom.

He liked her now. She’d grown on him. Carthann would

suspect the flowers came from her. Branda liked her too, but

what of Blaise? What did he think of her?

* * * *

mumbled his name into the dark stone wel her voice vibrated off

the wals in a clear echo.

She pressed the pitcher of daffodils to her chest and languidly

headed to the grianan, dawdling with every step, so as not to

disturb a tryst between King and Queen. She reached the

sunroom with perfect timing for at that moment Elisedd stepped

out.

The grin on his face fled and was immediately replaced with a

warrior’s scowl, but he couldn’t fool her. Branda knew her

meddling had worked. The Queen had received the attention she

deserved; now Carthann and Elisedd were sure to think fondly

of her. She’d become less of a hostage and more of a guest.

She curtsied to Carthann. “M’lady, a fair morn to you.”

“Branda, the daffodils are lovely.” Carthann gestured to the

window ledge where her jug of yelow flowers sat brightening the

hard stone.

“The King picked them for you.”

“I know.”

The smile on the Queen’s face was rapt with joy. A buoyant

feeling of pure elation kindled in Branda’s chest and spread out,

engulfing her in a glow of warmth. She walked to the ledge and

set her pitcher of wild flowers next to the Queen’s.

* * * *

Before she went to bed that night, Branda smiled at the

cheerful gold flowers. She drifted into a deep sleep and saw a

man’s head float freely, without its body, above a field of

daffodils.

It was an oval face with weather-worn skin, al its features,

nose, cheeks and lips appeared attractive yet big. The mop of

fiery red hair which draped the head was matched by a long

drooping moustache and beard.

This severed head spoke in a deep, melodic voice. “I am

Bran, god of the Celts. Hark my words, Branda. To stay where

you belong, you must seek the treasure I hid in Dinas Bran long

ago.”

Branda had no fear. Instead, she wanted the strange head to

stay and talk with her. “Tel me more.”

The head and the daffodil field suddenly vanished.

Upon awakening, she glanced at the daffodils to get her

perspective. “No floating head.”

She nudged Leri from her sleep. “I must tel you about my

dream.”

Leri listened intently to every word. “Wel, Bran was a god,