Caradoc of the North Wind (5 page)

‘What is it?’ Branwen asked.

‘Her belly grows hard,’ Rhodri said. ‘I’m afraid there is some damage inside her that I cannot remedy.’ He sighed and covered her up again. ‘When she wakes I’ll feed her as much of the potion as she can take. Then all we can do is to make her as comfortable as possible for the ride to Pengwern.’

‘And what then?’ asked Banon.

‘The hope of better medicines,’ said Rhodri. ‘Wiser heads, perhaps. A quiet bed and the peace in which to recover.’

Branwen touched his arm. ‘Don’t worry, Rhodri,’ she said. ‘You’re as skilled as any of the king’s healers. Linette will get better. I
know
it. She is under my protection, and I will not let anything happen to her.’

Rhodri gave her a long, thoughtful look.

‘All’s well, then,’ he said at last.

It was deep night. The fire glowed like dragon’s breath in the flickering darkness of the cave. Many slept, and those awake nodded in the warmth, their bellies full. Branwen stood sleepless at the cave mouth, gazing out into the sky.

Low cloud had come heaping in from the north – mountains of thick, bronze-coloured cloud moving over the stars like a creeping sickness. And with it had come more snow, falling in great slow swathes as though intent to drown the world.

‘At least the wind is still,’ said a soft voice at her back. ‘Pray that it remain so, Branwen.’ Blodwedd stood at her side, gazing up into the snow-laden sky. ‘Caradoc is in lazy mood this night. Let us hope he does not wake with spite in his heart.’

Branwen looked at the owl-girl. ‘
Is
it Caradoc, do you think?’ she asked. ‘Why would one of my guardians act against me? Especially one whose freedom was won by my own hand?’

Blodwedd’s eyes glowed amber. ‘Do you think this winter was created to hinder and discomfort you alone, Branwen?’ she asked, a hint of amusement in her deep voice. ‘You are a great soul, my friend, and your destiny is awesome indeed, but not all the world revolves around you.’

‘So it’s
not
the doing of Caradoc?’

‘Oh, his hand it is that draws these snow clouds over us, for sure,’ said Blodwedd. ‘And it is his breath that drives the blizzards. One hundred years trammelled in a box of sorcerous wood has not changed him, deathless and eternal spirit that he is.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Blodwedd sighed. ‘No, you do not.’ She looked at Branwen. ‘The feet of Merion of the Stones stand upon the very foundations of the world. Lord Govannon of the Wood has roots that bind him to the soil. Rhiannon of the Spring may flow and dance and rise at times like mist to the heavens – but she too is weighed down by the burden of the land that demands her stewardship. They are all bound to the earth, Branwen. But Caradoc of the North Wind holds no allegiance to any of these things. He leaps free, dancing his wild dance from mountain-top to moonbeam, from the eagle’s back to the very lap of the sun.’

‘You mean, Caradoc is …
different
from the others?’ Branwen asked uncertainly, trying to understand what the owl-girl was telling her. ‘More dangerous?’

‘I would not say
more
dangerous,’ mused Blodwedd. ‘Forest, river and rock are each most dangerous in their way. Say instead, Caradoc is less predictable, less constant, less troubled by the passing things that crawl upon the world’s face. He will act for his own pleasure, Branwen – for his own diversion and amusement. And a merry trickster he can be; his breath can bring death and mayhem, his whims unleash slaughter and misery.’ She gestured up into the ocean of steadily falling snow. ‘This is not an attack upon you, Branwen – nor upon any living thing. This is Caradoc at his sport. We endure it or we perish – to him, it is all the same.’

‘But what of my destiny?’ Branwen asked. ‘Does he not care that this winter may hinder me in what the Shining Ones would have me do?’

‘He does not care,’ Blodwedd replied. ‘And during the months of the year’s turning, his powers are in the ascendancy. He revels in his freedom and his strength, Branwen. He cares for nought else.’

‘And I let him loose,’ groaned Branwen. ‘Why didn’t you warn me of this before I opened the casket that held him?’

Blodwedd looked affronted. ‘You were acting upon the wishes of Merion of the Stones,’ she said. ‘I cannot speak against the will of the Shining Ones.’

‘And what of them?’ asked Branwen. ‘Can’t
they
keep Caradoc under control?’

Blodwedd’s eyes shone with an eerie, inner light. ‘Does the mountain control the wind, Branwen?’ she asked. ‘Does the forest make demands of the gale that rushes through its branches? Does water tell the gust of air which way to blow?’

Branwen’s reply was as soft as the falling snow. ‘No,’ she murmured. ‘They do not.’

‘You are not invincible,’ Blodwedd intoned solemnly. ‘You are not deathless. But he is both these things and more. Beware him, Branwen of the High Destiny. Beware Caradoc!’

CHAPTER FIVE

T
he day came snowbound and silent. They ate a brief meal by the fading firelight, before gathering such provisions as they would need on the journey to Pengwern.

Linette was awake and in pain. Rhodri crushed some more of the dark berries to make her sleep. She swallowed the narcotic mixture, her face twisting in agony. A little while later, a kind of fragile peace came over her features.

‘She cannot ride a horse,’ Rhodri said.

‘I could carry her,’ said Iwan. ‘She’s as light as thistledown, almost.’

‘You’d bear her in your arms all the long leagues to Pengwern?’ pondered Dera. ‘I think not.’

Rhodri shook his head. ‘Lying flat would be best, if it can be contrived.’

‘We have wood in plenty,’ said Banon. ‘Let’s fashion a stretcher from straight branches and cloaks. It can be attached by thongs to a saddle and she can be pulled along behind a horse upon it.’

‘That’s a good idea,’ said Branwen. ‘The snow will make it less rough for her, and we can always carry her over the more uneven ground.’

So it was agreed, and a cradle of wood and tied cloaks was constructed and Linette was laid sleeping upon it, wrapped all around with furs.

While they were doing their best to make the ailing girl comfortable, Angor came over and looked dispassionately down at her. ‘Will she live, do you think?’ he asked.

Branwen glared at him. ‘She will.’

Angor eyed her with a curling lip. ‘Let us hope so,’ he said. ‘For otherwise she will slow us down when speed is of the essence.’ His eyes glittered. ‘You say there are many Saxon hordes between here and Pengwern?’

‘Raiding parties range far and wide, yes,’ said Branwen.

‘Then she is a burden that could drag us to our doom,’ insisted Angor. ‘Some of us should ride ahead with the princesses. Their safety should be uppermost in your mind, Branwen of the Dead Gods.’

‘And who would lead this speedy party, old man?’ growled Dera. ‘You, for instance?’

‘Do you not understand how vital it is that Lady Meredith gets safely to Pengwern?’ Angor snarled. ‘Do you not want to see the king and Prince Llew reconciled by the marriage of their children, thus uniting Powys against the shared enemy?’

Branwen looked into his battle-scarred face. For once, Angor seemed to be speaking from the heart. She knew well enough what was at stake here. It had taken long months of delicate negotiations to come to this point. Even while the fighting between the king’s forces and the soldiers of Prince Llew had been at its most ferocious, counsellors and highborn lords on both sides had been working to bring the damaging conflict to an end through the marriage of Llew’s daughter Meredith to Drustan, son of King Cynon. Once the vows had been spoken and the two families united, Prince Llew would swear again his allegiance to the king of Powys, and together they would turn to face the Saxon invasion. In time, the children of this marriage would be the rulers of Powys while Brython remained a free land. Messengers had sped to and fro across the mountains with documents to bind the accord. Now all that remained was for Prince Llew to deliver his daughter safe to the king’s court in Pengwern and for the wedding ceremony to take place.

All had been well, until a breathless and exhausted rider had come tumbling into Pengwern with the news that the princesses’ party had been trapped by Saxons in the mountains. Thus had the Gwyn Braw been dispatched to their rescue.

And so the threads of all these great events had wound down to this point – to Branwen facing Angor across the injured body of a loved comrade, and having to weigh Meredith’s safety against Linette’s life.

She could see many eyes upon her, waiting for her to speak.

‘I will not split my forces in two, Angor ap Pellyn,’ she said. ‘If we encounter Saxons in the wild and we are united, we’ll have more chance of fighting them off. Divided, all may be lost.’

‘Then let me ride ahead alone and with all speed,’ said Angor, and Branwen could tell from his face and tone that he was testing her. ‘I will arrive at Pengwern ahead of you and warn them of your coming. I will ask Cynon to send men to your aid – riders to meet you on the road and see you safe to journey’s end.’

She noted that he did not say ‘King Cynon’. Still only ‘Cynon’, as though he did not yet acknowledge the man’s overlordship.

She shook her head. ‘The clear paths to the east are lost under a cubit of snow. Alone you would never find your way to Pengwern – and I will not sacrifice one of my own to be your guide.’ She stared resolutely into his face. ‘I have decided. We travel as one, and Linette ap Cledwyn will travel with us.’

‘A fool’s decision,’ Angor said. ‘A weak decision! But often the squalling of an infant shouts down the wise voice of an elder. So be it; I shall have the princesses make ready. Their deaths will be upon your head.’ As he turned away from her, she saw a flicker of malice come and go in his eyes, like the flashing blade of a knife. She wondered how far he would go to bring her down. She hoped she would not need to find out.

After the stifling warmth of the fire-lit cave, the outside world was bleak and barren, chilling to the bones. As Branwen had predicted, the world ahead of them was lost beneath the snow, the undulating white landscape broken up here and there by a black thicket or patch of woodland, or by the dark wound of a cliff or crag or bluff too steep for the lightly falling snow to settle upon.

All else was a void, a frozen wasteland that stretched away for ever, trackless, lifeless. The cold gnawed relentlessly, smarting in the eyes, sharp as flint in the throat.

Branwen had organized the party in a similar fashion to the previous evening, save that she now took the lead. Terrwyn was the strongest of the horses, and his task was to forge a way into the high snowdrifts, making a passage through which the others might more easily follow. After her came Banon and Aberfa, followed by Angor, to whom she had now given the charge of Romney. With the child in his care, she hoped he would be less likely to cause problems on the way. Branwen had noticed that the little princess had become subdued and withdrawn since the avalanche. Maybe she was feeling guilty that Linette had been hurt rescuing her. Or maybe she simply lacked the strength to carp and whine. Either way, Branwen was glad of the silence.

Behind Captain Angor came his four soldiers, and keeping a watchful eye on them, riding alone in case she had to take some swift action, was Dera. At Dera’s back rode Iwan, the hastily made stretcher tied to his saddle, jutting down at an angle into the snow, its wooden ends jolting a little over the trampled ground. Linette slept deeply now, tied securely to her rough cradle under a heap of warming blankets, her face as bloodless as the snow.

Bringing up the rear of the party were Rhodri and Blodwedd, Rhodri wincing at every jolt and jar of the makeshift carrier ahead of him.

Meredith sat at Branwen’s back as before, but she did not cling on so tight now they were on more level ground; instead, Branwen could feel her fists clutching handfuls of her cloak.

‘How long will it take us to get to Pengwern?’ Meredith asked as they came down out of the mountains and began to tunnel their way through the featureless snow banks and into the bleak east.

‘A single day’s ride, even at this slow pace,’ said Branwen. ‘The further east we travel, the less deep will the snow be. I’ll see you safe and warm in King Cynon’s court before the sun goes down.’

‘You’ve become very sure of yourself,’ Meredith murmured. ‘You were so uncertain when you first came to my father’s Great Hall. At the welcoming feast, you were tricked into challenging Gavan to combat. Do you remember?’

Branwen remembered it very clearly. Gavan ap Huw had been a formidable warrior of the old wars. He had become her mentor for a brief time, showing her how to fight with sword and shield in the forest outside Doeth Palas. In rescuing Rhodri from Prince Llew’s clutches, she had betrayed his trust in her – and worse had come. Much worse. It had been her poor leadership that had taken them into the forest ambush where he had been killed.

And yet perhaps some good had come of it in the end. It had been his dying wish that had driven her to Pengwern while Merion of the Stones and Caradoc of the North Wind had wished her to follow a different path.