Destiny's Path (18 page)

Rhodri didn't reply, and instead turned his face away so she could not see his expression.

So, now I know for sure
, she thought.
A strange affection, and I don't envy him the pain it will surely cause—whether she returns to us this time or not
.

Without speaking they pushed the boat into deeper water, struggling all the time against the breaking waves. It was a hard, exhausting task. It felt as though the sea were fighting them, working with all its tireless might to prevent them from using the boat. Branwen's muscles ached from the strain of keeping the leaping boat secure. The rush of the undertow around her legs made every step an effort.

Finally she was waist deep; they were out beyond the breakers. She hauled herself up and over the side, gasping and clinging to the light vessel as it rocked and bobbed. A moment later Rhodri came surging up over the other side.

“The paddles—quick!” she panted.

They knelt in the bottom of the boat, gripping the wide-bladed paddles and thrusting them into the water. Branwen bent her back, attacking the sea with the paddle, the muscles in her shoulders and arms knotting as she battled against the tide.

She could hear Rhodri grunting and gasping behind her, but still the surge of the sea drove them back toward the beach. She renewed her efforts, refusing to be beaten, using every fiber and sinew as she plunged the paddle down, then dragged back
on it and lifted it again. Down, back, lift—over and over, while the surf spat in her face and her muscles screamed in protest.

At last she felt able to look over her shoulder. Rhodri's face was running with sweat and seawater, his jaw clenched, his lips parted in a snarl of effort and pain. But beyond him, the pale line of the coast had fallen away into the distance.

She let out a gasp of breathless laughter. They had beaten the sea!

Rhodri just looked at her, too spent to speak.

Over to their right, the great, dark bulk of the headland loomed, gray foam lapping greedily at its feet.

“We need to get farther out,” Branwen gasped. “Come at it from the seaward end. Yes?”

Rhodri nodded.

They plied the paddles once more. Down, back, lift. Branwen tried to ignore the fatigue that made her arms feel leaden. She did her best to blot out the pain that bunched across her back and bit into her neck.

Gradually they crawled along the headland until they came to the outermost point—a huge, blunt forehead of black rock thrusting out into the sea. The waves broke white, spurting and spewing into the air.

Making landfall looked impossible. They would be dashed to fragments.

“There it is!” came Rhodri's gasping voice. She
glanced back, following the line of his pointing hand. Yes! She saw it. A gaping black hole in the rockface, its lower lip just above the swirl and spit of the sea.

She drove her paddle deep, making for the deadly headland.

The dark cliff reared above them. The noise pounded in Branwen's ears—far louder than the surge of her own blood or the harsh pant of her breath. A wave took the little boat and sent it careering forward. An unseen rock scraped the leather hull, pushing them aside, sending the boat spinning.

Foam spat. The boat heeled over. Water came pouring in, swirling around their feet, cold and deadly. Again the waves lifted and twisted the boat, jerking Branwen's body and jarring the paddle out of her hands.

With a cry she lunged sideways, frantically trying to retrieve it, but the sea sucked it away from her. As she hung over the side of the boat, her arms scrambling at the waves, more water flooded in. She heard Rhodri shout. Another wave slapped down hard on them. The boat tipped, and Branwen was hurled headlong into the thrashing sea.

B
RANWEN FOUND HERSELF
struggling in deep water, fighting to keep her head above the surface, her arms and legs flailing in the turmoil of the sea. She gasped for breath, kicking and clawing, desperate in the wild darkness.

She felt something solid under her foot and pushed herself upward. Her hands grazed over wet rock. Seawater filled her mouth, choking her. The waves pulled at her, trying to drag her off the rock. Coughing and retching, she clung on grimly, using all her failing strength to keep from being dragged to her death.

A wave beat on her back, pushing her forward, pummeling her, spread-eagling her on the rock. But now she was half clear of the water, for a moment at least. She kicked out, heaved herself upward, and
hung on, spat at by the angry waves but above the tide line. Foam blinded her, and she lifted her head. The roaring of the sea almost deafened her. “Rhodri!”

A hand took hold of her ankle. She reached down and snatched at the wrist. Surf burst all about them. Branwen looked down into Rhodri's eyes as he struggled to pull himself up the slippery rock.

It was agony for her to keep hold of him; the effort of rowing through the choppy water had all but drained her muscles of strength, and now she had to cling to Rhodri while the tireless sea fought to rip him from her grip. But she would not let him go. She would
not
! She gritted her teeth, forcing her fingers to tighten around his wrist. She twisted around, grabbing his hair with her other hand. Ignoring his cries of pain, she yanked him up.

At last he was at her side, and they clung to each other, gasping and almost weeping with relief.

“A little farther up,” Branwen panted. “I don't want to be washed off if a big wave comes.”

Side by side, they clambered on hands and knees farther up the rock, struggling on until they were beyond the bluster and boil of the sea.

Branwen wiped her eyes. They were sitting in the mouth of the sloping borehole. Against all the odds, they had made safe landfall on the headland of Gwylan Canu.

But all had not gone as planned.

Their boat was gone. There was no way back.

Rhodri looked at her, his eyes creased in the gloom. “What's that stink?” he asked.

Branwen wrinkled her nose. He was right. There was a foul stench in the air. It was the disgusting smell of rot and putrefaction—the unmistakable reek of a midden.

And then she realized that the slippery, slithery surface beneath her was wet not from the sea, but from the accumulated slime and muck and ooze of discarded waste: castaway filth from the cookpot and the trencher.

“They must use this shaft as a garbage chute,” Rhodri gasped. “Ugh! I cannot stand it!” He turned and began to climb up the slope. Trying her best to hold her breath against the appalling fetor, Branwen scrambled up after him.

They came up out of the offal-chute and crouched among the rocks that lay beyond its upper rim. The landscape directly ahead of them was pocked with holes and ridges—a bleak end to the promontory, houseless and deserted—a place where the barren rock dropped stark into the sea.

An arrow's shot away from them, the rocks rose into a long, flattened hill, and upon its high summit stood the Great Hall of the House of Puw.

“Listen,” murmured Rhodri, his head close to Branwen's. “Can you hear them?”

She nodded. She could hear well enough: laughter and shouting and the noise of musical instruments
and thumping drums. Smoke was pouring from the roof of the Great Hall. A fire was burning in the hearth, and food was being cooked. A grand feast was taking place.

General Ironfist and his warriors were celebrating their easy conquest of Gwylan Canu—carousing on into the night, swigging ale and gorging on roasted meats.

“I have served at feasts like this,” Rhodri said. “Ironfist likes to indulge his men when battles have gone well. It will go on all night, I expect. That's the usual way with such debauches.”

Branwen narrowed her eyes. “Will all of them be in there?” she asked.

“All save for a few guards on the wall,” said Rhodri. “But what do we do now? The plan was to free Lord Madoc and use the boat to take him ashore. But the sea has put paid to that intent. Even if we can rescue him, how do we get out again?”

Branwen looked at him. “We must hope that the Saxons' eyes are blurred with too much ale, my friend,” she said. “Our only choice now is to cut our way through whatever gate-guards have been posted—and to have faith that once we are beyond the wall, the old lord can run faster than his girth would suggest.”

Cautiously she lifted her head over the rocks and scanned the barren landscape. “I see no one,” she said. “No guards here, nor on the hill. You guessed
right, Rhodri—they don't fear attack from the sea.” She smiled grimly, her fingers patting the hilt of her sword. “We will make them regret that oversight.”

“We must find where Lord Madoc is being held,” Rhodri said. “And we should expect to find guards watching over him.”

“Perhaps,” Branwen replied. “But Angor said something that gives me some hope. When he ordered his men to search the citadel for weapons, he spoke of pits dug into the ground beyond the Great Hall—pits that were used in the old wars to hold Saxon prisoners.”

“Ahhh,” breathed Rhodri. “And if good fortune is with us, you think Ironfist's high-born captives will have been put there as well? If these pits are beyond the Great Hall, then surely they must be close by.”

“Close by and unguarded, it would seem,” said Branwen. She looked at Rhodri. “Even though his messenger is gone, Govannon of the Wood may still be guiding our footsteps to good fortune.”

A look of anguish passed over Rhodri's face at the mention of Blodwedd. Branwen reached a hand toward him but withdrew it again without making contact. What comfort could she give him if the owl-girl truly had fled?

She crept forward, slow and silent as a shadow among the shadows, ignoring the discomfort and chill of her wet clothes, refusing to be thwarted by fatigue. All her attention was focused now on the
ground directly ahead of her. If this cape of bitter rock was indeed riddled with pits, she did not want to stumble into one of them unawares.

She paused, holding her breath. Listening.

“What?” Rhodri murmured, close behind.

She held a hand up. “Hush!”

She listened again. She fancied she had heard a new sound above the steady rumble of wave on rock and the rumor of the revelries taking place atop the hill. The subdued sound of voices.

She crawled forward, turning her head to try and track down the elusive whispering. When she moved between two large rocks, her hand came down on something other than stone. She looked down. It was a coil of rope, knotted at one end and secured to the ground by a great, black iron spike driven into the rock. Branwen saw that the ground in front of her fell sharply away into a wide, black pit. It was from the depths of this pit that the mutterings and whisperings were coming.

She lay flat on her belly, edging closer to the lip of rock.

Voices! Several of them—both male and female.

Branwen lifted her head, looking quickly around. Then she hung out over the black void and called in a low, urgent voice.

“Is Madoc ap Rhain among you?”

She heard gasps and then a sudden silence.

“I am a friend,” Branwen called again, trying to be
heard without raising her voice. “I seek Lord Madoc. Is he with you?”

“Branwen?” A familiar, astonished voice spoke from the black pit.

“Iwan! Yes, it is me!”

“Look for a rope, Branwen,” came Iwan's voice, filled now with hope. “You will find one attached to the rocks.”

Branwen fumbled for the rope, feeling its length rough and hard under her fingers. “Yes, it's here. I have it.”

“Throw it down to me. Say nothing more. There may be guards.”

Branwen knelt and, taking hold of the thick, hairy rope, began to feed it down into the gloom. Suddenly the rope went taut in her hands. It had been grasped from below. She leaned over the hole. The rope thrummed and shuddered as someone began to climb.

A hand came down on her back, pushing her to the ground. She twisted her head in surprise. It was Rhodri, kneeling close behind her. His voice hissed softly. “Stay down. Do not speak.”

So saying, he stood up.
“Hael!”
she heard him call out.
“Hael—freon! Liss, freon—cniht betera latteow Herewulf! Liss freon!”

He was speaking in the Saxon language! She did not know what the words meant, but she recognized their sounds.

A slurred, guttural voice replied out of the night.
“Nama cniht!”

A Saxon.

Rhodri must have seen him approaching and revealed himself to try and prevent Branwen from being discovered. The rope had become still—whoever had been climbing it had paused.

“Nama Rhodri,”
called Rhodri, giving Branwen a warning nudge with his foot as he moved away from her and toward the voice. He continued speaking, the tone of his voice conciliatory and submissive.

She heard a harsh gush of words from the Saxon, then a low, dull thud. Rhodri gave a gasp of pain, as though he had been hit. Branwen's instinct was to draw her sword and throw herself on the Saxon—but then she heard a third voice. The Saxon was not alone.

Rhodri spoke again. There was harsh laughter. He must have said something to amuse or appease the men.

Branwen listened as the two Saxons debated. She guessed they were trying to decide what to do with this unexpected interloper.

Rhodri spoke again, his voice servile now, pleading and whining. There was more laughter. Branwen heard scuffling sounds, then Rhodri again—his voice now relieved and thankful. Whatever he had said to them, it had saved his life, by the sound of it.

Rhodri's voice faded.

Branwen lifted herself cautiously up. She could just make out three shapes moving off toward the Great Hall.

Her stomach twisted into knots. To protect her and to save their plans from being revealed, Rhodri had given himself up to the Saxons. She hardly dared think of what terrible fate might await him in the Great Hall. How would Herewulf Ironfist choose to reward a runaway servant who had allowed himself to be recaptured?