Destiny's Path (19 page)

T
HE ROPE QUIVERED
under Branwen's hand. Whoever was hanging from it had begun to climb again now that the voices had faded.

Finally Iwan's pale face showed at the mouth of the pit. Branwen held out a hand, bracing herself as he snatched at her wrist and hauled himself over the edge of the hole. There was dried blood on his chin and the bruises were livid on forehead and cheek, but there was still an unquenchable light in his brown eyes.

“I'd ask how you got here, Branwen,” he murmured. “But as you are aided by the Old Gods, I shall assume you were flown here on wings of air to rescue us and to drive Ironfist into the sea.” He saw her wet clothes and the hair plastered to her skull. “Or perhaps you were transformed into a fish and swam
here?” he added wryly.

“Not quite,” Branwen whispered. “The Old Gods do not make life that easy for their cat's-paws. We came by boat, but the boat is lost.”

“We?” Iwan asked. “Is the demon girl with you still?”

“No, she is not. I spoke of Rhodri.”

“Ahhh! It was his voice I heard speaking with the Saxons, yes?”

“He must have heard the Saxons coming. He gave himself up to prevent them from finding me.” She looked urgently into Iwan's eyes. “We came here to rescue your father so that word could be sent to King Cynon. But I will not leave this place without Rhodri.”

Iwan eyed her dubiously. “What hold does that Saxon rogue have over you that you should consider risking everything for him yet again?”

Branwen frowned. “He is only half Saxon,” she said. “And is friendship not enough? For good or bad, his life is bound up with mine—I will not abandon him.”

“Listen to me, Branwen.” Iwan's voice was low and insistent. “My father was not thrown into the pits,” he said. “I think he is held captive in the Great Hall—a trophy for the sport of Ironfist and his men. We have no hope of rescuing him and surviving.” He looked hard into Branwen's eyes. “I am not a coward,” he said. “But I will not die for no reason.”

“I know you're not a coward,” Branwen replied.

Iwan nodded. “I see that you carry a sword and a knife,” he said. “Give me the knife and between us we may be able to get past whatever guards have been posted on the gate and break out of this place before the alarm is sounded. You must have horses—let's get to them and fly away south to Pengwern and the king. We need an army at our backs if we're to snatch Gwylan Canu back from Ironfist's grasp.”

“No.” Branwen shook her head. “I won't leave Rhodri behind.”

“It's pure madness! We cannot free him!”

“I do not care—we must try.”

Iwan's eyes narrowed. “Your stubbornness will be the death of us, barbarian princess.” He looked at her for a few long moments, his face undecided. Then he let out a hard sigh, as though he knew his fate was sealed. “If you intend to enter the Great Hall with a sword in your fist,” he continued slowly, “do me this one favor—give me your knife, as I asked, so that I can at least defend myself for a few brief moments before I am slaughtered at your side.”

Branwen stared at him. “Are you mocking me, Iwan?”

“No, I am not.” For once his voice sounded entirely sincere and his eyes were on her face, dark and glittering like agate stones. “If you insist on throwing your life away, I will fight beside you. Do you think I would watch you walk to your death and do nothing?”

“A selfless act? Is this the boy who, from the
moment I met him, cared for nothing but his own amusement?” she asked gently.

“Possibly,” Iwan said. “Or perhaps it amuses me to care for something other than my own amusement, Branwen. Perhaps I'd have you think as well of me as I do of you.”

Branwen sat back on her haunches, perplexed by Iwan's words. She shook her head and decided against asking him exactly what he meant. There was more important business at hand.

“Are there no able men left among the captives?” she asked. “A few fighters to even the odds?”

“None,” Iwan said. “The pits are crowded with women and children and the elderly. Some of the women were taken to serve in the Great Hall. But all my father's warriors are gone, taken into the east—to their deaths, I fear.” A moment of pain showed in his face. “And they were good men, Branwen. Friends and companions of my childhood. I remember every face—every voice.”

Branwen looked thoughtfully at him. “Where are the weapons that were taken from the men of the citadel?” she asked.

“I do not know,” said Iwan. “Piled high in the Great Hall, I suspect, or divided among the Saxon dogs. But why do you ask? Even with fifty swords apiece, we two would be no better off.”

She looked closely at him. “Are there no brave women in Gwylan Canu?” she asked. “None that will fight for their homeland?”

“There are many—I don't doubt it,” Iwan replied.

A plan was beginning to formulate in Branwen's head—an uncertain and perilous plan, but one that offered at least a thread of hope. She turned her head to look up at the Great Hall. “The Saxons are celebrating their victory,” she said. “Rhodri told me that such feasts often carry on till dawn—or until all are so drunk that they fall witless to the floor and roll snoring among the rushes.”

“I've heard the same,” said Iwan.

“And you say that some women of Gwylan Canu were taken to the Great Hall to serve them?”

“I think so.”

A grim smile touched Branwen's lips. “Then maybe we shall find a way to take back the citadel after all,” she said. “I must speak with the remaining women, to find out whether their hearts are strong enough for the hazard I would lead them to.”

“There are many women in the pit below,” Iwan said.

“More guards might come if I speak too loudly. I'll descend. You stay here—keep watch. If you see any Saxons, pull the rope up and hide yourself.” Branwen gripped the rope and lowered herself over the edge of the pit. She felt for a toehold. There, under her left foot, was a tiny ledge, enough to take her weight while she searched about for another. She found that the wall of the pit was ribbed and cracked, creating meager footholds to help her most of the way down.

Moving slowly and feeling her way carefully, she went hand over hand, down into the darkness.

She looked up and saw Iwan's face against the night sky.

It was good to know he was there—keeping watch.

It was good to have him close by.

 

The pit was about four times Branwen's height—not so deep that all was pitch-black at the bottom, but deep enough that escape was impossible unless the rope was thrown down. As she came close to the ground, the wall became smoother and her legs swung free, but she felt hands reaching to help her.

She found herself surrounded by women, some close to her own age, others more mature, and a few gray-haired and quite elderly. In the deep shadows, other women sat with children gathered around them, and a few held babes in their arms.

“I am Branwen ap Griffith,” she told them.

“The daughter of Griffith ap Winn,” she heard one woman murmur. “Yes, child, I have heard your name before.” A haggard face came close, and withered hands touched her skin.

“I've come to bring you hope,” Branwen replied.

“Hope?” repeated another woman, tall and clear-eyed, carrying a swaddled babe in her arms. “What hope do we have? To be carried east in chains is our only destiny now.”

“Or to be left to die of starvation in these pits,”
said another, her round face pale and full of fear. “Or to be the sport of our captors. I have heard that the Saxons delight in torture and cruelty.”

“They will throw our babies into the fire!” wailed another. “Our heads will be hacked off and our corpses hurled down into the sea. We are all doomed.”

More voices lifted, crying and weeping and calling out to the saints for rescue.

“Be still!” called Branwen. “I have hope for you—for those of you who are willing to follow me. But I can do nothing for you if you despair! Heed me well before you surrender your spirit to the enemy. Who will listen?”

She stared around at the desperate, frightened faces that surrounded her. “Who among you is willing to take her destiny into her own hands? Who among you will fight with me?”

“Do not heed her,” said the old woman. “She will lead you to certain death. Our only chance is to bend our knees to the Saxons. Prince Llew has abandoned us. He is a wise leader; he knows it is pointless to struggle against such odds.” She pointed a crooked finger toward Branwen. “This child will lead you to your deaths!”

Branwen narrowed her eyes. She could see even in the darkness of the pit that many of the women were in agreement with the old woman. She had hoped to persuade the womenfolk of Gwylan Canu to fight at her side, but few seemed willing to trust her. She did
not blame them—the consequences of fighting and failing would be dire indeed.

Then one young woman stepped forward—a bright-eyed girl of maybe fourteen summers, slim and erect. “I will join with you, Branwen ap Griffith,” she said.

“Linette, do not be a fool!” cried the woman with the baby. “Carys speaks the truth. We will die if we resist!”

“I fear death,” Lynette responded. “But I fear it less than I fear a life of servitude. I will not be dragged away by these dogs if I can fight against them.” She turned to Branwen, her eyes burning with resolve. “What would you have me do?”

“And I, too,” said another young woman, stepping forward. “Linette is right—a quick but courageous death is better than a life on our knees.”

“Yes!” said a third, pushing out of the throng. “I will follow you, Branwen ap Griffith, no matter what the cost!”

And then it was as if a dam had been breached. More and more women stepped forward until Branwen found herself surrounded by a ring of valiant, eager faces. She looked into their bright, undaunted eyes, her heart swelling with pride. So many of these women of Brython were prepared to risk death rather than succumb to the Saxon yoke!

The old woman, Carys, shuffled off to the far side of the pit, muttering dire warnings. Many of
the other women followed her, distancing themselves from Branwen and Linette and the others, now about fifteen strong.

“Do any of you have training with weapons?” she asked.

“I have some skill with a bow,” said Linette.

“That's good,” said Branwen.

“And I have some battle skills,” said another, a slight, compact young woman with a mass of black hair and with deep-set dark eyes that looked keenly into Branwen's face. “My name is Dera ap Dagonet—my father is one of Lord Madoc's lieutenants.”

“I am Banon—I know something of the hunt,” said another.

“And I can spear a moving fish underwater at ten paces,” said yet another, a big, powerful young woman with piercing eyes. “I am Aberfa. Lead me to the Saxon dogs, Branwen ap Griffith, and see how well I fight!”

A slow smile spread across Branwen's face. “We
shall
fight, my friends. And with good luck and bold hearts, perhaps we shall show Herewulf Ironfist that there is courage yet in Gwylan Canu.”

“What would you have us do?” asked Dera ap Dagonet.

“I'd have you be patient yet a while,” said Branwen, staring up at the night sky far above the black mouth of the pit. “Rest until the night is almost done. And then we shall see.”

B
RANWEN LAY SILENTLY
on the long slope of the hill, holding her breath and listening intently. Linette and Dera lay on either side of her. Iwan and the other women were a little ways behind. Far, far away to the east, the night sky had a gray hem—the first intimation of the coming day.

Despite being wakeful all through the night, Branwen felt keen-witted and alert. She had given her sword to Iwan, whose task was to stay back and deal with any guards who might come to the Great Hall while the women were busy within.

The din of the nightlong revels had dwindled—Branwen could hear snatches of singing and the occasional shout or peal of laughter from the Hall—but the music and the stamping of feet and the roar of drunken voices had finished.

She stood up, knife in hand, and led the women up to the crest of the hill. They were at the back of the long hall. Branwen turned to her followers, pressing her finger to her lips. Then, quiet as a cloud, she slipped around the side of the Great Hall and ran fleet-footed under the hanging thatch of the high roof.

She could hear the patter of feet behind her as the line of women came snaking along in her wake. She paused, holding a hand up. There was a shape at the far corner of the hall—a man, swaying unsteadily while relieving himself against the wall. Too far away for a slingshot stone to finish him, but close enough for a well-thrown knife.

The man was singing to himself, hardly able to keep upright. Branwen took the blade of her knife between her fingers and drew her arm back. Stretching her left arm out as a guide, she leaned back and then brought the weight and strength of her shoulders into the throw.

The knife hissed through the air. The white blade stabbed deep into the darkness of the man's throat. He dropped like a sack, soundlessly. Branwen pounced after the throw and was on him in an instant. His eyes were wide in the gloom—as though he was surprised to find himself dead.

She pulled the knife out and wiped it on his tunic. She glanced back and saw a new confidence in the faces of her followers. They had seen that a Saxon
could be brought down! Gesturing to them to follow, Branwen turned the corner.

Braziers were burning on either side of the open doors of the Great Hall. Branwen crept to the doorway and risked a quick glance inside, craning her neck through the doorway before jerking it back around the corner.

She leaned her head back against the door, her body trembling with suppressed excitement. She could not have hoped for better! In the aftermath of the victory feast, the main chamber of the Great Hall was a scene of excess and overindulgence. The fire was burning low now in the huge stone hearth at the center of the long chamber. Its flames flickered red on charred logs, reflecting on bloated sleeping faces and on bleary eyes, throwing up dancing shadows along the walls, as if the ghosts of the feasters played on while the Saxon warriors snored and wallowed in their debauchery.

Branwen leaned in to take another look. Not all were lost in drunken slumber. A few were wakeful still, swigging from mugs and picking morsels from food bowls. Here and there men squatted or sat, playing at dice and knucklebones, and from this corner and that the occasional snatch of song swelled before subsiding into laughter and calls for more ale.

Branwen saw that the women of Gwylan Canu who had been brought to the hall to serve were mostly gathered together against the wall, their faces gaunt
and sleepless, their eyes empty of hope. A few moved unsurely among the Saxon warriors, pouring drink and trying to avoid being struck as they passed. Even as Branwen watched, one young girl—not even her own age—was kicked as she walked past a sprawling man. She fell to her knees, dropping the ewer she carried. It smashed and spilled foaming ale over the trampled rushes. The man snarled an oath and clumsily drew his sword, swiping feebly at the girl as she scrambled to get away. She ran to the others and was held in another woman's arms; meanwhile the drunken Saxon kept swinging his sword and muttering curses, as if he did not realize she was out of his reach.

On the far side of the hall, General Herewulf Ironfist sat in a wide chair spread with animal furs, his legs thrown out, a mug in one fist and the end of an iron chain in the other. His eyes were hooded with drink, and he leaned over the high arm of the chair, speaking to a prisoner who sat helplessly on the floor at his side.

The prisoner was Madoc ap Rhain. His face was bruised and bleeding, his body wound about with chains, his hands wrenched around behind his back.

From the way that Ironfist leaned back and opened his wide red mouth to bellow with laughter, Branwen assumed the Saxon general was taunting his defeated rival, reveling in Lord Madoc's downfall. But Lord Madoc just stared ahead, his face expressionless.

On Ironfist's other side, Branwen caught sight of another bound prisoner, lying on his side. The figure was stripped to the waist, his arms and legs tied, and his back showing the signs of a fresh whipping. It was Rhodri. White-hot anger seethed in Branwen's mind, and rage clenched hard under her ribs—but she could not rush to Rhodri's rescue, as she desperately wanted to do. Not yet. Not until her plans were well and truly laid.

She turned to the women gathered now at her back, nodding and gesturing for them to follow her into the hall. Stepping into the open, Branwen pulled her cloak close around herself to hide her hunting leathers, keeping her knife hand under the swathes of cloth.

They crept along the walls of the Great Hall. A few groggy and fuddled eyes lifted as the women passed the drink-addled Saxons. A slurred voice would call for more ale, or a mug would be raised, but no one seemed to sense the danger creeping in among them. No one drew a sword or called out an alarm.

Branwen made her way cautiously around the chamber toward Ironfist.

He was leaning even farther over the chair's arm now. Spittle flew from his mouth, getting caught in his beard and hanging there thickly as he heaped more abuse on the helpless lord of Gwylan Canu. Now Branwen could hear his harsh taunts.

“My men will wish for sport in the morning, my
lord,” he sneered. “Perhaps your son could offer his services in entertainment? Have no fear that he will not have the talent to amuse—I am expert in drawing vivid performances from the most reticent of actors. Have you heard of the blood eagle, my lord? It is a most engaging and imaginative pastime. The performer is laid upon his belly on the ground and the ribs along his spine are cut through and wrenched upward to form wings. And then his lungs are drawn out of his body to lie throbbing upon his back.” Ironfist gurgled with laughter. “Alas, the performance never lasts as long as my men would wish. But we have many captives on which to practice. It will while away the time till the remainder of my army arrives.”

Revolted, Branwen glanced around. The women had placed themselves at all points along the walls of the hall and were watching, waiting for her to act.

She nodded and stepped up to Ironfist.

He lifted his head and peered at her with glazed eyes. “More ale, woman,” he said, holding out the mug. “Be swift, or I'll have you whipped raw to the bone.”

“You will not, my lord!” Branwen snarled.

His eyes narrowed, but his wariness came too late.

Branwen smashed the mug out of his hand with a single blow of her fist, then sprang forward, the knife in her hand, grabbing him by the hair and dragging his head back, the blade hard against his throat.

She leaned over him, her mouth close to his ear. “If you value your life, call to your men to throw down their weapons—those few with wits enough to understand you, that is!”

Ironfist breathed hard in her face. His breath was foul with ale, and his bloodshot eyes glared under heavy black brows.

“Who are you, woman of Gwylan Canu, to threaten me?” he snarled.

“I am Branwen ap Griffith,” she replied calmly. “And if my name means nothing to you now, you will know me better hereafter, Saxon! Tell your men to disarm or there will be bloodshed here—and yours will be the first throat to feel the pierce of a blade!” She turned to the women. “Pick up their weapons! Arm yourselves. These fools are without their wits, but there will be sober guards on the outer wall.”

At her words, the women ran into the body of the hall and began to search among the drunken warriors, taking swords and knives and axes. Seeing what was happening, some of the serving women came forward, stepping among the drunkards to find themselves weapons.

A Saxon who had been playing knucklebones surged to his feet, an ax in his fist, swinging at Dera ap Dagonet's head. She ducked and thrust a newfound sword into his belly. He went crashing to the floor, but others rose unsteadily, their weapons at the ready.

Using all her strength and weight, Branwen heaved Ironfist up out of the chair. Once he was on his feet, she stepped behind him, the knife sliding across his throat, drawing a thin trickle of blood. “Speak to them, General.”

“You are a fool, child,” grated Ironfist. “Drowsy from our revels, you may take us unawares—but against the forces that are gathering, there can be no hope of victory.”

“I've heard that speech before,” said Branwen. “I do not need to listen to it again. Have them drop their swords, General.”

Ironfist called out something in his own language. Those few warriors who were able to stand on their feet dropped their swords and axes, their drink-sodden faces wrathful but wary as the armed women moved among them, picking up weapons by the armful, binding them hand and foot.

Iwan appeared in the doorway, the sword ready in his fist.

He looked across at Branwen and smiled darkly. Then, seeing his father, he sprang forward with anger and concern on his face.

“Take all the weapons out of here,” Branwen called to the women. “Cut down any man who tries to stop you. Show no pity—they would have none for you. Dera ap Dagonet, come here. Watch over Ironfist while I truss him.”

The slender young woman came bounding across
the room, her eyes glowing with the wild, feverish light of battle-lust. She stared up at Ironfist, a fierce grin spreading across her face, her bloodied sword pointing up at his chest.

“Do him no harm unless he tries to escape,” Branwen said once she had finished tethering the general's hands. “He's more use to us alive than dead.” She went to Rhodri and knelt at his side. Gently, she turned him over. His face was battered and bloody, his hair matted with gore.

“You are too brave for your own good, my friend,” she whispered, leaning over him, carefully peeling back the sticky hair from his forehead and cheeks. “Look what they did to you!”

Rhodri's eyes opened; they swam for a moment. “Ahhh,” he murmured. “A sweet dream to ease my torment. Are you a handmaiden of the gods, sent to bear me to Wotan's hall?”

“Hardly that,” said Branwen. “A handmaiden of the gods would look more fair, I think.”

“You do yourself injustice.” His hand rose and touched her cheek. “I'm alive, then, am I?”

“I think you are, yes.” She smiled. “Can you stand?”

“I will try.” He smiled weakly. “I hoped to persuade old Ironfist that I came back to him of my own free will, but I think he did not believe me.”

“But how did you explain your presence here?”

As Rhodri began to speak, Branwen busied
herself sawing through the ropes that tied him. “I said I found refuge in Gwylan Canu, and that when the warriors were sent out to surrender, I hid myself away among the rocks,” he said. “He knocked me about a little while for sport, then had me whipped for running away.” With Branwen's support he got to his feet. He rubbed his wrists, which were red and sore with welts from the tight ropes. “I expected you to find Lord Madoc and escape, but not under these circumstances.” He stared around the hall. “I underestimated your ambition, Branwen. What now?”

She turned to see Iwan helping his father to his feet.

Madoc ap Rhain stared at her in astonishment. “You are the child of Griffith ap Winn and Lady Alis,” he said. He looked around the hall. “How have you come here—and how have you accomplished such deeds?”

“I have powerful allies, Lord Madoc,” said Branwen. “But all is not yet won—there will be guards on the wall. We must look to them before Gwylan Canu is in the hands of men of Powys once more.” She frowned, seeing how the old man leaned on Iwan's arm. “You are unwell, Lord. Take rest if you can. All shall soon be done. In the meantime, let's bind the hands of this general and take him out to meet his few remaining warriors. And then we shall shut and bar the gates of the hall and leave these drunken sots to their hoggish dreams.”

 

Branwen stood under the high stone wall of Gwylan Canu, her knife to Herewulf Ironfist's throat. Iwan and Rhodri were at her side, and most of the armed women of the citadel stood at her back. Some few were missing, led by Lord Madoc to the pits to rescue those still imprisoned. Two more had remained to gather rocks from beyond the huts and houses of the citadel, and then to pile them against the doors of the Great Hall so that none should escape from within.

“Order your men down off the wall, General,” Branwen said. She turned her head, looking into the east, to where the soft light of dawn was suffusing the sky. “Do you see the light growing? It's a new day—and your overlordship of Gwylan Canu is already over.”

Ironfist smiled. “A new day and a new hope,” he said. “But not the hope of Powys, girl-child. Do you feel the east wind?” He gave a harsh laugh. “It blows ill fortune upon you. Release me and maybe I will allow you to die swiftly. Continue with this folly and you will linger to see your body torn to quivering shreds.”

Branwen narrowed her eyes. She had not for a moment expected to see any trace of fear from him, but the casual bravura in his words made her uneasy. He had only six armed men on the wall. All the rest were captives in the Great Hall. And yet he spoke as though he was assured of victory.