The Prince of Powys (15 page)

needed to get control of himself. Even now Brochfael rode to

Wessex so Cuthred could ransom the Princess and take her for

his own. He walked to the practice yard to work up a healthy

sweat to way-lay his need for Branda.

* * * *

temple. As Neilyn and Scan talked, she found a corner near the

wal behind an overgrown mulberry bush. Hidden behind the

shrub, she watched Blaise dril his men.

Her breath caught in her throat as he discarded his tunic. She

peered at his chiseled chest glistening with sweat and waved her

hand in front of her face for cool relief from the surge of heat

rushing through her. His thick hair hung to his shoulders and

moved with a manly sway, like the mane of a stalion. He never

flicked or brushed it back, he showed no concern for it, which

made it more aluring. He swung his muscle-corded arms fast

and powerfuly, and the thighs bulging beneath his pants were

taut. He turned toward the mulberry bush as if he knew she

watched and curled his lips into a half-smile, like the crack of

dawn in a twilight sky.

She felt a puff of warm breath on her neck. Startled, she lost

her balance and fel head first toward the shrub. Lanky arms

grabbed hold of her waist and caught her.

She looked up. “Scan, you startled me.”

“I have the most wonderful news, Princess.”

“Cuthred does not want me?”

“No, it’s not that, my Princess. It’s about me. Neilyn agreed

to take me on as a bard in training. I feel it is my true trade. I am more of a bard than a guard.”

“It’s not fair,” she unknowingly said aloud.

This cannot be. Scan was to stay here with Neilyn, but she

would leave Blaise.

“What do you speak of, Princess?”

She couldn’t let her friend know she was jealous of him

staying in Powys. What was she thinking, anyway? Born a

Saxon Princess, Branda could never marry Blaise. It didn’t

matter what she’d dreamed, there were better men for her. She

matter what she’d dreamed, there were better men for her. She

squeezed her eyes shut and tried to think of better men. No one

came to mind except the young Prince of Powys.

“Branda, are you al right?” Scan grasped her shoulders.

“Yes, I’m just saddened by this news. I mean, I’m happy for

you, so happy.” She hugged him. “You belong here. I’m sure

Elisedd wil say yes.” She took both his hands in hers. “He is a

loveable old man deep down. He would want a bard to sing

songs of love before his Lady Carthann, though he would never

say so. I am very fond of Elisedd. I wish he were my

father,”
...by marriage,
she silently proclaimed.

“I am glad you’re pleased, but I have been your friend for

many years and I know something troubles you.” He slapped his

brow. “What a blithering, blathering clod I am. You dread the

coming union with Cuthred. What can I say?”

“Nothing, but I wil miss you at court.” She flashed a brave

smile.

“My lady, I am not to go to Cuthred’s court.”

“Cuthred’s court? No, I speak of Mercia.” Then it hit her.

She let in an audible breath. “Oh, you are right. I’d forgotten.” A cold sweat clung upon her palms. She’d been banished from

Mercia. Her stomach sank. She raked her upper teeth across

her lower lip and mustered her resolve, yet heaviness pressed

upon her. Try as she might, she could not force herself to smile.

She gazed silently at Scan. Tears slid down her face, unchecked.

She was like a melting candle, dripping wax.

She heard the sound of running feet as Blaise rushed toward

her. Oh no, she couldn’t face him now. She wiped her eyes with

the back of her hand.

“What means this? Branda, what has happened?” Blaise came

to a stop just a breath span away from her.

Branda couldn’t speak and fel into the warm embrace of his

strong arms, sniffing his musky scent. She closed her eyes. She

would never leave.

Blaise lifted her chin and leaned his head downward. His thick

hair veiled her face as she pressed her lips against his in a

feathery touch. She was molded to him with the heat of his kiss,

overcome with a bittersweet fever caused by his beckoning lips

and the firmness of his hands as he held her tight. He suckled her lips as if he were feeding from her mouth. She could not pul

away and wanted more. He released her mouth but pressed his

away and wanted more. He released her mouth but pressed his

hard body against her.

“Do not take me to Cuthred. I would stay with you,” she said

in a breathy voice.

He stiffened his body. She opened her eyes and gazed into

his. They were wide and sad.

“Brochfael rides to Wessex as we speak.” His voice was low

and uneven. “I do not want to fail you again but I know not what

I can do.”

The fire inside her turned to anger. She slammed her fist into

his broad chest, wanting to hurt him as he’d hurt her.

He reached out and clasped her shoulders, holding her arms

down. “Princess, I want you but your father has betrothed you.”

She pushed his arms off her. Branda’s face was red as she

clasped her forehead. Inner pain showed on his face as she ran

weeping to her bower, slammed the door hard and fel onto her

soft palet and cool coverlet.

She heard the door open and recognized the sound of the

footsteps as Scan’s. She couldn’t speak to him now. Why had

she kissed the Prince in the open, for al Powys to see? Her tears

dampened the coverlet where her head lay. Sitting up, she

choked back her sobs. Scan was stil there gazing at her with a

look of concern as she wiped her eyes with her hands.

“M’lady, it is late. Time it is for the evening meal.”

“Have a servant bring me a tray.”

“Come to dinner in the hal and I shal see if there is something

I can do.”

He was so nice, but he was a captured Saxon who wanted to

be a bard. Scan couldn’t help her. No one could, but she should

dine in the hal to let everyone see she did not need Prince

Blaise.

“Scan, you are right; let us sup at the King’s board.”

He wrapped a plaid cloak around her shoulders, gently took

her arm, and accompanied her to the feasting hal.

Branda held her head high and took her place next to Leri.

Blaise took his seat, and Scan sat below the dais aside Neilyn.

She smiled as the Druid stood and asked the King for permission

to speak.

Though Neilyn was elderly, his voice rang with a clear and

melodic tone of a much younger man.

“My King, people of Powys, a man of talent with the harp has

“My King, people of Powys, a man of talent with the harp has

come to be trained as a royal bard. The gods of old have

advised me to take this man as my novice.” “If the gods of our

ancestors feel the man is worthy, then it shal be so.” Elisedd

slammed his fist on the table.

Hurrahs rang out in the hal. Branda thought,
if only the god

Bran told Neilyn what he told me then the Druid would let

me stay as well.

“Who may this new bard be?” Elisedd asked Neilyn. “Do I

know him?”

“It is the Saxon Scan, my King.”

Silence fel. Elisedd leaned back in his great oaken throne and

grinned. “Wel, it is better he’s a bard than a Saxon guard, hey?”

Al onlookers cheered and clunked their tankards together.

Blaise leaned toward Branda. “Your friend has a place here at

the court of Powys. It is good.”

Saddened Blaise didn’t seem to think she had a place here,

she feigned haughtiness and turned her head away. She noticed

Scan and Neilyn were watching her, while they whispered to

each other. Their expressions were serious, almost grim. She

ached with curiosity to find out what they spoke of.

“Leri,” she whispered, “Scan and the Druid keep a close eye

on me. Wander in stealth to their table and try to hear what they

are talking about.”

“Scan and Neilyn?” Leri leaned her head closer to Branda.

“It’s worthy of note for now I am curious as wel.”

Branda heard the scrape of Leri’s chair as she rose but acted

like she didn’t notice she’d left the table. Time dragged until she returned.

“Leri, what did they say?” She could hear the intake of breath

in her own voice.

“It is most strange.” Leri shifted her gaze.

“I knew it. What is most strange?”

“M’lady Branda, the Druid spoke of a love spel.”

“Who is the love spel for?”

“Contrary to a love spel, Scan wants an enchantment cast to

make Cuthred abhor you and no longer claim you.”

She absently rubbed her upper lip. “Do you mean Scan wants

Neilyn to put a spel on Cuthred so he wil not want me and I can

stay in Powys?”

stay in Powys?”

“Yes, it’s good.” Leri smiled. “Your friend has found a way to

help you.”

“If only it wil work.” She wrung her hands.

“It must.” Leri roled her eyes. “If not for this Cuthred, nothing

would stand in the way of you and Blaise’s love for each other.”

“The cur.” Branda fel silent when a messenger ran in.

“My lord, I have news.” The gangly messenger spoke rapidly.

“Prince Brochfael wil be here on the morrow.”

“Is his business with Cuthred concluded?” Elisedd twisted a

strand of his red moustache.

“Yes, it is. Prince Brochfael carries Cuthred’s terms. He

wants the Princess returned to him.”

Her heart fel. Scan had been too late. Leri wrapped her arms

around the Princess. Branda looked up to see Blaise stomp from

the hal in a rage.

As Blaise looked down at the valey below, a gentle breeze

blew through his thick red hair. His face prickled where strands

ruffled against his cheeks. It felt like Branda’s kiss of yesterday, as if she were kissing him now.

“Branda,” he whispered under his breath. The muscles in his

chest vibrated and burned. “She must stay. By the cross I wil

find a way to keep her,” he swore.

He kicked a rock, which roled a little way down the mountain

path. His intent to have Branda was as firm as the rock itself. He gazed at the cloudy sky.
Let me find the way.

He saw her image in his head: large, deep-blue eyes and her

perky upturned nose. She was a mix of sunshine and lightening,

warm and ful of spark. He would not be the same without her

and could not stand the thought of the Wessex cur having his

woman. He would do anything for Branda, except tel his father

he loved Ethelbald’s daughter. His sire held her as his hostage,

and now it was time for her to go but Blaise could never let her

go.

He spotted Brochfael riding from the vilage in the valey

headed toward Dinas Bran. Blaise dreaded hearing Cuthred’s

terms. It seemed like half a day had passed before Brochfael

neared the place where he stood.

neared the place where he stood.

“I take it the messenger arrived.” Brochfael met his brother’s

stare. “I’m sorry, Blaise.”

After an awkward moment of silence he looked to Brochfael.

“There is some way is there not, to keep her here?” Damn his

duty to Powys, he had to claim Branda. If he let her go it would

eat at him forever. With arms akimbo, he threw his shoulders

back and in a deep firm voice said, “I would claim Branda as my

wife.”

“I see you have given thought to this?” Brochfael paused.

“You love her.”

“What of it?” He shrugged but stared hard at his brother.
I

will never let her go.

Brochfael grinned. “You need claim her then.”

A heavy dread pushed down upon Blaise. “I know not how to

tel father.”

“Come.”

Blaise was relieved his older brother walked by his side into

the great hal. As Brochfael nodded to the feasters who

welcomed him home, Elisedd leaned back in his throne and

tapped his fingers on the armrest.

A chestnut-haired servant girl handed Brochfael a goblet, and

he took a swig of ale as they approached the dais.

“Greetings, my sire. I have returned.” Brochfael slightly raised

his cup in the air.

“Good day, Father.” Blaise nodded.

Elisedd returned Blaise’s nod then gazed at Brochfael.

“Greetings, my son. The gods have blessed me with your safe

return.”

Once Blaise and Brochfael eased into their chairs beside

Elisedd, the King leaned toward his eldest son. “Was the journey

a success?”

“You may say so, my sire. I bring you Cuthred’s answer to

the ransom of the Princess.”

Blaise could not breathe. If he could not overturn the obvious

outcome, he would lose Branda. She would be given to Cuthred.

A sensation of heaviness pressed down on him, and he barely

heard anything Brochfael or Elisedd said. He floated into a deep

abyss of sadness.

“It must be done,” Elisedd declared.

The words rung in Blaise’s head like the clang of a large brass

The words rung in Blaise’s head like the clang of a large brass

bel. “Father, what say you?” he asked as he came out of his

dark brooding.

“Cuthred has agreed to the ransom. We wil give the Princess

over to him and colect the gold coin.”