The Prince of Powys (18 page)

him.

him.

Engulfed in the sensation of drowning in a muddy bog,

encased in a thick darkness, the concerned tone of Kip’s voice

finaly reached him. “What say you?” Blaise tried to focus on the

warrior’s words.

“My Prince, we must ride out. If we don’t get out of Wessex

now, we wil al be kiled. The Princess’s only chance is for you

to ride now. Tend her wounds once we reach Wales.”

Kip was right, Blaise had to rouse from his fear for Branda

and put al his energy into saving her. Her life depended on his

actions. “Here, hold her while I mount.” His throat was tight. It

was hard to talk. His heart raced. His breath was shalow,

almost to the point of panting.

He placed her in Kip’s arms as he swung upon his horse. Kip

lifted the Princess so she sat upon the saddle with her legs flung over the side and her body tightly cradled in Blaise’s arms.

“It’s over, men. Move out.” As a final command before riding

to Powys, Blaise yeled, “Get the ransom.”

He nudged the horse in a slow trot and then picked up the

pace. His men folowed.

He held Branda’s stil body against his chest. “Do not die on

me,
cariad
. Sweetheart.” He pressed his lips on top of her golden head and clutched her body tightly as he cut through the

Saxon land and into Wales, where they finaly made camp.

Branda came to and mumbled, “Where am I? Who am I?”

“You are safe. Al is wel. I wil care for you. Stay with me,

love.” He drew in a deep breath. “I cannot let the wound fever

set in.”

He swabbed her head with a rag dampened with cool water

from the nearby spring and dribbled drops of water into her

mouth. She let out a little moan of comfort.

For the first time in his life, he had to grit his teeth as he

looked at the wound, for it tore Branda’s bloody flesh. After

unwrapping the makeshift bandage, he cleaned the wound gently

as if she were made of glass. He recaled the way she had

tended him when he was captured in Mercia. She defied her

father so she could stitch the arrow hole in his chest. He’d do the same for her, but he wasn’t a slender maiden, who might not be

strong enough to overcome a battle wound. With that thought an

icy chil swept through him, and he froze with the fear, the reality icy chil swept through him, and he froze with the fear, the reality that he could lose her.

“
Cariad
,” he whispered. “My love, you must live. We have al we want now. You cannot die.”

She moved her head to and fro and babbled as if she was

talking in her sleep but he could make no sense of it. As he sat at her side he threaded a needle, but before he began suturing,

Blaise lifted her head. He poured smal gulps of mead down her

throat for the pain, one after the other, so she could swalow

easily. He stitched the wound as best he could, wishing he had

her knack for smal, straight stitches. He’d done his best. Now it

was up to her.

“Live, Branda. Don’t you dare go dying on me; do you hear?”

She blacked out again. He lay at her side, never leaving during

the night. At dawn, he nudged her awake. To his relief, she came

to. Lifting her shoulders, he coaxed her to part her parched lips

and, bringing the spoon to her mouth, he fed her some broth Kip

brewed.

“You need to keep up your strength, Princess. We ride hard

today. Al the way to Dinas Bran as fast as we can, so Neilyn

and Carthann can heal you. They wil, you know. I promise.”

He hoped he hadn’t lied. No. She could not die. Would the

gods be so cruel to give her to him just so he could lose her? He

wiped broth off her chin with the back of his hand.

She opened her eyes. “Blaise? I am here. I can’t see you

clearly, but I know you are there. Hold my hand. Do not leave

me.”

“Branda, can you not see me?”

“You are a blur. I think it’s just my eyes or my head. It hurts

to look at anything.”

“Close your eyes. I wil not let go of your hand, you hear? I

wil not leave you.”

“You kiled Cuthred and now I am free.” Her palid face

spread into a smile.

“Yes, free to marry me as soon as you are hale and hearty.”

She nodded. “I wil be wel soon.” Her voice betrayed the

weakness in her body. She slipped back into unconsciousness.

He laid her close to the fire and tucked a blanket around her,

but he never let go of her hand. He bathed her forehead until the

men broke camp. He released her hand only to mount his horse.

Kip handed Branda to him. Blaise cradled her in his arms as

Kip handed Branda to him. Blaise cradled her in his arms as

he led his men at a fast, hard ride through the rough terrain of

hils and valeys. His legs felt stiff and heavy, and his horse was

sodden with sweat. Stil he pressed on. The long, hard ride paid

off when he spotted Dinas Bran rising above the mist of the

mountain in the distance.

If only Dinas Bran held the cauldron of regeneration, he’d lay

Branda in it and she would rise with her wounds fuly healed.

However, the cauldron had been destroyed long ago, and the

gods could take her life at any moment. Anguish pressed upon

him like a weight of steel. He would be desolate without her.

There was no one else for him but this Saxon Princess
.

On the jolting and rough ride, he comforted her with soft

words as he brushed his fingers through her hair. At least

Cuthred had paid for his vile deeds. Dead, he could no longer

hurt her.

After folowing the murmuring Dubr Duiu River to a bright-

green valey, he stared at the thousand-foot mountain and the hil

fort of Dinas Bran sitting atop, amid the clouds.

“It’s a place of magic and legends, Branda. You wil be

healed there. You must,” he said with conviction, determined

somehow it would be so.

Cradling her, he nudged his horse up the steep path of

sprouting grass and smal rocks. He couldn’t tear his eyes away

from the huge wals jutting from the summit.

“Do not let me bring her home just to have her die here at

Dinas Bran. Please,” he prayed to the gods as he neared the

dark, circular fort rimming the mountaintop.

As he passed beneath the stone archway, Blaise clutched

Branda’s limp figure to his chest, never wanting to let her go.

Clicking with his tongue and puling on the reins, he brought the

horse to a halt before the crowd that came to meet him. Word of

her injury had spread through the castle by way of the

messenger. He dismounted and handed the bag of gold to

Elisedd, who was more concerned with how Branda fared.

“Ah, the sweet maiden.” Elisedd gestured with his hand.

“Bring her inside. Make haste.”

Blaise kissed Carthann on the cheek. “Mother.”

Blaise kissed Carthann on the cheek. “Mother.”

“Fear not, my son. We wil make her wel.” She gently patted

his shoulder.

Strengthened and comforted by the love his parents had for

the Princess, he picked up her hot, fevered body and carried her

into the bower. Scan, Leri, Neilyn, Elisedd, Carthann and

Brochfael folowed.

“Wound fever.” Neilyn turned to Scan. “Go to the temple and

get the vial of dried yarrow to brew a tea. Give her the yarrow to drink and make a poultice of it as wel to lie on the wound.”

“I shal help you so it wil go faster,” Leri said as she folowed

the blonde bard.

“You need rest, my son. We can tend her now.” Carthann’s

voice held an intense tone of compassion.

“No. I swore I would not leave her.” Blaise took a seat in a

wooden chair beside the bed and clutched Branda’s hand. “I wil

stay.”

Carthann opened her mouth as if to speak, but Neilyn

interrupted. “Let him be.”

“She wil heal, wil she not?” A tone of guilt tinged Elisedd’s

query.

“I wil do my best to see she recovers, my King,” Neilyn

answered with a quiet emphasis.

Elisedd lowered his gaze and his voice. “My son, I know not

what to say.”

“She saved my life. Her wound was meant for me.”

“Cuthred did this!” Brochfael’s mouth was tight.

“Yes.” Blaise had to pause, the anger almost choking him. “I

kiled Cuthred. He is dead.”

“It is good.” Elisedd’s mouth was taunt and grim, and he drew

his red brows together. “I would like to have delivered the fatal

blow myself.”

Scan returned, and Neilyn asked al to leave except Carthann

and Blaise. He needed the Queen’s assistance, and the Prince

wouldn’t leave.

* * * *

Princess. Blaise stayed by Branda’s side, clutching her hand and

Princess. Blaise stayed by Branda’s side, clutching her hand and

never letting go. Many times, he leaned his ear down to her lips

to make sure she stil breathed. Throughout each day he checked

her brow, hoping the fever had broken. Nausea overtook him,

but it gave him a strange sense of happiness for in being il he felt less guilty—as if he suffered some punishment for kidnapping her

in the first place.

He prayed out loud. “Gods, if you take her then you must

take me as wel. If not in this world, then we shal be together in

the next.” He whispered, “I love you, Branda.”

She showed no sign of hearing him.

“Fight, Branda, fight. You can win. Live.” He laid his face in

his hands and sighed. After a long pause, he lifted his head and

pleaded in an almost helpless tone, “Princess, you must not die.

You promised.”

Carthann put her hand on Blaise’s shoulder. “You do not eat

nor sleep. You wil soon become il yourself.”

“I shan’t leave her,” he answered Carthann, without removing

his gaze from Branda.

Blaise barely noticed when Neilyn changed places with

Carthann. He heard the Queen bid him a good eve but he didn’t

reply. He was exhausted but continued his vigil day in and day

out. It took al his strength to concentrate on Branda.

Bending down toward her lips he listened for the faint murmur

of her breath. He heard nothing. He clutched his chest as if his

own heart had stopped. He listened again. Nothing.

“Druid Neilyn! Branda does not breathe. Help her. She has

stopped breathing.”

“Get away, lad. Let me see.” The gray-bearded Druid shoved

him aside and leaned over her. Neilyn raised his head with a faint smile on his lips. “What say you? She breathes, my Prince. She

breathes. Do you not see the soft rise and fal of her breast?”

“I heard nothing.”

Neilyn cupped Blaise’s forehead. “You are hot. My Prince,

you have worked yourself into a fever. You have neither slept

nor eaten for three days.”

“It matters not. I care only for Branda.”

“You cannot help her if you get sick,” Neilyn scolded. He

stirred a mixture in a cup and handed it to him. “Yarrow tea.

Drink it for your fever.”

He sipped the steamy tea. His shalow breath slowed and

He sipped the steamy tea. His shalow breath slowed and

become fuler, more normal. She breathed. She was stil alive. A

moment ago he was sure she was dead, and his heart with her.

“Branda, Branda,” he cried out.

Carthann heard the commotion from the hal and ran into the

bower. “Is she dead?”

“No, she is not.” Neilyn leaned forward. “The Prince’s mind is

befuddled with lack of sleep and food.”

“Blaise, you need to eat and rest.” Carthann reached out and

took his hand in hers.

“I won’t leave.”

The Queen shook her head and glanced at the window ledge.

“When she wakes, the daffodils wil cheer her. They are her

favorite flowers.”

“Yes, Elisedd picked them for her.” Neilyn managed a slight,

hesitant smile.

“A warrior can pick a daffodil now and then.” Carthann roled

her eyes.

The Druid released a soft chortle.

Blaise breathed in the fresh, lively scent of the wild flowers. It renewed his belief that he and Branda would live a long life

together.

“What say you, Neilyn? The fever wil soon break, wil it

not?” He clutched Branda’s hand tighter.

“The yarrow takes time. She is gravely il. If it was anyone

else I would not be so sure of recovery, but the Princess has a

lot of fight in her. She wil pul through.”

“Lady Carthann, fetch the sword of Nuada.” Blaise held his

head high “It is in my bower wrapped in a silken cloth.”

She turned her face toward him. “Why would you want the

sword, now?”

“She is connected to it. Bran gave it to her and her name

means sword. In her tongue Branda means blade. She told me.”

“I ken what you hope, Prince, but I do not think it wil heal

her.”

He tilted his head to the side. “The sword is magical, is it

not?”

“That it is, but it does not revive life as the cauldron did.”

Neilyn’s voice was calm, his gaze steady.

“How do you know this? Bran wanted her to have it.” How

could Nuada of the Silver Hand not save her? Whose magic

could Nuada of the Silver Hand not save her? Whose magic

could be stronger? Neilyn was wrong. “By the gods, Bran,

Nuada, save my love,” he prayed.

Neilyn turned to the Queen. “Bring the sword, Lady

Carthann, hasten!”