Caradoc of the North Wind (7 page)

Aberfa helped Branwen raise the limp girl up into the saddle. Iwan threw the leather thongs around himself and tied them tight under Linette’s armpits. He looked down at Branwen, his sword in his fist. ‘While I live, so shall she!’ he said, his eyes afire.

‘Banon! Use your bow as you may,’ howled Branwen, leaping back on to Terrwyn. She raised her sword to the sky. ‘To Pengwern! None of us shall die this day! Branwen of the Shining Ones swears it!’

A moment later, all were mounted again and so the mad race began. Branwen knew that her great bay destrier could have gone like the wind had she given the noble beast its head. But she had no intention of outriding her comrades. To arrive safe at Pengwern and leave her friends as corpses in her wake? It wasn’t to be thought of. So she held back a little, letting Iwan take the lead, Banon and Aberfa half an ell behind, Rhodri and Blodwedd riding apace with Branwen. Fain flew with them, skimming on the wind above Branwen’s head, shrieking encouragement.

The Saxons were no more than three furlongs away now, and their voices could be heard, carried on the north wind.

‘
Wotan! Gehata Wotan!
’

Branwen leaned forward, gripping Terrwyn’s sides with her thighs, the reins gathered in one fist as the clots of snow rose like startled doves about her ears and the breath was like knives in her chest.

Iwan was riding magnificently, encumbered as he was. His sword arm was about Linette’s waist, his other hand holding the knotted reins, his hood ripped back by the wind so that his long light-brown hair was plastered to his skull.

Aberfa held the reins while Banon sat behind her, twisted to one side, gripping the horse with her knees while she aimed with bow and arrow. She would not shoot unless a target was in her eye-line. Banon was too canny a warrior to waste arrows uselessly. Rhodri’s face was clenched with determination as he urged his steed onwards. Six months ago it had been all he could do to remain upright in the saddle, but dire necessity had made a good horseman of him. Blodwedd sat behind him, her hands gripping his shoulders, her face filled with fury. Had she been able, Branwen was certain the owl-girl would have leaped into the air to get at the Saxons.

Even in the rush and confusion of their flight, Branwen gave a hard, glad grin to see that they were outrunning the Saxons. At one point she had feared that their enemies would come between them and the hill, but now they were edging away from the pounding mass of the enemy riders.

An arrow flew, skimming close behind Banon before arching down and stabbing into the snow. Now Banon let an arrow loose. There was a cry of triumph from Aberfa as one of the Saxon horses stumbled and fell, sending its rider crashing to the ground.

They came to the foot of the hill and began to pound their way up the long slope. Branwen saw the swathe that had been swept through the snow by Angor and the others – but of those leading horses there was no sign. They must have crested the hill. They would be within sight of Pengwern now. If the king were keeping close watch, as he ought, then the gates would be flung open – a sortie would ride out. The princesses would be safe, the mission accomplished.

The hill was not as smooth as the snow made it seem, and it was hard to move at speed up the steady slope for fear of a hoof plunging into a sudden hole or dip and horse and riders being felled. Branwen drew back a little, needing to have her comrades in her sight. If the Saxons were to fall upon the Gwyn Braw, then it would be over the body of Branwen ap Griffith.

Trusting in Terrwyn to guide her true, she swivelled at the waist, sword ready, shield still over her back. At a slower pace, she might have let go the reins and used her strong legs to keep in the saddle, but over such uneven rising ground and at such speed, she knew that would be impossible.

Arrows whipped through the air. One struck off her shield and snapped. Another almost struck Terrwyn.

Fain had not been far wrong in his reckoning – there were at least forty horsemen pounding up the slope at her back. Branwen could see their chieftain, clad in a leather jerkin, his arms encased in chain-mail, a round iron helmet on his head, his face hidden under a sinister iron mask. There was a round shield on his arm, stained red but bearing the design of the white Saxon dragon. He brandished a spear. The eyes of his thundering horse were rolling wild and there was foam at its lips.

A sudden thought came into the flurry and chaos of Branwen’s mind. Working to keep her balance, she sheathed her sword and fumbled for a familiar object at her waist. A long, supple strip of leather. She slipped it out of her belt and felt for her pouch of stones.

An arrow came at her and she lifted a shoulder, so that her shield fended it off. The galloping Saxons were so close behind her now that she could see the glaring eyes of those who were not wearing war-masks. Their shouting filled her ears, louder almost than the hammering of her horse’s hooves and the beating of the blood in her temples.

With the skill of long practice, she managed to load the stone into her slingshot. She raised her arm, sucked in a deep breath and held it. She swung the slingshot twice around her head and with a deft flick of her fingers let the stone fly.

She couldn’t see the stone’s trajectory, but she knew she had aimed well. The chieftain jerked back in the saddle, his spear falling from his grip as his hand came up to his throat. She saw a spatter of red between his fingers before he went cartwheeling over his horse’s rump. Other riders jerked this way and that, to try and avoid trampling their fallen leader. Several fell in the mêlée. Horses screamed, iron rang on the frozen earth, men cried out in pain.

Branwen turned again to the rising hill. With a single shot she had brought down a Saxon – fortune was on their side! How could they not prevail?

Iwan was upon the very brow of the hill, Aberfa and Banon close behind. Rhodri’s horse was high on the ridge, moving fast. Blodwedd was turned towards her, the huge amber eyes blazing with furious intent.

Iwan and Linette vanished over the hill. The Saxons howled their rage. Swords and spears drummed on shields. Arrows stabbed the ground. The Saxon archers focused their arrows on Branwen, but the shield’s uncanny powers sent them all glancing away from her. There was no arrowhead forged that could pierce that mystic shield. A gift it had been, a promise of wonders to come. Made from the wood of a sacred tree, overlaid with the hide of the White Bull of Ynis Môn. An ancient thing of power and portent. While she bore it, she would know only good fortune. That was what Blodwedd had told her in the long-ago summer when she had dreamed the shield and then found it in the real world, hanging in the branches of a rowan tree.

Branwen turned to face her enemy again, and defiant words came roaring from her throat.

‘Fear me, carrion!’ she howled. ‘None that live can stand against my wrath! Do you not know me, filth of the enfeebled east? I am Branwen ap Griffith! The witch girl of Powys! Turn back or you will all perish!’ She felt a sudden wind in her hair. She turned. She was upon the breast of the hill. Her companions were riding pell-mell down the far slope. Not far away now, she saw the black line of the tall palisade of Pengwern, and beyond, the thatched and shingled roofs of the royal court.

Out on that flat, she could see four horses moving fast towards the tall gates of timber that stood closed fast beyond the deep encircling ditch. A wild elation filled her and she began to laugh as she dug her heels into her horse’s flanks and went dashing down the hill in pursuit of her comrades.

The horses bearing the two princesses were on the narrow causeway now. Branwen let Terrwyn stride out, catching up quickly with Rhodri and Blodwedd.

Now the four horses of the Gwyn Braw were galloping together on the plain that lay before the high palisade of the king’s court. Branwen flicked a glance over her shoulder. The Saxons were close behind, riding like fury, slowly gaining ground.

‘The gates!’ howled Aberfa. ‘The gates are opening!’

Yes! Branwen could see it, too. Beyond the causeway, the strong gates of Pengwern were being drawn open. Just a few furlongs more and they would be upon the narrow strip of beaten earth that spanned the deep protective ditch.

And none lost!
Branwen thought.
None dead!

The horses bearing the princesses and the men of Doeth Palas passed between the gates. Branwen’s blood roared in her ears. So close now! Every muscle strained as she drove Terrwyn on to even greater efforts. The noise of hooves and harness reverberated in her head. She could feel Terrwyn’s huge muscles and sinews working beneath her, his head rising and falling as he strove onwards. And on either side, she could see Iwan and Aberfa and Rhodri, their eyes on the blessed gap that had widened in the wooden fortifications of Pengwern.

Branwen gasped, staring ahead, thinking her eyes must be deceiving her. The gates were closing again. No! It couldn’t be.

So close now – less than a furlong from safety. And yet the gates were swinging shut in their faces. Branwen could see men on the high walls – soldiers watching them from above.

‘Keep the gates open!’ she shouted, but her words were lost in the clamour of their frantic ride.

‘They shut us out!’ howled Aberfa. ‘We are abandoned!’

They were on the causeway now, the plunging ditch falling away on either side. The earthen bridge was no wider than would allow six horsemen to ride abreast, and there were twin towers on either side of the gates, from which defenders could shoot arrows and hurl rocks upon any attacking force.

The gates thudded shut. Branwen heard the boom of the timber bars being thrown across.

She brought Terrwyn up sharp, heaving back on the reins, feeling him buck and shy beneath her. Around her, the other horses were brought to a chaotic halt under the looming gates of Pengwern.

Branwen turned Terrwyn to face the oncoming enemy. She drew her sword and pulled her shield around on to her arm as the Saxon riders galloped on.

Aberfa was right. They had been abandoned. They would have to fight alone – six against forty.

‘Gwyn Braw!’ Branwen shouted. ‘Gwyn Braw to the death!’

And around her she heard the voices of her comrades raised in the same wild cry.

‘Gwyn Braw to the death!’

CHAPTER SEVEN

H
ad Branwen been given time to despair, she might have despaired.

Had she been given time to wonder why the gates of Pengwern had been thrown shut in their faces, she might have wondered.

But she was not given the time.

She had time only to act on instinct.

‘Iwan, keep Linette safe!’ she shouted, kicking her heels in Terrwyn’s sweating flanks and cantering back along the causeway towards the ranks of the Saxon horsemen. ‘All others – follow!’

The Saxons had slowed, gathering at the end of the causeway, spears ready to strike, swords and shields up, their exhausted horses blowing smoke about them so that they seemed wreathed in the fumes and steams of Annwn.

Branwen came in among them like a thunderbolt, her sword whirling like striking lightning, her shield beating back their blows. They roared and hacked at her, taken off guard by the ferocity of her assault. And before they had time to regroup to surround and destroy her, Aberfa and Banon and Rhodri and Blodwedd came hammering down on them like the Furies of the Underworld.

For a time of madness and chaos, all Branwen could do was stab and parry, lunge and duck, as spears grazed her and swords rang on her shield. There was a noise like a raging ocean in her head, and over her vision came a veil of red fire. An axe scythed past her shoulder. She turned and stabbed for a throat. Blood sprayed.

Horses crowded together, barging and bumping, turning and wheeling as they neighed and struggled in the mêlée. She heard Aberfa shouting. She saw Banon rip a Saxon from his saddle and leap into his place, snatching up the reins as her sword sang. Blodwedd was on the ground, tumbling over and over as she fought a Saxon soldier, teeth and claws against a stabbing seax knife.

A heavy blow hammered down hard on Branwen’s shield, numbing her arm and throwing her from the saddle. She crashed on to her back, pounding hooves all around her. She was on her feet in an instant, the taste of blood in her mouth where she had bitten her lip. The horses crowded her, buffeting her, making it hard for her to keep to her feet.

She slashed at a man’s thigh and stabbed up into an unguarded stomach, sick with the pain of her fall, spinning and turning with her shield as blows rained down on her from all sides.

She saw Rhodri tumble from his horse. She saw Aberfa tall in the saddle like a mighty bear, a spear thrusting in one hand and a sword hacking in the other.

And then she felt the ground trembling under her feet and she heard war cries in the distance, growing rapidly louder.

Half blinded by the red veil of her wrath, it was a moment before Branwen realized that the Saxons were drawing off. She stood gasping, staring after them as they galloped away – those who still could. Some of the Saxon horses ran riderless, their reins flying. And even as Branwen watched, she was aware of horses streaming by on either side of her. Horses bearing soldiers who wore the king’s standard – the red dragon of Powys on a field of white.

One horse came to a rearing halt at her side. ‘Are you hurt, Branwen?’