The Emerald Flame (3 page)

“And believe what you will of the Shining Ones,” Iwan was saying, his eyes fixed on Gavan. “But I tell you I was there; and I saw the great Green Man of the ancient woods—and dreadful and unknowable as he may be, he was our friend at that moment; and without him a Saxon army would now be squatting in Gwylan Canu, plotting the conquest of Brython.”

A long, suspenseful silence followed while Gavan stared into the flames as though he hoped the leaping
tongues would reveal something to help him make up his mind. Padrig and Andras were looking at each other with puzzled, worried faces. Bryn’s stubborn features were unreadable.

It was Blodwedd’s voice that broke the crackling silence.

“If you wish for further proofs, I can give them to you,” she growled, eyeing Gavan with open hostility. She lifted her hands, her white fingers spread like raking claws. “I can show you things, man of war—things you will not doubt. Proofs of perfidy indeed.”

Gavan’s lip curled, and he shrank away from her. “Do not seek to touch me, demon,” he said. “For I will smite you to the bone if you try to work your sorceries on me!”

“What use will the spilling of blood serve?” asked Rhodri, reaching to draw back Blodwedd’s hands and cradle them in his. “Have we not already seen blood enough to last us a lifetime?”

Branwen peered into Gavan’s closed face, dismayed at the thought of having to fight again but frustrated at the delay this strange encounter was causing. Upon the mountain peak, Merion of the Stones was waiting—and Branwen knew from experience that the tasks set her by the Shining Ones did not allow for procrastination.

“Speak your mind, Gavan ap Huw!” she said. “What choice do you make? To let us go on our way unmolested or to try and take me back to your
master’s cruel justice?”

“You’ll wade to the hips in your own blood ere that happens!” warned Dera.

Gavan looked slowly from face to face of Branwen’s followers, seeing defiance and grim determination in every one. He turned at last to Branwen.

“You misunderstand my purpose here if you believe I have come onto the mountain to take you back to the prince,” he said slowly. “I have no desire to return to Doeth Palas; I have a mission in the east. A mission that will brook no delay.”

“It’s the boy, isn’t it?” Rhodri said, nodding toward the scared-looking lad. “I know the look of a boy who has been in servitude to the Saxons, and I know a runaway when I see one.”

Branwen glanced at her friend—so she had been right in her guess! The boy
was
an escaped prisoner of the Saxons.

Gavan looked at Rhodri with a new respect. “A shrewd man you are,” he said. “It
is
news from the east brought to me by the boy Dillon that has hastened me from Doeth Palas.” He turned to Branwen. “Forgive my slow response, Branwen of the Old Gods,” he said. “I am a man of action, not thought; but your tale of the prince’s perfidy chimes all too well with an encounter I had with him before I departed his court.” He paused, his face grim, as though the words were bitter in his throat.

“When Iwan came to Prince Llew with his tale of
a Saxon army approaching Gwylan Canu, it seemed strange to me that the prince should choose to send out fifty horsemen,” he said. “Were that citadel taken by an enemy, all of Brython would be in danger.” He shook his head. “If an army were marching on Gwylan Canu, fifty men could not hold them back—and the prince had not called for a muster of footmen or armed riders to follow on after Captain Angor’s troop. Yet if the prince believed Iwan’s tale to be false, then why send so many? A brace of swift riders would be enough to gauge the situation and report back.”

“So,” said Branwen. “Fifty was too few—or too many. Yes, I understand. We thought the same … until we learned the truth.”

“I went to the prince with my thoughts,” Gavan continued. “But he became angry and dismissed me with my questions unanswered.” Gavan’s jaw set. “So I left him; but it rankled with me, although I had no inkling of the reason behind his decision.” His hand balled to a white fist; rage was building in him. “But were he indeed in league with Herewulf Ironfist, then the sending of Captain Angor and his fifty riders had a good purpose.”

“Exactly,” said Iwan. “To delude my father into allowing them to enter Gwylan Canu at their ease and then to hand over the citadel to Ironfist upon his arrival. And the plan would have worked if not for the loose lips of one of Angor’s men.” He looked at Branwen, his eyes shining. “And if not for this princess
of the eastern cantrefs, whose allies you despise, all would still have been lost.”

“Aye,” growled Gavan. “She has served the land well; but the Old Gods have their own purposes, I deem, and the lives of those who are caught up in their webs are of little value to them.”

“I do not think that is true,” said Branwen.

“It is not,” added Blodwedd. “All life is sacred to the Elder Powers—I wish the same could be said of you humans!”

“But do I understand you correctly, Gavan ap Huw?” asked Iwan. “Do you now believe that the prince has betrayed us?”

There was a heavy silence. Branwen saw that the eyes of Gavan’s three lads were riveted on the old warrior’s face. “I do,” he said at last. “It grieves me to the heart—but I can see no other answer to the riddle of his actions.” He clenched his fists and shook them at the blind sky. “Traitor most foul!” he shouted. “Had I known of this when I stood at his side, a knife to the heart would have been his reward!”

Branwen saw Bryn and Andras and Padrig staring at Gavan in consternation. There were tears in Padrig’s eyes.

Gavan surged to his feet. “Bryn! Fetch my horse! I must return and unmask the prince’s villainy!” His hand clamped onto his sword hilt. “I have not lived the life of a warrior these three score years and five only to see Brython fall to such base corruption!”

The three boys also scrambled to their feet.

Branwen got up. “You will ride to your certain death if you head westward, Gavan ap Huw,” she said urgently. “The prince cannot be taken by one man alone.”

“Riders have been sent to Pengwern,” Iwan reminded him. “King Cynon will raise an army against Bras Mynydd.”

“Do not go back, lord,” said Andras. “They are right—you will be killed before you can come nigh the prince.”

“And what of your daughter if you die such a useless death?” added Padrig. “Would you have her spend the rest of her life in captivity?” He looked appealingly at the old warrior. “Remember your mission in the east, my lord. Remember Alwyn.”

Branwen looked sharply at Gavan.

Alwyn! Gavan had spoken to her once of his stolen daughter.

Brython had been at open war and Gavan in service to the king when his wife had been killed and his young daughter carried away into captivity. By the time Gavan could be released from the king’s side, the girl’s trail had long gone cold. For a year and a day the doughty warrior had moved in stealth through the dangerous Saxon lands to the east, but of his daughter there was no hint or rumor. It was as though the wild Saxon kingdoms had swallowed her up.

At last he had admitted defeat, and he had turned back to his homeland and taken service with Prince Llew ap Gelert, tasked with training the young for the war that had no end.

That was the tale that Gavan had told her—but now it seemed that unexpected news of his daughter had come out of the east.

“What did the boy tell you?” Branwen asked, sitting again. “Is Alwyn alive, then?”

As he was reminded of his daughter, Gavan’s face became even more careworn. “Aye, it seems she is, if the boy Dillon is not mistaken.” He also sat down, looking toward the small lad. “Tell your tale again, boy. Stand, and speak it with a brave heart; you’ve nothing to fear here.”

Trembling and with an anxious gaze, the boy got unsteadily to his feet. All eyes were upon him; but as he spoke, he looked only at Gavan, as though gaining courage from the old man’s face.

“I don’t remember when I was captured,” he began, his voice shaking a little. “I lived on a farm in the northeastern marshes of Teg Eingel.” Branwen knew where he meant: Teg Eingel was the cantref directly to the north of her own homeland. “The Saxons came. They looted and burned our home …” Dillon paused, swallowing.

“An all too familiar tale,” muttered Linette.

“I was carried away as a prisoner,” Dillon continued. “I think everyone else was killed. Leastways, I

never saw any of my family again. I was taken to a great town on a wide river.”

“Name the town, boy,” Gavan said gently.

“It was called Chester,” said Dillon. “And the river was the Dee.”

These were names Branwen knew. The old town of Chester was in Saxon Mercia, no more than a day’s ride from the eastern border of Cyffin Tir.

“I was taught enough Saxon words to be able to serve my masters,” Dillon said. “Many moons passed in servitude—two or three summers, I think—and by then I had given up hope of ever being rescued. Then word came that an encampment of soldiers had been set up outside the town and that servants were needed there. I was sent to serve the soldiers.”

“I know the camp well,” said Rhodri. “I was also brought there as a servant, and would be there still had I not done as Dillon here did and escaped when opportunity presented itself.”

Dillon looked at Rhodri in amazement, although there was no sign that he recognized him from the camp. “Every day more men poured into the camp,” the boy continued. “Brought together by a great warrior of the Saxon kingdoms, a man named Horsa Herewulf Ironfist, Thain of Winwaed.”

“My old master!” murmured Rhodri.

“Yes, we know him,” said Iwan. “Branwen saw him plunge to his death, thank the Three Saints!”

A bleak smile touched Dillon’s lips. “I’m glad he
is dead,” he said. “He was a bad man—but his son is worse still!” He shivered as though at some dreadful memory. “Redwuld Grammod he is called.”

“Redwuld the fierce,” added Rhodri. “Redwuld the cruel. I know of that creature, although he did not live with Ironfist when I was with him. He lived at the court of King Oswald and had been there from early childhood. I never saw the man, but I heard tales of his bad temper and his viciousness.”

“Then you must have made your escape before he returned to be with his father,” said Dillon. “He is a very wicked man! I was set to work in Thain Ironfist’s Great Hall, and Redwuld Grammod was my master. There were many servants in that horrible place … but one woman stood out from the others. Redwuld had brought her with him from the north. Very beautiful she was, with flowing chestnut hair and big eyes like a doe; and Redwuld treated her as a favorite. Leastways, I never saw her beaten as the rest of us were. She told me once that her name was Alwyn and that her father was a great warrior of Powys—one of the greatest warriors ever in the whole history of the Four Kingdoms. Lord Gavan ap Huw, hero of the battle of Rhos.”

“And you escaped and sought out the great warrior?” asked Rhodri.

“I did,” said Dillon, a proud light igniting in his eyes for a moment. “I was serving at a feast, and I broke a favorite drinking goblet of Redwuld
Grammod’s. He ordered that I should be whipped before the whole household the next morning. I have seen such beatings. People die of them. So I waited until the dead of night, and then I crept quietly away under the noses of the guards.”

“He arrived in Doeth Palas the same day you cut the half Saxon captive loose,” Gavan told Branwen, glancing at Rhodri. “In the aftermath of your actions, I had little time to spend on a runaway out of the east, but eventually I gave an ear to Dillon’s tale. I have no doubt that the woman he met was my Alwyn—closer than I could have ever imagined, and under the thumb of our greatest foe!”

“And Prince Llew gave his permission for you to seek her out?” Branwen asked in surprise. Gavan had told her that the last time he had asked permission to go in search of his daughter he had been told he could not be spared. And surely the Saxon threat was as great now as it had been then.

“He gave his permission willingly,” said Gavan. “And at the time I thought it strange that he did not refuse my request; but I see now that he was glad to have me out of his court with my unwanted questions.” His brows knitted. “I believe now that I may have been the only man in the prince’s court who did not know what he was planning. Angor was certainly deep in his counsels, and many others, too.”

“He knew you could not be corrupted, I’d say,” commented Iwan. “But at some point, as his plans
grew to fruition, I think you would have been quietly done away with. Angor would relish such a duty!”

“I doubt it not,” said Gavan. “But we shall see who will gain the upper hand when next I see that villain, the fires of Annwn take him!”

“The prince would not allow Lord Gavan to take any soldiers on his hunt into Mercia,” said Andras. “But he said he could pick three lads of the court.” Pride showed on his thin face. “He chose us to travel with him.”

“Aye,” said Gavan. “The best of a poor bunch, but trustworthy and stouthearted. And the lad Dillon asked to come with us.”

“That was bravely done,” said Rhodri, looking admiringly at the boy. “I’d have thought twice before returning to Ironfist’s lair!”

“He’ll not be put in danger,” said Gavan. “But he knows the layout of the camp, and he will help us get in and out undetected.”

“I’m glad for you, Gavan ap Huw,” said Branwen. “I know how your heart aches for your daughter. I hope you are successful.”

Gavan looked silently at her for a while, the firelight flickering in his eyes. Branwen got the impression he was turning thoughts over in his head, weighing her before speaking again.

“And so all tales are told,” he said at last, looking into the eastern sky, where the glowing gray of dawn came creeping through the branches. “A new day has
come.” He got up and walked around the fire toward Branwen. Crouching in front of her, he rested his hands on her shoulders.

“I have a boon to ask of you, Branwen,” he said solemnly. “Do this thing for me and be your mother’s daughter once more!”

She looked warily into his rugged face. “What thing?”

“Turn from the Old Gods while you still can,” he said, his fingers biting into her shoulders. “I do not believe you are truly lost yet, Branwen; but if you do not repudiate them, they will devour you, body, spirit, and soul. Go back to your home, Branwen—go back to your mother. Be the child that the Lady Alis needs! Be Prince Griffith’s daughter! That is your true destiny! That is where you belong.”