“So you are tame,” Branwen whispered.
Only high-born families kept falcons; the bird must have come from a neighboring cantref. But that didn’t explain how it could have slipped its leashes—unless it had been set free on purpose.
“Are you looking for a new master?”
The falcon let out another single caw.
Branwen half smiled. It was almost as if the bird was responding to her words.
The high-pitched floating call of a horn came up to her. She looked over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I have to go now,” she told the falcon. “I’m afraid we’ll never see each other again. I’m going a long, long way from here.” She swallowed hard. “I don’t know if I’ll ever come back.”
The bird fluttered from her wrist back to the branch.
There were tiny beads of blood on her wrist from the pressure of the bird’s claws. She turned and walked back to where Stalwyn was waiting. She mounted the horse, looking back to see the bird still on the branch, still staring at her. “Good-bye,” she called.
She nudged Stalwyn with her heels, and he began to walk down the hillside. She could see her mother and father with Llew’s men. They were waiting to see her off.
She shivered. But she would not cry; she wanted their final memories of her to be ones they could cherish.
Summoning up every scrap of courage, she rode her horse down to the ordeal of parting.
9
THE PROCESSION OF horsemen and wagons left the dappled green shade of the Great Forest Way and began to climb High Saddle Way. The dense trees fell back on either side, the packed-earth path widening as it forged its way up the steep slopes, the ground baked hard by the summer sun.
They had been traveling for half the day and were now beginning the series of steep climbs that would, by evening, take them up onto the forested mountainside. Branwen rode quietly among the men, lost in sadness. The parting with her parents had been harder than she had even imagined it would be. She had not looked back; that would have been too agonizing. She had stared between her horse’s ears, her eyes fixed on the ground in front of her while the images of her mother and her father and of Garth Milain raged like fire in her mind.
“Do not grieve, my lady.” The voice shook her out of her lonely reverie. She turned her head. Captain Angor had ridden his tall, black horse alongside hers. “Your brother died a noble death,” he said. “You should be proud.”
“Yes, I suppose I should,” she replied. “I am proud of him. But I wish…” Her voice faded. I wish he had been less brave! I wish he had kept himself hidden in the forest till the Saxons had gone away. I wish he were still alive!
“What do you wish, my lady?”
“Nothing,” Branwen said. “I wish for nothing.”
“I met your brother once, a few years ago,” the captain said. “He came to Doeth Palas with your father to meet with the prince. He would have been about twelve years old. A big lad for his age. Very strong, I remember.”
“Yes, he was strong,” Branwen said. “But not very quick. I could always beat him in a race.”
“There was something about him,” Angor said, his eyes narrowing as he gazed into the distance. “A kind of strength, unusual in so young a lad. I saw it in his eyes. I remember thinking he would make a good prince when his time came—a good leader of men. There was one night in particular. We were feasting, and your father asked him to recite part of one of the Songs of the Eleven Heroes for us. He stood there, so proud and tall with his back to the firelight. Every word rang out clear to the roof beams. It was as if he were living the tale as he told it. I’ve never forgotten that.”
“He loved the old tales,” Branwen said with a faint smile, remembering how Geraint would eagerly recite the traditional stories of gallant warfare and heroic deeds. She looked at Angor, suddenly glad of the opportunity to talk about her brother. Perhaps it was because this man was a stranger to her that she felt able to open up to him.
“He used to tell me old nursery stories, too,” Branwen said. “There were so many of them. Stories about the pooka of the forest, who rode to war on dragonflies with acorn-cup helmets and swords made from rose thorns. And about the coblyn who live in caves and the goraig of the rivers and the lakes and the gwyllion who dwell high up in the mountains.” She glanced sideways at Angor. “He even told me about the Shining Ones.”
Angor frowned. “Your father allowed such tales?” he said.
“My father didn’t know,” Branwen replied. “Besides, Geraint knew that I liked to be scared by his stories of the Old Gods.”
The Shining Ones, Branwen! The terrible, glorious spirits of nature that watched over the land of our ancestors. Wild as a thunderstorm, dangerous as a rockfall in the mountains, merciless as deepest midwinter! Rhiannon of the Spring. Govannon of the Wood. Merion of the Stones. Caradoc of the North Wind. The lost gods, banished for five hundred years. The forgotten ones. The forbidden ones.
“All the same,” Angor said grimly. “You would be wise not to speak of this again. It will not honor your brother’s memory if people knew he talked about such things.”
“How so?” Branwen asked, surprised by the uneasy tone in Angor’s voice.
He leaned toward her, speaking in a hoarse whisper. “It is unwise to name the Old Powers,” he said. “Let sleeping gods lie, my lady. Trust me in this. It is for the best.” He kicked his horse into a trot and went riding up to the head of the column, leaving Branwen gazing after him, mystified by his dark words.
“Look at that falcon!”
“He’s been following us since we entered the forest.”
“It’s a wild bird; there are no trappings that I can see.”
“By the saints! If he flies any closer I’ll be able to snatch him out of the air!”
Branwen turned at the sudden chorus of voices at her back.
“He’s a bold one, for sure, if he’s truly wild.”
She looked up, following the gaze of the excited horsemen.
A falcon was dancing on the air, rising high and then turning and stooping with folded wings. There were no other birds in the sky, and it was as if the falcon was playing at the kill for the sheer joy of it. At the lowest part of each rushing descent, the bird would twist and turn like a scrap caught by the wind before climbing again and soaring on wide, sickle-shaped wings.
The ghost of a smile touched Branwen’s lips. It was the same falcon that she had met on the hillside that morning. She could not have said how she knew, but she was certain that it was. How strange that it should be following them.
On a sudden impulse, Branwen stood in her stirrups and raised her arm toward the bird. “Come to me! Come!” she called.
She almost laughed aloud when she saw the falcon spiraling down toward her. At the last moment it cupped the air with its wings, its claws outstretched, and came to land quite gently on her wrist.
“By Saint Cadog, I have never seen such a thing!” said one of the riders. “The princess is a bird tamer!”
Branwen was aware of the men watching her in amazement as she lowered her arm. “Hello, my friend,” she said to the bird. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”
It stared at her, its black eyes jeweled with diamonds of light. It was odd how gently it gripped her wrist with its fearsome talons—falconers usually required thick leather wristbands to prevent injury, yet Branwen only felt a slight pricking where the points of the long claws dug into her flesh.
“What is going on?” It was Captain Angor’s voice.
“Lady Branwen called a wild falcon down to her wrist, Captain!” exclaimed one of the men. “I’ve never seen the like!”
Angor rode up to Branwen. “Is this your own bird, my lady?” he asked. “Has it followed you from Garth Milain?”
“No,” Branwen said. “I’ve seen it once before, but it doesn’t belong to me.”
“Then it is not tame?” Angor asked sharply.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
r /> The captain urged his horse forward and reached out for the falcon with his gloved hand. Shrieking raucously, the falcon took to the air.
“You startled him!” Branwen said, frowning at the captain. “Why did you do that?”
“By your leave, my lady,” he said. “A wild bird cannot be trusted. He could have injured you.”
“He would not have harmed me.”
“Nevertheless, my lady, your safety lies in our hands,” Angor said with quiet authority. “I would not have you delivered to your husband with half your face stripped bare to the bone.”
The captain turned his horse and rode back to the front of the procession. “If the bird returns, the man whose arrow shoots it from the sky will be rewarded!” he called.
Branwen looked up anxiously. She understood Angor’s concern for her, but she didn’t want the bird killed.
To her relief, the sky was clear. The strange falcon was gone.
Higher and higher they climbed, the road running along the rising slope of a valley that lay between the flanks of two great hills. The looming slopes were striped with green and brown and capped with rows of rugged rock like an exposed spine. Trees clung to the southern slopes—forests that Branwen had never seen before. She was now beyond the world that she knew, and in happier circumstances the beauty and the wildness of the unfolding landscape would have filled her with joy.
If only Geraint could have been at her side. If only this were a merry adventure—brother and sister riding together into the mountains. If only there was the chance of turning back and arriving at Garth Milain just as the evening fires were kindled.
Mother! Father! We’ve seen such things!
She pushed the thoughts away. They only brought her pain. She must think of the future…no matter how little she desired it.
Prince Llew brought them to a halt for the night on a plateau overlooked by a rearing escarpment of bare rock. The men set the horses free to graze and then laid fires and kindled them with firestones and set tripods to cook the meats they had brought with them.
Once she had seen that Stalwyn was being looked after, Branwen helped with the meal. She speared joints of meat on iron skewers and joined in with the others to turn them slowly as the juices dripped. The delicious aromas of roasting chicken and pork and beef spread through the camp, along with the enticing smell of the flat loaves made warm on the stones that ringed the fires.
Branwen sat at the fireside, wrapped in her cloak, staring into the leaping flames, drinking from a wooden bowl and gnawing a roasted chicken leg.
Prince Llew came over and crouched at her side. “Is all well with you, Branwen?” he asked. “Do you have all that you need?”
“Yes, thank you, my lord,” she replied.
“You look weary,” he said. “You have had little rest over the past few days.”
“I am tired,” Branwen admitted.
“I cannot offer you pillows or a mattress for your bed,” Prince Llew said. “But you may sleep in one of the wagons, if you wish.”
“No, thank you,” Branwen replied. “I’ll be fine here.”
“Well, good night then, my child,” said Prince Llew. “If you need anything, speak with Captain Angor. He will see to your comfort.”
“I will.” Branwen watched the prince move off through his men.
She threw the bone into the fire and then moved a little way off. She wrapped her cloak around herself and lay down, pulling a fur pelt over herself for warmth, her head pillowed on her arm.
Vivid memories came spewing into her mind. Blood and cloven flesh and leaping flames. She tried to blot them out by focusing on the present, on the fact that she was on the first stage of the long journey south to start a strange, new life. She struggled to draw up memories of Hywel ap Murig, but the only image in her mind was of a podgy, spiteful face above rich silk clothing. Was she really on her way to be married to him? It was impossible to grasp.
Utterly impossible!
Eventually, she fell asleep to the crackle of the fires and the low murmur of voices.
10
WHEN BRANWEN AWOKE it was a cool, damp morning. During the night, heavy clouds had come humping in like bloated gray monsters, wallowing low in the sky and cramming their huge bodies up against the mountain peaks. A thick fog slumped in the lowlands, dense as gray water, trickling through the trees and rolling ponderously along the valleys. The high passes seemed to float like cloud-ridden islands on a phantom sea.
The men were already stirring, cutting bread and cheese for the morning meal, drawing ale and buttermilk from barrels. Branwen took a hunk of bread, some strong white cheese, and a cup of buttermilk.
She had slept well; and despite the gloomy look of the morning, she felt refreshed and alert. She had dreamed about Geraint. She could remember almost nothing about it, except that he had been happy and full of life. They had been alone in the forest, and he had recited a poem for her. The only words she recalled were: Brush back the ivy from your dark locks glowering. She had no idea what it meant, but the memory of it lightened her heart. She ate her breakfast with unexpected relish, the cheese strong and tangy in her mouth, the buttermilk thick and sweet.
Before long they were winding their way up toward the dank, gray underbellies of the clouds. At first Branwen rode with Prince Llew, but she had no appetite for conversation and so she asked if it would be all right for her to have some time to herself. She didn’t mention her dream to him, but she felt she’d be better able to recapture its fleeting happiness if she was alone. The prince agreed; and Branwen gradually fell back through the ranks of horsemen, wrapped in thoughtful silence, trying to recapture the comforting images that had come to her in the night.
Now she was at the hindmost, following the last wagon. She felt sad, but strangely at peace, her heart still warmed by the memories she had conjured of her beautiful dream. It almost felt as if Geraint were close by, his unseen presence soothing her wounded soul.
Occasionally, she looked around, half hoping for a sight of the strange falcon; but if it was still trailing them, it was keeping out of sight. It seemed unlikely that it would follow them once they had pushed up into the cloud. She watched as the foremost riders disappeared into the mist. It was startling how quickly the gray blanket swallowed up men and horses and wagons. They were there, solid and alive; then there was a moment when they were just gray shapes, featureless outlines in the fog—and then there was nothing.
She heard Angor’s muffled voice calling as she entered the mist. “Keep together…. The way is narrow and the falls are steep…. Do not stray from the path.”
The back of the last wagon vanished and Branwen was alone, facing a wall of absolute nothingness. Her horse hesitated, unsettled by the blinding fog. She patted his neck.
“Come on, Stalwyn, my brave boy, there’s nothing to be frightened of,” she said aloud as they rode into the fog bank.
She gave a gasp. The fog was unexpectedly chill. She saw white steam spurting from Stalwyn’s nostrils—but beyond the animal’s head, the world had become invisible. She pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders as her own breath billowed.
She could still hear voices and the rumble and creak of wheels ahead of her. She tapped her heels against the horse’s sides, urging him on, wanting to catch up with the others as quickly as possible.
She would not have been able to say exactly when the sounds of movement faded into an eerie silence; one moment she could faintly hear men’s voices calling among the roll of wagon wheels and the thud of hooves—then she could not.
She kicked a little more firmly at Stalwyn’s sides and the horse broke into a reluctant trot, his head down and his ears flat back. Branwen leaned low, but she could see nothing below them. Stalwyn was wading in fog to his fetlocks.
She rose in the saddle and called out: “Wait!” She listened for a reply, but none came. “Wait for me!”
Nothing.
She brought Stalwyn to a halt and dismounted, coming aro
und to the animal’s head, holding the reins and stroking the long muzzle. “It’s all right, boy,” she said. “There’s nothing to worry about. But we need to be careful. Captain Angor said the path gets narrow up here.”
Gripping the reins, she walked forward into the fog, Stalwyn following.
Branwen wrapped the reins several times around her wrist; if she lost her footing, at least she would have something to hang onto. Every few steps she paused and shouted. Then listened.
Shout again. Listen again. Then plod onward, her eyes aching from trying to make out anything through the fog.
Pause.
Shout.
Listen.
What was that?
A faint sound, no louder than the pattering of rain on leaves. But there was no rain, and the air was oppressively still.
“Who’s there?”
This time she was certain: It was the sound of running footsteps. Something was moving through the fog away to her right. She was about to call out again when she thought better of it.
If it were a person, then surely the individual would have heard her already. If it were an animal, a stag or some other large creature blundering blindly through the fog, then calling to it would be pointless and following it would only take her away from the path.
She patted Stalwyn’s neck. “What should we do, boy?” she murmured, rubbing her face against his velvet muzzle. “Keep moving and hope we don’t lose the path, or stay here and pray the sun burns the clouds off so we can see where we’re going?”
Stalwyn snorted nervously and stamped a hoof.
“No, I don’t know either,” she said. “And I don’t much like the options.”
But doing nothing was not in her nature, so she wrapped the reins tightly around her hand again and walked on through the fog. She sang a snatch of an old song as she walked, hoping that the sound of her voice would help to keep Stalwyn calm.
Owls fly homeward nightly