guards.” She pointed him out.
“He is a guard, like Scan,” Branda said aloud as her mind
flashed to memories of Blaise chained to the hearth. Even then,
she couldn’t keep her eyes off him. Why did she miss him so?
She wouldn’t be held hostage if not for him. He was her enemy.
He tied her hands, the cur .
She dunked her spoon into the bowl of venison and
vegetables swimming in a clinging brown broth. The serving maid
went on about her duty as Branda shoved spoonfuls of cawl into
her mouth. The royal bard stepped forth and harped a paean of
King Elisedd’s feats of bravery, but Branda didn’t listen. She
dweled on thoughts of Blaise.
As the feasters disbanded, she rose and bid the King and
Queen, “Good eve, until the morrow.”
Elisedd flashed an uncharacteristic grin. “Yes, daffodils it is,
on the morrow.”
Branda couldn’t help but smile at the gruff but loveable King.
If he were her father, he wouldn’t have forced her betrothal to a
man like Cuthred. The Cymry didn’t do such.
She strode beneath the glowing opal moon, slowly making her
way back to the grianan. A rapt, inner joy overtook her as she
gazed out the open row of windows, at the luminescent moon. It
hung so close to the mountaintop. She spread out on the bed
linens and wrapped a heavy, brocaded coverlet around her. As
she shut her eyes, her muscles sunk into the rush-filed palet. The sound of her slow, deep breathing luled her to sleep.
* * * *
She woke with a start, stil caught in the daze of her dream.
The strangest dream. She shut her eyes and returned to the
image of herself with Blaise, who faced Cuthred armored in
chainmail. As Cuthred belowed at her, his face turned red and
round. His cheeks grew puffy and smoke blew forth from his
large nose. A peal of laughter escaped her lips.
Branda puled the betrothal ring off her finger and flung it at
him. She used so much strength that she stepped back and took
a deep breath. The ring hit Cuthred’s forehead hard and he
colapsed with a loud thud. His legs wiggled clumsily in the air as he pushed back with his arms in an effort to rise. When he
managed to stand, Blaise rushed him, holding a giant wooden
managed to stand, Blaise rushed him, holding a giant wooden
spoon as a weapon. He whacked Cuthred back to the ground
then straddled the huge spoon. Branda climbed on behind and
wrapped her arms around Blaise’s broad back. The heat of his
body filed her and al her tension melted away. She was
weightless, free, like ethereal mist.
“My hero,” she softly sighed in his ear.
The loving spoon flew in the air, circled the mountain seven
times and landed on top of the stone gateway of Dinas Bran.
Blaise helped her off the spoon. His breath blew hot against her
cheeks as he leaned his head closer, then his lips found hers. Hot shivers raced through her as his wet, warm mouth covered hers
in a slow, thoughtful kiss. Then she woke up.
She purred as she stretched out across the bed as if Blaise
were realy there and her arms were wrapped around him. The
sensation of floating high above the bed, weightless in the air,
engulfed her until she opened her eyes. It was a dream. Blaise
wasn’t there. A tinge of disappointment lodged in the pit of her
bely. He hadn’t kissed her. She hadn’t ridden off with him.
Cupping her forehead, she chided herself, “Sily notions. It’s
al they are,”
She had something to do this morn? Something with the King?
Daffodils! She needed to hasten. Branda jumped up from the
bed and dressed in a light-blue Celtic tunic-dress, then plaited
her hair into a singular long, thick braid.
She slipped a pair of soft pig-hide shoes on her feet and
rushed to the great hal. Striding to the King as he broke his fast on a bowl of barley meal, she stood in his sight, waiting for him
to acknowledge her and give her leave to join him.
He nodded, and she sat at his side.
“Good morn, my King. Am I late?”
With his mouth ful, he
Legs McNeil, Jennifer Osborne, Peter Pavia