Free Caradoc of the North Wind by Allan Frewin Jones

kiss the ashen forehead. ‘I promise.’
    Even before she went to speak with the king, Branwen was determined to see that Linette was made comfortable. She had fallen into a deep slumber as they laid her with utmost care on a low straw palette in a clean and spacious hut close to the western ramparts. There were no windows under the deep-stooping thatch, but the doorway looked out towards the mountains and the fire-pit in the middle of the floor gave out a fierce, welcome heat.
    All of the Gwyn Braw crowded into the hut as Rhodri knelt at Linette’s side, bathing her forehead with warmed water infused with herbs.
    Branwen looked at her companions. They were tired and worn down by their efforts, bone-cold and wet through. But the emotion that burned most brightly in their faces was anxiety for their wounded comrade.
    ‘Can we do anything for her?’ asked Banon.
    ‘More than anything else, she needs rest and quiet,’ said Rhodri. ‘Branwen? Could you send for Pendefig ap Dyfed?’
    ‘The king’s physician?’ said Branwen. ‘Of course – but his skills are no greater than yours.’
    ‘But he will have remedies and herbs that I do not.’ Rhodri looked up at the worried faces. ‘Blodwedd will stay with me, the rest of you should leave us now.’
    ‘Use all your skills, Druid,’ said Iwan. ‘Call me if she awakes. Seeing a handsome face when first she opens her eyes may hasten her recovery.’
    Druid. That was a new nickname Iwan had given Rhodri, half in jest, half seriously. Branwen had no idea whether it was true or not, but Rhodri had told her he believed he came of the ancient Druid stock – that hundreds of years ago the last of the Druid priesthood had fled their final stronghold of Ynis Môn and had hidden themselves away in the lands where his father had been born.
    She hoped it was true – the Druids were said to have had formidable powers of healing and prophecy. So far, Rhodri had not shown any ability in foreseeing the future, but when it came to wounds and ailments, his skills were second to none.
    ‘Hot food, dry clothes and a warming hearth for all,’ Branwen said, looking at her companions. ‘We have earned it today!’ She rested her hand on Rhodri’s shoulder. ‘Call me if I am needed,’ she said, giving Linette a final worried glance. ‘I must go and speak with the king.’

CHAPTER EIGHT
    T he two Great Halls of King Cynon towered up side by side at the highest point of the ancient citadel of Pengwern. The Halls of Arlwy and Araith, they were named, the Halls of Feasting and of Debate. They were roofed with wooden shingles, their outer walls painted a vibrant yellow, making them shine like gold in the sun. Not that the Great Halls had seen much of the sun in recent weeks; the roofs were white with snow as Branwen strode up the slushy hill towards them.
    It still rankled a little that the people of Pengwern moved away when she approached, as though they feared contagion. They were happy enough for the Gwyn Braw to risk their lives by riding out on one of the king’s lethal missions, but few would meet her eye as she walked among them, and fewer still had kind words for her.
    Branwen and her followers were housed in a modest long house a little behind the Great Halls – out of sight. Branwen didn’t care overmuch; they had warm beds, food, and stabling for their horses when they were not out in the winter-choked wildernesses. And as much as she felt like the outsider – always treated with suspicion and doubt by Cynon’s counsellors – she at least had access to the king when she needed it. She had that much power!
    The Great Hall of Arlwy was a meeting place and a feasting place, its high roof rising above a single long room lit by torches and braziers, a stone fire-pit in the middle of the hard-packed earthen floor, its walls draped with banners and hung with shields, swords and spears.
    The other hall, the Hall of Araith, was divided into several smaller chambers: separate