Free Caradoc of the North Wind by Allan Frewin Jones Page A

apartments where the king’s family lived and slept, bowers to accommodate his most trusted counsellors and guests, alcoves and antechambers where the business of the two-edged war was considered, plans and tactics decided.
    Branwen had been privy to some of these debates, called in when she and her people were needed for some especially dangerous task. A sortie across the river to snatch Saxon prisoners for interrogation. A hard ride north to learn where Prince Llew’s forces were gathering. An assault from cover upon a supply line, charged with capturing the enemy’s wagons and bringing much-needed food back to Pengwern.
    And most recently, of course, the mission into the mountains to find and rescue the daughters of Llew ap Gelert. Branwen found it hard to reconcile her hatred of the traitorous prince with the plan for his daughter to marry the king’s son. It felt to her that the king was offering Prince Llew everything that he wanted – power, influence, the expectation of his own grandsons upon the throne of Powys. And what had he done to earn these rewards? He had risen up in arms against King Cynon and thrown Powys into utter turmoil when they most needed to unite against the Saxons.
    ‘It’s sheer madness to reward him so,’ she had said to Iwan, when the truce had first been mooted. ‘He deserves to have his head struck from his neck – no more, no less!’
    Iwan had smiled wryly at her. ‘It is not madness, barbarian princess,’ he had replied. ‘It is diplomacy. Would you have this war go on for ever?’
    ‘Of course not! But I’d see Llew defeated and humiliated, as he deserves.’
    Again there had been the crooked smile. ‘Were the king able to crush Prince Llew by force of arms, he would have done so by now,’ Iwan had said. ‘The civil war is at an impasse. And while we fight, we lose precious lifeblood that we will need to keep the Saxons at bay.’
    Branwen had pondered this. Iwan was right, of course. The war had to be brought to an end somehow – but it still seemed wrong. ‘I do not understand why the Saxons hold off,’ she had added. ‘Were I in Ironfist’s place, I’d use this fight of brother against brother to attack.’
    ‘He’s a more cunning tactician than that,’ Iwan had told her. ‘He knows that if he launches an assault, the king and the prince will unite to keep him at bay. He’d prefer to wait while we spill our own blood.’
    Branwen nodded. ‘To hold back till he can attack us in our deepest weakness.’ She had sighed and sullenly kicked at the ground. ‘You’re right. There must be a truce before it’s too late. Princess Meredith must marry Drustan.’ She had given a curt laugh. ‘And may he have as much joy in her company as I did in Doeth Palas!’
    But that had been said before Branwen had met Meredith for the second time. Now she thought the princess might make Drustan a good wife after all, despite all the damage that her father had done with his whispered deceits. Not that Drustan was at Pengwern to greet his bride; Branwen had already heard word that Cynon’s son had not yet returned from his tour of the southern cantrefs, although he was expected imminently.
    Guards stood at the doors of the Great Hall of Araith, drawing aside to allow Branwen access. There was a main chamber, narrow and lofty, bestridden by heavy timber columns, the high vaulted roof bridged by beams. At the end of this chamber stood the king’s throne draped with banners and standards and backed with long silken curtains emblazoned with the red dragon of Powys, depicted with its foot upon the throat of the defeated dragon of the Saxons, corpse-white and vile.
    As if wishing would make it so!
    The king was upon the throne, his chief counsellors around and behind him. Sprawling or sitting at his feet were six muscular, long-limbed, liver-coloured dogs – the king’s hunting hounds.
    Captain Angor was bowed before the king, Meredith on one side, Romney on the other. The sight