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

of the throne and the man who sat upon it twisted a knife in Branwen’s heart. In her mind she saw again the double thrones of Garth Milain, where her mother and father had sat. Burned now in the flames that had engulfed the citadel of her home. Burned and gone, and her father dead.
    In Branwen’s mind, King Cynon did not measure up to her father. He was tall enough, and wide-shouldered, his forehead high, his eyes dark and sharp, his face showing both wisdom and intelligence. But there was a thinness in his lips that worried her a little, a sense that this was a mouth as apt to the cunning lie as to the generous truth. Not that she had any reason to think the king unworthy of his throne; she had been brought up to believe that all the peoples of Powys owed Cynon their allegiance. If she didn’t still believe that, she would never have come here. All the same, she did wonder sometimes when she looked into his deep, dark eyes what subtle thoughts were winding through his mind.
    Branwen made her way down the chamber, stopping in the shadow of one of the pillars. She could clearly hear Angor’s voice reverberating between the walls.
    ‘Most puissant and mighty King of the Western Lands, I bring greetings and fealty from the prince of Bras Mynydd,’ he was saying. ‘Through me, his loyal messenger and captain, he kisses your ring and bends the knee.’
    ‘You are most welcome, Captain Angor,’ replied the king, his voice smooth and deep. A voice that gave nothing away. ‘We receive the greetings of our brother Llew ap Gelert, and acknowledge his fealty as is our due as his king.’
    Court manners! Branwen thought irritably, hating the convoluted mode of speech used in these formal situations. They’re no brothers. They’d see one another dead in a ditch if it could be contrived .
    The king stood up now, his yellow robes hissing and swishing as he stepped down from the throne, his arms outstretched, his fingers bejewelled with golden rings. The six hounds all rose to their feet, their eyes filled with a watchful loyalty. The king had no more loyal bodyguards than them. A wrong move from any in that room, and the dogs would be upon them in an instant.
    ‘And the most welcome of all are these two gifts that you bring with you, Captain,’ the king said, extending a hand to the princesses. ‘Two pearls of the west, offered into my safekeeping.’ Meredith and Romney lifted their hands to his, their heads bowed. ‘My court welcomes you,’ the king continued. ‘I hope the hardships you have suffered will be washed away by our hospitality.’
    ‘We have suffered no hurt, my lord,’ Meredith replied, and Branwen was impressed by the clear tones in her voice – after all, she must be feeling overawed to be here. ‘Our father sent many gifts with us, but they were lost on the mountain, so we offer only ourselves and the gowns we stand in as proof of our undying loyalty.’
    ‘Proofs that I readily accept,’ smiled the king, looking from one to the other. ‘Would that my dear son were here to welcome you, but alas, Drustan was needed in the south to give encouragement to our lesser lords so that the bulwark of Powys should have no weak links. But this is no time for talk of warfare – this is a time of merriment. Drustan will return shortly and you shall meet him and be glad!’ The king released their hands and turned to the lords and warriors at his back, gesturing towards the two princesses. ‘No greater gifts could the citadel of Doeth Palas have sent me, not if they had plundered the gold mines of Dolaucothi.’
    ‘We did have gold,’ replied Romney, her voice a little shrill and wavery. ‘We had gold, jewels and the finest cloth you would ever have seen – but the Saxons took it all. Even my own casket.’ Her voice caught in her throat. ‘Someone should be sent to find the Saxons and get our things back. It’s not fair.’
    The king released their hands and gestured to one side, almost as if he hadn’t