Kristin Butcher
... author, artist, keeper of the past...
Bran
1—The Boy
Bran ducked behind the rain barrel, and even though he was a small lad for ten, his knees bumped his ears. He ignored the discomfort. He wouldn’t be there long. Already he could smell soup and freshly baked bread, which meant Cara would soon be calling him.
The thought had barely passed through his mind when he heard the familiar clomp of his caregiver’s boots on the cobbled alley leading from the kitchen. He held his breath as she stepped from the shadows into the sunlight.
Shading her eyes with her hand, Cara scanned the courtyard filled with people. “Bran! It is time to eat.”
The boy sniggered through his fingers but didn’t reply or show himself.
Cara asked the folk nearby if they’d seen him. They shrugged and shook their heads, prompting her to mutter that she’d told him to stay close and how he never listened. She ventured farther into the courtyard and called again.
When she was well beyond Bran’s hiding spot, he slithered out from behind the barrel and scooted into the alley. He would have liked to see the look on her face when she realized he’d tricked her, but he couldn’t risk being caught. Cara didn’t share his love of jokes.
Bran was already halfway through his meal when Cara stomped back into the kitchen.
He looked up and grinned. “Good soup.”
She scowled and wagged her finger. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, you wee menace. Do you imagine I have nothing better to do than chase after the likes of you?”
Inside Bran was bubbling with laughter, but outside his expression was solemn. “Whatever do you mean, Cara?”
“You know very well what I—” she began but gave it up and waved a hand at him in disgust—or defeat. Bran wasn’t sure. Then she dropped onto the bench across from him and called to one of the serving girls. “A bowl of soup if you please, Beca.”
While Bran chattered non-stop about his morning, Cara ate her bread and soup in stony silence—speaking only to scold him for slurping and talking with his mouth full. But when he rose to leave, she gestured for him to resume his seat, and then she continued eating.
Bran knew this was her way of punishing him. She would make him stay until she was done. And judging by how slowly she was eating, the afternoon would be over by then.
Finally she put down her spoon and stood up.
“May I go now?” Bran asked, also rising.
She lifted a finger to still him. “First we must prepare a tray.” She motioned to Beca.
“A tray?” he echoed. “What for?”
“For your mother. She has not yet eaten.”
“But—”
Cara shook her head. “No buts. A few minutes of your day is a small sacrifice to make for the woman who gave you life.”
Bran rolled his eyes and sighed. “Then may I go to the forest?”
“After you have visited with your mother, yes. You needn’t return the tray. I shall fetch it later.”
***
There were many things to like about living in a castle but carrying a tray of food from the kitchen at one end of the bailey to the keep at the other was not one of them.
The tray was heavy. That was partly because there was a small iron pot of soup and another of tea. The endless stairs to the keep further added to the tray’s weight, and by the time Bran got to the top, he was sure his arms were going to drop off.
As usual, the door to his mother’s quarters was ajar, and a breeze flowed through the rooms. Lady Linnet’s physicians urged her to keep her doors closed and windows shuttered against the bad air, but she disregarded their cautions. She reasoned that if she couldn’t get outdoors, the outdoors would have to come to her. And that was the end of that. Bran often marvelled that though his mother’s body was frail, her mind was made of iron, and once it was made up, there was no changing it. The only one he could think of who was more stubborn was Cara.
“Mother?” he called as he entered the antechamber.
“Come through, Bran,” she called. Her voice was weak but cheerful.
In the bed chamber, Bran set the tray on a table. In her massive bed his frail mother was propped up by a small mountain of pillows.
“I’ve brought you soup,” he said.
Lady Linnet beckoned to him. “Come and greet your mother properly. It has been days since last I saw you. What have you been up to? Staying out of trouble, I hope.”
“Of course,” Bran fibbed, leaning into his mother for a kiss. She smelled of lavender and the many tonics prescribed by her doctors.
So small and thin that she was dwarfed by her bed, Lady Linnet was nevertheless flawlessly groomed—her fine hair brushed and plaited, her hands manicured. She would have been a picture of loveliness were it not for her complexion. Her skin was pale to the extreme, except for two bright spots of rouge on her cheeks. They were meant to give her a bloom of health, but in truth she looked more like a painted doll.
“Tell me how you’ve been keeping busy,” she said as she released him from her hug.
Bran retrieved the tray and laid it across her legs. “I mucked out the stables this morning,” he told her. “After that, Master Garth had me clean and polish the tack.”
“So no riding yet?” she said.
“No.” He scowled. “The master says I must grow first. He says I am too small to mount or straddle a horse. How can he know that without letting me try? I can do it—I know I can.”
His mother smiled dotingly and blew on the soup. “Of course you can. And your lessons? How are they coming along?”
Bran rolled his eyes. “So boring. When Father talks, I am lulled to sleep. The tiresome laws of Howell the Good are all he cares about.”
“That is his job,” Lady Linnet pointed out. “It is his duty to know and interpret the laws of the land. When Lord Cedric is making judgments, he counts on your father to advise him. That is why the lord likes us to abide in his castle.”
“But it isn’t my job,” Bran argued. “What do I care how many pennies are owed a man who loses an ear but can still hear and how many to a man who keeps his ear but loses his hearing?”
“Your father expects you to take his place someday.”
“And if I don’t want to?” He stuck out his chin belligerently.
She smiled again. “You are too young yet to close doors. Time will show you your path.” She pushed the tray away. “Tell Cara the soup was very tasty.”
“But you’ve hardly touched it,” Bran protested. “And you’ve eaten no bread at all.”
She tore off a small bit and popped it into her mouth. “There. Now take the tray away and bring me my basket.”
Bran heaved a sigh but did as she bade him. “Have you new pressings?” he asked as he set the basket down on the bed.
“Just one.” She smiled as she lifted a sheaf of papers onto the bed and peeled one small sheet from another to reveal a tiny purple flower. It looked as if it had been painted there. “Your father brought me this from the meadow last week. I don’t know its name, but it’s lovely and sings of spring.” She looked longingly toward the window and sighed. “I do miss the meadow.”
“And what of woodland flowers, Mother? Do you like those?”
She playfully slapped his arm. “You know I do. I might be trapped in this castle, but I am still a Druid.”
Bran grinned. “Then I shall collect some for you. I am off to the forest as soon as I leave you.” He gestured to the mound of papers in her lap. “Show me the flowers you have, and I’ll look for others to add to your collection.”
***
Llanberis Castle had not been used as a fortress since the Normans left Cymru, and that was many years ago. Occupied now by Lord Cedric, servants, and tradespeople, it was the only home Bran had ever known.
It fronted a stream, and so a drawbridge marked its entrance. Each day at dawn it was lowered, and the local folk poured in, turning the courtyard into a market. The fiefdom was a peaceful place now, but it hadn’t always been, and for that reason, the castle walls were ten feet thick—and very tall. The upper ramparts boasted embrasures for loosing arrows on attackers below. But there had been no call for that in a long time, and most folk thought of the narrow openings as poorly made windows.
As far as castles went, Llanberis wasn’t large, but it was big enough for a boy to lose himself in, and Bran had explored every nook and cranny.
Most people thought the drawbridge was the only way in and out of the castle, but Bran knew otherwise. So instead of leaving the keep the way he’d come, he took a different route. He stole unnoticed to the rear and tugged on a torch holder mounted on the back wall, Immediately a section of stone slid away to reveal a hidden staircase.
As soon as he started down, the entrance closed itself again, making the passage black as tar. It didn’t matter. Bran knew his way. When he reached the bottom the stairs, he felt his way along a tunnel shored with timber. It was high enough to stand in and went on for quite a distance until eventually ending at an earthen wall matted with tree roots. Against it leaned a ladder. Bran scrambled up the rungs and stepped off above ground. And though it was almost as dark here as in the tunnel, he closed his eyes and took the pungent, earthy smell into his lungs. He wondered if anyone else knew of this hidden passage. He imagined it had been built as an escape in the days when the occupants of the castle had had enemies. But all he cared about was that it offered him an easy way to get to the forest.
Kneeling on the damp ground, he pushed a dead bush aside and crawled out of the hollow tree.
2—Cara
“More.” Cara raised an eyebrow sternly at her mistress. “I’ll not have you carried off by the next breeze. Eat.”
Lady Linnet tried to push the tray away. “I’m not hungry, and in any case, the soup is cold.”
“It wasn’t when the boy brought it. You could’ve eaten it then. I’ll not be leaving until the bowl is empty and you are full.” She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot.
With a resigned sigh, Lady Linnet picked up her spoon. “You really are a tyrant,” she grumbled between mouthfuls. “Your skills are being wasted here. Instead of tending my son and overseeing Lord Cedric’s household, you should be commanding an army.”
Cara changed the subject. “Did you have a good visit with the boy?”
Irritation left her mistress’s face and her eyes sparkled. “Yes. Thank you for sending him.”
“Why wouldn’t he come?” Cara protested. “He adores you.”
Lady Linnet sent her a sideways glance. “He is a boy. He likes to be running and climbing trees, exploring hollow logs, and looking for bugs under rocks. Visiting his invalid mother might be tolerable on a rainy day, but when the sun is shining, he would rather be out of doors.
“Which reminds me,” Lady Linnet continued. “Could you stop by the stables on your way to the kitchen and tell Master Garth I would like to speak with him?”
***
It was a good thing Cara’s feet knew their way through the bailey for her mind was no help at all. Dogs barked, vendors shouted, and women blathered. Cara heard none of it. Children ran into her and chickens pecked her boots. Drays loaded with market goods cut across her path. She was oblivious. Her thoughts were with Lady Linnet.
It seemed to her that her mistress was shrinking by the minute. She didn’t eat enough to sustain a sparrow. It was sheer will that kept her alive. She had brought a son into the world, and she was determined to see him grown to manhood. Setting her jaw, Cara turned toward the stable. And she would do everything in her power to see that happened.
3—The Boy
Bran set out to find a flower for his mother. It wasn’t an easy task since she already had most every flower there was. Finally though he came across one he couldn’t recall seeing in her collection and stuffed it into his pocket.
Then he made his way to the hill. No matter where he was in the forest, he could always see the hill, and it drew him to it as if he were being dragged there by a rope. He ran the whole way up. When he reached the top, he doubled over with his hands on his knees until his breathing came easy again and his legs stopped aching.
From the top he could see all there was to see. The hill was as tall as the treetops scattered randomly round it like stones in a stream. He laughed as he imagined hopping from one to the next across the entire sky—perhaps all the way to another land.
Bran looked toward Llanberis Castle as if seeing it for the first time. It was so strange. When he was within its stone walls, the castle was his life. But when he was in the forest, all thoughts of it vanished. Everything that mattered was in the forest.
Well, perhaps not everything, he reminded himself with a twinge of guilt. His mother wasn’t in the forest, though she would have liked to be. As she had pointed out, she was a Druid, and Druids were forest folk. She came from an important Druid family. Her uncle, Bradan, was a revered seer, and her father, Alun, was the arch-druid. That was like being king of the Druids. That meant his mother was like a Druid princess. Bran knew there was no such thing, but it was pleasant to think of her that way.
Bran’s father was also Druid, but he didn’t practise Druid ways nor uphold Druid values. His life was built around the law of the land. From morning to night, that’s what consumed him. The only other thing he cared about was Lady Linnet. But then, she captured everyone’s heart, so why should Penn of Gwynedd be any different?
Bran stayed on the hill a long time. Though spring had barely arrived, and the ground was still cold and damp, he lay on his back and stared at the clouds scudding across the sky, imagining dragons, wizards, and sea monsters—until he eventually fell asleep.
When he awoke, he could tell by the changed light and cool air that it was well past the time he should be back at the castle. Cara would be cross. His ears burned at the mere thought of the cuffing they would get.
He leapt to his feet and half-stumbled, half-rolled down the hill. When he reached the bottom, he checked the pocket of his coat and sighed with relief. The sprig of wild garlic was still there. The cluster of small white flowers was a bit squashed, but he reasoned that his mother was going to flatten it anyway; he had just got it started.
Without wasting another second, he raced through the trees out into the field that separated the forest from the backside of the castle. He wished he could return to Llanberis by the tunnel, but if there was a way to open the sliding wall from within the secret passage, he had yet to discover it. He had to return to the castle via the drawbridge. But he had to cross the stream to get to it. Thankfully there were always rafts on the banks manned by fellows willing to pole folk across. Bran felt in his pocket for the necessary penny and prayed the drawbridge would still be down.
***
Cara gave him a thorough tongue-lashing all the way through the evening meal. Not that Bran was bothered. She wasn’t saying anything she hadn’t said before, so he adopted a contrite expression and concentrated on his own thoughts. Naturally they took him back to the forest, and that is when he remembered the garlic flower.
He sprang up and cut Cara off in mid-rant. “I shall take the supper tray to my mother.”
She frowned. “Sit down. How many times have I told you not to interrupt?”
“Sorry,” he said, then quickly added, “but I will deliver the tray.”
Cara clucked her tongue. “Your father has already done that. You know he and your mother always sup together.”
“Then I’ll fetch it back,” Bran offered, jumping up again.
Cara’s eyes narrowed. “What are you playing at, boy?”
He sighed and reached into his pocket. There was no point trying to keep his business to himself. His nani could pry the truth from a clam.
“I picked this today for my mother’s collection,” he said, holding out the flower. “It is one she doesn’t have. If I wait until tomorrow, it will be wilted.”
The little flower was already looking the worse for wear, but Cara’s expression softened. “Is that why you were late? You were picking flowers for your mother?”
Bran lowered his gaze but said nothing. Yes, he’d picked flowers, though that wasn’t why he was late. It was because he’d fallen asleep. But Cara didn’t need to know that. If it meant she would stop harping at him, she could think whatever she liked.
***
To Bran’s relief, his father had left by the time he arrived at his mother’s rooms. And even better, one of the servants had taken the tray away.
“Two visits in one day!” Lady Linnet exclaimed as she offered him her cheek. “To what do I owe this honour?”
Bran pulled the white sprig from his pocket and thrust out his hand.
She gasped. “White garlic! How wonderful.” Then she beamed at him. “You are a good son.”
“It got a little crushed,” he apologized.
“It is fine. But I need to get it pressed. Bring me my basket.”
His mother prepared the flower and placed it within the papers and then within two pieces of soft cloth. Bran set it between the flat stones on the table.
“There,” she announced happily when he’d finished. “That’s a job done. Time will do the rest. She patted the coverlet. “Come and sit with me. I have something to tell you.”
“What?” He climbed onto the bed.
“I spoke with Master Garth this afternoon.”
Though Bran had no notion what news his mother wished to share, he hadn’t been expecting that. Now he was curious. “Do you want him to give me more chores?”
She burst into laughter which quickly turned to coughing. Finally she fell back into the pillows. Bran frowned. Any physical effort seemed to sap his mother of the little strength she had.
After a few moments, she pushed herself back into a sitting position. “I asked Master Garth what you could do to convince him you are ready to ride.”
“What did he say?” Bran held his breath.
“Well,” she sighed, “his biggest fear is that the horse will throw you.”
“Every rider—no matter his size—gets thrown,” Bran grumbled.
“Yes,” his mother nodded, “that is true, but being small, you are more likely to fall under the horse’s feet and get trampled.”
“I won’t!” he argued.
She raised a finger to quiet him. “Master Garth claims the best way to avoid such an accident is to develop a bond with the animal. If the horse trusts you, it is more likely to be docile and cooperative.” She paused. “And less likely to cause you harm if you do fall.”
Bran’s eyes narrowed. He was hopeful but wary. “What are you saying?”
“Master Garth would like to see you build a closeness with one of the horses.”
Bran’s stomach performed a series of flips, but his mother was still talking, so he forced himself to focus.
“You will take charge of one of the horses. Each day after you have mucked out the stalls, you will feed and water the animal, brush it, and walk it. When Master Garth is convinced you and the horse have formed a friendship, you will be given the chance to ride.” She regarded her son solemnly. “Does that sound fair?”
It wasn’t exactly what Bran had hoped for, but it was more than he had now.
***
“She’s a good-natured beast,” Master Garth said, patting the horse’s flank. “Treat her with kindness and she’ll return the favour. Abuse her and she’ll nip yer arse.” He laughed. “You want to be friendly with her, but you also need to let her know who’s in charge.”
Bran looked at the mare. With her chestnut coat and black mane, she looked much like the other horses in the stable. And though she wasn’t as big as a stallion, he would still need a stool to mount her. The horse watched him with critical brown eyes, and he felt guilty even though he’d not yet do anything wrong. It was clear who was in charge, and contrary to what Master Garth had implied, it wasn’t Bran.
“We’ll start you off slow and once you can do those tasks, we’ll add more,” Master Garth began his explanation of Bran’s new duties. “And don’t miss a single day,” he said when he was finished. “It matters not if you are tired or sick or have something else you’d rather be doing. The horse needs tending, and it is your responsibility to see to it. Do you understand?”
Bran nodded. He’d had no idea horses required so much attention.
His duties started the next morning.
“Don’t be snorting at me,” he told the mare as he tied the rope to her halter and prepared to lead her out of the stall and into the small paddock behind the stable.
Calling to mind Master Garth’s instructions, he drew himself up to his full height, threw back his shoulders, and shaped his face into a mask of authority. Then stepping away from the mare, he took the lead and planted his hands on his hips, leaving a slack length between the horse and himself and a generous tail of rope dangling from one hand.
“Ready?” he said.
The mare bobbed her head and snorted as if she understood perfectly. But before Bran could take a step, she started forward. His first instinct was to jump back, but then he remembered how Master Garth had showed him to keep the animal at a distance. He began twirling the end of the lead in a gentle circle so that it came ever nearer the mare’s head, and just as when Master Garth had performed the trick, she backed away.
Though Bran was pleasantly surprised, he didn’t show it. Instead, he said firmly, “Good horse,” and proceeded to the paddock.
4—The Boy
Bran dawdled over his morning meal until there were only five others left eating. Since he usually gulped down his food, he knew Cara would become suspicious if he lingered any longer. So he waved good-bye and ambled to the door. Once it closed behind him, he tore down the alley and out to the courtyard.
The bailey was busier than usual. Besides the folk coming to market, there was a swarm of others with legal grievances to air before Lord Cedric—for this was the day of the spring assizes.
Already a knot of people was growing at the entrance to the Great Hall where the complaints would be heard. The Great Hall was part of a string of buildings stretching down one side of the bailey. It was last in the line, separated from the kitchen by the alley.
Squinting into the bright afternoon, Bran made his way to a shadowy corner beside a vendor’s stall—and watched. When he saw two grooms emerge from the alley and head to the stable, he knew it was time. The only ones left in the kitchen now were Cara and her helpers, and they’d be staying there.
He bolted back across the bailey and into the alley again. Once more engulfed in shadows, he slowed to a walk and tiptoed past the kitchen entrance and across the alley to a wooden door in the side wall of the Great Hall.
The door wasn’t tall—a grown man would have to duck to keep from hitting his head—but it was wider than a normal door and made of rough planks with sharp splinters ready to catch a boy’s hand. There was no latch or handle. Instead, a chain secured with a rusted lock was threaded through a pair of holes in the door and frame.
Bran tugged on it. Though the chain jangled and the door jiggled, the lock held fast. Bran reached into his pocket for the key. It wasn’t one Cara often used, so he hoped she wouldn’t notice it missing from the ring on the kitchen peg.
He told himself he was doing nothing wrong. Everyday his father touted the laws of the wonderful Hywel Dda. Now, when Bran could finally see those laws in action, he was forbidden to attend the assizes. The court was not a place for children, his father said. Bran could sit in on the proceedings when he was older. But Bran was curious now. The court was a public venue. While Lord Cedric and Bran’s father listened to cases on the main floor of the Great Hall, folk from across the fiefdom would line the gallery above, watching and listening. If some other lad came with his father, he would be granted entry. So why shouldn’t Bran be allowed to attend?
Perhaps his father thought he might interrupt, call out a question, or offer an observation. He had to admit that was possible. Still, it wasn’t fair. What was the point of memorizing the laws if he couldn’t witness them being applied?
The way Bran thought about it, he was doing the responsible thing. Since his father couldn’t teach him on this day, the assizes could be his lesson, and if he couldn’t watch from the gallery, he would watch from the back of the Great Hall. He wouldn’t stay for the whole thing—he had the horse to tend to—but he could stay long enough to get a feel for things.
Bran slid the key into the lock and turned it, wincing as it scraped against the accumulated rust. Even unlocked, the shackle didn’t give way, and Bran had to yank on it several times before it let go. He returned the key to his pocket and removed the lock. Leaving one end of the chain dangling from the door frame, he quietly dragged the other from the hole in the door. Then he entered the storage room and pulled the door shut behind him.
Sudden blindness awakened Bran’s other senses. The place had a musty odour and there was a dampness to it. He wished he had a torch. The items stored here were prone to move and change, and the last thing he needed was to crash into something and bring folk running.
He saw a crack of daylight under a second door at the other end of the room and made his way toward it, carefully feeling around the barrels and stacked crates. His boot bumped a jug on the floor, and it started to teeter. Dropping quickly to his haunches, he steadied it.
That’s when the hum of voices and clomping of boots began—soft and distant at first, but then louder and louder until it felt as if they were trying to push through the wall. Then the sound moved overhead, and Bran realized the gallery was filling. Proceedings were about to begin. He resumed feeling his way to the far door.
There was no lock on this one. Bran was in the Great Hall almost every day with his father, and from time to time had been left alone long enough to explore. That’s how he’d discovered the storage room door. It was hidden behind a magnificent tapestry, where no one—other than a curious boy—would think to look.
The latch lifted from both sides, so Bran eased the door open and slipped through into the Great Hall. The tapestry was hung far enough from the wall to allow him to shuffle sideways to the centre of the hall without being seen. The din was quieting. The hearings must be about to start.
As he reached the end of the tapestry and peeked around its edge, a trumpet blared.
“All will come to order,” a herald announced to the now quiet gallery. “The spring assizes of the District of Arfon, Kingdom of Gwynedd in the land of Cymru are declared open. Lord Cedric presides.”
Bran looked toward the long table in the middle of the room where his father sat with Lord Cedric. If he could see them, could they see him too? He retreated into the shadows, lowered himself to the floor and lay on his side, being careful not to touch the tapestry.
Bran’s father murmured something to Lord Cedric and then gestured to the herald, who nodded and turned to the gallery.
“The court will hear the complaint of Rhys of Arfon. Present yourself before the judge and state your case.”
A murmur rolled through the gallery and Bran heard boots on the stairs.
A man walked into his view and stopped in front of the table. His voice trembled and he shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot. “I’s Rhys of Arfon.”
Lord Cedric examined the paper in front of him before looking at the man. “You claim to have been robbed and that Hari of Arfon is the thief. Is that correct?”
The man’s head bobbed. “It is, me Lord.”
“Explain how this came about and what was taken.”
Rhys of Arfon twisted his cap in his hands. “Well, your Lordship, it were like this. In the fall I butchered me finest pig. I sold most of the meat at market, but I kept a good-sized ham for me own use and hung it in me shed—you know—to cure like. Well, Hari—” he pointed to the gallery, “—he be me neighbour, so o’course he knowed about the ham. I even showed it him one day just when it were near ready for eating.”
Lord Cedric nodded. “Go on.”
“Well, sir, it weren’t more ‘n a couple day after that, I decided it were time, so I went to shed,” he shrugged, “and there it were—gone.”
“What makes you think your neighbour took it? Could it not have been a wild animal?”
The man shook his head. “No, your Lordship, I don’t believe it could. You see the ham were hung high, the hook were still there, and the door to the shed were shut tight. Wild animals aren’t known for closin’ doors after theirselves.”
A chorus of titters rolled through the gallery, and the man grinned.
Lord Cedric cleared his throat and the laughter died down. “That still doesn’t prove it was your neighbour.”
“Well, I couldn’t think who else woulda took it, so I went straight to his cottage, I did. There were smoke comin’ from the hole in his roof, so I knowed he were home. What’s more I could smell cooked meat. So I pushed open the door, and there he be—Hari and his missus and five wee uns gorgin’ theirselves on my ham!”
“What did you do then?”
“Well, I were angry, and that’s the truth, but I aren’t a violent man, so I tells him I’ll be reporting the matter to the authorities—that bein’ you o’course, your Lordship—then I grabs what was left of me ham and goes back home.”
“I see,” Lord Cedric said. “I would like to hear what the accused has to say in the matter before I make my ruling.”
He gestured to the herald who shouted into the gallery for Hari of Arfon to come down and give his side of the story.
Soon Bran heard another pair of boots on the stairs, and then a thin whip of a man took his place beside his accuser.
“You are Hari of Arfon?” Lord Cedric said.
The man bobbed his head. “I be him, your Lordship.”
“And you have heard the accusation against you?”
The man’s head bobbed again.
“How do you plead?”
The man didn’t answer.
“You hesitate, man,” Lord Cedric said. “It is a simple question. Are you guilty of the crime for which you are accused, or are you innocent?”
Even from Bran’s limited vantage point, the man looked uneasy. “No disrespect, your Lordship,” he replied as if someone had a hand down his throat and was dragging out the words. “I’d answer if I could, but it ain’t that easy.”
Lord Cedric clasped his hands on the table. “If there is more to the story, this is your opportunity to tell it. I’m listening.”
“Well, sir, I can’t argue with what Rhys here told you. I did take his ham. He caught me with it just like he said. And I feel real bad about stealin’ it—I do. Rhys has always been a good neighbour to me, so I’m real sorry—but I woulda felt a whole lot sorrier if me family starved. It were a bad winter comin’ after a bad crop. I weren’t able to put much by.”
“Have you no animals?” Lord Cedric asked.
“A cow and a couple of chickens,” Hari said. “The cow gives us milk and the chickens lays eggs, but it’s unbelievable hard to quiet seven hungry bellies with a few eggs and a wee bit o’ milk.”
“Could you not eat the chickens and cow?”
The man nodded. “Except then there’d be no milk or eggs, and when the cow and chickens were finished, there’d be nothin’ at all.” He hung his head, but then he lifted it again and blurted, “I ain’t never stole nothing before, your Lordship. I swear. And when I gets back on me feet, I’s goin’ to get Rhys another ham for the one I took.”
Bran’s father said something to Lord Cedric who nodded and turned back to Hari.
“Are there five men present in this court who can attest to your declaration that you are an honest man and that you have provided a true reason for stealing the ham?”
Hari looked hopefully toward the gallery. A buzz of voices rose up and there was a shuffling of feet on the floor above Bran’s head. Then there was another thump of boots on the stairs and four men stepped forward to back up Hari’s claim.
“I asked you for five references, sir,” Lord Cedric said. “I see only four. If you cannot produce a fifth, you give me no choice but to uphold—”
Rhys of Arfon cut him off. “I can vouch for Hari, your Lordship.”
Bran almost laughed when Lord Cedric’s mouth dropped open. “You are the accuser, sir,” he pointed out.
Rhys of Arfon nodded. “I know, but what Hari says is true. You wouldn’t want me to lie, would ya?”
Lord Cedric closed his eyes and mumbled, “Case dismissed.”
Cheers and applause immediately erupted in the gallery, and forgetting himself, Bran whistled and clapped too.
And that’s when he saw his father glaring at him.
5—The Boy
Penn of Gwynedd didn’t cause a scene. He would never do that. Bran’s father was a private man who liked folk to think everything in his world was the right way up. But that didn’t mean Bran wasn’t in trouble, and the boy knew it.
He retreated to the storage room, threaded his way through the crates and barrels and let himself back into the alley. He didn’t bother trying to go unnoticed for it no longer mattered. Nothing he did now could make matters better or worse. He wasn’t sure which troubled him more—the punishment he knew was coming or the worry of it.
Bran aimed his feet toward the stable. Master Garth had said he must see to the horse every day without fail, and there was no sense getting on the wrong side of him too. Besides, doing chores might take his mind off his worries.
As horse and boy plodded round the paddock, Bran voiced his troubles. The mare didn’t interrupt, and when he was done, she nuzzled his neck. He wasn’t familiar enough with the ways of horses to know what that meant, but it was a comfort.
Bran had no appetite for the midday meal, and every mouthful sat on his tongue like a lump of mud, refusing to be swallowed. He had nothing to say either. Normally he could out-talk an echo, but this day he was silent as stone. Cara had to have noticed, but she let him be.
When he left the kitchen, he walked aimlessly through the bailey, in and around the market stalls, up and down the ramparts, staring blindly out the embrasures. He was too lost in his black thoughts to notice the world had not changed. It was as full of wonder as it had been before his father spied him in the Great Hall, but he could no longer see it.
The one thing that might have cheered him was visiting his mother. But he didn’t dare go to her. She would know in an instant something was wrong, and before he could stop himself, he would confess his crime. After that, he didn’t know. She would scold him of course, but not in the way his father would—not in a way that would make him wish the world would end. And when his father found out he’d told his mother, things would go even worse for him.
***
The afternoon dragged on forever. Bran stood at the entrance to the keep, gazing down the length of the bailey at the entrance to the Great Hall. It couldn’t be long now.
He was right, for at that precise moment the doors opened, and people began spilling into the courtyard. Even from this distance Bran could hear the hum of voices as the crowd made its way toward the castle gates and drawbridge.
He turned and walked into the keep, past his mother’s rooms and across the wide hall to his father’s quarters. The heavy oak door was unlocked, so he let himself in and sat down in the nearest chair.
He looked around without interest. He had only ever been in these rooms when he was being punished, and he’d never been farther than this antechamber. An arched opening led to the next room. The antechamber was furnished sparingly, but the pieces were well-crafted. The man wasn’t one for fuss or clutter, but he valued quality.
In his mind’s eye Bran once again saw his father glaring at him in the Great Hall, and regret overwhelmed him. Why had he been disobedient? Why had he let his curiosity get the better of him? Why hadn’t he considered the consequences?
He tried to calm his anguish. It was too late to change things now. What was done was done, and what was going to happen was going to happen. He’d created this problem himself, and now he had to pay the price.
He looked up as the oak door opened and Penn of Gwynedd let himself into the room. He closed the door behind him and without looking at his son, walked into the next chamber.
But he knew Bran was there. Of that Bran had no doubt. Though his father hadn’t spoken a word in the Great Hall—hadn’t told him to come here—he hadn’t needed to. The boy knew what was expected. To pretend otherwise would only make the punishment worse.
Bran sat on his hands to still their trembling.
After enough time had passed to take him to the brink of terror, his father returned. At the same time there was a knock on the door. Penn of Gwynedd looked at his son for the first time.
“Answer it,” he said quietly.
Bran pushed himself to his feet, padded to the door and pulled it open. His father’s manservant stood on the threshold. He acknowledged Bran with a blank nod and held out his hand. In it was a switch freshly cut from a hazel tree. The sharp twigs had been removed. Bran cringed but took it. The servant bowed and left.
The boy took the switch to his father, steeling himself to be whipped on the spot. But the man merely laid the switch on a table.
“Sit,” he said. When Bran had done so, he leaned over him and said, “Do you recall asking if you could attend today’s assizes in the Great Hall?”
His father’s face was all Bran could see. He lowered his gaze and nodded.
“Speak up, boy. I cannot hear you.”
“Yes, father,” he said quietly. “I remember.”
“And do you recall my answer?”
“You said I should wait until I’m older.”
There was a pause before Penn of Gwynedd said, “And yet, you were there. How do you explain that? Did someone drag you into the Great Hall against your will? Or were you accidentally drawn in with the crowd?”
Bran shook his head. “No, Father.”
“Well?”
“I came in through the storage room,” he confessed.
“How could that be? The storage room is kept locked.”
“I had the key.”
“Was it given to you?”
Again Bran shook his head. His voice was barely a whisper. “I took it from the peg in the kitchen.”
“With or without permission?”
“Without.”
“In other words, you stole it.”
Bran’s head jerked up. His father was so close, he could see the vein in his neck pulsing. “I borrowed it. I was going to put it back.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, but his voice remained calm. “You dare to quibble points of law with me? You took the key without permission. That is stealing. So not only are you disobedient, you are also a thief and a liar.”
“I disobeyed you, yes,” Bran said in a rush, “but I’m telling the truth. I’m not a thief or a liar. I just wanted to see the work you do. I was only going to stay a few minutes.”
“So you say. But how am I to know this is not another lie intended to make me feel sorry for you?”
Bran hung his head again. There was no point arguing. His case was already lost. His father’s mind had been made up the moment he spied Bran behind the tapestry.
“I am legal counsel to the lord of this land,” his father continued. “He trusts me to know the law and interpret it for all matters pertaining to the fiefdom. How much faith do you think he would have in me if he knew my son was a rebellious liar, sneak, and thief? If I cannot control a single small boy, how am I to be trusted to make decisions for all the people of his fiefdom? You are not above the law, boy. The sooner you learn that the better.”
He walked over to the table and picked up the switch. He slashed the air with it, assessing its flexibility. Then he moved the jug of wine and goblet from the table and turned to his son.
“Lower your breeches and lean on the table,” he said without emotion.
Bran gripped the arms of the chair so tightly his knuckles went white. “I’m sorry, Father. I will never disobey you again. I swear! Please don’t whip me,” he pleaded. “I have learned my lesson.”
“If that is so, you will do as you are told without further protest.” Penn of Gwynedd’s eyes and voice were ice. He might have been doling out a sentence to a murderer instead of disciplining his son. “Lean on the table.”
***
Bran hadn’t cried out. That would only have angered his father and added lashes to the count. When it was done, he pulled up his breeches and waited stoically to be dismissed.
His father stared at him without emotion and held out the switch. “Dispose of this.” As Bran turned to leave, he added, “I shall not tell your mother of your disobedience and thievery. Nor will you. She has suffered enough on your account. I do not wish to see her further troubled.”
Bran let himself out, and though he couldn’t block out the pain, nor stop himself from shaking, he kept his shoulders back and walked without stumbling—down the stairs and all the way to the end of the bailey.
It wasn’t until he was safely behind the door of the rooms he shared with Cara that he broke down and wept.
6—Cara
It was dark when Cara finished up in the kitchen and started across the bailey. In her hand she carried a torch and on her hip a tray for the boy. He’d eaten almost nothing at midday. She’d suspected then that something was amiss. When he didn’t appear for his supper, she was sure of it.
“Please, Brighid,” she murmured to the Goddess of Life as she quickened her step, “let me be wrong.”
Cara slid the torch into the holder on the stone wall and opened the door to the rooms she and Bran shared. It was darker inside than out. There were no candles lit and no fire in the grate. But the boy was there. She could hear him whimpering.
Her heart twisted in her chest.
She set the tray down and lit the fire as well as several candles. Only then did she go to him.
He was lying on his pallet, his face buried in the mattress.
She sat down beside him and stroked his head. His hair was soaked as was the bedding.
“Sshhhh,” she soothed him. “I’m here now, my brave wee man. We will make things better.”
The boy cried harder but didn’t struggle as she pulled off his breeches. She knew it would be only his legs and buttocks that had felt the switch. The father never touched the boy above the waist.
Though Cara had ministered to Bran’s injuries more times than she cared to remember, she was still shocked and horrified by what she saw. Angry welts criss-crossed his legs and bottom like pink snakes trapped beneath the skin. But there was no blood. The father was always careful about that.
The welts had begun to weep, so she cleaned them with a cloth and water. Her touch was gentle, but even so the child wadded a corner of the coverlet into his mouth to keep from crying out. The salve was more soothing. The boy jerked away initially, but its magic began quickly after that, and Cara could feel the tension leave him.
She knew he needed rest more than food, so she placed a cup of water on a stool near the pallet and left him, easing herself onto a chair by the fire for the night’s vigil.
“Cara?” the boy’s small voice called from the darkness.
“I’m here, Bran,” she assured him. “Go to sleep.”
“Cara?” he called again.
“What is it?”
“Don’t tell my mother.”
7—The Boy
By morning the pain was gone—until Bran moved. Then, like a dragon rudely awakened, it bit into him again, its fangs digging deep, its fiery breath burning to the bone. Cara reapplied the salve and urged him to stay in bed so he could heal.
He shook his head and winced as he pushed himself off the pallet. “I have to tend the horse.”
“Surely Master Garth will excuse you for one day,” Cara protested.
“I gave my word.”
Pulling on his breeches was a new kind of torture. Despite the salve, the cloth worried the welts like sand. He tried walking. His legs had forgotten how to bend. But after forcing his feet to travel the length of the room several times, the steps came easier. He didn’t know if the pain was receding or if he was merely becoming used to it.
Then a thought occurred to him, and he regarded Cara curiously. “Shouldn’t you be in the kitchen?”
“I let the girls know I would be late. They can manage without me for one meal—just as Master Garth can manage without you,” she added under her breath, but he heard. And then, “You must be hungry.” She hurried into the other room and returned with a tray. “I brought you some gruel and bread.”
Bran was hungry and made short work of Cara’s offering.
“You should go,” he said, handing her back the tray.
She hesitated. “Will you be all right?”
He forced a smile. “I’m already feeling better.”
***
As he made his way to the stable, Bran kept to the edge of the bailey, but even so he felt every eye upon him—certain his shame was as obvious as sunshine. He was a bad son. Though only his father, Cara, and his father’s manservant knew he had earned a beating, Bran couldn’t escape his guilt.
Thankfully the horse didn’t judge him. In fact, she seemed happy to see him, and her affectionate nudges lightened his heart. But as soon as he set out across the bailey again, the heavy burden of his troubles returned.
The doors of the Great Hall were unlocked, so he knew his father was inside preparing the day’s lesson. Bran let himself in.
Penn of Gwynedd looked up from the long table—the same place he’d sat during the assizes. “You’re late,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” Bran mumbled. He wasn’t late. He was sure of it, but he didn’t argue. The lingering discomfort of yesterday’s beating was sufficient reminder of the cost of such folly.
His father gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit.”
The boy sat. It took all his willpower to keep the agony of it from showing on his face, but he knew his father was watching for it—and that helped him block out the pain.
Penn of Gwynedd pushed aside the papers before him and clasped his hands on the table.
“What do you know of our laws regarding thievery?” he said.
Bran was taken aback. This wasn’t his father’s usual approach to lessons. Normally he spouted the laws of Hywel Dda and had Bran parrot them back. The boy searched about in his head for an appropriate response, though he suspected that whatever his reply, it would be wrong.
“It is the most serious crime,” he said.
“More serious than murder?”
His father’s cold tone made Bran doubt himself. He tried to hedge his answer. “Most of the time.”
“Why?”
Bran was relieved to realize he knew the answer to this question even if it didn’t fully make sense to him, and he quickly recited the memorized rationale. “Murder is a crime against a family, so a fine is assessed and paid to the victims accordingly. But theft is a crime against the King and restitution can take many forms according to its severity.”
“Such as?”
“A thief may be imprisoned though he is usually only made to pay a fine set by the court.”
“How else might the matter be settled?”
“A serf who has been caught stealing three times could lose a hand.”
“What is the most serious outcome?”
“A thieve caught in the act with the goods in his possession can be hanged.”
His father nodded, though his face remained expressionless. “The case you witnessed yesterday at the assizes concerned theft.”
Suddenly Bran was wary. He nodded. “A man stole his neighbour’s ham.”
“And his punishment?”
“There was none. Lord Cedric called for the accused to present five men who could vouch for his honesty, and he did so.”
“One of those men was his accuser.”
“Yes.”
“How is that just? The victim lost his property—namely the ham—and yet the thief was not required to compensate him. Was that a fair outcome?”
Bran felt cornered. His father was asking him to assess the judgment meted out by Lord Cedric. If he found fault with it, he would not only be criticizing the lord of the land, but Penn of Gwynedd as well, since he was the lord’s legal adviser.
“There were other things to consider,” he replied cautiously.
“Go on.”
“The man stole the ham to feed his family, and that is honourable. The law recognizes that folk should not have to starve. Also, the owner of the ham vouched for the man’s honesty, which shows he had second thoughts about seeking compensation from him when he realized his sorry situation. And lastly, the thief promised to replace the ham as soon as he could. I think Lord Cedric considered all those things before dismissing the case. His decision was fair and merciful.”
Bran couldn’t be sure, but he thought his father looked impressed. The unfamiliar expression passed over his face quickly and was gone before the boy could blink, but it gave him hope. The man’s next words confirmed his suspicion.
“You have gleaned more from the case than I would have thought you capable of. Perhaps it is time to elevate your lessons. We shall prepare you to attend the fall session of the assizes.”
“Thank you, father,” Bran mumbled, keeping his gaze focused on his hands in his lap. He knew this was as close to his father’s approval as he could hope to come.
“But you must concentrate on your studies from now until then,” Penn of Gwynedd added, “and you must stay out of trouble. I do not wish you to attend the assizes as a lawbreaker.”
“No, father.”
The man pushed himself away from the table and stood up. “That is all for today.”
Bran eased himself to his feet and bobbed his head respectfully.
His father stopped him as he turned to leave. “I think it best you do not attend Lady Linnet for a few days. Your exuberance tires her, and she needs rest.”
A protest leaped to Bran’s lips, but he held it in. Arguing would not change his father’s mind. If anything, it would cause him to make his edict harsher.
Penn of Gwynedd smiled. He almost never smiled—at least not at Bran. “But there is a way you can please her and lighten the intervening time,” he said.
Bran tilted his head curiously.
“The meadow is rife with wildflowers, and you know how your mother loves them. I’m certain she would be well-pleased to receive a basket of blooms from you. She could enjoy the look and fragrance of them and pass the time making her beloved pressings.”
Bran nodded. Such a gift would bring his mother joy. He could imagine her smiling face and hear her humming happily as she inhaled the fragrance of the blooms before capturing their beauty forever in pressings.
“I shall collect them this very day,” Bran said.
“Good.” His father placed a hand on his shoulder. “Mind you do not deliver them to her rooms. She will want you to stay, and as I have said, she needs her rest. I shall be here all afternoon. Bring the flowers to me, and I shall see she gets them.”
***
With a basket on his arm, a hunk of bread in one hand, and a chunk of cheese in the other, Bran hurried across the bailey and onto the drawbridge. The sun shining down from a clear blue sky warmed not only his body but also his heart, and he felt as free and easy as a gull wheeling about the sky on a sea breeze.
He bit hungrily into the cheese. In less than a day his situation had changed beyond belief. Yesterday he would have liked nothing better than for the ground to split open beneath his feet and swallow him. There hadn’t been enough sunshine in the world to brighten his dour mood. But now his wonder of life had been restored.
It was all because of his father. He was the cause of Bran’s despair and now his renewed optimism. At the time—though it made no sense—it had seemed to the boy that Penn of Gwynedd took pleasure in punishing him. But that was foolish thinking. Bran should have been chastised. He’d been disobedient. Considering how often he got into trouble, his father might feel the switch was the only measure that would have an effect.
Bran wished he understood the man. Though he spent several hours a day with him, he didn’t really know him. It was as if his father held him at arm’s length. Everything was business. Even so, the boy knew there was another side to him. He’d seen it with his mother. Penn of Gwynedd was soft with her. Gentle and warm-hearted. He truly cared for her.
But Bran was his son. Shouldn’t he care for him too? Bran tried to think about the situation objectively. Perhaps he had no one to blame but himself. He did tend to get into mischief, and he had disobeyed and disappointed his father on many occasions. Perhaps his father thought he was hopeless.
And yet just this morning he had given him another chance. He had admitted he’d misjudged Bran’s readiness to observe the assizes, and he’d said he could attend the next session in the fall. Surely that was a positive thing.
Though the boy wasn’t happy about being kept from his mother, his father was likely right. Lady Linnet was frail, and Bran did have a dust devil way about him. He probably did exhaust her, though she would never say so. Yes, a rest from his company would be good for her. And it was just for a few days, he consoled himself.
Having reached the end of the drawbridge, Bran stepped onto the dusty road, stuffed the remaining bread and cheese into his mouth and bounded for the meadow. Even from a distance he could see splotches of yellow and purple, red and orange, blue and white playing hide and seek in the tall, swaying grass. He broke into a full run—the discomfort of his injuries forgotten. He would have the basket brimming with blooms in no time.
8—The Boy
Bran missed his mother and kept waiting for his father to grant him permission to resume his visits, but when the sixth day of lessons came and went, and still nothing had been said, he summoned his courage and broached the subject.
“How is my mother?” he asked as he prepared to take his leave.
His father didn’t look up from the papers he was studying. “Her physicians say she is improved. Stronger. The quiet is good for her.”
Bran’s eyes grew round. “Are you saying I shouldn’t ever see her?”
His father looked up and frowned. “She has been asking after you.”
“May I visit her then?” the boy said hopefully.
His father sighed. “Yes,” he conceded grudgingly. “But do not stay long and do not tire her.”
***
“Who are you?” Lady Linnet demanded when Bran peeked into her bedchamber that afternoon.
He grinned. “It’s me! Bran.”
Then he raced to her bed and wrapped his arms around her. She hugged him in return and planted a flurry of kisses on his face and hair.
“Cheeky boy,” she grumbled. “You have stayed away too long. I know it’s spring and you yearn to be outdoors, but surely you can spare a few minutes for your mother.”
Bran hung his head. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I won’t stay away so long again—I promise.” Silently he added unless Father commands it.
He took a step back and regarded his mother. Just as his father had said, she had a healthier look about her. She seemed more vigorous, and without her usual rouge there was a natural blush to her cheeks. He was happy to see it, but it bothered him to think it was his absence that had brought about the change. Was his father right? Was it Bran’s boisterous ways that kept his mother from regaining her health?
“What’s the matter?” she said. “You seem troubled.”
Bran banished the concern from his face. “You look different, and I was trying to think of the cause.”
Lady Linnet raised an eyebrow. “And what have you decided?”
The corner of his mouth twitched with mischief. “That you are beside yourself with excitement to see me.”
At that, they both burst into laughter, and Bran was pleased to note his mother’s chuckles did not turn to coughing. He reached out his hand and touched her face. “You have colour in your cheeks.”
Lady Linnet looked toward the open door, then leaned forward conspiratorially and crooked her finger. Bran moved closer.
“It is the colour of health,” she whispered.
Bran pulled back in surprise.
His father was right then. Bran was the reason his mother hadn’t been able to regain her strength. His presence wore her out. He supposed it made sense. As he understood it, his mother had always been fragile, but she’d had a particularly difficult time birthing him and never recovered her health afterwards. Bran didn’t know a time she hadn’t been bedridden. But he would do anything to help her get well—even if it meant forfeiting his time with her.
“You are getting better, Mother?” he said. “That is wonderful!” He meant it, but he nearly choked on his next words. “Without me tiring you out each day, you are getting the rest you need.”
“Nonsense!” she huffed. “That’s what my physicians would have you believe. For ten years they have ordered me about. Shut your windows, Lady Linnet. Take your tonics, Lady Linnet. Stay quiet, Lady Linnet. Don’t trouble yourself. Let others take care of you. And what has been the good of it? Has my health improved? No. The only thing their advice and remedies have achieved is to make me weaker and cut me off from the world. How can I be expected to get stronger if I don’t use my body? I lie in this bed all day, every day. I don’t move and I barely breathe, so on the few occasions I do exert myself, I cough.” She fell back against her pillows and heaved an enormous sigh. Yet there was a twinkle in her eye as she crossed her arms and announced, “But no more.”
Bran regarded her curiously. “What do you mean?”
Her eyes flashed as she sat upright again and threw back the bed covers. Then she slowly turned and lowered her legs over the side of the bed.
Bran hurried forward. “Mother, stop! What are you doing?”
She gestured toward the end of the bed. “Pass me my shawl.” When he had done so, she nodded to the door. “Close it. I want to show you something, but I don’t want anyone else to see.”
Bran hurried across the room and did as she bade him. What could she possibly want to show him? He was curious, but also apprehensive. His mother wasn’t behaving at all like herself.
“There!” she announced excitedly.
Bran spun around. “Mother!” He couldn’t stop blinking. “You’re standing!”
“People do it all the time,” she said. She was grinning and her eyes were sparkling. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“But you … you …” he stammered.
“I can walk too,” she said, taking a few unsteady steps. Her body teetered and her arms batted at the air as she fought to keep her balance.
Bran rushed forward, holding out his arms to catch her.
But she didn’t fall. After a few seconds of wobbling, her body steadied. She took a deep breath and smiled sheepishly. “I’m not very good yet. I’m like a babe. But I shall improve.” Bran could tell by the determined set of her chin that she meant what she said.
“I’m sure you will,” he said, simultaneously amazed, proud and fearful. “But you don’t want to overdo. Let’s get you to your bed now.”
She leaned on Bran, allowing him to lead her back, and though she was a mere breath of a woman, he struggled beneath her weight.
“Who knew a few steps could be so tiring?” she puffed as he helped her back under the covers.
Bran watched with concern as she collapsed against the pillows. She was clearly exhausted. If his father walked in at this moment, he would forbid Bran from visiting her ever again.
Lady Linnet took his hand in both of hers. “Don’t fret. I’m fine. No—I’m better than fine. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel alive. I first left my bed out of boredom, to see if I could still stand. It had been so long since I tried. And I couldn’t! My legs were as unsteady as blades of grass in the wind. Were it not for the bed post I would have crumpled to the floor. But I hung on, leaned against the bed and gradually found the strength to support my weight. It was just for a few minutes, and by the time I fell back onto the pallet, I was sweating like a blacksmith at his forge. After a few days though, I was strong enough to begin feeling my way around the bed. Today is the first time I’ve tried to walk without hanging on. I am getting stronger. I don’t need to be the invalid my physicians say I am. And I won’t be—not anymore.” She smiled and ran a hand down his cheek. “But for now—this is our secret. Yes?”
Bran was concerned. “But, Mother, what if you fall? If you try to walk when you’re alone, you could hurt yourself and there would be no one to help you.”
Lady Linnet was undeterred. She winked mischievously at him. “Then you shall have to make sure you are here to catch me.”
***
Suddenly Bran’s days were full. His mornings began at the stable, mucking out the stalls and seeing to the horse. After that he had his lessons in the Great Hall with his father. His afternoons were taken up with his mother’s secret walking sessions.
He knew his father wouldn’t approve, but he couldn’t refuse his mother. She was happier than he had ever seen her, and she was becoming steadier on her feet with each day. She hardly wobbled at all anymore. But she was still weak and she tired quickly. Her goal was to walk from her bed to the table on which her basket of pressings was kept, and it frustrated her that she could only get halfway there before she was too weary to continue, and Bran had to help her back to the bed.
“You must be patient,” he said, trying to lift her spirits after her latest failed attempt. “You’ve been confined to your bed for years. Of course, you’re going to tire quickly. But before you know it, you’ll be running through the meadow. You just need to build up your strength. Each day is better than the last. You forget how much progress you’ve made.”
“I have even less patience than physical endurance,” his mother grumbled. “I’ve already been cheated of ten years of my life. And it’s nearly summer. I wish to be out in the meadow now.”
***
When Bran arrived the following afternoon, he burst into his mother’s bed chamber at a run. “I have an idea,” he panted.
Lady Linnet wagged her hand at him. “Shut the door.” When he had, she said, “What is this idea?”
He grinned and dragged a chair from its place against the wall, positioning it in the centre of the room, halfway between his mother’s bed and the table.
She eyed him curiously.
“We know you can walk as far as the chair. If you’re tired, you can sit and rest and then continue instead of returning to your bed. If you need to rest more than once, I can move the chair to you. You could make the return journey the same way.” He eyed his mother hopefully.
She tapped a finger on her pursed lips. “I’ll be walking a greater distance,” she said.
“Yes, but resting as you need to,” he pointed out.
“It will take more time, so there’s more chance of being discovered.”
Bran nodded. “That’s true. We could lock the door and be ready with an excuse.”
His mother chuckled. “You are a devious boy. You remind me of myself when I was your age.”
So Bran locked the door and Lady Linnet started across the room. She had to make use of the chair twice on her way to the table and three times on the way back. By the time she reached the bed again, her forehead was glistening with beads of perspiration and her nightdress was clinging to her. As Bran helped her onto the pallet, he could feel the heat radiating from her body. He tried to pull up the covers, but she pushed them back.
She collapsed against the pillows and closed her eyes. Her face was flushed and strands of hair had come loose from her braid and stuck to her neck. Her chest heaved mightily with every breath, and Bran feared he had pushed her beyond her limits.
“Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all,” he mumbled apologetically.
A smile spread over Lady Linnet’s face and her eyes opened They were joyously bright, as if lit from within. She shook her head. “Oh, no,” she contradicted him. “This was an absolutely wonderful idea. Completing the walk was an arduous task, but I did it. I did it! It can only get easier now. And it’s all because of you. Thank you, Bran, for believing in me when I forgot to.”
9—The Boy
Feeling the warmth of the morning sun on his face, Bran instantly awoke and leaped from his pallet. Today he was going to have his first riding lesson. Master Garth had given him the news last evening at supper, and since then he’d been able to think of little else.
It didn’t matter how many times Cara told him to calm himself, he could not. He was simply too excited. And though she barked at him to sit down to a proper morning meal, his buttocks never touched the bench, and he couldn’t recall putting a single bite of food into his mouth.
Permitted to leave the kitchen at last, he bolted for the stable. By the time Master Garth arrived, he’d mucked out the stalls, put down fresh hay and was brushing the mare.
“Well, you’re a hard worker, I’ll give you that,” the stable master observed with a sly smile. “Your chores are done, and the drawbridge isn’t even down yet. Never in all my days, have I seen a lad more eager to muck out stalls.”
Knowing he was being teased, Bran smiled self-consciously and continued dragging the brush across the horse’s flank.
“Leave off. You’re going to brush the poor animal bald. Come. Let us see if we can hunt down a saddle.”
With excitement ricocheting off the walls of his stomach, Bran put the brush away and tore after Master Garth.
“There now. You’re set,” the stable master said when he’d cinched the saddle round the mare’s belly.
Bran swallowed hard. He’d never really taken notice of saddles before. This one was likely the same as any, but it seemed very small. Just leather-hinged slats of wood laid across the horse’s back with high curved end pieces to keep the rider in place. A square of cloth lay under the saddle for the comfort of the horse, while a second one sat folded atop the slats for the comfort of the rider. Stirrups dangled from leather strips on the saddle’s sides.
Master Garth handed Bran the reins and grabbed a stool. “Lead her out to the paddock,” he said.
Amid the muck and tufts of grass, the stable master set down the stool, took the reins from Bran and passed them over the mare’s head. Then he gestured for the boy to stand on the stool.
“Now,” he said, “you don’t yet know how to command the horse, but you have to make her think that you do. Otherwise, you’ll be on your arse in the mud before you can say your name. Show her you’re in charge by being decisive in your movements and the tone of your voice. Do you get my meaning?”
Bran bobbed his head though he wasn’t sure he understood at all.
“Good,” Master Garth continued. “First thing is to mount the beast. Take the reins and hold onto the pommel.” He helped Bran get the proper grip. “Put your left foot into the stirrup here so your toes are facing the front of the horse. That’s the way. Now step hard on the stirrup and push off the stool with your other foot. Swing your free leg over the horse. That’s right. Good. Now plant your buttocks onto the saddle and slide your foot into the other stirrup.”
And just like that Bran was on the mare’s back.
Master Garth patted the horse’s neck and offered the boy an encouraging wink. “There now. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
It had all happened so quickly Bran could scarcely remember doing it. He had feared he might shoot right over the mare’s back and end up on the ground on the other side, but thankfully that hadn’t happened.
“Pull the reins firm,” the stable master instructed him. “Not hard and don’t jerk them but pull them tight enough to let the mare know you’re the master. Good,” he said when Bran had done it. “Now press your legs against her sides so she can feel you.”
Bran did what he’d been told and then took his first breath since mounting the horse. The world looked different from atop her back, and he felt a bit wobbly.
“Well done,” Master Garth said.
Bran smiled nervously and patted the mare’s shoulder.
For a half hour, the stable master led the mare around the paddock at an easy walk as the boy became accustomed to his perch atop her back. Then the man stepped away and directed Bran to continue without him.
The boy immediately became anxious. He tried to remember what he’d been taught, but all the stable master’s instructions became garbled in his head. He breathed deeply, forcing his thoughts to settle. He sat taller, tightened his grip on the reins and made sure the mare could feel his legs hugging her flanks. When Master Garth nodded encouragement, Bran clicked his tongue and nudged the horse with his foot. To his great surprise, she started forward. It wasn’t a gallop through the meadow as he’d imagined, but he’d made a start.
***
When his ride was over, Bran grinned his way to the Great Hall for his morning lesson with his father. He was still beaming when he went inside, but as Penn of Gwynedd looked up from his usual place at the large table in the centre of the room, the smile slid from the boy’s mouth.
His father was clearly in a foul mood, and Bran’s mind raced to think what he might have done to cause it. Though he couldn’t recall a thing, he was still uneasy. He lowered his eyes and quietly took his seat.
When Penn of Gwynedd didn’t speak for several minutes, Bran dared hope something unrelated to him had brought on the man’s perversity.
“Are you still spending time with your mother?” his father said at last.
It was an odd question. Bran looked up. “Every day after the midday meal.”
“And how have you found her? Has she seemed well?”
Bran nodded. “Very well, Father.” He brightened at the thought of her. “Her cheeks are rosy now.”
“How much time do you spend with her?”
Bran shrugged. “An hour. Perhaps a bit longer sometimes.”
“And what do the two of you do?”
Bran’s heart began to trip over itself. Did his father suspect something? He tried to keep his voice steady as he replied. “Mostly we talk. I tell her what I’ve been doing. I show her rocks and dead bugs and other interesting things I’ve found in the forest. Sometimes we share some tea—and even a biscuit. She is eating so much better than she used to.”
“Hmmn,” his father mumbled skeptically. “And you need to shut her chamber door when you do these things?”
Bran thought his heart was going to pound its way out of his chest. A wave of dread rolled through him. His father was suspicious. The boy’s thoughts began to spin. He’d promised his mother he wouldn’t tell anyone she was learning to walk again, and now it looked like he was going to have to lie to his father to keep that secret. What could he say?
Buying time to think, he cocked his head and frowned as if he didn’t understand what his father was talking about.
“A serving girl went to retrieve your mother’s tray after yesterday’s midday meal and found the door to her bed chamber closed. Naturally she came to tell me. It wasn’t time for your mother’s ablutions; nor were her physicians with her, so knowing that she prefers her doors open, I immediately went to see if something was amiss. When I arrived, the door was once more ajar and your mother was asleep.”
Bran nodded. “Sorry. I’d forgotten,” he said. “While I was visiting Mother, she complained of a chill, so I shut the door, but she bade me leave it open again when I left.”
His father stared at him as if trying to assess the truth of his words. “That is what she said as well.”
Bran hid his relief. Though he wished he hadn’t had to lie, he was thankful he and his mother had had a story ready.
***
While he ate his stew and bread, Bran mulled over the conversation with his father. Though his explanation for the closed door had been the same as his mother’s, the boy sensed his father didn’t believe him. Penn of Gwynedd might not have given voice to his suspicions, but he was no fool.
After eating, Bran hurried to his mother’s chambers, anxious to share what he’d learned and suggest she leave off walking for the next while. If his father had not confronted him about the open door, he would have been excited to tell her about his riding lesson, but that was now far from his mind.
As he entered the antechamber he heard talking in the next room and stopped to listen. It was his mother and another woman, though he didn’t recognize the voice. From the snippet of conversation he caught, it sounded as if they were discussing hair, and Bran wondered if his mother was being groomed. He should leave and come back later. But as he turned to do so, he bumped a small table, sending a pewter bell tinkling to the floor.
“Bran, is that you?” Lady Linnet called.
“Yes, Mother,” he replied with a sigh as he bent to retrieve the bell.
“Well don’t skulk about. Come in,” she said.
He sheepishly stuck his head into the room. “I heard voices and didn’t want to interrupt,” he explained.
Lady Linnet smiled and beckoned him to come nearer. She gestured to a young woman standing at the end of the bed. “You know Nesta.”
The girl lowered her eyes self-consciously.
Bran couldn’t recall ever speaking with the girl, but he had certainly seen her about. She was one of the locals Cara had hired to help with cleaning.
He nodded. “Hello.”
“Nesta has come to keep me company,” his mother said, and though her tone was cheerful and friendly, Bran suspected she wasn’t as pleased with the situation as she let on. “Your father thought I might like some female companionship. Nesta is going to be spending time with me in the afternoons.”
“But that needn’t interfere with your visits with your mam, Master Bran,” Nesta interjected quickly. “Pay me no mind. I’ll just take myself off to the corner and catch up on my needlework.” She smiled nervously and hurried to an alcove under the window—far enough away for them to ignore her, but close enough that she could hear their every word.
Bran and his mother exchanged glances. Nesta wasn’t here to keep Lady Linnet company. She was here to spy on them and report back to Penn of Gwynedd.
“Get a chair, dear,” Lady Linnet said, gesturing to the one Bran normally set in the centre of the chamber as a target for her to walk to.
Bran did as she bade him, placing the chair so his back was to Nesta. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about his face giving him away.
Lady Linnet was clearly more at ease with the situation than he was. She clasped her hands in her lap and leaned toward him as if there was no one in the room but them. “Tell me how your riding lesson went.”
Bran’s eyes widened in surprise. “How do you know about that?”
She waggled her eyebrows. “I have my ways.”
“Cara told you, didn’t she?” he said. His nani and the stable master were the only ones who knew about his lesson, and he couldn’t imagine Master Garth telling Lady Linnet. Unless summoned, the man seldom left the stable.
His mother sighed and feigned indifference. “She may have mentioned it when she brought my morning tray.”
“I knew it!” Bran exclaimed so loudly that he startled Nesta, and her needlework frame jumped out of her hands and clattered to the floor.
Bran glanced over his shoulder.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
Bran’s mother put a hand on his arm, drawing his attention back. “Don’t leave me in suspense! I want to hear every detail. Was it all you’d hoped for?”
“Oh, yes, and more.” And for the next few minutes Bran allowed himself to relive the happy time at the stable.
“And when do you ride again?” his mother asked when he was done.
“Tomorrow, I hope,” he said. “It depends on how busy Master Garth is.” He heaved a contented sigh. “And what of your day, Mother?” he asked, suddenly feeling less threatened by Nesta’s presence. If he and his mother merely chatted, she would have nothing to report to Penn of Gwynedd. He smiled. “How did you spend your morning?”
Lady Linnet waved her hand at the table on the other side of the room, and for a moment Bran became fearful she was going to tell him she had walked to it. But when she said, “Fetch my basket and I’ll show you,” he relaxed again.
After he had retrieved it, she began pulling out her pressings and setting them about her on the bed cover in tidy groups of colour. “As you can see, I have many new pressings, and I spent the morning organizing them. It’s all thanks to your father. I know you only get to see the serious side of him, but he really is a sweet man when he’s not dealing with legal matters. These pressings are proof. A fortnight ago, he brought me an enormous basket of wildflowers from the meadow. How he found time to pick them, I have no idea, but they were so beautiful. I wish you had seen them, Bran. And the fragrance—their perfume was intoxicating. Well, I …”
That was all Bran heard. Though he kept a smile pasted to his face, his thoughts were spiralling down a dark hole. Those were the flowers he had picked—him—Bran, not Penn of Gwynedd. His father had tricked him. The man who abhorred lying had lied. He’d led Bran to believe his mother would know the flowers were from him, when all along he’d intended to take the credit for himself. Bran felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach.
The bedchamber, the pressings, his mother’s cheerful voice, Nesta in the alcove—they all faded away. Bran saw and heard nothing. He was too lost in hurt and confusion. He didn’t know how long his mother continued talking, but when she was done and had packed the pressings away, he rose from his chair like a sleepwalker and returned the basket to the table. Then instead of going back to his mother, he headed for the door.
“I have to go,” he mumbled and ran out.
10—The Boy
Bran hurried to the keep. He knew his mother would be wondering why he’d left without an explanation. He also knew he couldn’t tell her. At least he couldn’t tell her the truth, and he was too upset to think of an excuse.
Though the keep was open -- the portcullis was never closed -- he felt like he was trapped in a tomb. He couldn’t breathe. He started for the stairs but then stopped. The bailey below was crowded with market-goers, and the thought of being among people panicked him. He spun around and ran to the back of the keep. Reaching up, he tugged on the torch holder. The wall slowly began to move and when it was open barely a crack, he squeezed through the gap into the passage.
He was down the stairs and into the tunnel by the time the wall closed again, shrouding the passage in suffocating darkness. Though he’d never noticed the odour so strong before, the cloying smell of damp earth overwhelmed him. Suddenly nauseous, he slumped against the dirt wall and slid down it, hugging his knees and resting his forehead on them. He was simultaneously sweating and shivering, and his mouth was dry. If he gave in to these sensations, he would throw up, so he focused on taking deep breaths until his stomach stopped churning and the hot chill left his skin. He lifted his head and stared into the blackness.
Alone in the dark, there was nothing to distract him from his thoughts. But confronting the truth was too painful. He dragged himself up once more and continued along the passage, concentrating only on the sound of his boots thumping the ground. “One, two, one, two, one, two,” he counted his footfalls as he ran.
A shaft of thin light glowed in the distance, and he hurried toward it, grateful to leave the darkness. When he reached the ladder, he grabbed the side rails, but his hands were weak and his grip feeble. His legs shook as he began to climb, and his foot slipped off the rung. But he persevered. Once he was in his forest, the world would right itself—he was sure of it.
Stepping onto the ground inside the tree, he sprawled onto his stomach, trying to soak up the forest’s serenity and strength. After a time—though he felt no better—he pushed himself to his feet and crawled out of the tree.
He frowned. When he’d gazed out on the bailey mere minutes ago, the sun had been shining from a clear blue sky. But now …
The colour blue did not exist. Angry black clouds roiled and grumbled overhead. The air crackled. Bran squinted into the afternoon. Whipped by wind, twigs and grit ricocheted off trees and rocks while blades of grass bowed down to the earth.
The weather so matched the boy’s mood he wondered if he had caused it.
Shielding his eyes with his arm and dodging flying debris, he headed into the wind. The closer he got to the hill, the bolder the wind became, snapping at his clothes and pushing him about like a drunken man. Then the rain started. Cold and cruel despite the season, it slashed relentlessly at his arms and face.
At the base of the hill, he stopped and looked up. The afternoon had become a glowering darkness laced with the eerie yellow glow of the sun imprisoned behind the clouds. It was all Bran could do to hold his ground, for having taken the hill, the wind was determined to push him back.
He should return to the castle. Cara would be looking for him. It was wrong to worry her. And yet he pushed on. He had to reach the top. It was a need that outweighed reason.
The climb took forever. The grass was slick and the ground—having swallowed as much rain as it could—was a mire. With each step he gained, the wind pushed him back two. He fell so many times he finally gave up trying to stand and dragged himself along on all fours. He clutched clumps of grass and dug his fingers into the spongey earth, his gaze fixed on the top of the hill.
When he finally reached it, he flopped onto the ground. He was drenched and caked with mud. And he was exhausted. He braced himself against the wind trying to bully him off the hill and the rain attempting to drown him, but he had no emotional strength left to battle his thoughts.
His father had no love for him. He didn’t even like him. The truth hurt more than a beating. The boy had always thought it was because he was mischievous, but from what he’d seen of other youngsters, that was the way of all children.
Still there was something that kept his father distant and made him cruel. Bran had wanted to believe it was simply the man’s nature—that it had nothing to do with Bran personally. But in his heart, he knew that wasn’t true. Penn of Gwynedd was pleasant with others. It was only his son who brought out this perversity.
Lady Linnet was the single link connecting father and son. The only love they shared was hers. But now the man was determined to sweep even that away. He was trying to turn Bran’s mother against him. Penn of Gwynedd made the boy stay away from her rooms for nearly a week, letting on to his wife that it was Bran’s choice. Then he’d encouraged her to think the flowers the boy had picked were from him—not her son. And now Bran was not even to have any time alone with her. Nesta would be there to report every action and word. But why? The question echoed in Bran’s head. What had he done to make his father hate him so?
A sob escaped him; he hadn’t even realized he was crying.
Bran pushed himself to a sitting position, nearly toppling over as the wind stepped up its assault.
“No!” he screamed, his despair turning to anger. Instead of providing the comfort he sought, his beloved forest had turned against him.
He staggered to his feet and turned his face to the sky. The sinister black clouds growled and pulsed with veiled light. They seemed to be bearing down on him. If he reached up, he would surely be able to touch them.
It was all too much. Bran felt as if he was battling the whole world—and losing. He raised his arms to the sky in desperation. “Help me!” The wind tore the words from his throat and flung them into the darkness.
Hopeless, the boy dropped to his knees. Was there no way to fix things? To please his father? To keep his mother’s love?
“Please,” he pleaded to the raging storm. “Show me a way.”
And that is when the clouds ripped open, and a light brighter than the sun hurtled through the hole.
11—Cara
“What happened to you?” Cara blinked at the groom pushing through the door of the kitchen. “You’re soaked.”
Well, I would be, wouldn’t I?” he replied, shaking himself like a wet dog and spraying water in every direction. “It’s pouring rain.”
“Last I saw it was a beautiful day,” she protested.
“’Twas.” The groom shrugged. “But not now.”
“What happened?”
He shook his head. “Do you think the weather answers to me? I’ve never seen the like of it. Blue sky, then in no more than a few minutes, black clouds and rain. Wind too. The day’s not fit for man nor beast.”
“Have you seen the boy?” Cara asked, suddenly uneasy.
“Not since this morning when he mucked out the stalls. If he has a brain in his head, he’ll ha’ taken shelter like everyone else.”
Cara grabbed her shawl from the hook, and wrapping it tightly round herself she hurried to the door.
“You’ll not want to be going out there,” the groom called after her, but Cara stepped into the alley as if he hadn’t spoken.
When she reached the arch opening onto the bailey, she stopped. Ominous darkness blanketed the sky and rain slanted down in a steady stream, forming a watery curtain. The courtyard, which should have been teeming with folk, was empty save for the puddles threatening to run together and form a small lake. The market vendors had slunk into the walls and their customers had run away.
Cara looked toward the keep. It was the time of day the boy spent with his mother. If he was there, he was safe, but Cara had no way of knowing. She looked skyward again. Light fluttered behind the darkness like a flickering candle. It was a mean storm to be sure. Pulling her shawl over her head, she hurried for the stairs leading to the keep.
She was soaked to the skin after a few steps and felt as if she’d been drowned ten times over by the time she rushed into her mistress’s chamber and asked after the boy.
“He ran out,” Lady Linnet said. “We were having a lovely conversation, and the next thing I knew he was out the door. All he said was he had to go. Why would he do that? Do you know something, Cara? Is Bran in trouble?”
Cara frowned and shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Suddenly Lady Linnet looked afraid. “Find him.”
Cara turned and left, leaving a puddle of water in her wake and her mistress’s words ringing in her ears.
As she ran down the bailey through torrents of rain, she called, “Bran! Bran, where are you?” She hurried to every place he liked to visit, but no one had seen him. He wasn’t in his room either.
That meant he had to be in the forest. She knew he had a way of getting there that didn’t require crossing the stream, but she had no idea what it was.
By the time she reached the drawbridge she was wetter than she had ever been in her life. Her dress was plastered to her body and water dripped from every part of her as if she were a human spigot. Fighting her sopping skirt, she hurried round to the stream. All the rafts but one had been abandoned, and the owner of the last was about to leave too.”
“Wait!” she called. “I must get across.”
The poler shook his head. “This is a tempest if ever there was. Get thee indoors, woman.”
“I must get to my boy. He’s in the forest.”
“Are you mad!” he said.
“Perchance I am,” she replied, jumping onto his raft, before he could shoo her away. “But he is my child and I must find him. Pole me across.” She flicked him a penny and stared across the distance separating them, daring him to refuse her.
The man pocketed the money, shook his head and sank his pole into the stream.
As Cara stepped ashore, she pressed two more pennies into his hand. “Wait for me,” she said. And then she headed for the forest.
She scanned the horizon as she ran. Though Cara never came here, the boy often spoke of a hill. Perhaps that’s where he’d gone. Dragged down by her sodden frock, it was hard to make headway, but she pushed on. She spied the hill before she entered the forest and made straight for it.
When she saw the boy atop it, she was both relieved and terrified. He was unharmed and that was good, but he was so small. The wind could rip him from the hill and carry him off in one great gust.
“Bran!” She waved her arms and cried into the bravado of the storm. “Oh, child, come down. Please come down.”
Bran’s back was to her, so he didn’t see. Nor did he hear. He seemed to be in a trance, focused solely on the wicked sky.
Cara was afraid. She had to get his attention. She had to make him come down. She cried out to him again, but her voice was sucked away by the wind. She was going to have to climb the hill.
It wasn’t so steep that she couldn’t manage it, but the rain had turned it to muck which was coursing down the slope in determined rivulets. She sank to her ankle with her first step, the mud clutching at her boot, refusing to let her go forward. Her arms flailed as she struggled to keep her balance.
“Bran!” she called again, and again her voice was torn away by the wind. She couldn’t get to the boy, and he wouldn’t come down. And the storm was getting worse. The grumbling sky was even louder than the wind now. “Bran! Bran!” But it was no use.
As she watched, the boy dropped to his knees. His shoulders were shaking. He was crying. It wasn’t a fascination of the storm that had brought him here. He was upset. Something was terribly wrong.
Finally Cara freed her foot, but before she could take another step, there was a mighty ripping sound as if a giant were rending a tree in two. Then a spear of jagged light leapt from the clouds and flew toward the boy.
12—Cara
Everything happened so fast that afterward Cara wasn’t certain of the order of it. She knew her heart stopped beating when the dagger of bluish light cut through the clouds and turned the darkness into a blinding sheet of white, and she knew the deafening crack which followed caused her to cover her head lest the sky crash down on her.
But the rest was a blur—the sights, sounds, smells and flashes of memory were all hopelessly tangled in her mind. The sparks of energy fluttering over her skin made her shiver and the ground shook so violently it knocked her off her feet. The strange smell of the blacksmith’s forge lingered even after the thick shaft of lightning drove deep into the hilltop and its fainter twin bit into the boy. It lifted him from his feet and hurled him down the hill like a wad of rags. And then the darkness returned.
After a time Cara opened her eyes and raised her head. It throbbed. She lifted her hand to her brow. Blood. She must have hit her head on a rock when she fell. But there was no time to worry about that now. She had to help the boy. Dragging herself to her feet, she staggered toward the small limp figure and sank onto the ground beside him. She was met by the acrid smell of smoke and burned flesh.
Please, Brighid, please let him be alive, she pleaded to the goddess of children as she turned the boy.
She gasped and her hand flew to her mouth. She knew his injuries would be bad, but she hadn’t been prepared for this.
His shirt was in shreds and there was a jagged wound in his shoulder. The skin surrounding it was red and blistered. He had all his limbs—praise be—but he was missing a boot and the sole of his bare foot also had a gaping wound. The boy’s hair and eyebrows were singed, and his pale skin was tattooed in a design resembling forest ferns. But it was Bran’s eyes that troubled her most. They were open wide but vacant, and the whites glowed with an eerie light.
Cara placed her fingers on the vein in his neck. There was a pulse, but it was erratic. Several rapid beats, then nothing, fast again, then slow.
She had to get the child back to the castle. Dragged down by the weight of her sodden dress and fighting the storm, she didn’t know how she was going to manage it—only that she must.
Balancing on her haunches, she slid her arms under the boy’s armpits and knees. “I’ll try to be gentle,” she murmured as she attempted to stand.
“I have him,” a male voice cut through the wind while brawny arms scooped Bran from her.
Falling back to the ground, Cara looked up into the face of the man who’d poled her across the stream. “I thought …” she began, staring at him in disbelief.
“I couldn’t leave you here, could I?” he said. “If you found the lad, I suspected you’d need help.” He glanced at the boy in his arms. “But we’d best hurry. He’s in a bad way.” He nodded to the gash on her forehead. “You’re hurt as well. Can you manage?”
Cara bobbed her head and pushed herself to her feet.
***
The man followed her to the rooms she and the boy shared and then hurried across the bailey for help. Cara did her best to make the boy comfortable while she waited. Though it felt like hours, it couldn’t have been many minutes before Lady Linnet’s physicians arrived and chased her to the other room.
Not knowing what to do, she hung a kettle of water over the fire and proceeded to pace and wring her hands, oblivious to her bedraggled state and the cut on her head.
This was her fault. She was the boy’s nani. She was supposed to keep him safe. If he was permanently maimed, or worse—if he died—she wouldn’t be able to live with herself.
As Cara lamented the situation, the door burst open and Penn of Gwynedd swooped into the room beneath a dripping mantle. In one motion he pushed back the hood, dragged off the cloak and flung it onto a stool.
“Where is the boy?” he demanded. “Lady Linnet is beside herself with worry.”
Cara gestured to the other room. “The physicians are with him now.”
He started forward but was turned back before he was two steps into the chamber.
“Not now, Master Penn.” One of the physicians said, coming to meet him. “We must tend to the boy’s injuries.”
Bran’s father tried to push past, but the healer—though elderly and frail in appearance—held his ground, and Penn of Gwynedd was forced to step back.
“Will he recover?” he said gruffly.
The old physician shrugged. “It is too early to say. But he is young and the mere fact that he has survived this long is encouraging.”
“His mother wishes him moved to her rooms,” Penn said.
The healer shook his head. “His body has had as much trauma as it can withstand. Also, Lady Linnet is not strong herself. It would be too hard on her constitution to see him in this state. These surroundings are familiar to the boy and would be a comfort, as would the company of his nani.” The old man placed a hand on Penn of Gwynedd’s arm and turned him back toward the other room. “Please. Let us tend to the child. There is no point waiting for it will take time. We will have someone fetch you when we are finished our ministrations.”
Unaccustomed as he was to taking orders rather than giving them, Penn of Gwynedd strode from the room, glaring at Cara as he passed. He snatched up his sodden mantle and draped it round his shoulders. As he fastened the pin at his throat, he said, “You owe your mistress an explanation. She has many questions.”
Cara lowered her eyes. “Yes, Master Penn. I shall go to her as soon as I can.”
But for now the boy needs me, she added silently.
***
By the time the physicians left, it was evening and the storm had blown itself out. All that remained was a light drizzle. Cara took that as a good omen. One of the healers had tended the cut on her head and sent her to wash and change her clothing. He’d also instructed her to eat and arrange for someone to spell her off. Sitting with the child was going to be a long vigil. The physicians couldn’t promise her the boy would recover or—if he did—that he wouldn’t be tormented by lingering effects, but they assured her his heart was once again beating strongly. They would return in the morning.
Cara almost pushed them out the door—she was so anxious to go to the boy, but once they were gone, she was suddenly reluctant to enter the room where he lay.
She crept softly to his pallet and when she looked down at him, her heart ached. He was so small and broken. The criss-cross of veins against his pale skin made him look as if he were being held prisoner beneath a red web. The physicians had told her it would likely fade with time, but for now it made the boy almost unrecognizable. His shoulder and foot were both heavily bandaged and one arm, which must have been broken in the fall, was in a splint.
His eyes were closed. Cara didn’t know if it was the healers’ doing or if the child had shut them himself. She just prayed the eerie light would be gone when he opened them again.
His breathing was deep and regular. The poor wee man was asleep, praise be to Brighid. Cara wanted to touch him but was afraid she might wake him, so instead she lowered herself onto a stool beside his pallet and wept.
13—The Boy
When Bran regained consciousness, he thought he was dead. His head and limbs were as heavy and lifeless as stone, while his thoughts were floating somewhere beyond his body in a blur.
Then he turned his head and suddenly the world snapped into sharper focus than it ever had before, its jagged edges jolting him into full consciousness. Never had he known such pain. It was as if all the bees in the world were inside him, trying to sting their way out.
The next thing he knew, Cara was leaning over him. Her lips were moving, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying. He was sure she was comforting him, though she looked worried. She placed a hand on his arm. It might as well have been a red-hot poker.
When Bran opened his eyes the next time, he found himself staring into the concerned faces of his mother’s physicians. Except for an anvil being struck repeatedly inside his head, the devastating pain he’d experienced before was gone, and he could hear the healers’ conversation.
“It has been three days,” one of them said. “The worst seems to be over.”
The other two nodded.
“Now the boy needs to mend and regain his strength. Only then will we know if the lightning has done lasting damage.”
***
It had been a week since the storm, and Bran felt like a trapped animal. He had a headache which flared and dulled but never completely went away, but otherwise he seemed to be healing. A bulky splint protected his broken arm. Unfortunately, it also rendered it useless. His other arm was no good to him either. Though it was perfectly healthy, moving it even slightly caused his shoulder to burn with fire. When Cara changed the bandage, he’d seen the angry red hole where the lightning had entered his body, and he was shocked by its size. No wonder it pained him. Cara assured him it was healing, but that he must stay as still as possible to keep from aggravating it. His foot was bandaged too. It was stiff but didn’t hurt. Of course Bran hadn’t tried to stand on it yet. That would be the true test.
But it looked like that might not happen for some time. Not only was Bran confined to his bed, he was watched every minute of the day. If it wasn’t Cara fussing over him, it was his mother’s physicians or one of the kitchen helpers spelling Cara off. There were others too. The grooms took turns catching him up on things at the stable, and even Master Garth came by after supper one evening. It was strange to see him somewhere other than the stable or kitchen, and Bran could tell by the way the man fidgeted and declined to sit that he felt out of place. He stayed only long enough to wish the boy a speedy recovery and to tell him the mare was out of sorts and off her feed. Bran knew exactly how she felt.
The only ones who hadn’t come to see him were his parents. Lady Linnet couldn’t of course, though the boy knew she would have liked to. Still, she sent him cheer and news through Cara. Bran supposed he shouldn’t be surprised by his father’s absence, but he was. Not that he wished to see him. Having finally accepted that Penn of Gwynedd’s heart was cold to him, he had no wish to reopen that wound. It had festered enough. Still Bran was surprised his father hadn’t resumed their lessons.
The days dragged, and though the boy asked every morning how much longer he must endure his imprisonment, the physicians merely smiled and urged him to be patient.
During the midday meal Bran scowled and batted the spoon out of Cara’s hand with his splinted arm. “I’m not a baby,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Is that so?” Cara muttered as she bent to retrieve the spoon.
“I can feed myself!” he growled, wincing. The headache which had been building all morning had reached a crescendo.
“Do so then,” Cara said as she plunked the tray across his legs, dropped the spoon into the bowl and flounced off to the other room.
Frustration and anger as well as the gnawing pain in his head had caused the boy to bark at his nani, and now, unless he swallowed his pride—which he wasn’t willing to do—he was going to have to find a way to lift the spoon to his mouth.
He tried moving the uninjured arm. At first it simply felt stiff as if the muscles in it had tightened from lack of use, so Bran was encouraged. But as soon as he brought the arm toward the bowl, the wound in his shoulder sent a painful protest down to his fingertips. He gasped and dropped his arm back to the bed covers.
Beads of sweat formed on his brow and the pounding in his head grew, but he refused to give up. He would have to use the other arm. The splint covered the area from elbow to wrist, but it was so cumbersome he could only partially bend his arm. Grasping the spoon and filling it with soup was simple enough but lifting it to his mouth was another matter. He could get it get it partway and no further. He leaned his torso forward and craned his neck. But even stretching out his tongue he couldn’t quite reach the spoon.
He imagined Cara peeking into the chamber and watching him. Normally he would have laughed at the image it conjured, but today he did not. Instead, his frustration and anger swelled. The pain in his head was unbearable, and squeezing his eyes shut he hurled the spoon. He hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t even thought about doing it; it had simply happened, as if the spoon had flung itself.
Even so, as Bran peered across the room toward the small table under which it had skittered, he realized his headache had all but vanished. How was that possible? A moment earlier, the pain had been so intense he could barely think, and now—like a soap bubble it had popped and was gone. It was a great relief, but it made no sense.
Cara poked her head through the doorway. “What was that noise?”
“I dropped the spoon,” he mumbled sheepishly. His foul mood had disappeared with the headache, and he was now ashamed of losing his temper and speaking disrespectfully to his nani.
“Where?” she said, as she entered the room and scanned the stone floor. She got down on her knees and peeked under the bed.
Bran didn’t reply. He was reluctant to direct her search because as soon as she saw the spoon, she would know he had thrown it. He stared at the offending utensil and wished it closer.
And then his mouth dropped open in disbelief, for the spoon began to slide out from under the table and back across the floor toward him. Cara emerged from under the bed, stood up and stepped on it.
“Ah,” she sighed, bending to pick it up, “here it is.” She lifted her apron to wipe it. “Now will you let me help you?”
Bran was in a daze. What had just happened was impossible. He must have imagined it. Spoons couldn’t move themselves. But this one had. He’d thrown it under the table. He’d seen it there. But when Cara stepped on it, it was right beside his bed.
“Bran?” Cara’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Will you let me help you eat?”
He nodded and she began to feed him, chatting cheerily as she did so. Bran barely heard. He couldn’t stop thinking about the spoon. Though Cara would never believe it—he was having trouble believing it himself—the spoon had moved of its own accord.
A cold, unsettling sensation rolled through him. Or had he moved it?
***
After Bran finished eating, Cara left him to rest. Though he was exhausted, sleep was impossible. He was too consumed with thoughts of the moving spoon. Common sense told him he had imagined it sliding across the floor to him, but he simply couldn’t convince himself that was true. It had been too real.
Then he had a thought. If he had moved the spoon with his mind, surely he should be able to move something else. He glanced around the chamber. Almost immediately his gaze came to rest on a cup of water on the stool by his pallet. That would do nicely.
Bran frowned. The pain in his head had begun to grow again. Why couldn’t he rid himself of this headache?
He tried to push past the dulling effect it had on him and focus instead on the cup of water. When the spoon had moved, all he’d done was wish it to come nearer. So he stared hard at the cup and wished for it to slide across the stool.
But all that happened was the pain in his head grew, filling his mind and making it difficult to concentrate on anything else.
He closed his eyes and lay back against the pillows. Boom, boom, boom—his head pounded in time with his heart. It was so loud, he wondered that Cara couldn’t hear it in the other room. He could hear little else. The throbbing circled his mind like a wall of flame licking the inside of his skull.
He was going to be sick. His eyes snapped open, and he turned his head toward the doorway connecting his room to Cara’s to call for her.
But his cry caught in his throat, for standing at the entrance, looking straight into the chamber was Penn of Gwynedd. Until that moment, Bran hadn’t realized how unprepared he was to face his father again. The hurt and anger he thought he’d gotten past awoke once more and rushed through him like a wild wind. And that’s when the door between the two rooms slammed shut with a mighty bang.
At the same time, the searing pain in his head shattered like glass and his headache vanished.
Bran gasped with relief and looked toward the cup on the stool by his pallet. Come closer, he thought to it and then watched the water lap the sides of the cup as it slid across the stool.
14—Cara
When the door slammed, Cara gasped. “That near made my heart jump out of my chest.”
“It was a draught, I suspect,” Penn of Gwynedd replied, though the troubled expression on his face suggested he wasn’t certain.
“Well, the boy will surely be awake now if you’re still wanting to see him,” Cara said.
He shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. Just tell him his mother is thinking about him and sends her good wishes.”
***
After several weeks, the physicians deemed the boy’s shoulder healed sufficiently to allow him to move about again. Naturally the first place he went was to his mother. As Cara watched him cross the bailey and make for the stairs leading to Lady Linnet’s rooms, her heart clenched. It was like watching him take his first steps all over again.
He didn’t limp but walked gingerly on the injured foot, more out of caution than need. That would pass. The shoulder still pained him, so his arm hung in a sling to ease the weight of it. Thankfully the unnatural glow in his eyes had disappeared that first night and the red fern tattoos had faded away too. The broken arm was still in a splint but was healing quicker than expected. The boy had lost weight to be sure, but that would fix itself soon enough. He was on the mend. And yet …
Uneasiness gnawed at Cara. The boy was changed. There was a seriousness about him now. It wasn’t just that he laughed and smiled less. Considering what he’d been through, that was to be expected. It was more than that. It was as if when the lightning passed through his body it had sucked the joy from him, and now he lived always on the edge of anger.
Cara suspected it was because of the headaches. The boy was plagued by them. As they grew inside his head, she could see his mood sour. Though she had done what she could to ease his discomfort, nothing helped. Darkening the room, applying cool cloths, urging him to sleep—it was all for naught. The headaches would not be dissuaded. Not even the powders the physicians gave him did any good. The headaches took shape at their own pace, and it wasn’t until they reached an intensity Cara feared would kill the child that they finally subsided. Bran said they exploded like wet pinecones in a fire. His relief was obvious and for a few days—until the next headache started up—he was once more the sweet boy she loved.
15—The Boy
When the healers had finally granted Bran permission to leave his room, he headed straight for the keep and his mother. To his immense relief Nesta wasn’t there.
Lady Linnet bade him sit beside her on the bed and tell her what had happened on the hill during the storm—at least as much as he could remember, and while he recounted his story, her gaze roamed his face. She repeatedly touched his hands and arms and pushed back his hair, as if to assure herself he was truly there, and when he was done with his tale, she examined his scars to verify the physicians’ findings. She asked why he’d rushed from her chamber into the storm that day, but—knowing he couldn’t tell her the truth—Bran claimed he didn’t remember. At the end of that first visit, his mother was reluctant to let him leave. Bran suspected she was worried something would happen to him again.
The next visit slid more naturally into a comfortable familiarity and the conversation moved beyond Bran’s near-death experience.
“Have you been walking, Mother?” he asked.
Her eyes lit up. “Yes and no. I haven’t been brave enough to try crossing the room without you here. If I became fatigued—or worse if I fell—I would be stranded and eventually found out. But I didn’t want to lose the progress I’ve made, so every day I’ve walked round and round the bed. I made sure I was close enough to reach out if I needed to, but otherwise I walked unassisted.” She beamed. “Though I wasn’t moving in a straight line, I covered a great distance each day. I even practised crouching down and standing up again. I’m certain I can walk to the table and back without stopping to rest.”
“Then you must do it!” he said and ran to lock the door.
Lady Linnet lowered her legs over the side of the bed and stepped onto the floor. She took a deep breath and bit her lip, but excitement sparked in her eyes. “Here I go,” she said, starting forward and making her way across the room and back again with ease. She spun toward Bran. “I did it!”
“Yes, you did.” Bran laughed and ran to hug her.
***
Though Bran was free to move about the castle and grounds, it was nearly summer’s end before the splint was removed and he resumed his chores at the stable. While he’d been confined to his bed, he’d spent hours inhaling the imagined smell of hay and horses. The blood had coursed through his veins as if he were mucking out stalls, filling troughs with water and pitching hay. In his mind he’d stood in the sunshine of the paddock, dragging the brush over the mare’s flank. He’d had to rely on these memories for so long that when he finally found himself picking up a pitchfork, he could hardly believe it was happening.
What he wanted most of course was to ride. He feared Master Garth might not let him back on the mare, but as it turned out, it was the stable master who suggested it. And when Lady Linnet and the physicians agreed that exercise was precisely what the boy needed, the matter was settled.
Life was returning to normal—except for the headaches. At first, Bran tried to hide them from his mother, but there was no point. The physicians had kept her informed. The most he could do was claim they were less intense than before. He didn’t want her to worry.
In truth, the headaches were little changed, but because the boy had noticed a pattern to them, he was better able to arrange his activities around them. They began as a thickness in the head which turned to flashes of pain, then an ache, and finally an unbearable throbbing that pushed so hard against his skull even thinking was torture. Then Bran’s head would burst—at least that’s what it felt like—and the headache would be gone. This process took about six hours and occurred every two or three days.
At the healers’ request, Bran described this malady in detail. The only thing he left out was how the headaches gave him the power to move things with his mind. He hadn’t told anyone about that. He was afraid he wouldn’t be believed—or worse—that he would be and people would take him for a monster.
When he first began transporting things with his mind, he could move only small items and only immediately after a headache subsided. But gradually his ability increased. Now he could move even large objects whenever it suited him. And he wasn’t merely dragging them along a surface as he had with the spoon and cup of water. He could lift things into the air and make them fly wherever he wanted.
Bran would have enjoyed this new trick if he’d understood it. But it was like nothing he’d ever experienced or even heard of. That it was related to the headaches, he had no doubt for his power became greater after each one. At the rate he was going he might one day be able to move the castle! If the pain of the headaches didn’t kill him first, that is.
He’d never been bothered by headaches before being caught in the storm, and it didn’t take a learned man to know it was the lightning tearing through his body that had brought them on. But why? And why hadn’t they gone away? The rest of his injuries had healed. Shouldn’t the headaches have ceased too? He wasn’t sure how much more pain he could stand. Simply knowing a headache was building caused his mood to darken. He imagined the worst of the pain before it ever arrived, so by the time it peaked, he was already in agony.
Bran wished he had someone to share his worries with, but he didn’t think anyone would understand or be able to help him—not even his mother or nani.
***
During his recovery, Bran’s father had visited him only a handful of times and only long enough to relay Lady Linnet’s good wishes, pass along gifts from her and inquire after his son’s health so that he had news to take back.
Even after the physicians had declared Bran fully recovered, his father made no mention of resuming his lessons, and after a while the boy began to think his time with the laws of Hywel Dda had come to an end.
The summer days had turned to amber, and as the boy left the stable following his morning chores and ride, he turned his face skyward, closed his eyes and basked in the sun’s rays.
He was happy. Yes, happy. For the first time since the storm, he truly felt like himself. It had been a good morning. His head didn’t hurt. His body didn’t hurt. He wasn’t tense or angry. It felt good simply to be alive.
“Bran!” Penn of Gwynedd’s voice pushed its way into the boy’s consciousness, and his sense of well-being shrivelled like a winter apple.
A firm hand closed on his shoulder and he looked up. His father was frowning. “I called your name three times,” he said.
Bran resisted the urge to shrug off his father’s hand. He resented having his peaceful mood disrupted. It was difficult to keep his feelings from showing on his face, so he lowered his head and stared at the ground.
“It is time to take up your lessons,” the man said. “It has been too long, but your mother insisted you needed to properly recover. She would have me leave you be even now. However,” he nodded toward the stable, “if you are well enough to ride and work in the stable, you are well enough to resume your lessons. The autumn assizes will soon be upon us, and if you wish to attend, there is much you must learn.”
Bran didn’t wish to attend. His curiosity about the event had waned. He didn’t care about Hywel Dda, and he had no desire to follow his father in the practise of law. He wanted to find his own path. But the man was already steering him toward the Great Hall.
Perhaps because so much had changed in his life since the storm, Bran expected the hall to be different too. But as he stepped over the threshold, he noted it was the same as the last time he’d been there. It had been months, yet there wasn’t a chair out of place, no discarded quills, no candle wax drips, not even a speck of dust or a ledger missing from the shelves. That was his father’s doing. Penn of Gwynedd liked order and predictability. The hall lent itself naturally to that, and since it was locked when not in use, he had full control.
Bran shook his head. The Great Hall might not have changed, but he had. He was a different boy than the one who had last sat in this hall, and that other boy would not be returning. Of that he was certain.
Bran sat down and rubbed his temple. A headache had begun. His father continued past him to the bookshelves and pulled a weighty tome from the stacks. The boy cast his gaze toward the ceiling and sighed. It was the Book of Blegwyrd, one of three filled with Hywel Dda’s laws.
“We will begin with a review to see how much you have remembered,” his father said as he took his place across the table from Bran and reverently folded back the thick leather cover. He began to read. “Hywel the Good, son of Cadell, by the grace of God, king of all Cymru ...”
The boy had heard this passage so many times he knew it by heart. It had been Howel the Good’s idea to collect and record the laws of the land, but he hadn’t performed the task himself. He’d charged a 12-man committee led by one of Cymru’s great scholars, Master Blegywyrd, to do the job. Penn of Gwynedd knew Bran was aware of this. So why was he hammering the explanation at him again? The man must like the sound of his voice, Bran decided, and stopped listening.
His gaze wandered the room and finally came to rest on the bookshelf set into the far wall. With its collections of tomes, ledgers and neatly rolled scrolls, it was a source of great pride to his father. The man knew every item stored there and exactly where each belonged. All were the property of Lord Cedric, but only Penn of Gwynedd ever touched them.
The boy looked back at his father. He was so engrossed in the passage he was reading he was oblivious to everything else. Bran could have jumped onto the tabletop without him noticing. The first sparks of pain began to flash behind his eyes, but that didn’t stop a smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth.
He turned his attention back to the bookshelves, and one by one he began rearranging the contents with his mind. As much as he would have liked, he didn’t ransack the shelves. His efforts were much more subtle. He kept the books together in their groupings, making them dance on the shelves to change the order. Then he restacked the ledgers and jumbled the scrolls.
When he was done he admired his handiwork. No one but Penn of Gwynedd would notice a difference. But he would most certainly notice, and he would be apoplectic. As Bran imagined the man flying into a rage, he almost laughed. This was the first time he’d enjoyed a lesson with his father.
16—The Boy
“Another headache?” Cara said quietly, sliding onto the bench beside Bran.
He nodded without looking up. He needed to concentrate on blocking out the raucous din of the kitchen. The deep ache in his skull made him nauseous, and though he’d been pushing food around the trencher, not a single bite had reached his mouth.
“You should lie down,” his nani said. “There’s a bowl of water in the room. Dampen a cloth, cover your eyes and try to sleep. You can eat later.” She picked up the trencher and stood up.
Without replying, Bran trudged to the door. Once in the alley, he headed for the bailey. Emerging from the shadows into full sunlight was akin to scraping shards of glass across his eyes. Combined with the tourniquet of pressure in his head, it was almost more than he could bear. He squinted, raised a hand to block out the light and staggered into the courtyard. But instead of making his way to his sleeping quarters, he turned toward the motte.
It was time to visit his mother. If he didn’t show up, she would worry. He wouldn’t stay, but he had to let her know why.
It took all his will to climb the steps to the keep. With each lift of his foot, the blood moved through his veins like sludge and pounded in his ears until that was all he could hear. He paused at the top to fortify himself against the gong being struck inside his head, opening and closing his fists in an effort to quash his need to scream. When his breathing evened out, he headed into his mother’s chambers.
She gasped at the sight of him. “You are spectre white.”
“I have a headache,” he replied. “Cara sent me to lie down, but I didn’t want you to worry.”
She clucked her tongue. “Cara is right. You need to sleep. A cool cloth over your eyes might help.” She patted the pallet. “You can rest here.”
Bran could feel the pressure inside his head building. He summoned all the strength he had. He didn’t want to lose control in front of his mother. “It’s better when I’m alone.”
“But I can—”
“I’ll be fine, Mother,” he growled through gritted teeth.” Then regretting his harsh tone, he attempted a smile before turning to leave.
Lady Linnet’s voice followed him. “Rest well, my son.”
Bran had every intention of doing exactly what his mother and Cara had bade him, but when he reached the keep, instead of turning toward the bailey, he headed for the secret portal in the back wall.
It wasn’t a conscious decision. Since being struck by lightning, he often did things without thinking them, as if the connection between his body and mind had been severed. He put it down to the severity of the headaches. They made thinking impossible.
Reaching up to tug the torch was agony and when the wall began to move, Bran covered his ears against the grinding noise.
Once into the tunnel, he sank onto the steps and rested his cheek against the damp wall. The coolness dulled the pain for a few seconds, and as the portal closed behind him, he started down into the deepening darkness.
He tried to take his mind off the throbbing in his head by focusing on the forest. Since the storm, he’d been forbidden to go there. It was as if his mother and nani held it responsible for his accident, and if they kept him from it, he would remain safe. But his body had other ideas and Bran was too weak to resist.
The passage was dark as pitch, but even so he walked with his eyes closed. And though he moved gingerly, each footfall sent a vibration through his body. His head felt twice its normal size and when he reached the ladder and began to climb, he waited for the weight of it to send him tumbling.
Though he crawled out of the tree with eyes squeezed shut, he could feel the sunlight trying to slash through his eyelids. He peeked between his lashes, but the piercing brightness made his eyes water and he closed them again.
Feeling his way to a shady patch of grass, he lay on his back and gave himself up to the war being waged in his body. Here was as good a place as any to wait for the headache to run its course. In fact it was better than his room at the castle, because when the pain became unbearable, he could cry out without burying his face in the bedcover.
The odd thing was that he no longer felt the need to cry out. As the warm afternoon breeze slid like silk over his skin, he felt the tightness leaving him. He became aware of the scents of the forest—the pungent firs, damp earth, sweet grass and heady wildflowers, and as he breathed deeply of them, his body became lighter. It was like a giant weight had been lifted from him. He stretched his arms, allowing his fingers to skim the grass, stones, twigs, and fallen leaves, marvelling at the feel of them—smooth and rough, cool and warm, soft and hard. The blades of grass tickled. The twigs scratched. The leaves stuck to his hand. But they all comforted him, and as he lay on the forest floor with his eyes closed, his headache retreated—and he slept.
***
Like a wounded animal skulking to its hole, Bran began going to the forest whenever he felt a headache coming on. Not only did it provide him with privacy, it seemed to minimize the pain. He didn’t know if it was because he was more at ease in the forest or because the air there had healing qualities. It didn’t matter. The headaches weren’t as fierce. The forest didn’t take the pain away altogether, but it made it tolerable. It was only when Bran couldn’t escape the castle, that the headaches took their toll.
Since the physicians were helpless to put an end to them, Bran knew he must make the best of things. If only he didn’t constantly feel as if he were carrying a boulder on his back. When around others, he pretended he was still the happy boy he’d been before, but it was getting harder and harder to remember who that was.
***
Bran stood by the locked door and watched his mother sail back and forth across the room—once, twice, three times before finally heaving herself onto the pallet.
“And I’m not even tired,” she beamed.
Bran applauded. He was impressed. His mother had gone from invalid to graceful butterfly before his eyes. He imagined her running through the meadow for that is what she said she wanted to do. It wouldn’t be long now. He shook his head. “Father isn’t going to believe it.”
“I’m not going to tell him,” she said. After a pause, she added, “At least not yet.”
Bran cocked his head curiously. “Why not?”
“Because I’m not ready.”
“What do you mean? You can walk every bit as well as I can.”
“For a short time. But I need to build up my endurance. I don’t want there to be any reason for your father to send me back to my bed.”
Bran could understand that. Being confined to his pallet for only a few weeks had nearly driven him mad. How his mother had withstood it for ten years was beyond his comprehension. But still it struck him as an odd thing to say.
His brow furrowed as he asked, “Why would he want to do that? I would think Father would be over the moon to see you well and back on your feet.”
Lady Linnet shrugged. “I don’t want to take any chances.”
“What can you do that you aren’t already doing?”
Lady Linnet’s face broke into a huge smile. “I can walk around the castle, along the ramparts and through the bailey. I shall mingle with the people.”
Bran gasped. “But you’ll be recognized, and someone will almost certainly tell Father.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Only my physicians and a few of the castle servants ever come here, and I haven’t been out of my chambers in years. No one will expect to see me out of doors, so even if I seem familiar, I doubt they’ll realize who I am. And now that the weather is getting cooler, I shall wear a mantle with the hood up. They’ll take me for a farmer’s wife come to market.” She threw back her head and laughed. “It is going to be such fun!”
Bran felt her excitement, but he knew that if anything went wrong, his father would hold him responsible.
“I’m coming with you,” he announced.
“You should be nearby in case I need help,” she agreed, “but I don’t want you to accompany me. I need to do this on my own.”
Bran nodded. He knew his mother had thought her plan through and this was the only concession she would make. But he had another troubling thought. “What if someone comes to your rooms while you’re walking around the castle? If they find you gone, they’ll send up an alarm.”
“Hmm.” His mother tapped her lips. “I hadn’t thought of that.” Her face cleared. “Cara can stay here while I’m gone. She can lock the door and if anyone comes, she can tell them I’m indisposed.”
Bran frowned. “Does Cara know you can walk?”
A smile tickled the edges of Lady Linnet’s mouth. “Not yet.”
17—Cara
Cara paced her mistress’s chamber, wringing her hands, checking the locked door every two minutes and startling at each squeak and creak.
She had never felt more guilty in her life. Certainly she was over the moon with joy that Lady Linnet was no longer bedridden, but she dreaded what would happen when Penn of Gwynedd learned his wife and son had schemed behind his back to make it happen.
The two were cut from the same cloth. Reckless daredevils both. And now they had drawn her into their scheme! There was no hope. They were all going to pay a heavy price.
Cara imagined Lady Linnet rambling the bailey, moving among the market stalls until she came face to face with someone who recognized her. It would happen. How could the woman think it would not? And that would be the beginning of the end.
Cara asked herself why she should care. She was a servant. She did as she was told. It was foolish to worry about things she couldn’t control. But her heart told her a different tale. She had been Lady Linnet’s companion since before her mistress had married, and she had cared for Bran from his birth. These people were her family whether they knew it or not.
And that brought her thoughts to the boy. A more sweet-dispositioned child she had never met. Until the storm. After that he’d changed—his temper most certainly. These days he was quick to anger. It was because of the headaches. She dared anyone to be good-natured when they were constantly battling pain. But there was more to it.
Bran had developed unusual abilities. He didn’t know she was aware, but how could she not? She was his nani. She lived in the same rooms.
He could move things—simply by willing it to happen. She had seen the proof with her own eyes. His shirt lifted from a hook on the wall. A log thrown on the fire. Cara suspected it was a game to the boy at present, but …
She shuddered to think where these abilities might lead him. She had begged Brighid to take this magic away. It frightened her. She’d heard of such sorcery but … This was her boy! He was a child. Why had he been burdened with such power? It was too much for him to control.
He needed guidance. But from where was that to come? Cara had no notion how to help him along this untravelled path. She was not equipped to show him the way. Was anyone?
18—The Boy
Bran flopped onto a chair in his mother’s bedchamber and watched her hide her cloak on a hook behind a tapestry. “You are walking perfectly now,” he said. “When are you going to tell Father?”
Bran had been trailing his mother around the castle for a week and the daily outings had him jumping at his own shadow. Cara was right. It was only a matter of time before Lady Linnet got caught—especially since she was becoming bolder with each outing. Just yesterday, she’d spied Penn of Gwynedd at one of the stalls in the market and had brazenly gone to stand beside him. Bran had practically jumped out of his boots with dread. Even after his father left the market, the boy kept glancing round lest he return.
“He shall find out tomorrow evening,” his mother replied breezily. “As you know, my father and uncle are coming to Llanberis Castle, and Lord Cedric will be hosting a feast for them in the Great Hall. All the local nobles will be in attendance.” She grinned. “That is where I shall reveal myself. Cara is finding me the perfect gown and slippers. This an important occasion and I want to look my best. When all the company is assembled, I shall throw open the doors, glide across the room and take my rightful place by my husband’s side.” Her face split into a grin. “He will be so surprised.”
Surprised? The boy suspected his father would be a great deal more than that. He cringed to think how he would react. “Do you think that’s wise?” he said. “Perhaps this is news best shared privately.”
“Nonsense,” his mother waved away his caution. There was fiery determination in her eyes as she added, “After all these years locked away, I think I’m entitled to a grand entrance.”
***
The following morning, excitement abounded as preparations were made for the guests. A visit from Archdruid Alun was a rare treat made even more special because the renowned seer, Bradan, would be with him. Like everyone else, Bran was looking forward to their arrival. It had been sometime since he’d last seen his grandfather.
He leaned against the wall in the alley entrance, gnawing a crust of bread and looking out at the bailey. As usual it was bustling with activity. Market-goers certainly, but others as well—a throng of country and castle folk crowding the drawbridge, waiting for the Druids. They clamoured for a glimpse of the arch-druid, perhaps even a chance to touch his robe, and when he spoke—for he always had an encouraging message to share—Bran knew they would hang on his every word.
After that their attention would turn to the seer, for he was wont to wander through the market among them. For a few pennies he would listen to their dreams and decipher the meaning.
A cheer went up through the crowd. The Druids had arrived.
Bran watched the swarm of people move from the drawbridge to the centre of the bailey. Though he couldn’t see his grandfather or great uncle, he knew they were in the crowd. From somewhere a piper sent a happy tune into the air, and folk began clapping in time. One woman picked up her skirts and danced a jig. It was a joyous occasion to be sure. Even Cara—returning from the keep with his mother’s food tray—had stopped to watch.
The boy was tempted to join in the fun too, but his father would frown upon such a lack of decorum. Bran would have to wait to be presented formally at the gathering of dignitaries later that morning. Lord Cedric had invited the local nobility to meet in the Great Hall, and though Bran suspected it would be a boring affair, nothing was required of him other than his presence. That made it a preferable alternative to a lesson with his father.
***
The meeting was every bit as tedious as Bran had anticipated. He thought about begging off with a headache, but then he’d be confined to his room for the remainder of the day, and that meant he’d miss his mother’s appearance at the banquet that night.
Lord Cedric and Penn of Gwynedd sat at the head and foot of a long table with the Druids and nobles flanking the sides. Bran was last on the bench within easy reach of his father, so he did his best to feign an interest in the proceedings.
But it wasn’t the sort of gathering that held a boy’s attention, and he soon grew weary of the talk. Feeling his eyes starting to droop, he tried various tactics to keep himself awake. He twiddled his thumbs. He bit his tongue. He pinched his arm. He imagined the men around the table as horses, rabbits, dogs, and insects with human faces. That made him chuckle and earned him a warning glare from his father. Instantly awake, the boy banished the menagerie of animals from his mind.
But it didn’t take long before he once again felt himself nodding off. He blinked rapidly to wake up his eyes. Thinking a drink of water might help, he reached for his cup. It was empty. He must have finished it already. Suddenly he was so parched his tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth.
He looked longingly at the water in front of his father and then at the men around the table. Their attention was focused on Lord Cedric. As quickly as he could without slopping, Bran mentally dragged his father’s cup toward himself. Then he glanced once more around the table. All eyes were still on Lord Cedric, so he turned his mind to his own empty cup and pushed it to where his father’s had been.
And none too soon, for a cheer went up and everyone started clapping. Bran pasted a smile on his face and clapped too. Then he joined the men as they saluted the arch-druid.
From the corner of his eye, he saw his father reach for his own cup and then frown when he realized it was empty. Bran felt the man’s gaze on him but kept his own fixed on Lord Cedric. Only when everyone returned their cups to the table did Bran lower his own and smile at his father.
During the rest of the meeting, the boy entertained himself by subtly moving objects when no one was looking. It was all he could do to contain his amusement as each man’s face reflected bewilderment when the item he reached for was not where he’d left it.
A serving girl came round with a pitcher of water and refilled the cups, for this was a meeting of endless toasts. And that’s when Bran got an idea for the best joke of all.
He waited for his father’s turn to speak and when the man reached for his cup to toast one of the nobles, Bran willed it to tip over so that its contents spilled down the front of Penn of Gwynedd’s immaculate linen tunic.
The assembled nobles gasped in unison as Bran’s father jumped up and tried to shake the water from the soaked garment. He smiled sheepishly, clearly embarrassed by the incident. Bran was sure his father had never spilled a drop of anything on himself in his life. The truth was he hadn’t done so now either, but he didn’t know that.
The man shook his head and gestured for the serving girl to bring more water. “I can’t believe my clumsiness,” he sighed, which prompted good natured ribbing from the other men.
One of them called out, “I wager you wouldn’t have knocked over the cup if it were filled with wine.”
The assembly roared with laughter. Bran laughed too—though not for the same reason.
As the meeting came to a close, Bran’s grandfather offered a toast to Lord Cedric, and when the men reached for their cups, Bran’s eyes returned to his father’s. Dare he tip it again?
“Don’t even think about it,” a stern voice commanded.
Startled, Bran’s gaze darted to his father’s face. Had he realized it was Bran who’d spilled the water? But Penn of Gwynedd wasn’t looking at him. His attention was on the arch-druid.
Bran frowned. If his father hadn’t spoken to him, who had? His glance circled the table, darting from face to face. All were focused on his grandfather. Bran was confused. Had no one else heard him being scolded? Cold foreboding shot through him as his flitting gaze was caught and held by the man sitting opposite him.
It was Bradan, and his stare was piercing. The boy tried to look away but could not. It was as if his great uncle was physically holding him. It was obvious he knew it was Bran who’d knocked over the cup. Bran didn’t know how he knew, only that he did. Was it because he was a seer?
Without moving his lips, Bradan said, “I mean it, lad. Stop this game.”
Bran scanned the assembled company. Again he was the only one who’d heard.
***
In a daze, Bran left the Great Hall and made his way to the kitchen for the midday meal. He slid onto the bench and ate the food placed in front of him, but afterwards he had no memory of it.
His mind was occupied with other things. Namely his great uncle. Bran didn’t know him well, but he knew he was a man of influence. As a seer he had the ear of his grandfather as well as most of the nobles in the land—even the king. What he thought and said mattered. He had a friendly way about him, but that was not to be confused with meekness.
And that worried Bran. Bradan had seen him moving objects with his mind. Would he tell his father? The possibility filled him with dread.
If his father found out he’d the spilled water, he would know it was also Bran who had rearranged the bookshelves in the Great Hall, and he would be furious. Bran would receive a beating worse than any he’d had before. He shuddered at the thought.
He must ask Bradan to keep what he’d seen to himself. He would plead with him if he must. Swear he’d never use his power again.
“That is an impossible promise.”
Bran caught his breath and searched the room for the voice’s owner.
It spoke again. “We need to talk,” it said. “You will find me on the motte.”
19—The Boy
The moment he stepped out of the alley, Bran spied his great uncle atop the motte, and it was all he could do not to run back to the kitchen.
“Don’t dally, lad,” the voice in his head grumbled.
Bran’s stomach flipped. How did Bradan know he was there? He wasn’t even looking his way.
“Make haste and I shall tell you.”
Bran’s stomach lurched again. And how did he know what Bran was thinking?
“I’m waiting,” Bradan reminded him. There was a note of impatience in his tone, and fearing the seer might do more than listen to his thoughts, the boy forced his feet to carry him across the bailey and up the steps.
When Bran reached the top, Bradan turned and smiled. It might have been intended to put the boy at ease, but Bran was wary. His father sometimes smiled before he punished him. He approached cautiously.
“You needn’t worry,” Bradan said without ado. “I have no intention of telling your father of your mischief this morning. He can be—” He paused and his eyes searched the afternoon sky for the right word. “Stuffy,” he finished. “I don’t imagine he would appreciate learning he was the brunt of a joke, particularly one manipulated by his son.”
Bran felt the tension drain from him a little.
“But it doesn’t mean that is the end of the matter,” Bradan continued, and Bran raised his guard once more. “Would I be correct in assuming this ability to move objects is something new?”
Bran nodded and looked around nervously. “It started after the lightning went through me,” he whispered.
It was Bradan’s turn to nod. “Yes, I heard about that. It must have been awful. I’m sorry. If a body survives such a trauma, the development of unusual abilities sometimes follows.”
“It’s the headaches,” Bran said. “I never used to have them, but now they come every few days, and they—” he flailed at the air as he tried to find the right words. “After the headaches I do strange things.”
Bradan’s heavy eyebrows dove together. “More than move objects?”
Bran studied the stones under his feet. “Yes.”
“Such as?”
Bran ran his tongue over his lips. Should he say more? Or had he already said too much? His great uncle seemed trustworthy and Bran longed to confide in someone, but what if it was a trick?
The seer gestured to the parapet. “Like this castle, you hide behind a wall. That is understandable.” He looked out an embrasure. “You think the wall will keep the enemy away. But what if the enemy is not out there?”
Bran frowned. He didn’t know what Bradan meant. “Are you saying there is nothing to be afraid of?”
Bradan smiled. “No, lad. I’m suggesting that what you fear arrived before you raised the drawbridge. It is already within you. The only thing your wall keeps out is help to deal with it. I can be that help.”
As Bran took in the meaning of his great uncle’s words, his vision blurred and a tear slid down his cheek. His legs felt as if they might buckle. He placed a hand on the parapet to steady himself. He was so tired of having to be strong, of facing the unknown alone, of pretending he wasn’t confused and afraid. Was this a chance to share his burden?
“Yes,” Bradan said softly.
Bran leaned heavily against the wall, his resistance spent. “How do you do that?” he asked. “How do you know my thoughts? And how are you able to speak inside my head?”
The seer smiled. “It is no great trick,” he assured the boy. “You too can do it. It’s a small matter of learning how. I don’t normally let myself into the minds of others without their permission, but this morning intervention was called for, and I didn’t think you would want the others in the Great Hall to hear what I had to say.”
Bran shook his head vigorously. “No, I wouldn’t have. Thank you.” He frowned. “What I don’t understand is why you are asking me questions now. Can’t you simply look inside my mind to find the answers?”
Bradan threw back his head and guffawed. “I can only know what you are thinking, not what I want you to think. And as I said, it isn’t polite to read someone’s thoughts without their permission.” He waved away the subject. “We can discuss that another day. Our time together now is short, and if you trust me to help you, there are things I need to know.”
Bran nodded.
“Other than moving objects, what other abilities have you acquired?”
Bran sighed. “I don’t think it’s an ability. It doesn’t seem to have a purpose. It’s just—” He paused and lifted his hand. He stared at it a few seconds and then his gaze shifted back to his great uncle. “My fingers shoot sparks. Like lightning but not enough to fill the sky—and without the thunder. It happens when I have a headache that has become unbearable. My fingers start to tingle and the next thing I know, sparks fly from them.”
“Then what happens?”
The boy shrugged. “Nothing. After a time it stops. And so does the headache.”
“I see,” Bradan said. “Has this occurred often?”
“Just three times. But each time has been greater than the last. In the beginning there were just the headaches, but after a time I started moving things after a bad headache. Then it got so I could move things whenever I wanted to. And now when I get a headache, I know sparks are going to shoot from my fingers. Why is this happening to me?”
The seer didn’t answer. Instead he said, “Are there other things you can do now that you couldn’t before?”
“No.” Thank goodness, the boy added silently.
The seer frowned. “I know of another who also suddenly developed unnatural abilities.”
“This has happened to someone else?” The hope that he wasn’t the only one took root in the boy.
“Yes. A man in a faraway land.”
“Did his powers eventually go away or was he plagued forever?” The idea of enduring a life of headaches was too much for Bran to imagine. “Did folk find him out? Did he have to run away?”
For a moment the seer stared at Bran, as if assessing whether to answer his question. Finally he said, “He became the most powerful sorcerer that land has ever known.”
Bran opened his mouth to ask more, but the sound of footsteps caused him to bite back his questions. He spun around to see his grandfather approaching. The arch-druid’s face broke into a smile.
“I’ve just been visiting your mother,” he said. “She is looking very well. I haven’t seen colour in her cheeks for many years.” Then he stretched out his arms. “Come and give your grandfather a proper welcome. I know we saw each other this morning, but that was formal business—not at all how family should greet one another.”
Bran grinned and hurried forward to hug his grandfather.
Bradan cleared his throat. “If Lady Linnet isn’t too tired from your visit, brother, perhaps I’ll pay my regards,” he said.
“She would be glad of it, I’m sure,” Alun replied. “She was asking after you.” Then he turned his attention back to the boy and ruffled his hair. “Walk with me, young Bran, and tell me how you’ve been keeping. Your mother says you’ve been learning to ride.”
***
Bran was grateful Bradan was going to keep his secret, but he was far from relieved. In fact, when the two parted, the boy was left with more questions than answers. Would his new abilities go away? Would he develop other powers? Was he turning into a sorcerer? What was a sorcerer? It was all very confusing and unsettling.
Bradan said he would help Bran, but he hadn’t said how. The boy wished he knew his great uncle’s plan. It was doubtful the two would have another chance to talk before the Druids took their leave in the morning, and Bran had no idea when he would see Bradan again. He didn’t want to be left wondering. A disheartening thought flew into his head. Perhaps Bradan wasn’t planning to do anything. Perhaps he couldn’t do anything. Perhaps his promise to help had been nothing but a hollow attempt to make Bran feel better.
Absorbed in his thoughts, the boy aimlessly wandered the market until the vendors packed up their wares and left for the day. He was still pondering his conversation with the seer as he made his way back to his quarters.
“Hello?” he called as he closed the door behind him.
There was no reply. Not that he had expected one. Cara would be busy in the kitchen with preparations for the evening’s feast.
He wandered into his own room and stopped—for laid out on his pallet were a tunic, a belt, and hose, none of which Bran had seen before. They must be meant for him for they appeared to be his size and they were on his bed. His brow knotted in bewilderment. Cara must have put them there. But why?
“For you to wear to the banquet,” came Bradan’s reply inside his head. “You need to dress quickly, or you will be late. And you might want to take a brush to your hair,” he added.
***
Bran had never been to a feast before, and he was surprised he’d been allowed to attend this one. He suspected it was his mother’s doing. If she had insisted, it is unlikely his father would have refused her. Even so, Bran was not given a seat at the head table but set among nobility of lower rank.
He didn’t mind. In fact, he was relieved. No one would pay him any mind here, and he could take in the proceedings without being watched himself. The hall, aglow with candlelight, was already throbbing with merriment. Bran could hardly believe it was the same sombre room in which he endured lessons with his father. From his seat he had a clear view of the head table as well as the massive oak doors leading into the Great Hall. When Lady Linnet made her entrance, he would be able to see both her and his father.
He had mixed feelings about what was about to unfold. Certainly he was excited for his mother to have her moment of glory. It would mark a great change in her life. No longer would she be confined to her own chambers. She had worked hard for this day, and everyone at the feast would be in awe. Everyone except perhaps Penn of Gwynedd. He more than anyone should be over the moon to see Lady Linnet on her feet after all these years, but Bran had his doubts. His father was a man who liked to be in control of things, and that certainly wasn’t going to be the case this evening.
Lord Cedric rose from his chair and the hall became quiet.
“Good evening,” he said with a smile. “It is with great pleasure that I welcome you all to Llanberis Castle. This evening we honour our special guests, Arch-druid Alun and his brother, the respected seer, Bradan.”
There was a flurry of clapping, cheers and whistles. The Druids acknowledged the tribute with smiles and nods.
Lord Cedric spread his arms. “Please, enjoy the food and drink, the entertainment, and good company.” Then he raised his goblet. “Lechyd da!”
“Lechyd da!” the guests chorused as they raised their goblets in reply.
“Music,” Lord Cedric called.
The minstrels took their positions, but before they could pluck a string or blow a note on a pipe, the doors of the Great Hall opened and a trumpeter sounded his horn.
“Presenting Lady Linnet, wife to Penn of Gwynedd,” a herald announced and then bowed.
All eyes turned to the entrance and a wave of shocked murmurs rolled through the hall. Lady Linnet smiled and curtsied as if being presented to assembled nobility was an everyday occurrence.
Bran had never seen his mother look more lovely. Her gown was simple yet elegant—a slim-fitting robe of forest green. Over top she wore a sleeveless kirtle of embroidered silk which trailed several feet behind her. Her raven hair, dressed with ribbons and pearls, fell in soft curls down her back. In the warm glow of the candlelight, she looked as if she’d walked out of a dream.
Bran’s gaze moved to his father. He had risen to his feet and was gripping the table as if it alone was keeping him upright. All colour had drained from his face. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again when no words came. The whole while his eyes were fixed on his wife.
Lady Linnet returned his gaze and moved forward. Glide to her husband’s side—that’s what she’d said she would do. Bran remembered. But something wasn’t right. He frowned. Recalling how the other ladies at the banquet had been escorted to their seats, Bran jumped up from his place and hurried to his mother’s side.
She pulled back in surprise, but when Bran bowed, a smile slid onto her face.
He held out his arm. “Milady.”
20—The Boy
The guests gawked and whispered behind their hands as the boy escorted his mother up the centre aisle to the head table. This was precisely the reaction Lady Linnet had hoped for, and Bran knew she was relishing the moment.
Like everyone else, Penn of Gwynedd’s gaze was focused on his wife, but that didn’t mean he was oblivious to the other goings-on in the hall. Bran kept his face blank. Let his father think he was as surprised as anyone by Lady Linnet’s arrival.
For several seconds those at the head table stared in disbelief, and then as if awakened from a trance, they sprang to life, shuffling chairs and bodies to make room for the unexpected guest.
Pushing through his stupor at last, Penn of Gwynedd came out from behind the table, bowed, smiled at his wife and escorted her the rest of the way to her seat.
Though he didn’t so much as glance at his son, the boy wasn’t fooled. The lack of acknowledgment was not an oversight. Bran could almost smell his father’s rage.
Lord Cedric made a great show of welcoming Lady Linnet and expressing his delight over her recovery. Then he offered a toast, everyone raised their goblets and applause filled the room. The minstrels began to play and the feast resumed.
Bran made his way back to his own place, but before he could retake his seat, Cara appeared from nowhere, as if she’d popped out of a crack in the stone wall. She pulled him to the side.
“You need to leave,” she said.
Bran’s jaw dropped. “Leave? But why? The feast has just begun.” Servers were circling the room with huge platters of food, and his mouth watered in anticipation. Longingly, he sniffed at a passing trencher heaped with sizzling beef. “I haven’t eaten yet.”
“There’s plenty of food in the kitchen. When you’re done eating, go to your pallet.”
“But why? And what about Grandfather and Bradan? They’re leaving in the morning, and I haven’t said goodbye.”
“They’ll understand,” she muttered as she watched the servers deposit their platters and head to the oak doors. She gave Bran a push. “Leave with the kitchen staff and no one will notice you.”
“But—”
“Go!” she growled in a tone he knew well, and without further protest he did as he was told.
But Cara was wrong. Someone did notice. As Bran joined the servers exiting the Great Hall, he glanced over his shoulder to see his father glaring at him.
***
Penn of Gwynedd’s malevolent stare unnerved the boy, and he feared the man would come after him. Even when he crawled onto his pallet and pulled up the cover, Bran found himself listening for his father’s boots. He thought he’d never sleep, which was not a terrible thing considering he planned to rise early to see his grandfather and uncle away. In truth, he was hoping to have another word with Bradan. But Bran drifted off long before Cara returned from the evening’s festivities and didn’t waken until she roused him the next morning. By that time the Druids were miles away.
“I think it best you skip your lesson with you father this morning,” she said. “Attend to your chores at the stable, but skip your ride and return here. I shall send word that you are having one of your headaches.”
The boy didn’t need to ask the reason for the deception. The look on his father’s face as Bran left the feast had said everything there was to say. Cara was trying to keep him out of Penn of Gwynedd’s reach.
She sighed. “You shouldn’t have antagonized him.”
Bran frowned. “What did I do?”
“You don’t know?”
He lifted his shoulders and let them drop again.
“You disgraced him in front of a room filled with important people.”
Bran’s eyes opened wide with surprise. “I did?”
Cara clucked her tongue. “It was your father’s responsibility to escort your mother to her seat. When you stepped forward it was like announcing to everyone in the hall that he was neglecting his duty.”
“He was!” Bran shot back. “He made no move to join her and offer his arm. My mother was escorting herself.”
“Your father was caught off-guard.”
“Are you defending him?”
“Seeing your mother must have been a shock for him.”
The boy couldn’t argue with that. Hadn’t he urged his mother to share her news privately for that very reason?
“If you make yourself scarce until he warms to the situation, his anger might pass,” Cara continued.
Bran shot her a sideways glance. They both knew there was little chance of that.
***
As he made his way to the stable that morning, Bran watched for his mother. Now that everyone knew she could walk, he half-expected to see her roaming the castle grounds. But she wasn’t, so after the midday meal, he sneaked out of his room where he was feigning a headache and stole through the shadows along the edge of the bailey to her chambers.
He was shocked to find her in bed. He was even more shocked to find his father sitting on the pallet beside her.
Bran approached cautiously. “Mother?”
The disgruntled look on her face made it clear that lying abed had not been her choice. She smiled cheerlessly. “Hello, my darling boy.”
“I see you’ve recovered from your headache,” his father observed snidely, then added, “Your mother’s ill-advised presence at last night’s feast has taken its toll.”
Bran had to admit his mother did look tired, but that was to be expected after the previous evening’s excitement.
“I may have had too much wine,” Lady Linnet said. “It has been so long since I’ve attended a feast, I think I over-indulged.”
“You have a delicate constitution, my dear,” Penn of Gwynedd said, patting her hand. “Boisterous affairs such as feasts are too tiring for you. Have you not been listening to your physicians these many years?”
Lady Linnet pulled her hand away and scowled at him. “It is only since I stopped listening to my physicians that my health has improved.”
“No, wife. It is because you were finally getting the rest you needed.” He sent his son a recriminating glare. “Now I fear the good that was gained has been lost—all because of this walking nonsense.”
“It is not nonsense,” Lady Linnet huffed.
“And—” her husband continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “—we are going to have to work doubly hard to get your health back to where it was.”
“My health is fine!” she insisted. “It is keeping me in bed that has made me weak.”
He smiled indulgently. “Now, now. Don’t fret. You’ll be back to yourself in no time.”
“Husband, stop treating me like a child! You are missing the point. I do not want to get back to myself. That woman was half-dead. I want to be alive. I want to shop in the market. I want to attend feasts.” She spread her arms. And run in the meadow and smell the wildflowers. I want to be tired because I’ve done things.” She pounded her fists on the bedcover. “What I don’t want is to lie in this bed and wither away.”
Penn of Gwynedd frowned. “You are talking foolishness.”
“I most certainly am not. Why won’t you listen? You saw me, last night!” she exclaimed. “I entered the Great Hall on my own two feet. I was not tired or weak. I felt as vigorous as ever I have in my life. I was with people. I was a part of things. Do you not want that for me, husband?”
He sprang to his feet and scowled at her. “How can you ask that?”
She returned his fierce stare. “Because you seem determined to keep me in this bed. One would think you want me to be an invalid.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He began pacing. “All I want is what’s best for you. I listen to your physicians even if you don’t.”
“If I am as decrepit as you and my physicians claim, how was I able to join in last night’s festivities? No one carried me there. I walked unassisted out the door of my chambers, down the keep steps, across the bailey and into the Great Hall. For weeks I have been moving about the castle and through the market. I even stood beside you at one of the stalls, and you never even noticed.”
Penn of Gwynedd stopped in mid-stride and spun around. His eyes were wild. “All this you did behind my back. Why? Why did you not tell me and seek my help?”
“Because I knew this is how you would react.”
His gaze darted to his son. “This is the boy’s doing. I know it. It’s exactly the sort of wickedness he seeks to stir up. He is reckless and wild.” He turned his glare on his wife. “And you indulge him.”
A familiar blanket of fear settled over the boy. He knew where this was going, and it took all his courage to stand his ground.
Lady Linnet placed a reassuring hand on Bran’s arm. “Leaving my bed was my decision alone. Walking the castle and the market and attending the feast were all initiated by me. Bran tried to dissuade me, but when I insisted, he stayed near my side to make sure I was safe. He knew you would be concerned. He was looking out for me. You should be proud of him.”
“Proud!” Penn of Gwynedd hooted. “Proud that he encouraged you in this madness? It is simply more of the same bad behaviour he practices daily. You have no notion of the trouble he gets into. The boy repeatedly lies, steals and defies me. I have tried to spare you his misdeeds, but this time he has gone too far.”
Lady Linnet shook her head. “I don’t believe you. He is a boy; he is bound to be mischievous. There would be something wrong if he weren’t. But he is not bad. Cara would have told me.”
Penn of Gwynedd heaved an angry sigh. “You are blind to his faults. Believe me when I tell you he is determined to run afoul of all that is good and proper. Up to now I have been lenient with him. I have kept his willfulness to myself because I didn’t want to upset you, but now that he jeopardizes your health, I can bite my tongue no longer.”
His attention turned once more to Bran. “This time you have really done it, boy, and you shall feel my wrath,” he growled and pointed to the door. “Wait for me in my chambers.”
Lady Linnet gasped. “Surely you don’t mean to punish him. The boy has done nothing wrong.”
He ignored her protest. “Go!” he roared.
Bran felt himself shrinking beneath his father’s imperious stare. He had known all along it would come to this. It didn’t matter what the truth was; Penn of Gwynedd would believe what he chose to believe, and Bran would be punished whether he deserved it or not. A few moments earlier, he’d been hard-pressed not to run away, but now he couldn’t make himself move. His legs might as well have been made of lead.
“Go!” his father thundered again, taking a step toward the boy.
Lady Linnet threw back the coverlet and sprang from the bed, placing herself between father and son. “Stop this! It is insanity. You are not thinking, husband. You are acting like a man possessed.” When Penn of Gwynedd tried to step round her, she placed her hands on his chest and pushed him back. “No!” she cried. “You will not lay hands on my son.”
For a moment, the man was stunned. His mouth dropped open and his eyes grew round. Then just as quickly, his mouth closed again and tightened into a determined line. His eyes narrowed to angry slits.
“I see where your allegiance lies,” he growled. “It is just as I suspected.” Then he pushed her roughly aside and seethed through gritted teeth, “Get out of my way, wife. The boy can no longer hide behind your skirts.”
But Lady Linnet was not deterred and threw herself at her husband once more. “No! You will not hurt the boy.”
But before she could strike him, he grabbed her wrists and pushed her toward the bed. “Do not make me deal with you as well.”
Bran couldn’t believe what was happening. His father had beaten him many times but never in anger. He had always inflicted the switch with cold, measured resolve. Now he was well and truly in a rage, and his anger was directed at Lady Linnet.
Consumed with the need to protect his mother, Bran’s thoughts flew to the table across the room and the flat rocks she used to press her flowers. Faster than he could think, he picked up one of the stones with his mind and hurled it at his father’s head.
21—The Boy
Penn of Gwynedd’s attention was focused on his wife, so he didn’t see the stone coming, but Lady Linnet was facing the table, and she did.
“No!” she screamed, falling backwards onto the bed and pulling her husband with her. Though she was a small woman, she caught Penn of Gwynedd off-balance, and using all her strength, she dragged him down.
As a result, the rock only grazed his temple, and without changing course, continued to the far side of the chamber, striking the wall so hard chips of limestone flew in every direction. Then it dropped to the floor with a mighty thunk.
Bran blinked in horror. He had just tried to kill his father. If not for the quick actions of his mother, he would have succeeded. He hadn’t planned to throw the rock. He didn’t even remember doing it. All he recalled was fearing for his mother’s safety. The rest was a blur, as if someone else had done the deed and he had merely watched it.
Penn of Gwynedd raised himself onto his elbows. He lifted a hand to his head and stared at the smudge of blood that came away on his fingers. Frowning, he sat up and looked behind him at the rock lying on the stone floor. His bewildered gaze moved from his wife to his son and back again.
“What madness is this?” His voice was an incredulous whisper.
Lady Linnet had no answer. Nor did Bran, though he knew his father was unlikely to accept silence as a response.
Lady Linnet hugged her husband’s arm. “Thank goodness you are alright.”
As if her touch burned him, he pulled away and scrambled to his feet. Wagging a finger at Bran, he growled, “I don’t know how you did this, but I know you did.”
“That’s impossible,” Lady Linnet interjected. “Bran never left my side. He was nowhere near the pressing stones. How could he have thrown one?” She slid to the edge of the bed.
Without shifting his eyes from the boy, Penn of Gwynedd raised a hand to stay her. “Do not interfere, wife. This is between the boy and me. I shall deal with him the only way he understands.” He took a menacing step toward Bran. “Unless you wish your mother to witness your punishment, go to my chambers,” he commanded.
Bran’s heart jumped into his throat. Having his mother watch his humiliation would be worse than the beating. As he turned to leave, his hand began to tingle. He stopped and glanced down. Small sparks jumped from the tips of his fingers. Oh, no! This couldn’t be happening. Not now! Terrified his father would see, he slid his hand behind him.
Penn of Gwynedd lunged forward, growling, “You had your chance, boy.”
“Stop!” Lady Linnet cried.
Bran stumbled backwards, trying to remain beyond his father’s reach. After a few steps, he bumped against the wall. He could go no farther. Penn of Gwynedd leered victoriously and reached out to grab him. Without thinking, Bran put out his arms to fend him off. Too late he remembered the sparks, and before he could pull back his hand, the shards of light dancing on the ends of his fingers shot forward.
He watched in disbelief as the sparks became a flashing, crackling cage surrounding his father. The man was trapped, but also paralyzed. His body was balanced on one foot and his face had stiffened into a contorted mask of anger. His arm was still outstretched toward Bran, his hand poised to grab him, but he was unable to complete the act. He could have been carved from stone.
Bran might have thought him dead if not for his eyes. They darted wildly in their sockets. Penn of Gwynedd was clearly confused and afraid, and the boy almost felt sorry for him. Though the sparks continued to fly between his fingers and the cage, he sensed that all he need do was lower his arm and his father would be free. He kept his arm extended.
“Bran!” Lady Linnet choked out his name, “let him go. You must release him.”
Afraid the spell would be broken if he looked away, Bran kept his gaze focused on his father. “I can’t,” he said. “You heard him. He’s going to beat me. And he’s furious. I’ve never seen him so angry. This time he might kill me.”
Lady Linnet gasped. “This time? What do you mean—this time? Has he beaten you before?”
Bran didn’t know what to say. His father’s body might be trapped, but he could still see, which meant he could probably hear too. If Bran spoke badly of him to Lady Linnet, he would be more incensed than ever, and once he was free of the sparks, there was no telling what he would do to Bran.
Before he could reply, a blood-chilling scream pierced the air. His head swivelled toward the sound. In the doorway of the chamber stood Nesta. Her gaze was riveted to the cage of sparks and to Penn of Gwynedd paralyzed within it. She took a step backwards, then opened her mouth and screamed again.
Bran lowered his arm and ran.
22—Cara
Cara lifted her skirt clear of the raft and stepped off. Shading her eyes against the afternoon sun, she looked toward the forest. The boy must be in there somewhere. It was the only place left to look. She sighed and started forward.
Things were a mess. In a single day life at the castle had been turned upside down. The girl, Nesta, had wasted no time spreading word about what she’d seen in Lady Linnet’s chambers, growing the tale with each telling. Some folk thought she was making it up, but there were more who believed her and were frightened. As word spread, people grew wary, and the crowds in the market thinned. This morning hardly anyone had ventured over the drawbridge. Cara hadn’t seen the bailey so empty since the terrible storm.
She sighed again and wished for the hundredth time the boy had stayed in the castle the day of the great lightning. If he had, none of this would be happening. He wouldn’t have magically hurled a rock at his father, nor would he have ensnared him behind bars of sparks. Nesta wouldn’t be gossiping, and the boy’s parents wouldn’t be at each other’s throats. Penn of Gwynedd was certain Lady Linnet had known of Bran’s powers and that the two were plotting against him. Cara had told her mistress the boy could move things with his mind, so the man was right on that account, but Lady Linnet hadn’t shared that knowledge with Bran, and the only plot mother and son had hatched was Lady Linnet’s appearance at the feast. Still, there was no reasoning with Penn of Gwynedd, and Cara feared what he would do when he got his hands on the boy. Certainly she was worried about Bran being on his own, but she was relieved he had taken himself beyond his father’s reach.
At the edge of the forest, she stopped and called his name. “Bran! Bran, show yourself. I know you’re here.”
There was no reply. She would have been surprised if there were. The child was wary—and with good cause.
She walked farther into the forest. “I’ve not come to take you back to the castle,” she told the trees, hoping the boy was hiding behind one of them. “I’ve brought food—and news.” She waited and listened. Then she resumed walking. When she stopped again, she said, “Your mother is out of her mind with worry. At least give me reason to tell her you are unharmed.”
Bran stepped out from behind a tall fir. “What news?”
Cara hid her relief, and lowering her basket to the ground, she began to unpack its contents. “Come and eat,” she said. “You must be hungry.” When he didn’t move, she regarded him soberly. “You can see I am alone. You have nothing to fear from your nani. You know I would never betray you.”
Bran started toward her. “What news do you have?”
“Sit,” she patted the grass and offered him an apple and a wedge of cheese. Once he’d taken them and lowered himself to the ground, she continued. “I have known for some time about your powers.”
Bran’s mouth dropped open. “You have?”
She nodded. “Yes. I saw you—” she paused, “—moving things. Your mother knows too. I told her.”
“Why didn’t you say something to me? Why didn’t she?”
Cara shrugged. “I suppose we were hoping the magic would go away.”
“It hasn’t,” he said dejectedly. “If anything, it’s becoming stronger.”
“Well, you have certainly caused a stir at the castle. It was bad enough you used your powers against your father, but—”
“I didn’t mean to!” Bran blurted. “It’s just that Father was angry, and he turned his rage on Mother. I just wanted to protect her. I never gave a thought to the pressing stone. It was like it threw itself. And then when Father came after me, I was so scared. All I did was put my hands up to fend him off. I didn’t know sparks were going to fly at him. It just happened.”
Cara smiled sadly. “I believe you. You mustn’t blame yourself. You didn’t ask for these powers, and you can’t be expected to know how to control them.” She shook her head. “Of course, it doesn’t help that Nesta—blathering magpie that she is—witnessed the whole thing. Now folk from near and far are a dither with the tale.”
Bran hung his head. “And what of my mother?”
“Well, she’s worried sick, isn’t she? She knows you’re not at fault but convincing your father of that is another matter. Thankfully Lord Cedric is sending him to Cymru’s southern region on a legal matter. He leaves in a few days and should be gone a fortnight. Hopefully cooler heads will prevail upon his return.”
“Am I to go back to the castle then?” Bran asked. “Will I be welcome? Or will I be chased away at the end of a pike?”
Cara placed her hand over his. “Folk will likely be wary. After Nesta’s jibber-jabbering, it’s only natural. But they will quickly see that you are the same sweet boy they’ve always known, and they’ll forget this other nonsense.”
Bran regarded her solemnly and shook his head. “It isn’t nonsense, Cara. It is real, and it’s not going away. In fact I fear it’s getting worse.” Despair spread across his face. “And I don’t know how to stop it.”
23—The Boy
A day and a night after Penn of Gwynedd left for Cymru’s southern region, Cara came back. It was time to return to Llanberis.
She assured Bran he had nothing to fear, but as they stepped off the raft and started toward the castle, he warily eyed the drawbridge, waiting for it to close and deny them entry. Normally the bailey would be bustling with folk, but it was eerily empty, just as Cara had said. He could barely hear the market-goers. Were they watching for him, waiting to pounce?
Cara must have sensed his uneasiness, for she placed a hand on his shoulder and urged him out of the shadows of the thick arched walls and into the courtyard. What sound there was died completely and Bran wondered if he’d gone deaf. His heart skipped a beat, and though he kept his gaze fixed on the ground, he could feel distrustful eyes upon him.
Cara guided him toward their rooms. Thankfully it was a short distance, but even so, Bran was sweating by the time the door closed behind them.
Lady Linnet spun away from the fire crackling in the hearth and gathered him into a fierce hug. Relief surged through him. He should have known she would be waiting. She was his mother no matter what, and just feeling her arms around him was a comfort.
She released him, and cupping his face in her hands, she looked earnestly into his eyes. “Are you alright?”
He couldn’t speak for the tightness in his throat. A tear spilled down his cheek.
She wiped it away and kissed the top of his head. “I know it feels hopeless, Bran, but it’s going to be alright. Everything will get sorted.”
He threw himself onto a chair. “How can it?” he wailed. “There’s magic in me. And I can’t control it! I almost killed my own father! I didn’t even know I was doing it. It’s no wonder he hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” she replied quickly. “He’s just confused. We all are. But that doesn’t mean we can’t work things out.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet,” she replied quietly. “But we will. I promise.” She and Cara exchanged glances. “In the meantime, we must carry on.”
“I can’t!” Bran cried. “People are afraid of me. I can feel it.”
“That will pass,” she said. “Folk may keep their distance for a few days, but as soon as they see you are the same boy you’ve always been, they will come around.”
He shook his head. “I can’t bear them staring at me. It’s like they’re waiting for me to turn them into toads.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. You are my son. You are strong. If I learned to walk again, you can withstand a bit of gawking. Remember, you are not alone. Cara and I will help you. Others will too. You’ll see.
“Today,” she said with authority, “you and I shall share our midday meal here by the fire.” She smiled. “And then this afternoon, we shall walk around the castle.”
Bran gasped. “Everyone will see me!”
Lady Linnet nodded. “That is the point. They will see you acting in a perfectly normal way. And this evening we can sup together in my quarters. Afterwards, you will return the tray to the kitchen and come back here. Tomorrow you will resume your usual activities. Master Garth is expecting you at the stable in the morning.” She smiled and chucked Bran under the chin. “I believe he has a surprise for you.”
“Is he not worried I’ll set the barn afire or frighten the horses?” Bran asked skeptically.
“Of course not.” She folded him in her arms once more. “We will find a way through this. Be brave and have faith.”
***
The first two days were every bit as difficult as Bran had anticipated. Though no one said anything to him directly, folk whispered behind their hands and gave him a wide berth. He might as well have had the plague. His appearance in the kitchen at mealtimes sent all but a few diners scurrying for the door. The boy offered to eat in his room, but Cara wouldn’t hear of it. She harrumphed that if people were going to be foolish, they could go hungry.
Things were a bit better at the stable. At first the grooms eyed the boy suspiciously and kept their distance, but they didn’t run away. And after an hour or so, they ceased to be bothered by his presence and resumed chatting with one another as they worked. It helped that Master Garth treated Bran exactly as he always had. He assigned him chores, barked orders and checked to see that jobs were done right. Partway through the morning he directed Bran to go with one of the grooms to collect horseshoes from the smithy. The groom opened his mouth to protest, but one look at the warning scowl on the stable master’s face and he closed it again.
He started for the courtyard, grumbling over his shoulder at Bran. “Well, are ya comin’ or aren’t ya?”
Bran hurried to catch up.
They strode across the bailey in silence. Though the blacksmith’s bushy eyebrows jumped at the sight of Bran, he didn’t appear to be afraid. He handed the lads a pole, and once they had hold of the ends, he hung horseshoes on it. It soon became quite heavy, and as they started back across the courtyard, it took all Bran’s strength to keep up his end.
Even so, he was still conscious of the curious stares following him.
“Put your eyes back in your head,” the groom snapped at the offenders. “Have you never seen horseshoes before?”
It wasn’t the horseshoes people were looking at and well the groom knew it. Gratitude fluttered in Bran’s chest.
When they reached the stable and set down their load, the groom held the pole out. “Take it back to the smithy,” he told Bran. Then he patted the boy’s shoulder and returned to his work.
With slightly more confidence, Bran crossed the bailey again. People still gawked, but instead of averting his eyes, he met their stares, and this time it was the gawkers who looked away.
As he was finishing his chores, Master Garth walked past, leading a stallion toward the paddock. “Saddle the mare,” he said, barely glancing at the boy.
Bran’s heart skipped a beat. He had been hoping for a chance to ride and he quickly did as he was bidden.
When he reached the paddock, he found the stable master leaning against a post, his face turned to the sun. His eyes were closed, but he must have heard Bran, for he said, “Mount the beast. We’re going to the meadow.”
“Beyond the castle?” Bran asked, incredulous.
Master Garth opened one eye. “That would be where the meadow is.”
Bran grinned. This must be the surprise his mother had spoken of. “Does my mother know?”
“She does. As does your nani.” He pushed off from the post and patted a pannier slung over the stallion’s back. “She packed food.” He cast his eyes skyward and shook his head. “As if you’d starve if you missed a meal.” In one fluid movement he was on the horse and urging him toward the gate.
Using a log as a stool, Bran quickly mounted the mare and followed.
It was an honour to be accompanying the stable master, and as their horses trotted down the length of the bailey Bran sat tall in the saddle, lighthearted for the first time in many days. His stomach completed a series of somersaults and he almost laughed aloud as he realized he was hoping folk would turn to look. How differently he’d felt an hour earlier.
The thud of hooves on the packed earth changed to a noisy clatter as the horses started over the wooden bridge. In seconds, they were beyond it and onto a dirt track that wound through the tall grass. The stable master urged his mount to a gallop. Since there was room for only one horse on the path, Bran fell in behind and followed apace.
He squinted into the wind. It rumbled in his ears and clawed at his woollen tunic. Galloping across a field was exactly how he’d imagined it would be. He took the crisp autumn air deeply into his lungs. Not even worries of magic could spoil the day.
***
Master Garth must have been satisfied with the boy’s skills, because after their ride through the fields, he gave him permission to venture out on his own. He must complete his chores each day and stay within sight of Llanberis, and he must rub the mare down afterwards, but if he promised to do all those things, he could take the horse beyond the castle walls.
The ride through the fields was something to look forward to. Each day after his work at the stable was done, Bran and the mare crossed the drawbridge for an hour of freedom. It was glorious. He even began to feel like his old self. During that time he experienced two headaches but neither was agonizing; nor did they result in more magic. Moreover, he avoided situations which might prompt him to use the magic he already had, so that after a week of normal activities, he allowed himself to think his magic was waning.
But as the time of this father’s return drew near, Bran’s sense of well-being faltered. Though his mother assured him there was nothing to be concerned about, he wasn’t convinced. Penn of Gwynedd was not one to forgive or forget. Distance had kept the boy safe from his father’s wrath, but that was about to change. Bran had tried to kill him. Though the attempt had failed, the humiliation Penn of Gwynedd had suffered at his son’s hand would be festering like an unclean wound. Time would not have dampened his fury. If anything, he would be more determined than ever to punish the boy.
“Our rides might stop for a while,” Bran told the mare as they meandered aimlessly through the field fronting the castle. He looked up. The sky was blue, but there was a briskness to the air. The trees dotting the meadow had dropped their leaves and their branches clutched the air like boney fingers. The winter rains would soon be upon them.
But that wasn’t why Bran foresaw an interruption to the rides. It was because he knew his impending punishment would make it impossible to sit the mare. Shuddering at the thought of the pain to come, he turned his gaze toward the rutted road that would bring Penn of Gwynedd back to Llanberis.
The way was clear, but it wouldn’t be for long. He turned the mare toward the castle and nudged her forward. “It’s time to head back.”
As they plodded homeward, he became aware of a vibration in the ground—the thundering of hooves. He turned to see who was approaching and quailed at the sight of an enormous black steed bearing down on him. Where had it come from? He hadn’t noticed anyone in the field. The beast was so close he could see its nostrils flaring and could hear it snorting. It’s rider—his black cloak whipping in the wind—was indistinguishable from his mount.
The mare sensed danger and with a frightened neigh, bolted for the castle. Bran sank low over her shoulders and hung on. There was no time to do anything else. But he and the mare could not outrun their assailant, and before they’d gone ten paces, a mighty arm shot out and plucked Bran from the mare’s back.
More spooked than ever, the little horse whinnied again and raced on as if she were being chased by Arawn, the God of Death.
But the black rider had what he wanted. He turned his steed, and with Bran screaming and squirming in his grip, he headed back the way he’d come.
24—Cara
Cara was on her way to the kitchen with Lady Linnet’s food tray when the cry went up, and like everyone else in the bailey she ran to discover the cause of the uproar. Instinct told her it involved the boy, and when the mare—clearly terrified—tore across the drawbridge and into the courtyard without her rider, Cara’s stomach dropped into her boots and the tray to the ground.
Master Garth who’d been drawn from the stable by the commotion, caught the mare’s reins and set about calming her.
A sentry waving his arms like flags yelled down from the parapet. “It’s the boy, Bran. He’s been taken. I seen it. Right there in the field. A rider on a big black horse come from nowhere and scooped the boy clean off the mare’s back. Then quick as you please he turned around and rode off again.”
One of Lord Cedric’s soldiers stepped out from the shadow of the barracks. “We will chase him down. Guards, prepare to ride! Master Garth, saddle our mounts!” Then he looked to the sentry. “Which way did he go?”
The man pointed beyond the parapet. “Into the hills.”
The tray forgotten, Cara picked up her skirts and hurried to deliver the distressing news to Lady Linnet.
25—The Boy
Clutched under the black rider’s arm like a large piece of firewood, Bran flew along beside the stallion—a wingless bird with arms pinned to his sides and legs shooting out weightless behind him. The wind riffled his hair and eyelashes and pushed his screams for help back down his throat. And though he twisted and writhed to free himself, it did no good.
Bran was terrified. Who was this man? What did he want? Where was he taking him? He fought against the panic rising in him. He had to stay calm. He had to escape.
Partially buried beneath the rider’s cloak, the boy could see very little, and it was hard to get his bearings. If he could bite the man, that might cause him to let go, but the only thing near enough for Bran to get his teeth into was the cloak.
Unable to think what else to do, he began to despair. But then a tingling in his fingertips reminded him he wasn’t without resources. He had magic, and for once—instead of wishing it away—he became hopeful it might save him. He could cage his abductor in sparks as he had his father. But he needed his arms for that. He had to make the rider release him.
If he struck him with a rock, surely the man would let go. The boy looked for a stone on the ground. But jostled by the galloping horse and blinded by the cloak whipping about his face, it was impossible to locate one, let alone lift it with his mind and accurately hurl it.
Then he had another idea and twisted his head to look behind him. From the corner of his eye, he could just make out the front of the saddle. Hopefully that would be enough. He imagined it sliding down the side of the horse until it reached the creature’s belly. With the stallion in full gallop, the rider would be thrown, and Bran would be free.
Staring hard and focusing his thoughts, he pushed.
But nothing happened.
His confidence wavered. Maybe he’d lost his powers. Trying to ignore his misgivings, he concentrated on the saddle once more and pushed again. It still didn’t move.
What was wrong? Though the saddle wasn’t overly large, the man sitting on it was and that added greatly to its weight. Bran had never moved something so heavy before. He needed to try a different strategy.
His neck muscles strained from twisting backwards and his eyes ached from trying to look sideways. He turned his face into the wind again and closed his eyes to rest them. He needed to gather all his strength for the next push.
Since mentally leaning against the saddle hadn’t worked, he decided to fling a sudden burst of thought at it instead. The rider’s bulk naturally resisted a slow push, but a sudden thrust might catch him unawares. Bran opened his eyes and craned his neck once more so he could see the saddle. Then backing up within his mind, he mentally sprinted toward the saddle and heaved all his weight at it.
He felt the saddle start to slide—and the dark rider with it. Caught in the man’s grip, Bran started to slide too, and the instinct to protect himself made him forget to push. Thankfully the saddle was already on its way.
Everything happened quickly after that. The shift of weight on the stallion’s back pulled him off-balance, and rider, horse, and boy began to fall. As the stallion’s feet went out from under it, the man lost his grip on Bran and momentum propelled the boy into the air. He was flying. And then he hit the ground so hard his teeth rattled and the air rushed from his lungs.
Gasping for breath, he tried to get up. There was no time to waste. He had to use his magic to trap the man before he recovered and came after him.
But before he could get his bearings, his hands had been lashed behind him and he’d been plucked from the ground by the back of his tunic. He yelped in protest.
The man paid no heed. He held Bran at arm’s length as if assessing a pair of boots. Dangling from the air, the boy beheld his abductor for the first time.
He gulped. The man was a giant. Dressed in black from head to foot, he was fearsome. At first, Bran could see only darkness beneath his hood, and he cringed to think he was at the mercy of a headless monster, though if that were the case, the hood should crumple onto the man’s shoulders.
“So you thought you could escape me.” The rider’s deep voice rumbled up from his boots.
Bran was going to die; he knew it. Let it be over quickly, he prayed, screwing his eyes tight shut. But when nothing happened, he opened them again.
From the depths of his cloak the man began to laugh. It put Bran in mind of thunder—mighty guffaws that split the air and enveloped him so completely he felt as if he’d been swallowed. He tried to wiggle free, but that merely made his abductor laugh harder, causing the hood of his cloak to fall back and expose his head.
All Bran could do was stare. He was so stunned that for a moment he even forgot to be afraid.
The man must have risen from the ashes of a fire. That was the only explanation. His skin was the colour of tar. Not greyish brown as it would be if he’d rubbed dirt on it, but black as pitch and shiny. It was blistered too—in a pattern of bumps that snaked over his cheeks, climbed the bridge of his nose and then spread across his forehead like strings of beads artfully arranged beneath his skin. His hair was black too—a mat of tight curls that hugged his head like a woolly helmet. No wonder he had seemed non-existent beneath the hood of his cloak. He had chosen a black steed and black clothes for a reason. Even his gloves were black. The only relief from the darkness was the man’s mouth which—open wide with laughter—displayed blinding white teeth.
But as the guffaws slowed and then stopped, and the man’s eyes—which had been crinkled shut with mirth—reopened and looked upon Bran, all that changed.
Bran’s captor had the yellow eyes of a cat. The boy had been right. He was not a natural being, and though Bran was in no position to do anything about it, his senses snapped to attention.
The man’s face relaxed into a smile again. “You like my eyes,” he said. It was a statement of fact. “They are beautiful, non?”
Bran was stunned. Why wasn’t his abductor throwing him on his horse and fleeing? The boy peered past the man the way they’d come. He could see the castle in the distance and a small group of men on horseback riding out from it. Lord Cedric’s soldiers!
Relief rolled through him. The man’s back was to the castle, and if Bran kept him talking, he might not notice help was on the way.
“I am the only one with such eyes,” the man continued, oblivious to the approaching soldiers. “There is no other.”
He had a strange way of speaking. Though he used familiar words, they rolled off his tongue differently and were strung together in an odd way.
“You are not from Cymru,” Bran said.
The man’s face split into a wide grin. “Very good.”
“Where are you from?” Bran wanted to keep him talking. He writhed in the man’s grip. “Could you put me down, please. This is very uncomfortable.”
The man frowned.
“I won’t run away,” Bran assured him. “There’s no point. My hands are tied and you would only catch me again.”
His captor seemed to think about that. He nodded. “Yes, you are right. I shall return you to your feet but remember—you gave your word. Don’t make me regret my kindness. We should continue our journey. We have a great distance to travel.” He put Bran on the ground and gestured toward the horse, which had righted itself and was waiting stoically. “Come. You can sit on the saddle with me. It will be more comfortable for us both.”
Bran stole another look at the soldiers. They were getting closer. “You were going to tell me what land you are from,” he said, hoping the black rider would talk some more.
“Was I?” Amusement danced in the man’s his yellow eyes. Then he sobered again and without further ado he adjusted the saddle, then scooped the boy up and mounted the horse in one fluid motion. “There,” he announced as he plunked Bran down in front of him. “This is much better.”
Bran felt his hopes plummeting. He had to stall until the soldiers arrived. Then he had a thought that lifted his spirits as quickly as they had fallen. He twisted in the saddle and craned his neck to peer up at the man. “Could you untie my hands? If your horse loses his footing again, I won’t be able to break my fall.”
Once again the man roared with laughter. “You are a cunning little man. I admire that. But do you really think I would give you another chance to use your magic against me?”
Bran’s mouth dropped open.
“Oh, yes. I know of your powers,” he continued. “You outsmarted me once. I do not intend for that to happen again.”
Bran didn’t know what to think. His abductor was thwarting him at every turn. Feeling confused and frustrated, he demanded, “Who are you? Why are you doing this? What do you want with me?”
The man shrugged. “I want nothing. I act on behalf of another.”
Bran felt as if he’d been struck, and for a moment his mind refused to think. Not once had such a notion entered his head. “What do you mean? I don’t understand. Are you saying someone told you to carry me off?”
Without replying, the man urged the stallion forward, and they were soon galloping over the grassy hills once more.
Bran tried to make sense of what was happening. The man had abducted him, but he’d done it for someone else, which meant he had no grudge against Bran. It was no comfort. The man hid his appearance. He didn’t wish to be recognized. For all Bran knew, he was a hired assassin.
But hired by whom? And why would someone want Bran out of the way—or dead? He was only a boy, a small, inconsequential one at that. He had no influence over anyone. Yes, he could perform a bit of magic, but it wasn’t his wish to do so. Magic had caused him nothing but trouble. The castle folk were wary of him and …
In his mind he returned to his mother’s quarters in the keep. He heard her screaming and saw the pressing stone fly toward his father’s head.
And suddenly he knew who had sought out the black rider’s services.
26—The Boy
Bran could now hear the pounding hooves of the approaching horses. Lord Cedric’s soldiers had nearly caught them up. He tensed, waiting for the dark rider to spur his mount on—for he must also have heard their pursuers. But as the stallion slid over the side of a hill, the man slowed it to a walk and then a complete stop. Bran was confused. Was his abductor going to give himself up?
He twisted to look behind and call out to his rescuers, but before he could utter a sound, a big hand smothered his cry and pulled him firmly back into place.
“You will be still,” the man said.
Too afraid to disobey, Bran stayed as motionless as a stone, but that didn’t keep his hopes from climbing. Soon the soldiers would be upon them and he would be free.
But as his would-be rescuers crested the hill—instead of surrounding the dark rider and demanding Bran’s release—they galloped past. It was as if they hadn’t seen him. But how could they not?
Bran watched aghast as Lord Cedric’s soldiers raced on to the northern hills. As they became bobbing dots in the distance, the man removed his hand from Bran’s mouth, turned his steed’s head east and urged the animal forward.
Bran blinked in disbelief. What had just happened? Why hadn’t the soldiers stopped? Why hadn’t they freed him?
“They did not see us,” the man said.
Bran swung around to look into his abductor’s face.
“I made us blend in with our surroundings. As long as we remained still, we were part of the grass and sky,” the man said, but his mouth didn’t move as he spoke, and Bran realized the voice was coming from inside his own head.
The man was a mind talker like Bradan. In fact, if he’d done what he claimed he had—if he’d made them invisible to the soldiers—he was much more than that.
Bran’s blood ran cold.
They journeyed on without talking further. The dark rider seemed preoccupied, and Bran could barely think, let alone speak. No matter how he tried to sort things out, he could make no sense of them. The only certainty was that he was the dark rider’s prisoner and with each stride the stallion took, his rescue became less likely.
But as day turned to night, not even fear for his life could keep Bran’s eyes from sliding shut.
Though he wouldn’t have thought it possible to sleep for even a few minutes—let alone the full night—it was morning before he awoke. For a moment he thought he was in his own bed at the castle, but as the drowsiness left him, he remembered that he had been abducted. His eyes flew open. To his amazement, he wasn’t atop the black stallion. And his hands were no longer tied. He was lying on a soft bed of pine needles in a small clearing, deep in a forest.
It wasn’t his forest though. He sat up, looked around, and took the morning air into his lungs. It smelled different—not bad—just different. He spied the stallion across the clearing, its reins wrapped round a sapling. That struck Bran as odd, for the horse could snap the stalk with a single tug.
Bran scanned the clearing. There was no sign of the dark rider. His heart sped up as he pushed himself to his knees and then his feet. He looked around again, peering into the trees. The man wasn’t anywhere. Likely he’d gone to relieve himself, Bran decided. This was his chance. If he mounted the stallion before the dark rider returned, he could escape. He had no idea which way led to Llanberis Castle, but he would solve that problem later.
He crept across the clearing. As he neared the horse, he prayed to the god, Cernunnos, to keep it calm. The man couldn’t be far, and the last thing Bran needed was to spook the animal and alert him. As the boy freed the reins from the sapling, the stallion snorted and pawed the ground, but otherwise remained docile. Bran scanned the area for something to stand on, and spying a large moss-covered boulder, he led the stallion to it.
As he cautiously lifted himself onto the horse’s back, he held his breath, waiting to be bucked off. When that didn’t happen, he took one last furtive glance around the clearing and started forward. They were soon into the trees. Spying trampled grass resembling a path, he urged his mount toward it. But the animal resisted. Instead, it veered in the opposite direction and began to gallop. Bran pulled on the reins but to no avail. The stallion clearly had its own ideas, and as it zig-zagged around the bushes and trees, it was all the boy could do to hang on and dodge the branches whipping past. Knowing he had no chance of reaching the castle on foot, he couldn’t let the beast throw him. He gripped the reins tightly and hunched low over the horse’s neck. With his fingers wound through its mane and his legs clamped to its flanks, he hung on. Finally, the stallion slowed and came to a halt. Bran cautiously lifted his head to look around.
He found himself staring at a small stream. Though not wide, it was deep. He could not see the bottom. He ran his tongue over his lips. Suddenly his mouth and throat felt dry. He needed to get clear of the dark rider, but he also needed to slake his thirst. A quick drink would see him by until he could find food.
Hanging onto the reins, he slid off the horse and tethered it to a nearby tree. Then falling onto his stomach at the edge of the stream, he slurped the cold, sweet water until his belly was full. Satisfied, he pushed himself back to his feet, swivelled toward the horse—and gasped.
Standing beside the stallion was the dark rider. He held a makeshift spear in one hand, and in the other a stick from which dangled two brown trout.
“Good morning,” he grinned at Bran, then patted the stallion’s neck and crooned in its ear, “You have done well, Ami. Merci.”
Instinct told Bran to run, but he knew it was pointless. The man had magic and a spear. Bran couldn’t match the man’s magic, and he couldn’t outrun the spear. His shoulders sagged as hope leaked out of him.
The man lifted him onto the stallion’s back and thrust the stick of fish into his hands. Then he untethered the horse and began leading it back toward the clearing.
“We will eat,” he called over his shoulder, “and then we will continue our journey. We should reach our destination before our bellies again need filling.”
“Where are we going?” Bran asked, though he didn’t expect an answer; nor was he sure he wanted one. Since he hadn’t yet been killed, he suspected a different fate awaited him. It would be equally horrid though—it had to be if his father was behind it. Perhaps he would be sold into slavery or put on a ship bound for a faraway land. He shuddered to think of the other possibilities. He put nothing past his father, so great was his loathing of Bran.
“You will know that soon enough,” the man replied.
***
Even before the horse came to a stop, Bran sensed they had reached the end of their journey. He slumped against the dark rider and gaped in awe.
“It takes one’s breath most certainly,” his abductor said. “And so it should, for it is one of nature’s sacred places.”
Was that why Bran suddenly felt small? He stared unblinking at the sight before him. Though they were deep within the forest, a set of mossy stone steps climbed a knoll half-buried beneath tarnished autumn leaves. The place resembled an altar—at least the remains of one. On its crest stood a single crumbling stone arch. The surrounding rubble indicated it had once been part of a larger structure, but now all that remained was the arch.
Bran couldn’t comprehend how something in such ruin could be so beautiful, yet it was and as he beheld it, the mid-morning sun sent a shaft of golden light through the trees and through the arch, straight into Bran’s eyes. Its brilliance was blinding. Even so, he couldn’t look away.
“The light enters through the eyes but seeks the heart,” the dark rider said.
And then the ray of sunshine moved on. The morning was just the morning again and the forest was just the forest. The man lifted Bran from the saddle and lowered him to the ground before dismounting himself.
Bran slowly turned a circle, taking in his surroundings. Then he looked at the man and frowned. “This is our destination?”
“It is.”
The boy peered around him, trying once again to makes sense of that which made no sense. “Will someone be meeting us here?”
The man pushed back his hood. “Non.”
“I don’t understand. Why would my father tell you to bring me here? Am I to be left to starve? To be set upon by wild animals?”
The man chuckled, but there was no joy in it. Then he sighed and stared so hard at Bran, the boy began to squirm. It was as if the man was looking inside him. But he didn’t turn away. He needed answers.
The man placed his large hand on Bran’s shoulder. “It was not your father who wanted you brought here. It was your mother.”
When Bran didn’t reply, he led the stallion to a tree and tethered it. He looked back at the boy and said, “My name is Henri.” Then he gestured to a fallen log. “Sit.”
But Bran barely heard. His mind wouldn’t move past the man’s last words. His mother had arranged his kidnapping. That had to be wrong. She couldn’t have done that. She wouldn’t have done that. Would she? The last patch of solid ground in the boy’s world began to crumble beneath him.
“Sit,” the man repeated. “I have much to tell you.”
But Bran still couldn’t get past the notion that his mother had had him abducted. “No! I don’t believe you! You’re lying!” Bran shouted, shaking his head and covering his ears. “I won’t listen. My mother would never send me away. She loves me!” Whether it was brought on by anger or despair, Bran couldn’t tell, but a tear slid down his cheek. He dashed it away with his sleeve and thrust his chin out willfully. “My father told you to say that, didn’t he? He wants my mother to love only him. But saying hurtful things won’t make it so!”
“You are jumping to conclusions. If you let me ex—”
But Bran didn’t give him a chance to finish. “You will only spew more lies.”
“I do not lie,” the man replied indignantly. “I have never—”
Again the boy cut him off. “I won’t listen to you!”
The man lowered his head like a bull about to charge and his yellow eyes smouldered. “It is rude to interrupt. You will listen,” he said through gritted teeth. He paused and then added, “One way or another.” With the flick of a finger, he shot a spark toward the ground at Bran’s feet, and a large hole immediately appeared.
Bran’s heart began pounding so hard it hurt.
The act of magic seemed to calm the man. “As I have already told you, I do not lie. So you will show me the courtesy of hearing me out. Yes?”
Bran swallowed the boulder in his throat and nodded grudgingly.
Henri smiled. “Bien. As I started to say, I have never spoken to your father. I have never even met him. Nor your mother, for that matter. I was approached by the Druid, Bradan, an acquaintance from another time and place. I know him to be a good man, so when he asked for my help…” The man shrugged and let his sentence trail off.
Bradan? The dark rider knew Bradan? That put Bran off-balance and made him forget his determination to close his mind to the man. Now he was curious. He still didn’t trust this giant with the strange name, but perhaps he should hear what he had to say.
“Where did you see Bradan?” he asked cautiously, fearful that Henri would consider his question another interruption.
“I didn’t.” Henri tapped his head with his fingertip. “We shared our thoughts.”
“Oh.” Bran said. It was possible he supposed. Both men were mind talkers. He needed to find out more. “Did he seek you out?” he asked.
Henri nodded. “He did. It was shortly after he visited you at your castle and discovered you had developed magical powers.”
Bran’s jaw dropped open. There was no way the dark rider could know that unless Bradan had told him.
Henri continued. “He knew the same thing had happened to me after I was struck by lightning, and he wished to learn what other changes you might expect and what he could do to help you.”
Bran closed his eyes as he shuffled all this new information in his mind. Henri must be the sorcerer Bradan had told him about. His great uncle was trying to help him. He had kept his word after all.
He looked at the dark rider again. “And you told him?” he asked.
Henri shrugged. “As much as I could. But magic brought on by lightning is a rare thing. Your experience might be different than mine.”
“Did Bradan ask you to take me away?”
He shook his head. “Not right away. That came after your father learned of your magic and your mother became afraid for you. You had hidden yourself in the forest. Thinking you would be safe there until your father left the castle on business, she sent her servant to find Bradan and apprise him of the situation. He assured her he would see you to safety. He had a plan, but the fewer people who knew about it, the better. He did not even tell the servant, so she could not inform your mother.”
“And you were that plan?”
He bowed his head in assent. “Oui. Yes. I apologize for frightening you, but it was necessary. If you knew the plan you might not have been a convincing actor. I could not risk that. I agreed to cross the sea and spirit you away.” He spread his arms. “And so here you are. And here you will stay until it is safe for you to return home.”
“When will that be?”
“When the time is right, we’ll know. Bradan will keep us informed of matters at the castle, and I shall report your progress to him.”
“Progress?” Bran cocked his head curiously.
Henri smiled, his good humour once more restored. “But of course. I shall help you master your magic.”
Bran was relieved and terrified in equal parts. It would be good to be able to control the magic growing inside him, but it—and Henri—scared him. He was also concerned about his mother.
He turned to the man. “So my mother knows I am safe? She won’t worry?”
Henri laughed. “Of course, she will worry! She is a mother. But you are in good hands. Bradan will assure her of that.”
27—Cara
Cara huddled in the entrance to the keep and pulled her mantle tightly about her. She squinted out at Lady Linnet braving the downpour.
“Please, come in out of the rain, Milady,” she urged her mistress yet again. “You are going to catch your death.”
But Lady Linnet paid no heed. She continued to stare out the embrasure at the rolling meadow where her son had last been seen. After a time, she whirled around. “What if we’re wrong, Cara? What if it wasn’t Bradan who arranged for Bran to be taken?”
“Pshaw. You’re talking foolishness. It had to be him.”
“How do you know that? Bradan never told us his plan. Bran has been gone for days, and there has been no word. If Bradan was behind it, he would have let us know by now.”
“How? Do you not think it would be a wee bit suspicious if he showed up unannounced so soon after his last visit?” Cara argued.
“He could send a message.”
“On what pretense? And to whom would he send it? You? How would you keep that from your husband?” Then taking pity on her mistress, she added, “If something terrible has befallen the boy, we would have heard. Not knowing is hard, to be sure, but you must have faith. Is that not what you told your son?”
Lady Linnet took a step toward Cara and hissed, “But what if this was my husband’s doing—and not Bradan’s at all? Those who know how Penn was caught in Bran’s magic already suspect him.”
“I saw his face when he learned the boy was taken. He was genuinely surprised.”
“Whose side are you on?” Lady Linnet demanded.
“It has to be Bradan,” Cara insisted.
“What makes you so certain?”
“Your husband didn’t know about the boy’s daily rides outside the castle. They began after he left on that business for Lord Cedric. And whoever took the boy did know about them. It was Bradan who asked for the rides to occur. Don’t you remember? Though he didn’t disclose his plan when I told him Bran’s problem, he asked that the boy be allowed to ride in the meadow beyond the castle. And he made it clear that he must always stay in plain sight. He must have wanted the sentry to see the boy being taken. It must have been part of his plan.”
Lady Linnet forced a smile. “You’re right,” she said. “I know all these things yet—” she heaved a dejected sigh, “—I just want him back.”
“When the time is right,” Cara murmured. Then her voice turned to stone and she nodded toward the bailey. “Your husband approaches.”
Lady Linnet turned to look, and then ignoring Penn of Gwynedd’s wave, she spun on her heel and headed back to her chambers in the keep.
28—The Boy
Even with Henri's help, learning to control his magic was harder than Bran had expected. For more than an hour, he had been trying to run through the forest blindfolded.
“Vite! Faster! You run like an old man with bunions.” Henri’s voice boomed in his head.
“If I go fast, I’ll hit a tree,” he thought back crossly, digging his finger under the edge of the blindfold to dislodge a twig. Basic mind talking was one of the first things Henri had taught him, and Bran had to admit that sharing thoughts without speaking had its advantages. But sometimes—like now—Henri’s carping became too much, and he wished he could block it out. Henri claimed such a thing was possible, though he had yet to teach Bran how to do it.
“Use your energy,” he reminded Bran. “How many times must I tell you? Mastering your magic means mastering energy. Allow your energy to feel the trees. When it encounters their energy, you will feel resistance. Then it is a small matter to move around it.”
Bran was bruised, scratched, tired, and frustrated, but he knew Henri was not going to leave him be, so—opening himself until he felt his entire body begin to tingle—he started to run again.
“Use your senses, not your hands.” Henri reminded him.
Bran lowered his arms and almost immediately became aware of a heaviness in the air in front of him, as if it were trying to push him back. He quickly side-stepped it and the air lightened again. He continued to run. Again, he felt pushback and swerved around it. For several steps after that, there was nothing, but then a resistance so strong sprang up before him Bran was sure there must be a stone wall in his path. He started left, but it didn’t help. Quickly he spun right, but there was no relief there either. He’d have to go back. But as he changed direction yet again, he stumbled over a tree root and dropped to the ground like a sack of rocks.
Henri’s guffaws rang in his ears and Bran’s frustration turned to rage. He tore off the blindfold, jumped to his feet, and scowled at the sorcerer. Sparks flickered on the tips of his fingers.
As Henri strode toward him, he clucked his tongue and shook his head. “It is always anger with you. How can you expect to master your magic when you cannot even control your temper?”
“It is the magic that makes me angry!” Bran spit back. “I never asked for it!”
Henri stuffed his fists onto his hips and glared at the boy. “And you think I did?”
Surprise took the sting out of Bran’s wrath. He didn’t know what he thought. The truth was he hadn’t thought about how Henri had learned to use his magic. All he knew was that he had.
Bran lowered his head and mumbled sheepishly, “Was it hard for you too?”
“What do you think?” Henri shot back and Bran’s head jerked up again. “I was a black man in a white man’s land. I was already an outcast. When magic took me, I became even more of a pariah. And I had no one to help me find my way.”
He didn’t add, “As you do,” but he didn’t need to. Bran cringed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know. I don’t mean to be difficult. I don’t want to be angry, but since the storm, I can’t seem to help myself. The anger started with the headaches and never goes away. I feel it all the time, as if it’s lying under my skin, waiting—always waiting for a chance to rear up.”
Henri put a hand on his shoulder. “I too know such anger.”
Bran’s mouth dropped open and he looked up at the man towering over him. “But you almost never get angry,” he protested.
Henri’s lips parted into a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It is a choice,” he said.
***
“Sorcery is about commanding energy,” Henri explained as he turned the rabbit on the spit. In the firelight his skin was onyx and his eyes were glowing embers. “The lightning altered us so that we now have more energy than we need—and we make more all the time. If we don’t find practical ways to release it, it becomes too much and releases itself. The headaches are a sign the energy is building, and the anger is the valve that lets it out. Some places, objects, even people—for you it is the forest—connect with us and ease the pressure of the energy, but it is still a force we must learn to control.”
Bran was simultaneously relieved and disheartened. Henri’s explanation helped him understand his mood swings and the reason he possessed magic, but he lamented the notion that the headaches and anger were now forever a part of him.
His feelings must have shown on his face, for Henri chuckled. “Do not be sad. This is not a bad thing.”
“But I threw a rock at my father,” Bran reminded him. “I could have killed him! And I didn’t even know I was doing it!”
“That is why you must learn to temper the release of your energy. It need not rule you. You can master it. The way things are with you now, magic makes you a danger to yourself and others.” He raised a finger thoughtfully. “But knowing how to command it will make you a sorcerer.”
***
After that, Bran worked diligently to understand and master his magic, and as the days turned into weeks and then months, he ceased feeling like a stranger in his own body. Anger still came easily, but now he knew why, and with Henri’s guidance and the solace of the forest, he became better at diffusing it.
It soon became clear why Henri had chosen this glade as their makeshift home. Though it was secluded, the trees grew up in such a way that it was almost always in sunshine, and even when winter arrived, the clearing seemed immune to the wind and cold. Bran suspected Henri’s magic may have had a part in that too.
But it was the grassy knoll with its crumbling arch that truly made the glade special. Henri had said it was one of nature’s sacred places, and though Bran didn’t know what that meant, he was very much aware of the knoll’s energy. Unlike that of the trees which had tried to keep him from crashing into them, the energy of the knoll was gentler and it twined with his own, so that they were one. When Bran stood on the grass beneath the arch, he was completely at peace, a feeling he hadn’t known since before the storm.
To the boy’s delight the knoll had a hidden stairway. It was located at the very back and descended into an underground cavern. The space was little more than a large hole, dark and damp and draughty with nothing to recommend it but bugs and earthy smells, but it put Bran in mind of the hidden tunnel at the castle, and on days when melancholy got the better of him, he would go there and imagine himself home.
He missed his mother all the time. Mostly he banished thoughts of her to the back of his mind because there was nothing he could do about the situation. But some days, no matter how he tried to ignore his feelings, they overwhelmed him. It was on those days Bran needed the comfort of the knoll most of all.
“Henri?” The boy stared unblinking into the flames as the man tossed the bones from their evening meal into the fire. A log hissed and popped and shot an ember onto Bran’s boot. He brushed it away. “Henri?” he said again.
“What is it?” the sorcerer replied, settling onto the ground across from him.
Still staring into the fire, Bran said, “It was autumn when you brought me to this place, and soon it will be spring.” He raised his gaze and looked straight into Henri’s yellow eyes. “When am I going home?”
The man sighed. This was not the first time the boy had asked this question. “I wish I could give you an answer,” he said, “but I do not know.”
“What are we waiting for?” Bran pushed. “For my mother to send for me? For the seasons to change? For my father to stop hating me?” He paused and looked earnestly at Henri. “I hope it’s not that because if it is, I shall be stuck here forever.”
The sorcerer assumed an indignant tone. “You don’t like my company?”
Bran knew he was teasing and smiled sheepishly.
Henri winked and smiled. Then sobering once more, he said, “I know you miss your home, and as soon as Bradan tells me it is time, I shall take you back to it.”
“Must you wait for him to reach out to you? Can you not think to him and ask?” Bran said hopefully. But before Henri could answer, the boy muttered, “I would do it myself if you would teach me how. It would make a pleasant change to initiate an exchange of thoughts instead of waiting for my mind to be invaded.”
Henri’s mighty guffaws broke the quiet of the night. “Fine,” he conceded once his laughter subsided. “Tomorrow we will assess your progress, and if I am satisfied that you are in control of your magic and no longer a danger to others, I shall teach you all there is to know about mind talking, and you can reach out to the Druid yourself.”
***
“Light the fire,” Henri said.
Bran looked to the woodpile and gesturing with his head, he sent kindling and logs to the firepit and stacked them to be lit. Then pointing to the tented wood, he shot a spark across the clearing. Almost immediately, a wisp of smoke curled up from the pit, followed by hissing and spitting, and finally flame.
Henri shrugged. “Not terrible. If you had selected dry wood, the fire would have started more quickly, and you could have avoided the smoke.”
Bran nodded and watched anxiously as Henri glanced around, searching for another task to test his skills. Finally the sorcerer’s expression cleared and he nodded to a large boulder in the centre of the glade.
“I find that rock bothersome,” he said. “It would be more convenient if it were elsewhere.” He frowned and tapped his lips. Then he smiled and pointed to the edge of the glade. “There,” he announced. “That is the perfect place. Not only is it out of our way, it is near other rocks. The stone will have company.” He turned to Bran. “Move it, s’il vous plait.”
Bran looked at him. “With my mind or my arms?” he asked.
“I already know you can lift it with your mind,” Henri replied. “I need you to show me your physical strength.”
Bran walked to the boulder. He pursed his lips and sucked in air, preparing himself for the task. The boulder was as big as he was and many times heavier. He closed his eyes as he concentrated his thoughts and gathered his energy. For several seconds he imagined himself lifting the rock. At last he was ready. Opening his eyes, he hunkered down, and finding a firm grip, he hugged the boulder to him and stood up. The muscles in his legs burned and shook with the effort. The boulder was heavy indeed. He summoned more energy to lighten the load.
“I can’t see where I’m going,” he grunted to Henri.
“Let your energy feel the way,” the sorcerer told him.
Of course! Bran scolded himself. He knew that.
Digging into his energy reserves once more, he started forward, easily sidestepping swales and stones and clumps of grass bent on tripping him. At last he reached the edge of the clearing and gently set the boulder down among its friends.
Again Henri nodded. “There is room for improvement, but you did well for a first attempt.”
Bran was relieved. Henri had been putting him through his paces all morning, and though he’d been able to complete every task set for him, he was still anxious. Even after he’d shown all his skills several times, Henri kept finding new tasks.
“That is enough for today,” the man said at last, and Bran suspected Henri had been listening to his thoughts again.
“Now will you teach me everything about mind talking?” Bran pressed him.
“I said I would, and I am a man of my word. Tomorrow.” There was finality in his tone, so Bran didn’t attempt to argue. “Now we must hunt for our supper.”
29—Cara
With a bob of her head, Cara acknowledged the sentry standing at the entrance to the keep and proceeded toward Lady Linnet’s quarters with the food tray. In the past, the door to her mistress’s chambers had always been left ajar and a nudge was all it took to open it wide. Now, however, it was tightly closed and a second sentry stood in front of it. Though Penn of Gwynedd had put the two guards in place over a month ago, their presence still irritated Cara.
“I have food for Lady Linnet,” she told the one at the door, barely able to conceal the resentment she felt at having to explain herself to this pimple-faced pup. She had been attending her mistress long before he’d been a twinkle in his sire’s eye. Her instinct was to box his ears and send him packing, but then she’d likely be completely barred from seeing her mistress and perhaps even be relieved of her duties at the castle and sent away.
Since the boy’s abduction, Penn of Gwynedd had become more protective than ever of his wife. The guards were merely the most recent evidence of it. As well as the two stationed in the keep, a third was posted in Lady Linnet’s bedchamber. No one came or went without the consent of the guards. As for Lady Linnet, she went nowhere at all, and it broke Cara’s heart to think she was a prisoner in all but name.
“You can’t go in right now,” the sentry said. “Her physician is with her.” He nodded to a bench set against the wall. “You can leave the food there and I’ll see she gets it. Come back later for the tray.”
“It will get cold,” Cara protested.
The guard shrugged.
Cara didn’t even try to hide her fury. Muttering under her breath, she plunked herself onto the bench and slammed the tray down beside her. “I shall wait.”
The guard shrugged again. “It’s no mind to me.”
When the physician finally took his leave, the food was cold but Cara was so hot it was a wonder steam didn’t shoot from her ears. The healer walked toward across the keep without so much as a glance at her or the guard. She glared at his back. For the life of her, she couldn’t think why Master Penn had dismissed Lady Linnet’s other physicians, nor why he had chosen to replace them with this curmudgeon. The man's disposition could sour milk.
Once inside the bedchamber, Cara set the tray down on a table. Immediately, the guard lifted the lids of the various pots and sniffed for poison. When he was satisfied there was none, Cara picked up the tray and turned toward Lady Linnet.
But she jerked to a stop after a single step. The sight of her mistress so shocked her, it was all she could do to hang onto the tray.
Over the last few months Lady Linnet had been declining. There was no denying that. It had begun with a listlessness Cara put down to melancholy for the boy, but then it became a weariness that wouldn’t go away and eventually sent Lady Linnet back to her bed. Most of the time now she slept, and when she was awake, she was so groggy she could barely put two words together.
But this? This was something much worse. Lady Linnet was barely breathing. She was so pale and still, Cara feared she was near death.
She spun toward the guard. “What has happened here? What have you done?”
The guard’s eyebrows jumped halfway up his forehead. “I’ve done nothing,” he defended himself. “I’m just a guard.”
Cara scowled and took a step toward him, fierce in her determination to protect her mistress. “Then what did the physician do?” she demanded.
The guard seemed unsure whether or not he should answer. He looked to Lady Linnet and then back to Cara.
She took another step toward him.
“He bled her,” the guard blurted.
Shoving the tray into his hands, Cara hurried to the bed. That’s when she saw the bandages binding Lady Linnet’s arms. “Oh, Brighid, please help her,” she pleaded as she cradled her mistress’s cold hands in her warm ones. But she knew it would take more than the goddess’s blessings to save her mistress, and Cara was already making plans.
30—Cara
Cara scolded herself for not seeing the truth sooner. Lady Linnet’s decline was not a result of melancholy. Her husband was trying to turn her into an invalid again. She was being drugged to make her compliant. And now that she couldn’t physically resist, she’d been bled to weaken her further. Her previous physicians would never have agreed to such measures. That’s why Penn of Gwynedd had put a new healer in their place. And he’d posted guards so no one would interfere.
Cara had to stop him. But what could she do?
Though this was Penn of Gwynedd’s doing, it would be foolish to confront him. Aside from venting her anger, Cara would accomplish nothing. In fact, she would likely make matters worse.
What if she sought Lord Cedric’s help? He could intervene, but he likely wouldn’t, she decided. Lady Linnet had been bedridden for so many years, he probably considered her physical decline inevitable. She had rallied briefly, but had eventually returned to her bed. Moreover, Lord Cedric respected Penn of Gwynedd. He would not take Cara’s word over that of his legal counsel. He would view her accusations as nothing more than the ravings of a distraught servant.
Cara believed that if she could stay by her mistress’s bedside, she could stop her from being drugged further or bled again. But she knew Penn of Gwynedd would never permit that and might keep her from attending Lady Linnet altogether.
Cara must get word to Bradan. He would know what to do. After Bran had been abducted, the seer had sent regular news of the boy and had made his own whereabouts known should Lady Linnet need to contact him. So Cara knew he was currently visiting a nearby village. She should hurry there immediately, but she dared not leave her mistress. She would have to send a messenger.
***
“Beca,” she whispered and crooked a finger to draw the serving girl away from the hubbub of the kitchen. The young woman was tight-lipped by nature, and Cara trusted her.
“What is it?” Beca whispered back, her eyes growing round.
“I want you to go to Din Lligwy posthaste and seek out the seer, Bradan. Tell him I need his help. Tell him Lady Linnet is being drugged and I fear she may die if it isn’t stopped.”
Beca’s eyes opened even wider.
“Do you understand?” Cara asked urgently.
Beca nodded. “Yes, mam.”
“Good.” Cara attempted a smile to reassure the girl. “Good,” she repeated. “Bradan will know what to do.” She took Beca by the shoulders and turned her toward the door. “Go now. And be quick as you can. There is no time to lose.”
31—The Boy
The following day, Bran discovered there was more to mind talking than he had imagined. And there were many more mind talkers than he’d expected too.
Learning about them had been a bit scary at first because he’d had to move beyond his own mind into what seemed like a vast night sky. With nothing to stand on and nothing to cling to, he thought he might float away. But Henri was with him, and that kept him from being afraid. Instead of stars, the sky was sprinkled with dots of various sizes and colours. Henri said these were walls surrounding the mind talkers’ thoughts. Bradan’s was white and Henri’s was yellow like his eyes. Henri told Bran he needed to build a wall too. He supervised the boy’s work to ensure the wall was strong, but Bran got to choose how it looked. He made it a shimmering gold. Henri said it was ostentatious, but Bran didn’t care. His wall was beautiful and it made him happy.
The walls helped mind talkers keep their thoughts private. When someone wished to have a mind conversation with someone else, it was as easy as thinking themselves to that person’s wall, nudging it with their own, and waiting for the wall to be opened. Finally! Bran silently cheered. Now no one could eavesdrop on his thoughts without him knowing. Nor could they push their own thoughts upon him without his permission.
As he and Henri prepared the evening meal, Bran announced, “After we eat, I’m going to think myself to Bradan’s wall and find out when I can go home.”
Henri nodded. “The seer will be surprised by your visit but pleased to know your time here has not been without purpose. Still, do not set your hopes too high. You might not get the answer you seek.”
***
Bran never got the chance to try out his new skills, because Bradan reached out to Henri while they were eating. The boy could tell by the expression on Henri’s face that it was a troubling conversation.
“What is it?” he demanded when the exchange was over. “What's wrong?”
Though Henri looked grim, he met Bran’s anxious gaze steadily. “You are only a boy,” he began, “but life has already forced you to deal with many difficult things, so I know you will take this news in your stride.”
Now Bran was really worried. A shiver shot through him. Something was terribly wrong, and though it frightened him to think what it might be, he had to know. “Tell me.”
“It is your mother,” Henri said.
Bran gasped. “Is she alright? Has something happened?”
Henri didn’t mince his words. “She is very ill. Her servant believes she is being drugged and is fearful for her life. She sought Bradan’s help.”
Bran’s mind was racing. “This is my father’s doing,” he muttered. “I’m sure of it.” The mere thought set rage roiling within him. An expression of horror contorted his face. He hammered his fists on his knees. “Can’t you use your magic to do something?”
The sorcerer shook his head. “Not from such a distance.”
“Why are we so far away?” Bran cried. “What about Bradan?” he asked, barely able to contain his emotions. “Can he do something?”
Henri frowned. “He says he has no authority to intervene, and being the brother of the arch-druid, he must proceed cautiously. It would be unwise to antagonize influential people. He fears that if he goes to the castle, your father will turn him away with the excuse that your mother is too ill to receive visitors. And though Bradan believes what the servant has told him, he has nothing but her word that your mother is being drugged. If he voices his suspicions to the lord of the castle, it is unlikely he will be taken seriously.”
Bran jumped to his feet. “Then I’m going back to Llanberis,” he declared defiantly. “Someone has to do something! My father is endangering my mother’s life. I can’t sit by and wait for her to die!” He raised his hands to fend off any objections from the sorcerer. “You can’t stop me, Henri. So don’t try. I have made up my mind. I know what I must do.”
Though the sorcerer’s expression remained solemn, his eyes glittered. “Bradan thought you would say that.” Pushing himself to his feet, Henri strode across the clearing and untethered the black stallion. Then he turned back to Bran. “So what are we waiting for? Ami can run like the wind. We will be at the castle before you know it.”
32—The Boy
Henri hadn’t exaggerated, and when night began to flee the sky, the two were hunkered down in Bran’s forest, peering through the rain at Llanberis Castle.
“What do you wish to do?” Henri asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Bran admitted. “First I need to see for myself how things are.”
“Hmmph,” Henri mumbled. Then his yellow eyes sparked dangerously and he clenched his fist until it shook. “We could make short work of this problem. I could turn your father to stone and drop him over the parapet. He would smash into a thousand pieces.”
Despite the gravity of the situation, Bran grinned. He knew he should be appalled, but he could think of nothing he would like better, and when he’d first learned of his mother’s condition he would happily have accepted Henri’s offer. But now that the castle was in sight and he’d had all night to think about things, he had other ideas.
He shook his head. “Thank you, Henri, but no. It would be a fitting end for my father, but you would be a hunted man. I don’t want that. I’m certain my mother wouldn’t want that either.”
Henri seemed unsure. Squinting at the boy, he said, “So what are we going to do?”
“I shall face him,” Bran said and then—so Henri didn’t miss his meaning, he added, “alone.”
The sorcerer pulled back in surprise and shook his head. “You are but a boy,” he protested. “I can help you. We can deal with your father together.”
It was Bran’s turn to shake his head. “This is my family. It is up to me to set things right.”
The sorcerer must have sensed Bran’s determination for he didn’t insist further. Instead he asked, “How do you plan to confront him?”
“I shall have a better idea about that after I talk with Cara.” He heaved a mighty sigh. “But first I must get into the castle without being seen. My father can’t know of my presence until it is too late to do anything about it.”
“Shall I make you invisible?” Henri offered.
Bran cocked an eyebrow at the sorcerer. “I thought that trick only worked if you stayed perfectly still.”
“True,” the sorcerer conceded, “but you could alternate between moving and staying still. If someone saw you and then you disappeared, they would think they were imagining things.”
“Why haven’t you taught me how to do that?” Bran said.
“There is much magic still left for you to learn,” he grumbled. “I am trying to ensure you remain alive long enough to learn it.”
Bran smiled. “I will be fine.”
“What you propose is dangerous,” Henri pushed.
“I know. But I have magic too.”
“And a temper,” Henri muttered. “I shall wait here. If you need me …” He let his sentence trail off and tapped his head.
Bran nodded and stood up. “Oh, wait,” he said, turning back to the sorcerer. “There is something you can do.”
Henri eyed him warily. “What?”
Bran peered toward the stream where men were already sliding their rafts into the water. “Could you lend me a penny?”
***
Keeping his head down and his collar up, Bran paid his penny and stepped onto the raft. He moved to the front and turned his face toward the far side of the stream. The rain had stopped and the sun had broken over the horizon. The market-goers would soon be arriving. Already he could hear the groaning wood and clanking chains of the drawbridge being lowered.
As the raft bumped the bank, Bran hopped off and strode down the road, away from Llanberis Castle. He didn’t want to be first over the bridge lest he draw attention to himself, so he slid into the bushes alongside the dirt track and waited. It wasn’t long before he heard the grumbling of carts and the enthusiastic chatter of folk heading to market.
He recognized many of them, so it stood to reason they would recognize him too, and that kept him in his hiding spot. It wasn’t until a large group of strangers passed by that he found the courage to slip out and fall in step with them. But he was still afraid of being recognized, so when a breeze sprang up, he took the opportunity to magically lift the cap of a man farther ahead and jam it onto his own head. He felt bad about stealing it, but he told himself it was for his mother.
Once over the drawbridge, Bran drew away from the growing crowd and crept down the side of the bailey until he reached the door of the rooms he shared with Cara. He prayed no one was watching him. The castle was his home, yet he felt like a criminal sneaking into it. With one last glance around the bailey, he lifted the latch and slipped inside.
He sagged against the closed door and breathed a sigh of relief. He’d achieved the first part of his plan. He knew Cara would be in the kitchen, so there was nothing for him to do but wait until she returned to their living quarters. That might be all day.
He wandered from the main room to his own. It looked just as it had the last time he’d been in it, and despite his worry for his mother and his trepidation about what lay ahead, the sight of his pallet reminded him it had been a day and a night since last he’d slept—and suddenly he couldn’t keep his eyes open. Unable to resist the call of his bed a moment longer, he flopped onto it and was asleep before he could pull up the coverlet.
***
The click of the latch startled Bran awake and set his heart tripping over itself. Tensing to flee, he fixed his gaze on the opening between his room and Cara’s—and listened. Judging from the light slanting through the window, it couldn’t be much past midday. Cara should be in the kitchen. The door squeaked on its hinges and the latch fell back into place. Someone had definitely entered the rooms. If it wasn’t Cara, who was it?
Bran glanced around the chamber. Should he stay where he was and hope whoever was in the next room didn’t look his way? Or should he try to hide?
He held his breath and waited. Silence. And then … Bran thought he heard muttering. Was there more than one person? He listened harder. Clomping and more muttering. Finally a woman stomped past the doorway toward the fire. It was Cara!
Without another thought, Bran rolled off the pallet and raced to greet her, then just as quickly skidded to a stop and shielded his head with his arms as she spun around with a poker raised to strike.
“No!” he cried. “No, Cara! Don’t! It’s me—Bran!”
There was a gasp and then the poker clanged to the cobbled floor.
Bran peeked through his arms, but before he could lower them, Cara swallowed him up in an enormous hug. An enormous wet hug. She was dripping with water and holding him so tight he didn’t know if he was suffocating or drowning.
“Cara, I can’t breathe,” he mumbled into the front of her sopping dress.
She released him and held him at arm’s length, running her hands over his hair, his face, his shoulders and arms. “Is it really you?” she breathed, her expression a mix of wonder and relief.
Bran grinned back and bobbed his head as a glorious ache spread through him. He hadn’t thought he would ever see his nani again. And now here she was, standing right in front of him—in a puddle of water.
He frowned as he took in her sodden appearance. “Why are you so wet? Is it raining?”
She clucked her tongue and rolled her eyes. “There is a new kitchen helper. Thick in the head as a tree trunk and about as fast on her feet.” Cara pulled at the skirt plastered to her legs. “Dumped a bucket of water on me, she did. Don’t ask how. The only good of it is that it has sent me here,” her scowl melted into a smile, “to discover you.” She lay her hand on his cheek for a moment. Then she spun around. “Let me put on dry clothes and we can talk.”
***
When Bran had told Cara everything that had happened to him during his time with Henri, it was her turn to catch him up on events at the castle.
“Lord Cedric sent soldiers in every direction looking for you. They were gone for days, but could find no trace of you or your abductor.”
“Magic is not easy to track,” Bran said.
Cara nodded. “While you were hiding in the forest—after you’d thrown the pressing stone at your father—your mother sent me to seek Bradan’s help. So we were fairly certain he was the one who’d arranged for you to be taken. Still it was nearly a week before we knew for sure, and by that time your father had returned from his travels.
“He tried to get back in your mother’s good graces, but she would have none of it. A winter blizzard couldn’t have been colder. But he didn’t give up. He brought her gifts and insisted they dine together in her chambers as they had done for all those years before she started walking again. Then he arranged for a guard to be with her when she moved about the castle. He claimed that after what had happened to you, he was worried for her safety.
“To rid herself of the guard, she stopped going out. And that’s when your father dismissed her physicians and replaced them with a new healer, the vilest man I have ever met. Shortly after that, your mother took to her bed again, and Master Penn assigned a guard to watch over her day and night. Then two more were placed outside her rooms—one at her door and the other at the entrance to the keep. I am the only one other than the physician and your father, who is allowed to see your mother—and sometimes even I am denied entry!” she finished in a huff.
“Lady Linnet is getting weaker and weaker. Most of the time she is barely awake. I fear she is being given sleeping drafts constantly. And the last time I saw her, she had been bled by the new physician. She was so pale and still I thought her dead.” Cara wrung her hands. “I don’t know how much more of this she can bear.”
As his nani spoke, Bran felt a headache beginning to bloom and anger prickling his skin. “After today, she will have to bear no more,” he said fiercely, “because I am going to take her away from here.”
Cara was doubtful. “You father isn’t simply going to let you collect Lady Linnet and walk out of the castle. He will have you placed under guard the moment you show your face. He will claim it is to protect you, but it will be to keep you out of his way and away from your mother.”
Bran shook his head, and a devious smile curled the corners of his mouth. “He won’t get the chance.”
“Why?” Cara asked. “What do you plan to do? What can you do? You are but a boy.” Then she gasped and raised a hand to her mouth. “You aren’t going to kill your father with magic, are you?”
Bran regarded her earnestly. “Not if I don’t have to.”
33—The Boy
Bran peered through the crack in the door. The light was fading fast. Already he had to squint to see the stairs leading from the bailey to the keep and the guard standing at the top. Soon it would be completely dark, and that would make it easier for him to do what he needed to do. He took a deep breath and let it out again. It was nearly time.
During the afternoon he had run the plan through his head again and again, searching for flaws. He’d even nudged Henri’s wall to seek his thoughts. The scheme was as foolproof as he could make it. Now all he had to do was carry it out.
His gaze slid back down the stairs and along the bailey. The vendors and market-goers had left for the day, so even in the dim light, he spotted Penn of Gwynedd the moment he emerged from the kitchen alley with a tray of food.
Bran’s heart sped up. The mere sight of his father opened old wounds, rekindling his hurt and anger. He pushed his feelings away. He had to keep a cool head.
He watched his father stride confidently down the bailey and up the stairs to the motte. Then he disappeared into the keep. Bran kept his eyes focused on the entrance, waiting for the guard posted outside the door of Lady Linnet’s chambers and the one posted within to leave. Cara had said Penn of Gwynedd always relieved them of their duties for the time he supped with his wife. The boy watched anxiously. It felt like hours though it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. Finally the men emerged, bid farewell to the lone remaining guard and descended the stairs.
Bran looked back to the alley. Sure enough, Cara stood in the shadows, and as soon as the off-duty guards made the turn for their barracks, she set off down the bailey. That meant Bran had exactly one hour to free his mother before the guards returned. Anxious as he was to begin, he knew he must wait for Cara to do her part.
He peered into the growing darkness as she climbed the steps to the keep with a tray of food and struck up a conversation with the guard. Hurry, he silently urged her. The fellow took the tray she had brought and began eating. Cara continued talking. After what seemed like forever to Bran, the guard slumped over and slid down the wall. Cara caught the tray before it clattered to the stones. The sleeping draft she’d mixed through the food had done its job.
Bran let himself out of the quarters he shared with his nani and melted into the night. He kept to the shadows and stealthily climbed the stairs to the motte. Then he glanced around. He couldn't risk being seen. When he was sure he was alone, he used his magic to float the sleeping guard to a secluded alcove deep in the keep, away from prying eyes.
“Stay with him until I signal for you to come,” he told Cara.
She nodded and pulled strips of cloth from her skirt pocket. Then she set about tying and gagging the guard. Bran was impressed that she’d thought to do that. He hadn’t foreseen the need.
He crept back toward his mother’s chambers. The door was ajar. He didn’t know if it was due to the carelessness of the guard or if Penn of Gwynedd had ordered it so. Either way, it meant Bran could enter quietly.
He put his ear to the door. He could hear his father’s voice, but it was coming from a distance, so he slipped soundlessly into the antechamber, tiptoed across the floor and peeked into the bed chamber.
His gaze went immediately to his mother. She lay in her bed beneath the coverlet, a shrunken doll propped against a mound of pillows. Seeing her so changed, Bran felt as if his heart was being ripped from his chest. His father sat in a chair facing her, chatting as cheerfully as if the two were enjoying a summer day in the meadow. The man seemed oblivious to the fact that Lady Linnet never replied or smiled or even touched the food on the tray set before her. She sat still as death, staring blindly ahead.
“The day seemed long,” her husband told her between bites of food. “A case concerning a runaway slave is coming up in the spring assizes, and I was trying to find a similar incident that might serve as a precedent for Lord Cedric when he makes his ruling. Though I could find many cases involving runaway slaves, there were none that matched the one to be heard at the assizes.” He sighed. “Perhaps I’ll have better luck tomorrow.” He smiled at his wife. “Never mind. The stress of it is already forgotten now that I’m with you. You are the sunshine in my days.”
He patted her hand, and placing his empty platter atop her untouched one, he removed the tray and set it on the table beside the bed. Then he adjusted the pillows behind his wife’s head.
“There,” he said as he ran his hand down her cheek. “That’s much better, isn’t it, my dear? Everything is much better. Life is so peaceful now—just the two of us—like it used to be. Like it was meant to be.” He lifted her hand and kissed it.
Bran was aghast. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His mother was barely conscious, yet his father acted as if she was perfectly well and conversing with him. He must be mad!
“Come,” his father said cheerily as he reached across the discarded food tray for two goblets of wine at the back of the table. “Let us drink a toast.” He placed the goblets down again at the front of the table, and while he continued the one-sided conversation, he took a pouch from his belt and sprinkled white powder into one of them. Holding it out to his wife, he said, “To us, my dear.”
For the first time since Bran had been spying at the door, Lady Linnet came to life. Instead of reaching for the cup, she shook her head and tried to push it away. But she was too weak and her hands dropped back to the coverlet.
Penn of Gwynedd set the other goblet onto the table and used his free hand to capture his wife’s wrists. “Come now, wife. How do you expect to regain your health if you don’t take your medicine?” An impatient tone had crept into his cajoling.
The boy had seen enough. Before his father could bring the cup near Lady Linnet’s lips, he shot a sizzling spark across the room. It struck the goblet with a metallic ping, ripping it from his father’s grip and spilling the tainted wine onto the coverlet.
Penn of Gwynedd pulled back his hand and spun toward the door.
“You!” he roared.
For a brief second, Bran was terrified, just as he always was when his father’s ire was roused. But the need to protect his mother was stronger, and he stomped on his fear. “Yes, Father,” he replied. “Did you miss me?”
“Guard!” the man bellowed. And then through gritted teeth, “I don’t know how you got past the sentry, but you won’t escape. Guard!”
“There’s no point calling for help, Father,” Bran said. “No one will come.” He let his gaze wander to his mother. Though too weak to move or speak, her eyes shone with hopeful tears. It broke Bran’s heart, but he offered her an encouraging smile. “It’s alright, Mother. I have come back. Things are going to be better now.”
“If you knew what was good for you, you would have stayed away, you brainless wretch. But it makes no difference to me. I shall not let you spoil our lives again,” his father seethed, his hands clenching and unclenching as his eyes searched the room. For a weapon? Bran wondered.
He frowned, unsure what his father intended, but trying to understand him nevertheless. He still wanted to find a reason for his actions. “When have I spoiled things, Father? You have always been the one with the power.”
“You ruined everything the moment you were born!” Penn of Gwynedd growled. “Your mother nearly died birthing you, and nothing has been the same since. It’s a pity you weren’t stillborn.”
An anguished whimper arose from the bed. Bran looked to see his mother shaking her head. But the effort was too much and she fell back against the pillows and closed her eyes.
Bran looked back at his father in disbelief. “You’ve hated me since I was a baby?”
“Don’t pretend to be an innocent,” the man sneered. “You have only ever been trouble. From the very beginning you demanded all your mother’s attention. I arranged for that nani, but still your mother doted on you. You were all she talked about, all she thought about. It used to be me who was in her heart, but all that changed when you came along. You ruined everything.”
The words were hurtful and should have stung Bran, but they didn’t. They were just words uttered by a man whose heart—and mind—were twisted with hate. Bran knew his father would never hear anything he said, so there was no point trying to reason with him.
But that didn’t change the situation. He still needed to get his mother somewhere safe—somewhere far away from Penn of Gwynedd.
He let his gaze drift to the tiny, motionless figure in the bed. “You can rest easy, Father,” he said, “because I shall soon be out of your life forever.” Then he took a deep breath and tried to make himself as tall as possible. “And I shall be taking my mother with me.”
He was just a small boy, and Penn of Gwynedd should have scoffed at his attempt at bravado, but in fact he seemed taken aback. He recovered quickly though and stepped into his son’s path.
“I think not,” he blustered. “I will kill you before I let you take her from me again.”
“It is her you are killing,” Bran cried, hoping Penn of Gwynedd's love for his wife would bring him to his senses. He gestured to the bed. “Look at her. Don’t you see? She is dying before your eyes. If you love her, you will let me take her where she can get well again.”
Penn of Gwynedd spun around and scooped his wife up. She fluttered an arm in protest but that was all she could manage. “I will never let her go.”
Bran had no doubt his father meant what he said, and fear for his mother surged through him, turning to anger as the overwhelming current of energy it summoned struggled to break free. His skin crawled, his head throbbed and his whole body pulsed with rage. He couldn’t think—only feel.
His arm shot out, forefinger extended to release a lightning bolt that would turn his father to ash, but at the last instant a single thought pushed through the haze surrounding his mind. He wasn’t a murderer. The searing spear of light whizzed past Penn of Gwynedd’s ear and struck the stone wall beyond. The chamber shuddered as the rock crumbled noisily to the floor, leaving a hollow in the wall.
As the energy left Bran, so did the pressure inside him. The fog lifted and he was himself once more.
“Put her down, Father. I beg you. I don’t wish to harm you.” Though he was trembling inside, he managed to keep his voice steady. Penn of Gwynedd still intimidated him, still terrified him. He was a powerful man, and he was Bran’s father.
The man looked behind him at the broken wall and then back at his son. “You wouldn’t dare.” His voice was an incredulous whisper.
Bran glanced again at his mother and summoned all his resolve. “I don’t want to,” he paused and looked back at his father, “but I will if I must.”
34—Cara
Cara burst into the chamber, puffing. “What was that noise? What has happened?” Father and son were clearly at odds, and though Cara knew the boy had magic, he looked small and defenceless next to Penn of Gwynedd.
“I should have guessed you were part of this!” the man thundered.
“It’s alright, Cara,” Bran assured her as she cowered before Penn of Gwynedd’s rage. “I was explaining why Father should let me take care of Mother.” His gaze settled once more on the man. “Well, Father?”
Determination carved itself into Penn of Gwynedd’s features, and he hugged Lady Linnet as if she were a shield.
He held her so tightly, Cara feared she might break.
“You wouldn’t harm her,” he sneered.
The boy nodded. “You’re right.” His voice was quiet and compliant. “I wouldn’t.” Then before Cara realized what was happening, he flicked his wrist and Penn of Gwynedd became a living statue. Cara couldn’t believe her eyes.
The man’s body may have been paralyzed, but he was still able to speak. “You can’t do this!” “Free me this instant! Do you hear? Guard! Guard!”
To Cara’s further amazement, Bran flicked his wrist again, and Penn of Gwynedd fell silent. Now he truly was a statue—except for his eyes. They wouldn’t stop moving, and Cara felt them burning into her as she helped Bran return Lady Linnet to her bed.
“We must hurry.” There was urgency in the boy’s voice. “Someone is sure to have heard the wall crack. Even if they didn’t, the guards will soon be back. Bundle my mother warmly.”
“Where are we going?” Cara demanded as she wrapped her mistress in blankets. “Your mother may be a wee thing but she is still awkward to carry. Even if we could manage it, where would we take her? The drawbridge has already been raised. We are trapped in the castle!”
Bran placed a hand on her arm. “I know a place. Trust me, Cara.”
***
Cara caught her breath as she watched Bran pick up his cocooned mother as easily as if he were plucking a meadow flower. He may have been a boy, but he had the strength of a giant, and that made Cara sad. The child she had cared for since birth was no more.
“Follow me,” he said as he hurried into the antechamber with his mother. He gestured to the door. “Is anyone outside?”
Sticking her head out the door, Cara peered about. “No.”
“Good,” Bran said, pushing past her and running to the rear of the keep. “Come. There isn’t a moment to spare.”
Cara followed behind in a fearful daze. There was no way out of the keep from here. They were trapped.
When they reached the back wall, Bran said, “Pull hard on that torch.”
Cara couldn’t see what good that would do, but she did as he bid her and then jumped back in fright as the wall began to move.
“Quick! Go through,” he directed her.
“But—” Cara began but he cut her off.
“Go, Cara! There isn’t time to explain. Can’t you hear the soldiers?”
She cocked her head to listen and realized he was right. She could hear shouting and footfalls on the steps leading to the keep. Her heart began to race faster than ever, and without another word of protest, she skittered through the opening.
Bran was right behind her. “Now down the stairs,” he said. “The tunnel will take us to safety. My friend, Henri, is waiting for us.”
But Cara dug in her heels, and resuming her authority as the boy’s nani once more, she said, “First release your father. You can’t leave him as he is. He will die.”
The boy muttered something she didn’t catch. Even so, he lowered his mother gently to the stone floor. “Fine,” he grumbled, extending his arm through the closing wall. He made a fist and then opened it again, splaying his fingers as if he were discarding something. “There,” he said, pulling his arm in just as the wall scraped back into place. “Now can we go?”
35—The Boy
While Bran was in the castle rescuing his mother, Henri had secured a second horse and was waiting in the hollow tree at the end of the tunnel. Neither of them thought Penn of Gwynedd would begin his search in the dark, so they made good use of their advantage and rode all night. By early the next afternoon, they arrived at the Druid community where Bran’s mother had grown up and where her father, Arch-druid Alun resided.
The next morning he presided over a funeral for his daughter. The flames of the pyre were still licking the sky when Penn of Gwynedd and a group of Lord Cedric’s soldiers arrived to disrupt the farewell.
Henri steered Bran into the trees where the black stallion was tethered. There he used a spell to render them invisible. They could not be seen, but they could still see and hear the encounter between Bran’s father and grandfather.
“What is the meaning of this?” the arch-druid demanded. “Is it not enough that you caused my daughter’s death? Must you disrupt her journey to the Otherworld as well?” He was angry, but there were tears in his eyes.
Penn of Gwynedd’s gaze darted back and forth between the funeral pyre and his father-in-law. He shook his head and his own eyes became glassy. “No,” he said. “No, it is not possible. She can’t have died. She isn’t dead.” He gestured to the fire. “This is a trick.”
A tear rolled down the arch-druid’s cheek. “It is an unnecessary tragedy. One brought on by you. Though the courts would never convict you, I know the truth. You have slowly been killing my daughter for years.”
“No! I loved her!” Penn of Gwynedd protested.
“Yours is a dangerous love. I have always known that. I should have tried harder to make my daughter know it too.”
“You can’t blame her death on me!” Bran's father seemed both amazed and outraged. “She was my wife! I was looking out for her—I was keeping her safe. “This is the boy’s doing! If he hadn’t stolen her from her bed and exposed her to the elements and rough travel, she would be alive!” He scanned the assembled Druids. “Where is he?” he snarled. “I shall take him back to Lord Cedric and see that he gets what he deserves. Kidnapping is punishable by death.”
“The boy is not at fault for trying to protect his mother,” Arch-druid Alun countered angrily. “It broke his heart that he was not in time to save her. But he expected you would come here. So as soon as his mother slipped away, he left.”
“Where did he go?”
His grandfather shrugged. “I didn’t ask. That way I can’t be forced to betray him. Somewhere safe, I hope.”
Penn of Gwynedd’s gaze scanned the area again. “And my wife’s servant? The boy’s nani? Where is she?”
“She left too. She was only being loyal to her mistress and doesn’t deserve to be punished for it. But she fears your wrath.”
Penn of Gwynedd’s eyes narrowed and he got right into the arch-druid’s face. “You are lying.” He waved to the soldiers. “Search the area. Ransack the dwellings if needs be. Find them!” He wagged a finger under the Druid’s nose. “Arch-druid or King of Cymru, it matters not a whit to me. If you are hiding these outlaws, I promise it will go badly for you.”
***
Though it had been four months since that horrible morning, Bran could still see every detail of it clearly in his mind.
Laughter rang out across the Druid encampment, pulling him from his thoughts and causing him to look up from the firewood he was stacking. The women were clustered around a long plank table, preparing the evening meal. They were chopping vegetables, kneading dough and stirring soup, but throughout it all they were chattering incessantly—and laughing. Of course Cara was in the middle of it all, overseeing the work of the others.
Lady Linnet -- Blodyn now -- must have felt Bran’s eyes upon her, for she looked up and waved.
He waved back.
Seeing his mother finally well and happy and living the life she was meant to warmed his heart. To avoid being discovered, she’d had to change her name, but that had not been a bad thing. It had helped her put her old life behind her. Now she called herself Blodyn—Flower—and it suited her perfectly. Arch-druid Alun had urged her to divorce Penn of Gwynedd, but in the eyes of the law she didn’t have cause—her husband hadn’t neglected her, he didn’t have leprosy, and he wasn’t afflicted with bad breath. And even if Bran’s mother could have rid herself of him legally, that wouldn’t end his obsession. He would always want to possess her.
Freeing his mother had been so much more complicated than Bran had imagined. Rescuing her from Llanberis Castle had only been the beginning. Thank goodness he’d had help with the rest of it.
Bradan had done his part and more. Bran didn’t know if it was because he was a seer or if he was simply wise. It didn’t matter. He had believed Lady Linnet’s childhood home was the first place Penn of Gwynedd would look for her, and that is why they had gone there. And Bradan had been right. He had further reckoned that because Lady Linnet was in such poor health, it would be no great surprise if she died shortly after arriving. It was a small matter to put an effigy in her place on the funeral pyre and set it ablaze before the search party arrived. Meanwhile, the real Lady Linnet had been moved to a safe place, to be nursed back to health by Cara. As for Bran’s grandfather, he played the grieving father brilliantly, feeding Penn of Gwynedd misleading information to throw him off the scent.
Once Bran’s mother had recovered enough to travel, she, Bran, and Cara made their way to a small Druid community in the woods of southern Cymru, where they were warmly welcomed—for that was the Druid way. They buried their past and moved forward, and when suppressing his magic became physically painful for Bran, he took himself deep into the woods to release his pent-up energy.
Bran went back to stacking the freshly chopped wood. Life was so much better than it had been before, but it wasn’t ideal. He couldn’t return to Llanberis, which meant he would likely never see Master Garth again or any of his friends at the castle. And never again would he ride the little mare. Visits from his grandfather and Bradan would be rare too, and even when the two did come, they couldn’t greet Bran and Blodyn as family for that would rouse suspicion.
The thing that surprised Bran the most was how much he missed Henri. Though the sorcerer had terrified him in the beginning, Henri had quickly become his friend. He had helped him understand what magic was, what it could do—both good and bad—and how to command it, but there was so much more for Bran to learn. Henri had invited him to visit him in his homeland, but the boy was afraid to leave his mother lest his father discover she was still alive while he was gone. If he could have convinced her to make the journey across the sea, he would happily have gone, but Blodyn insisted Cymru was her home and she would not leave it.
Bradan had seen the invitation as an opportunity to further safeguard the boy. With the hope that Penn of Gwynedd would give up searching for him, he started a rumour claiming Bran had indeed gone to the land of the Franks.
As Bran added logs to the neatly stacked woodpile, he sighed. Though it seemed unlikely, he hoped he and Henri would meet again one day.
Every measure had been taken to see that Bran and his mother were safe and that life was good. And it was … except that Penn of Gwynedd was still a threat. As much as Bran tried to live in the moment and push thoughts of his father away, he suspected he would never know true peace as long as Penn of Gwynedd lived.
He scooped up two more logs and then pulled back in surprise when a delicate yellow poppy sprang up where the logs had been, freed at last from the burden of them. Some of its petals were crumpled and its leaves were bent, but its stem was sturdy, and Bran marvelled at the little flower’s ability to withstand such adversity. It was stronger than it looked.
The women’s laughter rang out again. The sound was so joyful, it made Bran smile. He looked from the poppy to his mother and a sense of calm washed over him. Everything was going to be fine.
THE END