bel-like voice drew Blaise from his
musings.
“It is good you are home, my son.” She placed her hand over
his.
“Yes, brother, welcome.” Brochfael raised his tankard in a
salute.
The clang and clatter of cups vibrated through the hal with a
toast to Blaise’s return. Dancing hearth flames caught his eye as
he remembered the feel of the hard, heavy chains which had
bound him in Mercia. His neck was stiff but he realized it was
only his torque and chortled with relief.
Brochfael flashed a white, toothy grin while Elisedd bore an
ever-steady scowl. Carthann smiled sweetly and Leri gave Blaise
a slight salute of her tankard before taking a large gulp.
Blaise ran his fingers across the silver tankard and breathed in
the aroma of thick honeyed mead. The audible sigh of the
feasters drew his attention to the tal, muscular bard with harp in hand striding to the edge of the dais. The bard sung of his daring escape and cunning concealment in the wagon of woad flowers.
At song’s end, Carthann stood up and proclaimed, “We shal
find this merchant and appoint him royal dye master of Powys
from this day forth.”
The feasters cheered Carthann’s kindness. Blaise nodded
along as he thought of Branda. She should be here.
He gestured to the dark-haired serving maid with the loving
spoon hanging from her neck. “Go, go to the Saxon Princess.
Bring her a fruit loaf of bara brith and bid her join us in the dining hal.”
The Princess probably likes sweets, he thought as he leaned back in the chair. Would her lips taste like honey? He blinked his eyes to waylay unwanted longings. The Princess was Elisedd’s
hostage, he should give her no thought, yet her charming face,
long silky hair which glistened like moonlight and eyes like blue
fire haunted him.
“Branda,” he unknowingly whispered aloud.
“What say you?” asked Elisedd.
“I say it’s good to be home.” Blaise’s cheeks burned. It was
only a matter of time until he would shake the Princess from his
mind. Ethelbald would pay the ransom and he would never see
Branda again. In the back of his mind, he already dreaded that
day.
Branda didn’t come to the hal. He left and stumbled to his
chamber where he fel asleep on a rush-filed palet.
* * * *
Blaise awoke to a throbbing pain in his temple due to over
indulgence the previous evening. He couldn’t remember how
he’d made it to his bed. After sluggishly puling on a clean tunic
and braise, he met his brother in the training yard.
“You had quite a night of it.” His brother greeted him with a
wide grin and a hard slap on the back. “Are you fit for sword
play?” Brochfael drew his long blade from the sheath belted at
his side.
his side.
“Ever am I ready, brother.” Blaise withdrew his sword and
held it at the ready as he moved his feet into a battle stance.
They kept their ground, sidestepping in a circular motion,
stalking each other. Blaise’s sword arm had gone weak from
captivity and his head was dul from a night of revelry. As
opponents go, he matched Brochfael’s level of skil but his
brother’s agility was at its peak, while his own was at its
weakest.
He lunged but Brochfael warded off the blow with a swift
back step. Blaise moved in again, unknowingly giving his brother
the advantage. Brochfael struck his shoulder and Blaise slipped
back, warding off the blow. He lunged at Brochfael who
sidestepped quickly. The younger brother thrust at the elder’s
head, swiftly stepped back and then moved in, striking Blaise’s
knee before leaping free of his reach.
He couldn’t let his oldest brother best him. He would never
hear the end of it. Blaise pivoted and lunged.
Brochfael met the attack. Blades crossed in an ear-piercing
grind. Their feet were as swift as their hands as they moved back
and forth. Blaise saw his brother’s grip slipping and slid his foot forward, ready to lunge. An ear-piercing squeal sliced through
the air, startling
musings.
“It is good you are home, my son.” She placed her hand over
his.
“Yes, brother, welcome.” Brochfael raised his tankard in a
salute.
The clang and clatter of cups vibrated through the hal with a
toast to Blaise’s return. Dancing hearth flames caught his eye as
he remembered the feel of the hard, heavy chains which had
bound him in Mercia. His neck was stiff but he realized it was
only his torque and chortled with relief.
Brochfael flashed a white, toothy grin while Elisedd bore an
ever-steady scowl. Carthann smiled sweetly and Leri gave Blaise
a slight salute of her tankard before taking a large gulp.
Blaise ran his fingers across the silver tankard and breathed in
the aroma of thick honeyed mead. The audible sigh of the
feasters drew his attention to the tal, muscular bard with harp in hand striding to the edge of the dais. The bard sung of his daring escape and cunning concealment in the wagon of woad flowers.
At song’s end, Carthann stood up and proclaimed, “We shal
find this merchant and appoint him royal dye master of Powys
from this day forth.”
The feasters cheered Carthann’s kindness. Blaise nodded
along as he thought of Branda. She should be here.
He gestured to the dark-haired serving maid with the loving
spoon hanging from her neck. “Go, go to the Saxon Princess.
Bring her a fruit loaf of bara brith and bid her join us in the dining hal.”
The Princess probably likes sweets, he thought as he leaned back in the chair. Would her lips taste like honey? He blinked his eyes to waylay unwanted longings. The Princess was Elisedd’s
hostage, he should give her no thought, yet her charming face,
long silky hair which glistened like moonlight and eyes like blue
fire haunted him.
“Branda,” he unknowingly whispered aloud.
“What say you?” asked Elisedd.
“I say it’s good to be home.” Blaise’s cheeks burned. It was
only a matter of time until he would shake the Princess from his
mind. Ethelbald would pay the ransom and he would never see
Branda again. In the back of his mind, he already dreaded that
day.
Branda didn’t come to the hal. He left and stumbled to his
chamber where he fel asleep on a rush-filed palet.
* * * *
Blaise awoke to a throbbing pain in his temple due to over
indulgence the previous evening. He couldn’t remember how
he’d made it to his bed. After sluggishly puling on a clean tunic
and braise, he met his brother in the training yard.
“You had quite a night of it.” His brother greeted him with a
wide grin and a hard slap on the back. “Are you fit for sword
play?” Brochfael drew his long blade from the sheath belted at
his side.
his side.
“Ever am I ready, brother.” Blaise withdrew his sword and
held it at the ready as he moved his feet into a battle stance.
They kept their ground, sidestepping in a circular motion,
stalking each other. Blaise’s sword arm had gone weak from
captivity and his head was dul from a night of revelry. As
opponents go, he matched Brochfael’s level of skil but his
brother’s agility was at its peak, while his own was at its
weakest.
He lunged but Brochfael warded off the blow with a swift
back step. Blaise moved in again, unknowingly giving his brother
the advantage. Brochfael struck his shoulder and Blaise slipped
back, warding off the blow. He lunged at Brochfael who
sidestepped quickly. The younger brother thrust at the elder’s
head, swiftly stepped back and then moved in, striking Blaise’s
knee before leaping free of his reach.
He couldn’t let his oldest brother best him. He would never
hear the end of it. Blaise pivoted and lunged.
Brochfael met the attack. Blades crossed in an ear-piercing
grind. Their feet were as swift as their hands as they moved back
and forth. Blaise saw his brother’s grip slipping and slid his foot forward, ready to lunge. An ear-piercing squeal sliced through
the air, startling
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