The Prince of Powys Read Free

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    next morning, every pore of his body throbbed with a dul ache,
    while the intense, sharp pain from his arrow-wound pierced his
    chest.
    He felt less than human, as useless as the soot that covered
    him. The Princess had not yet come. She was as golden as
    honey and he lived for the sight of her. Had Ethelbald ordered
    her from the hal? Would that monster take away the one person
    who bought him pleasure by her very presence?
    He caled out to the skinny fool of a hearth guard. “You,
    Scan; the Princess has not come to the hal this day. Is she il?”
    Scan walked toward Blaise and leaned down to his ear.
    “Cuthred has arrived. Princess Branda keeps to her chamber to
    avoid him but she wil come to sup at the feast this eve.”
    “Ah, Cuthred is here.”
    “Yes.” The guard nodded his head.
    This would be the best time to make his escape—during the
    commotion of a betrothal feast—but how would he get out of the
    chains? Branda and Scan were so kind-hearted they would
    unknowingly aid in Blaise’s escape. He just didn’t know how, as
    of yet.

    * * * *
Branda entered the hal and rushed to Scan. “My sire and
    Cuthred are in the council room with the door closed. You must
    Cuthred are in the council room with the door closed. You must
    stand guard there so you can hear what they say.”
    Scan stared at her with a blank expression.
    “Go on.” She waved him toward the council room. She would
    find a way out of this betrothal.
    The guard turned on his heel and in a slow, reluctant stride
    went to do her bidding.
    “My congratulations, Princess.” Blaise grinned wryly. “I
    understand you are to be betrothed.”
    Gods teeth, not him too! Did everyone know she was to
    marry Cuthred of Wessex? She turned to face the hostage.
    “Never,” she retorted with a quick jerk of her head.
    His laughter burned her ears as she hurried to the long table.
    She plopped down on the bench, feet flat on the rush-covered
    floor, and gripped the edge of the oaken table. Seething, she
    tried to ignore the warrior who sat hearthside in a pile of cinders, but she caught herself staring at his mass of red hair, sprinkled
    with ash. She couldn’t take her eyes off the muscles bulging
    beneath the soot- covered tunic. She’d never been attracted to a
    man before and it unnerved her on the day she needed her
    composure the most.
    She sensed someone’s approach. Scan. He has word , she
    thought, as she gazed with anticipation at the rangy youth. As he
    bent his lips to her ear, she twirled a strand of flaxen hair around her finger.
    “Your sire caled for the scribe.”
    She banged her smal fist on the oaken table. “Christ’s bones!
    It cannot be. I shan’t be wed to Cuthred the cur.”
    “Shh, shh,” Scan cautioned. “If your sire hears, you wil suffer
    his wrath. He is a bretwalda , one of the greatest kings, a ruler of Britain. M’lady, his word is law.”
    Am I not his daughter, a Princess of Mercia? “My sire
    needs fathom what my life would be, married to Cuthred of
    Wessex.” If I may but speak to him alone I will have my way.
    I always get my way.
    “Shush, I hear footsteps.” Scan scurried to his position at the
    hearth where he stood at attention.
    Ethelbald and Cuthred strode into the hal with wide grins
    across their weatherworn faces. Branda crossed her arms over
    her blue woolen tunic dress. Her burning anger rose as she
    her blue woolen tunic dress. Her burning anger rose as she
    looked at Cuthred, the man who would be her husband, the
    brute, the boar, and the end of life as she knew it.
    She unfolded her arms, grasped her hips and gazed boldly at
    Cuthred. “M’lord, I see you are wel pleased. No doubt Wessex
    plots another battle against Mercia, for I believe that is your
    fondest means of frolic.”
    With a tilt of his thick neck, Ethelbald raised his firm-set chin.
    “What know you of battles? Hold your tongue, for the King of
    Wessex is my guest this day.”
    “Yes, my sire. So often has he been our