The Prince of Powys Read Free Page A

foe that I, a mere
    woman, forgot he was here as our friend...this eve.”
    Ethelbald dropped his jaw.
    Branda shut her mouth but she didn’t regret her words. Her
    father shouldn’t have promised her to Cuthred.
    “Princess Branda, you speak the truth. Often I have been your
    foe, but neither am I here as friend. From this day forth I shal be more to you than friend or foe.” Cuthred smirked, flashing a row
    of yelow-stained teeth.
    Her skin crawled as if covered by snakes.
    King Ethelbald raised his muscular arm and declared, “Here
    you, people of Mercia: I declare blessed tidings. I have granted
    King Cuthred, a brave and strong adversary...” he paused and
    patted the Wessex King on the back, “betrothal to my youngest
    daughter.”
    He brought his arm broadside, pointing toward her. She
    stepped back, wanting to be anywhere but here.
    He continued, “Thus bringing about an aliance between
    Wessex and Mercia.” He dropped his arm at his side. The
    timbered hal shook with huzzahs.
    Cuthred held out his fist. She stood her ground but flinched for
    a moment. Wil he hit me, Branda thought. She knew nothing of
    men. Everything she’d heard about Cuthred involved his temper.
    He unfolded his fingers, revealing a thick, golden ring in his
    palm. “M’lady your betrothal gift.”
    Her hands quivered as she picked up the gaudy ring. It was
    engraved with a lion, bordered by decorative swirls. Grudgingly,
    she slipped it around her finger. She wanted to scream, yet could
    not risk it. She’d raised her father’s ire by insulting King
    Cuthred. Determined to charm him into releasing her from this
    dreadful fate, she schooled her composure to that of a model
    dreadful fate, she schooled her composure to that of a model
    daughter. Branda could turn this around. She just needed time.
    She strode to her father’s side at the long table and eased
    down into an oaken chair between her sire and Cuthred.
    Servants set steaming bowls of hare and barley and tankards of
    golden mead upon the board.
    She cast her gaze downward in feigned meekness. “My King,
    when shal the marriage take place?”
    “In a sennight,” he replied firmly.
    A deep cough spurted from Branda’s lips as she almost
    choked on a chunk of hare she chewed. Having managed to
    swalow the stringy meat, she took a swig of mead and mustered
    her resolve.
    With sweetness and charm, she bobbed her head and said, “It
    is good.” She needed to make her move as soon as possible.
    Branda kept her gaze upon the bowl, unable to look her sire
    in the eye, while discussing this curse of a wedding. Holding a
    spoonful of stew to her lips, she blew upon it, taking comfort in
    the pleasing scents of sage, bay, garlic and leeks the hare
    simmered in. She flinched at the obnoxious slurping sound of
    Cuthred devouring his stew. Had he no manners? This was not a
    battle camp. It was a betrothal feast.
    “Sweet Mother Mary!” she exclaimed as she accidentaly bit
    her tongue.
    Ethelbald glared at her.
    Smile, smile, smile, Branda thought. She would please her sire so he would want to please her and release her from this
    betrothal, but her tight-lipped grin was undone as she glanced at
    Cuthred’s beard sodden with hare broth and the bits of barley
    stuck to his chin. It was the first and last time she would sup with him. Marry him? Never. She glanced at Scan but he was staring off in space, the dunce. He needed to help her find a way out of
    this.
    Her gaze fel upon the hostage and she gulped. He stared at
    her dead on, with a bold smirk. It seemed he laughed at her fate.
    Wel, he should be afraid, with Wessex and Mercia aligned what
    chance would Powys have? Ethelbald and Cuthred had both
    fought the Welsh often enough.
    Silly goose , Branda thought. I need to rid myself of this betrothal . She didn’t have time to ponder the hostage, a wild Welshman, but why did he seem so different than the other men?
    Welshman, but why did he seem so different than the other