Read Online The Prince of Powys by Cornelia Amiri, Pamela Hopkins, Amanda Kelsey - Free Book Online
Ads: Link
child!” he stammered, knowing his face was as red as a
strawberry. “What does it matter? Make sure the Princess gets
them.” He stuck the daffodils in Leri’s hands. “That is al.”
“Very wel,” she said politely then turned her head and yeled,
“Branda, there’s someone at the door with flowers.”
Blaise slid his foot from the doorway as fast as he could,
turned his back to Leri and headed in a brisk gait toward the
hal.
This nonsense would soon be done. He should ask the Druid
for some tonic of sorts for no doubt he’d caught some Saxon
ilness, which possessed him to pick sily flowers. Yes, it must be
so. He couldn’t think of any other reasonable explanation. Blaise
wheeled around and headed to the wooden temple. He peered
into the open doorway and gazed at the wizened, gray-headed
Druid hunched over an ancient, silver scrying bowl.
“Neilyn, might I enter? I need to speak with you,” he said
under his breath, embarrassed about his feelings for Branda.
The Druid waved his withered hand, gesturing him to come in,
then tore his eyes away from the magic bowl and glanced at
Blaise. “What troubles you?”
“I strode down the hilside and picked daffodils this morn.”
“What say you, Prince?” He arched his eyebrows and
“What say you, Prince?” He arched his eyebrows and
furrowed his brow.
“Druid, you need to help me. I picked daffodils.” He shrugged
as he gazed at Neilyn’s blank stare and open mouth.
“For whom did you pick these daffodils?”
“Princess Branda.”
“The Saxon!”
“Yes.” Was Neilyn’s hearing going bad? Why was the Druid
making him repeat everything?
“Did you not know? Elisedd is ransoming the Princess. She
shal soon be returned to Mercia.”
“Yes, my father told me.”
“Then why were you picking flowers for her?” he snapped.
“I know not, it’s why I came to you. Do you know what ails
me?”
“Prince or not, you are daft sometimes.” He emphasized his
words with a curt nod.
“Druid or not, that’s no a way to speak to a Prince of
Powys.”
Neilyn let out an exasperated curse and waved his hands,
indicating he would speak any way he wished. “Listen, you must
not talk to the Princess, nor look at her. Don’t sup with her in the hal. Most important of al, do not dream of her.”
“Then I wil be myself again?”
“Yes, in time.” Neilyn nodded.
Content with the Druid’s answer, Blaise strode to his
chamber. He thought of Neilyn’s words as he plopped down on
the rush-stuffed palet for the night. He drifted to sleep and into an ethereal dream woven of mist, magic and Branda. Heat and
haze swirled in his mind. He dreamed he was in Mercia but not
as a hostage. He was the daft guard Scan except he felt like
himself. When he held Branda in his arms, she caled him by his
own name. “Blaise, my beloved.”
Ethelbald gave him Branda’s hand in marriage to honor him
for a great battle he’d won, then he scooped the Princess into his arms and carried her to a chamber, which looked just like the
one at Dinas Bran. Branda pressed her soft, warm lips upon his.
He awoke and peered at the crumpled bed linens and the
tousled, brocaded coverlet. Why did he have to wake up? Blaise
wanted to crawl underneath the coverlet and return to the dream.
Apprehension gripped him. Neilyn’s voice resounded in his
Apprehension gripped him. Neilyn’s voice resounded in his
head, “ and most important of all, do not dream of her.” By the sunlight peaking through the high window, he knew it was
early morn. He shot up from the bed and tugged on his braise.
Not bothering with shoes or tunic, he ran to the Druid temple.
“Oh no,” he gasped as he peered in the open doorway and
saw Neilyn speaking to Branda. The Druid seemed perplexed
for he rubbed his brow.
“I know you’re a priest, but stil I think you must be wrong.”
Branda crinkled her forehead in the cutest manner. “Tel me
again.”
Neilyn seemed to
strawberry. “What does it matter? Make sure the Princess gets
them.” He stuck the daffodils in Leri’s hands. “That is al.”
“Very wel,” she said politely then turned her head and yeled,
“Branda, there’s someone at the door with flowers.”
Blaise slid his foot from the doorway as fast as he could,
turned his back to Leri and headed in a brisk gait toward the
hal.
This nonsense would soon be done. He should ask the Druid
for some tonic of sorts for no doubt he’d caught some Saxon
ilness, which possessed him to pick sily flowers. Yes, it must be
so. He couldn’t think of any other reasonable explanation. Blaise
wheeled around and headed to the wooden temple. He peered
into the open doorway and gazed at the wizened, gray-headed
Druid hunched over an ancient, silver scrying bowl.
“Neilyn, might I enter? I need to speak with you,” he said
under his breath, embarrassed about his feelings for Branda.
The Druid waved his withered hand, gesturing him to come in,
then tore his eyes away from the magic bowl and glanced at
Blaise. “What troubles you?”
“I strode down the hilside and picked daffodils this morn.”
“What say you, Prince?” He arched his eyebrows and
“What say you, Prince?” He arched his eyebrows and
furrowed his brow.
“Druid, you need to help me. I picked daffodils.” He shrugged
as he gazed at Neilyn’s blank stare and open mouth.
“For whom did you pick these daffodils?”
“Princess Branda.”
“The Saxon!”
“Yes.” Was Neilyn’s hearing going bad? Why was the Druid
making him repeat everything?
“Did you not know? Elisedd is ransoming the Princess. She
shal soon be returned to Mercia.”
“Yes, my father told me.”
“Then why were you picking flowers for her?” he snapped.
“I know not, it’s why I came to you. Do you know what ails
me?”
“Prince or not, you are daft sometimes.” He emphasized his
words with a curt nod.
“Druid or not, that’s no a way to speak to a Prince of
Powys.”
Neilyn let out an exasperated curse and waved his hands,
indicating he would speak any way he wished. “Listen, you must
not talk to the Princess, nor look at her. Don’t sup with her in the hal. Most important of al, do not dream of her.”
“Then I wil be myself again?”
“Yes, in time.” Neilyn nodded.
Content with the Druid’s answer, Blaise strode to his
chamber. He thought of Neilyn’s words as he plopped down on
the rush-stuffed palet for the night. He drifted to sleep and into an ethereal dream woven of mist, magic and Branda. Heat and
haze swirled in his mind. He dreamed he was in Mercia but not
as a hostage. He was the daft guard Scan except he felt like
himself. When he held Branda in his arms, she caled him by his
own name. “Blaise, my beloved.”
Ethelbald gave him Branda’s hand in marriage to honor him
for a great battle he’d won, then he scooped the Princess into his arms and carried her to a chamber, which looked just like the
one at Dinas Bran. Branda pressed her soft, warm lips upon his.
He awoke and peered at the crumpled bed linens and the
tousled, brocaded coverlet. Why did he have to wake up? Blaise
wanted to crawl underneath the coverlet and return to the dream.
Apprehension gripped him. Neilyn’s voice resounded in his
Apprehension gripped him. Neilyn’s voice resounded in his
head, “ and most important of all, do not dream of her.” By the sunlight peaking through the high window, he knew it was
early morn. He shot up from the bed and tugged on his braise.
Not bothering with shoes or tunic, he ran to the Druid temple.
“Oh no,” he gasped as he peered in the open doorway and
saw Neilyn speaking to Branda. The Druid seemed perplexed
for he rubbed his brow.
“I know you’re a priest, but stil I think you must be wrong.”
Branda crinkled her forehead in the cutest manner. “Tel me
again.”
Neilyn seemed to
Similar Books
