Daggerspell (11 page)

“He does, Your Highness. My prince, Lord Gerraent has set the period of mourning until the turning of the fall. He humbly begs your understanding on this matter.”

“He has it, truly. Come to me before you return to the Falcon. I’ll give you a message for my lady.”

Adoryc dismissed the page in the care of another. Once they were alone, the King dropped his false civility.

“So. You seem to know what’s going on well enough. Did your foul dweomer show you Dwen’s death?”

“It did, but I never thought it would come so soon.”

The King’s face first paled, then went scarlet, but Galrion got his thrust in first.

“Why have you told the guards to keep me in?”

“Why do you think? I’m not having you ride out of
here on the sly to your cursed old hermit. Here, this evil news of Lord Dwen made me remember your betrothed. What were you planning on doing? Marrying her and taking her to a hut in the forest while you dabble about with spells?”

“Just that, if she’ll go.”

“You stinking dog!” Adoryc’s mouth moved, seeking insults. “You arrogant little—”

“Oh, here, where do I get my arrogance but from you? Why shouldn’t a woman follow where her man wills to go?”

“No reason in the world—unless she’s the noble-born daughter of a great clan.” Adoryc stepped closer. “You ugly little dolt, haven’t you thought of the insult to the Falcon? Gerraent’s uncle died for the sake of our throne, and now you dare to treat their kin this way! Do you want to drive them to rebellion?” He gave Galrion a backhanded slap. “Get out of my sight. I don’t want to see you until you’ve gotten sense into your head.”

Galrion stalked back to his chamber, slammed the door behind him, and flung himself down into his chair to think. There was nothing for it now but to break his betrothal—but the King would never allow that insult to the Falcon, either. I could slip away somehow, Galrion thought, climb the walls at night and be in the forest before they catch me—and break Gwennie’s heart by deserting her without even a message to explain. He had the horrible feeling that Rhegor was going to be displeased by the way he was handling things. With the period of mourning, you’ve got time, he told himself. At the thought, the dweomer-warning flared up so strongly that he shivered. For some reason that the dweomer couldn’t tell him, there was no time at all. Galrion got up and paced over to the window. When he looked down, he saw two armed guards standing at the foot of the broch directly below his window. Galrion rushed to his door and flung it open to find four more guards in the corridor. The captain managed to give him a sickly smile.

“My apologies, my prince. The King orders that you remain
in your chamber. We’re only allowed to let your page through.”

Galrion slammed the door and returned to his chair. He wondered how long the King would make him wait before summoning him.

Four days, it turned out, four tedious days with no company but his books and his page, who brought him food and took away the leavings silently, furtively, because servants of an out-of-favor master often met ill ends at court. Every now and then, Galrion would open the door and chat with the guards, who were friendly enough, being as their place was secure no matter what happened to the prince. Once Galrion sent a message to the Queen and begged her to come see him. The answer came back that she didn’t dare.

Finally, on the fourth night, the guards announced that they were taking him to the King. When they marched Galrion into the royal chamber, Adoryc dismissed them. There was no sign of Ylaena.

“Very well. Have you had enough time to think about swearing me that vow? Leave this dweomer nonsense behind, and everything will be as it was before.”

“Father, believe me—I have no choice but to say you nay. I can’t leave the dweomer because it won’t leave me. It’s not like breaking your sword and retiring to the temple.”

“So—you’ve got plenty of fancy words to justify disobeying the King, do you? For your mother’s sake, I’ll give you one last chance. We’ll see what Brangwen can do to talk you round.”

“Are you going to pen me like a hog till autumn?”

“I’m sending for her to come to court. Curse the mourning! I’m sending a speeded courier to Lord Gerraent tomorrow. My apologies will go with him, but I want them both here as fast as they can ride. I’m going to tell Lady Brangwen what her dolt of a betrothed is planning on doing, and I’ll order her to talk you round.”

“And if she can’t?”

“Then neither of you will ever leave the palace. Ever.”

Galrion nearly wept. Never leave—never ride through his beloved forest again—never see the snow hanging thick on leafless branch nor a river in spate—never? And Brangwen, too, would be shut up as a prisoner for years, all for her husband’s fault. Then, only then, when it seemed too late for them both, did he realize that he truly loved her, not just her god-cursed beauty, but her.

That night Galrion had no hope of sleep. He paced back and forth in his chambers, his mind a confused babble of dread, remorse, and futile schemes of escape. It would take a hard-riding courier three days to reach the Falcon, then another five for Brangwen and Gerraent to reach Dun Deverry. I’ll have to meet them on the road, he thought, if I can get out—out of the best-guarded fortress in the kingdom. His dweomer could never help him. He was the merest apprentice, with only an apprentice’s feeble tricks at his disposal. A little knowledge, a few wretched herbs, Galrion reproached himself. You’re no better than a woman dabbling in witchcraft! All at once, his plan came to him, and he laughed aloud. But he would need help. As much as he hated to put her at risk, he had no one to turn to but the Queen.

In the morning, Galrion sent his page to Ylaena with the urgent message that she come see him. She sent back the answer that she would try, but it depended on the King’s whim. For three days Galrion waited, counting in his mind every mile that the King’s courier was riding, closer and closer to the Falcon keep. Finally, he sent the page with a pair of torn brigga and the request that his mother’s servants mend them. Such an errand would allay the King’s suspicions, if indeed he ever heard of anything so trivial. The ruse worked. On the next morning, the Queen herself brought the mended brigga back, slipping into his room like a servant lass.

“Mother,” Galrion said. “Do you know the King’s plan?”

“I do, and I weep for little Brangwen as much as you.”

“Weep for her more, because I’m unworthy of her. Here, will you help me for her sake? All I ask is this. If
I give you some clothes to mend, will you take them and have your maids leave them out in the women’s hall tonight? Tell them to put them on the table by the door.”

“I will.” Ylaena shuddered lightly. “I don’t dare know more.”

After the noon meal, when the guards were bound to be bored with their light duty, Galrion opened his door for a chat. His luck was with him—they were sitting on the floor and playing dice for coppers.

“Can I join you? If I sit on this side of the doorway, we won’t be breaking the King’s orders.”

Obligingly the guards moved their game closer. Normally Galrion never wagered on the dice, simply because his dweomer sight would always tell him which way they would fall. Now, to get sympathy from his guards, he used the sight to place his bets so that he lost.

“By every god and his wife,” the captain said finally. “Your luck is bad today, my prince.”

“How could it be otherwise? It’s been against me for weeks now. If you’ve ever envied the prince, let this be a lesson for you. It’s a hard thing to fall from your own father’s favor.”

The captain nodded in melancholy agreement.

“I don’t mind telling you, my prince, that I think I’d go daft, shut up like you are.”

“I’m close to it, and the nights are more wearisome than the days, because I can’t sleep. Oh, here, I know the King’s orders allow you to bring me things. Would that hold true of a woman?”

“I don’t see why not.” The captain shared a grin with his men. “Is there one of your mother’s maids you fancy?”

“Do you know Mae, the golden-haired lass? She’s taken a tumble with me before this.”

“Well and good, then. We’ll do our best to smuggle her in tonight, when things are all quietlike.”

At the dinner hour, Galrion had his page bring him a flagon of mead and two goblets. He dug down into a chest and found his packets of dried herbs. Rhegor was teaching him simple herbcraft, and he’d brought his student work
home mostly as a pleasant reminder of his days in the forest. Now he had a real need for that packet of valerian, the most potent soporific in an herbman’s stock. He ground up only a spare dose. He had no desire to make Mae ill with too much, and besides, the musty, thick taste of the herb could give his whole game away.

Toward midnight, Galrion heard Mae giggling in the corridor and the captain telling her to hush. He opened the door and saw that she was wearing a cloak with the hood up to hide her face, exactly as he’d hoped.

“Greetings, my sweet. How kind you are to a dishonored man.”

When Mae giggled, Galrion clapped his hand over her mouth in pretend alarm.

“Keep her quiet when you take her back, will you?” Galrion said to the captain.

“Hear that, lass?” the captain said. “Not one word out of you on the way back.”

Mae nodded, her big blue eyes as solemn as a child’s when it’s been let into a secret. Galrion ushered her inside and barred the door behind them. Mae took off her cloak, revealing a loose, flowing dress—loose enough, Galrion thought, to fit his shoulders nicely. He’d chosen her deliberately because she was tall for a lass.

“I’ve had the page bring us mead. Sit and drink with me awhile.”

“You’re always so gallant, my prince. It aches my heart to see you out of favor.”

“My thanks. And what about my marriage? Does that ache your heart, too?”

Mae merely shrugged and followed him into the bed-chamber. Galrion handed her the drugged goblet, then took a sip from his own, a gesture that automatically made her sip hers. They sat down together on the edge of the bed.

“Ah, well, we’ve had our good times, and a prince marries where the kingdom needs him to.” Mae grinned, winking. “I only hope your new wife never hears of me.”

“Oh, here—you must have a new man to be so agreeable.”

Mae had another long swallow of the mead and winked again.

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t, but no one will find out where I’ve been tonight, and so what if he does? He won’t be arguing with the prince, I’ll wager, even if you are out of favor for now.” She had still another sip. “These bad times will pass, my prince. Your mother’s ever so upset, but she’ll talk the King round.”

“So I hope.”

Mae yawned, shaking her head, then had a sip of mead.

“This mead tastes so sweet,” she said. “It’s awfully good.”

“Only the best for you. Drink that up, and we’ll have a bit more.”

A bit more proved unnecessary. By the time she had finished that first goblet, Mae was yawning, shutting her eyes, then forcing them open. When she leaned over to set the goblet on the table beside the bed, she dropped it. Galrion grabbed her just as she fell forward into his arms.

Galrion undressed her, tucked her up comfortably into his bed, then got out the packet of herbs and left it by her goblet to make it clear that she’d been drugged, an unwilling accomplice. He paced restlessly round, letting enough time lapse to satisfy the guards. When he could bear to wait no longer, he changed into her clothes, drew the hood of the cloak around his face, and slipped out into the hall. Suspecting nothing, the guards gave him a leer and a wink, then escorted him along the dark corridors. At the door of the women’s hall, the captain gave him a friendly pat on the behind, told him that he was a good lass, and gallantly opened the door for him.

Dim moonlight filtered through the windows of the silent room. Galrion found the table, his clothes, and a dagger in a sheath, left under his brigga. Thanking his mother in his heart, he changed into his clothes and settled the dagger inside his shirt. When he looked out, the ward below lay empty. Carefully he edged out onto the window ledge,
turned precariously, and started down the rough stonework. Praying that no one would walk by, he clambered down, his hands aching and bleeding on the stone, until at last he reached the ward.

Galrion ran from hut to hut and shed to shed until he reached the stables. Abutting directly on the wall was a storage shed that he could climb easily. He swung from the roof to the wall, then crawled on his stomach until he reached a place where an oak grew on the far side. He swung into the branches, climbed down, then lingered in the safe shadows. He could see down the long slope of parkland to the outer ring, where, against the starry sky moved the dark shapes of the night guards, patrolling the ramparts. The most dangerous part of the escape lay ahead.

Galrion circled the inner ring until he could see the road leading down to the outer gates. He crawled down-hill in the long grass until he was out of sight of the guard at the inner gates, then stood up and boldly walked down the road. When he came close to the guard station, he broke into a run.

“Here!” Galrion made his voice as high and unsteady as a lads. “Open up! An errand for the cook.”

“Hold, lad.” A guard stepped forward to peer at him in the darkness. “That’s a likely tale.”

“Nerdda’s having her child,” Galrion said. “And it’s bad. The midwife needs the apothecary. Please hurry.”

“That’s the kitchen wench,” another guard called out. “She’s been heavy for weeks now.”

Hardly daring to believe in his success, Galrion raced through the postern gate and kept running until he was well into the silent city. He crouched among some empty ale barrels behind a tavern and caught his breath while he considered his next move. Not the best trick in the world would get him past the guards at the city gates, but the river flowed through the arches in the walls without asking anyone’s permission. Cautiously he stood up and began slipping through the alleys behind the buildings. He was halfway to the river when he heard footsteps behind
him. He flung himself into a doorway and crouched in the shadows as a pair of drunken riders from the King’s warband staggered past. They weren’t more than two yards beyond him when one of them burst out singing at the top of his lungs. Galrion cursed him and prayed that the city guards wouldn’t come running to deal with the nuisance.