Daggerspell (16 page)

“My humble thanks, my lady, but my name is no one.”

“I know all about your father’s spite. You’ve got to be gone when my son rides home.”

“I had to come. I’ll beg you for news of my Brangwen.”

Rodda’s face went slack as she looked away.

“Our poor little Gwennie! I wish the gods had allowed her to marry you. I swear, maybe she should have ridden into exile with you.” She glanced Rhegor’s way. “Here, good sir, I can trust you, for bringing my prince if nothing else, so I’ll speak freely. Blaen rode down to the Falcon not long ago, and he came home in a rage. He’s sure Gwennie will never have him, he said. She walks round like she’s half dead and barely speaks. I tried to get her to come here, but she refused. She’s still mourning you in her heart, my prince, or so I hope.”

“So we all may hope,” Rhegor said drily. “How often has Gerraent ridden here to see his betrothed?”

As startled as a cornered deer, Rodda glanced this way and that.

“It’s all nonsense,” she burst out. “I won’t believe that they’d do such a thing, not Gwennie, not Gerro! Blaen and Ysolla are just working themselves up with silly suspicions, because they’re so disappointed and eager. I won’t believe it!”

“What?” Rhegor said. “Tell me, my lady. Get these dark fears out of your heart.”

Rodda hesitated, fighting with herself, then gave in.

“All the servants at the Falcon say that only Brangwen
stands between them and Lord Gerraent’s rage—just as if she were his wife. And Ysolla, my own child, has been working her brother up like a little scorpion. Gerro was always so fond of Gwennie, she says, it’s not fair—Gwennie even has the man I want. It’s Gwennie this and Gwennie that, and all because poor Ysolla’s always envied little Brangwen’s wretched beauty.”

“Wretched indeed! You say you can’t believe it—is that true? Or do you only want to turn away from an unclean thing? Ye gods, I couldn’t blame you.”

Rodda broke and wept, covering her face with her hands.

“He’s always loved her too much. Why do you think I worked so hard on Lord Dwen to let Gwennie marry so young? She had to get out of that cursed household.”

“Cursed indeed. Twice cursed.”

Nevyn paced restlessly back and forth while Rhegor helped the lady into her chair.

“Tell me somewhat, my lady,” Nevyn said. “If I steal her away from her brother, will you blame me?”

“Never! But if you do, Gerraent will call on his friends, and they’ll hunt you down like the gray deer.”

“I’d die for her, and I’m more clever than the gray deer.”

That very evening, Nevyn took his bay gelding and headed south for the Falcon’s dun. He was going to have to be clever. He could never risk riding straight into the fort, even if Gerraent were gone. He would be of no use to Brangwen if Gerraent returned and killed him at her feet. Though Galrion had never been particularly good with a sword, Nevyn had a few tricks of dweomer at his disposal. He was sure that if he could only get a few minutes alone with Brangwen, he could easily convince her to steal out of the dun and escape with him. Once they were on the road, Gerraent would never find them.

When Nevyn reached Ynna’s hut, he told her that Rhegor had sent him to keep an eye on things. As he’d hoped, Ynna was so glad of it that she offered him shelter with her.

“Here, the women down in the village are starting to whisper that Brangwen’s carrying a bastard,” Ynna said.

“Are they? Well, that betrothed of hers swore he’d come back for her, you see. Rhegor says to tell you that he’s been seen sneaking round this part of the country.”

When Ynna raised her eyebrows and smiled, Nevyn was sure that this delicious gossip would soon be all over the village. He could only hope it would give the truth no room to spread.

For three days, Nevyn kept a close watch on the Falcon dun. Down at the edge of the forest, close to the road, he found a large spreading oak. By climbing up into the crown, he could lie hidden and see the fort, just a mile away across the meadowland. Drawing on all his will, he sent his thoughts across and tried to reach Brangwen’s mind, calling her, planting the thought that she should come out to the forest. Once, he felt that he reached her; he also felt her brush the irrational thought aside. He kept trying, begging her, but failing, until he was desperate enough to consider sneaking into the dun the next time Gerraent rode out to hunt.

On the fourth afternoon, as he was lying on his perch, Nevyn saw a man and a page riding slowly up the hill to the dun. He recognized the horse and the set of the rider’s shoulders. Blaen. He climbed down and ran for the hut.

“Ynna, for the love of every god, I need your aid. Can you give me an excuse to get into the Falcon dun? A message I can deliver, anything to tell the servants.”

“Well.” Ynna thought for a maddeningly long time. “Here, I made a love philter for Ludda, Brangwen’s serving lass. She’s got her eyes set on a lad in the village. You can fetch it to her.”

While Ynna got the packet of herbs, Nevyn rubbed dirt into his hair and face—a poor disguise, but then, no one had ever seen the prince the least bit dirty. He muffled himself up in his cloak, then galloped up to the dun. As he led his horse into the ward, he saw Blaen’s page leading the lord’s horses to the stables. Brythu came running and looked Nevyn over coldly.

“And just what do you want?”

“A word with Ludda, if you please. Ynna gave me somewhat to fetch to her.”

“I’ll go ask her. You wait here, and don’t try to come in.”

When Ludda appeared, she looked the unkempt stranger over nervously.

“I brought you some herbs from Ynna. She said you might give a poor man a drop of ale, too.”

At the sound of his voice, Ludda started, laying her hand at her throat.

“My prince!” she whispered. “Thanks be to the Goddess herself!” Then she raised her voice. “Well, I will do that, because you’ve spared me a long, hot walk to her hut.”

Nevyn tied his horse up by the door, then followed Ludda inside to the servants’ hearth in the great hall. He sat down in the straw in the curve of the wall, out of the way of the other servants, who were busy preparing dinner. They gave him hardly a look; Ludda had the privilege of being generous to a stranger if she chose. Down at the far side of the hall, Gerraent and Blaen were drinking at the honor table. From his distance, and because they talked in low voices, Nevyn couldn’t hear their words, but it was plain enough that Blaen was furious from the way he leaned forward in his chair and clutched his tankard like a weapon. When Blaen’s page returned, he gave his master an anxious glance and sat down by his feet in the straw. Ludda brought Nevyn his ale and knelt down beside him with a nervous look at the lords.

“Where’s your lady?” Nevyn whispered.

“Hiding from Lord Blaen. But she’ll have to come out sooner or later, or Lord Gerraent will take it amiss.”

“No doubt. Oh, no doubt.”

Ludda winced and began to tremble.

“I know the truth,” Nevyn said. “I don’t care. I’ve come to take her away.”

Ludda wept in two thin silent trails of tears.

“I’ll help if I can. But I don’t know what good can ever happen now.”

On the pretense of keeping out of the cook’s way, Nevyn moved from the hearth to a spot nearer the two lords. At last Brangwen slipped into the hall, pressing against the wall and watching her brother. Nevyn was shocked at the change in her. Her cheeks were hollow and pale, her eyes deep-shadowed, and her stance that of a doe poised for flight. She glanced his way and allowed herself a tremulous smile. Nevyn rose slowly, fighting with himself to keep from rushing to her side. Then Brangwen shrank back against the wall.

Nevyn had forgotten Blaen and Gerraent, who were leaning forward in their chairs and staring each other down. Slowly and deliberately Blaen rose, his hand on his sword hilt.

“May the gods curse you,” Blaen said. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

Gerraent rose to face him, his hands on his hips, and he smiled in a calm that made Nevyn’s blood run cold.

“Answer me,” Blaen said, his voice ringing in the hall. “You’ve taken your sister to your bed, haven’t you?”

Gerraent drew, the sword flashings swung and struck before Blaen could get his blade half out of the scabbard. Brangwen screamed, one high note, as Blaen took one step and staggered, the bright blood pouring down his chest. He look at Gerraent as if he were bewildered, then crumpled at Gerraent’s feet. His page began inching for the door. Gerraent turned and went for him.

“Gerro!” Brangwen rushed in between. “Not the lad!”

Gerraent hesitated, and that moment gave the page his life. He dashed outside without looking back. Just as Nevyn ran forward, the boy grabbed the bay gelding and swung himself into the saddle. Screaming and weeping, the servants rushed for the door. The bloody sword still in his hands, Gerraent began to laugh, then saw Blaen’s body on the floor and came to himself. Nevyn could see the reason return to his eyes as he fell to his knees and started keening. Nevyn grabbed Brangwen by the arm.

“We’ve got to get out now!”

“I can’t.” Brangwen gave him a smile as mad as her brother’s. “I swore I’d die with him.”

“No god or man would hold you to such an unclean oath.”

“I hold myself to it, my prince.”

Nevyn grabbed her and started pulling her toward the door, but Gerraent leapt up and ran to block it, his sword at the ready. Here’s where I die, Nevyn thought.

“Prince Galrion, by the gods,” Gerraent hissed.

“I am. Go on. Add my blood to your sworn friend’s.”

“Not him, Gerro!” Brangwen burst out. “Just kill me and be done with it.”

“I won’t raise my sword against either of you. My prince? Will you take her away?”

“Gerro!” Brangwen stared at him in disbelief. “You promised me. You swore you’d kill us both.”

Gerraent’s eyes snapped in fury. He grabbed her by the shoulder and shoved her into Nevyn’s arms.

“You little bitch, get out of here! I’ve slain the only man in the world I loved, and all over you.” Gerraent slapped her across the face. “The sight of you sickens me. This means the death of the Falcon, and it’s all because of you!

The lie was so perfect that Nevyn believed him, but when Brangwen fell weeping against him, he saw the truth in Gerraent’s eyes: a real love, not mere lust, the hopeless ache of a man sending away the only thing he ever loved.

“Take the gray from the stable,” Gerraent said. “It would have been yours in the dowry.”

Gerraent turned and threw his sword across the great hall, then flung himself down by Blaen’s body. Slowly, one step at a time, Nevyn half carried, half dragged Brangwen out of the hall. He looked back once to see Gerraent cuddled against Blaen’s back, just as when a warrior lies beside his slain friend on the battlefield and refuses to believe him dead, no matter how many men try to get him to come away.

Out in the ward, the last of the sunset flared through shadows. Torch in hand, Brythu led the gray out of the stables. Ludda rushed from the broch with a pair of saddlebags and some rolled-up blankets. An eerie silence hung over the deserted ward.

“My prince, forgive me,” Brythu said. “I didn’t recognize you.”

“I’m blasted glad you didn’t! Ludda, is there anyone else left in the dun? You’d all better flee to your families. The Boar will ride back as soon as ever it can, and they’ll fire the place for Blaen’s sake.”

“Then we’ll leave straightaway, my prince. Here, I’ve brought food and suchlike for my lady.”

Nevyn lifted Brangwen into the saddle like a child, then mounted behind her. He rode out slowly, letting the burdened horse pick its own pace. At the bottom of the hill, Nevyn glanced back for a last look at the dun, rising dark against the sunset sky. With the dweomer sight, it seemed to him that he saw flames already dancing.

That night they rode only for a few hours, until they were well away from the dun and into the safe hills. Nevyn found a copse of trees beside a stream for their camp. After he tended the horse, he built a little fire out of twigs and scraps of dead wood. Brangwen stared at the fire and never spoke until he was done.

“You must know,” she said.

“I do. I want you, child and all.”

“Let me spare you that. I want to die. You can’t still love me. I’m carrying my own brother’s bastard.”

“That’s my shame as much as yours. I left you there alone with him.”

“You didn’t push me into his bed.” Brangwen gave him an uncertain smile, a pathetic attempt to be cold. “I don’t love you anymore anyway.”

“You don’t lie as well as your brother.”

Brangwen sighed and looked at the fire.

“There’ll be a curse on the child, I just know it. Why won’t you just kill me? Gerro promised me he’d kill us both, and here he was lying to me the whole time. He
promised me.” She began to weep. “Ah, ye gods, he promised me!”

Nevyn caught her in his arms and let her sob. Finally, she fell silent, so silent that he was frightened, but she’d merely fallen asleep in a merciful exhaustion. He woke her just enough to get her to lie down on the blankets and sleep again.

In the morning, Brangwen fell into a dream state. She never spoke, refused to eat by turning her head away like a stubborn child, and had to be lifted onto the horse. All morning they rode slowly, avoiding the roads and sparing the burdened horse as much as possible. If they hadn’t been riding to Rhegor, Nevyn would have been overwhelmed by despair. She was broken, crushed like a silver cup that falls beneath a warrior’s boot when his troop is looting a hall. Rhegor could help her—Nevyn clung to that hope—but Rhegor was over a day’s ride away.

Occasionally Nevyn thought of the Boar’s warband, riding for revenge. The page had doubtless reached them before dawn; they were doubtless already on their way to the Falcon, with Blaen’s young brother Camlann—Lord Camlann now—at their head. Nevyn supposed that Gerraent would flee ahead of them into a miserable exile’s life.

Close to sunset, Nevyn and Brangwen came to the river that would, on the morrow, lead them to Rhegor. After he made their camp, Nevyn tried to get Brangwen to eat or speak. She would do neither. All at once he realized that she was planning on starving herself to death to keep her vow to the gods. Though it ached his heart, he used the only weapon he had.