The Gold Falcon (29 page)

“Most likely, but I don’t doubt that learn it you will.”

When, at the end of the evening, Neb went to bed, he was hoping that he’d have another dream about Branna or the most beautiful lass in all Deverry. Perhaps his expectations made his dreams tease him, because he dreamed nothing he could remember in the morning but a few scraps of images, revolving around tallying up the dun’s taxes, and a voice saying, “now they’ve all been paid.” And yet, as he went down to breakfast, he found himself remembering the things Salamander had said in Cengarn, about gratitude and wyrd, and realized that they and the dream were—somehow—all of a piece.

 

Lady Branna was sitting near a window inside the great hall. Gerran, standing just outside in the bright morning light, could see her in silhouette as she leaned onto the table on one elbow to study the game board lying between her and Mirryn.
Carnoic, probably
, Gerran thought.
She plays well for a lass.

“And just what are you staring at, Captain?” A woman’s voice, and it came from behind him.

Gerran spun around to find a stout woman—a widow, judging by her black headscarf—standing nearby, glaring at him with her hands set on her hips.

“And just who are you?” Gerran said.

“Lady Branna’s maidservant.” Her dark eyes narrowed as she looked him over. “I’ve tended her from the time she was a tiny baby, and I shan’t be letting any harm come to her, not from the likes of you, my fine lad, or anyone else in the wretched warband either.”

“I’ll not be doing her the least bit of harm, you old scold!”

The woman snorted. “I know how much honor you lads have around women. I warn you, I won’t have my lady harmed even if I have to go to the tieryn himself to stop it.”

With that she pushed past him and strode off. Gerran mouthed a few curses after her. It seemed that everyone was warning him off Branna these days. The little talk that Cadryc had given him, telling him in no uncertain terms not to cause trouble in the dun, still rankled Gerran’s soul.
I’ll wager Lady Galla put him up to it
—that thought wasn’t much comfort. With a few more curses Gerran turned back to the window.

Much to his annoyance, he saw Neb, sitting down next to Branna as easily as if he had the right to be there. Gerran was hoping that Mirryn would send the presumptuous scribe away, but instead, Mirryn stood up, smiling, chatted for a moment or two, then walked away, leaving the game and Branna to Neb. Gerran jogged round the broch. He was planning on going inside to join them, but Mirryn met him in the doorway.

“We’d better exercise the warband’s horses,” Mirryn said. “Round up the lads, will you?”

Once the warband had left the dun, Mirryn decided that they should take a good long ride out in the open air, and Gerran could think of no reason that they shouldn’t. By the time they returned, noon had come and gone, and Branna was keeping her aunt company in the women’s hall.

Over the next few days, every time that Gerran saw Branna, Neb was right beside her, except of course at meals, when she sat at the honor table and Neb sat with the other servitors. Gerran began to regret his own stubborn insistence on eating with the warband rather than taking a place with the family. He took to hanging around the broch in hopes of catching her alone, but if he saw her walking out to the garden and followed, there would be Neb, waiting for her. If he came into the great hall of an afternoon, she would be sitting with Neb and watching him write letters. At times in the evening she would disappear, and he could find her nowhere, not even the women’s hall. At those times his suspicion that she and Neb had gone off somewhere together would turn him surly.

How could she prefer that milksop scribe to him? The question vexed Gerran more and more as it became more and more obvious that she did. He pinned his hopes on the tourney. Despite his attempts at modesty, he knew that he was the best swordsman in the western provinces. Other lasses had found his skill and flair impressive. No doubt Branna would, too.

Soon enough the answers to Tieryn Cadryc’s invitations came back in the form of messengers from the duns of his vassals. Standing beside the table of honor, Neb read them out that evening. Lord Pedrys would be delighted to attend, but Lord Samyc’s wife had just given birth, and he had just received the promised riders from the gwerbret; he felt he needed to stay home on both counts, particularly the latter, in case the Horsekin came raiding again.

The invitation had just missed Lord Ynedd’s parents, who had left their dun to visit kin two days before the message arrived. At this news, little Ynedd burst into tears and ran out of the hall. The child had been desperately hoping to see his mother, Gerran knew, and coldhearted as it was, he was glad she wasn’t coming. Ynedd would need to forget her coddling sooner rather than later. That left Lady Marigga, regent for her elder son, Coryn’s brother. Since no one had expected her to come, no one was disappointed or slighted when she pleaded pressing duties.

“It’s just as well that we won’t have many guests,” Lady Galla remarked at that point. “The harvest wasn’t all it might have been, and I was rather worried about the food.”

Two days after the messengers came home, Lord Pedrys, the riders of his warband, and his wife, Lady Omaena, arrived with their pages and servants and provided Gerran some relief from his brooding. Once they’d found places for Pedrys’ warband in the barracks, Gerran and Pedrys’ captain, Tidd, whose graying hair and mustache showed his age and experience in these matters, went down to the meadow behind the dun to mark out the contest ground. Their arms full of wooden pegs and ropes, Coryn, Ynedd, and Clae trailed after, chattering and laughing in excitement.

“I can remember being that young myself,” Tidd remarked. “A tourney seemed like the best fun in the world then.”

“It doesn’t now?” Gerran said.

“Oh, here, Falcon. You know what we’re practicing for.” Tidd looked absently away. “Too many friends have ridden to the Otherlands for me to take much delight in tourneys.”

“True-spoken.” Gerran felt a sudden chill, as if a cloud had passed over the sun. “Well, the pages will learn that lesson one fine day, and probably too cursed soon.”

 

Branna helped her aunt settle Lady Omaena and Lord Pedrys into their guest chamber, which sported the second-best bed and some fine tapestries. Pedrys glanced around the chamber, bowed to Galla, and hurried off to go drink with Tieryn Cadryc. Their personal servants carried up their bundles of clothes and the like while Omaena fussed until everything was stowed away to her liking. The lady then retreated with her fellow no blewomen to the women’s hall, where she lowered herself into a cushioned chair with a sigh of relief.

“Are you tired, dear?” Galla said. “You seem a bit pale.”

“No doubt I do.” Omaena paused for a smile. “Soon I’ll be having to wear my kirtle high, you see.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” Branna said. “Your first child!”

Omaena, a limp little person despite her flaming red hair, smiled daintily. “I’m so pleased. Of course, we’re both hoping that the goddess will bless us with a son.”

“Of course.” Branna managed to suppress the irritation, bordering on anger, that she felt every time she heard this conventional sentiment. “But a daughter later, I hope.”

“Oh, so do I,” Omaena said, “I should love to have a daughter after I’ve done my duty to my lord.”

With a quick knock on the door, Midda came bustling in, leading a procession of servants with various refreshments, a flagon of Bardek wine, a pitcher of spring water, little cakes, and cheeses. After they left, Branna busied herself with organizing the food on a narrow table, then poured wine and water for the two ladies.

“Won’t you have some, dear?” Galla said.

“Water’s enough for me. Wine makes me feel so hot, and it’s quite hot enough already.”

In truth, Branna disliked the muddled feeling wine induced, but the excuse satisfied her aunt. Branna brought over her workbasket and mended various rips in one of Mirryn’s shirts while the older women chatted about babies, their delivery and care, until, soon enough, the topic shifted to gossip.

“I had a rather sad letter from Solla of Cengarn,” Galla said. “It’s really time for her brother to marry, and she was wondering if she could have a place here as one of my servingwomen after he did. She seems convinced that she’ll be unwelcome in his dun.”

“Oh, please!” Omaena rolled her eyes. “She probably will be, but I’ll wager that’s not why she wrote to you.”

“What?”

Omaena smirked, then helped herself to more watered wine before she continued. “It’s your husband’s captain,” Omaena said. “The poor lass is absolutely besotted with Gerran, common-born or not.”

“She is?” Branna could feel herself grinning. “How wonderful!”

Omaena turned in her chair and gave her a puzzled look while Galla stifled a laugh.

“It seemed to me,” Omaena said, rather stiffly, “that the situation was more difficult than wonderful.”

“Truly?” Branna arranged her best vacuous expression. “I was just thinking that true love’s always so splendid.”

“I suppose that at your age I would have thought the same,” Omaena said. “May I have another of those little cakes, Galla dear? I seem to be so hungry these days.”

Branna returned to her mending with a sense of deep relief. She had never wanted to break anyone’s heart, much less Gerran’s, whom she’d known and liked all her life. With a beauty like Solla to console him, his heart would doubtless remain in one piece.
I want to marry Neb,
she thought.
There! I’ve put it into words.

The morning of the tourney dawned clear and hot. Servants carried benches and chairs for the ladies and Tieryn Cadryc down to the meadow behind the dun and set them up at the head of the marked contest ground. The men in the warbands sat on the ground along the sides, though well back from the ribands in case one of the fighters came crashing through. Thanks to Lord Veddyn’s great age, his bench had a back, and Neb had brought a cushion for the chamberlain to sit upon.

When Neb sat down next to Veddyn, Branna made sure to get her chair placed beside his bench and on his side of it, too. Omaena sat next to her, but fortunately she was in the middle of an earnest conversation with Galla about, of course, babies. Neb grinned at Branna and slid over until they were but a few feet apart.

Branna had seen so many of these mock combats over the years that they profoundly bored her. They all followed the same pattern: the men of the warband would pair off, then fight, one pair at a time, with wooden sword and wicker shield till one combatant made three touches on the other. The winners of the first round formed new pairs and so on until only one pair was left for the final round. During this predictable course of action, the riders wagered furiously before each combat, then yelled and cheered their favorites on during them.

After the first round had run its course, Gerran brought out his pages and introduced them to the assembled warbands. While the men who were going to fight in the second round rested, the two older pages, Coryn and Clae, showed off what they’d been learning. The boys carried small wooden swords and cut down wicker shields, and each wore a little helm, again made of wicker, to protect their young heads.

The lads faced off, then began to spar, though they swung and banged on each other with a lot more enthusiasm than skill. The men in the warbands laughed and jeered, but always in the most friendly way possible. Branna noticed Neb watching with real interest and cheering his brother on. The two lads seemed evenly matched, and they also seemed ready to lunge and swing all afternoon. Gerran, however, decided when they’d had enough and stepped in between them.

“I declare the match a draw,” Gerran said. “Well done, lads!”

When the warbands cheered them, they both blushed and ran off the field. Branna watched them for a moment as they pulled off their helms and piled them up with their swords and shields. Gerran strolled over to Neb.

“Your brother’s doing well,” Gerran said.

“Splendid!” Neb said. “I’ve not seen him this happy in some years. He never wanted to take up our father’s craft. I’m not sure where Da would have found a prenticeship that would have suited him.”

“Well, he’s found one now.” Gerran turned to Branna and bowed. “My lady, I hope you find the tourney to your liking.”

Branna decided that this was one of those situations when lying was a necessity rather than a vice. “Of course, I certainly do,” she said, but she was aware of Neb quirking one eyebrow and smiling as if to accuse her of the lie. Gerran shot the scribe a foul glance, then wandered away to confer with Pedrys’ captain.

Once the second round of combats began, the careful ordering of rank broke down. Tieryn Cadryc and Lord Pedrys both deserted their chairs to pace the sidelines and yell, encouraging their own men and making wa gers on one fighter or another. Money changed hands among the warbands, as well as insults, cheers, and friendly banter. Branna risked looking at Neb and was pleased to see elderly Lord Veddyn slumped against the back of his bench, sound asleep and snoring, in the midst of the general din and clamor. Neb winked at her.

“Branna?” Neb slid over to the end of the bench. “No one’s looking our way.”

“So they’re not.” Branna dropped her voice. “If I slip away, you could follow in a bit.”

“To the roof, then?” he whispered.

“It’ll be too hot with all this sun.”

“The garden?”

She nodded her agreement, and he moved back next to Lord Veddyn.

Branna waited until the current combat came to an end. She got up, stretching, then went round behind Galla’s chair. “Aunt Galla? I’m absolutely roasting in this sun. I’m going to go back to the broch for a little while and rest.”

“Very well, dear,” Galla said. “But you won’t want to miss seeing Gerran and Mirryn spar. They really are quite good, both of them.”