The Gold Falcon (42 page)

“Well, congratulations, lad,” Cadryc said. “Our Branna’s spoken to her father, and he approved your betrothal.”

Before he could stop himself, Neb threw both hands into the air and cheered. Cadryc laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.

“I see the news doesn’t vex your heart,” Cadryc said. “Get up, Nephew, and take a seat next to your betrothed.”

“My thanks, my lord and uncle.” Neb rose, dusting the straw off his knees. “I’m honored and thrice honored, and a lucky man as well.”

Branna was grinning at him. When he sat down on the bench next to her, she turned and kissed him on the cheek. He caught her hand and raised it to kiss it in return.

“I never thought I could be this happy in my life,” Neb said, “not once, not for the beat of a heart, much less that I’d feel a joy like this.”

“No more did I,” Branna said, and her voice sounded thick with tears. “I’m so happy I could weep, and mayhap I will.” With that the tears came, trickling down her cheeks while she smiled up at him.

With his free hand Neb found a scrap of rag in his pocket that he used for wiping pens and gave it to her. When she wiped her face, the ink left a smear across her cheeks.

“A fitting mark for the wife of a scribe,” Lady Galla said, sniffling a little herself. “Oh, it gladdens my heart to see you both so happy!”

“Mine, too,” Cadryc said, “oddly enough. Imph. A man never knows how these things will take him, eh?”

They all laughed. “My thanks, my lady,” Neb said, “and my thanks to you, too, my lord.”

“Now, we’ll need to discuss the dowry,” Cadryc went on. “Branna’s father offers you her riding horse, a cart horse and cart, and of course all those things that women sew for their dower chests. I’ll add a riding horse for you, and its tack.”

“Your Grace, that’s more than generous.” Neb realized that he’d never given a single thought to a dowry. His mother doubtless would have haggled for more, but then, his mother wouldn’t have been living on someone else’s charity. “I’ll take it gladly.”

“Good lad!” Cadryc raised his goblet and saluted him. “I—” He paused, interrupted by the sound of silver horns, blaring in the ward.

“Now, who’s that, I wonder?” Galla said. “Someone of high rank, judging by the noise his retinue’s making.”

High rank, indeed, as they found out when Clae came racing through the maze of tables and benches. Noble-born and servants alike scattered ahead of him. Dogs barked at his passing.

“Your Grace!” Clae blurted out. “It’s a prince from down in Dun Deverry. Prince Voran his name is, and he’s got ever so many riders and servants and carts with him.”

“By the gods!” Cadryc shoved his chair back and rose to his feet. “Our gwerbret’s being honored, indeed!”

“He is that,” Neb said. “Voran’s a younger son, but he’s of the blood royal, sure enough.”

Accompanied by Lord Oth, Gwerbret Ridvar went running out of the hall almost as fast as Clae had made his headlong dash into it. A dozen or so dogs followed him out, barking in excitement. As the news spread through the great hall, most of the gathered crowd followed Cadryc’s example, getting to their feet, craning their necks for a glimpse of royalty. Over on the riders’ side of the hall, some of the servants and pages climbed onto the tables for a better view.

“I can’t see over everybody,” Galla said with some irritation. “Neb, is Gerran in the great hall? He’s our foster son, after all, and he should be introduced to the prince.”

“I don’t see him, my lady. He might be in the barracks. Shall I go find him?”

“Please, and my thanks.”

As he made his way through the swirling mob to the back door, Neb felt as if he just might float free of the ground and sail through the heavens.
She’s mine
, he thought.
She’s truly mine at last! And after all these—
The thought stopped him cold. After all these what?
You only met her a few months ago
, he reminded himself. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling deep in his heart that he’d known her for a longer time than that, a far far longer time. Yet nothing, not even the strangeness of that feeling, could spoil his joy. Neb went whistling from the great hall.

Gerran had seen the prince’s arrival, and he’d gone down to the stables to insure that the Red Wolf horses weren’t slighted in the turmoil of arriving guests. Stout Lord Blethry, the gwerbret’s equerry, was standing on a barrel by the watering trough and yelling orders. Grooms were rushing back and forth, trying to follow them and find room for the horses that the prince’s warband had brought with them—nearly seventy in all, counting the mounts of various servitors and the cart horses. Gerran had no intention of allowing his own men’s mounts to be tied up in the open on cobbled ground.

“Gerro, wait!” It was Neb’s voice, barely audible in all the noise. “I’ve got a message for you.”

Gerran turned to see Neb making his way through the mob of horses and men. Even though the scribe was slender and not particularly tall, and none of the men standing around knew who he was, they stepped back or drifted out of his path as if he’d been a great lord. Perhaps it was the confident way the scribe strode along, straight-backed, with his head held high.

“Our lady wants you in the great hall,” Neb said.

“Oh, ye gods! Right this moment?”

“Soon. She wants to present you to the prince.”

“By the black hairy arse of the Lord of Hell! Whatever for?”

“You’re her foster son, aren’t you?”

“I am, truly, but—”

“I know, I know, common-born. Give it a rest, Gerro! Everyone’s sick as can be of you abasing yourself.”

For a moment Gerran was tempted to slap him back-hand across the mouth, but a gwerbret’s ward wasn’t a tavern, and brawling had no place in it. Neb stood waiting for an answer, smiling, his face a little flushed, as if he’d drunk too much, as well, and he shoved his hands in his brigga pockets with a jaunty sort of gesture.

“You look pleased about somewhat, scribe,” Gerran said.

“I am, truly.” But Neb let his smile fade. “You’ll hear the news sooner or later, so I’d best tell you myself. As soon as we get back to our dun, Lady Branna and I will announce our betrothal.”

Gerran considered his reaction while Neb waited unsmiling, his head cocked, as if daring him to object. Much to his surprise, Gerran realized that the prospect of their marriage irked him far less than the prospect of his warband’s horses being turned out of the stables.

“My congratulations to you both,” Gerran said. “I mean them sincerely.”

“Well, my thanks, then! And what about yourself?” Neb said.

“If you’re referring to Lady Solla,” Gerran said, “I’ve got work to do at the moment. Tell Lady Galla that I’ll join her presently, just as soon as I find out about our horses.”

“I will, then. Here have you seen Clae? I truly should tell him about my betrothal.”

“He’s probably in the cookhouse. He told me that Solla—I mean Lady Solla—had asked him to help serve.”

“
Lady
Solla, of course.” Neb winked at him, then hurried off, heading for the cook house.

When the prince entered the main broch tower, the gwerbret escorted him up the stairs to a guest chamber. Right behind them came nearly everyone who’d been out in the ward, servants and noble-born both, swarming into the great hall; those that could find a seat sat, but most stood, waiting to catch a glimpse of the royal personage when he came back down. In the confusion Branna had hoped to escape the great hall and sneak away somewhere with Neb, who stood hovering behind her chair, ready to bolt. Aunt Galla, however, seemed to have suspected as much.

“I don’t want you two running off now,” Galla said. “It would be terribly rude with Prince Voran about to join the gwerbret’s table.”

“Oh, come now!” Branna said. “Neither of them are going to give a pig’s—um—ear whether some border noblewoman like me is here to curtsy.”

“Or about a scribe,” Neb put in, “or so I’d think, my lady.”

“Mayhap,” Galla said, “but I do care about such things.”

“Well and good, then, we’ll stay.” Branna patted her aunt’s hand. “Besides, I’ve never seen a prince before.”

“Well, they look much like other men.” Galla was craning her neck and turning to peer around the great hall. “Now where is Gerran? I did so want—ah! There he is!”

Gerran was coming in the door on the riders’ side of the hall. He managed to work his way through the crowd and join the tieryn’s table just as the silver horns sounded again, this time from the foot of the stairs.

With a rustle of clothing like wind through winter trees everyone in the great hall rose, ready to bow, curtsy, or kneel. A page came first, carrying a small banner of the royal clan, a gold wyvern rampant on a cream ground. Behind him Prince Voran walked slowly, smiling pleasantly, one hand raised in greeting. He’d changed out of his road-dirty clothes into a clean pair of plaid brigga and a shirt of the finest white linen, embroidered with thick bands of red and black interlace down the sleeves and a pair of wyverns, couched in heavy gold cord, at the yokes. He was as tall as Branna’s father but lean rather than stout, sporting a thick head of brown hair just touched with silver and a magnificent mustache of the same colors.

As the prince walked past each honor table, he would pause long enough to receive the bows and curtsies of those occupying it and to murmur a few words of acknowledgment. But at Tieryn Cadryc’s table he stopped to greet Cadryc by name, giving Branna the chance to see that his eyes were gray and his face strikingly ordinary just as her aunt had warned. The mustaches couldn’t quite hide a wide mouth with thin lips that made his smile tend toward the froglike. He had rather large ears, as well. Cadryc made a courteous remark or two with a calm that must have been hard-won, considering that a prince had singled him out, and introduced Gerran as his foster son. When the prince nodded his way, Gerran blushed scarlet.

Behind Voran stood Gwerbret Ridvar, his smile a bit fixed and grim, who nodded to the tieryn as well. When Voran led his little parade on past, Lord Oth peeled out of line and hunkered down between Galla and Cadryc. Everyone at the table regained their seats and leaned toward him to listen.

“The prince has been apprised of the possible danger from a Horsekin fort,” Oth murmured, then raised his voice to a normal level. “Tieryn Cadryc, I hope you’ve been given decent accommodations.”

“Splendid on all counts!” Cadryc pledged him with his goblet.

“Very nice, indeed,” Galla said. “It’s very kind of you to ask, and you with everything you’ve got to do.”

“I’m beginning to see the end of this horse race, my lady.” Oth stood up with a sharp little sigh. “Once the Prince of the Westfolk arrives, he’ll be the last royal personage, but I have no idea of how large a retinue he’s bringing with him. And Lady Drwmigga’s father should arrive soon as well.”

“I’m surprised he’s not here already,” Cadryc said.

“He’s having to adjudicate a feud in malover. The situation could turn dangerous, or so the messenger told us, so he didn’t dare put off the two lords involved any longer.”

“Ye gods,” Cadryc said. “That could take weeks.”

“True spoken.” Oth groaned under his breath. “But he made it clear we’re to proceed whether he arrives or not. It’s not like his son is the one marrying, after all. And, of course, if he does arrive, he’ll be traveling with the escort fitting to his gwerbretal rank. That probably means every tieryn who’s ever sworn fealty to the Eagle clan as well as an honor guard for each and the gwerbret’s own riders. Ye gods, I hope we can squeeze everyone into the dun! We have a pair of pavilions for tourneys. I’m going to have to set those up in the meadow outside the walls for Cengarn’s own riders. I hate to turn them out of their beds, but the guest lords might see the pavilions as slighting their men.”

“Oh, well, here,” Cadryc said. “I certainly wouldn’t take it that way. Gerro, come to think of it, you could set up a rope pen of sorts, and put our horses out on the grass.”