Daggerspell (13 page)

“Done, then,” Adoryc said. “We hereby release you from your father’s pledge.”

“Gerro!” Brangwen sobbed out. “You can’t! I want to go, Gerro, let me go.”

“Hush.” Gerraent rose, turning and sweeping her into his arms. “You don’t understand. You don’t know what kind of life you’ll have, wandering the roads like beggars.”

“I don’t care.” Brangwen tried to struggle free. “Gerro, Gerro, how can you do this to me? Let me go.”

Gerraent weakened; then he tossed his head.

“I won’t! I won’t have you die in childbirth someday, just because your man doesn’t have the price of a midwife, or starve some winter on the road. I’d die myself first.”

It was touching, perfectly said, but Galrion knew that Gerraent was lying, that all those fine words were cruel, deadly poisoned lies. The dweomer was making him tremble and choke. He bit his guard in the hand, but all he got for his effort was a blow on the head that made the world dance.

“You’re wrong, Gerro!” Brangwen struggled like a wild creature. “I know you’re wrong. I want to go with him.”

“Right or wrong, I’m the Falcon now, and you’re not disobeying me.”

Brangwen made one last wrench, but he was too strong for her. As he dragged her away bodily, she wept, sobbing hysterically and helplessly as Gerraent shoved her into her tent. Adoryc motioned to the guards to let Galrion go.

“Get this Nevyn out of my sight forever.” The King handed Galrion his dagger. “Here’s the one weapon allowed to a banished man. You must have a horse, or you wouldn’t be here.” He took the pouch at his side and drew out a coin. “And here’s the silver of a banished man.” He pressed the coin into Galrion’s hand.

Galrion glanced at it, then flung it into his father’s face.

“I’d rather starve.”

As the guards fell back in front of him, Galrion strode out of the camp. At the top of the rise he turned for a last look at Brangwen’s tent. Then he broke into a run, crashing through the underbrush, running across the road, and tripping at last to fall on his knees near the bay gelding. He wept, but for Brangwen’s sake, not his own.

The women’s hall was sunny, and through the windows, Brangwen could see apple trees, so white with perfumed blossoms that it seemed clouds were caught in the branches. Nearby, Rodda and Ysolla were talking as they worked at their sewing, but Brangwen let her work lie in her lap. She wanted to weep, but it was so tedious to weep all the time. She prayed that Prince Galrion might be well
and wondered where he was riding on his lonely road of exile.

“Gwennie?” Lady Rodda said. “Shall we walk in the meadows this afternoon?”

“If you wish, my lady.”

“Well, if you’d rather, Gwennie,” Ysolla put in, “we could go riding.”

“Whatever you want.”

“Here, child,” Rodda said. “Truly, it’s time you got over this brooding. Your brother did what was best for you.”

“If my lady says so.”

“It would have been ghastly,” Ysolla broke in. “Riding behind a banished man? How can you even think of it! It’s the shame. No one would even take you in.”

“It would have been their loss, not ours.”

Rodda sighed and ran her needle into her embroidery.

“And what about when he got you with child?”

“Galrion never would have let our child starve. You don’t understand. I should have gone with him. It would have been all right. I just know it would have been.”

“Now, Gwennie, lamb, you’re just not thinking clearly,” Rodda said.

“As clearly as I need to,” Brangwen snapped. “Oh! My pardons, my lady. But you don’t understand. I know I should have gone.”

Both her friends stared, eyes narrow in honest concern. They think I’m daft, Brangwen thought, and maybe I am, but I know it!

“Well, there are a lot of men in the kingdom,” Ysolla said, in an obvious attempt to be helpful. “I’ll wager you won’t have any trouble getting another one. I’ll wager he’ll be better than Galrion, too. He must have done something awful to get himself exiled.”

“At court a man has to do very little to get himself out of favor,” Rodda said. “There are plenty of others to do it for him. Now, here, lamb, I won’t have Galrion spoken ill of in my hall. He may have failed, but truly, Gwennie, he tried to spare you this. He let me know that he saw trouble
coming, and he was hoping he’d have time to release you from the betrothal before the blow fell.” She shook her head sadly. “The King is a very stubborn man.”

“I can’t believe that,” Brangwen snapped. “He never would have cast me off to my shame. I know he loves me. I don’t care what you say.”

“Of course he loved you, child,” Rodda said patiently. “That’s what I’ve just been saying. He wanted to release you in such a way as to spare you the slightest hint of shame. When he failed, he planned to take you with him.”

“If it weren’t for Gerro,” Brangwen said.

Rodda and Ysolla glanced at each other, their eyes meeting in silent conference. This argument had come full circle again, in its tediously predictable way. Brangwen looked out the window at the apple trees and wondered why everything in life seemed tedious.

Brangwen and Gerraent were visiting at the Boar’s dun for a few days, and Brangwen knew that Gerraent had arranged the visit for her sake. That night at dinner, she watched her brother as he sat across the table and shared a trencher with Ysolla. He still has his betrothed, Brangwen thought bitterly. It would have been a wonderful release to hate him, but she knew that he had done only what he thought best for her, whether it truly was best or not. Her beloved brother. While their parents and uncles always doted on Gerraent, the precious son and heir, they had mostly ignored Brangwen, the unnecessary daughter. Gerraent himself, however, had loved her, played with her, helped care for her and led her round with him in a way that was surprising for a lad. She remembered him explaining how to straighten an arrow or build a toy dun with stones, and he was always dragging her out of danger—away from a fierce dog, away from the river’s edge, and now, away from a man he considered unworthy of her.

All through the meal, Gerraent would sometimes look up, catch her looking at him, and give her a timid smile. Eventually Brangwen could no longer bear the crowded hall and made her escape into the cool twilight of Rodda’s
garden. Red as drops of blood, the roses bloomed thickly. She picked one, cradled it in her hand, and remembered Galrion telling her that she was his one true rose.

“My lady? Are you distressed about somewhat?”

It was Blaen, hurrying across the garden. Brangwen knew perfectly well that he was in love with her. Every soft look, every longing smile that he gave her stabbed her like a knife.

“How can I not be distressed, my lord?”

“Well, true spoken. But every dark time comes to an end.”

“My lord, I doubt if the dark will ever end for me.”

“Oh, here, things are never as bad as all that.”

As shy as a young lad, Blaen smiled at her. Brangwen wondered why she was even bothering to fight. Sooner or later, Gerraent would hand her over to his blood-sworn friend whether she wanted to marry him or not.

“My lord is very kind. I hardly know what I say these days.”

Blaen picked another rose and held it out. Rather than be rude, Brangwen took it.

“Let me be blunt, my lady,” Blaen said. “You must know that my heart aches to marry you, but I understand what you say about your dark time. Will you think of me this time next year, when these roses are blooming again? That’s all I ask of you.”

“I will, then, if we both live.”

Blaen looked up sharply, caught by her words, even though it was only an empty phrase, a pious acknowledgment that the gods are stronger than men. As Brangwen groped for something to say to dispel the chill round them, Gerraent came out into the garden.

“Making sure that I’m treating your sister honorably?” Blaen said with a grin.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt you’d always be honorable. I was just wondering what happened to Gwennie.”

Gerraent escorted her back to the women’s hall. Since Rodda and Ysolla were still at table, Brangwen allowed him to come in with her. He perched uneasily on the edge
of the open window while a servant lit the candles in the sconces with a taper. After the servant left, they were alone, face to face with each other in the silent room. Restlessly Brangwen turned away and saw a moth fluttering dangerously close to a candle flame. She caught it softly in cupped hands and set it free at the window.

“You’ve got the softest heart in the world,” Gerraent said.

“Well, the poor things are too stupid to know better.” Gerraent caught both her hands in his.

“Gwennie, do you hate me?”

“I could never hate you, Never.”

For a moment Brangwen thought that he would weep.

“I know that marriage means everything to a lass. But we’ll find you a better man than an exile. Has Blaen declared himself to you?”

“He has, but please, I can’t bear thinking of marrying anyone right now.”

“Gwennie, I’ll make you a solemn promise. Head of our clan or not, I’ll never make you marry until you truly want to.”

Brangwen threw her arms around his neck and wept against his shoulder. As he stroked her hair, she felt him trembling against her.

“Take me home, Gerro. Please, I want to go home.”

“Well, then, that’s what well do.”

Yet once they were back in the Falcon dun, Brangwen bitterly regretted leaving Rodda and Ysolla’s company. Everything she saw at home reminded her either of her father or her prince, both irrevocably gone. Up in her bed-chamber, she had a wooden box filled with courting gifts from Galrion—brooches, rings, and a silver goblet with her name inscribed on it. He would have had his name put next to hers once they were married. Although she couldn’t read, Brangwen would at times take out the goblet and weep as she traced the writing with her fingertip.

The dailiness of her life eventually drew her back from her despair. Brangwen had the servants to supervise, the chamberlain to consult, the household spinning and sewing
to oversee and to take up herself. She and her serving woman, Ludda, spent long afternoons working on the household clothes and taking turns singing old songs and ballads to each other. Soon, as well, she had a new worry in Gerraent. Often she caught him weeping on their father’s grave, and in the evenings, he turned oddly silent. As he sat in his father’s chair—his chair, now—he drank steadily and watched the flames playing in the fireplace. Although Brangwen sat beside him out of sisterly duty, he rarely spoke more than two words at a time.

On a day when Gerraent was hunting, Gwerbret Madoc came for a visit with six men of his warband for an escort. As she curtsied to the gwerbret, Brangwen noticed the men staring at her—sly eyes, little half smiles, an undisguised lust that she had seen a thousand times on the faces of men. She hated them for it.

“Greetings, my lady,” Madoc said. “I’ve come to pay my respects to your father’s grave.”

After sending the servants to care for his men, Brangwen took Madoc into the hall and poured him ale with her own hands, then sat across from him at the honor table. Madoc pledged her with the tankard.

“My thanks, Brangwen. Truly, I wanted to see how you fared.”

“As well as I can, Your Grace.”

“And your brother?”

“He’s still mourning our father. I can only hope he’ll put his grief away soon.” Brangwen saw that he was truly worried, not merely being courteous, and his worry made her own flare. “Gerro hasn’t been himself of late. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“Ah, I wondered. Well, here, you know that your brother and yourself are under my protection. If ever you need my aid, you send a page to me straightaway. That’s no idle courtesy, either. Sometimes when a man gets to brooding, he’s a bit much for his sister to handle, so send me a message, and I’ll ride by to cheer Gerro up a bit.”

“Oh, my thanks, truly, my thanks! That gladdens my heart, Your Grace.”

Soon Gerraent rode in from hunting, bringing a doe for the cook to clean and hang. Since the two men had important matters to discuss, Brangwen withdrew and went outside to look for Ludda. Out by the wall, Brythu was helping the cook dress the deer. They’d cut off the head and thrown it to the pack of dogs, who were growling and worrying it. Although she’d grown up seeing game cleaned, Brangwen felt sick. The velvet eyes looked up at her; then a dog dragged it away. Brangwen turned and ran back to the broch.

On the morrow, Madoc took leave of them early. As Brangwen and Gerraent were eating their noon meal, Gerraent told her a bit about His Grace’s talk. It looked as if there might be trouble out on the western border where a few clans still grumbled at the King’s rule.

“I’d hate to see you ride to another war so soon,” Brangwen said.

“Why?”

“You’re all I have in the world.”

Suddenly thoughtful, Gerraent nodded, then cut up a bit of the roast fowl on their trencher with his dagger. He picked up a tidbit and fed it to her with his fingers.

“Well, little sister. I try to be mindful of my duty to you.”

Although it was pleasantly said, Brangwen suddenly felt a cold chill down her back, as if something were trying to warn her of danger.

Yet when the danger finally came, she had no warning at all. On a sunny afternoon they rode out together into the wild meadowlands to the east, a vast stretch of rolling hills that neither the Falcon nor the Boar had men enough to till or defend. At a little stream they stopped to water their horses. When they were children, this stream had marked the limit of the land they were allowed to ride without an adult along. It was odd to think that now, when she could have ridden as far as she wanted, she had no desire to wander away from home. While Gerraent tended the horses, Brangwen sat down in the grass and looked for daisies, but she couldn’t bear to pluck those innocent
symbols of a lass’s first love. She’d had her love and lost him, and she doubted if she’d ever find another—not merely a husband, but a love. Eventually Gerraent sat down beside her.

“Going to make a daisy chain?” he remarked.

“I’m not. It’s too late for things like that.”