Daggerspell (52 page)

“So you have,” Loyvan said at last. “I was assuming that you’d want to put all that behind you.”

“I do, Your Grace, but I can’t—not so easily, anyway.” Jill began to feel like a horse in a bedchamber. “I mean no insult, truly I don’t.”

“Of course not, child, and none’s taken,” Lovyan said. “But true enough, chatter about lads and pretty clothes isn’t going to amuse you the way it used to amuse the three of us. This is very interesting, Jill. Have you ever thought of marrying, by the way?”

“I haven’t, Your Grace. Who would I have married without a dowry? Some tavernman?”

“True spoken, but all that’s changed now.” Lovyan gave her a good-humored smile. “Your beauty and my favor are dowry enough for any lass. There’s many a rising young merchant who’d admire a wife with your spirit, and for that matter, many a landless noble lord who needs my goodwill. You wouldn’t be the first woman to win a title with her looks.”

“I see.”

“But if you don’t want to marry,” Dannyan broke in, “no one will force you into it, either. It’s just that most lasses do.”

“My thanks, but this is all so sudden, I don’t know what to think.”

“Of course,” Lovyan said. “There’s no hurry.”

Although all of them smiled at her, Jill realized that they were looking on her as a strange kind of invalid, a victim who needed nursing back to health. She began to feel like a falcon indeed, used to soaring at the edge of the wilderness, but now caught and brought back to hunt at a lord’s command.

Since Lovyan practically ordered her to, Jill agreed to wear women’s clothes down to dinner that night. As pleased as if they had a new daughter, Medylla and Dannyan fussed over Jill. She had a bath with perfumed soap, dried herself off on thick Bardek towels, then submitted to having Medylla comb her hair before she dressed. First came the narrow white underdress with tight sleeves, then a blue overdress, hanging full from gathered shoulders. Around her waist a kirtle of Lovyan’s plaid tucked the dress in and made pockets of a sort with its folds, enough to carry a table dagger and a handkerchief. Although Medylla offered her a tiny jeweled dagger, Jill insisted on carrying her own. In spite of all the honor of being treated this way, there were limits to what she’d put up with. She took a few steps and nearly tripped. The underdress was far too narrow for her usual stride.

“Poor Jill,” Dannyan said with honest sympathy. “Well, you’ll get used to it in a bit.”

Alternately mincing and stumbling, Jill followed them down to the great hall, where Lovyan was already seated at the head of the honor table. Since they would have to await Rhys’s final judgment on the war, all of Rhodry’s noble-born allies were there, except, of course, for the wounded Sligyn. The lords rose and bowed rather absently to Her Grace’s women; then Edar laughed aloud.

“Jill! I swear I didn’t recognize you.”

“I hardly recognize myself, my lord.”

Jill took a place at the foot of the table between Medylla and Dannyan. Although everyone was waiting for Rhodry, he never came in, and eventually a somewhat annoyed Lovyan had the meal served without him. Jill had to pay strict attention to her manners and constantly remind herself that she couldn’t wipe her hands on her borrowed dress. She aped Medylla and Dannyan and ate using only her fingertips, which she could dabble clean on the handkerchief hanging from her kirtle.

The meal was nearly finished when a page hurried to the table to announce Lord Cinvan, the first of Corbyn’s allies come to sue for peace. As befitted the ritual of the thing, he came alone and completely unarmed, with not so much as a table dagger in his belt, and he knelt before Lovyan like a common rider. The entire hall fell silent as Lovyan coolly considered him. The noble-born leaned forward, Edar with a tight twist of contempt to his mouth, the rest expressionless.

“I’ve come to beg for your forgiveness and your pardon,” Cinvan said, his voice choking on his shame. “For raising my sword in rebellion against you.”

“This is a grave thing you ask of me. What restitution do you offer?”

“Twenty horses, coin for my share of lwdd for Daumyr and all men dead, and my little son to live in your dun as hostage.”

Although Jill was thinking that this sounded a small fee for so much trouble, Lovyan nodded.

“If the gwerbret approves those terms, I shall take them. No doubt you’re hungry after your long ride. You may sit with my men, and a servant will feed you.”

Cinvan winced, but as a sign of submission, he did it, taking a place at the end of one of the riders’ tables. They all ignored him, looking through him as if he were made of glass. As the general chatter picked up again, Jill turned to whisper to Dannyan.

“Why did our lady let him off so lightly?”

“He’s a poor lord as it is. He’ll have to borrow from every cousin he has just to pay the lwdd, and if our lady made his clan destitute, they’d rise in rebellion some fine day.”

“Besides,” Medylla put in, “by being so generous, she’s shamed him good and proper. That’ll sting worse than the coin.”

The two nodded sagely at each other. Jill realized that they were going to be her guides and teachers in this new world, where intrigue was as dangerous as a thousand swords.

As soon as possible Jill left the table and went to look in on her father. As she made her way down the corridor, she heard laughter coming from his chamber, and when she opened the door, she saw Rhodry, sharing a meal with Cullyn. The sight of them together made her freeze, her hand on the open door, as they both turned to look at her. The lantern light seemed to swell into the glow of a fire, picking out the glitter of the silver dagger in Cullyn’s hand.

“Well, by the gods!” Cullyn said. “This fine lady can’t be my scruffy little silver dagger’s brat.”

“Da, don’t tease. I’m miserable enough as it is.” She allowed herself one glance at Rhodry. “I’ll leave you to your talk with your captain, my lord.”

“My thanks,” Rhodry said.

Jill stepped out and shut the door behind her. Only then did she realize that she was terrified, just from seeing Cullyn and Rhodry together, as if in some mad way, she thought they were plotting about her behind her back.

• • •

Seven days passed without a word from Gwerbret Rhys, who would have to oversee the judgments Lovyan made upon her rebel lords. Rhodry was furious, seeing the delay as a slap at him, a perception no one bothered to deny. Jill’s presence in the dun was another constant torment; he simply couldn’t keep his mind off her, and seeing her was worse, making him remember their night together, the first time he’d ever had a woman who could match him in bed. He took to spending as much time as possible alone, going for long rides or merely walking out in the ward.

During one of these aimless rambles he ran across Cullyn, down by the back wall of the dun. Although his left arm was still in a sling, Cullyn was working out with one of the light wooden swords used to train young boys. Moving so slowly that it was a kind of dance, Cullyn was lunging and falling back while he described a figure eight with the point of the blade in a perfect concentration that was more like a dweomer than swordplay. Even sore and weak, Cullyn was a marvel when he moved with a weapon in his hand. Finally he noticed that Rhodry was watching him and stopped to make him a bow.

“How does your arm fare?” Rhodry said.

“Not too badly, my lord. Maybe tomorrow we’ll get the splints off for a look, the herbman tells me.” Cullyn glanced around, then pointed at a second wooden sword that was leaning against the wall. “Ever tried to spar this slowly?”

“I haven’t.” Rhodry took the sword. “Looks like a good game.”

To keep things fair, Rhodry tucked his left arm behind his back. The sparring seemed like a humorous parody of real combat at first, with both of them moving like men in a trance. It was a matter of moving in slowly, catching the other’s blade in a parry, then ever so slowly breaking free to glide in again from another direction. Yet it was difficult, too. Rhodry had never been so aware of every subtle move he made when he was fighting and of every move his opponent was making as well. Keeping his concentration
so finely honed was a struggle. Finally his mind wandered a little too far, and Cullyn slipped slowly under his guard and flicked his shirt with the blunt point of his sword.

“By the hells!” Rhodry said. “A touch, sure enough.”

Cullyn smiled and saluted him with the wooden sword, but all at once Rhodry felt that he was in danger, that wooden or not, that blade could kill him in Cullyn of Cerrmor’s hands, and that Cullyn was thinking just that.

“Somewhat wrong, my lord?”

“Naught. Here, you’ve done enough for one day.”

“So I have. It gripes my heart to admit it, but I’m tired. Ah, well, I’ll get my strength back soon enough.”

Again Rhodry felt a shudder of danger, as if Cullyn were giving him a warning. Had he noticed the way Rhodry had been looking at Jill? If he’d been obvious, Cullyn might well have. Rhodry wanted to say something reassuring, some good plausible lie to put Cullyn at ease, but he was just sensible enough to realize that he’d best not speak Jill’s name where her father could hear it.

“It looks remarkably good,” Nevyn said. “I’m pleased.”

Cullyn was glad that the herbman was pleased, because to him his once-broken arm looked bad—white flesh, puckered and wrinkled, and far thinner than his other arm after the long weeks in the splints.

“The break mended fairly straight,” the old man went on. “It should be good enough for shield work if you’re careful about building it up. Favor it for some time.”

“My thanks, truly, for all your work on me.”

“You’re most welcome.” Nevyn paused, consideringly. “Truly, you are.”

Now that his wounds were fully healed, it was time for Cullyn to formally take Rhodry’s service. That very night, before everyone in the dun, assembled in the great hall, he knelt at Rhodry’s feet. Rhodry leaned forward in his chair and took both of Cullyn’s hands in his. By the flaring torchlight, Cullyn could see how solemn the young lord looked. It was a grave thing they were doing.

“And will you serve me truly all your life?” Rhodry said.

“I will. I’ll fight for you and die with you if need be.”

“Then may every bard in the kingdom mock and shame me if ever I treat you unjustly, or if ever I’m miserly to you.”

Rhodry took a comb from a waiting page and made the ritual strokes through Cullyn’s hair to seal the bargain. As Cullyn rose to the cheering of the warband, he felt strangely light and free, even though he’d just pledged his life away. The thought was puzzling, but he somehow knew that he had just repaid a debt.

Now that he was officially the captain of the tieryn’s warband, Cullyn was back in the barracks, but he had a chamber of his own over the tack room, not over the horses, with a proper bed, a chest for his clothes, and the biggest luxury of all, a hearth of his own. When he moved in, Amyr carried up his saddlebags and bedroll, and Praedd brought an armload of firewood—two prudent moves to curry favor with the man who had the power to discipline them with a whip if need be. Cullyn hung his new shield, blazoned with the red lion, up on the wall and decided that he’d unpacked.

“Well and good, lads. We’ll be taking the horses out soon. I want to see how well you all sit on a horse, now that I’m not distracted by little things like dweomer.”

The two riders allowed themselves small smiles.

“Captain?” Amyr said. “Are you and Lord Rhodry going to start finding new men soon?”

“Cursed right. We’re badly under strength.”

They were, truly, because out of the fifty men Rhodry had had at Dun Cannobaen, only seventeen were left, and out of the fifty from Dun Gwerbyn, only thirty-two. Yet Cullyn knew that, soon enough, young men would show up at the gates to beg for a place in the warband. Not for them to worry that places were open because of so many bloody deaths; they would want the honor enough to ignore such an inconvenient fact—the honor, the chance at glory, and at root, the freedom from the drudgery of their
father’s farm or craft shop. That very afternoon, when Cullyn went down to the ward to exercise, three of the spearmen from Cannobaen asked him if they could join.

“At least you know what a war’s like. I’ll speak to Lord Rhodry for you.”

And they were grateful, sincerely and deeply grateful, that such an important man as he would do them a favor.

Rhodry was gone from the great hall, and the pages had no idea of where he was. Cullyn searched the ward, and finally, as he passed by a storage shed, he heard Rhodry’s voice and a woman’s giggle—Jill. Cullyn felt that he’d been turned into a tree and taken root on the spot. He’d been a fool to take Rhodry’s offer; Jill was very beautiful, and Rhodry already had sired one bastard, hadn’t he? Since he couldn’t quite hear what they were saying he cautiously edged around the shed until he could just see them, standing between a stack of firewood and the dun wall. They were a decent space apart, but they were smiling at each other with such absorption that they never looked up and saw him.

Cullyn’s hand sought his sword hilt of its own will, but he forced it away. He’d sworn a solemn oath to Rhodry, and later he’d have a talk with Jill. As he walked away, he saw Nevyn coming toward him.

“Looking for me?” Cullyn said.

“For Jill, actually. Her Grace wants her.”

“She’s back there.” Cullyn jerked his thumb in her general direction. “Talking with Rhodry.”

Nevyn’s eyes narrowed as he studied Cullyn’s face. Cullyn stared right back, a battle of wills that Nevyn eventually won when Cullyn could no longer bear to look at the man who knew full well the cause of his jealousy.

“Tell my lord I need a word with him, will you?” He walked off, leaving Nevyn to think what he would.

Amid piles of chain mail and racked swords in the shed that did Dun Gwerbyn for an armory, Cullyn was just taking down a practice sword when Rhodry caught up with him.

“My lord? Three of the Cannonbaen spearmen want to
ride for you. They claim to know somewhat about sword-craft.”

“Try them out. If you think they’ll do, I’ll take them on. You can make that a general principle, truly. I trust your judgment of a man.”