Hearts in Cups (14 page)

The actual composition
and detailing of the Royal Embassy, as it was being called, was agreed on with
little difficulty. Twenty armed soldiers from each of the Great Houses and ten
from each of the Minor Houses would be under the command of Lord Gerard
Cradoch, current Horsemaster of Sandovar's Household Guard. The Duchess of Langstraad
would have her own staff of servants, kept to a minimum to facilitate travel.
After much discussion, Lord Colin de Chantalcalm was made a member of the
escort, ostensibly to represent the Pentacle Council but also to offer his
arcane protection to Lady Hollin. Lord Larth Brescom volunteered to ride ahead
of the escort to his earldom of the Inner Ward and prepare his castle to house
the embassy and arrange for any final provisions they might need before leaving
the Pentarchy's borders. Finally, the leave-taking date was set for three weeks
hence.

On the afternoon of the
fourth day of the council session, a messenger wearing the golden boar of House
Creon was admitted to the council chambers and announced to Lord Branwilde that
his daughter was recovered and that she and her kidnapper would be in the city
by eventide. Nodding curtly, Branwilde returned to the problem under discussion
without another word.

"But father, I
don't want to go hawking with Lord Blaise and his cousin!" Galen
complained irritably.

"Why ever
not?" Niall turned and favoured his son with a look of undisguised
annoyance.

They were standing in
the center of the duke's dressing room, where Niall had retired in the late
afternoon to ready himself for the evening's banquet. His thick dark hair still
sparkled with drops of water from his bath. Two body-servants stood nearby,
discreetly fetching various pieces of clothing and jewelry for their master as
they helped him to dress. Holding his hand out to have the ends of his sleeve
fastened, Niall continued to berate his son for his ineptitude and general
obstinacy.

Alternately staring at
his feet or over his father's shoulder, Galen miserably allowed the abuse to be
piled onto his head. He hated hunting with hawks. Trying to control both a horse
and a bird, a bird with sharp talons and a vicious beak, demanded an ability he
had no interest in cultivating. Added to which, the prospect of spending an
entire morning with the Duke of Tuenth's younger son, whom he knew despised
him, was almost more than he could bear. So unpleasant was the idea that he was
willing to risk his father's scathing tongue in order to voice a protest he
knew would be useless. As in all of their arguments he stood mute, listening to
his father dictate his life to him, feeling both a fool and a craven.

"Enough!"
Niall waved his servants back and turned to regard himself in the mirror. With
an approving nod, he sent the men out of the room and motioned Galen to follow
him into his private solarium.

"Sit down!"
Niall pointed to a chair for his son and sat facing him. For a moment he
drummed his long fingers on the arm of his chair and sourly regarded his son
and heir. "Now, there will be no more of your childishness in this matter.
I expect you to go out tomorrow morning with Blaise and be friendly and
agreeable. You should be flattered that he bothered to extend an invitation to
you."

"He only did it to
curry favour with you," Galen muttered resentfully.

"Listen to
me!" Niall leaned forward. "For your information, Lord Blaise is both
intelligent and personable, and he is very well thought of by a good many
people. It would do you no harm to try to emulate some of his qualities."

Galen simply glared
back. He had met this supposed paragon of virtue last year at Challis' winter
court, and had formed a very ill-opinion of him. His mother had been all too
friendly with the young man, while Blaise seemed to take malicious delight in
treating Galen like an idiot-child. Both of his parents had been oblivious of
Blaise's contempt for their son, but then, he noted bitterly to himself, their
attitude towards him was not much different, except for the proprietary aspect
that parenthood gave them.

"You had best
realize that things in the Pentarchy are changing and, like it or not, you are
a part of those changes." Niall paused to wet his lips and Galen's senses
sharpened at the change in his father's tone. "You know about this
projected search for the missing prince that the Duchess of Langstraad is
leading? Personally, I have grave reservations about its outcome." Niall
spoke with deliberation, all the while watching his son's reactions carefully.

"You don't think
that they will find the prince," Galen ventured when it became clear that
his father expected a response.

"I think that it
is a slim possibility at best," he replied. "Tell me, have you given
any thought as to what might happen if the prince is not found?"

Galen was taken aback
at the question and it put him on his guard. "No, I really haven't thought
much about it," he lied.

There was an
uncomfortable pause, as if his father wanted to continue the conversation but
was having second thoughts. His black eyes stared into Galen's until the boy
dropped his own in embarrassment to the folded hands in his lap. This action
seemed to decide something, for his father abruptly ended the interview by
saying enigmatically, "Well, it would be a good thing if you did some
thinking on the subject."

Dismissed, Galen took
his leave and wandered back to his own set of rooms. Throwing himself onto his
bed, he stared up at the ceiling and wondered about his father's last words.
The obvious import was that if the Duchess of Langstraad did not find the
prince she would be returning to Pentarin to marry a son of one of the Houses.
Was his father scheming to somehow get her to marry his son? He paused to mull
this idea over. Knowing his father, it was entirely too possible. Then he
considered the idea of being married to the red-haired duchess and a guilty,
excited flush warmed his body. His actual experience with girls was nil, but
his imagination was fertile.

For a few moments he
let himself fantasize about marrying Lady Hollin and becoming King of the
Pentarchy. After a few delicious moments his own common sense rose to the fore
and his mind's wanton image of the duchess sharpened to the actual woman, with
her steely grey eyes and aura of self-confidence, and the dream faded away.
Married to such a one as she, he would still not be his own master or anyone
else's. Neither could he imagine his father graciously deferring to him, even
if he did wear a crown. Between Lady Hollin and his father, he would remain a
useless tool to be bullied and manipulated. Adolescent daydreams aside, he knew
that he did not have the cunning and ruthlessness to be a king, in spite of his
father.

Rolling off his bed as
a bell, warning him that the dinner hour was not far off, rang outside his
door, he looked at himself in the mirror and smiled bleakly. There was little
that he could actively do to foil his father's plans, but he did not have to
embrace them as his own. The smile became an adolescent smirk as he headed for
the door, resolved that at least he could make certain that Lord Blaise
regretted whatever self-serving impulse had prompted him to invite Galen to go
hawking tomorrow morning.

In the dusk of early
evening many people watched and whispered furtively as a closed coach,
surrounded by guards, clattered through the city's streets and on up the hill
towards the palace. The carriage was followed by another group of guards
tightly packed around a led horse with a man securely tied to it. Daffyd's head
and sides still ached from the beating that he had received when the duke's men
had apprehended him and their lord's daughter. Angharad had screamed and tried
to stop them, but they had their orders and she was gently but firmly locked
into a carriage, away from the sight and sound of him.

Their escape from
Pentarin had been easily accomplished. He had collected together all that he
owned of value and packed it into a small bag. With his flute and harp in
another bag on his back he had left the palace and made his way to the river.
Inquiries led him to the owner of a modest barge that plied its trade between
the cities of Dacara and Pentarin, and who was willing to take a couple of
extra passengers when he set forth later that morning. Daffyd had waited, half
hoping that she would not come, until Angharad, the hood of her cloak thrown
over her hair and carrying an immense satchel, arrived at the dock. All of his
doubts and fears evaporated in her presence, and he eagerly led her to the
boat. Though she suggested he tell the boatman that she was his wife, he
insisted that it would be more seemly if she traveled as his sister. In the end
it did not matter, for the boatman did not ask and did not care.

They spent three days
sitting in the bow of the boat, watching the land glide past. Leaning against
Daffyd with his arm about her waist, Angharad had ecstatically talked about the
future and what they would do once the Pentarchy was behind them. Daffyd,
content with the smell of her hair in the sun and cradling her weight with his
arm, had been mute. At night they lay side by side and watched the stars
overhead. Any qualms he felt about what they were doing seemed insubstantial.
They had made good their elopement, and in a few more days they would be on
board a ship, traveling far from those who would stop them.

They had reached the
great port city of Dacara with its white walls and sea birds in the early afternoon.
They wandered up and down the wharves for many hours, looking at the myriad
vessels that floated on the uneasy water and asking which ones were due to
leave and when. Eventually they were able to book passage on a trading ship
that was not too dirty, was reasonably priced and set to sail in two days time
for the southern ocean and the Kassorian Empire.

Returning to their
cramped temporary quarters in a quayside tavern, Angharad had collapsed in
exhaustion and gone to sleep. Daffyd dozed restlessly for a while and then,
leaving a note, had slipped out to buy food for them. He was delayed, having
lost himself in the narrow jumble of streets, and returned to the tavern room
after dark. Not thinking of trouble, he knocked quickly and entered the room to
discover, not Angharad, but men-at-arms wearing her father's livery. He did not
attempt to resist; to do so was obviously impossible, as he heard more men
coming up the stairs behind him. The guards however preferred to treat him as
if he had, and he found himself the target of a severe beating as they took
custody of him. He passed out and groggily become conscious, to find himself
tied to a horse being led at a steady trot through the dark countryside. A
coach rolled ahead of him and he guessed that Angharad rode within it.

The soldiers stopped at
an inn late that night and he heard Angharad, crying and protesting, taken from
the coach and into the building. Rough hands dragged him from the horse and
into the stables. There he was left, tied to a stout post in one of the stalls
with two guards to watch over him. He did not sleep, but passed into a dazed
state of consciousness where his over-tired brain continued to dwell on the
abrupt conclusion of their idyllic adventure. He had few illusions as to his own
fate at the hands of her father. The duke was a proud man, and whether his
daughter had run away or been abducted he would feel that he had been
humiliated and would exact retribution for the insult.

At dawn the next day, a
cup of thin broth was given to him and he was hoisted back onto the horse. The
coach was waiting at the inn door and he and his guards fell in behind as it
began to roll forward. All morning they rode at a steady slow trot. The
combination of heat, pain and lack of sleep caused Daffyd to mercifully pass
out. Consciousness returned as he was unceremoniously dragged from the horse
when they stopped to rest and take their noon meal. He was trundled out of
sight of the coach, allowed to relieve himself and given water and a few strips
of dried meat to eat. When they prepared to leave again he was marched back to
his horse. Angharad was just getting into the coach and it was then that she
saw him. With a scream, she turned and tried to climb down, clawing wildly at
the guards. Instinctively he stepped towards her, and felt a dull thud as a
guard's fist crashed into the side of his head. Falling to the ground, he could
hear Angharad's voice berating the soldier before the blackness overcame him.

They had stopped two
more times before coming in sight of the Pentarchy's capital. Both times, the
coach was halted at a distance from him and he did not see Angharad again. The
looks cast at him as he was ushered through the dim streets were compounded as
much from pity as from disapproval, but he was barely aware of them. Fatigue
claimed him utterly and all he wanted was to lie down somewhere, unattended,
and slide into unconsciousness. A great commotion eventually roused him from
his torpor and he raised his eyes to find himself riding into the palace's
central courtyard and the illumination of a great many torches. With people and
horses milling around him, Daffyd tried to make sense of what he was seeing.
Lord Percamber stood on the steps ordering the house-guard and conferring with
a man in Sandovar's livery wearing a commander's badge. The door to the coach
was open and he caught a glimpse of Angharad being half-led, half-carried
between two of her father's guards in the direction of her family's quarters.
Lord Branwilde, seeming far larger than usual, appeared on the steps in front
of Percamber. Gesticulating, he turned and pointed an accusatory finger to
where Daffyd sat, half-stunned, on his horse. Lord Percamber made some reply;
the duke dissented for several minutes, and then nodded abruptly and left in
the direction that they had taken his daughter. Daffyd was pulled again from
his horse and made to walk between more guards. Gratefully he noticed that they
wore the blue and silver of Sandovar and not the black and gold of Creon's men.