The Gold Falcon (43 page)

“Splendid idea, my lord,” Gerran put in. “I don’t want them tied standing on cobbles or hard dirt, but tethered on grass is a different matter.”

Lord Oth smiled in profound relief.

“And the Westfolk will bring their own tents,” Galla said. “They really do dislike sleeping inside proper walls. They can pitch them on the commons.”

“Well, alas, not on the commons,” Oth said. “Its use belongs to the townsfolk by right of royal charter, and his grace doesn’t dare breach that. But at least they won’t need chambers. They might prefer the meadow, come to think of it. Once Prince Daralanteriel gets himself here, we can have the great feast and the tourney, and that, thank every god in the sky, will be that.”

Oth trotted off again to catch up with the prince and the gwerbret. Gerran left as well to tell the warband that they were moving camp, as he put it. Galla turned to Branna and winked.

“Now, if you and Neb would still like to go off somewhere,” Galla said, “I’ll forgive you.”

“My thanks, my lady,” Neb said. “My heart is as full of gratitude as ever a man’s could be, that you’d smile on our betrothal.”

“And my thanks, Aunt Galla,” Branna said, “and you, too, Uncle Cadryc.”

With the dun as crowded as a Beltane temple, the only private place that Neb and Branna could find was her bedchamber. Branna barred the door, then sat on the edge of the bed while Neb hovered near the window.

“Oh, do come sit.” Branna patted the mattress beside her. “After all, we are betrothed.”

Neb stared at her for a long moment, then smiled and sat down, facing her. Branna felt impossibly solemn, a little shy, now that the moment they’d both longed for had finally arrived. Neb took her hand in both of his and kissed her fingers.

“My heart’s like a fountain,” he said, “overflowing with love for you.” He drew her close and bent his head to kiss her.

Out in the hall someone pushed on the door, then banged on it. “My lady?” It was Midda. “Are you in there?”

Neb muttered something foul under his breath.

“I am,” Branna called back. “What is it?”

“I need to get that extra linen we brought along. Lady Solla needs to borrow it for some guests.”

“I’ll get it. Hang on a moment.”

The sheets were neatly stacked on a rickety chair in the curve of the wall. Branna fetched them, then unbarred the door and opened it just wide enough to slip the sheets into Midda’s hands. Midda was glowering at her.

“I suppose your wretched betrothed is in there with you,” Midda said.

“You’ve heard about our betrothal?”

“News travels fast in a dun like this.” Midda snorted profoundly. “Well, I’d hoped for better for you, but you never would listen to your elders.”

“True enough.” Branna paused for a smile. “I can’t deny it.”

Midda snorted and slammed the door. Branna replaced the bar and hurried back to join Neb on the edge of the bed.

“You were saying?” She grinned at him.

They shared a laugh; then he caught her by the shoulders. She slipped her arms around his waist and drew him close as he kissed her. They lay down together, sprawled across the bed. In her mind ran words like the best music in the world:
at last, at last we’re together!

“Gerran!” Lord Blethry hailed him. “Captain! Wait up!”

Gerran, who was on his way to the barracks, stopped walking and turned to wait. The equerry dodged his way through a mob of horses and servants and reached him at last. His heavy squarish face was flushed from mead and exertion both.

“I want to thank you for agreeing to take your men down to the meadow,” Blethry said. “The chamberlain’s sent a squad of servants down with the largest pavilion. It’s a wretchedly clumsy thing to set up, so there’ll be a bit of a wait.”

“There’s no hurry, my lord,” Gerran said. “I’ve got to collect my men and horses, and that’ll take me a fair while, too.”

“True-spoken. The pages you brought with you—how good are they around horses?”

“Coryn’s a good rider, but Clae’s just learning. Ynedd’s too young and scrawny to control a warhorse.”

“Can he lead a haltered horse? I don’t have enough grooms to tend all these cursed mounts, even with the Red Wolf horses gone.”

“Ah, I see. All three lads are good enough at raking hay and watering stock. Tell your head groom to come to me if there’s any trouble with them.”

“I shall, and my thanks.”

By the time that the Red Wolf warband was settled in their improvised new quarters, down by the ford across the river, the afternoon was turning toward evening. Out in the meadows a breeze sprang up to blow the flies away, and the hobbled horses grazed peacefully among the long shadows of the trees. As the sun sank low, it gilded the dun, towering over them on its cliff.

“It’s a long way to walk for dinner,” Daumyr said. “But aside from that, this is a good bit better than being crammed into the barracks with everyone else.”

“It is at that,” Gerran said. “Have you finished digging that latrine?”

“I have, and well downstream. I’ve stowed the shovel in the pavilion.”

“Good.” Gerran hesitated, considering. “We’d best leave someone here to watch over the horses. You never know who might take a fancy to them.”

Sorting out who would stand guard duty took a great deal of furious dicing among the men, but eventually they left two men on armed guard with the promise of having food brought to them by whatever servant Gerran could round up to run the errand. With their captain at their head, the rest of the warband strolled through the south gate and panted up the steep hill to the dun.

Despite the evening breeze beyond the walls, inside them the windless humid air draped itself over Gerran like a winter cloak. Men and horses stood so thick in the ward that pushing through them reminded Gerran of trying to walk through a flock of sheep. Inevitably the Red Wolf warband split up into twos and threes as they tried to follow their captain. Some of the men in his path tried to move out of Gerran’s way at once. Others merely stared at him with eyes turned witless by the gwerbret’s ale until one of their fellows said, “It’s the Falcon. Move, lad! Haven’t you seen him fight?” Then they’d step out of his way, and fast. Gerran thus reached the hall before the rest of his men.

On the top step of the doorway he turned and looked over the ward just as shouting erupted some twenty yards back toward the gates. The mob swirled and swelled as some men tried to get away from what appeared to be a fistfight. As man pushed against man, apologies met curses. Raised voices and clenched fists threatened to spread the trouble further. The horses nearest to the disturbance began pulling at their tethers and trying to rear; grooms began yelling as they worked their way through the clotted crowd. The inadvertent shoves and curses increased. The men hung at the edge of a cliff over chaos, Gerran realized. Drawing his sword would only make them drop. Fortunately a groom stood nearby, a heavy quirt dangling from his lax grasp. Gerran snatched it from him and plunged into the mob.

“It’s the Falcon!” someone yelled. “Ware, lads!”

Men tried to part and let him through, but Gerran ended up brandishing the quirt and even using it on a few of the slower-moving lads before he finally got himself to the edge of the brawl. Perhaps half a dozen men were throwing punches, and three or four more were wrestling on the cobbles, all of them yelling insults and threats. By then, only a last few bystanders blocked his path.

“Move back!” Gerran held up the quirt. “Get away, all of you! Now!”

Those who could followed orders; those at the edge of the mob began to fall back as well; grooms grabbed whatever tether ropes they could reach and began leading horses away. Although the ward was quieting down, the original brawlers went on fighting in a moving tangle of men.

Gerran dodged into the melee and swung the quirt to good purpose, yelling “hold and stand!” the entire time. The Red Wolf men among the miscreants followed his orders straightaway, more afraid of him than of their temporary enemies. The other men, too, began to devote themselves to ducking under Gerran’s blows rather than continuing to fight. A few lucky ones even managed to run out of range.

Behind them more shouting erupted, but of a very different sort. “It’s His Grace! He’s trying to get through. And ye gods, the prince is with him! Make way!”

The last of the brawl stopped cold. The rest of the watching mob found it could indeed move and quickly at that. The ward cleared remarkably easily as Gwerbret Ridvar elbowed his way to Gerran’s side. Right behind him came Prince Voran. Ridvar crossed his arms over his chest, and stood scowling at the cowed brawlers. The ward grew oddly silent; even the remaining horses stopped their stamping and snorting.

“I’m cursed glad that this didn’t happen on the morrow,” Ridvar said, and his voice brimmed with fury ready to spill. “It’s bad enough that one prince of the blood royal has had to see this! I’ll remind you all that another’s on his way here. If anyone dares break the peace in front of them again—” He let the thought sizzle unfinished on the humid air.

Apologies came as fast as summer rain. When Ridvar said nothing more, the men slunk away, heading to the barracks, the hall, the stables—anywhere out of the gwerbret’s sight. Gerran started to kneel to the prince and gwerbret, but Voran stopped him with a wave of his hand.

“No need,” the prince said. “Good job, Captain.”

“My thanks, Your Highness. I’m honored you’d think so.”

Voran smiled, Ridvar smiled; then they turned and strolled back to the great hall. Over by the dun gates a subdued Warryc crawled out from under a wagon and stood up, brushing horseshit and mud off his clothes. Gerran walked over to him.

“And what was all that?” Gerran said. “Were you in the middle of it?”

“I was not, Captain,” Warryc said. “But one of the Stag clan riders, a burly fellow with a red beard, grabbed young Clae and smacked him in the face, and him three times the lad’s size. He claimed the lad had dropped somewhat or other on his foot or suchlike. Cursed if we were going to let some stranger harm one of the Red Wolf pages.”

“So you were in the middle of it.”

“Not to say the middle.” Warryc paused for a grin. “Out toward the edge, mayhap.”

Gerran rolled his eyes, considered a reprimand, then merely shrugged. “Well,” Gerran said, “I’m glad enough that someone defended the lad. Just don’t let it happen again, will you? It would ache my heart to have one of my men flogged for causing trouble in a gwerbret’s dun.”

“It would ache a fair bit more of the fellow being flogged than his heart. Warning taken, Captain.”

“Good. Don’t forget it. Now, let’s go in. I need to find a servant to take some food down to our lads. Better yet, help me find Clae. We’ll send him down where that piss-proud bully can’t find him.”

“What’sallthatnoise,I wonder?” Branna sat up on the bed. “It sounds like fighting in the ward.”

Neb murmured a few incomprehensible words, then turned over and went back to sleep. Branna got out of bed, then picked her underdress up off the floor and put it on before she went to the window. When she looked out, she could see the brawl in progress, though the ward was darkening with evening shadows and far too crowded for her to identify the fighters. The sight below reminded her of a pot of oatmeal on a fire, pulsing and bubbling. Like a cooking spoon stirring the porridge, one man cleared his way through only to have the mob close behind him. His red hair made her wonder if it were Gerran, and sure enough, once the mob began to disperse, she recognized him.
He’ll get the matter settled, then,
she thought.
No need to worry.

She lay down again, hoping that Neb would wake up for still more lovemaking, but he slept stubbornly on. Soon enough she fell asleep herself, only to wake suddenly to a night-dark room.

Through the open window she could see the Snowy Road, bright against the sky, and hear the noise from the great hall like a river rushing over stones. She could smell dinner, as well. Her stomach growled and rumbled. She was about to get up when she realized that the chamber was full of Wildfolk. She could hear them rustling, see shapes like living shadows flitting back and forth in the air. She prodded Neb in the ribs.