Katharine Kerr - Daggerspell

Lady Rodda was sitting on her chair, with Ysolla perching on a footstool nearby. With his shirt off to reveal a bad case of boils, a page was kneeling in front of Rhegor on the floor.

“These will have to be lanced,” Rhegor said. “Since I don’t have my tools with me, I’ll have to ride back tomorrow with your lady’s leave.”

The boy gave a miserable squeak in anticipation.

“Now, don’t be a silly lad,” Rodda said. “They’ve been hurting you for weeks, and if the herbman lances them, they’ll be over and done with. Don’t you go hiding in the forest all day tomorrow.”

The lad grabbed his shirt from the floor, made Rodda a bow, then fled unceremoniously. Smiling, Rodda shook her head at him, then motioned Rhegor to a chair next to hers.

“Sit down and rest, good sir,” Rodda said. “So, you say you’re from the south. Have you any interesting news?”

“My thanks.” Rhegor bowed and took the chair. “Well, no true news, but a fair bit of evil rumor.”

“Indeed?” Rodda said unsteadily. “How fares Lord Gerraent of the Falcon?”

“I see the rumors have reached my lady’s ears. Badly, alas, and of course the locals insist on talking of witchcraft.”

Ysolla leaned forward, clasping her arms around her knees, her eyes half filled with tears. When he remembered the happy night of her betrothal, Nevyn felt such a stab of pity for her that the vision broke. It took him a long time to retrieve it.

“Mourning is understandable,” Rhegor was saying. “But after all, the natural order of things is for the son to lose his father sooner or later.” He glanced at Ysolla. “Once he has you at his side, no doubt the black mood will lift.”

“If he ever marries me,” Ysolla burst out.

“Hold your tongue, lamb,” Rodda said.

“How can I?” Ysolla snapped. “After what Blaen said—”

Rodda raised her hand as if to slap her. Ysolla fell silent.

“Kindly forgive my daughter, good sir,” Rodda said. “She’s worrying her heart, thinking that what happened to poor Brangwen might happen to her.”

“A sad, sad thing that was,” Rhegor sighed. “Let’s hope she finds a better man soon. The villagers tell me that your son hopes to announce his betrothal to the lady.”

“Well.” Rodda’s voice went flat. “I’ll pray that such happens.”

So, Nevyn thought, that babe’s not Blaen’s. True enough, Rhegor answered, I’d hoped so much it was! Nevyn was so shocked that he lost the vision again, and for good, this time.

Rhegor returned at sunset. He tended the mule, then came into the hut where Nevyn, steaming with curiosity, was laying out their evening meal. Rhegor took a silver coin out of his brigga pocket and tossed it onto the table.

“Our Lady Rodda is generous,” Rhegor remarked. “Little does she know whom this will feed, but she’d be glad. We talked a bit more after you left us, and she still honors you, Prince Galrion.”

“The prince is dead.”

Rhegor smiled and sat down, picking up a slice of bread and butter.

“I think I’ll risk getting Nevyn’s throat cut tomorrow. Lord Blaen will be at the hunt when I ride back to tend that lad’s boils, so you can come with me.”

“Well and good, my lord. Here, why did you wish that child was Blaen’s?”

“Think, lad. If Blaen’s not to blame, well, then, who is? What men live in the Falcon’s dun? A couple of twelve-year-old lads, a grubby stableman, and the old chamberlain, so aged that he can barely lift his hand to a maid, much less anything else. So who does that leave?”

“Well, nobody.”

“Nobody?”

“Oh, by the hells.” Nevyn could barely say it. “Gerraent.”

“By the hells indeed. This is a terrible dark thing to accuse any man of doing, and I won’t make a move until I’m sure.”

Nevyn picked up the table dagger, twisting it in his fingers for the solid comfort of the metal.

“If it’s true,” Nevyn said, “I’ll kill him.”

“Look at you! Your father’s son indeed.”

Nevyn stabbed the dagger hard into the tabletop and let it quiver.

“And would killing him be such a wrong thing?”

“It would—for you.” Rhegor took a calm bite of bread and butter. “I forbid you to even think about it.”

“Done, then. His blood is safe from me.”

Rhegor considered him carefully. Nevyn picked up a slice of bread, then flung it back onto the plate.

“You said you’d take her, child and all,” Rhegor said. “Is that still true if she’s carrying her own brother’s bastard?”

“I’m the man who left her there. Of course it is.”

“You’re a decent enough lad at heart. Truly, you might redeem yourself yet.”

On the morrow, by keeping his hood muffled around his face, Nevyn managed to avoid being recognized by any of the servants in the Boar’s dun. When he and Rhegor went up to the women’s hall, Nevyn kept the cloak on and busied himself with unpacking Rhegor’s herbs and implements. Ysolla was mercifully gone, and Rodda was occupied with Rhegor and one of the pages.

“What do you mean, you don’t know where Maryc is?” Rodda said to the page. “I told him to be here when the herbman came.”

“He’s scared, my lady. But I can look for him. It’s going to take a long time.”

“Then run and start right now.”

As soon as the page was gone, Nevyn took off his cloak and tossed it onto the floor. Rodda stared, her eyes filling with tears.

“Galrion! Oh, thank the holy gods! It gladdens my heart to see you well.”

“My humble thanks, my lady, but my name is no one.”

“I know all about your father’s spite. You’ve got to be gone when my son rides home.”

“I had to come. I’ll beg you for news of my Brangwen.”

Rodda’s face went slack as she looked away.

“Our poor little Gwennie! I wish the gods had allowed her to marry you. I swear, maybe she should have ridden into exile with you.” She glanced Rhegor’s way. “Here, good sir, I can trust you, for bringing my prince if nothing else, so I’ll speak freely. Blaen rode down to the Falcon not long ago, and he came home in a rage. He’s sure Gwennie will never have him, he said. She walks round like she’s half dead and barely speaks. I tried to get her to come here, but she refused. She’s still mourning you in her heart, my prince, or so I hope.”

“So we all may hope,” Rhegor said drily. “How often has Gerraent ridden here to see his betrothed?”

As startled as a cornered deer, Rodda glanced this way and that.

“It’s all nonsense,” she burst out. “I won’t believe that they’d do such a thing, not Gwennie, not Gerro! Blaen and Ysolla are just working themselves up with silly suspicions, because they’re so disappointed and eager. I won’t believe it!”

“What?” Rhegor said. “Tell me, my lady. Get these dark fears out of your heart.”

Rodda hesitated, fighting with herself, then gave in.

“All the servants at the Falcon say that only Brangwen stands between them and Lord Gerraent’s rage—just as if she were his wife. And Ysolla, my own child, has been working her brother up like a little scorpion. Gerro was always so fond of Gwennie, she says, it’s not fair—Gwennie even has the man I want. It’s Gwennie this and Gwennie that, and all because poor Ysolla’s always envied little Brangwen’s wretched beauty.”

“Wretched indeed! You say you can’t believe it—is that true? Or do you only want to turn away from an unclean thing? Ye gods, I couldn’t blame you.”

Rodda broke and wept, covering her face with her hands.

“He’s always loved her too much. Why do you think I worked so hard on Lord Dwen to let Gwennie marry so young? She had to get out of that cursed household.”