Daggerspell. Katharine Kerr
in a rather bland way with blue eyes that always seemed to be smiling at a jest.
“Good morrow, my prince,” Blaen said. “What brings me the honor of having you in my hall?”
“My brother and I have come to beg an enormous favor. My brother has decided that it’s time for him to marry.”
“Oh, have you, now?” Blaen shot Gerraent a smile. “A wise decision, with no heirs for your clan.”
“If it’s so wise,” Gerraent snapped, “why haven’t you made one like it?”
Blaen went as stiff as a stag who sees the hunting pack.
“I have two brothers.”
The moment hung there. Gerraent stared into the hearth; Blaen stared at the prince; Galrion hardly knew where to look.
“Ah, curse it!’” Blaen snapped. “Can’t we dispense with all this mincing around? Gerro, do you want my sister or not?”
“I do. And my apologies.”
When Galrion let his eyes meet Blaen’s he saw only a man who wanted to be his friend—against great odds, perhaps, but he did. Yet the dweomer-warning slid down his back like snow.
In his role as a courting man’s second, Galrion went to the woman’s hall, a half-round of a room above the great hall. On the floor lay Bardek carpets in the clan colors of blue, green, and gold; silver candlesticks stood on an elaborately carved table. In a cushioned chair, Rodda, dowager of the clan, sat by the windows while Ysolla perched on a footstool at her mother s side. All around them lay wisps of wool from the spinning that must have been tidied away at the prince’s approach. Rodda was a stout woman with deep-set gray eyes and a firm but pleasant little smile; Galrion had always liked her when they’d met at court. Ysolla was a pretty lass of sixteen, all slender and golden with large eager eyes.
“I come as a supplicant, my lady,” Galrion knelt before the two women. “Lord Gerraent of the Falcon would have the Lady Ysolla marry him.”
When Ysolla caught her breath with a gasp, Rodda shot her a sharp look.
“This is a grave matter,” Rodda pronounced. “My daughter and I must consider this carefully.”
“But, Mother!”
“My lady?” Galrion said to Rodda. “Do you have any objections to Lord Gerraent?”
“None, but I have my objections to my daughter acting like a starving puppy grabbing a bone. You may tell Gerraent that we are considering the matter, but my son may start discussing the dowry if he wants—just in case Ysolla agrees.”
Blaen was expansive about the dowry. Ysolla, of course, had been filling her dower chest for years with embroidered coverlets, sets of dresses, and the embroidered shirt her husband would wear at his wedding. To go with it, Blaen offered ten geldings, five white cows, and a palfrey for Ysolla.
“Gerro?” Galrion said. “That’s splendidly generous.”
“What?” Gerraent looked up with a start. “Oh, whatever you think best.”
Yet that evening Gerraent acted the perfect suitor, happy to have his lady within his reach at last. At table, he and Ysolla shared a trencher, and Gerraent cut her tidbits of meat and fed her with his fingers as if they were already married, a gesture that made Ysolla beam with happiness. Galrion and Rodda, who were seated next to each other, found themselves watching the couple and occasionally turning to each other to share a thoughtful glance. Since the bard was singing, and Blaen laughing with his brother, Camlann, Galrion and Rodda could whisper in private.
“Tell me,” Rodda said. “Do you think Gerraent will come to love my daughter someday?”
“He’d be a fool not to.”
“Who knows what you men will do?”
Galrion broke a slice of bread in half and offered her one portion.
“Is this better than no bread at all?”
“You’re a wise one for someone so young, my prince.” Rodda accepted the bread. “Does that come from living at court?”
“It does, because if you want to live to be an old prince, you’d best keep your eyes on every little wave of everyone’s hand and your ears on every word they speak.”
“So I’ve been telling your little Gwennie. Life at court is going to be difficult for her at first. She’s lucky to have a man like you to watch over her interests.”
Galrion felt a stab of guilt. I’m as bad as Gerro, he thought. I’ll have to offer Gwennie at least the half a piece of bread—unless I find her a man who’d give her the whole loaf.
Courtesy demanded that Galrion and Gerraent take the Boar’s hospitality for several days. The more Galrion saw of Blaen, the more he liked him, a cultured man as well as a generous one, with a fine ear for the songs of his bard and a proper knowledge of the traditional tales and lore. Even more, Galrion came to admire Rodda, who carried out her dowager role with perfect tact. She would make Brangwen a splendid mother-in-law. At times, Galrion remembered Rhegor’s insistence that she choose freely, but he doubted if Gwennie, poor little innocent Gwennie, was capable of making such an important decision on her own.
Late on the second day, the prince escorted the dowager to the garden for a stroll. The spring sun lay warm on the glossy leaves and the first shy buds of the roses.
“I’m much impressed with your son,” Galrion said. “He should feel more at home at my court.”
“My thanks, my prince.” Rodda hesitated, wondering, no doubt, how to turn this unexpected honor to her son’s advantage. “I’m most grateful that you favor him.”
“There’s only one slight thing. You’ll forgive my bluntness, and I’ll swear an honest answer will do Blaen no harm. Just how much does he hold Gwennie against me?”
“My son knows his duty to the throne, no matter where his heart lies.”
“Never did I think otherwise. I was merely wondering how fine his honor might be in matters of the heart. Let me be blunt again. Suppose Brangwen was no longer betrothed to me. Would he spurn her as a cast-off woman?”
Briefly Rodda stared, as openmouthed as a farm lass, before she recovered her polished reserve.
“I think my prince is troubled at heart to speak this way.”
“He is, but he’ll beg you never to ask why. He’ll tell you this much: he’s troubled by the life ahead of Brangwen. Flatterers at court will come around her like flies to spilled mead.”
“Not just flies, my prince. Wasps come to spilled mead, and Gwennie is very beautiful.”
“She is.” Suddenly torn, Galrion wondered if he could truly let her go. “And I loved her once.”
“Once and not now?” Rodda raise a doubting eyebrow.
Galrion walked a little ways ahead, letting her catch up with him in the shade of the linden tree. He caught a low branch and stripped the leaves off a twig, to rub them between his fingers before he let them fall.
“My prince is deeply troubled,” Rodda said.
“The prince’s troubles are his own, my lady. But you never answered me. Would Blaen marry Gwennie if he could?”
“Oh, in a moment! My poor lad, I swear he’s been ensorcled by Gwennie’s blue eyes. He put off marrying until she came of age, and then, well—”
“The prince stepped in, giving the Boar another reason to chafe under the High King’s rule. How would the Boar take it if his mother hinted that the prince was yielding to a prior claim?”
“I’ve no doubt he’d honor the prince always.”
Smiling, Galrion made her a deep bow. It could work out well, he told