A Time of Exile - Katharine Kerr [113]
“My apologies,” Nevyn said. “I just heard in the village you might want to buy a mule. I can come back later.”
“No need.” The young farmer was busily trying to get the egg off the back of his head with both hands. “I do indeed need a mule, though my sister’s stubborn enough for a whole rotten herd of them. Let me just wash this off at the well.”
Laughter rang in the doorway, and a young woman, about Maer’s age, came strolling out. She was pretty, ravenhaired and blue-eyed, but not truly beautiful, with her hair cropped off short in the way many farm women wore their hair, out of the way of hard work. Her dress was dirty, much mended, and hitched up around her waist at the kirtle to leave her ankles and feet bare.
“And who’s this, Nalyn? Another of your candidates for my betrothal?”
“Hold your cursed tongue, Glae!” Nalyn snapped.
“He’s better-looking than Doclyn, aged or not. No offense, good sir, but my beloved brother-in-law is bound and determined to marry me off to get rid of me, you see. Are you in the market for a young wife by any chance?”
“Glae!” Nalyn howled. “I said hold your tongue!”
“Don’t you give me orders, you afterbirth of a miscarried wormy sow.”
With an anguished glance in Nevyn’s direction Nalyn walked off to the well to wash away the egg. The lass leaned comfortably against the doorjamb and gave Nevyn a brilliant smile that transformed her face for one brief moment. Then she was merely wary, and plain, her eyes too suspicious and cold for beauty.
“Here, good sir, I haven’t even asked your name. Mine’s Glaenara. You must’ve been talking with the village women if you knew we were in the market for a mule.”
“Well, I did happen to speak with Samwna. My name is Nevyn, and that’s a name, not a jest.”
“Indeed? Well, then, Lord Nobody, welcome to our humble farm. Samwna’s a good woman, isn’t she? And her daughter Braedda’s my best friend. As meek as a suckling lamb, but I do like her.”
Glaenara ran her hands down the mule’s legs, thumped it on the chest, then grabbed its head and pried its mouth open to look at its teeth before the startled mule could even object. His wet shirt in his hand, Nalyn came back and watched sourly.
“Now, I’m the one who’s saying if we buy that mule or not.”
“Then take a look at its mouth yourself.”
When Nalyn went to do so, the by now wary mule promptly bit him on the arm. Howling with laughter, Glaenara cuffed the mule so hard that it let go. Nevyn grabbed Nalyn’s arm and looked at it: mule bites could turn nasty, but fortunately, this one hadn’t broken the skin. Nalyn was cursing a steady stream under his breath.
“Just bruised, I’d say,” Nevyn said soothingly. “My apologies.”
“Wasn’t you,” Nalyn growled. “Glae, I’m going to beat you so hard one of these days.”
“Just try.” Glaenara set her hands on her hips and smiled at him.
At that, the other two women came running out of the house. Glaenara’s mother was gray and thin, her face drawn and etched deep with exhausted lines. Her sister was pretty, with less strength but more harmony in her wide-eyed face. Sniveling, the sister caught her husband’s arm and looked up, pleading with him silently. The mother turned to Glaenara.
“Glae, please? Not in front of a stranger.”
With a sigh, Glaenara turned tame, coming over to slip her arm around her mother’s frail waist and give her a kiss on the cheek. Nalyn patted his wife’s arm, looked Nevyn’s way, and blushed again. For a moment they all stood there in a miserable tableau; then Glaenara led her mother back to the house. With one backward glance at Nevyn, the sister hurried after.
“My apologies for my little sister,” Nalyn said.
“My good sir, no man in his right mind would hold you responsible for anything that lass does.”
As he was riding back to the village, Nevyn met Lord Pertyc’s warband, coming two abreast in a cloud of dust. At the head rode the lord himself, a tall but slender man who