Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [181]
“It’s about time you did, my lord.”
“I know—the cursed rhan needs its cursed heirs. Ye gods, captain, think how I must feel. How would you like to be put to stud like a prize horse?”
Cullyn laughed aloud.
“Aches a man’s heart, doesn’t it?” Rhodry said, grinning. “And for all I know, she’ll have a face and a temper to match the Lord of Hell’s. It’s her cursed kin that count, not what I might think of her.”
“Huh. I see why the priests are always telling a man never to envy the noble-born.”
“And right they are, truly. Men like me marry to please our clans, not ourselves.”
The old proverb struck an odd place in Cullyn’s mind, some long-buried memory that he couldn’t quite get clear. He had a long swallow of ale and considered his peculiar idea. He could think of no way to broach it subtly.
“Tell me somewhat, my lord. Would you marry my Jill if you could?”
Rhodry went so tense that Cullyn realized that the lad was as afraid of him as Jill was. It was gratifying. Common-born or not, he was still Jill’s father, still the man who’d decide what she would or wouldn’t do.
“I would,” Rhodry said at last. “I’ll swear that to you on the honor of the Maelwaedds. I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want to marry her, but I can’t.”
“I know that.”
They drank for a few minutes more, and Rhodry never looked away from his face.
“You know, my lord, the mistress of a great lord has a cursed lot of power in his rhan and court.”
Rhodry jerked his head as if Cullyn had slapped him.
“So she does, and no one would dare mock her, either.”
“Provided she was never cast off to her shame.”
“There’re some women who would never have to fear such a thing.”
“Good.” Absently Cullyn laid his hand on his sword hilt. “Good.”
They sat together drinking, never saying another word, until the fire was so low that they could barely see each other’s face.
Perhaps the thing that Jill hated most about being in a lady’s retinue was that she had to learn to sew. For all that Lovyan was a rich tieryn, most of the clothing worn in the dun was made there, and she owed every rider in her warband and every servant in her hall two pairs of shirts and brigga or two dresses a year as part of their maintenance. Every woman in the dun, from the lowliest kitchen wench to Dannyan and Medylla, spent part of her time producing this mountain of clothes. Even Lovyan took a hand and sewed Rhodry’s shirts for him, as well as embroidering the blazons on the shirts for her skilled servitors such as the bard. Since there was a definite honor among women about the fineness of their sewing, Jill dutifully practiced, but she hated every clumsy stitch she made.
That morning Nevyn came to the women’s hall, which was open to him because of his great age and, while she worked, entertained her with tales of Bardek, that mysterious country far across the Southern Sea. From the wealth of details, it was plain that he’d spent much time there.
“Studying physick, truly,” Nevyn admitted when she asked him. “They have much curious lore in Bardek, and most of it’s worth knowing. It’s a cursed strange place.”
“So it sounds. I wish I could see it someday, but it’s not likely now.”
“Here, child, you sound very unhappy.”
“I am, and I feel like the most ungrateful wretch in the world, too. Here Her Grace has been so generous to me, and I’m living in more luxury than I ever dreamt of, but I feel like a falcon in a cage.”
“Well, in a way, you are trapped.”
It was such a relief to hear someone agree with her that Jill nearly wept. Irritably she threw the sewing into her wicker workbasket.
“Well, if you truly hate this kind of life,” Nevyn went on, “perhaps you should leave it.”
“What can I do? Ride the roads as a silver dagger?”
“I should think not, but many a woman has a craft. If I spoke to the tieryn, she’d pay the prentice fee for you.”
“Oh, and what sort of thing would I do? I’d hate