Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [31]
“To your wedding, my prince!” Madoc said. “For a man who doesn’t say much, you’re a sly one. Fancy you nipping in and getting the most beautiful lass in the kingdom.”
“I was rather surprised she accepted me. No one could ever call me the most beautiful lad.”
“Oh, don’t give yourself short value. Brangwen sees beyond a lad’s face, which is more than many a lass does.” Madoc had a swallow of mead, long enough to burn an ordinary drinker’s throat. “I don’t mind saying that every man in the kingdom is going to envy you your wedding night. Or have you already claimed your rights as her betrothed?”
“I haven’t. I had no desire to set her brother against me just for one night in her bed.”
Although Galrion was merely speaking casually, Madoc turned troubled, watching him over the rim of his goblet.
“Well?” Galrion went on. “How do you think Gerraent would have taken it, if I’d bedded his sister under his roof?”
“He’s a strange lad.” Madoc looked idly away. “He’s been out there alone on the edge of that cursed forest too much, but he’s a good lad withal. I rode with him in that last rebellion against your father. By the hell ice itself, our Gerro can fight. I’ve never seen a man swing a sword as well as he does, and that’s not idle praise, my prince, but my considered judgment.”
“Then coming from you, that’s high praise indeed.”
Madoc nodded absently and had another sip of mead. When he spoke again, it was to change the subject to the legal doings of his gwerbretrhyn—and he kept it there.
It was late, and Madoc long gone, when a page came with a summons from the King. Since the King scorned luxury as unfit for a fighting man, even a regal one, his large chamber was perfectly plain, with the torches in their iron sconces the only decoration on the stone walls. Near the hearth, where a small fire burned to ward off the spring chill, King Adoryc was sitting on a plain wooden chair, with Ylaena beside him on a footstool. When Galrion came in, the King stood up, setting his hands on his hips. Adoryc the Second was a massive man, broad shouldered, tall, with a bull’s neck and a perpetually ruddy face. His gray hair and thick mustache were still touched with blond.
“So, you young cub! I’ve got somewhat to say to you.”
“Indeed, my liege?”
“Indeed. What by all the hells have you been doing out in the forest with that daft old man?”
Caught off guard, Galrion could only stare at him.
“Don’t you think I have you followed?” Adoryc went on. “You may be fool enough to ride alone, but I’m not fool enough to let you.”
“Curse your very soul!” Galrion snapped. “Spying on me.”
“Listen to your insolent little hound!” Adoryc glanced at Ylaena. “Cursing his own father. But answer me, lad. What have you been doing? The village folk tell my men that this Rhegor’s a daft old herbman. I can get you an apothecary if the prince has royal boils or suchlike.”
Galrion knew that the moment had come for truth, even though he had never been less willing to tell it in his life.
“He earns his living with his herbs, sure enough, but he’s a dweomermaster.”
Ylaena caught her breath in an audible gasp.
“Horsedung!” Adoryc snarled. “Do you truly think I’ll believe such babble? I want to know what you’re doing, spending so much time with him when you tell me you’re at the Falcon dun.”
“Studying with him. Why shouldn’t a prince study the dweomer?”
“Ah, ye gods!” Ylaena burst out. “I’ve always known you’d leave me for that!”
Adoryc turned to stare his wife into silence.
“Why not?” the King said. “Why not? Because I forbid it.”
“Oh, here, you just called it horsedung. Why are you raging now?”
Swinging too fast to be dodged, Adoryc slapped him hard across the face. When Ylaena cried out, Adoryc turned on her.
“Get out of here, woman! Now.”
Ylaena fled through the curtained archway that led to the women’s hall. Adoryc drew his dagger, then stabbed it into the back of a chair so hard that when he took his hand away, the dagger quivered for a moment. Galrion held his ground and stared steadily at him.
“I want a vow out of you,” Adoryc said. “A solemn