Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [40]
Before Galrion could dodge, two men grabbed him and twisted his arms behind him. One of them clapped a firm hand over his mouth. Brangwen stood frozen, her face so pale that Galrion was afraid she would faint.
“I beg you, my liege,” Gerraent went on. “If I allow this marriage, what kind of a brother am I? How can I claim to be head of my clan if I have so little honor? My liege, if ever the Falcon has paid you any service, I beg you—don’t let this happen.”
“Done, then,” Adoryc said. “We hereby release you from your father’s pledge.”
“Gerro!” Brangwen sobbed out. “You can’t! I want to go, Gerro, let me go.”
“Hush.” Gerraent rose, turning and sweeping her into his arms. “You don’t understand. You don’t know what kind of life you’ll have, wandering the roads like beggars.”
“I don’t care.” Brangwen tried to struggle free. “Gerro, Gerro, how can you do this to me? Let me go.”
Gerraent weakened; then he tossed his head.
“I won’t! I won’t have you die in childbirth someday, just because your man doesn’t have the price of a midwife, or starve some winter on the road. I’d die myself first.”
It was touching, perfectly said, but Galrion knew that Gerraent was lying, that all those fine words were cruel, deadly poisoned lies. The dweomer was making him tremble and choke. He bit his guard in the hand, but all he got for his effort was a blow on the head that made the world dance.
“You’re wrong, Gerro!” Brangwen struggled like a wild creature. “I know you’re wrong. I want to go with him.”
“Right or wrong, I’m the Falcon now, and you’re not disobeying me.”
Brangwen made one last wrench, but he was too strong for her. As he dragged her away bodily, she wept, sobbing hysterically and helplessly as Gerraent shoved her into her tent. Adoryc motioned to the guards to let Galrion go.
“Get this Nevyn out of my sight forever.” The King handed Galrion his dagger. “Here’s the one weapon allowed to a banished man. You must have a horse, or you wouldn’t be here.” He took the pouch at his side and drew out a coin. “And here’s the silver of a banished man.” He pressed the coin into Galrion’s hand.
Galrion glanced at it, then flung it into his father’s face.
“I’d rather starve.”
As the guards fell back in front of him, Galrion strode out of the camp. At the top of the rise he turned for a last look at Brangwen’s tent. Then he broke into a run, crashing through the underbrush, running across the road, and tripping at last to fall on his knees near the bay gelding. He wept, but for Brangwen’s sake, not his own.
II
The women’s hall was sunny, and through the windows, Brangwen could see apple trees, so white with perfumed blossoms that it seemed clouds were caught in the branches. Nearby, Rodda and Ysolla were talking as they worked at their sewing, but Brangwen let her work lie in her lap. She wanted to weep, but it was so tedious to weep all the time. She prayed that Prince Galrion might be well and wondered where he was riding on his lonely road of exile.
“Gwennie?” Lady Rodda said. “Shall we walk in the meadows this afternoon?”
“If you wish, my lady.”
“Well, if you’d rather, Gwennie,” Ysolla put in, “we could go riding.”
“Whatever you want.”
“Here, child,” Rodda said. “Truly, it’s time you got over this brooding. Your brother did what was best for you.”
“If my lady says so.”
“It would have been ghastly,” Ysolla broke in. “Riding behind a banished man? How can you even think of it! It’s the shame. No one would even take you in.”
“It would have been their loss, not ours.”
Rodda sighed and ran her needle into her embroidery.
“And what about when he got you with child?”
“Galrion never would have let our child starve. You don’t understand. I should have gone with him. It would have been all right. I just know it would have been.”
“Now, Gwennie, lamb, you’re just not thinking clearly,” Rodda said.
“As clearly as I need to,” Brangwen snapped. “Oh! My pardons, my lady. But you don’t understand. I know I should have gone.”
Both her friends stared, eyes narrow in honest concern. They