Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [42]
“Making sure that I’m treating your sister honorably?” Blaen said with a grin.
“Oh, I’ve no doubt you’d always be honorable. I was just wondering what happened to Gwennie.”
Gerraent escorted her back to the women’s hall. Since Rodda and Ysolla were still at table, Brangwen allowed him to come in with her. He perched uneasily on the edge of the open window while a servant lit the candles in the sconces with a taper. After the servant left, they were alone, face to face with each other in the silent room. Restlessly Brangwen turned away and saw a moth fluttering dangerously close to a candle flame. She caught it softly in cupped hands and set it free at the window.
“You’ve got the softest heart in the world,” Gerraent said.
“Well, the poor things are too stupid to know better.” Gerraent caught both her hands in his.
“Gwennie, do you hate me?”
“I could never hate you, Never.”
For a moment Brangwen thought that he would weep.
“I know that marriage means everything to a lass. But we’ll find you a better man than an exile. Has Blaen declared himself to you?”
“He has, but please, I can’t bear thinking of marrying anyone right now.”
“Gwennie, I’ll make you a solemn promise. Head of our clan or not, I’ll never make you marry until you truly want to.”
Brangwen threw her arms around his neck and wept against his shoulder. As he stroked her hair, she felt him trembling against her.
“Take me home, Gerro. Please, I want to go home.”
“Well, then, that’s what well do.”
Yet once they were back in the Falcon dun, Brangwen bitterly regretted leaving Rodda and Ysolla’s company. Everything she saw at home reminded her either of her father or her prince, both irrevocably gone. Up in her bed-chamber, she had a wooden box filled with courting gifts from Galrion—brooches, rings, and a silver goblet with her name inscribed on it. He would have had his name put next to hers once they were married. Although she couldn’t read, Brangwen would at times take out the goblet and weep as she traced the writing with her fingertip.
The dailiness of her life eventually drew her back from her despair. Brangwen had the servants to supervise, the chamberlain to consult, the household spinning and sewing to oversee and to take up herself. She and her serving woman, Ludda, spent long afternoons working on the household clothes and taking turns singing old songs and ballads to each other. Soon, as well, she had a new worry in Gerraent. Often she caught him weeping on their father’s grave, and in the evenings, he turned oddly silent. As he sat in his father’s chair—his chair, now—he drank steadily and watched the flames playing in the fireplace. Although Brangwen sat beside him out of sisterly duty, he rarely spoke more than two words at a time.
On a day when Gerraent was hunting, Gwerbret Madoc came for a visit with six men of his warband for an escort. As she curtsied to the gwerbret, Brangwen noticed the men staring at her—sly eyes, little half smiles, an undisguised lust that she had seen a thousand times on the faces of men. She hated them for it.
“Greetings, my lady,” Madoc said. “I’ve come to pay my respects to your father’s grave.”
After sending the servants to care for his men, Brangwen took Madoc into the hall and poured him ale with her own hands, then sat across from him at the honor table. Madoc pledged her with the tankard.
“My thanks, Brangwen. Truly, I wanted to see how you fared.”
“As well as I can, Your Grace.”
“And your brother?”
“He’s still mourning our father. I can only hope he’ll put his grief away soon.” Brangwen saw that he was truly worried, not merely being courteous, and his worry made her own flare. “Gerro hasn’t been himself of late. I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“Ah, I wondered. Well, here, you know that your brother and yourself are under my protection. If ever you need my aid, you send a page to me straightaway. That’s no idle courtesy, either. Sometimes when a man gets to brooding, he’s a bit much for his sister to handle, so send me a message,