Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [45]
“Gerro? What are you thinking about?”
“That rebellion. If there’s a war this summer, I won’t go, I promise you that—I’ll find a way out.”
Brangwen smiled, her heart bursting with love. He was making the biggest sacrifice a man like him could, giving up his glory to live with her in the summer and die with her in the fall.
Brangwen would have liked to have slept in his bed, as was her place, but it was of course far too risky with so many servants in the dun. If the priests in the village ever learned of their evil, they would come tear them apart. Often, over the next few weeks, they rode out together to lie down in the soft grass. Wrapped in his arms, Brangwen could think of Gerraent as her husband. Her calm continued, as fair as the weather, summer day after summer day slipping by, like water in a full stream, silent, smooth as glass, glistening. Nothing could disturb her calm, not even her occasional thought of Ysolla, whose betrothed she had taken away. At first, it seemed that Gerraent, too, was happy, but slowly his brooding and his rages returned.
Gerraent was growing more and more like their father, dark as a storm when he was idle, glowering into the fire and pacing restlessly around the ward. One evening, when Brythu brought him ale, the lad slipped and spilled it. Gerraent swung and slapped him so hard that the lad fell to his knees.
“You clumsy little bastard.”
As the lad cowered back, Gerraent’s hand went to his dagger almost of its own will. Brangwen threw herself in between them.
“Hold your hand, Gerro! You’ll be weeping with remorse not five minutes later if you hurt the lad.”
Sobbing, Brythu fled the hall. Brangwen saw the rest of the servants watching with pale faces and terrified eyes. She grabbed Gerraent by the shoulders and shook him hard.
“Oh, by the hells,” Gerraent said. “My thanks.”
Brangwen fetched him more ale herself, then went out to the stable, where, as she expected, she found Brythu weeping in the hay loft. She hung her candle lantern on a nail in the wall, then sat down and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. He was only twelve, a skinny little thing for his age.
“Here, here,” Brangwen said. “Let me have a look.”
Brythu wiped the tears away on his sleeve and turned his face up to her. An ugly red puff was swelling on his cheek, but his eye was unharmed.
“Lord Gerraent’s sorry already. He won’t do this again.”
“My thanks, my lady,” Brythu stammered. “What’s so wrong with Lord Gerraent these days?”
“He’s half mad from mourning his father, that’s all.”
Brythu considered, touching the swelling on his cheek.
“He would have killed me if it wasn’t for you. If ever you want me to do anything for you, I swear I will.”
Late that night, when everyone was asleep, Brangwen crept out of her chamber and went to Gerraent, who was sleeping in their father’s room and in their father’s bed—the great carved bedstead with embroidered hangings, marked with falcons and the privilege of the head of the clan. She slipped in beside him, kissed him awake, and let him take her for the sake of peace in the house. Afterward, when he lay drowsy in her arms, every muscle at ease, she felt for the first time the one power allowed to her as a woman, to use her beauty and her body to bring her man to the place where he would listen to her instead of only to his whims. It would have been different with my prince, she thought. Tears ran down her cheeks, mercifully hidden from her brother by the darkness.
Though Brangwen was careful to leave his bed and return to her own, that next morning she had her first intimation that the rest of the household was beginning to suspect. The men seemed utterly unaware, but