Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [48]
Nevyn went to stable the mule alongside the bay gelding. When he came back, the bondwoman looked at him with feigned disinterest. Even from ten feet away he could smell her unwashed flesh and rags. Rhegor called her over, gave her a pot of salve, and told her how to apply it. She listened, her face showing a brief flicker of hope.
“I can’t pay you much, my lord,” she said. “I brought some of the first apples.”
“You and the lad eat those on your way home.”
“My thanks.” She stared at the ground. “I heard you tended poor folk, but I didn’t believe it at first.”
“It’s true. Spread the tale around.”
“I was so frightened.” She went on staring at the ground. “If the lad went blind, they’d kill him because he couldn’t work.”
“What?” Nevyn broke in. “Lord Blaen would never do such a thing.”
“Lord Blaen?” She looked up with a faint smile. “Well, so he wouldn’t. How would he even know we’re alive to be killed? His overseer, my lord, that’s who’d do it.”
Nevyn supposed that she spoke the cold truth. As the prince, he’d given less thought to bondmen than to horses. Rhegor was making him see a different world.
Once the woman went on her way, Rhegor and Nevyn went inside their cabin, a single light, airy room, scented with new-cut pine. They had a scattering of cast-off furniture from grateful farmers: a table, a bench, a freestanding cabinet to hold cookware. On one wall was the half-finished hearth Nevyn was building as his share of the summer’s work. Nevyn dipped them ale from a barrel, then brought the dented tankards over to join Rhegor at the table.
“And how was the journey?” Rhegor said. “How fares old Ynna?”
“Well enough, my lord. But she told me a strange tale about the Falcon. Ah, ye gods, my poor Brangwen! I truly wish you’d done what my father would have—beaten me half to death for my fault!”
“That would have solved nothing, and made you feel like you’d made amends when you hadn’t.” Rhegor hesitated on the edge of anger. “Ah, well, what’s past is past. Tell me the tale.”
While Nevyn told him, Rhegor listened quietly, but his hands clasped his tankard tighter and tighter. At the end, Rhegor swore under his breath.
“Truly, we’d best look into this. Here, old Ynna can practically smell when a lass is with child. There’s no chance the babe’s yours, it it?”
“Not unless longing for a woman can get her with child.”
His eyes still dark, Rhegor smiled.
“And what will you think of your Gwennie, if she’s big with another man’s child?”
“If he’s a good man, let her go with him. If he’s not, then I’ll take her, child and all.”
“Well and good. First we’ll have to see if that child’s Blaen’s. If it is, there’ll be a wedding, and that’ll be the end to it. If not, I still have hope we can get her away.”
“Here, my lord, why are you so concerned with Brangwen? Is it just the honor of the thing?”
“Now, that I can’t tell you just yet.”
Nevyn waited, hoping for at least a word more, but Rhegor merely looked away, thinking.
“I’ll ride down to the Boar early tomorrow,” Rhegor said at length. “Out of courtesy, I should let Lady Rodda know there’s an herbman nearby. You stay here. Blaen would hate to kill you if he saw you, but his honor would make him do what the King ordered. I should reach the dun by noon, so you might make yourself a fire and see if you can follow me that way.”
On the morrow, Nevyn spent an impatient morning digging stones out of their little field for the hearth. So far, most of his training was just this sort of menial labor in the summer heat. Often it galled him: what was a prince doing, sweating like a fleabitten bondman? Yet in his heart, he knew that humbling the princes pride was the real work. There is only one key to unlock the secrets of the dweomer: I want to know in order to help the world. Anyone wanting power for its own sake gets only dribs and drabs, hard-won, harder to keep, and not worth having.