Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [50]
“I think I’ll risk getting Nevyn’s throat cut tomorrow. Lord Blaen will be at the hunt when I ride back to tend that lad’s boils, so you can come with me.”
“Well and good, my lord. Here, why did you wish that child was Blaen’s?”
“Think, lad. If Blaen’s not to blame, well, then, who is? What men live in the Falcon’s dun? A couple of twelve-year-old lads, a grubby stableman, and the old chamberlain, so aged that he can barely lift his hand to a maid, much less anything else. So who does that leave?”
“Well, nobody.”
“Nobody?”
“Oh, by the hells.” Nevyn could barely say it. “Gerraent.”
“By the hells indeed. This is a terrible dark thing to accuse any man of doing, and I won’t make a move until I’m sure.”
Nevyn picked up the table dagger, twisting it in his fingers for the solid comfort of the metal.
“If it’s true,” Nevyn said, “I’ll kill him.”
“Look at you! Your father’s son indeed.”
Nevyn stabbed the dagger hard into the tabletop and let it quiver.
“And would killing him be such a wrong thing?”
“It would—for you.” Rhegor took a calm bite of bread and butter. “I forbid you to even think about it.”
“Done, then. His blood is safe from me.”
Rhegor considered him carefully. Nevyn picked up a slice of bread, then flung it back onto the plate.
“You said you’d take her, child and all,” Rhegor said. “Is that still true if she’s carrying her own brother’s bastard?”
“I’m the man who left her there. Of course it is.”
“You’re a decent enough lad at heart. Truly, you might redeem yourself yet.”
On the morrow, by keeping his hood muffled around his face, Nevyn managed to avoid being recognized by any of the servants in the Boar’s dun. When he and Rhegor went up to the women’s hall, Nevyn kept the cloak on and busied himself with unpacking Rhegor’s herbs and implements. Ysolla was mercifully gone, and Rodda was occupied with Rhegor and one of the pages.
“What do you mean, you don’t know where Maryc is?” Rodda said to the page. “I told him to be here when the herbman came.”
“He’s scared, my lady. But I can look for him. It’s going to take a long time.”
“Then run and start right now.”
As soon as the page was gone, Nevyn took off his cloak and tossed it onto the floor. Rodda stared, her eyes filling with tears.
“Galrion! Oh, thank the holy gods! It gladdens my heart to see you well.”
“My humble thanks, my lady, but my name is no one.”
“I know all about your father’s spite. You’ve got to be gone when my son rides home.”
“I had to come. I’ll beg you for news of my Brangwen.”
Rodda’s face went slack as she looked away.
“Our poor little Gwennie! I wish the gods had allowed her to marry you. I swear, maybe she should have ridden into exile with you.” She glanced Rhegor’s way. “Here, good sir, I can trust you, for bringing my prince if nothing else, so I’ll speak freely. Blaen rode down to the Falcon not long ago, and he came home in a rage. He’s sure Gwennie will never have him, he said. She walks round like she’s half dead and barely speaks. I tried to get her to come here, but she refused. She’s still mourning you in her heart, my prince, or so I hope.”
“So we all may hope,” Rhegor said drily. “How often has Gerraent ridden here to see his betrothed?”
As startled as a cornered deer, Rodda glanced this way and that.
“It’s all nonsense,” she burst out. “I won’t believe that they’d do such a thing, not Gwennie, not Gerro! Blaen and Ysolla are just working themselves up with silly suspicions, because they’re so disappointed and eager. I won’t believe it!”
“What?” Rhegor said. “Tell me, my lady. Get these dark fears out of your heart.”
Rodda hesitated, fighting with herself, then gave in.
“All the servants at the Falcon say that only Brangwen stands between them and Lord Gerraent’s rage—just as if she were his wife. And Ysolla, my own child, has been working her brother up like a little scorpion. Gerro was always so fond of Gwennie, she says, it’s not fair—Gwennie even has the man I want. It’s Gwennie this and Gwennie that, and all because poor Ysolla’s always envied little Brangwen’s