Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [53]
The lie was so perfect that Nevyn believed him, but when Brangwen fell weeping against him, he saw the truth in Gerraent’s eyes: a real love, not mere lust, the hopeless ache of a man sending away the only thing he ever loved.
“Take the gray from the stable,” Gerraent said. “It would have been yours in the dowry.”
Gerraent turned and threw his sword across the great hall, then flung himself down by Blaen’s body. Slowly, one step at a time, Nevyn half carried, half dragged Brangwen out of the hall. He looked back once to see Gerraent cuddled against Blaen’s back, just as when a warrior lies beside his slain friend on the battlefield and refuses to believe him dead, no matter how many men try to get him to come away.
Out in the ward, the last of the sunset flared through shadows. Torch in hand, Brythu led the gray out of the stables. Ludda rushed from the broch with a pair of saddlebags and some rolled-up blankets. An eerie silence hung over the deserted ward.
“My prince, forgive me,” Brythu said. “I didn’t recognize you.”
“I’m blasted glad you didn’t! Ludda, is there anyone else left in the dun? You’d all better flee to your families. The Boar will ride back as soon as ever it can, and they’ll fire the place for Blaen’s sake.”
“Then we’ll leave straightaway, my prince. Here, I’ve brought food and suchlike for my lady.”
Nevyn lifted Brangwen into the saddle like a child, then mounted behind her. He rode out slowly, letting the burdened horse pick its own pace. At the bottom of the hill, Nevyn glanced back for a last look at the dun, rising dark against the sunset sky. With the dweomer sight, it seemed to him that he saw flames already dancing.
That night they rode only for a few hours, until they were well away from the dun and into the safe hills. Nevyn found a copse of trees beside a stream for their camp. After he tended the horse, he built a little fire out of twigs and scraps of dead wood. Brangwen stared at the fire and never spoke until he was done.
“You must know,” she said.
“I do. I want you, child and all.”
“Let me spare you that. I want to die. You can’t still love me. I’m carrying my own brother’s bastard.”
“That’s my shame as much as yours. I left you there alone with him.”
“You didn’t push me into his bed.” Brangwen gave him an uncertain smile, a pathetic attempt to be cold. “I don’t love you anymore anyway.”
“You don’t lie as well as your brother.”
Brangwen sighed and looked at the fire.
“There’ll be a curse on the child, I just know it. Why won’t you just kill me? Gerro promised me he’d kill us both, and here he was lying to me the whole time. He promised me.” She began to weep. “Ah, ye gods, he promised me!”
Nevyn caught her in his arms and let her sob. Finally, she fell silent, so silent that he was frightened, but she’d merely fallen asleep in a merciful exhaustion. He woke her just enough to get her to lie down on the blankets and sleep again.
In the morning, Brangwen fell into a dream state. She never spoke, refused to eat by turning her head away like a stubborn child, and had to be lifted onto the horse. All morning they rode slowly, avoiding the roads and sparing the burdened horse as much as possible. If they hadn’t been riding to Rhegor, Nevyn would have been overwhelmed by despair. She was broken, crushed like a silver cup that falls beneath a warrior’s boot when his troop is looting a hall. Rhegor could help her—Nevyn clung to that hope—but Rhegor was over a day’s ride away.
Occasionally Nevyn thought of the Boar’s warband, riding for revenge. The page had doubtless reached them before dawn; they were doubtless already on their way to the Falcon, with Blaen’s young brother Camlann—Lord Camlann now—at their head. Nevyn supposed that Gerraent would flee ahead of them into a miserable exile’s life.
Close to sunset, Nevyn and Brangwen came to the river that would, on the morrow, lead them to Rhegor.