Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [27]
“Oh, nonsense,” Gweniver said. “He’s got more sense than to injure a sworn priestess of the Moon.”
“Hah!” Maemyc snorted. “Dannyn does his killing first and his thinking afterward.”
It was some time later that a page came to Gweniver and told her that the king wished to speak with her privately. Mindful of the enormous honor being paid her, she followed him up to the second floor of the main broch, where Glyn had a suite of apartments furnished with carved chairs and tables, hung with tapestries, and carpeted with fine Bardek weaving. The king was standing at a hearth of pale sandstone, carved with ships and interlacements. When she knelt before him, he bade her rise.
“I was thinking of all your kin who’ve died serving me,” Glyn said. “This matter of the Wolves lies heavily upon me, Your Holiness. Do you wish to petition me to hand the lands and name down in the female line?”
“I do, my liege. Now that I’ve sworn my vows, I can own naught but what I can carry in one large sack, but my sister will soon be betrothed to a man who’s willing to take on our feud with our name.”
“I see. Well, let me be honest. I may not be able to move as quickly as I like in this matter of your lands, but I’m quite willing to grant that the name pass down to your sister’s sons. As much as I’d like to remove the Boars from your demesne, much depends on the progress of the summer’s fighting.”
“My liege is most honorable and generous. I understand that my clan’s woes are only one thing among many to him.”
“Unfortunately, Your Holiness, you speak true. I only wish it were otherwise.”
As she was leaving the king’s presence, Gweniver met Dannyn, opening that most private of doors with no announcement or ceremony. He gave her a thin twitch of a smile.
“Your Holiness,” he said. “My heart aches for the death of your kin. I’ll do my best to avenge them.”
“Lord Dannyn is most kind, and he has my thanks.”
Gweniver hurried down the corridor, but at the staircase she glanced back to see him still watching her, his hand on the door. All at once she shuddered with cold and felt danger like a clammy hand along her back. She could only assume that the Goddess was sending her a warning.
On the morrow Gweniver was walking around the outer ward with Ricyn when she saw a shabby old man leading two pack mules through the gate. Although he was dressed in dirty brown brigga and a much-mended shirt with Glyn’s blazons upon it, he stood as straight and walked as vigorously as a young prince. Several pages came running to help him with the mules, and she noticed that they treated the old man deferentially.
“Who’s that, Ricco?”
“Old Nevyn, my lady, and that’s truly his name. He says his da named him ‘no one’ in a fit of spite.” Ricyn looked oddly in awe of the old man as he spoke. “He’s an herbman, you see. He finds wild herbs and brings them in for the chirurgeons, and then he grows some here in the dun, too.”
The pages were taking the mules away. An underchamberlain who was passing by stopped to bow to the herbman.
“Now, here,” Gweniver said, “obviously our Nevyn is a useful sort of servitor to have, but why do people treat him like a lord?”
“Uh, well.” Ricyn looked oddly embarrassed. “There’s just somewhat about the old man that makes you respect him.”
“Indeed? Out with it! I can tell you’re hiding somewhat.”
“Well, my lady, everyone says he’s dweomer, and I half believe it myself.”
“Oh, nonsense!”
“It’s not, my lady. Here, the king’s been known to go down to old Nevyn’s garden and talk with him for hours.”
“And does that mean he’s dweomer? No doubt the king needs to lay aside affairs of state from time and time, and the old man probably just amuses him or suchlike.”
“If my lady says so.” But it was plain that he didn’t believe a word of what she said.
At this point, Nevyn himself walked over with a friendly greeting for Ricyn, who promptly bowed to him. When the old man looked at Gweniver, his eyes turned as ice-cold as the north wind and