Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [38]
“What’s so wrong?” Gwetmar snapped. “Who’s died?”
“Nah nah nah. Naught’s wrong. Maccy’ll be out shortly.” She turned away and looked downhill, searching to see Ricyn among her men. “By the black hairy ass of the Lord of Hell, it’ll gladden my heart to get back to Cerrmor.”
Wherever Ricyn was, she couldn’t pick him out, but she saw Dannyn, sitting easily on horseback at the head of the king’s riders. Soon she would be riding to war under his command, and she thought to herself that the Goddess had sent her a splendid master in the arts of death.
Although Nevyn had several apprentices in the art of herbcraft, the most capable was a young woman named Gavra, a tall, slender lass with raven-dark hair and hazel eyes. Since she’d been born the daughter of an innkeeper down in Cerrmor, she was used to hard work and also determined to better herself in life. In the two years she’d studied with him, she’d made excellent progress in learning the multifarious herbs and their uses. Accordingly, he allowed her to help him every afternoon when he tended the minor illnesses or accidents of the palace servants, who were below the notice of the official chirurgeons. Gavra also used her mind to good advantage when it came to court intrigue. Dannyn and Gweniver had been back in the dun only two days when the apprentice brought Nevyn an interesting bit of news.
“Lord Oldac stopped me to speak with me today,” Gavra remarked.
“Indeed. Has he been pressing his attentions on you again?”
“Well, he was ever so polite, but I think me he had somewhat dishonorable on his mind. Master, would you speak to him? It’s cursed hard to insult one of the noble-born, but the last thing I want in life is one of his bastards—or any man’s, for that matter.”
“Then speak I will. You’re as much under my protection as if you were my daughter, and I’ll cursed well go to the king if I have to.”
“My thanks and twice over. But it wasn’t only his drunken smiles that troubled my heart. He had the gall to insult Lady Gweniver. I think she’s splendid, and I won’t hear that sort of talk from anyone.”
“And just what did he say?”
“Oh, he was insinuating things, more like, about the way she and Lord Dannyn spend so much time on the practice ground.”
Nevyn snarled under his breath.
“He said it more against his lordship than her holiness,” Gavra went on. “Asking me didn’t I think it strange that his lordship was so eager to teach Lady Gweniver his sport, but it vexed me nonetheless. I told him that a common-born servant like me was below having thoughts about his lordship one way or another, and then I marched off.”
“Good lass. I’ll have to speak to Oldac about more things than one, I see. If it gets back to Gweniver’s ears that he’s been insulting her, he may die quite suddenly.”
“Well, it wouldn’t ache my heart if he did.”
The very next afternoon Gweniver and Dannyn came to the afternoon surgery. Gavra had just finished putting salve on the underfalconer’s scratched hand when the two strode in with the rattle and clang of full mail. Dannyn held a bloody rag pressed to his cheek.
“Would you tend the captain here, good herbman?” Gweniver said. “He’s too embarrassed to go to the chirurgeon.”
“If I could call a priestess a bitch,” Dannyn mumbled through the rag, “I would.”
Gweniver merely laughed. When the captain took the rag away, his cheek was scraped raw, swelling badly, and dripping blood from two small nicks.
“We were using blunt blades,” Gweniver explained. “But they can still raise a good bruise, and he refused to wear a helm for our lesson.”
“Stupidity,” Dannyn said. “Mine, I mean. I never thought she’d get near me.”
“Indeed?” Nevyn remarked. “It seems that the lady has more talent for this sort of thing than either of us would have thought.