Fire Dragon - Katharine Kerr [15]
“Don't kneel,” the prince said. “My rank can give way to your age, sir.”
The prince let him go, then stood up. The man bowed as best he could with both hands clutched on his stick.
“My thanks, my prince.” The fellow was stammering. “I have a matter to lay before you, you see, and—”
“Two matters,” Branoic interrupted. “Your Highness, Councillor Oggyn demanded a coin from this fellow for the privilege of coming to you for justice.”
“Oh by the gods!” Maryn snarled. He rose and spun around, looking out over the hall, then bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Oggyn! Get over here!”
With a tight little smile Branoic rose, dusting off the knees of his brigga, and escorted the old man and his stick out of the way. Bellyra twisted round in her chair and saw Oggyn making his way across the hall. Like a hound with chicken feathers still clinging to his muzzle, Oggyn slunk through the tables. The talk and jesting among the lords died down as they turned, a little puzzled, to see what the prince was up to. Bellyra also noticed Maddyn and the page, stopping a little distance away to wait their turn for the prince's attention. At last Oggyn reached the table of honor and knelt at the prince's feet.
“Branoic tells me you extorted money again,” the prince said.
“My liege, I never did such a thing!” Oggyn's voice swooped on an obvious lie. “Truly, I—”
“Can you look me in the face and deny it?”
Oggyn started to speak, then merely sighed and shook his head no.
“I told you, no more of this.” Maryn's voice was level but cold. “My justice is free to all who ask. Do you understand that?”
“I do, my prince.” Oggyn spoke so softly that Bellyra could hardly hear him. “I welter in apologies. I beg your pardon most humbly.”
“Give him the money back,” Maryn said.
Slowly and with trembling hands Oggyn fumbled with the pouch at his belt. His lips trembled as well, and his face had turned scarlet all the way up and over his bald skull. When he held out a silver piece, the suppliant snatched it from his sweaty fingers. Oggyn slumped down and stared at the prince's boots.
“Good,” Maryn went on. “Now then, what shall we do with you? I made you a threat, the last time I caught you grafting. I think me I'd best live up to my word.”
“Not that, my prince.” Oggyn looked up, his lips working, his hands trembling. “I beg you—”
“It behooves a noble-born man to carry out what he threatens, councillor, lest his men think him weak-willed. Maddyn! Where's your harp? There's a song I want you to sing.”
“My lord.” Bellyra got up and laid a hand on the prince's arm. “The poor man! Isn't it a bit much?”
Maryn hesitated, glanced at Oggyn, who was studying the straw on the floor, then back to her. “It's only what he deserves, but your kind heart becomes you, my lady.”
With a little sigh Bellyra took her chair again. For a few moments confusion swirled around the table of honor. Nevyn appeared from somewhere and rushed forward to speak with the suppliant. Maddyn and a Cerrmor bard talked earnestly; then the bard's apprentice hurried forward and handed Maddyn a small lap harp. Through it all Oggyn stayed kneeling, folding over himself with his face as low to the floor as he could get it. At length Gwerbret Daeryc, who had been dining across the table from the princess, got up and pulled his chair out of the way so that Maddyn could climb up onto the table and sing.
For a moment or two Maddyn fiddled with the harp while the great hall gradually fell silent. Bellyra studied his face, carefully impassive. She should have known, she felt, that he would refrain from gloating. Maddyn looked up with a polite smile and a nod for the prince, cleared his throat, and began to sing the song of Farmer Owaen and the fox. At first the cheerful little melody and the subject matter made it sound like some sort of children's song, and Bellyra