The Black Raven - Katharine Kerr [103]
Nevyn nodded, smiling. “Now, someone told me a thing about Merodda just the other day,” he said. “That she’d had a bastard child after her husband was slain.”
“She had a child, sure enough, but it were only some seven months after he’d ridden away to war. So it could have been his easy enough.”
“They say the baby died. Did she poison it, do you think?”
“Well, when she come back in the spring, she was all tears, weeping for her dead little son. A fever, said she. Didn’t believe the tears, I didn’t, but the winter’s a powerful bad time to get yourself born. It could have been a fever.”
“A son, huh?”
“It was. Now, the lady’s maidservant told us that she’d never seen the poor little thing’s body, and so some of the lasses did insist that a demon had carried the child off in the middle of a night. That’s what I mean about tales getting puffed up, like. A demon! Now I ask you!”
“A ridiculous idea, indeed.”
But what if a man of flesh and blood had taken the baby away? Nevyn asked himself. Not so ridiculous, and in fact, entirely too possible.
“Now, I’ll leave these herbs with you,” Nevyn said at last. “You heat them up and soak your hands in them twice a day. The willow bark will help ease the pain. I’ll stop back by in a few days to see how you fare.”
“I’ll do that, my lord, and you have my humble thanks.”
Nevyn went back to the great hall to look for a servant lass named Pavva. By chance he’d run across her when the prince had first taken the dun, and he remembered her as having some association with Lady Merodda. It was late in the day, and most of the servants were in the great hall, laying out food for the evening meal while, a few at a time, the men from the dun’s garrison strolled in and sat down. Not far from the table of honor, a small mob of silver daggers were standing around some central point. Fearing trouble, Nevyn walked over, but in their midst he saw Maddyn, sitting cross-legged on a table and tuning his harp.
“Good morrow, my lord,” Branoic said to Nevyn. “Maddyn’s going to sing us a new song.”
“Indeed? Well, that’ll be worth hearing.”
“I think so, truly.” Branoic grinned, profoundly sly. “Let me know what you think of the words, like.”
Nevyn would have asked more, but Maddyn began. He had a decent voice for a man who’d never received a moment’s training, particularly suitable for songs such as the new one proved to be, a light little tune with lyrics concerning a fox who tried to steal chickens from a farmer named Owaen. As Nevyn listened, though, he realized that the fox was meant to be a human being, Councillor Oggyn, in fact. Not only was the fox stout from being so greedy but by the end of the song he was bald. The farmer’s trap caught him by the hair on his head and pulled it all off when he escaped. Back in his den the foolish animal decided to cut some hair from his tail to cover the bald spot, but he glued it under his chin by mistake.
“So instead of plump fowl he ate beard for his dinner” was the closing sentiment before the final chorus.
At the end the silver daggers howled with laughter. Even Owaen managed to crack a smile. Nevyn was about to say something to Branoic when he realized that Oggyn had been standing on the staircase the entire time. Branoic saw him there as well.
“And what’s he going to say?” Branoic said to Nevyn. “If he takes umbrage, he’ll have to admit the song’s about him.”
“Oh, you won’t hear a word about it,” Nevyn said. “But Maddyn’s made himself an enemy all the same. Oggyn will remember this, never fear.”
“So will Owaen.” Branoic grinned at him. “And that’s where I’d lay my money for a wager.”
“That’s not going to make the situation better, lad.”
At that moment Nevyn saw Pavva coming in the back door. She was carrying an armful of bread loaves, while her baby slept, strapped on her back.
“My apologies, Branno,” Nevyn said. “But I’ve got to be off.”
Nevyn caught up to the girl as she deposited the bread into an enormous basket by the riders’ hearth. Since she was going back to the kitchen hut, he walked with her.
“Tell me, Pavva,” Nevyn