The Black Raven - Katharine Kerr [154]
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you? I did. Until we marry he wants you to himself. After that—” Branoic paused, his mouth twisted, as if he’d bitten into spoiled food. “Well, we’ll be on our lands, and he’ll be here, but I’ll wager he visits now and again.”
Lilli sat back down with a long sigh. Branoic stayed standing and shoved his hands into the pockets of his brigga.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said.
“Naught, I should think. Whatever else, he’s still the prince. There’s many a great lord who wouldn’t be so generous to the man who stole his mistress’s heart.” Branoic was staring at the floor. “You’ve never weaselled around behind my back, Lilli. And when you come right down to it, the prince never has either.”
“Well and good, then. But I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” He looked up. “So am I.”
Branoic turned and strode out, slamming the heavy door hard behind him. Lilli rose, half-minded to run after him, but, she realized, he was right. There was naught more she could say or do to ease their situation or his feelings. Unless, of course, she gave Maryn up.
“Don’t be a fool,” she said aloud. “You don’t need dweomer to know that he’ll not let you go until he doesn’t want you anymore.”
She sat down and wondered why she felt so weary.
So much of the troop had gone with Owaen to the Pyrdon border that the silver daggers’ barracks stood mostly empty. Those remaining, Maddyn and Branoic among them, had taken the bunks closest to the hearth at the far end of the long narrow room. When someone was missing, the rest were bound to notice, and conversely they noticed as well when Branoic returned to sleeping in the barracks.
“And what’s so wrong?” Red—haired Trevyr said to him. “Your lady turn cold to you?”
Branoic never moved, never spoke, merely looked at Trevyr in something of the way he might eye a joint of meat waiting to be carved. Maddyn stepped in front of him and turned to Trevyr.
“Hold your tongue,” Maddyn snapped, “before Branno makes you bite it off with my blessing.”
“Here! Just a bit of a jest! I—.” Trevyr caught himself. “My apologies, Branno. I can be a dolt at times.”
“No offense taken.” Branoic turned away. “I could do with a tankard of dark about now. Think I’ll go to the great hall.”
Branoic strode off. No one spoke until the door had slammed behind him. Trevyr sat down on the edge of his bunk and massaged his twisted hand with the good one. A smack with the flat of a sword had broken most of the bones in his shield hand, and not even Nevyn had been able to set it straight again.
“My apologies to you, too, Maddo. I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
“I don’t suppose you did, truly. But it’s a hard tune Branoic’s trying to whistle. He doesn’t need anyone else to make it harder.”
“Poor bastard.”
“Is he? There’s more than one husband of a royal mistress who’s been rewarded with land and favors.”
“You’re right enough about that. But still: poor bastard!”
“Well, so he is. Now let’s go eat. I’m hungry.”
As they stepped outside cold wind slapped them, and the sky hung close and grey over the dun. In the ward dirty snow lay over the cobbles and the frozen mud. With their feet wrapped in rags servants hurried past them with armloads of firewood or buckets of water from the wells. Maddyn almost envied them—they at least had work to keep them busy, whereas he would spend another tedious day brooding about Bellyra from his distance. Yet, when they walked into the great hall, a page came running to meet him.
“The princess sent me for you, bard. She wants you to guard her like you usually do.”
“Well and good, then.” Maddyn steadied his voice to a fine indifference, but he felt like shouting in joy. “Will Her Highness mind if I just get a bit of bread or suchlike first?”
“Of course not. She’ll be down in a bit, she said.”
The page trotted off. Maddyn got himself a chunk of bread and a tankard of watered ale, then sat with Trevyr at a table near the foot of the massive stone staircase that spiralled up one side of the great hall. They ate fast, without ceremony or conversation, leaving