The Black Raven - Katharine Kerr [75]
By the morrow morning the storm had travelled on, leaving wet roofs steaming in the summer sun. In the ward outside the great hall, Prince Maryn, with Nevyn in attendance, summoned his highest-ranking allies to witness his message to Braemys. A foraging servant had found a length of cloth in the green-and-brown plaid of the royal city; Maryn wore it as a makeshift cloak, pinned at one shoulder with the pair of silver ring brooches that marked him Prince of Pyrdon and Gwerbret Cerrmor.
It was interesting, Nevyn thought, to see how the lords arranged themselves. Those who had fought alongside the prince from the beginning, such as Tieryn Gauryc, stood to one side of their liege lord, while those who had gone over to him during the summer, such as Tieryn Anasyn, Lilli’s foster-brother, stood on the other. Aside from this self-imposed sorting, they seemed friendly enough here in the prince’s presence. Over the winter, Nevyn supposed, a few old grudges would be settled by the sword off in the countryside, a secretive distance from their new overlord’s justice.
The Cantrae herald, Avyr, was waiting in the ward. While a page held his black horse by the gates, Gavlyn, the prince’s own herald, escorted Avyr into the presence of the noble-born. Avyr bowed, then knelt with a swing of his staff that sent the ribands swirling. Maryn acknowledged him with a small nod.
“Now, concerning the lady Lillorigga, tell Lord Braemys this,” Maryn said. “The lady now belongs to the Rams of Hendyr. Her brother has proclaimed the betrothal broken and disavowed. From me, tell him this: I shall forgive him for referring to me as a usurper provided he forswear his rebellious behavior. He may swear fealty to me or leave my lands forever. Those are his choices.”
“I see, Your Highness.” The herald looked away—rudeness in another man, but in his case, a mere sign that he was memorizing the prince’s exact words. “I shall tell him.”
“Good. Here’s more: I’ll be riding out soon for Cantrae. He may meet me along the road to parley if he chooses.”
“Very well, Your Highness. I shall convey your answer with all speed.”
“My thanks. Let us all hope the gods let your lord choose peace.”
Avyr smiled and rose, bowing. Not one man in the crowd expected Braemys to swear the vow of fealty—Nevyn would have wagered high on that—but there were rituals to these things, as unforgiving as those of any temple.
Once the herald had ridden on his way, the little crowd around the prince began to thin out. Nevyn noticed Gwerbret Daeryc strolling off toward the stables and hurried to catch up with him.
“Your Grace!” Nevyn called out. “A word with you?”
The gwerbret stopped and turned around, smiling pleasantly, or rather, he smiled in a way he meant to be pleasant. Since he’d lost all the teeth on one side of his mouth, he kept his lips shut and twisted, giving him the look of a bear in pain.
“The prince asked me to lay this question before you,” Nevyn said. “It concerns the Rams of Hendyr. Glasloc’s well off to the east of Dun Deverry, and Hendyr’s in the west, and yet you’re overlord to the Rams.”
“Ah. No doubt that pricked his curiosity, truly. Glasloc’s mine in name only, good Councillor. My lands lie north of Hendyr. My father inherited a goodly demesne near Mabyndyr, and when we lost Glasloc, we made them our home.”
“Lost Glasloc?”
“Well, I call it as a loss. My father traded it away for the right to rule as gwerbret in Mabyndyr. A lot of the common folk who fled Dun Deverry settled near there, which meant dues and taxes to support a gwerbretrhyn. So the Boars proclaimed the new rhan for him, you see, because they coveted the lands