The Black Raven - Katharine Kerr [84]
When Prince Maryn rode out the next day, he left over half of his army behind on fortguard. As much as he wanted to make an overwhelming show of force, the full contingent of four thousand men would travel too slowly. Time and supplies both were running out. Every day the night fell a little faster. If they stripped much more food from the countryside, farm families would begin to starve, and then, as Nevyn was quick to point out, who would grow the next crop? The vassals talked openly of riding home to their own lands as soon as the prince would allow.
“If Braemys meets us on the road, well and good,” Maryn told Nevyn. “If not, we won’t be able to ride all the way to Cantrae, and we couldn’t mount a siege if we got there, and I suspect he knows that as well as I do.”
“No doubt,” Nevyn said. “It’s a pity, though. I can’t help wondering how many of your newest allies will come to your muster in the spring.”
“Some, certainly. More than we had before, which will mean Braemys will have less, and that will be all to the good. Even if they all desert, what will it amount to? Another five hundred riders, more or less, and we’ll still outnumber Braemys handily. I doubt if any of the northern lords will strip their fortguards for the Boar cause again.”
“Now that’s true spoken. Well, it’s in the laps of the gods now.”
For three days the army travelled northeast, following the main road that led from Dun Deverry to Cantrae. Every dun they passed belonged to one or another of the prince’s new allies. At each, the lord who held it would open the gates to the prince himself and greet him by grasping his stirrup in a show of fealty. These lords, Nevyn decided, were likely to hold true to Maryn’s cause—not because of their ritual greeting, but because their duns were too small and shabby to stand off an attack by the prince’s forces.
The army was still a fair ways from Glasloc, and it had just made camp for the night in a meadow, when the Cantrae herald returned. Nevyn heard the commotion among the camp guards and trotted out to see what was wrong. His beribboned staff in one hand, his black horse’s reins in the other, Avyr was walking into camp with two guards on either side of him.
“Good morrow, good herald,” Nevyn said. “I trust you’ve got a message for the prince?”
“Just so. If His Lordship would be so kind as to take me to him?”
They found Maryn sitting in a chair in front of his tent with some of his lords standing nearby, talking over the day’s ride. Behind him, stiff at attention, stood Branoic and another silver dagger. A page boy took the herald’s horse, and Avyr bowed low to the prince.
“Lord Braemys would have me speak to several points, Your Highness,” Avyr began. “First, if the Rams of Hendyr refuse to honor the betrothal of Lady Lillorigga, they then owe him twenty-five horses as lwdd for their offense.”
Maryn laughed, one sharp bark of utter amazement. The men standing nearby either did the same or shook their heads in disbelief.
“Your lord doesn’t lack for gall, does he?” Maryn said.
“There’s naught I can say about that, Your Highness.”
“Well, of course you can’t. What else does Lord Braemys wish me to hear?”
Avyr hesitated, looking round the circle of lords. Nevyn had the distinct feeling that the man was wondering if he’d live out the night. At length he licked his lips and began.
“Lord Braemys begs to point out, Your Highness, that as yet you are but Prince of Pyrdon and Gwerbret Cerrmor. He has received no word that the priests of Bel have declared you king. If such should happen, that is, if the priests should so declare, he begs you to send him a messenger with all speed so that he may reconsider your claim to be his liege lord.”
Maryn’s face went dead-white, then reddened. The herald stepped back as if to put himself out of reach of a blow and nearly stepped on Gwerbret Daeryc’s feet. Daeryc patted him on the shoulder with the same motion he’d use to calm a nervous horse.
“Here, here, lad,” Daeryc muttered. “Our prince is an honorable