The Bristling Wood - Katharine Kerr [184]
Much later, when the herald was taking his well-earned rest in the best guest chamber. Nevyn had a chance to talk with the tieryn alone, in the reception chamber of her suite. There she could allow herself a crow of triumph, and she even jigged a few steps of a country dance upon the Bardek carpet.
“So Blaen won, may the gods bless him! Truly, Nevyn, I didn’t know what to expect when Orys unrolled that bit of lamb leather.”
“No more did I. So. We have a year and a day to get Rhodry back here to claim his restoration to the clan.”
Her triumph disappeared, and she sank into a chair like an old woman.
“Ah, my poor little lad! If only we had you home! Nevyn, by the gods, you’re hiding somewhat from me. Where is Rhodry?”
“Your Grace, please, trust me. I don’t want to tell you. I beg you: take my word for it that he lives, and let the matter drop there. I promise you that the dweomer will do its best to bring him home for you.”
“I don’t know if I can accept … Well, what is it?”
A frightened page came creeping into the chamber.
“Your Grace? Lady Madronna sent me. His Grace is calling for you.”
Hiking up her skirts like a farm lass, Lovyan ran from the chamber, with Nevyn close behind. They came into the sickroom to find Rhys propped up on pillows. His face was a dangerous sort of scarlet, and his breath rattled in his sunken chest. Over everything hung the stink of diseased urine.
“Mother!” He had to gasp out every word. “I heard the servants talking. The misbegotten king’s recalled Rhodry, hasn’t he? Don’t you lie to me!”
“I see no need to lie to you, Your Grace.” Lovyan came over to the bedside and held out her hand. He caught it in one of his and clasped it hard, as if he were drawing strength from her touch. “Rhys, please, it’s best for Aberwyn. It’s best for the Maelwaedd clan.”
He made a sound halfway between a snarl and a cough. Deeply troubled, Nevyn hurried over.
“His Grace shouldn’t vex himself. He should rest.”
“Rest? When the king’s made a mockery of me?” His breathing was so shallow that it was hard to hear his words. “Why couldn’t he have waited till I died? He could have done that, curse him.”
“He couldn’t, Your Grace. If you should die without an heir, Aberwyn would be naught but a bone for dogs to fight over.”
For a moment that seemed to soothe the gwerbret; then he frowned as if he were thinking something through.
“Where is Rhodry?”
“On his way home, Your Grace.”
“Ah.” He paused a little while, panting, gathering breath, his ribs heaving under the fine wool coverlets. “He’s not back yet, is he now? Cursed young cub. He shan’t have what’s mine, not yet.”
“Rhys, please!” Lovyan’s voice shook with tears. “Can’t you forgive him?”
Rhys turned his head toward her, and the look in his eyes was one of weary contempt, as if he were wondering how she could possibly misunderstand something so obvious. Suddenly he coughed, a choking gurgle, and spasmed, his back arching as he fought for air. Nevyn grabbed him, slid an arm under his shoulders, and supported him until he spat the blood-tinged gobbet of phlegm out. Rhys’s eyes sought out Lovyan’s face.
“But, Mam,” he whispered, “it was mine. Truly it was.”
Then he was gone, with one last ripple of spasming, a cough that never quite came. By the door Madronna threw her head back and howled in agony, keened over and over until Lovyan rushed to her and threw her arms around her to let her sob. Although the tieryn’s face ran with tears, she was silent. Nevyn closed Rhys’s eyes and crossed his arms over his shattered chest.
“May peace be yours in the Otherlands, Your Grace,” he whispered, so softly that the women couldn’t hear him. “But I have the ghastly feeling that your hatred won’t let