The Bristling Wood - Katharine Kerr [76]
“How far is it to King Casyl’s dun, lass?”
“About two miles on the west-running road. You must be from a long way away if you don’t know that.”
“I am, truly. Now tell me, has a troop of mercenaries been through here? They hail from Eldidd, the lads I want, and they all carry daggers with silver pommels.”
“Oh, they were, sure enough, and a nasty lot they looked. I don’t know why the king took them on.”
“Because they’re some of the best fighting men in the three kingdoms, no doubt.”
He strode away before she could flirt with him further. Out in the tavern yard his chestnut gelding stood waiting, laden with everything he owned in the world: a bedroll, a pair of mostly empty saddlebags, and a shield, nicked and battered under its coat of dirty whitewash. He hoped that Caradoc wouldn’t hold his lack of mail against him, but he had a good sword at least, and he knew how to use it.
When Branoic rode up to the causeway leading to Casyl’s dun, the guards refused to let him pass, and no more would they take in a message for a dirty and dangerous-looking stranger. Since he had no money for a bribe, Branoic tried first courtesy, then arguing, but neither worked. The guards only laughed and told him that if he wanted to see Caradoc, he’d have to camp there until the captain rode out. By then Branoic was so furious that he was tempted to draw his sword and force the issue, but common sense prevailed. He hadn’t ridden all the way from Eldidd only to get himself hanged by some petty king.
“Well and good, then,” he said. “I’ll sit at your gates and starve until you’re shamed enough to let me in.”
As he strode away, leading his horse, he glanced back to see the guards looking apprehensive, as if they believed him capable of it. In truth, since he had neither coin nor food, he had little choice in the matter. In the meadow across the road he slacked the chestnut’s bit and let it graze, then sat down where he could glare at the guards and be easily seen. As the morning crept by, they kept giving him nervous looks that might have been inspired by guilt, but of course, they may have been merely afraid of his temper. Although he was only twenty, Branoic was six foot four, broad in the shoulders, with the long arms of a born swordsman and a warrior’s stance. Down his left cheek was a thick, puckered scar, a souvenir of the death duel that had gotten him exiled from his father’s dun in Belglaedd. Better men than Casyl’s guards had found him nerve-wracking before.
He’d been waiting by the road about two hours when he heard the blare of silver horns. As the farther gates opened, the guards by the road snapped to smart attention. Walking their horses down the causeway rode the silver daggers, sitting with the easy, arrogant slump in their saddles that he remembered. At their head was a lad of about fourteen, with a red, gold, and white plaid slung from his shoulder. When Branoic started forward, one of the guards yelled at him.
“You! Get back! That’s the marked prince, Maryn, and don’t you go bothering the captain when he’s riding with him.”
Although it griped his soul, Branoic retreated without arguing. The affairs of a prince were bound to take precedence over those of a commoner. He was just about to sit back down when he heard himself being hailed, but this time by the prince himself. He hurried back over and clasped the lad’s stirrup as a sign of humility.
“Any man who asks has access to me.” Maryn shot a pointed glance at the guards. “A prince is the shepherd of his people, not one of the wolves. Remember that from now on.” He turned back to Branoic with a distant but gracious smile. “Now. What matter do you have to lay before me?”
“My humble thanks, Your Highness.” Branoic was practically stammering in amazement. “But truly, all I wanted was a word with Caradoc.”
“Well, that’s an easily granted boon. Get your horse and ride with us a ways.”
Branoic ran to follow his order. When he fell into line beside Caradoc, the captain gave him an oddly sly smile.
“Branoic of Belglaedd, is it? What are you doing on the long road