The Bristling Wood - Katharine Kerr [84]
“Now here, Perro,” Gwerna broke in. “You’re welcome at our table anytime you pass by.”
“Course he is, woman!” Benoic snapped. “That’s not the point. He should be making somewhat of himself, that’s all. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, lad, and your cursed cousin Nedd is even worse. At least there’s some excuse for you.”
“Oh, er, my thanks.”
“But Nedd’s got dun and demesne both, and all he does is ride around hunting all day. By the Lord of Hell’s balls!”
“Now, my love,” Gwerna interceded again. “He and Perryn are both young yet.”
“Twenty, both of them! Old enough to marry and settle down.”
“Well, here, Uncle, I can hardly take a wife when I don’t even have a house to put her in.”
“That’s what I mean. There’s some excuse for you.”
Perryn smiled feebly. Although he was a member of the northern branch of the ancient and conjoint Wolf clan and was thus entitled to be called a lord, he was also the fifth son of a land-poor family, which meant that he owned naught but the title and a long string of relatives to play unwilling host when he turned up at their gates.
“Are you riding Nedd’s way when you leave us?” Benoic asked.
“I am. On the morrow, I was thinking.”
“Then tell him I want to hear of him marrying, and soon.”
The next morning, Perryn rose at dawn and went to the stable long before the dun came awake. He brought out his dapple-gray gelding, a fine horse with some Western Hunter blood in him, and began saddling up. On his travels he packed an amazing amount of gear: two pairs of saddlebags, a bulging bedroll, a small iron kettle, and at his saddle peak a woodcutter’s ax slung where most lords carried a shield. Just as he was finishing, Benoic came out to look the laden horse over.
“By the asses of the gods, you look like a misbegotten peddler! Why don’t you take a pack horse if you’re going to live on the roads this way?”
“Oh, er, good idea.”
With a snort, Benoic ran his hand down the gray’s neck.
“Splendid creature. Where did a young cub like you scrape up the coin for him?”
“Oh, er, ah, well.” Perryn needed a lie fast. “Won him in a dice game.”
“Might have known! Ye gods, you and your blasted cousin are going to drive me to the Otherlands before my time.”
When he left the dun, Perryn set off down the west-running road in search of a pack horse. Around him stretched the fields of Benoic’s demesne, pale green with young barley. Here and there farmers trotted through the crops to shoo away the crows, who rose with indignant caws and a clatter of wings. Soon, though, the fields gave way as the road rose into the rocky hills, dark with pines. Perryn turned off the muddy track that passed for a road and worked his way through the widely spaced silent trees. Once he was in wild country, he had no need of roads to find his way.
Early in the afternoon, he reached his goal, a mountain meadow in a long valley that belonged to a certain Lord Nertyn, one of his uncle’s vassals but a man Perryn particularly disliked. Out in the tall grass twenty head of Nertyn’s horses grazed peacefully, guarded by the stallion of the herd, a sturdy chestnut who stood a good sixteen hands high. When Perryn walked toward the herd, the stallion swung his way with a vicious snort, and the others threw up their heads and watched, poised to run. Perryn began talking to the stallion, a soft clucking noise, a little murmur of meaningless sound until the horse relaxed and allowed Perryn to stroke his neck. At that, the rest of the herd returned to their feed.
“I need to borrow one of your friends,” Perryn said. “I hope you don’t mind. I’ll take splendid care of him.”
As if he agreed, the stallion tossed his head, then ambled away. Perryn picked out a bay gelding and began patting its neck and combing its mane with his fingers.
“Aren’t you sick of that fat lord who owns you? Come along and see somewhat of the road.”
When the gelding turned its head, Perryn smiled at it in a particular way he had, a deep smile that made him feel slightly cool, as some