The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [130]
The talk in the women’s hall centered around gossip and children, drifting now and then to the price of Bardek silk and glass drinking vessels and other such luxuries. Branna did her best to pay attention, but she was wishing she’d brought a piece of embroidery from home to work upon during these duty stints in attendance upon the new lady of Dun Cengarn. Still, the boredom was preferable to letting her mind wander to the tale of the witch—or dweomerwoman—who had died at the ford.
Thinking about that woman made her feel as if the room had filled with a sudden icy mist. Yet try as she might to keep her mind on the present conversation, Neb’s words kept creeping back. Release came at last in the person of a young maidservant, who slipped into the chamber with a curtsy for Drwmigga, then curtsied again to Branna.
“My lady,” she said, “your father rode in a little while ago.”
“My thanks for telling me!” Branna got up and curtsied to Drwmigga. “My lady, if you’ll excuse me?”
“Of course.” Drwmigga favored her with a good-natured smile. “Kin come before all else, I always say.”
The great hall seemed a good bit quieter, and a little less crowded, than it had been earlier—the effects of the generous servings of ale, no doubt. Here and there at one of the tables on the commoners’ side of the hall, a rider or manservant slept with his head pillowed on his arms. A pair of serving lasses wandered around, picking up tankards from the floor.
On the honor side, Tieryn Gwivyr stood near the doorway as he gave orders to his manservant. Gwivyr was a big man even for a Deverry lord, tall, barrel-chested, sporting a full mustache and a head of pale golden hair, dusted with silver. As Branna made her way down the stairs, she could feel her heart pounding in something like fear, but when she curtsied in front of him, Gwivyr smiled at her. With a flick of one hand he dismissed the servant.
“Good morrow, Father,” Branna said. “I hope you had a pleasant journey.”
“Pleasant enough.” His dark voice suited his build. “You look well, lass.”
“My thanks. I’ve been having a splendid time at Aunt Galla’s.”
“Good.”
“Father, I’ve somewhat to ask you. I’ve met the man I want to marry, and he wants to marry me.”
“You have, eh? And what does your uncle think of that?”
“He approves of him, and so does Aunt Galla. But, uh—well, uh—he’s common-born.”
“What?” Gwivyr wrinkled his nose. “Not a farmer or suchlike?”
“Not at all. He’s Uncle Cadryc’s scribe, and Aunt Galla says he has a great future ahead of him. She thinks he’ll make a councillor at some great lord’s court.”
“Oh.” Gwivyr turned a little away and looked across the hall. “Your stepmother’s not down yet, I see. We might as well settle this now. About your scribe, if Cadryc approves, I don’t see why I should argue. Marry to suit yourself, lass.” He paused for a laugh. “He won’t be demanding much of a dowry, will he now?”
“He’s not so much as mentioned a dowry.”
“Good. Let’s see, when you left for Galla’s, I gave you a riding horse and its tack, a cart horse and cart, and then you’ve got your dower chest. If he’ll take that, by all means marry him.”
“I’m sure that’ll be quite enough.”
“Good.” Gwivyr paused to look at the staircase. “Here comes your stepmother, and I’d best go join her before she starts her cursed complaining again.” With a last smile her way, he strode to the foot of the staircase, then greeted his wife with a bellow and a wave. The lady came down and hurried off without so much as a glance Branna’s way.
Branna stood staring after them and wondered why she felt like weeping. Hadn’t her father just given her the very boon she’d asked for? But I wanted him to care, she thought.