The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [133]
“Our lady wants you in the great hall,” Neb said.
“Oh, ye gods! Right this moment?”
“Soon. She wants to present you to the prince.”
“By the black hairy arse of the Lord of Hell! Whatever for?”
“You’re her foster son, aren’t you?”
“I am, truly, but—”
“I know, I know, common-born. Give it a rest, Gerro! Everyone’s sick as can be of you abasing yourself.”
For a moment Gerran was tempted to slap him back-hand across the mouth, but a gwerbret’s ward wasn’t a tavern, and brawling had no place in it. Neb stood waiting for an answer, smiling, his face a little flushed, as if he’d drunk too much, as well, and he shoved his hands in his brigga pockets with a jaunty sort of gesture.
“You look pleased about somewhat, scribe,” Gerran said.
“I am, truly.” But Neb let his smile fade. “You’ll hear the news sooner or later, so I’d best tell you myself. As soon as we get back to our dun, Lady Branna and I will announce our betrothal.”
Gerran considered his reaction while Neb waited unsmiling, his head cocked, as if daring him to object. Much to his surprise, Gerran realized that the prospect of their marriage irked him far less than the prospect of his warband’s horses being turned out of the stables.
“My congratulations to you both,” Gerran said. “I mean them sincerely.”
“Well, my thanks, then! And what about yourself?” Neb said.
“If you’re referring to Lady Solla,” Gerran said, “I’ve got work to do at the moment. Tell Lady Galla that I’ll join her presently, just as soon as I find out about our horses.”
“I will, then. Here have you seen Clae? I truly should tell him about my betrothal.”
“He’s probably in the cookhouse. He told me that Solla—I mean Lady Solla—had asked him to help serve.”
“Lady Solla, of course.” Neb winked at him, then hurried off, heading for the cook house.
When the prince entered the main broch tower, the gwerbret escorted him up the stairs to a guest chamber. Right behind them came nearly everyone who’d been out in the ward, servants and noble-born both, swarming into the great hall; those that could find a seat sat, but most stood, waiting to catch a glimpse of the royal personage when he came back down. In the confusion Branna had hoped to escape the great hall and sneak away somewhere with Neb, who stood hovering behind her chair, ready to bolt. Aunt Galla, however, seemed to have suspected as much.
“I don’t want you two running off now,” Galla said. “It would be terribly rude with Prince Voran about to join the gwerbret’s table.”
“Oh, come now!” Branna said. “Neither of them are going to give a pig’s—um—ear whether some border noblewoman like me is here to curtsy.”
“Or about a scribe,” Neb put in, “or so I’d think, my lady.”
“Mayhap,” Galla said, “but I do care about such things.”
“Well and good, then, we’ll stay.” Branna patted her aunt’s hand. “Besides, I’ve never seen a prince before.”
“Well, they look much like other men.” Galla was craning her neck and turning to peer around the great hall. “Now where is Gerran? I did so want—ah! There he is!”
Gerran was coming in the door on the riders’ side of the hall. He managed to work his way through the crowd and join the tieryn’s table just as the silver horns sounded again, this time from the foot of the stairs.
With a rustle of clothing like wind through winter trees everyone in the great hall rose, ready to bow, curtsy, or kneel. A page came first, carrying a small banner of the royal clan, a gold wyvern rampant on a cream ground. Behind him Prince Voran walked slowly, smiling pleasantly, one hand raised in greeting. He’d changed out of his road-dirty clothes into a clean pair of plaid brigga and a shirt of the finest white linen, embroidered with thick bands of red and black interlace down the sleeves and a pair of