The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [230]
“Where’s Gerran?” Lady Galla asked the tieryn.
“Oh, he asked my permission to eat with the men.” Cadryc waved a hand in the direction of the commoners’ side.
“I can see that, my dearest, but why?”
“Um, well, um.” Cadryc considered for a moment, then shrugged. “He’s not ready to face our Matto, he told me. The lad saw.”
No one spoke, but Branna was aware of everyone at table, either glancing at Trenni or pointedly not looking her way.
“I know what he saw,” Trenni said. “I don’t care, and Matto shouldn’t either.”
“My dear, dear child.” Galla made her voice soothing and soft. “You don’t need to think about—”
“Granna, how can I not think about it?” Trenni gulped for breath, as if summoning courage. “Anyway, Matto won’t eat in the great hall, he told me. He won’t come down till we leave for home.” She lowered her voice to a murmur. “It’s because of his grace.”
“And there’s another tale for another day,” Cadryc said firmly. “Let’s all eat our blasted breakfast! We’ll be leaving on the morrow, and that’ll be an end to it.”
Branna and Neb exchanged troubled glances. Since Neb had told her about the siege and its aftermath in detail, Branna knew that the gwerbret had wanted Matyc killed. Ridvar’s woven a nasty little trap around my uncle, Branna thought. Ridvar had every right as gwerbret to dispose of the son of a traitor, but Cadryc had the duty as well as the desire to defend his grandson. Clan and overlord, overlord and clan—those were the two strands that bound a noble-born man’s life, and often enough they pulled in opposite directions, or threatened to hang him. If Prince Voran hadn’t been there—Branna refused to finish the thought, not on such a sunny morning, not with everyone she loved safe, at least for the nonce.
With the meal finished, Cadryc and Neb stayed in the great hall to allow Neb to write a letter to Mirryn, telling him the latest news and announcing that they’d all be home in a few days. The women went back to their hall. As they climbed the staircase, Solla lingered, looking back down toward the table where Gerran sat, unmistakably marked out by his red hair.
“I’ll have to talk with Gerro,” Branna said. “He really should start eating meals with us. And I’ll wager that Aunt Galla seats him next to you.”
“Why?” Solla said. “It was foolish of me, no doubt, to think he might—” she hesitated briefly, “—might find me of interest.”
“Don’t lose heart so easily! Gerran’s learned to keep everything to himself, all these years. He doesn’t part with words willingly.”
“True-spoken.” Solla looked away. “Alas.”
Later that day, Branna was crossing the great hall when she saw Gerran sitting alone at the head of the warband’s tables. He was leaning precariously back in his chair, his feet propped up on a nearby bench, and gazing into the servants’ hearth while he nursed a tankard of ale. Branna decided that as a near-sister, she had the right to sound him out on the matter of his marriage. She marched over, and he hastily swung his feet off the bench and sat up straight.
“Tell me, Lord Gerran,” she said, “why you’re sitting here and not at one of the honor tables.”
Gerran gave her a lopsided smile. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe it feels more like home here.” He thought for a moment longer. “And I’m still your uncle’s captain.”
“True-spoken, that. I was wondering if you’d started thinking like a noble lord yet. Apparently not.”
“And why were you wondering?”
“Because of Lady Solla.”
His smile disappeared into a scowl.
“None of my affair, is it?” Branna said.
“It’s not.”
“But it is, because she’s my friend, and you’ll be staying