The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [43]
“My thanks, Your Grace.” Neb bowed to him. “May I have your leave to go? The chamberlain’s waiting for me out in the ward. More taxes have arrived.”
“You may. In fact, I’ll come out with you.”
Gerran had seen the messengers ride in, but by the time he reached the great hall, it was too full for him to squeeze his way inside. The news reached him, anyway, in the form of outraged chatter as the hall emptied. Servant and rider alike blustered and swore, that the gwerbret would treat their lord so rudely. Cadryc himself emerged only a few moments later.
“Did you hear what that blasted letter said?” Cadryc asked him.
“I did, Your Grace.”
The tieryn took a deep breath and calmed himself. “Once I see all the taxes safely in, we’ll ride to Cengarn. In the meantime, pick out a palfrey for the scribe and see if he knows how to ride it.”
“Well and good, Your Grace,” Gerran said. “The sooner we lay our case before the gwerbret, the happier I’ll be.”
They strolled together through the ward, which at the moment looked more like a market fair. Farmers stood beside wagonloads of winter wheat or chased after small droves of hogs and flocks of chickens while the frantic chamberlain ran back and forth. Two men dressed in the ragged clothes of shepherds were just coming through the gates, pushing a handcart piled high with shorn fleeces that looked a fair bit cleaner than they did. Off to one side Neb stood on a little island of calm and jotted down tallies on scraps of fraying parchment.
“The scribe seems to know what he’s doing,” Gerran said.
“He does, doesn’t he? He’s a confident lad for his age. I’d been a bit worried about old Veddyn, to tell you the truth. He forgets things.” Cadryc suddenly stepped away and waved to someone across the ward. “Ah. There’s Goodman Gwervyl. I’d best go speak to him personally. He’s a decent man with a bow, and he’s offered to train more archers.”
Gerran found a place to wait out of the way. Serving lasses hurried by, their arms full of empty baskets, heading for a wagon down by the gates. When he saw Lady Branna following them, Gerran stepped forward and bowed to her. She waved, gave him a brittle little smile, and trotted on past. Not a very encouraging sign, he thought. She probably saw him as nothing but a common-born lout, or worse yet, as bloodkin of a sort, thanks to his fostering. Either opinion would keep him at a distance. He wished he had a better idea of how to court a lass. Fortunately, the tieryn returned and broke into his gloom-laden thoughts.
“I’m not sure what to say to the wretched gwerbret,” Cadryc said. “Any ideas?”
“None, my lord.”
“We’ll have to think about it on the ride to Cengarn. I’ll have to be careful about how I put things. For now, work with the pages, will you? You’ll have to be firm with young Ynedd. His mother spoiled the lad, and he snivels all the time.”
“Well and good. I’ll see what I can do.”
Like all great lords, Cadryc had noble pages in his household, sons of his vassals sent to him for their training in warfare and courtesy. At ten summers Coryn was a decent enough lad, but Ynedd, a skinny little boy, all big blue eyes and blond curls, had never been away from his mother before. Gerran refused to let pity soften the lad’s training; someday Ynedd’s life would depend on how well he could fight.
They went round the back of the broch to practice away from the wagons and the livestock. Gerran let Coryn rest in the shade of the wall while he showed Ynedd the proper grip for the hilt.
“We’ll have to work on your wrists,” Gerran said. “All right, lay it down on the ground, then pick it up again.”
Glancing sideways at him, Ynedd did as he was told. Gerran had him pick it up and lay it down five times in a row, each time correcting his grip. Finally Ynedd flung the sword down.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” he announced.
“Too bad.” Gerran caught the lad’s gaze with his own. “Do it anyway.”
Ynedd crossed his arms over his chest and glared. Gerran slapped him across