The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [95]
“Quite so. Well, let me think.”
Since Gerran and Mirryn usually put on an exhibition at tourneys, they had worked out a way of sparring without dishonoring either of them. Gerran always scored the first touch because it was expected of him by the onlookers. From there they sparred naturally, but they took care to score the third touch upon each other simultaneously, thus ending the match in a draw, not a humiliating defeat. The afternoon was so hot and sticky on this particular day that they made sure they scored the touches quickly. No one noticed their ruse.
“Well played, lads!” Cadryc said. “Both of you, but Gerran’s a marvel and a half with that blade.”
“He is,” Mirryn said, grinning, “but then, we knew that even before I faced him.”
Gerran ducked his head and looked away. He could feel that he was blushing, and he hated that as much as he loved hearing the praise.
“Let’s go in,” Cadryc said. “Have a goblet of mead all round. My wife’s got the cook working on a roast hog, she tells me, and we’ll give both Gerro and Mirro here a slice off the thigh.”
Everyone within earshot cheered. As the crowd got up and started swirling around, ready to go uphill to the dun, Gerran looked for Branna. He was expecting to find her watching him, smiling, no doubt, in awe of his skill with a sword or perhaps the tieryn’s praise. He saw Lady Galla, giving orders to the maidservants for the meal to come, but not Branna. Worse yet, he saw no sign of Neb, either.
“Captain?” Little Lord Ynedd came trotting up to him. “Are you looking for someone?”
“I am. You’ve not happened to see Lady Branna, have you?”
“Oh, she left and went back to the dun. Right after Clae and Coryn got to fight.”
“I see.”
Gerran glanced around. No one else seemed in a hurry to leave the tourney ground. The lords stood talking, the ladies still sat in their chairs, while the riders and servants milled around, discussing the fine points of this fight or that. With a muffled curse, Gerran took off for the dun at a jog. When he reached the ward, it stood empty and silent. He ran into the great hall in hopes of finding Branna there—no sign of her. For a moment Gerran stood by the honor table and swore; then he hailed a serving lass.
“Have you seen Lady Branna?”
“I have. She went off with the scribe some while ago.”
Gerran felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. “How long ago?”
The lass shrugged.
“Before or after the last combats?” Gerran said.
“Oh, long before that, truly. I was walking back here to start my work and saw them in the garden.”
Gerran muttered a few more foul things, then strode out of the hall. Yet, as he’d half-expected, when he reached the garden, Branna and Neb had already left. He stood on a graveled path and kicked aimlessly at a cabbage with the toe of his boot while he let the truth sink in: Branna hadn’t stayed to see him spar. She hadn’t cared enough about him to watch, not with her wretched scribe hanging around her. Hopeless, he thought. Besides, if she’d want a man like that, what would I want with her, anyway? She’s no fit wife for a fighting man.
Gerran’s newfound contempt lasted until he looked up, glancing around the ward, and saw the stables. Hayloft. The thought struck him like a blow, that Branna and Neb might well have taken refuge in one of the few places in the dun that offered privacy to a courting couple. He growled under his breath like a dog and strode off, heading for the stable.
The hayloft smelled of new-mown hay, and dust motes danced in the sunbeams that came through the tiny windows. Neb lounged on his back on a great drift of hay, while Branna sat demurely by his side.
“We really should go,” Branna said. “Everyone will be back from the tourney by now. What if one of the riders goes back to the barracks for somewhat and hears us talking?”
“We can’t have that, truly.” Neb sat up and ran his fingers through his hair to get the straws out. “It’s too hot up here anyway.”
Neb went down the narrow ladder before her to steady it. When she reached the stable floor,