"Kerr, Katharine - Deverry 01 - Daggerspell v1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragon Stories)

“True enough.” Galrion was remembering his dweomer-warning of Dwen’s coming death. “He’ll be the Falcon someday, after all. Is there any woman he favors?”
“Not truly. You men can be such beasts.” Brangwen giggled, hiding her mouth behind her hand. “But well, Gerro rides to hunt with Lord Blaen of the Boar, and his sister’s just absolutely mad for Gerro. I’ve been trying to speak well of her to him, but he doesn’t much listen.”
“I’ve seen the Lady Ysolla at court. She’s a lovely lass, but nothing compared to you, of course.”
The compliment brought another giggle and a blush. At times Brangwen was a helpless little thing, unlike the women at the court, who were trained as partners in rulership. Once Galrion had looked forward to the chance to prune and form his wife’s character; now, he found himself thinking that she was going to take an awful lot of his time.
“Do you know what Ysolla told me?” Brangwen said. “She said that Blaen’s jealous of you.”
“Indeed? That could be a serious matter if it’s true.”
“Why?”
“Ye gods, think! The Boar Rampant was involved in many a plot against the last dynasty. A little lover’s rivalry is a political matter when one of the rivals is a prince.”
“Truly. My apologies.”
She was so woebegone about being snapped at that Galrion patted her hand. She bloomed instantly and bent down to allow him to kiss her cheek.
Circumstances conspired to keep the prince from having his necessary talk with his betrothed. All evening, Gerraent kept them sullen company. On the bright and sunny morrow, Brangwen settled her father outside in the ward, then sat down beside him with her needlework. Much to Galrion’s annoyance, the old man stayed wide awake. Finally, when Gerraent stopped by on his way to hunt, Galrion decided that since he might soon be Gerraent’s elder brother, he might as well put that authority to good use.
“Here, Gerro,” Galrion said. “I’ll ride a little way with you after all.”
“Well and good.” Gerraent shot him a glance that said the exact opposite. “Page, run and saddle the prince’s horse.”
Preceded by a pack of hounds and followed by a pair of servants, Galrion and Gerraent rode to the forest. The Falcon clan lay lonely on the edge of the kingdom. To the north, the clan’s farmlands stretched out until they met those of the Boar, their only near neighbor. To the east and south was nothing but unclaimed land, meadow and primeval forest. It occurred to Galrion that Brangwen was doubtless looking forward to the splendid life at court that he could no longer give her.
“Well, young brother,” Galrion said at last. “There’s something I wanted to talk with you about. My lady Brangwen tells me that you’ve won the favor of Ysolla of the Boar. She’d make any man a fine wife.”
Gerraent stared straight ahead at the road.
“You’re nineteen,” Galrion said. “It’s time you married for your clan’s sake. The head of a clan needs heirs.”
“True spoken. I know my duty to my clan.”
“Well then? Blaen’s your sworn friend. It would be a fine match.”
“Did Gwennie put you up to this talk?”
“She did.”
Gerraent glanced his way with bitter eyes.
“My sister knows her duty to the clan, too,” Gerraent said.
As they rode on, Gerraent was lost in thought, his hand on his sword hilt. Galrion wondered how this brooding proud man was going to take it when Galrion swept his sister off to a hut in the forest instead of the palace. The prince was vexed all over again at his stupidity in getting himself betrothed just as he had found the dweomer.
“Does Gwennie think Ysolla would have me?” Gerraent said.
“She does. She’d bring a fine dowry, too.”
They rode in silence for some minutes while Gerraent considered, his mouth working this way and that as if the thought of marrying a rich, pretty wife pained him. Finally he shrugged as if throwing off a weight from his shoulders.
“Grant me a boon, elder brother,” Gerraent said. “Will you ride to Blaen with me as my second in the betrothal?”
“Gladly. Shall we ride soon?”
“Why not? The soonest done, the best.”
That evening the dinner was a celebration. While the Falcon’s demesne stretched broad and prosperous, there had been few sons born to the clan over the past generations. If Gerraent should die without an heir, the clan would die with him, its lands reverting back to the High King for reassignment. Every now and then, Galrion noticed Gerraent looking at the blade of his table dagger, where a falcon mark was graved, the clan’s symbol, and his whole life, his duty and power. Galrion knew that Gerraent must be thinking of his duty to preserve the clan every time he turned his brooding eyes to the dagger.
After Brangwen escorted her father from the table, Galrion had a chance at a private word with Gerraent.
“My lady Brangwen was teasing me the other night,”
Galrion said. “Saying Blaen’s jealous of me. Is that just a maid’s chatter?”
“It’s true enough.” Gerraent made the admission unwillingly. “But she’s dwelling on the thing to please her vanity. Blaen will forget her soon enough. Men in our position marry where we have to, not to please ourselves.”
At the bitterness in his voice, Galrion felt a cold touch like a hand down his back, the dweomer-warning of danger. Never had that warning failed to be true, not since he’d felt it first as a little lad, climbing a tree and knowing without knowing how he knew that the branch was about to break under him.
The dun of the Boar clan lay a full day’s ride to the north. A stone broch rose three floors above a cobbled ward and proper wooden round houses for the important servants. Off to one side were the stables that also doubled as a barracks for the warband of twelve men. Lord Blaen’s great hall was fully forty feet across with a dressed stone floor. Two tapestries hung on either side of the honor hearth, and fine furniture stood around in profusion. As he walked in, Galrion had the thought that Brangwen would be far happier in that dun than she would be in a wilderness.
Blaen himself greeted them and took them to the table of honor. He was a slender man, sandy-haired and with pleasant blue eyes that always seemed to be smiling at a jest, and good-looking in a rather bland way.
“Good morrow, my prince,” Blaen said. “What brings me the honor of having you in my hall?”
“My brother and I have come to beg an enormous favor,” Galrion said. “My brother has decided that it’s time for him to marry.”
“Oh, have you now?” Blaen shot Gerraent a smile. “A wise decision, with no heirs for ytfur clan.”
“If it’s so wise,” Gerraent snapped. “Why haven’t you made one like it?”
Blaen went as stiff as a stag who sees the hunting pack.
“I have two brothers,” Blaen said levelly.
The moment hung there. Gerraent stared into the hearth; Blaen stared at the prince; Galrion hardly knew where to look.
“Ah by the hells,” Blaen said. “Can’t we dispense with all this mincing around? Gerro, do you want my sister or not?”
“I do.” Gerraent forced out a smile. “And my apologies.”
When Galrion let his eyes meet Blaen’s, he saw only a man who wanted to be his friend—against great odds, perhaps, but he did. Yet the dweomer-warning slid down his back like snow.
In his role as a courting man’s second, Galrion went to the woman’s hall, a pleasant half-round of a room on the second floor of the broch. On the floor were Bardek carpets in the clan colors of blue, green, and gold; silver candlesticks stood on an elaborately carved table. In a cushioned chair, Rodda, dowager of the clan, sat by the windows while Ysolla perched on a footstool at her mother’s side. All around them were wisps of wool from the spinning that had been hastily tidied away at the prince’s approach. Rodda was a stout woman with deep-set gray eyes and a firm but pleasant little smile; Galrion had always liked her when they’d met at court. Ysolla was a pretty lass of sixteen, all slender and golden with large eager eyes.
“I come as a supplicant, my lady,” Galrion said, kneeling before the two women. “Lord Gerraent of the Falcon would have the Lady Ysolla marry him.”