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

When Ysolla caught her breath with a gasp, Rodda shot her a sharp look.
“This is a grave matter,” Rodda pronounced. “My daughter and I must consider this carefully.”
“But Mother!” Ysolla wailed.
“My lady?” Galrion said to Rodda. “Do you have any objections to Lord Gerraent?”
“None,” Rodda said. “But I have my objections to my lass acting like a starving puppy grabbing a bone. You may tell Gerraent that we are considering the matter, but my son may start discussing the dowry if he wants—just in case Ysolla agrees.”
Blaen was expansive about the dowry. Ysolla, of course, had been filling her dower chest for years with embroidered coverlets, sets of dresses, and the embroidered shirt her husband would wear at his wedding. To go with it, Blaen offered ten geldings, five white cows, and a palfrey for Ysolla.
“Gerro?” Galrion said. “That’s splendidly generous.”
“What?” Gerraent looked up with a start. “Oh, whatever you think best.”
Yet that evening Gerraent acted the perfect suitor, happy to have his lady within his reach at last. At table, he and Ysolla shared a trencher, and Gerraent cut her tidbits of meat and fed her with his fingers as if they were already married, a gesture that made Ysolla beam with happiness. Galrion and Rodda, who were seated next to each other, found themselves watching the couple and occasionally turning to each other to share a thoughtful glance. Since the bard was singing, and Blaen laughing with his brother, Camlann, Galrion and Rodda could whisper in private.
“Tell me,” Rodda said. “Do you think Gerraent will come to love my daughter someday?”
“He’d be a fool not to.”
“Who knows what you men will do?”
Galrion broke a slice of bread in half and offered her one portion.
“Is this better than no bread at all?”
“You’re a wise one for someone so young, my prince,” Rodda said, accepting the bread. “Does that come from living at court?”
“It does, because if you want to live to be an old prince, not a poisoned one, you’d best keep your eyes on every little wave of everyone’s hand and your ears on every word they speak.”
“So I’ve been telling your little Gwennie. Life at court is going to be difficult for her at first. She’s lucky to have a man like you to watch over her interests.”
Galrion felt a stab of guilt. I’m as bad as Gerro, he thought. I’ll have to offer Gwennie at least the half-a-piece of bread— unless I find her a man who’d give her the whole loaf.
Courtesy demanded that Galrion and Gerraent take the Boar’s hospitality for several days. The more Galrion saw of Blaen, the more he liked him, a cultured man as well as a generous one, with a fine ear for the songs of his bard and a proper knowledge of the traditional tales and lore. Even more, Galrion came to admire Rodda, who carried out her dowager role with perfect tact. She would make Brangwen a splendid mother-in-law. At times, Galrion remembered Rhegor’s insistence that she choose freely, but he doubted if Gwennie, poor little innocent Gwennie, was capable of making such an important decision on her own.
Late on the second day, the prince escorted the dowager to the garden for a stroll. The spring sun lay warm on the glossy leaves and the first shy buds of the roses.
“I’m much impressed with your son,” Galrion said. “He should feel more at home at my court.”
“My thanks, my prince.” Rodda hesitated, wondering, no doubt, how to turn this unexpected honor to her son’s advantage. “I’m most grateful that you favor him.”
“There’s only one slight thing. You’ll forgive my bluntness, and I’ll swear an honest answer will do Blaen no harm. Just how much does he hold Gwennie against me?”
“My son knows his duty to the throne, no matter where his heart lies.”
“Never did I think otherwise. I was merely wondering how fine his honor might be in matters of the heart. Let me be blunt again. Suppose Brangwen was no longer betrothed to me. Would he spurn her as a cast-off woman?”
Briefly Rodda stared, as open-mouthed as a farm lass, before she recovered her polished reserve.
“I think my prince is troubled at heart to speak this way.”
“He is, but he’ll beg you never to ask him why. He’ll tell you this much: he’s troubled by the life ahead of Brangwen. Flatterers at court will come around her like flies to spilled mead.”
“Not just flies, my prince. Wasps come to spilled mead, and Gwennie is very beautiful.”
“She is.” Suddenly torn, Galrion wondered if he could truly let her go. “And I loved her once.”
“Once and not now?” Rodda raised a doubting eyebrow.
Galrion walked a little ways ahead, letting her catch up with him in the shade of a linden tree. He caught a low branch and stripped the leaves off a twig, to rub them between his fingers before he let them fall.
“My prince is deeply troubled,” Rodda said.
“The prince’s troubles are his own, my lady. But you never answered me. Would Blaen marry Gwennie if he could?”
“Oh, he would in a moment! My poor lad, I swear he’s been ensorcled by Gwennie’s blue eyes. He put off marrying until she came of age, and then, well—”
“The prince stepped in, giving the Boar another reason to chafe under the High King’s rule. How would the Boar take it if his mother hinted that the prince was yielding to a prior claim?”
“I’ve no doubt he’d honor the prince always.”
Smiling, Galrion made her a deep bow. It could work out well, he told himself. Yet at the thought of Brangwen lying in another man’s arms, his heart gave a flash of rage.
When the day came for Prince Galrion to ride back to court, Gerraent rode a few miles with him simply because he was expected to. The prince smiled and chattered until Gerraent wanted to murder him and leave his body in a ditch by the road. At last they reached the turning, and Gerraent sat on his horse and watched the prince’s scarlet and white plaid cloak disappear into the distance. Three more weeks, only three more weeks, and the prince would return from Dun Deverry to take Brangwen away. With her, Gerraent’s heart would go breaking.
When he rode back to the dun, Gerraent found Brangwen sitting outside in the sun and sewing. He gave his horse to Brythu, his page, and sat down at her feet like a dog. Her golden hair shone in the sun like fine-spun thread, wisping around the soft skin of her cheeks. When she smiled at him, Gerraent felt stabbed to the heart.
“What are you sewing?” Gerraent said. “Something for your dower chest?”
“It’s not, but a shirt for you. The last one I’ll ever make, but don’t worry, Ysolla does splendid needlework. I’ll wager that your wedding shirt is ever so much nicer than my poor Galrion’s.”
Gerraent merely watched her as she sewed. He wanted to get up and leave her alone, but he stayed trapped in his old torment, that his beautiful sister, the one beautiful thing in his world, would turn him into something ugly and unclean, despised by the gods and men alike, if ever they knew of his secret fault. All at once she cried out. He jumped to his feet before he knew what he was doing.
“I just pricked my finger on the cursed needle,” Brangwen said, grinning at him. “Don’t look so alarmed, Gerro. But, oh, here, I’ve gotten a drop of blood on your shirt. Curse it!”
The little red smear lay in the midst of red interlaced bands of spirals.
“No one’s ever going to notice it,” Gerraent said.
“As long as it’s not a bad omen, you’re right enough. Doubtless you’ll get more gore on it than this. You do get so filthy when you hunt, Gerro.”
“I won’t wear it hunting until it starts to wear out. It’ll be my best shirt, the last one you ever sewed for me.” Gerraent caught her hand and kissed the drop of blood away.
Late that night, Gerraent went out to the dark, silent ward and paced restlessly back and forth. In the moonlight, he could see the severed head of old Samoryc glaring down at him with empty eye sockets. Once every dun and warrior’s home would have been graced with such trophies, but some years past, the priests had had visions stating that taking heads had come to displease great Bel. Dwen was one of the last of the old-style warriors. Gerraent remembered the day when the priests came to implore him to take the trophy down. A tiny lad, then, Gerraent hid behind his mother’s skirts as Dwen refused, roaring with laughter, saying that if the gods truly wanted it down, they’d make it rot soon enough. Chanting a ritual curse, the priests left defeated.
“I’m the curse,” Gerraent said to Samoryc. “I’m the curse the gods sent to our clan.”