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

“Indeed?” Braedd rose from his chair. “Now, this is a handy thing. Come join me.”
Without ceremony Braedd sat Jill and Cullyn down on a bench, sent the boy, Abryn, to fetch more ale all round, and introduced the older man as Glyn, his councillor. When the Tieryn sat down again, his chair creaked alarmingly, but he ignored the sound.
“I met a pair of your men in the oak wood, Your Grace,” Cullyn said. “They told me of your feud.”
“Ah Ynydd, that bastard-born son of a slug.” Braedd had a moody sip of ale. “Truly, I want to offer you a hire, but my treasury matches my dun walls.” He glanced at Glyn. “Could we squeeze out something?”
“A horse, I suppose,” Glyn said. “He could always sell it in town for the coin.”
“True,” Braedd said, grinning. “Or here, what about cabbages? I’ve got fields and fields of those. Here, silver dagger, think of all the uses cabbages have. You can let them rot, then throw them at enemies in the street, or if you’re courting a wench, you can give her a bouquet of fresh ones, and that’s something she’d never have seen before, or—”
“Your Grace?” Glyn said wearily.
“Well, truly, I ramble a bit.” Braedd had another long swallow of ale. “But if you’ll take a horse, and your maintenance, and maintenance for your page, of course?”
“I will,” Cullyn said. “Done, Your Grace—I’m on. But this is my daughter, actually, not a page.”
“So she is,” Braedd said, leaning closer. “Do you honor your father, child?”
“More than any man in the world,” Jill said. “Except the King, of course, but I’ve never even met him.”
“Well spoken.” Braedd belched profoundly. “What a pity that the pusboil Ynydd doesn’t have the respect for the King that we see in this innocent little lass.”
Cullyn turned to address his questions to Councillor Glyn.
“What’s this feud about, good sir? The riders only told me that the woods were in dispute.”
“Well, more or less.” Glyn stroked his beard thoughtfully. “The feud goes back a long time, when Lord Ynydd’s grandfather declared war on his grace’s grandfather. In those days, they were fighting over who should be Tieryn, and many other grave matters, but bit by bit, the thing’s gotten itself settled. The woods, you see, lie on the border of the two demesnes. They’re the last thing left to squabble over.”
“So Ynydd thinks.” Braedd slammed his hand onto the table. “A councillor from the High King himself judged the matter and awarded the claim to me.”
“Now Your Grace,” Glyn said soothingly. “Ynydd’s only disputing part of the judgment. He’s ceded you the trees.”
“But the bastard!” Braedd snapped. “Insisting he has ancient and prior claim to swine rights.”
“Swine rights?” Cullyn said.
“Swine rights,” Glyn said. “In the fall, you see, the peasants take the swine into the woods to eat the acorns. Now, there’s only enough acorns for one herd of swine—his or ours.”
“And the withered testicle of a sterile donkey says it’s his,” Braedd broke in. “His men killed one of my riders when the lad turned Ynydd’s hogs out of the woods last fall.”
Cullyn sighed and had a very long swallow of ale.
“Da, I don’t understand,” Jill said. “You mean someone was killed over pig food?”
“It’s the honor of the thing!” Braedd slammed his tankard the table so hard that the ale jumped out and spilled. “Never will I let a man take what’s rightfully mine! The honor of my warband calls out for vengeance! We’ll fight to the last man.”
“Pity we can’t arm the swine,” Cullyn said. “Everyone will fight for their own food.”
“Now, splendid.” Braedd gave him a delighted grin. “They shall have little helms, with their tusks for swords, and we shall teach them to trot at the sound of a horn.”
“Your Grace?” Glyn said.
“Well, truly, I ramble again.”
Glyn and Abryn, the councillor’s son as it turned out, took Jill and Cullyn out to the last building standing in the ward, the barracks. As was usually the case, the warband slept directly above the stables. In the winter, the body heat from the horses helped keep the men warm, but now, on this warm summer day, the smell of horse was overwhelming. Glyn showed Cullyn a pair of unoccupied bunks, then lingered to watch as Cullyn began to stow away their gear.
“You know, silver dagger,” Glyn said. “I don’t mind admitting that it gladdens my heart to have a man of your experience joining the warband.”
“My thanks,” Cullyn said. “Have you served the Tieryn long, good sir?”
“All his life. I served his father first, you see, and truly, he was a great man. He’s the one who settled the war, and more by law than the sword. I fear me that Tieryn Braedd takes more after his grandfather.” Glyn paused, turning to Abryn. “Now, Abryn, Jill is our guest, so be courteous to her and take her outside to play.”
“That means you’re going to say something interesting,” Abryn said.
“Jill,” Cullyn said. “Out.”
Jill grabbed Abryn’s arm and hustled him out of the barracks fast. They lingered by the stables and watched the geese waddling through the rubble.
“Do those geese bite?” Jill said.
“They do. Huh, I bet you’re scared.”
“Oh, do you now?”
“You’re a lass. Lasses are always scared. You shouldn’t be wearing those brigga, either.”
“Oh, are we now? And my da gave me these brigga.”
“Your da’s a silver dagger, and they’re all scum.”
Jill hauled back and hit him in the face as hard as she could. Abryn shrieked and hit back, but she dodged and punched him on the ear. With a howl, he leapt for her and knocked her down, but she shoved her elbow into his stomach until he let go. They wrestled, kicking, punching, and writhing, until Jill heard Cullyn and Glyn yelling at them to stop. Suddenly Cullyn grabbed Jill by the shoulders and pulled her off the helpless Abryn.
“Now what’s all this?” Cullyn snapped.
“He said silver daggers were all scum,” Jill said. “So I hit him.”
Abryn sat up sniveling and wiping his bloody nose. Cullyn gave Jill a broad grin, then hastily looked stern again.
“Now here, Abryn!” Glyn said, grabbing him. “That’s a nasty way to treat a guest! If you don’t learn courtesy, how can you serve a great lord someday?”
Berating him all the while, Glyn hauled Abryn off into the broch. Cullyn began brushing the dirt off Jill’s clothes.
“By the asses of the gods, my sweet,” he said. “How did you learn to fight like that?”
“Back in Bobyr, you know? All the children always called me a bastard, and they said you were scum, and so I’d hit them, and then I learned how to win.”
“Well, so you did. Ye gods, you’re Cullyn of Cerrmor’s daughter, sure enough.”