Bristling Wood (22 page)

“That’s Clwna,” Maddyn said, gesturing at her. “When we’re back at the dun, I’d be ever so grateful if you or some other herbman would have a look at her. She hasn’t been well since the babe was born, and Caudyr can’t seem to mend her. She’s as much my woman as any of them are.”

“Oh, let’s talk to her right now.” Nevyn’s heart sank with dread. “The king and your captain will doubtless be a while yet.”

When they rode over, Clwna glanced up indifferently. There were dark circles like bruises under her blue eyes, and her skin far too pale. Nevyn almost gasped in relief when he realized she was not his Brangwen at all.

“This is Nevyn, the best herbman in the kingdom,” Maddyn said with forced cheer. “He’ll have you right as rain straightaway, my sweet.”

Clwna merely smiled as if she doubted it.

“Well, it’s a simple enough diagnosis, truly,” Nevyn said. “A good midwife would have spotted it in a minute, but the only women Caudyr’s ever tended were rich and well fed. Here, lass, your blood is weak because you just birthed a babe, and I’ll wager you haven’t been eating right. Get an apple, put an iron nail in it, and leave it there overnight. Then take it out and eat the apple. You’ll see the red streak of the sanguine humor, which is what you need. Do that every night for a fortnight, and then we’ll see.”

“My thanks,” Clwna was stammering in surprise. “It’s good of a courtly man like you to give advice to a silver dagger’s wench.”

“Oh, I’m not as courtly as I seem. Here, your babe is a pretty little thing. Who’s the father?”

“And how would I know, my lord?” She shrugged in sincere indifference. “Maddyn’s or Aethan’s, most like, but she could be the captain’s, too.”

In return for their winter’s keep and a silver piece a man if they should see any fighting, Caradoc pledged his loyalty to Prince Maryn through the spring, with terms to be renegotiated at Beltane. Getting so large a troop quartered in the cramped island dun was something of a problem. The chamberlain and the captain of Casyl’s warband conferred for an hour, then sent servants running all over the ward until at last the mercenaries had a barracks of their own, a stable for their horses, and a shed for their wagons and extra gear. The chamberlain was an old man with an amazing mind for details and a scrupulous sense of propriety. He was quite outraged, he told Nevyn, to find that the silver daggers found nothing wrong with keeping the women right in the same barracks with them.

“Well, why not?” Nevyn, said. “It’ll keep the lasses safe from the king’s riders. Or do you want fights all winter long?”

“But what of those innocent children?”

“Let us profoundly hope that they’re sound sleepers.”

After the evening meal Nevyn went out to visit Maddyn in the barracks. When he came into the long room, dimly lit by firelight, he had to pause for a moment and catch his breath at the combined reek of horse, man sweat, and smoke. Most of the men were playing dice; the women huddled at the far end to gossip among themselves while the babies slept nearby. At the hearth, Maddyn, Caradoc, and Caudyr sat on the floor and talked, while Owaen lay stretched out on his stomach with his head pillowed on his arms. Although he seemed asleep, he looked up briefly when Maddyn introduced him to Nevyn, then went back to watching the fire.

“Come sit down,” Caudyr said, sliding over a bit to make room. “It gladdens my heart to see you again. I thought that a sorcerer like you would have more important work at hand than selling herbs.”

“Oh, the herbs are important in their own way, too, lad. Now tell me, how did you end up with that silver dagger in your belt?”

For a long while Caudyr, Maddyn, and Nevyn talked of old times, while Caradoc listened with close attention and Owaen fell asleep. At length the talk turned inevitably to Nevyn’s strange employment in the king’s palace. Nevyn put them off with vague questions until Caradoc joined in.

“Here, good sorcerer, what’s the dweomer doing hiring a piss-poor bunch of men like us? I think me we’ve got a right to know, since you’re asking us to die for the prince as like as not.”

“Now here, Captain, I’m not asking a thing of you. The prince is the one who gives you meat and mead.”

“Horseshit. The prince does what you tell him, at least when somewhat important’s at stake.” He exchanged a glance with Maddyn. “I was impressed with the lad, very impressed, you might say.”

“Indeed?”

When Caradoc hesitated, Maddyn leaned forward.

“You’ve found the true king, haven’t you? Admit it, Nevyn. That lad has to be the true king, or no one on earth ever will be.”

Although he wanted to whoop and dance in triumph, Nevyn restrained himself to a small, cryptic smile.

“Tell me, Captain,” he said casually. “How would you feel about leading your men all the way to Dun Deverry someday?”

Caradoc pulled his silver dagger and held it point up to catch the wink and glint of firelight

“This is the only honor any of us have left, and I’ll swear you an oath on it. Either I see the king on his throne, or I die over the Prince’s body.”

“And you’re willing to die for a man you saw for the first time today?”

“Why not? Better than dying for some little pusboil of an arrogant minor lord.” With a laugh he sheathed the dagger. “And when does the war begin?”

“Soon, Captain. Very soon.”

Smiling to himself, Caradoc nodded. Nevyn felt like weeping. He could see in the captain’s berserker eyes the bloody price they would all pay for victory.

Since everyone in Eldidd knew about the silver daggers, the news that they’d left for Pyrdon spread fast. It was just his luck, Branoic decided, that they’d move on just when he needed to find them. Even though a single rider could travel faster than a troop with a baggage train, they had a head start, of some ten nights, and he never caught them on the road. After one last cold night of sleeping outside because he couldn’t afford an inn, he rode into Drwloc around noon and found a cheap tavern, where he spent his last two coppers on a tankard of ale and a chunk of bread. He ate standing up with his back to the wall while he kept an eye on the other patrons, who were a scruffy lot to his way of thinking. As soon as the trade would allow, the serving lass minced over to him with a suggestive little smile. Unwashed and skinny, she appealed to him about as much as the flea-bitten hounds by the hearth, but he decided that he might as well get some information out of her.

“How far is it to King Casyl’s dun, lass?”

“About two miles on the west-running road. You must be from a long way away if you don’t know that.”

“I am, truly. Now tell me, has a troop of mercenaries been through here? They hail from Eldidd, the lads I want, and they all carry daggers with silver pommels.”

“Oh, they were, sure enough, and a nasty lot they looked. I don’t know why the king took them on.”

“Because they’re some of the best fighting men in the three kingdoms, no doubt.”

He strode away before she could flirt with him further. Out in the tavern yard his chestnut gelding stood waiting, laden with everything he owned in the world: a bedroll, a pair of mostly empty saddlebags, and a shield nicked and battered, under its coat of dirty whitewash. He hoped that Caradoc wouldn’t hold his lack of mail against him, but he had a good sword at least, and he knew how to use it.

When Branoic rode up to the causeway leading to Casyl’s dun, the guards refused to let him pass, and no more would they take in message for a dirty and dangerous-looking stranger. Since had he no money for a bribe, Branoic tried first courtesy, then argument, but neither worked. The guards only laughed and told him that if he wanted to see Caradoc, he’d have to camp there until the captain rode out. By then Branoic was so furious that he was tempted to draw his sword and force the issue, but common sense prevailed. He hadn’t ridden all the way from Eldidd only to get himself hanged by some petty king.

“Well and good, then,” he said. “I’ll sit at your gates and starve until you’re shamed enough to let me in.”

As he strode away, leading his horse, he glanced back to see the guards looking apprehensive, as if they believed him capable of it. In truth, since he had neither coin nor food, he had little choice in the matter. In the meadow across the road he slacked the chestnut’s bit and let it graze, then sat down where he could glare at the guards and be easily seen. As the morning crept by, they kept giving him nervous looks that might have been inspired by guilt, but of course, they may have been merely afraid of his temper. Although he was only twenty, Branoic was six foot four, broad in the shoulders, with the long arms of a born swordsman and a warrior’s stance. Down his left cheek was a thick, puckered scar, a souvenir of the death duel that had gotten him exiled from his father’s dun in Belglaedd. Better men than Casyl’s guards had found him nerve-wracking before.

He’d been waiting by the road about two hours when he heard the blare of silver horns. As the farther gates opened, the guards by the road snapped to smart attention. Walking their horses down the causeway rode the silver daggers, sitting with the easy, arrogant slump in their saddles that he remembered. At their head was a lad of about fourteen, with a red, gold, and white plaid slung from his shoulder. When Branoic started forward, one of the guards yelled at him.

“You! Get back! That’s the marked prince, Maryn, and don’t you go bothering the captain when he’s riding with him.”

Although it griped his soul, Branoic retreated without arguing, The affairs of a prince were bound to take precedence over those of a commoner. He was just about to sit back down when he heard himself being hailed, but this time by the prince himself. He hurried back over and clasped the lad’s stirrup as a sign of humility.

“Any man who asks has access to me.” Maryn shot a pointed glance at the guards. “A prince is the shepherd of his people, not one of the wolves. Remember that from now on.” He turned back to Branoic with a distant but gracious smile. “Now. What matter do you have to lay before me?”

“My humble thanks, Your Highness.” Branoic was practically stammering in amazement. “But truly, all I wanted was a word with Caradoc.”

“Well, that’s an easily granted boon. Get your horse and ride with us a ways.”

Branoic ran to follow his order. When he fell into line beside Caradoc, the captain gave him an oddly sly smile.

“Branoic of Belglaedd, is it? What are you doing on the long road north?”

“Looking for you. Do you remember when last we met? You told me you’d take me on if I wanted to ride with you. Was that just a jest?”

“It was a jest only because I didn’t think you’d want to leave your noble father’s court, not because I wouldn’t be glad to have you in my troop.”

“Thanks be to the gods, then. A bastard son’s got a shorter welcome than a silver dagger unless he minds every courtesy. I’ve been exiled. It was over an honor duel.”

Caradoc’s eyebrows shot up.

“I heard about that. You killed the youngest son of the gwerbret of Elrydd, wasn’t it? But why would your father turn you out over that? I heard it was a fair fight.”

“It was, and judged so by a priest of Bel, too.” For a moment Branoic had trouble speaking; he felt as if he could physically choke on the injustice. “But it made my father a powerful enemy, and so he kicked me out to appease the misbegotten gwerbret. The whole way north, I was afraid for my life, thinking that Elrydd would have me murdered on the road. But either I’ve thought ill of him unjustly, or else I gave his men the slip.”

“I’d say the latter, from what I remember of His Grace. Well and good, lad, you’re on, but you have to earn this dagger. If we see fighting, you’ll get a full share of the pay, mind, but you’ll have to prove yourself before I have Otho the smith make you a blade. Agreed?”

“Agreed. And my thanks—there’s not a soul in the world to take me in but you.”

For a few minutes they rode in silence. Branoic studied the young prince riding some few yards ahead and wondered what it was that made him seem so unusual. He was a handsome boy, but there were plenty of good-looking men in the kingdom, and none of them had his aura of glamour and power. There were other princes, too, who had his straight-backed self-confidence and gracious ways, but none that seemed to have ridden straight out of an old epic like Maryn. At times, it seemed as if the very air around him crackled and snapped with some unseen force.

“And what do you think of our lord?” Caradoc said quietly.

“Well, he makes me remember some odd gossip I heard down in Eldidd.”

“Gossip?”

“Well, omens and suchlike.”

“Omens of what?”

In a fit of embarrassment Branoic merely shrugged.

“Out with it, lad.”

“Well, about the one true king of Deverry.”

Caradoc laughed under his breath.

“If you stick with this troop, lad, you’ll be leaving Eldidd and Pyrdon far behind. Can you stomach that?”

“Easily. Oh, here—what are you telling me? Will we be riding all the way to Dun Deverry some fine day?”

“We will, at that, but I can promise you a long bloody road to the Holy City.” Caradoc turned in his saddle. “Maddyn, get up here! We’ve got a new recruit.”

Somehow or other, Branoic had missed meeting the bard in his previous encounters with the silver daggers. About thirty-three, he was a slender but hard-muscled man with a mop of curly blond hair, streaked with gray at the temples, and world-weary blue eyes. Branoic liked him from the moment he met him. He felt in some odd way that they must have known each other before, even though he couldn’t remember when or how. All that afternoon, Maddyn introduced him around, explained the rules of the troops, found him a stall for his horse and a bunk when they returned to the dun, and generally went out of his way to make him feel at ease. At the evening meal they sat together, and Branoic found it easy to let the bard do most of the talking.

The other lieutenant in the troop, Owaen, was a different matter. They had barely finished eating when he strode over, his tankard in hand, and Branoic found himself hating him. There was just something about the way that the arrogant son of a bitch stood, he decided, all posturing with his head tossed back, his free hand on the hilt of his silver dagger.