“I can see why no one told me.” Anasyn's voice growled. “Was she willing?”
“Of course! Our prince would never force a woman, never.”
“Forgive me. I know that's true.”
“Lilli's very young, and she was flattered. Maryn could charm fish out of the sea if he set his mind to it.”
“No doubt.” Anasyn hesitated, thinking. “I'll discuss it with her when we return to the dun, then. My thanks for the truth.”
They rode in silence the rest of the way.
Some miles from the Wyvern camp the path brought them to the grassy rise mentioned by the Boar clan's herald. As they walked their horses up the slope, Nevyn suddenly realized that something was wrong. He could hear birds squawking, and just as he was about to point this out to Anasyn, a flurry of ravens rose, squabbling among themselves as they circled the hill only to settle again out of sight.
“Oh by the gods!” Anasyn snapped. “This bodes ill.”
When they crested the rise they could look down the grassy slope to the camp below, or to what once had been a camp. Spread out across the flat lay corpses, all tumbled around, some half-dressed. Nevyn saw not a single wagon or tent, not a horse, either. Anasyn turned in the saddle and called out to the men behind them.
“Don't bring the wagons up! There's no need.”
With ten of his men for a guard, Anasyn and Nevyn rode down the slope. Birds rose and a cloud of flies as well. Nevyn dismounted, dropped his horse's reins to make him stand, then jogged into the camp. The stench of rot in the hot sun nearly overwhelmed him, but he steeled himself and went on. He could see that every single man there had had his throat cut, no doubt on the day before, while their lord still bargained for their safety. More slowly Anasyn followed, shaking his head in disbelief.
“What?” Anasyn snapped. “Who did this? Braemys? Was this his idea of a jest or taunt or suchlike?”
“Oh, I doubt that very much,” Nevyn said. “It's the bandits, I'd wager. Remember his amnesty to men who'd lost their lords? Some of them doubtless were good men and loyal to their new warband, but others—”
“The ones that broke and ran during the battle. They couldn't loot on the field, so they took what they wanted here.” Anasyn shuddered convulsively. “Well, no doubt our liege will be hunting them down soon enough.”
When, after their return to camp, Maryn heard the story, he fulfilled Anasyn's prophecy, vowing to round up the bandits as soon as he'd been invested as high king.
“The cowards!” Maryn snarled. “Pisspoor bastards, more dogs than men! I'll hang the lot if it takes me the rest of the summer.”
“Good,” Nevyn said. “It turned my stomach. Tieryn Anasyn had his men bury them properly.”
“That gladdens my heart. Ye gods, I hope that our own wounded fare well!”
“That thought had crossed my mind. I'm glad Your Highness doubled the size of that escort.”
The bandits, however, must have ridden in some other direction, for they spared the Wyvern men. Maddyn had been leading his ragged procession of wounded riders, wounded horses, and wagons as fast as they could go—no more than some ten miles a day, by his rough figuring. No one could stay in the saddle for long, but the men in the carts fared worse, bounced, rattled, and thrown about by every stone in the road. At the end of each day's travelling the healthy men of the escort would bury those who had died, and in the morning, before they set out west again, they would bury anyone who had died in the night.
It was no wonder then that messengers from the prince caught up with them. In the middle of an afternoon Maddyn was riding at the head of the line when he heard someone shouting at the rear of it. He yelled for the halt, then turned his horse and jogged back. By the time he reached the last wagon, the dust around their line of march was beginning to settle. He could see another cloud of dust on the road, coming toward them. The nearest carter leaned over the side of his wagon.
“Be they enemies?” he called out.
“I hope not,” Maddyn called back. “Wait—there's just two of them. Can't be enemies.”
As the two riders trotted up, Maddyn could see that one of them was wearing, tied over his mail, a tabard appliquéd with the red wyvern, a piece of clothing that identified him and his companion as speeded couriers. A few more yards, and he recognized the men for silver daggers, Alwyn and Tarryc. They trotted up and stopped their horses beside his.
“So,” Maddyn said. “You're riding for Dun Deverry, then?”
“We are,” Alwyn said. “A cursed strange thing's happened, Maddo.”
“Not more fighting?”
“Not that at all.”
“What's Braemys doing, then? Running for Cantrae as fast as he can?”
“He's not.” Alwyn was trying to suppress a smile, and Maddyn realized that he was building up to some sort of jest. “He's travelling north.”
“Oh, is he now? And why might that be?”
Alwyn paused, grinning. By then the other men in the escort had walked their horses back; they all leaned forward in their saddles to listen.
“Lord Braemys,” Alwyn said, “is heading for Cerr-gonney.”
“What? Why?”
“Well, now, it seems that our prince gave him a choice, like, to swear fealty or leave the royal lands forever. So he's packed up his people and women and children, and a lot of cattle and sheep and suchlike, and he's leaving.” Alwyn paused for effect. “Gwerbret Ammerwdd's escorting him to the border. Braemys has handed Dun Cantrae over to Prince Maryn, down to the stones and the dungheaps.”
“He's daft! There's nothing up there in those hills.”
“There will be, and soon enough, most like, when he gets there.”
Maddyn shook his head in amazement. Young as he was, Braemys had a touch of genius when it came to tactics. When it came to common sense, however, he seemed more than a bit lacking.
“Ah well,” Maddyn said. “The noble-born do what they will, and there's naught for a bard like me to do but remember it for them.”
“Just so.” Alwyn glanced around at the men crowding in to listen. “Let us through, lads! We've got a fair bit of daylight left, and we need to be on our way.”
The couriers walked their horses around the straggling wagon train, then trotted off fast, heading east to bring this peculiar news to the princess and her fortguard. Maddyn's lot followed at their usual slow pace.
To pass the time for both of them, Lilli had taken to teaching Prince Riddmar how to play carnoic and gwydd-bwcl of an afternoon. They would sit at a table in the great hall, empty except for the dogs, circling flies, and a few servants, who generally watched the game and offered bad advice to both of them impartially. When the two silver daggers arrived with messages from the army, the two gamers happened to be the only noble-born persons present. The messengers knelt at Lilli's side and proffered the message tubes.
“From Prince Maryn, my lady,” Alwyn said. “Is the princess here?”
“In the women's hall,” Lilli said. “I'll take these up.” She glanced at a lurking servant lass. “Get these men food and ale.”
As she climbed the staircase Lilli looked back and saw that Riddmar had gone to sit with the riders. No doubt he was going to badger them with questions about the fighting.
Lilli was planning on handing the messages to Elyssa or Degwa at the door, but when she knocked on the door of the women's hall, Bellyra herself opened it. She wore only a simple shift, so old that the linen was shiny, and it seemed to Lilli that she could have counted every bone in the princess's body. Bellyra paused, looking her over with dull eyes. Lilli, who was of too low a rank to speak first to a princess, curtsied, then merely waited while her breath caught ragged in her throat.
“What are those?” Bellyra said finally.
“Messages, Your Highness, from your husband.” Lilli held out the tubes. “The men that brought them are down in the great hall.”
“My thanks.” Bellyra took the tubes. “I was sorry to hear about Brano
ic's death. You have my sympathies.”
“My thanks, Your Highness.”
“I had hopes that he'd take you away from Dun Deverry. My husband honors his men highly, after all, and what he wouldn't do for us, he might have done for one of them.”
Lilli tried to answer, but her mouth had gone too dry. Bellyra continued with her slow scrutiny.
“Oh, I'm sorry, Lilli,” the princess said at last. “It's truly not your fault. I just can't stand the sight of you, is all.”
With that she slammed the door shut. Lilli stood in the hallway and trembled for some while before she could summon the breath to leave.
Maddyn led his straggling procession into Dun Deverry late on an afternoon when clouds hung heavy in the western sky. Light the color of beaten copper slanted under the swelling thunderheads and made them blaze over the black towers and walls of the dun. As they rode through the last gate into the ward, Maddyn was hoping that the storm would break soon. The heat seemed to have turned the air too thick to breathe.
Servants swarmed out of the broch, and grooms came running. As Maddyn dismounted, he saw Grodyn the chirurgeon limping across the ward with his stick for support. Pages scurried at the old man's orders to help the wounded men down. Lady Lillorigga, with young Prince Riddmar at her side, stood waiting in the doorway of the main broch. As Maddyn hurried over, he noticed that her skin looked oddly pale except for the hectic red upon her cheeks. I wonder if Nevyn knows about this, he thought. When he started to kneel, she stopped him.
“Don't, Maddo,” Lilli said, and her voice quivered with tears. “If the gods had been kinder I'd have been a silver dagger's wife, and I shan't have his comrade kneeling to me.”
“My heart aches for you, my lady,” Maddyn said, “and for my own grief as well. I'd ridden with Branno for many a long year.”
“I know.” Lilli raised one arm and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “But it was Wyrd, and what can we do about that?”
“Naught, truly.” Maddyn reached into his shirt and brought out the two silver message tubes. “One of these is for you, but I can't read the names upon them.”
Lilli took them, slid one parchment out, then handed it and the tube both back to him.
“This is for the princess,” she said. “It's odd how when there's a choice of two things, one always chooses the wrong one.”
Her voice twisted with such bitterness that Maddyn heard a tale's worth of meanings in her words. “So it is,” he said. “Is the princess in the great hall?”
“She's not. I suppose I could take that letter to Elyssa to give to her.”
“Or you could just take it up to the women's hall.”
“I can't.” Lilli looked away. “But you know, I think our princess would like to see you. Maybe you can distract her a bit. Let me just find Elyssa.”
While Lilli went upstairs, Maddyn and the rest of the escort sat themselves down on the riders' side of the great hall. Servant lasses brought them ale, then hovered around them, asking after various men who'd gone to the battle. For some it was a sad asking, because their men had been slain, but most could laugh and rest easy, knowing they'd ride home again soon. Maddyn kept watch on the great staircase while he prayed that Bellyra would be well enough to come down.
In but a little while his vigil was rewarded. With Lady Elyssa beside her the princess appeared at the top of the stairs. Bellyra wore a pair of green dresses, and her richly embroidered head scarf pulled her honey-colored hair back from a face gone pale and gaunt. Barely thinking, Maddyn rose and hurried to the foot of the stairs. Bellyra was frowning a little, concentrating on taking each step down as if she were exhausted, so carefully, so sadly, really, that he longed to pick her up and carry her down in his arms. When the women were about halfway down, Elyssa waved, gesturing that he should come up to meet them. He knelt two steps below them and offered Bellyra the message tube.
“From Nevyn, my lady,” Maddyn said.
“My thanks.” Bellyra took the message, slid it halfway out of the tube, then slid it back. “I'd hoped for a word from my husband.”
Maddyn winced. “He was much distracted, Your Highness. The battle wasn't long over.”
“I see.” She glanced at Elyssa. “You know, I feel rather faint.” In a rustle of crisp linen she sat down on the step directly above him. “But I want to hear what Maddyn can tell me about the prince. Is he truly well?”
“He is, my lady. Victory becomes any man.”
“The messengers told me about Braemys's withdrawal. I'm so glad there was but the one battle, but they also told me Maryn's going to be chasing down bandits or suchlike.”
“Oh, he'll ride home before that campaign, Your Highness. He needs to claim the kingship as soon as he secures Cantrae.”
“Ah. That's somewhat to hope for, then. I'll send letters back with you.”
Bellyra stared down at her hands, lying in her lap. When Maddyn looked at Elyssa, he found her pointedly looking elsewhere.
“My heart aches to leave you again,” he whispered.
Bellyra managed a smile. “I wish you weren't leaving, but the messages—”
“Anyone can carry those. If you want me here, I'll stay. Owaen will be glad to have me gone.”
“And what about our prince?”
Maddyn hesitated, searching for words. “Ah well,” he said at last. “He gave me leave to stay here, you see, should I want to.”
“Why?” Bellyra looked up, her eyes anger-bright. “To comfort his little mistress if she needed it?”
Maddyn winced again.
“So I thought.” Bellyra's voice trembled. “I'll just steal a little happiness for myself, then, out of his ever-so-generous gift to her. Do stay, Maddo. I'll be glad of your company.”
“I will, then.”
She smiled, just faintly, then scrambled up and turned to Elyssa with a wave of the letter she held.
“No doubt Nevyn will want a reply,” the princess said. “I'll read this and compose an answer.”
“Very well, Your Highness,” Elyssa said. “The men from the escort can carry it back.”
Maddyn stayed kneeling until they'd climbed the stairs and gone. For so many years, through so many dangers, his loyalty to Prince Maryn had shaped his life—his heart and soul, really. It was odd to think that a woman's unhappiness had destroyed it.
After the parley with Braemys, Prince Maryn and Gwerbret Ammerwdd sent some of their weaker vassals home to tend to their own affairs, then divided the remaining forces between them. Maryn ended up with some eight hundred men—his silver daggers, several of the northern lords including Nantyn and his men, the riders due him as Gwerbret Cerrmor, and half the Cerrmor spearmen. With their much-reduced numbers, they could now make better speed, some eighteen miles a day on the flat, though hilly country would take its toll on the wagons when they reached it. The messengers sent by Princess Bellyra caught up with the prince some ten miles east of Glasloc, half a day's march from the lands belonging to the Boar clan.
The army had camped in a stretch of fallow fields just at the edge of a straggling forest. With a few hours of sunlight left in the day, Nevyn took a cloth sack and his digging tools and walked into the young trees to look for herbs, but he found mostly weeds and brambles. In the shade of a few of the larger trees he did see young bracken pushing their curled shoots through the green-covered ground. The land had been cleared once, he supposed, then allowed to go wild again, doubtless as a result of the war. About a quarter mile into the second growth, he found proof of his theory in the form of a remnant of low stone wall, overgrown with mosses.
Beyond stood the last remnant of the wild forest that had covered the entire area back when Nevyn had been young and a prince himself. As he leaned onto the top of the wall and contemplated the ancient oaks, he realized exactly where he must be. Within that forest lay the cairn that marked Brangwen's grave. He'd seen it last some twenty years ago, though he'd approached it from the other side. The shadows lay deep in the forest; sunset
lay close at hand. With a shake of his head he turned and made his way back to camp.
As he was walking back to his tent, Owaen hailed him.
“Messengers rode in, my lord,” Owaen called out. “The prince has letters for you.”
“My thanks!” Nevyn said. “I'll go fetch them.”
There turned out to be two personal letters for Nevyn—one from Princess Bellyra, one from Lilli. The princess had sent only the briefest of notes, acknowledging his earlier message. Lilli's letter supplied the reason. She had written it herself in her big blocky letters rather than trust her meaning to a scribe.
“My dear master,” it began, “I am writing about the princess. Her illness still lies upon her, and it aches my heart to see. Maddyn the bard did cheer her somewhat upon his return with his songs, but in only a few days she fell into a deeper sadness than ever. Lady Elyssa is beside herself with worry, saying that this fit of madness is worse than the last. Is there some herb I might brew to lift some of her clouds? I would be ever so grateful for any advice upon this matter.”
The letter continued with comments upon her studies and some gossip from the dun, then ended with a line that brought tears to his eyes.
“I think about Branoic every night at sunset and weep for him. I understand now why bards call grief a monster that gnaws at your heart.”
Nevyn rolled the letter up and slipped it into his shirt to keep it safe. Was there any advice he could give her about helping Bellyra recover? When he did think of a possible remedy, it required no mighty magicks or even herb lore. The next morning, while they waited for the first scouts to return, Nevyn took the prince for a little stroll into the forest edge.
“If I remember rightly, Your Highness,” Nevyn said, “there's a proper road just beyond this stretch of forest.”
“Splendid!” Maryn said. “I'll send a couple of men to scout it out. Is there a path through here?”
“I think so. I'm fairly sure I know this spot. If I'm right, there's a grave marker along in here somewhere.”
Sure enough, in a short walk's space they came to a neat stack of stones, some four feet high, in the midst of a small clearing. Just beyond it they could see a worn dirt path through the trees.
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