Daggerspell

“You do,” Rhys said graciously. “No doubt you need it to reassure your men.”

  “I do, and my thanks, Your Grace, from the bottom of my heart.”

  Yet Cullyn looked so bored and bland that Nevyn wondered just what the captain was up to.

  Since all matters of criminal justice in Aberwyn were under Rhys’s jurisdiction, out in his ward stood a proper jail, a long stone building with a common room for local drunks and beggars, and a few tiny cells for more important prisoners. It was some comfort, Rhodry supposed, that he qualified for one of those, even though it was only about six feet square and reeked of urine and garbage. Under the tiny barred window was a heap of somewhat cleaner straw. Rhodry sat down there, wrapped his arms around his knees, and laid his head on them, too. He was shaking, he could not stop shaking, and it was from fear, not rage. He could face dying easily, but the shame of it ate at him, that he would be strung up in Rhys’s ward like a common horse thief where every man could watch and mock him.

  All his honor, all his hard-won glory in the recent war, all the respect of the men who were once his vassals—gone, stripped away from him by one thoughtless act. No bard would ever sing about Rhodry Maelwaedd without reminding his audience that here was a lord who’d died on the end of a rope. As a hanged man he would even lack a proper grave among his ancestors. Without his honor, he was nothing, worth less than a bondman, not even a man at all. He bent all his will to the task, but he could not stop shaking. And what of Jill? At the thought of losing her this way, he wept, sobbing like a frightened child in the dark, until he realized that his tears were shaming him all the more. He unwrapped himself from his cramped position, wiped his face on his sleeve, then curled up again and went on shaking.

  Rhodry had no idea of how long he’d sat there before he heard Cullyn’s voice at the window, a soft “my lord?” Hurriedly he stood up and peered out.

  “Here! Over here.”

  With a furtive look round Cullyn sidled up to the wall.

  “I thank the gods I’ve found you. I’ve been whispering at every one of these cursed windows. The guards won’t let me in to talk with you.”

  “No doubt they’re afraid you’ll murder them.”

  “I was tempted, my lord. Here, Rhys has no intentions of hanging you. Nevyn and I went to plead for your life, and he said ever so sweetly that he’d never break your mother’s heart that way. He’s staged all this to humiliate you and naught more. All you have to do is beg his pardon in the malover, and he’ll forgive you.”

  Rhodry grabbed the window bars so hard that his hands hurt.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” Cullyn snapped. “Give the bastard what he wants, and we’ll be on our way home.”

  Clinging to the bars, Rhodry rocked back and forth, throwing his weight against them as if he would pull them out.

  “Rhodry! Talk to me!”

  Rhodry went on rocking, shaking, tossing his head back and forth. He wanted to answer Cullyn, but he seemed to have forgotten how to speak. He heard other voices, then, guards, yelling insults and orders. When he could at last make himself stand still, Cullyn was gone.

  Rhodry sat down, but this time he sprawled out and leaned against the wall. Rhys’s little trick had broken something in him, he realized, made him see a part of himself that he’d never wanted to see but that now he would never forget. It would haunt him his whole life, the night he trembled like a terrified child instead of facing his death like a man. All at once he fell asleep where he sprawled. All night, he dreamt about Jill.

  The guards woke him early and tossed him half a loaf of stale bread that he threw back in their faces. For over an hour he paced back and forth, barely thinking at all. At last the guards returned. They bound his hands behind his back with a leather thong and marched him out of the cell.

  “Can’t I have some clean clothes? I stink from that straw.”

  “His Grace said to bring you along straightaway.”

  Of course, Rhodry thought to himself, of course. It was part of the humiliation, that he would have to kneel filthy and stinking at Rhys’s feet. As they crossed the great hall, men looked his way with a pity that hurt worse than scorn. Up and round the staircase, through the last door, and there was Rhys, sitting on the far side of the chamber of justice with the priests beside him and scribes in attendance. The crowd of onlookers moved aside to let the guards through. When they reached the table, one of the guards kicked Rhodry in the back of the knee and forced him to kneel. Rhys looked at him with a stranger’s eyes.

  “We have before us a grave charge. This man drew cold steel upon a gwerbret in his own hall.”

  “That offense is punishable by hanging,” said a priest.

  The proceedings stopped to let a scribe scratch out the words. When Rhodry glanced around, he saw Jill standing off to one side, her arms folded across her chest. That she would see him humiliated this way was the last bitter thing he could bear. The scribe stopped writing.

  “Very well,” Rhys went on. “But I’m minded to show you mercy. I’ll admit, brother, that I said hot and insulting words to you, admit it publicly and freely. Yet, the offense is a grave one.”

  The priest rose and began quoting from the laws.

  “No man may draw upon the gwerbret. Why? Because the gwerbret is the very flesh of the law itself, and there must be no bloodshed in his hall. Why? Because no lord would sit in justice if he thought the condemned would revenge himself with steel.” The priest sat down again.

  “So some redress must I have,” Rhys said. “If you kneel there and beg my pardon, pardon is what you’ll have.”

  With a wrench of his body, Rhodry got to his feet.

  “I won’t. I’d rather hang.”

  Gasps, murmurs from the crowd—Rhodry even heard Jill yell at hint to kneel—but he stared straight at Rhys.

  “I’ll give you another chance. Kneel and beg.”

  “I won’t.”

  “One last chance. Kneel and beg.”

  “I won’t.”

  Rhys’s mouth twitched in a smile of bloodlust. Rhodry refused to break. This time, by every god, he’d face his hanging like a man and redeem himself.

  “You leave me no choice but to hang you.”

  Cullyn stepped out of the crowd and flung himself down to kneel before the gwerbret.

  “Your Grace? Last night you gave me your sworn word that my lord’s life was safe from you.”

  Rhys caught his breath with a little explosive puff. Cullyn’s face was so impassive that anyone who knew him could see that he’d realized what was bound to happen and had laid up a weapon against it. Rhys knew it, too, judging from the way he swung his head to look at Cullyn with a remote, impersonal hatred.

  “So I did. And no Maelwaedd ever breaks his sworn word. Well and good, captain. I hereby commute your lord’s sentence of hanging to exile.” He turned back to Rhodry. “Henceforth you will be banished from all my lands, from the lands of all men loyal to me, and you will be stripped of all rank and position, all lands and properties, except for one horse, one dagger, two pieces of silver, and clothes such as any man wears. Never use the name of Maelwaedd again, for the head of your clan has cast you out of it.”

  While the guards cut Rhodry’s hands free, the chamber of justice was utterly silent; then Lovyan sobbed in a gasping gulp of mourning that broke the silence like dweomer. The onlookers began whispering, then talking in a rising tide of noise that brought Rhys to his feet to yell them into silence. Once he had the silence, he turned back to Rhodry.

  “And do you have anything to say about your sentence?”

  “I do. You’ve finally gotten what you wanted all along, haven’t you? You’ll have the taxes from the tierynrhyn when Mother dies. I hope you spend every cursed copper well, brother. May you choke on the food you buy with it!”

  Rhys’s face turned scarlet. If it weren’t for the table between them, he would have lunged forward, but Rhodry threw back his head and laughed.

  “Someday the bards wi
ll sing about this. The miser gwerbret who was so hungry for silver that he ruined his own brother’s life.”

  The priests leapt up, grabbed Rhys by the arms, and hauled him back.

  “Well and good, then,” Rhys snarled. “You have till sunset to get off my lands. You’d best ride east cursed fast.”

  • • •

  Cullyn left the sobbing Lovyan to her womenfolk and ran after Rhodry as the guards marched him away. He caught up with them down by the gates of the dun, just as the guards slammed Rhodry back against the stone wall and snarled at him to stay where he was while they fetched his horse. His berserker fit gone, Rhodry turned to Cullyn with numb eyes.

  “My thanks and my apologies, captain. But cursed if I’d kneel.”

  “I wouldn’t have either, my lord.”

  “Never call me my lord again.”

  “Well and good then, Rhodry.”

  Rhodry gave him a faint smile. Cullyn wondered if Rhodry were going to break and weep; he wouldn’t have held it to his shame if he did.

  “Now, listen, lad. About ten miles this side of Abernaudd is a village and a tavern called the Gray Goat. Ride there, tell the owner you know me, and hole up for a while. I’ll send one of the lads to you with blankets and suchlike, and some more coin if I can get it.”

  “If Rhys finds out, he’ll kill you for it.”

  “He won’t find out. I’ve bested him once already, haven’t I now?”

  Rhodry tried to smile, a ghost of his old good humor that was painful to see.

  “Try to think, lad. We don’t have much time. What are you going to do? Ride to one of Rhys’s rivals and beg for shelter?”

  “I’d rather starve.”

  “So I thought. Then I’ll give you my silver dagger. If anyone asks you why you have my device, just tell them I pledged you to the band.”

  Rhodry stared at him, tried to speak, then shook his head in a no, back and forth, over and over, wider and wider swings, as if he were desperately trying to deny everything that was happening to him. Cullyn grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him to make him stop.

  “If you won’t take a rival’s shelter, what choice do you have? Or are you going to do what I was too proud to do—beg for work in a tavern or stables?”

  “I couldn’t do that either, but—”

  “Ah, by the hells, don’t you think I know how hard it is to take the cursed dagger? Don’t you think I wept when I saw that it was all that was left to me, to sell my sword and have decent men spit when I walked into a room? But it’s a way for a man to fight and gain a little glory while he survives, and you’ll survive like I did. You’re the first man I’ve ever met who’s my match with a sword.”

  “Do you really think I’m your match?”

  “I do. Now, do you want this dagger or not?”

  Rhodry hesitated, then grinned and tossed his head with some of his old spirit kindling in his eyes.

  “I do, and I’ll wear it as proudly as I can.”

  “Good. We’ll all be here working for your recall. Remember that when the long road turns harsh.”

  Since Jill’s first duty lay with Lovyan, she helped Dannyan get their lady up to her chambers, then worked her way free of the crowd of cursing lords. By the time she got down to the ward, there was no one by the gates but the pair of guards. When she approached them, they looked at her with a certain pity.

  “Has Rhodry already ridden out?”

  “He has. You’d best get back to your people, my lady, and forget him as best you can.”

  As Jill walked back through the gardens, she stopped at the dragon fountain. She watched the endless rise and fall of the water and wondered what was so wrong with her, that she couldn’t weep, even though Rhodry had ridden out without giving her one last kiss. There Cullyn found her, but even when he pulled her into his arms, her eyes stayed stubbornly dry.

  “He refused to wait because he didn’t want you to see him shamed. But he begged me to tell you that he’ll love you forever.”

  “He’s not shamed in my eyes, and he never will be.”

  Together they went back to the broch. In the great hall, servants and noble-born officials alike gossiped furiously; the men of Rhys’s warband stood round and cursed Rhodry for daring to draw on their lord. Yet in all the bluster, there was a doubtful undertone, a wondering, hastily denied the moment it appeared, if maybe, just maybe, Rhodry had been right when he claimed that Rhys was greedy for the coin that the tierynrhyn would bring him. In time, Jill realized, that little doubt would grow until men all over Eldidd accepted it as the solemn truth. Thinking that, she smiled. Rhodry had won a victory that Rhys would never be able to forget.

  The reception chamber of Lovyan’s suite was empty. Jill could hear Nevyn and Dannyan talking with Lovyan in the bedchamber. Rhodry’s noble allies, Cullyn told her, were packing up in a fury and planning on leaving court as fast as they could. Somewhat to Jill’s surprise, Cullyn stayed with her. While she slouched in a chair, he paced back and forth, stopping often to listen at the door that led to the corridor. Finally he smiled and opened it. His arms full of gear, Amyr slipped in like a thief.

  “I got it all, even his sword. You were right enough about silver making men see reason. I got his lordships clothes and suchlike from the servants for only a few coppers, but it took all the coin Lord Sligyn gave me to bribe those stinking guards for the sword.”

  “I figured that,” Cullyn said.

  “Do we ride today, captain?”

  “It depends on Her Grace.” Cullyn shot an anxious glance at the closed door to the bedchamber. “If we do stay, I don’t want brawling and suchlike tonight at table. Remember that.”

  “Then, captain, we’d best eat in the barracks.”

  Amyr dumped Rhodry’s gear on a table, then hurried off before a servant wandered in and found him there. Cullyn picked up Rhodry’s sword and drew it half out of the scabbard so that Jill could see the double device, the dragon of Aberwyn and the lion of his adopted clan, both engraved on the blade.

  “May the gods blast me if I let Rhys hang it up in his chamber of justice as a mark of Rhodry’s shame! The thing is, how are we going to smuggle it out?”

  “Easily, Da. I’ll wear it out.”

  “What?”

  “If I put on my old clothes, and Dann trims my hair short, and I ride with the warband with a sword in an old scabbard, who’s going to notice?”

  Cullyn laughed, his soft mutter of a chuckle.

  “No one. And I don’t mean the herbman, either. Well and good, my sweet. You’re my daughter, sure enough.”

  Eventually Nevyn came out with the news that Lovyan was too exhausted to ride that day. When Cullyn pointed out that it would be best to get Rhodry’s warband away from Rhys’s men, Nevyn immediately agreed.

  “And I’ve got to get out of here myself. Soon enough everyone will remember that little show I put on in the malover. I’ll have a word with Dannyan, and you get the men ready to ride before we have a brawl on our hands.”

  “I will. And Jill, change your clothes.”

  Since everyone in the dun had known Jill only as Rhodry’s beautiful mistress, no one noticed the scruffy young silver dagger who rode out with the Clw Coc men. As they clattered along the north-running road out of Aberwyn, Jill turned in the saddle for a last glimpse of the silver-and-blue dragon pennant, flying high over the broch.

  “And may I never see Rhys’s ugly face again!”

  “Once more,” Amyr said. “When he has to stand there in full malover and announce Lord Rhodry’s recall.”

  It was a beautiful fall day, as warm as summer, with a bluish haze hanging over the distant fields of ripe gold wheat. As they rode north, the River Gwyn sparkled as white as its name as it ran fast beside the road. Jill felt like singing. She wondered what was wrong with her, that she’d feel nothing but joy; then she realized what she should have known all along, from that first horrible moment when Rhodry got to his feet in the chamber of justice. The door
to her cage was standing open—-if she had the courage to fly.

  • • •

  As soon as he was outside the city, Rhodry kicked his horse to a canter for the first couple of miles, then let it slow to a brisk walk. As they headed east, he kept up a walk-trot pace, making all the speed he could while the horse was fresh. By law, an exile was under the gwerbret’s special protection until he left the rhan, but that law had been broken more than once. Some of Rhys’s men were likely to decide to curry favor from their lord by following and murdering the man who’d mocked him in his very chamber of justice. Every now and then, Rhodry turned in the saddle to look back. The only weapon he had was his half-elven eyesight, which could pick out from a long distance away the telltale plume of dust that his pursuers would raise on the road.

  The road between Aberwyn and Abernaudd ran straight while the seacoast curved in and out, sometimes close to the road, sometimes a good mile away. As he jogged along, Rhodry kept an eye out for places to hide if he had to, but mostly he saw small farms, whose owners would doubtless refuse shelter to a man pursued by the gwerbret’s riders. Here and there, though, were stands of woodland. If he hid in one of them, his murderers would have to dismount to find him, and he’d have a chance to kill one with his dagger before the others cut him to shreds.

  At times, he considered merely stopping and letting Rhys’s men catch him, or perhaps turning his horse loose and walking into the sea to drown. His shame rode with him, like a rider behind him, clutching at him with heavy arms. Occasionally he would glance at his brigga—old, shabby, and plain blue, spare clothes from Rhys’s warband, as was his cloak. As a final humiliation, they’d stripped him of his plaid right there in the ward. Death seemed better than dragging out a miserable life in exile, a life that would end in a few years in some lord’s petty feud or in a cheap tavern brawl. The only thing that kept him riding was knowing that Rhys would gloat over his death.

  Toward noon, as the road climbed a small rise, Rhodry looked back and saw a small cloud of dust, far behind, moving too fast to be hiding some ordinary traveler. He kicked his horse and galloped down the rise, then turned into a lane running north between wheat fields. Puzzled farmers shouted as he raced past, turning down lanes and jogging across meadows without any goal in mind. Whenever he looked back, he saw the plume of dust behind him. He was laying an easy trace; his own horse raised dust, and the farmers were no doubt telling the gwerbret’s men exactly what they’d seen ride by. Alternately trotting and galloping, he kept riding until at last he saw a woodland bigger than a mere stand of firewood. He kicked a last burst of speed out of his tiring horse and galloped hard for the cover.