‘Stay your hand, silver dagger. Your milksop lord’s safe from me. I only ask one boon, Your Grace. Don’t make me watch her hang. I loved her once.’
‘Done.’
Coryc began to speak further, but the crowd broke, first into whispers, then into an excited gabble that grew louder and louder as the people swirled about. Coryc hesitated, then yelled at the guards to clear the hall and be done with it. In the confusion Beryn gathered his sworn men round him like a dressing for a wound and was swept away; when Dwaen tried to follow to apologize further, Rhodry and Cadlew held him back. The gwerbret was so thickly surrounded by clamouring priests that he never did bother to formally adjourn the malover.
Once the chamber was reasonably clear, Rhodry looked around for Jill, but he found her gone. Blast her! he thought. What’s she up to now? Since Dwaen was quite obviously safe, he left his hire and went after her. As he was walking down the stairs, he smelled something, a familiar scent – a hint of cinnamon and musk, exactly that which had hung round the man who’d tried to hire him for murder. Rhodry threw up his head like a hunting dog and raced down the spiral at a dangerous pace. For a moment, at the foot of the stairs, he caught the scent again, but the great hall was packed with gossiping people. By the time he made his way to the door out, he could find neither scent nor sight of the man who, he could assume, had to have been Bavydd of Cerrmor.
After a short search Jill discovered Lord Beryn and his men out by the stables. Silent and miserable, they were unsaddling their horses, and when she approached they all stared at her in angry bewilderment, as if they couldn’t decide whether she was the cause of their lord’s trouble or his saviour from it. Beryn himself, however, raised one hand and flapped it in dispirited greeting.
‘My lord, I know I’ve brought you great grief, but I’ve come now to bring you a little solace. May I speak?’
‘Why not, silver dagger? I can’t think of one wretched thing you could do to hurt me any worse.’
‘You’ve lost your only son, and I know it’s a grievous thing to think your clan will die when you do. But I’ve come to tell you that your son sired a son before he died. It’s the child we spoke about in the malover, Vyna’s babe. The child’s a bastard, of course, but he could be legitimized.’
Beryn wrenched himself half round, then began to shake, like a spear stuck in the ground with a smack that then quivers itself still. At last he turned to her again.
‘I remember when the lass was sent away. Didn’t take any notice at the time. Some woman’s matter, I thought. Why didn’t my lady tell me about the child?’
‘Would she have told you anything that would have pleased you?’
‘Ye gods.’ For a long moment he was silent. ‘The little bitch.’
‘Here, my lord, how could the poor lass have turned your son away?’
‘Not the lass, you wretched imbecile of a silver dagger! My wife.’ He began to pace round and round in a tight circle. ‘Is the babe healthy?’
‘He is, my lord. His name’s Bellgyn.’
Round and round, and always he stared at the dirt beneath his feet. Jill made him an unnoticed bow and slipped away.
On the morrow, as soon as the dun came awake, the gwerbret summoned the two lords and their retinues to the table of honour in the great hall. Coryc rose, carefully impassive, and gave Beryn a nod of greeting.
‘I have a formal announcement to make, my lord,’ Coryc said quietly. ‘I intend to ride to your dun to question your lady on this matter of justice. If his lordship wishes to ride to her defence, then he has my guarantee of safe conduct out of my city and on my roads.’
Beryn snorted profoundly.
‘When you ride, Your Grace, I want to join your hunt for this piss-poor bastard merchant.’ Beryn jerked his thumb in Rhodry’s direction. ‘This silver dagger tells me that he’s sure Bavydd was in town last night. I’ll bet he’s fleeing south right now. A boon, Your Grace. If we catch him, let me have him.’
Coryc hesitated, looking Dwaen’s way as if the tieryn were his own conscience, there to testify about Bel’s laws.
‘It’s not for me to say what his grace may or may not do,’ Dwaen said. ‘My father’s death was more than I could bear in silence, but this time I’ll no longer push my rights before the law. Whatever you want done with the merchant, Your Grace, do.’
‘Then your boon is granted, Lord Beryn,’ Coryc said. ‘And we’d best get ready to ride.’
All that day the warbands pushed their horses hard and arrived at Dun Ebonlyn in early afternoon, where they stopped to eat and to tell Lady Ylaena the news. As the men were filing in, Jill saw Lord Beryn turn his men out of line and stop beside the gates. When she pointed him out to Dwaen, the tieryn rode over and made Beryn a small bow from the saddle.
‘His lordship is welcome in my dun,’ Dwaen said. ‘If he can bring himself to enter it.’
Slouched in his saddle, Beryn considered the offer. In the strong afternoon light, he looked exhausted, his eyes blood-shot, his cheeks slashed with deep wrinkles from a life out in the sun and wind. Finally Beryn sighed.
‘His grace is most generous,’ Beryn said. ‘My men and me can eat out in your ward. I’ve no desire to distress your lady mother and sister with my presence at your table.’
‘As his lordship desires, but I’ll have food from my stores brought out to you.’
‘My thanks. That much I’ll accept from you.’
The two men looked at each for a moment, neither smiling nor scowling.
‘I have a small matter to lay before you,’ Beryn went on. ‘Your silver dagger here tells me that kin of mine is sheltering in your dun.’
‘Vyna’s baby, Your Grace,’ Jill put in. ‘Madryc sired the lad.’
Dwaen caught his breath in a little whistle of surprise.
‘I’ll want to claim the lad,’ Beryn said. ‘Formally and legally, once we settle this other matter. He’s the only blasted kin I’ve got left.’
‘Never would I stand in your way, my lord, provided the lass agrees.’
Beryn scowled, started to speak, then merely shrugged and rode on inside.
Beryn’s men found a place to sit in the curve of the inner wall. Servants hurried out, bringing bread and cold meat for the men and the best oats for their horses. Beryn sat down on the cobbles in the midst of his warband and bellowed for ale. Jill hurried to the kitchen hut, where she found Vyna piling bread into a basket. On her back the baby slept in a cloth sling.
‘Cook?’ Jill called out. ‘Lord Beryn’s men need ale.’
‘Men always need ale,’ the cook said. ‘Pages! Where are you, lads? Run and get a small barrel.’
In the resulting confusion Jill could draw Vyna to one side.
‘I’ve got some important news. Lord Beryn knows about your baby. He wants to claim him and raise him as his heir.’
Vyna froze.
‘Can you bring yourself to give him up?’ Jill went on. ‘You know that Dwaen would never let the lord take him against your will.’
Vyna laid the basket down and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.
‘He’d have everything in life this way,’ Jill said. ‘Even a title, and you’d have a chance to find a man of your own.’
Vyna turned and walked blindly out of the kitchen hut, the baby swaying and bobbing on her back. Jill ran after her, catching up to her near the well just as Lord Beryn