Since he refused to order a servant to do such a hideous task, Gerraent climbed the broch, working his way up the rough stone while the priest waited below with a basket. When Gerraent reached the door, he clung to the lintel and examined the head. There was little left, a stretch of blackening skin over a skull, shreds of hair, a few cracked teeth.
“Well and good, Samoryc. Both you and your old enemy are going to be buried today.”
Gerraent pulled his dagger and pried out the crumbling nails until the head dropped into the priest’s basket with a sickening little thud. The maidservant screamed; then the ward was silent except for the stamp and snort of the restless horse.
The priests led the procession out and down around the hill to the small grove, the burial ground of the Falcon clan. At the sight of their mother’s grave, Brangwen began to weep. The fresh grave lay beside it, a deep trench, some eight feet wide and ten long. When Gerraent let the horse up, it pulled at the reins and danced in fear, as if it knew the Wyrd in store for it. Gerraent threw the reins to a waiting servant. As the horse tossed up its head, Gerraent drew his sword and struck, killing it cleanly with one blow to the throat. With a gush of blood, the horse staggered forward, its legs buckling, and fell headlong into the grave. Gerraent stepped back and unthinkingly wiped the sword blade clean on his brigga. For the rest of the ceremony, he stood there with the sword in his hand, because he never thought to sheathe it.
At first Gerraent managed to cling to his warrior’s calm, even when a sobbing Brangwen poured milk and honey over their father’s body. But the first spadeful of earth, the dark mud settling over his father’s face, broke him. Keening, he fell to his knees, tossed his head back and sobbed that high strange note over and over. Dimly he felt Brangwen’s hands on his shoulders.
“Gerro! Gerro, Gerro, please stop, please.”
Gerraent let her lead him away, leaning on her as if she were the warrior and he the lass. She took him back to the hall and shoved him into a chair by the hearth. He saw the priests come back, saw them fussing around Brangwen and talking in low voices. She came over to him with a tankard of ale in her hand. Reflexively Gerraent took it, sipped from it, then nearly threw it in her face. It reeked of medicinal herbs.
“Drink it,” Brangwen snapped. “Drink it down, Gerro. You’ve got to sleep.”
For her sake Gerraent choked the bitter stuff down. She took the empty tankard from his hands just as he fell asleep in his chair, drowning, or so he felt, in the warm sunlight. When he woke, he was lying on his bed with a torch burning in an iron sconce on the wall. Blaen was sitting on the floor and watching him.
“Ah, ye gods,” Gerraent said. “How long did I sleep?”
“It’s just past sunset. We all rode in an hour or so ago. My mother and your betrothed wanted to be with Gwennie.”
Blaen got up and poured water from the clay pitcher on the windowsill. Gerraent drank greedily to wash the bitter aftertaste of the drug out of his mouth.
“How long will you set the period of mourning?” Blaen said.
“For my sake I’d say a year, but that would be cruel to our sisters, wouldn’t it? I can go on mourning after they’re both married.”
“Say to the turning of the fall, then?”
Gerraent nodded in agreement, thinking that Gwennie would be his for one more summer. Then he remembered why he would have the summer. Keening, he threw the clay cup against the wall so hard that it shattered. Blaen sat down beside him and grabbed him by the shoulders.
“Here, here, he’s gone,” Blaen said. “There’s naught more to do or say.”
Gerraent rested his head against Blaen’s chest and wept. I love him like a brother, he thought. I’ll thank all the gods that Gwennie’s not marrying him.
Prince Galrion’s first week back at court was one long frustration, with never a chance to speak to his father except in full, formal court. He knew that he was holding back, too, letting slip a chance here and there, because his heart worried like a terrier with a rat at the question of marrying Brangwen or letting Blaen have her. Finally, he decided to enlist the aid of the one ally he could always trust: his mother. On an afternoon so warm and balmy that it reminded him Beltane was close at hand, Galrion left the city and rode out to find the Queen’s hawking party down by Loc Gwerconydd, the vast lake where three rivers came together west of Dun Deverry.
The Queen and her attendants were having their noon meal at the southern shore. In their bright dresses, the serving women and maidservants looked like flowers scattered through the grass. Queen Ylaena sat in their midst; a young page, dressed in white, stood behind her with the Queen’s favorite little merlin on his wrist. Off to one side menservants tended the horses and other hawks. When Galrion dismounted, the Queen waved him over with an impatient flick of her hand.
“I’ve hardly seen you since you rode home,” Ylaena said. “Are you well?”
“By all means. What makes you think I’m not?”
“You’ve been brooding over somewhat. I can always tell.” The Queen turned to her women. “Go down to the lakeshore or suchlike, all of you. Leave us.”
The women sprang up like birds taking flight and ran off, laughing and calling to one another. The page followed more slowly, chirruping to the hawk to keep it calm. Ylaena watched them go with a small satisfied nod. For all that she had four grown sons, she was a beautiful woman still, with large, dark eyes, a slender face, and only a few streaks of gray in her chestnut hair. She reached into the basket beside her, brought out a piece of sweet bread, and handed it to Galrion.
“My thanks. Tell me somewhat, Mother. When you first came to court, did the other women envy your beauty?”
“Of course. Are you thinking about your betrothed?”
“Just that. I’m beginning to think you were right to doubt my choice.”
“Now’s a fine time for that, when you’ve already pledged your vow to the poor child.”
“What son ever listens to his mother until it’s too late?”
Ylaena gave him an indulgent smile. Galrion nibbled on the sweet bread and considered strategies.
“You know,” Ylaena said. “There’s not a lass alive who wouldn’t want to be known as the most beautiful woman in all Deverry, but it’s a harsh Wyrd in its own way. Your little Gwennie never had the education I had, either. She’s such a trusting little soul.”
“Just that. I spoke with Lady Rodda of the Boar about the matter, too, when I went with Gerraent for his betrothal. Lord Blaen of the Boar is much enamoured of the lass.”
“Indeed? And does that mean trouble coming?”
“It doesn’t, but only because Blaen is an honorable man. It’s odd, truly. Most lords care naught about their wives one way or another, just so long as they bear sons.”
“Great beauty can act on the roughest lord like dweomer.” Ylaena smiled briefly. “Or on a prince.”
Galrion winced at her unfortunate choice of imagery.
“What are you scheming?” Ylaena went on. “Leaving Gwennie to Blaen and finding another wife?”
“Well, somewhat like that. There’s one small difficulty to that plan. I still love her, in my way.”
“Love may be a luxury that a prince can’t afford. I don’t remember Blaen well from his few visits to court. Is he like his father?”
“As different as mead from mud.”
“Then that’s one blessing. I’m sure that if his father hadn’t been killed in that hunting accident, he’d be plotting against the king right now.”
Ylaena glanced away,