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‘He promised you,’ the bard said at length, ‘that you’d be wed once he had the victory. Our prince doesn’t break his promises.’
‘He’s never done it before.’ Branoic paused, groping for words. ‘But it’s like he’s half-mad or somewhat. Lilli tells me he’s starting to frighten her. He’s jealous, like, and all the time.’
Maddyn muttered something foul under his breath.
‘And him with his own lady, as beautiful and sweet as ever a man could want.’ Branoic felt his bitterness rise in his throat like bile. ‘It gripes my soul, Maddo lad, if you don’t mind me saying it.’
‘Not at all.’ Maddyn seemed to be measuring each word. ‘His lady’s devoted to him, as well.’
‘She is that.’ Branoic was about to continue his tirade, but he could see that Maddyn looked oddly distracted – no doubt all this talk of women was boring him. ‘Ah well, I don’t mean to croak like a frog, the same blasted chorus over and over. We made our bargain, the prince and me, and I’ve no call to be thinking he’ll break it till he does.’
Maddyn was about to reply, but from outside they suddenly heard shouting and cheers. Owaen got up and went to look out the window. ‘It’s Glasloc!’ he called out. ‘Gwerbret Daeryc’s held loyal to the prince!’
The silver daggers cheered as well, whether anyone could hear them or not, then went back to their work. Maddyn, however, neither spoke nor moved, merely sat staring out at nothing.
‘Here,’ Branoic said, ‘are you ill?’
‘In a way, truly.’ Maddyn turned to him with an odd twisted smile. ‘In a way.’
Once again Branoic wondered if he was understanding what Maddyn meant. Since his usual way of dealing with things he couldn’t understand was to shrug them off, he changed the subject.
Yet speaking of Lilli had brought his feelings for her to mind, and in but a little while he got up and left the barracks. Since Daeryc had just ridden in, no doubt Prince Maryn would be safely occupied by greeting his guest in the great hall. Sure enough, Daeryc’s riders and their horses filled the main ward with confusion. Near the gates a line of carts stood waiting to be unloaded. Servants rushed around, leading horses away, inviting the men inside to drink, and in general sorting things out as best they could.
Branoic left the ward proper and ducked around a half-destroyed wall. He knew a back way into the central broch complex. He was picking his way through the clutter of servant huts and animal pens when he caught sight of Councillor Oggyn, leaning against the wall of a shed ever so casually, as if he always took the air among the chickens and the onions. Branoic stopped and waited; Oggyn never looked his way. Slowly Branoic took a few steps to the side until he stood half concealed behind a big pile of stones kept in case of siege.
Not long after he saw a grey-haired man hobbling along with the aid of a long stick. He wore a stained, torn linen shirt and a filthy pair of brigga that once might have been grey, but for all that he looked like a beggar, Oggyn strode forward to meet him. They spoke just loudly enough for Branoic to catch part of the conversation. Apparently the lame fellow wished to speak with Prince Maryn, and apparently Oggyn was telling him that such was impossible. At length the man produced a silver coin from the pouch at his belt. Oggyn became all smiles as he took the coin; he bit it, then slid it into the pouch at his own belt. For a moment more they talked together; then Oggyn strode off back in the direction of the main broch complex. The other man wiped tears from his face on his dirty sleeve, then began to hobble off. Branoic left his hiding place and ran after him.
‘Wait! Good sir!’ Branoic caught up with him near the kitchen hut. ‘You’ve just been robbed.’
Uncomprehending, he stared up at Branoic with rheumy eyes.
‘The prince will listen to any one that comes to him,’ Branoic said. ‘You didn’t need to give Oggyn a copper, much less a blasted silver piece.’ He glanced around and saw the councillor lurking in the doorway to the side tower. ‘Slimy Oggo! Get yourself over here!’
With a toss of his head Oggyn disappeared inside. Branoic laid a friendly hand on the old man’s shoulder.
‘Just come with me,’ he said. ‘We’ll get that silver piece back for you at dinner tonight.’
‘My thanks, my profound thanks,’ the fellow said. ‘It’s all the coin I have in the world.’
Whether or not Maryn officially reigned as king, his decisions were the only justice that Dun Deverry had. Every night after dinner he lingered in the great hall so that suppliants could come to him with disputes and complaints they wished settled. And we’ll have a fine show tonight, Branoic thought. Slimy Oggo’s gone too far this time.
Just that morning, Otho the silversmith had finished the silver token for Maddyn, and Princess Bellyra took care to present it to her bard as openly as she could. With the muster nearly complete, close to a hundred lords ate in the great hall at the tables of honour. Servants had combed the dun and crammed every table and bench they could find into the riders’ side of the hall, but still, most of the men from the warbands ate outside. The prince’s silver daggers, however, stayed in his presence, eating just beyond the ranks of the noble-born.
As Maryn’s wife, Bellyra ate beside him and shared his trencher. That particular evening, before she and her women withdrew to the quiet safety of their hall, Bellyra took the pin from her kirtle.
‘I nearly forgot,’ she said to Maryn. ‘I’ve got a little gift for your bard, to thank him for being so patient all winter.’
‘Good.’ Maryn held out his hand. ‘May I?’
‘By all means.’ Bellyra gave him the pin. ‘It’s awfully nice, I thought.’
‘It is indeed.’ Maryn held the slender silver rose, barely an inch long, twixt thumb and forefinger. ‘Must be Otho’s work.’
‘It is. He looted some silver when you took the dun. Er, or I should say, he miraculously found some silver that no one was using.’
Grinning, Maryn handed it back, then got up, glancing around the hall. At length he gestured to one of the waiting pages.
‘Maddyn the bard’s sitting over by the front door,’ the prince said. ‘Go fetch him for me.’
With a bow the lad trotted off. Just as Maryn sat back down again, Branoic strode in the back door and headed for the prince’s chair. Limping along after him came a grey-haired man, dressed in a linen shirt and wool brigga made of cloth that had been once fine, but now was all frayed and patched. When Branoic knelt at Maryn’s side, the elderly man started to follow suit, but the stick he’d been leaning on nearly tripped him. Maryn swung round in his chair and caught his elbow in one hand.
‘Don’t kneel,’ the prince said. ‘My rank can give way to your age, sir.’
The prince let him go, then stood up. The man bowed as best he could with both hands clutched on his stick.
‘My thanks, my prince.’ The fellow was stammering. ‘I have a matter to lay before you, you see, and –’
‘Two matters,’ Branoic interrupted. ‘Your highness, Councillor Oggyn demanded a coin from this fellow for the privilege of coming to you for justice.’
‘Oh by the gods!’ Maryn snarled. He rose and spun around, looking out over the hall, then bellowed at the top of his lungs. ‘Oggyn! Get over here!’
With a tight little smile Branoic rose, dusting off the knees of his brigga, and escorted the old man and his stick out of the way. Bellyra slewed round in her chair and saw Oggyn making his way across the hall. Like a hound with chicken feathers still clinging to his muzzle, Oggyn slunk through the tables. The talk and jesting among the lords died down as they turned, a little puzzled, to see what the prince was up to. Bellyra also