Hearts in Cups Page 10

  Chapter 6

  The following two days were uneasily spent by the council, finalizing the details of the forthcoming expedition as well as attending to the usual issues of trade and taxes. All of this took place under the pall raised by the Duke of Creon's missing daughter. Reports had come in verifying that the hounds had picked up the scent and were riding for Dacara with all haste. Lady Dierdre no longer came to the council sessions, though she continued to appear at the court banquets each evening. The Duke of Creon put his mind to the various concerns of the council, doing his work conscientiously but with a perpetual frown. By unspoken consent he and Viscount Treves avoided each other when possible.

  The actual composition and detailing of the Royal Embassy, as it was being called, was agreed on with little difficulty. Twenty armed soldiers from each of the Great Houses and ten from each of the Minor Houses would be under the command of Lord Gerard Cradoch, current Horsemaster of Sandovar's Household Guard. The Duchess of Langstraad would have her own staff of servants, kept to a minimum to facilitate travel. After much discussion, Lord Colin de Chantalcalm was made a member of the escort, ostensibly to represent the Pentacle Council but also to offer his arcane protection to Lady Hollin. Lord Larth Brescom volunteered to ride ahead of the escort to his earldom of the Inner Ward and prepare his castle to house the embassy and arrange for any final provisions they might need before leaving the Pentarchy's borders. Finally, the leave-taking date was set for three weeks hence.

  On the afternoon of the fourth day of the council session, a messenger wearing the golden boar of House Creon was admitted to the council chambers and announced to Lord Branwilde that his daughter was recovered and that she and her kidnapper would be in the city by eventide. Nodding curtly, Branwilde returned to the problem under discussion without another word.

  "But father, I don't want to go hawking with Lord Blaise and his cousin!" Galen complained irritably.

  "Why ever not?" Niall turned and favoured his son with a look of undisguised annoyance.

  They were standing in the center of the duke's dressing room, where Niall had retired in the late afternoon to ready himself for the evening's banquet. His thick dark hair still sparkled with drops of water from his bath. Two body-servants stood nearby, discreetly fetching various pieces of clothing and jewelry for their master as they helped him to dress. Holding his hand out to have the ends of his sleeve fastened, Niall continued to berate his son for his ineptitude and general obstinacy.

  Alternately staring at his feet or over his father's shoulder, Galen miserably allowed the abuse to be piled onto his head. He hated hunting with hawks. Trying to control both a horse and a bird, a bird with sharp talons and a vicious beak, demanded an ability he had no interest in cultivating. Added to which, the prospect of spending an entire morning with the Duke of Tuenth's younger son, whom he knew despised him, was almost more than he could bear. So unpleasant was the idea that he was willing to risk his father's scathing tongue in order to voice a protest he knew would be useless. As in all of their arguments he stood mute, listening to his father dictate his life to him, feeling both a fool and a craven.

  "Enough!" Niall waved his servants back and turned to regard himself in the mirror. With an approving nod, he sent the men out of the room and motioned Galen to follow him into his private solarium.

  "Sit down!" Niall pointed to a chair for his son and sat facing him. For a moment he drummed his long fingers on the arm of his chair and sourly regarded his son and heir. "Now, there will be no more of your childishness in this matter. I expect you to go out tomorrow morning with Blaise and be friendly and agreeable. You should be flattered that he bothered to extend an invitation to you."

  "He only did it to curry favour with you," Galen muttered resentfully.

  "Listen to me!" Niall leaned forward. "For your information, Lord Blaise is both intelligent and personable, and he is very well thought of by a good many people. It would do you no harm to try to emulate some of his qualities."

  Galen simply glared back. He had met this supposed paragon of virtue last year at Challis' winter court, and had formed a very ill-opinion of him. His mother had been all too friendly with the young man, while Blaise seemed to take malicious delight in treating Galen like an idiot-child. Both of his parents had been oblivious of Blaise's contempt for their son, but then, he noted bitterly to himself, their attitude towards him was not much different, except for the proprietary aspect that parenthood gave them.

  "You had best realize that things in the Pentarchy are changing and, like it or not, you are a part of those changes." Niall paused to wet his lips and Galen's senses sharpened at the change in his father's tone. "You know about this projected search for the missing prince that the Duchess of Langstraad is leading? Personally, I have grave reservations about its outcome." Niall spoke with deliberation, all the while watching his son's reactions carefully.

  "You don't think that they will find the prince," Galen ventured when it became clear that his father expected a response.

  "I think that it is a slim possibility at best," he replied. "Tell me, have you given any thought as to what might happen if the prince is not found?"

  Galen was taken aback at the question and it put him on his guard. "No, I really haven't thought much about it," he lied.

  There was an uncomfortable pause, as if his father wanted to continue the conversation but was having second thoughts. His black eyes stared into Galen's until the boy dropped his own in embarrassment to the folded hands in his lap. This action seemed to decide something, for his father abruptly ended the interview by saying enigmatically, "Well, it would be a good thing if you did some thinking on the subject."

  Dismissed, Galen took his leave and wandered back to his own set of rooms. Throwing himself onto his bed, he stared up at the ceiling and wondered about his father's last words. The obvious import was that if the Duchess of Langstraad did not find the prince she would be returning to Pentarin to marry a son of one of the Houses. Was his father scheming to somehow get her to marry his son? He paused to mull this idea over. Knowing his father, it was entirely too possible. Then he considered the idea of being married to the red-haired duchess and a guilty, excited flush warmed his body. His actual experience with girls was nil, but his imagination was fertile.

  For a few moments he let himself fantasize about marrying Lady Hollin and becoming King of the Pentarchy. After a few delicious moments his own common sense rose to the fore and his mind's wanton image of the duchess sharpened to the actual woman, with her steely grey eyes and aura of self-confidence, and the dream faded away. Married to such a one as she, he would still not be his own master or anyone else's. Neither could he imagine his father graciously deferring to him, even if he did wear a crown. Between Lady Hollin and his father, he would remain a useless tool to be bullied and manipulated. Adolescent daydreams aside, he knew that he did not have the cunning and ruthlessness to be a king, in spite of his father.

  Rolling off his bed as a bell, warning him that the dinner hour was not far off, rang outside his door, he looked at himself in the mirror and smiled bleakly. There was little that he could actively do to foil his father's plans, but he did not have to embrace them as his own. The smile became an adolescent smirk as he headed for the door, resolved that at least he could make certain that Lord Blaise regretted whatever self-serving impulse had prompted him to invite Galen to go hawking tomorrow morning.

  In the dusk of early evening many people watched and whispered furtively as a closed coach, surrounded by guards, clattered through the city's streets and on up the hill towards the palace. The carriage was followed by another group of guards tightly packed around a led horse with a man securely tied to it. Daffyd's head and sides still ached from the beating that he had received when the duke's men had apprehended him and their lord's daughter. Angharad had screamed and tried to stop them, but they had their orders and she was gently but firmly locked into a carriage, away from the sight and sound of him.
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br />   Their escape from Pentarin had been easily accomplished. He had collected together all that he owned of value and packed it into a small bag. With his flute and harp in another bag on his back he had left the palace and made his way to the river. Inquiries led him to the owner of a modest barge that plied its trade between the cities of Dacara and Pentarin, and who was willing to take a couple of extra passengers when he set forth later that morning. Daffyd had waited, half hoping that she would not come, until Angharad, the hood of her cloak thrown over her hair and carrying an immense satchel, arrived at the dock. All of his doubts and fears evaporated in her presence, and he eagerly led her to the boat. Though she suggested he tell the boatman that she was his wife, he insisted that it would be more seemly if she traveled as his sister. In the end it did not matter, for the boatman did not ask and did not care.

  They spent three days sitting in the bow of the boat, watching the land glide past. Leaning against Daffyd with his arm about her waist, Angharad had ecstatically talked about the future and what they would do once the Pentarchy was behind them. Daffyd, content with the smell of her hair in the sun and cradling her weight with his arm, had been mute. At night they lay side by side and watched the stars overhead. Any qualms he felt about what they were doing seemed insubstantial. They had made good their elopement, and in a few more days they would be on board a ship, traveling far from those who would stop them.

  They had reached the great port city of Dacara with its white walls and sea birds in the early afternoon. They wandered up and down the wharves for many hours, looking at the myriad vessels that floated on the uneasy water and asking which ones were due to leave and when. Eventually they were able to book passage on a trading ship that was not too dirty, was reasonably priced and set to sail in two days time for the southern ocean and the Kassorian Empire.

  Returning to their cramped temporary quarters in a quayside tavern, Angharad had collapsed in exhaustion and gone to sleep. Daffyd dozed restlessly for a while and then, leaving a note, had slipped out to buy food for them. He was delayed, having lost himself in the narrow jumble of streets, and returned to the tavern room after dark. Not thinking of trouble, he knocked quickly and entered the room to discover, not Angharad, but men-at-arms wearing her father's livery. He did not attempt to resist; to do so was obviously impossible, as he heard more men coming up the stairs behind him. The guards however preferred to treat him as if he had, and he found himself the target of a severe beating as they took custody of him. He passed out and groggily become conscious, to find himself tied to a horse being led at a steady trot through the dark countryside. A coach rolled ahead of him and he guessed that Angharad rode within it.

  The soldiers stopped at an inn late that night and he heard Angharad, crying and protesting, taken from the coach and into the building. Rough hands dragged him from the horse and into the stables. There he was left, tied to a stout post in one of the stalls with two guards to watch over him. He did not sleep, but passed into a dazed state of consciousness where his over-tired brain continued to dwell on the abrupt conclusion of their idyllic adventure. He had few illusions as to his own fate at the hands of her father. The duke was a proud man, and whether his daughter had run away or been abducted he would feel that he had been humiliated and would exact retribution for the insult.

  At dawn the next day, a cup of thin broth was given to him and he was hoisted back onto the horse. The coach was waiting at the inn door and he and his guards fell in behind as it began to roll forward. All morning they rode at a steady slow trot. The combination of heat, pain and lack of sleep caused Daffyd to mercifully pass out. Consciousness returned as he was unceremoniously dragged from the horse when they stopped to rest and take their noon meal. He was trundled out of sight of the coach, allowed to relieve himself and given water and a few strips of dried meat to eat. When they prepared to leave again he was marched back to his horse. Angharad was just getting into the coach and it was then that she saw him. With a scream, she turned and tried to climb down, clawing wildly at the guards. Instinctively he stepped towards her, and felt a dull thud as a guard's fist crashed into the side of his head. Falling to the ground, he could hear Angharad's voice berating the soldier before the blackness overcame him.

  They had stopped two more times before coming in sight of the Pentarchy's capital. Both times, the coach was halted at a distance from him and he did not see Angharad again. The looks cast at him as he was ushered through the dim streets were compounded as much from pity as from disapproval, but he was barely aware of them. Fatigue claimed him utterly and all he wanted was to lie down somewhere, unattended, and slide into unconsciousness. A great commotion eventually roused him from his torpor and he raised his eyes to find himself riding into the palace's central courtyard and the illumination of a great many torches. With people and horses milling around him, Daffyd tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Lord Percamber stood on the steps ordering the house-guard and conferring with a man in Sandovar's livery wearing a commander's badge. The door to the coach was open and he caught a glimpse of Angharad being half-led, half-carried between two of her father's guards in the direction of her family's quarters. Lord Branwilde, seeming far larger than usual, appeared on the steps in front of Percamber. Gesticulating, he turned and pointed an accusatory finger to where Daffyd sat, half-stunned, on his horse. Lord Percamber made some reply; the duke dissented for several minutes, and then nodded abruptly and left in the direction that they had taken his daughter. Daffyd was pulled again from his horse and made to walk between more guards. Gratefully he noticed that they wore the blue and silver of Sandovar and not the black and gold of Creon's men.

  As he left the glare of the courtyard he glanced up and found Lord Colin watching him from the shadows of the portico. The mortification that he had been too bruised, mentally and physically, to feel, welled up and his face went crimson with shame. Until now he had not taken into account the extent to which his actions would touch anyone besides himself. Seeing his patron, he understood that there were others whom he honoured who were suffering for his folly. The viscount and his wife had given him their affection and trust. They had treated him as a son and he had repaid them with deceit. Averting his eyes, he stumbled on, glad for what the darkness could hide.

  An apprehensive Dinea was prowling up and down the length of her bed-chamber when Colin let himself in. Her hair had come undone in several places and she was absently pushing it off of her face only to have it stray down again moments later. The strain of the last three days had brought a dark, brooding quality to her eyes. As Colin entered her room, she whirled eagerly.

  "They're back?" Her voice cracked with tension.

  Colin nodded wearily and unfastened his cloak. Dinea took it and began to fold it in silence as he sat down and ran a hand over his face. Looking up into her anxious eyes, he managed a slight smile and pulled her gently onto his lap. "I do not believe that the duke's men were over-kind to him, but they are both returned. I did not see much of the girl, as she was quickly hustled off to Creon's residence. But I did see Daffyd and, what is more, he saw me. The palace guards took custody of him and he is now in one of their prison cells. He has a number of cuts and bruises, but when I made inquiries of the prison healer I was told that there is no permanent damage. The duke's men say he put up a fight and had to be subdued. I don't know how true that is."

  "Did you speak with him?"

  He shook his head. "Orders are that he be kept in strict isolation while the matter is being investigated." He sighed. "Branwilde is very angry. I think that the girl's condition is going to be the deciding factor in the end, but right now he wants Daffyd's head and it's going to be hard to convince him not to take it."

  She pulled away from him. "Oh, surely he cannot mean to take his life if the girl is all right. I'm certain that Daffyd would never have hurt her. To be honest, I can't even see him abducting her in the first place. I believe that she must have run away with him and, while that was not a comm
endable act for either of them, it is not a crime!"

  "No? Well, we shall have to hope that she did go voluntarily and will say so. If she was forced then there will be nothing that anyone can do for him. Branwilde will have him executed." He smiled wanly at her and continued, "But, like you, I really don't believe that Daffyd would have kidnapped or harmed her in any way. All that we can do, I am afraid, is to wait until the girl tells her story and I can arrange a meeting with Daffyd."

  At that moment, the young woman who was the catalyst of all the turmoil stood stamping her feet in rage, with tears of anger and frustration coursing down her face. "He did not take me away by force! It was my idea for us to run away! I was not kidnapped and I was certainly not raped!"

  She was standing in the anteroom of her bed-chamber, facing her mother. Her father had entered the room moments before and now stood with his back towards her, facing the fireplace, clasping and unclasping his hands in agitation. Surrounded by the ever-present guards, she had been taken to the wing of the palace reserved for her family and handed over to her mother and a flock of female attendants. Weary from her many hours in the stifling heat of the enclosed coach and disoriented by the blur of the last few days, she had allowed her clothes to be stripped from her and her body placed in a large basin of steaming water. Numbly aware of the sponges being rubbed over her and the rough invigoration of towels, she said nothing but docilely did as she was asked. They clothed her in a long cotton chemise, finely embroidered with close-fitting sleeves, and draped her with a thick woven shawl. Then they left her with her mother and a man whom she identified as her mother's personal physician. A drink, warm and slightly bitter tasting, was given to her as the man began examining her. She hardly paid him any attention as he felt for her pulse and peered into her eyes. It was only when he urged her to lie back and began to raise her shift that she came into full awareness of the situation and began to protest violently. Her mother joined with the doctor in trying to calm her, but she only became more upset.