Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05

by A Pride of Princes (v1. 0)

  "Dion," the guardsman answered. "Captain of this contingent of the Royal Mujharan Guard."

  Reynald's dark brown eyes narrowed. "The Mujhar's men?"

  "Part of his personal guard," Dion answered. "Attached to the palace itself."

  The foreign prince nodded. "I am Reynald, cousin to Prince Einar of Caledon," he said flatly. "I wish to press charges against these three Homanans—I want you to see to it they are put in chains and locked away until justice can be levied. I intend to ask the Mujhar himself to hear my testimony."

  "My lord, it is your privilege to do so," Dion said quietly. "But may I suggest you reconsider—"

  "No, you may not, and I will not," Reynald answered. "I came here with my escort to enjoy an evening's entertainment in what I was told was a fine establishment."

  He cast a withering glance around The Rampant Lion. "These men intruded, provoking a fight, and I demand reparation for this affront to my honor, and that of my cousin. Prince Einar."

  "Oh, is Einar here?" Brennan asked lightly. "I did not see him."

  Reynald glared. "Because he is not present means nothing. You have injured my honor, and—as I am a member of the Caledonese party here to celebrate the Mujhar's reign—what insults me also insults my lord prince."

  "Your pardon, my lord." It was Hart's turn. "But I fail to see how you were injured in any way. You let your escort do your fighting for you."

  "Aye," Corin interposed before Reynald could answer. "You and Brennan could have settled it between you, but you provoked a fight. You gave the order to attack." He paused. "I think. It was in Caledonese, but it did serve to make your escort attack whatever it was you said."

  Color blazed in Reynald's saturnine face. "I was required to protect myself. This man meant to provoke me." His outflung hand indicated Brennan.

  "My lord?" Dion looked at Brennan.

  Brennan opened his mouth, but Reynald spoke before he could. " 'My lord,' " he mimicked, glaring at Dion. "You give him more honor than you give me."

  "Aye," Dion answered smoothly; it was easy to see his opinion of the Caledonese lordling, regardless of his neutral expression and tone. "I mean you no disrespect, my lord, but this man will one day be my king."

  Reynald shut his mouth with a snap. He looked sharply from Dion to Brennan. "King," he echoed. There was, suddenly, the faintest trace of doubt in his tone.

  "One day," Brennan agreed. "Not for a long time yet; my father the Mujhar is, thank the gods, a spectacularly , healthy man." The faintest of twitches jerked the corner of his mouth; he was purposely underplaying his hand, which served to make it all the more devastatingly effective

  Reynald looked first at Hart, then at Corin. And all of a sudden the color drained out of his face. "Obram save me," he whispered, "you are all the Mujhar's sons. I remember, now—"

  "You remember, now." Hart grinned. "A bit slow, are you, Reynald? We met only yesterday, did we not? In the Great Hall before the Lion Throne?"

  "Where you wished our father the Mujhar best wishes for continued health." Corin pointedly emphasized their link to royalty. Reynald was the sort of man to understand such arrogance, having his own fair share of it.

  "Chains, I think he said," Brennan told Dion. "Did you bring any with you?"

  "No, my lord. Should I fetch some?" Clearly, the captain was enjoying Reynald's discomfiture.

  Hart felt his ribs. "Enough," he said. "I think Reynald sees our point. And I think it is time we returned to Homana-Mujhar, before our jehan sends men out looking for us." He stopped short and looked at Dion. "Who did send you?"

  "I did." Rhiannon stepped forward. The linen apron still bore bloodstains, now darkening, and her hand was wrapped in a clean cloth. "It was my fault this nonsense began. I thought I should be the one to stop it, so I ran to the palace and fetched them." She looked at Brennan.

  Her eyes lingered a moment on the earring in his left ear, now exposed by hair pushed away from his face. "I—I was ungrateful before," she said in a low voice. "You did this for me." She wiggled fingers showing at the edges of the cloth wrapping. "I didn't want you to get hurt, any of you." Her eyes touched briefly on Hart and Corin, but moved back to Brennan almost immediately.

  Hart laughed. Corin's mouth twisted wryly.

  Brennan smiled slowly. "Then you have my thanks," he said, and looked at Reynald. "I think we have arrived at an impasse, my Caledonese lordling. You may, of course, press charges—we did extinguish most of your royal escort, three to ten—" he grinned, "—but perhaps we may simply let bygones be bygones, and meet over the banquet you and your cousin Prince Einar are supposed to host in my father's honor tonight." Brennan paused. "And if we do not go now, we shall be quite late."

  Reynold looked at the remains of his royal escort.

  Several of the men were clearly unconscious. Others were merely stunned, beginning only now to pull their wits back together. Two were on their feet, unwounded; they scowled sullenly at their fallen comrades.

  Their lord, in his wine-stained silks and velvets, summoned what dignity he could muster. "Come," he ordered the two men still on their feet, and immediately departed the tavern.

  Corin watched him go, then turned back to Hart. "What about the others?"

  Hart grinned his lopsided, charming grin. "He is nephew to the King of Caledon, rujho, and cousin to Prince Einar. It is not for him to concern himself with men wounded in his defense.”

  "Ah." Corin, duly enlightened, nodded.

  Brennan sighed and untied his belt-purse. He handed it over to the tavern-keeper. "For the damages," And then he worked a ring from one of his fingers. It was not the ruby signet of his rank, but a smaller sapphire set in silver. When it was free of his finger, he put it into Rhiannon's hands. "To replace the 'silver penny.' " He smiled warmly. "You see," he said, "Cheysuli are not so bad."

  She stared after him as he preceded his brothers out of The Rampant Lion. And then she kissed the ring.

  The Mujhar, stepping into one of the soft gray-dyed kneeboots, looked up sharply as Taggart finished speaking. "They did what?"

  Taggart's face was very stiff. He repeated his final statement. "They destroyed most of Reynald's escort, my lord."

  " 'Destroyed’? " Niall straightened as a body-servant knelt to adjust the droop of soft leather. "Is anyone dead?" '

  "Not so far as we can tell, my lord. It appears several of the Caledonese are wounded, but none seriously."

  Taggart folded his hands behind his back and waited.

  Niall stood stock still in the center of the antechamber that held most of the clothing suitable for a Mujhar. He preferred the soft leather jerkin and leggings of the Cheysuli, but all too often he was forced to wear Homanan apparel. Tonight was such a night.

  "My lord . . ." The body-servant held up the other boot.

  Niall glanced down, frowning in distraction. "Ah. Aye."

  He accepted the boot and pulled it on, then waited as it was properly adjusted. "All three of them?" he asked.

  Taggart nodded.

  "Even Brennan," Niall murmured. "Oh, curse them for fools, all of them. I do not need this tonight—most of all tonight." He waved the body-servant away and paced across the room to the doorway opening into his bedchamber. Serri was, yet again, asleep on the bed.

  "My lord, Dion reported that it did not appear to be entirely the fault of the princes. And if my lord Reynald truly did provoke them, there must have been good reason."

  "Reason, perhaps, but not good reason," Niall said grimly. He shook his head, still bare of its heavy circlet, and swung back. "I cannot believe Brennan took part in this idiocy. It is not like him. Hart and Corin, aye—they would hardly balk at a fight, regardless of provocation—but Brennan?"

  Deirdre swept into the room from another entrance,

  "My lord Mujhar, your favoritism is showing."

  "Is it?" Niall absently admired the rich blue gown that fit her slender body so snugly. Her brass-bright hair was twisted up on her head in a knot s
ecured with thick pins of silver wire, and she wore yet another of his gifts, a silver chain crusted with diamonds and dark blue sapphires. It glittered against her throat. "Aye, well . . . even you must admit it is unlike Brennan."

  "What have they done, your sons?" Deirdre smoothed the fit of his black doublet, quilted with jet and seed pearls.

  "They have torn up a tavern—one of the better ones, I might add—and accounted for multiple casualties," Niall answered. "In short, they may have permanently destroyed any hope for a renewal of the trade alliance between Homana and Caledon."

  "Have they, then?" She patted the silver chain of office that stretched from shoulder to shoulder, each wide link cleverly fashioned into a rampant lion. A remarkable distance from shoulder to shoulder; privately, Deirdre smiled.

  "You do not seem to understand." Niall moved away from her to face Taggart again. "Where are they now?"

  "In your private solar, my lord." Taggart paused. "I think they knew you would wish to say something to them. They went there on Prince Brennan's suggestion."

  "Wise Brennan," Niall remarked darkly. "Aye, I wish to say something to them. Go and fetch them, Taggart. Fetch them now."

  Taggart was clearly surprised. "Here, my lord?"

  "Here."

  "Aye, my lord." A bow, and he was gone.

  "Niall," Deirdre said uneasily, "what it is you are meaning to say to them?"

  "Whatever comes out of my mouth at the moment."

  He took her arm and escorted her into yet a third chamber, a private withdrawing room.

  "You will be giving them a chance, then." But she did not sound at all convinced.

  Niall indicated she was to sit down in one of the X-legged chairs. "Promise me, meijha, you will leave the punishment to me."

  "In other words, you are wanting me to be silent." She scowled at him as she sat down, but it lacked the determination to have much of the desired affect. " Tis for you to do, then," she agreed. "They are your sons, not mine." And she folded her hands primly in her lap.

  "Oh, gods," Brennan said when Taggart had told them where they must go. "He is angry."

  "And are you a woman or a warrior?" Corin demanded crossly. "We are too big to spank, Brennan; why do you dread facing him so much?"

  "Probably because only rarely have I had to be reprimanded. It is you who have spent so much of your time in his bad graces." Brennan turned on his heel and marched out of the solar.

  "So has Hart," Corin said defensively, following. Still he cradled the sore wrist, wondering if it were cracked or merely badly bruised. "I am not the only one who has been sent before our jehan."

  "Is that a point of pride?" Brennan asked acidly.

  "Your arm hurts," Hart announced, bringing up the rear. "You are irritable, rujho."

  "If I am irritable, it is because I am plagued with a young rujholli who lacks the wit to know when to humble himself," Brennan declared. "He will only make it worse, if he gives our jehan defiance instead of contrition."

  Corin swore in disgust. "It was Reynold's fault, not mine. And I was the last to join the fight. You, Brennan, were first."

  "Aye," Hart agreed. "And that is precisely why I think he will not be so angry. He is accustomed to our scrapes, Corin. But with Brennan involved in this one, I think he will believe it had merit."

  Brennan sighed. "That is something, I suppose." And he swung into the open doorway to the Mujhar's royal apartments.

  Niall watched them file in. Brennan first, of course; as always. The eldest was plainly out of sorts in clothing as well as temper, though he tried to hide both by forcing his face into a calm, neutral expression and attempting to straighten the fit of his velvet doublet. Niall saw wine stains, blood stains, gaping rents. Through the remains of the left sleeve, lir-gold gleamed faintly.

  Hart, now second in line, looked much worse. His dark blue doublet was as stained and torn, but his face was badly bruised and already showed the beginnings of a black eye. There was no blood or wound visible, but he walked with the odd, stiffly upright posture of a man afraid to move anything above his waist. Ribs, then.

  As for Corin, the youngest trailed the other two as if to defy his father, jaw jutting out to advertise his unwillingness to accept responsibility for his actions. It was a familiar posture to Niall, who murmured inwardly that one day, if it pleased the gods, Corin might grow up—and was relieved to see the son who looked so much like him showed no signs of serious physical discomfort. Even if he did favor his right wrist, which looked suspiciously swollen.

  Brennan glanced briefly at Deirdre, so silent in her chair, and halted before his father. Niall stood before one of the casements, hands folded behind his back. He waited as Hart halted, and then Corin, who promptly sat down on the nearest stool.

  Hart leaned a little in Corin's direction and hissed, "Stand up."

  Corin stubbornly remained seated. He stared at his father with an unrepentent, unwavering gaze.

  Inwardly, Niall sighed. "One at a time," he said aloud.

  "Who shall be first?"

  Brennan opened his mouth to answer, as always, first, but Corin got there before him. "It was a girl," he said flatly, indelicately, and made both his brothers scowl their disapproval. He colored. "It was."

  "A girl." Somehow, Niall had not quite expected that.

  Generally it was something more, or something else.

  Hart wet his lips. "A wine-girl," he said. Then, as if hearing how ludicrous it sounded, he added, "But not a common sort of wine-girl, or a common sort of tavern."

  "Far be it for my sons to frequent a common tavern with merely common wine-girls." The Mujhar's tone was deceptively mild.

  Brennan was not deceived. His eyes narrowed as he tried to judge his father's mood; Niall was pleased to see none of them could do it. He smiled and outwaited them.

  "There was also a Caledonese ku'reshtin," Corin added. "Anyone will tell you."

  "Will you?" Niall asked.

  "I just have."

  "Corin—" Hart began, in warning.

  Niall waved it away with a raised ringer that silenced his middle son immediately. "Say on."

  "He hit the girl," Corin told him seriously. "He nearly knocked her down, and she did not deserve it. She had already cut her hand on the broken winejug."

  Hart nodded. "He refused to apologize."

  Niall's left brow lifted; the right one, divided by the talon scar, was mostly hidden beneath the diagonal slash of leather strap that held the patch in place. "A wine-girl asked apology of a Caledonese prince?"

  "No," Corin said lightly. "That took Brennan, of course."

  "Ah." Niall’s single eye flicked to his eldest son. "Then it was you who began it?"

  Brennan did not flinch from the tone in his father's voice, which managed to express surprise, disappointment, disapproval, all at once. "Aye," he answered clearly.

  "You."

  "I," Brennan agreed. "Jehan—he was unnecessarily rude. He hurt her."

  "So you stepped in and defended her honor, if such still exists."

  Deirdre opened her mouth as if to protest, shut it, waited for the interview to be finished.

  Brennan frowned at his father. "Are you saying that because she is a wine-girl, she is undeserving of aid when someone mistreats her?"

  "No," Niall answered. "I am saying that I hope she was worth the loss of a trade alliance between Homana and Caledon."

  Brennan grasped the implications more quickly than the others. "Oh."

  "Aye. Oh."

  "Do you mean it?" Hart asked. "Prince Einar will refuse to negotiate because of this?"

  "Possibly."

  "But you do not know that," Corin observed shrewdly. "Do you, jehan?"

  "There is a possibility the negotiations will be postponed, even canceled. There are certainly precedents for such things, when princes meddle in politics even though they are more suited to drinking wine in uncommon taverns."

  “Usca" Corin corrected quietly. Hart looked at him
as if he had lost his wits.

  Niall nodded a little, "Perhaps you were correct to defend the wine-girl's honor; I will not protest that. It is good manners, if nothing else. But I will protest the disregard you had for the delicacy of relationships between realms. I will also protest your inability to recall that diplomacy is necessary in nearly every situation, certainly this one. And I will most decidedly protest your inability to remember that Cheysuli warriors do not brawl in taverns." He paused, marking their shocked faces.

  "Princes do not brawl in taverns. My sons do not brawl in taverns." Again he paused, and heard the echo of his voice ringing in the chamber. "Do I make myself clear?"

  Corin stared at him defiantly. "We have done it before."

  Hart moved closer to Brennan, taking a definitive step away from his younger brother.

  Slowly Niall moved from the casement. He walked to his youngest son and paused before the stool. And abruptly, before Corin could speak or make any sort of protest, Niall reached down and grasped the injured wrist, snapping Corin to his feet.

  “Jehan—" But Corin, though clearly in pain, broke off his protest when he saw the expression on his father's face.

  "You have spent twenty years in Homana-Mujhar, sharing in the bounty of your birth," Niall said in a tone that, for all its gentleness, implied more displeasure than shouting might have. "Your jehana was Princess of Atvia in her own right, bred of Cheysuli warriors and Homanan kings. I care little enough what you may think of me, or what I do—but you will respect the blood that flows in your veins." Niall drew in a breath that did nothing to dispel the rising anger in his tone. "That blood you have spilled all too often in petty tavern brawls. It must stop, Corin. It must. Rid yourself of this resentment and hostility and conduct yourself as a prince and Cheysuli warrior should." He paused, looking for something in Corin's blue eyes. "It is not worthy of you," he said, more quietly.

  Corin set his teeth. "And I am not worthy of you."

  Niall released the injured wrist instantly. His jaw slackened momentarily and something odd glinted in his good eye; something that spoke of shock, of memories and unexpected pain, in addition to the sudden flaring of an intense, abiding regret-Deirdre wanted to go to him at once, but refrained. It would undermine his authority completely if she showed his sons how much Corin's words had hurt him; now, at this moment, Niall needed all the strength and resolution he could find, if he were to command their respect and obedience.