With a few quick instructions to the earl’s grooms, the two women relinquished their horses and followed another guard, this one a Guard of the House, deep inside the castle itself.
Only after they were safely inside did the masque in the courtyard change. Servants scurried out of the way, and the Wirthing Knights emerged from the places where they’d secreted themselves, behind the armory, behind the smithy and the stables. But rather than forming up and assembling in the courtyard as Dane had thought they would, they rode straight out the gate and northward, toward the Kharkara Plains. Dane frowned, wanting to follow and see what they were about, but he held his position. His orders were to stay with Lady Glynnis. He had to trust that the Dhanani scouts would see them in time.
Glynnis and Nara followed the Guard of the House into a large central hall warmed by a large fire in the fireplace and dominated by a long dining table with many chairs. Smells of the castle’s breakfast meal lingered, but the table was cleared and looked to have been freshly oiled.
Much like the great halls of any of the ancient houses of Syon, the walls were lined with hunting trophies and paintings of the family going back to the founding of their house, some in attitudes of war, some in attitudes of peace, posing with dogs and horses with long forgotten names and deeds. Conspicuously absent, of course, were the ancient weapons and armor of the House of Wirthing. Not surprising, under the circumstances. Meeting in a hall full of the trappings of war was considered inauspicious for parlay.
Even so, the room held the weight of history. Wirthing had chosen to intimidate them, but oddly, the similarity to Glynnis’s own family home at Berendor and her husband’s home at Brannagh, both now lost, comforted her and gave her strength.
“Come, Nara,” she said and took the large chair from the head of the great dining table to set near the fire. Then she settled Nara into it, aware that they were likely being watched from some hidden niche or crevice in the wall.
“Thank you, dear child,” the old nun said. “So long a ride is always difficult for my old bones. This chair is most welcome, if a bit hard. The chairs at Brannagh were ever so much nicer. Not that I am complaining, mind you.”
Glynnis smiled at the jab. So Nara knew they were being watched, as well. She stripped off her riding gloves and set them on the table. “The ride went little better with me. But for the moment, rest yourself. I hope to speak with His Lordship soon and be away from this place.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I cannot think it will take long.”
Nara looked around her and frowned. “So different this hall is now from when it was bestrewn with garlands of jasmine and roses for his wife’s daughter’s wedding.” She pulled the heavy unaccustomed cloak up around herself, somewhat against the cold but also to be sure the Dhanani leathers she wore beneath it were covered from view. “Yes, I’m sure this is the same hall…. Just there where the stone is uneven is where Master Roquandor ran headlong and fell and cracked open his poor knee. Not a peep did he make during the ceremony, but oh, did his lip quiver madly with the pain of it.”
Glynnis felt her smile falter.
“Little Lady Renda, I remember, took his hand for pity and bade him squeeze against the pain, and so he did, so hard that they both sat with quivering lips, sharing each other’s pain and silence through the whole tedious service.” She smiled at the memory. “Dear children, you have, lady.”
“Had.” She looked sharply at the old governess. “My children are dead, Nara. Even my granddaughter. Dead and gone.”
“Strange that mine are not.” The old governess raised a single eyebrow when Glynnis looked at her. Then she smiled. “Yet mine are yours, and yours were mine.”
She looked into the fire and lowered her voice.
“Whether yet among us, in service to B’radik, or with Verilion in the stars, they are yet yours. And mine. In every moment of their lives and of their deaths and even the strange moments in between, however wrought, they are yet ours. Yours and mine.” Nara looked up at her again, a strangely comforting smile on her lips. “Is it not so?”
“Yes. I suppose so.” Glynnis cast a self-conscious look at the door, wondering what Nara was at, mentioning this now, gibbering on about life and death and the strange moments in between. Was she but playing her part as spiritual advisor, or was this to remind Glynnis of all that she had lost? All they had both lost. She needed no nun of B’radik for that, and she resented the woman undermining her confidence and calm this way, just as she was about to meet with Wirthing––Wirthing, their erstwhile ally who had destroyed her family, taken her husband, her daughter and her grandchild––Wirthing, whom she despised for it utterly. Damn Nara for bringing her loss so close again when she had almost healed, near enough that she could again taste her rage and grief like fresh blood in her mouth, demanding vengeance.
Then she understood.
“Thank you,” she breathed, “for reminding me.”
Nara bowed her head.
Glynnis deliberately let her voice break for the sake of any who were listening, and she wiped at a dry eye. Real weakness was weakness, but feigned weakness could be a powerful weapon.
Only a minute passed in silence before they heard steps in the corridor. Apparently the earl grew bored quickly. That was good to know. She listened, then she looked at Nara and gestured. Two men? Nara nodded slightly and shifted beneath her cloak. Of course he’d bring a second. After all, she had not come alone. Glynnis felt a sickly anticipation rising in her throat at seeing him and fought it down.
A young voice pierced the silence outside the door. “You cannot hide me away like some sort of secret, Wirthing! I really must insist. Besides, as Marquess of Moncliff, it is my traditional place to preside over parlay. I could be of use in your negotiations.”
An older man’s voice laughed. “This is my battle, boy. You have your own.”
“Boy? Now see here! I have every right to insist that you allow me to attend.”
“Very well, if you must attend me, be still and learn.”
The door opened, and Corin, Earl of Wirthing, swept in, waving to silence a beautiful if rather slender boy of no more than fifteen at his side. The boy was striking, with expressive dark eyes and a wide mouth that was unfortunately prone to pouting. One day he might grow to be a strong and handsome man, but for now, he looked every bit the petulant child.
Corin was just as Glynnis remembered him, wiry and graceful, handsome in a rather pointed way that reminded her of a mink. His dark hair was slicked down with a rich smelling oil all the way to his nape and then fell away in ringlets to well below his shoulder. Only in the precise dry curls could she tell that his hair was shot through now with strands of gray. At his hip he wore his sword, as was his right at parlay. The blade was not his family’s ceremonial weapon, as might be expected, but was rather his battle sword. The threat was unmistakable.
Both men moved with a marked purpose in their steps. No doubt the earl’s studied urgency was meant to convey that he only had so much time to devote to their parlay, but the young man was not as polished. His step conveyed only nerves and a sense of sniveling entitlement.
“My dear Lady Glynnis of Brannagh,” the Earl smiled, taking her outstretched hand and bowing over it, exactly as he had at his stepdaughter’s wedding nearly two decades before, as if the circumstances were no different. Likely to him, they were not. “As lovely as ever. I was surprised but nevertheless delighted to hear that you survived the unpleasantness at Castle Brannagh.”
“Unpleasantness, indeed,” she smiled in return. “I understand the better part of your knights were not as fortunate as I.”
Wirthing blinked but his smile did not falter. “Likewise, you have my condolences, on your husband’s untimely death. Though he was my sometime rival for your affections, nevertheless I held him in warm regard.”
“No doubt as warm as was his regard for you, my Lord,” she purred. “I have no doubt he spoke of you with his last breath.”
“Quite.
” His smile chilled. He gave her hand a slight squeeze as he released it and waved the boy over. “Allow me to present my Lord Banya, Marquess of Moncliff. Her ladyship, Glynnis of Brannagh, widow of the late Sheriff of Brannagh.”
Twice in one sentence to emphasize her husband’s death, and before that a crass mention of his failed attempt to court her…. These points would no doubt enter into their discussions on both sides. He was so obvious. She shut her eyes a moment to let him think he had cut her to the quick, then smiled bravely and inclined her head slightly as she offered the child her hand.
The boy was well trained in the forms, bowing just so over her hand, making just enough eye contact, though still his manner bespoke impatience and a lack of subtlety, traits ill suited to the head of a family once legendary in its skill at negotiation. She marked at once how he had missed the opportunity to offer comfort after Wirthing’s deliberate insensitivity regarding her husband’s death.
Wirthing, too, had likely noticed it and she saw to her amusement that he was just a moment too slow to hide his exasperation. He could not afford to play the churl if the boy would not take the hero’s part, nor could he later be “redeemed” by her acceptance of his terms, and this would seriously undermine his bargaining position.
Then the child had gone on to fail to ask about Brannagh’s fall to pretend ignorance of the situation or to help his host gather information about any survivors and their whereabouts. She had no doubt he would take every opportunity to turn the conversation back to himself, a terrible weakness in a diplomat.
“This is my spiritual advisor, Nara, late of the temple of B’radik.”
Nara looked up at the two noblemen but did not bother to rise. Nor, Glynnis noted, did she offer the temple’s ritual greeting.
“A B’radikite nun!” Wirthing seemed genuinely surprised. “I had thought the temple destroyed and all the priests of B’radik killed! Congratulations, madam, on your survival against such horrors. I understand there were mages involved.”
“I have survived worse,” the old woman wheezed. Then she turned back toward the fire.
“Yes, well,” Corin frowned, and Glynnis saw the realization in his eyes: he, the Earl of Wirthing, had just been dismissed. “If you would like, ladies, do let’s not stand on formality. You may shed your cloaks.” He moved toward a gaudy bell pull near the door. “My servants will be pleased to take them and perhaps mend and launder them ere you go.”
“Thank you, no,” Glynnis replied in careful, measured tones, allowing a bit of shame to color her cheek. “It is unseasonably cold, even for the Feast of Bilkar. We both took rather a chill on the ride here, I’m afraid, so that even your generous fire is not enough to warm our bones. That, and I am embarrassed to say, our clothing is unsuitable for coming to call upon an earl. We lost so much, you see…”
He nodded, a magnanimous and somewhat leering smile crossing his lips that turned her stomach. “You know, my late wife’s closet is full of lovely gowns and,” he lowered is voice discreetly, “unmentionables and so forth that only gather dust now. We could perhaps adjourn for a time if you wanted to refresh yourself…”
She bowed. He may have expected her to hide humiliation thus, and she would let him believe it, but what she concealed was rage. She was certain now exactly what his gambit would be, and while it was not unexpected, the thought infuriated her more than she had thought it might.
“Sure we thank you for your pains and your kind offer, and I am certain your late wife’s gowns are charming, but no. We shall go suddenly, once our discussion ends, and I would not waste precious time on frivolities. To that end, we bade your grooms keep our mounts ready. We would return before nightfall.”
“A pity you would leave us so soon. Is your ride long, then?”
There it was: the first direct attempt to get information. She’d begun to wonder if he would bury her in maneuverings and pleasantries all morning. Glynnis opened her mouth to give an empty answer but was interrupted.
“Is this how parlay is done, then?” Banya’s sulking whine skirled across the stones of the room. “This is tedious. I’ve no interest in cloaks and frocks.”
Had they been talking about cloaks and frocks? Ah, yes, Glynnis supposed they had. Corin looked at her in confusion. The many layers of the conversation to them were as transparent as if they’d spoken plainly: he had expressed concern that she might be carrying a weapon under concealment––a weapon at parlay was her right as a noblewoman, but not a hidden weapon, yet it was also her right to retain her cloak, which created something of a loophole––a loophole he had tried to close as gracefully as possible and failed. She would not let him close the loophole to assure himself that she was unarmed, which of course meant she was not. Cloaks and frocks indeed.
The jockeying for dominance and testing the waters for what he would later proffer as his terms for peace under the guise of offering her his wife’s vestments as Lady Wirthing was completely lost on the child, as was her all but flat refusal. She wondered if the boy wasn’t frankly slow witted. She also marveled at the irony of finding common ground with Wirthing in Moncliff’s exasperating ignorance. But then, perhaps that was their play.
Nara took the opportunity while the earl and Glynnis stood speechless, to ask whether Banya was terrified to have made such a long journey alone. At first he seemed inclined to rebuff her for speaking to him directly and asking such a childish question, but then he proudly offered that he had not come alone and that he had, in fact, brought an entire regiment with him.
Glynnis could almost see Wirthing swallowing a groan at the boy’s complete lack of discretion, and while the information was not new to her, she did not see the need to alleviate Wirthing’s discomfort.
“Surely you exaggerate! A whole regiment,” she laughed prettily, “but whatever for? Moncliff tradition has always been to remain neutral. Some called it cowardice, some called it indifference, but either way, neutrality has ever been a Moncliff tradition, and it does not breed strong armies.”
“My army is as strong as any other!” the boy crowed in answer. “How do you suppose we’ve been able to defend ourselves in spite of our neutrality?”
“Old as I am,” Nara coughed, “I cannot recall a time when Moncliff defended against an attack,” she said quietly. “Not even when Kadak occupied Durlindale. It took the great Vilmar Damerien to break that siege.”
Predictably, the boy’s face colored. “My father had readied our armies to come to rescue the duke’s forces, who were losing pitifully, I might add. But Kadak learned of our preparations and fled.” Moncliff grinned. “We did not even have to fight! I count that a victory.”
Nara turned back to the fire to hide her expression.
Glynnis continued to smile, mostly at Wirthing’s distress at each word that passed the boy’s lips. “Truly,” she said, “I did not think Moncliff had a regiment of men all together, much less so many to spare this far away. I must ask, what brings your army all the way to Wirthing lands?” She batted her eyelashes. “The earl must have been terrified to see your colors riding in!”
Wirthing snorted.
“A frank act of war brings us west!” Banya answered with an earnestness that surprised her. Since when did a Marquess of Moncliff ever express such passion? Ah, so the boy was a warrior doomed to neutrality by birth. The frustration would likely send him to an early grave. “Such a dire insult as cannot go unanswered.”
Moncliff would have gone on, but Wirthing stopped him short. “Now, now, my Lord,” the earl soothed, obviously trying to take control of the discussion. “Her Ladyship is here to have parlay with me, not to hear of your grand adventures.”
Lady Glynnis watched through the corner of her eye as Corin moved himself around the table and drew up short. Nara was sitting by the fire in the chair taken from the head of the table, the head of the table where Glynnis’s gloves lay almost disdainfully discarded. Were she a man, he could not ignore the insult of gloves thrown down at his place at th
e table. As she was not, he was not certain how to respond. Was it simply the carelessness of a woman? De facto Baroness Berendor and wife to the Sheriff of Brannagh as she was, somehow he doubted it.
Even so, the rules of hospitality bound his hand. His intention had been to offer what had been his wife’s chair to Glynnis, but now, with no chair at the head, it was his place to take that seat as the next most powerful. He stood miserably beside that chair, uncertain whether to move the chair rather awkwardly to the head of the table or go to the far end of the table, or merely to sit as if it meant nothing. He finally claimed his dead wife’s seat, though he did not yet sit, and gestured toward the table to bid Lady Glynnis choose her place, necessarily giving her more power than he’d intended.
“On the contrary,” Glynnis said, choosing the seat opposite him as if it did not matter to her a jot and settling herself in it like a queen. “I adore to hear of grand adventures.” She turned to the boy and gestured for him to join them. “Now, what insult is this that you answer?”
The marquess seated himself beside her, leaving Wirthing alone and unmarked on the far side of the table. “I dare not show you the gesture, madam. It was so vulgar that I fear it would shock your sensibilities.”
She gasped. “And someone made this vulgar gesture toward you, Lord Banya?”
“Well,” he hesitated. “To my colors. He directly insulted my commander in Durlindale.” The marquess laughed. “The savage probably had no idea what the gesture meant, but even so, you understand, it cannot go unanswered.”
“Oh, no. Of course not.”
Nara looked up from where she sat near the fire. “A savage did you say?”
Glynnis absently gestured for Nara to draw herself up to the table, which the old nun did, grating the heavy chair along the stone floor to its place at the table. Glynnis thought she heard Wirthing groan under his breath.
Guardian Last (Lords of Syon Saga Book 2) Page 37
