‘I would mourn Cradoc ap Varyn with tears, but the tears of a woman come too easily to honor a great man.’ Alyssa paused to take a deep breath. ‘A bard deserves the words of a true bard to mark his passing. I would remind you of the words of Gweran Henvardd, that the wild wind of wyrd blows where it wills, cold and bitter at times. A bitter wind has swept away not merely Cradoc, but Lord Grif of the Bear clan, Procyr of Abernaudd, and Scomyr the butcher’s son.’
At the mention of Scomyr, a woman cried out in a high-pitched wail of grief. Cavan glanced around and saw a stout market-wife who’d thrown her apron over her face. Her shoulders shook with sobs. He found the news of Lord Grif’s death more interesting – oil poured on the fire of feud smouldering up in Northern Eldidd.
‘If there was no justice for Cradoc,’ Alyssa continued, ‘if there was no justice for these three good men, what may we expect, should we need the courts for some redress?’ She paused and peered into the crowd as if she looked each and every one of them full in the face. ‘What? Naught! That’s all, nothing at all!’
This time voices in the crowd called out. ‘That’s the truth, she speaks true!’ Almost everyone else murmured in agreement. The sneering fellow cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, ‘Ah, stop your tongue, you cackling hen! You’re naught yourself, you twopenny whore!’
Cavan turned and without one thought swung straight for his face. His right fist collided with the fellow’s chin with a painful but satisfying blow. His left darted forward of its own accord and sank itself in the fellow’s stomach. With a grunt and a spew of vomit the heckler folded over himself and fell forward onto the cobbles.
Yelling for order, the marshals rushed into the crowd, only to be met by a solid block of the blue-coated students. Townsfolk yelled, the crowd swirled, the marshals began swinging their long staves. Up on her pile of wooden crates Alyssa screamed for order, but no one listened. In all the confusion it took Cavan a moment to realize that he was the man the marshals were trying to reach.
‘Here!’ a young voice shouted from behind him. ‘We’ve got to get you and Lyss out of here!’
‘Cursed right!’ Cavan turned and saw a dark-haired lad who wore an orange surcoat but no sword.
‘The men from King’s will handle the marshals,’ the lad went on. ‘Come on!’
They forced their way through the rapidly thinning crowd. Behind them shouts broke out. Cavan glanced back to see the noble-born men from King’s surrounding the marshals, who could do nothing but swear and threaten with their staffs. Whacking some powerful lord’s son in the head would cost them dear in the long run. As the threat of trouble eased, the stall holders stayed to guard their merchandise. Some of the bolder shoppers paused their flight and stood looking back at the square, as if deciding whether or not to return. There’d be no riot after all.
By the time her would-be rescuers reached her, Alyssa had already jumped down from her improvised rostrum. Men in orange surcoats surrounded her.
‘This is the fellow who felled the gwerbret’s spy,’ the dark-haired lad said to her. ‘The marshals saw him do it.’
Cavan’s stomach twisted. Gwerbret’s spy? He’d done it, all right, gotten himself into deep trouble without thinking twice.
‘We’ll hide you in Wmm’s,’ the lad continued. ‘They won’t dare come into our hive.’
Alyssa turned and gave Cavan a glowing smile. ‘You felled him good and proper,’ she said. ‘My thanks! I do wish I’d gotten to finish my speech, though.’
‘And an excellent beginning it was,’ Cavan said. ‘I wish I’d gotten to hear it all.’
Cavan started to bow to her, but she reached up, laid her hands on either side of his face, and kissed him. The students around them whooped aloud and laughed. Cavan felt that kiss run through his body, as hot as a sword thrust. He would have taken another, but she stepped back into the safety of her knot of women friends.
‘There’s your hire, silver dagger,’ the dark-haired lad said, grinning, ‘but ye gods, we’ve got to get out of here!’
Cavan glanced over his shoulder and saw more marshals shoving their way into the square from the southeast alley.
‘They’ve blocked the cursed way out of the square,’ Cavan said. ‘Where can we—’
‘Into the baker’s,’ Alyssa said. ‘There’s a back way out between the ovens.’
In the midst of a mob of students, Cavan followed Alyssa. She yelled orders, gathered her troops like a captain, and led them on the run to the downhill side of the marketplace. Farmers swore and grabbed hens and produce out of their way. Hogs squealed in excitement as they passed, dodging through the rough wooden stalls. Ahead lay a row of proper shops. Alyssa waved and pointed. Her troop poured into the doorway of a bakery.
The smell of fresh bread perfumed the warm, moist air. To one side of the dimly lit room stood a long wooden table, piled with loaves. The young baker, draped in a flour-dusted apron over his shirt and breeches, looked so much like Alyssa that Cavan knew he had to be close kin, a brother, most likely, from the way he spoke to her. She was common-born, he realized to his surprise. Somehow he’d thought that a women of her sharp wits must come from a noble clan.
‘You’ve done it this time!’ the baker snapped. ‘Don’t you ever learn?’
‘Oh, hold your tongue, Alwen! We’re just passing through.’
‘Very well, but hurry! I don’t want the wretched marshals in here!’
She laughed, blew him a kiss, and led the way round the table to an open door. The door led to a short stairway, which in turn led to a huge room, as hot as a blazing summer day. Four big brick ovens stood like beehives on one side, while firewood lay piled up on the other. Between them stood a wooden door, guarded by a lad of perhaps ten years. He too looked much like Alyssa.
‘Arwy,’ Alyssa snapped, ‘shut the door after us!’
‘I will.’ He scrambled out of the way. ‘But Da’s going to be so mad. He told you last time—’
‘That was last time. This is different.’
Alyssa lifted the bar and shoved the door open to sunlight and the over-ripe stink of Aberwyn’s fishing-boat harbor. The mob of students and one silver dagger rushed out into the sunlight. Cavan could see the stone towers of the Collegium rising over the alleyways and stone houses no more than half a mile away. Distantly from the market square he heard shouts of rage mixed with taunting laughter.
‘No sign of the marshals,’ the dark-haired lad said. ‘No doubt the men from King’s are keeping them busy. My name’s Rhys, by the by.’
‘And mine’s Cavan. My thanks for your aid.’
‘You’d best come back with us. The Collegia have immunity, you see, and they won’t dare follow you inside.’
‘Splendid! But I’ve got a horse stabled at my lodgings.’
‘We’ll fetch him after dark. Now let’s hurry!’
Once they reached the safety of the Collegia grounds, Alyssa had a moment to think. Not only had she gotten into trouble with the town marshals, she’d kissed a silver dagger right out in a public square. Her usual taste for such wild adventures disappeared when she considered what Lady Tay might say about both dangerous missteps. At the door to Wmm’s Scribal’s hive, everyone paused to catch their breath. Rhys ducked inside and came out again with an orange surcoat, which he handed to Cavan.
‘For a day or two you’d best be one of us,’ Rhys said.
‘My thanks!’ Cavan put the surcoat on and pulled it round to cover his silver dagger. ‘I hope the marshals have short memories.’
‘I’ll hope and pray,’ Alyssa said, ‘that the men from King’s will fill their memories with less than pleasant thoughts.’ She dropped Cavan a curtsy. ‘My thanks again!’
He bowed to her. ‘It would gladden my heart to see you again.’
‘If you’re in residence here, no doubt you will.’
With Cavan safely hidden in Rhys’s collegium, Alyssa hurried back to her own hive. She walked into the women’s great hall to find Lady Tay standing by the cold hearth in a state of sheer fury. She was talking with the two chaperones, and she punctuated her words by slapping the tiny roll of pabrus she held in her right hand against her left palm. Alyssa stepped toward the wall to stay out of the lady’s line of sight, but Tay saw her before she could sneak upstairs.
‘Alyssa!’ Lady Tay called out. ‘I have unpleasant news for you.’
Alyssa was so sure that she was about to be sent away that she felt sick to her stomach. In the spirit of a hound who’s stolen meat from the table, she slunk over to the three ladies and curtsied to all of them.
‘We’ve heard about Cradoc’s remains,’ Lady Tay said. ‘The gwerbret’s refusing to give them over to anyone but his kin and clan.’
‘What?’ Outrage mingled with relief, both so profound that Alyssa had to gulp for breath before she could continue. ‘Forgive my discourtesy, my lady! But Cradoc has no living kin or clan.’
‘Precisely! And I’d wager high that our ever-so-noble lord knows that as well as we do.’ Lady Tay shook the pabrus roll vaguely in the direction of the gwerbretal dun. ‘This message came from Malyc Penvardd but a few moments ago. He’s composing a flyting song, he tells me. His journeymen will make sure it goes out with the mail coaches for the entire kingdom to hear.’
‘Will that matter to Gwerbret Ladoic?’ Werra put in.
‘I doubt it, but what else can we do? His Grace says that he’ll have the body “disposed of properly”. Disposed of!’ Lady Tay’s voice shook and snarled. ‘As if he were a dead horse! Here!’ She held out the roll. ‘You’ll find Lady Dovina in our bookchamber. Take this to her! Well, my apologies. Would you please—’
‘Of course, my lady.’ Alyssa curtsied again and took the message.
As she hurried up the staircase, Alyssa reminded herself that far more important matters burdened Lady Tay’s mind than one of her students kissing a silver dagger. With luck, the lady would never hear of the incident at all. The heckler in the market square, of course, was a rather more serious thing. She should have realized, she told herself, that trouble might erupt. A gwerbretal spy – a dropped lantern in a pile of straw. You’ve really done it this time. When she remembered her brother Alwen’s remark, she felt half-sick with fear.
The hive’s bookchamber occupied the very top floor of the main broch. A circular room, some fifty feet across, it had windows all round. Wooden shutters covered in oxhides stood ready to keep out the rain. Every spring, the women moved a lectern under each window to catch the best light, and every winter they moved them back to the center of the room away from the damp. Unlike the men’s collegia, they had no money to pay for glass windows. Bookshelves stood around in profusion, each a few feet away from the stone walls.
On this sunny afternoon all the shutters stood open. Lady Dovina sat at a table near a view of the harbor far below and peered at an open book through her reading-glass. When Alyssa held out the pabrus message, Dovina looked up and took it.
‘Have you heard about Cradoc’s body?’ Alyssa said.
‘I have, and it’s just like Father to be so stubborn.’ Dovina paused to unroll the pabrus and read the message. ‘Good for the penvardd!’
‘Well, a noble lord is supposed to be stubborn.’
‘According to our beloved Mael the Seer, truly, but in other places he does praise moderation in all things. Stubbornness is only one of the noble qualities, after all. And last time I looked, greed in the law courts wasn’t one of them.’
‘True spoken indeed.’ Alyssa looked over her shoulder at the open book. ‘Is this the one you were remembering?’
‘Indeed it is, Dwvoryc’s Annals of the Dawntime.’ Dovina rubbed her hands together and cackled like a witch. ‘It says here, very clearly, that in the olden days, gwerbretion were called vergobretes. They didn’t inherit their position, they were elected.’
‘Elected! Ye gods!’
‘All the free men of a tribe would come together and say yea or nay as each candidate was presented to them. The one with the loudest number of yeas got the job.’
‘That must have changed a thousand years ago.’
‘Mostly, but why do you think there’s a Council of Electors? That’s how my clan got the gwerbretrhyn, isn’t it, when the Maelwaedds died out? The Council met and voted and chose us over the Bears. The Electors are the last remnant of this tradition.’ Dovina gave the book a wicked grin. ‘And how will Father like that ancient folkway, I wonder?’
Dovina got her chance to find out only a few moments later, when Mavva came hurrying up the stairs to join them.
‘My lady!’ Mavva appeared in the doorway. ‘Your father’s at the gates. Lady Werra told him you lay abed with a headache, but he didn’t believe her. He used such coarse language that she’s quite upset. He’s demanding to speak with you.’
‘Does he have armed men with him?’ Dovina said.
‘A few, and a councillor.’
Dovina rolled her eyes. ‘I want to show the stubborn old dog this book, so I suppose I can pretend to surrender. Mavva, if I may trouble you, would you go tell His Grace that I’m rising at his command and will be down once I’m decently dressed? Lyss, will you accompany me?’
‘Gladly,’ Alyssa said. ‘I want to see what happens.’
As a sop to Dovina’s rank, Alyssa insisted on carrying the book. Since it had been written onto Bardek pabrus it weighed far less than one of their old parchment volumes, but it still made a tidy armful. They arrived at the closed and locked iron gates to find the gwerbret pacing irritably outside them while his attendants huddled off to one side.
Gwerbret Ladoic was a tall man, heavily muscled if somewhat bow-legged from all the years he’d spent on horseback. He wore his gray hair cropped close to his skull, though he sported a thick, drooping moustache as if in compensation. Although his brown breeches were as plain as a commoner’s, his waistcoat was made of the Fox tartan and fastened with big silver knots for buttons. His shirt sported the Fox blazon at the yokes and on the sleeves.
‘Ah, there you are,’ he said. ‘So you deigned to come down? I want to talk with you. Call a servant, please, and have him open these gates.’
‘All the servants are busy with the noon meal,’ Dovina said. ‘We can see each other well enough through the bars. What did you want to talk about?’
‘This rebellion of yours. There are men dead over it, and I want it stopped.’
‘It’s a bit late for that, Father. Cradoc’s death, for one thing. How could you have done it, just let him starve like that?’
Ladoic started to speak but said nothing.
‘You thought he’d give in, didn’t you?’ Dovina continued. ‘Break his fast, and you’d win. The honor of the thing, not giving in, lords should be stubborn and all the rest of it. Well, wasn’t it?’
‘What’s done is done.’ But he looked away as he said it.
‘And then Gwarl went and made things worse.’
Ladoic started to snarl an answer, calmed himself, and began again. ‘I’ve spoken to your brother. And that’s all I’m going to say about it.’
‘But—’
‘I said, that’s all! It’s between him and me. Not you.’
Alyssa caught her breath, but Dovina dropped him a curtsy, and he nodded in satisfaction.
‘Very well, Father. But it’s not a rebellion. We’re basing our requests on our ancient traditions as the People of Bel.’
‘Indeed?’
‘I’ll show you summat.’
Alyssa stepped forward, and Dovina took the book. Ladoic snorted, but before he could speak further, Dovina thrust the book at him through the bars.
‘I’ve marked the spot with that bit of pabrus,’ she said. ‘Do read what he says about the origin of the gwerbretion. You say you’ll stand on old traditions, Father. Well, here’s what the oldest tradition says about the law courts.’
Ladoic took the heavy volume, but he snapped his fingers at an elderly man, dressed in the long black robe that marked him as a councillor. ‘Nallyc! Read this aloud.’
Nallyc took the book, opened it, and glanced at the marked passage. For a moment he read silently. His eyebrows shot up, and Dovina smirked at him.
‘Surprising, innit?’ she said. ‘It makes standing on tradition rather less attractive.’
‘Indeed, my lady.’ His voice quavered more with fear than age. ‘Er, Your Grace, mayhap we should read this in private—’
‘Read it now!’
‘Very well, Your Grace.’ Councillor Nallyc cleared his throat and began. ‘The language is very old and contorted, so I shall summarize. It says here that in the Dawntime, when our ancestors did wish to choose a man to judge them and administer their laws, they held an assembly of all free men. Their rhix—’ Nallyc looked up from the text. ‘That would be their warleader, Your Grace, the man we call the cadvridoc. At any rate, he would put forth several candidates, and the tribal assembly would choose the one they thought fit.’ He swallowed heavily. ‘It goes on to say that the laws expressly prohibited a vergobrex from passing the office on to his son.’
‘Just think!’ Dovina put in. ‘So much for a clan’s position!’
Ladoic’s face went stone-still. When he held out a hand, Nallyc handed him the book, then drew his robe tightly around him, as if for protection. Ladoic stared at the passage, then shut the book with a snap and a puff of dust. He looked at Dovina with cold blue eyes.
‘How do I know you didn’t just write this book, eh?’ the gwerbret snorted. ‘Or put this bit in, like.’
‘Father, be reasonable! It takes months to write out a book this size.’
‘And you’ve had months, haven’t you?’ Ladoic grinned as if he’d just won a game of carnoic. ‘This thing looks cursed new to me. Nice clean pages. Naught faded or worn.’
Dovina reached through the gate and grabbed the book back from his indifferent hands.
‘My dear lady!’ Nallyc sounded so angry he nearly sputtered. ‘How can you be so discourteous? He may be your father, but he’s also your gwerbret and overlord!’
‘And you are common-born no matter how high you’ve risen! Don’t you speak to me like that!’
‘Enough!’ Ladoic threw both hands in the air. ‘Silence, the pair of you!’
Dovina took a pace back. Nallyc took several.
‘That’s better.’ Ladoic lowered his hands. ‘No matter what or why, we know what the outcome’s been. Riots. Fighting in the market square. I intend to put an end to this rebellion any way I can.’
‘It’s not a rebellion!’ Dovina said. ‘We merely stand on the ancient traditions you claim to honor. If you’d but listen to our legal arguments—’
Ladoic’s patience snapped.
‘You listen to me!’ Ladoic set his hands on his hips. ‘You’re coming with me right now, back to the dun.’
‘I’m not.’ Dovina clutched the book to her chest. ‘And you can’t come in to seize me, either, unless I invite you. That’s the terms of our charter.’
‘You stubborn little wench!’
‘I’m stubborn? Huh! Why do you want me so badly? Have you found some new landless suitor who’s desperate for a wife? Some gouty old widower who’s gambled his inheritance away?’
‘I have, but he happens to be a decent young man.’ Ladoic considered her with a small smile. ‘And a man of advanced ideas, or so I hear, the younger son of Lord Tarryc of Daiver. The gwerbret’s nephew. Hah! That made you think!’
Dovina wrinkled her nose in a sneer but said nothing. Alyssa raised an eyebrow. A connection with Daiver? Worth considering, certainly.
The gwerbretion of Daiver occupied an odd position in the nobility. Once, hundreds of years ago, they’d ruled Cerrmor, in the usual manner. Some complicated political intrigue and a brief rebellion back in the 1200s had lost them everything. Since the common people had held for the king, they were rewarded with the charter that made Cerrmor a free city. To prevent further bloodshed, the gwerbretal clan had been fobbed off with scant land and a title derived from an old village near the city itself. In Dovina’s time, their connections to the High King kept them prosperous but dependent upon serving the royalty as court officials.
‘Besides,’ Ladoic continued, ‘the Prince Regent is making a royal progress. We’ll be meeting him in Cerrmor.’
‘So you’d best make a decent appearance.’ Dovina smiled in the simpery way that meant she’d spotted a weapon. ‘There’s bound to be all sorts of ceremonies around his visit.’
‘Indeed. The city itself will be holding a feast in his honor. Convenient all round. This man I’m betrothing you to – Merryc, his name is – will be greeting him. So you’re cursed well coming with me to Cerrmor whether you want to go or not.’
‘Cerrmor, is it?’ Dovina glanced Alyssa’s way. ‘How awfully interesting.’
‘Very, my lady.’ Alyssa curtsied to her and to the gwerbret. Cerrmor, of course, was the home of the new Collegium of Advocates, allies to their cause.
‘Well then, Father,’ Dovina said. ‘I’ll make you a bargain. Give us back Cradoc’s body, and I’ll come with you willingly.’
‘I can’t just go to my law court and order this tower of madwomen to hand you over. Why should I bargain with you?’
‘Because if you don’t, I’ll scream and howl and make such a horrid display of myself in front of the Prince Regent that you’ll be shamed in the eyes of every man in the kingdom. Such as Gwerbret Standyc, for instance. And won’t old Tewdyr love to repeat the tale?’
Gwerbret Ladoic’s face turned so bright a shade of red that Alyssa feared he was about to suffer an elf-stroke. Dovina smirked at him until he cleared his throat and took a deep breath or two. Slowly his color returned to its usual weather-beaten tan.
‘You wouldn’t!’
‘Oh, come now, Father. You know me well enough to know that I would.’
He scowled, she smiled. ‘Oh, very well!’ he said at last. ‘I’ll have the servants bring your cursed bard back with all due ceremony. And you’d best be ready to leave when they do!’
‘After the funeral, of course. To do otherwise would be unseemly.’
‘Oh, very well! After the funeral. Besides, I want you home for another thing. Your lout of a brother, as you call him, is visiting. Adonyc’s brought good news. You can be decent and help us celebrate.’
‘What? Has that moo-cow of a wife of his squeezed out a male heir?’
‘Just that, and don’t call her a cow.’ Yet he was fighting a smile. ‘Placid, that’s the word we want.’
‘Placid and fertile, and I’ll bet she gives lots and lots of milk.’
Ladoic suppressed his smile and turned away with a gesture to Nallyc to follow. He barked out a few orders to the men accompanying him and strode off. Dovina said nothing until they’d all mounted their horses and ridden away.
‘Summat’s upset Father,’ Dovina said. ‘He’s not usually as bad as this.’
‘I’d suppose that the fathers of those dead lads have sent him messages by now.’
‘That’s most likely it. Though he’s fond of saying that a daughter like me would drive most men mad.’ She paused for a grin. ‘I’ll admit the justice of that.’
Alyssa kept a tactful silence.
‘Let’s go back to the bookchamber,’ Dovina said. ‘I have a plan, but we’ve got to find out where the old copy of this book may be. Everything depends on that.’
‘The old copy?’
‘The source manuscript, the crumbling smelly old thing that’s in our bookhoard. I’ve found notes about it from the priests of Wmm. They called it the “no one” book because it had “nevyn” written on the first page. I’ve got no idea what that means, but the notes said some scholars think the book’s hundreds and hundreds of years old. If we can get that one into the hands of the guild, Father shan’t be able to pretend we’ve forged it.’
‘You can smuggle it with you when you go.’
‘Assuming it’s here in the collegium. I have the awful feeling that we’re not going to have that kind of luck.’
As was so often the case when the subject was books, Dovina was right. According to the notes she found in the journal of the bookhoard, the ‘Nevyn Copy’ of Dwvoryc’s Annals of the Dawntime had been given over on loan to Haen Marn so that the Scribal Guild there could produce copies.
