of the bushes, either,’ Tudvulc went on. ‘You’re my niece, got connections of your own, and you’re blasted good-looking, too. A pretty face is worth half a dowry, eh? So you just wait and see what kind of game we can beat out of the forest, lass. No rush. You’re always welcome at my table.’
‘His grace is ever so kind.’ Sevinna bowed her head. ‘I’m willing to wait for the right match.’
‘Good, good. Never know about you lasses, eh? Most of you are so eager to get that crown of roses on your head you can’t think straight.’ He gave her a twisted grin that was doubtless meant to be jolly and avuncular. ‘Oh, the gwerbret of Buccbrael has a young son, too. Be a cursed good alliance for both our clans, and I hear the lad’s already turning the heads of the local lasses. Good-looking sort. A year or two younger than you, but young men grow faster with a wife in their bed. We’ll see what we can turn up, truly.’
Bowing, a page appeared in the doorway.
‘Your Grace? There’s a messenger here from the gwerbret of Caenmetyn. He says it concerns an urgent matter of justice, an escaped murderer.’
‘Indeed? Send him straight in. Here, lass, you run along to your aunt and have a nice little ride.’
Sevinna rose, curtsied and made a grateful escape. In the corridor she passed the messenger, a warrior with the blazon of Caenmetyn on his road-stained shirt.
The afternoon’s expedition rode slowly along the grassy banks of the Sironaver, sparkling in the sun, until they came to a spot where willow trees had been planted to give some shade for just this sort of party. The grass had been trimmed back with a scythe, too, and beds of bright flowers made pleasant curves by the riverbank. When the others dismounted, Wbridda, with her falcon on her gloved wrist and one of the pages riding behind, went off into the grasslands to hunt. As she’d been told to do, Sevinna waited a moment before dismounting. Sure enough, Lord Timryc hurried to her side to help her down from her side-saddle. His hands were strong on her waist, his smile carefully courtly as he set her down.
‘This is truly a lovely place,’ Timryc said. ‘Will my lady honour me by walking down the river to see the view?’
‘My thanks, my lord. What a pretty thought.’
As they walked, Sevinna found herself tongue-tied; all she could do was ask him questions about his life at court, but the questions had to be carefully phrased, as it would be most discourteous if he thought she were prying into his financial worth or standing. Fortunately, Timryc had no difficulty at all keeping a conversation going, especially when the subject was himself. Sevinna was amazed at how often he could mention the times the King had spoken to him or the Queen had thanked him for some favour.
Getting back to the privacy of the women’s quarters was like finding refuge from a storm. Sevinna sank gratefully into a chair and wondered if she could feign a headache to get out of sitting next to Timryc at dinner. Babryan sat down next to her and gave Wbridda a scowl.
‘Go change that dress! You’ve got blood all over your sleeve.’
‘We had a good hunt,’ Wbridda said. ‘Two sparrows and a crow.’
‘Ugh! I don’t care. Or wait! Did you get some of the crow’s feathers?’
With a grin, Wbridda pulled three black tail feathers out of her kirtle and held them up.
‘Those are ever so useful for charms, Sevvi,’ Babryan explained. ‘If you don’t want Lord Timryc, we’ll work one tonight on him.’
‘Oh splendid! Because I don’t.’
The girls waited till late that night to make the charm. Wbridda brought one of the black feathers, Babryan, a candle-end, and Sevinna, a bone stylus. They crouched down close to the hearth, and Babryan laid the candle-end down a little distance from the flames.
‘We’ll let the wax soften.’
‘All right,’ Sevinna said. ‘Now here, though, this won’t make his lordship sick or anything, will it?’
‘Oh, of course not,’ Wbridda chimed in. ‘It’s awfully hard to make someone sick or have them die or suchlike. You’ve got to have bits of their fingernails or hair, and you’ve got to have special herb-oil, and you’ve got to work the charms nine times at midnight and do all sorts of stuff.’
‘All right, then. He’s only an awful bore. I don’t want to cause him any harm. Do you know anyone who’s ever worked this charm before?’
‘Oh, lots of people,’ Babryan said. ‘Lady Davylla’s sisters, and then their friends. I don’t know anyone who’s ever worked the death curse, though. Oooh! That would be awful. You’d have to really hate someone.’
‘I bet Lady Davylla’s Wise Woman could do it, though,’ Wbridda said. ‘Or one of her friends.’
‘There’s some round Lughcarn, too,’ Babryan added. ‘We’ve got a little silver chain Lady Davylla’s Wise Woman gave us, you see. If we show it to one of the Wise Women here, they’ll know that we’re their friends.’
‘Have you talked to any of them?’ Sevinna said.
‘Not yet, because it’s so hard to get away from Mam. Now that you’re here, we’ll have to think of a way to do it. We can pretend to hunt with falcons or suchlike. It’ll be ever so exciting.’
‘Let’s do it soon,’ Sevinna said. ‘Look, the wax is getting really soft.’
Babryan picked up the warm candle-end and kneaded it into the shape of a heart. When it was cool, Sevinna scratched Timryc’s mark onto the surface, then handed it to Wbridda, who stuck the shaft of the feather into the wax. While Sevinna held the heart over the fire, the other two began to chant Aranrhodda’s name. She threw the heart into the hottest part of the fire and watched as the feather singed and flared.
‘Let his regard for her melt, melt, melt,’ Babryan chanted.
For a moment the heart held steady, then began to twist and run. The wax flared with a plume of black smoke. Sevinna was suddenly frightened: it seemed that a face looked out of the flames, a pair of eyes, dark and grim, looking her straight in the face and marking her presence.
‘Aranrhodda, Aranrhodda, Aranrhodda!’ Babryan was whispering the chant over and over. ‘Let his heart melt, melt, melt.’
The face disappeared; there was only the fire and the flaring wax along a log. Sevinna felt herself shuddering as if she knelt by a winter window instead of a roaring fire.
Black thatch covered the inn roof, the inn yard stank from a dirty stable, and the innkeep kept picking at a boil on his face, but the place was the only one in Lughcarn that would take in silver daggers. All the time they were sweeping out stalls and tending their horses, Rhodry grumbled, but Jill ignored him. He grumbled about the food, too, and she had to admit that fried turnips flecked with mutton weren’t her favourite dinner, but when he insisted on wiping the rim of the tankard with the hem of his shirt before he drank from it, she’d had enough.
‘Oh, stop it! I suppose you think we should be sleeping in the gwerbret’s broch!’
‘Don’t pour vinegar in my wounds. I have stayed in the dun, and it’s the memory that aches my heart now.’
‘Huh.
