the face and deny it?’
Oggyn started to speak, then merely sighed and shook his head no.
‘I told you, no more of this.’ Maryn’s voice was level but cold. ‘My justice is free to all who ask. Do you understand that?’
‘I do, my prince.’ Oggyn spoke so softly that Bellyra could hardly hear him. ‘I welter in apologies. I beg your pardon most humbly.’
‘Give him the money back,’ Maryn said.
Slowly and with trembling hands Oggyn fumbled with the pouch at his belt. His lips trembled as well, and his face had turned scarlet all the way up and over his bald skull. When he held out a silver piece, the suppliant snatched it from his sweaty fingers. Oggyn slumped down and stared at the prince’s boots.
‘Good,’ Maryn went on. ‘Now then, what shall we do with you? I made you a threat the last time I caught you grafting. I think me I’d best live up to my word.’
‘Not that, my prince.’ Oggyn looked up, his lips working, his hands trembling. ‘I beg you –’
‘It behooves a noble born man to carry out what he threatens, councillor, lest his men think him weak-willed. Maddyn! Where’s your harp? There’s a song I want you to sing.’
‘My lord.’ Bellyra got up and laid a hand on the prince’s arm. ‘The poor man! Isn’t it a bit much?’
Maryn hesitated, glanced at Oggyn, who was studying the straw on the floor, then back to her. ‘It’s only what he deserves, but your kind heart becomes you, my lady.’
With a little sigh Bellyra took her chair again. For a few moments confusion swirled around the table of honour. Nevyn appeared from somewhere and rushed forward to speak with the suppliant. Maddyn and a Cerrmor bard talked earnestly; then the bard’s apprentice hurried forward and handed Maddyn a small lap harp. Through it all Oggyn stayed kneeling, folding over himself with his face as low to the floor as he could get it. At length Gwerbret Daeryc, who had been dining across the table from the princess, got up and pulled his chair out of the way so that Maddyn could climb up onto the table and sing.
For a moment or two Maddyn fiddled with the harp while the great hall gradually fell silent. Bellyra studied his face, carefully impassive. She should have known, she felt, that he would refrain from gloating. Maddyn looked up with a polite smile and a nod for the prince, cleared his throat, and began to sing the song of Farmer Owaen and the fox. At first the cheerful little melody and the subject matter made it sound like some sort of children’s song, and Bellyra could see Daeryc and the other nearby lords looking puzzled.
As the song progressed, however, and the fox found himself snatched bald by the farmer, the true import became clear. Verse after verse bounced by, and the resemblance to Oggyn grew more and more obvious. A few men snickered, a few others laughed. Bellyra could see some whispering and pointing at the councillor crouched at the prince’s feet, as if they were explaining the joke to those around them.
‘So a fox went to the henhouse,’ Maddyn finished, ‘but he found a wolf on guard. And he ended up as smooth and bald as any stone in the yard.’ He ran a trill up and down the strings, then struck a chord with a flourish of his wrist.
The great hall cheered and clapped, but Bellyra was watching Oggyn. Tears ran down his face. She leaned over and grabbed her husband’s arm.
‘It’s enough, Marro,’ Bellyra said in his ear. ‘Do let him go.’
Maryn nodded his agreement and pointed at Oggyn to give him leave to speak.
‘My liege!’ Oggyn howled, then choked on his words.
‘You may leave us, truly,’ Maryn said. ‘Don’t stand on ceremony.’
Blubbering thanks, Oggyn hauled himself to his feet. He turned and headed for the staircase on the other side of the great hall as fast as he could manage – not very in the clutter of tables and human bodies. Long before he reached it the laughter started, a huge wave of it that followed him up, lapping over the steps as he ran for the safety of the floor above. Scarlet-faced, Oggyn was puffing and panting so badly as he staggered up the staircase that Bellyra felt a sudden concern. She leaned over and yelled so that Maryn could hear.
‘What if he has an apoplexy or suchlike?’
‘Nevyn’s on his way after him,’ Maryn answered. ‘Fear not.’
Indeed, the dweomermaster had reached the staircase and was bounding up, as vigorously as a young warrior. He caught up with his fellow councillor, and for a moment Bellyra could see them both. Then, somehow, things got confused. She stopped watching the stairs, glanced back, found the two councillors no longer visible, glanced around and saw that no one else in the great hall seemed to be looking at the stairs either. I must ask Nevyn how he did that, she thought, but in a few beats of the heart she’d forgotten what she wanted to ask him. Out among the tables, the normal talk picked up again.
Maddyn had climbed down from the table and was handing the harp back to its owner. Bellyra waited till he’d done, then waved him over. He knelt in front of her and the prince.
‘Well sung, Maddo.’ Maryn was grinning. ‘Oggyn will think twice before he extorts any more coin from my subjects.’
‘So we may hope, your highness,’ Maddyn said.
‘I’ve got a little trinket for you,’ Bellyra said. ‘May it bring you luck in the wars.’
‘My lady is too generous,’ Maddyn said.
‘You deserve somewhat for escorting me round to all those dusty rooms all winter.’
Smiling, Maryn nodded at Maddyn, as if to say ‘take it’. When Maddyn held out his hand, Bellyra dropped it into his open palm. The bard looked at the rose pin, then grinned up at her.
‘It’s beautiful, my lady,’ Maddyn said. ‘You and your husband have my humble thanks.’
‘Most welcome,’ Bellyra said with a little nod.
Maddyn pinned the rose to his shirt collar. ‘I’ll treasure it always, your highness.’
‘That gladdens my heart. And now I think I’d best summon my women and get back to our hall.’ Bellyra rose, glancing idly away, as if Maddyn’s smile meant naught to her.
At the end of the table Elyssa stood waiting for her, but Degwa seemed to have left already. Oh gods! Bellyra thought. Poor Decci, having to watch all that! With a wave to Elyssa to follow, she left the table and hurried for the stairs, but by the time the two women reached the upper landing, neither Nevyn, Oggyn, nor Degwa were anywhere to be seen.
Nevyn had led Oggyn into the first empty chamber they came to, a tiny room containing naught but one chair. Oggyn sank down upon it and allowed himself to sob aloud. Repeatedly he ran his face over his sleeve, and eventually the tears stopped coming. Nevyn leaned against the wall and waited while Oggyn pulled a rag from his pocket and blew his nose. He shoved the rag back, then sat slumped, his hands hanging limply between his knees.
‘Ah ye gods,’ Oggyn moaned. ‘My life is over.’
‘Oh come now!’ Nevyn said. ‘It’s not as bad as all that.’
‘But I’ll have to leave court. How can I possibly stay in the prince’s service now?’
‘The prince will consider you amply punished and forget the matter.’
‘But the shame! Ye gods, everyone will talk of this for years.’
‘They won’t. You forget their vanity.’
Oggyn looked up, startled.
‘The noble born in particular,’ Nevyn went on, ‘think of very little but their own doings. The servants will remember for a few days, truly, but with the wars starting, soon everyone will have plenty of gossip, fears, and bereavements to occupy them. Besides, you’ll be riding with the army, and you won’t even be here to snicker