her
died. Her ears longed for his voice and her eyes felt tired from
not seeing him. She missed Blaise.
“Daffodils?” Brochfael asked, furrowing his brow.
“Yes.” Leri grinned impishly. “Blaise needs to bring the
Princess more daffodils but he’s not here.”
Druid Neilyn, seated below the dais, asked, “Did she say her
daffodils have wilted?”
This was good, Branda thought. Everyone seemed interested
in daffodils. It must have been a good subject to bring up. She
glanced at the empty chair again. It took on the appearance of a
useless piece of wood, and al the intricate carvings seemed
frivolous without Blaise sitting in it. To fight this odd longing for the Prince, she turned to reason. It must have been the daffodils.
She had merely confused her wont for daffodils with a wont for
Blaise, for if he were there, he would have brought her fresh
daffodils. She shrugged at the simple conclusion, satisfied with
her logic.
“Daffodils?” The King tilted his head toward Carthann. “Did I
not bring you daffodils years ago?”
“Many years ago, Lord husband.”
“Daffodils,” Elisedd repeated. “I have given no thought to
daffodils in ages.” He glanced at Branda. “Princess, I shal show
you where the daffodils grow on the morrow.”
With a bouncy nod toward Elisedd, Branda said, “My
thanks.”
However, the sudden joy bubbling in her with that news burst
as her head spun with thoughts of Blaise. Was he, even now,
seated around a campfire chewing hard bread and cheese, or
gulping down a skin of mead? What word would the messenger
bring from her father? What would Ethelbald do when he
opened the missive and saw the betrothal ring wrapped with
opened the missive and saw the betrothal ring wrapped with
strands of hair? He would rage. What of Blaise on the Mercia
border? If something happened to the messenger, Blaise would
be alone. Would Ethelbald capture him again? No. Blaise was
badly wounded last time. In a fair fight, he would have escaped.
In an instant, her mind was filed with the sights and sounds of
the day Blaise and Brochfael sparred in the practice yard. She
recaled his bare arms bulging with muscles and his broad chest
glistening with drops of sweat. Absently, she scooped a helping
of wild strawberries.
Carthann turned to the serving maid. “Begin serving the cawl.”
Branda bent her head to the Queen’s ear and whispered,
“Does cawl have honey in it?”
“No.” Carthann flashed a sweet smile. “Do you want honey?”
“Look.” She showed the Queen a blemish on her forehead.
“Honey causes that. I have had too much. The serving maid has
been bringing me bits of a fruit loaf caled bara brith.”
“Wel, you need not worry.” The Queen pointed to two large
brass pots hanging over the hearth fire. “Cawl is much like your
Saxon stew. It has no honey.”
Even from where she sat, Branda smeled the aroma of leeks,
carrots, venison and wild onions. The serving maid laid a bowl of
simmering cawl before her. Branda noticed a wooden spoon
hanging from the maid’s neck.
“What is it for?” She reached out and ran her finger across the
shalow scoop of the wooden trinket.
“It is a loving spoon, m’lady. A sign of betrothal among the
peasantry,” she whispered in Branda’s ear.
“Did your sire contract the match?”
“No, my lady, the peasantry marry for love. Nevertheless, in
the laws of the Cymry, no woman can be forced to wed.”
“In truth?” Branda could hardly believe it.
“Yes, did you not know?” The servant arched her brows.
“No.” Branda ran her fingers around the smooth loving spoon.
“I had a betrothal ring. Your King sent it to my sire so he wil
pay my ransom.”
“Sorry I am that the King took your ring, m’lady.”
“It’s the way of men.” She smiled at the sweet-faced girl. “Is
your betrothed here?”
“Yes, he sits with the other guards.” She pointed him out.
“Yes, he sits with the other
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