price?
2
The forty days of mourning wound slowly to an end. On the forty-first day, a caravan of strangers wound its way slowly up the winding rocky track toward Hammerfell Castle and when welcomed proved to be a relative of the duke's late wife along with his
retinue. Duke Rascard, more uncomfortable than he cared to admit in the presence of this sophisticated, finely dressed city-dweller, received him in his Great Hall, calling for wine and refreshments.
"My apologies for the insufficiency of this entertainment," he remarked, ushering him to a seat near the carved mantle which bore the crest of Hammerfell, "but until yesterday this was a house of mourning, and we have not returned to our normal state."
"I did not come for cakes and wine, kinsman," said Renato Leynier, a lowland cousin from the Hastur countries to the south. "Your mourning is all our family's mourning as well; Alaric was my kinsman,
too. But there is a purpose to our visit―I have come to reclaim my kinsman's daughter, the leronis Erminie."
Renato looked at the duke. If he had expected―as was the case--to see an old, broken man, ready to collapse at the death of his son and see Hammerfell fall into the hands of strangers, he was cheated. If anything, this man seemed to have grown stronger through his rage and pride; a vital man, still in command of those armies of Hammerfell through which he had marched for many days. Power spoke in the man's every small gesture and word; Rascard of Hammerfell was not young, but far from broken.
"But why do you seek to reclaim Erminie now?" Rascard asked, feeling the question like a stab of pain. "She is well in my household. This is her home. She is the last living link with my son. I would prefer to keep her as a daughter to my family."
"That is not possible," said Renato. "She is no longer a child, but a marriageable woman nearing twenty, and you are not so old as all that." (Until this very moment he had indeed thought of Rascard of Hammerfell as old enough to need no chaperone where a young woman was concerned.) "It is scandalous for you two to live alone together."
"Surely there is nothing so evil as the mind of a virtuous man, unless it is the mind of a virtuous woman," said Rascard indignantly, his face flushing with anger. In all truth this interpretation had never occurred to him. "Almost from infancy she was my son's playmate, and in all the years she has lived here, there has been no dearth of chaperones and duennas and companions and governesses. They will tell you that not twice in all these years have we been so much as alone in a room together, save when she
brought me news of my son's tragic death; and then, believe me, we both had other things on our minds."
"I doubt it not," Renato said smoothly, "but even so, Erminie is of an age to be married, and while she dwells beneath your roof, however innocently, she cannot be properly married to any man of her station; or do you design to degrade her by marrying her to some lowborn paxman or servant?"
"No such thing," the old duke retorted, "I had designed to wed her to my own son, had he-but lived long enough."
An awkward, and for Rascard, sad silence followed. But Renato would not back down.
"Would that it might have been so! But with due respect to your son, she cannot marry with the dead, more's the pity," Renato said, "and so she must return to her own kinfolk."
Rascard felt his eyes flooding with the tears he had been too proud to shed. He looked up at the dark coat of arms above the hearth and could no longer hide his bitter sorrow.
"Now I am indeed alone, for I have no other kinsman; those folk of Storn have had their triumph, for there is no living man or woman of the blood of Hammerfell besides myself anywhere in the Hundred Kingdoms."
"You are not yet an old man," Renato said, responding to the terrible loneliness in Rascard's voice. "You could yet marry again and raise up a dozen heirs."
And Rascard knew that what Renato said was
2
The forty days of mourning wound slowly to an end. On the forty-first day, a caravan of strangers wound its way slowly up the winding rocky track toward Hammerfell Castle and when welcomed proved to be a relative of the duke's late wife along with his
retinue. Duke Rascard, more uncomfortable than he cared to admit in the presence of this sophisticated, finely dressed city-dweller, received him in his Great Hall, calling for wine and refreshments.
"My apologies for the insufficiency of this entertainment," he remarked, ushering him to a seat near the carved mantle which bore the crest of Hammerfell, "but until yesterday this was a house of mourning, and we have not returned to our normal state."
"I did not come for cakes and wine, kinsman," said Renato Leynier, a lowland cousin from the Hastur countries to the south. "Your mourning is all our family's mourning as well; Alaric was my kinsman,
too. But there is a purpose to our visit―I have come to reclaim my kinsman's daughter, the leronis Erminie."
Renato looked at the duke. If he had expected―as was the case--to see an old, broken man, ready to collapse at the death of his son and see Hammerfell fall into the hands of strangers, he was cheated. If anything, this man seemed to have grown stronger through his rage and pride; a vital man, still in command of those armies of Hammerfell through which he had marched for many days. Power spoke in the man's every small gesture and word; Rascard of Hammerfell was not young, but far from broken.
"But why do you seek to reclaim Erminie now?" Rascard asked, feeling the question like a stab of pain. "She is well in my household. This is her home. She is the last living link with my son. I would prefer to keep her as a daughter to my family."
"That is not possible," said Renato. "She is no longer a child, but a marriageable woman nearing twenty, and you are not so old as all that." (Until this very moment he had indeed thought of Rascard of Hammerfell as old enough to need no chaperone where a young woman was concerned.) "It is scandalous for you two to live alone together."
"Surely there is nothing so evil as the mind of a virtuous man, unless it is the mind of a virtuous woman," said Rascard indignantly, his face flushing with anger. In all truth this interpretation had never occurred to him. "Almost from infancy she was my son's playmate, and in all the years she has lived here, there has been no dearth of chaperones and duennas and companions and governesses. They will tell you that not twice in all these years have we been so much as alone in a room together, save when she
brought me news of my son's tragic death; and then, believe me, we both had other things on our minds."
"I doubt it not," Renato said smoothly, "but even so, Erminie is of an age to be married, and while she dwells beneath your roof, however innocently, she cannot be properly married to any man of her station; or do you design to degrade her by marrying her to some lowborn paxman or servant?"
"No such thing," the old duke retorted, "I had designed to wed her to my own son, had he-but lived long enough."
An awkward, and for Rascard, sad silence followed. But Renato would not back down.
"Would that it might have been so! But with due respect to your son, she cannot marry with the dead, more's the pity," Renato said, "and so she must return to her own kinfolk."
Rascard felt his eyes flooding with the tears he had been too proud to shed. He looked up at the dark coat of arms above the hearth and could no longer hide his bitter sorrow.
"Now I am indeed alone, for I have no other kinsman; those folk of Storn have had their triumph, for there is no living man or woman of the blood of Hammerfell besides myself anywhere in the Hundred Kingdoms."
"You are not yet an old man," Renato said, responding to the terrible loneliness in Rascard's voice. "You could yet marry again and raise up a dozen heirs."
And Rascard knew that what Renato said was
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