Chapter 35

                                    

                                          
Brienna dropped her knife, and the clatter of it hitting the table summoned the attention of both men, who looked straight at her. The man with the scar slowly frowned, and for a second she feared that he would run and tell Donnall what she had overhead, or, worse, do something drastic to keep her quiet about what he'd so carelessly revealed. He lurched forward violently and slammed his fists on the table.
                          
"Wench!" he shouted at her, "What are you doing sitting there? Can't you see we're hungry? Bring us more meat!"
                          
"More meat!" the Scot echoed. In the next instant, his head slapped against the table as he passed out from drink, and the man with the scar looked at him warily, like unconsciousness might be catching.
                          
Brienna took her moment. She bounded from the table to go and find Llewellyn, her heart rapping at her breastbone as she scanned the room for him. The party had become louder as people abandoned themselves to revelry, and shining faces and flashes of finery crowded her vision as she sought for him. She felt like she was about to drown in a siege of noise and color, but just as she was about to start shouting his name in desperation, she caught the sight of his back as he left the room with one of the visiting dignitaries from the south of Wales.
                          
She ran to follow him, but running was impossible with the press of people, and she had to push and shove her way to the head of the room. Her progress was slow and frustrating and when Ruarc suddenly appeared at her side, she nearly wept with joy.
                          
"Roarc," she appealed to him, "you have to help me get out of here!"
                          
"That's just what I'm here for, sister," he said. To her consternation, he quickly bent low and swept her up, throwing her over his shoulder so that she hung there like a sack of grain. Around them, lords and soldiers clapped, thinking it just another bit of sport to liven the festivities.
                          
"Put me down," Brienna insisted. As much as she wanted to get through the crowd, she wasn't in the mood to indulge her brother's idea of fun.
                          
"But I can't!" Ruarc roared. He started to carry her to the door. At least we're going in the right direction, Brienna thought. "It's my duty as your brother to safeguard your virtue on the night before your wedding day."
                          
Realization crashed into Brienna. It was tradition for the men of her household to stow a bride away in her room and stand guard outside the door before she was to be wed, to protect her maidenhead from any mischief from the groom, or from the designs of slighted suitors to steal her away. Nothing like that had actually happened in recent history; Brienna only knew the origin of the practice from the verses of visiting bards. Nevertheless, it was a ritual that her family, and those across Ireland, still held.
                          
"No," she said as forcefully as she could. She couldn't let Ruarc take her to her room and lock her in before she had a chance to speak to Llewellyn. But he ignored her pleas. "Wait, please, I have to—" 
                          
Then he stopped. Brienna craned her neck. She was looking up into the face of Donnall, who stared down at her with placating tenderness.
                          
"Until tomorrow, wife," he said. 
                          
She watched in horror as he glanced up to check that her brother couldn't see what was happening behind his back, and then he gripped her chin and mashed his mouth into hers, his tongue slipping between her lips and skidding along her clenched teeth. 
                          
She jerked her head to tear it from his grasp, disgusted that he would make advances when she was in as undignified a position as the one the soldier had wanted to put the kitchen maid in, and obviously distraught. It occurred to her that he was the type for whom the archaic tradition of safeguarding the bride had been invented. 
                          
Donnall gave her a sly little wave as Ruarc started moving again, carrying her at last from the great hall and up the tower stairs. They were approaching Llewellyn's room, the room with the smell of parchment and leather which she now associated with him, and she thrashed in Ruarc's grip, trying to unbalance him so he dropped her, but he held firm.   
                          
"Llewellyn!" she called to the closed door of the war room.
                          
"He can't help you now!" Ruarc laughed.
                          
Strong as an ox, he speedily made the rest of the ascent to her room and plowed inside, dumping her on the bed. She was so shocked and furious that she could do nothing but glare at him for a second, but then she scrambled off the bed, trying to dodge his broad frame and get out the door.
                          
"Oh, no, you don't," Ruarc was laughing, as if the whole thing was a great game to him. 
                          
He bounded out the door and closed the heavy wood, slotting a key in the lock and turning it. Brienna banged on the door, dragging her fists over the wood until they came away with splinters, but it was futile. There was nothing she could do. The door was locked and her stupid brother was on the other side, determined to keep her there all in the name of an outdated tradition.
                          
"Ruarc," she begged, "Please let me out. You don't know what's at stake. Donnall's going to do something terrible!"
                          
There was silence, and Brienna perked up with hope, thinking she was about to be released. Then, Ruarc spoke through the door.
                          
"Don't worry sister," he said, his voice muffled. "I hear it's no worse than pricking your finger on a thorn."
                          
Idiot, she thought, sinking to the floor with despair. He thinks I'm just scared of my wedding night. She kept up a steady stream of threats, bribes, and pleas through the door until Ruarc started whistling tunelessly to drown out her cries, thinking he was doing his reluctant sister a favor.