“Well, I’ll jolly well rectify it today,” Kelson muttered, so low that only Duncan, Morgan, and Dhugal could hear, though Conall strained to catch what they were saying. “If I’d known, it could have been done in the field a dozen times over. Why, good God, man, any knight would have been proud to acknowledge you!”
He reversed his sword, which had been resting with its point against the carpet at his feet while they disputed, then glanced sharply at Morgan as he let the blade lie back across his right shoulder.
“Don’t even think about lecturing me,” he said. “Either of you. I know what I’m doing—and hang those who still think there’s anything untoward about a bishop having a legitimate son or being a knight. Alaric, I’ll thank you to loan Duncan your spurs for the occasion. This won’t be as formal as I would have liked, knowing Duncan’s penchant for ceremony, but I think he’s waited long enough for the honor. Duncan, will you please kneel! I can’t knight you if you insist on standing up.”
Misgivings still loomed in Duncan’s mind, for fear Kelson might one day rue this act of friendship untempered by more considered reason, but Morgan’s resigned grin, as he knelt on the steps and began unbuckling one of his gilded spurs, told Duncan it was no use appealing to him. He fell to his knees, removing his cap and coronet as he did so, and the delighted Dhugal stood and backed off a pace to watch.
“My lords and ladies,” Kelson said, lifting his head to address the mystified court—most of whom had no idea what was going on. “It seems that we have committed a grave injustice against our most loyal Duke of Cassan.” He controlled a grin as Morgan eased closer on his knees to slip the first spur onto Duncan’s right heel. “In asking said duke to knight his son, as is often done, we find that we have inadvertently asked the impossible of him—for only a knight may make a knight, and we find that Duncan McLain has never himself received the accolade.
“That certainly is not for want of merit,” he added, holding up his empty hand to still a murmur of surprise, “for on the basis of last summer’s campaign alone, he could have been knighted many times over. Nor is there any doubt that he has served our crown most loyally, in any number of different areas, since our accession.”
Morgan had by now finished with the second spur and bit back a pleased grin as he rose and slipped his sheathed sword from its holders to hand it to Dhugal before stripping off his white belt.
“It is therefore my honor and privilege to confer upon you, Duncan Howard McLain, the ancient and honorable estate of knighthood.” Kelson raised the Haldane sword and brought the flat of the blade down smartly on Duncan’s right shoulder. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son—” The blade shifted to the left shoulder, “—and of the Holy Spirit—” The blade came to rest upon his head. “—be thou a good and faithful knight, as thou hast been hitherto.”
He raised the blade and again rested it across his right shoulder. “Rise, Sir Duncan, and be vested with the white belt of thy rank.” He glanced at Duchess Meraude rather than his mother. “Aunt, would you perform this service?”
Meraude came forward willingly as Duncan rose, receiving the worn leather from Morgan with a grave nod and taking her time as she slid it around Duncan’s waist to fasten it.
“I imagine you know that the white belt is a symbol of chastity,” she whispered, as she worked the knot. “Which is not necessarily the same as celibacy, as I’m sure you also know, though it can mean that as well, for you—now. Your son is very lucky to have such a father. This is a well-deserved honor.”
“Why, thank you, my lady,” Duncan murmured, surprised, for he had not realized Meraude regarded him so highly.
“There,” Meraude said aloud, backing off to make him a little curtsey. “Be thou steadfast and true, Sir Knight.”
“My lady, with all my heart I shall endeavor to do so.”
“Good. That’s done,” Kelson said, rising up and down on the balls of his feet in a posture very reminiscent of his father. “You’ve already given me your fealty as a duke and your homage as a bishop, so I think we can dispense with any further oaths. I believe we were about to knight your son.”
He snapped his fingers for Brendan, Morgan’s seven-year-old stepson, to bring Dhugal’s spurs forward, and Dhugal gave the lad Morgan’s sword before dropping to his knees again, grinning from ear to ear.
“Let the candidate be vested with the spurs.”
Doing his best not to chuckle at the coup the king had just accomplished against both the court and Duncan, Morgan took the spurs and bent to do the honors, leaving Duncan to exchange uneasy glances with the king as he put on his cap and coronet again. Morgan knew what argument Duncan was about to offer, and about how much good it would do.
“Kelson, I’m flattered beyond reckoning, but are you sure you want me to do this?” Duncan murmured, as Morgan finished with the spurs. “I think I understand what you’re trying to achieve, but Dhugal is your blood brother. That’s important, too. Don’t you think it’s more appropriate that he have the link of chivalry with you?”
“He’ll have that, by my having knighted you,” Kelson said, setting the hilt of his father’s sword in Duncan’s hand with an expression that brooked no further argument. “He’ll also have it through my sword.”
Read him, if you don’t believe me, Kelson continued, mind to mind. Do you think he could lie, in a situation like this, given what we are?
Swallowing, Duncan glanced at his son and read the awe and adoration there, catching a little of Dhugal’s wonder at the glitter of the Haldane blade heavy in his hand. Its weight brought to mind another matter weighing heavily upon Duncan for the past three days; and all at once he knew how that quandary, as well, must be resolved. He had no doubt that Dhugal would approve; nor would Morgan have any objections. And his meek, tentative query to the king returned royal approval and even glee, almost before he could frame the silent question with his mind.
“So be it, then,” he murmured aloud, squaring his shoulders resolutely as he let a tendril of his coiled, tight-leashed power probe into the royal blade.
It held the magic of a long line of Haldanes—no doubt of that. With his Deryni senses, Duncan could feel it pulsing in his fist. Trembling, he steadied it with his other hand on the pommel so that he could bring it slowly to his lips to kiss the sacred relic encased in its hilt and, in doing so, loosed his own Deryni essence to show as silver light along the blade—a light that flowed bright as water down the steel and welled as quickly up his hands and arms to settle like a cloak of light around his head and shoulders, openly and unmistakably Deryni at last. The awed gasp of those watching was immediately caught in rapt silence as Duncan dipped the glowing blade, two-handed, toward Dhugal’s right shoulder.
“In the name of the Father.” The blade touched. “And of the Son.” The blade shifted to the left shoulder. “And of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
But as the sword touched the crown of Dhugal’s head, and Duncan sighted down the blade to his son’s eyes, Dhugal’s own Deryni aura flared like a halo around his coppery hair, sunburst golden, his eyes blazing an exultation so fierce that the rest of the formula nearly went out of Duncan’s head.
“Be thou a good and faithful knight, my son,” Duncan managed to say, himself surprised at the steadiness of his voice and the pristine silence into which his words fell. “Be faithful and true, and may God prosper thee in thy great love for Him and for our Lord the King.”
“Amen to that!” Kelson said heartily, daring anyone to gainsay it as Duncan lifted the blade to kiss the hilt again, and first his and then Dhugal’s auras died away. “Rise, Sir Dhugal, and receive the other tokens of thy new-made knighthood.”
As Dhugal rose, proud tears shimmering in his eyes, Duncan whispered, “Thank you, Sire,” and reversed the blade again, offering it back to Kelson across his forearm as he bent his knee once more.
And though you did not ask it, Duncan continued, mind to mind, I do reaffirm my fealty, unconditionally, in all things sa
ving my holy office—as Deryni, now openly so to serve you, if you will have it.
The sword trembled with the emotion between them, with Kelson’s hand on the hilt and the blade still resting on Duncan’s sleeve. With a little flick of his wrist, the king shifted the weapon to lie across his outstretched palms, silently inviting Duncan’s response.
No word passed aloud between them, and few in the audience caught the significance of the action that followed, being now released to startled speculation, albeit whispered, as the significance of what they had seen registered—that both Duncan and Dhugal were Deryni. But as if the two had rehearsed it, Duncan briefly laid his hands atop Kelson’s and bent to brush the blade between with his lips, silently affirming a most holy oath.
Then he was bounding to his feet, and Kelson was sheathing the sword, beckoning Dhugal forward to be girded with the white belt that Meraude slipped around his waist, Jehana already having retired from the dais and, indeed, from the hall when Duncan’s intentions became clear.
“I, Dhugal, do become your liege man of life and limb and earthly worship,” Dhugal proclaimed, kneeling once more to set his hands between those of the king.
And when he had finished his oath, the hall erupted to the raucous whoops of his MacArdry borderers, noisily proclaiming their approval of all that had been done and daring anyone to speak against their young lord or his father. After all, Dhugal was their chief, chosen by their chief, the grandson of their chief, regardless of who his father was.
Even a piper added his salute, on pipes smuggled into the hall past the watchful eyes of the chamberlain Rhodri and his assistants, who were always trepidacious where border custom was concerned. The cheering and the piping ceased only when Kelson himself raised open hands to beg their forbearance, grinning and shaking his head as the MacArdrys hefted both Deryni father and Deryni son onto broad shoulders and paraded them to the side of the hall to savor the moment.
Even then, it was some little while before sufficient decorum had been restored that the rest of the knightings could continue—somewhat anticlimactic, after the spectacle of the MacArdry acclaim, but satisfying, nonetheless, for the young men who received the accolade.
When Kelson had done, twenty-two new, crimson-mantled knights were ranged near the king’s throne, eleven on either side, with Conall still seated beside his father’s chair, as was the prerogative of a royal prince, and Dhugal now posted directly to the king’s left, where Morgan had been. The new knights’ sponsors occupied the front ranks of those standing in the main part of the hall, assembled there as each finished the duties attendant on knighting his candidate—for what came next would require a show of strength, a display of the finest of Gwynedd’s chivalry, old and new.
As Saer de Traherne came into the hall to inform the king that all was in readiness to admit the Torenthi ambassador and his party to the keep, Duke Ewan drew his flock of young charges farther to one side, close by Cardiel and his bishops. Morgan and Duncan moved quietly among the squires to flank young Liam.
“Well, we can bring them in whenever you’re ready, Sire,” Saer muttered under his breath, kneeling at the king’s knee. “Just wait until you see them, though.”
Kelson smiled as he caught a flash of what Saer had seen—it was an exotic contingent, by Gwynedd standards—but he only pulled his sheathed sword from its belt hangers and laid it across his knees again.
“Very well, then. Let’s see them,” he said.
As Saer rose and turned to signal to one of his men in the rear gallery, Kelson caught the eye of the elderly Lord Rhodri, who had been waiting for his cue at the far end of the hall. Lifting his head proudly, the old man strode halfway up the hall, clearing an aisle, and rapped weightily with his chamberlain’s staff.
“Your Majesty, an emissary of the Court of Torenth seeks audience.”
At Kelson’s nod, the doors at the end of the hall swung back.
“They may approach.”
Kettle drums, struck with the hand rather than with sticks, heralded the entrance of the visitors. The black-clad drummers were Moors of some sort, as were the twenty white-robed warriors who followed them as an honor escort to the ambassador himself, who had not yet come into view. Scale armor glinted beneath flowing desert robes as the men impassively swept a clear path down the widening center aisle. They bore spears and small metal-studded targes as ceremonial adjuncts to the curved blades thrust through wide sashes of a pale yellow silk, and their carefully wrapped turbans only partially concealed pointed steel caps.
The Moors gave brisk salute to Kelson with spears against their shields as, by pairs, they split to either side to line the end of the aisle. And then, as the unexpected clatter of hooves on the stairs outside the hall heralded the approach of the ambassador himself, the Moors turned inward as one man and lowered their spears to the man they escorted.
By his dress, the Torenthi ambassador, too, was a Moor, though darker complected than any Moor Kelson had ever seen. He rode a tawny-colored desert barb, taller by several hands than the usual of the breed, and his flowing desert robes were of the same amber hue as the animal’s shiny coat, though his turban was snowy white, a fold of it covering the lower part of his face. Most impressive of all was the vast cloak of spotted catskin curved around the man’s shoulders, dappled and sun-tawny, the great fore paws clasped on his breast and the ponderous head resting on his left shoulder, all gleaming in the sunlight as he paused briefly in the doorway to take stock of the situation he was about to enter.
He bore himself like a prince as he minced his barb delicately down the center of the stone-flagged hall. He appeared to be unarmed—but any number and manner of weapons might be secreted beneath the cloak of spotted fur. Or perhaps he had no need for weapons, since cautious psychic probes from Kelson and several of the Deryni around him encountered closely guarded shields.
Deryni himself, then—or at least well protected by someone who was. His black eyes flashed, vibrant and aware, as he drew rein in the center of the hall.
Only, as he dropped the barb’s reins and flung one leg over the pommel of his saddle, preparatory to dismounting, the golden eyes of the great cat’s head on his shoulder blinked, the mighty head lifting as the jaws parted in a mighty yawn.
CHAPTER FOUR
It is good to keep close the secret of a king.
—Tobit 12:7
Kelson’s gasp was echoed by nearly every throat in the hall as the great cat carefully disengaged its paws from around the Moor’s neck and sprang lightly to the floor. The movement, plus the soft plop its landing made—punctuated by something that sounded like a muted growl, cut off in mid-rumble—released the assembled court of Gwynedd to surge back from the center aisle like the sea parting before Moses. What had begun as a breathless murmur of speculation and grudging respect at the man’s first appearance became a wave of exclamations trailing into hushed silence as the cat’s master dropped nimbly to the floor beside the beast.
The Moor walked the cat to the very foot of the dais steps. One of his men led the barb back to the door of the hall and waited there. The cat sat at once as its master halted, looking up attentively as the Moor slowly tugged loose the cloth veiling his lower face and allowed the faint glow of a Deryni aura to flare visibly around his head for a few seconds—which elicited yet another murmur of foreboding from the courtiers still edging away from the pair. The man’s nose was thin and aquiline, with a slight hook to it, made more prominent by a close-clipped beard and mustache.
“May Allah the Compassionate, the Merciful, grant peace and health to all within this house,” the man said, touching a graceful hand to breast, lips, and forehead in salute as he made his bow. His voice was deep and melodious, with only a hint of accent even in the speaking of the ritual phrase.
“I am Al Rasoul ibn Tarik, emissary of my Lord Mahael II of Arjenol, guardian of my Lord Prince Ronal of Torenth and regent for my Lord King Liam in the absence of his royal mother, the Lady Morag. My Lord Mahael sen
ds his personal felicitations on this, the day of your Christian knighting, my Lord Kelson, and prays you will accept this small token of his esteem, one knight to another, as a remembrance of this happy occasion. My Lord Mahael had it especially blessed by the Patriarch of Beldour.”
While he spoke, he had drawn a small, silk-wrapped object from his sash and extended it on one outstretched palm.
“Please accept, as well, my personal congratulations,” Rasoul went on, as Dhugal, at Kelson’s signal, came close enough to retrieve the gift—though both young men kept a wary eye on the cat. “We have not the equivalent of your knighthood among the faithful, but we recognize the honor it betokens among your people. My respect to these other young men as well.”
The gift was a heavily enameled cross done in the eastern manner, but Kelson gave it only a cursory glance when Dhugal had brought it back—enough to reassure himself that it carried no malignant glamour. The greater part of his attention was still diverted by the cat.
“Please convey my thanks to your master, my Lord Rasoul,” Kelson said carefully, still wondering what he was going to do if the animal sprang. It had sunk into a crouch as Rasoul began speaking, lithe tail slowly lashing, but its golden eyes watched every movement on the dais with great interest. One giant paw had already crept onto the bottom step, claws flexing lightly against the priceless Kheldish carpet. Nor would archers be much help, if the cat did decide to attack, though they had come to half draw at the animal’s first movement.
I don’t think she likes the cold floor, came Dhugal’s surprising comment in Kelson’s mind, not at all concerned. Most cats don’t. Isn’t she beautiful, though?
The notion so startled Kelson, in the process of handing the cross to Rory for safekeeping, that he glanced quickly at Dhugal before continuing what he had been about to say to Rasoul. He had forgotten about Dhugal’s uncanny knack with animals.
The Quest for Saint Camber Page 9
