It was Rothana. Had she been wearing the expected pale blue of her novice’s habit, he would have noticed her immediately, but he had never seen her in secular attire before. Her gown reminded him of the color of the wine he was drinking, lavished around its high neck and flowing sleeve hems with silver tracery. Her hair was covered by a gauzy pinkish veil draped in eastern fashion and held in place by a silver circlet set with purple stones the size of grapes, framing sultry brown eyes a man might drown in.
“Good God almighty!” Kelson whispered, when he could breathe again.
Dhugal only chuckled and shook his head. “Good God, the man says. One would think you’d never seen a pretty girl before, Kel. And she is a nun, after all.”
“Then where’s her habit?”
“I dunno. Shall I ask her?”
“You do, and I’ll have to kill you,” Kelson muttered, clutching at Dhugal’s sleeve and only half joking, when Dhugal shifted in his seat as if he might do exactly as he threatened.
Dhugal only smiled and sipped at his wine, letting his eyes rove over other parts of the hall.
“Don’t worry. I have better things to do this evening than play matchmaker for a man who doesn’t want to be matched. I wonder if the Earl of Carthane’s daughter will give me a dance or two? And then, there’s the Lady Agnes de Barra—if one can work one’s way past her ever-watchful brother. You might be able to get past. Shall I introduce you?”
“I don’t know how you do it,” Kelson said, shaking his head. “Go on, then. I don’t think I’m drunk enough for that yet.”
By the time the feasting was over and the center of the hall had been cleared for dancing and entertainment, Dhugal was already making good his boasts, flirting boldly with nearly every lady present—as were most of the other young men. Kelson dutifully led off a pavanetta with his Aunt Meraude, since his mother had declined to attend the feast, and watched both Dhugal and Conall claim a dance from Rothana as the afternoon wore into evening—but at length he found himself sitting quietly next to Nigel during a lull in the entertainment, drinking more than he should and worrying about bishops and Torenthi ambassadors and hostage Torenthi princesses.
He tried not even to think about the bishops. He was sure that matter could be resolved without too much difficulty. It wasn’t as if Cardiel and Arilan hadn’t known what Duncan was, after all, though he supposed some of the other bishops might not be too happy, once the word spread.
The Torenthi matter was far more vexing just now, however. Rasoul had raised many doubts in Kelson’s mind—as he was sure the Moor had intended.
Could he have misjudged the danger? Was the promise to consider releasing Morag a mistake, even if he took Prince Ronal hostage in exchange? Liam, and Ronal after him, were the rightful heirs to Torenth, as blood nephews of Wencit, and Kelson had no designs on their crown; he had enough to manage, keeping his own kingdom at peace. But their mother’s children by a second marriage might be said to have equal claim to Wencit of Torenth’s bloodline, even if not the senior claim, and might be better supported by the nobility of Torenth than two princes in fosterage to the king of a neighboring land—especially if the father of the junior claimants were one of them and as strong a leader as Mahael of Arjenol appeared to be.
Kelson did his best to appear attentive as Lord Rhodri announced a troupe of players and the servants lit more torches to dispel the growing twilight; but in the face of his own concerns tonight, he was little interested in the exploits of the semi-legendary Sir Armand, flattered though he was to be compared to that goodly knight. By the time the play had ended, Kelson knew that he needed more perspective than his own analysis could give him. Nor was such input likely to be forthcoming tonight.
Dhugal was no help. He had retreated to the other end of the hall to flirt shamelessly with the Earl of Carthane’s daughter. His bishops were even less use—taking off in a snit, just because Duncan finally had come clean about being Deryni.
Nigel was telling jokes with Rhodri and Ewan at the other end of the table, Meraude had returned to her chaperone duties with Janniver and Jatham, Rothana was dancing a spirited gavotte with Rory, and his mother was off being penitent.
He had no idea where Morgan and Duncan were.
CHAPTER FIVE
A feast is made for laughter, and wine maketh merry.
—Ecclesiastes 10:19
By twilight, as the court of Gwynedd relived the legend of the saintly and chivalrous Sir Armand and Kelson mulled the problems of Torenth and bishops with increasing uneasiness, Morgan and Duncan were within an hour’s ride of Desse and the ship that would convey the Torenthi ambassador back to his lord. Riding to either side of the Deryni Rasoul, it had been necessary to forbear exchanging speculations about Cardiel and Arilan, though both men longed to do so. Verbal discussion might have revealed far more than a Torenthi ambassador ought to know about the inner affairs of Kelson’s court. And while, in theory, a mind-to-mind exchange could have been effected without Rasoul’s knowledge, that was not possible in fact—not while carrying on a conversation with their guest.
For the colorful and clever Al Rasoul ibn Tarik had proven loquacious as well as articulate as they waited for the escort of Haldane lancers to form up and then made their way from the keep to the city’s outer gates, first complimenting the vaulting of the hall they had just left in some detail and then firing a seemingly endless string of knowledgeable questions about architectural features of the city proper. Rhemuth the Beautiful was justly famed even outside the Eleven Kingdoms, after all; and it seemed the Moor had pretensions as a master builder himself, with several castles and fortified towns to his credit in Torenth and in the northern Forcinn.
Which made for novel diversion until they had passed through the city gates—especially whenever one of the Haldane horses went into a bucking fit for fear of Kisah, riding like a queen on her pillion pad behind Rasoul. Whatever Deryni powers Morgan and Duncan employed during that first part of the ride were confined to controlling their mounts, not surreptitious mental converse. The lancers stayed well back with Rasoul’s Moors, to avoid similar difficulties.
The scenario changed, once they passed the city gates and picked up speed for the long dash down the river road to Desse. Not even verbal conversation was possible then. The cat loped along a few lengths ahead of Rasoul’s barb at that speed, to the relative relief of Morgan’s and Duncan’s mounts; and Rasoul’s two dozen Moors followed by twos, with pairs of Nigel’s Haldane lancers interspersed. They had just passed the last barge landing before Desse, less than an hour away from their goal, when Rasoul suddenly raised his arm in signal and pulled his barb to a walk, then to a halt; Morgan and Duncan reined in as well. Behind them, Rasoul’s men and the lancer escort also drew up, and the great cat circled back at a lope, head raised attentively.
“What’s wrong?” Morgan asked, instantly suspicious, for this particular stretch of road was set somewhat apart from the neighboring villages.
Holding a finger to his lips, Rasoul shook his head slightly.
“Nothing, my lords. I merely wish a word with you in private. May we draw ahead of the others for a moment?”
Questions flashed between Morgan and Duncan, but Duncan had detected no danger either. Curious now, though he kept a wary eye on the approaching cheetah, Morgan glanced back over his shoulder.
“Saer, take charge until we come back.”
“Aye, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Rasoul murmured, calling the cat to heel with a silent gesture. “Kisah, stay.”
The great cat sank to its haunches, then onto its belly, head resting on its front paws, as the three Deryni drew ahead of their respective troops, perhaps twenty yards.
“Very well,” Morgan said, turning his horse to sit knee to knee with the Moor, with Duncan on Rasoul’s other side. “What did you wish to say to us?”
Rasoul smiled. “To your most noble companion, actually, my lord. That archbishop—Cardiel, was it? He is not
Deryni, is he?”
Duncan went instantly on guard. “Why do you ask?”
“Because, my dear Duke Duncan of Cassan, he was very vexed with you and wanted you away from there—you, who are so obviously well loved by your noble young king. Can you tell me why? I ask only from personal curiosity, one Deryni to another, and because you seem a man of honor.”
Morgan exchanged a startled look with Duncan, but Duncan only smiled.
“Yes, I can tell you exactly why, my lord,” he said. “You were not present at the earlier part of the king’s court. My son was knighted today. He’s the one who charmed your Kisah. Very few people knew until today that he and I are Deryni, but they did know that I’m a bishop.”
Rasoul’s face fell. “A bishop. And he, a bishop’s son. Ah, I am sorry. Then, the boy is—”
Chuckling, Duncan shook his head. “No, he’s true-born, my lord. I married his mother before he was conceived, but she died soon after he was born. Then I became a priest. People will get used to that, in time. Many already have.
“No, it’s being Deryni and a bishop that has my archbishop angry with me. Actually, that’s not strictly true, because he’s known for some time what I am and chosen to overlook it. It’s that I ought to have told him beforehand that I was going to make the Deryni part public. I’m afraid it never occurred to me, at the time.”
Rasoul nodded gravely. “I see. Or rather, I do not see, entirely, though I have heard how your Church harbors a great intolerance for our race. You Christians are a strange lot, my Lord Bishop-Duke—seeing evil in what is different, simply because it is not understood. It is not thus among my master’s people, who are also mostly Christians. We Deryni of Torenth, whether we follow the Prophet or your Christ, have never warred over that.”
“Perhaps we should learn from you, then,” Duncan replied. “At least I don’t need to live a lie anymore. And as my son pointed out only a few days ago, what can they do to me? Alaric has been public all his life, after all.”
“And Alaric,” said Morgan, “has had his share of problems—but never mind.” He glanced back at the men, Christians and Moors, who were beginning to look restless. “Was that all you wanted to say, my lord? I don’t wish to sound rude, but I would not wish you to miss your tide.”
Rasoul sketched an amused bow. “I do sympathize, my lord. Of course, you wish to return to your king and see what has transpired in your absence. You need not tarry on our account, however. We shall make our tide easily, being this close to Desse.” He raised a hand and shook his head as both Morgan and Duncan started to object. “Nay, my lords, you need have no fear of treachery. We came in peace and we shall depart the same way. Our countries are not at war, after all. Not yet, at any rate. I give you my word, neither I nor my men shall stray from this road, or delay our passage, or do mischief to any in Gwynedd.”
“Do you give it as one Deryni to another?” Morgan asked, eyeing the Moor carefully, for he was anxious to start back for Rhemuth.
“Of course.”
“Will you swear it with your hand in mine, open to my reading of the truth?”
Rasoul smiled and held out his hand, and Morgan reached across to grasp it, stretching all his ability to detect any sign of deceit and urging Duncan to do the same.
“I give you my parole that I and my men shall ride directly to Desse and take ship for our own land on the next tide,” Rasoul said softly. “We shall do no harm to any man, nor conspire to do any harm, so long as we remain on Gwynedd’s soil. And may Allah strike me dead if I speak not the truth or contrive to deviate one jot from what I have sworn, after we have parted. Amin. So be it.”
Morgan retained the Moor’s hand for a heartbeat more, still unable to detect any trace of guile in the mind behind the black eyes, then released it, at Duncan’s confirming nod, with a nod of his own. If Rasoul was lying, he was more skilled and powerful than Morgan could cope with—in which case, he and Duncan were probably best off to let the Moors go anyway.
“Very well,” Morgan murmured. “You and your men are free to go, my lord. I wish you a safe journey.”
Rasoul bowed again. “Thank you, my Lord Duke. And my Lord Duke-Bishop. Insh’allah. As God wills it.”
Even leaving Rasoul and his men short of the port of Desse, the night was well advanced by the time Morgan and Duncan clattered back into the yard of Rhemuth keep. The sounds of revelry floated out on the frosty night air as Saer de Traherne led the lancers around to the parade court to dismiss, nearer the stables, but Morgan and Duncan dismounted in the forecourt before the main doors.
Leaving their exhausted mounts with a groom, they started slowly up the stone stairway, wearily pulling gloves from cramped fingers and stripping off fur-lined caps. They had refrained from conversation during the hard ride back to the city. A few revelers had strayed out on the landing for a breath of air, so Morgan paused midway up the steps.
“I’m getting too old for this, Duncan. But before we go in, why do you think Cardiel wanted you out of here? How angry will he be?”
“I don’t suppose I’ll find out until morning,” Duncan replied. “He has the first Mass tomorrow, so I doubt he’s still about. He needs his sleep.”
Morgan snorted. “He’s not the only one, but I don’t think we dare go to bed yet. I’ll bet Arilan isn’t sleeping either. He’s probably off telling the Council all about what you’ve done. Why did you do it, by the way? I’m glad you did—I think—but why today?”
Duncan shrugged, flicking his bunched gloves uneasily against his thigh. “It seemed like the logical thing to do, at the time. And Dhugal wanted it.”
“Well, I suppose that’s as good a reason as any. It certainly makes things easier for me.” Morgan buffeted his cousin on the shoulder as they started up the stairs again. “First, then, why don’t you see how Dhugal is holding up, and I’ll find Kelson and let him know we’re back. There’s no sense worrying. It’s done; and in the long run, it’s going to be for the best. We’ll weather whatever temporary difficulties it’s generated.”
Inside the hall, the night’s festivities were still in progress but all the signs indicated that things were beginning to wind to a halt. Tonight’s principal honorees had slept not at all the night before, after all—unless they snatched a few minutes on their knees during their vigil—and wine had been flowing freely for hours. Dancing had further depleted the waning energies of the young and not so young.
By silent agreement, the two dukes separated as they entered, Duncan watching until Dhugal should finish the rowdy circle bransle winding its way back and forth across the floor and Morgan heading for Nigel to check in, since he did not immediately see Kelson.
Kelson saw Morgan, however. He would have gone to him immediately, but he had only just gotten up the courage to approach Rothana, on the pretext of requesting her presence at a privy council meeting he had set for the following noon to discuss the Torenthi situation.
That mission accomplished, he now suddenly wished himself almost anywhere else. The deep magenta of Rothana’s new gown set a disturbing flush on her dusky features, little diminished by the wisp of veil she had drawn across her lower face after dining. Her long, dark hair hung over one shoulder in a heavy braid, blue-black and shiny as a raven’s wing in the torchlight. The effect was not lost on the king.
Nor was it likely that Morgan would come soon to rescue him. He and Rothana were standing in one of the northern window bays, in plain enough view for the sake of propriety; but with so many knights wearing crimson mantles tonight, it might take a while for Morgan to spot him.
“Ah, I see that Duke Alaric has returned,” Rothana said, following the direction of Kelson’s attention as he glanced distractedly in Morgan’s direction again. “Which brings me to a somewhat delicate question, while we have a few moments in private. Did you know, beforehand, that Bishop Duncan would finally make public confirmation of his lineage?”
Kelson glanced at the wine remaining in his goblet, then took a care
ful sip before looking back at her.
“No, I didn’t know,” he said quietly, “though he asked, before he did it, whether I approved. Of course I did.”
From their vantage point, a step above the level of the floor, he saw Duncan working his way toward the dais, watching Dhugal dancing, but Morgan had disappeared from sight.
“It’s certainly what Dhugal wanted, though,” he went on, turning back to her uneasily. “Apparently the two of them even quarreled about it, a few days ago. I’m not certain what finally made Duncan decide to do it, but I’m glad he did—and he did it so well! Now Dhugal can be open about it, too. After all, we can’t hope for acceptance of Deryni if we don’t set the example.”
“Aye, Bishop Duncan will be a good example, all around,” she agreed. “Few have not heard of what he suffered for you in Meara—though, to look at him, one would never know. No scars show on the outside. I wonder if he has nightmares.”
“Sometimes,” Kelson said distractedly. “But less and less often, he says. I think seeing Loris and Gorony hang helped a lot. Whatever else may have happened, he knows they can never touch him again.”
“Wicked, spiteful men!” Rothana murmured. She moved farther into the window bay to lay one hand flat on the glass and stare unseeing at the moonlit garden beyond. “I don’t understand how it could have come to that in Gwynedd, Kelson. We Deryni have never had to tread so softly in the Forcinn.”
Kelson glanced into his cup again and shrugged.
“You didn’t have a Deryni conqueror murder your royal house and impose despotic rule for four generations,” he countered. “When my ancestors were restored to their rightful throne, two hundred years ago, they’d had a bellyful of Deryni. I suppose a backlash was almost inevitable. If Saint Camber had lived longer, perhaps things might have been different.”
The Quest for Saint Camber Page 11
