“And now you know another reason I declined to compete,” he said. “It would have taken unfair advantage. When you’ve learned how to enhance a skill as Alaric and I have done, it’s a great temptation to use what you’ve learned. Your skill, on the other hand, comes from genuine talent with the bow—and can become better yet, once you learn how to use your powers more broadly.”
“You mean, I could do that?”
“Certainly. With practice, of course.”
As they started back toward the line, Conall and a squire burst from the distant stableyard on fractious bay coursers and clattered across the cobblestones toward them, the squire, at least, giving flying salute to the king as they shot past. Conall pretended not to have noticed any of them. The two had to draw aside at the great portcullis gate to let a returning patrol enter the yard, but they were gone as soon as they could squeeze their mounts past the last tartan-clad riders.
“Ah, look who’s back,” Morgan said, spotting his cousin Duncan among the men bringing up the rear.
Bishop Duncan McLain, Duke of Cassan and Earl of Kierney, looked hardly even ducal, much less episcopal, as he urged his grey forward alongside the ordered ranks of men. Besides a mist-pale plume in his cap, only a shoulder plaid of green, black, and white set off his drab brown riding leathers. He grinned and raised a gloved hand in greeting as he spotted king and company by the archery butts; however, he jogged his mount smartly in their direction instead of continuing on toward the stables with his men. A smiling Dhugal caught the horse’s bridle as Duncan reined in, gentling the animal with a word and a deft touch of hands to velvety nose.
“Good morning, Sire,” Duncan said to Kelson with a nod, swinging a leg and his sword casually over the high pommel of his saddle and springing lightly to the ground on the off side. “Dhugal. Alaric. What’s got into young Conall? One would have thought he was pursued by demons.”
“Only the demons of jealousy.” Kelson snorted, resting both balled fists on his narrow hips. “Dhugal outshot him, fair and square.”
“Did you, then? Well done, son!”
All three of them echoed his grin at that, for calling Dhugal “son” in that context was one of the few ways that Bishop Duncan McLain could publicly acknowledge that Dhugal MacArdry really was his son—for Duncan’s heartbreakingly brief marriage to Dhugal’s mother, though consummated long before Duncan entered holy orders, had been irregular in the extreme, so irregular that its existence could no longer be proven except by magic, so irregular that neither father nor son had learned of their relationship until a few short months before, though they had known one another as priest and royal page for many years. The secret was still shared only by the four of them and Morgan’s wife, Richenda, though Duncan was quite willing to acknowledge his son if Dhugal wanted it.
But both had agreed that the timing was not yet right for that. Public disclosure just now would only brand Dhugal a bastard, undermining his right to the leadership of Clan MacArdry and his rank as earl, as well as weakening Duncan’s credibility as a Prince of the Church. It would also cloud the succession to Duncan’s Cassan and Kierney lands—a factor in the coming Mearan conflict, since Prince Ithel held some claim to the titles if Duncan eventually died without issue, as bishops normally were expected to do.
A less immediate but far more dangerous result, in the final reckoning, was the possibility that Dhugal would eventually be branded a Deryni, once Duncan’s Deryni status became a confirmed fact rather than the present whispered rumor. And of the several Deryni at court, Dhugal was the least well-equipped to deal with that accusation.
Never having suspected this aspect of his heritage any more than he had his true paternity, Dhugal had never learned to use his magical birthright while he was growing up; indeed, had been hampered at first by rigid shields that were only finally breached by Duncan himself, and still remained resistant to all but the most cautious and delicate probes of any other Deryni. Even Arilan had tried—though before Dhugal’s kinship with Duncan was discovered.
“It was a good contest,” Morgan said, enjoying the interplay between father and son. “Dhugal, however, was not aware that one might improve one’s performance with the application of certain—ah—‘alternate’ skills, was he, Kelson?”
“We wouldn’t dare use them with Conall,” Kelson agreed. “He already rides off in a snit when he loses.”
Duncan laughed and pulled off his leather riding cap, ruffling a gloved hand through short brown hair. In preparation for the coming campaign, with its need for long hours spent under arming cap, mail, and helm, he had grown out his clerical tonsure save for a small, token circle right at the crown, no larger than a silver penny. The rest of his hair was barbered in the same martial-style that Morgan favored, in marked contrast to Dhugal and Kelson’s border braids.
“Oh, I think Conall has a paramour somewhere in the city,” he said with a droll smile quite out of keeping with his clerical rank. “Perhaps that’s where he was in such a hurry to go, when he nearly rode me down just now. I’ve noticed that he isn’t too attentive to most of the ladies at court—and he nearly always comes back with a silly smile on his face. Perhaps our king should take his example?”
Kelson knew Duncan was only jesting, but he still was faintly annoyed as Dhugal elbowed him in the ribs, flashing his bright-white grin, and Morgan raised an eyebrow in an amused expression of silent approbation.
“Must we keep harping on that same tired theme?” he said a little sharply, taking an arrow from Morgan and pretending to sight along it critically. “How was your patrol, Duncan? Are your men fit?”
Duncan’s smile vanished immediately, his blue eyes gone coolly serious as he put on his cap again, once more the restrained and efficient soldier-priest.
“Aye, fit enough, my prince. However, I fear we did come upon something I think will not please you overmuch. The queen’s party is less than an hour from the city gates.”
“Oh, no!”
“They must have made better time from Saint Giles’ than we expected. I left eight of my men for escort.”
“Damn!”
The expletive was barely whispered, but suddenly Kelson snapped his arrow across one knee and dashed the broken halves to the ground in a brief fit of temper.
“But, you knew she was coming,” Dhugal ventured, clearly taken aback.
“Aye. But not today. She could have waited another day or two—at least until after tonight.”
Morgan found himself wondering whether Jehana could possibly know what they planned, and said as much to the king, but Kelson only shook his head and sighed heavily, once more in control.
“No, I’m sure it’s just poor timing.” He sighed again. “I suppose there’s nothing to do but greet her and hope she’s changed—though I doubt that. Alaric, you’d better make yourself scarce until I find out whether she still wants your blood. She wouldn’t dare do anything, but there’s no sense asking for trouble.”
“I shall become invisible, my prince,” Morgan said quietly.
“Also, we may need to start later tonight than we’d planned,” Kelson went on, gaining confidence as he took charge again. “Duncan, could you please inform Bishop Arilan?”
“Of course, Sire.”
Kelson sighed yet again.
“Very well, then. I suppose I’d better go and tell Uncle Nigel she’s on her way. I am not looking forward to this.”
CHAPTER TWO
Shall I give my firstborn for my transgressions, the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?
—Micah 6:7
The enclosed horse-chair carrying the mother of the King of Gwynedd swayed and lurched as the lead horse minced around a muddy pothole. Inside, behind thick woolen curtains that filtered the spring sunshine to a safe, anonymous twilight, Jehana of Gwynedd clung to the wooden frame on either side and prayed for a better road.
She loathed travelling by horse-chair; it made her stomach queasy. But three years without so much as setting toe
to stirrup, combined with the austerities she had practiced as a part of her religious discipline, had left her quite unfit to make the journey from Saint Giles’ to Rhemuth in any other way. The pale, well-kept hands clinging to the chair’s polished wood were painfully thin; the golden marriage ring given her by her dead husband would have slid from her finger with the slightest movement, were it not for the white silk cord securing it to her fragile wrist.
Her high-necked gown was also white, like the cord: the color of a postulant’s habit, though the fabric was nubby silk rather than the simple homespun wool the sisters wore, and her mantle was lined with miniver. The rich auburn hair that had been her pride and Brion’s joy was concealed beneath a wimple of white silk that also hid the grey beginning to thread the auburn at temples and crown. Her face thus kindly framed, the hollows of cheeks and brow gave an impression of ascetic beauty rather than gauntness, though a pinched look about the eyes betrayed the beauty’s source as internal torment, not contentment.
Only the color of her eyes remained as it had been: the smoky green of shaded summer forests, rich as the darkling emeralds Brion had loved to see her wear. She was just thirty-six.
Hard male voices jarred Jehana abruptly from contemplation, and then the sound of many riders approaching. As her horse-chair lurched to a halt, she drew in breath sharply and prayed that Kelson was not among them, cautiously parting the curtains on her left until she could peer apprehensively ahead. All she could see at first was the hind end of Sir Delrae’s brawny bay, its thick tail twisted up in a neat mud-knot, and a similar view of Father Ambros’ white mule.
Then, as Delrae urged his mount forward to challenge the newcomers, Jehana caught a glimpse of leather and tartan-clad riders beyond him, in green and black and white, too many to count. She remembered seeing the pattern before, but she could not recall the particular clan.
She watched Delrae confer with one of the officers of the troop for several minutes—he was senior of the four Bremagni knights her brother had sent to serve as her escort. Then Delrae gave way and allowed several of the men to fall in with his own command. As the rest of the troop rode off, and Jehana started to let the curtain fall back into place, Father Ambros kneed his mule between her and the view ahead and leaned down to reassure her.
“We’ve been given a guard of honor, my lady,” he said softly, with the smile that would melt the heart of an angel. “That was the Duke of Cassan’s patrol. He’s left men to see us safely to Rhemuth.”
The Duke of Cassan. With both Jared and Kevin McLain dead, that would be Duncan McLain—Father McLain, Kelson’s confessor of many years—and distant cousin to the Deryni Alaric Morgan. That Duncan was also Deryni had come as a complete shock to Jehana—though she never would have dreamed of betraying that knowledge to anyone not already aware of the fact. God would exact His vengeance upon Duncan McLain for daring to accept priestly ordination in defiance of the Church’s prohibition against Deryni entering priestly Orders—though how He had countenanced Duncan’s elevation to the episcopate was beyond her understanding.
“Yes, of course. Thank you, Father,” she murmured.
She was not certain, as she hastily let the curtain fall, whether she had succeeded in keeping the panic out of her eyes or not, though she thought her voice had not betrayed her. Still, Ambros was a canny judge of character, for all that he was nearly young enough to be her son.
But thought of her son was not to be countenanced any more than that of McLain—and Morgan. Time enough, later on, to worry about them. Clasping folded hands fervently to her lips, she closed her eyes briefly and breathed yet another prayer for courage—then grabbed at the sides of the chair for balance as her procession lurched into motion again.
Reunion with her Deryni son was not the only reason Jehana was dreading the return to Rhemuth. Resumption of the very public life expected of a queen at court would not be easy, if only because she had grown unaccustomed to seeing anyone other than the sisters of Saint Giles’. Though she had taken no formal religious vows during the three years of her seclusion, she had lived and moved with the heartbeat of the community, performing all the Offices and praying for expiation of the terrible taint of Deryni evil she knew she carried in her soul, seeking release from the torment that her self-knowledge carried. Taught from childhood by family and Church that Deryni were evil, she had not yet reconciled the religious and moral dilemmas raised by the discovery that she, too, was of the race she had long believed accursed. Her spiritual mentors at Saint Giles’ had assured her repeatedly that her sin was forgivable—if sin it was to use one’s every resource to protect one’s child from certain death at the hands of an evil adversary—but early indoctrination continued to warn a still-childlike Jehana that she had sinned.
The outward vehemence of her denial had lessened a little during her sojourn at Saint Giles’—for so long as she kept her seclusion, she had been able to insulate herself almost totally from contact with or even mention of other Deryni—but the dread rekindled and burned ever brighter as she drew closer and closer to Rhemuth and her Deryni son. Only for Kelson’s sake had she left the abbey even now, anguished by the continuing toll his Deryniness seemed to take in human lives. Not even his young bride had been safe.
And that was why, ultimately, Jehana had finally chosen to leave the cloistered sanctuary of Saint Giles’; for Kelson, now nearly six months a widower, would need to take another wife soon to secure the succession. Jehana had no idea what the field of likely candidates might be like—only a notion that the right royal bride, chosen according to the standards Jehana espoused, might mitigate the negative aspects of Kelson’s Deryni blood. Only thus might there be a chance to turn Kelson aside from the path he seemed to have chosen, to lure him away from the evil influences of the other Deryni at court and bring him back to salvation.
The horses’ shod hooves began to strike more solid footing, picking up the pace as the way became smoother, and Jehana parted the curtains just far enough to glance outside again. Ahead, between the straight figures of Sir Delrae and a tartan-wrapped Cassani officer, she could just see the familiar walls of Rhemuth Castle shimmering silvery and pristine in the spring sunshine, bold against a sky pebbled with tiny white clouds.
White sheep, she thought fiercely to herself, fighting down a lump threatening to rise in her throat. White sheep on a blue hill.…
But the childhood image, intended to divert the double pangs of fear and joy at homecoming, did not have the hoped for effect. Far from the meager comfort she had found at Saint Giles’, she could feel the old emotions welling up—the terror for her soul, for Kelson’s soul, threatening the composure she knew she must regain before she dared face those who would be waiting.
And in the yard at Rhemuth Castle, on the landing of the stair that led to the great hall, Kelson, too, was experiencing no small amount of trepidation at what the coming reunion would bring. Only his Uncle Nigel, Archbishop Cardiel, and Nigel’s two younger sons waited with him for the queen’s arrival. He had thought not to overwhelm her with too many people at first.
“It’s been so long,” Kelson whispered to his uncle, standing at his left elbow. “What do you think she’ll be like?”
Nigel’s smile conveyed a reasonable composure as he glanced aside at his royal nephew, but Kelson knew that he, too, had misgivings about his sister-in-law’s return.
“She’ll be somewhat changed,” the royal duke allowed softly. “Hopefully, the changes will be for the better. God knows, she’ll see you’ve changed.”
“Not all that much, have I?” Kelson asked, surprised.
Nigel shrugged. “What do you think, Kelson? You’ve become a man in her absence—the magic all aside. You’ve fought a war, you’ve killed—you’ve had to make some very difficult decisions that I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to make.”
“I’m told it comes with the job,” Kelson murmured, managing a brief, wry grin.
“Aye, but some men do a better job than others,�
�� Nigel returned. “You’re one of them. Even now, on the eve of another war, you’ve kept your personal anger in check when most men of far more experience and years would have let vengeance run wild. I don’t know that I could have kept from killing Llewell right there in the cathedral, if I’d just had my bride butchered before my eyes.”
Kelson half-turned away and began furiously twisting the ring on his little finger.
“If I’d really been in control, she wouldn’t have been killed in the first place.”
“Are we going to have to go over that again?” Nigel replied. “That’s past. It’s regrettable—but continuing to reproach yourself won’t change things. You can’t do everything exactly right. You can make a difference for the future, however.”
“Yes, and my dear, superstition-blinded mother will help things enormously!”
“She’s only your mother, for God’s sake, Kelson. You haven’t done anything you need to be ashamed of. If she wants to keep flagellating herself with guilt, that’s between her and her God. Don’t ask me to hand you a whip to do the same thing.”
Kelson snorted and started to cross his arms skeptically across his chest, then glanced at the gatehouse, his eyes caught by movement in the shadowed passageway. As the first of the Cassani escort trotted through the opening, he stood a little straighter and tugged nervously at the bottom of his tunic.
“Sweet Jesu, here she comes,” he whispered.
Two pairs of Duncan’s elite lancers rode at the head of the modest procession following, blue and silver silk pennons fluttering gaily from the tips of gleaming metal lances, McLain tartan bright on shoulders and saddles, horses jigging and prancing as they sighted the gate to the stableyard. Behind rode Sir Alan Sommerfield, the seasoned McLain captain, beside a stylish-looking younger knight bearing the black ship and crimson crescent of the Bremagni kings on his white surcoat. Two horse-chairs followed close behind, the first carried by a pair of pale matched greys and escorted by a young cleric on a white mule. Behind the second horse-chair followed three more Bremagni knights and another four Cassani lancers.
The King’s Justice Page 4
