“Come, Sire,” murmured Archbishop Cardiel, touching the king’s elbow to lead him down the steps. “She’ll be in the first chair. We should be there when she alights.”
“Why isn’t she riding?” Kelson whispered to Nigel, as they followed Cardiel and the cousins down. “You don’t think she’s ill, do you?”
“It’s a long journey,” Nigel returned. “Perhaps this was easier for her.”
The queen’s horse-chair reached the bottom of the steps at about the same time the king and his party did, the priest and the two captains dismounting immediately to attend the chair’s occupant as the other knights lined up to either side in salute. As the Bremagni captain drew back the heavy curtains and opened the tiny half-door, the priest offered his hand inside with a bow. Then Jehana was emerging, all white and in white and looking even paler for the blaze of her eyes in her pinched, wan face.
“Mother,” Kelson breathed, reaching out to her and seizing her in a fierce embrace when she would have knelt to him on the dusty ground beside her chair. As he held her to his chest, a hand taller than last time they had met, he could feel her heart pounding beneath her silken robes—and was shocked to realize how little there was of her to embrace.
She must have sensed his surprise, for it was she who broke the embrace first, to back off a step and bob in formal curtsey, subject to king. Then she was moving on to Cardiel, bending to kiss his ring in homage, bringing forward the priest and a youngish-looking nun who had emerged from the second horse-chair.
“I beg leave to present my chaplain, Father Ambros,” she said softly, not meeting Kelson’s eyes, “and Sister Cecile, my companion. Sir Delrae commands my guard. I have no other household anymore,” she finished lamely. “I did not wish to presume upon the King’s Grace.”
“’Tis no presumption, Mother,” Kelson said softly. “Until I take another bride, you are still queen and mistress of this castle. And you must have a household befitting your rank. Aunt Meraude will assist you to choose new ladies-in-waiting. I pray you to take as many as you need.”
“Your offer is most generous, Sire, but I have found my needs to be far less in these past three years than one might believe. Sister Cecile shall continue to attend me—and if a place might be made at court for my chaplain, my Lord Archbishop?”
Cardiel bowed. “I shall see that Father Ambros is housed in my own palace, my lady,” he murmured. “In fact, if you have no further need of him for the rest of the afternoon, I shall take him now to begin meeting some of our brethren.”
“Thank you, Excellency,” she breathed. “Father Ambros, I shall not require your services until morning Mass.”
“As you wish, my lady.”
“And now, Sire,” Jehana went on, “if we may be shown to our quarters? Sister and I are very weary from our journey.”
“Certainly, Mother.” He cocked his head hopefully. “May I tell the court that you will join us at table tonight?”
“Thank you, no, Sire. I fear I am not yet ready for so public an appearance. I would be grateful if my knights could be afforded that courtesy, however. They have served me most loyally.”
Kelson inclined his head coolly, not surprised that she had declined his invitation. “Sir Delrae and his fellows are most welcome at our table, Mother. Gentlemen, our royal cousin, Prince Rory, will conduct you to lodgings befitting your rank. And now, if I may,” he went on, returning his attention to Jehana, “I’ll take you to your rooms.”
“Thank you, Sire, but I prefer that Nigel escort me, if you do not mind.”
Kelson minded, but he was not about to make a further fool of himself in front of so many witnesses, albeit that almost all of them knew what had raised the frosty barrier between Jehana and himself. As an apologetic Nigel set his hand under the queen’s elbow and led her up the stairs, Sister Cecile following meekly behind, Kelson watched them go. Young Payne stood by him, even after Rory had taken away the knights and Cardiel had drawn the young priest Ambros in the direction of the episcopal palace.
“She must be really mad at you, Kelson,” Payne whispered after a moment, glancing shyly at his silent cousin as his father and aunt disappeared through the great hall door.
Snorting, Kelson laid an arm around Payne’s shoulder and shook his head sadly.
“I’m afraid she is, Payne. I’m afraid she is.”
“He seems so grown,” Jehana murmured, as soon as she and Nigel were out of Kelson’s earshot. “I had no idea he would be so tall.”
Nigel glanced at her in surprise, but waited until they had passed a bowing knot of courtiers before answering.
“You’ve been away for three years, Jehana,” he said softly. “Children do grow, whether their parents are there to see it or not. Wait until you see Conall—and I wonder that you even recognized Rory and Payne.”
“I would have known them,” Jehana replied, as they passed out of the great hall and headed down a long corridor leading to the residence wing. “They bear the Haldane stamp. No one could ever mistake a child of yours or Brion’s.”
“Perhaps not. But I might never have recognized you in a crowd. Jehana, what have you done to yourself?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she murmured, averting her eyes and thrusting thin hands briskly into her sleeve openings as she walked a little faster.
“Oh, yes, you do. You look like you’ve been in a dungeon rather than a cloister. How much weight have you lost?”
“Fasting is good for the soul,” she replied, lifting her chin defiantly. “But I wouldn’t expect you to understand that, knowing the company you keep.”
Seizing her elbow, Nigel stopped in the middle of the corridor and spun her to face him.
“And just what is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, aren’t they still at court?”
“Aren’t who still at court?”
“You know: Morgan and McLain, and God knows what others.”
His expression was so shocked that she could almost believe the thought had not occurred to him before that very moment. Coolly Jehana drew her arm out of his grasp and moved a few steps in the direction they had been headed, gesturing for the silent Cecile to draw nearer.
“If you’ll show us where we’re to go, we should like to rest now,” she said quietly.
To her surprise and relief, Nigel did not pursue their discussion. Instead he led her to her old apartments close by the walled garden. She had been expecting lesser accommodations. At Nigel’s knock, a serving girl opened the door and stood aside with a shy, deferential curtsey, but Nigel did not come in. As the door closed behind Jehana and her silent companion, the queen had just a glimpse of the solar beyond the little reception room, and a dozen or so strange pairs of eyes lifted curiously from various stitchery projects. Then Meraude, Nigel’s wife, was darting toward her with outstretched arms, tears of joy streaming down her rosy cheeks.
“Jehana! Praise God, you’re back at last! Poor thing, you must be exhausted!”
Jehana could feel the taut swell of Meraude’s belly against her as they embraced—with child again, after so long!—and she pushed down a brief pang of envy that she herself had been able to bear no more children after Kelson. But on second thought, perhaps that was for the best, lest the taint of her blood be passed on to even further generations.
In fact, she was not sure she even approved of Meraude having another child—though the chance of it eventually assuming Kelson’s dread heritage was so remote as to be almost nonexistent. If, for some reason, Kelson should not produce an heir of his own, the line would pass through Nigel and Conall—or possibly through young Rory or Payne, if Conall’s line should fail. The baby Meraude now carried beneath her heart would never wear the Haldane crown, or know the curse of the Haldane taint.
“Meraude, Meraude, I have missed you,” she said softly, searching the other woman’s brown eyes as they drew apart to look at one another. “And you’re with child again, at last. You and Nigel must be so
pleased.”
“How could we not be?” Meraude countered, grinning merrily. “Nigel hopes for a little girl this time, and I confess the thought pleases me as well, after three boys. We’ll know in another month or so. But you, Jehana—how thin you’ve become! Are you well?”
“As well as I may be,” she answered, turning slightly to motion her companion forward. “This is Sister Cecile. She came with me from Saint Giles’. Sister, this is the Duchess Meraude, Prince Nigel’s wife. May she wait in the solar with the other ladies while we speak for a moment?”
“Of course. Sister, you are most welcome to Rhemuth,” Meraude said, inclining her head to acknowledge the nun’s bow. “Please be at ease with my ladies. We shall join you in a few moments.”
As Cecile passed on into the solar, Meraude glanced back at Jehana and drew her into the sunshine of a nearby windowseat.
“So. What is it that cannot wait until you’ve rested?” she asked, easing her back with one hand as she sank down on a tapestry cushion.
Jehana did not sit; only stood in a pool of sunlight and clasped her thin hands nervously, her eyes searching Meraude’s for some sign of sympathy.
“Are you safe, Meraude?” she whispered.
“Safe?”
“Have Morgan and McLain corrupted your husband as they did mine?”
“Jehana—”
“It’s important to his very soul, Meraude!” Jehana went on, sinking down urgently beside her sister-in-law, eyes never leaving Meraude’s face. “You must keep him from the Deryni taint. Kelson is already in grave danger, but it isn’t too late for Nigel—and maybe not for Kelson, either. That’s why I’ve come back.”
“To—save Kelson?” Meraude said cautiously.
But Jehana went right on, taking Meraude’s response for an invitation to say more.
“He must marry again, Meraude—and soon. He needs an heir of his own. And I feel certain that the right bride could overcome the evil in him. Just as you keep Nigel safe from harm, so Kelson’s queen must bring him back to a life of righteousness. It’s his only hope, Meraude. Say you’ll help me.”
Wistfully Meraude returned Jehana’s eager smile, letting the queen take her hand.
“Well, there are certainly potential royal brides aplenty,” she said noncommittally, “though I suspect Kelson himself will have something to say about a choice. In any case, I doubt he means to make a commitment until after the campaign.” Her smile brightened hopefully. “But would you like to meet a few of them? Several of my ladies are quite eligible. In any case, you’ll probably want to appoint a few ladies-in-waiting of your own. Come and I’ll introduce them.”
Jehana lost track of the names after the first few presentations, but the prospect of involving herself actively in her son’s choice of a new wife even brought a little color to her cheeks. Many of the ladies were quite young, and eminently suitable.
She was in growing good spirit until Meraude brought her to a beautiful young woman stitching at a tapestry frame near one of the windows. The woman’s gown was the deep blue of mountain lakes, her heavy, flame-gold hair caught in a net of gold and pearls at the back of her head and circled across the forehead by a narrow golden fillet.
“This is the Duchess Richenda,” Meraude said, as the woman rose to dip in a respectful curtsey.
Jehana’s heart leaped into her throat, her entire body stiffening in shock.
“Duchess—Richenda?” she managed to whisper. “Have I not heard your name before?”
The woman straightened to meet Jehana’s eyes with the bluest gaze she had ever seen, deferential but direct, even sympathetic.
“It may well be that you have, Majesty,” she said in a low voice. “My late husband sat on King Brion’s council. He was the Earl of Marley.”
“The Earl of Marley,” Jehana repeated tonelessly. “But Meraude said—”
“My young son Brendan is Earl of Marley now, Majesty,” Richenda said. “My present husband is the Duke of Corwyn.”
Corwyn! Jehana let the name register on a mind suddenly gone numb with dread. Sweet Jesu, she is Morgan’s wife! She married a Deryni!
“I—see,” she managed to whisper aloud.
But she could hardly see as she turned to move on with Meraude, stumbling stiff and half-blind through the rest of the introductions until she could call Sister Cecile to her side and seek the refuge of the little oratory adjoining her sleeping chamber. Prayer brought her some semblance of serenity, but she could not banish the feeling of dull despair that the wife of a Deryni should be so firmly entrenched in the royal household.
CHAPTER THREE
For they have begotten strange children.
—Hosea 5:7
The strain generated by Jehana’s arrival set the tone for the rest of Kelson’s afternoon. Nor was his mood improved by the circumstances dictated for that evening. Already tense about the ritual set for later that night, he could not even escape for a few hours of much needed solitude and relaxation over supper, for even though Jehana had declined his invitation to dine with the court, he felt obligated to sup with her in private. To help keep the affair on more neutral ground, however, he asked Nigel and Meraude to host it, and had the meal sent to their quarters. That arrangement would also prevent Nigel from dwelling overmuch on what was to come. Half spitefully, he deputized Morgan and Richenda to preside at table in the great hall in his absence, since Morgan himself was at least partially responsible for Jehana’s attitude. Duncan and Dhugal could more than handle what few arrangements had to be made.
And so, he sat that evening with his mother, Nigel, and Meraude in his uncle’s supper chamber and tried to make pleasant small talk while he longed to be almost anywhere else. The chamber was stuffy—or perhaps it was only him—and he toyed distractedly with Sidana’s ring while his mother’s conversation meandered over half a dozen old themes. Almost all of them returned ultimately to her hatred and fear of Deryni.
“So when the news reached me at Saint Giles’,” Jehana went on, “I could hardly believe my ears. Continuing to keep Alaric Morgan around you is perilous enough; but to receive his wife, whose first husband was a traitor and apparently Deryni as well—”
“Bran Coris wasn’t Deryni, Mother,” Kelson said peevishly, suddenly concerned for the direction this conversation could take if he were not careful.
“But they say he stood by Wencit of Torenth in a magical circle—”
“And Bishop Arilan stood by me. Does that make him Deryni?” Kelson countered boldly.
“Bishop Arilan? Certainly not! But—”
“Of course it doesn’t.” Which was not precisely a lie, but it was sufficiently misleading to redirect any suspicions Jehana might have had about Arilan. “I asked his and Father Duncan’s presence—and Morgan’s—because the trial permitted four persons on either side. It was Wencit and I who were contending. We chose whom we willed to give us company and courage, but the power, if it had come to the Duel Arcane, would have come from Wencit and myself.”
“According to whose authority?” Jehana challenged. “Those strangers who came on white horses? I heard about them, Kelson. Who were they? They were Deryni, weren’t they?”
Kelson lowered his eyes. “I may not speak of them.”
“Then, they were Deryni,” she whispered. She turned a pinched, desperate face toward her dead husband’s brother. “Nigel, you were there. What saw you? Who were they? Are there so many of them that they may walk unrecognized among us with impunity?”
Nigel, of course, knew little more than Jehana in that regard, for he had not been privy to the intentions of the Camberian Council—only their actual intervention. But his uneasy dissembling was sufficient to lead Jehana back to the old, relatively safe topic of Morgan, whose Deryni proclivities were a secret to no one. As Jehana launched into yet another variation on the old fears, Kelson let his thoughts turn to a delicious contemplation of the Deryni at court that Jehana did not know about.
She had not yet made
the connection about Richenda, of course—though she had skirted uncomfortably close. And it obviously had not occurred to her to question Arilan. The knowledge that a Deryni had risen through the ecclesiastical ranks unbeknownst and attained the rank of bishop would shake her faith to the core; surely such a deception could only be the work of the Devil, an attempt to destroy the Faith from within. Of course, Duncan had managed a similar rise—but few outside episcopal ranks were certain that he was Deryni, and much could be blamed on his Deryni cousin Morgan.
Dhugal, of course, was an entirely different matter. Outside Kelson’s immediate circle of close confidants—Morgan, Richenda, Duncan, and Dhugal himself—only Nigel and Arilan even knew that Dhugal was Deryni, much less that he was Duncan’s son; and even Nigel and Arilan did not know the latter. One must assume that the Camberian Council also knew at least what Arilan knew—and that they fretted over Dhugal and the mystery of his powers the same way they fretted over Morgan and Duncan—but other than those few, Kelson doubted anyone even suspected.
He took a deep draught of the light, nutty ale Nigel had provided with supper—wine might have blunted their senses for the ritual still to come—and hid a smile behind his cup as he nodded and made noncommittal grunts in response to his mother’s continuing monologue.
That Dhugal was Deryni, and Duncan’s son, still amazed and delighted him. The revelation had even eased some of the awful, heart-numbing shock of Sidana’s murder, that terrible Twelfth Night but a few months past. Letting the dull buzz of his mother’s voice carry him back, he set himself to savor the memory—able, from this distance, to let even the echo of his grief lap at his emotions as he anticipated the joy to follow.
He had been sitting hunched in a bath before the fireplace in his bedchamber, trying to let the warm water ease the chill that seemed to penetrate to his very soul. He had long since washed Sidana’s blood from his hands, but a part of him still kept going numbly through the motions, as if further ablution could somehow wash her blood from his soul as well.
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