Strange, how quickly the atmosphere of a city could change. Only weeks ago, he was sure almost all of the gaily clad citizens around him had been similarly dressed, genuinely mourning the loss of their monarch. Now all wore the colors of festival, of celebration.
Was it a shorter memory, or the blessed blurring of the senses as the days passed, or simply the excitement of a coming coronation that let the common people put aside their grief and resume the business of living? Perhaps for these, who had never known Brion, it was simply a matter of changing habit, of putting another name after the title “King.”
Another name . . . another king . . . a kingdom without Brion . . .
Memories . . . nine long days . . . dusk . . . four travel-worn riders drawing rein in the Cardosa camp . . . the ashen faces of Lord Ralson, Colin, the two guards, as they gasped out the horrible news . . . the anguished futility of trying to reach across the miles and touch a mind that could no longer respond, even if it had been in range . . . the numbness that set in as they began covering the frantic miles to Rhemuth . . . spent horses, changed along the way for new . . . the nightmare of ambush, massacre, from which only he and Derry emerged alive . . . more dulling miles . . .
And now, the sickening realization that it had all been real, that an era had passed, that he and Brion would never again ride the hills of Gwynedd . . .
The totality of his grief washed over Morgan like a physical thing, threatening to overwhelm him as it had not in nine long days of riding. Gasping, he clung to the pommel of his saddle for support.
No!
He must not allow his own emotions to interfere with the work ahead! There was power to be secured, a king to be crowned, a battle to be won.
He forced himself to relax and take a deep, controlled breath, willed the anguish to subside. Later, there would be time enough for private grief—indeed, perhaps no need, if he should fail in his task and join Brion in death.
But enough of such thoughts. Right now, grief was a luxury he could ill afford.
The moment past, he suddenly found himself acutely self-conscious, and he glanced ahead to see whether Derry had noticed his internal struggle.
But Derry hadn’t, or at least pretended not to. The young Marcher lord was too busy staying in the saddle and avoiding pedestrians to pay much attention to anything else. And Morgan knew the young man’s injuries must be giving him more than a little discomfort, though Derry would never admit it.
Morgan worked his way alongside his companion and was about to speak when the other’s horse suddenly stumbled. Morgan grabbed for the reins, and miraculously the animal did not go down, but its rider lurched heavily against the front of his saddle, hissed with sudden pain, and only barely managed to keep his seat.
“Derry, are you all right?” Morgan asked, anxiously shifting his grip from reins to the younger man’s shoulder.
They had stopped in the middle of the street, and Derry slowly sat up, a pained expression etched across what little of his face was visible beneath the crested helmet. Carefully cradling a bandaged left wrist in his right hand, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then opened them and nodded weakly.
“I’ll be all right, m’lord,” he whispered. He eased the injured arm back into a black silk sling and steadied himself with his good hand. “I just banged it against the saddle.”
Morgan was clearly skeptical. He was starting to reach across to check the injured wrist for himself when his action was interrupted by a strident bellowing almost in his ear.
“Make way for the Supreme of Howicce! Way for His Loftiness!” And then, in a lower tone, “Can’t you find some other place to hold hands, soldier?”
The comment was punctuated by a sharp smack of leather against Morgan’s horse’s flank. The animal jumped sideways with more energy than Morgan had dreamed possible, crowding Derry’s mount into half a dozen shrieking pedestrians.
Derry’s eyes flashed angrily as Morgan turned to look, and he was on the verge of a smoking retort when the general kicked him to silence. Morgan arranged his features in what he hoped was a suitably abject expression and signalled Derry to do the same.
For the bellower had been a seven-foot giant of a man, mailed in bronze and garbed in the garish greens and violets of the United Kingdoms of Howicce and Llannedd. While this alone would have been no deterrent under normal circumstances, the man was accompanied by six more just like him—and Derry was wounded. It did alter the odds somewhat. Besides, Morgan had no overwhelming desire to get himself arrested and jailed for brawling just now. Too much was at stake.
Nonetheless, he watched with unconcealed interest as the giants rode past. He took careful note of the shaggy black beards and hair; the winged bronze helmets that marked the wearers as Connaiti mercenaries; the barbarically patterned violet and green livery, signed with the badge of Howicce; the longswords at belts and writhing blacksnake whips in hands.
There was no hint as to who or what the Supreme of Howicce might be, though Morgan had his suspicions. The giants were escorting an ornately carved horse-litter carried by four matched grays, and the tapestried curtains shrouding the litter were embroidered in a headache-inducing design of green, violet, orange, and brilliant rose. Six more of the swarthy giants followed behind the litter. All things considered, Morgan doubted they would approve of him approaching for a closer look.
No matter. Morgan had already made up his mind about anyone with the audacity to style himself “His Loftiness.” He would not soon forget the Supreme of Howicce or his retainers.
Evidently Derry’s thinking had been along similar lines, for as the cortege passed, he leaned toward Morgan with a wicked grin. “By all the devils in Hell, what is a Supreme of Howicce?”
“I’m not certain,” Morgan replied in a penetrating stage whisper. “But I don’t think it’s as high as a Quintessence or a Penultimate. Probably some minor ambassador with delusions of his own importance.”
Morgan had intended the remark to be overheard, and there was a ripple of nervous laughter around them. The last giant glared in their direction, but Morgan put on his look of innocence and bowed in the saddle. The giant rode on.
“Well, whoever he is,” Derry remarked as they moved out again, “he certainly has ill-mannered retainers. Someone should teach them a lesson.”
This time it was Morgan’s turn to grin wickedly. “I’m working on that,” he said.
He pointed down the street where the procession was just about to disappear around the corner. The lead giant with the overactive whip was lashing out with even greater vengeance now that the troop was approaching the palace and there were more important people to be impressed.
But then, a strange thing happened. The long black whip the giant was wielding with such obvious relish suddenly seemed to develop a mind of its own. On return from a particularly negligent flick at a scurrying street urchin, it abruptly and inexplicably wrapped itself around the forelegs of the giant’s mount.
Before anyone was aware of what had happened, horse and giant went down on the cobblestone street in a thrashing, kicking confusion of shouts and metallic crashes.
As the giant picked himself up, livid with rage and gushing a highly articulate stream of profanity, gales of laughter swept through the spectators. The giant finally had to cut the thongs of his whip to free his frightened mount.
Morgan had seen enough. Sporting a smugly self-satisfied smile, he beckoned Derry to follow him down a less crowded side alley.
Derry cast a sidelong glance at his commander as they emerged at the other end. “How satisfying for us that the giant managed to get tangled in his own whip, m’lord,” Derry commented. There was admiration in his voice. “Rather clumsy of him, wasn’t it?”
Morgan raised one eyebrow. “Are you implying that I had something to do with his unfortunate accident? Really, Derry. However, I do understand that giants sometimes have trouble coordinating. I believe it comes of having too small a brain.” He added, almost to hims
elf, “Besides, I was never fond of people who flicked other people with whips.”
THE main courtyard of the royal palace was more crowded than Morgan could ever remember having seen it, even as a boy. It was all he and Derry could do to work their way through the gates. Heaven knew what was going to be done with all these people.
Evidently many of the visiting dignitaries for the coronation tomorrow were being housed in the palace proper. The area in front of the great hall stair was glutted with horse-litters, sedan chairs, wagons, and baggage animals. Everywhere, lords and their ladies and hordes of servants milled about in seeming confusion. The din and the stench were formidable.
Morgan was amazed that so many of the Eleven Kingdoms’ nobility had deigned to come to the affair. Not that the coronation of the next Haldane king was not a noteworthy event—not at all. But that so many usually dissident lords should be willingly and peacefully gathered in one place was remarkable, indeed. He would be quite surprised if at least one major altercation didn’t develop before the festivities were over.
Already, groups of squires from two of the warring Forcinn Buffer States were disputing whose master should have precedence at table tonight. What made it ludicrous was that they would all take second place to another Forcinn lord. For all five of the Buffer States were under the protection and economic control of the Hort of Orsal. And the Orsal’s banner already flew from one of the flagstaffs protruding from the main battlement. The Hortic emissary would precede all Forcinn contenders.
The Orsal himself, who controlled trade in most of the Southern Sea, had probably not bothered to come. His relations with R’Kassi to the south had not been too amicable of late. Quite probably, the old sea lion had deemed it wiser to stay at home and guard his port monopoly. The old Orsal was like that.
But the younger Orsal was there. Over to the right, his sea-green banners waved from four or five standards. A number of servants in the Orsal’s livery were busily unloading his extensive baggage train.
Morgan made a mental note to look up the younger Orsal after the coronation tomorrow—if he was still alive, of course. He, too, had been having his troubles with the Forcinn States. Perhaps a mutual agreement could be reached to deal with the problem. At least the Orsal should know how he felt. Corwyn and the Hortic State had always enjoyed excellent relations.
Morgan nodded greeting as the Lord High Chancellor of Torenth passed, but his mind was no longer on foreign emissaries. It would be the lords of the Regency Council he would have to deal with before the day was out. He must be on the lookout for local arrivals.
Morgan caught the flash of Lord Ewan’s bright orange velvet, topped by the familiar red hair, just entering the main doors at the top of the stairs. The old duke had Lord Bran Coris and the Earl of Eastmarch in tow. Off to the left, heading toward the royal stables, a page was leading two horses with the McLain tartan bright on their saddles.
Now, there was strong backing he could count on. Duke Jared, his adopted uncle, ruled nearly a fifth of Gwynedd, if one counted his elder son’s Earldom of Kierney adjoining his own Cassan. And the Kierney earl, Kevin, was a longtime friend of Morgan’s, soon to be a brother-in-law. That was not even mentioning the third McLain, Duncan, on whom so much would depend later today.
Glancing at Derry to follow, Morgan eased his horse across the crowded courtyard to the left of the stairway. Derry pulled up to his left, and the two dismounted. After running his hands briefly along his horse’s legs, Morgan tossed the reins to Derry and pulled off his helmet, absently ruffling through his matted blond hair as he searched for a familiar face.
“Ah, Richard FitzWilliam!” he called, raising a gloved hand in greeting.
A tall, dark-haired young squire in the royal crimson livery turned at the sound of his name and smiled as he identified the caller. Then the smile faded abruptly to concern as he made his way nervously to Morgan’s side.
“Lord Alaric,” he murmured, sketching a hurried bow, his eyes dark with apprehension. “Ah, ye shouldn’t be here, Your Grace. ’Tis said the Council’s out to get ye, body and soul, and that’s the literal truth!”
His eyes darted nervously from Morgan to Derry and back again. Derry froze in the act of hooking his helmet over the pommel of his saddle, then resumed fiddling with his gear at a sharp glance from Morgan. Morgan returned his attention to Richard.
“The Council’s planning to act against me, Richard?” he asked, feigning innocence. “Whatever for?”
Richard squirmed uncomfortably and tried to avoid Morgan’s eyes. He had trained with the young general and admired him tremendously, in spite of what was being said about him, but he wasn’t eager to be the one to tell him.
“I—I’m not certain, Your Grace,” he stammered. “They—well, ye’ve heard some o’ the rumors, haven’t ye?” He eyed Morgan fearfully, as though hoping the general hadn’t heard, but Morgan raised a knowing eyebrow.
“Yes, I’ve heard the rumors, Richard.” He sighed. “You don’t believe them, do you?”
Richard shook his head timidly.
Morgan slapped his horse’s neck in exasperation, and the animal jumped. “Damnation take the lot of them!” Morgan said. “That’s what I was afraid of! Derry, do you remember what I told you about the Regency Council?”
Derry grinned and nodded.
“Good,” Morgan replied. “Then how would you like to go placate the lords of the Council while I get to work?”
“Don’t you mean delay, sir?”
Morgan laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Derry, I like your kind of thinking! Remind me to think of a suitable reward.”
“Yes, sir.”
Morgan turned to Richard and handed him his helmet and the two sets of reins. “Richard, will you see to our horses and gear?”
“Aye, m’lord,” the squire replied, eyeing the two smiling men with a look of wonder. “But do be careful, sir—both of ye.”
Morgan nodded gravely and clasped Richard’s shoulder briefly, then began to make his way resolutely toward the stairs, Derry at his heels.
The staircase and entryway were still crowded with richly garbed lords and ladies, and Morgan was suddenly aware again how he must stand out among them in his dusty black leathers. But there was more to it than that, he realized. As he made his way up the staircase, he noticed that conversation stopped as he passed, especially among the ladies. And when he returned their glances with his usual half smile and bow, the ladies shrank away from him as though afraid, and the men moved their hands a little closer to their weapons.
Immediately, he recognized the problem. In spite of his long absence, he was being recognized and connected with the wild Deryni rumor. Someone had certainly gone to a lot of trouble to taint his name. These people actually believed him to be the evil Deryni sorcerer of the legends!
Very well, let them stare. He would play along. If they wished to see the suave, self-assured, vaguely menacing Deryni lord in action, he would oblige!
With a slight swagger to his movements, he paused on the threshold to slap the dust from his clothes, deliberately positioning himself so that his sword and mail glittered balefully in the sunlight and his hair glowed like burnished gold. His audience was suitably impressed.
When he was satisfied that the act had achieved its desired effect, he allowed his gaze to sweep across his audience one more time, slowly. Then he turned on his heel like an insolent boy and swept into the hall. At his back, Derry glided along like a watchful blue shadow, his face enigmatic beneath the thick mane of curly brown hair.
THE hall was immense. It had needed to be. For Brion had been a very great king, with many vassals, and he kept a court that rewarded faithful service well.
The high-ceilinged hall with its oaken support beams and dozens of silk-embroidered battle flags was almost symbolic of the new unity that had come to the Eleven Kingdoms in the twenty-five years of Brion’s reign. Banners of Carthmoor and Cassan, of Kierney and the Kheldish Riding, the Free Por
t of Concaradine, the Mearan Protectorate, Howicce, Llannedd, the Connait, the Hort of Orsal, episcopal banners of most of the Lords Spiritual in the Eleven Kingdoms—all hung alike from the high oak beams, their silken and gold insignia and devices gleaming in the half-light that poured from the clerestory and from the three immense fireplaces that heated the room.
On the walls, rich tapestries vied with the armorial banners for color and splendor. And above the main fireplace, dominating the hall, the Golden Lion of Gwynedd glittered darkly from its background of deep crimson velvet.
Gules, a lion rampant guardant or, the heralds would blazon the Haldane arms on the hanging. But mere heraldic jargon could not begin to describe the rich embroidery, the priceless artistry and jewel-work that had gone into its creation.
The panel had been commissioned more than fifty years before by Brion’s grandfather King Malcolm. Times were harder then, and it had taken nearly three years for the nimble-fingered weavers of the Kheldish Riding to complete the basic design alone. Another five years passed while the gold and jewel artisans of Concaradine plied their arts. And it had been Brion’s father, Donal, who had finally hung the masterpiece in the great hall.
Morgan remembered the reaction of a small blond boy on seeing the Lion for the first time. For that first impression was indelibly etched on his memory with his first glimpse of Brion, the shining king who had stood before the Lion of Gwynedd and welcomed a shy young page to the royal court.
Morgan savored the memory and scanned the hanging once more, slowly, as he always felt compelled to do after a long absence. Only then did he permit his gaze to slip casually up and to the left, where hung another banner.
Worked in green, on black silk, the Corwyn Gryphon actually defied many of the conventional rules of heraldry, at least where color was concerned. But perhaps that was part of the charm of the Deryni heritage, into whatever disrepute that bloodline had fallen in past decades.
Deryni Rising (Chronicles of the Deryni) Page 4
