He glanced again at the ring, as though still unable to believe, then shook his head lightly.
Duncan smiled and glanced around the room. “Where is Kelson, by the way?”
“In the bath,” Morgan replied, picking up one of his freshly polished boots and dusting it off with a cloth. “He was a bit—shall I say, ‘upset’?—about having to have dressers this morning. He wanted to know why he couldn’t dress himself. I implied that this was just one of the trials of kingship he’d have to put up with, and that seemed to satisfy him for the most part.”
Duncan picked up Morgan’s other boot and chuckled. “When he sees everything he has to wear today, he’ll be very glad he has those dressers. Many is the time I’ve been grateful for even one assistant to help me vest for some important ceremony.” He gave a weary sigh. “There are always so many little laces and ties.”
Morgan snatched his other boot from Duncan and snorted, “Ha! You know you love it!” He began dusting the boot energetically. “By the way, any trouble last night?”
“Only getting to sleep,” Duncan replied. He watched as Morgan began pulling on his boots, then picked up his cousin’s discarded mail shirt and turned it right side out. Morgan stuck his head and arms into the mail and settled it over his shoulders, smoothed the light links over the white linen shirt he had donned after his bath.
Over that, he pulled on a fine, light-weight shirt of scarlet silk and began lacing it up the front. Duncan laced the sleeves close to his wrists, then held out a black velvet doublet edged with gold embroidery and pearls. Morgan whistled lightly under his breath at the extravagance of the garment, then eased it on without further comment. He adjusted the full, split sleeves to show the scarlet beneath, then held up his arms while Duncan wrapped his waist with a wide crimson sash.
As he reached for his sword in its worn leather scabbard, clipped it to a ring hidden in the sash, Duncan stepped back to view the overall effect. The priest gave him a long, appraising stare, then shook his head and raised an eyebrow in mock despair.
“No, I’m afraid there’s simply no getting around it,” he muttered. “In spite of everything, I do believe you’ll be the most devilishly handsome Champion we’ve had in a long time!”
“I do believe you may be absolutely right!” Morgan agreed, striking a pose.
“And you may also be the most conceited Champion we have ever had!” his cousin went on.
“What?”
Duncan wagged an indignant finger. “Now, Alaric, remember. I am your spiritual father. I only tell you this for your own good!”
It was no longer possible to maintain a straight face. Morgan was the first to dissolve into peals of laughter, hands held helplessly to his sides. Almost simultaneously, Duncan, too, burst out laughing and collapsed weakly in the overstuffed chair, no longer able to control himself.
Presently, a red-liveried attendant poked his head through the doorway to Kelson’s dressing room. His expression was very disapproving, for he had heard the laughter even inside, and his tone was cool as he addressed the two young lords.
“Is there anything wrong, Your Grace?”
Morgan managed to control his laughter enough to shake his head and wave the man off, then sobered and called out again. “Is His Highness ready yet? Monsignor McLain must leave soon for the cathedral.”
“I’m ready now, Father,” Kelson said, sweeping into the room.
As Morgan straightened, Duncan came to his feet, both of them scarcely able to believe that this white-and-gold-clad king was the same boy who had knelt with them so frightened the night before.
All in silk and embroidery, he stood before them like a young angel, the creamy whiteness of his raiment broken only by the subtle play of gold and rubies encrusting the edges. Over the whole was thrown a magnificent ivory cloak, the satin stiff with gold and silver jewel-work and lined in clear crimson.
In his hands he held a pair of spotless kid gloves and a pair of gold-chased silver spurs. His raven head was bare, as befitted an uncrowned monarch.
“I see you’ve been informed of your new title,” the boy said, eyeing Morgan’s change of garb with approval. “Here.” He held out the spurs. “These are for you.”
Morgan sank to one knee and bowed his head. “My prince, I am at a loss for words.”
“Nonsense,” Kelson retorted. “You had better not be tongue-tied when I need you most.”
He handed the spurs to Morgan and motioned him to rise, then turned to the attendant, who still stood in the doorway.
“Giles, do you have the rest of General Morgan’s regalia?”
The man bowed and signalled through the doorway, and three more attendants entered, two of them carrying the regalia Ian had intercepted in the corridor earlier that morning. The third carried a wide baldric of red leather, the edges tooled in gold. All three stood to attention in a single line beside their leader.
Kelson turned back to Morgan. “As King’s Champion, there are a few items you’re required to wear at ceremonials,” he said, a slight smile on his face. “I’m certain you won’t mind if my dressers help you with them while I speak with my confessor.”
As the three dressers swarmed around Morgan with their regalia, the prince motioned Duncan to follow him. They went out on the balcony and closed the doors. Through the glass, they could see the dressers fussing over an annoyed Morgan. Kelson watched the scene for a moment, then turned to Duncan.
“Do you think he’ll be terribly upset with me, Father?”
Duncan smiled and shook his head. “I doubt it, my prince. He was too proud, when you entered the room, to be angry for long.”
Kelson smiled fleetingly and looked out over the city, leaning his elbows on the cold stone balcony railing. The chill wind stirred his hair slightly, but the cloak was too heavy to be affected. Overhead, storm clouds raced across the sky, threatening to cover the sun, and the air had grown suddenly damp.
Kelson clasped his arms across his chest and looked down for a long moment, then finally spoke in a low voice.
“Father, what makes a man a king?”
Duncan considered the question for a moment, then joined the boy at the rail.
“I’m not certain anyone can really say, my son,” he answered thoughtfully. “It may well be that kings are not so different from ordinary men, after all. Except, of course, that they have a graver responsibility. I think you need have little worry on that count.”
“But some kings are not ordinary men, Father,” Kelson said quietly. “How do they cope with what is demanded of them? And suppose a king finds that he is not so extraordinary after all? What does he do when the same demands are still made, when—”
“You are not an ordinary man, Kelson,” Duncan stated flatly. “And you will be an extraordinary king. Do not doubt it. And never forget it.”
Kelson mulled the answer for a long moment, then turned and knelt at the feet of the priest.
“Father, give me your blessing,” he whispered, bowing his head. “Extraordinary or not, I am frightened. And I don’t feel at all like a king.”
MORGAN fussed and fumed as the royal wardrobers swarmed around him, trying hard to stand still and submit gracefully, since he knew Kelson could see him from the balcony. It was difficult, however. He was simply ill at ease when surrounded by so many attendants.
Two of the squires were kneeling at his feet, carefully affixing the gilded spurs to his boots, giving the smooth black leather a final polish. The one called Giles removed Morgan’s sword and handed it to one of his companions, then took the red leather baldric and looped it across Morgan’s chest. As he reattached the sword, Morgan breathed a little easier, for he had felt almost naked without his blade. And the stiletto in its wrist sheath would have been little use, if any of these men had decided to rid the world of another Deryni.
As Morgan adjusted the hilt of the sword to his liking, Giles went to the wooden jewel chest and took out a dark golden chain of office with a pendant badge.
He was not permitted the satisfaction of further ceremony, however, for Morgan took the chain from him before he could even try to assist, and placed it around his own neck. The sooner he could get through with this, the better he would like it.
The two squires kneeling at his feet gave his boots a final wipe with their cloths, then stood, and a third adjusted the sleeves of his doublet for at least the third time. Then they ushered him before a mirror held by Giles, where the squires of the spurs now held out a magnificent black velvet cloak collared in black fox and lined with deep crimson silk.
Morgan was forced to raise an eyebrow at that, for never before had he worn so sumptuous a garment. As the squires fastened it in place on his shoulders, adjusted the chain of office so that the collar did not interfere, Morgan had to admit that the overall effect was impressive.
He was just turning to survey his profile in the mirror when there was a tremendous pounding on the door. Morgan’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, and the dressers stood back in surprise as the pounding stopped, then resumed again.
“Alaric! Alaric, are you still in there? I must speak with you!” It was Prince Nigel’s voice.
Morgan reached the door in about four long strides and threw back the bolt. Even as he opened the door, Nigel pushed his way through and closed the door behind him. The royal duke was obviously shaken.
“Where is Kelson?” he asked, his eyes scanning the room anxiously as he moved away from the door. “All of you,” he motioned to the dressers, “out!”
As they left, Morgan went to the balcony doors and tapped on the glass. Duncan looked up, saw Morgan’s serious expression, Nigel behind, and nodded. As he helped Kelson to his feet, Morgan opened the doors to the balcony and stood aside for prince and priest to enter.
“What is it, Uncle?” Kelson asked in alarm, seeing the grave expression on Nigel’s face and sensing that something of great import was about to be revealed.
Nigel chewed at his lower lip and scowled. How could he tell the boy what he had just seen? And worse, how could he relate the facts without making them sound like an accusation?
“Kelson,” he began, not meeting anyone’s eyes, “I have something to tell you that is not going to be easy—”
“Get to the point,” Morgan interrupted.
Nigel nodded and swallowed hard, then began again.
“Very well. Someone broke into Brion’s tomb last night.”
Kelson glanced quickly at Morgan and Duncan, then back at Nigel. “Go on, Uncle.”
Nigel hazarded a glance at Kelson, then looked down in slight dismay, for the boy did not seem surprised at the news. Could it be . . . ?
“Someone broke into the crypt and opened the sepulcher,” Nigel continued cautiously. “They stripped him of his jewels and fine robes”—his voice broke—“then left him lying cold and naked on the floor.” His voice became a whisper. “The two guards were found at their posts with their throats neatly slit, with no sign of a struggle. And Rogier—Rogier is dead by the tomb, with his own hand on the dagger and a terrible expression on his face, as though he fought whatever it was that made him do it.”
Kelson’s face went white, and he clutched at Duncan’s arm for support. Duncan, too, was very pale, and Morgan glanced uncomfortably at the floor.
“Are you asking whether we had anything to with it, Nigel?” Morgan said quietly.
“You?” Nigel’s head snapped up with a start. “Good God, I know you weren’t responsible!” He glanced down again and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, even more ill at ease than before. “You know what the others will say, though, don’t you?”
“That the cursed Deryni has only reverted to true form,” Duncan said quietly. “And it will be almost impossible to prove otherwise, because we were at the tomb last night.”
Nigel nodded slowly. “I know.”
“You know?” Duncan echoed.
Nigel gave a weary sigh, and his shoulders drooped dejectedly. “I do. And I’m afraid it isn’t just Alaric who is implicated this time, either. You see, when I told you they found Rogier dead with his own hand on the dagger, I neglected to mention what was in his other hand.”
The three hung on Nigel’s every word.
“It was a gilded silver crucifix—yours, Duncan!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“A gilded silver crucifix—yours, Duncan!”
THE priest stopped breathing for just an instant. There could be no appeal from that accusation, for the crucifix was his. He could not deny it. What had gone into the tomb with Brion on the day of burial was a matter of record. Just as it was now a matter of record that the tomb had been ransacked, and that a distinctive silver crucifix had been found where it had no right to be.
Duncan suddenly realized he was holding his breath, and let it out in a long exhalation. The news put an entirely different light on things. For now, not only was he implicated in the various questionable doings that had been occurring with such regularity since Morgan’s return, but his very identity was in jeopardy. So far as he knew, only Alaric and Kelson were aware of his Deryni heritage, and he would prefer that it remain that way. But now there would be questions concerning his relationship with both of them—and would be little he could say to explain his part in last night’s escapade.
He cleared his throat uncomfortably and finally decided he would have to tell Nigel something. At least he thought he could depend on the duke to keep his secret, should it become necessary to tell all.
“We were in the crypt last night, Nigel. And we did open Brion’s tomb,” Duncan began slowly. “I won’t even try to deny it.” He clasped his hands together uneasily. “When we left, though, the tomb was sealed, and Rogier and the guards were alive. Needless to say, we had no part in their deaths.”
Nigel shook his head uncomprehendingly. “But, why? Why open the tomb in the first place? That’s what I don’t understand.”
“We ran a far greater risk if we did not open it,” Morgan interjected. “Brion’s ritual for Kelson called for something that was buried with him by mistake. We had to have it; nothing else would do. So we had to open the tomb.” He glanced at his hands, at the two rings winking there. “As it was, it’s a good thing we did. Brion was under a—a shape-changing spell. It had also bound his soul to some degree. Fortunately, we were able to break the spell and free him.”
“Dear God!” Nigel murmured. “And you’re sure that’s all you did?”
“Yes,” Morgan replied. “That, and we also took what we had come for in the first place: the Eye of Rom. Kelson didn’t want to just take it, so Duncan gave him the crucifix to leave in its place. We never dreamed that anyone would reopen the tomb after we had gone.”
“Well, they did,” Nigel muttered, shaking his head. “Poor Brion. And poor Kelson. You’re all going to be blamed for it, you know, regardless of what you say. Alaric, what are we going to do?”
Before Morgan could reply, there was a pounding at the door, and Nigel’s head jerked up apprehensively.
“O Lord, that’s probably Jehana! And she’s found out about the crucifix. You’d better let her in before she has the door broken down!”
Before anyone else could move to intercept, Kelson shouldered past them to slip the bolt. As expected, an angry Jehana pushed her way through. But Kelson was quick to force the door closed behind her before any of the guards in her company could enter with her. Jehana was so furious she did not seem to notice that fact, however, for she immediately confronted Morgan and Duncan.
“How dare you!” she whispered through clenched teeth. “How dare you turn on him like this! And you, Father Duncan!” She whirled on the priest. “You call yourself a man of God. Murderers have no right to that name!”
She whipped out her left hand to disclose Duncan’s gilded crucifix, now stained to a deeper, redder hue, and brandished it before the priest’s eyes.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” she demanded, never raising her voice from the low, dea
dly tone in which she had first begun. “I defy you to give me a rational explanation for what you’ve done!”
When Duncan did not answer, she returned her attention to Morgan and was just about to start on him again when she noticed the Eye of Rom glinting in Kelson’s right ear. She froze, as though unable to believe what she saw, then turned her outrage on her son.
“You monster!” she cried. “You misbegotten creature of darkness! You would desecrate your own father’s tomb, you would murder for this power! Oh, Kelson, Kelson—see what this foul Deryni curse has brought you to!”
Kelson was speechless, horrified. How could his own mother believe such a thing of him? How could she have gained such a warped sense of truth, to link him and Morgan with last night’s terrible deed in the cathedral?
“Jehana,” Morgan said quietly, “it isn’t what you think. We were—”
Jehana turned on him in a cold fury. “I don’t want to hear about it! And I forbid you to presume that you know what I think about anything, you—you fiend! First you corrupted my husband—perhaps even brought about his death, for all I know—and now you’re trying the same thing with my only son. And Rogier—poor, innocent Rogier, struck down and most wickedly murdered while he guarded the remains of his dead king—” Her voice broke.
“Well, you can just take it from there by yourself, Deryni. Because I don’t intend to lend even token support to what you’re about to do. And as for you, Kelson Haldane, I wish you had never been born!”
Kelson went white. “Mother!”
“Don’t call me that,” she replied, turning her face away from him and edging toward the door. “I want nothing further to do with you. Let Morgan take you to the coronation. I have no wish to see the throne of Gwynedd usurped by a—a—”
She began to sob bitterly and buried her face in her hands, her back to Kelson and the others. Kelson started to go to her, to comfort her, but Morgan forbade it with a sharp glance. If there was to be even a slight chance of success, they must have Jehana’s support, even if given under duress.
Deryni Rising (Chronicles of the Deryni) Page 21
