At least the crises of that summer of 1082 were of a more common variety than what the Council feared. Negotiations in Meara continued to stall, and Seisyll Arilan’s return along with them, but domestic matters throughout the Eleven Kingdoms gave increasing cause for more immediate concern.
Little rain had fallen for many months. As the verdant plains of Gwynedd dulled to gold and then to brown, farmers turned their energies to hay-making, which was abundant, but other crops began to suffer. And as a sultry June gave way to even fiercer heat in July, word came of the sudden illness of the queen’s mother, Gwenaël, Sovereign Queen of Llannedd, beset by a canker of the breast.
Immediately Queen Richeldis made ready to depart for Llannedd, to attend on her mother during this time of crisis. Jessamy, though but lately recovered from childbed, made certain of her own inclusion in the queen’s party, for the journey would provide a timely ploy to remove her from the court for a few weeks, hopefully beyond the reach of any of Sief’s friends who might have suspicions about his death. Seisyll Arilan was safely removed in Meara, for the moment, and Michon de Courcy had not been seen at court since Krispin’s christening, but she knew not what others might come sniffing around. It was somewhat worrisome that, if they did, Donal would be somewhat left to their mercy, should a connection somehow have been made between the king’s presence and Sief’s death; but after seeing him matched against Sief, she decided that Donal probably was well capable of looking after himself.
As for young Krispin, surely he could not be safer than in the royal nursery with Prince Brion. Whatever Sief’s friends might think of her—and there was nothing whatever to link her with her husband’s death, other than that she was present when it occurred—what part could a two-day-old babe have had in it? She knew that, later on, signs of his true paternity might start to emerge, to the consternation of her enemies; but not yet, and probably not for many years. No, for now it was safe enough to leave him—and infinitely safer for her to absent herself from closer scrutiny.
The queen’s party sailed for Llannedd the day after receiving the news: Richeldis and Jessamy and four more of the queen’s ladies, plus a handful of domestic servants from the royal household and a score of knights as escort, under command of Duke Richard Haldane. They went by royal barge as far as Concaradine, for it was thought that travel by water would be easier on the women than a journey overland, especially in the heat and with the queen still suffering from morning sickness.
But the weather remained sultry and hot, with nary a breath of air stirring as they made their slow progress down-river. Spirits wilted and tempers began to fray. At Concaradine, the party transferred to a royal galley, better suited for sea travel along the southern coast of Llannedd, but still with no wind to swell the sail. The men at the galley’s sweeps suffered from the heat, and the river was sluggish, running low, making a navigation hazard of sandbars that ordinarily were well-covered.
Not until they were passing off Nyford did a light breeze at last rustle the galley’s red canvas; even then, the heat hardly abated. But as they sailed at last into the bay below the Llanneddi capital of Pwyllheli, with Gwynedd’s royal banner flying at the masthead, they could hear the muffled knell of the great cathedral bells tolling the passing of Queen Gwenaël.
Shock and grief, coupled with the heat, caused Queen Richeldis to miscarry, too soon even to determine the gender of the child. Beset with weeping, grieving over this dual loss, she lay despondent at Pwyllheli for several days, recovering physical health with the relative resilience of youth but less quick to heal in spirit.
“I should have been here for her,” she told Jessamy that first night, in between disconsolate sobs. “She never even got to see little Brion, much less the child that I lost. And now Brion will never know his grandmama. She would have been so proud of him.”
“Of a certainty, she would have been,” Jessamy reassured her. “But remember that she is with God now, embraced in His love. And you would not have wished her suffering to continue. From all that you have told me of her, she was a good woman.”
“She was,” Richeldis whispered. She paused to dab at her eyes and blow her nose, then glanced uncertainly at Jessamy. “You believe that, don’t you? That she is with God now.”
“My faith tells me that she is,” Jessamy replied. “Do you not believe it as well?”
Richeldis lowered her eyes, twisting her handkerchief in her hands. “I do,” she said in a small voice. “I must. But you—Jessamy, you’re Deryni. You know, don’t you?”
Jessamy looked at her in some surprise, for she and the queen had never discussed what she was. She supposed that Donal must have told her.
“My lady, I—we have no special relationship with God, other than to believe that, like all His creatures, He made us and cares for us.”
Richeldis glanced at her quickly, then dabbed at her eyes again. “You needn’t deny it,” she said. “I am not frightened of you. Well, perhaps I should be,” she conceded. “The Church teaches that Deryni are evil; but I have never known you to do harm to anyone. And my husband trusts you implicitly, as he trusted your husband.”
Jessamy glanced away, feeling vaguely guilty over the deceptions she and Donal had carried out, both by engendering young Krispin and for their part in Sief’s death. But she told herself that both had been done in the service of Gwynedd, and therefore could involve no true betrayal of Gwynedd’s queen.
“My lady, I have lived my life in service to the Crown of Gwynedd, as did my husband,” she said honestly, “and I am more grateful than you can possibly know, for this expression of faith on your part. Would that others shared your tolerance and goodwill.”
The queen ventured a tremulous smile, awkwardly reaching out to pat Jessamy’s hand. The mother she had just lost had been but a few years older.
“Jessamy,” she said in a steady voice, “sacred writ tells us that God made man a little lower than the angels. But I think that perhaps you Deryni lie somewhere in between.” She glanced pointedly and a little defiantly toward the door. “If a priest were to hear me say that, I should probably be excommunicated, but that is what I believe.”
“Then, you are one among few, my lady,” Jessamy replied. “But bless you for saying it.”
THE conversation seemed to ease the queen’s grief, enough so that, two days later, she was able to face the emotional trial of her mother’s funeral with a serenity beyond her seventeen years, dutifully walking with her brother and his wife as they escorted Queen Gwenaël’s oak coffin into the royal vaults beneath the cathedral and laid her to rest in a tomb of porphyry, near to those that housed the remains of other sovereigns of Llannedd.
But one further duty remained to Richeldis before they might set out for home, and this she prepared to perform with a lighter heart. Her brother Illann was already king in neighboring Howicce, by right of their late father, for the two kingdoms had been separate until the marriage of Colman of Howicce and Gwenaël of Llannedd. Now Illann would take up the second crown as well, as had been his parents’ intent; and being already anointed and crowned in Howicce, his accession in Llannedd would be marked by only a simple inauguration and enthronement, accompanied by the exchange of oaths of fealty with Llanneddi nobility. The presence of his sister, herself a queen, would lend added dignity to the occasion.
“Madam, it still seems to me curious, that your brother became King of Howicce when your father died,” Jessamy said to Richeldis, as she and a lady-in-waiting called Megory arranged the dark coils of the queen’s hair. Richeldis wore the white of royal mourning for her mother—and for the child she had lost—but the fine silk damask of her gown was sumptuous, embellished with her royal jewels, befitting the dignity of her brother’s accession. “Your mother was still alive, and had been queen of both realms. If your parents’ marriage was to have united the two kingdoms, I would have thought that your mother would then have ruled both kingdoms until she died—and then Illann would have inherited.”
&nb
sp; “So one would have thought,” the queen said with a smile. She held a dark braid in place while Lady Megory pinned it. “But Howiccan law can be a little odd—or perhaps it’s Llanneddi law that’s odd, since it allows queens regnant. Few kingdoms do, you know. The crowns are now united in my brother Illann, but the kingdoms remain separate.”
“That seems very strange, Madam,” Lady Megory said. “What if you’d had no brothers? What would have happened to Howicce after your father died?”
“Since Howicce must be ruled by a king, I expect there would have been a regency council, until I had a son,” Richeldis replied matter-of-factly, tilting her head before the mirror to inspect her coiffure. “Actually, that son wouldn’t be Prince Brion, because I probably wouldn’t have been allowed to marry the king at all.”
“Not married the king, Madam?” another of the ladies gasped, scandalized.
Richeldis shrugged. “Well, they couldn’t have allowed Howicce to be swallowed up by another kingdom, Clarisse—and Brion will be King of Gwynedd some day. It wouldn’t have done for him to be King of Howicce, too.”
“I—suppose not,” Clarisse said dazedly.
“No,” Richeldis went on, “a regency council would have ruled Howicce until I’d had a male heir. Of course, my mother would have sat on that council. But instead of marrying the king, I would have been married off to some other likely prince who was not apt to become a king in his own right—and hopefully, we would have had sons. As it is, if something were to happen to my brother and all his brood, I expect that the Howiccan council would reach an agreement with the king whereby the Howiccan Crown would pass to a younger brother of Brion, once there was one, so that Howicce could have a separate king again.”
“Then, that explains why you must do homage to your brother,” Jessamy said, as she adjusted a gold circlet of Celtic interlace atop the queen’s veil. “Because Prince Brion is the next heir after your brother and his sons,” she added, for the benefit of the other ladies.
“Exactly correct,” the queen agreed.
“But, Madam, what if—”
“Clarisse, don’t worry,” Richeldis interjected, smiling as she touched a reassuring hand to the younger woman’s wrist. “It isn’t likely to happen. My brother and his wife are breeding like rabbits, and God willing, Brion will have brothers. But if the male line were to fail, I suppose a regency council could—oh, elect a new king from among their number.”
“Elect a king, Madam?” Lady Megory asked.
“Yes. Odd, isn’t it? But that’s Howiccan law for you.”
“Odd, indeed,” Jessamy agreed. “But I suppose it’s all a matter of blood, in the end.”
“Aye, it is.”
The queen peered at her reflection once more, pinching her cheeks and twitching at a fold of her veil, then turned to smile resignedly at Jessamy and the others—all, save the two of them, gowned in the bright colors usual at court. Though Jessamy wore the black of conventional mourning, her gown was cut of rich brocade, embroidered with jet and crystal, and the narrow fillet of emeralds binding her black veil had come from the queen’s own coffers.
“Goodness, would you look at us?” Richeldis said with a gentle laugh, catching up both of Jessamy’s hands and glancing at the others. “We look like a pair of magpies, amid all these brightly colored songbirds! But Illann will thank us for our effort, I think.” She released Jessamy’s hands and made shooing motions toward the door. “Come, ladies. We must do Gwynedd proud.”
Chapter 7
“Hast thou daughters? Have a care of their body, and show not thyself cheerful toward them.”
—ECCLESIASTICUS 7:24
BACK in Rhemuth, during Jessamy’s absence from court with the queen, the father of both their children paid regular visits to the royal nursery, where the boys were thriving. Prince Brion had reached his first birthday in June, and took his first steps shortly after the queen’s party sailed for Llannedd. The baby Krispin would need a few years to catch up with his elder half-brother, but he was growing quickly. Given that the boy had lost his presumed father shortly after birth, and his mother and godmother were absent, no one thought it odd that Donal doted on Jessamy’s child along with his royal heir.
Seisyll was not there to observe it, being still detained on the king’s business in Meara. Nor could Michon gain ready access to the royal children, though he made several low-key appearances at court during those weeks, hoping for an opportunity—and eventually had to give it up. Had the boys been a few years older, beginning to engage in the activities of pages and the like, finding a few minutes’ access would have been no very difficult matter; but the very young children of the royal nursery were rarely brought farther than the fastness of the castle’s walled gardens, and then only in the company of many governesses and wet nurses. Further examination of Jessamy’s son would simply have to wait until he was older, or until Jessamy herself could be persuaded to allow it, regardless of any suspicions the Council might entertain regarding this grandson of Lewys ap Norfal.
Meanwhile, the summer wore on—one of the hottest and driest in living memory. In Pwyllheli, as Queen Richeldis prepared for her brother’s investiture as King of Llannedd, almost daily letters from her husband reported drought and falling river levels. In one that arrived the very day of the investiture, while the royal party was occupied at the cathedral, Donal declared his intention to move the royal household to his country estate at Nyford until the heat broke.
“Good heavens, he’ll already be on his way by now,” Richeldis said to Jessamy, as she read through the letter. “Listen to this.
“I bid you meet me at Carthanelle, rather than returning to Rhemuth,” Donal had written, “for the heat will be much eased, closer to the sea. I have taken this decision for the sake of Prince Brion, in particular. The royal nursery is stifling in the heat, and I cannot think that is good for small children. Nor would I subject them to the rigors of travel by horse-litter, which I must do if I wait too long and the river continues to fall. Already, the waters of the Eirian are near to impassable from Desse to Concaradine—though I have obtained several barges of very shallow draft that will still serve. You may tell the Lady Jessamy that her son will be traveling with the other children of the court, so she need not fear for his health. Both boys are well.”
The queen glanced up at Jessamy, who had bowed her head over folded hands.
“Be of good cheer, dear friend,” the queen murmured, smiling as she handed the letter to Jessamy. “This means we shall be reunited with our sons all the sooner. Megory? Ladies?” she called, clapping her hands toward an open door for the rest of her women.
“Ladies, we shall be leaving as soon as can be arranged,” she continued, as they began to appear. “The king summons us to Carthanelle—which will be a far more pleasant place to pass the rest of summer than Rhemuth. And he’s bringing all the royal household—and the children.”
This announcement elicited a flurry of happy speculation among the women, for several besides Jessamy and the queen herself had left young families behind in the capital, and now could look forward to an earlier reunion than had been thought. The prospect lent extra deftness to eager fingers, so that the royal party would have been ready to depart on the following day, except that King Illann asked his sister to stay a while longer, in the aftermath of his inauguration.
The royal galley finally departed Pwyllheli early in August, its limp sails augmented by the men at the sweeps as they skirted the Llanneddi coastline east and northward, into the sheltered waters of the Firth of Eirian. The sea was like glass, the air close and humid, but toward noon of the second day out of Pwyllheli, as they struck out across the estuary, the lookout sighted the chimneys and towers of Nyford town, slowly emerging from the heat-shimmer.
“Nyford ahead,” he cried.
The ancient market town of Nyford possessed an anchorage rather than a true harbor, mostly concentrated within the further shelter where the River Lendour met the Eirian. St
anding far forward on the galley’s port side, Jessamy squinted up at the sun overhead, then returned her attention to the scattering of ships riding at anchor before the town. Most showed the colors of Gwynedd at masthead or bow, but some hailed from elsewhere. A few were drying sails aloft, but the air was very still. Indeed, only the faintest of breezes from the galley’s own passage stirred the crimson-dyed canvas of its sail, painted with its Haldane Lion. Jessamy was lifting the edges of her black widow’s veil to fan her face when the queen joined her, today gowned in the scarlet and gold of Gwynedd for her reunion with her husband.
“There are more ships here than I expected,” Richeldis said.
“No doubt, because the king is here,” Jessamy replied.
“Aye, that’s probably true.” Richeldis shaded her eyes with one hand to gaze more closely at two galleys tied next to one another. “It appears we have a visitor from the Hort of Orsal,” she noted. “And can that be a Corwyn ship alongside?”
Somewhat surprised, Jessamy turned her gaze toward the two vessels, squinting against the brightness until she could, indeed, pick out the green and black of Corwyn trailing from the stern of one of the galleys—and Lendour’s scarlet and white beside it, for Keryell Earl of Lendour was guardian and regent for his minor son Ahern, whose claim to the Duchy of Corwyn came through his mother. For now, however, the title of duke was a courtesy only, its authority held in abeyance until Ahern should reach the age of twenty-five, for the ducal line was Deryni, and allowed to be so, because Corwyn provided a strategic buffer between Gwynedd and Torenth to the east, and because the dukes of Corwyn, Deryni or no, had long been loyal to the kings of Gwynedd.
“I knew the mother of the young duke,” Jessamy said wistfully.
“She died, didn’t she?” Richeldis replied. “In childbed, wasn’t it?”
“Not exactly,” Jessamy said. “A pregnancy gone badly wrong, in its very early months—and she had never really recovered her health after she bore Ahern. He must be ten or twelve by now. But Keryell wanted another son. . . .”
In the King's Service Page 8
