In the King's Service

by Katherine Kurtz

  “My sister’s child,” he said. “And why would I want to do that?”

  Offering his open hand, Oisín invited a direct link, smiling faintly as the other instead touched fingertips lightly to his wrist. But the contact was sufficient for the necessary rapport, by which Oisín quickly imparted the Council’s speculations regarding the child—and their suspicions regarding the death of Morian’s brother-in-law, and the king’s probable part in it, and possibly Jessamy’s as well.

  Morian said nothing as he drew his hand away, also ending the rapport, only taking up his cup again to sip at his wine as he gazed out over the city.

  “I haven’t seen my sister above a dozen times in the past thirty years,” he finally said, not looking at Oisín. “Sief discouraged it—and I understand why. But what you’ve suggested is—quite astonishing.” He glanced into his cup, speculating aloud.

  “Poor Sief. We never really got on, but he didn’t deserve that. I was got away from my father before I could be ‘tainted’—I know what he’s said to have done—but Sief never trusted my sister. An odd basis for a marriage, don’t you think?”

  “‘Better to marry than to burn,’ to quote Holy Writ out of context,” Oisín said. “In the case of your sister, better to marry her off than to kill her off. At least you didn’t face that.”

  “No.” Morian sighed. “Very well, I’ll do it. It will take some time to set up an excuse to go to Rhemuth—or to have Iolo send me.”

  “Understood,” Oisín agreed. “I think there is no great urgency, since the boy is not yet two—and it’s understood that you’ll need to make careful preparations. But we do need to know what we’re dealing with.”

  Morian shook his head, still trying to take in the concept of a nephew who might also be the son of the King of Gwynedd.

  “Morian,” Oisín said softly, guessing the line of the other’s thinking, “it isn’t as if we’re simply talking about another royal bastard.”

  “I know that,” Morian replied. “And if it was done, it appears to have been done deliberately—and if deliberately, then for a reason. The question is, what reason?”

  “We’ll worry about that once we discover whether he is Donal Haldane’s son,” Oisín said, tipping back the rest of his wine. “I’d best be off—or shall I stick around, so that you don’t have to explain my sudden departure to the governor?”

  “No, go ahead. I might as well begin setting up the idea of sending me to Rhemuth, while I already have him in control. And if I’m going to do that, it’s easy enough to cover your departure.”

  “As you will, then,” Oisín replied, standing. “Good luck to you.”

  IN fact, it did not prove feasible to go to Rhemuth that season or even the next, for the rumblings of unrest in Meara were sufficiently troubling that Iolo Melandry preferred to keep his aide close by his side—or else out in the field gathering intelligence, as only a Deryni might do. During those two years, the king sent his brother Richard twice to that troubled province to observe and report back, and sensed that the time was approaching when only his own presence would suffice to restore order.

  But he put it off, because unrest of another sort was brewing closer to home, in Carthane to the south, where an itinerant bishop called Oliver de Nore was gaining notoriety for his rigorous enforcement of the Statutes of Ramos—yet another cause for concern to the Camberian Council.

  The Statutes of Ramos had been formulated nearly two centuries earlier, in the wake of the Haldane Restoration, and severely limited the participation of Deryni in the life of Gwynedd. Though de Nore had no specific authority to enforce the secular aspects of the Statutes, canon law was a bishop’s stock in trade, and sometimes allowed him leeway surely never intended by the formulators of those Statutes. As the decade wore on, de Nore could take credit for the persecution, incarceration, and even execution of scores of men and women, some of them of long-hidden Deryni bloodlines.

  Most poignant were the deaths of those discovered while trying to gain access to the priesthood, long forbidden to those of their race; and for such men, the penalty was always death by fire. Their fate, in particular, elicited impassioned anger and debate among the members of the Council, for they were well aware that, until all were once again free to take up priestly vocations, Deryni would never regain a full partnership with the humans among whom they lived.

  FORTUNATELY, de Nore and those who constituted ultra-conservative elements within the Church’s hierarchy in Carthane did not yet seem inclined to insist that their interpretation of the Laws of Ramos should extend beyond Carthane’s borders, much to the relief of the three Deryni then resident at the Convent of Notre Dame d’Arc-en-Ciel. Since the ouster of Bishop de Nore’s brother as a chaplain, nearly four years before, royal patronage and the convent’s proximity to Rhemuth had kept at bay any further infiltration by would-be zealots. Or perhaps the presence of two important royal wards had buttressed the status of Arc-en-Ciel as a sanctuary for certain select Deryni.

  Nonetheless, by late April of 1085, as Alyce de Corwyn helped with preparations for the clothing of a new novice and the profession of final vows by the Deryni daughter of Jessamy MacAthan, initial reports were trickling into Arc-en-Ciel of renewed violence in Carthane, and an outbreak of rioting in Nyford. The day before the ceremonies were to take place, Father Paschal arrived with more detailed news that kept him sequestered with Jessilde and Mother Judiana for several hours, while the community continued to prepare for the next day’s celebrations.

  Much had changed at Arc-en-Ciel since Paschal’s last visit. Much to their delight, Alyce and Zoë now shared a room, though the circumstances by which this had occurred had surprised them both. For Alyce’s original roommate, Cerys Devane, had experienced a religious epiphany the previous winter that surprised even herself, and had moved into the postulants’ dormitory at Easter to prepare for reception as a novice at the same time Jessilde made her final vows.

  “Cerys, are you sure?” Alyce had asked her, remembering the other girl’s protestations when they first met, that she could never be a nun.

  “No, I’m not at all sure,” Cerys had admitted, though her face had glowed with an inner radiance that none could gainsay. “I only know that I’ve never been happier in my life, and that this seems to be the place God wants me to be.”

  “But, you were here before, and you’re still here,” Alyce had said reasonably.

  “Of course I am,” Cerys replied. “But God is here,” she touched the flat of her hand to her heart, “and I sense that there’s more I’m meant to be doing in His service. I don’t yet know what, but isn’t that part of what a novitiate is all about?”

  Whatever the true reasons for the decision, it had left Alyce without a roommate after Easter—and Zoë’s roommate, a rather plain Llanneddi girl called Edwina, had announced her plans to leave early in June to be married out of her father’s castle near Concaradine.

  So Zoë had asked permission to move in with Alyce, leaving Edwina the privacy of her own room for her last few weeks at Arc-en-Ciel. The arrangement had allowed the new roommates far greater privacy to continue exploring their enhanced relationship, but even so, they preferred not to speak openly of what they were doing.

  Father Paschal told me that the king and queen are coming tomorrow, Alyce sent to Zoë, when they had settled into bed and doused the nightlight.

  That’s nice, Zoë returned sleepily. I think my father is coming, too. I may not get to see him again before he takes off for Meara in June.

  The exchange was not the same kind of mutual rapport that might have been enjoyed by two Deryni, for it required physical contact, and that Alyce initiate the link—and that Zoë offer no resistance—but the result was useful, nonetheless, especially in an environment where one must be circumspect.

  I hope he’ll be safe, Alyce sent. My father and brother are going as well. Meara isn’t a place I’d particularly want to go, with all the troubles there.

  Speaking of “safe,
” Zoë said, should I be worried about other Deryni who might be there tomorrow?

  I’m not sure, Alyce replied honestly. But Father Paschal told me that he tried to probe you from across the room, since that’s what another Deryni might do—though only if he or she had reason to be suspicious. Still, there will be at least a few here tomorrow: Jessamy and her children, and maybe some of the in-laws from her eldest daughter’s family. There could be others as well, that we don’t know about. But you passed muster.

  Well, that’s a relief, Zoë responded. But maybe, just to make sure, you ought to shut me down until tomorrow’s ceremonies are over.

  That’s what Father Paschal suggested, Alyce sent. You know, you’re getting far too good at this.

  We’ll credit that to your ability as a teacher, Zoë returned, as she yawned hugely. I am but a mirror to reflect your own brilliance. Why? Did he think there was any real danger?

  I don’t think so, Alyce replied. But it doesn’t hurt to be safe. I’ll do it in the morning.

  Maybe we should just go a-Maying instead, Zoë said. Tomorrow is going to have entirely too much ceremony and far too many important people.

  Go to sleep, Alyce ordered. Tomorrow, we’re both going to need all our wits about us.

  Chapter 11

  “Thou shalt also be a crown of glory in the hand of the Lord, and a royal diadem in the hand of thy God.”

  —ISAIAH 62:3

  FESTIVITIES the following day were to begin at noon. As expected, Jessamy rode up from Rhemuth to witness her daughter’s final vows, bringing along Jessilde’s two younger sisters and also young Krispin, just turned three.

  As a courtesy to Jessamy, the king and queen also made the journey up from the capital, their presence lending additional solemnity to the occasion, even though it was a private visit. Prince Brion, who was almost four, rode proudly at his father’s saddlebow; the toddler Blaine, much to his disappointment, was relegated to a well-padded horse-litter with his mother, who was six months gone with child.

  The three-year-old Krispin had expected to share that fate, but to his glee found himself hoisted up before Sir Kenneth Morgan, who had come along as the king’s aide, and also to help supervise the three boys—and to visit with his daughter.

  The convent chapel was packed even before the royal party’s arrival, not only with the families of the two principals in the day’s ceremonials but with local folk come to catch a glimpse of the king and queen.

  “It’s rather like a wedding,” Jessilde had told Alyce, Marie, and Zoë early that morning, amid the bustle of last-minute preparations. The previous afternoon, while the nuns saw to the final cleaning of the convent church and made certain that linens were pristine and habits brushed up, the students had woven floral garlands to bedeck the altar rails and pillars in the nave, and now were finishing the final touches. It was Jessilde herself who had made the wreath of multi-colored roses for Cerys.

  “These have opened nicely,” she said, adjusting one of the pale pink ones. “She’ll wear her hair loose on her shoulders like a bride, and her best gown, all of it covered with a very fine, very long white veil.”

  “Is there a bouquet?” Marie wanted to know. “I can’t remember whether they carry flowers or not. I’ve only seen this happen once before.”

  “No, these will be her flowers,” Jessilde replied. “She’ll carry a lighted candle instead—carefully, lest she set her veil alight!—and her parents will conduct her down the aisle while you and the rest of the choir sing the Ave Vierge Doreé.”

  “I don’t think her parents are entirely happy about her decision,” Zoë said. “Her mother looked like she’d been crying when they arrived last night, and her father hardly said a word.”

  “They had a rich husband all picked out for her,” Alyce said. “Of course, he was old enough to be her father—and nearly, to be her grandfather.”

  “I’m sure they did,” Jessilde replied. “She’s a beautiful young woman, and she would have made a fitting adornment to any lord’s court.” She flashed an impish smile. “Of course, God had other plans for her.”

  Marie screwed up her face in a grimace of dismay. “Somehow, I don’t think that being a bride of Christ is quite the same.”

  “No, it’s much better!” Jessilde said happily, “at least for me. And for Cerys.” She picked up the finished floral crown. “I’d better go and help her finish dressing.”

  They had decked the chapel with flowers, bursting from vases to either side of the altar and garlanded all along the altar rails, in addition to the garlands festooned across the ends of the benches set to either side of the rainbow-carpeted center aisle, where the guests would sit. Flowers also bedecked the fronts of the choir stalls, and hung in swags from the canopies over the back row. The altar wore a blanket of roses as a frontal, and had acquired a rainbow canopy of fine tapestry, with threads of gold woven amid its many colors, so that it glistened in the light that poured through the east window, already aglow from the colored glass.

  By noon, the church was packed, Marie with the soloists of the choir, Alyce and Zoë amid the other students in their places with the general choristers, the sisters, servers, and clergy waiting ready for the entrance procession. As the last stroke of the Angelus bell faded into stillness, the choir-mistress moved before the choir, gathered their attention with a glance, and raised her hands in signal for them to rise.

  With the first sweet notes of the Salve Regina, sung a cappella in three-part harmony, the two girls given the honor of conducting the king and queen to their seats started forward, with the royal couple and the two young princes walking under the rainbow canopy they carried. Zoë’s father and one of the queen’s ladies followed behind them as the royal party were led along the rainbow carpet and into the choir, where they were shown to seats of honor on the Gospel side, nearest the altar.

  Sir Kenneth caught his daughter’s eye and winked as he took a seat next to the king, also sending an amiable nod and a smile to Alyce; the young princes sat dutifully between their parents. In the nave, Jessamy stood before a front bench with her two younger daughters and Krispin, also on the Gospel side—and on the Epistle side were Cerys’s brothers and sisters, all dressed in their finest. Their parents waited at the rear of the nave with the daughter soon to be received under the rainbow, for her reception would precede Jessilde’s final vows.

  Others, too, had particular cause to be present here today. Standing in the row behind Jessamy and her children, Alyce noticed a pretty, dark-haired young woman who looked a lot like Jessamy, who glanced back at the double line of blue-robed sisters now starting down the aisle behind the crucifer and two torch-bearers. By the woman’s expression, as she saw Jessilde among them, Alyce decided that the one who looked like Jessamy must be her eldest daughter Sieffany—which suggested that the two men next to her, farther from the aisle, were probably her husband and her father-in-law, both of them Deryni.

  It occurred to Alyce that Jessamy had mentioned the father-in-law before, and had said that he came occasionally to court—Michon de Courcy, was it?—and the son was Aurélien. Jessamy had not said it in so many words, but Alyce had been left with the distinct impression that the father was a formidable Deryni, indeed, and to be avoided, if at all possible.

  Certain it was that Jessamy did not look pleased to have him standing behind her, and had positioned herself as a buffer between him and her youngest, the boy Krispin, sitting quietly in the aisle position. Surely she did not think that Michon would hurt the boy?

  The sisters filed into their stalls and the clergy took their places to begin the Mass, for the two ceremonies would take place within that context, following the Gospel. After the opening prayers, the readings spoke of being called by God, and the symbolism of the rainbow as a sign of His promise, and then a pious account of the apparition by which the Blessed Virgin had made her will known concerning the foundation of what became l’Ordre de Notre Dame d’Arc-en-Ciel.

  At the conclusi
on of that reading, as the girls with the rainbow canopy went back up the aisle to fetch Cerys and her parents, a hush settled within the sun-drenched brilliance of the chapel, and then Marie’s pure voice lifted in the first verse of an old Bremagni bridal hymn, Ave Vierge Dorée. The rest of the choir joined in as two of the youngest girls from the school strewed fragrant rose petals before the bridal party as Cerys’s parents led her down the rainbow aisle. Uplifted before her, Cerys bore her candle of profession as if it were the most precious treasure the world could offer.

  With all eyes focused there, young Krispin chose that moment to dart from his mother’s side and into the choir to join the two princes, eliciting smiles and a few suppressed giggles among the girls of the convent school, a stern glance from the king, and an indulgent hug of the culprit from Queen Richeldis as he settled happily between her and Prince Blaine for a better view of the proceedings.

  Murmurs of amusement gave way to sighs of wistful admiration as Cerys passed into the choir, for she had never looked more beautiful, or more content. Her figure-skimming gown of costly damask was the rich lilac hue of hyacinths, shot with gold, her loose hair tumbling down her back like a cascade of flame, and crowned with roses in every color the convent gardens had to offer. A veil of sheerest gossamer fell to her waist in the front and onto her gown’s short train in the back.

  By contrast, her mother looked like a plump and somewhat gaudy songbird in a gown of several shades of blue and green, with tears brimming in her blue eyes as she and her husband, a shorter and more somberly dressed man of middle years, presented their daughter before Mother Judiana, seated on a cushioned stool at the foot of the altar steps, and returned to sit with their other children.

  There followed an exchange of questions and answers between superior and postulant, after which Judiana folded back the front of Cerys’s veil and conducted her to the altar, where they set the candle at the feet of the statue of the Virgin, then passed though a side door while the choir sang another hymn.