ALYCE de Corwyn was one of the few with advance knowledge of the king’s plans regarding her brother— necessary, since it was she who had the privilege of girding him with his white belt. Sir Jovett Chandos buckled on the golden spurs, and it was Sir Sé Trelawney, arrived only minutes before the ceremony, who presented him with his sword, black-clad and silent as he knelt to watch the king’s Haldane blade flash above the head of his childhood friend, the flat of it touching right shoulder, left shoulder, and head.
Ahern himself was not able to kneel as the three other young men did, who were dubbed that afternoon, but the king had made a point of reiterating the high points of the new knight’s exemplary service, both the summer previous and three years before, and personally assisted him to rise from the faldstool moved into place before he was called forward.
And while the Archbishop of Rhemuth cast cold glances at the king, both then and later, when Ahern was called forward to be formally invested as Earl of Lendour, the king again spoke of Ahern’s sterling service hitherto, and kissed him on both cheeks before placing the coronet upon his brow and the gold signet on his finger, emblematic of his new legal status.
When Ahern reiterated the fealty he had sworn at his knighting, now pledging further leal fidelity as earl, several dozen knights of Lendour and of Corwyn knelt at his back, affirming their support and loyalty as well. Though Gwynedd’s clergy might have their doubts about this setting aside of the law, Ahern’s record spoke for itself among Donal’s other knights. If any disagreed, no one spoke out.
As for Sir Sé Trelawney, present as promised, he appeared much changed in the months since Alyce last had seen him. His long black robe, fastened at the shoulder, had a vaguely eastern look to it, unrelieved by any color save the white slash of his own knight’s belt. In truth, he looked as much the monk as warrior now, a close-clipped beard exaggerating the leaner lines of a form that now was almost ascetic in its sparseness.
Afterward, he had words of congratulation for Ahern, and a kiss on the cheek each for Alyce and Zoë, but he did not stay long after court, quietly riding off into the snow whence he had come, while the hall cleared to set up for the feast.
I think he may have made profession with the Anvilers, Alyce whispered mind to mind to Vera, who was seated across from her and sharing a trencher with an exceedingly attentive Earl Jared McLain. I had hoped he might stay longer.
Vera, offering Jared a morsel of succulent pheasant lavished with plum sauce, spared her sister a sympathetic glance.
I’m sorry, she sent. I know you were fond of him.
Turning her attention back to the revelry in the hall, Alyce forced a resigned smile as she lowered her head slightly to listen to a comment from Sir Jovett, seated on her other side.
Her brother, meanwhile, seemed to be quite enjoying the company of Zoë Morgan. He had put aside his coronet, but his gold signet flashed in the light of candle and torch as they fed one another tidbits. Sometimes his lips nibbled near her fingertips, or his hand lingered near hers, occasionally caressing the back of a hand, brushing a wrist. Later in the evening, Alyce saw the two of them standing in a shadowed recess of one of the window embrasures, Ahern with one hand set on her waist and she with her face upturned to receive his chaste kiss, fingertips brushing at his chest.
“For someone who made little of our suggestion that she might really become our sister,” Alyce said to Vera much later, in the room the three of them now shared, “it did look like the two of them were getting along rather well.”
Vera laughed and wrapped a shawl more closely around her shoulders, settling down beside Alyce on the sheepskin rug before the fire.
“It did, indeed. I noticed them well after dinner, sitting in one of the window embrasures, just holding hands and looking into one another’s eyes. I—uh—don’t think they noticed me.”
“I don’t think they noticed much of anyone besides one another.” Alyce picked up an ivory-backed brush and began brushing her hair, gazing into the fire.
“Oh, Vera,” she said after a moment. “Six months ago, it was Zoë and I who were waiting for Marie to come in. I hope Zoë will be luckier in love.”
“So do I,” Vera replied. “I think Ahern is quite smitten. And I think Zoë would make him quite a wonderful duchess. Here, give me that and I’ll brush.” She took up the brush that Alyce surrendered and fell to, saying, after a moment, “What would you think of having two duchesses in the family?”
Alyce turned to stare at her twin, eyes wide. “Jared McLain?” she breathed. “Truly?”
“Well, it’s early on, as yet,” Vera said, smiling somewhat self-consciously, “but he does need a wife—and a mother for that baby boy of his. One would think he invented babies. At first, he spoke of little else—until he started asking about my family. Apparently, the daughter of a Lendouri knight would be well regarded in Kierney—and Cassan.”
Alyce found herself containing a grin. “Well, Keryell was a Lendouri knight, among other things,” she said. “And he would have approved of such a match for you, I feel certain.” She cocked her head to one side. “Could you find contentment as Jared’s countess, and eventually his duchess?”
“I think I could,” Vera said softly. “He’s very sweet and gentle—and he isn’t at all as grand as I’d feared.”
Giggling together, they sat there, gossiping and brushing one another’s hair, for the best part of an hour before Zoë came tiptoeing in, quite flustered to discover that they were still awake.
“I’m not even going to ask,” Alyce said, laughing, as Zoë dropped onto the sheepskins between them and reached for one of the cups of mulled wine set on the hearth. “We both saw you with Ahern earlier this evening.”
“Well, I might have been with someone else,” Zoë said slyly, gulping down some of the wine. “But I wasn’t,” she added with a grin.
She set down the cup and hugged her arms across her chest, closing her eyes in happy remembrance.
“We talked about Cynfyn, and Castle Coroth, and he asked me if I liked them. He told me about growing up with you and Marie—and Vera, I’d forgotten that you lived at Cynfyn for a while as well, after Alyce and Marie came to Arc-en-Ciel. He showed me the signet that the king gave him today, and asked if I’d like to try it on.”
“Now, that sounds serious,” Vera said, grinning. “He’s only just got it, and already he’s letting pretty girls try it on.”
“Well, he will need a bride,” Alyce said reasonably, “and the king told us in Coroth that he intends to marry off both of us soon. He thinks a great deal of your father, Zoë. That might make you quite an acceptable wife for a future duke.”
“Do you really think so?” Zoë asked, wide-eyed.
“More unlikely things have happened,” Alyce replied. “Remember when Marie and I asked whether you were campaigning to be our sister?”
“But, that was just in fun. I never dreamed—”
“Well, you may well dream tonight,” Vera said, grinning as she poked Zoë in the ribs. “Alyce, you’ll have to speak to that brother of yours, and make sure his intentions are honorable, where our dear Zoë is concerned. Dare we tell her about my prospect?”
As Zoë looked at her in question, Alyce slipped her arm around the other girl’s shoulders and smiled.
“Zoë darling, it appears entirely possible that both of you may be duchesses someday.”
NEITHER of the prospective dukes lingered long in Rhemuth. By mid-January, both had returned to their own lands to hold themselves in readiness for a war all hoped would not be necessary. Their prospective brides pined through the rest of the winter and into spring, though Alyce did her best to divert their energies into the activities of the court and the royal children.
Such diversion served her own purposes as well, as she released her wistful affection for Sé Trelawney to the reality of what she had seen of him during his brief visit in January. Friends they had been during their childhood, and friends they remained; but now Sé had
turned to dreams of his own, and a new life with the mysterious and ascetic Knights of the Anvil. That life did not include her, and never could.
TO no one’s surprise, insurrection flared again in Meara in that spring of 1089, obliging Donal to mount the threatened personal expedition into that rebellious land. By April, the king had begun to assemble the local levies that would go with him to Meara; the Kierney levies would meet him there, on the plains before Ratharkin.
Though proclaimed Prince of Meara at birth, by right of his Mearan mother, Donal Haldane had actually visited Meara only half a dozen times in his life, and two of those previous ventures onto Mearan soil had been under arms, to put down rebellions. The present insurrection was again centered around Donal’s first cousin Judhael, eldest son of his mother’s sister Annalind, neither of whom had ever accepted the succession intended by Donal’s mother or, indeed, his grandfather. More than a decade had passed since a Haldane king last had ridden into Meara under arms, and the present contretemps came of having stopped short of finishing the task he then had set out to do.
This time his brother Richard rode at his side: a mature and formidable general to whom he gladly had relinquished active command of the Gwyneddan expeditionary force, a generation younger than Donal. For his personal safeguarding, the king had retained a crack bodyguard of fast-mounted Lendouri cavalry captained by Ahern Earl of Lendour, giving him the flexibility to go when and where he sensed he was needed, to assess conditions for himself. Among them, though not part of their number, was Sir Kenneth Morgan, now restored to his function as the king’s aide, rarely far from his side since returning from the last expedition into Meara, three years before.
Their advance into that turbulent land was swift and focused, bringing them quickly into the heartland of the rebellious province. Half a day’s ride from Ratharkin, the provincial capital, forward scouts made contact with the first wary outriders from the city, where rebels had ousted the royal governor and occupied part of the city. To the king’s dismay, initial reports regarding rebel numbers suggested that Judhael of Meara had mustered far more support than initially had been supposed. The prospect gave pause to all previous assumptions that this would be any ordinary quashing of a minor dissident insurrection.
That night, as the king and his army encamped between Ratharkin and loyal Trurill, Donal called his commanders to his tent for a council of war.
“I want to know how it’s possible that Judhael can keep alive such support, after so long,” the king said, glancing across the grim faces faintly illuminated in the torchlight. “We’ve had nearly sixty years of wrangling about Meara. Have I truly given these people cause to resent me that much?”
Andrew McLain, senior among Gwynedd’s dukes, shook his grizzled head, infinitely patient. His son Jared was already scouring the hills south of Ratharkin, seeking intelligence regarding local opposition.
“Not at all, Sire,” Andrew said. “This is a regrettable legacy of your father’s generation, and Jolyon of Meara, and the Great War. Your parents’ marriage was intended to resolve the succession of the principality. It was your grandmother who simply would not accept the loss of Mearan sovereignty.”
Richard snorted. “Meara was hardly sovereign, even then, Andrew. It’s been a vassal state for more than two hundred years.”
“A vassal state, yes,” said Ursic of Claibourne. “But still with its own prince, its own court. A royal governor is hardly the same, no matter how well liked he may be—and Iolo Melandry, while loyal and competent, has hardly been well-liked in Meara, as you know.”
Duke Andrew grimaced and shook his head. “They wouldn’t have liked any royal governor. You know that, Ursic. These stiff-necked Mearans only understand force.”
Donal’s sharp glance forestalled any further digression into what was agreed by all present. He was well aware that most of the troubles with Meara during his lifetime could be laid at the feet of the maternal grandmother he had never known. Widowed in the Great War, and beloved of the Mearan people, the Princess Urracca had disowned Donal’s mother when, seeking an end to the slaughter, her daughter Roisian had fled to Gwynedd and wed Gwynedd’s king. Annalind, she declared, was Meara’s true heiress; and by that reckoning, many Mearans regarded Annalind’s son Judhael as Meara’s true prince. It was Judhael who had sparked the present insurrection, as he had the previous one.
“It won’t end, you know,” Ursic said. “Not until you’ve killed off the rest of the line.”
Several of the others nodded in vehement agreement, a few murmuring to one another, but Donal set his jaw defiantly, raking them all with his gray Haldane gaze.
“Ursic, these are my own people, my mother’s blood kin. I have no wish to slay them.”
“But slay them you must, Sire—if not now, then at some time in the future,” Ursic replied. “For Mearans will never let go of what they regard as theirs. They are a people of honor and passion, with a vehement hatred for what they regard as betrayal of loyalty. And in their eyes, that was the crime of your mother—that she should abandon her lands and people and give herself in marriage to an enemy of Meara.”
“We were never enemies of Meara!” Donal snapped, slapping the flat of his hand against the map table. “And my mother was trying to avert the very kind of bloodshed that seems inevitable on the morrow—for I will have what is mine!”
“That may exact a heavy price, Sire,” Duke Andrew said.
“Then so be it!” Donal retorted, lurching to his feet. “Leave us—all of you!” His ringed hand stabbed emphatically at the tent flap, where Ahern stood guard with Sir Jovett Chandos. “Except for Richard and Morian—and Ahern. You stay. And someone have that scout sent in, who saw the Mearan array at Ratharkin.”
In a shuffle of booted feet and creaking harness, the others filed out, leaving Richard, Morian, and Ahern to settle on camp stools as the king motioned them closer and sank into his own chair.
“Well, what is to be done?” he murmured, searching all three attentive faces.
Richard glanced furtively at the two Deryni, then at the carpet beneath his feet, faint apprehension in his expression. At thirty-three, he was just coming into his prime: lean and fit, his shock of sable hair only beginning to silver at the temples, and visible mainly in his close-trimmed beard and mustache.
“It appears you have already decided what is to be done,” Richard said quietly, looking up at his brother.
“And you don’t approve.”
Glancing again at the two Deryni, Richard gave a shrug.
“That isn’t for me to say. I’m not the king.”
“No. You aren’t.”
Footsteps and the clink and creak of harness approached outside the tent flap, just before one of the king’s bodyguards pulled back the heavy canvas to admit a nondescript-looking scout in dusty tan riding leathers.
“You sent for me, Sire?”
“I did. Sit here, please.” Donal hooked a stool closer with a booted toe and indicated it with his chin. “It’s Josquin Gramercy, isn’t it? Ahern, bring him that writing desk and light, if you will.”
Ahern complied without comment, moving the small campaign chest before the stool and setting out parchment, pen, and ink, then bringing a lit candlestick, which he set to the left. Morian had risen to make room, and moved behind the scout as he settled on the stool, one hand casually coming to rest on the man’s shoulder. The man started to look up, then seemed to deflate slightly, chin sinking to his chest and eyes closing. Ahern, unaccustomed to seeing a Deryni work so openly, raised one eyebrow.
“Josquin, the king wishes you to sketch out as much as you can remember of the rebel defenses,” Morian said in a low voice. “While you are doing that, you will see nothing else and you will hear nothing until I touch you on the shoulder again. Do you understand?”
“Aye, sir,” came the whispered reply.
“Good man.”
As Morian’s hand left his shoulder, the man immediately opened his eyes, took up a
quill and carefully inked it, then began sketching out a rough map of the area around Ratharkin, his concentration evidenced by his tongue contortions as he traced each line and letter. After watching him a moment, Donal glanced at Richard and gave a nod.
At once, Duke Richard drew the ebon-hilted dagger from his belt and casually passed its blade close beside the scout’s eyes, then let its point sink to lightly touch the man’s cheek beneath one eye. Eliciting no reaction, he sighed and resheathed the weapon with a purposeful snick of metal sliding on metal. At no time had the entranced Josquin indicated in any way that he was aware of the test.
“I still find it amazing when he does that,” the king said aside to Ahern, as Morian smiled faintly and merely folded his arms, overseeing the scout’s work from behind.
Richard gave a snort that was at once skeptical and resigned, casting a furtive glance at Morian as he crouched down beside his brother. “I somehow doubt that yon Josquin would find it so amazing, if he knew. Appalled, perhaps. Donal, does it never give you even the smallest pang of conscience, that you’re obliging innocent souls to be party to practices forbidden by the church?”
Donal gave a droll shrug.
“Does the church need to know? Surely, extraordinary measures are justified, to protect the crown I swore to defend.”
“Still . . .”
They were watching the map take shape under Josquin’s pen when a guard called from beyond the tent flap and then admitted another man to the royal tent, firmly escorted by Sir Kenneth Morgan. This one was a nervous, bandy-legged little individual of middle years, swathed in the upland tweeds widely worn by the local inhabitants. As he caught sight of the king, he snatched off a shapeless tweed cap to reveal a balding pate and twin braids falling to either side of his neck.
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