The king’s battle-surgeon now held out little hope. Curled on his side, with his good knee drawn up to his chest, Ahern periodically was racked by rigours, now burning with fever, grown far worse in the four days since Kenneth had left to fetch her. When Alyce tried to examine his belly, it was taut and hard, and extremely tender. Her powers told her only that something was very wrong.
“I fear the bowel has ruptured,” the surgeon told her, after she came out of his room. “We have tried to keep him quiet, and have given him nothing by mouth save a little water, but his agony has been intense. And his breath—the foetor oris.” He shook his head. “It is only a matter of time.”
She cried a little then, weeping wearily against Sir Kenneth’s chest, then dried her tears and went back into her brother’s room. After putting him to sleep—and breathing a silent prayer that a miracle might yet come to pass—she gave her grim report to the king, then fell gratefully into the bed the sisters provided and slept through the night, Zoë curled dismally beside her.
Ahern was no better the next morning, though at least his night had been peaceful. In truth, he was now slipping in and out of coma, and his features had begun to take on a waxen, transparent quality. A priest had been summoned to administer the last rites, and was waiting outside the room with the king and Duke Richard. Sir Jovett was changing a compress on his forehead, in an ongoing attempt to ease his fever.
“I don’t want to die here, Alyce,” he told her, rousing at about midday as she and Zoë held his hands and Kenneth tried to comfort both of them. “And I wanted to marry Zoë. I still do!” he declared, turning his burning gaze first on her and then on her father, then lifting her hand to his lips.
“Zoë Morgan, will you consent to do me the very great honor of giving me your hand in marriage?” he murmured.
“I will,” she breathed, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I will!”
“Then, someone, fetch that priest,” he rasped. “And there should be other witnesses. Is the king about? And Jovett—call Jovett, my faithful friend. . . .”
Kenneth had already gone to fetch the priest, waiting outside with the king and Duke Richard, and returned immediately with all three of them, Jovett following behind.
“But, my lord,” the priest was protesting, “he should receive Unction first. He may not have much time.”
“Time enough to marry this fair lass,” the king replied, grasping the priest’s sleeve and propelling him to the bedside. “Do it, Father!”
Trembling, the priest put on his stole and joined their right hands, leading them through a much abbreviated form of the wedding vows.
“Ego conjugo vos in matrimonium: In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen,” he concluded, when they had taken one another for better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death did them part, and Ahern had given her his name and the gold ring engraved with the arms of Lendour—not yet impaled with the Corwyn arms, as had one day been his expectation, but token, nonetheless, of his intentions.
Only then did he allow the priest to anoint him for his final journey, and give him viaticum to speed him on his way. When he slipped again into coma a little while later, Alyce sealed him from pain and gently kissed his forehead in farewell, then left him in the care of his bride of but an hour, herding everyone else out of the room.
It was but another hour later when Zoë appeared at the door, eyes downcast, and stood aside to let them look beyond to where he now lay at peace.
LATER that morning, after Ahern’s friends had paid their respects, the priest who had married him, shriven him, and given him the Last Rites of his faith sang him a Requiem there in the abbey, his soul uplifted by the angel-voices of the sisters who had cared for him in his final days.
Few mourned more profoundly than his king, who knelt beside Ahern’s grieving sister and his bride of only hours with his face buried in his hands, pondering what would become of the gaping hole left by the dead man’s untimely passing. In his all too short life, Ahern de Corwyn had taken on the mantle of his noble inheritance with passion and courage, overcoming adversities that might have seduced a lesser man into accepting the life of a wealthy and privileged cripple.
Only recently had the first stirrings of a born military genius begun to blossom—along with a quiet self-confidence regarding his Deryni gifts. Both had been of inestimable value in the campaign just past—and both had been lost with his death. Ahern had been but eighteen.
In sum, had he lived, he would have become a formidable Duke of Corwyn, in time. Instead, the mantle of that noble heritage now fell upon his sister Alyce—or rather, her eventual son.
Ensuring that she took a suitable father for that son now became yet another burden that Donal Haldane must bear, for Alyce de Corwyn shared the same blood and heritage as the dead man, and likely with similar potential. Any son of Alyce must be mentored by a father of unimpeachable integrity, with the ability to guide up the boy in the way he should go—a pair of safe hands in which to entrust the power that came with eventually taking the reins of ducal authority in Corwyn.
No such considerations yet stirred the mind of the potential mother of such a duke. For Alyce, the losing of her beloved brother represented a shock not unlike what she had experienced after the death of their father, three years before, and the loss of their sister, not a year past.
Once again, Zoë Morgan knelt at her side, but this time not merely as bosom companion but as sister, briefly bound to Ahern in law and spirit, but fated never to consummate that union. If Alyce now wept, she wept for Zoë as much as for Ahern—and for herself. Her brother’s death changed many things. Some things, however, remained sadly and always the same.
The cheerless journey back to Rhemuth with Ahern’s body was eased somewhat by Zoë’s presence, sharing her grief. Again, the robes of mourning must be pulled from coffers, and again a Requiem was sung for a departed earl of Lendour in the chapel royal, before sending his body home for burial. Though Duke of Corwyn by birth, Ahern de Corwyn had never ruled in his ducal lands, so the decision was taken to inter him at Cynfyn with his father and other scions of the Lendour line.
Much of the next few weeks seemed like a repeat of the obsequies for Keryell three years before, though with an even larger turn-out. Ahern had won the hearts of all his Lendouri subjects during the months of his convalescence and the mastery of his injury’s aftermath, and his people had been well proud when the king consented not only to knight him ahead of custom but to confirm him in his Lendour title, also departing from what the law ordinarily allowed.
Corwyn, too, paid him homage in death, in far greater numbers than they had for his father, for Ahern would have been their duke in fact, had he lived; Keryell had never been aught but caretaker, where Corwyn was concerned.
His young widow they took to their hearts as well, with wistful regret that she now would never carry on his line. The knights who would have been his support and mainstay as he took up his duties—Deinol Hartmann, Jovett Chandos, and even Sé Trelawney come from his unknown duties in far R’Kassi—rallied to the support of his sister, promising to keep safe in trust the lands that now would pass through her line instead of Ahern’s.
Both Alyce and Zoë were exhausted by the time they arrived back in Rhemuth, though their return at least was marked by happier anticipation as the time approached for the queen’s latest lying-in. In addition, the king had appointed a permanent governor for Ratharkin, a baron from the Purple March called Lucien Talbot, which had relieved Earl Jared to return to Rhemuth and make his formal declaration to Vera to become his wife. Very shortly after, Vera had journeyed to her family home near Cynfyn, there to make preparations for a wedding in Kierney the following spring. Letters were awaiting Alyce and Zoë, telling of the wedding plans and inviting their participation in the happy event.
That news, and the birth of a healthy daughter to the queen, early in September, did much to raise the spirits of the court. The
baby’s christening a few weeks later, as Silke Anne, was cause for rejoicing: renewal of life in the midst of death. Gradually the pain of Ahern’s passing began to fade, and gradually, both Alyce and Zoë began to smile again.
It was early November when what began as a day’s pleasant diversion set off a chain of events fated to have far-reaching results. The weather, too, had changed, not many days before, and a light powdering of snow lay on the ground: the first of the season. The king was preparing to lead a hunting expedition out into the forests north of the city, and had invited the queen and her ladies to accompany him. It would be her first such outing since the birth of Princess Silke. Richeldis, a fine rider, had been delighted to agree.
Accordingly, certain of her ladies were asked to ride with the royal party, Alyce and Zoë among them. It was an activity usually declined by the older ladies of the court, but the younger ones always relished a day in the field, surrounded by handsome men and handsome horses and with far less scrutiny than was possible within the castle walls.
On this particular day, the king’s party included his handsome and unmarried brother Richard, nearly a dozen of Duke Richard’s most promising squires, some to be knighted at the Twelfth Night to come, and many of the members of the king’s council—perhaps twenty in all, along with as many huntsmen and men-at-arms. Sir Kenneth Morgan rode at the king’s side: steady and reliable, attractive enough, but more of an age with Richard’s generation than that of the king’s other aides and the squires.
The day was sparkling, the sunshine bright and brisk, the horses frisky. They had a good ride for the first two hours, and good luck against the stag. One of the senior squires in the party brought down an eight-point buck, and the falconers totted up a good day’s bag in pigeon and rabbit.
The ambush had been planned by someone with disturbing foreknowledge of the king’s movements. Fortunately, the archers who carried out the attack were far less efficient. The first arrow only grazed the back of the king’s hand, ruining a perfectly good pair of hawking gloves and his good humor; the second took Sir Kenneth Morgan solidly through the back of his thigh, pinning him to his saddle and sending his mount into a fit of bucking affront at this wound to its back. Before a third could be loosed, the king’s men had their master on the ground and protected by a layer of knights and squires, and more of them were surging into the trees to isolate and overwhelm the attackers.
Chapter 24
“He shall flee from the iron weapon, and the bow of steel shall strike him through.”
—JOB 20:24
ALYCE would recall the next few minutes as a confusion of screaming and fighting and fear. Riding with Zoë at the queen’s side, she heard the king’s exclamation and Sir Kenneth’s startled cry as his mount began bucking, and saw the riders nearest the king bear him to the ground for safety, others spurring toward the trees, and the source of the attack. At the same time, other men grabbed the queen’s reins and drew her away from the confusion, one of the squires kneeing Alyce’s mount aside to follow them.
It was all over very quickly. As the king’s men dragged several belligerent men from the trees, somewhat the worse for wear, others helped the king to his feet while more men swarmed around Sir Kenneth’s plunging horse and wrenched its neck downward, one throwing a cloak over its head to hoodwink it and, hopefully, calm it while others went to the aid of the wounded man.
“Careful! His leg is pinned to the saddle!” one man warned, as Kenneth cried out and groped at the grasping hands when someone started to help him down. “Somebody, make this damned horse stop dancing!”
“The barb’s gone right through the saddle,” another man said, sliding a hand under the pinned leg. “I think it’s into the horse’s back as well.”
“Well, make him stand still, or we’ll have to put him down. Someone loose that girth! Easy!”
The horse was still snorting and prancing, trying to buck, to rear, but its handlers mostly kept it with all four feet on the ground. Kenneth was gasping with pain, for every jigging movement of the animal tore at the shaft through his leg. Boldly Alyce broke away from the queen’s party, a horrified Zoë following, and rode to where the drama was being played out, jumping down to join the rescuers.
“Let me help,” she murmured, pulling off her riding gloves as she pushed her way through to the horse’s head and reached for it.
“Stay clear, m’lady, or you’ll get kicked!” one of the men warned, as she skittered back from a flailing hoof. Another was drawing his dagger, obviously intending the coup de grâce to still the animal’s plunging.
“Let me touch him,” she said, shouldering past the man’s blade, already focusing her powers as she slipped her hands under the muffling cloak. “I’m Deryni. I can calm him.”
A few of them backed off a little at this reminder of what she was, but the horse subsided immediately under the touch of her hand and mind, still whuffling and snorting but with all four legs now firmly planted, head dropping obediently.
“Easy, boy . . . That’s it. Good boy. . . . Now, brace the saddle and pull it off with him,” she ordered, slipping one hand along the horse’s neck to grasp Kenneth’s nearest wrist, flesh to flesh. “Give it good support, and try not to hurt him too much. Sir Kenneth, look at me!”
He did, concentrating through his pain—and found himself captured by her eyes, caught by a sensation of falling into them, even as the men began lifting him and the saddle clear of the horse. The movement still hurt him—and he cried out as they carefully lowered him to the ground—but she moved with him, still grasping his wrist, wary of the horse as it was led out of the way, snorting.
Two men continued to support the heavy saddle as two more examined the angle of the arrow jutting from Kenneth’s leg. Zoë had crowded in behind Alyce, craning to see her father’s condition. As Alyce scrambled to his head, laying both her hands along the sides of his face and taking him into unconsciousness, one of the men carefully wrapped both hands around the feathered end of the shaft, obviously intending to attempt withdrawing it.
“Don’t try to pull it,” one of the other men warned. “The barb’s gone all the way through.”
“Just break off the fletching,” another man said. “It’s going to be easier on him if the shaft is pulled on through, once it’s free of the saddle.”
“Wait,” said another man, working with one hand squeezed flat between saddle and pinned flesh. “I’ve nearly got it loose . . . there!”
At his nod, men lifted the saddle clear, those closest bending for a closer look at the arrow transfixing Kenneth’s thigh. A knot of observers had gathered to give suggestions for separating man and saddle, and now eased forward warily as Alyce, too, shifted her attention to the damage done. Zoë dropped to her knees at her father’s head, casting anxious glances between him, Alyce, and the wound.
The tip of the arrowhead, a wicked-looking barbed affair made for bringing down large game—or men—was just protruding from the back of Kenneth’s thigh, and would surely do additional damage as it exited, whichever way it was removed. Alyce knew he would also bleed a great deal, though at least the arrow had passed through deep muscle, well away from the great vessel whose severance meant almost instant death.
“I wouldn’t break off the arrow just yet,” she said, moving one hand to stay the man about to do so. “It may be better to cut the arrowhead off cleanly, back at the castle, and then back the arrow out of the wound, with plenty of shaft for a handgrip. He’s going to bleed a great deal.”
“Do as she says,” came the voice of the king, suddenly among the onlookers. “I won’t lose him because we rushed things here in the field. Can he ride?” he asked, crouching down between Alyce and Zoë.
“Not really, Sire. He’d be far safer and more comfortable in a litter or a wagon, if one can be arranged.”
“See to it,” Donal ordered two of his men. “And go gently, Rannulf. He took that arrow for me.”
THEY were several hours getting Kenneth home
, carrying him in a litter until they could commandeer a wagon and bed him down in that. They padded out the wagon bed with hay and wadded cloaks to keep the injured leg supported, and Alyce settled down beside him to keep careful watch over his condition. The king had ridden on ahead with the prisoners, and another party had taken the queen and the rest of her ladies back to the castle by the most direct route, though a junior maid had been left behind for propriety’s sake, riding just ahead of the wagon with Jiri Redfearn. Zoë rode anxiously alongside the wagon, and half a dozen of his knights behind.
After a while, Alyce allowed Kenneth to regain consciousness, blurring as much as she dared of his pain. She could feel the eyes of the king’s men upon her as she sat there—judging, assessing, many of them disapproving—for she had been obliged to use her powers far more openly than was her usual wont; but it was not in her nature to let any living thing suffer, if she was able to do something about it. Sir Kenneth Morgan was the father of her dearest friend, a kind and gentle man, and had always treated her with the utmost courtesy and even affection, though he knew full well what she was.
“I must be dead,” he murmured, after a long interval of jouncing along in comparative silence, accompanied by only the rumble of the wheels, the jingle of harness, and the occasional low-voiced converse of their escort.
She looked at him sharply.
“Are you in pain?”
He gave her a faint, strained smile and a slight shake of his head.
“No worse than before, dear girl. But since I am in the keeping of an angel, I can only suppose that I have passed to the next world.”
She raised an eyebrow and gave him a genteel snort, along with a faint smile of her own.
“I doubt these gentlemen would agree, my lord.” She gave a slight jut of her chin in the direction of the men accompanying them. “Most would judge me anything but an angel. But I am glad that your discomfort is not too great.”
In the King's Service Page 31
