Next, the vows, kneeling before Father Paschal as he bade them exchange promises, a ring, a kiss. And then the coronets, brought on their velvet cushion by Prince Brion, which cushion she took and extended to her new husband, that he might lay hands upon the two in token of the responsibilities he now assumed as a regent of Corwyn and Lendour.
The remainder of the Mass then—heavenly bread upon the tongue and the sacred cup shared each to each. And after that, the laying of her floral crown at the feet of the statue of the Virgin, bows to king and queen, and the recessional, following the double line of blue-robed students back up the aisle and into the chapel forecourt, where the girls showered them with flower petals as they emerged into the sunlight.
After, there was a festive wedding supper, and good wishes from the wedding guests: Zoë’s enthusiastic embrace for both of them, the shy kisses of Kenneth’s other two daughters, the awkward embraces of his sisters; the more heartfelt kisses of the three young princes and little Princess Xenia, who kept gathering up the rose petals from the chapel floor so she could shower the couple again; a promise of the king’s ongoing protection and favor; Sé’s promise that he would always be there, if needed. Vera’s grin as she whispered a word or two about what awaited Alyce in the marriage bed.
After supper, the bridal couple were conducted to the principal guest apartment, occupied the night before by the king and queen but now vacated, with their imminent departure to return to the city. When the queen and Jessamy had dressed Alyce for bed, and Father Paschal had blessed the bed and her in it, everyone withdrew save for Kenneth, left standing against the door, simply gazing at her. In the garden beneath the window, the sweet voices of the students sang a gentle bridal blessing from distant Bremagne, that soon faded into stillness with the sound of departing feet on gravel.
He came to her then, in the twilit summer night, shedding his outer robe to slip into the bed beside her. He lay there on his side for a long moment, simply gazing at her, head propped on one elbow, before lifting a reverent hand to brush along her cheek, across her lips, down the curve of her neck to the ribbons at the throat of her night shirt, briefly caressing the sweet swell of her breast.
“Dear God, you are beautiful, in body and in soul!” he whispered, his eyes never leaving hers. “I asked you once before whether you were an angel, for surely I stand before the gates of Paradise.”
As she shivered slightly at his touch, he gently tugged at one of the ribbons until its bow parted, rolling closer then to nuzzle kisses on the creamy skin thus exposed.
“Actually, I’ve just lied to you,” he admitted, raising an eyebrow at her astonished O of indignation. “I am not standing anywhere; I am lying here beside a beautiful woman who is my wife at last—though a part of me is upstanding.”
The playful downward flick of his glance to the region of his groin elicited a giggle and a maidenly blush on the part of his bride, after which he resumed his reverent exploration of her neck, loosing another tie, slipping a gentle hand into the open neck of her gown as his mouth sought hers and began to draw her with him into Paradise.
SEVERAL times they had their pleasure of one another that night, and again shortly after dawn, before slipping back into languid dozing for another several hours. Around noon, shortly after the Angelus, they surfaced for a meal, brought to their room by a smiling Sister Iris Cerys, who bobbed in blushing curtsy over the tray she presented as Kenneth opened the door.
Later in the afternoon, the newlyweds emerged to stroll hand-in-hand in the convent garden, beginning talk of plans and dreams. Toward suppertime, others began to appear in the garden. Though most of the wedding guests had left, either the night before or first thing that morning, Zoë and Jiri Redfearn remained, along with Jovett Chandos. The five of them supped together that evening with Father Paschal and Mother Judiana, and spoke guardedly of the state of affairs concerning the bishops.
Alyce, who knew better than any of them just how far the bishop’s wrath could extend—and with how little cause—kept largely silent, and lay shivering in Kenneth’s arms later that night, until he kissed away her tears and turned her thoughts to more pleasant contemplations.
BUT their idyll of married bliss was not to last. The very next morning, not long after first light, Sir Jiri came knocking on their door with missives from the king recalling them all to Rhemuth.
“The king says there’s been trouble up near Sostra. The county of that name belongs to Torenth, of course,” Kenneth said, still skimming the king’s letter, “but the town of Sostra is Corwyn’s, as you know.”
Both were aware that Duke Richard had been patrolling along the Torenthi border since mid-May, hoping his presence would discourage a repeat of the incursions into Corwyn two years before.
“It appears I’m to take up some of my regenting duties somewhat sooner than we expected,” he went on. “Deinol Hartmann has asked for Jovett as well. We should leave as soon as possible.”
They were gone within the hour, Jiri and Jovett in addition to Alyce, Kenneth, and Zoë, clattering into the yard at Rhemuth just past noon.
“Dreadfully sorry to drag you away from your bride, Kenneth,” the king said, before briefing the three who would leave shortly for Sostra.
As he drew them toward the maps spread on the table in the summer council chamber, already starting to review details of the reports he had received from Richard, Seisyll Arilan watched silently from the other side of the room, and wondered why the king had lied.
WHATEVER the reason, Kenneth was away off-and-on for most of the summer and into the autumn, with periodic visits home to deliver dispatches and be reunited with his bride, but never for more than a few days, and never long enough to get her with child.
Jessamy, meanwhile, continued her observations regarding Alyce, recalling her own preparations for the conception of Krispin, and gradually narrowed down a series of optimal target dates.
But Jessamy’s health was fast failing. Alyce and the royal physicians nursed her, but there was little they could do besides ease her pain. By October, she was all but bedridden, and early in November asked for Seisyll Arilan.
“I’m told you wished to see me,” he said quietly, pulling a stool closer to her bed, at her gesture. Her maid had withdrawn, and they were quite alone.
“I am dying, Seisyll,” she murmured. “It may not be today, or even next week, but it will be sooner rather than later.”
“I had heard that,” he replied. “I am very sorry.”
“So am I.” She turned her face to gaze at the canopy above the bed.
“Seisyll, we have not always agreed—you and I. I understand, though I do not accept, the reasons that others felt obliged to dictate the course of my life. I have never understood why there was so much antipathy toward my father, but I accept that perhaps there are things I was not meant to understand.”
When he said nothing, only lowering his eyes, she went on.
“But you must believe me when I tell you that I have tried to act only in ways that would honor my blood and the love I have come to bear for the House of Haldane.”
She paused to cough, and Seisyll watched her in compassion.
“I wish to speak to you of Krispin,” she whispered, when she had caught her breath. “He is gone now, so the telling of his tale cannot hurt him, but because of . . . other things that are in progress, you have a need to know. Take my hand, Seisyll.”
As he did so, she closed her eyes and pulled back her shields, inviting rapport . . . and gave him the full reckoning of Krispin’s begetting, the death of Sief, the deceptions thereafter . . . and now, the plans in train for Alyce de Corwyn, to repeat the king’s mission, that another Deryni heir of his body should be conceived to become the protector of Gwynedd’s future kings. . . .
“SUDDENLY, so much makes sense,” Seisyll told the Camberian Council a few nights later, after leaving Jessamy in a coma from which she was not likely to emerge. “Much we had surmised, but we had imputed malice whe
re there was none. Krispin MacAthan was, in fact, Krispin Haldane—and Sief’s death was unfortunate, but Donal did not set out to kill him. Had Sief not guessed the truth of the boy’s paternity—we all know how jealous he was—all might have proceeded according to plan.”
“That still does not answer the question of how the king happened to come by his rather extraordinary ability,” Michon said. “Nor does it explain why Donal seems never to have exercised that power since killing Sief.”
“No, and Jessamy declined to enlighten me on either point,” Seisyll replied. “I was grateful enough that she chose to share what she did—and on her deathbed, in all likelihood.”
“Could you not have slipped past her shields, in her weakened condition?” Vivienne muttered.
“Dear Vivienne, there are some scruples that even I will not set aside,” Seisyll replied. “The source of the king’s power is not nearly so important as the fact that he has it—and that he desires to get another child who will share those powers.”
“What?” Barrett gasped, as the others merely gaped at Seisyll in astonishment.
“Whether we like it or not,” Seisyll went on, “the notion of a Deryni protector for the Haldane princes was a good one. The matter of Haldane paternity for such a protector is a separate issue, and disturbs us mostly because we did not think of it, I suspect—and because that Haldane bloodline is an unknown quantity, proven dangerous because of what Donal Haldane was able to do to one of us. Sief would not have been an easy conquest.”
“Definitely true,” Oisín said with a grimace.
“That said, you should know that the king intends to repeat the experiment.”
“Well, certainly not with Jessamy,” Barrett said mildly.
“Sadly, no,” Seisyll agreed. “But the stage is already set for a replanting of Haldane seed.”
“In what field?” Oisín muttered.
“Alyce de Corwyn!” Michon declared.
“She is the only appropriate Deryni to whom he has access,” Seisyll replied. “None of Jessamy’s daughters would do, for various reasons.”
“That would certainly explain why her husband has been kept so often abroad since their wedding,” Oisín said. “Will the king have had her yet?”
“Not yet, so far as I can tell,” Seisyll replied. “I have the impression that he is proceeding with great caution, since the deed must be carried out without the lady’s knowledge or consent: an additional factor that will be different from his coupling with Jessamy.
“That makes it likely that he may dare to try it only once, lest her suspicions be aroused—or Sir Kenneth’s. Hence, the timing will be critical. And regarding Kenneth—if anything, the king is closer to him than he was to Sief. It will be a betrayal—but one that the king is willing to accept, in the service of a greater cause. And hopefully, Kenneth will never know.”
“Sief also was meant not to know,” Dominy pointed out.
“But Kenneth is human, and can be controlled,” Michon said. “Deceiving Alyce will be far more difficult a matter, even with the triggers Jessamy has given over to the king.”
Khoren Vastouni slowly shook his head. “One must admire the audacity of the Haldanes,” he said. “Can aught be done to facilitate this mating? For I would be interested, indeed, to see a child of Alyce de Corwyn and Donal Haldane.”
“Once more, I fear we must sit back and merely observe,” Seisyll replied. “With luck, we shall know soon enough.”
BUT it would not come as soon as any of them had hoped, for Jessamy never emerged from her coma, and died shortly before Christmas. Knowledge that she was dying had put a damper on the king’s plans in November, and the funeral aftermath and preparations for Twelfth Night and its attendant courts made a December liaison infeasible. It was not until late January that Donal Haldane felt ready to make his move—if ever he was to do it.
The night he finally chose, based on Jessamy’s calculations and observations of the laundress she had employed, was one long in careful planning. It was a stormy night toward the end of January, with wind howling among the chimneys and snow piling high in the castle yard. Kenneth had returned two days earlier from a mission down to Desse, exhausted from his ride, and Donal had made certain that Alyce was kept late in the royal nursery that night, tending a feverish child—courtesy of a posset concocted to produce precisely that condition.
The king kept Kenneth very late the next night as well, plying him with drink and a carefully planted suggestion to ensure that he passed out immediately upon reaching his bed, with no inclination to even touch his wife.
On the third night, his hour come at last, the king had also made his preparations, this time with a sedative in the wine he had had served at a supper shared by the pair at his own table, along with the queen. The ensuing drowsiness of both queen and aide had ensured an early night. Both now slept in their respective beds. Alyce had set her cup aside after only a sip or two, but now slept as well, curled in the curve of her husband’s body.
Donal watched the pair for nearly an hour through a spy-hole in the paneling of their apartment—the one he had chosen especially, after their marriage—stretching forth his powers to confirm the depth of their sleep, until finally he summoned sufficient resolve to proceed.
He had prepared carefully, clothing himself, over his nightshirt, in a long dressing gown of goodly wool, lined with fur, for he had not known how long he might need to lurk in the passageway behind the paneling. Soft boots were on his feet, and a fur-lined cap on his head.
Senses finely attuned, he touched the stud that would let the hidden panel slide back soundlessly, slipping inside and closing it behind him. Softly he walked to Kenneth’s side of the bed and lightly touched his temple, profoundly deepening his sleep. Jessamy had taught him how to do that, too. He then moved around to the other side, undoing the front of his robe as he went. Pulse racing, he was already aroused, from the simple daring of the deed he contemplated, but he knew he must first make certain she would not stir while he had his way with her.
Pulling back her side of the coverlet with one hand, he reached his hand to touch her as he had touched her husband, reaching for the controls set by her father so many years before and adjusted by Jessamy for the specific purpose of this night’s work. Alyce gave a low moan, but did not stir as he gently shifted her onto her back. But when he started to turn back her nightdress, her eyes opened to gaze at him in shock.
“Sire?” she breathed.
Panic overtook him, and he seized her wrist and reached for the controls again, at the same time trying to pull his robe around him, a part of him unable to comprehend why Jessamy’s trigger had not worked. His mind surged across the physical link thus formed, but very solid shields flared between them, and he could not get past.
Anger made his own powers stir more potently, coiling in that secret place behind his eyes, but she only scrambled to a sitting position, her wrist still clasped in his hand, her own powers like an impenetrable wall between them as she laid her other hand on the wrist of her sleeping husband—tried and failed to rouse him.
“How have you done this to him, and what did you intend to do to me?” she demanded.
Once again he tried to take her mind, again clashing against those adamantine shields, feeling the killing power start to stir, as it had with Sief, all those years ago—but abruptly he backed down, releasing her wrist as if it were a bar of red-hot iron. Killing her was the last thing he wished to do, even if it meant that there would now be no magical protector for his sons.
“God, forgive me, Alyce!” he breathed.
Burying his face in his hands, he slid to the floor beside the bed, elbows braced against its edge, and wept—for the dead Krispin, for Jessamy, also in her grave, and for the child who now would never be. She watched him in silence for several long moments, again checking the sleeping Kenneth, then shifted to lift his head into her lap, rocking him against her breast as he sobbed on and on—and gradually confessed all.
“You must think me a terrible man,” he said uncertainly. “And if you did, I would not blame you.”
Slowly she shook her head, pitying him.
“No, not terrible,” she replied. “But I think I now understand more of what a heavy weight it is to wear a crown. What pain you must have borne, when Krispin died—and to be forced to bear it in secret, unable to express your true loss. . . .”
He nodded bleakly, his anguish etched on his weathered face.
“Jessamy was obliged to bear it all—and all her sacrifice was for naught, in the end.” He hung his head. “I don’t know why I thought I might repeat the same exercise. I suppose I wanted to re-create Krispin. But of course, that would never have happened, even had I succeeded in what I set out to do tonight. I did consider simply asking you openly—but there was Kenneth, who is my friend—or, who was my friend, I suppose, once he learns what has happened here tonight.”
“But nothing happened here, Sire,” she said softly.
“It would have happened, if I’d had my way—much to my shame.”
“But it did not.” She glanced across at Kenneth, still oblivious. “And it could not,” she added in a whisper.
He looked at her in question. “I don’t understand.”
“You should wake Kenneth now, Sire,” she said, ignoring his comment. “Or—no, give his controls to me, and I shall wake him. And before I do, I shall give him the gist of what has happened—and of your need.”
He started to get up, but she stayed him with a hand on his wrist, only nodding toward Kenneth. Bracing himself, the king rose enough to wrap his robe more closely around himself, then settled back again on her side of the bed, stretching then to set his hand on Kenneth’s forehead, as Alyce did the same.
In the King's Service Page 39
