The mental picture brought a faint smile to Dhugal’s lips, despite the desperation now unfolding, but Kelson rattled on unchecked.
“Believe me,” he said, “I was in no mood to think about a bride for myself! Not that this stopped all and sundry from thrusting marriageable heiresses in my direction, as always happens when there’s a formal court function. Having gathered for a betrothal, everyone was also eager to see my betrothal! Araxie didn’t even figure in the equation.” He laughed mirthlessly, verging on a sob.
“Do you know what I remember most about that week? Brecon’s mother, trying to make his marriage with Richelle contingent on a match between me and Noelie—who, I’ve just found out, has apparently developed an attachment for Rory, of all people, and he for her.”
“Rory and Noelie?” Dhugal breathed, sitting up straighter in surprise. “But, that’s a brilliant match!”
Kelson stopped pacing, looking slightly dazed. “It is, I know,” he whispered. “I suppose I should have thought of it myself. And it’s doubly brilliant, if they care for one another. Rothana’s promoting that match as well. She’s—”
He choked back a sob as he buried his face in both hands, finally succumbing to the full hopelessness of his plight.
“Kelson—I am so sorry,” Dhugal whispered.
Shaking his head, Kelson stumbled back to the other’s side, sinking beside him on the step in a huddled, miserable heap.
“Dhugal, what am I going to do?” he managed to croak out, half-blind with tears, fighting for control. “She won’t have me. She’s even chosen someone else for me. I hoped, I prayed, that eventually she might change her mind, but I—think I may have to accept that this is the way it is; she isn’t going to change.
“And tonight—” He paused to swallow noisily. “Tonight she played that final piece, called Duty, that I can’t ignore, no matter what my heart may say.” He opened his eyes to gaze blurrily at the handfire hovering above their heads. “She reminded me that when I return young Liam to his people, he’ll be under the same pressure I’ve been—to marry and produce an heir as quickly as possible. That means that for the sake of Gwynedd, I must do the same.”
“But, could you actually do it?” Dhugal whispered. “Could you actually marry Araxie, knowing how you feel about Rothana?”
Kelson lowered his gaze to his hands, and the rings upon them—at the lion signet of Gwynedd, to which he was wed by oaths far more binding than any marriage vows, beside the lesser ring he once had given to Sidana.
“I have married before, out of duty,” he murmured. “At least this queen would not be an enemy, with a brother waiting to slay her for daring to marry me.”
“Kelson, don’t do this to yourself,” Dhugal breathed.
“Have I any choice?” the king whispered.
CHAPTER THREE
Hast thou a wife after thy mind?
Ecclesiasticus 7:26
Dull heartache and a numb, stolid hopelessness accompanied the king as he and Dhugal made their way back to the royal apartments. While they finished what was left of the wine—far more of it than Dhugal really deemed wise—what words passed between them grew ever more maudlin, marked by longer and more painful silences. When he at last let Dhugal help him stumble off to bed, it was to sink at once into heavy, dreamless sleep.
He woke to a queasy, pounding headache, fully clothed, with Dhugal dozing in a chair beside him, feet propped up on the edge of the bed. Across the room, a sliver of sunlight was streaming through a crack between the drapes drawn over the balcony doors, dust motes dancing in its beam. Its angle suggested a far later hour than Kelson had intended.
“Dhugal!” he cried, levering himself up on his elbows and at the same time kicking at the other’s feet. The abrupt movement woke Dhugal with a start.
“What?”
“Wake up. What time is it?”
“How should I know?”
“Damn you, she’ll have gone by now!” Kelson said, rolling from the bed and nearly falling as he staggered toward the drapes. “I might have changed her mind.”
Dhugal sighed and got to his feet, coming after Kelson to help pull back the drapes, wincing at the burst of sunlight.
“Kelson, you wouldn’t have changed her mind. You just would have muddled yours. She’s made up her mind. You know that; I know that. Meanwhile, we only have a day before we leave for Torenth. And you’ve a last council meeting, and the Torenthi envoys arriving later today—”
“Maybe she hasn’t left yet!” Kelson murmured. “Where’s a squire? Ivo! Davoran!”
His bellow brought the sound of running feet, followed by an anxious-looking clutch of squires and pages. Davoran’s furtive glance at Dhugal made it clear that Dhugal himself had given the orders allowing them to sleep so late, but Kelson ignored them both as he beckoned one of the pages closer, crouching down to the boy’s level.
“Niall, I want you to run down to the stables as fast as you can, and find out whether the Lady Rothana and her son have left yet. If they haven’t, they’re not to leave. If they have, I want to know when. Have you got that?”
The boy nodded, dark eyes wide and somber with the obvious import of his mission, and took off at a run. Immediately Kelson began stripping off the finery of the night before, flinging items left and right, calling for his riding leathers while Davoran directed the other squires and pages in a hurried version of the king’s morning toilette. Dhugal settled for a quick wash and a change of shirt, watching the king with a critical eye, wondering whether the previous night had pushed him completely beyond rational behavior.
Kelson was pulling on a boot, Davoran trying to finish with his hair, when Niall came bursting into the room, followed less precipitously by a concerned-looking Rory.
“Sire, the lady has already gone,” young Niall blurted. “They left last night.”
“Last night?”
“Kelson, she’s been gone for hours,” Rory said, catching Kelson’s arm when he would have dashed past the boy, and then supporting him as he deflated, biting back a sob. “Kelson, what is it?”
With a warning look at Rory, Dhugal shook his head and shooed the squires and pages out of the room. By the time they were gone, Kelson had somewhat recovered himself, standing before the window with his back to both younger men, gazing out sightlessly.
“When, last night, did she leave?” he asked.
“Probably not long after we lit Jatham to the bridal chamber,” Rory said. “I don’t remember seeing her when we all dispersed. She may not even have gone there.” He paused. “Kelson, she’ll have had at least an eight- or ten-hour head start. What did she say to you last night?”
Kelson only shook his head, not looking at Rory—though it occurred to him, through the dull finality of the other’s words, that he had within his power the means to salvage at least something from the devastation of the night before.
“Actually,” he said at last, “your name was mentioned.”
“My name?” Obviously surprised, Rory glanced in question at Dhugal, who gave him a noncommittal shrug.
“Yes.” Kelson turned to look at his cousin, smiling faintly. “Tell me, what do you think of Lady Noelie Ramsay?”
Rory stiffened minutely, his handsome face reflecting a bewildered mix of caution and wistful longing, but he met Kelson’s gaze squarely.
“If you ask me that as king,” he said carefully, “I am well aware that both her mother and the council would see you marry her. If that comes to pass, she would be my cousin’s wife—and my queen—and I should owe her all duty and honor—”
“Rory, I’m not asking you as king,” Kelson broke in, his smile broadening. “I’m asking you as a man, and I want you to answer me as a man. If I assured you that I had no intention of making Noelie Ramsay my queen, would it please you to take her for your wife?”
Rory cast an incredulous look at Dhugal, who was doing his best not to grin, then back at Kelson.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” h
e whispered.
“I am.” Coming closer, Kelson set his hands on the other’s shoulders, looking him straight in the eyes. “Rory, listen to me. A second Haldane match with Meara would be extremely useful, but it doesn’t have to be with me. I feel no attraction to Noelie—but I’m informed that you do. If I can arrange it—and don’t remind me of all the obstacles to be overcome—would it be your pleasure to marry her? Answer from your heart.”
“I—I would gladly marry her!” Rory said. “Kelson, I never dreamed—”
“Someone should be allowed to dream,” Kelson said, briefly ducking his forehead against Rory’s, then pulling him closer in a quick, fierce hug.
“Go ahead now,” he went on, releasing him. “Say nothing to anyone until I return from Torenth. I don’t want any word of this getting out until I’ve had a chance to think it through. Nothing can be allowed to jeopardize that first Mearan marriage.”
“I understand, of course,” Rory agreed, wide-eyed. “I take it that means I mayn’t write to Noelie.”
“And possibly have to contend with her mother, on your own, while I’m gone, if she found out?” Kelson replied. “I think not! No reflection on you, cousin, but she’s hoping for a king for her daughter’s hand—not a prince. I shall be hard-pressed enough to persuade her that love more than compensates for the lesser rank.”
Rory shrugged sheepishly. “I don’t envy you that task. But this may be the most difficult secret I’ve ever had to keep. I can’t thank you enough. If you knew what this means—”
“Oh, I have rather a good idea,” Kelson replied, though he managed to smile as he said it. “Go ahead now, and try to look merely hung-over from last night; I know I am. We’ll join you later.”
When Rory had gone, Kelson exhaled a deep sigh and turned to cast a sidelong glance at Dhugal again. Dhugal now was grinning unabashedly.
“You’ve made Rory a very happy man this morning,” he said. “Do you have something definite in mind, to actually make it happen?”
Wincing, Kelson rubbed at his aching forehead, allowing himself an ironic smile. “Not yet. But I’m not going to marry Noelie Ramsay, so there’s no reason why he shouldn’t, if he’s so inclined.”
“Then, are you going to marry Araxie?” Dhugal said quietly.
Kelson glanced at the floor, trying to push that possibility to the back of his mind.
“Dhugal, I honestly don’t know. I can’t deal with that yet. But maybe I can at least set things in motion for Rory, before we leave for Torenth. Nigel needs to be aware of this, in any case. The match will be even more critical, if I shouldn’t come back.”
“Don’t even think about not coming back!” Dhugal muttered.
“I have to think about it; I’m the king,” Kelson said. “And Nigel will be the next king, if I don’t come back. That is always a possibility, especially when dealing with Torenth.
“In which case,” he added, managing a bleak smile as he thrust a sheathed dagger through the back of his belt, “it becomes Nigel’s problem—so let’s go find him. He’ll be at Mass with the squires and pages. We’ll catch him there. If I don’t attend, he usually briefs me right after, before we proceed with the business of the day.”
“Are you sure this is a good time?”
“No, but there may not be a better one, before we leave. Once the Torenthi envoys arrive, I’ll need to focus all my energies on Liam and the hand-over.”
They slipped into the back of the chapel royal during the Offertory. Young Payne was serving the Mass, looking somewhat bleary-eyed and underslept in his lace-trimmed cotta and his cassock of Haldane crimson. Father Nivard was presenting the elements soon to be consecrated: a slender, rapt figure in green vestments lifting the chalice filled with water and wine which, by a mystery more potent than any magic of the Deryni, would soon be transformed into the holy Blood.
“Offerimus tibi, Domine, calicem salutaris . . . ,” Nivard was saying. We offer Thee, Lord, the chalice of salvation. . . .
Signing himself with holy water, Kelson eased into an inconspicuous corner niche at the back, Dhugal at his side. In contrast to the previous night, the little chapel was filled nearly to capacity, for many of Gwynedd’s nobles not customarily resident at court had been arriving during the past week or two, some to accompany Kelson on his mission to Torenth and some to remain at the capital during his absence. A knot of Kheldouri knights in the service of Ewan Duke of Claibourne were standing just ahead of him and Dhugal.
Even Queen Jehana had returned to court a few days before, to take up duties as part of the regency council, which would govern Gwynedd in her son’s absence—and also to lend her weight to the increasing pressure on him to marry. Kelson could see her kneeling at her own prie-dieu, very near the altar: a wraithlike shadow in the white coif and nun-like white robes she had affected since her widowhood. Standing nearby were her chaplain, a handsome young priest called Father Ambros, and Sister Cecile, a somewhat older woman who had been her companion of several years.
Putting her mission from his mind, Kelson let his gaze continue roving over the congregation, looking for Nigel—and spotted him at last, farther to the right than was his usual wont, standing amid a number of his squires and pages. Some of the squires were as tall as he, and almost shielded him from view.
The golden chiming of the Sanctus bell recalled Kelson to the Mass, and he sank to his knees as Father Nivard intoned the venerable hymn of praise:
“Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus Dominus Deus Sabaoth. Pleni sunt caeli et terra gloria tua. . . . ”
But Kelson’s mind was only partially on the Mass. Using the drone of the familiar prayers to help him focus, he buried his face in one hand and turned his thoughts to what he must say to Nigel—to the practicalities that must be considered regarding a match between Rory and Noelie—for love alone, or even fondness, was not sufficient motive when disposing of the marriage of princes.
Most fortuitously, this particular marriage did not require a choice between affection and political expediency. Allowing the match would only strengthen the alliance to be cemented by the marriage already agreed between Brecon and Richelle. Rory could even live in Meara with his bride, as Rothana had pointed out.
By the time Kelson went forward to receive Communion, he had begun to sort out some of the issues he would need to address—though not yet in sufficient detail to discuss most of them with Nigel, when they were short on time. But when the Mass ended shortly thereafter, he felt he had begun to regain a measure of control over his life, despite Rothana’s pronouncement of the night before. Refreshed, at least in spirit, he slipped outside with Dhugal immediately following Nivard’s final blessing, and was there to waylay his uncle as the rest of the congregation came out of the chapel and began to disperse.
“Have we much business for the council meeting,” he asked, as he and Dhugal fell in with Nigel, “or is it just documents to be signed and sealed?”
“Mainly that,” Nigel replied. “If you like, I can brief you while we break our fast. It’s a fine morning for a wander in the garden.”
Very shortly, the three of them were strolling in the scent-laden garden beneath the great-hall windows, each with a tankard of nutty brown ale and a chunk of fine manchet bread smeared with butter and honey. They ate as they walked and talked, reviewing the business to be covered in the meeting to follow. Nigel was focused on business and breakfast, and did not seem to notice that Dhugal had dropped back to a discreet distance to give them privacy, and also to fend off would-be interruptions.
“There is one further matter that I’d like you to consider while I’m away,” Kelson said, as they paused by a fountain to rinse off their hands. “I don’t intend to bring this before the council until I return, but it’s something you should be thinking about—especially if I shouldn’t come back.”
Nigel shook water from his hands, then wiped them back across his temples. Like most of the older men at court, he wore his black hair shorn to collar-length.
> “Not a premonition, I hope?” he said lightly.
Kelson allowed himself a droll half-smile. “Not at all. But it is serious—and it bears considering, no matter what happens in Torenth. Are you aware that Rory fancies Noelie Ramsay?”
Nigel went suddenly very still, his expression of surprise swiftly shifting through consternation to indignation.
“If he’s laid a hand on her, I swear—”
“Nigel, Nigel, he hasn’t touched her, and he wouldn’t,” Kelson assured him. “He knows she’s been discussed for me, and he’s as bound by duty as the rest of us.”
“Then, what in God’s name—who told you that?”
“Rothana told me last night,” Kelson replied, glancing away momentarily, “and I asked Rory about it this morning. Believe me, I’m not at all upset. I have no romantic interest in the girl.”
“Well, you should!” Nigel retorted. “That’s one of the best possible matches you could make, politically speaking.”
“But there’s absolutely no affinity to go with it, other than her mother’s affinity for my crown.” Kelson turned to sit down on the edge of the fountain. “Politically speaking, a match between Noelie and Rory would be just as good; it would still strengthen the Haldane match with Brecon. And, as Rothana pointed out, Rory could even live in Meara, provide a permanent Haldane presence; as king, I couldn’t do that.”
“That would present—its own difficulties,” Nigel said stiffly, after a moment.
Kelson drew a slow, measured breath, quite aware that at least one of the difficulties to which Nigel was referring was one he had brought upon himself. And it traced back to Albin Haldane, and the treason of his father, who had been Nigel’s eldest son, and should have been his heir.
So bitter had been the pain of that son’s betrayal—whose name was rarely mentioned in his presence—that Nigel had set aside Conall’s son in favor of Rory, who was his second son, and was grooming Rory to succeed him as Duke of Carthmoor. Nigel would not care to have his heir resident in Meara, half a kingdom away.
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