Kelson briefly closed his eyes, girding himself for many of the same old arguments.
“Denis, he is only fourteen,” he muttered.
“True enough,” Arilan replied. “But like yourself, he is a king with a succession to secure. His marriage will be a high priority, once he settles back into his own court—and no amount of dithering on your own behalf is going to change that.”
“I am not dithering!”
“You’re dithering,” Morgan said blandly. “But we’ll let that pass, under the circumstances. Denis is right, however: If you won’t talk about your own marriage prospects, we at least need to talk about your rival’s, before you fling him back among his own countrymen—and countrywomen.”
Kelson sighed and picked up his cup, draining it in a single draught, then rolled its chill silver against his forehead, desperate for some stalling tactic, well aware that discussion would not stop with Liam. He was not ready to tell them of Rothana’s proposition, and certainly could not yet bring himself to talk about Araxie, who they thought was beyond consideration.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, not looking at any of them. “I know I am going to have to talk about it eventually. It isn’t easy to accept that I can’t marry the woman I love. That said, however, it would be nice to at least like whatever woman I do marry.”
“Kelson, you know our sympathies are with you,” Richenda said softly. “And you know that I have tried to change Rothana’s mind. Repeatedly.”
Kelson bowed his head into one hand, covering his eyes, elbow propped on the table. “I do know that,” he whispered, “and I do appreciate your efforts. She—has her own logic, and I—can’t gainsay it, much though I dislike her conclusion.”
“But you must respect it,” Richenda replied, “and you must accept it—and accept that she has reasons that even she may not be able to articulate clearly at this time. However much you may feel betrayed by what she did, in marrying Conall—or however much she may think you feel betrayed—her own feeling of having betrayed you overwhelms it all.”
“But she didn’t—”
“Of course she did not. But you must recognize that her love for you also became bound with your love for Gwynedd, whose bridegroom you were long before Rothana came into your life.” She gestured toward the two rings on his hand, the signet of Gwynedd and Sidana’s ring. “It was for Gwynedd that she let herself be persuaded that marriage with Conall might preserve at least part of the dream that you and she shared for Gwynedd—and what she does now, she also does for the sake of Gwynedd. And again for the sake of Gwynedd, you must go forward with your dream—but with another queen at your side.”
Kelson was nodding by the time she finished, eyes closed and lips tightly pressed together, knowing it was true, no matter the pain that admission cost. After a moment of taut silence, he allowed himself a heavy sigh and made himself look up at Richenda.
“I know that you’re right,” he said quietly. “And I do appreciate what you’re trying to do—all of you.” He drew another deep breath and exhaled gustily. “Very well. Trot out your candidates, for me and for Liam. But I make no promises.”
For answer, Richenda rose to fetch from the sideboard a small wooden chest, which she set on the table before the king. Inside were more than a score of miniature portraits and sketches, which Richenda laid out on the table and proceeded to identify by name and lineage. Kelson suppressed a groan as he saw their number.
As the arguments for and against each candidate were offered, one person or another always managed to find serious fault. Arilan judged one candidate of insufficient rank for the King of Gwynedd. Dhugal declared another too boring—he had met her. Morgan opined that a third was, in fact, rather older and plainer than depicted—and dull, to boot, though the political alliance would be acceptable.
“That presumes that I’d find dull children acceptable,” Kelson pointed out sourly. “Since I’m under the impression that the purpose of this exercise is to produce suitable heirs, I hardly think that the lady can be considered a serious contender. Nor would I inflict such a bride on Liam.”
When a likeness of Noelie Ramsay came up—an exquisite miniature painted on ivory, of a handsome young woman with soulful eyes and masses of dark hair—Kelson fell suddenly silent.
“Yes?” Richenda said hopefully.
“No,” Kelson replied.
“Well, you certainly don’t want Liam to marry her,” Arilan muttered. “Her dowry will include considerable land in Meara. You can’t afford to give Torenth a foothold on your western border.”
“I don’t intend to do that,” Kelson said.
As he glanced at Dhugal for support, he decided to reveal at least a part of what had come of his disastrous meeting with Rothana. Some semblance of a plan had begun to take shape in the past days, at least regarding Noelie and Rory, and tonight seemed as good a time as any to try out his proposal on his closest advisors.
“Actually,” he said, “I have another match in mind for the lady.”
Arilan looked immediately at Dhugal, obviously mistaking Kelson’s previous glance for intention.
“Surely not—”
“Good God, no!” Kelson said quickly, as Dhugal shook his head in alarm. “It has never even been discussed. No, the lady’s heart lies elsewhere.”
“Ah, a love match,” the bishop guessed, as Richenda cocked an eyebrow in question. “With whom?”
“My cousin Rory.”
The name silenced Arilan, and elicited a thoughtful nod from Richenda, but their expressions told Kelson that both of them immediately saw at least some of the positive implications. Dhugal and Morgan, of course, had already known.
“I’m glad I see no disagreement,” he said mildly. “It was Rothana who brought the prospect to my attention. It seems that when Noelie and her family came to court last summer for her brother’s betrothal, she and Rory formed an attachment. Rory had backed off from the relationship, because he knew the council was hoping I would marry Noelie—but that’s never been a possibility, so far as I’m concerned. I could never marry into Meara again.”
Richenda nodded slowly, smiling faintly, and Kelson found himself wondering how much she knew about Araxie. Arilan looked decidedly uncomfortable with the notion.
“I would be interested to know what Nigel thinks of this idea,” the bishop said. “Or have you told him yet?”
“I told him,” Kelson said, “and I postponed any further discussion until I return. I’ve asked him to consider any potential problems that might be attendant upon such a match, and to come up with suggestions for resolving them. I also pointed out that I do not intend to marry Noelie Ramsay, regardless of what else might be decided, so he might as well let Rory be happy.”
“That is an admirably generous statement,” Richenda said neutrally. “And I can see immediate benefits to Gwynedd. Unlike you, Rory could live in Meara, and provide a permanent Haldane presence there. And their issue, along with the issue of Brecon and Richelle, would ensure that Haldane interests and that last link with former Mearan sovereignty are forever merged.”
“It did seem to me to be a happy and peaceful resolution to a very long-standing problem,” Kelson agreed, bracing himself for reaction to his next proposal, which addressed the probable source of Arilan’s misgivings. “I’ve—suggested to Nigel that, eventually, I would like to make Rory my viceroy in Meara. I’ve already agreed to confirm Brecon as Earl of Kilarden, on the day he marries Richelle, so Rory will need a superior Mearan title—perhaps Duke of Ratharkin.”
“That would eventually give Rory two ducal titles,” Arilan pointed out.
“True enough,” Kelson agreed. “But only if he retains Nigel’s Carthmoor succession—which shouldn’t be his anyway.” He drew a bracing breath. “There’s no question that the title rightly belongs to Albin, once Nigel is gone. To that end, as part of the marriage settlement, I propose to ask that Nigel restore the boy to his proper place in the succession. Rory will still have a du
kedom, so this doesn’t change the expectation he gained when Nigel first passed over Albin—and he doesn’t even have to wait for his father to die.”
“It seems a fair resolution to me,” Dhugal said, with a glance at Morgan, though Richenda looked immediately dubious.
“Nigel will never agree,” Arilan muttered. “And even if he does, I believe Albin’s mother will have something to say about the matter. Everyone knows she intends him for the Church.”
“His mother has enough to say about her own life—and mine,” Kelson replied. “If Albin himself chooses the religious life for which she’s trying to groom him, I’ll accept that, if it’s his decision; there have been Haldanes in the Church before. But I want him to have the options of choice that should accompany his royal birth.”
“Kelson—” Richenda reached out to adjust one of the portraits on the table before them, not looking at him. “Kelson, she will not thank you for this.”
“And I do not thank her for clinging to her stubborn pride, when I have told her that I bear her no resentment for having married Conall!” Kelson retorted. “Nor do I thank her for presuming to make this decision on behalf of her son—who should have been our son!”
“Kelson—”
He shook his head, all his tight-reined pain and frustration suddenly erupting.
“Do not press me in this, Richenda, for I can be as immovable as she,” he warned. “She shall yield in the matter of Albin, if I—if I have to seize the boy and bring him up myself! I cannot force her to marry me, but I can and will ensure that Albin Haldane shall have the inheritance that should be his!”
“And how will you do that?” Morgan said quietly. “Will you force Nigel to agree? I suppose you could. You are the king—and with powers that lesser mortals can scarcely imagine, much less comprehend. No wonder they fear us. At very least, you could certainly throw Nigel in prison, strip him of his title, bestow it upon Albin. Not even Rothana could stop you from doing that, if you chose. You might even be able to force her to marry you. But you will do none of these things.”
Kelson had whirled to stare at Morgan as he spoke, all the color draining from his face, and he slowly collapsed back into his chair, feeling suddenly lightheaded, shocked at how easy it might have been, to step across that line into prideful power, no matter how righteously intended.
“He—he must agree,” he whispered. “He must do it for Rory, so that he may wed where his heart desires, not as duty compels. And she must agree, for Albin’s sake, so that he may be free to choose according to his heart—as I would wish, for my own son.” He paused to swallow. “And I—I must . . . do as Rothana bids me do, and marry . . . elsewhere. . . .”
And marry the bride she has chosen for me, he added in the grieving loneliness of his own thoughts.
In the awkward silence that fell among them, Morgan exchanged troubled glances with Richenda, who slowly reached out to cover Kelson’s hand with hers.
“Kelson—there is something you should know,” she said tentatively. “Something that may give you some measure of comfort. I am not certain that even Rothana is wholly aware of it as yet—at least not consciously.
“You spoke of her pride as the impediment to your marriage: her refusal to forgive herself for losing faith, for believing you dead, for marrying Conall. Perhaps it was pride, in the beginning. But not now.”
“Then, what?” Kelson asked.
“I think,” she said, “that it is not just marriage with you, but marriage itself, that now seems inappropriate.”
“I don’t understand,” Kelson whispered, stunned. “What are you saying?”
Richenda sighed, briefly glancing at all of them before returning her attention to the cheerless tracing of her fingertip on the table.
“At the risk of sounding callous, I must point out her condition when first you met her, my prince. Quite bluntly, she was under vows of religious obedience, vows of service. Caught up in the stirrings she felt for you, she decided to set aside her vows—which she had every right to do, for they were not yet permanent—and was prepared to turn her life to service as your queen—a Deryni queen for Gwynedd. Then, believing you dead, she still was prepared to take on that life of service as Gwynedd’s queen, but at Conall’s side rather than yours—because the work was and is important. Once you returned, and he died as he did, all of that changed.”
“Gwynedd still needs a queen,” Kelson said numbly. “I still need a queen.”
“No one would dispute that,” Richenda replied. “But Rothana is correct in pointing out that, in the eyes of many, she is no longer as acceptable a choice as she once would have been. Your queen should be a woman above reproach, without a past; she has borne the child of an executed traitor—a stigma very difficult to erase, as I have cause to know full well. It is a burden that is not eased by the fact that this child could become a serious threat to the very throne you and she would protect.”
“Any child could become a threat to my throne,” Kelson said bitterly. “We cannot know the future. And the other could be overcome; you have overcome it.”
“Albin is not the most compelling part of the dilemma,” Richenda replied. “Nor is the traitorous betrayal of her late husband. But given these impediments, either of which might be overcome singly, we must return to that first, inescapable part of the equation—which is her long-term commitment to a life of service.”
“No!” Kelson blurted. “Her commitment was to me! It is our love that is the inescapable part of the equation. She loved me! She still loves me! She told me so, but a few short days ago!”
“Kelson, Kelson, my dear, sweet prince . . .” Richenda twined her fingers together, daring to meet his eyes. “I am searching for words that will not cause you further pain. Please believe that these past three years have not been any easier for her than for you. She still loves you, of course—and once loved you in a way that bade her put aside her holy vows to God, out of love for you and for the chance to make a difference as Gwynedd’s queen.
“Believing you dead, she still put aside her vows, for the sake of the love you had shared—and again, to serve Gwynedd—and married Conall.”
“I never blamed her for that,” Kelson whispered. “Everyone had good reason to believe me dead; and if I had been dead, and she Conall’s eventual queen, she would have been in a position to fulfill many of the same dreams that she and I had shared. That is truly what I would have wished.”
“And if you had been dead, that is precisely what would have happened,” Richenda said, “though God knows how Gwynedd would have fared, under Conall’s rule. But you weren’t dead. You came back—and suddenly, everything changed.”
“Would she have preferred that I hadn’t come back?” he said bitterly.
“Of course not. But everything had changed. She had left behind a long-cherished vocation to become wife, widow, and mother in the space of less than a year. And in the aftermath of such change, as she has searched her heart for a future, and pondered meanings in all that has transpired, she has come to realize that it was always the notion of service that called to her—first, simple service to God, and then that more specialized service to Gwynedd and to our Deryni race, which is no longer possible in the way she had planned. It was never just marriage with you, or even marriage at all, which called her, much though she does love you—and content though you both might have been, I think, had things not happened as they did.
“But things are as they are, and nothing can change that. The impediments do stand, to her being queen: widow of a traitor, mother of a potential rival to your throne. And meanwhile, there is still great service that she may do for Gwynedd and its king: no longer by becoming the physical mother of your heirs—for Albin’s very existence has already complicated that succession for you—but by becoming a spiritual mother for the heirs of Gwynedd—especially Gwynedd’s Deryni heirs.”
“I still don’t understand,” Kelson said dully.
“Try, my prince. Think where she
has passed the nearly three years since Albin’s birth. She has been with the Servants of Saint Camber. Do you truly understand what it has meant, that you and Dhugal found their village?”
Kelson only looked at her, for he had no idea where her question was leading.
“Think of it, Sire. For nearly two centuries, they have lived apart from the rest of Gwynedd, humans and Deryni, side by side, and perhaps blended now, so that there is very little difference. You experienced their power; you, better than anyone in this room, know how much we might learn from them. How much have they preserved of Saint Camber’s own wisdom?
“We are beginning to catch glimpses, as they assist in the reinstatement of his shrine in Rhemuth—and that, Rothana assures me, is only the beginning. Think how much more they could do, if they had the patronage of someone of her stature: a trained Deryni with important connections in lands where Deryni are still honored for their talents; a royal princess in her own right, mother of a future priest or bishop—or a royal duke, if you prefer—who could help them carry on their work.”
“She could do that as queen,” Kelson said desperately. “God knows, theirs is a good and worthy cause—but she need not immure herself to do this. She could be the royal patron of such a place, and support its work, and still be queen beside me, and the mother of future kings. Another could take up this work with the Servants!”
Richenda sadly shook her head. “Sire, she is proposing to give her life’s service for the future of all the people of Gwynedd, not just its king. You have heard, I know, of the ancient scholae where those of our race once taught and learned the ars magica, even the gifts of Healing. They did not have to stumble upon these talents half-blind, as Alaric and Dhugal and even I have done. With the help of the Servants, it is in Rothana’s mind to establish a new Deryni schola: a safe refuge where Deryni may learn to use their gifts. In all this land of yours, there is no other so well suited to do this—and even so, teachers will have to be brought in from outside Gwynedd; already, Azim has been to Saint Kyriell’s to assess their needs.
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