“It’s a perfect time to do it,” Meraude told her, as she and one of her maids helped Jehana change her habitual white garments for one of her own gowns, more suitable for riding. “Nigel has gone off with Bishop Duncan to look at something down at the basilica, and then I expect he’ll stay to supper with the archbishops. And Rory has said he’ll go with us. It was he and Payne who found the girl, and they’re both quite smitten with their little niece. Apparently the child is an angel.”
Half an hour later, they were riding out of the gates of Rhemuth with Rory and an escort of two Haldane lancers, Jehana mounted on a smooth-gaited bay palfrey a shade lighter than the gown she wore, and with her auburn hair braided and neatly bound under a neat white kerchief, looking more a servant than a queen beside Meraude’s royal blue. Indeed, she had asked that no mention be made of her rank once they reached the cottage, for this was an affair of Meraude and Nigel’s family, and ought not to be influenced by whatever awe a queen’s presence might inspire in a simple country girl.
The day was sunny and pleasant, not overly warm, and to Jehana’s surprise, though she had not ridden for some time, she found herself enjoying the outing, even requesting a faster pace once they had made their sedate way through the streets of Rhemuth. Rory happily obliged her, glad to see her smile, and their journey passed in half the time allowed, as they interspersed gentle canters with the more sedate walks he had expected.
The cottage where he took them was sited at the edge of a broad meadow, small but tidy—cut-stone with a thatched roof, and a small barn built onto the back and a tiny garden to one side, in full summer-flowering, though the neatly trimmed hedges ringing the garden sported laundry spread to dry in the afternoon sun. As the five of them rode closer, a slender, kerchiefed figure in aproned blue skirts and a laced bodice over her shift stood up from among the flowers to peer at them, one hand shading her eyes. Then, after wiping her hands on her apron, she bent to scoop up a small child and brace it on her hip as she came before the cottage to await their arrival.
“God give you grace, my lady,” Rory called, as they came within hailing distance. “I’ve brought some visitors.”
The girl bobbed a quick curtsy, looking a little frightened, but the child in her arms crowed delightedly at the arrival of the newcomers and held out chubby arms in greeting. The little girl had the mother’s fresh coloring, but the glossy brown hair was a shade lighter, and sprang in little ringlets framing her face. The mother’s eyes were brown, but the child had eyes of Haldane-grey like her father’s—Conall’s child, without doubt, and by the shape of her mouth as well, though at least she had not inherited the straight black hair that was also such a Haldane hallmark.
Meraude exchanged glances with Jehana as they drew rein, but she looked a little relieved. Neither spoke as Rory and one of the lancers helped them down from their horses and the other lancer unfastened a satchel from his saddle.
“Mother, this is Vanissa,” Rory said, “and the child is Conalline. Vanissa: my mother, the Duchess Meraude, and her companion.”
Vanissa’s eyes got very round, and she sank trembling to both knees, head bowed over the child she held tightly to her bosom.
“Dear child, you mustn’t be afraid,” Meraude said immediately, coming to gently take the girl by the shoulders and raise her up. “I have only come to meet my granddaughter. What a pretty child! She does have her father’s eyes, doesn’t she?
“Did he ever mention that he had a little sister? My daughter is just a little older than yours. It’s a charming age, isn’t it? But I’ve found, after raising three sons, that daughters provide their own delights—very different from boys.”
As Meraude chattered on, soon putting the wary Vanissa at her ease, they moved back to the garden, where Rory and one of the lancers spread their cloaks on a grassy space beneath an apple tree and then withdrew to wait with the horses. The two royal ladies settled on the cloaks with Vanissa and her child, whereupon Meraude proceeded to produce an assortment of foodstuffs from the satchel they had brought, along with more tangible gifts: a soft doll and a necklace of pale coral beads for Conalline, and several lengths of fine woollen cloth for her mother. Vanissa fingered the cloth with shy gratitude but only nibbled at the dainties Meraude offered, clearly nervous, but Conalline happily sampled the gingerbread and sweetmeats and soon let herself be lured into her grandmother’s lap to have the beads fastened around her neck.
Jehana, too, found herself warming to both mother and child, again recalling the infant daughter she had lost, and soon found herself following Meraude’s lead, making occasional comments that would help draw out the shy Vanissa. The girl seemed mannerly enough, if lacking in sophistication, but gentle-natured. And a quick perusal of the cottage, when they took the gifts and remnants of food inside, preparatory to leaving, revealed her to be a tidy housekeeper.
“Child, I have something to propose to you,” Meraude said to Vanissa from the open doorway, eliciting a darting look of dread as the girl turned around from putting things into a cupboard.
“Oh, madame, I beg you, do not take away my baby!” the girl cried, looking stricken.
“Good heavens, I don’t intend to do any such thing!” Meraude reassured her. “But I would like to offer a proposal that might make all our lives far happier. My son provided for you; this I know. And if you wish to continue here, I shall not stand in the way of that. But I would wish to provide more for my granddaughter. I should like to see her have the advantages of her royal blood, to be educated as a lady, to make a good marriage.”
Little reassured, Vanissa scooped up the child and clutched her to her bosom. “You are going to take her away!” she said accusingly.
“If you’re willing, I propose to take both of you away,” Meraude said calmly. “I am offering you a place in my household.”
“What?” The girl stared at her in shock.
“I am offering you a place,” Meraude repeated. “I cannot say exactly what position might suit you, but I am willing to give you every opportunity to be trained for whatever gentle occupation you might fancy, provided that you are honest and loyal to my House.”
Vanissa’s jaw had dropped as Meraude spoke, and she recovered herself enough to set little Conalline on the floor and put her doll in her hands, sending her off to play with a gentle push.
“We would live at court?” she whispered.
Meraude inclined her head, smiling faintly. “Conalline is the great-granddaughter of a king. With the right advantages, she could have quite a promising future. I would propose to educate her beside my own daughter.” She paused a beat. “You, too, may avail yourself of the royal tutors, if you wish. You could learn to read and write—and if you are clever and diligent, I think you might make a comfortable life for yourself. You might even marry.”
Vanissa sank down on a stool by the fireplace, both hope and disbelief on her face.
“To live at court,” she breathed. “Perhaps to marry . . . Madame, I know not what to say. Never, in my most foolish dreams . . .”
“There is one thing you should know, before you give me your answer,” Meraude said gently. “Understand that I bear you no enmity for your relationship with my son—in truth, I think you probably had very little control over what happened between the two of you; Conall could be very . . . persuasive. But my husband, Duke Nigel, for all his even-handedness regarding the kingdom and his duties to King Kelson, has been unable to accept that Conall, in the end, went against everything he had been taught of duty and honor, and died a traitor’s death.”
Vanissa bowed her head, her fingers clenching in the folds of her apron.
“They—chopped off his head,” she whispered.
Meraude closed her eyes briefly, shivering slightly, and Jehana laid an arm around her shoulders in comfort.
“Best not to dwell on that, child,” Meraude whispered. “I dare not. You do not know the half of what my son did, that he should deserve to die, but none of it was your fault o
r that of either of his children.” She paused a beat. “You did know that Conall married, and that a posthumous son was born to his wife, six months after your own child?”
Vanissa nodded. “The Princess Rothana—and her son is called Albin. But I never expected Conall to marry me. Princes do not wed country girls.”
“No . . . they do not,” Meraude said quietly. After a moment, with a bleak glance at Jehana, she went on.
“Be that as it may, because of his shame at our son’s betrayal, my husband will have nothing to do with anything of Conall’s—to the extent, even, of passing over Conall’s legitimate son in the ducal succession. He has only seen the boy a few times—and those, by accident, and only from a distance—so I don’t know what his reaction will be to Conalline.” She glanced at the child, playing on the hearth.
“At least she doesn’t look so distinctively a Haldane; little Albin is the image of his father. What I’m hoping is that, by the time he finds out who she is, my husband will have become accustomed to seeing her playing with our own Eirian, and will have come to accept her. It—ah—might help if she weren’t called by that name. Has she a second name?”
“It’s Amelia,” Vanissa whispered, looking up at her. “For my grandmother.”
“Then, perhaps you would not mind if she went by that name, from now on?” Meraude asked. “Assuming, that is, that you’re willing to take this slight gamble: that you and she can win over my husband before he finds out who you are. Nigel can be a very stubborn fool when he wants to be, but I do love him dearly.”
Vanissa managed a faint smile. “The ordinary folk speak of him with respect and affection, my lady. And Jowan, the squire who usually came with Conall—he was devoted to the duke.” She lowered her eyes. “Jowan must be a knight by now. He was very kind and courteous. He always made me feel like a lady.”
“Jowan?” Meraude’s brow furrowed. “Oh, dear, I’m afraid he—died, child.”
“He died?” Vanissa looked briefly stunned, but she quickly composed herself, only looking down again. “May I—ask how it happened?”
“I fear he was drowned, in the same accident that we thought had claimed Kelson and Dhugal.”
“Drowned.” Vanissa shook her head regretfully, her reaction betokening, Jehana thought, more than mere affection for the dead Jowan. “I am very sorry to hear that. He was a gentle young man.”
“Yes, he was.” Meraude grimaced as she glanced at Jehana. “Will you come back with me to Rhemuth, then?” she asked. “You need not give me your answer right away, if you would like some time to think about it.”
Bravely lifting her chin, Vanissa rose and came to kneel meekly before Meraude, trembling hands demurely folded.
“My lady, you have made me a most generous offer, not only for my daughter but for myself. I accept and thank you, from the bottom of my heart—and Conalline thanks you.”
“Make certain it is Amelia who thanks me, child,” Meraude returned with a smile. “We must, all of us, begin getting used to her other name. Come, come, get up,” she said, helping Vanissa to her feet. “Perhaps we’d best give you another name as well; Nigel knows the name Vanissa. Have you a second name, or any preference?”
“My confirmation name is Mary,” Vanissa ventured.
“Always a good name,” Meraude agreed, “but perhaps a more distinctive form, betokening your aspirations. How about Maria?”
Vanissa nodded slowly. “I could answer to that—yes. Maria.” She smiled, and Jehana could see how Conall might have been charmed by her. “Thank you, my lady.”
“Good, it’s settled, then,” Meraude said. “How soon would you be prepared to make the move?”
“Whenever best pleases you, madame. We have but little that I would wish to bring along.”
“Then I shall give you a day or two, while I make definite arrangements,” Meraude said, with a pleased glance at Jehana. “We shall wish to choose an appropriate time for your arrival, when my husband is occupied with other concerns. My son Rory assists me in this conspiracy, as you know, being also enamored of his first niece. I shall send him with a cart in a few days.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
For their feet run to evil, and make haste to shed blood.
Proverbs 1:16
“So, little brother, how did you find Kelson of Gwynedd?” Mahael said to Mátyás, seated across from him at a meeting after supper the evening of their arrival, when their young nephew had been received in state and he and their foreign visitors all had retired gratefully to the quarters assigned them.
The middle Furstán brother, Count Teymuraz, sat to Mátyás’s left at the small round table, between him and Mahael. To his right were Counts Branyng of Sostra and László of Czalsky, both of them of an age with the two older brothers, both of them highly accomplished Deryni mages. All of them would be participating in the enthronement of Liam-Lajos, in little more than a week’s time.
Mátyás smiled faintly, but did not look up from paring a long, careful spiral of skin from a firm Vezairi apple.
“He is sensitive, well educated, a born leader of men. He seems both loved and respected by his folk. He is very fond of Liam-Lajos, and Laje of him.”
“What of his power?” asked Teymuraz.
“You would do better to ask the man who tried to kill him at the Ile d’Orsal.”
“What?” Mahael blurted. The other three looked similarly astonished.
“Dear, dear me,” Mátyás said, looking up blandly. “I had assumed that at least one of you would know that. The man was Deryni. There was also a human, but when their mission failed, both of them killed themselves rather than be taken. That was fortuitous—at least for those who sent them—but the attempt itself was foolish. Laje might have died as well, and we were being blamed. Not by name, but the insinuations were plain. Fortunately, al-Rasoul is one of the finest assets of this kingdom. No one was willing to cross the line and make accusations.”
“Probably because no one could prove anything,” Branyng said. “I assume that death-triggers had been set, and mind-wipes.”
“Compulsions rather than triggers, but the result was the same,” Mátyás allowed. “And the memories had been erased. That bespeaks considerable skill on the part of whoever sent them. A bishop called Arilan probed both bodies, but nothing could be learned.”
“Then, it was well done,” Branyng said. “I wish I could take credit for it.”
“Better to take credit for successes, dear Branyng,” László said with a grim smile. “And one would wish that, if the venture had to fail, the perpetrators had at least elicited a response that would tell us something more about our foe. Mátyás, was the attack magical or merely physical?”
“I cannot say.”
“Then we still know little of Kelson’s power.”
“By all accounts, it is formidable,” Mátyás replied.
“Yet he did not read the bodies himself,” Mahael observed. “Curious. Perhaps he has not the skill.”
Mátyás shrugged and returned his attention to the ruby spiral growing under his knife.
“Perhaps he does not. Or perhaps it is simply that the skills of our race are not used so openly in Gwynedd. Truth-Reading is common, and commonly accepted, for the most part, but I saw little evidence of any overt Deryni presence at his court, though all close to him were well-shielded, as was he. What skills he possesses, however, he blends seamlessly with more usual human talents. He is a shrewd judge of character, for all his youth, and shows a keen understanding of human motivations. If Laje has paid attention during his sojourn in Gwynedd, it is likely that he has learned something useful of statecraft.”
“Do I detect a note of admiration?” László asked, arching a grizzled eyebrow.
“Merely an acknowledgment of what is,” Mátyás replied, pausing to lip a slice of apple off his knife. “Do not underestimate this Haldane, László of Czalsky. He has sent us back a king who is well prepared for his royal duties.”
“Prepar
ed for Gwynedd’s idea of a king,” Teymuraz said, with no little contempt. “Did Father Irenaeus give you any idea of his preparedness in other areas?”
Mátyás shrugged again. “Very little. He was more concerned to report on Laje’s spiritual fitness—which he assures me has not been seriously compromised by his time spent in Gwynedd.”
“I do not care about the state of his soul!” Mahael muttered. “Did he say nothing of the boy’s powers?”
“Nothing.”
“Then we can assume nothing. Branyng, what progress with the boy’s mother?”
Branyng, who fancied himself irresistible where women were concerned, leaned back in his chair to preen, fiddling with one of his braided sidelocks.
“The Dowager Duchess Morag is greatly flattered to be courted by a younger man. She would have made a formidable queen, had we queens in this land. But she hardly knows this son. The youngest is now her favorite, and will claim her loyalty, if she must choose between them. It is a point to be kept in mind, on the day.”
“Indeed,” Mahael replied, with a slow, lazy smile. “Very well, then. Now that Mátyás has returned to us, allow me to acquaint you with further details of my plans.”
Kelson’s first day in Beldour was appointed for acquainting him and his party with the sights of Old and New Beldour, with Rasoul and a count called Branyng to serve as guides. While they were thus engaged, Létald determined to begin meeting with other official observers arriving from the Forcinn, for all of Torenth’s neighbors to the south were well aware of the instability inherent in Liam’s return, concerned that even a partial hand-over should proceed as smoothly as possible. Liam appeared briefly to observe the departure of his royal visitors, but in the company of mother and brother and uncles, and looked like he would have preferred to come along.
The day grew progressively warmer as Rasoul led them on a whirlwind tour along the walls of the old city, past the cathedral, then across the arched stone span of St. Basil’s Bridge for a quick turn through the Great Market Place, the Queen’s Zoo, and around the University of Beldour. They returned at last at midafternoon, for refreshment amid the tiered hanging gardens, where the court was gathering.
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