It was yet too soon to consider how he might help Liam and Mátyás in any concrete way, far away in Torenth; but the news of Morag’s brutal murder only underlined the importance of proceeding with the establishment of a Deryni schola under Crown patronage. The events of the past month had amply shown how the might of Deryni magic could feed the power of ambitious men; and only knowledge and responsible training in the use of that magic—especially its benign uses—could combat the kind of turmoil presently seething in Torenth.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Gather my saints together unto me; those that have made a covenant with me by sacrifice.
Psalm 30:5
The Servants of Saint Camber numbered twelve plus one, as they rode through the gates of Rhemuth the evening before the scheduled consecration of his new chapel. Rothana was in their company, with her young son—as, indeed, were several others of the band accompanied by children. Mother and son lodged that night in the accommodations provided for the Servants in the monastic establishment adjacent to the basilica, though usually Rothana stayed at least a few days with her son’s grandmother up at the castle, having no wish to deprive Meraude of access to her only grandson, no matter the cloud of guilt that continued to vex both Nigel and Rothana because of the deeds of the boy’s father.
Word of their arrival came as a relief to Kelson, up at the castle, though he made no attempt to see Rothana that night, having already laid a different strategy from the one she might be expecting, at least regarding her son. She would be happy enough to hear that he did, indeed, intend to marry Araxie; but her intentions regarding Albin remained the final point of contention between them. Rather than tackling that in private, he had decided to present his latest proposition in the context of the offer he now planned to lay directly at the feet of the Servants, before the expected ceremony at midday. And he would frame that in a way that he hoped the Servants would be unable to ignore—or refuse.
Accordingly, the king marshalled his accomplices and reinforcements for an early arrival at the basilica the next morning, with Morgan, Dhugal, Araxie, and Richenda to attend him at the meeting. Meraude and Jehana came as well, along with Richelle, to dote on little Albin in the cloister garden while his mother attended to the Servants’ business.
Bishop Duncan McLain, now provost of the basilica chapter—and incipient rector of the schola to be established there, though only he and the king’s companions yet knew it—was on hand to greet the Servants at midmorning, as they began to congregate in the cobbled cloister yard for the ceremony yet an hour and more away, inviting them to bide their time in the dim coolness of the chapter house, adjacent to the south transept. When most of them had obligingly filed into the chamber, largely unaware exactly who Duncan was, besides a bishop—evident by ring and cross and purple cassock—Duncan glanced farther along the eastern cloister range toward the arched doorway that led into the nave, and nodded broadly.
At once, Kelson and his chosen four came walking briskly along the colonnade—two dukes, a duchess, and a royal Haldane princess—all of them richly but quietly attired, as became the solemnity of the coming event, all of them wearing coronets of their rank. He fell back to let the others precede him before himself entering the chapter house.
The Servants were milling quietly inside, murmuring among themselves, and only gradually became aware that their ranks were being infiltrated. As Kelson casually followed his four toward the apsidal niche enlarging the east end of the little chapter room, where was set the simple chair of stone from which the house’s abbot normally presided, Duncan quietly closed the door behind them. As the king’s companions took the first four places before the stone bench set against the north wall, Kelson himself claimed the abbot’s chair. Thirteen pairs of eyes were fixed on him uncertainly, Rothana’s among them, as he and his companions sat, without ceremony.
Kelson let the silence deepen for a few taut heartbeats, then briefly allowed his shields to flare visibly about his head, his four co-conspirators doing likewise, in unmistakable affirmation of what, if not who, they were. A murmur passed among the Servants, though none showed any fear, and a few flared shields of their own to show that there were Deryni among them as well, though most were human. Most of them had recognized both Kelson and Dhugal by now, having made their acquaintance when the pair first discovered their long-hidden enclave in the remote mountains of Carcashale.
But when Duncan abruptly vacated his place before the door and came to join the king, flaring his Deryni aura as the others had done and maintaining it as he quietly took a place at Kelson’s left, the Servants’ murmuring died away and they moved at once to the stone benches set along the south and west sides of the little chapter room, sitting obediently at the king’s gesture of leave. The Servants might be little impressed by the presence of a king whom most had seen in his nakedness, as he prepared to face the ritual they called the cruaidh-dheuchainn, the periculum, the ordeal by which true vision of Saint Camber was tested—and which test Kelson of Gwynedd had passed to their satisfaction; but the open presence of an undoubtedly Deryni bishop at that king’s side engaged their complete attention. Rothana looked puzzled and vaguely suspicious, seated among the Servants along the south wall.
“I bid you welcome,” Kelson said to them, as Duncan let the glow of his shields die away, merely standing beside him. “I apologize for the somewhat dramatic nature of my coming among you, but you will understand my reason in a moment. I trust that, by now, all of you have had a chance to inspect your patron’s new chapel. I hope you are as pleased as I am, to see this milestone in our labors of the past several years.”
Utter silence greeted this declaration—not hostile, but certainly wary.
“Various of my Deryni advisors have guided me in the design of the chapel we shall consecrate a little later today,” Kelson went on, glancing toward the four seated along the wall to his right. “It is my most earnest prayer that this holy place will serve as a fitting focus to encourage the rediscovery and open veneration of your august patron once more. Indeed, the two ladies seated here at my right have named themselves particular patrons of the work you have striven to advance for the past century and more: my cousin, the Princess Araxie Haldane, and the Lady Richenda de Morgan, wife of my trusted friend and advisor, the Duke of Corwyn.”
He indicated Morgan and Dhugal, sitting beyond the women. “Many of you will remember the MacArdry of Transha from our brief sojourn among you, a few years ago. He is now Duke of Cassan and Earl of Kierney as well as Earl of Transha. Bishop McLain you have already met.” He glanced up at Duncan with a nod. “As is, by now, apparent, all of us are Deryni or of Haldane blood—which may well be the same thing. Perhaps some of you will help us to learn more of that.”
Before him and to the left, ranged on the stone benches set along the sides and back of the room, the Servants of Saint Camber turned coolly appraising glances on those he had named. All of them, men and women, were garbed for their patron’s celebration in simple grey robes girt at the waist with a cincture of knotted red and blue cord. Though a few of the men were close-shorn, some even tonsured, most wore the g’dula, their version of the Border braid that Kelson and Dhugal favored. A few of the men wore belted swords as well.
The women conveyed more of the impression of a religious order. Though the Servants were a lay order, most of the older women wore coifs and wimples covering their hair, reminiscent of religious habit. The younger ones, including Rothana, seemed to favor veils of fine, gauzy white linen over hair neatly dressed in a knot at the nape of the neck, bound across the brow with a braided torse of red and blue cord. Kelson recognized several faces among them, including—he thought—a young woman called Rhidian, who had spoken for the Quorial, the Servants’ eight-person governing body: one of the few he was definitely certain was Deryni. Then, she had been a girl-woman, disturbingly wise-seeming and direct for one so young.
It was she whom Kelson had expected to speak, if not Rothana herself; but ins
tead, an elderly woman whom Kelson also recognized, the ban-aba Jilyan, slowly rose, according him a dignified inclination of her head.
“We thank the king’s friends for their patronage, my lord king,” she murmured, “and we also thank Your Grace. Please know that we are grateful for the work that all of you have done on behalf of our patron, the Holy Camber. If God wills it, this will be but the first of many shrines to his memory, where those of our race may draw inspiration to take up their heritage, for the good of all our people.”
“That is my most fervent wish as well, Ban-Aba,” Kelson replied, giving her the title she was accorded among the Servants, roughly equivalent to an abbess. “In support of that aspiration, I wish to offer a proposal to the Servants of Saint Camber, as further evidence of my support of your work. Please be easy,” he added, gesturing for her to sit—and deliberately avoiding Rothana’s eyes. “You need not give me your answer until after we have properly reinstated the Blessed Camber in our noontime observances, for I wish to give all of you the opportunity to meditate upon my proposal, while we offer our prayers together.”
The ban-aba glanced at Rothana as she sat, in a look of question, but Rothana only shrugged, for she knew nothing of the king’s plans.
“I shall not mince words, then,” Kelson went on briskly. “In the nearly seven years since coming to my crown, as I have sought to redress the errors of the past—especially as they concern our Deryni heritage—it has become increasingly obvious that only knowledge can eradicate the misconceptions upon which two centuries of persecution were founded. Changing the law is a start—and I have begun that process, as is evidenced by the presence of several Deryni priests among my immediate entourage, including the good Bishop McLain.” He gestured toward Duncan. “But only the education of our people into the fullness of their heritage will enable them to properly take their rightful place in this kingdom.
“Accordingly, I make you this proposal. I am prepared, under certain conditions, to grant substantial lands and revenues here in Rhemuth for the foundation and support of a royal schola or collegium, under the direct protection of the Crown, whose purpose will be the identification and proper education of Deryni. I am informed that such collegia once existed, to train Deryni in the responsible use of their powers, and I am determined that they shall exist again.”
“You mentioned certain conditions,” said a thickset man seated next to Jilyan—Brother Michael, the hard-nosed spokesman of the Quorial, another Deryni.
Kelson inclined his head. “They are few, Brother Michael—only three, in fact. They are not negotiable, but I think you will find them acceptable. First of all, the quarters I propose to give this first royal collegium lie here within the walls of Rhemuth Castle’s outer ward—the abbey precincts of this very basilica, with whose accommodation you are already familiar—with ample room for expansion. Foundation of your schola here will enable me to give you the protection of the Crown, should there be initial opposition to your work until the people learn that they have nothing to fear from Deryni. And of course, I would expect that a substantial number of the Servants of Saint Camber would relocate to Rhemuth, to support this endeavor.”
“That is acceptable,” Jilyan said flatly, before any of the others could comment, though Rothana looked startled at the last part. “What else?”
“The new collegium will require a rector, who should be a cleric, even though you are a lay order, for it will still be attached to the basilica—which will continue to function as such, under royal warrant. In the past, this would have given cause for grave concern, since the Church and Deryni were at odds with one another in law, but the law has now been amended.
“Accordingly, I have asked a Deryni cleric to accept this position, should you agree to be a part of this endeavor. Bishop McLain, who presently is auxiliary here in Rhemuth, as well as having charge of this basilica, is willing to serve in this capacity, and to work with the archbishop and the synod of bishops to integrate the training of Deryni clergy with the work of the collegium. Through Duchess Richenda, Princess Araxie, and your own Lady Rothana and their contacts in the East, he will be able to assist in the recruitment of suitable teachers, so that our task of education may go forward.”
The look on Rothana’s face declared her taken totally by surprise, clearly intrigued by the prospect of the college itself—for it was a logical extension of the dream she and Kelson had shared for Gwynedd—but well aware that her participation in the exercise would bring her into far closer ongoing contact with Kelson and the court than she had planned . . . and as yet uncertain what might be inferred from Araxie’s presence.
“This is both generous and farsighted, Sire, and I am certainly willing to serve in an advisory capacity,” she began, “but I should prefer to remain based in—”
“For this to succeed,” Kelson interjected, cutting across her objection, “I shall need your presence here, Rothana. This is my third and final condition.” His gaze locked on hers, reaching out to her for some vestige of what they once had shared. “I wish you—no, I ask you, as Deryni—for the sake of this land for which you have already offered up so much, to accept appointment as lay assistant to the rector, to be the interface between the Servants and my council—and be resident here in Rhemuth.”
“Sire—”
“Perhaps it would be best if we now suspend this discussion until after the ceremony,” Kelson said firmly, flicking his gaze over the rest of them. “I ask that, as we witness the reinstatement of your saintly patron, all of you meditate upon what I have proposed. I shall certainly do so. Afterward, I shall speak privily with the Lady Rothana,” he added pointedly, “for I think much will depend upon her decision. Meanwhile, I thank you for your time and ask you to excuse me, for I must go now to prepare for the ceremony that has brought us here.”
With that he rose, summoning Dhugal and Morgan with a glance as he strode briskly out of the chapter room, Duncan following, hoping that this abrupt and uncharacteristic ending of discussion had gotten Rothana’s attention. The Servants streamed after them amid a murmur of amazed and excited speculation, as soon as the four had disappeared through the doorway—except for Rothana, who was left with Richenda and Araxie, looking somewhat stunned.
“Whatever can he be thinking?” she said, turning dark eyes on the pair of them bewilderedly. “The offer for the schola is generous, but I cannot—”
Richenda went to close the door to the chamber, staying then to lean her back against it, as Araxie came to sit beside Rothana.
“A great deal has happened, most of it very good, indeed,” she said, touching a sympathetic hand to Rothana’s shoulder.
“Then—he did ask you to marry him, did he not?”
“He did, of course, though it’s not yet been announced. Rory and Noelie are to wed first, as you hoped—and that has changed a few things you may not have reckoned on.”
Briefly she told Rothana of the Mearan titles, and Nigel’s concession regarding the Carthmoor succession, with the subsequent reinstatement of Albin as Nigel’s heir, and of Nigel’s acceptance of little Conalline.
“Though she’s to be called by her second name, Amelia,” Araxie concluded. “Meraude suggested that. The mite’s poor mother never would have named the child for her father, had she dreamed that the girl would be acknowledged as Conall’s natural daughter. But I think that none of us need the constant reminder of him.”
“Araxie, that was wicked of you, to manipulate poor Nigel!” Rothana murmured. “And Meraude, and Jehana—”
“And me,” said Richenda, coming from her post by the door to join them, sitting on Rothana’s other side. “And even Oksana Ramsay, for that matter.”
“No one can change the past,” Araxie said. “But Conall’s children should have the chance to know their grandparents—and Meraude and Nigel should know the joy of their grandchildren. Little Amelia is a darling child . . . and Eirian already adores her.”
Rothana closed her eyes, blinking back te
ars.
“Albin shouldn’t be at court, Araxie,” she whispered. “He could become a danger to your sons some day.”
“Frankly, I think he’s more likely to become a danger to my sons if he isn’t at court,” Araxie said bluntly. “You’ve focused so closely on proper training for Deryni—how about proper training for a man? Albin is a Haldane, a prince of Gwynedd. His grandfather is the most parfait knight in all the realm, and his cousin is the King of Gwynedd—himself already well respected throughout these Eleven Kingdoms as a noble and virtuous liege of exceptional honor. And his mother is Deryni, about to found the first Deryni schola in this land in nearly two centuries. What better examples could a boy have?”
“But I’ve—promised him to the Church. . . .”
“A promise that was made when you thought there were no better options, for him or for Gwynedd,” Araxie answered. “How many bishops would you like me to have dispense you from that promise? I can have Kelson get as many as you like. Rothana, it simply isn’t right that Albin should have to suffer for what his father did—and he doesn’t need to suffer, unless you insist upon it!”
“Would it be such suffering, to be brought up for the Church?” Rothana asked.
“Unless that’s what he wants, the answer is yes,” Araxie replied. “If you accept Kelson’s offer, you and he and Albin and all of us can have very good options, indeed. You would be here, close at hand, to help and advise Kelson—and me! And Albin can learn the fullness of his Deryni heritage, and his heritage as a Haldane, and then decide what kind of a life he wants.
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