Childe Morgan

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Some of his men were occupying lands in the Arranal valley that rightly belong to Marley,” Richard explained, also sitting. “When we showed the royal colors, they pulled back quickly enough. After that, Brion decided that we ought to pay a quick call on Earl Rorik, so he could remind Rorik in person that aggression against his neighbors would not be tolerated. I do believe that Messire of Eastmarch got the message.” He glanced sidelong at his royal nephew and smiled. “Your son and heir did well, Donal.”

  Donal had begun to smile as the story unfolded, and started to give Brion a pleased dunt on the bicep. But then he remembered the more terrible news weighing on his soul, only temporarily put aside in the relief that his eldest son was safely returned; for Brion clearly did not yet know of his younger brother’s tragic death. As the king looked briefly away, grief stilling his expression, Kenneth quietly sent Tiarnán on his way and closed the door, himself remaining just inside the door and doing his best to become invisible. Brion’s face fell.

  “Sire, is it not what you would have wished?” the prince asked hesitantly.

  Stifling a sob, Donal beckoned for his heir to come and sit beside him. Richard went very still.

  “Donal, what’s wrong?” the royal duke said, for he had finally noticed that Donal, Kenneth, and all the court they had seen were in mourning.

  “There was…an accident while you were away,” Donal said haltingly. “Brion, your brother Jathan…”

  “What’s happened?” Brion demanded, his face going ashen.

  “He’s dead,” the king said baldly, flinching as Brion recoiled at the news. “He—”

  “What happened?” Brion repeated, steel in his voice. “Whoever did this, I’ll kill him!”

  “Then kill your accursed pony!” Donal blurted. “For the wretched beast was your brother’s death!”

  “Donal, no!” Richard breathed, horrified, as Brion simply stared at his father, aghast.

  Trembling, Donal closed his eyes, not wanting to remember but haunted by the image of the bloodied Jathan, lying motionless in his mother’s arms…and slipping away. And there had been nothing anyone could do.

  “You know how he loved that pony, how he coveted that pony,” he whispered.

  “I was going to give it to him at Twelfth Night,” Brion managed to choke out, voice cracking, as tears runneled down his cheeks. “And I was going to teach him how to ride it. How did he—?”

  Shaking his head, Donal reached to take his son’s hand and forced himself to recall the terrible details.

  “He went out to the stables early, before the grooms were even up,” he said woodenly. “Somehow he managed to saddle the pony, but he didn’t get the girth tight enough. He led it out to the paddock and got on…and somehow he ended up with his foot caught in the off stirrup, and the saddle under the pony’s belly, and—and—” He shook his head, tears streaming down his face. “He died in your mother’s arms.”

  Brion wept then, sliding to his knees at his father’s feet to lay his head in Donal’s lap and sob, no longer a confident prince flushed with the success of his first adult mission but a grieving boy who had lost a brother. Richard, too, was dashing at tears with the back of a hand, for Prince Jathan had been a beloved nephew. Kenneth, silent witness from his post against the closed door, could only pray that the three princes would soon find the strength and comfort to deal with their grief. It was several minutes before Brion regained enough composure to get shakily to his feet, sniffling and wiping at the tears on his cheeks with both hands as he drew himself erect.

  “I—I should like to see my brother,” he said to his father.

  Donal shook his head numbly. “You cannot, son. We buried him six days ago.”

  “You buried him?” Brion repeated, blank incomprehension in his eyes.

  Donal looked away. “I sent outriders to look for you as soon as it happened,” he replied, his voice a little strangled, “but I could not ask your mother to delay overlong. As it was, we waited several days.” He swallowed noisily. “He lies beside your brother Blaine.”

  Brion slowly nodded. “Then I shall go to him,” he said quietly. “But first, I must go to my mother. Sir Kenneth, may I ask you to accompany me?”

  Kenneth straightened from his post against the door and bent his head in agreement. “I am yours to command, my prince.”

  Brion only just recalled his manners enough to give his father a perfunctory bow before fleeing through the door that Kenneth hastily opened. When they had gone, Richard poured a cup of mulled wine for himself and another for his brother, setting the warm cup in the king’s hand.

  “Should I go with them?” he asked. “After he has seen the queen, of course.”

  Donal shook his head wearily. “Kenneth is good with helping men deal with their grief. And you have left me with little doubt but that Brion is a man now.”

  “Still,” Richard breathed, “it is hard to lose a brother.”

  Donal shrugged, sipping at his wine. “No harder, surely, than to lose a son.”

  “I wouldn’t know, on either count,” Richard said. “I do know that I shall lose you some day—if you don’t lose me first! But as for sons…Well, let us just say that I should probably find a wife before I worry about that.”

  Donal leaned back in his chair and drank again, somewhat recovering what composure he still could summon and smiling faintly. “I have given you little time to think of that, have I? I’m sorry. I truly do recommend it, Richard—and fatherhood.”

  Richard also smiled, lifting his cup in salute, relieved that his brother’s melancholy seemed to be lifting, if only momentarily. “I shall take you at your word on both counts. You may certainly be proud of your son. He truly did handle the situation in Eastmarch with a wisdom far beyond his years.”

  “I am very glad to hear you say that,” Donal replied. “And I’m sure the men will be very glad that they don’t have to go out in this weather. I must confess that I wasn’t all that keen, though I would have done it. If we are very, very fortunate, I think we can breathe a sigh of relief now, and mostly relax until the spring, when time will have eased our grief.”

  IT was a noble aspiration, but one fated not to be obtainable. After a somewhat subdued supper with his brother and his queen, and indulgence in the hot bath Richeldis had recommended earlier, the king retired with sufficient determination to tackle several pieces of important correspondence before making his way to the queen’s bed, where he managed to exercise his conjugal duties with considerable vigor. Afterward, both he and Richeldis attributed his heated state to the ardor of their coupling, meant to exorcise some of their grief of the past week.

  But it became clear, the next morning, that the heat of the night before was more than passion. He awoke feverish and achy, with a scratchy throat and the beginnings of a runny nose, all of which got worse as the day progressed, though he insisted on keeping to his usual schedule.

  “You’ve taken a chill, Sire,” Kenneth said reproachfully. “You should wrap up in bed and stay warm.”

  “A king has no time for that!” the king declared, though the declaration would have carried more weight, had he not been obliged to wipe at his nose and running eyes with a soggy square of linen.

  “Donal, don’t be a dolt!” Richeldis told him later that afternoon, noting his peaked appearance when they returned to the withdrawing room from hearing the younger children recite their catechism for Father Anselm. Brion and Richard were seated at the work table nearer the fire, taking turns dictating a report to a scribe concerning their actions in Eastmarch, and Kenneth was bent over several maps with Tiarnán and Jiri Redfearn.

  “Donal!” the queen repeated, tugging at his arm. “You’ve overdone, and not taken proper care of yourself, and now you’ve caught a cold. You’re going to be miserable, whatever you do.”

  She slid her arms around his neck, leaning closer to whisper as she nuzzled near the Eye of Rom glittering in his right earlobe. “Darling, why don’t you come to be
d with me?” she whispered. “Good gracious, you’re burning up! But no matter; we could try to sweat it out, the way we did last night, mmm?”

  He snorted, both pleased and scandalized that she would speak of it, but also mindful that they were not alone.

  “Perhaps I should retire early,” he said casually. “Our son seems to have handled things well enough without my presence.”

  “Sire, shall I send for your physician?” Tiarnán asked.

  “No doctors,” Donal said gruffly. “I’ll take supper in my lady’s chamber, and make an early night of it.”

  But though the king did preside briefly at the high table in the great hall that evening—an informal meal always set out for those resident in the castle—he only picked at his food. Richeldis did her best to tempt him—with the promise of further romantic dalliance as well as delicacies sent up from the kitchen, once they retired, though both had lost their appeal as he crawled, shivering, into the queen’s bed and curled up beside her.

  His condition worsened during the night, and had become full-blown misery by morning. Delegating the day’s appointments to Prince Brion and his brother Richard, the king stayed abed and slept for most of the day, wheezing when he was asleep and wheezing, sneezing, and coughing when awake. That evening he did allow the royal physician to examine him, but Master Cillian could only recommend a light diet and plenty of fluids, and herbal remedies to hopefully lower his fever and ease his aching joints.

  All of which was of little avail, for his condition declined with each passing day, as increasing congestion impaired his breathing and fever fuddled his mind. His wife rarely left his side in the next week, and Prince Brion likewise spent hours in waiting, lest his father rally enough to summon him. Kenneth, for his part, fretted for the king’s health not only for the sake of Donal himself, and the welfare of the kingdom, but also for the impact this illness might have on Alaric, if the king should fail to recover.

  After the first few days, the priests began a campaign of prayers for the king’s recovery, while the king’s council uneasily saw to the business of running the kingdom with Duke Richard at the helm and Prince Brion at his right hand. At least in public, no one dared to speculate on how things might change under the direction of a new king only just come of age.

  THE king lingered hardly a fortnight, drifting in and out of consciousness but never really lucid enough to convey proper instructions to his heir. He slipped away in the early morning hours of the fourteenth of November, cradled in the arms of his beloved queen and surrounded by his two surviving sons, his half-brother, and most of the members of the royal council, with two archbishops praying for the repose of his soul.

  “He’s gone,” the royal physician murmured, when a final breath rattled from Donal’s lips and no more followed. As he leaned closer to confirm, then gently closed the king’s eyes, Richeldis gave a tiny sob, turning her head away. Duke Richard drew himself to attention and made a final bow to his dead brother, then a deeper one to his nephew, who was now become Gwynedd’s sovereign lord at fourteen years of age.

  “The king is dead,” Richard said steadily. “Long live the king!”

  Looking dazed, the new king bent to kiss his sire’s hand a final time, then slipped the Haldane Ring of Fire from a slack finger, though he did not put it on, only closed it in his fist, which he then brought to his chest in salute, head bowed.

  The eight-year-old Prince Nigel, now become heir presumptive until his brother should produce an heir, came next to pay his respects, urged forward by Kenneth, tears trickling down his cheeks as he bent to kiss his father’s cheek. His two sisters had said good-bye a few hours before and been taken to their rooms, though it was doubtful whether they slept. The two archbishops, after approaching to bow deeply to the silent figure in the queen’s arms, then withdrew a short distance and knelt in prayer, beginning the traditional litany for the dead.

  “Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine…Et lux perpetua luceat ei.

  “Tibi, Domine, commendamus animam famuli tui Donal…” O Lord, we commend to Thee the soul of Thy servant Donal, that, having departed from this world, he may live with Thee…

  Chapter 21

  “He left behind him an avenger against his enemies,

  and one that shall require kindness to his friends.”

  —ECCLESIASTICUS 30:6

  FEW in Rhemuth Castle slept much in what remained of that night, as scribes began to prepare the letters announcing the king’s death and the crown council began drafting preliminary plans for the late king’s state funeral. The archbishops, retiring to the cathedral, set in motion a succession of Masses for the departed king’s soul and began their own discussions regarding the new king’s coronation. Given the difficulties of winter travel, it was suggested that the ceremony should coincide with Twelfth Night Court, hardly six weeks away, when most of those required at a coronation would already have made plans to journey to Rhemuth. King and council concurred.

  That day, while a sleep-deprived new king let himself be swept along with the endless minutiae of taking up the reins of government, deftly guided by Duke Richard, the late king’s body was prepared for burial and laid out in state in the chapel royal, where a rota of Haldane lancers was organized to provide a continuous guard of honor, augmented by additions of knights and other notables.

  Meanwhile, the royal apartments were cleared of the late king’s personal belongings, the dowager queen moved to the quarters traditionally reserved for royal widows, adjacent to the royal gardens, and the few personal items belonging to Prince Brion moved into his new lodgings. It was Lord Kenneth Morgan who, that first evening after Donal’s passing, returned to the late king’s apartments privily to deliver certain Haldane regalia into the new king’s keeping.

  “Lord Kenneth,” Prince Brion said dully, himself answering Kenneth’s tentative rap on his door. The jet-black of his hair and the black of his mourning attire made his pale face appear to hang in midair against the semi-darkness in the chamber beyond.

  Kenneth glanced past Brion into the obviously empty reception chamber, then nodded to the boy. Brion had allowed his mother to appropriate the Lorsöli carpet he had received in June, so there was little yet in place to mark the space as his own.

  “May I come in, my Liege?” he said quietly.

  Not speaking, Brion inclined his head and stepped aside to admit the older man.

  “I’ve brought several special bequests from your father,” Kenneth said, when the king had closed the door. “They probably would have come to you in time, but he wanted to be certain that you understood the importance of these particular items.” He produced a cloth-wrapped bundle from underneath his cloak, about the size of a man’s two fists. “Shall I show you?”

  Somewhat taken aback, Brion gestured vaguely toward a small table set before the fire, flanked by two straight-backed chairs with arms. The movement caught firelight in the stones of his father’s ring.

  “Please,” he murmured, as he moved toward the table, himself settling onto one of the chairs.

  “Thank you, Sire.” Kenneth set his bundle on the table and took the other chair, then reached into the pouch at his waist to produce a much smaller lump of folded fabric.

  “I think this may be the more important of the two items,” Kenneth said, unwrapping the lump to disclose the Eye of Rom, glowing like a burning coal in its cocoon of scarlet velvet. “I don’t think I ever saw your father without it, in all the years I served him.” He gestured toward the more modest hoop of braided gold wire still affixed in Brion’s right earlobe. “Shall I help you change over?”

  Brion’s hand had gone to his ear as Kenneth spoke, and he nodded somewhat dazedly, reaching out with his other hand to not quite touch the Eye of Rom as the older man rose to come to his other side.

  “Thank you,” the young king whispered, as Kenneth bent to the task of opening the hoop. “It did occur to me, right after he died, that the Eye of Rom now belonged to me. But I thought it mig
ht have seemed…well, ghoulish, to just take it from him right then—far different from merely putting on his ring.”

  “No, you did the right thing,” Kenneth said quietly. He removed the hoop and put it in Brion’s hand, then took the Eye of Rom from its nest of velvet and carefully threaded its wire through the royal earlobe. Brion closed his eyes as the deed was done, biting at his lip as Kenneth closed the fastening.

  “There, that’s better,” Kenneth said. So saying, he returned to his chair to begin unwrapping the larger bundle, containing his smile as the young king exhaled a deep breath and dared to look at him again, gingerly touching his right ear.

  “Should I…feel different?” he asked softly.

  “I don’t know,” Kenneth replied truthfully. “It’s my understanding that my wife will be able to clarify many of the questions I’m sure you must have.” He folded back the last layer of fabric in the larger bundle to reveal a wide silver cuff-bracelet engraved with a pattern of running lions with their legs and tails interlaced. “When you speak to her, you’ll want to have this with you. And that Haldane cloak clasp that your father always wore.”

  Brion nodded, picking up the bracelet to finger it thoughtfully. He was already wearing the cloak clasp, though it was half-hidden in the folds of his fur-lined black cloak. He brushed it with his fingertips, then looked up at Kenneth again.

  “They have something to do with my father’s Haldane powers, don’t they?” he said softly.

  Kenneth averted his gaze, for he had been forbidden to speak of the matter—in fact, was not able to speak of it.

  “I cannot answer that, Sire,” he whispered. “Please do not ask me, for both our sakes.”

  Brion looked questioningly at him, head cocked in consideration. When Kenneth offered nothing more, the king shrugged and leaned back in his chair.