"Yes, M'lord," said Derry, taking the hint and gesturing to the two squires accompanying him. "Now if you'll just follow me, gentlemen, I'll show you how His Grace likes things done."
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Morgan shook his head and chuckled as Derry took things in hand, then followed them into the room. At least he wouldn't have to show up at the coronation looking like the legendary Wild Man of Torenth now. And explanations to Derry would have fo wait until they had some privacy.
Elsewhere in the palace, another was also about his business—one whose day had begun several hours earlier in a place not many miles away. From the arms of an incredibly beautiful and evil woman he had come, borne on the wings of a Deryni spell to complete a specific task and then return.
In an alcove just off one of the main corridors, he bided his time, waiting for just the right passers-by. A fairly large group of pages and squires in formal livery came past, laden with white and golden robes which could only be Kelson's. But these were not the ones he sought this morning.
As the entourage passed, he pretended to be absorbed with a temperamental fastening on his cloak of gold. As soon as they were past, however, he resumed his vigil.
-After perhaps ten minutes of this subterfuge, and perhaps three repeats of the cloak ruse, his quarry came into sight as he had known they would: two royal squires carrying a resplendent black velvet cloak and a polished wooden jewel case,
lan timed his interference perfectly, stepping into their path just as they came abreast of his alcove. The maneuver cost one of them his footing, as had been intended. And then lan was apologizing profusely and helping the young man to his feet, helping him pick up the baubles and chains which had spilled from the wooden chest.
It never occurred to the young man to check the contents of the chest after the encounter; never oc-
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curred to him that the great Lord lan might have substituted another item for one particularly fine badge of office—that of the King's Champion.
In Kelson's quarters, Morgan gave himself a critical appraisal in the hand mirror as Deny wiped the last traces of soap from his lord's chin and ears. After a bath and a shave, he felt almost like a new man. And sitting here in clean shirt and breeches was more luxury than he could remember for months. It was almost enough to make him appreciate the fortune of his noble birth.
As Berry dismissed the two squires who had been assisting him, Duncan slipped into the room with a silent signal that the young Marcher lord should give no warning. Gliding up quietly behind Morgan, he exchanged places with Derry and continued dusting lint from the white linen shirt.
"Well, well. The prodigal seeks to amend his appearance!"
Morgan whirled in surprise, almost reaching for his weapon, then relaxed sad grinned as he realized it was Duncan. With a wave, he dismissed Derry to continue with his other duties, then settled back in his chair as Duncan came around hi front of the fireplace.
"I do wish you wouldn't sneak up on me like that," Morgan said. "If Derry hadn't been here, I might have taken off your head before I realized it was you."
Duncan smiled and sat down casually on the arm of another chair. "You would have realized in time," he said quietly. "Ail uneventful night after I left, I take it?'*
Morgan nodded. "What else could have happened?"
"Earthquakes, floods, more miracles?" Duncan shrugged. "Anyway, I have a little surprise for you this morning,"
"Are you sure I can stand it?" Morgan asked dubiously. "After some of the surprises I've had in the
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past twenty-four hours, I'm not sure I'm ready for any more."
"Oh, it isn't really much," Duncan answered with a droll smile. He reached into his cinture and removed something small wrapped in a scrap of velvet, dropped it into Morgan's hand. "Kelson asked me to see that you got this. It seems you're to be his Champion."
"His Champion?" Morgan retorted, his eyes snapping up to stare at Duncan. "How do you know that?"
"Well, after all, Kelson does tell me a few things he doesn't tell you," Duncan said, gazing innocently at the ceiling. "Besides, who did you think it would be, you crazy war horse? Me?"
Morgan laughed delightedly and shook his head, then eagerly unwrapped the scrap of velvet Inside was a massive signet ring, an oval cabochon-cut onyx etched with the Golden Lion of Gwynedd on its face.
Morgan stared at it hi fascination for a moment, then breathed on it and polished it against his sleeve. The gem gleamed like frozen midnight as Morgan slipped it onto his right index finger, then held out both hands, palms down. The Lion of Gwynedd and the Corwyn Gryphon winked gold and green in the light.
"I really didnt expect this,** Morgan finally breathed, lowering his hands and standing there sheepishly. "I still don't understand how he did it, either. The office of King's Champion has always been a hereditary post."
He glanced again at the ring, as though stifl unable to believe, then shook his head lightly.
Duncan smiled and glanced around the room. "Where is Kelson, by the way?"
"In the bath," Morgan replied, picking up one of his freshly polished boots and dusting it off with a cloth. *'He was a bit—shall I say, *upset?*—about having to have dressers this morning. He wanted to know why
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he couldn't dress himself. I implied that this was just one of the trials of kingship he'd have to put up with, and that seemed to satisfy him for the most part."
Duncan picked up Morgan's other boot and chuckled. "When he sees everything he's got to wear today, he'll be very glad he's got those dressers. Many's the time I've been grateful for even one assistant to help me vest for some important ceremony." He gave a weary sigh. "There are always so many little laces and ties."
Morgan snatched his other boot from Duncan and snorted, "Ha! You know you love it!" He began dusting the boot energetically. "By the way, any trouble last night?"
"Only getting to sleep," Duncan replied. He watched as Morgan began pulling on his boots, then picked up his cousin's discarded mail shirt and turned it right-side out. Morgan stuck his head and arms into the mail and settled it over his shoulders, smoothed the light links over the white linen shirt he had donned after his bath.
Over that, he drew on a fine, light-weight shirt of scarlet silk and began lacing it up the front. Duncan laced the sleeves Close to his wrists, then held out a black velvet doublet edged with gold embroidery and pearls. Morgan whistled lightly under his breath at the extravagance of the garment, then eased it on without further comment. He adjusted the full, split sleeves to show the scarlet beneath, then held up his arms while Duncan wrapped his waist with a wide, crimson sash.
As he reached for his sword in its worn leather scabbard, clipped it to a ring hidden in the sash, Dun-can stepped back to view the overall effect. The priest gave him a long, appraising stare, then shook his head and raised an eyebrow in mock despair.
"Nope, I'm afraid there's simply no getting around it," he muttered. "In spite of everything, I do believe
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you'll be the most devilishly handsome Champion we've had in a long time!"
"You're absolutely right!" Morgan agreed striking a pose.
"And you will also be the most conceited Champion we've ever had!" his cousin went on.
"What?"
Duncan wagged an indignant finger. "Now, Alaric, remember. I'm your spiritual father. I'm only telling you this for your own good!"
It was no longer possible to maintain a straight face. Morgan was the first to realize that fact, and he promptly dissolved into peals of laughter, hands held helplessly to his sides. Almost simultaneously, Duncan, too, burst out laughing and collapsed weakly in the overstuffed chair, no longer able to control himself.
Presently, a red-liveried attendant poked his head through the doorway to Kelson's dressing ro
om. His expression was very disapproving, for he had heard the laughter even inside, and his tone was cool as he addressed the two young lords.
"Is there anything wrong, Your Grace?**
Morgan managed to control his' laughter enough to shake his head and wave the man off, then sobered and called out again. "Is His Highness ready yet? Monsignor McLain has to leave for the cathedral soon."
"I'm ready now, Father," Kelson said, sweeping into the room.
As Morgan straightened, Duncan came to his feet, both of them scarcely able to believe that this white and gold-clad King was the same boy who had knelt with them so frightened the night before.
All in silk and satin, he stood before them like a young angel, the creamy whiteness of his raiment broken only by the subtle play of gold and rubies encrusting the edges. Over the whole was thrown a magnifi-
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cent ivory cloak, the satin stiff with gold and silver jewelwork and lined in clear crimson.
In his hands he held a pair of spotless kid gloves and a pair of gold-chased silver spurs. His raven head was bare, as befits an uncrowned monarch.
"I see you've been informed of your new title," the boy said, eyeing Morgan's change of garb with approval. "Here," he held out the spurs. "These are for you."
Morgan sank to one knee and bowed his head. "My prince, I'm at a loss for words."
"Nonsense," Kelson retorted. "You'd better not be tongue-tied when I need you most."
He handed the spurs to Morgan and motioned him to rise, then turned to the attendant who still stood in the doorway.
"Giles, do you have the rest of General Morgan's regalia?'*
The man bowed and signalled through the doorway, and three more attendants entered, two of them carrying the regalia lan had intercepted in the corridor earlier that morning. The third carried a wide baldric of red leather, the edges tooled in gold. All three stood at attention in a single line beside their leader.
Kelson turned back to Morgan. "As King's Champion, there are a few items you're required to wear at ceremonials," he said, a slight smile on his face. "I'm sure you won't mind if my dressers help you with them while I speak with my confessor."
As the three dressers swarmed around Morgan with their regalia, the prince motioned Duncan to follow him. They went out on the balcony and closed the doors. Through the glass, they could see the dressers fussing over an annoyed Morgan, Kelson watched the scene for a moment, then turned to Duncan.
"Do you think he'll be terribly upset with me, Father?"
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Duncan smiled and shook his head. "I doubt it, my prince. He was too proud when you entered the room to be angry for long."
Kelson smiled fleetingly and looked out over the city, leaning his elbows on the cold stone balcony railing. The chill wind stirred his hair slightly, but the cloak was too heavy to be affected. Overhead, storm clouds raced across the sky, threatening to cover the sun, and the air had grown suddenly damp,
Kelson clasped his arms across his chest and looked down for a long moment, then finally spoke in a low voice.
"Father, what makes a man a King?"
Duncan considered the question for a moment, then joined the boy at the rail.
"I'm not certain anyone can really say, my son," he answered thoughtfully, "It may well be that kings are not so different from ordinary men after all. Except, of course, that they have a graver responsibility. I think you need have little worry on that count."
"But some kings are not ordinary men, Father," Kelson said quietly. "How do they cope with what is demanded of them? And suppose a king finds that he's not extraordinary after all? What does he do when the same demands are still made, when—"
"You are not an ordinary man, Kelson," Duncan stated flatly. "And you will be an extraordinary King. Do not doubt it. And never forget it."
Kelson mulled the answer for a long moment, then turned and knelt at the feet of the priest.
"Father, give me your blessing," he whispered, bowing his head. "Extraordinary or not, I'm frightened. And I don't feel at all like a King."
Morgan fussed and fumed as the royal wardrobers swarmed around him, trying hard to stand still and submit gracefully since he knew Kelson could see him
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from the balcony. It was difficult, however. He was simply ill at ease when surrounded by so many attendants.
Two of the squires were kneeling at his feet, carefully affixing the gilded spurs to his boots, giving the smooth black leather a final polish. The one called Giles took Morgan's sword and handed it to one of his companions, then took the red leather baldric and looped it across Morgan's chest. As he reattached the sword, Morgan breathed a little easier, for he had felt almost naked without his blade. And the slim stiletto hi its mail sheath at his wrist would have been little use if any of these men had decided to rid the world of another Deryni.
As Morgan adjusted the hilt of the sword to his liking, Giles went to the wooden jewel chest and took out a dark golden chain of office with pendant badge. He was not permitted the satisfaction of further ceremony, however. For Morgan took the chain from him before he could even try to assist, placed it around his own neck. The sooner he could get through with this, the better he would like it.
The two squires kneeling at his feet gave his boots a final wipe with their cloths, then stood, and a third adjusted the sleeves of his doublet for at least the third time. Then they ushered him before a mirror held by Giles, where the squires of the spurs now held out a magnificent black velvet cloak collared in black fox and lined with deep crimson silk.
Morgan was forced to raise an eyebrow at that, for never before had he worn a garment so resplendent. As the squires fastened it in place on his shoulders, adjusted the chain of office so that the collar did not interfere, Morgan had to admit that the overall effect was impressive.
He was just turning to admire his profile in the mirror when there was a tremendous pounding on the
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door. Morgan's hand went to the hilt of his sword and the dressers stood back in surprise as the pounding stopped, then resumed again.
"Alaric! Alaric, are you still in there? I've got to talk to you!" It was Nigel's voice.
Morgan reached the door in about four long strides and threw back the bolt. Even as he opened the door, Nigel pushed his way through and closed the door behind him. The royal duke was obviously shaken.
"Where's Kelson?" he asked, his eyes scanning the room anxiously as he moved away from the door. "All of you," he motioned to the dressers, "out!"
As they left, Morgan went to the balcony doors and tapped on the glass. Duncan looked up, saw Morgan's serious expression, Nigel behind, and nodded. As he helped Kelson to his feet, Morgan opened the doors to the balcony and; stood aside for prince and priest to enter.
"What is it, Uncle?** Kelson questioned in alarm, seeing the grave expression on Nigel's face and sensing that something of great import was about to be said.
Nigel chewed his lower lip and scowled. How could he tell the boy what he'd just seen? And worse, how could he relate the facts without making them sound like an accusation?
"Kelson," he began, not meeting anyone's eyes, "I have something to tell you that isn't going to be easy—*'
"Get to the point," Morgan interrupted.
Nigel nodded and swallowed hard, then began again.
"Very well. Someone broke into Brion's tomb last night."
Kelson glanced quickly at Morgan and Duncan, then back at Nigel. "Go on, Uncle."
Nigel hazarded a glance at Kelson, then looked down in slight dismay, for the boy did not seem surprised at the news. Could it be... ?
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"Someone broke into the crypt and opened the sep-ulcher," Nigel continued cautiously. "They stripped him of his jewels and fine robes," his voice broke, "then left him lyi
ng cold and naked on the stone floor." His voice- became a whisper. "The two guards were found at their posts with their throats neatly slit, with no sign of a struggle. And Rogier—Rogier is dead by the tomb, with his own hand on the dagger and a terrible expression on his face, as though he fought whatever it was that made him do it."
Kelson's face went white and he clutched at Dun-can's arm for support. Duncan, too, was very pale, and Morgan glanced uncomfortably at the floor.
"Are you asking whether we had anything to do with it, Nigel?" Morgan said quietly.
"You?" NigeFs head snapped up with a start. "God, I know you weren't responsible, Alaric!" He glanced down again and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, even more ill at ease than before. "You know what the others will say, though, don't you?"
"That the cursed Deryni has only reverted to true form," Duncan said quietly. "And it will be almost impossible to prove otherwise, because we were at the tomb last night."
Nigel nodded slowly, "I know.**
"You know?" Duncan echoed.
Nigel gave a weary sigh, and his shoulders drooped dejectedly. "That's right. And I'm afraid it's not just Alaric who's implicated this time, either. You see, when I told you they found Rogier dead with his own hand on the dagger, I neglected to mention what was jn his other hand."
The three hung on Nigel's every word.
"It was a gilded silver crucifix—yours, Duncan!"
CHAPTEP THIRTEEN
'"New morn, ring band. "Defender's Sign shall seal. . .."
A gilded silver crucifix—yours, Duncan!
The priest stopped breathing for just an instant There could be no appeal from that accusation, for the crucifix was his. He could not deny it. What had gone into the tomb with Brion on the day of burial was a matter of record. Just as it was now a matter of record that the tomb had been ransacked, and that a simple silver crucifix had been found where it had no right to be.
Duncan suddenly realized he was holding his breath and let it out in a long exhalation. The situation put an entirely different light on things. For now, not only was he implicated in the various questionable doings which had been occurring with such regularity, but his very identity was in jeopardy. As far as he knew, only Alaric and Kelson were aware of his Deryni heritage, and he would prefer that it remain that way. But now, there would be questions concerning his relationship
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