The King's Deryni

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Which means that you could still score nine, if you don’t miss any more,” Llion agreed.

  “And if I don’t fall off!” Duncan retorted, rolling his eyes, though he was climbing down from the fence rail as he said it.

  “You won’t fall off!” Llion called after the boy as he took off toward the ring lists.

  Kenneth set a comradely hand on Llion’s shoulder as they watched Duncan disappear amid the milling pages and ponies at the far end of the lists, smiling as the younger man turned to glance at him.

  “He won’t fall off, my lord,” Llion said somewhat defensively. “His seat is as good as Alaric’s, and the pony is rock steady.”

  “I know that,” Kenneth replied, giving the other’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I was simply appreciating your skill with children. You need to be a father, Llion.”

  The young knight looked momentarily startled, then a trifle bashful. “One day, perhaps I shall, my lord. I do enjoy children. But I’m young yet, and my first duty is to you, and to your son. There will be time enough for a wife and children of my own when Alaric is farther along in his training.”

  “Loyally spoken,” Kenneth agreed. “But do keep in mind that the two are not mutually exclusive.”

  “No, my lord, but right now, I think it more important to help ensure that your son survives to adulthood—and that the king survives.”

  Kenneth nodded, glancing over to where the king was readying for his next joust, conferring with his two uncles. “Yes, that is the challenge, isn’t it?” he murmured under his breath.

  The two returned their attention to the milling youngsters nearer the start of the ring run, where Duncan had just taken a ring, to the delight of Alaric, who punched his lance into the air in approval. Then they watched as squires set up a new ring while Alaric lined up for his run. Thus far, he was the only one in the youngest age group to ride a perfect set—and as Kenneth and Llion watched, Alaric took his eighth ring.

  “Good lad,” Llion murmured.

  Back at the senior lists beyond, the king was preparing to ride a pas à barrière against Sir Jamyl Arilan, under the keen scrutiny of Duke Richard and Prince Ronan, his cousin. Earlier in the afternoon, Brion had unhorsed Ronan, but Jamyl was far more experienced at the pas. On this sultry June afternoon, with the major competitions finished and their prizes given, the crowd was thinning, but many had stayed to watch the new royal knight’s performance—save for Kenneth and Llion, whose attention was divided between him and Kenneth’s son. The boy’s runs were closer together now, as other contenders were eliminated.

  “Steady, lad . . . ,” Llion breathed, all but holding his breath—and then exhaled as Alaric took another ring.

  “Good!” Kenneth said, lifting a hand to wave as his son turned to watch the squires position a new ring and saw him. Grinning, the boy saluted with his ring-laden lance, then quickly returned his attention to lining up for the next run. “What was that, eight, nine?”

  “This will be the tenth, my lord,” Llion replied, not taking his eyes from his young charge as Alaric gigged his mount, starting forward, and the tip of his lance dropped toward the target. “No misses, thus far—and that is ten! Well done!” he called in a louder voice, lifting a clenched fist in salute as a patter of applause also acknowledged the performance—mostly from young girls and even the king’s sisters, Kenneth noted. But then, Alaric was a very attractive boy, with his silver-gilt hair and pale eyes.

  “Well done, indeed,” Kenneth agreed. “That’s an excellent showing. Have any of the others done as well?”

  “Not in this youngest age group, or even the next older,” Llion replied. He jutted his chin in the direction of the glowering Cornelius, who had jumped down from his fence-rail perch and was stomping off to join the other pages. “Some of the others are none too happy, of course—especially that one. I’ve seen a few of the oldest pages ride very well and take lots of rings, as one might expect—some of those about ready to move up to squire—but I wasn’t able to keep track of exact numbers. Still and all, this has been quite an extraordinary achievement for a lad who technically isn’t even a page yet.”

  “Well, Duke Andrew means to make him one at Michaelmas, when he turns eight,” Kenneth said. “We’ve already discussed it, and Alaric is ready. The king is eager to have him at court, of course, but even he agrees that Alaric is probably better off learning the basics away from court.”

  “Aye, away from the likes of yon Cornelius and his ilk,” Llion muttered fiercely.

  Kenneth sighed, but in resignation. “Unfortunately, that’s true,” he agreed. “Once he has to fight his own battles, with boys his own age and even older, it won’t be easy, being who and what he is. Pray God, we can shelter him until he’s ready to do that.” He shrugged lightly. “But look, the king and Jamyl are finally ready to go.”

  Over in the adult lists, the king was, indeed, preparing to engage, saluting his opponent at the far end of the barrière and then releasing his mount to the charge in an explosion of thundering hooves. Jamyl was a few years older than the king, and had received part of his training at King Illann’s court, where jousting was more common, but Brion easily held his own; neither scored more than a grazing hit of lance to shield.

  “They’re testing one another,” Kenneth murmured under his breath, watching both men keenly.

  “Aye, this next run will be more in earnest,” Llion agreed.

  “Jamyl is good, though,” Kenneth said. “I’ve ridden against him.”

  “So have I,” Llion replied, “and tasted dust more than once. But then, so did he,” he added with a grin.

  As the pair wheeled for another run, Alaric came trotting up happily on his pony, his stack of ten rings borne proudly on his junior-sized lance.

  “Papa, did you see me?” the boy crowed. “Did you see?”

  “I did, indeed, and you did very well,” Kenneth replied somewhat distractedly, reaching down to take the pony’s reins. “You mustn’t gloat, though. Come up and sit with Llion and me. The king is going to have another go at Sir Jamyl.”

  Again baring his gap-toothed grin, Alaric let Llion take his lance to lean it against the fence, then clambered up to sit in the curve of his father’s arm, between him and Llion. Kenneth could feel him tense as the pair began their second run, always concerned for the king. This time, Jamyl’s lance shattered against the king’s shield with a force that sent the royal rider reeling precariously in the saddle, but Brion managed to keep both his seat and his weapon. As he drew up at the end of the barrière and turned, gentling his excited mount, he saluted with his lance, grinning.

  “Again, Jamyl!” he shouted. “You’re going to have to do better than that. And I still think I can take you!”

  “You can try, Sire!” Jamyl replied, good-natured laughter in his voice as he trotted over to the sideline and discarded what was left of his lance, then selected another from a rack.

  “I shall do more than try!” Brion returned.

  Again they took their places at either end of the barrière and prepared to engage, suddenly loosing to the charge, lances lowering as their horses gathered speed. This time, both lances shattered against shields, but it was Jamyl who reeled in his saddle, though he, too, quickly recovered his seat and pulled to a halt, tossing aside his shattered lance as he turned his mount.

  “Well struck, Sire!—but perhaps we should call this a draw,” he called, raising the visor of his tournament helm. “You very nearly had me that time! Give an old man a break!”

  Brion guffawed and handed off the stub of his lance to his brother Nigel, who was squiring for him, then trotted his horse back to meet Jamyl midway, halting knee to knee with him to clasp forearms across the barrière.

  “Old man, indeed!” the king declared. “But you’d better not be saying that just to salve my pride.”

  “I think not, Nephew,�
� Duke Richard said, chuckling as he walked out to join the pair. “It was well ridden—both of you. But your lady mother asks that this please be the last challenge of the day. You know how she dislikes the heat and dust. She would like to award the rest of the prizes, so that our guests can retire for a few hours to refresh themselves before the evening’s festivities.”

  Brion glanced toward the reviewing stand, where his mother and sisters were conferring with King Illann, then laughed and leaned toward Jamyl conspiratorially. “What she means is, she doesn’t want her hall polluted by a bunch of sweaty, smelly men who’ve been in armor all afternoon.”

  “Can you blame her?” Jamyl replied, grinning.

  “No, but I really wanted to trounce you, Jamyl,” Brion responded, turning beseeching eyes on his uncle. “Can we not ride one more pass, Uncle? Please?”

  “Only if you wish to incur the resentment of an exasperated queen,” Richard replied. “Be content with a draw, as Sir Jamyl suggests. Either of you could do far worse. Part as equals, knight to knight.”

  For a moment, Brion looked like he might continue to protest, but then he quirked a reluctant smile and pulled off his helm, handing it down to Richard.

  “Oh, very well. I accept the draw.” He pulled off his gauntlets and tossed them into the helm Richard offered up. “And I suppose there’s an element of grace encompassed in the knightly vows I made today. Something about courtesy to ladies, as I recall. I daresay that queens fall in that category, and especially one’s mother.”

  He turned in the saddle to glance back at the reviewing stand and, as his mother rose, raised a hand in salute and then brought it to his breast and bowed over it. Duke Richard was smiling as he and Nigel led the king’s horse over to the sidelines for Brion to dismount.

  “Well, that’s settled happily enough,” Kenneth said, handing the pony’s reins to Llion. “Or maybe not.”

  Across the yard behind them, his attention had been caught by a cloaked, dark-clad figure sitting motionless astride a coal-black R’Kassan steed with bardings as black as his master’s garb. The lower part of his face was obscured by the veil of a black headdress worn in the desert manner, but the eyes were a piercing blue above the swath of black.

  “Llion, why don’t you take Alaric over to the watering trough to clean up a bit? They’ll be calling the pages for the prize giving soon.” Not taking his eyes from the newcomer, he plucked Alaric from the fence rail and set him on his feet. “Better collect your rings, son, and then go with Llion. I’ll join you directly.”

  He did not wait to see whether the pair obeyed him; only grabbed the reins of his waiting mount and swung up, the horse already moving as he settled into the saddle. He could sense curious eyes shifting in his direction as he set off briskly across the mostly empty field, obviously headed toward the mysterious black-clad rider, who did not move from his place. As he drew abreast of the man, halting stirrup to stirrup, the black-swathed head inclined in greeting.

  “Kenneth.”

  Chapter 3

  “Because thou hast been my help, therefore in the shadow of thy wings will I rejoice.”

  —PSALMS 63:7

  WHAT are you doing here?” Kenneth whispered, his gaze flicking warily around them. “Can they see you?”

  The black-clad man lifted one hand to pull down the veil from the lower part of his face. As he did so, Kenneth caught the flash of a dark tattoo at the inner wrist, of a small, equal-armed cross.

  “They can now,” the man said softly, a faint smile moving in the close-clipped dark beard. “I shouldn’t want your companions to think you addled, talking to thin air. I’ve come to pay my respects to Gwynedd’s new premier knight—and perhaps cross lances with him, though I fear I may have arrived too late for that. Please ask if he will meet me in the center of the field, so I may offer the congratulations of my Order. Beyond that, the others need not know who I am.”

  “You seem very certain he’ll agree,” Kenneth muttered, though he found himself already backing his mount to turn and head in the direction of the king. Instructions from Sir Sé Trelawney were not easy to ignore—and in all fairness, the Deryni knight had always been an unfailing friend to Gwynedd and its royal line, and to the kin of Kenneth’s late wife. Most recently, at least so far as Kenneth was aware, Sé had made an appearance at Brion’s coronation, apparently seen by only a very few, and then had held brief but intense private converse with the new king later that evening.

  Now Sé had returned, this time in view of the whole court, with yet another mysterious mission regarding Gwynedd’s king. For a Knight of the Anvil to make an appearance in the West was regarded as a singular honor, given the near-legendary prestige of the Order, at least in more eastern climes. During the reign of King Bearand Haldane, Anviler knights and members of the Order of St. Michael had held back Moorish incursions and policed the sea lanes against marauding pirates; and later, they were said to have given refuge to fugitive Michaelines after the suppression of that order, some of whom had been Deryni. No one knew how many of the present Anviler order might be Deryni, but the presence of any foreign Deryni in Gwynedd would always be cause for concern, if it became known.

  Which made Kenneth’s next task all the more delicate. The king knew that Sé was Deryni, but his father had not known; and the Sé Trelawney of today was not the Sé Trelawney knighted by Donal Haldane some sixteen years before. Complicating matters was the presence of Duke Richard and the king’s younger brother, Nigel, standing nearby—and Jamyl Arilan, sitting his horse just behind the king. Though Kenneth had learned that Jamyl was Deryni (though he was forbidden to speak of it), he doubted anyone else at court knew, even Brion. And he did not know whether Jamyl was aware of Sé Trelawney.

  “Kenneth, you’re too late,” Brion said good-naturedly, still a-horse as he tugged at the buckle of a vambrace. “Uncle Richard tells me I must bow to the wishes of the ladies. A pity, because I’d hoped you and I might cross lances today.”

  “You may wish to reconsider, Sire,” Kenneth murmured, with a nod of acknowledgment to Duke Richard. “Yon black knight wishes to convey his respects, and hopes that the newly knighted Sir Brion Haldane might consent to meet him on the field of honor.”

  He jutted his chin in the direction of Sé, who had tucked the veil of his headdress back into place as Kenneth crossed the field, once again obscuring his lower face, and now was donning the helmet previously hung at his saddlebow. Both the king and Richard gave the newcomer careful scrutiny, the latter with something more akin to suspicion, for the rider’s attire suggested origins far to the east, perhaps from the lands of Gwynedd’s enemies. Jamyl, too, looked keenly interested.

  “Who is he?” Richard demanded, bristling slightly. “He looks Torenthi.”

  Shaking his head, Kenneth smiled and leaned his elbows easily on his high pommel, beginning to enjoy the exchange. “He is not Torenthi,” he replied, turning his gaze to Brion. “He is a friend, I assure you. Your father gave him the accolade, though he is no longer in service to Gwynedd.”

  “To whom is he in service, then?” Jamyl interjected, unable to contain himself any longer.

  “Not to any enemy of ours,” Kenneth assured him. “His service is to God, if you will. He is a Knight of the Order of the Anvil. But he prefers that his more particular identity not be made public. The king knows him.”

  Brion had begun nodding as Kenneth spoke, obviously making the connection, and turned his grey gaze on his uncle.

  “Yes, I do know him, Uncle,” he said quietly. “Pray, go to my lady mother and beg her indulgence for one last bout. For I think I owe much to this man.”

  “But—”

  “Just do as I say!” Brion retorted, the steel of command in his voice. “And Jamyl, make certain that no one interferes. No one! Nigel, I’ll have my helm and gauntlets back.” He retrieved the gauntlets from the helm that Nigel timidly offered up, then
handed the helm across to Kenneth. “Ride with me.”

  He pulled on the gauntlets as they slowly made their way toward the center of the field, never taking his eyes from the now-helmeted rider in black, who had tossed his cloak back on his shoulders and was selecting a white-painted tournament lance from a rack tended by a nervous-looking squire. A white belt gleamed against the black of boiled leather tournament armor, and a blank shield now adorned his left arm, borrowed for the occasion.

  All around them, spectators were congregating along the sides of the field. The queen had risen and moved to the front of the royal pavilion, to stand anxiously with one hand on Duke Richard’s arm. King Illann and Prince Ronan stood uncertainly to her other side, quietly conferring. Across the field, nearer the junior lists, Jared had pulled Llion to one side by the bicep and clearly was interrogating him. Llion, in turn, had both hands set firmly on young Alaric’s shoulders, and was shaking his head.

  All this Kenneth noted, the while watching Brion sidelong as the two of them rode out to meet the rider in black. All around them, a hush of anticipation was settling over the field. It was not uncommon for newly fledged knights to accept challenges in honor of their coming of age as warriors—Brion had been doing it all afternoon—but clearly, this challenger was new come to the field, and unknown to virtually everyone save Kenneth and, apparently, the king. When the rider had come within a few horse lengths of the king, he halted and slowly dipped his lance in salute, letting its tip rest lightly on the ground.

  “Hail, Brion of Gwynedd,” he said quietly, blue eyes ablaze within the shadows of his helm. “I offer you the reverence accorded a king, but my business today is with Sir Brion Haldane. Will he honor me with a pas à barrière?”

  “You . . .” the king whispered wonderingly. “You were at my coronation.”

  “And told you then that I should be there for you, when you have need. Today your need is to demonstrate that you are not afraid to face a seasoned warrior in battle. Your men are watching. . . .”