The King's Deryni

by Katherine Kurtz

  To Alaric’s surprise, Llion proceeded to do just that, beating the rug rhythmically and energetically for several minutes, until no more dust flew. When he was finished, he presented the beater to its owner with a bow, then gathered up the rug itself and carried it inside, the woman following in bewilderment. Alaric stared after them uncomprehendingly, even standing in his stirrups to lean forward and peer after them.

  They were gone but a moment. When Llion emerged, the flustered goodwife simpering behind him, he was drinking something from a fist-sized wooden cup, which he handed up to Alaric, mouthing for him to drink it when the boy raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

  “Madam, that is some of the finest buttermilk it has ever been my privilege to sample,” Llion said as he turned back to the adoring goodwife—though Alaric guessed that only Llion’s impeccable good manners had allowed him to offer the compliment; they were neither of them over-fond of buttermilk.

  Alaric’s emerging skill in detecting lies confirmed his observation, but he also realized, as he dutifully drained the cup, that this was one of those social situations when an untruth was not only acceptable but considered gracious. He bowed over the cup as he handed it back to Llion, who bowed similarly as he placed it back in the goodwife’s work-worn hands.

  “Our thanks for your hospitality, Mother,” Llion murmured, “and I wonder if you could tell us if this is the most direct road to Culdi, for I confess that we do not know this area well.”

  The woman curtsied in turn, and clasped the cup to her breast like a sacred relic as she pointed down the road in the direction that the others had gone.

  “Aye, sor, this will take ye to Culdi,” she said, to Llion’s nods of encouragement, “but there be a faster way, just beyond the next village—or ye can go back to the last fork. Tha road ahead joins up wi’ the turning ye passed at the last fork. Turn right a’ th’ church, and ye’ll save near half a day’s ride. They say ’tis a mite harder going, mind ye, but yer horses look fit an’ well fed. Och, and there micht be bandits.”

  “I see,” Llion said, looking incredibly fascinated with what she had just told him, but also taking his reins from Alaric and swinging up into the saddle. “Well, I don’t think bandits will bother so many armed men, but thank you for the warning. And again, I apologize for the dust.”

  “’Tis nae bother, sor,” the goodwife replied, grinning ear to ear as she dipped in a curtsy. “God bless ye, sor.”

  “And you, Mother,” Llion replied, lifting a hand in smiling salute.

  As they headed off after the others, holding back to a walk for the first little while to avoid more dust, Alaric glanced searchingly at the young knight riding at his side.

  “Llion, I don’t understand,” he said quietly.

  “What do you not understand, my lord?”

  “She was only a common woman, but you treated her like a lady of the court.”

  Llion drew rein abruptly, reaching across to grab the boy’s reins and stop him, too, though he did not look at the boy. His clenched jaw told of . . . anger? When he did not speak immediately, only taking a long, slow breath in and out as he stared down at his horse’s mane, Alaric whispered, “Llion?”

  At once the young knight released Alaric’s reins, his gloved hand clenching and unclenching, but he still would not meet Alaric’s gaze as he finally spoke. “You never had the chance to meet my mother, did you?” he said, as he shook his head and leaned heavily against the pommel of his saddle, gazing into the middle distance with a sigh. “No, of course you didn’t. She died when I was still very young, so my father had to teach me the early lessons of courtesy that would have fallen to her. I am told that, when first they met, she was a ‘common woman’ very like the one back yonder—or leastways, of common stock; she was younger.

  “But my father fell deeply in love with her, and she with him, and they married despite the objections of his family. He made her a knight’s lady, and treated her as such until the day she died, bearing my youngest brother. After that, he honored her memory, and taught his sons to do the same.”

  He turned his gaze on Alaric. “In honor of his love for her, he taught us to honor all women for her sake, with the respect we owe to our mother, our sisters, our queen, and the mother of our Lord. Courtesy costs nothing to give, but it is coin of inestimable worth to the recipient. It is a lesson I have tried never to forget.”

  Alaric had listened slack-jawed at this glimpse into the personal life of the young knight he trusted with his life, and thought he understood a bit more, why his parents had chosen Llion to be his governor.

  “I—I didn’t know,” he managed to murmur. “Llion, I’m so sorry. I meant no disrespect.”

  “I know none was intended,” Llion replied, forcing a smile as he reached across to briefly clasp the boy’s shoulder in reassurance. “But many were . . . unkind to my mother during her lifetime, because of her common birth. Yet she was one of the noblest women I have ever met, then or since. She—”

  The approach of several of their knights, returning from farther up the road, interrupted whatever else he might have told Alaric about his mother. Alaric, for his part, was happy for the interruption, for he was well aware that the conversation might have caused his friend embarrassment.

  “Ach, now we’ve tarried too long, and the others are anxious,” Llion said breezily, as he glanced down at the boy with a sheepish expression and signed that they should head for the others. “And that’s their job, after all.”

  Froilán was in the lead, and drew rein as the pair approached.

  “We were beginning to be concerned,” the Kierney knight called. “What kept you?”

  “We stopped to ask directions again, just to be certain,” Llion said. “And a good thing, too. We wanted the other road, after all. This one does go to Culdi—eventually—but the other is quicker by half a day. We can cut across at the next village.”

  Froilán shrugged. “Good that you asked, then. But the others are waiting. We’d best ride.”

  • • •

  THE discussion did not come up again during the remainder of the journey, though Alaric thought about what Llion had told him. There was no privacy to tell Duncan about any part of it, either, though Alaric would like to have been able to talk about the Truth-Reading, at least. They spent nearly a week traveling to Culdi, sometimes camping just off the road, but more often requesting hospitality at noble houses along the way—which was always given generously, when it was learned that the two boys were kin to the old Duke of Cassan, who was dying. That news inevitably brought dismay, for Andrew McLain was admired and respected throughout the north.

  Much to the relief of everyone in the party, the McLain patriarch was yet among the living as they made the final approach to Culdi, toward the end of June. On the last night before they expected to arrive, Llion sent word ahead to ask for an update on the duke’s condition. The reply came late the next morning, when they were only a few hours out. The bearer of the news was Kenneth’s son-in-law, Sir Walter Lithgow, who was the husband of Geill Morgan, Kenneth’s second daughter by his first wife.

  “Sir Walter, what news?” Llion called, as the other drew rein in a cloud of dust.

  Walter gave a weary shrug and shook his head. “He still lives, but for how long, who can say? He eats but little, he speaks not at all.” He sighed. “It is but a matter of time, I fear.”

  The two boys caught only the tail end of the exchange, for they had been riding toward the rear of the party with Tesselin, but it was enough to dampen their spirits for the rest of the ride to Culdi.

  “He’s going to die, isn’t he?” Duncan said tremulously, for he was particularly fond of his grandfather, and Alaric likewise held the old duke in close affection.

  They arrived late in the afternoon, on the heels of a brief spattering of rain that was just enough to leave the air close and sticky, even in the hills abo
ve the town. The guards at the castle gate gave impeccable salute as the dusty band clattered across the ramp that bridged the dry moat, with Walter in the lead, but the demeanor of the grooms who came to take their horses was somber, befitting the deathwatch for a duke.

  “Any change?” Walter asked one of the men, as he swung down from his mount.

  “None for the good, my lord,” the man replied. “The duchess and his sister attend him, along with Lady Kierney.”

  “And Lord Jared? Lord Kenneth?”

  “Lord Jared is receiving petitioners in the hall.” He shrugged apologetically at Llion’s look of surprise. “The lives of the common folk do go on, my lord, even if the life of their liege lord and chief is winding to its close. Lord Kenneth is with him, along with Master Kevin.”

  “Of course,” Llion replied, also dismounting, and signaling Alaric and Duncan to do the same. After a brief visit to their fathers in the hall, and a happy reunion with Kevin, Tesselin stayed with Jared and Kevin, while Llion took the younger boys to see Lady Vera, who came out of Duke Andrew’s sickroom to greet the pair with warm hugs.

  “I have missed you so much!” she whispered, as she knelt down to enfold each in the curve of an arm. “Was your journey exciting?”

  As both boys nodded earnestly, Duncan whispered, “Sometimes we slept in barns, Mama! And Llion let us ride big horses!”

  “Did he?” Vera replied.

  “An’ at the king’s birthday tournament, he gave us prizes!” Alaric chimed in, digging into his belt pouch. “Duncan got a silver coin, ’cause he only got seven rings, but I got a gold one! Look!”

  As he pulled it out to display on his open palm, Vera gravely inspected it, then cocked her head at him.

  “That is a very fine prize. How many rings did you take?”

  “Ten!” Alaric said proudly. “Paget Sullivan took ten, too, but he’s twelve.”

  “Ah, twelve,” Vera said, nodding as she glanced up at Llion. “Well, it appears that both of you did very well, and against boys much older than you. I think we can look forward to having two more very successful warriors in the family. Llion, I’m sure we have you at least partially to thank for this fine showing.”

  “I had excellent material to work with, my lady. And they were very grown-up on the ride here.”

  “Mama, how is Grandrew?” Duncan broke in, using the grandchildren’s pet name for their grandsire. “Can we see him?”

  “Not just now, my love,” Vera said softly, shaking her head sadly. “He’s sleeping. Perhaps later.”

  “Is he very sick?” Alaric whispered.

  “I’m afraid he is, darling. But you’d best go with Llion now. All of you smell of horse—you, too, Llion—so it’s baths for the lot of you!”

  Duncan rolled his eyes, but Vera got no argument from any of them, for the boys did like baths, especially on a hot day. And later, for just a few minutes, their Grandmother Jesma called them in to see Grandrew, who recognized his grandsons and Alaric and pulled them close in a loving hug before slipping back into sleep. After that, the entire enclave settled into the long-drawn process of waiting.

  Chapter 8

  “. . . Well done, thou good and faithful servant . . .”

  —MATTHEW 25:21

  ANDREW McLain Duke of Cassan lingered for another month, in and out of sleep, never speaking, taking but little nourishment, wasting to a frail shadow of the fierce warrior he once had been. His womenfolk made him as comfortable as they could—his wife of more than half a century, his only remaining sister, and his devoted daughter-in-law—but it became increasingly clear that this was the duke’s final battle, in which victory would not be his. In the final days, his sleep became more fitful, his breathing shallower. Toward the very end, a few at a time, his grandchildren and nieces and nephews were brought to his bedside by Jared to say their last good-byes.

  He passed peacefully on the afternoon of the first day of August, surrounded by his extended family, lucid enough in his final hour to give a last blessing to his son and heir; he had long since received the last rites of his faith, the viaticum to sustain him in his final journey.

  When he had breathed his last, a solitary piper outside his chamber window began the slow, mournful strains of a corranach to mark his passing, and grim-faced runners set out to carry the news into the surrounding countryside. In the preceding days and weeks, as word spread of the likely outcome of the old duke’s illness, many of Andrew McLain’s retainers from all over Kierney and Cassan had already gathered outside Culdi town, camping in the fields. More would come in the hours ahead, but less because he had been their duke than because he had been their chief.

  Just at dusk, as the lament of the corranach faded into silence outside the old chief’s window, three McLain chieftains came marching up to the manor house from the town below, bearing torches and accompanied by three pipers, to fetch the old chief’s heir. Hearing the skirl of the pipers’ approach, Jared slung a McLain tartan over one shoulder and took up his father’s sheathed sword to greet them, his eldest son and his wife falling in behind him as he followed the newcomers down the hill, a torchman leading the way and the other two flanking him, the pipers behind. Other members of his family followed, Kenneth and the two younger boys among them, down to the gathering place before the town, where more torches awaited them, ranged in a wide horseshoe shape.

  The pipes abruptly ceased as the chiefly party came into the mouth of the horseshoe and halted. There a household herald in the livery of Cassan proclaimed the titles that came to Jared McLain from the king: Duke of Cassan, Earl of Kierney, and half a dozen subsidiary honors. In time, and at the king’s pleasure, these honors would be confirmed in the king’s presence, and in a manner befitting his exalted rank, but for the moment Jared merely promised to exercise his rank and privileges according to the laws of Gwynedd and the will of the king.

  More important in this place, however, were the highland honors, to be confirmed according to different custom. Formal investiture would take place later, after the late chief’s interment in the ancient McLain burial grounds at Ballymar; but for now, as many of his clansmen looked on, a clan bard declaimed the new chief’s illustrious lineage, direct descendant from a long line of noble chiefs stretching back nearly three hundred years: from Andrew, son of Arnall, son of Roger, son of Andrew, son of Duncan, son of Arthur, son of Charles, son of Angus, son of Iain. . . .

  For Alaric and his cousin Duncan, standing with Alaric’s father, it was a time of both puzzlement and excitement mingled with the sadness, beginning at the very moment of the old duke’s passing. Grandrew, as the children had called him, would be greatly missed, to be sure; but he had been old and sick, and even such young children sensed that his passing had been a blessed release from the prison of his failing body. They stood dutifully if dry-eyed amid the myriad members of Jared’s extended family while the formalities of his accession were proclaimed, not really paying close attention, because they had heard the lineages recited since infancy, and could rattle off noble pedigrees as well as any herald, for that was part of the training of a noble youth, especially boys.

  In due course, the clansfolk came, one by one, to bow heads before the new chief and clasp his hand in homage, giving similar salute to Kevin, who was now the heir. Eventually, the pipers and many of the torchmen escorted Jared and his family back to the manor house, where a modest repast had been laid out to offer hospitality to those who had come so far and waited so patiently.

  The occasion could hardly be aught but subdued, with the old chief lying dead in another chamber. While the women withdrew to prepare his body to lie in state overnight in the castle chapel, Jared and the old duke’s other nearest male relatives began organizing the guard of honor that would keep watch while the people came to pay their respects. With Llion and Tesselin pressed into service to assist in the chapel, Alaric and Duncan took advantage of the evening�
��s informality to raid the long tables for chunks of bread and cheese and a few apples—items that could be secreted inside tunics and carried off for more private consumption—for the looks the pair had been exchanging since leaving Andrew’s death chamber had made it clear that each had things to tell the other that were best said in private.

  Slipping away from the others, the pair made their way out to the castle garden and into the white-gleaming mortuary chapel which was the final resting place of Alaric’s mother and also an infant McLain daughter who had not long survived her birth. The little chapel did not often attract the attention of the adults in residence at Culdi, for there was a proper church not far across another courtyard, but its miniscule size had long made it a favorite place of refuge for the noble children of the ducal household, especially Alaric and Duncan. Tonight, it at once became the safe haven where the pair could compare notes on the day’s events—for it quickly emerged that both boys had sensed the presence of unexpected visitors attendant upon the passing of Andrew McLain’s spirit into the next realm.

  “You mean, you saw something, too?” Duncan whispered, as the two of them hunkered down behind Alyce’s tomb, backs against the side of the massive sarcophagus and knees drawn up under chins. The flicker of votive candles and the steadier flame of the chapel’s vigil lamp lent the illusion of animation to the carved alabaster effigy atop the sarcophagus, almost as if Alyce de Corwyn only lay sleeping above them. “Well, did you?” Duncan persisted, when his cousin did not immediately answer.

  Alaric nodded gravely and glanced at Duncan sidelong. “I saw something. What did you see?”

  “I dunno,” Duncan admitted. “I didn’t exactly . . . see them. Not with my eyes. But I’m sure they were there.” He glanced at the chapel door nervously. “We aren’t supposed to talk about such things.”