The King's Deryni

by Katherine Kurtz

  Alaric could not bear to look at the duke, whom he greatly respected, and found himself hovering on the verge of tears. But Duke Richard did not relent.

  “I trust I need not remind you what happened to young Krispin MacAthan,” the duke went on. “He was precisely your age when narrow-minded men consumed by hatred of your kind contrived to take his life, and in circumstances whose details I hope you do not learn for many years. I do not know whether you are the only Deryni at court—my nephew has not confided in me in that regard, if even he knows—but I do know that whatever other Deryni might be here, they are discreet, they do not call attention to their powers—and that is what enables them to survive. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

  Alaric nodded slowly, still not looking up. He had nearly made a serious mistake, in his instinctive impulse to try to help Maxen. He could see that now. The line he must walk was even more delicate than he had imagined: to learn to use his powers, as they emerged, but to exercise the uttermost discretion in how and when he used them. At least until he was old enough and skilled enough to protect himself.

  “Good, then,” Richard said softly, when it became apparent that the boy was not going to speak. “I trust we shan’t need to have this conversation again for many years, if then. I don’t know who is training you, or even whether anyone is training you; I have no idea what provisions my brother made for seeing you to manhood. But be careful, lad. You have powerful enemies, and neither the king nor I will always be able to protect you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Alaric whispered. “It won’t happen again.”

  “I am very glad to hear that,” Richard replied. “Llion, you keep a tighter rein as well.”

  “Aye, my lord,” Llion murmured, similarly cowed by the duke’s justified anger.

  “That’s all, then. If I were you, I would lie low for a few days—both of you.”

  With only a nod for answer, Llion set his hand firmly on his young charge’s shoulder and marched both of them out of the room, heading up the nearest stair to return to their quarters, rather than going through the great hall. When they were safely behind the door, Alaric moved blindly to the window and stood there for the better part of an hour, gazing out at the rooftops of the castle complex, not speaking. Llion sat down to wait. When the boy finally turned, he gave Llion a long, searching look, as if somehow surprised to see his mentor still there, then returned his gaze to the view out the window.

  “I only wanted to help,” he said. “Was that so very wrong?”

  Llion allowed himself a sigh. “Not so very wrong, no,” he replied, after a beat. “But not so very wise, either. Do you understand that?”

  Sighing, Alaric nodded and turned to sink down on his haunches against the wall beneath the window, hugging his arms around his knees, not meeting Llion’s gaze as he slid to a sitting position.

  “Alaric,” Llion said softly, “what you tried to offer to Maxen was an act of kindness, to ease his pain—except that you are who and what you are. Aside from the danger to you, there might have been a danger to Maxen. There are those who would view such a ‘kindness’ as a corruption, the imposition of an evil power—a taint that might haunt young Maxen for the rest of his life.”

  Alaric had looked up in horror as Llion spoke, his eyes wide.

  “But, that isn’t true—”

  “Of course it isn’t true,” Llion replied. “But many believe that it is. Remember the grey mare, lad. They would say, ‘Oh, Maxen of Coldoire. He let a filthy Deryni lay hands on him, to spare him pain. Do not trust him, because a godless Deryni sorcerer has corrupted him. The devil has besmirched his soul.’ That is what some would say.”

  Llion had not raised his voice, but his tone cut like a lash, underlining ugly words that both of them had heard all too often. Alaric flinched as if struck by physical blows, and buried his face in his folded arms atop his knees. After a moment, Llion realized that the taut shoulders were shaking in silent sobs. Sighing, he moved quietly to sit beside the boy, enfolding the taut shoulders and holding him close until the sobbing finally ebbed.

  “Alaric, you did nothing wrong,” Llion said at last. “You must learn better discretion, but your heart is true. With time, they will forget—those who even understood what you offered. And in another fortnight, we shall be away from here, at least for a time.”

  They did not go downstairs for supper that night; and later, when Kenneth and the king returned, Llion told the boy’s father about the incident, and all of them resolved to be more careful in the future.

  • • •

  THE final days of Advent approached at last, and with them all the preparations for the great feasts of Christmas and Epiphany. Late Advent also brought a reunion of Alaric with his beloved cousin Duncan, who arrived a week before Christmas with his parents, his elder brother, and an escort of bordermen from the highlands of Cassan, colorful and exotic in their tartans of green and black and white.

  The first night of their arrival, ducking out early from the feast to welcome the new Duke of Cassan and his family, the two boys betook themselves to Alaric’s room, in the apartments he shared with his father and Llion, where they could be assured of privacy to catch up on all that had transpired during their separation. First, of course, was the very disturbing interview with Duke Richard, warning him not to use his powers openly, which went double for Duncan.

  “You can block pain?” Duncan whispered, wide-eyed.

  Alaric nodded slowly. “I think I started on animals, and then I did it for Llion, when his horse bit him.”

  “A horse bit Llion?” Duncan repeated, wide-eyed.

  “Well, it was one of the stable horses, not any of our regular mounts—and I did distract him.”

  “Can you show me?” Duncan wanted to know.

  “Not here, not now,” Alaric replied. “After Twelfth Night, when I go back to Culdi with you. It isn’t safe here.”

  Duncan accepted the decision with good grace. “That’s probably a good idea. Maybe Mama can help, too.”

  “I’m hoping she can.”

  Alaric’s report of beginning to Truth-Read was also relegated to another day and time, before they shifted to the less dangerous topic of pages’ training at court, and identifying friend and foe among the other pages and squires, and Alaric’s apparent aptitude for military tactics.

  “You really tried to read Orkény in the original?” Duncan asked disbelievingly, when Alaric had told him how he came to receive special tutorials with Duke Richard.

  “Well, how was I to know it had been translated?” Alaric countered. “I found the Torenthi version when I was rummaging around in the royal library, and the king had already said that I could borrow anything I liked. Aunt Delphine’s tutoring proved useful, though. I was able to puzzle out the most important points well enough to impress Duke Richard.”

  “Which is no easy feat, from all that I’ve heard,” Duncan replied. “You must tell me all about it.”

  In the coming days, Alaric would do precisely that, but mostly, since regular pages’ and squires’ training had been suspended for the Christmas interval—other than Duke Richard’s continued tutelage of his new protégé—the two played like the boys they were, haunting the stables and the castle kitchens, exploring the vast corridors of Rhemuth Castle, and secretly observing life at court.

  On the day after Christmas, having heard Christmas Mass in the chapel royal on the feast day itself, they accompanied their fathers in the traditional procession that marked St. Stephen’s Day, when the king and his family rode down to the cathedral in their finery and crowns. There, after a Mass in honor of the first Christian martyr, St. Stephen, it was the custom of the king to hear informal petitions on the cathedral steps while the queen and her ladies distributed largesse to the city’s poor. On this occasion, while the new Duchess Vera attended on the dowager queen and the king’s two sisters, assist
ing in the distribution of alms, the boys served among the pages helping to carry the parcels of food and clothing.

  Kenneth and Jared attended as part of the king’s entourage, though it was Brion himself, assisted by his uncle, who actually received the petitioners. As Kenneth and Jared observed from the sidelines, Kenneth found himself reminiscing about another St. Stephen’s Day, now nearly a decade past, when, with the late king’s permission, he had asked for the hand of Alaric’s mother.

  “I’ll never know where I found the courage to actually ask her,” he told Jared quietly, as they watched a young widow present a petition to the king and bask in his undivided attention. “Granted, I knew that Donal desired the match. I was a safe pair of hands, and I was aware that he had already informed Alyce of his wishes, so I knew she wouldn’t turn me down. But I’d never dared to hope that our marriage would go so far beyond what one usually expects of an arranged marriage. She made me feel like a young man again, Jared.”

  “I know you miss her,” Jared said quietly.

  “Every day.” Kenneth allowed himself a heavy sigh, then braced himself with a smile. “And lately, with her gone, I’ve been feeling like an old man—not that there’s anything I can do about that. At least she left me with a son.” He jutted his chin at Alaric, who was handing a bundle to a boy about his age, in tattered clothes and with rags wrapped around his feet. “He’ll be a fine man, won’t he?”

  “Of course. And you have a beautiful daughter, too—and beautiful grown daughters.”

  “I do,” Kenneth said softly. “I only hope I live to see all of them grown. I am getting old, Jared.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “No, I’m fifty-three years old, and I haven’t stopped since I came of age. I’ve served three Haldanes, and hope to serve at least one more. But I don’t like the feel of this latest Mearan venture.”

  Jared looked out over the cathedral steps again, at their sons attending on the queen. “From what I’ve heard, it isn’t apt to become a full-blown military campaign,” he said softly. “I was picking up rumors as we rode down from Cassan. Princess Aude could hang on for months, maybe years. And so long as she does, she won’t let Caitrin marry, and the Mearan succession stops with her father.”

  “Aude has a grandson, Princess Onora’s boy.”

  “Young Judhael is destined for the Church, quite possibly a bishopric. He’s been in a seminary for several years.”

  “Princes have left seminaries before. Cinhil did.”

  “True enough. But Caitrin is the one with fire in her belly. However, if she doesn’t marry—and she is getting on in years—there will be no fiery candidate for her to promote.”

  Kenneth stretched in the weak December sun, allowing himself a heavy sigh. “Somehow you manage to reassure me.” He saw the king rising, and shifted his attention to the squires starting to bring up the horses. “It looks like we’re done here. I don’t know about you, but I’m looking forward to a hot meal when we get back. You cannot fault the Haldanes for their charity, but I have often wondered why they chose Saint Stephen’s Day to exercise it. It’s always one of the coldest days of the year.”

  Chapter 18

  “. . . Lo, I am come to great estate . . .”

  —ECCLESIASTES 1:16

  KENNETH spent the next week briefing Jared on the plans for a Mearan visitation and listening while the new duke shared his observations with the king. In addition, the king was busy working with Richard and the chancellor on plans for Twelfth Night court, the most important administrative date in the court calendar.

  Unlike many a Twelfth Night in the past, that of 1100 dawned clear and not too cold, enabling many visitors from outlying regions of the kingdom to make the trip to the capital. It was the first of a new century and the first since the king’s own knighting. The mood was festive in the great hall of Rhemuth as the court assembled and noon approached, but one of the attendees spelled potential trouble for the Morgans, father and son.

  It had occurred to Kenneth that Bishop de Nore might make an appearance, since his nephew was being promoted to squire. Sure enough, de Nore was there among the attendees with his sister and her family, hard to miss in his purple cassock and purple skullcap and great purple cloak. Not on the dais, where the archbishops would sit, but prominent enough by his mere presence, attended by a chaplain and two dour, black-clad household knights.

  Llion spotted them just before court was to begin, and came to warn Kenneth and Alaric, who were waiting at the rear of the hall with Jared and his family, since the king had decided that the ceremony of Jared’s reception as Duke of Cassan should take precedence over the rest of the court’s business. Kenneth was attired in the crimson and white of Lendour, with Lendour’s coronet on his brow, and bore the ducal coronets of Cassan on a cushion of azure silk, ready to come forward at the king’s command. Alaric stood at his side with the lesser coronet of Kierney on a similar cushion, and wore a surcoat of the Corwyn duchy to which he was heir.

  “I suppose he does have a legitimate reason to be here,” Kenneth said sourly, not looking in the direction of the supposed man of God who seemed to serve quite a different God from that revered by Kenneth and his son.

  Llion snorted. “Yes, to taunt you and the boy,” he muttered. “Do you think the king is aware that he’s here?”

  “I’m sure someone will have told him,” Kenneth replied. “Jiri or Tiarnán will have seen him, or even Duke Richard. But there’s little that de Nore can do in the full sight of the court, with the king present.”

  “So we hope,” Llion muttered.

  Kenneth gave a grimace, and Alaric controlled the urge to crane his neck for a look at his nemesis, but Kenneth shook his head minutely.

  “Do not let him intimidate you,” he said quietly. “Stay focused. And Llion, I want you to circulate into their general vicinity. Make certain that de Nore sees you. Hopefully, that will discourage anyone from getting carried away by an excess of zeal.”

  At that moment, the chamberlain thumped the foot of his staff on the oak floor to call the assembly to order. As Llion headed off in the direction of the de Nores, the crimson-clad dowager queen and her daughters entered the hall from behind the dais, attended by several ladies-in-waiting and a few pages. A second thump as the waiting courtiers settled themselves, and then the herald’s cry:

  “Pray attend His Majesty, Brion Donal Cinhil Urien Haldane, King of Gwynedd, Prince of Meara, and Lord of the Purple March.”

  At this declaration, the king himself entered the hall from the side, preceded by Duke Richard bearing the sword of state and accompanied by the twelve-year-old Prince Nigel, who was currently Brion’s heir presumptive. As was customary at important formal courts, Brion wore Haldane crimson and gold, with the Haldane lion rampant guardant bold upon the chest of his robe and the snow-white leather of a knight’s belt circling his waist. A crimson mantle lined with silver fox was fixed to his shoulders, and the state crown of intertwined leaves and crosses confined the sable hair, which fell loose to his shoulders. Three of the king’s gentlemen attended him, taking places behind and around the throne: Jiri Redfearn and Tiarnán MacRae, who were legacies from the old king’s reign, and Jamyl Arilan, one of the king’s younger boon companions.

  Gwynedd’s two archbishops followed behind the king and his brother—Desmond of Rhemuth and Paul of Valoret—coped and mitered in festive white and gold, pausing before their chairs of state set to the right of the dais, where the latter gave the assembled company his blessing before all took their seats. First on the agenda, before the expected knightings, and the taking of new squires and pages, came the official recognition of the new Duke of Cassan.

  Bare-headed and arrayed in the blue and silver of Cassan, with the sleeping lion and roses upon his chest, Jared stood in the midst of his tartan-clad bordermen, flanked by his wife and his elder son. Duncan, his younger son, bore the sheathed
ducal sword across his palms, waiting with Kenneth and Alaric.

  The herald glanced at the king and, at his nod, turned his attention to the party waiting at the back of the hall—and at Jared’s nod, drew himself up to rap with his staff on the great hall floor.

  “Your Majesty, the late Duke of Cassan having passed into the company of his ancestors, his eldest son and heir, the high and mighty Jared Douglas McLain Earl of Kierney, now become chief of all the McLains, makes bold to present himself and his house before the throne of Gwynedd, that he may be recognized in his estate and enter into your homage for the lands and honors of Cassan.”

  “Let him approach,” the king replied with an eager smile.

  The ducal party moved slowly forward, led by Sir Tesselin of Harkness carrying the banner of Cassan. The Cassani bordermen followed directly behind him, sweeping apart to line a wide aisle through the center of the hall, down which Jared, his lady, and his two sons slowly moved, Duncan leading with his father’s sword, to halt half a dozen paces from the stair, where all of them made their reverences.

  “Your Majesty,” Jared said, taking another step forward with another, lesser bow, “I regret to inform you of the passing of my father, the high and mighty prince Andrew Tairchell McLain Duke of Cassan, and request that you recognize me as his successor and permit me to enter into your homage for the lands now accruing to me. In token thereto, I surrender up my sword.”

  Rising, the king lifted his hand in summons for Jared to approach. Bowing again, Jared took his sword from Duncan’s hands and ascended the dais steps to kneel at the king’s feet and offer up the sword across his palms. As Brion received the sword, passing it into Prince Nigel’s keeping, Jared lifted his joined hands in the ancient gesture of homage and fealty, waiting until the king’s hands had encircled his own before speaking.