This change in circumstances did not go unnoticed by the other pages, most of them in service to the royal household, but it was sufficiently different from their own status that even the most resentful of the older boys were too taken aback to decide immediately how this difference might be turned to advantage within their own ranking. By the next morning, when both boys left Rhemuth with their fathers, it was too late to devise suitable boyhood torments.
Only Paget Sullivan made the effort to rise early and bid farewell to his new friend—and was rewarded for his loyalty with custody of the coveted Orkény translation.
“You’re sure?” Paget breathed, as Alaric gave it into his keeping.
“I told you I would,” Alaric replied. “And I told Duke Richard; he said it was all right. Besides, you’ll make much better use of it than I will, for the next few months.”
“Thank you,” Paget replied, grinning. “And Godspeed.”
Chapter 20
“Many will entreat the favour of the prince: and every man is a friend to him that giveth gifts.”
—PROVERBS 19:6
IN the excitement of setting out for new adventures as official members of a ducal household, it is likely that neither of the new Cassani pages realized the timeliness of their departure. Indeed, since both boys rode in the same party as their respective fathers, little would change for either of them, at least for the next few years. Eventually, Alaric knew he would return to court to continue his training—and would have to deal with the bullies and bigotry he was temporarily leaving behind—but Duncan was slated probably to spend his life either in the service of his father and brother or, because he was academically inclined, to take up a life in the Church, as was often the choice of second sons. For the present, however, both looked forward to new experiences.
Because Lady Vera and a maid were among their number, they traveled at a more moderate pace than might have been the case otherwise. Further, the weather worsened only a day out of Rhemuth, so that they were obliged to halt earlier and often. When they reached the turnoff for Morganhall, Kenneth took Xander and two of his men-at-arms and struck off eastward, so that he might retrieve his young daughter and bring her along to join her brother in the ducal household at Culdi.
“But, may I not go along?” Alaric objected, when it became clear that his father intended to leave him behind.
“That is no longer solely up to me,” his father replied. “You are page to a duke now, son. I’m sure he wishes to be certain that Llion and Sir Tesselin have a suitable summer training schedule in place for you and his sons, before he and I head off with the king. I’ll only be gone a week or so. You’ll see your sister soon.”
Quite clearly, the decision brooked no further discussion, so Alaric accepted with good grace, riding on cheerfully in the easy company of Llion and his two McLain cousins. Other than for the intermittent rain, the rest of the ride to Culdi was uneventful, much to the secret disappointment of the boys, though they heard Jared profess himself relieved that no untoward incident had marred their journey.
By the time the Morganhall party rejoined them, a week later, all three boys had settled into daily tutelage with Vera on their reading and ciphering and history, ably assisted by Kenneth’s middle daughter, Lady Geill Lithgow—regarded as an aunt, like Zoë, because of her age, though she, too, was a half-sister to Alaric. Geill’s husband, Sir Walter, had been in Jared’s service for some time, and was delegated to work with Llion, Tesselin, and Jared’s seneschal, Lord Deveril, in supervising the martial training of all three boys in their fathers’ absence.
The three of them were practicing at the archery butts set up in the castle yard when Kenneth and his party arrived, with Bronwyn perched ahead of her father on his saddlebow. Alaric gave a whoop of delight when he spotted father and sister, and cast down his bow to race to his father’s steed. By the time he got there, Kenneth had already handed Bronwyn into the waiting arms of a smiling Sir Walter. Alaric caught his sister in a delighted bear hug as Walter, in turn, eased her to the ground.
“You’re here, you’re here!” he cried, as Duncan and Kevin also came running to share in the reunion.
• • •
THIS indulgence in domestic harmony would last only a short time. The king arrived a fortnight later, accompanied by a modest personal guard of Haldane lancers and close companions of his immediate household: Jiri Redfearn and Jamyl Arilan. He had left his uncle as regent in Rhemuth, along with Prince Nigel and the Dowager Queen Richeldis.
With Kenneth and Jared now added to the king’s party, they took a further week to finalize their plans for the expedition and wait for the weather to break, ending their stay at Culdi with a more formal meal in the castle hall on the night before they were to leave. Kevin proudly served the king at table, ably assisted by Duncan and Alaric. The air was festive, charged with anticipation, with the young king quickly putting all three boys at their ease.
“They could almost be my brothers,” he remarked to Kenneth, as they watched Alaric take away a basin and towel after serving both men. “I’m not so very much older than they are.”
Kenneth only smiled, well remembering how very nearly Brion and Alaric might have been brothers in fact—though he was not about to tell that to the king.
“I pray that he will always love you like a brother,” he replied. “It will make life a bit easier for him.”
One final formality remained at Culdi, before sending the king and his party on their way. Early on the morning they were to leave, Vera had arranged for her chaplain, Father Geordan, to celebrate a Mass; and because both Duncan and Alaric had recently turned eight, Geordan and Father Nevan, Jared’s battle-surgeon, had been preparing both boys for their First Communion: an important rite of passage for eight-year-olds, and one fondly anticipated by both the boys’ fathers. It enabled both Alaric and Duncan to receive this adult sacrament at their fathers’ sides, and then to kneel beside them for a final blessing before the adults mounted up to depart.
“They looked quite grown-up in their pages’ livery, didn’t they?” Jared remarked to Kenneth, as the royal column took shape in the castle yard.
Kenneth smiled as he handed Bronwyn down to Llion. “They did, indeed,” he replied. “You take good care, now, poppet,” he said to his daughter, “and mind Llion and your Aunt Vera.”
“I will, Papa,” she called, grinning and waving as Llion carried her back from the pack of milling riders.
It was a dull, soft morning late in April as the royal party rode westward out of Culdi town. Young Caspar Talbot, the Mearan governor’s son, had agreed to serve as guide. Sir Jamyl Arilan carried the Haldane banner before them, Jiri Redfearn at his side, and the others followed after. Duke Jared had provided an escort of twenty fierce Kierney borderers, their green and black tartan muted in the morning mist, and brought, as his aide, Sir Rhupert MacInnis, a brother of his late first wife, who had become a frequent companion in recent years. Father Nevan also accompanied them, to serve as battle-surgeon as well as their chaplain. Kenneth brought Xander of Torrylin as his aide, and also his two Lendouri armsmen.
In all, they were nearly fifty strong. The children and Duchess Vera watched them ride out, waving from the battlements above the gatehouse, for the weather looked increasingly uncertain.
• • •
THEY were spared actual rain for the first few days, and made good time, though they never saw the sun. They spent the first several nights under canvas, camped in fields along the way, but a deluge on the third day caused them to seek better shelter. That night and the next, they huddled in a farmer’s barn—mostly empty after the long, hard winter, but at least it was dry, and the king and his immediate companions were able to find comfortable sleeping space in the hayloft. The days still were chill and sometimes drizzly, but they made reasonable progress.
The Cùille was running high as they skirted closer along
the river, making the ford at Tandorello difficult and dangerous, but they crossed without mishap. By dusk they were approaching the modest keep of Trurill, which lay not far short of the Mearan border. Trurill’s baron, Sir Brothen de Paor, received them courteously enough, if a trifle dour as he eyed the Haldane banner and the several score of well-armed men in his sovereign’s train, but nonetheless, he invited the king and his immediate companions to sup with him and his family.
“Unfortunately, we canna accommodate all your party, Sire,” the baron told them, looking vaguely ill at ease as he ushered the king into his hall. “Had we known ye were coming . . .”
“It was a decision of the moment,” Brion said easily, “but I have no wish to place an undue burden on your hospitality. With your permission, my men will make camp in the field outside your walls.”
“No, no, Sire, they must at least use the stable yard and barn; there are not so very many of them,” the baron replied, clearly relieved. “Perhaps some may wish to sleep in the hayloft. But we can provide for you and your officers.” The sweep of his hand included Kenneth and Jared and several more of the king’s companions. “The fare will be simple, for winter is not long past, and ’twas harsh here in the borders, but we do well enough in Trurill. Pray, allow me to present my sons,” he added, as he gestured forward a pair of strapping, dark-eyed young men who had eased within earshot. One wore the white belt of knighthood, but the second did not, though he looked to be of age for the accolade.
“My heir, Sir Baylor, and Brice, my second son,” the baron went on, as the pair made respectful bows. “It had been my hope to see Brice knighted this Twelfth Night past, but the harvest was nae sae good. I ha’e three daughters as well, but they and their mother will present themselves later.”
The women did, indeed, join the party later, when the company sat down to supper at the modest trestle tables hastily erected in the baron’s hall. The king, seated in the place of honor between the baron and his lady, was served by two of the baron’s daughters, dark-eyed and buxom and eager to please. The meal was modest but ample, the wine surprisingly good—and taken in moderation by all present.
“The ladies fancy you, Sire,” Sir Caspar whispered, in a teasing aside to the king, as the two of them made their way back from a visit to the privies.
Brion gave him a startled look, but Caspar shrugged and allowed himself a tiny smile.
“This is not the royal court, Sire, and notions of propriety are . . . somewhat more flexible here in the borders.”
“But surely, no well-bred girl—”
“Sire, remember who you are. Few well-bred border lasses would pass up the opportunity for close congress with a king, and perhaps a chance for the Crown matrimonial—or even a royal by-blow, for that matter. Believe me, Sire, you could have either of those girls in your bed tonight, and likely with her father’s blessing. Maybe both of them. The baroness, too, for that matter.”
Brion snorted and shook his head, uncertain how much to believe.
“Caspar, you are a bad influence!” he muttered, though he was trying to keep from grinning as he said it. “We’d best return to our hosts, lest you tempt me to unseemly thoughts. Besides, we have a wayward princess to find. I trust you’ve noticed how the subject has never come up.”
They rejoined the low murmur of casual conversation as they resumed their places at table. The baron had seen Brion’s cup refilled. As if on cue, the baron’s youngest daughter brought out a lute and accompanied her elder sisters in several duets. While the singing was pleasant enough, and the girls were attractive by country reckoning, the king gave them only polite attention, and barely sipped at his wine, for he was impatient to resume conversation.
Shortly thereafter, when the ladies at last retired, Kenneth deftly nudged conversation toward Meara and its politics, for the baron and his kin had been skirting the issue all through dinner.
“Aye, we did hear that the old princess died,” Brothen allowed, in answer to Brion’s pointed look of question. “I reckon she must have passed around Christmastide—but the news didna reach us here in Trurill until well after the turning of the year. The winter was harsh here, an’ the roads nigh impossible, an’ we had worries of our own; lost a lot of livestock. But we heard she’d been poorly for the past year, so ’twas no surprise.”
“We had heard that her health was failing,” Jiri said neutrally. “I believe she had been living with her daughter?”
“Aye, in Cloome, this past se’nyear and more.”
“And her husband?” Jamyl asked.
Brothen gave an uneasy snort. “Him? They say old Judhael is no’ right in the heid, that he sees almost no one.” He arched a shaggy brow. “He doesna call himself prince any longer, ye ken. For a time, he kept his grandson close beside him, but young Judhael is twelve now, an’ bookish, an’ they say he means to take holy orders.”
“That is probably wise,” Brion said noncommittally. “Tell me, did the elder Judhael attend his wife’s funeral?”
“Och, aye. Both Judhaels did,” Brothen said. “An’ Caitrin as well. They were at Aude’s side when she passed, an’ she gave the young lad her blessing—her grandson, he is. After, they buried her at Laas, wi’ the rest o’ that line. All the old nobility o’ Meara came to pay their respects. Gave her a right proper send-off.”
“Surely all souls deserve a proper send-off,” Father Nevan said quietly.
“Aye, they do,” said Baylor, the elder son, tension in his jaw. “And Aude knew her duty, in the end. But Caitrin—they say that no sooner were her ma in the ground than she announced her intention to wed, though she knew Aude had forbidden it, an’ that her pa did not approve.”
“Indeed,” Brion said dryly, with a glance at Kenneth and Jared. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard where she might be now?”
“Married by now, I’ll warrant,” Brice said under his breath.
“That is what she threatened,” Jared said, with a lift to one eyebrow. “And who might the lucky bridegroom be?”
Brice looked suddenly sheepish to have spoken out of turn, and in the king’s presence, and ducked his head in embarrassment.
“They say ’tis the Earl of Somerdale, Your Grace,” he murmured, almost inaudibly.
“And you do not approve?” Brion asked gently.
Brice was tight-lipped as he glanced up at the king. “I have nothing against Derek Somerdale, Sire, but we knew his brother Francis, and I was to have been his page—and he was to have married the Lady Caitrin. He was a fine man. . . .”
The king inclined his head, conceding the assessment. “By Mearan lights, I am certain he was. I recall hearing the name, when my father returned from his last campaign into Meara. I was only young then, younger than you—too young to go to war, but—” He glanced at Kenneth. “You rode with my father on that occasion, did you not?”
Kenneth nodded. “Aye, my prince, but I was with him and your uncle, not the men who overtook Sir Francis and his party. As I recall—and remember, this was more than a decade ago—young Delaney stayed back with a handful of his men to create a diversion while his brother took the women to safety.
“In that, of course, they were only partially successful,” Kenneth conceded with a shrug. “The Lady Onora was heavily with child—God only knows why she was in the field in that condition. They said she died soon after delivering a daughter, who only outlived her by hours. Onora’s husband and Lord Somerdale did manage to get the Lady Caitrin to safety; both are still alive, I believe. Somerdale’s brother, of course, and the others who bought them time to escape were executed in the field.”
“For which the Lady Caitrin has never forgiven us,” Brion said somewhat impatiently, though his tone softened as he added, “And I gather that our hosts also may not approve, especially young Brice.” As Brice averted his eyes, Brion sighed heavily and cast an apologetic glance over the three Trurill men.<
br />
“Forgive me, gentlemen. It is our generation that will have to resolve this, if Caitrin’s marriage is prelude to another bid for my throne. This was all meant to be settled three-quarters of a century ago, when my grandparents married. But I suppose you know that, living here in the borders, so close to the constant possibility of another war.”
“Is it war you’re planning, Sire?” the baron asked quietly.
Brion shook his head. “Not if I can avoid it—and that may well be up to Caitrin. I had hoped, and I know my father had hoped, that the Mearans eventually would run out of would-be heirs. It is welcome news that young Judhael intends to take holy orders; but if Caitrin has married, and if there are children . . .”
As his voice trailed off and he lifted his cup for a thoughtful sip of wine, Jamyl Arilan glanced appraisingly at young Brice.
“This Derek Delaney, the Earl of Somerdale—have you some personal quarrel with him?”
Brice looked up sharply. “Why do you ask that?”
Jamyl shrugged. “No particular reason. It simply seemed that the notion of his marriage to the Lady Caitrin was not to your liking.”
“Her mother had forbade any marriage,” Brothen said sharply, before Brice could answer. “Aude understood.”
But their further discussion resolved nothing save to underline the necessity to press on to Ratharkin and discover for themselves what Caitrin intended.
“She cannot truly think that the Mearan throne might yet be restored,” Jamyl said aside to young Brice, as the wine jug passed again around the table.
“Best pray that she proves barren,” Brice replied softly, gazing into his cup. “For if she bears issue, the matter will not die with her.” He shrugged. “But that’s easy enough for me to say, I suppose. Who listens to an unknighted younger son?”
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