The comment passed unremarked in the continued conversation of the evening, but later, before they headed off to their beds, Jamyl managed a discreet word in the king’s ear.
“It would be an unexpected mark of your favor, in return for their hospitality,” Jamyl murmured. “And it might reinforce the loyalty of these Trurill men.”
“Aye, it might,” Brion agreed, obviously considering—and did, indeed, broach the subject as their hosts were preparing to disperse for the night.
“A word, if you will, my lord baron,” he said, detaining Brothen with a light touch to the elbow. “And your sons as well. Brice of Trurill, I like your mettle,” he said. “If you’re minded to keep vigil tonight, in the company of my chaplain and your father and brother, it would be my pleasure to confer the accolade in the morning, before we ride out.”
Brothen’s jaw dropped, and both his sons looked stunned.
“You would do that for me, Sire?” Brice breathed.
“I would not offer if I did not mean it. One cannot put a price on loyal retainers along one’s borders.”
Thus was the deed set in motion: first, an impromptu vigil organized in the small, private chapel adjoining the baron’s personal quarters; and then, following early Mass the next morning, a simple ceremony of knighthood, conferred by the king and witnessed by a duke, an earl, and half a dozen other knights from the king’s household, as well as the candidate’s family. It was a singular honor for a country baron’s younger son, and gained the king much favor among the local folk. Baron Brothen gave his own golden spurs for the investiture, and Brice’s brother lent his white belt. The proud baroness buckled the belt around her younger son’s waist before the new Sir Brice of Trurill knelt to pledge the king his fealty.
“I, Sir Brice de Paor, do become your liege man of life and limb and earthly worship, and faith and truth will I bear unto you, to live and to die . . .”
After, following congratulations all around and the profuse thanks of the baron and his family, king and companions quickly broke their fast before riding out of Trurill.
“I enjoyed that,” the king said brightly, full of the exuberance of youth. “I mean to do it more often, when I can. It might have been several years before Baron Brothen could afford to send a second son to court to be knighted.”
Kenneth smiled, remembering his own family’s sacrifices to send him to court for the accolade. “It was an act of kindness, my prince. And the baron and his kin will remember it, when the keeping of your peace in the borders might sometimes seem too much of a burden.”
“Young Brice seemed a decent enough chap,” Jamyl agreed. “He clearly counted it a personal tragedy of his young life, to lose Sir Francis Delaney in the last war. For the second son of a border baron, it would have been quite a step up, to enter the service of an earl’s brother. Such are the lesser disappointments of war. Pray God, this act of Haldane kindness will help to counter that loss.”
Chapter 21
“Neglect not the gift that is in thee . . .”
—I TIMOTHY 4:14
IF the king’s summer was already turning tedious, Alaric’s summer, or at least its beginning, was to become one of the happiest of his young life. Most mornings he and Duncan spent in formal lessons with Lady Vera, absorbed in reading, writing, and numbers, geography and history, a smattering of languages, along with the more practical accomplishments of dancing and court etiquette. Occasionally Kevin joined them for lessons, but more often he spent the mornings with Lord Deveril, the seneschal, and Sir Walter, beginning to learn about the running of Jared’s estates.
Sometimes, though always behind closed doors, and never with Kevin present, Vera began to expose them to more esoteric subjects, as his and Duncan’s Deryni powers continued to emerge.
They began learning to conjure handfire that summer, though Vera was quick to caution both boys that this must never be done where an outsider might see.
“You especially, Duncan, because it would be an immediate betrayal of your blood.”
“Yes, Mama,” Duncan breathed, wide-eyed and somber as he balanced a trembling sphere of silvery light on one outstretched palm.
“That’s very good. Alaric, can you make your sphere lift into the air?”
Alaric concentrated, focused on his own sphere of greenish fire, and had the satisfaction of watching it slowly float toward the ceiling, though it got dimmer as it rose, then abruptly fizzled out.
“Suppose you try that again,” Vera whispered, coming to set a hand on his shoulder. “Hold your focus. Believe it or not, this will become second nature to you, once you’ve got the hang of it.”
The next sphere faded away before reaching the ceiling, but the third one formed, lifted, and hovered for several seconds before Vera squeezed his shoulder in a signal to relax. As the sphere dissipated this time instead of fizzling out, Alaric allowed himself a satisfied grin.
“That’s very good. Duncan, why don’t you try that?”
Within a week or so, their ability to conjure handfire became more and more reliable, and required less and less effort. Building on that accomplishment, Vera also began teaching them about shields—which both of them had, to varying degrees—and was pleased and somewhat surprised to find that Alaric’s were already strong and well developed.
But he did not tell her of Sir Sé’s tutelage, sensing that this must be kept private even from his mother’s sister—and he was fairly sure that Sé had set certain protections into place behind those shields. Duncan’s shields seemed somewhat more rudimentary in the beginning, but developed quickly as Vera began to work with them.
Nor were more active pursuits ignored. Between Llion and Tesselin, all three boys were kept busy with their physical training: drill with sword and lance, archery practice, wrestling and hand-to-hand tactics, riding—all the skills expected of future knights. And because their fathers were away with the king, the boys were mostly relieved of the necessity to serve at table or wait on the knights of Jared’s household—for, indeed, there were few in residence, and several other pages and squires to share the work.
But Alaric Morgan was still a boy in his off hours, free to run and play like other privileged boys. (He knew that not all boys were fortunate enough to have fine ponies, and people to care for them, and adults whose sole occupation was to make his life run smoothly.)
He was also pleased to discover that he genuinely liked his younger sister, with whom, until now, he had spent only short stretches of days at a time, during their father’s all too infrequent visits to Morganhall and his motherless daughter. Only recently had Bronwyn become mature enough for true interaction with her elder brother.
But they were of kindred blood, even if raised apart during Bronwyn’s earliest years, and both delighted in their reunion. At nearly five, Bronwyn was quick and articulate, wise beyond her years, and adored both her brother and her two McLain cousins.
She was smart, too, Alaric quickly discovered. At Morganhall, early studies with her two aunts, alongside her slightly older cousin Clarice, had already given her basic skills in reading and ciphering, and a passionate thirst for knowledge; and Sir Calix Howard, married to her mother’s former maid, had made it his personal mission to ensure that both girls rode like limpets, fearless and graceful astride their shaggy mountain ponies. They had even worn boys’ clothes at Morganhall, at least for riding, though Vera quickly put an end to that notion once Bronwyn was installed at Culdi.
“That may be fine at Morganhall,” she informed her new charge, as they inspected Bronwyn’s small wardrobe on the day after she arrived, “but it won’t do here, and it certainly wouldn’t do at court.”
“But, Aunt Vera—” Bronwyn started to protest.
“There is no but!” Vera said with an emphatic shake of her head. “Noble ladies wear skirts, even little ladies. You may ride astride, and you may even wear breeches and boot
s like the boys, but you must wear skirts over them. Child, you are the sister of a future duke!” she added, exasperated at Bronwyn’s moue of incipient rebellion. “Don’t make that face at me, madam. You must learn to comport yourself like a lady. Your mother learned it, and I learned it, and so shall you!”
It was hardly an auspicious beginning to their relationship, but Bronwyn quickly got over her pout, and was smiling about it by the time she finished telling Alaric and Duncan later that day.
“I know there are rules,” she finally conceded, “but I still don’t think it’s fair! It’s silly to wear skirts on a pony. I didn’t have to wear skirts at Morganhall.”
Alaric shrugged. “Well, she’s right, this isn’t Morganhall, and you are a duke’s sister—or you will be, once I’m a duke. And she did say you could still wear breeches and boots under your skirts, didn’t she? Count your blessings.”
“I suppose,” Bronwyn said petulantly. “I still think it’s a silly rule.”
“You think we don’t have to follow silly rules?” Duncan said, grinning. “Come on, let’s go to the stable and see the new kittens. If you ask nicely and bat your eyelashes, the head groom will probably let you have one. Kevin says that men can’t resist when a lady bats her eyelashes.”
“That sounds silly, too,” Bronwyn muttered to herself, but she followed cheerfully as the boys took off for the stable, and did, indeed, elicit the promise of a kitten, when they were old enough, so long as Lady Vera approved.
“Do you really think she’ll let me have one?” she whispered to Alaric, holding on to his hand as they headed on toward the pony paddock.
He smiled and nodded. “Probably. I’ve seen mice up in the living quarters, so cats are probably a good idea. You’ll need to take care of it, though—and clean up after it, until it learns proper cat manners.”
“Oh, I will! I promise!” she said earnestly.
In such wise did the summer progress, as Bronwyn found her stride and became more at ease in the ducal household. The boys adored her—not only Alaric, but Duncan and Kevin as well—and gladly included their feisty new playmate in their adventures, especially as the summer wore on and news came less often from their respective fathers.
• • •
SAID fathers, meanwhile, were only then nearing the Mearan border, again caught up in spring thunderstorms that forced them often to seek shelter. After several nights spent again in barns, some of them so decrepit that they pitched their tents inside, several of their party had developed serious coughs and running noses. But this last barn did not bear even considering another night.
“We thank you for your hospitality, good sir,” the king said to the farmer, as they prepared to ride on—and bade Father Nevan hand over a small leather pouch of coin. “Here’s for your trouble, and for the roof of your barn, and may God grant you a rich harvest in the autumn.”
They left at midmorning nonetheless, hoping the weather would improve, but gave it up after only a few hours on the road, when they spied the pink granite spire and graceful walls of an apparent religious establishment tucked in a bend of the river, just before the border with Meara.
“That looks promising,” Brion said, turning to beckon Jared’s household chaplain closer. “Father Nevan, do you know that house?”
“I believe it is Brigidine, Sire,” Nevan replied. “The Order of Saint Brigid. They are a hospital order. Grey ladies. If I am remembering correctly, this may be their mother house.”
“Hospitallers, eh? Well, they can take us in, then,” Brion said irritably, for rain was running down the neck of his oiled leather cloak and plastering his hair to his forehead, despite his leather cap and hood. “If ever there were travelers in need of shelter and succor, we qualify.”
“We do, Sire,” Nevan agreed. “Shall I ride on ahead and ask?”
“Aye, do that. Kenneth, go with him—and stress that we’re perishing with the cold and wet. Cough for them, if that will help.”
With an answering mock cough and a good-natured wave of agreement, for he had, indeed, been coughing in earnest, earlier, Kenneth kneed his horse after Nevan, glad of the diversion. Heads down and hoods pulled low against the driving rain, he and the young priest made their way carefully across the muddy field before the abbey walls, accompanied by the squelching sounds of the horses’ hooves. When they finally drew rein before the abbey gate, Nevan leaned down to tug at the bellpull, repeating the signal several times before a hand-sized flap drew back in the upper part of the postern door.
“Grace and peace to you, servant of God,” Nevan said courteously, leaning down to the level of the opening. Kenneth could see an earnest young face peering up at them from within the hood of a dark cloak. A white coif showed close around her face.
“And God’s grace to you, good sirs,” she said, taking in their bedraggled state with an open glance. “Is it shelter from the storm that you seek?”
“It is, Reverend Lady,” Kenneth replied, “but not for ourselves alone. I fear there are some two score of us. But be assured that the men will be content to make do in a stable or barn, so long as it is dry.” He paused to press the edge of a sodden glove to his nose and mouth as he stifled a cough. “And a few of us, who have taken a chill from the rain, would greatly appreciate a hot meal and a day or two of rest in your infirmary.”
“Ah, then, you know us for a hospitaller order,” the sister replied cheerfully. “Please enter and be welcome.”
“Thank you,” Kenneth replied with a smile, even as the sound of scraping metal told of the door being unbarred. “And know that you give hospitality not only to Father Nevan and myself, but also the King of Gwynedd.”
So saying, he gestured behind them, where the rest of their party were emerging from the rain, the Haldane banner limp and dripping in the hand of Jamyl Arilan. A wicket gate was open by then, and the cloaked sister now framed in the doorway turned urgently to another pair of dark-cloaked women who had joined her. Kenneth, guessing the cause of her concern, swung down from his mount and pushed back his hood as he led the horse through the open doorway and under the shelter of the gatehouse arch, where he at least was out of the rain.
“Peace be with you, Reverend Sisters,” he said easily, moving aside for Father Nevan to join him. “No doubt, the thought of feeding and housing so many men and beasts is somewhat daunting. But we do carry grain for the horses.”
“And be assured,” Nevan chimed in, “that the king is prepared to make a generous donation to this house, in gratitude for your hospitality. The men will be grateful for shelter even in one of your barns, until this weather abates. Our Lord was born in a stable.”
The taller of the two sisters craned a little to one side to peer past the two of them, then returned her attention to the newcomers, though she addressed herself to the priest.
“The king, you say?”
“Aye, Brion of Gwynedd,” Father Nevan replied, making a small bow. “And the Duke of Cassan as well. I am Father Nevan d’Estrelldas, chaplain and battle-surgeon to His Grace. This is the Earl of Lendour. I assure you, we come in peace.”
There followed a flurry of whispered consultation and scurrying to and fro, after which the sister who kept the gate came to make Kenneth and Nevan a small, nervous bow.
“Pray, bid your party enter, Father, and my lord,” she murmured, with a gesture of invitation. “I shall open the gate wider, so that your men may enter, and Sister Ermengard will direct them to the stables. And our lady abbess invites the king and his officers to dine with her this evening.”
“Thank you, Sister.”
More cloaked and hooded sisters emerged from doorways leading into a cloister garth and the pink granite church as Kenneth and Father Nevan led their mounts on into the abbey yard to allow the full gate to open. Several younger sisters, presumably novices and lay sisters, came to take their horses as the king and Jamyl likewise ent
ered and dismounted, followed by Jared and Xander and a slow procession of additional riders. As Kenneth and Nevan waited uncertainly, glancing back toward the king, their conductress from the gate presented them to the house’s abbess: a handsome and briskly competent woman who had a familiar look to her, though Kenneth could not think where they might have met.
“I am Mother Aurelia,” the woman said, and added uncertainly, “Do I know you, sir knight?”
Kenneth shook his head doubtfully, searching his memory as he gestured for Brion to join them.
“I feel certain I would remember, Reverend Lady,” he murmured, as he glanced at the king. “Sire, allow me to present Mother Aurelia, the abbess of this house. Madam, the King of Gwynedd.”
Brion caught the abbess’s hand as she bent in a graceful curtsy, and himself bowed to kiss her ring in salute. “I am honored to meet you, Reverend Mother, and I thank you for giving us shelter from the storm. Can it be that you know my Earl of Lendour?” he added, noting the appraising looks of both parties.
“It would have been some years ago,” the abbess allowed, trying not to stare at Kenneth, “and I think he was not then an earl. Have you been to Saint Brigid’s Abbey near Cùilteine, my lord?” she asked Kenneth.
“Near Cùilteine? I believe I have,” Kenneth said, astonished.
“Then, my memory has not failed me,” the abbess said. “For I think you were in a party that stopped there with a young knight who had taken ill on the road, when I was an infirmarian there. And the king your father was in the party as well, young Sire,” she added, to Brion, then sighed. “The sick lad, though—such a handsome young man he was, and so very ill,” she added, glancing off into the distance of memory. “Most sadly, he did not survive.”
Kenneth had gone very still as she spoke, and glanced at his boots with clenched jaws, for the distant memory, so long pushed aside, reemerged now with much of the force of his long-ago grief.
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