The King's Deryni

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Well, it is a royal court,” Sir Crescence said, with an apologetic shrug. “And Alaric is a future duke. Exalted rank sometimes causes more allowances to be made than is wise.”

  “None of us would be doing him any favors, if we were to allow that to happen,” Llion replied. “The king has great hopes for him. I have great hopes for him.”

  Hamilton smiled. “And you have fulfilled the hopes we had for you, young Llion. I understand that you have wed the youngest of Alaric’s half-sisters.”

  “I have,” Llion said with a grin, “and she carries our first child. With luck, I shall return before she is delivered, but if not, she is in good hands with a sister and her aunt at Morganhall.”

  Hamilton nodded speculatively. “You go from here to Bremagne, do you not?”

  “Aye, and to several other destinations along the way.”

  “Ah, yes, it all begins,” Sir Crescence mused. “Do you think the king will find a bride there?”

  “Perhaps,” Llion said. “The King of Bremagne has several daughters. The King of Fallon has a niece. And there will be other noble ladies vying for his notice, wherever else we may call along the way. But methinks this bride-finding venture is only just beginning.”

  The visit to Coroth also offered opportunities for Alaric to reconnect with a few of the friends he had made there. Viliam, alas, was not in residence, for he had been called back to his father’s estates for further training, but Alaric did manage a few cardounet matches with Jernian Kushannan, whose skills had only sharpened since their last meeting. Jernian played with Paget as well, and trounced him handily, though Jernian was not yet fourteen and Paget was three years older.

  Alaric teased Paget about the loss, but he was happy for Jernian, who had inherited his father’s title two years before, and was still in much the same state of limbo as Alaric, with his own set of regents to administer his holdings. That change in status, plus his poor vision and less than outstanding physical ability, had encouraged his regents to shift his training increasingly to more academic pursuits, since he still professed himself keenly interested in military tactics.

  “It will be an excellent use of his talents,” Brion declared, after watching Jernian and Alaric run a battle plan on a map of the local area. “That was nicely done, lads.”

  “Thank you, Sire,” Jernian said with a grin, as Alaric clasped his shoulder in agreement.

  In all, both the king and Alaric were pleased with the course of the visit, and felt confident that the Corwyn regents were doing an admirable job of running the duchy—as, indeed, they had done, off and on, for several generations now.

  It seemed a perfect visit, and was made all the more special when, on their last evening in Coroth, the king had Llion and Jiri organize a special supper for all of Alaric’s regents, held in the more intimate setting of the council chamber rather than the great hall. Paget and Jernian happily served both Alaric and the king that night and, when the meal was mostly ended, moved expectantly to either side of the king as he settled into his chair and glanced aside at Alaric, seated at his right hand.

  “By your leave, gentlemen, I’ve a mind to conduct one item of my own business before we adjourn for the evening,” he said to the assembled regents, signing for Llion to join him at the head of the table. “Alaric, I have done some thinking, and I don’t believe I really need a page to accompany me to Bremagne tomorrow.” He raised an eyebrow at the boy, and Alaric’s heart sank. “What I do need—and I had planned for it from the start—is a second squire to assist Master Paget. Would you please come and kneel?”

  Astonished and delighted, Alaric scrambled to his feet and hastily moved to obey the royal instruction.

  “I know he is still a few months shy of twelve,” the king went on, turning his attention to the regents, “but as I hope you will agree, he is a very accomplished not-yet-twelve, as well as your future duke. Alaric, here before your regents, may I assume that you are willing to assume the duties and privileges of a Haldane squire?”

  “I am, Sire,” Alaric said, grinning as he lifted his joined hands to the king.

  The king smiled and briefly took Alaric’s hands between his own.

  “I have already received your oaths,” he said, “so I think we need not repeat them here.” He extended his right hand to Llion, who passed him the dagger of a Haldane squire. “Take this dagger as a symbol of those oaths, and as a reminder of your duty always to protect and serve my person and my crown.”

  Eyes bright with unbidden tears, Alaric took the dagger and slipped it partially from its scabbard to kiss the blade, then closed and shoved it into his belt as Paget and Jernian knelt to buckle on the squire’s spurs of blued-steel.

  “The spurs were mine, when I served as squire to my father and Duke Richard,” Brion said, quirking a pleased smile at Alaric’s look of surprise. “I had two pairs, and Nigel wears the other. Wear them as a reminder of your aspiration to knighthood.”

  Alaric glanced back at his heels in delight as his friends finished buckling on the spurs, but he sobered as Llion brought forward the squire’s doublet of Haldane crimson, ensigned on the left breast with the Haldane badge of a crowned lion rampant.

  “One last thing, and we’re done here,” Brion said, signing for Alaric to rise. “Receive the livery of my house. Wear it with pride and honor, that all may know you serve the Crown of Gwynedd.”

  Alaric scrambled to his feet and held out his arms to shrug into the doublet that Llion offered—snug over his other clothes—then pressed his right hand to the badge on the left breast: the crowned golden lion rampant. He glanced around at his regents as they broke into applause and cheers.

  “Surprised, are we?” Llion murmured, close by his ear.

  “You know I am,” Alaric replied, so that only Llion could hear. “But very, very pleased.”

  • • •

  THEY sailed with the morning tide. Alaric proudly wore his new livery as a Haldane squire as he took his leave of his regents and Jernian, and rode down to the harbor beside Paget, following the king.

  The ship was waiting at the quay. The day was brisk, the winds fair. Brion’s royal standard lifted straight from its mast as they caught the breeze and the tide. After sailing out between the twin beacons that guarded the harbor mouth, they headed due south and westerly until they passed south of the Isle d’Orsal, whose citadel dipped its banners in salute as they came abreast of it. They continued southward off the sandy beaches of Joux all afternoon, putting in that night at the Vezairi port of Trancault to sleep and take on local provisions.

  “My father’s first queen was Vezairi,” Brion mused, as he and his immediate companions supped at an inn close to the seafront. “I’m told she was quite beautiful—and gentle, like her name: Dulchesse. Very sadly, she proved barren—or near as makes no difference. Though she did produce several babes, they were all stillborn or died soon after birth. But her father was a grand duke of Vezaire: Nivelon, I think he was called.” He shrugged and lifted his cup of Vezairi white port. “That was a very long time ago.”

  “To Queen Dulchesse,” Jiri said, raising his cup.

  When all of them had drunk to the memory of the late queen, Alaric ventured a question of his own.

  “Sire, have you been to Vezaire before?” he asked, for he and Paget had been allowed to sit at table with Llion, Jiri, Jamyl, and Tiarnán.

  “No, never farther south than Tralia and the Hort of Orsal, though I’m told the southern kingdoms have their beauty. I imagine we’ll see a bit of that on this trip, won’t we?” Brion drained the last of his wine and rose.

  “We’d best see about getting some sleep. The captain made it clear that he doesn’t want to miss the morning tide.”

  They stayed ashore that night, for the king preferred not to sleep aboard ship unless there were no other options. Next morning, awakened early by the bells of nearby churc
hes and the cathedral farther up the hill, they walked with the king in the harbor market while they waited for the tide, breaking their fast with warm bread and boiled eggs and crusty cheese from canopied market stalls. Brion remarked that he had never tasted finer, and seemed to enjoy this experience of normalcy.

  They sailed with the morning tide, and spent the day watching the sandy beaches of Vezaire give way to the marshy coastline of Logreine, with its serried vineyards marching up the hillsides beyond. That night, they anchored in the chalk-cliffed bay before Fianna, where Gezelin Count of Fianna entertained them to supper at his summer house perched on a bluff above. They dined on roast capon stuffed with bread and onions and apples, along with sea bass, and succulent pork carved off a carcass turning on a spit above the fire pit in the center of the hall. To wash it down, Count Gezelin produced some of the finest Fianna red that Alaric had ever tasted, for even the squires were seated at the table with the king and his knights.

  “You must take some of our wine with you when you sail in the morning,” Count Gezelin said, as he topped up the king’s glass. “Your father used to keep a very fine cellar, and always ordered wine from us. It is the mark of a civilized court,” he added, holding up a pale Vezairi glass to the light. “This is a particularly fine vintage.”

  They slept again in proper beds that night, guests of Count Gezelin, and departed the next day with several cases of fine Fianna red packed with straw between the bottles.

  Fallon was to be their next stop: Fallon, where the king had a niece of marriageable age, said to be intelligent and accomplished. After skirting the rocky coast of Fianna, they rounded the great cape called Jupe de la Vierge and sailed between the steep basalt cliffs guarding the bay at Nikidari, Fallon’s capital. At the quay beneath the castle heights, outriders from King Alberic were waiting with horses to escort Brion and his party up the winding road that led to the royal palace.

  Said palace proved to be a soaring assortment of whitewashed domes and cupolas, gilded spires, and rich-hued glass. As King Alberic’s majordomo led the way up a wide set of pristine marble stairs, Alaric was careful to maintain a fitting demeanor for a squire attending on the King of Gwynedd, but he was also taking in as much as he could of the Fallonish court, noting the livery of royal emerald-green and white on the palace retainers, the well-polished weapons, the sumptuous carving on the columns, the gilt work on the carved doors.

  Vast heraldic tapestries adorned the walls of the great hall—he recognized some of the coats of arms from his studies of the great families—and the marble floors gleamed under the broad swaths of sunlight that pierced the high clerestory windows. Their footsteps echoed on the polished marble.

  The king’s private reception room, to which they were led, was a cool sanctuary of white marble, arched windows, and silken tapestries, with fine Kheldish carpets underfoot and cushions of silk and velvet brocades on the chairs and benches. King Alberic himself was waiting in the wide window bay of the room, along with members of his family: a wife and grown sons, Alaric guessed, and also a thin, somewhat gangly girl in a gown of dark blue who just might be the king’s niece they had heard about, though if she was accomplished, it was not in the arts of social interaction.

  “Cousin,” King Alberic said, coming forward to extend his hand to Brion in greeting. “Welcome to my home. I trust you will dine with us this evening, and perhaps spend a day or two as my guest.”

  “Alas, we may only stay the night,” Brion replied. “But we thank you for your hospitality this evening.”

  King Alberic and his queen proved to be amiable hosts, he as tall and thin of body as she was short and stout, both of them somewhat advanced in years. Both were effusive in their welcome and distant with their offspring. Perhaps it came of presenting a niece for their royal guest’s assessment whose appearance and demeanor fell somewhat short of what was usually desired in a royal consort. The Princess Kerensa Alathea of Fallon, though richly garbed and no doubt generously dowered, was rail thin and gawky, and somewhat reminded Alaric of a stork, all beaky nose and bushy brows and angled elbows. Her eyes were handsome enough, of a rather engaging sea-foam color, but the wiry hair escaping from beneath her jeweled coronet and silken veil was mouse-brown.

  A sallow complexion and crooked teeth did nothing to improve first impressions, nor did her apparent inability to string together more than half a dozen words at a time, when Brion tried to engage her in conversation while at supper. Alaric felt sorry for her, and tried to be both pleasant and attentive as he helped serve her and the queen. But Sir Tiarnán, long a widower, apparently saw past her physical shortcomings, for he soon had cajoled a smile from the princess, and even had her laughing by the time supper was over. Later that evening, as everyone retired, Sir Tiarnán looked thoughtful, and spoke privily with the king for some little while.

  “What do you suppose that’s all about?” Paget whispered to Alaric as they readied the king’s chamber for the night.

  Alaric shook his head. “Your guess is as good as mine, but I do think that the princess was somewhat taken with Sir Tiarnán.”

  Paget looked at him owl-eyed. “You think he might be considering a match for himself? He would aim as high as a princess?”

  “It’s possible. He’s been a widower for many years, his children are all but grown, he’s been lonely. And she may not have many other prospects. It might be a kindness, for her.”

  “And for him?”

  Alaric shrugged again. “They seemed to have things to talk about. Both of them could do far worse.”

  The king had nothing to say about his conversation, of course, when he returned to the royal quarters and readied for bed; but the next morning, before they left, Alaric saw Sir Tiarnán speaking privily with King Alberic.

  Later, when they mounted up to return to the harbor, Alberic rode down with them, along with his niece, who fell to the rear of the procession with Tiarnán. When they parted at the dock, Tiarnán kissed her hand tenderly.

  “So,” the king said to Tiarnán, when they had all boarded their vessel and the crew began raising sail and casting off the lines. “May we be allowed to know what the lady said?”

  Tiarnán did his best to look unflustered, but he kept his eyes on the princess as the ship pulled away from the dock.

  “When there is something to tell, I will share it with you, Sire,” he said quietly. “But I have great hopes.”

  Brion nodded. “Fair enough.”

  • • •

  THEY were three days sailing on along the coast of Fallon, anchoring at night in sheltered coves and occasionally going ashore. Alaric and Paget spent a great deal of time watching from the ship’s rail, taking it all in, for neither knew when fate might again take them this far from home. Alaric might well venture this far, for a duke’s duties sometimes took him far afield; but Paget would serve at the will of his king, and might well find himself back in Meara, near where he had been raised.

  The fourth day found them drawing into the mouth of the River Laval, which formed a bay flanked by the Fallonese port of Ruyère to the north and the Bremagni town of Cinq-Eglise, named for the five churches that crowned its bluff. They could hear the bells ringing as they drew near, and dropped anchor just offshore to await a skiff flying the colors of Bremagne and rowed by six sets of oars. The man standing in the bow, bracing himself on the flagstaff, wore the white and blue of Bremagne.

  “Ahoy, the boat!” the captain called down to him. “We seek the court of the King of Bremagne. Is he yet in residence at Cinq-Eglise?”

  The man in the bow swept off his cap and made a bow. “He is. Do you come from the King of Gwynedd?”

  The captain indicated Brion, standing to his right. “I do. This is Brion King of Gwynedd.”

  The envoy made another, more profound bow.

  “My master’s respect, Sire—and welcome to Bremagne. Will you come ashore? I shall take yo
u to His Majesty.”

  Chapter 37

  “. . . I desired to make her my spouse, and I was a lover of her beauty.”

  —WISDOM OF SOLOMON 8:2

  THEY found the king with his family in the floral gardens at Millefleurs, the Bremagni summer palace. Across the manicured lawns, nearer to the buildings, King Meyric was lounging under a shady tree with several of his councilors of state on stools around him, watching as his two sons indulged in archery practice a short distance away. From nearby, the sweet music of a pair of lutes drifted toward them.

  The king’s daughters were also in evidence. Nearby, before a set of hedges trimmed with a crenellated top, three auburn-haired girls in pastel gowns were playing ball with a pack of long-eared, short-legged hound puppies, to a great accompaniment of puppy yips and girlish shrieks of excitement. Clearly, the three were sisters.

  “Please wait here, Majesty,” their guide said to Brion, then headed off across the grass to confer with the Bremagni king. Meyric lifted his head, glancing in their direction, then scrambled to his feet, smiling broadly as he started toward them.

  The girls, meanwhile, had summoned a pair of pages to take charge of the hound puppies and were making their way toward their sire. The tallest of the three, in the lead, cast a curious look in the direction of the approaching visitors. Like her sisters, she was slender and graceful, with masses of auburn hair tumbling wild around her shoulders. Unlike her younger sisters, who tripped along close behind, she had a woman’s body, and the smoldering glance of a woman as her eyes met Brion’s.

  Alaric sensed the king’s response and glanced at him surreptitiously, catching his quick intake of breath. If this was the princess they had come to meet, Bremagne might well be the last of their bride-finding embassies.

  “Cousin of Gwynedd!” King Meyric called, as he strode briskly toward Brion, with hand outstretched. “Welcome to my home!”

  “Cousin of Bremagne, I am pleased to be here,” Brion replied, taking the proffered hand. “I hope our arrival does not come at an inconvenient time. We were not certain whether we should find you here or at Rémigny.”