The King's Deryni

by Katherine Kurtz

  Meanwhile, his life as a Haldane squire continued, though his personal progress was such that several of the senior knights began giving him extra tuition incumbent on a future duke. Along with his daily weapons’ drills and ride-outs, and practice at hand-to-hand combat, Alaric continued his immersion in ever more complex military strategy and tactics, and at Duke Richard’s insistence now took on the seminal masterwork on tactics by Zimri Duke of Truvorsk, A Betrayal at Killingford. It was a difficult work, not usually even attempted for several more years—and most men never truly understood it—but Alaric seemed to have a natural insight into the material.

  Soon he was being included in the impromptu scenarios Richard ran for his nephews and other promising young knights in the royal withdrawing room, analyzing classic battles and formulating new battle scenarios for their analysis. Alaric held back at first, being much junior to the others, but he soon began to make his own contributions to their discussions, much to the satisfaction of the three Haldane princes. (Some of the knights were less than enthusiastic about the arrangement, but none dared make any overt objection.) Very soon, Alaric also became the squire most often on duty when the king received petitioners regarding the security of the kingdom.

  Thus it was that he was present when news arrived from Eastmarch that not only would change the king’s summer plans, but would draw Alaric further into the adult responsibilities he so craved, though no one could have anticipated how the situation would escalate.

  The very first hints of unrest in Eastmarch—occasional cattle raids into neighboring Marley and the odd border incursion—had reached Rhemuth the previous year, while the king was absent in Bremagne to take a bride. Duke Richard, as regent, had been vaguely aware of the reports coming out of the north, but his personal focus had been on the dowager queen’s expedition into Arkadia to retrieve her elder daughter and grandchild. Accordingly, he had noted only in passing the sparse reports of a marriage between a minor northern baron and the daughter of one of Brion’s earls. After all, the Lady Eulalia Howell had a brother who would become the next Earl of Eastmarch. Her bridegroom, Sir Rhydon Sasillion, was only the Baron of Coldoire, and not well-known at court.

  Little had changed once the king and his mother returned from their respective missions. It was not until the following spring that more alarming news reached the capital: that Rorik Howell Earl of Eastmarch had defied royal writ and begun to invade neighboring Marley, aided by his new son-in-law. Perhaps it was the birth of an heir to his daughter and her new husband that had finally sparked the move.

  “I knew Rorik was ambitious, but I wouldn’t have taken him for a traitor,” Duke Richard said to the king, when the news first arrived. He had been running a battle scenario for Brion and the newly knighted Nigel, with Alaric observing and manning the map table to move markers. “You’ll have to go up there, you know.”

  Brion scanned down the letter again, shaking his head. Alaric stayed very quiet, lest the others remember his presence and send him from the room.

  “It does seem inevitable,” Brion said. “Rorik has just changed from a minor irritation to a serious problem. He’s wanted Marley for years. What do you know about this baron who sent the letter, who says he’s trying to protect my interests?”

  “Arban Howell,” Richard replied. “Baron of Iomaire, and a cousin of Rorik. I knew his father. A good man.”

  “The father, or the son?”

  Richard shrugged. “Both, so far as I know. The father was definitely one of the good ones. I know the son less well.”

  “Well, he’s throwing his levies against Rorik, so I suppose we’d better go rescue him—and the good folk of Marley.” Brion gave an arch glance at his brother. “Fancy trying out that new white belt in the field?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” Nigel said with a grin.

  “Right, then. It’s going to be a quick, hard dash to get there in time to make much difference, so we’ll want cavalry.” He cocked his head at Richard. “What do we have available on short notice?”

  “Take the Haldane lancers,” Richard said. “Sixty should give you enough clout, added to what Arban can field.”

  • • •

  THE king’s preferred captains for the northern expedition would have been Jamyl and Llion, but both men were away from the capital, and Brion dared not delay, because no one knew what allies Rorik of Eastmarch might muster. Accordingly, he chose Sir Jiri Redfearn and Lord Lester to accompany him and Nigel as military aides, Jiri for his political acumen and Lester for his tactical experience.

  As squires for the expedition, he selected Alaric and Saer de Traherne. His wife of only a year was less than enthusiastic about his planned excursion, and decidedly unhappy that the Deryni Alaric Morgan was to accompany her husband, but her objections carried no weight with the determined king.

  “I know you don’t like him, Jehana—what he is,” the king said. “Out of respect for your wishes, I have begun keeping him from personal service that might bring him into close proximity with you, but he is my Duke of Corwyn, and he deserves the best guidance and training that I can give him. He is coming with me.”

  The queen pouted and retired to her chambers with her chaplain and the sisters to pray for the king, but his plans did not change.

  The king and his party left for the north the next morning, following Mass and a blessing of the troops before they rode out. Both Alaric and Saer were arrayed in proper battle harness like the adults, and exchanged delighted grins as they mounted up, thrilled to be going on their first real military expedition.

  With hard riding and little sleep along the way, the royal party caught up with battle stragglers in Marley livery two weeks later, well into the southern borderlands of Eastmarch. They soon learned that, true to the intentions outlined in his call for help, Arban Howell had, indeed, gone to the aid of the hard-pressed Earl of Marley and also enlisted the assistance of border troops of Ewan Duke of Claibourne, Marley’s neighbor to the north and west. Marley men handling the local mop-up operations directed them northward, where it was believed that their earl and his allies had finally run Rorik to ground.

  A few hours later they encountered jubilant outriders who reported that, indeed, combined forces of Ryan Earl of Marley, Duke Ewan, and Arban Howell had finally entrapped Rorik at Elcho with a handful of his captains. Riding into the base camp where the loyalist leaders were quartered, they learned that Rorik and many of his officers were now in chains at Arban’s camp. The enterprise looked to have cost Rorik not only his freedom but the life of his son Kennet, knighted only weeks before, who now lay dying in a surgeon’s tent not far from the center of the base camp. Unfortunately, Earl Rorik’s ambitious son-in-law, the brash Rhydon Sasillion, had managed to elude his would-be captors and had last been seen galloping hell-bent toward the Torenthi border.

  When they at last reached the command tent, a duke, an earl, and a baron were waiting to greet them, all still in battle harness. They were, all of them, men in their prime. All of them looked extraordinarily pleased with themselves.

  “My Liege, you arrive in good time!” Duke Ewan said to Brion, as he strode up to catch the king’s reins and gentle the big grey so that Brion could dismount. “We have the Earl of Eastmarch in custody, and were considering whether to go ahead and try him. We do have the right of high justice, and there is no doubt of his treason. But having him executed by the king he betrayed tastes of far more appropriate justice!”

  “Not a job I relish, but I suppose it must be done,” the king murmured, as Nigel and the others swung down. “How were your own losses?”

  “Not as bad as they could have been,” the Earl of Marley chimed in, joining them. “And it is thanks to the Baron of Iomaire, who raised the alarm in time for help to be summoned.” He gestured toward a dark-haired younger man, also striding toward them. “Look here, Arban, ’tis the king!”

  Half an hour later,
the king and the rest of his immediate entourage had walked the campsite with the baron, seen Earl Rorik and his captains in chains, and looked in on the dying Kennet Howell, whose passing was not coming easily. The battle-surgeon and his assistant were attending him, and had removed or cut away most of his armor, but a cloak was partially pulled over the heavy swathing of blood-soaked bandages around his middle. The surgeon’s expression was grim as he glanced up at the king and shook his head.

  “I’ll go to him,” Jiri murmured, and crouched to lay a hand on the fevered brow and bend close to Kennet’s ear. Alone of those in the king’s immediate party, Jiri had sons of an age with the wounded man.

  “How bad is it?” the king asked the battle-surgeon, who had drawn back to give Jiri access. Alaric was standing close at Brion’s elbow, tight-lipped as he gazed down at the young knight.

  The surgeon shook his head. “He took a belly wound, Sire. Half his entrails were spilling out when we found him. Better if he had bled out on the field.”

  “Does he wish the coup?” Brion asked. “Senseless, for him to suffer this way.”

  “He hasn’t asked yet, my lord.”

  But he was asking now, Alaric had no doubt. He watched as the young man fumbled his hand into Jiri’s and pulled him close for a gasping, whispered exchange. He could see Jiri nodding and reaching with his free hand for the dagger in the small of his back, keeping it close against his leg as he and Kennet continued to converse.

  “Take this and help his lordship,” the surgeon murmured, pressing a basin into Alaric’s hands. “This place is bloody enough already.”

  Alaric glanced at the king, question in his eyes, but Brion only nodded, “Do it,” then turned to leave with his entourage.

  Heart pounding, Alaric knelt beside Jiri and, at his gesture, pressed the basin in the angle of the dying man’s shoulder. Young Kennet closed his eyes, lips moving in prayer, but Alaric still flinched at the gush of hot blood that sprang from beneath Jiri’s blade and frothed into the bowl, instinctively cupping his one hand over the wound to keep most of the blood in the bowl as he bent closer. In that instant of hard contact against Kennet’s neck, he could sense the dying man’s surge of fear. Instinctively he found himself reaching out with his mind to ease him on his way.

  “Courage,” he whispered, bending closer. “It will soon be over. Let go and let it happen. Go with God. . . .”

  After, as he and Jiri washed the blood from their hands in the new basin the surgeon’s assistant brought, Jiri eyed him thoughtfully and nodded. “You did well, lad. Your first time?”

  Alaric nodded.

  “Even better, then. I’m afraid it doesn’t get easier, but you do learn to endure it.” Jiri glanced down at the motionless form now shrouded under a blanket. “It’s harder when they’re so young. But he’s at peace now.”

  He wiped his hands dry on a rough piece of toweling, then handed it to Alaric. “We’d best go find the king. I think he means to deal with the rest of this today.”

  “You mean, the Earl of Eastmarch?” Alaric said.

  “Aye.”

  • • •

  THEY found Brion and his brother seated on camp stools in the main tent, conferring with the Duke of Claibourne and the Earl of Marley, along with Arban Howell and several of his captains. Saer, assigned as Nigel’s squire, stood to his back. A sharp-faced young man in battle leathers stood behind Arban, a familial resemblance suggesting that he might be Arban’s son.

  “Ewan tells me that this is mostly your victory, Sir Arban,” the king said, as Jiri and Alaric took up places behind him and Nigel. “Is it your opinion that we should execute the ringleaders?”

  Arban Howell glanced briefly at his dusty boots, apparently somewhat surprised to have a duke defer to him, but his voice was resolute as he met the king’s gaze again. “My cousin betrayed his fealty to you, my lord, and persuaded others to join him in treason. For that, he deserves to die. The penalty the law requires is that he be hanged, drawn, and quartered.”

  “I do not question the law,” the king replied, and turned aside to Jiri. “Is the boy dead?”

  Jiri inclined his head. “Aye, Sire. He asked for the coup, and I gave it.”

  “Then, the direct line ends with Rorik.” Brion considered briefly, then rose, the others hastily following suit. “Very well, let’s be done with it,” he said. “Summon your officers and as many of the Eastmarch captains as may be assembled before this tent. Such trial as Rorik Howell may merit will be carried out before his men.”

  Half an hour later, in the long, late summer twilight, Brion emerged to a clear space before the command tent where camp stools had been set for himself and Nigel, Duke Ewan, Earl Ryan, and Arban Howell, whose squire now stood behind his seat. In the interval, Alaric had learned that he was, indeed, Arban’s son and heir, called Ian. Jiri and a pair of lancers stood behind the king’s chair with folded arms. Lord Lester had gone to see to the troops.

  Alaric, for his part, was charged with holding the sheathed Haldane sword to the left of the king. Brion had thrown on a dusty crimson mantle over his battle harness, and Alaric had tidied the king’s battle braid before setting in place a leather band studded with cabochon garnets: practical diadem for travel. At not quite four-and-twenty, Brion Haldane looked every inch the warrior-king.

  As the king and his lords took their seats, about a dozen Eastmarch men were chivvied before them and made to kneel. At Brion’s nod, the defeated Earl of Eastmarch also was brought before him, hands bound behind, and likewise made to kneel, to a murmur of consternation from among his men. Brion fixed all of them with his scrutiny, silence settling over the gathering as he surveyed them, then turned his gaze on Earl Rorik.

  “Sir Jiri, please remind this assembly of the penalty for high treason against the Crown.”

  “My Liege,” Jiri said slowly, the title underlining just what Rorik had transgressed, “the penalty for high treason is death: to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. More specifically, the condemned is to be hanged to the point of unconsciousness, then cut down and revived, his entrails drawn from his body while still living, the body then to be beheaded and hacked into four pieces, all of these to be displayed at the king’s pleasure, in a place or places of his choosing.”

  A faint murmur of dismay had rippled through the assembled listeners during Jiri’s recitation, and Rorik himself had gone a little pale, jaw hard clenched, though he lifted his head bravely.

  “I have but one question, my lord,” he said quietly. “What has happened to my son?”

  “Your son has died,” Brion said starkly. Although Alaric’s hands tightened slightly on the scabbard of the Haldane sword, he decided that the king also had granted Rorik a small mercy, not to specify just how Kennet Howell had died.

  Even so, Kennet’s father briefly closed his eyes, ducking his head, then lifted his gaze to the king once more. “Then, I have no reason to continue living. I commend me to God’s mercy, for I know that I can expect none from this court.”

  Brion let out a measuring breath, then rose and reached his right hand across toward Alaric, taking the hilt of the Haldane sword to draw it from its scabbard. As the blade emerged, the ruddy sky of a dying day glinted red fire along the blade, gleaming as he reversed the weapon to let its tip rest on the packed earth beneath his feet.

  “Rorik Howell Earl of Eastmarch, for that you have forsworn your oaths of fealty to our person and our Crown, and have risen against us in treasonous rebellion, and have attempted to take by force the lands of another, and thereby caused the deaths of many innocents; so, therefore, do we, Brion Cinhil Rhys Anthony Haldane King of Gwynedd, sentence you to die for the crime of treason, the penalty for which is to be hanged, cut down while still alive, your entrails drawn from your body, and your body then to be quartered.

  “This is the just sentence prescribed by law, witnessed by your peers and henchmen
here present.”

  Rorik had blanched as the sentence was pronounced, despite his earlier defiance. Brion stared at him for a moment, then shifted his gaze back across the kneeling Eastmarch men.

  “This is the just sentence, prescribed by the law,” he said. “But I desire to be known as a merciful king as well as a just one. I therefore direct that the said Rorik Howell Earl of Eastmarch shall be hanged by the neck until dead. Only then will the remainder of the sentence be carried out.” He cast a cool glance at the surprised Rorik. “Ordinarily, a silken rope is specified for the execution of an earl, but my urgency in coming here to relieve the good people of Marley did not permit me that luxury.” He glanced back at one of his lancer guards. “Over there, I think,” he said, with a jerk of his chin in the direction of a nearby grove of sturdy oaks. “Take him.”

  The stunned Rorik was immediately dragged to his feet and hustled back through the assembled men, his warders heading him toward the indicated trees, where other lancers were bringing up a horse and tossing a rope over a high tree limb. At the same time, Brion cocked the Haldane sword over his shoulder and began to head toward the execution site. Jiri and Alaric fell in behind him, his other noble companions accompanying them.

  Meanwhile, some of Arban’s men chivvied the kneeling Eastmarch men to their feet, to stand and watch as Rorik was briefly allowed to bow his head before a black-clad priest for blessing. The king and his party halted a dozen paces from the execution site. As the condemned man then was lifted onto the horse and the noose dropped around his neck and drawn tight, Alaric swallowed down a queasy churning in his stomach, for he had never witnessed an execution by hanging.

  “Steady, lad,” Jiri murmured from the side of his mouth, for Alaric’s ears only. “It won’t be as bad as a burning.”