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Gwydion was bickering with Lord Hamilton again, in a low but penetrating tone. Morgan glanced around.
"You stepped on me!" the little troubadour was whispering furiously, pointing down at one elegantly pointed shoe which now bore a decided scuff mark on the side of the toe. His entire outfit was in shades of deep violet and rose, and the dust of Hamilton's misstep shone like a beacon on the rich suede of the left shoe. Gwydion's lute was slung across his back with a golden cord, and a sweeping hat with a white cockade was perched atop his thick black hair. The black eyes danced angrily in the swarthy face.
"Sorry," Hamilton murmured, starting to bend down and brush off the offending dust rather than argue in Morgan's presence.
"Don't touch me!" Gwydion yelped, dancing back a few steps and drawing his hands up against his chest in a show of horrified distaste. "You blundering fool, you'll only make it worse!"
He bent down to dust his own sh'oe, and the long tippets on his flowing violet sleeves dragged the floor so that he had to dust those too. Hamilton looked vindictive, and grinned malice as Gwydion discovered the new dust, then realized Morgan had seen the whole proceedings and cleared his throat apologetically.
"Sorry, m'lord," he muttered. "It really wasn't intentional."
Before Morgan could comment, the curtains parted briefly and Randolph slipped into the alcove.
"Nothing urgent to report, Your Grace," he said quietly. "There's a lot of talk about this Warm character, but nothing that can't wait until morning."
"Very well," Morgan nodded. "Gwydion, if you and Hamilton can stop fighting long enough, we'll go in now." "My lord!" Gwydion gasped, drawing himself up
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indignantly. "It was not I who started this sifly quarrel. This oaf—"
"Your Grace, am I required to submit to this—," Hamilton began.
"AH right, both of you! I don't want to hear any more!"
The lord chamberlain came to attention as the curtains moved beside him,, and the room became Hushed. Three slow raps of the long staff of office echoed hollowly through the quieting hall, and the chamberlain's voice rang out.
"His Grace, Lord Alaric Anthony Morgan: Duke of Corwyn, Master of Coroth, Lord General of the Royal Armies, and Champion of the King!"
As the musicians trilled a short fanfare, Morgan stepped through the parted curtains and paused in the doorway. A murmur of appreciation rippled through the assembled guests as all bowed respectfully. Then, as the musicians resumed their playing, Morgan acknowledged the tribute with a nod and began to move slowly toward his place at table, his entourage falling into place behind him.
Morgan was all in black tonight. Duncan's unsettling news from Rhemuth had brought with it a note of solemnity which had put him totally out of the frame of mind necessary for following the dictates of a temperamental master of wardrobes. So he had discarded the brilliant green of Lord Rathold's choice and worn black instead, and the Devil with what anyone thought.
Severely plain black silk tunic, sleek and close to body and wrists; over that, a sumptuous black velvet doublet trimmed in jet, high and close around his neck and with wide sleeves slashed to the elbow to show the silk of the tunic beneath; silk hosen disappearing into short black boots of softest leather.
And against this setting, the few articles of jewelry that Morgan permitted himself in such a mood: his
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gryphon signet on the right hand, emerald inlay of the beast glowing out against its onyx background; on his left, Kelson's Champion ring with the golden lion of Gwynedd etched on a field of black and gleaming gold. And on his head, the ducal coronet of Corwyn, hammered gold in seven delicate points, crowning the golden head of the Deryni Lord of Corwyn.
He appeared unarmed as he strolled toward his place at the head of the tables, for the ruler of Corwyn traditionally had no need to go armed among his dinner guests. But beneath Morgan's rich attire was the gleam of supple mail protecting vital organs, the slim stiletto in its worn wrist sheath. And the cloak of his Deryni power surrounding him like an invisible mantle wherever he went.
Now he must play the gracious host and settle down to the bore of a state dinner, while he inwardly seethed with impatience and wondered what had happened to Duncan.
It was well after dark when Duncan finally returned to Coroth. His horse had gone lame the last two miles, and he had been forced to go on foot the rest of the way, controlling the almost overpowering urge to force the animal to continue at a normal pace despite its pain. He had controlled that impulse. For whatever advantage the hour's difference in his return might make, it was doubtful that it would be worth ruining one of Alaric's best saddle horses. Besides, it was not in Duncan's soul to purposely torture any living thing.
And so, when he and the animal finally limped into the courtyard, he leading, the tired horse following slowly, it was to enter an almost deserted area. The gate guards had passed him without question, since they had been warned to expect his return, but there was no one in the courtyard to take his horse. At the invitation of the duke, the squires and pages who
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would normally have been manning the stable had slipped inside to the back of the hall to hear Gwydion sing. Duncan finally found someone to take the animal, then made his way across the courtyard to the entrance to the great hall.
Dinner was over, he soon learned, and as he passed among the servants crowded in the doorway he could see that the entertainment was already in progress. Gwydion was performing, seated on the second step of the raised dais at the far end of the hall, his lute cradled easily in his arms. As he sang, Duncan paused to listen. The troubadour apparently deserved his reputation he held throughout the Eleven Kingdoms.
It was a slow, measured melody, bom of the higK-lands of Carthmoor to the west—the land of Gwydion's youth. And it was filled with the rhythms, the modulations to minor keys, that seemed to characterize the music of the mountain folk.
Gwydion's clear tenor floated through tKe still hall, weaving the bittersweet tale of Mathurin and Derver-guille, the lovers of legend who had died in Interregnum times at the hands of the cruel Lord Gerent. Not a soul stirred as the troubadour spun his song.
So how shall I sing to the sparling morn? How to the children yet unborn? Can I survive with heart forlorn? My Lord Mdthurm is dead.
As Duncan scanned the hall, he saw Morgan sitting at his place to the left of the dais where Gwydion sang. To Morgan's left, Lord Robert was flanked by two beautiful women who gazed fondly at Morgan as the troubadour sang. But the seat to Morgan's right, closest to Duncan, was vacant. He thought he might be able to make his way there without creating too much disturbance if he were careful.
Before he could do more than move in tKat direc-
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tion, however, Morgan saw him and shook his head, then rose quietly and made his way to the side of the hall.
"What happened?" he whispered, pulling Duncan behind one of the pillars and looking around to be certain they were not being overheard.
"The part with Bishop Tolliver went well enough," Duncan murmured, "He wasn't enthusiastic about the idea, but he agreed to delay his answer to Loris and Corrigan until he can evaluate the situation. He will let us know when he makes a decision."
"Well, I suppose it's better than nothing. What was his general reaction? Do you think he's on our side?"
Duncan shrugged. "You know Tolliver. He's squeamish about the whole Deryni aspect of things, but then, everyone is. For now, he seems to be with us. There's something else, though."
"Oh?"
"I—ah—think we'd better not talk about it here," Duncan said, glancing around meaningfully. "I had a visitor on the way back."
"A v—," Morgan's eyes went wide. "You mean, like mine?" Duncan nodded soberly. "Can I meet you in the
tower room?"
"As soon as I can
get away," Morgan agreed.
As Duncan moved on toward the door, Morgan took a deep breath to compose himself, then crossed quietly back to his seat. He wondered how long it would be before he could extricate himself gracefully.
In the tower room, Duncan paced back and forth before the fireplace, clasping and unclasping his hands and trying to calm his jangled nerves.
He was much more upset than he had realized, he knew now. In fact, when he had first entered the room, a short while earlier, he had had a violent fit of shaking as he thought about his visitation on the road,
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almost as though an icy wind had blown across his neck.
The attack had passed, and after throwing off his damp riding cloak he had collapsed at the prie-<3ieu before the tiny altar and tried to pray. But for once, it hadn't worked. He couldn't force himself to concentrate on the words he was trying to form, and he had had to give it up as a lost cause for the moment.
The pacing was not helping either, he realized. As he stopped before the fireplace and held out one hand, he realized that he was still shaking in a delayed reaction to what had happened earlier.
Why?
Taking hold of himself sternly, he crossed to Alar-ic's desk and unstoppered a crystal decanter there, poured himself a small glass of the strong red wine Alaric kept for just such emergencies. He drained that glass and poured another, then took it over beside the fur-draped couch against the left-hand wall. Unbuttoning his cassock halfway to the waist, he loosened his collar and stretched his neck backwards to get the kinks out, then lay back on the couch, the glass of wine in his hand. As he lay there, sipping the wine and forcing himself to review the situation, he began to relax. By the time the gryphon door opened and Alaric entered, he was feeling much better—almost unwilling to get up or talk at all.
"Are you all right?" Morgan said, crossing to the couch and sitting down beside his cousin.
"Now I think I may survive," Duncan replied dreamily. "A little while ago, I wouldn't have been so sure. This thing really disturbed me."
Morgan nodded. "I know the feeling. Do you want to talk about it?"
Duncan sighed heavily. "He was there. I was riding along, I rounded a bend in the road about three or four miles from here, and there he was, standing in the middle of the road. He was wearing a grey monk's
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habit, holding a staff in his hand, and—well, his face was almost identical to those portraits we've found in the old breviaries and history books."
"Did he speak to you?"
"Oh, yes," Duncan agreed heartily. "Just as clearly as you and I are talking right now. And not only that, he knows what I am. He called me by my mother's name—Duncan of Corwyn. When I objected and said I was a McLain, he told me that I was also a Corwyn—'of my sainted mother's right,' I believe he put it."
"Go on," Morgan said, getting up to pour Himself a glass of the red wine.
"Ah ... next he said that the time was approaching when I would be sorely tested, and would be forced to either accept my powers and begin to use them out in the open, or else forget them. When I objected and told him that as a priest I was forbidden to, use those powers, he asked if I were really a priest. He knew about the suspension, and he—knew what we'd discussed earlier this afternoon. Remember, when I said that the suspension didn't really matter that much, that the more I used my Deryni powers, £he less important my vows seemed to be? Alaric, I've never told that to anyone else, and I know you didn't. How could he have known that?"
"He knew what we talked about this afternoon?" Morgan said, sitting down again in amazement.
"Almost verbatim. And he didn't Truth-Read me, either. Alaric, what am I going to do?"
"I don't know," Morgan said slowly. "I'm not sure what to think. He's never been that talkative with me." He rubbed his eyes and thought a minute. "Tell me, do you think he was human? I mean, do you think he was really there? Or just an apparition, a visual phenomenon?"
"He was there in the flesh," Duncan stated promptly. "He put his hand on the bridle to keep from
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getting stepped on." He frowned. "And yet, there were no footprints where he walked. After he'd disappeared, there was still enough light to see my tracks going back the way I'd come. But none of his."
Duncan raised up on one elbow. "Now I really don't know, Alaric. Maybe he wasn't there at all. Maybe I imagined all of it."
Morgan shook his head and stood abruptly. "No, you saw something. I wouldn't even presume to guess what at this point, but I think something was there." He stared at his feet for a moment, then looked up. "Why don't we sleep on it, eh? You can stay here, if you like. You look as though you're very comfortable."
"I couldn't move if I wanted to," Duncan grinned. "See you in the morning."
He watched until Morgan had disappeared through the gryphon door, then reached to the floor beside the couch and discarded his glass.
He had seen someone on the road to Castle Culdi. He wondered again who it could have been.
And why?
CHAPTER FIVE
Who is she that loo^eth forth in the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an with banners?
Song of Solomon 6:10
As THE cathedral bells tolled Sext in Coroth, Morgan suppressed a yawn and shifted slightly in his chair, trying not to look as bored as he felt. He was reviewing court rolls from cases he had judged the day before, and Lord Robert was working industriously on an account roll across the table from him.
Lord Robert always worked industriously, Morgan thought to himself. Which was probably a good thing, since somebody had to do the blasted things. It didn't seem to bother Robert at all to sit poring over obscure records for hours at a time when things were crumbling around their ears. Of course, that was his job. . . .
Morgan sigh'ed and tried to force himself to return to his job. As Duke of Corwyn, one of his primary official duties when he was in residence was to hear local court presentments once a week and to render decisions. He usually enjoyed it, for it enabled him to keep in touch with what was going on in his duchy, to keep abreast of what was troubling his subjects.
But he had been restless for the past few weeks. The long inactivity forced by almost two months of
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nothing but attention to administrative detail had left him restive, eager for action. And even daily workouts with sword and lance, occasional forages into the countryside on hunting expeditions, had not been able to entirely take the edge off his discomfiture,
He would be glad when he could leave for Culdi next week. The honest fatigue of the four-day ride would be welcome change after the glittering but sterile life he had led for the past two months. And it would be especially good to see old friends again. The young king, for one, would be a particularly welcome sight. Even now, Morgan longed to be at his side, protecting and reassuring him in the face of the new crises which were developing daily. Kelson was almost like a son to him. He had a fair idea what sorts of worries must be going through the boy's mind right now.
Reluctantly, Morgan returned his attention to the correspondence in front of him and scrawled his signature at the bottom of the first sheet. Part of his problem this morning was that the cases he was reviewing seemed so trivial compared to what Morgan knew were the real issues. The writ he had just signed, for example, set a small fine on one Harold Martham for allowing some of his beasts to graze on another man's lands. As he recalled, the man had actually been upset over the judgement, even though there was no contesting that he had been in the wrong.
That's all right, friend Harold, Morgan thought to himself. If you think you've got troubles now, just wait until Loris and Com'gan lower the Interdict. You don't know what trouble is.
It was beginning to look as though there would, indeed, be an Interdict. Yesterday morning, after
getting all the guests away, he had sent Duncan to see Bishop Tolliver again, to find out what the messengers had said when they delivered the archbishops' letter the night before. Duncan had returned hours later
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with a long face and a troubled mind, for the bishop had been almost secretive this time, in contrast to his previous amiable reception. Apparently the messengers had scared Tolliver. At any rate, Duncan had been able to discover nothing.
As Morgan moved his writ to the completed pile, there was a quick, sharp knock at the door, followed by the entry of Gwydion, lute slung over his back. The little troubadour was dressed in the simple brown homespun of the common folk, his swarthy face streaked with dust and perspiration, and he looked very serious as he strode across the polished floor to bow curtly by Morgan's chair.
"Your Grace, may I have a word with you?" He glanced at Robert. "Alone?"
Morgan leaned back and put his pen down, then gave Gwydion a long searching look. The foppish poppinjay that was the public Gwydion had been replaced by a thin-lipped, determined little man. And there was something in his manner, in his black eyes, that made Morgan realize Gwydion was deadly serious for a change. He glanced at Robert and motioned him to leave, but the chancellor frowned and did not move.
"My lord, I must protest. Whatever it is, I'm certain it can wait. We have only a few more rolls to go, and after that—"
"Sorry, Robert." Morgan replied, looking back at Gwydion. "I have to be the judge of whether it can wait or not. You can come back as soon as we're finished."
Robert said nothing, but he scowled vexedly as he stacked his papers and pushed back his chair. Gwydion watched until he had disappeared through the door and the door had closed, then strolled toward the window and eased himself down on the padded window seat.
"I thank you, Your Grace. There are many lords
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who would not have taken the time to indulge the whims of a mere spinner of tales."
"I sense you have more than tales to spin, Gwydion," Morgan said quietly. "What is it you wanted to tell me?"
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