In the King's Service (10 page)

Most alarming of all was the prospect that the daughter of Lewys ap Norfal might have followed in the footsteps of her father, who had defied the Council’s authority, for the Council had been a powerful check on many a would-be tyrant among ambitious Deryni. If Jessamy had, indeed, enabled Donal Haldane to best one of the finest Deryni minds known—for such Sief surely must have been, to be part of the Camberian Council—the implications were serious, indeed. And this was all apart from the possibility that she might have meddled with the succession of the ruling House of Haldane—who were human, but also something more, very like Deryni—by bearing a Haldane by-blow. . . .

Such a child would actually be a double threat, both a Haldane and a grandson of Lewys ap Norfal—and that, too, must be dealt with. He wondered whether it might be possible to steal away the child—for certainly, it would be dangerous in the extreme, to let him remain under his mother’s influence, if he was, indeed, Donal Haldane’s son. Indeed, if the boy
was
Donal’s son . . .

“It may be necessary to kill the child,” he found himself saying, somewhat to his horror. “If Donal Haldane has fathered a son on the daughter of Lewys ap Norfal, it cannot be allowed to reach maturity.”

Chapter 6

—ECCLESIASTICUS 7:24

 
 
 
 
 
 
KHOREN’S flat statement only verbalized what the rest of them had been reluctant to voice. Though killing was not unknown to the Camberian Council, either to protect other Deryni or to thwart illicit activities by wayward exemplars of their race, it was usually in the context of defense or judicial execution, even if made to look like death by natural or accidental causes. To take the life of an innocent babe, even a potentially dangerous one, required a ruthlessness that was anathema to any civilized society. Further, it smacked of the policies of pitiless extermination that had characterized the years of Deryni persecution following the Haldane Restoration. Yet to let the child live only added to the possible danger, and made its eventual elimination all the more heart-wrenching for all concerned.

“What if the child is
not
Donal’s?” Dominy murmured, looking as distressed as the rest of them felt. “And even if it is, it might not manifest potentials that would be dangerous. Surely we can afford to delay, until we know for certain.”

The plea gave all of them an excuse to back down from any immediate decision, especially until the child could be examined. After further discussion, it was agreed that the matter might be tabled until Seisyll should return from Meara, since he had most ready access to the court. Michon, meanwhile, would linger in Rhemuth, on the chance that he might find opportunity to pursue the investigation.

“It only remains, then, to make a final decision about our vacant Council seat,” Michon said, with a confirming glance at the others. “Khoren, as you undoubtedly have gathered, it is not our usual practice to immerse a new member in our affairs before certain oaths are sworn, but you have acquitted yourself well. May we assume that you are, indeed, willing to serve?”

Khoren flicked his gaze to each of them, in return, well aware of the extraordinary responsibility that went with agreement, then inclined his head.

“Volo,”
he said. I am willing.

“Excellent,” Michon said. “You are aware, of course, that those certain oaths will still be required of you.”

“Of course.”

“Tonight perhaps is not the best time,” Vivienne said. “We have summoned you from a wedding feast, and the oaths by which we bind our number are best sworn . . . with a clearer head.”

Khoren quirked her a grim smile.

“It’s certain I’ve not been fasting,” he said. “When would you prefer?”

Casually Oisín reached across to clasp Khoren’s wrist, using the physical link to probe his degree of inebriation.

“It can be done in a few days,” he said. “Meanwhile, I shall only remind you that what is discussed here goes not beyond these walls. One of us can bind you to that prohibition, but I think there is no need. You’re aware what is at stake.”

At Khoren’s nod, both of acknowledgement and agreement, Oisín withdrew both his hand and the link.

“Perhaps a week, then, if we are all in agreement,” Michon said. “You shall be given ample time to prepare.”

And so it was agreed.

 
 
IN fact, several weeks passed before that task could be accomplished, though this changed nothing regarding access to Jessamy’s infant son. Prince Khoren Vastouni was duly pledged to the Camberian Council at midsummer: a season that brought its own new worries for the court of Gwynedd.

At least the crises of that summer of 1082 were of a more common variety than what the Council feared. Negotiations in Meara continued to stall, and Seisyll Arilan’s return along with them, but domestic matters throughout the Eleven Kingdoms gave increasing cause for more immediate concern.

Little rain had fallen for many months. As the verdant plains of Gwynedd dulled to gold and then to brown, farmers turned their energies to hay-making, which was abundant, but other crops began to suffer. And as a sultry June gave way to even fiercer heat in July, word came of the sudden illness of the queen’s mother, Gwenaël, Sovereign Queen of Llannedd, beset by a canker of the breast.

Immediately Queen Richeldis made ready to depart for Llannedd, to attend on her mother during this time of crisis. Jessamy, though but lately recovered from childbed, made certain of her own inclusion in the queen’s party, for the journey would provide a timely ploy to remove her from the court for a few weeks, hopefully beyond the reach of any of Sief’s friends who might have suspicions about his death. Seisyll Arilan was safely removed in Meara, for the moment, and Michon de Courcy had not been seen at court since Krispin’s christening, but she knew not what others might come sniffing around. It was somewhat worrisome that, if they did, Donal would be somewhat left to their mercy, should a connection somehow have been made between the king’s presence and Sief’s death; but after seeing him matched against Sief, she decided that Donal probably was well capable of looking after himself.

As for young Krispin, surely he could not be safer than in the royal nursery with Prince Brion. Whatever Sief’s friends might think of
her
—and there was nothing whatever to link her with her husband’s death, other than that she was present when it occurred—what part could a two-day-old babe have had in it? She knew that, later on, signs of his true paternity might start to emerge, to the consternation of her enemies; but not yet, and probably not for many years. No, for now it was safe enough to leave him—and infinitely safer for
her
to absent herself from closer scrutiny.

The queen’s party sailed for Llannedd the day after receiving the news: Richeldis and Jessamy and four more of the queen’s ladies, plus a handful of domestic servants from the royal household and a score of knights as escort, under command of Duke Richard Haldane. They went by royal barge as far as Concaradine, for it was thought that travel by water would be easier on the women than a journey overland, especially in the heat and with the queen still suffering from morning sickness.

But the weather remained sultry and hot, with nary a breath of air stirring as they made their slow progress down-river. Spirits wilted and tempers began to fray. At Concaradine, the party transferred to a royal galley, better suited for sea travel along the southern coast of Llannedd, but still with no wind to swell the sail. The men at the galley’s sweeps suffered from the heat, and the river was sluggish, running low, making a navigation hazard of sandbars that ordinarily were well-covered.

Not until they were passing off Nyford did a light breeze at last rustle the galley’s red canvas; even then, the heat hardly abated. But as they sailed at last into the bay below the Llanneddi capital of Pwyllheli, with Gwynedd’s royal banner flying at the masthead, they could hear the muffled knell of the great cathedral bells tolling the passing of Queen Gwenaël.

Shock and grief, coupled with the heat, caused Queen Richeldis to miscarry, too soon even to determine the gender of the child. Beset with weeping, grieving over this dual loss, she lay despondent at Pwyllheli for several days, recovering physical health with the relative resilience of youth but less quick to heal in spirit.

“I should have been here for her,” she told Jessamy that first night, in between disconsolate sobs. “She never even got to see little Brion, much less the child that I lost. And now Brion will never know his grandmama. She would have been so proud of him.”

“Of a certainty, she would have been,” Jessamy reassured her. “But remember that she is with God now, embraced in His love. And you would not have wished her suffering to continue. From all that you have told me of her, she was a good woman.”

“She was,” Richeldis whispered. She paused to dab at her eyes and blow her nose, then glanced uncertainly at Jessamy. “You believe that, don’t you? That she is with God now.”

“My faith tells me that she is,” Jessamy replied. “Do you not believe it as well?”

Richeldis lowered her eyes, twisting her handkerchief in her hands. “I do,” she said in a small voice. “I
must.
But you—Jessamy, you’re Deryni. You
know,
don’t you?”

Jessamy looked at her in some surprise, for she and the queen had never discussed what she was. She supposed that Donal must have told her.

“My lady, I—we have no special relationship with God, other than to believe that, like all His creatures, He made us and cares for us.”

Richeldis glanced at her quickly, then dabbed at her eyes again. “You needn’t deny it,” she said. “I am not frightened of you. Well, perhaps I should be,” she conceded. “The Church teaches that Deryni are evil; but I have never known you to do harm to anyone. And my husband trusts you implicitly, as he trusted your husband.”

Jessamy glanced away, feeling vaguely guilty over the deceptions she and Donal had carried out, both by engendering young Krispin and for their part in Sief’s death. But she told herself that both had been done in the service of Gwynedd, and therefore could involve no true betrayal of Gwynedd’s queen.

“My lady, I have lived my life in service to the Crown of Gwynedd, as did my husband,” she said honestly, “and I am more grateful than you can possibly know, for this expression of faith on your part. Would that others shared your tolerance and goodwill.”

The queen ventured a tremulous smile, awkwardly reaching out to pat Jessamy’s hand. The mother she had just lost had been but a few years older.

“Jessamy,” she said in a steady voice, “sacred writ tells us that God made man a little lower than the angels. But I think that perhaps you Deryni lie somewhere in between.” She glanced pointedly and a little defiantly toward the door. “If a priest were to hear me say that, I should probably be excommunicated, but that is what I believe.”

“Then, you are one among few, my lady,” Jessamy replied. “But bless you for saying it.”

 
 
THE conversation seemed to ease the queen’s grief, enough so that, two days later, she was able to face the emotional trial of her mother’s funeral with a serenity beyond her seventeen years, dutifully walking with her brother and his wife as they escorted Queen Gwenaël’s oak coffin into the royal vaults beneath the cathedral and laid her to rest in a tomb of porphyry, near to those that housed the remains of other sovereigns of Llannedd.

But one further duty remained to Richeldis before they might set out for home, and this she prepared to perform with a lighter heart. Her brother Illann was already king in neighboring Howicce, by right of their late father, for the two kingdoms had been separate until the marriage of Colman of Howicce and Gwenaël of Llannedd. Now Illann would take up the second crown as well, as had been his parents’ intent; and being already anointed and crowned in Howicce, his accession in Llannedd would be marked by only a simple inauguration and enthronement, accompanied by the exchange of oaths of fealty with Llanneddi nobility. The presence of his sister, herself a queen, would lend added dignity to the occasion.

“Madam, it still seems to me curious, that your brother became King of Howicce when your father died,” Jessamy said to Richeldis, as she and a lady-in-waiting called Megory arranged the dark coils of the queen’s hair. Richeldis wore the white of royal mourning for her mother—and for the child she had lost—but the fine silk damask of her gown was sumptuous, embellished with her royal jewels, befitting the dignity of her brother’s accession. “Your mother was still alive, and had been queen of both realms. If your parents’ marriage was to have united the two kingdoms, I would have thought that your mother would then have ruled both kingdoms until she died—and
then
Illann would have inherited.”

“So one would have thought,” the queen said with a smile. She held a dark braid in place while Lady Megory pinned it. “But Howiccan law can be a little odd—or perhaps it’s Llanneddi law that’s odd, since it allows queens regnant. Few kingdoms do, you know. The
crowns
are now united in my brother Illann, but the kingdoms remain separate.”

“That seems very strange, Madam,” Lady Megory said. “What if you’d had no brothers? What would have happened to Howicce after your father died?”

“Since Howicce must be ruled by a king, I expect there would have been a regency council, until I had a son,” Richeldis replied matter-of-factly, tilting her head before the mirror to inspect her coiffure. “Actually, that son wouldn’t be Prince Brion, because I probably wouldn’t have been allowed to marry the king at all.”

“Not married the king, Madam?” another of the ladies gasped, scandalized.

Richeldis shrugged. “Well, they couldn’t have allowed Howicce to be swallowed up by another kingdom, Clarisse—and Brion
will
be King of Gwynedd some day. It wouldn’t have done for him to be King of Howicce, too.”