In the King's Service (39 page)

“No, you did as I would have done,” Donal murmured. “I take it that Somerdale had been with them?”

“Aye, and Michael MacDonald, the Princess Onora’s husband. They took her body with them, and Princess Caitrin had the babe.”

Donal sighed and shook his head, genuinely distressed. “It’s bad business, Morian—not that there was any help for it. And no sign of any of the others?” he asked, returning his attention to Richard.

“None. They might have evaporated into thin air, for all we saw of them, once we’d left the area around Ratharkin. Those mountains to the south are among the most rugged in this part of the country, as you know. And Judhael knows them; we don’t.”

“No, I’m not faulting you,” Donal said. He sat back with a sigh and ran his hands through his hair. “God, I’m getting too old for this—and killing women and children has always been bad business.”

“It was their own folly that killed them, Donal—you know that,” Richard said.

“I know; they chose to rebel. At least Onora did. But not the babe.”

“The sad fortunes of war,” Richard said.

“Aye, the fortunes of war,” Donal agreed. “And they stink!”

 
 
GIVEN the new news Richard and Morian had brought, the king determined to remain in Ratharkin somewhat longer than he had first intended—though, as spring gave way to summer of 1089, Donal of Gwynedd had good reason to be hopeful about the future. While his Mearan campaign had fallen short of the complete success he had sought, several of the principal trouble-makers being still at large, he had dealt expeditiously with the most immediately troublesome of the Mearan dissidents and left a promising lieutenant to take on the duties of interim royal governor, with at least the short-term prospect of enforcing a lasting peace on that rebellious land.

It was well into June by the time the king at last judged it safe to depart for Rhemuth, with the levies of Andrew of Cassan and Ursic of Claibourne ordered to linger in the Ratharkin area before withdrawing for the winter. The king and his party departed at a leisurely pace, for the weather was fine, and more tangible evidence of the royal presence could do no harm in the wake of the Mearan troubles.

But three days out of the Mearan capital, the morning after what everyone had judged quite a respectable meal at a manor near Old Cùilteine, Ahern of Lendour took ill.

At first he tried to dismiss the dull discomfort in his belly as mere reaction to something in the previous night’s fare that had not agreed with him, gamely mounting up with the others and falling in beside Sir Kenneth Morgan as they pressed on toward Rhemuth. But within a few hours, the cramping had worsened, obliging him to rein to the side of the road and slide from the saddle for a bout of vomiting.

He had hoped that would ease him, but it did not. Someone muttered about the possibility of poisoning, but the battle-surgeon who probed at his belly shook his head, grimvisaged as he gauged the patient’s rapid pulse rate and felt for fever in the stricken man’s armpits.

“What is it?” Donal asked quietly, when the battle-surgeon had completed his examination, leaving Sir Kenneth and Jovett Chandos to contend with another bout of Ahern’s gasping dry-heaves.

“Not good, Sire,” the man admitted, glancing also at Duke Richard, who was listening anxiously. “He should not travel. Is there a house of religion nearby, where the brothers or sisters might tend him?”

“There’s an abbey a few miles hence,” Richard replied.

“Then I suggest that someone be sent to fetch a wagon. I fear that he could not bear the pain, to ride the distance ahorse.”

“Is the danger mortal?” the king asked.

“I fear that it may be, Sire,” came the reluctant reply. “We must make him as comfortable as may be, and pray that God may spare his life.”

“But—can nothing be done?”

Richard laid his hand on his brother’s sleeve, shaking his head. “Only to entreat heaven for a miracle,” he said. “Having kept his leg on this same road, however, I fear he may not merit a second miracle, in this life. I have seen these signs before.”

They sent a rider ahead to the abbey at once, Richard taking the returning army on to make the next night’s camp in the abbey’s vicinity. Donal and Sir Kenneth Morgan stayed at the stricken man’s side, along with the battle-surgeon, Sir Jovett, and a dozen of Ahern’s Lendouri cavalry for protection. The wagon arrived at midafternoon, with two gray-clad sisters riding amid a pile of featherbeds, ready to receive their patient.

Ahern’s condition, meanwhile, had continued to deteriorate, his fever now accompanied by chills. The sister who examined him before they loaded him into the wagon looked no more hopeful than the battle-surgeon had been, and
tsked
to her companion as the stricken man was lifted up and settled, groaning.

“Such a handsome young man,” she murmured regretfully, shaking her head.

“Is there no hope?” the king asked her, suddenly convinced of the seriousness of the situation.

“There is always
hope,
Sire,” the sister replied. “But you must prepare yourself, as must he. . . .”

 
 
THEY reached the Abbey of Saint Bridget’s just at dusk, where the sisters ensconced Ahern in their infirmary and did what they could to ease his pain. When the king and his officers had taken a hasty supper for which few had appetite, they conferred outside the stricken man’s door.

“I regret to inform you, Sire, that he is not likely to survive,” the battle-surgeon told them, after conferring with the abbey’s sister-chirurgeon. “He has a sister, I believe? She should be told.”

“And brought here to be with him,” Sir Kenneth blurted, greatly disturbed. “They are Deryni; she may be able to do something.”

“And your daughter had hopes of a future with him as well, did she not?” Donal said quietly, for the word had gotten out, in the course of the campaign, that Ahern was much taken with Sir Kenneth Morgan’s daughter and, on the night after their victory at Ratharkin, had asked him for her hand—and been granted it.

For answer, Kenneth only closed his eyes, jaw clenching as he gave a jerky nod.

“Go, Kenneth,” Donal whispered, clasping the other man’s shoulder. “Bring back both of them.”

Chapter 23

—II CHRONICLES 35:24

 
 
 
 
 
 
TWO days later, on a sunny morning late in June, Sir Kenneth Morgan urged his lathered steed up the final approach to Rhemuth Castle’s gatehouse and clattered into the yard. Summoned by a page, the castellan left in charge in the king’s absence came out to meet him as he trudged wearily up the great hall steps.

“Is it ill news from Meara?” the man demanded. “Shall I summon the council?”

“Nay, there’s naught amiss with Meara,” Sir Kenneth assured him. “The king is on his way back, unharmed, and Jared of Kierney acts as governor in Ratharkin. Where shall I find my daughter, and Lady Alyce de Corwyn?”

On learning that the latter was likely to be in the castle gardens with some of the children, he headed there first, following the page who scampered on ahead of him. Unshaven and stinking from two days in the saddle, he slicked at his hair and tried to make himself more presentable as they passed through a side door of the hall and along a cloistered walkway toward the wider spaces of the parkland beyond. In truth, however, with the news he brought, Kenneth guessed that the finely bred Alyce de Corwyn would take little notice of the bearer of that news.

Indeed, she did not notice him at all at first, lounging in the shade of a fruited pear tree and deeply absorbed in a book, the Princess Xenia and a large black-and-white cat sprawled with abandon amid Alyce’s skirts—a splash of vibrant lavender against the green of the lawn.

Farther beyond, at the edge of the duck pond, a squawking of waterfowl marked the location of two more maids of honor crouched down beside young Prince Nigel, turned two the previous February, pointing out the line of newly hatched cygnets strung behind a pair of swans gliding toward them on the water. Behind the three, various ducks, several aggressive geese, and a pair of peafowl were squabbling for scraps of bread that the boy had cast along the water’s edge.

Kenneth’s precipitous approach sent alarm among the assorted poultry flocked around Prince Nigel. As the peacock suddenly fanned its tail feathers and emitted a raucous screech that sounded like a child crying for help, young Nigel burst into tears and both Alyce and Xenia looked up—and saw Sir Kenneth Morgan approaching fast, a red-faced page running to keep up. Sir Kenneth looked positively grim, dust-streaked and still lightly armed for travel, and Alyce scrambled to her feet at once, dislodging princess and cat and sending the latter scurrying for safety into the sheltering branches of the pear tree.

“Sir Kenneth, what is it?” she cried. “Is it Ahern?”

“Alyce, I am so sorry,” he said, reeling as she flung herself into his arms, searching his eyes for some sign of hope. “He was uninjured in the campaign, but he’s taken ill. The king bids me bring you to his side. He lies at an abbey near Cùilteine. He bade me bring Zoë as well. Ahern had asked for her hand when the campaign was finished, and I—had given it,” he finished, faltering at his own last words.

“He isn’t going to die, is he?” Alyce demanded, desperate for details, but not daring to probe for them—not Sir Kenneth, who was the father of her dearest friend.

“Dear child, I don’t know,” he murmured, embracing her awkwardly, a detached part of him desperately aware of his disheveled state, concerned that she was ruining her lovely gown.

Alyce left Princess Xenia in the care of the two girls with Prince Nigel. On the way to the queen’s chambers to find Zoë, Kenneth told her what he could of her brother’s illness, not sparing her any details, for he had too much respect for her not to be honest, even were she not Deryni.

“I have occasionally seen men recover from this, but the outlook is not good. It is an inflammation of the gut, which often ruptures—and then the belly fills with corruption, and the victim dies.”

“How long?” she asked breathlessly, as they raced back along a cloister corridor.

“God willing, he will recover. But if not . . . another week or two, perhaps—no more.”

“Sweet
Jesu,
no . . .”

 
 
THEY had crossed almost the width of the formal part of the gardens as they spoke, and were approaching a set of double doors opening onto the gardens from the queen’s summer apartments. Within, in the sunny morning room, the queen lay half-reclining on a damask-draped day-bed, her dark hair caught in a loose plait over one shoulder of her loose-fitting gown and a cool compress held against her forehead. She was bearing again, this new pregnancy discovered shortly before the king’s departure for Meara, and she was still much afflicted with morning sickness, as she had been for all but one of her previous pregnancies.

Jessamy sat attentively beside her, hands busy with a drop spindle as she and the queen chatted. Behind them, in a sunnier window, Zoë and Vera and several others were stitching on an embroidery frame, and the ladies Miranda and Tiphane were practicing a new lute duet, albeit somewhat badly, the former making grimaces of distaste whenever the latter plucked a false note, which was often.

The pair stopped playing as the page bowed and entered to state their business, and the other ladies stopped stitching. Zoë rose apprehensively as she saw the expression on her father’s face. Alyce held back a little as Sir Kenneth ventured into the room apologetically and bowed to the queen.

“Sir Kenneth, what is it?” Richeldis asked, laying aside her compress and sitting up. “What has happened?”

“I beg you to pardon me, your Majesty,” he said. “The king is well, but Earl Ahern is taken seriously ill.” Zoë gasped, one hand flying to her lips. “His Majesty bids Lady Alyce to come at once, to care for her brother, and asks for you as well, dear Zoë.” He held out his hand to her. “Ahern had asked for your hand, daughter, and pending your consent, I had given it to him.”

She flew to him, weeping in his arms while the rest plied him with questions, few of which he could answer. Vera came to Alyce and clutched her hand, offering her silent support.

“My news is two days old. I wish I could tell you more,” Kenneth said, as horrified speculation shifted to the practicalities of immediate travel. “I have arranged for horses along the way back. Travel as lightly as you can, but we may be gone for several weeks.”

They were on the road again before an hour had passed, dressed in stout travel attire, now accompanied by an escort of four fresh lancers for the protection of the women. Later, both Alyce and Zoë would remember that ride only as a blur of pounding hooves and aching backs and legs, quick meals snatched at intervals along the way, less frequent stops to try to catch a few hours’ rest.

For the latter, at least, Alyce could offer assistance of a sort, by means of fatigue-banishing techniques she had learned years before from Father Paschal. For herself and Zoë, this posed no dilemma, for Zoë was well-accustomed to her touch. In the case of Kenneth, though he was already exhausted from his ride to fetch them, she was reticent to offer it; but Kenneth surprised her by asking whether she could do it.

“It doesn’t frighten me,” he told her candidly. “On those campaigns in Meara, I’ve often watched Sir Morian work, and occasionally, he’s even lent a hand when some of us were dead on our feet and needed to stay alert. It was quite an extraordinary experience, and I don’t know why the bishops keep insisting that this sort of thing is wrong.”

“Well, they do,” she said, half-disbelieving his trust. “Lie down and let me see what I can do.”

She took care to go no deeper than she must, for her experience had been largely confined to herself and Zoë, Vera, and of course, Father Paschal. But Kenneth was a good subject, and woke much refreshed an hour later, when they must mount up again.