The King's Deryni (3 page)

The boy glanced down at his feet, clearly unhappy with the direction the conversation was taking.

“Alaric,” Llion murmured, drawing the boy closer into the shelter of one of the columns, “you know what could happen. Your father or I cannot always be there to protect you—but even if we could, it makes no sense to deliberately expose yourself to danger.”

“I know, but—”

“No ‘buts' about it, lad,” Llion returned. “There is no point courting an incident. Time enough for that when you're grown, if you feel you must. For now, however, we need to prepare for the tournament. I know that I don't intend to dirty
my
court garb. Let's go upstairs and get changed.”

The boy rolled his eyes and sighed with the indulgent acceptance of any well-mannered seven-year-old, but he was already bestirring himself to head toward the entrance to a back stair, Llion trailing after him as the murmur of distant voices from the great hall faded behind them.

Meanwhile, those voices betokened the ongoing business of the king's court, which must be concluded before the assembled nobles might retire to the tournament field. Though the conferring of knighthood customarily took place at Twelfth Night court, usually the one following a candidate's eighteenth birthday, Brion had still been but seventeen at the Twelfth Night just past. Exceptions were often made for good cause, especially in the case of a king or prince, but Brion had declined to exercise that prerogative, even though his uncle, Duke Richard, had declared him easily ready in level of strength and skill.

“I am happy enough to wait,” the king had said, in the lead-up to Christmas court. “My brother Nigel is to receive his squire's spurs this year. He should not have to share that day with the knighting of an older brother. I shall hold a birthday court and tournament instead, and receive my knighthood at that time.”

Accordingly, Prince Nigel Haldane had duly received his promotion to squire at the previous Twelfth Night, ahead of all others moving from page to squire. It had given the two brothers opportunity to serve as squires together for six months, albeit as senior and junior squire. It had also underlined their love, which shone proudly in Prince Nigel's gaze as he attended the throne today—and had provided the younger prince with a prize vantage point from which to observe this, his elder brother's official coming-of-age as a warrior as well as a king.

The king now took center stage in the further ceremonies of the day, by which additional young men would receive the knightly initiation. In a display of largesse unseen in recent memory, the newly dubbed Sir Brion Haldane conferred the accolade on six worthy candidates from lesser noble families throughout the realm: promising younger sons whose modest circumstances would have precluded taking up this honor without royal patronage, and whose gratitude would reinforce their loyalty in the years to come. All six had served the royal household as senior squires at least since the previous Twelfth Night, refining the skills acquired at various provincial courts and learning the ways of royal service, as they submitted themselves to the discipline of Duke Richard's impeccable tutelage. For each candidate, the same care was applied as had been given the king, with the six new knights then taken into personal service to the king, as household knights. The measure met with great popular approval.

Following these formalities came a less formal birthday court, with presentations of felicitations both personal and diplomatic, and often more tangible tokens of esteem. Similar to what had occurred on his fourteenth birthday, the young king received gifts appropriate to his now-adult status: new items of armor and weaponry; swords and daggers; a finely illuminated compendium of religious houses in the southwest from his uncle the King of Howicce and Llannedd; a brace of brindle coursing hounds from the Emir of Nur Hallaj; a fine R'Kassan stallion from the Prince of Andelon; a hawk from the governor of Meara, delivered by his eldest son; a little recurve bow inlaid with ivory and a quiver of fine hunting arrows from the King of Torenth, delivered by his envoy, Count János Sokrat; half a dozen lengths of gold-shot crimson silk from the Hort of Orsal; and divers gifts of gold and precious jewels from other representatives of the ambassadorial corps, with delegates from as far away as distant Bremagne.

“I thank all of you for your kind gifts,” Brion said to the assembled court, when all the presentations had been made. “You have been most generous, and I shall treasure these tokens of your esteem. But having concluded the formal part of our proceedings, I now invite all of you to join us for a light collation before we adjourn to the tourney field, for I have a hankering to test my new knights.” He nodded to the other newly knighted men, not bothering to control his smile. “I look forward to an interesting afternoon, gentlemen!”

“My son, hear the instruction of thy father, and forsake not the law of thy mother.”

—PROVERBS 1:8

S
EVERAL
hours later, all the company had adjourned to the tourney field in the lower ward of the castle. Sir Kenneth Morgan was among those who came down with the others to share in the king's celebrations, riding the occasional run at the quintain, but also to watch his own son in the competitions.

The boy was good—far better than any lad of only seven summers had any right to be, even one with so illustrious a lineage. As young Alaric Morgan wheeled his pony and started his seventh run at the rings, child-sized lance leveled squarely at the dangling target—and snared his seventh ring!—rider and mount seemed to move as a single entity.

Watching from behind a fence rail at the sidelines, the boy's father gave an approving nod and glanced up at the blond, mop-headed young knight perched on the fence beside him: Sir Llion Farquahar, who had become almost like a second son to him, and who looked after his true-born son.

Earlier, immediately after the ceremony that made a knight of Brion King of Gwynedd and six others, the king and his new knights had enjoyed a mock melee battle against a like number of older knights, fought with blunted weapons and courtesies never accorded in true combat. At Kenneth's urging, Llion had volunteered to be one of the seven riding against the king—and helped to trounce the royal side.

Now, while the squires in training rode at the quintain across the field, or galloped down a flag-marked lane with wooden swords in hand, and tried to whack head-sized sacks of wool from stout posts set at the height of a man, the duly humbled Sir Brion Haldane was taking challenges from individual knights—and making challenges, and winning far more often than he lost. For the pages, who were only early in their training for eventual knighthood, Duke Richard had arranged a competition of ring-tilting. Alaric, though not yet old enough to have entered formal page's training, was outperforming boys nearly twice his age.

“He's riding very well today,” Kenneth observed, well aware that Llion could claim a good deal of the credit. Since taking service with Kenneth nearly five years before, following his own knighting in Corwyn, the young knight had been the boy's riding master and constant companion when Kenneth was otherwise occupied—an arrangement that seemed to please all concerned.

Llion nodded agreement, but he did not take his eyes from his young charge as the boy circled around to return to the start of the run. “Aye, he is, my lord—though I've learned not to be surprised at his knack with animals. The true test will be whether his accuracy holds for ten runs. These are smaller rings than we've been using up at Culdi. I'll need to remedy that.”

Kenneth said nothing, only hiking himself up onto the fence rail with Llion to watch as a squire set a new ring and the next boy began his run. Airey Redfearn and his twin, Prys, were several years older than Alaric, already official pages at court, and had six rings each, though the former had also missed two rings. One more miss would put Master Airey out of the competition.

“Llion, Llion!” came a young and urgent voice from Llion's other side, as a boy in the sky-blue and silver of the Duchy of Cassan pelted up behind them and scrambled onto the rail between the two adults. “What did I miss? How many has Alaric got? Do you think he'll take all ten rings? Oh, hello, Uncle Kenneth.”

“Hello, Duncan.”

The tousle-headed boy who snuggled into the curve of Kenneth's arm was only a few months younger than Alaric: Duncan McLain, the younger grandson of Andrew Duke of Cassan, whose sister had been Kenneth's mother. He was also Alaric's favorite cousin.

“In answer to your most pressing question,” Llion said, chuckling, “he has seven, and—oh, dear!” he murmured, as Airey Redfearn not only missed his third ring but tumbled from the saddle as his pony jinked and bucked at the end of the run. “Well, that's young Airey done for the day.”

“Ow, bad luck!” Duncan said. “That pony is nasty! Airey is much better than that!”

“Aye, he usually is,” Llion agreed. “Let's see how Alaric does on
his
next run. He's next after Ciarán MacRae.”

“Is Ciarán any good?” Kenneth asked, just as an older page with a shock of bright red hair shot from the start and neatly took his next ring. “Well, answering my own question, obviously he is.”

“I don't think he has any misses yet,” Llion replied.

“He's nice, too,” Duncan chimed in. “Look! Alaric is lining up for another go.”

All of them fell silent as a new ring was set and a senior squire signaled ready. With a nod, Alaric collected the shaggy mountain pony and started his next run—and snared the ring smartly. As the lance lifted, they could see the new ring glinting in the sun as it slithered down the shaft to stack atop the first seven. Young Duncan let out a delighted whoop and waved energetically as his cousin pulled up at the end of the run and glanced back in their direction, flashing a gap-toothed grin. Atop a rail on the opposite side of the ring run, a dark-haired older boy in Haldane page's livery looked decidedly less pleased.

“Hah, Cornelius Seaton is soooo jealous!” Duncan muttered under his breath.

Kenneth refrained from comment, but he could sense Llion considering a fitting response. Both were well aware that the said Seaton scion, regarded as one of the more promising of Duke Richard's latest crop of pages, had been unceremoniously dumped from his pony on his very first run at the rings.

“Is it charitable, do you think, to take delight in another's misfortune?” Llion asked after a beat.

“He hates Alaric,” Duncan said stubbornly, lower lip outthrust. “He does everything he can to make Alaric look bad.”

Llion merely slipped an arm around the younger boy in sympathy, but Kenneth allowed himself a tiny grimace, well aware of the long-standing antipathy between the two youngsters—and its cause. Though Cornelius's father, Sir Errol Seaton, was regarded as a decent enough man, and recently had been appointed to the crown council, his mother was a sister of the powerful Bishop of Nyford, Oliver de Nore, who had made a career of persecuting Deryni. Their youngest brother had been the disgraced priest Septimus de Nore, executed on the testimony of Kenneth's late wife, for his part in the rape and murder of a child. Kenneth had assisted in the investigation of the crime, and had no doubt that the testimony had been honest, but he could understand the family's resentment. Still, Alaric could not help being his Deryni mother's son. . . .

“I hope he falls off the fence!” Duncan muttered darkly, folding his arms across his chest and glaring at the offender.

“Who, Cornelius?” Llion said mildly, as Kenneth glanced down at the sulking Duncan. “I should think it would be sufficient to hope that he eventually reaps what he sows—as shall we all.” He reached up to gently tousle Duncan's sun-kissed brown hair. “But in answer to your previous question, I think Alaric shall, indeed, take many more rings, if he continues to ride as he has thus far. Do you intend to ride again?”

Duncan ducked his head sheepishly. “I can't win,” he said glumly. “I missed the ring on my fifth run.”

“Ah, but winning is not the only point of this exercise,” Llion countered. “If you don't practice, you cannot improve. Your cousin was not always as skilled as he appears today; nor will he always ride the perfect set. And it isn't even always up to the skill of the rider. Ponies can stumble, or act up—as yon Cornelius has cause to know very well. He's actually quite a good rider.”

Duncan wrinkled his nose in distaste, but also nodded grudging agreement. “I suppose,” he said, then glanced up winningly at both adults. “I wonder if the list master would let me continue. After all, I didn't fall off—I only missed a ring. You're allowed to miss three before you're out.”

“Which means that you could still score nine, if you don't miss any more,” Llion agreed.

“And if I don't fall off!” Duncan retorted, rolling his eyes, though he was climbing down from the fence rail as he said it.

“You won't fall off!” Llion called after the boy as he took off toward the ring lists.

Kenneth set a comradely hand on Llion's shoulder as they watched Duncan disappear amid the milling pages and ponies at the far end of the lists, smiling as the younger man turned to glance at him.

“He
won't
fall off, my lord,” Llion said somewhat defensively. “His seat is as good as Alaric's, and the pony is rock steady.”

“I know that,” Kenneth replied, giving the other's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I was simply appreciating your skill with children. You need to be a father, Llion.”

The young knight looked momentarily startled, then a trifle bashful. “One day, perhaps I shall, my lord. I do enjoy children. But I'm young yet, and my first duty is to you, and to your son. There will be time enough for a wife and children of my own when Alaric is farther along in his training.”

“Loyally spoken,” Kenneth agreed. “But do keep in mind that the two are not mutually exclusive.”

“No, my lord, but right now, I think it more important to help ensure that your son survives to adulthood—and that the king survives.”

Kenneth nodded, glancing over to where the king was readying for his next joust, conferring with his two uncles. “Yes, that
is
the challenge, isn't it?” he murmured under his breath.

The two returned their attention to the milling youngsters nearer the start of the ring run, where Duncan had just taken a ring, to the delight of Alaric, who punched his lance into the air in approval. Then they watched as squires set up a new ring while Alaric lined up for his run. Thus far, he was the only one in the youngest age group to ride a perfect set—and as Kenneth and Llion watched, Alaric took his eighth ring.

“Good lad,” Llion murmured.

Back at the senior lists beyond, the king was preparing to ride a
pas à barrière
against Sir Jamyl Arilan, under the keen scrutiny of Duke Richard and Prince Ronan, his cousin. Earlier in the afternoon, Brion had unhorsed Ronan, but Jamyl was far more experienced at the
pas
. On this sultry June afternoon, with the major competitions finished and their prizes given, the crowd was thinning, but many had stayed to watch the new royal knight's performance—save for Kenneth and Llion, whose attention was divided between him and Kenneth's son. The boy's runs were closer together now, as other contenders were eliminated.

“Steady, lad . . . ,” Llion breathed, all but holding his breath—and then exhaled as Alaric took another ring.

“Good!” Kenneth said, lifting a hand to wave as his son turned to watch the squires position a new ring and saw him. Grinning, the boy saluted with his ring-laden lance, then quickly returned his attention to lining up for the next run. “What was that, eight, nine?”

“This will be the tenth, my lord,” Llion replied, not taking his eyes from his young charge as Alaric gigged his mount, starting forward, and the tip of his lance dropped toward the target. “No misses, thus far—and
that
is ten! Well done!” he called in a louder voice, lifting a clenched fist in salute as a patter of applause also acknowledged the performance—mostly from young girls and even the king's sisters, Kenneth noted. But then, Alaric was a very attractive boy, with his silver-gilt hair and pale eyes.

“Well done, indeed,” Kenneth agreed. “That's an excellent showing. Have any of the others done as well?”

“Not in this youngest age group, or even the next older,” Llion replied. He jutted his chin in the direction of the glowering Cornelius, who had jumped down from his fence-rail perch and was stomping off to join the other pages. “Some of the others are none too happy, of course—especially that one. I've seen a few of the oldest pages ride very well and take lots of rings, as one might expect—some of those about ready to move up to squire—but I wasn't able to keep track of exact numbers. Still and all, this has been quite an extraordinary achievement for a lad who technically isn't even a page yet.”

“Well, Duke Andrew means to make him one at Michaelmas, when he turns eight,” Kenneth said. “We've already discussed it, and Alaric is ready. The king is eager to have him at court, of course, but even he agrees that Alaric is probably better off learning the basics away from court.”

“Aye, away from the likes of yon Cornelius and his ilk,” Llion muttered fiercely.

Kenneth sighed, but in resignation. “Unfortunately, that's true,” he agreed. “Once he has to fight his own battles, with boys his own age and even older, it won't be easy, being who and what he is. Pray God, we can shelter him until he's ready to do that.” He shrugged lightly. “But look, the king and Jamyl are finally ready to go.”

Over in the adult lists, the king was, indeed, preparing to engage, saluting his opponent at the far end of the
barrière
and then releasing his mount to the charge in an explosion of thundering hooves. Jamyl was a few years older than the king, and had received part of his training at King Illann's court, where jousting was more common, but Brion easily held his own; neither scored more than a grazing hit of lance to shield.