The King's Deryni (4 page)

“They're testing one another,” Kenneth murmured under his breath, watching both men keenly.

“Aye, this next run will be more in earnest,” Llion agreed.

“Jamyl is good, though,” Kenneth said. “I've ridden against him.”

“So have I,” Llion replied, “and tasted dust more than once. But then, so did he,” he added with a grin.

As the pair wheeled for another run, Alaric came trotting up happily on his pony, his stack of ten rings borne proudly on his junior-sized lance.

“Papa, did you see me?” the boy crowed. “Did you see?”

“I did, indeed, and you did very well,” Kenneth replied somewhat distractedly, reaching down to take the pony's reins. “You mustn't gloat, though. Come up and sit with Llion and me. The king is going to have another go at Sir Jamyl.”

Again baring his gap-toothed grin, Alaric let Llion take his lance to lean it against the fence, then clambered up to sit in the curve of his father's arm, between him and Llion. Kenneth could feel him tense as the pair began their second run, always concerned for the king. This time, Jamyl's lance shattered against the king's shield with a force that sent the royal rider reeling precariously in the saddle, but Brion managed to keep both his seat and his weapon. As he drew up at the end of the
barrière
and turned, gentling his excited mount, he saluted with his lance, grinning.

“Again, Jamyl!” he shouted. “You're going to have to do better than
that
. And I still think I can take you!”

“You can try, Sire!” Jamyl replied, good-natured laughter in his voice as he trotted over to the sideline and discarded what was left of his lance, then selected another from a rack.

“I shall do more than try!” Brion returned.

Again they took their places at either end of the
barrière
and prepared to engage, suddenly loosing to the charge, lances lowering as their horses gathered speed. This time, both lances shattered against shields, but it was Jamyl who reeled in his saddle, though he, too, quickly recovered his seat and pulled to a halt, tossing aside his shattered lance as he turned his mount.

“Well struck, Sire!—but perhaps we should call this a draw,” he called, raising the visor of his tournament helm. “You very nearly had me that time! Give an old man a break!”

Brion guffawed and handed off the stub of his lance to his brother Nigel, who was squiring for him, then trotted his horse back to meet Jamyl midway, halting knee to knee with him to clasp forearms across the
barrière
.

“Old man, indeed!” the king declared. “But you'd better not be saying that just to salve my pride.”

“I think not, Nephew,” Duke Richard said, chuckling as he walked out to join the pair. “It was well ridden—both of you. But your lady mother asks that this please be the last challenge of the day. You know how she dislikes the heat and dust. She would like to award the rest of the prizes, so that our guests can retire for a few hours to refresh themselves before the evening's festivities.”

Brion glanced toward the reviewing stand, where his mother and sisters were conferring with King Illann, then laughed and leaned toward Jamyl conspiratorially. “What she means is, she doesn't want her hall polluted by a bunch of sweaty, smelly men who've been in armor all afternoon.”

“Can you blame her?” Jamyl replied, grinning.

“No, but I really wanted to trounce you, Jamyl,” Brion responded, turning beseeching eyes on his uncle. “Can we not ride one more pass, Uncle? Please?”

“Only if you wish to incur the resentment of an exasperated queen,” Richard replied. “Be content with a draw, as Sir Jamyl suggests. Either of you could do far worse. Part as equals, knight to knight.”

For a moment, Brion looked like he might continue to protest, but then he quirked a reluctant smile and pulled off his helm, handing it down to Richard.

“Oh, very well. I accept the draw.” He pulled off his gauntlets and tossed them into the helm Richard offered up. “And I suppose there's an element of grace encompassed in the knightly vows I made today. Something about courtesy to ladies, as I recall. I daresay that queens fall in that category, and especially one's mother.”

He turned in the saddle to glance back at the reviewing stand and, as his mother rose, raised a hand in salute and then brought it to his breast and bowed over it. Duke Richard was smiling as he and Nigel led the king's horse over to the sidelines for Brion to dismount.

“Well, that's settled happily enough,” Kenneth said, handing the pony's reins to Llion. “Or maybe not.”

Across the yard behind them, his attention had been caught by a cloaked, dark-clad figure sitting motionless astride a coal-black R'Kassan steed with bardings as black as his master's garb. The lower part of his face was obscured by the veil of a black headdress worn in the desert manner, but the eyes were a piercing blue above the swath of black.

“Llion, why don't you take Alaric over to the watering trough to clean up a bit? They'll be calling the pages for the prize giving soon.” Not taking his eyes from the newcomer, he plucked Alaric from the fence rail and set him on his feet. “Better collect your rings, son, and then go with Llion. I'll join you directly.”

He did not wait to see whether the pair obeyed him; only grabbed the reins of his waiting mount and swung up, the horse already moving as he settled into the saddle. He could sense curious eyes shifting in his direction as he set off briskly across the mostly empty field, obviously headed toward the mysterious black-clad rider, who did not move from his place. As he drew abreast of the man, halting stirrup to stirrup, the black-swathed head inclined in greeting.

“Kenneth.”

“Because thou hast been my help, therefore in the shadow of thy wings will I rejoice.”

—PSALMS 63:7

W
HAT
are you doing here?” Kenneth whispered, his gaze flicking warily around them. “Can they see you?”

The black-clad man lifted one hand to pull down the veil from the lower part of his face. As he did so, Kenneth caught the flash of a dark tattoo at the inner wrist, of a small, equal-armed cross.

“They can now,” the man said softly, a faint smile moving in the close-clipped dark beard. “I shouldn't want your companions to think you addled, talking to thin air. I've come to pay my respects to Gwynedd's new premier knight—and perhaps cross lances with him, though I fear I may have arrived too late for that. Please ask if he will meet me in the center of the field, so I may offer the congratulations of my Order. Beyond that, the others need not know who I am.”

“You seem very certain he'll agree,” Kenneth muttered, though he found himself already backing his mount to turn and head in the direction of the king. Instructions from Sir Sé Trelawney were not easy to ignore—and in all fairness, the Deryni knight had always been an unfailing friend to Gwynedd and its royal line, and to the kin of Kenneth's late wife. Most recently, at least so far as Kenneth was aware, Sé had made an appearance at Brion's coronation, apparently seen by only a very few, and then had held brief but intense private converse with the new king later that evening.

Now Sé had returned, this time in view of the whole court, with yet another mysterious mission regarding Gwynedd's king. For a Knight of the Anvil to make an appearance in the West was regarded as a singular honor, given the near-legendary prestige of the Order, at least in more eastern climes. During the reign of King Bearand Haldane, Anviler knights and members of the Order of St. Michael had held back Moorish incursions and policed the sea lanes against marauding pirates; and later, they were said to have given refuge to fugitive Michaelines after the suppression of that order, some of whom had been Deryni. No one knew how many of the present Anviler order might be Deryni, but the presence of any foreign Deryni in Gwynedd would always be cause for concern, if it became known.

Which made Kenneth's next task all the more delicate. The king knew that Sé was Deryni, but his father had not known; and the Sé Trelawney of today was not the Sé Trelawney knighted by Donal Haldane some sixteen years before. Complicating matters was the presence of Duke Richard and the king's younger brother, Nigel, standing nearby—and Jamyl Arilan, sitting his horse just behind the king. Though Kenneth had learned that Jamyl was Deryni (though he was forbidden to speak of it), he doubted anyone else at court knew, even Brion. And he did not know whether Jamyl was aware of Sé Trelawney.

“Kenneth, you're too late,” Brion said good-naturedly, still a-horse as he tugged at the buckle of a vambrace. “Uncle Richard tells me I must bow to the wishes of the ladies. A pity, because I'd hoped you and I might cross lances today.”

“You may wish to reconsider, Sire,” Kenneth murmured, with a nod of acknowledgment to Duke Richard. “Yon black knight wishes to convey his respects, and hopes that the newly knighted Sir Brion Haldane might consent to meet him on the field of honor.”

He jutted his chin in the direction of Sé, who had tucked the veil of his headdress back into place as Kenneth crossed the field, once again obscuring his lower face, and now was donning the helmet previously hung at his saddlebow. Both the king and Richard gave the newcomer careful scrutiny, the latter with something more akin to suspicion, for the rider's attire suggested origins far to the east, perhaps from the lands of Gwynedd's enemies. Jamyl, too, looked keenly interested.

“Who is he?” Richard demanded, bristling slightly. “He looks Torenthi.”

Shaking his head, Kenneth smiled and leaned his elbows easily on his high pommel, beginning to enjoy the exchange. “He is not Torenthi,” he replied, turning his gaze to Brion. “He is a friend, I assure you. Your father gave him the accolade, though he is no longer in service to Gwynedd.”

“To whom is he in service, then?” Jamyl interjected, unable to contain himself any longer.

“Not to any enemy of ours,” Kenneth assured him. “His service is to God, if you will. He is a Knight of the Order of the Anvil. But he prefers that his more particular identity not be made public. The king knows him.”

Brion had begun nodding as Kenneth spoke, obviously making the connection, and turned his grey gaze on his uncle.

“Yes, I do know him, Uncle,” he said quietly. “Pray, go to my lady mother and beg her indulgence for one last bout. For I think I owe much to this man.”

“But—”

“Just do as I say!” Brion retorted, the steel of command in his voice. “And Jamyl, make certain that no one interferes.
No one!
Nigel, I'll have my helm and gauntlets back.” He retrieved the gauntlets from the helm that Nigel timidly offered up, then handed the helm across to Kenneth. “Ride with me.”

He pulled on the gauntlets as they slowly made their way toward the center of the field, never taking his eyes from the now-helmeted rider in black, who had tossed his cloak back on his shoulders and was selecting a white-painted tournament lance from a rack tended by a nervous-looking squire. A white belt gleamed against the black of boiled leather tournament armor, and a blank shield now adorned his left arm, borrowed for the occasion.

All around them, spectators were congregating along the sides of the field. The queen had risen and moved to the front of the royal pavilion, to stand anxiously with one hand on Duke Richard's arm. King Illann and Prince Ronan stood uncertainly to her other side, quietly conferring. Across the field, nearer the junior lists, Jared had pulled Llion to one side by the bicep and clearly was interrogating him. Llion, in turn, had both hands set firmly on young Alaric's shoulders, and was shaking his head.

All this Kenneth noted, the while watching Brion sidelong as the two of them rode out to meet the rider in black. All around them, a hush of anticipation was settling over the field. It was not uncommon for newly fledged knights to accept challenges in honor of their coming of age as warriors—Brion had been doing it all afternoon—but clearly, this challenger was new come to the field, and unknown to virtually everyone save Kenneth and, apparently, the king. When the rider had come within a few horse lengths of the king, he halted and slowly dipped his lance in salute, letting its tip rest lightly on the ground.

“Hail, Brion of Gwynedd,” he said quietly, blue eyes ablaze within the shadows of his helm. “I offer you the reverence accorded a king, but my business today is with Sir Brion Haldane. Will he honor me with a
pas à barrière
?”

“You . . .” the king whispered wonderingly. “You were at my coronation.”

“And told you then that I should be there for you, when you have need. Today your need is to demonstrate that you are not afraid to face a seasoned warrior in battle. Your men are watching. . . .”

He jutted his chin toward the outer boundaries of the tourney field, where the elite of Gwynedd's fighting men were gathering along the rails: battle-hardened veterans and those newly belted, and also the squires and pages, Gwynedd's future knights.

“Shall we?” Sé said softly.

With a glance at Kenneth, the king nodded gravely. Nodding in return, his opponent lifted his lance and wheeled to head for the far end of the
barrière
along which the two would ride. Kenneth accompanied the king to the opposite end and dismounted, giving his mount to Nigel and holding the head of the king's horse while Brion selected a lance.

“I know he's a Knight of the Anvil,” Brion said quietly, staring down the
barrière
as Kenneth helped him seat the lance. “Anything I should know about their jousting strategy?”

Kenneth only shook his head and chuckled as he reached out to adjust a stirrup buckle. “Nothing
I
could tell you, my prince. They spend hours every day, honing their fighting skills. He will probably trounce you right royally—which is as it should be, on this, your first day as a newly dubbed knight. But he won't humiliate you. What he does, he will do for your own good, to remind you how much you still have to learn.”

“I already know
that
,” Brion muttered under his breath.

He bent helm to lance far enough to tap the visor into place, then let Kenneth lead his mount into position, to the right of his end of the
barrière
. At the far end, his opponent sat statue still, white-painted lance at rest in one gloved hand, stark against his black raiment.

Heart pounding as if it were he, about to face Sé Trelawney, Kenneth moved back a few paces, easing toward the sidelines with Nigel. He had no doubt that Brion would be taught an important lesson today, but the means had yet to be shown. What he did know was that Deryni did not come much more puissant than Sir Sé Trelawney, especially when honed by the rigorous training of the
Equites Incudis
. Could the less experienced king take a pass from the Anviler knight? That remained to be seen.

The two eyed one another for several long seconds, holding their increasingly fractious mounts at either end of the
barrière
, until suddenly, as if by unspoken command, both loosed their steeds in the same instant and came thundering down their respective lanes, lances dropping between horses' necks and shields. The weapons were especially designed for tournament use, to break away on impact—and did, both of them shattering halfway along their lengths as blunted tips struck squarely against shields with a tremendous crash of wood against metal.

Gasps reverberated amongst the onlookers, and several men started onto the field, but it immediately became clear that both riders were still seated. Duke Richard had moved with the others, but pulled himself up and signaled the others to pull back, for the king was grinning as he pulled up his mount at the far end of the
barrière
and saluted his opponent with what was left of his lance.

“Again!” he shouted, casting the shattered weapon aside and calling for a fresh one, which a squire was already running to provide. When his opponent saw what the king intended, he, too, took up a fresh lance and rode to his end of the
barrière
.

The outcome of the second run was not so evenly decided. Though both men started well, horses running strong and true, the blunted tip of Brion's lance wavered just at the last instant, striking off center and skittering off the blank shield and over Sé's shoulder. Sé's lance hit more squarely, shattering against Brion's shield with such force that the king reeled in the saddle, losing a stirrup, and only managed to stay a-horse by throwing his lance aside.

Sé, seeing this, immediately circled tight and urged his mount into a breathtaking leap up and over the
barrière
, to crowd hard against Brion's mount while he menaced the weaponless king with the jagged remnant of his own lance.

“Have a care, Sir Brion!” he said sharply. “In real battle, this could have been a more deadly weapon, in the hands of a real enemy, and you might well be dead! A tournament is practice for real combat! Never throw away your weapon while an opponent remains armed!”

With that, he cast the lance stub aside and backed off.

“Now, shall we give it one more try?” he said lightly, before turning to trot back toward his end of the
barrière
.

Shocked almost mute by his opponent's horsemanship, and how quickly Sé had pressed his advantage, Brion managed to gasp out a shaken, “Very well,” and turned his mount to return to Kenneth.

“How did he
do
that?” he muttered under his breath, as Kenneth put another lance into his hand. “Do you think he used magic?”

“You know he did not, my prince,” Kenneth said sharply. “What he
has
done is to share some of his experience with you. Gentlemen may play at war games, and even go to war, but in true battle, it is hard men who stay alive. You use whatever weapon is at hand. Remember that.”

“Believe me, I am not apt to forget it,” Brion said, adjusting his grip on the lance as he moved into position for the final run.

This time, as both men thundered straight and true along either side of the
barrière
, Sé's lance again shattered against the king's shield with jarring force. Brion's lance also struck squarely, but instead of breaking away as intended, it bowed in the instant of impact and then skittered over the top of the shield to graze the left side of Sé's helm, its hand guard walloping the faceplate with enough force to jar the black knight from his mount and wrench the lance from Brion's hand as Sé fell. Only narrowly did Brion avoid tripping up his own mount as they scrambled clear of the tumbling lance.

Amazingly, Sé managed to land on his feet, shield still on his arm and still clutching what remained of his lance. He brandished it like a sword as the king came around tight, working to control his mount. In that same, heart-pounding moment, as a collective gasp rippled among the spectators, Sé summoned his own mount with a shrill whistle and, as it galloped toward him, discarded his broken weapon and vaulted back into the saddle. Without pause, he then doubled back sharply, still at the gallop as he bent low to retrieve the lance-stub from the dust.