The King's Deryni (44 page)

“Cormac, do you know?”

The young prince also shook his head hastily.

“Alaric, how about you?”

Alaric was studying the toes of his boots, thinking again about the grey mare slaughtered at Bishop de Nore's order. He thought he knew where Llion was guiding this conversation, because they had discussed the subject of killing before. It was a necessary part of any knight's life.

“I think—it's because we need to learn what it feels like, to kill a living thing. And I'm sure it's different from ending the suffering of an injured animal.”

“That's true,” Llion allowed. “And . . . ?”

Alaric looked up at him in faint challenge, then glanced at his companions.

“I think it's also because we're future knights, and eventually we'll be called upon to kill men.”

“Exactly so,” Llion agreed. “One should never glory in the taking of a human life,” he told them, “but sometimes it must be done. And it isn't always in the heat of battle, at the point of a sword or a lance. The enemy sentry you may be obliged to slay deliberately, by stealth, to prevent him sounding an alarm, is a man like yourself, with family and friends who care for him, and a liege lord whom he serves according to his oaths. And of course, there is the coup de grâce, an altogether different kind of killing, which is also a deliberate act: to end a wounded man's suffering when there is no hope of recovery.”

The boys had been listening avidly to his every word—Cormac had gone alarmingly white—and Paget summoned up his nerve to ask the next question.

“Sir Llion, have you—have you ever killed a man?”

“Not that I'm aware of,” Llion said after a beat.

Cormac looked up sharply, and Paget cocked his head in question.

“I don't understand, sir,” he whispered. “How could you kill a man and not know?”

Llion picked up one of the cardounet pieces and turned it absently in his fingers. Alaric thought it was a war-duke. “I suppose it's a little difficult to explain, but in the heat of battle, one can't always be certain if a blow has been fatal, or even whose blow has been the fatal one.”

“Then, you've been in real battles,” Paget ventured.

“Let's call them real skirmishes,” Llion returned. “Gwynedd has been officially at peace since I was knighted, so true battles are somewhat rare of late, but I did ride on patrol with Alaric's father a few years ago, over in the border country with Torenth, and we did end up killing a few men. They'd been raiding cattle from Corwyn lands, and had killed and raped in one notable instance. But I don't
know
that I was personally responsible. We ended up hanging a few of the miscreants, but that was execution, which is yet another kind of killing. I was not personally involved in that.

“Nor have I ever given a man the coup,” he added, anticipating Paget's next question, “though I've seen it done. It cannot be easy, especially if one knows the person, but usually it is an act of compassion, to save further suffering if the subject cannot hope to recover. Hence, the term coup de grâce, or mercy stroke.”

“Then, it
is
rather like finishing a wounded stag or boar,” Cormac said thoughtfully.

“Yes, except that a wounded man is not a wounded animal,” Llion said. “Never forget that.”

“No, sir.” Cormac swallowed painfully, then: “But I—think I could do it, if the person was really, really suffering, and was going to die anyway.”

“Pray God that you will never need to find out,” Llion said, with a note of finality in his voice. “And when the time comes when you
must
kill—and it
will
come—be certain that you do it for a very good reason.”

•   •   •

T
HE
remaining days of Lent seemed more somber than usual, in the wake of what had happened, and the glory of Easter and its feast perhaps less joyous than it might have been. All three boys were very much aware of the source of the Easter lamb served at the king's table. An equal if different sobriety marked their continued interaction after Easter, for Alaric was informed that he would not be included in the royal party traveling to King Ronan's coronation. The king chose the Redfearn twins to attend him, for he was taking the boys' father as his senior advisor.

It was disappointing, but at least Alaric and Paget were allowed to accompany Cormac and the rest of the royal party as far as Desse, where they would take ship for Llannedd. Both boys had become close to Prince Cormac during his stay at court. Though all of them had known from the beginning that the prince's tenure at court was only ever intended to last a year, perhaps two, the time of parting was poignant. As the royal party began to board the coastal cog that would take them down to Pwyllheli, the Llanneddi capital, Cormac held back with Alaric and Paget.

“I shall miss both of you, you know,” Cormac said a little awkwardly, as they watched Queen Richeldis follow her daughters up the gangplank. “I shall miss our games of cardounet. I shall miss sparring with the pair of you. I think I shall even miss those excruciatingly awkward discussions with Sir Llion about killing things.”

Paget snorted and rolled his eyes. “At least I've done
that
.” He glanced sidelong at Alaric. “You and our ducal friend still have that to look forward to.”

“But I think,” said Cormac, “that killing, sadly, will be an important part of his life.” He reached out to clasp Alaric's hand. “Be well, my friend.”

“And you,” Alaric replied. “Think kindly of us.”

“Yes, do,” Paget chimed in. “And you must let us know when you find someone else to play cardounet. You were getting pretty good, you know. And write and tell us about the coronation. You're sure to have a prime seat, probably even a part to play.”

Cormac snorted and shook Paget's hand. “A page forever, at this rate. But I'll write and tell you about it. I hope the three of us can continue to be friends, even when I'm slogging away at my training at my brother's court.”

“They're wanting you aboard,” Alaric said, catching the look that Jiri was giving them. “You'd better go.”

“Right, I'm off.”

Then he was turning to trot back to the gangplank, where the king and Jamyl Arilan were boarding, along with Jiri Redfearn and his sons.

“Godspeed, Cormac,” Alaric murmured, lifting a hand in farewell as Cormac paused to glance back and give them a wan smile.

•   •   •

B
ACK
in Rhemuth, Alaric's life settled back into routine, though without the accustomed company of Cormac. He and Paget still played cardounet, but their training was mostly separate, as page and squire, and he found no new companion of his own age.

But he was given new worries, not long after their return, for early in May came word from Valoret that its archbishop, kindly Paul Tollendall, had passed away in his sleep. Though the particulars meant little to Alaric, Tollendall's passing meant that a new archbishop must be elected.

Immediately Duke Richard sent a courier off to Pwyllheli, where the king and his female relatives had planned to stay well into the summer. In addition, since he was regent in the king's absence, Richard made preparations for an immediate departure for Valoret to attend the old archbishop's obsequies. Alaric was not obliged to go with him, for neither he nor Richard needed an untoward encounter with Bishop de Nore, who was certain to be there. But Alaric worried in Richard's absence, keeping Llion close, and considered the ramifications if, by some horrible chance, Oliver de Nore should be elected to the vacant see of Valoret.

Richard returned, and the synod of bishops began its deliberations to choose Archbishop Tollendall's successor. By the end of June, the king and his sisters had returned from Pwyllheli, though the queen dowager had remained to assist King Ronan for a few months. Alazais was put in charge of the two princesses until the queen should return in the autumn. In addition, Jamyl brought back a new bride, the Lady Alix, who was installed, at least temporarily, in the royal household, becoming a companion of Alazais and her charges.

Meanwhile, the king fretted over the delay in electing a new primate. By early August, the synod in Valoret seemed no closer to agreeing on a new archbishop, which gave the king hope that a more moderate candidate might prevail. When the queen returned from Pwyllheli early in September, she brought along two young men sent by her nephew to train under Duke Richard. The squire, a Howiccan lad called Alphonse, was a keen archer, who began helping with the pages' archery training. The page, called Hiram, was a shirttail relative of King Ronan, and too impressed with himself to suit Alaric, but he caused no direct problems.

It was mid-September when a missive from Valoret finally came, though it was not what any of them had hoped.

“A pox on all of them!” the king muttered, when Duke Richard had cracked the seals and read the first few lines aloud to him and the crown council. “
Any
other bishop . . .”

Alaric had been the page on duty that morning, but he was sent from the room before he had time to learn more than the new archbishop's name. Immediately he went looking for Llion.

“Llion, may I speak with you?” he blurted, as soon as he found the young knight.

Llion had been giving pointers to a squire riding at the rings, and summoned a senior squire to take over before joining Alaric.

“What is it?”

“They've gone and done it,” he muttered, glancing back toward the great hall. “The bishops have elected de Nore! The king just received the official notification.”

And indeed, word apparently was spreading quickly, for he had already seen Cornelius, on his way across the stable yard, crowing with his friends that his uncle was the new archbishop.

Llion set his hands on his hips and let out an audible sigh, looking at the ground, a very sober expression on his face. “That is . . . unfortunate,” he finally said.

“‘Unfortunate'? Is that all you can say?” Alaric flounced onto a hay bale beside the ring run and briefly buried his face in his hands. Then: “What am I going to do?” he said as he looked up. “This is going to make Cornelius even more insufferable. He's already heard, and he's gloating about it to anyone who will listen.”

“If he is, I expect that the king will have a few words about that,” Llion replied. “And if he doesn't, I will.” He sighed and shook his head. “I had truly hoped for someone more moderate.”

“Well, de Nore certainly isn't
that
,” Alaric said. “I just hope I don't have to go with the king to the investiture, or whatever they call it.”

“I think it's an enthronement, since he's already a bishop—more's the pity. And I don't think it would ever cross the king's mind, to take you along.”

“The king that faithfully judgeth the poor . . .”

—PROVERBS 29:14

A
S
it transpired, there was never any question of Alaric attending on the king, for word arrived from Morganhall that very afternoon that his Aunt Claara was failing, and that Alaric and Alazais must move quickly if they hoped to see her alive again. Alaric left immediately with her and Llion, and thus had ample excuse not to make an awkward appearance with the king at Valoret, even if the king had wished him to attend.

They arrived to find Claara in her final hours, shockingly frail but still lucid, and were with her when she slipped gently through the veil in the early morning hours of the next day, comforted and supported by her sister Delphine and Alazais, her youngest niece, who sang her sweetly into eternity with a favorite hymn she had often sung with the sisters at Arc-en-Ciel. Alaric was touched by the gesture, for he knew that his aunt had suffered greatly in the two years since her fall, and was now at peace. Delphine was stoic in the face of her sister's death.

“I have known for several weeks that her time was growing short,” Delphine told them over supper that night. “It is true that I might have summoned you earlier, but it would have served no purpose. And she was ready to go. I've sent for her grandchildren, and for Zoë and Geill.” She gazed off into the distance. “With Claara's passing, I am now the last of my generation. When I am gone,” she said to Alaric, “it will be for you to carry forward the honor of the family. We shall bury her beside her husband. It is what she wanted.”

Thus it unfolded as Delphine had declared. Members of the family converged on Morganhall over the next few days to pay their respects, for Claara had been much loved. Geill and Walter rode down from Culdi with their toddler daughter Alys and little Bronwyn, who had spent her earliest years in the combined household of Delphine and Claara. Claara's son-in-law, Sir Paxon Fraser, brought Claara's two grandchildren, Kian and Clarice, much to Bronwyn's special delight, for she and Clarice Fraser had been like sisters in their early years. Kian, for his part, was thirteen and a just-promoted junior squire in the household of the Earl of Rhendall, whom Sir Paxon also served. He was also a cousin previously unknown to Alaric, though the two found little in common. Each was polite to the other, but that was all. Mostly, Kian stayed close by his father.

Zoë and Jovett were the last to arrive, the afternoon before the funeral was to take place, though they had left their three young children in Cynfyn with Jovett's parents.

“Aunt Delphine, I am so sorry,” Zoë told her father's only remaining sister, as she embraced her in the yard at Morganhall. “And Alaric—my goodness, you are very nearly grown!”

They buried Claara the next morning in the village churchyard beside her husband and two stillborn sons, not far from the crypt where generations of Morgan men also lay, including Alaric's father. Afterward, while the family gathered for a light meal in the hall at Morganhall, Delphine broached the practicalities of what would now become of the estate.

“Again we find ourselves in a quandary, my dears,” she said to her assembled relatives. “I am the last of my generation, and I am not getting any younger. Sir Llion is an apt castellan, of course, but he cannot often be in residence. In short, I shall need more help, unless I am to carry on until I, too, die in harness.” Sir Paxon excused himself from these proceedings, for he was only a son-in-law of the deceased Claara, and had no claim to the estate beyond a few modest pieces of jewelry to be passed to young Clarice, but Alaric was permitted to remain with the adults.

Discussion among Delphine and his three half-sisters and their husbands continued the next day, after Sir Paxon and his children departed for Rhendall. Eventually, it was deemed best that Geill and Walter should apply to Duke Jared for leave to take up residence at Morganhall, to assist Delphine and hold the property in trust for Bronwyn. In the meantime, both Geill and Alazais would remain at Morganhall to assist Delphine in the reorganization of the household.

By then, it was but another day until Michaelmas and Alaric's eleventh birthday, which the family celebrated with a ride in the countryside. After that, Sir Walter headed back to Culdi to confer with Duke Jared, taking the young Bronwyn with him, and the rest of them bade farewell to Geill and Delphine before heading south. Zoë and Jovett traveled part of the way with them before turning off to Cynfyn with their escort, and Alaric and Llion made their way back to Rhemuth, where Alaric soon settled back into the routine of a Haldane page.

That endeavor would become less of a challenge with the new year, for they soon learned that Cornelius Seaton would be leaving the king's service at Twelfth Night to join his uncle's episcopal court at Valoret, as his father had already done. Meanwhile, Alaric could look forward to the Twelfth Night visit of Jared and his family, which meant that he could spend time with his McLain cousins, and see his sister Bronwyn. When they arrived, however, Kevin was not with them.

“He's gone to Claibourne to serve as squire to the duke,” Jared told him. “Good experience before he's knighted.”

But Duncan immediately moved into Alaric's quarters with him, and Bronwyn was taken under the wing of Alazais and Llion.

The solemnities of Christmas came and went, followed by St. Stephen's Day, when Alaric and all the McLains attended on the king and the dowager queen for the traditional observances.

During the days that followed, leading up to Twelfth Night, Jared spent many hours conferring with the king and his officers of state, mapping out strategies for the north, and Vera spent time with the queen and with Alazais. Meanwhile, formal training was suspended for the pages and squires, so Alaric and Duncan were mostly at leisure, though they did ride out from time to time with Paget Sullivan and Quillan Pargeter, and sometimes played at cardounet.

But the pair also spent many an hour alone, visiting the stables or exploring in the library, or escaping to sheltered portions of the castle's leads, where they might expect privacy, for they had much to catch up on. Like Alaric, Duncan had been pursuing his chivalric training, since a duke's son was expected to be competent in martial and courtly pursuits, and eventually be knighted, but he also had begun to consider other possibilities. He had found passion in his academic studies, and was good at them. In conversations with his mother's chaplain at Culdi, Father Geordan, he had even explored the possibility of taking holy orders.

“It
is
a traditional occupation for second sons,” Duncan pointed out, when he had exhausted all his other arguments.

“Aye, and it would be dangerous,” Alaric countered. “If they caught you . . . Well, you know what the law says about Deryni trying to be ordained.”

Duncan nodded, looking off over the rooftops of the castle complex.

“How could I not know? They burn them. But I'm only half-Deryni, Alaric, and you're the only one who knows about that.”

“So we assume,” Alaric replied. “But God knows.”

“Aye, He does. But if I feel the call to become a priest, doesn't that call come from Him?”

“I suppose,” Alaric allowed. “But—how do you know you've been called?”

Duncan shrugged. “I don't. Yet. But I'm listening.” He glanced at Alaric and grinned. “I know, it's early on. It's just something that I've been considering. But you already know what you'll be when you're grown; you've always known. You're the eldest son, so there was never any question. It's different for a second son, no matter how much your parents and your elder brother—
and
your cousin—love you.”

“You could come and join my household, when you're grown,” Alaric said. “If you're not to be a duke, you could always be the right-hand man of a duke.”

“Maybe I will,” Duncan replied, quirking him a taut smile. “One never knows.” He sighed and got to his feet. “But I don't suppose we're going to figure that out today, or even tomorrow. Besides, we're only eleven years old.” He cocked his head at Alaric. “Fancy a ride?”

“Of course.” Grinning, Alaric likewise rose, dusting off the seat of his breeches. “We've got a few more hours of daylight—and whatever either of us ends up doing, we'll need to know how to ride. I'll race you to the stables!”

•   •   •

T
HREE
days later, with the weather still holding, Twelfth Night dawned, with all the pomp and ceremony of the most formal court of the year scheduled for the afternoon. It started out well enough. The new archbishop attended that year—his first as Primate of All Gwynedd—along with several other bishops, who were entirely too numerous to make Alaric happy; but he was not obliged to serve any of them.

At opening court, after Archbishop de Nore had given the blessing, he duly took Cornelius Seaton into his household as a senior squire—which was good riddance, so far as Alaric and many of the other squires and pages were concerned, for Alaric was not the only one who had smarted under Cornelius's bullying ways. It annoyed Alaric that the smarmy Cornelius now would proceed toward eventual knighthood without the tempering influence of Duke Richard's discipline, but he told himself that there was nothing he could do about it. Cornelius immediately donned the purple episcopal livery of his uncle's household and took up squiring duties at his father's side, haughty and proud.

For his own part, Alaric was instructed to serve the queen and her daughters, as he had done the year before. Paget served beside him as duty squire. Alaric had hoped to serve Duke Jared and Duchess Vera, but that honor went to Duncan and the Redfearn twins, who now were squires. Llion, now a valued member of Duke Richard's staff, stood attendance on the duke; and his wife, Alazais Morgan, now expecting their first child, attended the queen.

When the official business of the court had been concluded—the making of pages, the promotion of new squires, several knightings—formal court was adjourned to the dais end of the hall, so that guests might pay their individual respects to the king and servants could set up the rest of the hall for the feast to follow.

The mild weather had brought foreign visitors as well as the local nobility, some of them most welcome and others less so. The Hort of Orsal, whose investiture they had witnessed only months before, appeared now with a small delegation and the gift of a Thurian harper to entertain during the feast to follow court. No longer in mourning for his father, the Tralian prince was brilliantly arrayed in velvets and silks of peacock hues, with rings on every finger and ropes of pearls about his neck, one of which he removed and presented to his fellow sovereign.

“Perhaps for your eventual bride,” Létald murmured with a wink, as he pooled the pearls into Brion's hand. The prince also made a point of speaking personally with Alaric after court.

“I was very pleased to meet you at my investiture, young duke,” the Hort said, shaking his hand. “We are, both of us, starting out our careers as rulers of our respective lands, and I look forward to many years of harmonious interaction. I hope we shall be friends.”

“And I, Your Highness,” Alaric murmured. “I was very glad that I could attend.”

Another welcome and half-expected visitor was the young heir of Bremagne, whom they had met in Tralia: Crown Prince Ryol, accompanied by an uncle, Prince Joscerand, who was half-brother to King Meyric. It fell to Joscerand to unwrap and present Bremagne's gift: miniature portraits of his three royal nieces, painted on boards and handsomely framed in gilt wood.

“This is Jehane, the eldest . . . and this is Aude . . . and Ursuline,” Joscerand said to the king, as Ryol handed each portrait to Brion, in turn. “My brother hopes that you will come soon to Bremagne to meet them,” he added, as Brion inspected the likenesses and made the required polite but noncommittal responses.

“Most charming,” Brion murmured. “Please convey my thanks to King Meyric for his kind gifts, and say that I hope to visit his kingdom very soon.”

As the gifts were duly handed off to a courtier and then passed to the queen and her daughters, Alaric caught just an impression of auburn hair and pale faces before Xenia and Silke commandeered the portraits and began whispering over them, raven heads pressed together.

Other foreign guests were also seen, many of whom also offered gifts as well as Twelfth Night greetings. Two who were perhaps less welcome than most were a pair of Torenthi nobles, richly arrayed in the silk brocades and furs favored at the Torenthi court, with sweeping mustaches and braided side-locks beneath the cylindrical flat-topped hats that Alaric always associated with Torenth. Because they were Torenthi, and nobility at that, he reckoned that they most probably were Deryni. Cautious, because he well remembered his lesson with Sé, he tried to sharpen his senses regarding the two men, and caught the faint tingle of shields around both.