The King's Deryni (5 page)

By then, Brion was pulling up in confusion, uncertain as Sé set his mount back on its haunches in a flurry of dust and gave the king ironic salute with a flourish of the broken weapon before casting it aside. As his horse settled, abruptly as still as a statue, he let fall his borrowed shield, then dropped his reins to pull off his helm, allowing his mount to move a few steps closer to the king as he hooked the helm's chin strap to his pommel.

“Well ridden, my lord,” he said, as he gathered up his reins. “And in all, I think we both have learned useful lessons today.” He glanced around at the debris of shattered lances, then returned his gaze to the king.

“I will share with you this caution, however. It would be prudent to have a word with those who craft your tournament and practice weapons. Your lance ought to have broken away as mine did. I should hate to see some worthy squire or page in your service take serious injury or death from such a fault.”

Speechless, Brion could only nod, sweeping off his helmet with both hands. Kenneth had come running to his side by then, Nigel trotting wide-eyed behind him, and Brion handed off the helmet to Kenneth, who passed it on to Nigel.

“But I salute you, Sir Brion of Gwynedd,” Sé said then, laying his right hand flat over his heart and bowing over it, “and I wish you many years of victory in battle. Until next time, may God hold you in the hollow of His hand.”

With that, he wheeled and galloped from the field, cutting between groups of men who only gazed after him with mouths agape, too stunned even to think of trying to impede him.

“What just happened?” Brion said low to Kenneth, a slightly dazed look on his face as Kenneth laid a hand on the king's bridle.

“I believe—not to put too fine a point on it—that you were just put in your place, my prince,” Kenneth said with a strained smile. “But I suggest that, if you wish to avoid awkward questions, you make little of this when we return to the dais. You comported yourself well against a very seasoned knight. Make no acknowledgment of anything more, lest you compromise his usefulness.” He glanced back at the junior lists, and then at the royal pavilion.

“But I—ah—believe we still have prizes to award,” he said, setting a hand on young Nigel's shoulder and indicating that he should go on ahead. “A goodly number of young men and boys are eagerly waiting to have the king recognize their accomplishments today. Shall we go back?”

“A wise son maketh a glad father . . .”

—PROVERBS 15:20

A
S
Kenneth took the head of the king's horse and began leading it slowly back to the royal pavilion, Brion pushed back his arming cap and started pulling off his gauntlets, his mood subdued and thoughtful. Duke Richard came out to meet the pair as they approached the royal pavilion, but the king brushed off his demands for an explanation and merely assured him they would talk later.

“I've taken no harm,” he assured his uncle in a low voice, as he swung down from his mount and handed his gauntlets to Kenneth. “And I do apologize for the delay. Please gather the squires and pages for their prize giving.”

“But, who was he?” Richard insisted.

“A friend of Gwynedd, Uncle. A Knight of the Anvil. Beyond that, you will have to ask
him
. Now, please see to the squires and pages.”

More members of his family and immediate entourage tried to press him for details as he and Kenneth moved into the royal pavilion, but again he brushed them off, merely reiterating that he was unharmed, and wished to proceed with the conclusion of the afternoon's activities. Kenneth cleared a path as the two of them worked their way to the rear of the pavilion, where a body squire was waiting with towels and a basin of clean water.

Pulling off his arming cap, Brion plunged his head into the water and scrubbed vigorously at face and neck and hands, then toweled off and slicked back his hair before donning a gold circlet. Richard, meanwhile, had begun gathering the squires and pages as requested.

Kenneth stayed by the king's side as they returned to the front of the pavilion, where Brion took his place in the center chair between his mother and King Illann. Politely but firmly, he declined to comment on what had just transpired on the field. Brion's younger sisters, Princesses Xenia and Silke, settled onto stools at their mother's feet, raven hair glistening in the sunlight like blackbirds' wings, with several ladies-in-waiting ranged to either side. Moving to his customary place behind the chairs, Kenneth politely fended off all questions.

“It is not for me to say,” was all the comment he would make, good-natured but firm, when pressed for information about the king's mysterious opponent.

At Duke Richard's summons, all the squires and pages in the competition began gathering in front of the dais, many of them with fathers or other male relatives trailing along to gather at the edges. Among them Kenneth noted the glowering presence of Sir Errol Seaton, whose son Cornelius had turned in a less than stellar performance.

Briskly Richard began moving among the boys, rapidly sorting them into some semblance of order, by age. Most of them had varying numbers of rings looped over an arm: booty from the competition. Conversation immediately ceased as a herald thumped on the floor of the dais with his staff of office and called for attention.

“Pray, attend the words of the king.”

Brion smiled and sat forward, glancing to Duke Richard, who was standing among the pages. Most of them wore Haldane page's livery and looked much older than Alaric and Duncan, who stood together with Llion in their house livery of Corwyn and Kierney. A few were senior pages, nearly ready for squiring. The dozen or so squires were grouped to one side, including Duncan's brother Kevin, but some of the squires clearly were no longer children.

“I see that we're starting with the pages,” the king said easily, looking over the sea of Haldane crimson. “Uncle, I understand that these young gentlemen competed at the rings.”

“They did, my Liege,” Richard said formally, still annoyed at his nephew's refusal to identify his opponent. “The rings were a handspan wide, fixed so that they would not rotate during a run,” he added, for the benefit of King Illann and Prince Ronan. “Contestants were given ten runs in which to take as many rings as they could, but a fall disqualified from further participation, as did three consecutive passes without taking a ring.”

“A worthy practice for future knights,” Brion said with a droll nod, glancing at his royal guests. “As you know, the exercise teaches hand and eye coordination, as well as horsemanship. Mind you, the rings will be smaller when you compete as squires, lads,” he reminded the assembled boys, “and as some of you found out the hard way, it's more difficult than it looks. How many of you were unhorsed during the competition? All those who fell off, please move over by Duke Richard.”

Fully a third of the boys moved sheepishly to the duke's side, Cornelius Seaton among them, though many of them bore at least a few rings. Cornelius had none, and looked none too happy about it. Brion merely raised an eyebrow, shaking his head lightly as he pursed his lips and scanned them.

“Well, I see that some of you at least managed to snag a ring or two before tasting dust. That's commendable, but I know that all of you can do better in the future. It isn't that you will never fall off your horses—my uncle will tell you how often I used to land on my backside when I was first beginning my training—and even the best rider gets dumped occasionally. Today I learned that some riders, like my last noble opponent, even manage to land on their feet, and then vault back into the saddle. Uncle, you must learn how that is done—and then begin to teach it!”

Duke Richard only bowed slightly in agreement, lips tight-pressed.

“In any case, with practice,
all
of us will improve,” the king went on. “And remember that it is also important to learn
how
to fall off your horse and not injure yourself.” His grey eyes held a twinkle as they swept his listeners. “Happily, all of you seem to have survived
that
lesson, at least for today.”

He smiled, then turned his attention to the rest of the pages. “Now, any of you who managed to stay on your horse but missed taking any rings, please step forward.”

Two of the younger boys shuffled clear of the others, looking hangdog.

“Well.” Brion looked askance at the pair. “I suppose that boys who can ride but can't hit a target might serve as couriers, or perhaps carry banners.” He drew a breath and let it out with a dramatic sigh. “But since you aspire to be knights one day, lads, your use of weapons
will
improve.” He made a shooing motion in the direction of the first group. “Join the ones who can't ride. All of you still have much to learn.”

With that, he turned his attention to the remaining pages, of which there were nearly a dozen.

“Very good. I see that the rest of you all managed to stay mounted and take at least a few rings. Move closer now, right up to the dais.”

Alaric shuffled forward with the rest, clutching his rings close to his body. Duncan stayed close beside him. Though both had known Brion Haldane since birth, viewing him almost as an elder brother or uncle, it was different standing before the king.

“Now, all of you raise your left arms and show me your rings.” The royal gaze swept the quickly upraised arms. “I see. Now, if you have five or less, lower your arm and take three steps back.”

Two boys stepped back.

“Six or less.”

Airey Redfearn and another boy retreated.

Brion surveyed the rest of those standing with upraised arms, then pointed to a boy standing near Alaric, who stood a head taller than he. “Ciarán MacRae, how many rings do you have?”

“Eight, my lord,” the boy said brightly.

“Eight. That's very good, but I see boys with more than that.” He glanced at the others. “Anyone with eight or less, step back.”

Ciarán and two more stepped back, including Duncan, and several of them cast interested glances at the stack of rings on Alaric's arm. But piled together, it was hard to judge how many there really were.

“Paget Sullivan, how many have you got?” Brion asked the oldest of the remaining boys, a tall twelve-year-old.

“Ten, Sire,” the lad replied.

“Ten? Excellent work! And you, Aean Morrisey?”

“Only nine, Your Grace,” the boy admitted.

“Ah, but nine is still very, very good. Well done, Aean. And young Alaric Morgan? It looks like you have quite a stack there. How many?”

“Ten, Sire,” Alaric said confidently.

“Ten?”
The king glanced over his shoulder at Kenneth and raised an eyebrow. “He really took ten? How old
is
he, Kenneth? He isn't even officially a page yet, is he?”

“No, my prince—but he will be eight at Michaelmas. Earl Jared and I are training him—and Sir Llion.” He smiled as he jutted his chin toward Llion, standing with Duncan and trying to be invisible.

Brion shook his head, half in disbelief, then glanced at his mother, who had come to her feet and was holding a laurel wreath, looking faintly disapproving. Princess Xenia held a small silver cup.

“Interesting. Very well, I'm giving the prize to Paget Sullivan, because he was the best of the pages competing, with ten rings. Alaric, you aren't yet an official page, so I'm disqualifying you from the official competition. Paget, come and get your prize.”

Alaric looked astonished and a little affronted, but after a glance at his father, he simply lowered his arm to cradle his rings and stepped back so that Paget could approach the queen.

“Congratulations, Master Paget,” Richeldis murmured, setting the wreath atop his curls and then handing him the cup. He, in turn, bowed and kissed her hand.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Thank
you
, Master Paget. I look forward to following your career.”

Paget adjusted the wreath as he rejoined the other pages, grinning as he turned the cup in his hands. Alaric started to head back to Llion as the rest of the pages began to disperse, but at the sound of the king clearing his throat, all of them stopped and turned.

“Did I give anyone permission to retire?” Brion asked sternly.

A dozen pairs of eyes darted back to the king, and several boys murmured, “No, Sire.”

“I didn't think I had. Alaric Morgan, come back up here, please. And young Duncan McLain, as well. And Earl Jared, where are you? And Earl Kenneth.”

Wide-eyed, Alaric went forward, bowed, and looked around bewilderedly as his father, Duncan, and Jared joined him. Brion was conferring with one of his aides as they did so, and turned back to them with something in his hand.

“Alaric, I said that you were disqualified from the
official
pages' competition,” Brion said, “but your performance certainly merits recognition.” He crouched down to beckon both boys closer. “Let me see those ten rings.”

Dutifully, Alaric held out his arm and watched while Brion counted.

“Good Lord, there really are ten. And Duncan, how many have you got? You're even younger than Alaric, aren't you?”

“Yes, Sire,” Duncan whispered, showing the king seven rings.

“How old are you?”

“Seven, Sire. And a half.”

“And you took seven rings? I think there were only four or five others who did that well, and everyone except Alaric is
much
older than you are. Both of you did very well.” He put a silver coin in Duncan's hand and a gold one in Alaric's. “Thank you, gentlemen. I look forward to the day when you wear my livery. Jared, Kenneth,” he got to his feet and nodded to both men, “well done.”

Kenneth gestured toward Llion, standing farther back in the assembly. “Sir Llion Farquahar deserves most of the credit, Sire. He is responsible for much of the day-to-day drill for these lads.”

Brion nodded toward Llion. “I do beg your pardon, Sir Llion. My thanks to you as well. Well done.”

Llion bowed to acknowledge the compliment, and the king signaled that the fathers and sons might withdraw.

“We'll have the squires up here next,” Duke Richard said, as the pages retreated and the squires began to assemble, Kevin among them. “Rather than rings, they jousted at the quintain, and a few of them managed stay mounted
and
hit the shield—which is no mean feat when trying to avoid the swing of the sandbag. A few even splintered lances.” He winked at his nephew, his good humor apparently restored. “Some of them did very well, my prince. In a few years, I have no doubt that some of them will have earned the accolade.”

“I certainly should hope so,” Brion said with a snort.