The King's Deryni (55 page)

“So, not many pages and squires, then?” Llion said, guiding Alaric toward one of the bench seats.

“Only three new pages. And four squires, I think. I was at the back of the hall while that was going on, waiting in Nigel's knighting party. But one of the squires has come from the Earl of Rhendall's court: his son and heir, as it happens.”

“Ah, yes. Saer de Traherne. I knew he was coming; and his sister, too, I think. Is she one of the young ladies attending the queens?”

Alaric shook his head. “I wouldn't know.”

“Well, it's always good to have more ladies at court,” Llion said. “And Nigel seems to be enjoying himself. Or,
Sir
Nigel, as I suppose we should say now.”

“He's danced with that one several times,” Alaric said. “And many others.”

“Yes, now that the king is married, I suspect his brother may have begun to think about a wife of his own,” Llion said.

“Llion—” Alaric drew a deep breath to steel himself. “Llion, I have to tell you about something. I did a stupid thing. Well, maybe not stupid, because I don't think it was entirely my fault, but I let it happen.”

Llion raised an eyebrow in surprise, then glanced out at the crowded hall.

“Do you want to go elsewhere, so we can have some privacy?”

At Alaric's nod, Llion rose and headed out of the hall, Alaric following at his heels. When they had gained the seclusion of a stairwell, Llion turned to face his charge. “Well?”

Sheepish, feeling like an errant child—though what had happened most certainly was adult—Alaric told him about the incident with Silke, leaving nothing out. “I didn't lead her on; I didn't. At least I don't think I did. But if anyone saw us . . .”

“If anyone saw you, I'm sure it will be all over court by morning,” Llion said baldly. “With luck, no one noticed and this will come to nothing. You do realize that you put yourself in a situation that would have been easy to misconstrue?”

Alaric nodded miserably. “I didn't realize she felt that way. And I do feel sorry for her. In her own way, she's as constrained by her blood as I am.”

“She is,” Llion agreed. “She's a princess of the royal blood, sister of a king. That very much limits whom she can marry.”

Alaric shrugged, waggling his head back and forth in a yes-and-no gesture. “I understand that. But I really didn't do anything
wrong
 . . . did I?”

“If you're certain you didn't, why are you feeling so guilty?” Llion countered.

Sighing, Alaric ducked his head. “Are you going to tell the king?”

“Should I?”

“He should know, if we were seen and people begin talking.”

“Let's wait and see if anything is said,” Llion said after a beat.

“A violent man enticeth his neighbour, and leadeth him into the way that is not good.”

—PROVERBS 16:29

T
O
Alaric's very great relief, his brief moment of indiscretion with the king's sister seemed not to have been noticed, and Silke did not mention it or even seek private conversation with him again. For his part, Alaric avoided situations that might place him in much scrutiny and threw himself back into his training. Fortunately, the weather made that easier.

Later in January, while the kingdom lay deep in the grip of a wet and miserable winter, the king betook himself on a private mission to Arx Fidei with Jamyl Arilan, to attend the Candlemas ordination of Jamyl's brother Denis. Rather than subject Alaric to a return to the site of Jorian's execution, he took his new squire, Saer de Traherne, for it seemed the better part of valor not to bring a known Deryni into the abbey's sacred precincts. Taking Saer also provided an opportunity for king and squire to get to know one another better, and for Brion to better assess Saer's strengths and weaknesses, set apart from his martial skills.

As for Alaric, the king gave him leave to travel to Culdi with Llion, for his cousin Duncan's thirteenth birthday. While they were there, Alaric told Duncan about Jorian's execution, begging him not to pursue his notion to seek ordination himself.

“But it isn't just a notion,” Duncan said, during one of their several conversations late at night in Duncan's quarters. “I'm beginning to think I'm called, don't you see? It isn't something that I deliberately set out to pursue.”

“Then, don't pursue it.”

“But I'm not sure I have any choice,” Duncan countered. “I know I could have quite a satisfactory life as a duke's son and, eventually, as a duke's brother. But I don't think that's enough. There's something more that I'm meant to do. Don't you ever get that feeling about your future role as Duke of Corwyn?”

Alaric did, actually, though sometimes it was hard to reconcile his future rank with the very difficult task of growing into the job. He continued to press Duncan during his stay at Culdi, but when he and Llion left a week later, he suspected that his arguments had fallen on deaf ears.

They were back in Rhemuth by early in March, when the land had begun to green and spring was becoming more than just a hinted promise of better weather to come. To the relief of all concerned, no untoward incident had marred the ordination at Arx Fidei this time. Jamyl's brother was now Father Denis Arilan, gone into post-ordination retreat for a month, and both the king and his party had returned.

“I saw no sign of what had happened in November,” Saer was telling the other squires that first night back, as Alaric allowed himself to drift closer to the conversation. “I'd heard about it, of course; Arx Fidei isn't that far from my father's lands. But it must have been a horrible way to die, even if the man
was
”—he glanced aside uneasily as Alaric quietly joined their number—“even if he was . . . what he was.”

“Just say it, Saer,” Fanton Murchison said coldly. “De Courcy was Deryni. He knew the penalty, if he got caught.” His venomous glance at Alaric left no doubt about how he felt about the incident, or about any Deryni.

“Fanton, you are an ignorant
git
,” Alaric muttered, with fury in his eyes. “And I hope you cannot
imagine
how horrible it was.”

With that, he turned on his heel and stalked from the room, well aware that he probably would always have to contend with such sentiment. As for Arx Fidei, he suspected that his return probably was inevitable, if Duncan persisted in his apparent intention to seek holy orders.

But that was for the future, and perhaps Duncan would change his mind. He did not know why Jorian de Courcy had been discovered, but he could only hope that Duncan would be more fortunate, if he did decide to pursue the priesthood.

Meanwhile, his life as a Haldane squire continued, though his personal progress was such that several of the senior knights began giving him extra tuition incumbent on a future duke. Along with his daily weapons' drills and ride-outs, and practice at hand-to-hand combat, Alaric continued his immersion in ever more complex military strategy and tactics, and at Duke Richard's insistence now took on the seminal masterwork on tactics by Zimri Duke of Truvorsk,
A Betrayal at Killingford
. It was a difficult work, not usually even attempted for several more years—and most men never truly understood it—but Alaric seemed to have a natural insight into the material.

Soon he was being included in the impromptu scenarios Richard ran for his nephews and other promising young knights in the royal withdrawing room, analyzing classic battles and formulating new battle scenarios for their analysis. Alaric held back at first, being much junior to the others, but he soon began to make his own contributions to their discussions, much to the satisfaction of the three Haldane princes. (Some of the knights were less than enthusiastic about the arrangement, but none dared make any overt objection.) Very soon, Alaric also became the squire most often on duty when the king received petitioners regarding the security of the kingdom.

Thus it was that he was present when news arrived from Eastmarch that not only would change the king's summer plans, but would draw Alaric further into the adult responsibilities he so craved, though no one could have anticipated how the situation would escalate.

The very first hints of unrest in Eastmarch—occasional cattle raids into neighboring Marley and the odd border incursion—had reached Rhemuth the previous year, while the king was absent in Bremagne to take a bride. Duke Richard, as regent, had been vaguely aware of the reports coming out of the north, but his personal focus had been on the dowager queen's expedition into Arkadia to retrieve her elder daughter and grandchild. Accordingly, he had noted only in passing the sparse reports of a marriage between a minor northern baron and the daughter of one of Brion's earls. After all, the Lady Eulalia Howell had a brother who would become the next Earl of Eastmarch. Her bridegroom, Sir Rhydon Sasillion, was only the Baron of Coldoire, and not well-known at court.

Little had changed once the king and his mother returned from their respective missions. It was not until the following spring that more alarming news reached the capital: that Rorik Howell Earl of Eastmarch had defied royal writ and begun to invade neighboring Marley, aided by his new son-in-law. Perhaps it was the birth of an heir to his daughter and her new husband that had finally sparked the move.

“I knew Rorik was ambitious, but I wouldn't have taken him for a traitor,” Duke Richard said to the king, when the news first arrived. He had been running a battle scenario for Brion and the newly knighted Nigel, with Alaric observing and manning the map table to move markers. “You'll have to go up there, you know.”

Brion scanned down the letter again, shaking his head. Alaric stayed very quiet, lest the others remember his presence and send him from the room.

“It does seem inevitable,” Brion said. “Rorik has just changed from a minor irritation to a serious problem. He's wanted Marley for years. What do you know about this baron who sent the letter, who says he's trying to protect my interests?”

“Arban Howell,” Richard replied. “Baron of Iomaire, and a cousin of Rorik. I knew his father. A good man.”

“The father, or the son?”

Richard shrugged. “Both, so far as I know. The father was definitely one of the good ones. I know the son less well.”

“Well, he's throwing his levies against Rorik, so I suppose we'd better go rescue him—and the good folk of Marley.” Brion gave an arch glance at his brother. “Fancy trying out that new white belt in the field?”

“I wouldn't miss it,” Nigel said with a grin.

“Right, then. It's going to be a quick, hard dash to get there in time to make much difference, so we'll want cavalry.” He cocked his head at Richard. “What do we have available on short notice?”

“Take the Haldane lancers,” Richard said. “Sixty should give you enough clout, added to what Arban can field.”

•   •   •

T
HE
king's preferred captains for the northern expedition would have been Jamyl and Llion, but both men were away from the capital, and Brion dared not delay, because no one knew what allies Rorik of Eastmarch might muster. Accordingly, he chose Sir Jiri Redfearn and Lord Lester to accompany him and Nigel as military aides, Jiri for his political acumen and Lester for his tactical experience.

As squires for the expedition, he selected Alaric and Saer de Traherne. His wife of only a year was less than enthusiastic about his planned excursion, and decidedly unhappy that the Deryni Alaric Morgan was to accompany her husband, but her objections carried no weight with the determined king.

“I know you don't like him, Jehana—what he is,” the king said. “Out of respect for your wishes, I have begun keeping him from personal service that might bring him into close proximity with you, but he is my Duke of Corwyn, and he deserves the best guidance and training that I can give him. He is coming with me.”

The queen pouted and retired to her chambers with her chaplain and the sisters to pray for the king, but his plans did not change.

The king and his party left for the north the next morning, following Mass and a blessing of the troops before they rode out. Both Alaric and Saer were arrayed in proper battle harness like the adults, and exchanged delighted grins as they mounted up, thrilled to be going on their first real military expedition.

With hard riding and little sleep along the way, the royal party caught up with battle stragglers in Marley livery two weeks later, well into the southern borderlands of Eastmarch. They soon learned that, true to the intentions outlined in his call for help, Arban Howell had, indeed, gone to the aid of the hard-pressed Earl of Marley and also enlisted the assistance of border troops of Ewan Duke of Claibourne, Marley's neighbor to the north and west. Marley men handling the local mop-up operations directed them northward, where it was believed that their earl and his allies had finally run Rorik to ground.

A few hours later they encountered jubilant outriders who reported that, indeed, combined forces of Ryan Earl of Marley, Duke Ewan, and Arban Howell had finally entrapped Rorik at Elcho with a handful of his captains. Riding into the base camp where the loyalist leaders were quartered, they learned that Rorik and many of his officers were now in chains at Arban's camp. The enterprise looked to have cost Rorik not only his freedom but the life of his son Kennet, knighted only weeks before, who now lay dying in a surgeon's tent not far from the center of the base camp. Unfortunately, Earl Rorik's ambitious son-in-law, the brash Rhydon Sasillion, had managed to elude his would-be captors and had last been seen galloping hell-bent toward the Torenthi border.

When they at last reached the command tent, a duke, an earl, and a baron were waiting to greet them, all still in battle harness. They were, all of them, men in their prime. All of them looked extraordinarily pleased with themselves.

“My Liege, you arrive in good time!” Duke Ewan said to Brion, as he strode up to catch the king's reins and gentle the big grey so that Brion could dismount. “We have the Earl of Eastmarch in custody, and were considering whether to go ahead and try him. We do have the right of high justice, and there is no doubt of his treason. But having him executed by the king he betrayed tastes of far more appropriate justice!”

“Not a job I relish, but I suppose it must be done,” the king murmured, as Nigel and the others swung down. “How were your own losses?”

“Not as bad as they could have been,” the Earl of Marley chimed in, joining them. “And it is thanks to the Baron of Iomaire, who raised the alarm in time for help to be summoned.” He gestured toward a dark-haired younger man, also striding toward them. “Look here, Arban, 'tis the king!”

Half an hour later, the king and the rest of his immediate entourage had walked the campsite with the baron, seen Earl Rorik and his captains in chains, and looked in on the dying Kennet Howell, whose passing was not coming easily. The battle-surgeon and his assistant were attending him, and had removed or cut away most of his armor, but a cloak was partially pulled over the heavy swathing of blood-soaked bandages around his middle. The surgeon's expression was grim as he glanced up at the king and shook his head.

“I'll go to him,” Jiri murmured, and crouched to lay a hand on the fevered brow and bend close to Kennet's ear. Alone of those in the king's immediate party, Jiri had sons of an age with the wounded man.

“How bad is it?” the king asked the battle-surgeon, who had drawn back to give Jiri access. Alaric was standing close at Brion's elbow, tight-lipped as he gazed down at the young knight.

The surgeon shook his head. “He took a belly wound, Sire. Half his entrails were spilling out when we found him. Better if he had bled out on the field.”