The Quest for Saint Camber (17 page)

As he sat back with a deliberately vocal yawn, stretching his arms to either side, the boy returned immediately to the recalcitrant spur strap, leaving Dhugal the opportunity to cast an impressed glance at his blood brother as he poured himself another cup of water, yawning.

“I must learn how you do that,” Dhugal said, saluting Kelson with the cup.

“What, yawn? You're doing very well without instruction, I should think. And we've certainly earned the right.” As Ivo pulled off the offending spur, followed quickly by its boot, and scrambled to his feet, boots and spurs in his arms, Kelson yawned again and gave the boy a reassuring wink.

“Well done, Ivo. You see, the king's feet stink just like anyone else's, after two nights and a day inside boots. I put those on before the vigil last night and haven't had them off since.”

He grinned as the boy tried to stifle a surprised gasp, and deliberately shifted his gaze as he gestured toward the spur strap dangling from the boy's hand.

“Incidentally, I think Duke Alaric must have gotten that strap one hole too tight, when he was putting it on me this morning. That's why it gave you trouble. Perhaps you can work on it in the morning.”

“I'll—be happy to, Sire,” the boy managed to reply, eyes shining as he clutched the boots and spurs to his breast. “Will there be anything else tonight, sir?”

“No, Ivo. Nothing else. You may go to bed. Incidentally, you'd best wake me in time for Mass at Terce. If I don't show up, Bishop Duncan will have me saying
Pater Nosters
until I'm fifty. It's Ash Wednesday, you know.”

“Aye, my lord,” the boy agreed. “Ah—how long will you need?”

Kelson smiled. “You'd better allow an hour. With as much wine as I drank tonight, I may find it a little difficult to get going. Oh, and Ivo—”

“Yes, my lord?”

“It's a prerogative of royal squires to attend Mass with the king, if they like. You're most welcome to come along.”

“Oh, yes, my lord!” the boy breathed, his face wreathed in smiles as he gave the king a parting bow.

When he had left the room and closed the door, Kelson sighed and stretched his legs closer to the fire, luxuriating in the warmth and the feel of the bearskin rug against his stockinged feet.

“Ah, that Ivo's going to be a good one, Dhugal,” he murmured.

“You're not so bad yourself,” Dhugal said admiringly. “God, how I love to watch you work with your men. I hope I'm half as good someday.”

Kelson snorted and picked up his cup of water. “I wish I could work as well with women. That's what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Women? Or one woman in particular?” Dhugal asked, raising an eyebrow in speculation.

“Does it show?”

“Well, since the only woman you spent any time with at all this evening was Rothana—assuming we can discount your Aunt Meraude—I gather that you must mean her. But no, it doesn't show. Besides, she's a nun, isn't she—or going to be?”

“That was the assumption, up until tonight. I didn't expect you to have noticed, though. You were too busy trying to figure out how to get the Earl of Carthane's daughter off in a dark corner. You're no help at all.”

“I
did
get Carthane's daughter off in a corner—and got a kiss for my trouble, too!” Dhugal said with a wicked grin. “But, what do you mean, ‘that was the assumption'?
Isn't
Rothana going to be a nun?” He cocked his head. “Good God, come to think of it, she
wasn't
wearing her religious habit, was she? Something sort of—purplish, and foreign looking.”

“She
said
it was because of the formality of the court, to do honor to the knightings, as a prince's daughter.” He sipped at his cup. “Two breaths later, though, she said that she—was no longer certain she intended to take her final vows.”

“Sweet
Jesu
,” Dhugal breathed.

Tentatively, he reached out his mind to Kelson's, not surprised or offended when the other's thoughts remained shielded from him.

“Are you in love with her?” he asked.

Slowly Kelson shook his head, not looking at his friend, holding the cool side of his cup against his forehead.

“I don't know.”

“Well, she
is
Deryni, and royal,” Dhugal ventured. “And she's certainly beautiful. Those are all excellent recommendations. Is it because she was supposed to become a nun that you're unsure?”

Smiling, Kelson shook his head again, gazing unseeing into the fire as his thumb played at the ring on the little finger of his left hand. Dhugal saw the gesture and guessed another possible reason for Kelson's uncertainty, for the slender band had been Kelson's bridal token to his dead first wife Sidana, the Mearan princess whose name meant
silk
—second cousin to Dhugal himself, and slain by her own brother before her marriage vows with Kelson were even minutes old. Dhugal had never been able to decide for certain whether Kelson had actually loved Sidana. He knew that Kelson had tried to convince himself that he loved her, especially after the fact; but perhaps guilt over her death was as much a motivation as love.

The king had kept official mourning for a full year following her death, even though it would not have been required or expected, since the marriage was never consummated. He had said, in the beginning, that he only wore the black to remind him of his vow to bring the Mearan rebels to justice. He had said he wore the ring for the same reason, since court protocol required that he sometimes put aside his mourning attire.

But though the last Mearan rebel had been brought to bay by the previous fall, it was only two months ago, on the actual anniversary of her death, that he had finally ceased wearing black. And he still wore the ring.

“Did you love Sidana?” Dhugal asked softly, as he had asked a dozen times before.

Kelson shrugged, as he always had, and put down his cup, but his actual answer, this time, was slightly different.

“What does it matter? She's dead. Even if I did, it doesn't mean I can never love again.”

Amazed, Dhugal raised one eyebrow, nodding carefully.

“I see. Then, you
are
falling in love with Rothana.”

All Kelson could manage was a silly grin.

“Maybe.”

“Well, I'll be …”

“Neither of us is going to make any binding decisions before I leave for Torenth. We both need the time apart to think things out.”

“Sweet
Jesu
, do you really think you'll marry her?” Dhugal breathed.

“It—ah—wouldn't be a placid marriage,” Kelson hedged. “You remember how I told you what she did to me, the
first
time we disagreed.”

“Well, she
is
Deryni, after all.”

“And I'm a king, Dhugal. A lot of things would have to be worked out. And chiefest among them, for starters, is whether she's even inclined to marry someone besides the Church. I hate to think of competing with God.”

Dhugal grinned wickedly. “Oh, I don't think you need worry too much about that. Sometimes I think you'd give even Him a run for His money.”

“Dhugal, that's
blasphemy!
” Kelson gasped. “Take it back right now!”

“Well, you
might
,” Dhugal insisted. “Hey, easy!” he yelped, as Kelson launched himself at Dhugal and both their chairs went over with a crash.

“Take it back!”

“No, it's true!”

Dhugal ended up half on his stomach and half on his side with Kelson straddling him, one arm pinned beneath his own body and the other fruitlessy trying to fend off the choke-hold the king had just about succeeded in locking across his throat from behind. He could not help laughing, despite the fact that he was losing. Their wrestling upset the pitcher of water on the hearth, soaking the bearskin rug and making the fire hiss and steam. It also brought Dolfin and Ivo charging into the room with drawn daggers, to see what the commotion was.

“Go back to bed!” the king ordered, taking advantage of the diversion to make his choke-hold secure and beginning to see the humor of the situation. “My brother and I are having a difference of opinion. I don't need any help. Dhugal, if you don't take it back right now, I'm going to put you out! And with as much as you've had to drink tonight, you'll probably puke when you come to!”

The squires disappeared immediately, Dolfin dragging the wide-eyed Ivo by a sleeve—he had seen the pair's high jinks before—and Dhugal went limp, no longer putting up a fight. The pressure across his throat was already beginning to make things go black around the edges, and he could feel a wave of nausea threatening as well.

“Take it back, or I'll still do it!” Kelson demanded.

“All right, all right! I take it back,” Dhugal gasped. “Hey, let me up! I'm breathing soggy bear hair!”

He wormed onto his back and managed a game grin as Kelson released him, even though the other still was half sitting on his protesting stomach, and he lay there for a few seconds to catch his breath as Kelson got to his feet.

“Are you all right?” Kelson asked.

Dhugal sat up with a nod and took the hand Kelson offered to help him up.

“If I don't throw up in the next thirty seconds, I will be. But,
Jesu
, I must have hit a nerve! I mean, what flesh and blood woman in her right mind would want to marry the Church when she could have the King of Gwynedd for a husband?”

“Watch it,” Kelson warned.

Wagging a finger at Dhugal, still breathing a little hard, the king righted the overturned chairs and helped the queasy Dhugal sit in one and put his head briefly between his knees. He was not really angry, but Dhugal had touched a spot Kelson had not realized was so sensitive. One did not joke about God that way. Not when the stakes were this high.

“I'm sorry,” Kelson murmured, when Dhugal had straightened and gingerly laid his head against the chair back. “I guess I overreacted.” He picked up the overturned pitcher and began mopping the worst of the spill with a towel. “Some day, though, you need to sit down with your father and have him explain about religious vocations. I confess, I don't really understand them either, but I respect them. And however much I might find myself attracted to Rothana, and however good a wife you think she'd make for me, I wouldn't marry her if I thought I'd made her give up the Church.”

“Well, she wouldn't really have to give up the
Church
, after all. She just wouldn't be a nun,” Dhugal said, rubbing at one wrist where Kelson had pinned him.

“You know what I mean,” Kelson said. “Anyway, this is all premature. I'm not even going to think about it any more tonight.”

But he
did
think about it, of course. After Dhugal had gone and he had reassured his squires that nothing was amiss, he lay awake for nearly an hour and was the worse for the lack of sleep when Ivo came to wake him again at eight.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

For he offereth the bread of thy God; he shall be holy unto thee
.

—Leviticus 21:8

“
Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris.… Memento, homo
…”

Kneeling at the altar rail in Rhemuth Cathedral, huddled deep in the collar of his sable-lined cloak, Morgan waited blearily to receive the ashes that marked the beginning of Lent.

“
Memento, homo, quia pulvis es
.…” Remember, man, that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return.…

His head felt as if it were filled with dust this morning, and his mouth tasted of it. Worse, Duncan would not even lecture him, later on, about the folly of overindulgence. But it
had
been a fine Vezaire port.…

“
Memento, homo, quia pulvis es
.…”

Morgan had missed Mass, too, though perhaps Duncan had not noticed. The Deryni bishop was far toward the left-hand end of the line of penitents kneeling at the altar rail, solemnly bending to smudge a young page's forehead with ashes. Both he and Father Shandon, the young priest assisting him this morning, wore the somber violet vestments appropriate to the beginning of the Lenten season, but suddenly it occurred to Morgan that far more people were waiting on Shandon's side of the sanctuary than on Duncan's, despite the fact that people usually preferred to receive anything from a bishop rather than an ordinary priest.

Ah, but that assumed that the bishop was also ordinary, Morgan suddenly realized—and a Deryni bishop was far from that. Given the official position of the Church regarding Deryni, was it any wonder that, as news spread of Duncan's display of the day before, many folk would have qualms about having an admitted Deryni touch them? No matter that the archbishop and two other bishops had witnessed the incident and had done nothing. Who wanted to be among the first to test whether harm might, indeed, come from a Deryni priest's touch?

Clearly, not everyone felt that way. Thank God for that. The men kneeling to either side of Morgan—a young MacEwan man-at-arms and an even younger sergeant of lancers that Morgan
knew
had been present in the hall the day before—could hardly fail to know who and what both he and Duncan were; but they seemed to have no hesitation either about kneeling next to Morgan or receiving ashes from Duncan, who was proceeding back along the altar rail toward them, now tracing a sooty cross on a Haldane archer's brow.

“
Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris
.…”

In fact, Morgan suddenly noticed, the common factor among most of those apparently willing to have Duncan minister to them was that they were young, most of them younger than Morgan and Duncan themselves—which at least bespoke hope for the future, if Duncan could ride out the immediate outcry.

“
Memento, homo, quia pulvis es
.…”