Childe Morgan (2 page)

S
EVERAL
weeks later, on a bitter cold morning early in January of the new year, a solitary figure in a heavy cloak and hood emerged from a side door of that same cathedral and made his way into the cemetery beyond.

An icy sleet was knifing the air on this Feast of the Epiphany, also called Twelfth Night, unlike that other, unspeakable Twelfth Night now four years past. Then, heavy snow had cast its pall over Gwynedd, the city of Rhemuth, and the bleak burial ground adjoining the cathedral, where Bishop Oliver de Nore now huddled in the lee of the apse and gazed unseeing at his brother's grave.

“Why, Sepp?” the bishop whispered to the rain, tugging his oiled leather hood farther onto his head.

In the intervening years, he had learned far too much of his brother's ignoble death—and imagination embellished such details as others had dared to tell him: how, on the word of a Deryni sorceress, the king had condemned Father Septimus de Nore as an accessory to murder and ordered him flogged and thrown headfirst down a well in the royal stable yard.

The doomed man had not gone easily to his fate. Eyewitnesses said he had screamed as they let him fall, scrabbling frantically at the slimy sides of the well-shaft and abrading hands, elbows, and knees nearly to the bone, but finally had drowned. The monks who took charge of his frozen body afterward, giving him decent burial here in the cathedral grounds, had offered what reassurance they could, that the bishop's brother had not suffered long; but raw imaginings of Sepp's final moments were an all-too-regular feature of Oliver's nightmares.

With a shudder and a shake of his head, the bishop turned his face from his brother's grave, swallowing down the sour bile that rose in his throat. Though he very much doubted that Sepp had taken an active part in any murder, it probably
was
true that he had turned a blind eye to the victim's fate—and had Septimus de Nore not been a priest, the sentence meted out to him might have been fitting punishment for one who had countenanced the heartless murder of a child.

But not just any child. The boy had been Deryni—which, so far as Oliver was concerned, all but justified Sepp's actions. Some there were who had come to accept the presence of Deryni in Gwynedd, secretly and not so secretly, allowing them to coexist among decent humans, but Oliver was not one of them. The king, however…

Jaws clenching in disapproval, Oliver glanced up at the dark silhouette of Rhemuth Castle looming against the sky beyond the cathedral. Despite civil and canon law that seriously curtailed the rights of Deryni in Gwynedd, Donal Haldane was known to turn a blind eye to the letter of the law when it suited him, and had kept more than one Deryni in his employ and even in his friendship during his long reign. Some even whispered that the dead boy had been Donal's bastard son, gotten on the Deryni wife of one of his former ministers of state who, rather conveniently, had died very soon after the boy's birth. Since both mother and son were now dead as well, it served no useful purpose to dwell on
that
, but it could explain why the king had dealt so severely with those responsible for the boy's death.

Not that many would dispute the sentence meted out to Sepp's two lay accomplices, who probably had been the instigators. The king had ordered them gelded and then hanged, for they had buggered the boy quite viciously before throwing him into the well to drown. And Sepp, because it had been his suggestion thus to dispose of the evidence of the others' crime, had been stripped and flogged for his betrayal of the boy's trust, then flung down the selfsame well as the victim, to share the fate he himself had decreed.

There it might have ended, had Sepp been a layman like the others. But as a priest, Father Septimus de Nore had been entitled to benefit of clergy—which meant that his part in the matter ought to have been heard in the archbishop's court, not the king's—and
that
, Oliver could not forgive. Nor could he forgive the woman who had uncovered his brother's guilt: a Deryni, and therefore to be despised. Though both she and the king had been swiftly and justly declared excommunicate for their part in the trial and execution of a priest by secular authority, both had been reinstated in the good graces of the Church with unseemly haste.

Oliver had witnessed the first such reconciliation—achieved by the threat of Interdict for the entire kingdom, if the king did not capitulate. Oliver had been present on that Maundy night when the king made his formal act of submission before the archbishop: the ritual declaration of contrition and acceptance of the penitential scourging that preceded the lifting of his excommunication. Some variation on this eventual outcome had always been a foregone conclusion, since a king dared not long remain adamant in his defiance of ecclesiastical prerogatives.

Less appropriately, the now-deceased archbishop had also been persuaded to lift the excommunication of the Deryni woman, but a few weeks later—and she had since been wed to one of the king's loyal supporters, and borne him a son.

“Staring at his grave won't bring him back, you know,” said a low voice behind Oliver. “You do this every year, my lord.”

Grimacing against the rain, Bishop Oliver turned to cast a sour glance at Father Rodder Gillespie, his secretary and general factotum. Cassock-clad and huddled, like the bishop, in a fur-lined cloak with oiled hood and shoulder capelet, the younger man looked as miserable as Oliver felt, bedraggled and chilled to the bone.

“I do it, dear Rodder, because my brother lies still in his grave and unavenged,” the bishop said bitterly, “and because those responsible for his death still prosper. The king has many fine, strapping sons, and the woman who denounced my brother will have her son presented at court later today. I was praying for justice.”

“And I have been praying for your good health, as you stand in the rain like a child of no good sense!” Rodder retorted, laying a proprietary arm around his superior's shoulders and drawing him toward the open doorway of the passage that led away from the abbey churchyard. “Please, my lord. You must come inside and don dry clothes. The archbishop will be wanting to leave soon for court. He has already been asking for you.”

Oliver cast a last, longing glance at his brother's grave, grimly signed himself with the Cross, then let himself be led inside.

“A
LARIC
Anthony Morgan, if you don't stop squirming and let Auntie Zoë put your shoes on, I shall tell your father!”

Lady Alyce de Corwyn Morgan turned from her mirror to cast an exasperated glance at her firstborn, both hands occupied with holding hanks of golden hair in place while a maid arranged her coiffure. Auntie Zoë, actually the child's half-sister, did her best to keep a straight face as the wayward toddler glanced guiltily from his mother's face to hers to the offending shoes, lower lip starting to tremble.

“Don't want those!” he declared, hugging two disreputable-looking bits of scuffed suede against the front of a once-clean shirt. “Want
these
!”

“Absolutely not!” Zoë said emphatically, plucking the offending shoes from his grasp and tossing them behind her as she held up a newer green one. “Those are nearly worn through and outgrown—and they'd look utterly shabby with your lovely new tunic,” she added, indicating the small black tunic laid out on the chest beside him. Embroidered over the left breast was a green Corwyn gryphon, its details picked out in gold. A border of
fleury-counter-fleury
in metallic gold embellished it at throat, sleeve-edge, and hem.

“No!” said Alaric. “Don't
like
the green ones!”

“Alaric, love,” said Zoë, “we don't have time for this today. You know Papa will be very cross if you make him late for court. The green shoes are lovely and soft—”

“No!”

“Here now, what's this about green shoes?” asked a pleasant male voice from the doorway behind them, as Zoë's father—and the boy's—came into the room, accompanied by the youngest of his three daughters, the flaxen-haired Alazais.

Though less colorfully dressed than the women, Sir Kenneth Morgan had also donned formal court attire for the occasion: an ankle-length robe of nubby turquoise wool, its high neck and sleeves lined with silver fox, cinched at the waist with the white belt of his knighthood. Alazais wore a rich brown damask, in contrast to Zoë's gown of heavy rose silk. Alyce, as the heiress of Corwyn, had chosen deep forest green to complement the Furstána emeralds at her throat. All of them sported varying shades of blond hair, though Kenneth's had gone more toward silver than sandy in the past several years.

“He doesn't like the green shoes,” Alyce said, half-turning toward the newcomers as she set a narrow silver fillet atop the fine veil her maid had just pinned in place. “He wants to wear those manky old tan ones that even the dogs ignore.”

“Does he, indeed?” Kenneth asked, crouching between his son and his eldest daughter and taking up one of the green shoes. “Alaric, is that true? Why, these are very fine shoes. I like them far better than mine.”

The boy's rebellion shifted to curiosity, and he leaned forward to peer down at the pointed toe of one turquoise shoe protruding from beneath the hem of his sire's robe.

“I really do prefer yours,” Kenneth said, noting the boy's interest. “Not that your shoes would fit me—and even if they did, the color would hardly suit this robe. Frankly, I'd far rather be wearing my comfortable old black ones.

“But sometimes, we have to do what someone else wants. Your mother likes these better, and tells me they are much more suitable for an important court like Twelfth Night. The queen will like them, too—and your mother and Zoë and the other ladies of the court,” he added. “Women set great store by such things, you know.”

The stream of adult patter utterly charmed away the boy's remaining resistance, so that he made no objection as Kenneth got to his feet and picked him up, holding him close to breathe of the fresh scent of his silver-gilt hair and kiss his cheek. As he braced the boy on his hip, he silently nodded for Zoë to resume shoeing the child.

“My lord, you are entirely too indulgent,” Alyce murmured, though she smiled as she said it, and blew him a kiss.

“Well, he
is
my only son,” Kenneth replied. “And I'm afraid I indulged my daughters, too,” he added, with a fond glance at Zoë and Alazais, both of whom obviously adored both their father and their younger half-brother. “It doesn't seem to have hurt them.”

Zoë gave him a smile as she finished fastening the shoes on Alaric's feet, then let her father set him back on the floor so she could pull his new tunic over his head; no one would know that the shirt underneath was less than clean. Then, while she hurriedly ran a comb through his silky hair, Alyce fastened a little fur-lined green cloak around his shoulders, pinning it at the throat with a silver gryphon brooch.

“There, that's perfect. Now you look like a proper little future duke,” Alyce said, standing back to inspect him. “Shall we all go down to court?”

 

T
HE
great hall was filling fast, though the dais at the far end was yet unoccupied, save by pages and squires and other functionaries completing their preparations for court to come. A faint haze of wood smoke hung on the air from the three great fireplaces, leavened by the clean tang of pine resin from the torches along the walls and under-laid by the aroma of damp wool and damp courtiers; for many of those summoned to Twelfth Night Court were obliged to travel from lodgings outside the castle precincts. Sleet and rain were still pummeling the darkened glass of the clerestory windows that overlooked the castle gardens to the left of the hall.

But all within was festive and gay. High above, banners of most of the great families of Gwynedd hung from the hammer-beams and rafters, bright splashes of color against the oak and stone. Behind and above the twin thrones set at the center of the dais, a great tapestry of the royal arms of Gwynedd declared whose hall this was, the Haldane lion gazing over all with regal disdain. The buzz of conversation from the gathering court set the place alive with anticipation.

“Ah, Kenneth, I've finally found you,” said a handsome man of about Kenneth's age, who had materialized at his right elbow.

Kenneth turned to regard Sir Jiri Redfearn, like himself, one of the king's most trusted aides. Jiri looked relaxed and unruffled, and gave Alyce and the other two ladies a graceful inclination of his ginger head.

“Jiri. Well met,” Kenneth said amiably, acknowledging the other man with a nod.

“The king desires a word before court,” Jiri said. “He's in the withdrawing room. Perhaps the ladies would care to warm themselves by one of the fires—except for Lady Alyce and the boy. They're summoned as well.”

“Of course,” Kenneth replied. “Do you know what this is about?”

“I do, but it isn't for me to say,” Jiri answered, though he smiled slightly as he stood aside, indicating that they should precede him. With a glance at his wife, Kenneth took young Alaric's free hand and headed them around the dais to the left, leaving Zoë and her sister to wonder.

Though intended as an informal audience chamber for matters requiring discretion, and a staging area before ceremonies of state, the withdrawing room also functioned as the king's preferred workroom during the winter months—and clearly was serving all three functions today. Two liveried senior squires were putting the final touches to the king's court attire, fussing over the hang of a sweeping sleeve, and documents in varying stages of preparation mostly covered the surface of a table drawn up before the fireplace. A scribe and the king's eldest son were finishing the seals on the documents that required them, the young prince in page's livery.

“Ah, there you are,” the king said, turning as Jiri admitted the three and then withdrew.

Donal Haldane had aged but little in the four years since placing the hand of Alyce de Corwyn in that of Sir Kenneth Morgan, bestowing upon him the richest heiress in the kingdom. His carriage was still erect, the clear grey eyes still steady and direct, with just a hint of good humor crinkling their corners, but the once-sable hair now glimmered mostly silver against the collar of his robe of Haldane crimson, and his close-trimmed beard was nearly all gone to grey—though even Kenneth was going grey, and he was twenty years younger.

“You summoned us, Sire?” Kenneth said, neck bending in an easy bow as Alyce dipped in curtsy. At her prompting, little Alaric also produced a fair bow of his own.

Not quite suppressing a smile, Donal nodded and dismissed the squires and scribe with an impatient wave of his hand, though he signed for Prince Brion to carry on with his work. But for the vagaries of fate and happenstance, Alaric Morgan also might have been his son—though perhaps it was as well that Donal Haldane had had no part in the getting of the boy. Fortunately, only he and the boy's parents knew how very nearly it had been otherwise; and the pair's generous spirits and utter loyalty to their king had ensured that the outcome was satisfactory for all concerned. The king now intended to reward that loyalty.

“One of the privileges of wearing a crown is that I am not obliged to explain my actions to my subjects,” Donal said, by way of preamble. “But given the extraordinary position in which we all find ourselves, as mentors to a very underage future Duke of Corwyn, I thought it wise to give you advance notice of a decision I intend to announce at court this afternoon. The deed itself is already done; it only wants being made public. Brion, would you please bring me that warrant concerning Lendour?” he added, with a glance at his son and heir.

Quickly, the boy glanced over the rows of documents on the table and extracted one, which he brought immediately to his sire. Donal gave it a perfunctory glance, then extended it toward Kenneth.

“I am today creating you Earl of Lendour for life,
de jure uxoris
,” he said, just as Kenneth's hand touched it. “Not only is this fitting reward for your many years of faithful service,” he added at the looks of surprise from both Kenneth and Alyce, “but you need sufficient rank to function as regent for a future duke. Besides that, I intend to use you for some important diplomatic work in the next few years, and you'll be more effective as my envoy if you've a rank closer to those with whom you'll be dealing.”

“Sire, I—had no idea…” Kenneth finally managed to murmur, as Alyce beamed. “But I shall certainly strive to be worthy of the trust you have shown me in this matter.”

Donal allowed himself a broad grin. “Rarely have I seen you at a loss for words, Kenneth Morgan,” he said. “It also pleases me that, in so honoring you, I also allow dear Alyce to enjoy at least a part of the style to which she would have been entitled, had she been born male. But I would never wish that,” he added. “She makes far too charming a woman.”

“Sire, you need not flatter
me
,” Alyce said happily, slipping an arm around Kenneth's waist. “This is my lord husband's day.”

“And yours,” Donal corrected. “I would have preferred to make Kenneth duke for life, and you a duchess, but that might be more than my other lords of state could stomach, to set a simple knight so far above them. Even so, there will be jealousy in some circles.”

“True enough, Sire,” Kenneth agreed, still stunned by the king's generosity.

“This does, of course, put you in the interesting position of being your son's vassal, when Alaric comes of age,” the king added with a sly grin, “but you can always resign the title at that time, if you wish—perhaps retire to the country with your lovely wife. By then, you'll be older than I am now, but hopefully your health will still be good.”

The last comment seemed casually made, but something in the king's almost-wistful tone caused both Kenneth and Alyce to exchange uneasy glances.

“Sire, is there something we should know?” Kenneth asked cautiously, keeping his voice low.

“Nay, I am well enough,” the king replied, though Kenneth thought the denial came all too quickly.

“The announcement will cause comment, of course,” the king went on, taking the warrant back from Kenneth and returning it to Brion. “But it is something I have been considering for some time. A few of the council know; most do not. Come the spring, I have it in mind that the three of you should journey to Lendour, by slow stages, to take up your new holding and introduce your eventual successor to his people.” He nodded toward the wide-eyed Alaric. “For that matter, perhaps you should travel on to Coroth after that, make a grand circuit of it. The Corwyners should also meet their future duke.”

“They should, indeed,” Kenneth murmured, with a swift glance at his wife and son. “And is it your intention that we should remain in Lendour?”

“Good Lord, no!” Donal replied. “I need you at my side, just as I'll have you at my side today.

“Now, for some further specifics.” The king clasped his hands together and shifted his gaze to Alyce. “You are aware that, once he lived through the dangerous first few years of infancy, I have always intended to acknowledge young Alaric as heir of Lendour and Corwyn. I shall do that today, in the context of knighting the Lendouri candidates. I believe there are two this year?”

“Yes, Sire. Yves de Tremelan and Xander of Torrylin.”