Childe Morgan (27 page)

Kenneth had asked six of his household knights to bear his wife's coffin, Llion and Xander among them; but as they hoisted it onto their shoulders and began their slow march down to the church, following the processional cross and the priest with his two acolytes and the banners of Corwyn and Lendour, it struck him that one of the black-cloaked knights looked very like Sir Sé Trelawney.

All the way to the church, Kenneth tried to get a better look at the man without being obvious, Alaric's hand in his—for the boy had insisted on attending. Vera and her Kevin followed directly behind, along with Delphine, Claara, Melissa, and several other members of the immediate Morganhall household; Duncan had been left with the kitchen servants while they did the day's baking, being deemed too young to attend. Under the circumstances, Kenneth was well content to keep it very much a family affair.

And an affair for family it surely was, he realized, as he watched the knights carefully deposit his wife's coffin on the black-draped catafalque before the altar, for one of the black-clad men
was
Sé, who very much had been a part of Alyce's family, friend of her childhood—though God alone knew how he had learned of Alyce's passing, or had managed to get there in time for the funeral.

But when the six men bowed to the altar and then began melting back to take places in the congregation, the man Kenneth had been watching turned and looked him directly in the eyes, setting right hand to breast and inclining his head in graceful acknowledgment before easing back with the others to disappear in the sea of black-clad mourners.

Kenneth was never able to spot him again, though he watched for him all through the Requiem that followed; and it was another knight who took his place when it came time to carry Alyce's coffin down into the crypt. But he found himself taking comfort in the belief that Sé Trelawney had, indeed, been there, as he had promised he would always be there for Alyce and for their son.

Later, after her coffin had been laid beside those of his Morgan kin, who were also kin to their son, all of the family mourners—though Sé was not among them—returned to Morganhall, where Kenneth made it known that he intended more formal memorial Masses to be celebrated in his wife's memory in the spring or summer at Cynfyn and Coroth, be-fitting her status as Countess of Lendour and Lady of Corwyn. It was not the time to mention that her body would eventually find a different resting place, per her own wishes. For the nonce, at least, there was a new king to be crowned in less than a week: a task to which all the household's energies now must turn, and as would have been her wish.

Given the stress of the previous several days, most of the family elected to retire early that night, though Kenneth spent an hour with Xander and Llion organizing what must be taken with them back to Rhemuth in the morning. Kenneth, especially, desperately needed sleep before heading back to Rhemuth the next day, as did Llion, each of whom had already completed a round trip to the capital in the past two days to fetch and return the king.

It was Xander who roused them the next morning at first light, which came late at midwinter. Alaric had slept in his father's bed that night, and tumbled awake with energy abounding at the prospect of the journey back to Rhemuth with his father. Kenneth was not sure the boy understood about the importance of the coming coronation, but the trip itself held appeal for a four-year-old. Xander took over the responsibility of getting him fed and bathed, so that Kenneth and Llion could concentrate on finishing the packing of the few items they would need for the journey.

After washing and dressing in the plain black he had worn the day before, Kenneth stumbled into his son's room, where both Xander and Llion now were attempting to finish dressing the boys.

“I'm wondering whether it's necessary to put so young a child into mourning for the coronation,” Kenneth said, as Xander tugged an over-tunic of heavy green wool over the boy's usual winter garb of white shirt and black leggings. “I didn't yesterday, because it's hard enough for a lad to lose his mother at his age. On the other hand, I think it's particularly important to have him at my side when I swear fealty. It will underline his status as the future Duke of Corwyn, despite his Deryni blood.”

Llion glanced at the new heraldic over-tunic spread on the bed behind him, ready to pack; Alaric had outgrown the quartered tunic he'd only just worn in June for Prince Brion's coming of age. Though Melissa had spent hours sewing a narrow border of Lendour red and white along the edges of the garment, the Corwyn device itself was almost sober enough to pass for mourning. The fine black wool of the field was relieved only by its heraldically improbable green Corwyn gryphon, picked out in gold, and the brighter relief of Kenneth's gold double tressure
fleury-counter-fleury
now surrounding the beast, from his Morgan line.

“The new tunic is already mostly black, my lord,” Llion pointed out, as he bent to do up the buckles of the boy's boots. “I might suggest removing the Lendour border, except that it's important to make that reminder as well, both that he is your son and that he is heir to both honors. A pity he's outgrown the old quartered tunic, though the Lendour red and white would have been a bit garish for mourning.”

Kenneth nodded soberly. “We'll leave it as it is, then,” he said. “Go ahead and pack it. My mourning will have to be sufficient for both of us.”

T
HEY
departed for Rhemuth a little later under clearing skies, though the cold was still bitter, chilling to the bone. Kenneth's sisters and Vera had come to see them off, all three of the women teary-eyed, for it was unlikely that Kenneth would visit Morganhall again soon. Vera, however, was to leave for Rhemuth the following day with her own escort, for she and her sons were expected to rejoin Jared for the coronation.

Alaric rode with his father, surrounded by his strong arms and warm cloak, with Xander and Llion flanking them, ahead of a further escort of four liveried Lendouri lancers. A pair of squires followed with two pack animals on leads—modest enough train for an earl in mourning and an underage duke, but they turned heads as they passed lesser folk.

The two lead lancers carried the cased banners of Lendour and Corwyn, black crepe spilling from the heads of the staves. All of the escort party wore wide mourning sashes from right shoulder to left hip, slashing the bright red and white of Lendour with black. Kenneth himself rode all in black, with Alaric's dark green all but invisible inside his father's cloak.

They passed a night at Arc-en-Ciel, where his letter had arrived the day before and the sisters gave them refuge and serenity. Mother Judiana gave them her blessing after the sisters' Requiem Mass for Alyce the next morning, before they continued on their way. The river road grew more crowded as they headed south, and by noon of the second day the bright sun had begun to turn the snow to muddy slush, further churned by the passage of many hooves and feet and wagons.

Lord Kenneth Morgan's somber party came within sight of the city walls midway through the afternoon. They stopped at the barge station at King's Landing to water the horses and uncase the banners. It was then, as they mounted up for the final stage of the journey into Rhemuth, that they caught the first faint sound of a great bell tolling in the city.

Kenneth exchanged glances with Llion and Xander, but neither ventured comment. Given the major deaths of the past two months, first Prince Jathan and Donal and then Alyce, no one was prepared for another—and the tolling bell might merely mark the passing of some prosperous citizen of Rhemuth being buried from the cathedral. But as they drew nearer the river gate, other bells joined in, all tolling the passing of a soul.

They gained no further clue as they rode through the gate and clip-clopped up the stone-lined thoroughfare toward the cathedral. But as they entered the cathedral square, Kenneth spied a flurry of activity before the cathedral steps, where several black-robed clerics were handing out dispatches to half a dozen mounted couriers in the archbishop's livery, ready to depart.

With a glance and a nod, Kenneth sent Xander across to investigate while the rest of them continued to pick their way along the crowded perimeter of the cathedral square. A few minutes later, Xander rejoined them, shaking his head in disbelief.

“It's very nearly as bad as it looks, my lord,” he said to Kenneth, as he drew his mount head-to-tail with Kenneth's, and stirrup-to-stirrup. “They say the Archbishop of Valoret took a very bad fall coming into the city this morning, up at Bishop's Gate—horse slipped on ice and went down. Apparently the good archbishop bashed out his brains on an abutment that had the audacity to be where he landed; died almost instantly. They're saying that the coronation will have to be postponed until a successor can be elected. That could take weeks or it could take months.”

Kenneth shook his head, greatly troubled. “We did not need this, with a new king only barely come of age,” he murmured. “He is still king, of course, but 'tis always better if a young one is crowned quickly.” He quirked a sour smile at Xander and Llion. “Still, I cannot say that I shall greatly miss my lord of Valoret.”

“They could replace him with someone worse,” Llion pointed out.

“Aye, and I can think of several,” Kenneth agreed, “though this is neither the time nor the place to speculate on that.” He sighed and signed for Llion to move closer.

“Take charge of the boy,” he said, as he lifted Alaric across to the young knight's saddlebow. “Xander, you're with me. Postponing the coronation is going to set many cats among many pigeons. Prince Brion will need our support. Llion, we'll meet up with you later at the castle. Meanwhile, you're in charge.”

With just the two of them, it was much easier for Kenneth and his aide to make their way up the rest of the hill to the castle yard, where Duke Richard's squires and pages had their hands full dealing with the influx of new arrivals and their mounts. As Kenneth and Xander dismounted, a senior squire came running up to take their horses: young Jamyl Arilan.

“The king has been asking for you, my lord,” Jamyl said, catching the eye of another squire and beckoning him closer. “And I was so sorry to hear of your loss. The Lady Alyce was a beautiful and gracious lady.”

“Thank you, Jamyl. She was, indeed.” Kenneth scanned the yard as he rescued his saddlebags from the cantle and handed them across to Xander. “We heard the news about Archbishop William—and believe me, the ecclesiastical vultures have already begun gathering. Have you any feel for the implications?”

As the nephew of one of the king's senior crown counselors, and only a year from knighthood, it was just possible that Jamyl might have overheard something useful, but he shook his head.

“This is the sort of thing that cannot be anticipated, my lord. But if you're asking my opinion, I would say that they'll not want to go forward with the coronation until a new primus can be elected. Crowning the king is one of the most jealously guarded prerogatives of Valoret's archbishop.”

“I suppose it's too early to speculate on who that new primus might be,” Kenneth said, looking around the yard at the other new arrivals. “Where is His Majesty now?”

“He's conferring with some of his advisors, my lord,” Jamyl replied. “I believe my uncle may be among them. Shall I take you to him? They're in the winter withdrawing room.”

“I know the way, Jamyl. Thank you. But if you could keep an eye out for Sir Llion Farquahar, I'd appreciate it. Do you know him by sight?”

“Aye, my lord.”

“Good. He has charge of my son, along with a small escort of my Lendour lancers. I hope that accommodation can be arranged.”

Jamyl nodded. “Sir Trevor has already arranged lodgings for your immediate party, my lord. I'll see what I can do about the lancers.”

“Thank you.”

With a final nod, Kenneth headed up the great hall steps, Xander at his heels. Trevor met them just inside, where Kenneth received his aide's condolences and left Xander, continuing on toward the dais at the far end. Dodging the servants who were setting up the trestle tables for supper in the hall, he headed directly to the king's private withdrawing room behind the dais, where he found Brion, Queen Richeldis, and a handful of senior advisors seated around the writing table near the fire: Duke Richard at the king's right hand, Earl Jared, Jamyl's uncle Seisyll Arilan, and Archbishop Desmond of Rhemuth, brother of the deceased William.

The king immediately came to his feet as Kenneth entered—an instinctive gesture of respect belatedly mirrored by the other men, with varying degrees of sincerity. The queen did not rise, but her nod of sympathy was clear, for she and Kenneth's wife had been close; and Earl Jared, though he did not know the full extent of the kinship between his own wife and Kenneth's deceased one, at least was aware that the two women had been close friends. Duke Richard had always been a friend of Kenneth and an admirer of his wife, Seisyll Arilan more coolly so. Archbishop Desmond, by contrast, seemed reluctant and even resentful at the peer pressure that obliged him to rise, for he did not like Kenneth Morgan, who had married a Deryni and given her a son.

“Lord Kenneth,” the king said, indicating a place on Richard's other side and sitting again, looking vaguely uneasy. “All of us were stunned to hear of your wife's untimely passing. Thank you for coming to us at such a difficult time.”

The hidden message was clear: that Brion was distancing himself from any speculation regarding too close a recent intimacy with the Morgan family. Most certainly, he would not disclose anything of his midnight visit to Morganhall.

“Thank you, Sire. I am Gwynedd's to command,” Kenneth replied, with a respectful neck bow. “I served your father, and I hope to serve you as well.”

“If you serve me half as well as you served him, my lord, then I shall be well served, indeed,” Brion said, the grey eyes speaking of his complete awareness that some of that service could never be revealed. “Please, join us.”

Again he indicated the chair beside Richard, which Kenneth this time took, bowing to the queen before sitting.

“Welcome, dear Lord Kenneth,” the queen said quietly. “May we take it that you have heard about the archbishop's untimely passing?”

Kenneth inclined his head. “I have, my lady. A most astonishing accident. My lord Desmond, you have my condolences.”

Archbishop Desmond gave a curt nod, but only what civility required.

“We were discussing alternative plans for the coronation,” Duke Richard said, as all of them settled. “His Grace of Rhemuth informs us that he is not prepared to proceed until a new primate can be elected. I hasten to point out that riders are being dispatched as quickly as the letters of summons can be written, to convene the curia at Valoret for an election.”

“Yes, we saw some of them leaving as we rode through the cathedral square,” Kenneth said.

“Fortunately, many of the bishops have already arrived here or are on their way,” Seisyll pointed out for Kenneth's benefit. “They'll be redirected to Valoret for the election—which should expedite the process. In the meantime, we have agreed that Twelfth Night Court should proceed as planned—except, of course, that our new king will not yet have been crowned.”

“That will not affect most of the customary business of the court,” Duke Richard said. “Other than creating knights, which he may not do until he himself is knighted, even an uncrowned king reigns, if he be of age—which, happily, our Brion is.” He smiled briefly at his royal nephew. “I have no doubt that he will perform admirably.”

“Aye, he has been well prepared,” Queen Richeldis said softly, eyes downcast.

The grief in her tone, and in the very set of her shoulders, put an awkward silence on the room, and elicited a sympathetic glance from Richard, still dealing with his own grief over the loss of a beloved brother.

“Richeldis,” he ventured, “every king knows that this sort of thing might happen, and makes the necessary preparations. Donal was not remiss in that regard. There will be a period of transition, certainly; and both Brion and Nigel will continue their training, as their father would have wished; and we shall advise him as best we can.” He cast his gaze around the table and managed a pained smile.

“As for the rest of us, I think it will become increasingly clear, as our new king grows into his maturity, that a new generation will be taking its place upon the stage—and it is only right that a young king should have young knights to attend him, and young advisors.” He glanced at Kenneth. “I fear that even you and I are getting a bit long in the tooth to qualify as ‘young'.”

Kenneth smiled in agreement, thinking of the young knights in his own service and the fierce loyalty they owed to him and to Gwynedd.

“I'll not argue
that
, Your Highness. Serving Donal was a privilege and an honor, but even he was a demanding taskmaster. I shall have a much harder time keeping up with a younger king.” He smiled at Brion, then glanced at Seisyll. “Your nephew will be part of that generation, my lord. I spoke with him briefly when we arrived. He seems a fine young man.”

Seisyll inclined his head. “His teachers at Tre-Arilan seem to think so, as did Her Majesty's brother. But I am glad that he serves Gwynedd now—as your Alaric shall serve, in a few years. Time, indeed, to make way for the next generation.”

Before Kenneth could think how to respond, Archbishop Desmond cleared his throat.

“Sire, I should be about my duties,” he said gruffly. “I must accompany my brother's body back to Valoret for burial, and then I must convene the synod to elect his successor.”

“Yes, of course,” Brion murmured. “Go, by all means.”

“With one proviso, please, before you do,” Duke Richard noted quietly. “We shall need a bishop present at Twelfth Night Court, to witness the oaths—not just of the new squires and pages, but such others of His Majesty's new vassals who have traveled from far away, and who may not have the luxury of remaining at court until a new primate can be elected and installed. With an uncrowned king on the throne, believe me, it is best to let them affirm their fealty now, while we have them here in Rhemuth.”

“Certainly,” Archbishop Desmond agreed. “I shall delegate someone to that duty.” He rose, bowing slightly to Brion and to the queen. “If I may retire, then, Sire?”

 

T
HAT
night, the late Archbishop of Valoret lay in state in Rhemuth Cathedral while those bishops currently in the city for the now-delayed coronation kept watch by turns. At noon the following day, Archbishop Desmond celebrated a Requiem Mass for his departed brother, assisted by his brother bishops, after which many of the citizens of Rhemuth filed past his bier to pay their respects. The new king was prominently in attendance, accompanied by most of the key members of his court.