Deryni Checkmate (12 page)

“Not pleased with the content, but I am pleased that you told me. How much of this is about, do you think?”

Gwydion gently placed his lute on the cushioned seat beside him and leaned back against the side of the window, hands clasped behind his head. “It is difficult to say, my lord. I was out for only a few hours, but there are several versions of both songs, and probably others totally different that I did not hear. If my lord will heed some advice from a spinner of tales, you should combat this with other songs. Shall I attempt to compose something suitable?”

“I’m not certain that would be wise just now,” Morgan said. “What would you say is the—”

There was a discreet knock at the door, and Morgan looked up in annoyance. “Come.”

Robert opened the door and stepped through, disapproval written all across his face. “Lord Rather de Corbie is here to see you, Your Grace.”

“Ah, send him in.”

Robert stepped aside to admit a double file of men in the sea green livery of the Hort of Orsal. Behind them walked the redoubtable Rather de Corbie, ambassador extraordinaire of the Hort of Orsal. Morgan stood at his place and smiled as the files parted and lined up to either side of Rather, who stopped and bowed.

“Duke Alaric,” the man boomed in a voice that simply did not match his five-foot stature. “I bring felicitations from His Hortic Highness. He trusts you are well.”

“Indeed, I am,” Morgan said, clasping the man’s hand enthusiastically. “It is very good to see you, Rather. And how
is
the old sea lion?”

Rather rumbled in laughter. “The Orsal’s family has just been blessed with yet another heir, my lord, and the Orsal himself hopes that you will soon be able to come to see him.” He glanced at Gwydion and Robert and then continued. “There are certain matters of navigation rights and defense he wishes to discuss, and he asks that you bring your military advisors with you. Spring is upon us, as you are aware.”

Morgan nodded knowingly. Between the two of them, he and the Hort of Orsal controlled water passage from the Twin Rivers to the sea, a route of extreme tactical advantage should Wencit of Torenth decide to invade along the coast. And since Morgan would be away with the army in a matter of weeks, arrangements must be made with the Orsal to protect Corwyn’s sea approaches in his absence.

“When does he wish me to come?” Morgan asked, knowing that the Orsal’s request was fairly urgent, yet aware that he could not go until tomorrow at the earliest, because of the impending contact with Derry tonight.

“Today, with me?” Rather asked cagily, watching Morgan for reaction.

Morgan shook his head. “I cannot. Would tomorrow suit?” He motioned Robert and Gwydion to leave them. “
Rhafallia
is in port. I can sail with the morning tide and be there by Terce. That would give us the rest of the morning and all afternoon until I must return. What do you say?”

Rather shrugged. “’Tis all the same to me, Alaric. You know that. I only carry messages back and forth. Whether the Orsal will agree or not is something only the Orsal knows.”

“Good, then,” Morgan said, clasping Rather on the shoulder in a comradely gesture. “How about something to eat before you and your men leave? My cousin is visiting, and I should like you to meet him.”

Rather made a short bow. “I accept with pleasure. And you must promise to tell me what news you hear from your young king. The Orsal still regrets that he was obliged to miss the coronation, you know.”

 

LATER that afternoon, when amenities with Rather de Corbie had been concluded and the feisty old warrior was on his way home, Morgan found himself once again the reluctant captive of Lord Robert. Robert had decreed that today must see the completion of Bronwyn’s dowry arrangements, so he and Morgan had cloistered themselves in the solarium with the documents in question. Duncan had wandered out to the armorer’s pavilion an hour earlier to inquire about the progress of a new sword he was having made, and Gwydion was out combing the city for more songs of unrest.

As Robert’s voice droned on, Morgan tried to force himself to pay attention. He reminded himself for at least the fifteenth time this week that this was a necessary if tedious part of governing, and the realization did about as much good as the previous fourteen reminders. He would rather have been doing just about anything else at the moment.

“‘A rendering of the account of Corwode Manor,’” Robert read. “ ‘They say that Corwode was wont to be in the hands of the king. And the Lord King Brion, father of the king who now is, gave the aforesaid manor to Lord Kenneth Morgan and his heirs. And it is held of the king by service of three men at arms in time of war.’ ”

Just as Robert drew breath to begin the next paragraph, the solarium door opened without preamble and Duncan padded in, breathing heavily. Bare-legged and clad only in a damp linen exercise tunic and soft boots, the priest evidently had been trying the balance of his new blade with the armorer. He had flung a rough gray towel around his shoulders, and wiped his face with a corner of it as he strode across the room, his left hand clutching a folded and sealed parchment packet.

“This just came in by courier from Kierney,” he said, grinning and tossing the parchment to the table. “It appears to be from Bronwyn.”

He perched on the table edge and nodded greeting to Robert, but the chancellor laid his pen aside with a sigh and sat back with a very vexed expression. Morgan chose to ignore the reaction and broke the seal in a shower of red wax shards. His eyes lit with pleasure as he scanned the first few lines, and he leaned back in his chair and smiled.

“Your illustrious brother definitely has a way with women, Duncan,” the duke said. “Listen to this. It’s so typical of Bronwyn.”

 

He looked up at Duncan and raised an indulgent eyebrow, and Duncan shook his head and grinned.

 

Duncan wiped his sweaty face again and smiled, then took the letter and scanned it for himself.

“You know, I never really believed I’d see Kevin so domesticated. At thirty-three and still unmarried, I was beginning to think
he
should have been the priest instead of me.”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t Bronwyn’s fault,” Morgan said with a laugh. “I think she decided when she was about ten that Kevin was to be the only man in her life. Only a provision of our mother’s will has kept them apart this long. The McLains may be hardheaded, but they can’t compare to the stubbornness of a half-Deryni wench who’s determined to get what she wants.”

Duncan snorted and headed for the door. “I think I’ll go and badger the armorer some more. Anything is easier than trying to argue with a man who thinks his sister is perfect!”

With a chuckle, Morgan leaned back in his chair and swung his booted feet up on the leather stool, his spirits restored.

“Robert,” he said, smiling out the window at nothing in particular, “remind me to tell Gwydion that he’s leaving for Culdi in the morning, will you?”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“And let’s get back to those accounts, shall we? Really, Robert, you’re getting insufferably lax these days.”

“I, Your Grace?” Robert murmured, looking up from the note he had made.

“Yes, yes, let’s get on with it. If we work hard, I think we can finish these blasted things by nightfall, and I can ship them out with Gwydion in the morning. I can’t remember when I’ve been more bored.”

IN Kierney, however, Morgan’s sister was anything but bored. At that moment, Lady Bronwyn de Morgan and her future mother-in-law, the Duchess Margaret, were selecting the gowns that Bronwyn would take to Culdi for the wedding festivities. The ornate dress made for the ceremony itself was carefully laid out on the bed and ready to be packed, its flowing skirt and sleeves a-glisten with tiny silver paillettes and rose-flashing balas rubies.

Several other bright garments were also laid out neatly on the bed. Beside it were two leather-bound trunks, one of which was nearly packed and ready to be closed. Two serving maids were busy adding the final touches to that chest before starting on the second, but Bronwyn kept finding last-minute items to add that forced the maids to redo half the packing.

It was an unusually sunny day for March. Though it had rained hard during the night, the morning had dawned in a burst of lemon-streaked glory. Now, at mid-afternoon, the ground was almost dry. Pale sunlight streamed into the chamber through open balcony doors, near which three ladies-in-waiting stitched busily on Bronwyn’s trousseau, their fingers moving nimbly over the fine linens and silks. Two of them worked on the fine gauze veil their mistress would wear for her marriage, deftly applying delicate lace to the edges. The third was embroidering Bronwyn’s new McLain crest in gold on the cuff of a leather glove.

Behind the ladies, next to the fire, two young girls sat curled up on velvet cushions, the older of the two strumming a crwth. As she caressed the strings and hummed an accompaniment, her younger companion kept time with a timbrel and sang the lower, contrapuntal portion of the song. A fat orange cat dozed peacefully at their feet, only a slightly twitching tail betraying the fact that he was alive.

Brides, of course, are traditionally beautiful, especially daughters of nobility. Bronwyn de Morgan was certainly no exception. But of all the ladies in the room that afternoon, even the bride-to-be, it would have been difficult to find a lady of gentler breeding or more sterling character than Lady Margaret McLain.

Margaret was Duke Jared’s third duchess—lady of that twice-bereft lord who had thought that he could never love again after the death of his beloved second wife Vera, the mother of Duncan. He had hardly known his first bride, for the Duchess Elaine had lived but a day after the birth of Jared’s first son, Kevin. But his marriage to the Lady Vera Howard three years later had been a long and happy one—twenty-six years of joy in an age when marriages of state were rarely more than affectionate matches of convenience, and almost never touched by romantic love.

The marriage had brought more children: first Duncan, then a daughter who had died in infancy, and then young Alaric and Bronwyn Morgan, when their wardship descended to Jared on the death of his cousin Kenneth, the children’s father.

Then, four years ago, all that had ended. Lady Vera had contracted a strange wasting disease that drained her of vitality and left her helpless. Not even her Deryni powers (for she was full Deryni, the sister of Morgan’s mother, though no one knew) could keep life from gradually ebbing away.

After her, in time, had come the Lady Margaret—a woman of no great physical beauty, a childless widow of forty who would never bear Jared another heir, but a quiet lady of gentle soul who could offer the one thing Jared sought above all else: Lady Margaret, who had taught him how to love again.

Now that same lady fussed over Bronwyn’s wedding arrangements as though Bronwyn were her own daughter, watching over the serving maids and supervising activities with a mother’s sharp eye. Since Duncan had chosen not to wed, only Kevin and his wife would carry on the McLain line now. Until Bronwyn bore heirs, there would be no more McLain daughters born or married into the family, so memories of the preparations for this marriage would have to last a long time.

Margaret glanced aside at Bronwyn and smiled, then went to a heavy wooden cabinet and unlocked it with a key from the silver chatelaine at her waist. As she began searching its shelves, Bronwyn took up a jeweled kirtle of rose watered silk and held it in front of herself, walking thoughtfully to a large mirror standing in the corner of the room.

Without doubt, Bronwyn de Morgan was a beautiful woman. Tall and slender, with sleek golden hair flowing down her back like water, she was the embodiment of all the best qualities of her Deryni mother, the Lady Alyce. The wide eyes in the oval face were a pale blue, bordering on gray when her moods changed. The rose gown she held in front of her accentuated the pale, flawless complexion, the bloom of roses in cheek and lip.

She studied her reflection carefully for a moment, weighing the effect the garment could be expected to produce, then nodded approval and laid it on the bed beside her wedding gown.

“I like this one for the ball on the night we arrive in Culdi, don’t you, Lady Margaret?” she asked, smoothing the folds of the dress and looking across to see what Margaret was doing. “Kevin has seen it before, but that doesn’t matter.”

“Ah, here it is.” Smiling, Margaret took a gold velvet-covered box from a shelf in the cabinet and brought it over to Bronwyn. It was about ten inches square and a hand’s-width deep, with the McLain arms embossed on the lid.

“Here is something else Kevin has seen before, my dear,” she said gently, watching for Bronwyn’s reaction as the girl began to open it. “It has been in the McLain family for many generations. I like to think that it brings luck to the women who wear it. It has brought
me
luck.”