Deryni Checkmate (20 page)

She had never known her mother. Lady Alyce de Corwyn de Morgan had died only a few weeks after the birth of her tiny daughter, victim of the milk fever, which so often claimed the lives of young mothers. Alaric remembered her—or said he did. But Bronwyn’s memories were only of the marvelous tales that Lady Vera spun about the woman who had borne them, and a hint of sadness that she had never been permitted to know this wonderful and shining lady.

Remembering the past, Bronwyn paused on the terrace, then headed resolutely back toward her chambers. It was still fairly early. If she did not dawdle, there would be ample time to visit the little chapel before she had to dress for dinner. But the chapel would be cool and damp this time of day. She would need her cloak.

She had almost reached the terrace doors to her chamber when she stumbled on a crack in the flagstone terracing, then recovered. As she leaned down to rub her ankle in annoyance, she was not consciously listening for anything, but she suddenly became aware that there were voices—female voices—coming from her chamber.

“Well, I simply don’t understand why you defend her so,” one was saying.

Bronwyn recognized the voice as that of Lady Agnes, one of her ladies-in-waiting, and she straightened and moved a little closer to the doorway as she realized they were talking about her.

“Agnes is right,” another said. “It isn’t as though she’s one of us.”

That was Lady Martha.

“She’s a
woman
like us,” a third voice protested softly, unmistakably that of Mary Elizabeth, Bronwyn’s favorite. “And if she’s in love with him, and he with her, I see no shame in it for anyone.”

“No shame?” Agnes gasped. “But she’s—she’s—”

“Oh, just say it!” Martha said flatly. “The heir to the Duchy of Cassan ought to marry far higher than the daughter of a—”

“Than the daughter of a Deryni!” Agnes chimed in.

“But she never even
knew
her mother,” Mary Elizabeth protested. “And her father was a well-respected lord. Besides, she’s only half-Deryni.”

“Half a Deryni too much to suit
me
!” Martha stated emphatically. “Not to mention that unspeakable brother of hers!”

“She cannot help who her brother is,” Mary Elizabeth interrupted, forceful but calm even in the midst of argument. “And other than being a bit more open with his powers than is, perhaps, wise, there is nothing wrong with Duke Alaric. He cannot help being born Deryni any more than Lady Bronwyn can. And if it weren’t for the duke, there is no telling who might be ruler of Gwynedd today. Besides that, he’s very attractive,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

“Are you
defending
him?” Agnes retorted. “That’s blasphemy!”

“Treason, more like,” Martha muttered.

Bronwyn had heard quite enough. With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she turned away from the chamber and moved quietly back along the terrace, finally going down the steps in the direction of the far garden.

Something like this always seemed to happen. She would go along for weeks, sometimes even months, without being reminded of that one dark spectre in her background.

And then, just when she began to feel she had perhaps lived down her Deryni heritage, that she had been accepted as herself, not some kind of scheming witch, an incident like this would occur. Someone would remember, and use that remembrance to twist and turn the truth until it was something ugly, unclean. Why were humans so cruel?

Humans!
she thought—then smiled bitterly as she hurried along the path. There she was, thinking in terms of
them
and
us
again. It happened every time she had an encounter like this, and made her little better than her tormentors.

But why did it have to start in the first place? Surely there was nothing
wrong
with being Deryni, despite Church dictates to the contrary. As Mary Elizabeth had pointed out, one could not control the circumstances of one’s own birth. Besides, she had never really used her powers.

Well, almost never.

She scowled as she walked along toward her mother’s chapel, folding her arms across her chest against the sudden chill of the afternoon.

She had to admit that she had occasionally called on her powers to heighten her senses of sight, hearing, smell, when the need arose. And she had formed a mind link with Kevin once, years ago when they were both young and the sport of doing something forbidden had outweighed their fear of punishment had they been caught.

Just as she sometimes called the birds to her hands in the gardens to feed them—though she made very certain that no one was watching when she did so.

But what could be wrong with that kind of magic anyway? How could they say it was wrong, evil? They were
jealous
—that was all!

As she reached this conclusion, she became aware of a tall figure approaching her on the path, his white hair and gray doublet identifying him unmistakably as the architect Rimmell. As she came abreast of him, the man withdrew to one side to let her pass, bowed low from the waist.

“My lady,” he murmured as Bronwyn started to go by.

Bronwyn nodded pleasantly and continued walking.

“My lady, might I have a word with you?” Rimmell persisted, walking after her a few paces and stopping to bow again as Bronwyn turned to face him.

“Of course. Master Rimmell, isn’t it?”

“Yes, m’lady,” Rimmell replied nervously, nodding again. “I wondered how your ladyship liked the plans for the palace in Kierney. I did not have the opportunity to ask before, but I thought to ask your ladyship’s opinion while there is still time to make alterations in the plans.”

Bronwyn smiled and nodded agreement. “Thank you, Rimmell, that’s very kind. Actually, I was very pleased with the plans. Perhaps we could go over them some time tomorrow, if you like. I can’t think of anything I’d want changed, but I appreciate the offer.”

“Your ladyship is most gracious,” Rimmell murmured, bowing again and trying to conceal his joy that Bronwyn was actually talking with him. “May—may I escort your ladyship anywhere? The afternoon grows chilly, and the mist comes early here in Culdi.”

“Thank you, no,” Bronwyn replied, shaking her head and rubbing her arms as though in response to the suggestion of chill. “I was going to pay a visit to my mother’s tomb. I’d rather go alone, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” Rimmell nodded understandingly. “Would your ladyship care to borrow my cloak, then? The chapel will be drafty this time of day, and your ladyship’s gown, while perfectly suited to the warm sunshine, is hardly ample protection in the crypt.”

“Why, thank you, Rimmell,” Bronwyn said, smiling gratefully as Rimmell hung the gray cloak around her shoulders. “I’ll have one of my servants return it later this evening.”

“There’s no hurry, my lady,” Rimmell replied, backing off and bowing deferentially. “Good afternoon.”

As Bronwyn continued on down the path, wrapped in Rimmell’s cloak, he looked fondly after her for a moment, then turned back in the direction he had been going. As he was about to mount the steps to the terrace level, he saw Kevin come out of his quarters on the end and head down the steps.

Kevin was clean-shaven, his brown hair neatly combed, and he had exchanged his dusty hunt clothes of the morning and early afternoon for a short brown velvet doublet with the McLain tartan swinging jauntily from the left shoulder. As he clattered down the steps in a flash of freshly polished boots and spurs, scabbard and chains a-jingle, he saw Rimmell and hailed him, coming to a halt in the center of the stairway.

“Rimmell, I’ve finished with those plans you left me this morning. You can fetch them from my quarters, if you like. You did a marvelous job, by the way.”

“Thank you, m’lord.”

Kevin started on, then paused. “Rimmell, have you, by any chance, seen my Lady Bronwyn? I can’t seem to find her anywhere.”

“I believe you’ll find her at her mother’s tomb, m’lord,” Rimmell answered. “When I met her on the path a few minutes ago, she said she was on her way there. I gave her my cloak against the chill. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Kevin said. He briefly clasped Rimmell’s shoulder in a casual gesture of friendship. “Thank you.”

With a further nod of gratitude, Kevin bounded down the remaining steps and disappeared around a bend in the path, and Rimmell continued toward his master’s quarters.

He had about decided the course of action he would have to take. Outright violence against this gracious young lord was out of the question. Besides, Rimmell was not a violent man. But he was in love.

That morning, Rimmell had spent several hours talking with some of the local townspeople about this dilemma—without, of course, naming the object of his heady passions. Being mountain folk, and living here on the edge of the Connait and wild Meara, they sometimes had rather curious notions about how a man might woo his ladylove.

Rimmell hardly believed, for example, that hanging carilus flowers on Bronwyn’s door and chanting the
Ave
seven times was likely to sway a Deryni girl in any way. Nor would putting a toad in Kevin’s goblet help. The earl would simply fly into a rage that his servants had not been more careful.

But a number of folk had suggested that if Rimmell really wanted to win a lady’s love, there was an old widow woman who lived in the hills—a holy shepherdess called Bethane—who reputedly had helped similarly distraught and lovesick young men. If Rimmell would take a sack of food and some gold up into the hills, perhaps Bethane could solve his problem.

So Rimmell had decided to try it. He had not paused to consider that he was indulging in a bit of superstitious practice he would never have considered, had he not been smitten with love for the beautiful Bronwyn de Morgan. He was convinced that the widow Bethane would be his salvation, the way to win this fair creature he must either have or die. With a love potion or trinket from that esteemed and venerable holy woman, Rimmell could woo Bronwyn away from the Lord Kevin, make her love the builder instead of the baron.

He stepped into Kevin’s quarters and glanced around, looking for his plans. There was little to distinguish the room from any other sleeping room in the castle, since all were merely temporary abodes for the current visitors. But there were a few things Rimmell could pick out as belonging to Kevin: the folding stool covered in McLain tartan, the tapestried rug on the floor beside the bed, the comforters on the bed itself—rich silk embroidered with the earl’s crest—the bed where Kevin would bring his beloved Bronwyn in three days, if Rimmell did not act soon.

He looked away from the bed, preferring not to consider the possibility any further for the moment, then saw his plans lying rolled up on a table near the door. He had picked them up and was about to exit the way he had come when his eye was drawn to something glittering atop a small chest.

There were the usual jewels and badges of office lying there: rings, brooches, chains. But one thing, in particular, had caught his eye: a small oval locket on a golden chain, too delicate and fragile to belong to a man.

Without thinking about what he was doing, he picked up the locket gingerly and opened it, glancing out the door to make certain he was not being observed; then he looked inside.

It was Bronwyn: the most beautiful likeness Rimmell had ever seen, her golden hair cascading down her perfect shoulders, lips parted slightly as she gazed fondly out of the portrait.

Not permitting himself to consider what he was about to do, Rimmell stuffed the locket into his tunic and bolted for the door, the rolled-up plans almost crushed under his arm. He looked neither left nor right as he fled down the stairs toward his own quarters. Observers, had they seen him, would have said he went as a man possessed.

 

BRONWYN raised her head from the railing enclosing her mother’s tomb, then gazed dejectedly across at the life-sized effigy, shifting on her knees.

She realized now that she was much more deeply troubled by the overheard conversation than she had allowed herself to believe at first. But she didn’t know quite what to do about it. She couldn’t really confront the women and demand that they cease their gossiping. That would solve nothing.

She continued to study the effigy before her, finally seeing features now, and wondered what
she
would have done, marvelling at the extraordinary woman who had been her mother.

Lady Alyce de Corwyn de Morgan had been an exceptionally beautiful woman in life, and her sarcophagus more than did her justice. Master craftsmen from the Connait had carved the smooth alabaster with consummate skill, down to the most minute detail. It was so lifelike that even now, though Bronwyn was grown, she still had the feeling she’d had as a child: that the effigy only slept; that only the right words need be spoken to make the statue breathe and the woman come alive.

The wide stained-glass window above the tomb was ablaze with light from the slowly sinking sun, bathing the small chapel with gold and orange and red, spreading a wash of color on the tomb, on Bronwyn’s borrowed gray cloak, on the tiny ivory altar a few yards to her right.

Bronwyn heard the creak of the door opening behind her, and she turned slightly to see Kevin poke his head curiously through the doorway. His face brightened as he saw her, and he stepped inside and pulled the door shut. He bent his knee before the tiny altar before coming to kneel by her side at the tomb.

“I was wondering where you were,” he said in a low voice, placing his right hand gently on hers. “Is anything wrong?”

“No—yes.” Bronwyn shook her head. “I don’t know.” She looked down at her hands and swallowed with difficulty, and Kevin suddenly realized she was on the verge of tears.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, slipping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her toward him.

With a muffled sob, Bronwyn burst into tears and buried her face against his chest. Kevin held her close and let her cry for a few minutes, stroking her soft hair with a soothing hand. At length, he eased himself to a sitting position on the step and pulled her into his lap, there to cradle her in his arms like a frightened child.