Deryni Checkmate (21 page)

“There, now,” he murmured in a low, calming voice. “It’s all right. Let’s talk about it, shall we?”

As her sobbing diminished, Kevin relaxed and leaned back against the railing, still stroking her hair as he watched their silhouettes blocking the jewel-light that spilled over their shoulders and onto the white marble floor.

“Remember when we were children and we used to come here to play?” he asked. He glanced down at her and was relieved to see that she was drying her eyes. He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and gave it to her as he continued.

“I think we nearly drove my mother crazy, that last summer before Alaric went to court. He and Duncan were eight, and I was eleven, and you were all of four or so, and very precocious. We were playing hide and seek in the garden, and Alaric and I hid in here, behind the altar cloth where it hangs down on the ends. Old Father Anselm came in and caught us, and threatened to tell Mother.” He chuckled. “And I remember, he’d no sooner finished scolding us when you came wandering in with a handful of Mother’s best roses, crying because the thorns had pricked your little fingers.”

“I remember,” Bronwyn said, smiling through her tears. “And a few summers later, when I was ten and you were a very grown-up seventeen and we—” She lowered her eyes. “You persuaded me to form a mind link with you.”

“And I’ve never regretted it for an instant,” Kevin said, smiling as he kissed her forehead. “What’s the matter, Bron? Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No,” Bronwyn said, smiling wanly. “I was just feeling sorry for myself, I guess. I overheard some things I didn’t want to hear earlier this afternoon, and it upset me more than I thought.”

“What did you hear?” he asked, frowning and holding her away from him so he could see her face. “If anyone is bothering you, so help me, I’ll—”

She shook her head resignedly. “There’s nothing anyone can do, love. I simply can’t help being what I am. Some of the ladies were talking, that’s all. They—don’t approve of their future duke marrying a Deryni.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Kevin said, holding her close again and kissing the top of her head. “I happen to love that Deryni very much, and I wouldn’t have anyone else.”

Bronwyn smiled appreciatively, then stood up and straightened her dress, wiped her eyes again. “You know just what to say, don’t you?” she murmured, holding out her hand. “Come. I’m through feeling sorry for myself. We must hurry, or we’ll be late for dinner.”

“The devil with dinner.”

Kevin pushed himself to his feet and stretched, then put his arms around Bronwyn. “Do you want to know something?”

“What?” She put her arms around his waist and looked up at him fondly.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

“That’s strange.”

“Why?”

“Because I think I’m in love with you, too,” she said with a smile.

Kevin grinned, then leaned down and kissed her soundly.

“It’s a good thing you said that, wench!” he said, as they headed for the door. “Because three days from now, you are going to be my wife!”

AND in a small room not far from there, Rimmell the architect, caught by the fascination of a beautiful and unattainable woman, lay stretched out on his bed and gazed at a small portrait in a locket. Tomorrow he would go to see the widow Bethane. He would show her the picture. He would tell the holy woman how he must have the love of this lady or die.

Then the shepherdess would work her miracle. And the lady would be Rimmell’s.

CHAPTER TEN

 

 

 

 

 

IN the dim, predawn drizzle of a back street of Coroth, Duncan McLain gave the buckle on the girth a final tug and let the stirrup down, then moved quietly back to his horse’s head to wait. Another pair of reins looped over his left arm pulled gently as Alaric’s riderless horse shook its head in the icy mist. Worn harness leather creaked beneath the oilskin saddle cover as the animal shuffled its feet. Beyond, a shaggy pack pony laden with bundles of untanned furs and skins lifted its head to snort inquisitively, then went back to sleep.

Duncan was getting tired of waiting. The rain that had begun at dusk had continued to fall throughout the night, most of which Duncan had spent catching fitful snatches of sleep in a tiny merchant’s stall not far away.

But now a messenger had said that Alaric was on his way, that he would be there very soon. So Duncan stood waiting in the rain, close-wrapped in a rough leather cloak in the fashion of Dhassan hunters, collar and hood muffled close against the icy wind and rain. The garment was already dark across the shoulders where the wet had soaked through, and Duncan could feel the chill of his mail hauberk even through the rough woolen singlet he wore under it. He blew on gloved fingers and stamped his feet impatiently, grimacing at the feel of toes squishing in wet leather, and wondered what was taking Alaric so long.

As though on command, a door opened in the building to his right, momentarily silhouetting a tall, leather-clad figure against a swath of lamplight. Then Alaric was moving between the horses, clasping Duncan’s shoulder reassuringly as he glanced up at the dismal gray sky.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” he murmured, sweeping off the saddle protector and wiping the seat fairly dry. “Were there any problems?”

“Only damp feet and spirits,” Duncan replied lightly, uncovering his own saddle and mounting up. “Nothing that getting out of here won’t remedy. What kept you?”

Morgan gave a grunt as he checked the girth a final time. “The men had a lot of questions. If Warin should decide to move against me while we’re gone, Hamilton will have his hands full. That’s another reason I want to keep our departure a secret. As far as the people of Corwyn are concerned, their duke and his loyal cousin-confessor have gone into seclusion in the depths of the palace, so that said duke can examine his conscience and repent.”

“You, repent?” Duncan snorted as Morgan swung into the saddle.

“Are you implying, dear Cousin, that I lack the proper piety?” Morgan asked with a grin, collecting the pack pony’s lead and moving his horse alongside Duncan’s.

“Not I.” Duncan shook his head unconvincingly. “Now, are we or are we not going to quit this dismal place?”

“We are,” Morgan replied emphatically. “Come. I want us to be at old Saint Neot’s by sundown, and that’s a full day’s ride in
good
weather.”

“Wonderful,” Duncan murmured under his breath, as they moved out at a trot along the deserted streets of Coroth. “I’ve been looking forward to this all my life.”

 

LATER in the morning and many miles from there, Rimmell climbed a rocky hillside west of Culdi with more than a little trepidation. It was chill and windy in the high country today, with a nip of frost in the air even as the sun neared its zenith, but Rimmell was sweating in his sleek riding leathers in spite of the cold. The canvas satchel slung over his shoulder seemed to grow heavier with every step. A horse whinnied in the hollow far below, forlorn at being left alone on the windswept valley floor, but Rimmell forced himself to continue climbing.

His nerve was beginning to desert him. Reason, which had been his refuge through the long and sleepless night, told him he was foolish to be afraid, that he need not tremble before the woman called Bethane, that she was not like that other woman whose magic had touched him years before. But, still . . .

Rimmell shuddered as he remembered that night, now at least twenty years ago, when he and another boy had sneaked into old Dame Elfrida’s yard to steal cabbages and apples. They had known, both of them, that Elfrida was rumored to be a witch-woman, that she despised strangers prowling about on her tiny plot of land. They had felt the swat of her broom often enough in the daytime. But they had been so certain they could outwit the old woman at night, so sure they would not be caught.

But then, there had been old Dame Elfrida, looming up in the darkness with an aura of violet light surrounding her like a halo—and a blinding flash of light and heat from which Rimmell and his mate ran as fast as their legs could carry them.

They had escaped, and the old woman had not followed. But the next morning when Rimmell awoke, his hair had been white, and no amount of washing or scrubbing or poulticing or dyeing could change it back to its original color. His mother had been terrified, had suspected that the old witch-woman had something to do with the affair. But Rimmell had always denied he was even out of the house that night, had always contended that he had simply gone to sleep and awakened that way—nothing more. Nonetheless, it was very shortly after that old Dame Elfrida had been run out of the village, never to return.

Rimmell shivered in the chill morning air, unable to shake the queasy feeling in his stomach that the memory always evoked. Bethane was a witch-woman of sorts—she had to be, to work the favors with which she was credited. Suppose she laughed at Rimmell’s request? Or refused to help? Or demanded a price that Rimmell could not pay?

Or worse, suppose Bethane was evil? Suppose she tried to trick him? Gave him the wrong charm? Or decided, years from now, that payment had not been sufficient? Wreaked grievous harm on Rimmell, on Lord Kevin—even on Bronwyn herself?!

Rimmell shuddered and forced himself to abandon this line of thought. Such hysterics were irrational, with no basis in fact. Rimmell had thoroughly investigated Bethane’s reputation the day before, had talked with several folk who claimed to have used her services. There was no reason to believe she was anything but what people said she was: a harmless old shepherdess who had often succeeded in helping people in need. Besides, she was Rimmell’s only hope for winning the woman he loved.

Shading his eyes against the sun, Rimmell paused to gaze up the trail. Beyond a scrubby stand of pines a few yards ahead, he could see a high, narrow opening in the barren rock, with a curtain of animal skins hanging just inside. A number of scrawny-looking sheep—mostly lambs and ewes—pulled at tufts of frost-burned grass among the rocky outcroppings to either side of the cave. A shepherd’s crook leaned against the rocks to the left, but there was no sign of the owner.

Rimmell took a deep breath and steeled his courage, then scrambled the few remaining yards to the level space just before the cave entrance.

“Is anyone there?” he called, his voice quavering slightly in his uneasiness. “I—I seek Dame Bethane, the shepherdess. I mean her no harm.”

There was a long silence in which Rimmell could hear only the faint spring sounds of insects and birds, the sheep tugging at the tough grass all around him, his own harsh breathing. Then a voice rumbled, “Enter.”

Rimmell started at the sound. Controlling his surprise, and swallowing hard, he moved closer to the cave entrance and carefully pulled the curtain aside, noting that it looked—and smelled—like untanned goatskin. He glanced nervously around him a final time as the insane notion rippled through his mind that he might never see the sun again, then peered into the interior. It was pitch dark.

“Enter!” the voice commanded again as Rimmell hesitated.

Rimmell edged his way inside, still holding back the curtain to let light and air enter, and glanced around furtively for the source of the voice. It seemed to come from all around him, reverberating in the confines of the filthy cave, but of course he could see nothing in the darkness.

“Release the curtain and stand where you are.”

The voice startled Rimmell even though he was expecting it, and he jumped and released the curtain in consternation. The voice had been in the darkness to his left that time—he was certain of it. But he dared not move a muscle in that direction, for fear of disobeying the disembodied voice. He swallowed with difficulty, forced himself to stand straight and drop his hands to his sides. His knees were shaking and his palms felt damp, but he knew he must not move.

“Who are you?” the voice demanded. This time the words seemed to come from behind him, a low and rasping tone, indeterminate of sex. Rimmell wet his lips nervously.

“My name is Rimmell. I am chief architect to His Grace the Duke of Cassan.”

“In whose name do you come, Rimmell the architect? Your own or your duke’s?”

“My—my own.”

“And what is it you desire of Bethane?” the voice demanded. “Do not move until you are told to do so.”

Rimmell had been about to turn, but now he froze again and tried to force himself to relax. Apparently the body connected to the voice could see in the dark. Rimmell certainly couldn’t.

“Are you Dame Bethane?” he asked timidly.

“I am.”

“I—” He swallowed. “I have brought you food,” he said. “And I—”

“Drop the food beside you.”

Rimmell quickly obeyed.

“Now, what is it you wish of Bethane?”

Rimmell swallowed again. He could feel sweat pouring from his brow and running into his eyes, but he dared not raise his hand to wipe it away. He blinked hard and forced himself to continue.

“There—there is a woman, Dame Bethane. She—I—”

“Spit it out, man!”

Rimmell took a deep breath. “I desire this woman for my wife, Dame Bethane. But she—she is promised to another. She—will marry him unless you can help. You
can
help, can’t you?”

He was aware of light growing behind him, and then he could see his own shadow dancing on the rock wall before him. The light was orange, fire-born, dispelling some of the gloom and fear of the narrow cavern.

“You may turn and approach.”

With a scarce-breathed sigh of relief, Rimmell turned slowly toward the source of light. A lantern was resting on the stony floor perhaps a dozen paces away, an ancient crone in tattered rags sitting cross-legged behind it. Her face was seamed and weathered, surrounded by a mane of matted gray hair, once dark, and she was meticulously folding a dark cloth with which she presumably had muffled the lantern light.