Deryni Checkmate (32 page)

“I thought I might find you two here,” his father said, noting Kevin’s sheepish grin. “Stand up and greet your guests, Kevin.”

As Kevin scrambled to his feet and gave Bronwyn a hand up, he saw that Jared was, indeed, not alone. Jared’s seneschal, Lord Deveril, and the architect Rimmell were with him—Deveril restraining a smile, Rimmell deadly serious as usual—as were King Kelson, Lord Derry, and the red-bearded Duke Ewan, one of Kelson’s council lords.

The king, wind-blown but contented-looking in his scarlet riding leathers, smiled and nodded acknowledgement as Kevin and Bronwyn bowed, then moved aside to reveal a seventh visitor: a small, wiry man with dark features and flamboyant rose and violet garb who could only be the great troubadour Gwydion. A round-bellied lute was slung over the musician’s back by a golden cord, the fretted fingerboard worn satin-smooth by much use. The troubadour’s black eyes glittered attentively as he studied the young couple.

Kevin glanced at Kelson and returned his grin. “Welcome to Culdi, Sire,” he said, brushing the grass from his clothes and including the others in his greeting. “You honor us with your presence.”

“On the contrary, it is Gwydion who honors all of us, my Lord Kevin,” Kelson said with a smile. “And if you would but introduce him to your intended bride, I believe he might be persuaded to give us an impromptu recital this afternoon.”

As Gwydion bowed thanks to Kelson, Kevin grinned and took Bronwyn’s hand.

“Bronwyn, I should like you to meet the incomparable Gwydion ap Plenneth, of whose prowess with lute and song you have already heard. Master Gwydion, the Lady Bronwyn de Morgan, my betrothed. It was she who, on your reputation alone, insisted I persuade Alaric to let you come.”

“Gracious lady,” Gwydion purred, doffing his vibrant rose cap with a flourish and bowing, his long sleeves brushing the grass. “For a glimpse of such rare beauty, I should have risked even the ire of your lord brother.” He bent low to kiss her hand. “Forgive me if I stand speechless in your presence, wondrous lady.”

Bronwyn smiled delightedly and lowered her eyes, a faint blush of color staining her cheeks. “Methinks this minstrel has a courtly air about him, Kevin. Master Gwydion, would you indeed consent to play for us this afternoon? We have waited long to hear you perform.”

Gwydion beamed and made another sweeping bow. “I am yours to command, my lady.” He gestured expansively. “And since this garden is so wondrous fair, and betimes a fit setting for the songs I would play, may we not avail ourselves of the bounteous nature of the Lord and tarry here awhile?”

“Your Majesty?” Bronwyn asked.

“He came to play for
you
, my lady,” Kelson replied with a smile, folding his arms across his chest as he watched her delight. “If you wish it here in the garden, then here it shall be.”

“Oh, yes!”

With a short bow, Gwydion gestured to the grass beside the fountain and invited his audience to sit. As he unslung his instrument and sat on the edge of the fountain, Kevin removed his riding cloak and spread it on the ground. Bronwyn sank down on the plaid and curled her feet under her skirts contentedly while Derry and Deveril and Ewan made themselves comfortable. Kevin started to take his place beside Bronwyn, then saw Kelson trying to catch his eye and gave his place to his father. As Kevin and Kelson moved slowly away from the group, Gwydion strummed a chord and began delicately tuning his instrument. His audience listened with rapt attention as he told of the song he would sing.

Kelson glanced at the group assembled on the grass, then turned back to Kevin again as they walked. His face was serious, thoughtful, as he addressed the older man.

“Have you heard aught from your brother these past weeks, my lord?”

The king’s manner seemed casual enough, but Kevin felt his body go tense, forced himself to control his apprehension. “You speak as though you have not either, Sire,” he said evenly. “Has he not been with you?”

“Not for the past week and a half,” Kelson said. “Ten days ago we received certain information that Duncan was to be suspended and called before the ecclesiastical court in Rhemuth. There was nothing we could do about the suspension, of course. That is a purely religious matter, one between Duncan and his superior. But all of us—Duncan, Nigel, and I—were in agreement that he should not stand before the court.”

Kelson stopped and studied the tips of his black leather boots before continuing.

“There was another matter that came to our attention at the same time: one of an even more serious nature than Duncan’s suspension. Loris and Corrigan plan to place Corwyn under Interdict. This is their means to retaliate against Morgan and to end the Deryni controversy, which has split these Eleven Kingdoms for the past two hundred years—or so the archbishops believe. Under the circumstances, Duncan felt that his place was with Alaric, both to deliver the news of the Interdict threat and to absent himself from the reach of Loris’s ecclesiastical court. When Lord Derry left them four days ago, both were well, but they were preparing to ride to Dhassa to make direct appeal to the Curia against the Interdict. I have had no word since then.”

Kevin grimaced. “Suspension and Interdict. Has anything else gone wrong while I’ve been away from court?”

Kelson gave a wry smile. “Since you ask, yes. There is a rebel force rising in the hills north of Corwyn, bent on starting a holy war against Deryni. They, of course, will be immensely aided if the Interdict falls. And Wencit of Torenth will begin his siege of Cardosa any day now. Other than that, everything is wonderful. Your esteemed brother told me to remain calm, to bide my time, not to make any disturbances until he and Morgan can get back to advise me. He’s right, of course. Despite my rank and power, I am still too young in many ways, and he knows it—I’m being very candid with you, Kevin. But it makes things very difficult, just to sit and wait.”

Kevin nodded slowly, then glanced casually back over his shoulder to where Gwydion was now singing. He could not distinguish the words, but the melody floated over the still spring air, pure and sweet. He shuffled his feet against the grass, arms folded across his chest, lowered his eyes.

“I assume the others don’t know about all of this.”

“Derry knows everything. And Gwydion suspects what he is not sure of. But the others—no. I’d appreciate it if you keep it that way. At this point, their worrying cannot alleviate the situation, and I would not wish to spoil your wedding celebration more than I already have.”

Kevin smiled slightly. “Thank you for telling me, Sire. I’ll say nothing to the others. And if there is anything I may do to help, you know my sword and my fortune are yours to command.”

“I would not have confided in you, had I not known you were to be trusted,” Kelson said. “Come. Let’s go back and listen to Gwydion. This is supposed to be your celebration, after all.”

“Ah, my lady,” Gwydion was saying as they returned, “modesty is most becoming in a woman, but allow me to entreat you further. Lord Alaric has boasted so of your skill with the lute. Will you not send someone to bring your instrument?”

“Kevin?”

Before Kevin could respond, Rimmell roused himself from where he had been leaning against a nearby tree and bowed slightly.

“Permit me the honor, my lady,” he said, trying not to let his eagerness show. “Lord Kevin has missed one song already. ’Twould not be fitting that he miss a second.”

“My lady?” Gwydion questioned.

“Oh, very well,” Bronwyn laughed. “Rimmell, Mary Elizabeth knows where I keep my lute. You may tell her I said to let you fetch it for me.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

Gwydion strummed another chord, modulated to a minor, and ran down a scale as Rimmell strode away. “ ‘A faithful servant is a true and valued treasure,’ ” he quoted, caressing the strings and surveying his audience with a contented smile. “And now, while we wait, I would endeavor to sing another song: a love song this time, dedicated to the happy couple.”

He rippled off a few introductory bars and began to sing. Strains of Gwydion’s new song echoed in Rimmell’s hearing as he hurried across the palace courtyard. He had not wanted to leave Bronwyn there listening to love songs with Kevin; there were few enough times when he could be in her presence and watch her without being obvious. But he would never have a better chance than now to place the charm Bethane had given him. At this time of day, Bronwyn’s ladies would be finished in her rooms for the next few hours. The next person to enter once he left was sure to be the lady herself.

As he bounded up the steps to the terrace level and Bronwyn’s chambers, he pressed his hand against his chest and felt his heart pounding, felt the reassuring pressure of the pouch Bethane had given him the day before. In a few hours it would all be over, and Bronwyn would be his. He could hardly believe it was really happening.

He hesitated and glanced around self-consciously before entering the chamber, for he had been told to look for Mary Elizabeth; but no one had seen him approach. Nor was there anyone in the room itself. He spied Bronwyn’s lute hanging on a wooden peg beside the bed, but he ignored that for the present. First he must find a place to leave the crystal. Somewhere that Bronwyn would not notice until it was too late and the charm had worked its spell.

The dresser was the place, he decided, as he crossed to it and withdrew the pouch. Surely a woman would go to her dresser first when she entered her chamber, especially when she had been riding for most of the day. Moreover, there were other glittering things already on the dresser top. They would help to camouflage what he would leave.

Placing the pouch gently on the dresser, he started to untie the leather thongs, paused as he remembered he would have only a few seconds in which to get himself out of range. He crossed to the peg and took down the lute, slung it over his shoulder, then returned to the dresser and loosed the thongs of the pouch, slid the cold blue-red crystal out on the surface.

Heart in throat, Rimmell snatched the leather bag and fled to the door, slowing to compose himself only as he reached the doorjamb. He hazarded a single look back at the dresser, but he could see no trace of blue amid all the other glitter there.

Whistling a triumphant little marching tune, he walked casually back along the terrace walkway toward the garden, Bronwyn’s lute slung over his shoulder. As he walked, he carefully withdrew the locket from his tunic, opened it, and gazed fondly at the portrait inside, then closed it with a tiny click and replaced it in his tunic with a sigh. As he reentered the garden, he could hear Gwydion’s song floating in the sunlight.

 

An hour later, Bronwyn paused in the doorway to her chamber to smile as Kevin pressed his lips to her palm.

“Half an hour?” she whispered.

“Half an hour,” he agreed solemnly. “And if you’re late—” He broke into a grin. “I’ll come and dress you myself!”

Bronwyn wrinkled her nose mischievously and made a face. “Two more days, Kevin McLain,” she teased. “You’ll survive until then.”

“Will I?” he murmured, drawing her close and looking down at her with only partially feigned passion.

She giggled and hugged him briefly, then slipped out of his grasp and through the partially opened door.

“Half an hour,” she admonished. “And see that you’re not late, or I’ll come and help
you
dress!”

“Do!” came Kevin’s enthusiastic reply as she closed the door.

Bronwyn pirouetted gracefully and cradled her lute to her breast as she spun across the room, blissful in the sheer joy of being alive and loved. As she paused by her dresser, humming a few bars from Gwydion’s last song, she bent to glance at herself in the mirror, smoothed a strand of dark golden hair off her forehead. Even as she began to straighten, the stone’s spell began its work, catching her in a wave of dizziness.

Bronwyn stumbled and clutched at the dresser edge for support, barely managing to keep her feet as she was engulfed a second time. In her desperate fight to retain consciousness, she let the lute slip from her numbed grasp and fall to the floor. The neck cracked in the fall, and one of the strings snapped with a taut
ping
.

The sound was sufficient to jar her Deryni senses into play, to set her analyzing even as her outer mind spun. Eyes searching blankly, almost mindlessly, for a clue to the attack, she spotted the blue crystal pulsing amid the clutter of her dresser.

Magic!
her mind shrieked.
Dear God, who has done this thing?

“Kevin! Kevin!” she managed to scream.

Kevin had not had time to go far. Hearing Bronwyn’s terrified scream, he raced back down the corridor and flung himself at her door. It gave without resistance, and he staggered into the room—halted in horror at what he saw.

Bronwyn had sunk to her knees beside the dresser, fingers white-knuckled against the edge of the dark-stained top. The object of her terrified gaze was a strange blue crystal that glowed and pulsed among the jewels and trinkets on the dresser. As Kevin watched, she reached slowly toward the thing to touch it, her lips moving in a silent repetition of Kevin’s name.

Kevin acted. With a wordless cry, and without further thought than the need to get the crystal away from his beloved, he shoved her aside and scooped the thing off the dresser with both hands, intending to fling it through the open terrace doors and out of range.

It was not to be. The spell had been ill-set to start, and never for the likes of a human like Kevin—indeed, the more deadly for that. As Kevin lifted the crystal, he froze in mid-motion, his features contorting in a terrible expression of fear and pain. In that same instant Bronwyn realized what he had done and tried to wrest the crystal from him, hoping that her Deryni blood would afford at least partial immunity where Kevin had none. But she, too, was transfixed as she touched him, the crystal beginning to pulsate wildly with their dual heartbeats.