The King's Deryni (18 page)

“So,” de Nore breathed, furious, “the Deryni spawn of the Deryni witch. Did you lay hands on my horse,
boy
?”

“She was frightened. She might have hurt herself. I only meant to help,” Alaric replied, taken aback, though he kept his head high.

“Help?” de Nore repeated.
“Help?”
He paused to draw a deep breath, then: “You have ruined her,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “She is contaminated by the mere contact with your Deryni cursedness!”

“Then, I'll take her off your hands!” Kenneth snapped, as Llion reached Alaric and seized him by the upper arms, pulling him back from the growing altercation. “I'll buy her. I'll give you twice what you paid for her, whatever that might be!”

De Nore's eyes narrowed as he glared back at Kenneth, and his men stirred uneasily all around him.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” he muttered, low and dangerous. “But, no. There's a better use for a horse ruined by the likes of your devil-spawn son. I shall give her to feed the poor.” Alaric gasped. “There are plenty of worthy poor in Nyford. Gareth, fetch me a compliant butcher from the town market!”

“No!” Alaric shouted, squirming unsuccessfully to escape from Llion as one of the mounted men immediately wheeled to trot off in the direction of the town. “No! You can't! Papa, stop him! He
can't
!”

“Can I not?” De Nore backed his horse a few steps as his men interposed themselves between him and the boy—and the boy's father, who had gone white. “The horse is my property, Kenneth Morgan Earl of Lendour!” he said coldly. “You are an officer of the king's law, and the law says that I can do whatever I please with my property—and today it is my pleasure to provide some free meat for the poor of this town.”

“My lord, be reasonable,” Kenneth said desperately. “Choose another horse. There's another in the hold. Take that one, and give me the mare.”

De Nore had begun to laugh now, obviously enjoying the moment. “But this isn't about just
any
horse, dear Morgan,” he said. “It's about
this
horse, which your son cares about, and which has been sullied by his filthy Deryni powers. I can't touch
him
, but I can do whatever I please with my own property.

“So it pleases me to watch him suffer, the way his mother made my brother suffer—or at least a little of the way my brother suffered. Can you even imagine what that must have been like for him, trussed up naked like an animal and thrown headfirst into that well to drown?”

“It was the king's judgment, Bishop!” Kenneth retorted. “Not my son's, and not even my wife's.”

“But it was your wife's filthy Deryni testimony that condemned him!”

“No, it was the
law
that condemned him. It was his
guilt
that condemned him,” Kenneth snapped.

“He is no less dead,” de Nore said, with a dismissive shake of his head. “My brother cannot have been guilty of the crimes with which he was charged. Ah, here's my man with that butcher. Come here, Butcher, I have work for you.”

The soldier sent to fetch the man had carried him on the crupper behind him, and let him down onto the ground before de Nore. The man looked around curiously before turning his attention to the bishop, then pulled off his cap to bow over it.

“My lord?”

“Yes, Butcher, I wish to make a gift of meat to the poor of Nyford,” de Nore said, pointing at the grey mare, which now was standing quietly with two of de Nore's men at her head. “Put that horse down, here and now, and then you can take away the meat.”

The butcher glanced at the mare, then did a double-take. “I don't understand, Excellency. Is the horse injured, or unsound? She looks a fine specimen to me.”

“I wish to have it butchered. Just do it.”

“But, my lord—”

“Just do it!” de Nore snapped. “Or do you wish to forfeit your right to ply your trade here in Nyford?”

The butcher sighed and shook his head. “As you say, my lord.” Then he began walking toward the mare, drawing his butcher's blade from a heavy leather scabbard at his waist, but holding it close against his leg.

Alaric tried not to look, still struggling in Llion's arms and now held by several more of his father's men, but Llion leaned down to whisper in his ear.

“You cannot stop this, my lord, and neither can your father,” he said. “But do
not
let de Nore see you cry. Don't
ever
let him see you cry! Can you do that?”

His words were like a jolt of icy water, instantly sobering the boy. Red-faced and breathing hard, he quit struggling and straightened, his eyes narrowing in sheer hatred for the man who was ordering this thing. If he had had the killing use of his powers, de Nore would have toppled from his horse at once, blasted by the very magic he so feared.

But Alaric had no such use of his powers yet. He was Deryni, heir to incredible magic, but he was still only a boy, barely eight years old.

Mercifully, the butcher knew his business, and his knife was sharp. The mare only tossed her head once as the blade slit her throat, more startled than frightened—and then confused, as blood spurted from the silky grey neck, gushing onto the cobbles and spreading beneath the mare's dainty hooves until she slowly sank to her knees, to her side, and then was still. So quickly was it over.

The momentary silence was almost palpable as, for a long moment, Alaric returned his gaze to the bishop, willing him nothing but ill. Then he shrugged off Llion's restraints and turned on his heel to go back aboard the ship, Llion following close behind him. Kenneth, also glaring at the bishop, walked slowly across the several yards that separated them and stopped a few paces away. Xander accompanied him, a hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Be assured,” Kenneth said to de Nore, “that the king will hear of this.”

“My dear Earl of Lendour, I have done nothing wrong,” de Nore replied, leaning casually against the high pommel of his saddle and smiling faintly as he gazed down at the other man.

“And on this day, you have done nothing
right
,” Kenneth retorted. “That was pure spite, against a child who was not even born when your brother met his fate. And it was senseless cruelty against one of God's innocent creatures.”

“The boy is Deryni,” de Nore said coldly. “His very touch is corruption. And he laid his hands on my property, polluting it beyond redemption.” He glanced at the crumpled grey mass nearer the water, sprawled in a pool of congealing blood. “At least it will feed the poor.”

“You sanctimonious bastard!” Kenneth's voice was low, dangerous. “You had best have a long talk with your confessor, because you will surely answer for today's work when you stand before the Judgment Seat!”

De Nore sat upright in his saddle, a look of cold disdain contorting his features. “How dare you?”

“Ask
yourself
that question,” Kenneth retorted. “And do not expect God's mercy, when you had none for that poor, dumb beast!”

“How
dare
you?!” de Nore repeated, as Kenneth turned on his heel and stalked back toward the ship, Xander at his heels.
“How dare you?!”

Kenneth was shaking with fury as he and Xander went back aboard. They found Alaric with Llion in their cabin, with the boy weeping in the young knight's arms.

“How could he
do
that, Papa?” the boy sobbed. “He just—
murdered
her, for no reason!”

“Unfortunately, he had a reason,” Kenneth murmured, sitting down beside the pair and pulling his son into his embrace. “He did it to hurt you, for being what you are. And he did it because of what your mother did, to bring his brother to justice. I know, it makes no sense to you and me,” he added, as Alaric looked up indignantly. “But I told you before that Bishop Oliver de Nore is an enemy. I just didn't think we'd confront him here.”

“There's no way that any of us could have known that the horse was de Nore's, my lord,” Llion said quietly.

Alaric snuffled and wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. “That shouldn't have made any difference,” he said. “All I did was ease her fear, keep her from injuring herself. And what he did was
wrong
! The
horse
didn't have anything to do with his stupid brother.”

“Nor did you, and it
was
wrong,” Kenneth agreed. “Unfortunately, it was not illegal. The horse was his, to do with as he pleased.”

“Not to just butcher it,” the boy muttered.

Kenneth sighed, for morally, he could not disagree with his son. But like it or not, de Nore had been within the letter of the law.

“It was wanton destruction of one of God's beautiful creatures,” Kenneth agreed, “and be assured that I shall tell the king about this, when we reach Rhemuth. But don't expect that he can do anything about it, either. I wish it were otherwise, but . . .”

Shaking his head, he gave the boy a final hug and gave him back into Llion's embrace, then turned and went out of the cabin with Xander, back up to the deck, where the
Gryphon
's crew were preparing to depart. A few minutes later, as the men cast off their lines and rowed out to catch the wind, Alaric and Llion also came back up on deck, and the boy watched silently from the rail as the port of Nyford receded, along with the sight of the butcher and his men cutting up the bloody grey carcass on the quay.

Alaric did not play cardounet that night. He took to his berth early, though he slept only fitfully. Next morning, he was at his sword drills with Llion, but his practice had a new intensity. Even Xander remarked on it, as he and Kenneth watched from the afterdeck.

“He's still angry, my lord.”

“Aye, he's feeling guilt from yesterday, which he shouldn't,” Kenneth said quietly. “But perhaps it has underlined for him the constant danger that will surround him increasingly, especially now, when he's too young to use his powers to protect himself.”

“It's a delicate balancing act, isn't it, my lord?” Xander murmured. “But I know he'll be equal to the challenge.”

“I hope so, Xander. I do hope so,” Kenneth replied.

“Obey them that have the rule over you, and submit yourselves: for they watch for your souls . . .”

—HEBREWS 13:17

T
HE
waters of the Eirian grew calmer, once they passed its confluence with the River Lendour, but the prevailing wind sweeping down the estuary meant that they often were obliged to augment sail with oars as they skirted the western coast of Carthane. Accordingly, the crew were more often engaged, swapping off on rowing duties, and the steersman Henry Kirby was less often available to play cardounet. When he and Alaric did finally play again, the last afternoon before the ship was to dock at Desse, Alaric played distractedly, and Kirby called him on it.

“Are you still moping about that horse, lad?” he said sharply.

Startled, Alaric looked up at the older man, then dropped his gaze to the board again.

“Laddie, laddie, you may be Deryni,” Kirby went on more gently, when the boy did not speak, “but you're still only a boy. Even a Deryni can't change what happened. But maybe you
can
change what happens the next time. It's your move, by the way.”

Recalled to the game, Alaric reached toward one of his archers, hesitated, then deliberately moved his abbot instead.

“It's more than just the horse,” he finally said, almost whispering. “I made a serious mistake, Henry. This time, it only cost a horse, but it could have been a person.” He swallowed audibly. “It could have been
me
.”

Kirby nodded, moving his priest-king. “That is true. And what was your mistake? In life, as in cardounet, we must learn from our mistakes. What was yours?”

Alaric exhaled slowly, considering, and moved one of his archers. “I underestimated how much de Nore hates Deryni. And I underestimated how much he hates me, in particular, because of my mother. If I hadn't been with my father, it could have been a fatal mistake.”

Kirby moved his war-duke, not looking up. “That is also true. Fortunately, you
were
with your father. But tell me, given all the other things that you did or did not do, and knowing what you did at the time—or did not—could you have done anything differently?”

As he looked up, frank challenge in his eyes, Alaric made himself go back over his actions for at least the dozenth time.

“It would have been wrong not to have gentled the horse when we were loading her at Coroth,” he said slowly. “I probably saved her from serious injury. She might even have died.”

Kirby nodded. “That is so.”

“But in Coroth,” Alaric continued, “I was among my own folk, who know what I am and accepted that. And I was safe enough on a Corwyn ship.” He managed a mirthless smile. “It doesn't seem to bother
you
, that I am Deryni.”

“No, it does not. But what about Nyford? What did you know about Nyford, before we even docked there? And what did the folk in Nyford know about you?”

Alaric hung his head. “I knew that they don't like Deryni in Nyford, that there have been persecutions there,” he whispered. “And I knew that Oliver de Nore was the bishop there, and that he hates me.”

“And?”

“Well, who would have guessed that the mare was intended for de Nore?” the boy said, almost belligerent. “If I'd known, I never would have shown my face.”

“And it's quite a distinctive face, with that shock of blond hair, and traveling on a ship out of Corwyn with your father, who is also well-known,” Kirby said mildly. “Don't beat yourself up about it, lad, but you must learn to think ahead, to anticipate these kinds of coincidences. This time, it only cost a horse's life. Next time . . .”

Alaric looked away. Kirby was absolutely right. It was an error born out of kindness and a natural inclination to be helpful, but he had not thought through all the possible consequences, especially there in Nyford, where they did not like Deryni.

“I understand,” he whispered. “I didn't think far enough ahead. Thank you, Henry.”

“Right, then,” the helmsman said briskly. “Now, are you going to move that war-duke, or do I have to take it with my archer? Not
this
move, lad. Three moves ahead.”

Alaric's gaze immediately darted back to the board, and he soon saw the threat. “Oh!”

“Don't just say ‘Oh.' Move the blasted war-duke out of harm's way! Sometimes the best defense is a quick evasion.”

•   •   •

I
T
was just past noon the following day when they put in at Desse, which was the northernmost port on the Eirian that was navigable by seafaring ships. Here the
Gryphon
would be offloading cargo and taking on new before its turnaround to sail back to the Southern Sea. It would also be bidding farewell to its prominent passengers.

Kenneth had sent Xander and one of the men-at-arms—the man who was not a good sailor—on ahead at the last overnight stop to secure horses, so the pair were waiting at dockside with the requisite mounts as Kenneth, Alaric, and Llion came down the gangplank with their remaining men, all carrying their saddlebags. Alaric's spirits had improved somewhat after a good sleep, his last aboard the ship, but he knew he would miss Henry Kirby. Nonetheless, he was once again in good humor as they mounted up and headed north along the river road, eager to resume his young life.

The weather had definitely turned while they made their way northward along the coast from Coroth and then up the estuary. The nip of autumn was in the wind sweeping down the valley of the Eirian, and the horses were full of themselves, so Kenneth let them have a good gallop out of Desse to help the horses settle before reining back to the usual pattern of walking awhile and trotting awhile. It was good to be back in the saddle, good to be back on dry land.

It was also good to keep moving, though this was a time of year that Alaric loved. All along the river road, the trees were ablaze with scarlets and ochres and tawny golds, many of their branches already going bare. At times, the horses crunched through carpets of fallen leaves. On the slopes across the wide river, crops had been harvested and farmers were burning off the stubble. The fields to the east likewise were short shorn and dotted with golden haystacks. All too soon, winter would be upon them.

They reached Rhemuth just as the sun was sinking behind the leafy avenue of scarlet and gold leading from the river to the city gate. It had been market day, but the cathedral square was emptying, most of the vendors packing up their wares to head home, the shops lowering their shutters. As they rode into the yard at Rhemuth Castle, servants came at once to take charge of their mounts. Leaving Xander and Llion to get their party resettled into the quarters they used when resident in Rhemuth, and sending Alaric with them, Kenneth went immediately to the king.

“And that was all we could do,” he concluded, when he had told Brion of their run-in with Nyford's bishop. “It was nothing a young lad should have had to witness, much less be the cause of, but de Nore was within the letter of the law.”

Brion sighed. Ordinarily, he would have had at least one advisor with him, but matters concerning Deryni were best handled out of the public eye, at least until he knew better what was involved. And since the king himself had—or would have—Deryni powers someday, much if not all depended on the son of the man sitting before him.

“It was an unfortunate incident,” Brion finally said. “And it must have been very distressing for Alaric. But you're right: de Nore was within his rights, much as it pains me to say that. We know that he reserves a special resentment—nay, a hatred—for your son—and why. But there's nothing you could have done differently, to change the outcome.”

Kenneth only sighed and bowed his head. “No, there wasn't. I knew that must be your answer, but I had to tell you.” He studied his lap for several seconds, then looked up. “But, tell me of your news, my prince,” he said, putting on a more pleasant face. “You'll have had my reports regarding the situation with Prince Hogan. Has there been additional on that? And what further news of Meara?”

“A long and complicated story,” Brion replied, standing. “You'd best come and talk to others of the crown council. And I suspect that a good meal would not go amiss, after your days at sea. We'll catch you up over supper.”

•   •   •

Y
OUNG
Alaric would be privy to little that went on at the king's table that night, for Llion made arrangements for meals to be brought up to their quarters. The next morning, however, while Alaric broke his fast with his father in the great hall below, Llion set about scouting the lay of the land regarding pages at court.

“As you may recall, he was to become a page to Duke Andrew at year's end,” Llion told Sir Ninian de Piran, heir to the Earl of Jenas, who was Duke Richard's deputy for the training of royal pages. “Now he will be Duke Jared's page. The duke is expected back at court for Twelfth Night. In the meantime, Alaric is progressing well—I had him training with the pages at Coroth—but I don't want him to lose his edge while he waits for Duke Jared to take him on.”

Sir Ninian gave the younger knight a knowing nod. “I saw him ride at the king's birthday tournament,” he said. “An impressive showing. I understand that you are responsible for much of his training?”

“His sire works with him when he can,” Llion allowed, “but—”

“But
you
are the one who works him every day,” Ninian said, smiling faintly. “I also saw
you
ride at the tournament, Sir Llion. Credit where credit is due. If the time should ever come when Lord Kenneth tires of your services, you would be most welcome on Duke Richard's staff.”

Llion shrugged somewhat sheepishly, pleased at the compliment. “I shall keep that in mind, sir, but I expect that Master Alaric will need me for yet a few years.”

“But less and less, as he takes up his formal training as page and squire,” Ninian countered. “Still . . .” He paused to consider for several seconds, then: “Bring him along to the practice yard this afternoon. I want to see what he can do when there is no competition. It may not be an easy few months for him, because he's obviously more advanced than the other boys his age—and some of them may still be smarting from the trouncing he gave them at the tournament.”

Llion made no comment, only murmuring his agreement as Ninian continued on his way, but he was thinking of one page, in particular, who had not been happy with Alaric's performance, or with his own very poor one. And when Cornelius Seaton learned of his uncle's run-in with Alaric, Llion suspected that sparks would fly again.

•   •   •

B
OTH
Llion and Kenneth were present later that afternoon, as Sir Ninian prepared to put Alaric through his paces on the practice field. Unfortunately, so were half a dozen of the other pages, Cornelius Seaton among them, lined up on a fence to observe. Not being in competition this time, the other boys had no direct or immediate reason to resent the newcomer, but that did not prevent whispered commentary among them, and glowering looks from several of them.

But Alaric rose to the challenge. His own pony was still here at Rhemuth, though it had been ridden little during his absence. Nonetheless, half an hour in the arena soon had boy and pony back in harmony. He was riding patterns in the arena when Ninian showed up carrying several wooden swords and a pair of practice helmets, which he dumped at Kenneth's feet. Llion was in the center of the ring, calling instructions to his charge.

“Lord Kenneth,” Ninian said with a nod.

Kenneth nodded in return. “Sir Ninian.”

After a few minutes of watching with the boy's sire, Ninian took up one of the practice swords and moved into the ring. Llion saw him and immediately signaled Alaric, who turned his pony and came to halt smartly in front of the pair.

“Alaric,” Ninian said, with a nod. “I already know that you ride well and you're good at snagging rings with a lance. I saw your performance at the king's birthday tourney.” He glanced in the direction of the other watching pages and raised his free hand in summons. “Paget, Airey, could you please set up a couple of rings for me?” He returned his attention to Alaric, reversing the wooden sword to offer it to him hilt first.

“I'm going to ask you to do a different exercise for me now. I understand that you saw squires riding at rings with swords while you were in Coroth.”

Alaric gave a nod as he took up the sword. “Yes, sir.”

“And did you get to try it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How'd you do?”

Alaric dared a faint smile. “It was a good challenge, sir. And I did fairly well.”

“All right, let's see how you do here.”

“Yes, sir,” Alaric murmured, and lifted the wooden sword in salute before turning his pony to take position at the far end of the arena, opposite where Paget and Airey were setting up the rings.