The King's Deryni (23 page)

“Who presents this candidate?” Brion asked, as the party drew up before the dais.

“I do, my Liege,” Earl Quentin said steadily, though he was weaving a little on his feet. “This is my beloved son, Innis de Pirek, as he prefers to be called, and I ask that you grant him the accolade of knighthood.”

“I am happy to grant your request, my lord,” Brion said easily. The Haldane sword was cradled in his left arm, with the tip extending over his left shoulder, and he nodded to the earl's elder son.

“Sir Michael, if you would be so good as to invest your brother with his spurs. And perhaps one of our new squires might bring the earl a stool?”

Instantly Paget Sullivan scrambled to fetch a stool for the Earl of Carthane, setting his hands under the older man's elbow to help him ease onto the seat and then staying close when Earl Quentin seemed a little light-headed. Both of them watched avidly as Sir Michael knelt to buckle the spurs on his brother's heels.

“I wish Earl Quentin to know how much I esteem his son's abilities,” Brion said easily, scanning his audience while Michael worked on the spurs. “Young Innis has demonstrated an admirable tactical instinct in the past few months, and I am minded to take him with me on an exercise in the spring. I doubt he shall see any heavy action, but the experience will be good for him. Thank you, Sir Michael,” he said, as Michael finished with the spurs and rose. “Innis?”

As he gestured toward his feet, young Innis de Pirek mounted the dais steps to kneel before him and Brion shifted the sword into his right hand, raising the blade above the candidate's head.

“Innis de Pirek-Haldane, son of Quentin, in the name of the Father”—the sword descended to touch the candidate's right shoulder—“and of the Son”—the blade arched to the left shoulder—“and of the Holy Spirit”—the blade lifted to touch briefly on the crown of Innis's head—“be thou a good and faithful knight.”

With a deft flick of his wrist, Brion raised the sword to kiss the holy relic in the pommel, then reversed it smartly and passed it to Duke Richard, hilt first, before extending his hand to Innis.

“Arise, Sir Innis de Pirek, and be invested with the other symbols of your new rank.”

Sir Innis rose, beaming as he was directed to one side to allow the queen and the two princesses to gird him with the white belt. While they did so, Alaric noticed that the new knight's father was weaving on his stool.

“Llion?” he whispered, jutting his chin at the earl as Llion glanced down.

Llion went to the earl immediately, crouching at his side to ask whether he was all right. Young Paget looked worried; Michael, the earl's son, had gone forward to present his brother with the sword. Innis was kneeling now before the king, setting his hands between those of his sovereign.

“I, Innis de Pirek, do become your liege man of life and limb,” Innis was saying.

“My lord,” Llion whispered to Earl Quentin, trying not to make a scene, “you are not well! Let me take you to a place where you can lie down.”

“No!” the earl whispered fiercely. “I will hear my king make his oath to my son!”

“But, sir—”

“No!”

“And I, for my part, will be a faithful liege to you, Innis de Pirek, giving justice and protection”—

The earl had been clinging hard to Llion's shoulder as he strained to hear the king's return oath, but Llion felt the hard grip loosen as the king spoke the final words, “so help me God.” He sensed the exact instant in which the old man became a dead weight in his arms, as the spent body relaxed against his, and he deftly caught the coronet before it could fall to the floor, looking up in sorrow as Michael and then Innis turned and saw them.

“No! God, no!” Innis cried, dashing back to his father to fling his arms around him and hug him close, Michael following to hover close above them, looking stunned. The king, too, came down off the dais, concern in his eyes, followed by the diminutive Archbishop Paul, who removed his miter as he came and handed it off to a courtier before sinking to his knees to pray for the dead man's soul.

“I felt him pass, Sire,” Llion said softly, drawing back to let the earl's two sons, descendants of Haldane kings, tenderly cradle their father in their arms. “I would guess that it was his heart. But he was determined to see you knighted, Sir Innis.”

“He had been ill for some months,” Michael said dully, “but he insisted on making the journey from Carthane. I am his heir, and I know he loved me, but Innis was always the favorite.” He set a heavy hand on his brother's shoulder, shaking his head. “But at least he got his final wish, Innis: to see you knighted.”

“Yes, and he would wish to see you confirmed at once,” Innis said softly, tears in his eyes as he then looked up at the king. “Sire, my brother is now become Earl of Carthane. Is it possible to—acknowledge him right away, in our father's presence?”

The king glanced uncertainly at his uncle, but the older man only nodded slowly. “It can be done,” he murmured. Coming down from the dais, he took off his fur-lined mantle and shook it out before spreading it on the floor beside the dead earl. “Let us have a few more mantles, please,” he added to the watching court, even as the king himself was removing his and adding it to Richard's.

Several more mantles followed the royal ones, many hands helping to shift the old man's limp body onto this makeshift couch, and even young Alaric took off his small mantle of Corwyn green and rolled it into a pillow for Sir Innis's dead father. The king gave him a wan smile as he accepted the offering and tucked it under Sir Quentin's neck. Archbishop Paul took advantage of the lull in activity to come closer to the deceased, kneeling to anoint him with oil as was proper, then signing the body and himself with the sign of their faith before withdrawing.

Meanwhile, Sir Innis took off the sword he had just received and laid it in his father's hands like a cross, and Michael retrieved the signet ring from the earl's dead hand, passing it to his brother. Seeing the coronet still in Llion's hands, the king signed for him to bring it as he returned to the dais and took his place before the throne, then beckoned for the new Earl of Carthane to approach. Sir Michael handed off his own sword to his brother, then came to kneel before the king, his brother standing behind him with the sword across his hands. The shocked queen and the two princesses had moved closer to witness the event about to unfold.

“We shall follow the same general form that we used for Duke Jared,” the king said to Sir Michael in a low voice. “You may begin when you are ready, by informing me of the earl's passing.”

Michael managed a curt nod, bowing his head briefly, then boldly lifted his eyes to those of the king.

“Sire, I regret to inform you of the passing of my father, Quentin Pirek-Haldane Earl of Carthane, in the hour just past, and request that you recognize me as his successor and permit me to enter into your homage for the lands now accruing to me. In token thereto, I surrender up my sword.”

Turning to retrieve his sword from his brother, Sir Michael offered it to the king across his two palms, and Brion duly received it and passed it into Duke Richard's keeping. As Michael then offered up his joined hands, Brion clasped them between his own before nodding for the new earl to continue.

“I, Michael Pirek-Haldane Earl of Carthane, do enter your homage and become your liege man for Carthane. Faith and truth will I bear unto you and your lawful successors in all things, so help me God.”

“And I receive your homage most gladly, Michael Pirek-Haldane,” Brion replied gravely, “though I receive your news with a heavy heart. I acknowledge you as Earl of Carthane, and pledge you my loyalty and protection for so long as you keep faith with me and my house.”

With that, the king released the earl's joined hands and, with only a flick of a glance toward Sir Innis, opened one hand to receive the signet ring that lately had adorned the hand of the old earl.

“Michael Earl of Carthane, receive this ring as a seal of fidelity to the oath you have sworn, and as a symbol of your authority,” he said, slipping it onto Michael's left forefinger. “Receive, also, this coronet of your new rank, as a mark of my esteem and trust,” he went on, taking the coronet from Llion and setting it on Michael's brow.

“And finally, as a sign of my charge to defend the lands I have entrusted to you, I return your sword to you.” He received the sword from Duke Richard and laid it across Michael's hands. Michael kissed the crossing of hilt and blade and then thrust it into the hangers on his belt.

“All these charges I shall respect and keep in honor, my Liege,” Michael said steadily. “And now, with your permission, I beg leave to attend to my dead father, and pray that you will not long allow this sadness of mine to intrude upon the festivities of this house. There is a time for everything under heaven, and my father's time is now with the angels.”

“Rise and go with God, Earl of Carthane,” the king said quietly, extending his right hand to the earl and raising him up to bestow a fierce embrace.

In answer, the earl bent to seize the royal hand and kiss it, then turned with tears in his eyes to join his brother and the men of Carthane who were gently shifting the old earl's body onto a litter to take it from the hall. Silence followed the sad cortege as they made their way out, only slowly giving way to the murmur of comment when the doors had closed behind them.

In light of these developments, Jared decided to delay taking Duncan and Alaric as pages that day. The feast that followed court likewise was subdued.

“If they obey and serve him, they shall spend their days in prosperity . . .”

—JOB 36:11

T
HE
mild weather ushering in the new millennium did not last. A series of winter storms that swept in from the north and west left the mountain passes blocked and even the river roads all but impassable, well into February.

Accordingly, little further news of Meara arrived in Rhemuth for more than a month. Jamyl Arilan might have provided the king with more recent information, gleaned from his access to the Camberian Council, but he dared not even hint of such knowledge, lest he compromise his true identity. However, he did contrive to keep the Council apprised of the king's reaction as further Mearan news at last began to trickle in to Rhemuth; the Council, in turn, gave Jamyl guidance on how to advise the king if he did, indeed, decide on the Mearan venture.

“We've finally had word that the Mearan marriage
did
take place,” Oisín informed Jamyl late one February night, as the latter slipped into his place at the great ivory table in the Council's meeting chamber. It was just the two of them tonight, and Oisín looked tired in the wan light of the great crystal above their heads. “The weather has been atrocious, even over on the coast, but Morian managed to pick up some information.”

Jamyl sat back with a sigh, shaking his head. “So she went and married Delaney. Brion will be livid when he hears.”

“Just make certain he doesn't hear it from you,” Oisín retorted. At Jamyl's withering glance, he shrugged and allowed himself an ironic smile. “I'm not questioning your competence, Jamyl, God knows. But you can't deny that it will be difficult not to let on, while you wait for more usual confirmation.” He glanced briefly aside, then gave Jamyl a nod. “I think that's all I can tell you for now. Has anything changed regarding the king's plans?”

Jamyl shook his head. “No, there
will
be a progress into Meara, regardless of what Caitrin does right now. However, I expect that Brion will become a bit more focused, once he learns of the marriage.”

“That's likely so,” Oisín agreed. Gathering his resolve he rose. “Well enough, then. You'd best get back before you're missed. Let us know when word of the marriage reaches Rhemuth—and we'll hope that Caitrin does nothing too rash.”

“And Brion,” Jamyl replied with a grimace.

•   •   •

T
HE
news, when it finally reached Rhemuth early in March, arrived in the hands of Sir Caspar Talbot, with an official missive from his father, the Mearan royal governor. The young knight found the king and Jamyl sparring in the castle hall with blunted swords, along with nearly a dozen other knights intent on keeping their skills honed through the winter. Kenneth had partnered up with Jared, who was providing him with a serious workout. Duke Richard had assembled his squires to observe the adults at practice, giving them a running commentary. Alaric and Duncan watched avidly from a vantage point in one of the window embrasures.

“Uh-oh, here comes trouble,” Alaric murmured aside to Duncan, as he spotted Sir Caspar, making his way along the sidelines of the hall. “I don't recognize the man, but that's the Mearan governor's badge on his sleeve—and he does
not
look happy.”

Richard, too, had seen the new arrival, and immediately broke off his commentary to head toward Sir Caspar, at the same time shouting “Hold!” and raising both arms in visual signal to underline his shout.

All fighting immediately ceased, and the king pushed his leather practice helm back on his head to look at Richard in question, then noticed the newcomer approaching.

“Ill news from Meara, Sire,” Sir Caspar announced, holding up a sealed missive. “Aude is dead, and Caitrin of Meara has declared her intention to marry the Earl of Somerdale.”

Scowling, Brion handed off his practice sword and helmet to a squire and held out a hand for the letter, cracking its seal with a grimace. His jaw tightened as he skimmed the text. Then:

“Crown council, in my withdrawing room, now!”

Those thus summoned immediately set aside practice equipment and streamed after the king as he stalked off in the direction of the withdrawing room. At Richard's gesture, Prince Nigel also scurried after with the king's real sword, put aside before beginning practice. Kenneth and Jared exchanged glances as they, too, followed the king, close behind Duke Richard. As they entered the room and slid into their customary seats, Brion had already taken his place at the head of the table, and was drumming his fingertips on one chair arm.

“Well, gentlemen, it appears that our spring progress into Meara will, indeed, be more in the nature of a visitation and fact-finding mission,” the king said, eyeing all of them as they settled around him. “If we are very fortunate, Caitrin will be content merely to marry, and will prove barren.”

“May we have particulars, Sire?” Jiri Redfearn asked.

Brion took the sheathed sword that his younger brother handed him and thumped it onto the table in front of him. “You may have such particulars as I have,” he said, passing the letter to Jared, who shared it with Kenneth as the king went on. “Apparently Aude of Meara passed away at Laas, just at the turning of the year; Lucien Talbot isn't sure precisely when. She must have had some inkling that she was dying, because Judhael came up from the Connait to be with her. By Twelfth Night, they had buried her with their Quinnell ancestors, and Judhael had convened a shadow court at Laas, whereupon Caitrin announced her intention to marry the Earl of Somerdale, Derek Delaney.”

“Delaney,” Tiarnán murmured. “Wasn't she betrothed to another Delaney, some years back?”

“Aye, Francis Delaney,” Kenneth said. “There was never any official betrothal, but it matters little. He was captured and executed during the 1089 rebellion.”

“He left a son, as I recall—just a lad,” Jared said.

Jiri Redfearn nodded. “Aye, another Francis. They say that Derek adopted the boy, and treats him like a son. And Caitrin apparently dotes on him as well, like the son she has not had.”

“Well, he is
not
her son,” Richard said irritably, “and it behooves us to ensure that she does not have one of her own—or daughters, either. In Meara, the women are almost more dangerous than the men!”

The comment elicited a medley of snorts and ironic laughter, but it was no more than the truth. Mearan princesses had been the death of far too many in the past century.

“So, what is it that you propose to do, Sire?” Tiarnán finally asked. “She has announced her intention to marry, which almost certainly means that she intends to breed more Mearan pretenders, and eventually to take up her father's cause and make her own bid for an independent Meara.”

“That is what I hope to discourage,” Brion replied. “I am disinclined to hound anyone to death, as my father was forced to do, but I won't have her undermining the political stability in Meara, such as it is.”

Jared snorted. “Meara hasn't been stable for years!”

“No, and it will never
be
stable, so long as soi-disant Mearan pretenders keep periodically reviving the old claims,” Richard said irritably. “I confess that I was never able to figure out why Donal didn't just sweep through and clean out the last of them, once and for all.”

“Perhaps because they are also our blood, Uncle,” Brion said mildly. He leaned back in his chair, considering. “I think, perhaps, that it's time to pay a visit to my very troublesome cousin Caitrin.”

•   •   •

A
ND
once you locate her, what then?” Queen Richeldis said to her son, when she summoned him to her quarters later that evening. “Did it occur to you that she might simply wish to experience the domestic pleasures permitted other women? To marry and bear children of her own?”

“Children who might well threaten my throne one day,” Brion replied. “Did you not see enough of that when Father was alive, with his ceaseless forays into Meara to put down one rebellion or another?”

Richeldis looked away, her face bleak, shuttered. “He and his father did terrible things in Meara, terrible things!”

“Was it terrible to hunt down rebellious subjects who threatened the throne?” Brion countered. “I don't understand these royal Mearan women. They simply will not give up. My grandmother Roisían was the senior heir to Meara, as declared by her own father, who was the last independent Prince of Meara—and I am
her
senior heir. Why will they not accept that?”

“Do you think that barging back into Meara to thwart your cousin's marriage plans will make them accept it?”

“Mother! I am Prince of Meara. If I enter my own lands, I do not
barge
.”

Richeldis gave a self-righteous sniff. “Many Mearans would beg to differ.”

Rolling his eyes, Brion got to his feet. “It's clear we shall not agree on this. However, I do intend to make a progress into
my
principality, and to seek out my cousin. We shall be leaving within a few weeks, as soon as the weather allows.”

•   •   •

I
N
fact, various contingents of the king's intended party departed at varying times throughout the next fortnight, for there were logistic arrangements yet to be worked out for the expedition. Jared and his sons would be among the first to depart, for he had been charged with assembling a suitable escort of Cassani borderers to ride with the king from Culdi. Kenneth, his son, and a pair of aides would travel part of the way with Jared, for Bronwyn must be fetched from Morganhall, to also take up residence at Culdi.

But for the newly acknowledged Duke Jared, one task yet remained to be performed before they left Rhemuth, in a slight change from his original intention. The day before they were to ride out, Jared asked the king for the use of his withdrawing room, and invited both the king and Duke Richard to join him and Kenneth in witness to an important occasion in the lives of two young family members.

“As you know,” Kenneth said to the two Haldanes, “it has long been my intention that Alaric should begin his formal page's training in Jared's household with his cousin, away from the pressure of court.” He glanced aside where Jared and Sir Tesselin were shaking out the folds of two child-sized tabards in the blue and white of Cassan. “We would have waited to do this at Culdi, later in the spring, but I knew that Duke Richard would wish to be present.”

“What I would have
preferred
,” Richard said with a droll drawl, “is that your Alaric would have passed directly into my supervision. He has astonishing potential, but I do understand the—ah—unique circumstances that make it preferable to keep him sheltered a bit longer,” he added, with a good-natured nod to Kenneth. “Boys can be nasty brutes at his age. And the border training will do him good for a few years.”

“It will,” Brion agreed. “And I'm sure the lads would like to show off their pages' tabards here, before they leave,” he added, grinning. “I well remember when I first received mine. I had been begging for it for months.”

Richard snorted. “He gave his father and me no peace. But he was a very good page and squire,” he said fondly, “and he's turned out to be quite a passable knight, and a first-rate king.”

Brion chuckled and shook his head. “We'll see if you feel the same way after I've been to Meara and back.” He turned his attention to Jared and clapped his hands. “Jared, are you going to take these lads as pages or not? If you don't do it quickly, my uncle is likely to snatch them right from under your nose.”

Jared turned and shot the king a grin, then began gathering his immediate household with a summoning motion, at the same time donning his coronet. Duchess Vera and Kevin had joined him, Vera with the two Cassan tabards over her arm, and Kevin was straightening out two narrow lengths of McLain tartan. Llion and Tesselin had charge of the two incipient pages, who were dressed in clean white tunics with black breeches and boots. In addition, a handful of Jared's bordermen were assembling in the doorway to the chamber, jostling for vantage points from which to witness the ceremony about to take place. As the king and Richard joined the party, along with Kenneth and several of his men, Jared cleared his throat and waited for the room to settle.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “Today marks an important first step in the making of future knights, as I take two new pages into my service. Duncan, please come forward.”

Grinning ear to ear, Duncan came to kneel at his father's feet, eyes aglow with excitement as Jared drew his sword and set the point on the floor between them, right hand resting on the pommel.

“Duncan Howard McLain, place your hands on my sword and hear the responsibilities of a page of my house.”