The King's Deryni (48 page)

But there was an additional dimension to Alaric's ongoing education that he had not reckoned on, and which he had not experienced in Gwynedd. Sweetly enticed into shadowed stairwells or drawn amid the leafy garden paths, he experienced the first of numerous kisses and caresses, and even more intimate attentions from several of the young ladies of court, who made it their mission to see that the handsome, bright-haired foreigner did not go wanting for feminine companionship. And finally, on one balmy evening late in July, in a fragrant garden bower, he lost his innocence between the thighs of a pretty Fallonese maid of honor whose kisses and caresses momentarily had tantalized him beyond reasoning.

Somewhat sheepishly he mentioned it to Llion the next day, though without revealing the identity of his young enchantrix. Llion only raised an indulgent eyebrow and allowed that the ladies of Bremagne were, indeed, charming—then reminded his young charge that the Bremagni king probably would take it amiss if any of the ladies of his court were to fall pregnant by one of their Gwyneddan guests.

“You're right,” Alaric said uneasily. “I hadn't thought of that.”

“No, it is not a possibility that comes readily to mind when all sensation is focused in one's groin,” Llion replied with a droll smile. “Just remember who you are—and I don't mean that you're Deryni, though that
is
a factor. You're a future duke, which means you are all but a prince.”

“Llion, I won't even be twelve for another month,” Alaric objected. “And I'm certainly not a prince.”

“No, but a duke is nearly as good a catch. And many a maid, and many a maid's father, would do whatever they could to entrap such a prize as yourself in marriage. That is why the king himself has been extremely discreet regarding his own romantic dalliances. You may have noticed.”

Alaric ducked his head amid a welter of churning emotions. He had deduced some time ago that affairs of the heart could be complicated—he had understood what he saw, when he came upon Princess Xenia and her now-husband
in flagrante
—but his own place in such affairs was only now becoming apparent. And it had not occurred to him that the king, too, might be wrestling with carnal complexities.

“I—think I'd best confine myself to less hazardous behavior in the future,” he said contritely.

“A wise decision,” Llion agreed. “You do know that there are other ways to give and receive pleasure . . . ?”

Alaric nodded curtly, for the Bremagni girls had very clever hands and lips, and had taught him a great deal in the friendly twilight of Millefleurs.

“I understand.”

Henceforth, he conducted himself with far more restraint.

Meanwhile, as July wound toward its conclusion, the king's business moved forward as well. Early August found the two kings' respective legal teams concluding the final details of the marriage agreement, to the satisfaction of all parties. The wedding itself was set for spring of the new year, on the first day of May, at King Meyric's winter palace at Rémigny—something of a delay, but a royal wedding of this magnitude would require many preparations.

But meanwhile, the formal betrothal could now proceed, as legally binding as an actual marriage, to be solemnized two days hence at the king's chapel at Millefleurs.

The summer day dawned bright and sunny, like so many in this part of the world. Alaric and Paget had already helped pack up the king's belongings, for they would be sailing for Gwynedd on the morrow, but it had fallen to Alaric to lay out the king's attire for the betrothal ceremony: snug black breeches, low boots, and a new linen shirt sewn by Jehane's ladies and embellished with blackwork embroidery along the collar and cuffs by Jehane herself.

“It's their custom here, to dress simply for the betrothal,” Alaric said to Paget, when the latter muttered that the King of Gwynedd should have more lavish attire for this important day. “I'm told we're to save the state finery for the wedding itself, when it's cooler. He won't even wear a crown today.”

“It
is
warm, I'll give you that,” Paget conceded. “Still, it seems like there should be
something
to set him apart.”

“I suppose it's what comes of marrying in a foreign land,” Alaric replied, as the king came into the room, fresh from the bath. “Different customs. Will you dress now, my lord?”

“Well, I can't go down to the ceremony wearing only a towel, now can I?” the king replied, with a boyish grin. “I suppose that must wait until the wedding night.”

The two squires chuckled along with the king, who obviously was in high spirits, and helped him don the requisite attire. Brion ran an appreciative finger along the embroidered cuff of one sleeve and smiled, then buckled on his white knight's belt and sat so that Paget could comb his hair and tie it back with a white silk ribbon. The Eye of Rom gleamed in his right earlobe, and he clasped a silver bracelet to his left wrist before handing the sheathed Haldane sword to Alaric.

“I suppose I'm ready,” he said, giving himself a last look up and down. “Shall we go and meet my bride?”

Very shortly, the two squires were escorting the king down to the palace gardens, and thence to a grassy clearing before a pretty garden chapel. Princess Jehane's brothers and sisters were already present, supporting the flower-twined poles of a canopy of sky-blue silk that had been erected before the steps to the little chapel. The king's knights and a small guard of honor stood to one side, and a like number of Bremagni courtiers opposite. Beyond the canopy, in stark contrast to the other guests, four tight-lipped religious sisters in black habits and veils eyed the assembled company with prim disdain.

A murmur of excitement rippled through the assemblage as the three foreigners approached, Brion in the lead. He nodded to the sisters, to Jehane's siblings, as he took a place to the right of the canopy, standing with hands clasped behind his back, looking a trifle impatient. His two squires took up positions slightly behind him, Alaric still bearing the sheathed Haldane sword.

Paget suppressed a grimace and glanced at Alaric, raising an eyebrow in question as he slightly jutted his chin in the direction of the sisters.

Alaric averted his eyes and whispered out of the side of his mouth, answering the unasked question.

“From the princesses' convent school, I think. I wonder if they don't approve of the marriage.”

“By their faces, I wonder if they much approve of
anything
,” Paget countered, though he fell silent as a dozen more sisters filed into place opposite the original four, wearing long white linen cloaks over their black habits, softly singing a psalm of praise.

“Jubilate Deo, omnis terra, servite Domino in laetitia. . . .”
Sing joyfully to God, all the earth, serve ye the Lord with gladness. . . .

The assembled courtiers opposite the canopy settled and parted before a tall, distinguished-looking man in a white cope over pristine clericals, accompanied by a pair of candle-bearing acolytes and two deacons, one holding the Gospel aloft and the other bearing a portable desk. His handsome silver hair was pulled back in a ribbon, in a style not unlike Brion's, but he also wore a prelate's purple skullcap, and an amethyst on his right hand: almost certainly, the Archbishop of Bremagne, Alaric guessed. Looking at him, Alaric suppressed a shiver of antipathy, for he sensed that this man would not take kindly to a Deryni being so close to the man his princess was promising to marry. Instinctively he drew back a little as the king moved forward to shake the archbishop's hand, also bowing to kiss the prelate's ring, then moved aside in readiness.

The choir finished their psalm, the archbishop gave a brief blessing, then the choir began to sing the
Magnificat
, a canticle in honor of the Blessed Virgin.

“Magnificat anima mea Dominum, et exsultavit spiritus meas in Deo salutary meo. . . .”
My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my saviour. . . .

After the first line, a set of double doors parted to reveal Princess Jehane on the arm of her father, both of them clad all in white. The king wore his crown, but Jehane's head was bare, her auburn hair falling loose to her hips befitting a maiden, the fronts caught back in tiny braids and secured low on her neck with a single creamy rose.

Both squires caught their breath as the pair passed nearby, for Jehane was breathtaking. Her green eyes blazed, wholly focused on Brion as she and her father made their way under the canopy. Brion himself looked spellbound as the archbishop took Jehane's right hand from that of her father and placed it in the right hand of her intended spouse. The king moved back. Then, when the
Magnificat
had ended, the archbishop signed himself in blessing and intoned:

“In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. . . .”

“
Amen
,” came the ragged response.

“Beloved children of God,” the archbishop continued, “we are come here before God and one another to witness the betrothal of this woman, Jehane Julienne Adélaïde de Besançon, Princess of Bremagne, with this man, Brion Donal Cinhil Urien Haldane, King of Gwynedd and Prince of Meara.”

Receiving the jeweled Gospel book from its deacon, he held it before the princess, who laid her right hand upon it.

“Jehane Julienne Adélaïde, before God and these witnesses, do you promise and covenant to contract honorable marriage with Brion Donal Cinhil Urien, here present, on the first day of May next, according to the rites of Holy Mother Church?”

Jehane's head dipped in agreement as she glanced aside at Brion with a smile. “I do so promise and covenant, so help me God.”

As she removed her hand, the archbishop shifted the Gospel book before Brion, who likewise laid his hand upon the jeweled cover.

“Brion Donal Cinhil Urien, do you promise and covenant to contract honorable marriage with Jehane Julienne Adélaïde, here present, on the first day of May next, according to the rites of Holy Mother Church?”

Brion turned a rapt gaze upon the woman at his side as he said, “I do so promise and covenant, so help me God.”

Bowing to the couple, the archbishop passed the Gospel to the deacon who had carried it in, then summoned forward the one with the portable desk, who presented the actual betrothal contract for signing. When both parties had affixed their signatures, and the archbishop had witnessed the document with his own, he turned to King Meyric and held out his hand.

It apparently was not the custom in Bremagne for the groom alone to give a betrothal ring; nor had Brion been allowed to supply the ring of his choice. As Alaric watched, the archbishop held two rings aloft, one of gold and one of silver.

“May these rings be blessed and sanctified, that they may be a visible reminder of the promises here spoken.
In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.
”

The archbishop then touched the ring in his right hand, a gold one, to Brion's forehead, then to Jehane's, then signed him with the cross, saying, “The servant of God Brion is betrothed to the handmaiden of God Jehane, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen. The Servant of God Brion . . .”

Three times the archbishop repeated this formula, each time touching first Brion and then Jehane on the forehead before making the holy sign over Brion. He then did the same for the princess, first touching her forehead and then Brion's with the silver ring, before making the sign of the cross, each time saying, “The handmaiden of God Jehane is betrothed to the servant of God Brion, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

He then placed the rings on their right hands—the silver one on Brion's and the gold one on Jehane's—and bade them join right hands again and raise them in the air, that all might see these signs of their commitment. The action reminded Alaric of the day he had watched the religious vows of one of his mother's friends at the Convent of Arc-en-Ciel, when he was a young boy. He supposed it had a similar meaning.

“So let it be witnessed,” the archbishop said. “The servant of God Brion and the handmaiden of God Jehane are sealed to one another by the bonds of betrothal, and shall confirm this commitment on the first day of May next, in the sacrament of holy matrimony. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen,” came the response of all present.

“Now bow down your heads and pray for God's blessing,” the archbishop said, signing for the couple to kneel. “O Lord our God, who didst espouse the Church as a pure virgin, bless this betrothal”—he made the sign of the cross over the couple—“uniting these Thy servants, keeping them in peace and oneness of mind. For unto Thee belong all glory, honor, and worship, unto the Father, and unto the Son, and unto the Holy Spirit, now and for ever: world without end.”

“Amen,” again came the response, as all made the sign of the cross.

Festive floral crowns were then brought forward and placed upon both heads, and the archbishop invited the couple to exchange a holy kiss. The kiss was chaste, but Alaric could sense the fire only barely contained in both of the participants—a fire that smoldered in both pairs of eyes as the two parted and the assembled witnesses broke out in applause.

“He that delicately bringeth up his servant from a child shall have him become his son at the length.”

—PROVERBS 29:21

T
HE
king's ship departed on the morning tide, sailing directly north from Cinq-Eglise to make landfall at Point Kentar. The newly betrothed couple had pledged to write often, but it was understood that correspondence between the two kingdoms would become more difficult as weather worsened with the autumn, and all but impossible once winter set in.

The voyage home was uneventful. On their return to Rhemuth, the king and his party settled into the usual routine as summer gave way to autumn and preparation for winter. Alaric and Paget, now something of celebrities because of their foreign travel, were able to regale their fellow squires with descriptions of the Bremagni court at Millefleurs, and the beauty of the Bremagni girls, and also shared combat tips they had picked up in sparring with the Bremagni squires. Alaric had, indeed, grown inches during the summer's adventures, and had to request that the castle's seamstresses let the sleeves down on his shirts and tunics, and lengthen his breeches. Some even had to be replaced.

Late in September, with the king's permission, Alaric traveled to Morganhall for a week, to celebrate his twelfth birthday with his sister Bronwyn and his Aunt Delphine, as well as the small household Llion had gathered there to safeguard the holding for its young lord. The trip also offered an opportunity to meet Llion's young daughter, born during their absence.

They returned to court early in October to the news, received by courier, that the king's sister Xenia and her Torenthi husband were expecting a child in the new year. The queen delighted in the prospect of her first grandchild, though she missed her daughter, and Silke fancied being an aunt, but Brion, in private, proved less enthusiastic about the proposition.

“I knew it was likely inevitable,” he told Llion and Jamyl over a pot of mulled wine that evening. “Xenia is young and healthy, and I expect that Sigismund has been an attentive and enthusiastic husband, but this means that he will get his Haldane heir.”

“You could have forbidden the match,” Jamyl pointed out.

“And have my sister disgraced?” Brion retorted. “I think not.” He sighed. “But it's done now. Hopefully, my own marriage will soon prove fruitful, and we can secure the Haldane succession.”

Llion nodded. “You do have Prince Nigel and Duke Richard still in the succession.”

“That's true. It's the principle. I don't like the idea of a Haldane heir in the clutches of Torenth.”

“Arkadia is less Torenthi than some parts of the kingdom,” Jamyl observed. “It could have been a prince of the more immediate Furstán line who captured your sister's fancy.”

Brion let out his breath with a huff. “Let's hope it's a girl.”

“Aye, but
her
son could eventually try to press a claim,” Jamyl countered.

“Hopefully, that will never become a problem,” Llion said. “And you do have your own marriage to look forward to.”

“Yes, I do,” Brion said, with a wistful smile as he lifted his glass in salute.

•   •   •

A
DVENT
came and went, and the bustle of the St. Stephen's Day court on the day after Christmas. That day, as the king received petitioners on the cathedral steps for several hours, he also received the good wishes of citizens who had heard of the royal wedding to be celebrated in May.

Paget Sullivan was knighted at that Twelfth Night court, with his father presenting him and Alaric assisting with the spurs. The archbishops of both Rhemuth and Valoret were in attendance, with Cornelius Seaton in the latter's party, now wearing the livery of his uncle the archbishop and the white belt of a knight.

“When did
he
get knighted?” Alaric muttered to Paget after the ceremony.

Paget shook his head. “I don't know, but I'll find out.”

Later, when the new honorees had settled down to table with their families, he beckoned Alaric to his side and reported that Cornelius apparently had been given the accolade at his uncle's Christmas court, by the visiting Earl of Eastmarch.

“I suppose it would have been difficult for him to refuse,” Paget concluded.

Alaric snorted. “I suppose. One has to wonder what he was doing in Valoret in the first place.”

“More to the point,” Paget muttered, “I wonder how de Nore persuaded him to knight his twit of a nephew.”

Alaric bit back a smile. “He
is
a twit, isn't he? Handy enough with a sword, but I guess you can get away with being a bully, when your uncle's the archbishop.” He glanced around with exaggerated innocence. “But you didn't hear me say that—because I'm still just a lowly squire. You, on the other hand—” He grinned and dunted Paget playfully on the bicep. “You can call him whatever you like, because you've also had the accolade now. And you've also had the benefit of training in Bremagne as well as with Duke Richard. You could certainly take him in a fair fight—and probably in a brawl as well!”

Paget had the grace to look self-conscious, if pleased, and clapped Alaric on the back before turning to scan the hall. “Thank you for that, but I'd best get back to my da. He and some of the neighbors are finding seats. Come and chat, later. I know you met him briefly before the ceremony, but he's eager to actually talk to you. I think he likes Deryni.” He gave Alaric a wink. “Can't imagine why.”

Alaric shook his head and was smiling as he made his way back to the high table, to serve the queen and Princess Silke. They kept him busy enough with squiring duties for most of the evening, so he mostly managed to avoid even looking in the direction of the two archbishops, who were seated at the far end of the high table.

As for the insufferable
Sir
Cornelius, who with his father was standing watchful attendance on his uncle the archbishop, Alaric did catch Cornelius glaring at him several times, full of his own importance and apparently incensed that the former royal page was now a royal squire serving the royal ladies—and was ignoring his glares. But that royal service also insulated Alaric from any direct contact with Cornelius, which he counted as a blessing. Time enough, when Alaric was grown, to put an end to Cornelius's bullying—if it even still mattered by then.

Happily balancing the ill will of his former nemesis was the kindness of Paget's family. After the feast was mostly over, the new knight's father, Sir Evan, made a point of thanking Alaric for the friendship shown to his son during their years at court.

“Truth be known, I've found Deryni little different from any other man, when it comes to honor,” he told Alaric, as the young squire topped up his cup. “I number several of them among my best clients, in Meara.” He raised his cup to Alaric. “When you come to be seeking good horseflesh, I hope you will let me know.”

Alaric inclined his head in thanks. “I shall keep that in mind, Sir Evan. Paget has told me of the fine horses he grew up with.”

Sadly for Alaric, Paget departed for home several days later with his father and their Sullivan retainers who had come to witness his knighting, but he also took away his own copy of a work by Ulger de Brinsi on cardounet strategy that Alaric had commissioned as a knighting gift during his last visit to Coroth. Paget, in turn, presented Alaric with a finely tooled headstall for the horse Alaric promised he would eventually buy out of Arkella. Most important of all, Alaric knew that he and Paget would maintain their friendship as men. With Paget back in Meara, he would always find an ally there. For a Deryni, that was a great comfort.

•   •   •

F
OR
the remainder of the winter and into spring, Alaric settled back into his training. He grew several more inches, and the increased height and reach at last gave him the advantage he had been looking for, in hand-to-hand combat, though for a time his coordination suffered. The spurt of growth also necessitated alterations to the new set of squire's livery ordered for the royal wedding, since he would be accompanying the king to Bremagne.

But only a fortnight before the wedding party was to depart, while the king and a few of his favorite companions, including Alaric, were out on a ride to enjoy the spring weather, a messenger arrived from the east with shattering news. The king returned in good spirits to find several of his senior advisors congregated on the great hall steps, looking very solemn, indeed.

“Sire, there has been ill news from Arkadia,” Jiri Redfearn announced, catching at the king's bridle before he could even get down. “It's your sister Xenia. She has died in childbed!”

“Good God, no!” Brion had gone white, and nearly stumbled as he threw himself from the saddle, and Alaric rushed to follow. “Jiri, it can't be. What happened?”

“There was a long labor—several days, they say. She was too weak to survive. The child died, too—a daughter.”

Looking stricken, Brion followed Jiri through the great hall and into the withdrawing room, where Duke Richard was comforting Queen Richeldis and the weeping Princess Silke.

“I don't understand how this could have happened,” he said to Richard, as he came to embrace his mother and remaining sister. “She was young, healthy. . . .”

“It is my fault,” the queen said emphatically, drawing back to wipe at her tears. “I never should have insisted that she marry that—that Torenthi seducer! And to have her lie now with his kin, among strangers. . . .”

“It is not your fault alone,
Maman
,” Brion whispered. “I, too, insisted on the marriage.”

“Well, I want her brought back!” Richeldis declared, drawing herself up resolutely. “I want her body returned, and that of her child—my daughter and my only grandchild!”

Richard sighed. “Richeldis, we cannot just go barging into Torenth and make demands.”

“Perhaps
you
cannot,” she countered, “but
I
can—and I
will
, if I must. I think it unlikely that Count Sigismund would refuse a mother who seeks to bring her child home—especially a queen.”

“Mother—” Brion began.

“I will not discuss this further!” she said flatly, getting to her feet. “I should prefer an escort, but if no one will accompany me, I shall go alone!”

Later that evening, with the queen and Silke now gone to their apartments, the king and his uncle holed up in the withdrawing room with Jamyl, Llion, and a few of the king's other senior knights. Prince Nigel was with them, lamenting that he yet had a year before he could be knighted and help uphold his sister's honor. Food had been brought, with Alaric assigned to serve as their squire, but no one had much appetite. As he moved among them to fill the occasional cup, Alaric wished there were something he could do to ease the family's grief.

“The timing on this could hardly be worse,” Brion muttered to his uncle. “I'm expected in Bremagne in only a few weeks, so I can't go; and I can't send you because I need you to serve as regent in my absence.”

“I'll go!” Nigel offered, even though he knew it would not be allowed.

Brion shook his head. “Both of us can't be out of the kingdom at the same time. Besides, Uncle Richard will need you here.”

“Well, your mother
is
determined to go,” Richard said.

“I'm well aware of that. And I know better than to stand against a Haldane wife.”

“Allow me the honor,” Jamyl said quietly.

All three Haldanes looked at him in surprise.

“Allow me to accompany the queen to Arkadia,” Jamyl went on. “She'll go anyway—you shan't stop her unless you lock her up—so if she goes, she should travel with a suitable escort.”

Brion gave the young knight a tight-lipped glance. “You know I had thought to have you stand as my witness at my wedding,” he said quietly. “If you go to Arkadia . . .”

“If I go to Arkadia, I cannot go with you to Bremagne,” Jamyl replied. “I know that. But I
have
been to weddings before, Sire—even royal ones. Take Nigel as your witness, or Jiri.”

“We've already established that Nigel should not be out of the kingdom at the same time as the king,” Richard said quietly.

“Then choose someone else to serve as witness,” Jamyl retorted. “Summon the Duke of Cassan; he is of suitable rank, and your friend, and would be honored to so serve you. Or take Jiri, or Tiarnán. But I think I will better serve you by accompanying the queen.”

Brion averted his gaze briefly, but Alaric saw the tears the king struggled to suppress.

“Sire, if I may speak?” he said quietly. At the king's gesture of assent, he went on. “Sire, it is clear that an expedition into Arkadia will take many weeks, perhaps months—and you are needed elsewhere, whatever your heart might wish otherwise.”