Childe Morgan (21 page)

“You have seen how the children were sealed to their Naming,” Donal said quietly to Kenneth, taking up the dagger. “For a simple Naming, your hair was sufficient to link you to your son, but the work eventually required of Alaric will be anything but simple, and it may be that he will need your assistance. Such assistance requires a bond of blood—but only a drop,” he added with a faint smile, handing the dagger to Kenneth. “I would have you in my service long after tonight.”

At his nod of reassurance—and Alyce's—Kenneth briskly nicked a fingertip with the blade and smudged his blood on the parchment beside hers and Alaric's. But when he handed the dagger back to Donal, offering it hilt-first, the king turned its point against his own thumb, not flinching as the blade bit and royal blood welled around it, dripping onto the parchment. When he had set aside the blade, briefly sucking at his wound, he took Alaric's two hands in his and fixed him with his grey Haldane gaze.

“Alaric Anthony Morgan,
Airleas
, be thou
my
son as well as theirs,” Donal whispered, gazing deeply into the boy's eyes, “and be the pledge for Haldane blood, now until forever…And say
Amen
.”

The boy's mouth moved obediently in the response, but his voice was only a whisper, his eyes wide as saucers. Smiling, the king kissed him gently on the forehead, then glanced at Alyce and nodded slightly.

Numbly, as though she watched through another's eyes, she saw herself putting her son's candle in his hand, heard herself telling him to light the parchment. As the parchment flared hot and bright, burning with the faint aroma of singed blood, the boy watched in fascination, pupils black as ink. Kenneth had subsided back on his hunkers, eyes closed and head bowed, hands resting easily on his thighs with fingers splayed, now oblivious to what was taking place.

When the parchment had burned to ash, Alyce dipped her thumb in the residue and traced the cross on her son's brow as she sealed his name by word and thought. Then the king was laying his hands on either side of Alaric's head and delving deep, crowding her out to watch helplessly as he set his will upon the young mind.

When he had finished, he allowed Alyce to enfold the boy in her arms again, himself rising to go to the edge of the circle where the sword lay across the threshold. Kenneth had lifted his head as the king rose, aware once again, and watched him cut the doorway to the east and gesture for Alyce to proceed.

Not speaking, Alyce put her son's candle in his hand and led him to the threshold, gently nudging him to go through. The boy went fearlessly up the three steps to place his candle beside that of his younger cousin. When he had returned to his mother's arms, a pleased grin on his face, he melted into her embrace and laid his head on her shoulder, asleep in one softly exhaled breath.

Wordless with wonder, Alyce sank into a sitting position with her son cradled in her lap, taking comfort in the circle of Kenneth's arm, watching as the king laid the sword across the open doorway and came to crouch before them. She could not bring herself to question what he had done, or even to offer comment. She knew only that what had occurred had felt right, if unexpected, and that he was fully her match in all that they had done together that night.

“I will come again when he is older, to complete the binding,” the king said quietly. “It is not necessary for you to understand all aspects of what has occurred tonight; only that I have done what I felt necessary. He will have suffered no harm.

“Of course, you will speak of this to no one,” he went on, eyeing both of them. “Not even to one another—nor, Alyce, to your sister.”

She nodded, not daring to speak, as he glanced back at the sword across the gateway, then returned his piercing gaze to her and Kenneth and the child sleeping on her shoulder, while getting slowly to his feet.

“Guard him well, my faithful friends,” he said in a low voice. “And know that you have a king's gratitude for your love and loyal service.”

For a moment, as he stood there silhouetted against the candles at the altar, it was as though he drew their glow around him like a mantle, enveloping the four of them. But then the grey eyes shuttered, and the moment was past. With a slight bow, he turned and moved back to the eastern quarter to pick up the sword.

 

S
HE
little remembered closing the circle, or putting the sleeping Alaric to bed, or returning to her chamber with Kenneth, just as she was unable, the next morning, to recall many details of the night's work. She knew that the king had come into the chapel, that the two of them had Named Alaric by a name she had not chosen—and her beloved Kenneth had played an unexpected part. But the whole affair had taken on a dreamy, unreal quality that increased with each passing day—and Kenneth, for his part, said nothing.

It was not for want of wondering. Kenneth remembered that night, perhaps more clearly than Alyce, though he understood far less. When, a few days later, a courier arrived with a summons back to Rhemuth and duty, he brought the order to Alyce, where she was dozing in the dappled shade of the garden, near to the little chapel. Alaric was down for a nap, as were Duncan and Kevin, and Vera had gone hunting with her husband and several of their retainers and their wives.

“Unwelcome news, I'm afraid,” he said without preamble, showing her the document with the king's seal as he came to kiss her on the forehead. “I'm commanded back to court. Not merely summoned, mind you, but ‘commanded.' He's given no specific reason, but it can't be trivial. He knows I had hoped to stay longer, perhaps even through the New Year. But it may be some weeks before I can return. And if the weather is bad…”

She did her best to hide her disappointment as she took the missive from him and quickly scanned it, but Kenneth knew. But he did not anticipate her next words.

“Perhaps I should go back to Morganhall for my lying-in, then,” she said matter-of-factly, looking up at him from under long lashes. “The summer heat is past, and 'tis far closer to Rhemuth—and much less apt to be snowed in. And I should very much like to have you at my side when our daughter is born.”

“And I should like to be there,” Kenneth replied. “Do you think that Vera would come there to be with you?”

“I don't see why not,” she answered. “'Twould be easier for her and Jared, as well, especially if Jared is also called to court—which could well happen, since you have been called. They would like another baby, you know—and that's rather difficult if they hardly see one another.”

“There is that,” Kenneth agreed. “But Culdi is larger, and far more comfortable.”

“But not as close to Rhemuth, and you,” Alyce countered. “Morganhall will be fine. And your sisters will be thrilled to have a new baby to coo over.”

He inclined his head in agreement. “I'll not argue that.”

“Then, it's settled,” she said.

 

K
ENNETH
dared not delay to travel with them, for the king seemed to require his presence urgently—and, in fact,
had
summoned Jared as well, by means of another courier who arrived later that evening.

“You have no idea what this is about?” Jared asked him, handing him his own summons.

Kenneth shook his head. “None whatsoever. But Alyce had already asked whether Vera and your boys might accompany them to Morganhall. There's room—just. And it's far closer. You could see your wife more often,” he added with a sly grin. “I know you'd like another bairn.”

Jared's smile spoke volumes. “I'll not deny that,” he said, “though it isn't for want of trying.”

“Well, you can try more often, if your wife is at Morganhall,” Kenneth retorted. “Shall I write to my sisters, and tell them the ladies are coming?”

“Do,” Jared agreed. “Better yet, we can stop there on our way back to Rhemuth and tell them in person. The women can follow by easier stages. And I'll have extra provisions sent as well. They'll have more mouths to feed.”

Kenneth inclined his head in thanks. “My sisters will be grateful.”

 

H
E
and Jared left the next morning, charging Trevor and Llion with the task of moving their wives and sons by slow stages. On reflection, Jared offered the use of his coach—which Kenneth gladly accepted. It was a ponderous thing, but easier and safer than travel by litter, with Alyce now seven months gone.

“And Lady Alyce is not to travel by any other means save the coach, no matter how she might protest,” Kenneth told the two knights, “with plenty of pillows and featherbeds to cushion her.”

“Kenneth, I am not
ill
!” Alyce protested. “I am simply pregnant.”

“Yes, and you are carrying a precious burden: our daughter,” Kenneth replied coolly, though he smiled as he said it, a hand lightly skimming her abdomen. “Trevor, you have your orders.”

“Aye, m'lord,” Trevor said with a grin.

Alyce made a moue at her husband, but then she twined her arms around his neck and drew him down for a kiss before heading off to begin packing for the journey.

 

T
HE
distaff-halves of the two families were resettled at Morganhall by the middle of October, much to the delight of Kenneth's two sisters—and with the approval of Alaric, Duncan, and Kevin as well, for there were other children to play with, and more hounds to induct Alaric's new puppy into the canine mysteries. Claara, the younger of the sisters, had been widowed young, and had a daughter and granddaughter staying with her until the spring. Little Clarice was nearly four, slightly younger than Alaric, and as full of mischief as any child Alyce had ever seen.

By contrast, Kenneth's other sister, Delphine, the elder of the pair, had never married, but she adored her nieces and nephews, and was delighted to have the extra company through the end of the year, especially with the promise of additional provisions to feed them all. It was Delphine who ran the Morganhall estate on her brother's behalf—and usually turned a profit.

She was also, it soon emerged, an accomplished poet, and soon had enlisted Alyce's services in copying out a small collection of her poems as a Christmas gift for her brother. The familiar work set Alyce to remembering the days she and Zoë had spent together in the scriptorium at Arc-en-Ciel, and the illuminated book the two of them later had crafted for the king for another Christmas, now several years past.

She wrote to Zoë shortly after her arrival at Morganhall, informing her of the move down from Culdi and her scrivening project, and inquiring after Zoë's new pregnancy, for her heart-sister was due to deliver early in the new year.

“I wish Zoë could be with us,” she said wistfully to Vera, as the two of them sat in a sheltered patch of sunshine in a corner of the stable yard and watched their sons romping with the new puppy. Farther off, Llion groomed Cockleburr and prepared for a ride. “Perhaps next summer I shall take Alaric to Cynfyn for a few months; you could join us, if Jared agreed. Little Kailan will be walking by then. And maybe he'll have a baby brother.”

Vera smiled and nodded, basking in the sunshine and inhaling deeply of the musky stable-scent and the tang of autumn leaves burning in the nearby garden.

“It might be possible,” she replied. “It would certainly be pleasant. Maybe I will…”

In that moment, as the two sisters sat in the autumn sun and dreamed of the future, all things seemed possible.

T
HE
work on Delphine Morgan's manuscript occupied much of Alyce's time in the weeks that followed, as her pregnancy advanced and sitting became preferable to more strenuous exertion. She was obliged to hastily put the manuscript aside, however, when her husband paid her a surprise visit late in October.

“I think our daughter may arrive early,” she told him, later that night, as she lay contentedly in the curve of his arm after a day spent watching him interact with their son. “She is certainly very active. Here, feel.” She took his hand and placed it on her abdomen so he could feel the baby moving.

“Maybe you miscalculated,” Kenneth said, though a delighted grin creased his face at this tangible evidence of the new life his wife was carrying.

“It's possible. I had thought she might be born around Christmas, but now…”

“So long as she and you are healthy,” Kenneth said happily. “And I
will
try to be here for the birth. Incidentally, I had a letter from Jovett last week, tucked in with more official correspondence from Cynfyn. He tells me that both Kailan and Zoë are getting bigger by the day, and
she
says she thinks the new baby is determined to kick out her ribs. They both seem certain that it will be another boy. Could they really know that?”

Alyce shrugged, smiling. “
I
knew; but Zoë isn't Deryni. Heaven knows whether Jovett has the skill. Men usually don't, since they don't bear. Now, if
Sé
were to put his mind to it…”

“Is that an Anviller talent? Determining the sex of babies?” Kenneth asked, grinning.

“I doubt it,” Alyce replied, “though they are very talented. I don't suppose you've heard from him?”

Kenneth shook his head. “I had thought he might make an appearance in June, for Prince Brion's coming of age. It's the sort of thing that his order tends to keep track of. But I suppose he was otherwise occupied.”

“And Brion—is he still on his progress?” she asked.

“Aye, but they should be heading south any time now. The weather will turn very soon. The last I heard, they were up in Claibourne.”

“Duke Ewan probably has him out hunting,” she replied, snuggling closer to his side. “He'll probably catch his death of cold. The queen told me once that Haldane males are about the most stubborn men in all of creation, and she long ago despaired of making them dress sensibly or come indoors when the weather is foul!”

“They do love their hunting,” Kenneth agreed. “In Brion's case, though, I can hardly blame him. Duke Richard's last letter said that the new mare is absolutely sensational in the hunting field. Brion couldn't be more pleased. It seems that Oisín Adair's reputation is well deserved.”

“So it seems,” Alyce agreed, shifting to ease her back. “In the spring, after I'm more of a size to consider getting on a horse again, perhaps you might have him look for a nice Llanner mare for me. And it won't be long before Alaric will need a proper pony: something gentle and reliable. There's only so much he can do with Cockleburr, though Llion swears that horse treats the boy like he was made of glass.”

“I'll mention your concerns to Master Oisín the next time I see him,” Kenneth agreed. “And I think I'll see about getting Llion a better mount as well. I should've done it months ago. Cockleburr really is about ready for honorable retirement.”

“So long as you keep him around for Alaric's sake,” Alyce replied. “He's still worth his keep—a fine old beast for a beginning rider.”

“I promise you he shall have a place with us for the rest of his life,” Kenneth agreed sleepily.

 

K
ENNETH
stayed only two days before returning to the capital, for he had no leave to remain longer. A letter from Zoë arrived two days after his departure, though it mostly confirmed news that Kenneth had already shared with Alyce. It did, however, include a quick sketch of an emaciated lion chewing on the tail of a very fat squirrel, alluding to the teasing artistic assessments the two of them had made regarding one another's work during the many hours they had shared in the scriptorium at Arc-en-Ciel.

Alyce wrote back that very day, reporting her progress on Delphine Morgan's scrivening project—nearly complete—and adding her own, less competent drawing of a very fat lion with several squirrels' tails in its teeth.

I wish you were here,
she added in a postscript.
We could compare fat bellies, and our babies could have kicking contests to see which one bruises its mother's innards the most! Your A.

The weather turned the next day, but Alyce sent the letter off by courier nonetheless. With luck, Zoë would have it by mid-November. Another day saw Delphine's project completed.

“And in good time,” she told her husband's sister by the fire that night, as she watched Delphine turn the pages and admire the fine calligraphy and embellished capitals. “I shan't be comfortable bent over a writing desk again until after this baby is born!”

“This is beautiful, Alyce,” Delphine murmured. “Thank you so much. I know Kenneth will be pleased.”

It was early in November, only a few days later, when late-night visitors clattered into the yard at Morganhall, unannounced and unexpected. The night was brittle with cold, and Alyce had been reading by the fire in her bed-chamber, drowsing over a difficult passage in the writings of Pharaïlde ní Padramos—a gift from her husband on his last visit. She looked up at an urgent knock on her door, somewhat startled when Sir Llion then slipped inside without waiting for permission.

“Llion?” she said somewhat reproachfully, drawing a fur-lined robe more closely around her shoulders, for she was in her night shift.

“Riders in the yard, my lady,” he murmured breathlessly, his eyes wide and awed. “It's Lord Kenneth, with three others. I—I think one of them may be the king!”

At once Alyce put aside her manuscript and rose, one hand drawing the outer robe more protectively over her pregnant belly as she slid her feet into fleece-lined slippers. Her hair was braided for the night, its heavy plait spilling over one shoulder.

“Something has happened,” she murmured, half to herself. “Go attend them. I'll be down directly.”

The young knight dipped his chin in agreement and withdrew, but before Alyce could do more than slip her arms into the sleeve-slits of the outer robe, her mind racing over conjectures about the reason for another royal visit, the door opened again.

She turned to see Kenneth framed in the oak-limned doorway, still cloaked and booted and spurred, a fur-lined cap in his gloved hands. His handsome face was taut, devoid of expression.

“The king is here,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I've left him in my writing room. He's…not well, Alyce. There's been a tragic accident at Rhemuth. Prince Jathan is dead.”

“Jathan?”
She sank back onto her chair. “Dear God, he can't be. What happened?”

Shaking his head, looking near to collapse himself, Kenneth braced one arm along the mantel, fingering the cap in his other hand.

“He had begged for a pony for his birthday, but Donal said he was too young.” He sighed heavily, closing his eyes, not wanting to remember.

“But Jathan was headstrong, as you know. A week ago, he went into the stables before dawn. He saddled the pony that used to be Brion's—God knows how!—and took him out into one of the paddocks alone.”

“But that pony was steady,” Alyce murmured, stunned, “and Jathan is—was—a good rider…”

“Aye, he was—for a four-year-old,” Kenneth agreed. “But horses are horses, and odd things can spook them at odd times and for odd causes. No one saw it happen.” He drew himself up and made himself continue.

“A little later, when the grooms began their morning duties, one of them noticed the stall door open, and no pony. More annoyed than worried, he went looking for it.” He shook his head wearily.

“He soon spotted it grazing on the far side of the paddock, but something looked…wrong. When he went to investigate, he found the saddle slipped under the pony's belly and—and Jathan…with his foot caught in the off stirrup.”

A sob caught in Alyce's throat as she closed her eyes, shaking her head. “Dear God,” she whispered.

“He…must have been dragged for some distance,” Kenneth went on reluctantly. “And kicked…several times. He was still alive when they found him, but he—died in the queen's arms a short time later. The entire court is stunned.” He shook his head again.

“They buried Jathan two days ago, beside Prince Blaine. Brion is still on progress in the north, and has not yet been located. Donal is distraught. I think his heart is broken. But he insisted on coming here tonight. I believe he means to finish what he started at Culdi.”

“Dear, merciful Lady, I cannot imagine what he is suffering,” Alyce murmured through her tears. “To lose a second child so quickly—it is hardly three years since Blaine…And Jathan was so young, nearly the same age as Alaric.”

Kenneth gave a stiff nod, acutely aware of the precariousness of life.

“It's Alaric he's come to see,” he said quietly. “But he's asked to see you first. I told him I'd send you.”

“Will you not come with me?”

Kenneth's footsteps were as gentle as his voice and his touch as he came and took her hands in his, kissed the palms tenderly. “Not this time, my dear. Go to him. I'll wait by Alaric's door.”

Wordlessly she nodded and squeezed his hand, letting him help her drape an additional shawl over her fur-lined over-robe but keeping her face averted so he would not see her tears. But by the time she had descended the tower stair and crossed the rush-strewn great hall, her eyes were dry and she had composed herself to meet the man who waited.

She rapped lightly on the door to the writing room and entered without waiting for a response, securing the latch before she turned to look for him. She could see an unfamiliar hat hooked over one of the finials of Kenneth's favorite chair, which was angled to face the blazing fireplace. She stifled a quick gasp of shock as he stood and turned to face her, leaning heavily on a walking staff.

Even prepared to see him grief-stricken and distraught, she had not expected this. The puissant king who had come to them only weeks before, still powerful and strong, had been replaced by a haggard shadow of that man. His black riding leathers hung loosely on his stooped frame, a heavy dagger on his belt pulling almost painfully at his shrunken waist. His hair and beard had gone nearly all to grey, as had his complexion, and his face was lined by creases and wrinkles that had been mere hints of laughter before.

His eyes had changed the least: still grey and clear, but more world-weary now, with a starker shadow of grief in their depths. His hands were white-knuckled on the carved staff he had used to get to his feet, but he managed a reassuring smile as he extended one hand for hers and merely clasped it tightly.

“So, we are quite the pair,” the king said softly. “I, pining for yet another lost son, and you, blossoming with the promise of new life yet to be born.”

She attempted a brief, wan smile, but could not gainsay his observation.

“Sire, I am so sorry to hear of your loss,” she murmured.

“Aye. Three sons have I lost now.” He released her hand and sank back into his chair, looking, if possible, even more ashen. “This string of sorrows underlines my mortality, and makes it all the more urgent that you and I complete our final work. Where is the boy?”

“He is sleeping just now,” she replied, a little stunned at his urgency. “Kenneth and I will bring him in a few minutes. I—Sire, you do not look well. Forgive me for saying so, but you make me fear that your need for him might come sooner than either of us had hoped. Is there something I should know?”

He looked away, not answering, then leaned his staff in the crook of his arm and beckoned her closer, again taking one of her hands as she knelt beside the chair. His eyes sought hers urgently as he searched for his next words.

“Alyce, can you forgive me for what I've done to you and Kenneth and the boy? God help me, if I could have seen some other way, I would have taken it—I tried to—but even I have not been wholly free of choice. I suppose it comes with the crown. Perhaps our children will be more fortunate.”

She glanced at their clasped hands, sharing his sorrow.

“I did not think the King of Gwynedd subject to
any
other's choices.”

“He is,” Donal whispered, his eyes closing briefly, as if in pain. “God help him, he is.”

“And what of Prince Brion,” she said softly, unsettled a little by his distress. “Is he ready for what is to come? Will he be able to stand in your place when—when you are gone?”

“As well as any king of tender years, and better than most. But that is why I have come to you tonight, Alyce: to make provisions against that day.”