Childe Morgan (28 page)

Afterward, as the king and his party were preparing to depart, one of the bishops detached himself from the cluster of the others and approached the king. He was a burly bear of a man, younger than most of his brethren, with bushy brows and more the demeanor of a fighting man than a man of the cloth. On him, the episcopal purple looked vaguely out of place, as did the well-manicured hand he pressed to his pectoral cross as he bowed to the king.

“Your pardon if I intrude, Sire,” he said smoothly. “My name is Patrick Corrigan. Archbishop Desmond has asked that I attend you at Twelfth Night Court tomorrow.”

King Brion stiffened slightly, but he inclined his head in a gracious enough acknowledgment.

“Thank you, my lord. Your presence will be most welcome.”

“Thank
you
, Sire. May I expect that you and the court will first be attending Mass here in the cathedral, as is customary?”

Brion inclined his head.

“Then I shall return to the castle with you afterward,” Corrigan said. “Until then, Sire, by your leave…”

With that, he bowed again and withdrew to return to his fellow bishops, who were taking up stations to keep watch while the townspeople continued filing past the dead archbishop to pay their respects.

“I could have wished for some other bishop,” Duke Richard murmured, though he kept his voice low so that only Brion and Kenneth could hear.

Kenneth looked at him sharply. “You have something against him?”

Richard shrugged. “He is young yet in his office, and has yet to show what he will become as he settles into his authority.” He glanced at Kenneth, then back at the retreating bishop. “You would do well to keep a wary eye on him, my friend. He is a friend of Bishop de Nore.”

“And an enemy of Deryni?” Kenneth guessed.

“Aye.”

“Then, I shall, indeed, be wary, my lord. Thank you for the warning.”

 

K
ENNETH
kept that warning in mind throughout that evening and into the next day. Alaric and Sir Llion had remained at the castle while the royal party went down to the cathedral for the archbishop's Requiem Mass, and Kenneth took the young knight aside when he returned.

“I would guess that there's no immediate danger,” he told Llion, when he had drawn him to a place of privacy atop one of the castle ramparts. “There is no reason that anyone should take any kind of direct action against my son, at his tender age, but odd things can happen to Deryni.” He then told him, in brief, of the fate of young Krispin MacAthan, five years before.

“I had heard rumors of it some months later, back in Coroth,” Llion said, when Kenneth had finished. “I was only a very junior squire, but all the boys were talking about it.” He shook his head. “We were all appalled that a priest could be involved in such a deed—and a bishop's brother, at that.”

“Well, Oliver de Nore has not forgiven my wife's part in uncovering the guilty parties,” Kenneth replied. “And if it had been up to our remaining archbishop, I might never have been allowed to wed my fair Alyce.” He sighed. “The old king took our side to resolve the issue, but only by humbling himself before the bishops. I have done my best to remain out of their sight since then.”

“I shall do my best to keep Alaric out of their sight as well,” Llion said with a tiny smile.

“I know you will, Llion, and I appreciate your loyalty,” Kenneth replied.

A
RCHBISHOP
William's funeral cortege left Rhemuth early the following morning, after a simple celebration of the first Mass of the Epiphany. Later that morning, the king and his court rode down to the cathedral for more solemn observances, at which Bishop Corrigan presided, then processed back to the castle for Twelfth Night Court, under sunny skies.

It was a less festive occasion than it should have been, for custom required that the court remain in mourning until a new king was crowned. Accordingly, King Brion wore deepest black in memory of his late father, though the fabrics were sumptuous, and a prince's coronet crowned his sable head. He also wore the other accoutrements of his Haldane heritage: the royal brooch with its Haldane Lion clasping his mantle, the Ring of Fire, and the Eye of Rom glowing in his right ear.

But the Haldane sword was not yet his to wield. His uncle, Duke Richard, had charge of that, and would later use it to give the accolade to several young candidates for knighthood.

First, however, there were official greetings to be delivered from neighboring rulers already present for the now-delayed coronation, presentations to be made, petitions to be offered up. Fortunately, there were no Torenthi princes to send shivers up the spines of Kenneth Morgan or Seisyll Arilan or Michon de Courcy, though Count János Sokrat did make an appearance on behalf of the King of Torenth to express his condolences over the passing of the late king.

To all of these, King Brion responded graciously and competently, much as his father might have done. Watching from his place near the throne, Kenneth could see much of the old king in him, and knew that Donal Blaine Haldane had trained his heir well. Occasionally Brion would glance aside at one or another of his advisors for guidance or confirmation, but for the most part he moved the business of the court along smoothly, and seemed to enjoy himself.

He definitely enjoyed the next item on the agenda, once the foreign ambassadors had been received: the investiture of the new crop of royal pages, come to be sworn in and receive their crimson tabards from the hands of the king. The promotion of several senior pages to squire also brought a smile to the new king's lips, though he was technically still a squire himself; and Prince Nigel, serving their mother as duty page for the Twelfth Night Court, watched the proceedings with wistful longing, for it would be several years before he was old enough to join them.

Only two knights were made that day: young Arran MacEwan, a distant cousin of the Duke of Claibourne, and Ewan de Traherne Earl of Rhendall, whose family obligations had delayed the original plans for his knighting, several years before. For both of them, King Brion conducted the ceremony of knighthood without deviation from what had always been done, save that it was Duke Richard's hand wielding the Haldane sword, with Brion's hand atop it. But both new knights then swore fealty with their hands between those of the king, to the evident satisfaction of all concerned.

Following this routine business, the rest of the court progressed mostly according to expectation. Given the delay anticipated before the new king could be properly crowned, those peers present were summoned forward to renew their fealty to the Crown of Gwynedd. Kenneth had already given the new king a fealty unsuspected by any of the others present, and had renewed his oath as an officer of state with the other members of the crown council, shortly after Brion's accession; but when the earls were called, he went forward with his son at his side, to kneel and set his hands between those of the king.

No words accompanied the renewal of these oaths, for none were needed; but before Kenneth could rise, Brion smiled and briefly laid a hand on young Alaric's head as if in blessing, and leaned forward to murmur words intended only for Kenneth's ears.

“I look forward to the day when the heir of Corwyn, my father's
Airleas
, may take his place among my other peers,” he said quietly, before letting his hand slip softly from the silver-gilt head.

Kenneth doubted that the king's words meant much to the four-year-old Alaric, but Kenneth found himself greatly moved as he rose and the two of them made way for the next earl and then the barons. Leading his son back to their place among his Lendour knights, he put the boy in Sir Llion's charge, then returned to stand with the king's advisors beside the throne.

There followed a further succession of the king's subjects, seemingly endless, coming to pay their respects or offer gestures of loyalty. Later on came more official greetings from neighboring lands, with emissaries and ambassadors offering the felicitations of their masters and presenting gifts.

One of those present who did
not
go forward was a man from distant Cardosa, who had no business before the throne of Gwynedd. But his presence was noted by at least one of the crown advisors standing at the king's side, and another man amid the throng gathered in the great hall, who had affirmed a baron's oath of fealty earlier in the afternoon. Both men were members of the Camberian Council.

“What was
he
doing in Rhemuth, and at the king's court?” Michon muttered to Seisyll Arilan, as the two of them withdrew into one of the window embrasures during a lull in the banqueting that followed.

“You saw him, too, then?” Seisyll replied, with an automatic glance out across the crowded hall. “I was fairly certain I'd caught just a glimpse of him, as the peers were coming forward to swear, but then I couldn't find him again, and I thought I'd been mistaken. Are you certain?”

Michon folded his arms across his chest and turned to gaze out the window to the dark garden beyond, though in fact he was studying the crowd behind them, reflected in the black of the window glass.

“Oh, he was here, all right,” he said, “hardly an arm's length away—and he saw that I had recognized him. But then people moved between us, quite possibly at his instigation, and I lost him. But it was definitely Zachris Pomeroy.”

“The devil take him!” Seisyll said under his breath. “What do you suppose he was up to? Spying for Prince Hogan? Surely you don't think he came here to kill the king.”

“Not this time, or not yet,” Michon murmured, with a glance toward the dais, where the king sat at the high table between his mother and his brother Nigel, all of whom were laughing at the antics of a jongleur's sleight-of-hand, as was Duke Richard, seated on the queen's other side. “I've already told your nephew to stay close; and he knows what Pomeroy looks like. Sir Kenneth is also nearby, as always, though he doesn't know about this specific threat—and I don't know of a way to warn him without revealing ourselves.”

He nodded toward the left side of the dais, where Jamyl Arilan was carefully topping up Bishop Corrigan's wine from a pewter ewer, a towel over one shoulder of his Haldane squire's livery, though his gaze roved continually, always returning to the king. Farther along the table, Sir Kenneth was chatting companionably with Sir Trevor Udaut, though he, too, turned his glance often in the king's direction.

“I still don't like it,” Seisyll muttered. “What can we do?”

“We tell the Council, once the king has retired for the night,” Michon said, “and meanwhile, we keep a sharp eye. And I would say that we bring Jamyl with us later, except that I'll feel more certain of the king's safety if we leave him here while we're away. We can brief him afterward.”

 

O
THERS
voiced similar concerns much later that night, in the Camberian Council's secret meeting chamber.

“The gall of the man!” said Vivienne de Jordanet. “Rhydon, did you know he was planning this?”

Rhydon Sasillion, the youngest of their number, sat back in his chair with a tiny sigh.

“If I had known, I would have told you,” he said patiently. “Please remember that I am not an intimate of Zachris Pomeroy; I
cannot
be and still keep my oaths to the Council. Nor am I any longer a student of Camille Furstána—again, because I cannot be. I am good at what I do, brethren, else you would not have invited me to join your number, but I am not good enough to hide such shields as I possess from the likes of her. I do still have a casual relationship with Pomeroy, but I have given him to understand that I have not the nerve to become involved in his political ambitions.”

Across the table, Michon lifted a hand in acceptance of Rhydon's declaration. “Peace, Rhydon. We are well aware of what a difficult position we have asked you to function in. What is
your
assessment of the reason for Pomeroy's appearance at the king's first Twelfth Night Court?”

Rhydon inclined his head in appreciation of Michon's gesture of conciliation. “He is ambitious, as we all know. His support for Prince Hogan grows with each passing week, for he knows that a Festillic return to power would mean titles and lands as his reward, if he assists it.

“Having said that,” he went on, “I would guess that tonight's excursion into forbidden waters was intended simply to observe the new Haldane king and ascertain his weaknesses—besides his obvious youth. After all, Pomeroy made no hostile move toward the king.”

“Not directly, no,” Seisyll muttered, “or not that we know of. But we have no way to know whether he perhaps subverted some of those around the king, laying his web of treachery in preparation for more serious assaults.”

“Well, whatever the cost, we must at least get the boy safely crowned,” Michon said, “and try to learn what part of the Haldane legacy he may have at his beckoning. Rhydon, can we rely on you to track down Pomeroy, to monitor his movements? For if he comes near the king again, I
will
have his life!”

Rhydon nodded. “I have three or four men I can call upon, who know him by sight and are also reliable and discreet.”

“Deryni?” Oisín asked.

“Of course,” Rhydon replied, “though I would hope not to compromise them. We are, all of us in the eastern borders, wary of what is happening, in general, to those of our blood.”

“As are we, farther west,” Oisín agreed. “I shall certainly put out the word in my area, though I doubt Pomeroy has business that would bring him there.”

“He had no business in Rhemuth,” Barrett said darkly, “yet he chose to go there.”

“And it cannot be for any good purpose,” Vivienne agreed.

“It seems to me,” said Khoren, speaking for the first time, “that it might behoove us to neutralize this particular threat before it can become more focused.”

“I tend to agree,” Vivienne said. “Even his continued existence represents a grave danger to the king.”

“If you are saying what I think I am hearing,” Barrett said softly, “that is a cold assessment.”

“Cold or not, let me make it perfectly clear, then,” Vivienne replied. “If he is found again in the king's vicinity, I say take him out—before it is too late!”

 

I
T
was Rhydon who was designated to spearhead the effort, for his prior acquaintance with the renegade Deyrni was most likely to give him access. They had reckoned it most probable that Pomeroy would make his move at the coronation, at the earliest, the exact date of which now depended upon the election of a new Archbishop of Valoret. Even then, he might not show—it was possible that his intentions had been misinterpreted—but they could not take that chance.

Accordingly, while Rhydon went on the hunt, confident that he could carry out his mission—or at least set it up—those members of the Council also having legitimate reason to stay close to the king's household did so, in those days and weeks following Twelfth Night Court. Rhydon, in particular, made certain to keep in touch with his Deryni contacts at the borders; but of Zachris Pomeroy there was no sign for many weeks.

Meanwhile, the Gwynedd Curia ground through their deliberations regarding who should succeed to the See of Valoret. Competition was spirited, for the office carried considerable secular power in addition to being the highest ecclesiastical office in the land. Archbishop Desmond presided over the deliberations, being senior in rank, though he could not have been said to be neutral in his outlook. Other serious candidates for the office were several, and evaluated as much by their hard line against Deryni as their spiritual soundness and administrative ability. Of the fifteen bishops attending, perhaps three could be considered as serious contenders.

At the top of the list was Desmond MacCartney himself, Archbishop of Rhemuth for the past four years and its auxiliary bishop for several years before that. O'Beirne of Dhassa might have been a good choice, but at sixty-five and in failing health, he was perhaps too old. Paul Tollendal, the energetic Bishop of Marbury, seemed a far better choice, at fifty-two, with a solid reputation as a bulwark against Deryni incursions from the east, and already fifteen years' experience in his episcopate.

Also in the running, at least on paper, was Cosmo Murray, the aged Bishop of Nyford, whose adamant stance against Deryni was echoed in his far younger auxiliary, Oliver de Nore. But at seventy-four, Murray was adjudged too old, and de Nore too young at forty-five. Sadly, the assessment regarding Murray proved correct before the synod even settled down to serious deliberations, for the old man passed away during one of the sessions, simply nodding off and falling off his bench.