The King's Deryni (26 page)

“I am Mother Aurelia,” the woman said, and added uncertainly, “Do I know you, sir knight?”

Kenneth shook his head doubtfully, searching his memory as he gestured for Brion to join them.

“I feel certain I would remember, Reverend Lady,” he murmured, as he glanced at the king. “Sire, allow me to present Mother Aurelia, the abbess of this house. Madam, the King of Gwynedd.”

Brion caught the abbess's hand as she bent in a graceful curtsy, and himself bowed to kiss her ring in salute. “I am honored to meet you, Reverend Mother, and I thank you for giving us shelter from the storm. Can it be that you know my Earl of Lendour?” he added, noting the appraising looks of both parties.

“It would have been some years ago,” the abbess allowed, trying not to stare at Kenneth, “and I think he was not then an earl. Have you been to Saint Brigid's Abbey near Cùilteine, my lord?” she asked Kenneth.

“Near Cùilteine? I believe I have,” Kenneth said, astonished.

“Then, my memory has not failed me,” the abbess said. “For I think you were in a party that stopped there with a young knight who had taken ill on the road, when I was an infirmarian there. And the king your father was in the party as well, young Sire,” she added, to Brion, then sighed. “The sick lad, though—such a handsome young man he was, and so very ill,” she added, glancing off into the distance of memory. “Most sadly, he did not survive.”

Kenneth had gone very still as she spoke, and glanced at his boots with clenched jaws, for the distant memory, so long pushed aside, reemerged now with much of the force of his long-ago grief.

“Alas, he did not,” he said quietly, then looked up briskly. “But, that was long ago, and I am sure your ministrations eased his pain. Might we please be shown to our accommodations now, Reverend Mother? I cannot speak for His Majesty, but I am greatly in need of dry clothes and a good fire.”

“Of course,” the abbess replied, indicating another sister waiting to convey them to their quarters. “You will be housed in our guest accommodations, and your men in the travelers' hostel. They will have to double up, but it is out of the rain. And a simple meal is being laid out in our refectory. Please join us when you have changed into dry clothing.”

Brion said nothing as Kenneth sorted accommodations with the sisters in charge of guest facilities, but stayed the older man with a hand on his sleeve when Kenneth would have left him in the guest chamber assigned for his personal use.

“Do you mind telling me what that was all about?” he said, not relenting when Kenneth glanced aside with a troubled expression. “Who was it who did not survive?”

Kenneth sighed and looked around him for somewhere to sit in the tiny chamber, then sank down on the edge of the rigid cot when Brion sat and patted the straw mattress beside him.

“He was Ahern of Corwyn, elder brother of my late wife,” Kenneth said quietly. “He would have been duke by now. He also, very briefly, was married to my daughter Zoë.”

“Ahern? The Earl of Lendour before you?” Brion looked amazed. “I remember him. All the pages and squires idolized him. You were there when he died?”

Kenneth nodded, interlacing his fingers atop his knees. “It was a complaint of the belly—and what a loss for Gwynedd. He had survived two campaigns in Meara, overcoming a crippling injury in the first one—and then, to be taken by illness. . . .” He sighed and shook his head.

“When he fell ill on the road back, we brought him to that other Saint Brigid's to be tended by the sisters, and your father sent me back to Rhemuth to fetch Ahern's sister and my daughter. Ahern had asked for Zoë's hand during the campaign, and I had given my consent. I knew, when I left, that there was little chance of him surviving, but I did as your father bade. Of course, that was long before I knew that dear Alyce was to become my bride.”

The king was listening avidly, enthralled by this glimpse of Kenneth's past. “But—did you return before he died?”

“Aye, but it did him little good, other than to ease his mind. Dear Alyce used her powers to ease his pain—and I know that Zoë's presence was a great comfort.” Kenneth sighed again, his head bowing as he blinked back tears.

“He did last through the night. But the next day, when it became clear, even to him, that he was dying, he and Zoë exchanged wedding vows before he allowed the priest to administer the last rites. They had perhaps an hour as husband and wife.”

Brion, too, was swallowing back emotion, and looked away. “I remember when they brought his body back to Rhemuth,” he said softly. “I was about eight, and I was weeping along with all the other pages as they bore him into the chapel royal to lie in state for a day. I believe he was later buried in Lendour.” He smiled. “Some of us had squabbled for the privilege of assisting at his knighting the previous Twelfth Night. I was one of those chosen, of course,” he added with a wicked chuckle, glancing back at Kenneth. “But all of us were so in awe of him, and the way he overcame his injury.” He shook his head. “Such a waste.”

“Aye, it was,” Kenneth said softly. When he did not speak further, Brion gave a weary sigh.

“Well, we'd best get into dry clothing for supper, or that abbess will thrash us both,” he said, with a wry touch of humor in his voice. “I'm not certain why, but female religious always intimidate me, even now that I'm king.”

Kenneth, too, had regained his usual good humor as he rose. “They don't, me. But perhaps it's because both Zoë and Alyce spent several years at a convent school. My daughter Alazais is there now. I begin to wonder whether she means to take the veil.” He smiled. “But with four daughters, I suppose it was inevitable that at least one of them might do so.”

A faint smile also quirked at the king's lips. “That was Arc-en-Ciel, wasn't it?” he said. “It's where you and the Lady Alyce were married.”

“Aye, it was.”

“But my first visit was before that,” the king went on wistfully. “I couldn't have been more than five or six. My brother Blaine was with me.”

“You remember that?” Kenneth asked, somewhat surprised.

“Oh, aye. Our parents took us for some ceremony or other: the daughter of a lady of the court was making vows, I think. I remember that afterward, we found a dead bird in the cloister yard. Of course we had to give it a proper burial. Krispin MacAthan was there, too. I think it was one of his sisters who'd made vows.” He sighed and shook his head. “A long time ago. And now, both Blaine and Krispin are gone. Somehow, it doesn't seem fair.”

Snorting at the maudlin direction their conversation had taken, he clapped Kenneth on the shoulder and also stood.

“Now, we really
had
better get into dry clothes. You don't suppose the sisters will mind if we don't break out the court garb, do you?”

“I'm certain it will be sufficient that we don't track mud through their refectory,” Kenneth replied as he, too, rose. “I'll join you shortly.”

•   •   •

T
HE
meal with the abbess was unremarkable, and had as its price the duty to attend Mass in the abbey church the next morning—which at least was dry and relatively warm. The guest quarters were less so, owing to a leaky roof in the king's chamber, prompting him to move into quarters in the infirmary, even though he was well, and to present the abbess with a fine purse the next morning, along with instructions to spend it on making necessary repairs to the facility as soon as weather allowed. Further inquiry revealed that the stable accommodations, at least, were a vast improvement, thus ensuring that the men and their mounts kept relatively warm and dry.

But the respite from the storm was welcome, nonetheless, and gave opportunity for those ailing from the weather to at least achieve improving health. When, after two nights at St. Brigid's, the king declared his intention to continue on their journey, he reiterated his instructions regarding the roof repairs, and declared his intention to stop there again on his way back from Meara.

“Do you think they'll make the repairs?” he said aside to Kenneth, as they set out on the road westward toward Ratharkin.

Kenneth nodded thoughtfully. “I would guess that they will,” he replied. “The sisters are good-hearted, and their care of the sick and injured will be vastly enhanced by it.”

“You recommend their care, then?” Brion asked, for Kenneth and another man still were coughing a little.

“I do, Sire—and you need not worry,” he added, at the king's dubious grimace. “Truly. Another few days of fair weather, and we both shall be good as new.”

•   •   •

T
HEY
entered Meara later that day, and the weather improved almost immediately. Brion had been to Meara once before, the summer he came of age; but that venture had been in the company of his royal uncle, the informal visit of a fourteen-year-old: resented by some, but mostly ignored by hard-line separatists still nurturing hope of an again-independent Meara.

This time, the Haldane who rode into Meara was a grown man, a king coming into his prime. Haldane kings had ridden into Meara before, with disastrous results for would-be Mearan pretenders. Now another Haldane rode into Meara to assert his mastery of his realm.

By the time they came within sight of Ratharkin's walls, spring was truly upon them, the grey of winter suddenly giving way to the glorious green that was nature in all its verdant abandon. That morning, Sir Caspar Talbot had ridden ahead to alert the city of their imminent arrival, and returned with one of his brothers as they approached the city gates around midday.

“Sire, this is my youngest brother, Sir Arthen,” Caspar told the king, as he and his companion drew rein under the Haldane banner and the two of them gave salute. “Apparently our father is in the field farther west. The sheriff, Sir Wilce Melandry, has been left in charge. He would have come to greet you in person, but he sits in court today in the city.”

“No, he did right not to interrupt the processes of justice,” Brion replied, glancing on ahead. “We shall join him there.”

A few minutes later, as they made their way through the city gates, the king asked, “Just where is your father in the field, Sir Arthen?”

“I'm afraid I couldn't say, exactly, Sire,” Arthen Talbot replied. “He and a troop of lancers headed out to Laas nearly a month ago, as soon as the roads were passable. They had hopes of intercepting the Lady Caitrin, but we've received no word of any great success.”

“I see,” the king said, nodding with the motion of his mount as they walked their horses into the stable yard before Ratharkin's great citadel. “And what do
you
think she's doing?”

Arthen's lip curled in a wry grimace, and he glanced at his brother. “I think she's gone and married the Earl of Somerdale, my lord. That's what I think. And then they'll go and breed up more Mearan pretenders, so that we have to ride out and kill them all, in the end.”

The king snorted, but Kenneth said nothing as they dismounted, for he was remembering his last visit to Meara a decade before. He had hoped then that there would be no need for more killing off of Mearan pretenders, but the present circumstances were suggesting otherwise.

Inside the great hall of the inner citadel, the sheriff was, indeed, engaged in civil court, presiding from the grand dais at the head of the hall, where the royal governor usually sat to dispense justice. Sir Wilce Melandry, nephew of the previous royal governor, suspended proceedings and rose as the king and his immediate entourage entered, making a deep bow as the king approached. The younger man who scrambled to his feet and also bowed was Wilce's cousin, Sir Alun Melandry, who had been still a boy when his father, the previous royal governor, had been strung up from one of the great hammer beams by Mearan rebels.

In that, at least, both Melandrys eventually had seen justice served, for Donal Haldane had executed the perpetrators and later obliged those remaining to renew their oaths of loyalty upon the body of the slain governor. And when, but a few years past, Alun Melandry eventually had achieved the age for knighthood, Brion had been present when his father and Alun's cousin Wilce both had laid hands on Iolo Melandry's sword and made Iolo's son a knight.

“The cousins Melandry, well met!” Brion called, extending his hand as he strode down the hall. “I am right glad to see both of you again, and you both do me honor by your service!”

The two men showed every sign of extreme relief as the king came to clasp them both by the hands, and Sir Wilce quickly adjourned the court and drew Brion and his principal officers into the meeting chamber adjacent to the hall.

“You may remember the Earl of Lendour from his last visit, with my father,” Brion said, beginning introductions all around. “Or, Sir Kenneth Morgan, as he was then. And this is Jared McLain Duke of Cassan, and Sir Jiri Redfearn, and my good friend Sir Jamyl Arilan, and Father Nevan d'Estrelldas, who serves us as battle-surgeon as well as chaplain for this venture. Now, tell me how fares my royal governor? I understand that he is in the field.”

•   •   •

T
HE
king avoided voicing any specific accusations or suspicions during the briefing that ensued during the next hour, but it was clear that he was probing for information about Caitrin and her rumored marriage—or so it seemed to Kenneth. Having witnessed the exercise of royal justice a decade before, he could entertain no misgivings regarding those King Donal had left in charge in the troubled province. Sir Lucien Talbot, the present governor, certainly was sound, as were his sons. And the Melandrys, likewise, could have no scruple regarding their ongoing loyalty to the royal line which had avenged the murder of their kinsman Iolo.

Caitrin, of course, was less predictable, and certainly had no reason to love the Haldanes, whom she blamed for the deaths of her sister and niece and the man she had intended to marry, along with many more of her kin and countrymen. While she had not been in active rebellion since the last Mearan campaign, Kenneth guessed it had been more from lack of opportunity than lack of desire.