The King's Deryni (27 page)

Now, with her mother no longer a tempering factor and a husband at last by her side, Kenneth thought it quite likely that, especially if Caitrin produced an heir of her body, the soi-disant Princess of Meara would waste little time in asserting her perceived rights—especially since her father seemed disinclined to do so again.

“Then, it would seem that, by now, she surely will have married Derek Somerdale,” Jared said thoughtfully to one of the sheriff's scouts. “In Laas, you say.”

“Aye, several months past now, Your Grace,” the man replied.

“And where were Lucien and his men, when last reported?” Brion said.

“Headed down toward Cloome, Sire,” the scout replied. “Caitrin's father allegedly has a stronghold in the mountains south of there, down in Pardiac.”

Nodding, Brion glanced at his commanders. Their numbers were small, but he doubted that Caitrin would have made much effort to gather large numbers for herself, since she would not have expected the king to send troops into Meara. Especially, she would not be expecting the king himself.

“Then I think that we should head over toward Cloome ourselves, shall we, gentlemen? And perhaps the lord sheriff would oblige us with the loan of another score of his best men. I do not expect any serious opposition,” he added, at Wilce Melandry's dubious expression, “but it would do no harm to make a show of force—if we even manage to find Caitrin and her father. All things being equal, we shall head out in the morning.”

“. . . and mine arm be broken from the bone.”

—JOB 31:22

T
HE
letters that began to arrive in Culdi over the next several months kept Vera McLain and the ducal household reasonably apprised of progress—or lack thereof—in Meara. Most were from Jared, with instructions to share appropriate passages with the children, but sometimes Kenneth sent letters for Alaric and Bronwyn as well.

Reading the letters provided diversion and punctuation for the lazy summer days at Culdi, but the absence of more fascinating court gossip, even if worrisome sometimes, lent its own brand of ennui. The rain of earlier in the spring gave way to bright sun that was tonic to the crops maturing in the fields, but was less pleasant for humans. As the days drifted toward August, the summer heat became increasingly oppressive, and somewhat curtailed even the children's usual routines. Sometimes, after lessons and drills were finished, they would ride down to swim their ponies in the millpond below the town, or head into the cooler hills above.

On one such day, just past Lammas, the four of them ventured rather farther than was their usual wont. Llion had ridden to Morganhall for a fortnight with Kenneth's daughter Geill and her husband, both to see the first fruits of harvest brought in and to check on Kenneth's two sisters, who were not faring well in the summer heat. Llion's absence left the boys' training in the capable hands of Lord Deveril and Sir Tesselin, who had judged the day too warm for heavy exercise and released the children to their leisure.

On that particular day, the hilly heights had beckoned more seductively than the millpond. Men making hay in the golden fields beyond the town lifted their caps in salute as the youngsters passed, some of them waving good-naturedly, for the duke's heirs were well-known in the area, as were their Corwyn cousins.

Not far past the fields, where the track narrowed and began to meander upward, the four fell into single file behind Kevin, with Duncan and then Bronwyn and Alaric following. Soon they were imagining that they rode on a daring military expedition like their sires, for both Kevin and Alaric would be dukes someday, and practice was always a good thing. Just at the top of the rise, the twelve-year-old Kevin reined in his shaggy mountain pony and stood in his stirrups to survey a rather sorry looking flock of sheep grazing in the meadow beyond. Behind him, Alaric likewise drew rein between his younger sister and his cousin Duncan.

“Well, then,” Kevin said to his companions, plumping back into his saddle with a calculating grin as the others kneed their ponies closer. “Time for some practice, I think! You lot probably thought those were just sheep grazing out there. They aren't, though. They're Torenthi spies. They need to be taught a lesson!”

“We aren't supposed to chase sheep,” Bronwyn said, primly sitting her pony behind the boys.

“She's right; we aren't,” Duncan chimed in. “Besides, they outnumber us.”

“Yes, but we have the advantage of surprise,” Alaric pointed out, quite reasonably.

“That's true,” came Duncan's reply.

“Then, what are we waiting for?” Kevin retorted—and set heels to his pony's sides with a
whoop
, initiating a mad gallop down the hillside as he circled one arm over his head in imitation of a brandished sword. Likewise whooping, the other three fanned out behind him in hot pursuit.

Startled sheep scattered in every direction, bleating in ovine alarm. One lamb tripped over its own feet and tumbled down the hill, its mother jinking to avoid a charging pony. Alaric leaned down to lightly tap another ewe on the top of its head as he raced past, to hoots of approval from the other boys. Bronwyn, youngest of the group, was more concerned with keeping up with the boys than chasing sheep, though she rode well enough—until a heap of rags and wild grey hair suddenly reared up in front of her pony and brandished a shepherd's staff at the astonished animal and child.

The pony came to an abrupt and stiff-legged halt, wild-eyed and snorting, and Bronwyn continued over its head in a tumble of flying golden hair and tumbled skirts, to land with a thump before the pile of rags. The pony wheeled and took off in a fit of affronted bucking and squealing as a gnarled hand reached down to grab Bronwyn by the upper arm and haul her to her feet.

“Got you now, missy!” the heap of rags crowed, giving the girl a none-too-gentle shake as the other three riders whirled to ride to her defense. “What's the matter with you, galloping through here like you owned the free air and frightening an honest woman's sheep? Well, speak up, girl. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“You leave my sister alone!” Alaric ordered as he yanked his pony to a halt and glared at the old woman.

“You'd better not hurt her!” Duncan chimed in, also drawing rein. “She didn't mean any harm.”

“Tell that to my poor sheep!” the old woman retorted. “Better yet, tell it to the duke, or whoever is in charge of you ruffians!”

Kevin, suddenly realizing that
he
was in charge of what the woman quite rightly regarded as ruffians at that moment, felt himself going red in the face, and ducked his head in shame as he dismounted and presented himself before the woman.

“I'm very sorry, Mother,” he murmured, gentling his pony as he made himself meet her eyes. “We only meant to practice battle tactics—but we shouldn't have chased your sheep. I don't think any harm was done. Please allow us to make amends.”

“Well, you can start by rounding up my sheep,” she replied with a snort, grudgingly releasing Bronwyn. “They weren't bothering anyone, and they didn't deserve to be chased.”

“We
are
sorry,” Alaric chimed in.

“That's as may be,” came the sour reply. “It still was wrong. Get down off that pony—you, too,” she added to Duncan. “You'll be less frightening on foot. And catch that loose pony before you do anything else. Girl, you take charge of the beasts while the boys do the herding. I expect it was their idea anyway. Go on now, all of you!”

It took the better part of an hour to reassemble the old woman's scattered flock. While the boys doggedly began collecting sheep that wanted nothing to do with them, Bronwyn secured the ponies in the shade of a sprawling oak tree across the pasture. After a while, she began laying out an afternoon repast of bread and cheese and apples packed for them by Cook before they rode out. By the time the boys returned, sweaty and dirt-stained from their exertions, the sheep were once again grazing placidly across the pasture, nearer to where the old woman had resumed her vigil.

“Maybe we should just go,” Duncan said under his breath as Kevin and Alaric flopped down on the grass and tucked into the food. “She was really angry, and rightly so.”

“Aye, and we've made amends,” Kevin replied. “She doesn't own the field—and I'm hungry.”

As he tore off a chunk of bread and stuffed it into his mouth, Alaric leaned across to snag a bit of cheese.

“It
was
a bit funny,” he allowed, as he applied the cheese to a portion of bread. “And we
were
wrong to chase the sheep.”

Kevin snorted. “Aye, we were—but it
was
fun. . . .”

All three boys snickered at that, and Bronwyn rolled her eyes, but she set aside some cheese and a generous chunk of the fine manchet bread in a napkin while the others ate, and scampered off to deliver it to the old woman when everyone had mostly finished.

Kevin sprawled for a nap after that, and Duncan settled with his back against the tree to whittle at a bit of wood. Bronwyn, when she returned, began weaving a daisy crown for Kevin, whom she adored. Alaric, ever the most adventurous of their band, shinnied up the tree with an apple and perched in a fork where he could oversee the entire area. He had nearly finished the apple when he noticed the squirrel eyeing him from a nearby branch.

Slowly Alaric took the last bite of the apple, then extended the apple core on his outstretched fingers, suppressing any flicker of further movement that might alarm the squirrel.

He had been watching the creature since even before he climbed the tree, while he and his sister and cousins sprawled in the shade below and ate. Bronwyn was tidying the remnants even now, and Kevin and Duncan had gone to resaddle the ponies grazing a little farther away. In the meadow beyond, the miscreant sheep also grazed, keeping wary watch on ponies and children.

Those sheep had been trouble enough earlier, Alaric reflected sourly. Actually, the trouble had been Kevin's sudden assertion that the sheep were Torenthi spies. Though all of the children in the ducal household knew full well that chasing sheep was forbidden, that had not stopped Kevin from seizing the inspiration to practice some of the battlefield tactics he was learning as a newly fledged squire. And when Duncan joined right in, Alaric and his sister naturally had been obliged to follow suit.

Which might have gone unnoticed by everyone saving the sheep, except that their keeper suddenly had risen up like a heap of animated rags and startled Bronywn's pony, which had dumped her without ceremony—right at the old woman's feet! It would have been almost funny, if the old woman hadn't grabbed Bronwyn by the arm and hauled her upright—and then began taking them all to task for their transgression.

Grimacing at the memory, Alaric shifted minutely on his perch, startling the squirrel, and glanced down at his sister, considering whether he ought to try bouncing the apple core off her head. The old woman had been
very
cross, and had made them round up the scattered sheep—though Bronwyn's peace offering of their leftover bread and cheese seemed to have mollified her.

On the other hand, the squirrel now frozen with tail a-tremble had been exceedingly patient, and surely did not deserve to go hungry because of a flock of silly sheep.

In a burst of eight-year-old contrition, Alaric returned his attention to the squirrel and extended the barest tendril of thought as he had earlier, brushing the animal's mind with a feather touch of enticement and reassurance. At the same time, he stretched his hand a trifle closer, waggling the apple core on his fingers—and abruptly lost his balance!

Time seemed suddenly encased in thick treacle as he tried simultaneously to push the apple core within the squirrel's reach and also to catch his balance and grab for a handhold. The squirrel seized
his
victory, along with the apple core, scampering up into higher, safer branches; but Alaric's hands were slick with apple juice. His mad scramble for a better handhold—any handhold!—yielded only a double handful of leaves and twigs and a cracking sound as the branch gave way beneath him.

Bronwyn looked up and shrieked as he fell, scrambling to get out of the way, and Alaric uttered an inarticulate cry of dismay, caroming against several other branches and grabbing ineffectually for new handholds en route. But none of it was enough to break his fall—only his arm, as he hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him and leave him dazed and gasping at the base of the tree.

His sister scrambled immediately to his side, pulling at his shoulders and calling his name over and over, but he could only roll onto one side and gasp for breath, eyes screwed shut and both arms clasped tightly to his chest, head ringing from the force of his fall. Only gradually did he become aware that his right arm felt odd, and was vaguely starting to ache. He opened his eyes as Kevin and then Duncan thumped to their knees to either side of him, and Bronwyn was pushed out of the way as Kevin tried to help him to sit up.

“Sweet
Jesu
, Alaric! Are you all right?” the older boy demanded, as Alaric dazedly shook his head and concentrated on trying to breathe. Duncan, meanwhile, was gently urging his cousin to roll onto his back, running his hands over arms and legs to check for injuries. He stopped as Alaric's sharp intake of breath signaled serious damage to his right forearm.

“I think it's broken,” Duncan whispered, turning wide, frightened eyes on his older brother. “Kevin, what're we going to do? We weren't even supposed to
be
out here.”

“We'll worry about that later,” Kevin muttered, drawing his silver-mounted squire's dagger. “Help me open up his sleeve so we can see. Bronwyn—”

But the youngest member of their party had taken to her heels as soon as her brother's plight became clear, and was pelting across the meadow toward the cave haven of the guardian of the sheep, skirts hiked up and golden hair flying.

“
Now
we're in for it,” Kevin said under his breath, as he cut the cuff tie of their patient's sleeve, then cast the dagger aside and started ripping with both hands.

“Ow, take it easy!” Alaric managed to gasp out, instinctively shrinking back from the hands that would have helped him.

“I've got to see how bad it is,” Kevin replied. “Duncan, give me a hand!”

“I dunno,” Duncan said doubtfully. “Shouldn't one of us go back and bring an adult? He certainly shouldn't try to ride like this.”