Chapter 21

“Neglect not the gift that is in thee . . .”

—I TIMOTHY 4:14

IF the king’s summer was already turning tedious, Alaric’s summer, or at least its beginning, was to become one of the happiest of his young life. Most mornings he and Duncan spent in formal lessons with Lady Vera, absorbed in reading, writing, and numbers, geography and history, a smattering of languages, along with the more practical accomplishments of dancing and court etiquette. Occasionally Kevin joined them for lessons, but more often he spent the mornings with Lord Deveril, the seneschal, and Sir Walter, beginning to learn about the running of Jared’s estates.

Sometimes, though always behind closed doors, and never with Kevin present, Vera began to expose them to more esoteric subjects, as his and Duncan’s Deryni powers continued to emerge.

They began learning to conjure handfire that summer, though Vera was quick to caution both boys that this must never be done where an outsider might see.

“You especially, Duncan, because it would be an immediate betrayal of your blood.”

“Yes, Mama,” Duncan breathed, wide-eyed and somber as he balanced a trembling sphere of silvery light on one outstretched palm.

“That’s very good. Alaric, can you make your sphere lift into the air?”

Alaric concentrated, focused on his own sphere of greenish fire, and had the satisfaction of watching it slowly float toward the ceiling, though it got dimmer as it rose, then abruptly fizzled out.

“Suppose you try that again,” Vera whispered, coming to set a hand on his shoulder. “Hold your focus. Believe it or not, this will become second nature to you, once you’ve got the hang of it.”

The next sphere faded away before reaching the ceiling, but the third one formed, lifted, and hovered for several seconds before Vera squeezed his shoulder in a signal to relax. As the sphere dissipated this time instead of fizzling out, Alaric allowed himself a satisfied grin.

“That’s very good. Duncan, why don’t you try that?”

Within a week or so, their ability to conjure handfire became more and more reliable, and required less and less effort. Building on that accomplishment, Vera also began teaching them about shields—which both of them had, to varying degrees—and was pleased and somewhat surprised to find that Alaric’s were already strong and well developed.

But he did not tell her of Sir Sé’s tutelage, sensing that this must be kept private even from his mother’s sister—and he was fairly sure that Sé had set certain protections into place behind those shields. Duncan’s shields seemed somewhat more rudimentary in the beginning, but developed quickly as Vera began to work with them.

Nor were more active pursuits ignored. Between Llion and Tesselin, all three boys were kept busy with their physical training: drill with sword and lance, archery practice, wrestling and hand-to-hand tactics, riding—all the skills expected of future knights. And because their fathers were away with the king, the boys were mostly relieved of the necessity to serve at table or wait on the knights of Jared’s household—for, indeed, there were few in residence, and several other pages and squires to share the work.

But Alaric Morgan was still a boy in his off hours, free to run and play like other privileged boys. (He knew that not all boys were fortunate enough to have fine ponies, and people to care for them, and adults whose sole occupation was to make his life run smoothly.)

He was also pleased to discover that he genuinely liked his younger sister, with whom, until now, he had spent only short stretches of days at a time, during their father’s all too infrequent visits to Morganhall and his motherless daughter. Only recently had Bronwyn become mature enough for true interaction with her elder brother.

But they were of kindred blood, even if raised apart during Bronwyn’s earliest years, and both delighted in their reunion. At nearly five, Bronwyn was quick and articulate, wise beyond her years, and adored both her brother and her two McLain cousins.

She was smart, too, Alaric quickly discovered. At Morganhall, early studies with her two aunts, alongside her slightly older cousin Clarice, had already given her basic skills in reading and ciphering, and a passionate thirst for knowledge; and Sir Calix Howard, married to her mother’s former maid, had made it his personal mission to ensure that both girls rode like limpets, fearless and graceful astride their shaggy mountain ponies. They had even worn boys’ clothes at Morganhall, at least for riding, though Vera quickly put an end to that notion once Bronwyn was installed at Culdi.

“That may be fine at Morganhall,” she informed her new charge, as they inspected Bronwyn’s small wardrobe on the day after she arrived, “but it won’t do here, and it certainly wouldn’t do at court.”

“But, Aunt Vera—” Bronwyn started to protest.

“There is no but!” Vera said with an emphatic shake of her head. “Noble ladies wear skirts, even little ladies. You may ride astride, and you may even wear breeches and boots like the boys, but you must wear skirts over them. Child, you are the sister of a future duke!” she added, exasperated at Bronwyn’s moue of incipient rebellion. “Don’t make that face at me, madam. You must learn to comport yourself like a lady. Your mother learned it, and I learned it, and so shall you!”

It was hardly an auspicious beginning to their relationship, but Bronwyn quickly got over her pout, and was smiling about it by the time she finished telling Alaric and Duncan later that day.

“I know there are rules,” she finally conceded, “but I still don’t think it’s fair! It’s silly to wear skirts on a pony. I didn’t have to wear skirts at Morganhall.”

Alaric shrugged. “Well, she’s right, this isn’t Morganhall, and you are a duke’s sister—or you will be, once I’m a duke. And she did say you could still wear breeches and boots under your skirts, didn’t she? Count your blessings.”

“I suppose,” Bronwyn said petulantly. “I still think it’s a silly rule.”

“You think we don’t have to follow silly rules?” Duncan said, grinning. “Come on, let’s go to the stable and see the new kittens. If you ask nicely and bat your eyelashes, the head groom will probably let you have one. Kevin says that men can’t resist when a lady bats her eyelashes.”

“That sounds silly, too,” Bronwyn muttered to herself, but she followed cheerfully as the boys took off for the stable, and did, indeed, elicit the promise of a kitten, when they were old enough, so long as Lady Vera approved.

“Do you really think she’ll let me have one?” she whispered to Alaric, holding on to his hand as they headed on toward the pony paddock.

He smiled and nodded. “Probably. I’ve seen mice up in the living quarters, so cats are probably a good idea. You’ll need to take care of it, though—and clean up after it, until it learns proper cat manners.”

“Oh, I will! I promise!” she said earnestly.

In such wise did the summer progress, as Bronwyn found her stride and became more at ease in the ducal household. The boys adored her—not only Alaric, but Duncan and Kevin as well—and gladly included their feisty new playmate in their adventures, especially as the summer wore on and news came less often from their respective fathers.

•   •   •

SAID fathers, meanwhile, were only then nearing the Mearan border, again caught up in spring thunderstorms that forced them often to seek shelter. After several nights spent again in barns, some of them so decrepit that they pitched their tents inside, several of their party had developed serious coughs and running noses. But this last barn did not bear even considering another night.

“We thank you for your hospitality, good sir,” the king said to the farmer, as they prepared to ride on—and bade Father Nevan hand over a small leather pouch of coin. “Here’s for your trouble, and for the roof of your barn, and may God grant you a rich harvest in the autumn.”

They left at midmorning nonetheless, hoping the weather would improve, but gave it up after only a few hours on the road, when they spied the pink granite spire and graceful walls of an apparent religious establishment tucked in a bend of the river, just before the border with Meara.

“That looks promising,” Brion said, turning to beckon Jared’s household chaplain closer. “Father Nevan, do you know that house?”

“I believe it is Brigidine, Sire,” Nevan replied. “The Order of Saint Brigid. They are a hospital order. Grey ladies. If I am remembering correctly, this may be their mother house.”

“Hospitallers, eh? Well, they can take us in, then,” Brion said irritably, for rain was running down the neck of his oiled leather cloak and plastering his hair to his forehead, despite his leather cap and hood. “If ever there were travelers in need of shelter and succor, we qualify.”

“We do, Sire,” Nevan agreed. “Shall I ride on ahead and ask?”

“Aye, do that. Kenneth, go with him—and stress that we’re perishing with the cold and wet. Cough for them, if that will help.”

With an answering mock cough and a good-natured wave of agreement, for he had, indeed, been coughing in earnest, earlier, Kenneth kneed his horse after Nevan, glad of the diversion. Heads down and hoods pulled low against the driving rain, he and the young priest made their way carefully across the muddy field before the abbey walls, accompanied by the squelching sounds of the horses’ hooves. When they finally drew rein before the abbey gate, Nevan leaned down to tug at the bellpull, repeating the signal several times before a hand-sized flap drew back in the upper part of the postern door.

“Grace and peace to you, servant of God,” Nevan said courteously, leaning down to the level of the opening. Kenneth could see an earnest young face peering up at them from within the hood of a dark cloak. A white coif showed close around her face.

“And God’s grace to you, good sirs,” she said, taking in their bedraggled state with an open glance. “Is it shelter from the storm that you seek?”

“It is, Reverend Lady,” Kenneth replied, “but not for ourselves alone. I fear there are some two score of us. But be assured that the men will be content to make do in a stable or barn, so long as it is dry.” He paused to press the edge of a sodden glove to his nose and mouth as he stifled a cough. “And a few of us, who have taken a chill from the rain, would greatly appreciate a hot meal and a day or two of rest in your infirmary.”

“Ah, then, you know us for a hospitaller order,” the sister replied cheerfully. “Please enter and be welcome.”

“Thank you,” Kenneth replied with a smile, even as the sound of scraping metal told of the door being unbarred. “And know that you give hospitality not only to Father Nevan and myself, but also the King of Gwynedd.”

So saying, he gestured behind them, where the rest of their party were emerging from the rain, the Haldane banner limp and dripping in the hand of Jamyl Arilan. A wicket gate was open by then, and the cloaked sister now framed in the doorway turned urgently to another pair of dark-cloaked women who had joined her. Kenneth, guessing the cause of her concern, swung down from his mount and pushed back his hood as he led the horse through the open doorway and under the shelter of the gatehouse arch, where he at least was out of the rain.

“Peace be with you, Reverend Sisters,” he said easily, moving aside for Father Nevan to join him. “No doubt, the thought of feeding and housing so many men and beasts is somewhat daunting. But we do carry grain for the horses.”

“And be assured,” Nevan chimed in, “that the king is prepared to make a generous donation to this house, in gratitude for your hospitality. The men will be grateful for shelter even in one of your barns, until this weather abates. Our Lord was born in a stable.”

The taller of the two sisters craned a little to one side to peer past the two of them, then returned her attention to the newcomers, though she addressed herself to the priest.

“The king, you say?”

“Aye, Brion of Gwynedd,” Father Nevan replied, making a small bow. “And the Duke of Cassan as well. I am Father Nevan d’Estrelldas, chaplain and battle-surgeon to His Grace. This is the Earl of Lendour. I assure you, we come in peace.”

There followed a flurry of whispered consultation and scurrying to and fro, after which the sister who kept the gate came to make Kenneth and Nevan a small, nervous bow.

“Pray, bid your party enter, Father, and my lord,” she murmured, with a gesture of invitation. “I shall open the gate wider, so that your men may enter, and Sister Ermengard will direct them to the stables. And our lady abbess invites the king and his officers to dine with her this evening.”

“Thank you, Sister.”

More cloaked and hooded sisters emerged from doorways leading into a cloister garth and the pink granite church as Kenneth and Father Nevan led their mounts on into the abbey yard to allow the full gate to open. Several younger sisters, presumably novices and lay sisters, came to take their horses as the king and Jamyl likewise entered and dismounted, followed by Jared and Xander and a slow procession of additional riders. As Kenneth and Nevan waited uncertainly, glancing back toward the king, their conductress from the gate presented them to the house’s abbess: a handsome and briskly competent woman who had a familiar look to her, though Kenneth could not think where they might have met.

“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.”

•   •   •

THE 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.”

•   •   •

THEY 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.”

•   •   •

THE 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.

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.”