Chapter 34

“The king that faithfully judgeth the poor . . .”

—PROVERBS 29:14

AS it transpired, there was never any question of Alaric attending on the king, for word arrived from Morganhall that very afternoon that his Aunt Claara was failing, and that Alaric and Alazais must move quickly if they hoped to see her alive again. Alaric left immediately with her and Llion, and thus had ample excuse not to make an awkward appearance with the king at Valoret, even if the king had wished him to attend.

They arrived to find Claara in her final hours, shockingly frail but still lucid, and were with her when she slipped gently through the veil in the early morning hours of the next day, comforted and supported by her sister Delphine and Alazais, her youngest niece, who sang her sweetly into eternity with a favorite hymn she had often sung with the sisters at Arc-en-Ciel. Alaric was touched by the gesture, for he knew that his aunt had suffered greatly in the two years since her fall, and was now at peace. Delphine was stoic in the face of her sister’s death.

“I have known for several weeks that her time was growing short,” Delphine told them over supper that night. “It is true that I might have summoned you earlier, but it would have served no purpose. And she was ready to go. I’ve sent for her grandchildren, and for Zoë and Geill.” She gazed off into the distance. “With Claara’s passing, I am now the last of my generation. When I am gone,” she said to Alaric, “it will be for you to carry forward the honor of the family. We shall bury her beside her husband. It is what she wanted.”

Thus it unfolded as Delphine had declared. Members of the family converged on Morganhall over the next few days to pay their respects, for Claara had been much loved. Geill and Walter rode down from Culdi with their toddler daughter Alys and little Bronwyn, who had spent her earliest years in the combined household of Delphine and Claara. Claara’s son-in-law, Sir Paxon Fraser, brought Claara’s two grandchildren, Kian and Clarice, much to Bronwyn’s special delight, for she and Clarice Fraser had been like sisters in their early years. Kian, for his part, was thirteen and a just-promoted junior squire in the household of the Earl of Rhendall, whom Sir Paxon also served. He was also a cousin previously unknown to Alaric, though the two found little in common. Each was polite to the other, but that was all. Mostly, Kian stayed close by his father.

Zoë and Jovett were the last to arrive, the afternoon before the funeral was to take place, though they had left their three young children in Cynfyn with Jovett’s parents.

“Aunt Delphine, I am so sorry,” Zoë told her father’s only remaining sister, as she embraced her in the yard at Morganhall. “And Alaric—my goodness, you are very nearly grown!”

They buried Claara the next morning in the village churchyard beside her husband and two stillborn sons, not far from the crypt where generations of Morgan men also lay, including Alaric’s father. Afterward, while the family gathered for a light meal in the hall at Morganhall, Delphine broached the practicalities of what would now become of the estate.

“Again we find ourselves in a quandary, my dears,” she said to her assembled relatives. “I am the last of my generation, and I am not getting any younger. Sir Llion is an apt castellan, of course, but he cannot often be in residence. In short, I shall need more help, unless I am to carry on until I, too, die in harness.” Sir Paxon excused himself from these proceedings, for he was only a son-in-law of the deceased Claara, and had no claim to the estate beyond a few modest pieces of jewelry to be passed to young Clarice, but Alaric was permitted to remain with the adults.

Discussion among Delphine and his three half-sisters and their husbands continued the next day, after Sir Paxon and his children departed for Rhendall. Eventually, it was deemed best that Geill and Walter should apply to Duke Jared for leave to take up residence at Morganhall, to assist Delphine and hold the property in trust for Bronwyn. In the meantime, both Geill and Alazais would remain at Morganhall to assist Delphine in the reorganization of the household.

By then, it was but another day until Michaelmas and Alaric’s eleventh birthday, which the family celebrated with a ride in the countryside. After that, Sir Walter headed back to Culdi to confer with Duke Jared, taking the young Bronwyn with him, and the rest of them bade farewell to Geill and Delphine before heading south. Zoë and Jovett traveled part of the way with them before turning off to Cynfyn with their escort, and Alaric and Llion made their way back to Rhemuth, where Alaric soon settled back into the routine of a Haldane page.

That endeavor would become less of a challenge with the new year, for they soon learned that Cornelius Seaton would be leaving the king’s service at Twelfth Night to join his uncle’s episcopal court at Valoret, as his father had already done. Meanwhile, Alaric could look forward to the Twelfth Night visit of Jared and his family, which meant that he could spend time with his McLain cousins, and see his sister Bronwyn. When they arrived, however, Kevin was not with them.

“He’s gone to Claibourne to serve as squire to the duke,” Jared told him. “Good experience before he’s knighted.”

But Duncan immediately moved into Alaric’s quarters with him, and Bronwyn was taken under the wing of Alazais and Llion.

The solemnities of Christmas came and went, followed by St. Stephen’s Day, when Alaric and all the McLains attended on the king and the dowager queen for the traditional observances.

During the days that followed, leading up to Twelfth Night, Jared spent many hours conferring with the king and his officers of state, mapping out strategies for the north, and Vera spent time with the queen and with Alazais. Meanwhile, formal training was suspended for the pages and squires, so Alaric and Duncan were mostly at leisure, though they did ride out from time to time with Paget Sullivan and Quillan Pargeter, and sometimes played at cardounet.

But the pair also spent many an hour alone, visiting the stables or exploring in the library, or escaping to sheltered portions of the castle’s leads, where they might expect privacy, for they had much to catch up on. Like Alaric, Duncan had been pursuing his chivalric training, since a duke’s son was expected to be competent in martial and courtly pursuits, and eventually be knighted, but he also had begun to consider other possibilities. He had found passion in his academic studies, and was good at them. In conversations with his mother’s chaplain at Culdi, Father Geordan, he had even explored the possibility of taking holy orders.

“It is a traditional occupation for second sons,” Duncan pointed out, when he had exhausted all his other arguments.

“Aye, and it would be dangerous,” Alaric countered. “If they caught you . . . Well, you know what the law says about Deryni trying to be ordained.”

Duncan nodded, looking off over the rooftops of the castle complex.

“How could I not know? They burn them. But I’m only half-Deryni, Alaric, and you’re the only one who knows about that.”

“So we assume,” Alaric replied. “But God knows.”

“Aye, He does. But if I feel the call to become a priest, doesn’t that call come from Him?”

“I suppose,” Alaric allowed. “But—how do you know you’ve been called?”

Duncan shrugged. “I don’t. Yet. But I’m listening.” He glanced at Alaric and grinned. “I know, it’s early on. It’s just something that I’ve been considering. But you already know what you’ll be when you’re grown; you’ve always known. You’re the eldest son, so there was never any question. It’s different for a second son, no matter how much your parents and your elder brother—and your cousin—love you.”

“You could come and join my household, when you’re grown,” Alaric said. “If you’re not to be a duke, you could always be the right-hand man of a duke.”

“Maybe I will,” Duncan replied, quirking him a taut smile. “One never knows.” He sighed and got to his feet. “But I don’t suppose we’re going to figure that out today, or even tomorrow. Besides, we’re only eleven years old.” He cocked his head at Alaric. “Fancy a ride?”

“Of course.” Grinning, Alaric likewise rose, dusting off the seat of his breeches. “We’ve got a few more hours of daylight—and whatever either of us ends up doing, we’ll need to know how to ride. I’ll race you to the stables!”

•   •   •

THREE days later, with the weather still holding, Twelfth Night dawned, with all the pomp and ceremony of the most formal court of the year scheduled for the afternoon. It started out well enough. The new archbishop attended that year—his first as Primate of All Gwynedd—along with several other bishops, who were entirely too numerous to make Alaric happy; but he was not obliged to serve any of them.

At opening court, after Archbishop de Nore had given the blessing, he duly took Cornelius Seaton into his household as a senior squire—which was good riddance, so far as Alaric and many of the other squires and pages were concerned, for Alaric was not the only one who had smarted under Cornelius’s bullying ways. It annoyed Alaric that the smarmy Cornelius now would proceed toward eventual knighthood without the tempering influence of Duke Richard’s discipline, but he told himself that there was nothing he could do about it. Cornelius immediately donned the purple episcopal livery of his uncle’s household and took up squiring duties at his father’s side, haughty and proud.

For his own part, Alaric was instructed to serve the queen and her daughters, as he had done the year before. Paget served beside him as duty squire. Alaric had hoped to serve Duke Jared and Duchess Vera, but that honor went to Duncan and the Redfearn twins, who now were squires. Llion, now a valued member of Duke Richard’s staff, stood attendance on the duke; and his wife, Alazais Morgan, now expecting their first child, attended the queen.

When the official business of the court had been concluded—the making of pages, the promotion of new squires, several knightings—formal court was adjourned to the dais end of the hall, so that guests might pay their individual respects to the king and servants could set up the rest of the hall for the feast to follow.

The mild weather had brought foreign visitors as well as the local nobility, some of them most welcome and others less so. The Hort of Orsal, whose investiture they had witnessed only months before, appeared now with a small delegation and the gift of a Thurian harper to entertain during the feast to follow court. No longer in mourning for his father, the Tralian prince was brilliantly arrayed in velvets and silks of peacock hues, with rings on every finger and ropes of pearls about his neck, one of which he removed and presented to his fellow sovereign.

“Perhaps for your eventual bride,” Létald murmured with a wink, as he pooled the pearls into Brion’s hand. The prince also made a point of speaking personally with Alaric after court.

“I was very pleased to meet you at my investiture, young duke,” the Hort said, shaking his hand. “We are, both of us, starting out our careers as rulers of our respective lands, and I look forward to many years of harmonious interaction. I hope we shall be friends.”

“And I, Your Highness,” Alaric murmured. “I was very glad that I could attend.”

Another welcome and half-expected visitor was the young heir of Bremagne, whom they had met in Tralia: Crown Prince Ryol, accompanied by an uncle, Prince Joscerand, who was half-brother to King Meyric. It fell to Joscerand to unwrap and present Bremagne’s gift: miniature portraits of his three royal nieces, painted on boards and handsomely framed in gilt wood.

“This is Jehane, the eldest . . . and this is Aude . . . and Ursuline,” Joscerand said to the king, as Ryol handed each portrait to Brion, in turn. “My brother hopes that you will come soon to Bremagne to meet them,” he added, as Brion inspected the likenesses and made the required polite but noncommittal responses.

“Most charming,” Brion murmured. “Please convey my thanks to King Meyric for his kind gifts, and say that I hope to visit his kingdom very soon.”

As the gifts were duly handed off to a courtier and then passed to the queen and her daughters, Alaric caught just an impression of auburn hair and pale faces before Xenia and Silke commandeered the portraits and began whispering over them, raven heads pressed together.

Other foreign guests were also seen, many of whom also offered gifts as well as Twelfth Night greetings. Two who were perhaps less welcome than most were a pair of Torenthi nobles, richly arrayed in the silk brocades and furs favored at the Torenthi court, with sweeping mustaches and braided side-locks beneath the cylindrical flat-topped hats that Alaric always associated with Torenth. Because they were Torenthi, and nobility at that, he reckoned that they most probably were Deryni. Cautious, because he well remembered his lesson with Sé, he tried to sharpen his senses regarding the two men, and caught the faint tingle of shields around both.

“Majesty,” said the elder of the pair, as he and his rakish-looking companion gave the king flamboyant court bows. “I am Constantin Furstán-Arkadia. My companion is Sigismund Count von Golzcow. Our sovereign lord, Nimouros ho Phourstános Padishah, commands us to convey his best wishes for the new year, and to present this token of his esteem.”

At his gesture, the younger man unfurled a generous length of multicolored Moorish silk from under his arm and allowed it to cascade down the dais steps, to indrawn breaths from the assembled nobles and from the direction of the queen and her daughters.

“I recognize that Your Majesty’s tastes may run to less . . . exuberant patterns,” Constantin continued with a droll smile, “but perhaps the noble ladies of your household will find this one pleasing.”

Before Brion could frame a diplomatic response, his mother the dowager queen rose in her place and inclined her head to the Torenthi courtier.

“My lord, we thank you for your master’s most generous gift,” she said. “And from my daughters’ expressions, I rather suspect that we shall have . . . animated discussions regarding who shall wear it.” She paused to pull a ring from one hand and extended it to the Torenthi noble with a tight smile. “Pray, convey this to your master with my thanks.”

As Count Constantin took the ring, both Torenthi nobles bowed deeply and backed away, to retreat into the crowd. A glance from the queen summoned Alaric to gather up the silk and deposit it between the two princesses, but he decided to keep an eye on the Deryni who had presented it. He thought the silk itself was safe enough; he could detect no danger. But the men . . .

The next few hours passed pleasantly enough, without apparent incident. While the rest of those who wished to do so presented their compliments and sundry gifts to the king, the Twelfth Night feast proceeded, interspersed with diversions of singing and several performances by a troupe of Logreini mummers, not to mention the harper brought by the Hort of Orsal. Later on, there was dancing. Alaric and Paget, on duty serving the queen and her daughters, had a superb vantage point from which to observe all that went on, and to appreciate the finery of the young ladies of the court.

Alaric would have counted the night’s festivities a resounding success, except that, when he was sent to fetch more wine for the queen’s table, and took a shortcut down to the cellars, he noticed a partially open doorway into one of the storerooms adjacent to the kitchens, and heard muffled moans of pleasure coming from within.

He ducked his head and suppressed a wry smile as he prepared to scurry past. Accustomed as he was to moving in court circles, he could hardly be unaware that large gatherings at court were often the occasion of clandestine amorous encounters among the guests—and what they looked and sounded like. Pages and squires were instructed to ignore such activities whenever possible, or at least to be discreet, but he nonetheless caught the unmistakable impression of a brocade-clad male form bent into the embrace of an apparently willing partner—and white legs writhing amid a flurry of crimson skirts.

That fleeting image brought him up short to backtrack a few steps and gaze in shock, for the woman, by her dress, almost had to be the Princess Xenia, the spirited elder of the king’s two sisters.

He tried to stifle his gasp, but was not altogether successful. The sound was enough to alert the man, who spun and saw him—and stabbed a hand toward him in reinforcement of a powerful command that surged hard against Alaric’s shields.

“You, boy! Come here!”