Chapter 40

“Ye have condemned and killed the just . . .”

—JAMES 5:6

THEY departed for Rhemuth the next day, along with Sir Jovett and half a dozen of his knights who had assisted in the mission into Torenth. Thanks to the industry of Zoë and her mother-in-law during their absence, all in the party wore black mourning bands on their sword arms. Xenia’s brightly painted coffin bore a black pall, now dusty from their journey. The horses pulling the funeral wagon sported black plumes in their headstalls.

The night before they were to reach Rhemuth, Jamyl sent a fast courier ahead to inform the king of their coming, and their success. The next day, just at noon, they approached the city walls and eastern gate to be met by an honor guard of Haldane lancers, with black crape banding their sword arms and more black fluttering from their lances.

The lancers formed up to either side of the gate, dipping their black-pennoned lances in salute as the wagon bearing their dead princess passed between their ranks. The king and his bride of only a few weeks awaited their arrival just before the gates, along with his remaining sister, his brother, and his uncle, all of them in blackest mourning. Both sovereigns wore their crowns, but no other adornment. As the cortege approached them, the dowager queen rode out from the rest and urged her mount toward her son, with Jamyl and Alaric closely following. She nodded to Brion and then to Jehana as she drew rein.

“We have returned with your sister and her child,” she said to her son, head held high. “And dear Jehana, I am so sorry not to have been here to welcome you, but it did not seem fitting that a Haldane princess should lie in a foreign grave. When you are become a mother, you will understand.”

“I do understand, madame,” Jehana said softly, with a deep bow in the saddle. “The king was wise to send you on this mission. Who better than a mother, to appeal to those who kept her?”

“I did choose to go,” Richeldis replied archly, with an inclination of her head. “My son did not send me. But you are right that he was wise not to try to stop me.” Smiling, she leaned across to gently clasp Jehana’s forearm. “You will learn these things in time, my dear. It is ill advised to stand between a queen and her children.” She cast a weary smile at her other two children, at Nigel and Silke silently sitting their horses, then returned her attention to her eldest son.

“I hope our arrival will not dampen the joy of your wedding festivities. I ask only that your sister be accorded the honors due her royal status, so we may lay her to rest with her kin.”

“Arrangements have already been made,” Brion replied. “The archbishop will come to the palace tomorrow morning to consult with you regarding your wishes.” He turned his attention to Jamyl, waiting attentively at the dowager queen’s side. “And thank you for your services, Sir Jamyl. It cannot have been easy.”

Jamyl only inclined his head in acknowledgment, as did Alaric, when the king nodded to him. His inclination was to say nothing of the assistance they had received from Sé and Savion, for he did not know how much Jamyl was prepared to tell. Jamyl seemed not to have any problem with Deryni, but would he protect Sé?

For now, though, that hardly mattered, because the king was kneeing his horse aside to allow the wagon catafalque to precede him.

Men with muffled drums fell in ahead of the wagon, beating out a slow march. Just inside the gates, a crucifer and thurifer and a score of green-robed monks from the cathedral chapter joined the procession, intoning prayers for the dead princess and her infant daughter.

The somber sounds accompanied them as the cortege made its slow way through the city and into the castle yard, where eight black-clad knights waited to carry the coffin into the chapel royal. There it would lie overnight to allow members of the royal household to pay their respects, before being transported back to the cathedral for a state funeral.

They buried Xenia and her daughter two days later, following a solemn Requiem Mass celebrated by the archbishop to commemorate her short life and that of her child. They laid her to rest in the cathedral crypt, beneath a ledger stone beside the sarcophagus that held the body of her father, King Donal, and near the bodies of brothers and sisters who had died before her. Alaric and Llion attended with the others involved in the recovery of the body, given an honored place near the family mourners.

Dinner that night was subdued, to no one’s surprise. Alaric attended the old queen and Princess Silke, as he had for several years now, and the Redfearn twins continued their attendance on the king and his new queen.

Afterward, Prys and Airey followed Alaric to his quarters and there proceeded to tell him of their adventures of the past several months, and the latest gossip at court. The pair had become quite smitten with their new royal mistress during the wedding festivities in Bremagne and the journey home, as were the other squires and pages at court, and Alaric soon found himself quite prepared to let himself get caught up in their adulation for the new queen.

“She’s beautiful and kind, and she likes to hunt . . . ,” Airey said dreamily.

“Aye, and she loves to dance,” Prys chimed in. “Her ladies are organizing dancing lessons for the squires and pages—and the knights, too, if they want to come. She brought about eight ladies, you know, and most of them are young and beautiful!”

Alaric, remembering what he had seen of the court at Millefleurs, could certainly believe that. He hoped the pretty Fallonese girl was not among them, though. She would be a complication he definitely did not need. For now, celibacy seemed by far the best choice.

“She’s brought a couple of sisters, too,” Airey added. “Religious ones, you know. You’ll see them around, looking like crows in their black habits. I don’t know what order, but they seem awfully somber, even though they’re young. Well, one’s young. The other is, well, older. Mathilde and Clemence, they’re called.”

“And there’s a young priest, too,” Prys chimed in. “His name is Father Aimone. I think he’s sort of Llion’s age, but he seems very strict. He says Mass for the new queen and her household every morning, first thing. I think he’d like all the squires and pages to attend, too, at least the ones who serve the queen, but Duke Richard says that isn’t necessary for future knights. He says once a week is enough.”

“I’d keep a low profile, if I were you,” Airey said. “I don’t think he much likes Deryni.”

Alaric mostly listened to all of this information, and resolved to keep an open mind and decide for himself about the new queen’s household.

Meanwhile, once Jovett and his knights set out for Cynfyn, the day after Xenia’s funeral, Alaric tried to settle back into what had become the new normal. Llion escorted Alazais back to Morganhall to visit their daughter, but returned after only a few days, ready to resume his duties.

Training of the squires and pages continued, for Duke Richard still was in charge of that, but the king seemed sometimes preoccupied, seen often in the company of his new bride on long rides through the countryside, strolling in the gardens, sometimes simply disappearing for hours at a time in his apartments.

In the lengthening summer evenings, Alaric found himself continuing to serve the old queen, now partnered with a pair of younger pages whose diffidence told him that they were well aware of who and what he was. And while Airey and Prys continued to be friendly to him, some of the other squires had become more reserved.

“They’re jealous because you got to go on the mission to Torenth,” Airey told him.

“But I didn’t go to Torenth; I only went to Lendour, my own county.”

“You still were treated like a man,” Prys replied. “They’re still whacking at pells and sweating in the practice yard.”

“But, so am I. So is Prince Nigel, so is the king.”

“That’s true,” Airey admitted. “But you still got to go on a real mission, doing important work.”

“That’s because they needed my Lendour men,” Alaric said. “Once we got to Cynfyn, they picked up a Lendouri escort and I got left behind with my cousins and my sister.”

“But you did get to go to Cynfyn,” Prys insisted.

Alaric could only sigh and shake his head, for the pair did not yet understand what Alaric himself was fast learning: that even nobles sometimes were called upon only to wait.

The king’s attitude and behavior also were somewhat different, now that he was a married man. Alaric had expected some changes, but some of them still surprised him. The royal couple usually dined in the great hall with the court, presiding over divers entertainments and dancing into the darkness, but sometimes they took their meals in their apartments while Duke Richard presided with the dowager queen. Alaric was assured by Llion that this was normal behavior for newlyweds, but he missed some of the personal time he had spent with the king before.

Owing to the death of Princess Xenia, the king’s birthday court was somewhat subdued that year, even with a new queen at his side, but the associated tournament was held as scheduled. Alaric duly attended, setting rings for the pages and squires and handling lances. And he squired for the king when he took to the field to demonstrate his prowess before his new wife. But he decided he would not ride against the other squires this time.

“You could best most of them, you know,” Llion said, “even the ones nearly ready for knighthood.”

“I probably could.”

“Then, why not compete?”

“Well, let’s just say that I prefer to lie low for a while.”

“Because . . . ?”

“Because since we returned, I’ve sensed . . . some resentment, that I was allowed to help lead the recovery mission. Airey and Prys have noticed it.”

“But you did not go with the king to his wedding,” Llion pointed out.

“No, but I was sent on a very adult mission. It’s true that they were my men being used, and that I was only providing the assistance appropriate from the Earl of Lendour, but there have been some remarks among a few of the older squires.”

“From whom?”

“I’d rather not say.”

Llion let out a heavy sigh. “I appreciate your discretion, but I think Duke Richard should be aware of such behavior.”

“I can handle it, Llion.”

“I’m sure you can. But I hope you aren’t thinking to use your powers to do it.”

“I won’t do that.”

“You’re certain?”

Alaric shrugged and bit back a grudging grimace. “I won’t do anything. At least nothing overt.”

“See that you don’t,” came Llion’s curt reply.

•   •   •

NO provisions were made that summer for Alaric to visit his lands of Corwyn or Lendour, for he had returned only recently from Lendour, and had spent time in Corwyn the previous year. Instead, late in July, he rode to Morganhall with Llion, for a brief outing that could incite no further resentment among his fellow squires, who likewise were allowed visits home during the summer months.

During their six weeks away from the capital, he and Llion also rode up to Culdi to visit Alaric’s McLain cousins, taking Bronwyn with them. Kevin, now sixteen, had recently returned from more than a year at the court of the Duke of Claibourne, squiring for Duke Ewan and honing his fighting skills against Ewan’s northern knights. Duncan was still at home, continuing his military training with his father’s knights but also studying with his tutors and thinking increasingly about a priestly vocation.

“I’m only thinking about it,” he told Alaric, during one of their private conversations up on the roof leads one night. “I’m only a second son, so I don’t have to worry about one day inheriting a title and responsibilities. And there’s this pull, this yearning toward . . . I’m not sure what. But I do know that when I’m at prayer, or even just sitting in the chapel by myself, I’m . . . more than content. Father Geordan and I talk.”

“But he doesn’t know what you are,” Alaric said softly. “You know it’s forbidden for our kind.”

Duncan shrugged. “Those are the laws of men, not God’s law. There used to be Deryni priests. Somehow, I don’t think God cares about such restrictions. Do you really think that He would reject the service of a Deryni priest whom He has called to His service?”

“I would hope not,” Alaric replied. “But be careful, Duncan.”

Meanwhile, Alaric joined in the training regimen set for Kevin and Duncan, made that much more challenging by the addition of Tesselin as a weapons master and sparring partner. Alaric fought matches against all three during his stay in Culdi, and acquitted himself well.

“That was very well fought,” Duke Jared told him, after watching a particularly intense exchange with Kevin, who was three years older, and nearly a head taller. “You’re fighting well beyond your age. Who has been your sword-master of late?”

Alaric pulled off his helm and accepted the towel Jared handed him with a nod of thanks. “Well, Duke Richard, of course, and Llion. But I also spent time in Coroth and in Bremagne last summer, training with their squires and even with some of their knights. And remember that I was in Cynfyn for nearly a month, earlier this year. I’ve learned, by dint of many a bruise, that there are vast differences in fighting styles, when one goes outside Rhemuth.”

“Well, all that exposure to different training serves you very well,” Jared replied. “If I may, I should like to send Kevin to Coroth for a season. He’s good, but one can always be better.”

Alaric nodded. “He is certainly welcome at Coroth, for as long as he likes—or for as long as you like,” he amended with a smile.

Jared also smiled, shaking his head. “You’re sounding very grown-up,” he mused. “Very like an earl, or even a duke. Travel becomes you. And the experience you had going to Cynfyn with the old queen certainly stood you in good stead.”

Alaric had the grace to duck his head in appreciation. It was beginning to dawn on him that, at very nearly thirteen, perhaps he was nearly over the worst aspects of being treated like a child.

Certainly the news awaiting him and Llion when they returned to Morganhall was not for a child, and certainly not a Deryni child.

“I require that both of you return to Rhemuth as soon as you receive this,” the king’s letter said, addressing Llion, “and bring along an escort of knights from Morganhall to ensure your safety. There has been a disturbing development that may affect Alaric.”

Nothing in the missive gave any clue as to what the threat might be, or why it was addressed to Llion rather than Alaric, but they left immediately for Rhemuth, taking along half a dozen of Alaric’s household knights. When they arrived, the captain of the watch promptly escorted the pair to the king’s withdrawing room, where pages brought a cold collation of bread and cheese and wine and then withdrew. Llion had begun pouring wine for both of them, and Alaric was carving himself a slab of cheese, but both of them came to their feet when Duke Richard came into the room, the king right at his heels. At their grim expressions, Alaric immediately lost all appetite.

“Sire?” Llion said carefully, looking to Richard as well.

“Sit,” Richard said, himself taking a seat as Brion did the same. “And go ahead and eat, if you have the stomach for it, when you’ve heard the news. There has been . . . an incident up by Valoret.”

“By Valoret?” Llion muttered. “Why do I have the suspicion that Archbishop de Nore is involved?”

“Because you’re a very astute man,” the king replied. “Tell them, Uncle.”

Duke Richard allowed himself a heavy sigh. “Early in August, during an ordination ceremony at Arx Fidei Seminary, one of the new priests was discovered to be Deryni. Needless to say, he was immediately taken into custody by the ecclesiastical authorities.”

“A Deryni priest!” Alaric breathed, stunned. “How, discovered?”

“No one knows,” Richard replied. “The bishops would say that God revealed the man’s true nature.”

“What will happen to him?” Llion asked.

“Nothing good,” Richard said. “Archbishop de Nore has convened a special ecclesiastical court in Valoret, where the man is being tried for heresy and defiance of the Laws of Ramos, which forbid Deryni to seek holy orders. If he is convicted, which seems certain, he will be executed.”

Sickened to the point of nausea, Alaric could only stare sightlessly at his untouched food in shock, his mind churning with the implications. Only days ago, he and Duncan had been discussing this very subject, and Duncan had confided that he felt drawn increasingly to a priestly vocation of his own. But Alaric could never reveal that conversation to anyone in the room.

“They’ll burn him won’t they?” he whispered after a few seconds, trying to put from mind the stench of burnt flesh from all those years ago at Hallowdale.

“Aye, that does seem inevitable,” Richard said. “Canon law is clear on the penalty, and the archbishop—well, I trust I needn’t remind you why de Nore holds such an abiding hatred of Deryni. All apart from the Ramos laws.”

“Because of my mother,” Alaric managed to reply, looking up uneasily. “And that’s why he hates me, in particular.”

“Aye, but this is not about you,” the king responded. “At least not directly. It’s an ecclesiastical matter; and unfortunately, the archbishop is also Primate of All Gwynedd, and the last court of appeal in such cases. He will have seen this as a direct attack on the Church by Deryni, and will show no mercy.”

“But—can nothing be done?” Llion asked.

The king shook his head. “Sadly, he has broken the law.”

“Man’s law, or God’s?” Alaric said bitterly.

“Oh, man’s law, to be sure,” Richard replied. “But the Church is powerful, and the Laws of Ramos are still the laws of the land. It will take time and care to unravel them, especially so long as the people hate and revile Deryni.”

“But that is for the future,” the king said briskly. “I am also concerned that the public execution of a Deryni, condoned by the Church, may spark increased hostility to Deryni in general. That means that you will be even more under scrutiny than you have been. You have my protection, of course, but that is only effective if you stay close. And for God’s sake, don’t do anything that might draw attention to yourself.”

“I understand, Sire,” Alaric murmured with a nod.

•   •   •

THE next weeks were tense, as periodic reports trickled in regarding the trial proceeding in Valoret. Indeed, acts of reprisal against Deryni were already beginning to be reported, as news of the event spread outward from the cathedral city and outraged citizens went on the rampage, looking for Deryni to share the fate of the accused. Alaric learned that the young priest was called Jorian de Courcy, by all reports an able and pious student while in seminary, hailing from the mountain region bordering the Connait.

“De Courcy, de Courcy,” Alaric heard Queen Richeldis murmur to the new queen over supper one night, while he was serving at the royal table. “I know that name. My late husband had a de Courcy on his great council for many years.”

“Was he Deryni?” Queen Jehana asked, with an uneasy glance at Alaric.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Richeldis replied. “But I believe there were de Courcys who served the Crown a century ago. I suppose there might have been Deryni blood there, though I’ve never heard about it. There was certainly never anything overt. And those de Courcys were always loyal to the Haldanes. Still, I doubt there is any connection with this unfortunate young man.”

Alaric was called to help bring in the next course after that, and the discussion had turned to other topics by the time he returned.

But snippets of further information continued to surface at court, as the days passed. In early September, word arrived that, to no one’s surprise, Jorian de Courcy had been condemned to death, though the bishops wished to continue his interrogation, in hopes that he might betray yet more Deryni of his acquaintance—for surely he must have had help, to infiltrate so close to the priesthood.

“Duke Richard said that they’ll try to break his spirit next, even torture him,” Llion reported to Alaric a few days later, after dining privately with the three Haldane princes. “They won’t call it that, and they’ll be careful to leave no marks on him, but since he has already been condemned, they can do to him whatever they like, in the name of preserving the purity of the faith. They’ll want to learn more about how he got that close, to actually have hands laid upon him in ordination. And they’ll want to know if there could be more Deryni in their ranks.”

Alaric shook his head, sick at heart. Other than praying for the unfortunate Jorian, all he could do was keep up with his training, building his strength and skill against the day when the king’s protection might not be enough. The other squires kept their distance, for the Deryni stigma Alaric had always lived with was only reinforced by the ongoing rumors and speculation that were rife at court. He grieved for Jorian de Courcy, whom he had never met and now would never meet. But there was nothing he could do.

He turned thirteen at the end of September, though his natal feast was not the festive affair of previous years, spent in his own lands when possible. Alazais came down from Morganhall with Bronwyn and her own young daughter, to spend a few days with him and Llion, but Alaric knew he was poor company. Little was said publicly about a final disposition of Jorian de Courcy, but Alaric was aware that Jorian’s eventual fate preyed on the mind of the king, who felt he dared not interfere with the rulings of the Church.

Word came at last that the execution would take place on the eleventh day of November, in the yard of the abbey school where he had been apprehended. The news made the coming event very real, far removed from the abstract notion of a judicial killing of a man who had done nothing except to obey the Word that called him to be a priest.

“They’re really going to do it,” the king said almost disbelievingly, when the messenger had delivered the official decree from Valoret.

“You knew they would,” Duke Richard replied. “What made you think the outcome could be any different?”

Brion was shaking his head. “This shouldn’t be. I’ve had inquiries made. From everything I’ve been able to learn, this Jorian de Courcy is a temperate, pious, and well-read young man who wanted only to serve God: precisely the kind of man we want in the priesthood.

“But they’re going to kill him, in one of the most horrible ways yet devised. And do you remember what day that is, the eleventh of November? It’s Martinmas, which is also the day that marks the beginning of slaughtering of animals for the winter.” He snorted. “The slaughter of an innocent, more like.”

But worse was to come, even before the execution day arrived. On the first day of November, the king and his uncle were signing and sealing correspondence in the withdrawing room, with the assistance of Prince Nigel and Alaric, when Jiri Redfearn intruded to report that a delegation from Archbishop de Nore was requesting audience with the king.

“How many?” the king demanded.

“Only two, Sire, but one is a bishop.”

“Please tell me it isn’t de Nore. . . .”

“No, Sire. He says his name is Seabert of Nyford,” came the reply. “He mumbled the name of his companion, so I didn’t catch it, but I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of having me ask to repeat it. Appears to be another priest, though.”

“Probably another of de Nore’s staff, then.” Brion sighed heavily. “Very well, I suppose I must see them, but I’ll see them on my terms. Let them cool their heels for a little while. And meanwhile, here’s what I want you to do.”

Half an hour later, the king had changed his clothes for a stark black tunic, as had Duke Richard. He also had directed Jiri to summon Llion and Jamyl, whose younger brother had been a classmate of the doomed Jorian de Courcy and had witnessed his apprehension. All of them likewise had been instructed to put on black except for the two squires, Prince Nigel and Alaric, who stood uneasily to either side of the king in their crimson Haldane livery.

It was Sir Jiri who escorted the archbishop’s envoys into the withdrawing room, where the king had seated himself on the only available chair, wearing the Eye of Rom in his right ear and a simple gold circlet set round about with cabochon rubies as big as a man’s thumbnail, his sable hair scraped back severely in a warrior’s knot.

“Sire, Bishop Seabert of Nyford and Father Gorony,” Jiri announced.

Both men bowed, and the king inclined his head in perfunctory acknowledgment. Beneath their plain black working cassocks and traveling cloaks the newcomers were booted and spurred. The older of the pair clearly was the bishop, with an ornate pectoral cross gleaming on his breast. The younger man was slender and thirtyish looking, of middling height, altogether nondescript and benign in appearance. Brion thought he recognized him as one of de Nore’s chaplains.

“Bishop. Father.”

“Thank you for seeing us, Sire,” the younger man said easily, with a slight inclination of his head. “I am Lawrence Gorony, chaplain to my lord Archbishop de Nore. He bids me confirm to Your Majesty that the Deryni heretic Jorian de Courcy will undergo his purgation by fire on the eleventh day of this month.” In the deadly silence, he paused to draw a leisurely breath.

“His Grace further wishes you to know that, while he does not oblige you to attend, this being a matter of Church discipline as well as civil law, he does order and require that the Deryni squire Alaric Morgan present himself on the eleventh day instant to witness the execution.” His eyes flicked briefly to Alaric as he continued. “This is for the good of his immortal soul, and a demonstration of the fate awaiting any Deryni who attempts to defy Mother Church and the laws of this land.”

As the king stiffened, and Alaric lifted his chin in defiance, Duke Richard broke in.

“The archbishop,” he said icily, “does not ‘order and require’ anything of His Majesty or one of His Majesty’s peers. You overstep yourself, priest, as does your master.”

Gorony merely glanced aside at his companion and inclined his head slightly, stepping back half a pace, clearly deferring to the other’s greater authority as the bishop closed a pale right hand over his pectoral cross, which also brought attention to his bishop’s ring. Siebert was somewhat taller than Gorony, sturdily built but soft looking, with faded and thinning reddish hair, a long nose, and an abundance of freckles.

“Far be it from me to contradict a prince of the blood,” Siebert said smoothly, “but Archbishop de Nore is Primate of All Gwynedd, and has the authority and duty to care for all the souls in his charge—even the tainted souls of the Deryni goats among his sheep.” He briefly turned a disdainful eye on Alaric. “His Grace feels that witnessing the execution of a fellow Deryni with inappropriate aspirations will have a salutary effect on ensuring that said Alaric Morgan minds his own soul—such as Deryni may possibly have souls.”

“Have a care, Bishop!” Llion warned, hand on the hilt of his sword.

“No, let be,” Brion quickly said, lifting a restraining hand. “Since I have no intention of complying with the archbishop’s request, we need not give it countenance.”

“I would not presume to contradict my king,” Siebert went on, “but this was not a mere request from His Grace; it was an episcopal directive, for the good of the Deryni boy’s soul and yours, Sire. And if you accept it not, I am instructed to inform you that His Grace intends to exercise the full weight of his office to ensure that his directive is carried out.”

“I trust that is not a threat, Bishop,” Duke Richard said.

“Certainly not, Your Highness,” Siebert replied. “Neither he nor I would presume to threaten our king. But he does wish me to tell you this.” He returned his attention to the king. “If you refuse to order the boy to comply with his archbishop’s directive, which is all for the regulation of his immortal soul, His Grace will be obliged to impose the penalty of excommunication, not only on him but on yourself, since Alaric Morgan serves you as squire, and you are responsible for all aspects of his conduct. And if it should come to pass that you remain still obdurate, interdict is not beyond—”

“I’ll go!” Alaric blurted.

In the immediate silence produced by these two words, all eyes turned to Alaric Morgan.

“Forgive me, Sire, but I am well aware what happens when interdict is imposed. The people suffer greatly.”

Siebert mostly controlled a prim and satisfied smile, sweeping his gaze disdainfully up and down Alaric’s taut form, but the king lifted a restraining hand before the bishop could speak again.

“Uncle, please escort Bishop Siebert and Father Gorony to wait outside. The rest of you, please accompany them. I would have private converse with Lord Alaric.”

Richard immediately moved to comply, followed by the others, but the king signed for Llion to remain. Not until the door had closed behind them did the king speak, beckoning Alaric closer.

“I cannot let you do this.”

“Sire, I must.”

“Alaric, it is a noble thing you are offering, to witness such an atrocity against one of your own people,” the king said, “but I cannot ask you to do this.”

“You are not asking me, Sire,” Alaric said quietly. “I have decided that this is something I must do.”

“Alaric—”

“No, Sire. Please do not try to dissuade me. Interdict is too big a price to pay, just to spare me witnessing something unpleasant.”

“‘Unpleasant,’” Brion repeated. The king stared at him for a long moment, then inclined his head in acceptance, though the royal lips were pressed tightly together.

“Very well.” He nodded to Llion. “Bring the others back in.”

Bishop Siebert and Gorony duly filed back into the room, followed by the rest. Alaric remained standing beside the king, where Llion also took up his station.

“Tell your archbishop,” the king said without further preamble, “that I will allow what he has requested. But it is only because my Duke of Corwyn has agreed to do it. And make no mistake: Alaric Morgan is the Duke of Corwyn, even though he has not yet attained his legal majority. Because of that, selected members of my court, suitable to his rank, will be allowed to accompany him. And if any harm comes to any of them, I shall regard it as an act of treason against my crown.”

Siebert inclined his head slightly. “I remind Your Majesty that the Abbey of Arx Fidei is a place of religious sanctuary. Any who pass through its gates are guaranteed the protection of the Church.”

“A singular reassurance to Jorian de Courcy, I am sure,” the king muttered.

“Indeed.” Siebert’s expression was one of distaste. “But I am obliged to point out that de Courcy is a convicted heretic, a mocker of the law of God, as well as being Deryni.” He glanced contemptuously at Alaric. “I trust that the Deryni Duke of Corwyn will comport himself appropriately, while under our protection.”

“The Duke of Corwyn is a faithful son of the Church,” Brion said. “I shall send one of my chaplains with him, to attest to that.”

“Then, you need not fear for him, my lord,” the bishop said, and inclined his head in leave-taking before turning to withdraw with his companion.