The King's Deryni, Page 2

  Composing himself to a properly kingly mien, Brion bent to kiss his mother’s hand, then straightened and lifted his arms to either side so that she and his sisters could pass the belt around his waist and under his mantle, stark white against the sable of his over-robe.

  “Congratulations, my son,” his mother murmured, as she fastened its jeweled clasp. “May this belt be always a reminder to keep your honor spotless.”

  When she had kissed him on both cheeks and hugged him close, Silke shyly presented him with her rose, which he tucked into his belt. He then accepted a kiss from each of his sisters, in turn.

  After that, as the women drew back, Brion turned back to his uncle and again sank to his knees on the scarlet cushion. At the same time, the aged Archbishop of Rhemuth came forward, coped and mitered in cloth of gold, to stand as witness. Richard had retrieved the Haldane sword from Prince Nigel, and now laid it across both palms, extending it to Brion. In response, the king laid his hands atop Richard’s in oath, looking him in the eyes.

  “Here before God and these witnesses, and with my hands upon the sword of my fathers, I, Brion Donal Cinhil Urien, knight, do make this reaffirmation of my coronation vows,” he said steadily. “I solemnly promise and swear that I will do my utmost to keep the peace in Gwynedd and govern its peoples according to our ancient laws and customs; that I will, to the best of my ability, cause law and justice, in mercy, to be executed in all my judgments, so that evil and wrongdoing shall be suppressed, and the laws of God maintained. All this I vow, on my honor as a king and as a true knight, so help me God.”

  With that, he bent to kiss the blade between his hands, crossed himself in response to the blessing uttered by the archbishop, “In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” then waited while his uncle slipped the sword into its jeweled scabbard and laid it back across his hands. As he stood, shifting the sheathed sword into the crook of his left arm, Kenneth Morgan brought forward the state crown of leaves and crosses intertwined, inclining his head as he lifted it slightly between them.

  “Sire, I return the crown of Gwynedd into your good keeping,” he said.

  Smiling, the king bent slightly so that Kenneth could set the crown upon his brow, then turned to face the waiting court. At the same time, Ewan Duke of Claibourne declared: “My lords, I present to you Sir Brion Haldane, King of Gwynedd, Prince of Meara, Lord of the Purple March, and now, by God’s grace, a knight!”

  A roar of approbation erupted from the assembled court, along with an energetic stamping of feet, only abating when the smiling Brion lifted a hand for silence. As he did so, Duke Richard moved from in front of the throne to make way for his nephew, and Kenneth took his place beside the throne with half a dozen others on whose counsel the king relied. King Illann retired to a noble chair set among those of his sister the queen, her two daughters, and also his own son. Young Alaric Morgan, his official duties now complete, retreated into the charge of Sir Llion Farquahar, the young Corwyn knight who looked after him when his father was otherwise engaged.

  “That was nicely done, Master Alaric,” Sir Llion murmured, as he shepherded the boy toward a side door. “Now we’d best get you changed into proper tourney clothes. And you have a pony waiting to be groomed.”

  “But the king is going to make more knights,” the boy replied, craning his neck back over his shoulder to glimpse the senior squires gathering at the back of the hall with their escorts of family and supporters. “And then there will be birthday gifts.”

  Chuckling, Llion smiled faintly as he ushered the boy out into the garden colonnade adjoining the great hall.

  “Have you not had enough pomp and ceremony for one day?” he teased. “I thought you were keen to beat Airey Redfearn and Aean Morrisey in the ring-tilting—and your cousin Duncan will be eager to have you cheer him on.”

  “That’s later this afternoon,” Alaric said reasonably. “We have plenty of time.”

  “And why would you want to go back into that hot and crowded great hall?” Llion countered lightly, as he scanned the handful of others who had sought the cooler climes of the garden. Fortunately, no one was close by.

  “Well, I—just like to watch people,” the boy said uncertainly.

  “Hmmm, yes. And I have no doubt that some of them would derive great satisfaction from watching you—though I very much doubt that ‘like’ has anything to do with it.” Llion glanced around again, and kept his voice low. “Did you not notice Bishop de Nore glaring at you the whole time you were standing there beside your father, because you were close to the king? And it is quite possible that there are Torenthi emissaries among the observers, who almost certainly would be Deryni. They don’t hate you in the way that de Nore hates you, but it certainly would be to the advantage of their king if the King of Gwynedd did not have a future Deryni duke being brought up in the safety of his court.”

  The boy glanced down at his feet, clearly unhappy with the direction the conversation was taking.

  “Alaric,” Llion murmured, drawing the boy closer into the shelter of one of the columns, “you know what could happen. Your father or I cannot always be there to protect you—but even if we could, it makes no sense to deliberately expose yourself to danger.”

  “I know, but—”

  “No ‘buts’ about it, lad,” Llion returned. “There is no point courting an incident. Time enough for that when you’re grown, if you feel you must. For now, however, we need to prepare for the tournament. I know that I don’t intend to dirty my court garb. Let’s go upstairs and get changed.”

  The boy rolled his eyes and sighed with the indulgent acceptance of any well-mannered seven-year-old, but he was already bestirring himself to head toward the entrance to a back stair, Llion trailing after him as the murmur of distant voices from the great hall faded behind them.

  Meanwhile, those voices betokened the ongoing business of the king’s court, which must be concluded before the assembled nobles might retire to the tournament field. Though the conferring of knighthood customarily took place at Twelfth Night court, usually the one following a candidate’s eighteenth birthday, Brion had still been but seventeen at the Twelfth Night just past. Exceptions were often made for good cause, especially in the case of a king or prince, but Brion had declined to exercise that prerogative, even though his uncle, Duke Richard, had declared him easily ready in level of strength and skill.

  “I am happy enough to wait,” the king had said, in the lead-up to Christmas court. “My brother Nigel is to receive his squire’s spurs this year. He should not have to share that day with the knighting of an older brother. I shall hold a birthday court and tournament instead, and receive my knighthood at that time.”

  Accordingly, Prince Nigel Haldane had duly received his promotion to squire at the previous Twelfth Night, ahead of all others moving from page to squire. It had given the two brothers opportunity to serve as squires together for six months, albeit as senior and junior squire. It had also underlined their love, which shone proudly in Prince Nigel’s gaze as he attended the throne today—and had provided the younger prince with a prize vantage point from which to observe this, his elder brother’s official coming-of-age as a warrior as well as a king.

  The king now took center stage in the further ceremonies of the day, by which additional young men would receive the knightly initiation. In a display of largesse unseen in recent memory, the newly dubbed Sir Brion Haldane conferred the accolade on six worthy candidates from lesser noble families throughout the realm: promising younger sons whose modest circumstances would have precluded taking up this honor without royal patronage, and whose gratitude would reinforce their loyalty in the years to come. All six had served the royal household as senior squires at least since the previous Twelfth Night, refining the skills acquired at various provincial courts and learning the ways of royal service, as they submitted themselves to the discipline of Duke Richard’s impeccable tutel
age. For each candidate, the same care was applied as had been given the king, with the six new knights then taken into personal service to the king, as household knights. The measure met with great popular approval.

  Following these formalities came a less formal birthday court, with presentations of felicitations both personal and diplomatic, and often more tangible tokens of esteem. Similar to what had occurred on his fourteenth birthday, the young king received gifts appropriate to his now-adult status: new items of armor and weaponry; swords and daggers; a finely illuminated compendium of religious houses in the southwest from his uncle the King of Howicce and Llannedd; a brace of brindle coursing hounds from the Emir of Nur Hallaj; a fine R’Kassan stallion from the Prince of Andelon; a hawk from the governor of Meara, delivered by his eldest son; a little recurve bow inlaid with ivory and a quiver of fine hunting arrows from the King of Torenth, delivered by his envoy, Count János Sokrat; half a dozen lengths of gold-shot crimson silk from the Hort of Orsal; and divers gifts of gold and precious jewels from other representatives of the ambassadorial corps, with delegates from as far away as distant Bremagne.

  “I thank all of you for your kind gifts,” Brion said to the assembled court, when all the presentations had been made. “You have been most generous, and I shall treasure these tokens of your esteem. But having concluded the formal part of our proceedings, I now invite all of you to join us for a light collation before we adjourn to the tourney field, for I have a hankering to test my new knights.” He nodded to the other newly knighted men, not bothering to control his smile. “I look forward to an interesting afternoon, gentlemen!”

  Chapter 2

  “My son, hear the instruction of thy father, and forsake not the law of thy mother.”

  —PROVERBS 1:8

  SEVERAL hours later, all the company had adjourned to the tourney field in the lower ward of the castle. Sir Kenneth Morgan was among those who came down with the others to share in the king’s celebrations, riding the occasional run at the quintain, but also to watch his own son in the competitions.

  The boy was good—far better than any lad of only seven summers had any right to be, even one with so illustrious a lineage. As young Alaric Morgan wheeled his pony and started his seventh run at the rings, child-sized lance leveled squarely at the dangling target—and snared his seventh ring!—rider and mount seemed to move as a single entity.

  Watching from behind a fence rail at the sidelines, the boy’s father gave an approving nod and glanced up at the blond, mop-headed young knight perched on the fence beside him: Sir Llion Farquahar, who had become almost like a second son to him, and who looked after his true-born son.

  Earlier, immediately after the ceremony that made a knight of Brion King of Gwynedd and six others, the king and his new knights had enjoyed a mock melee battle against a like number of older knights, fought with blunted weapons and courtesies never accorded in true combat. At Kenneth’s urging, Llion had volunteered to be one of the seven riding against the king—and helped to trounce the royal side.

  Now, while the squires in training rode at the quintain across the field, or galloped down a flag-marked lane with wooden swords in hand, and tried to whack head-sized sacks of wool from stout posts set at the height of a man, the duly humbled Sir Brion Haldane was taking challenges from individual knights—and making challenges, and winning far more often than he lost. For the pages, who were only early in their training for eventual knighthood, Duke Richard had arranged a competition of ring-tilting. Alaric, though not yet old enough to have entered formal page’s training, was outperforming boys nearly twice his age.

  “He’s riding very well today,” Kenneth observed, well aware that Llion could claim a good deal of the credit. Since taking service with Kenneth nearly five years before, following his own knighting in Corwyn, the young knight had been the boy’s riding master and constant companion when Kenneth was otherwise occupied—an arrangement that seemed to please all concerned.

  Llion nodded agreement, but he did not take his eyes from his young charge as the boy circled around to return to the start of the run. “Aye, he is, my lord—though I’ve learned not to be surprised at his knack with animals. The true test will be whether his accuracy holds for ten runs. These are smaller rings than we’ve been using up at Culdi. I’ll need to remedy that.”

  Kenneth said nothing, only hiking himself up onto the fence rail with Llion to watch as a squire set a new ring and the next boy began his run. Airey Redfearn and his twin, Prys, were several years older than Alaric, already official pages at court, and had six rings each, though the former had also missed two rings. One more miss would put Master Airey out of the competition.

  “Llion, Llion!” came a young and urgent voice from Llion’s other side, as a boy in the sky-blue and silver of the Duchy of Cassan pelted up behind them and scrambled onto the rail between the two adults. “What did I miss? How many has Alaric got? Do you think he’ll take all ten rings? Oh, hello, Uncle Kenneth.”

  “Hello, Duncan.”

  The tousle-headed boy who snuggled into the curve of Kenneth’s arm was only a few months younger than Alaric: Duncan McLain, the younger grandson of Andrew Duke of Cassan, whose sister had been Kenneth’s mother. He was also Alaric’s favorite cousin.

  “In answer to your most pressing question,” Llion said, chuckling, “he has seven, and—oh, dear!” he murmured, as Airey Redfearn not only missed his third ring but tumbled from the saddle as his pony jinked and bucked at the end of the run. “Well, that’s young Airey done for the day.”

  “Ow, bad luck!” Duncan said. “That pony is nasty! Airey is much better than that!”

  “Aye, he usually is,” Llion agreed. “Let’s see how Alaric does on his next run. He’s next after Ciarán MacRae.”

  “Is Ciarán any good?” Kenneth asked, just as an older page with a shock of bright red hair shot from the start and neatly took his next ring. “Well, answering my own question, obviously he is.”

  “I don’t think he has any misses yet,” Llion replied.

  “He’s nice, too,” Duncan chimed in. “Look! Alaric is lining up for another go.”

  All of them fell silent as a new ring was set and a senior squire signaled ready. With a nod, Alaric collected the shaggy mountain pony and started his next run—and snared the ring smartly. As the lance lifted, they could see the new ring glinting in the sun as it slithered down the shaft to stack atop the first seven. Young Duncan let out a delighted whoop and waved energetically as his cousin pulled up at the end of the run and glanced back in their direction, flashing a gap-toothed grin. Atop a rail on the opposite side of the ring run, a dark-haired older boy in Haldane page’s livery looked decidedly less pleased.

  “Hah, Cornelius Seaton is soooo jealous!” Duncan muttered under his breath.

  Kenneth refrained from comment, but he could sense Llion considering a fitting response. Both were well aware that the said Seaton scion, regarded as one of the more promising of Duke Richard’s latest crop of pages, had been unceremoniously dumped from his pony on his very first run at the rings.

  “Is it charitable, do you think, to take delight in another’s misfortune?” Llion asked after a beat.

  “He hates Alaric,” Duncan said stubbornly, lower lip outthrust. “He does everything he can to make Alaric look bad.”

  Llion merely slipped an arm around the younger boy in sympathy, but Kenneth allowed himself a tiny grimace, well aware of the long-standing antipathy between the two youngsters—and its cause. Though Cornelius’s father, Sir Errol Seaton, was regarded as a decent enough man, and recently had been appointed to the crown council, his mother was a sister of the powerful Bishop of Nyford, Oliver de Nore, who had made a career of persecuting Deryni. Their youngest brother had been the disgraced priest Septimus de Nore, executed on the testimony of Kenneth’s late wife, for his part in the rape and murder of a child. Kenneth had assisted in the
investigation of the crime, and had no doubt that the testimony had been honest, but he could understand the family’s resentment. Still, Alaric could not help being his Deryni mother’s son. . . .

  “I hope he falls off the fence!” Duncan muttered darkly, folding his arms across his chest and glaring at the offender.

  “Who, Cornelius?” Llion said mildly, as Kenneth glanced down at the sulking Duncan. “I should think it would be sufficient to hope that he eventually reaps what he sows—as shall we all.” He reached up to gently tousle Duncan’s sun-kissed brown hair. “But in answer to your previous question, I think Alaric shall, indeed, take many more rings, if he continues to ride as he has thus far. Do you intend to ride again?”

  Duncan ducked his head sheepishly. “I can’t win,” he said glumly. “I missed the ring on my fifth run.”

  “Ah, but winning is not the only point of this exercise,” Llion countered. “If you don’t practice, you cannot improve. Your cousin was not always as skilled as he appears today; nor will he always ride the perfect set. And it isn’t even always up to the skill of the rider. Ponies can stumble, or act up—as yon Cornelius has cause to know very well. He’s actually quite a good rider.”

  Duncan wrinkled his nose in distaste, but also nodded grudging agreement. “I suppose,” he said, then glanced up winningly at both adults. “I wonder if the list master would let me continue. After all, I didn’t fall off—I only missed a ring. You’re allowed to miss three before you’re out.”