King Kelson's Bride Read online

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Appendix I: INDEX OF CHARACTERS

  Appendix II: INDEX OF PLACES

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  KING KELSON’S BRIDE

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2000 by Katherine Kurtz

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-0792-5

  AN ACE BOOK®

  Ace Books first published by The Ace Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ACE and the “A” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: April, 2002

  For Robert Reginald,

  who is also Brother Theophilus:

  faithful fellow venturer

  into the exotic lands East of Gwynedd,

  where many things are very different, indeed. . . .

  PROLOGUE

  He that is greedy of gain troubleth his own house.

  Proverbs 15:27

  “Mark me well, my brother, for I tell you truly that Kelson of Gwynedd means to wed. He must, now that he has agreed to allow the return of Liam-Lajos to Torenth. The way of kings is that of expediency. And it is expedient for the King of Gwynedd to provide his kingdom with an heir before his rival can do the same.”

  The speaker was Count Teymuraz, acting regent of Arjenol and a younger brother of its duke, Mahael, who was seated across from him. The latter was one of the regents of Torenth, and both men were kin by marriage to the woman who had summoned them to this meeting at domed Torenthály, country seat of Torenth’s kings.

  The Princess Morag Furstána, widowed sister of the late King Wencit of Torenth, was standing in the opening of a long, brass-trellised window that looked westward across rolling fields, lush and verdant in the brightness of a sultry June afternoon. Co-regent with Mahael, she was also the mother of the previous king, of the said Liam-Lajos, who was the present king, and of Prince Ronal Rurik, the ten-year-old heir presumptive.

  “If you are telling me that Liam-Lajos soon must wed, I think it premature,” she said quietly, hooking the be-ringed fingers of one hand through the brass grillwork.

  “Premature?” said Teymuraz. “He is fourteen, two months into his majority. And the precarious nature of his situation does put a certain urgency on the matter.”

  She turned to look at him. The dappled sunlight filtering through the pierced brass set aglow the gauzy folds of veil and trailing sleeve and touched with fire the bands of gold embellishing the royal purple, shimmering around her like the magical Deryni auras all of them could conjure forth at will.

  “Do you think I am not aware of that?” she asked. “Yes, he is fourteen. And we have no idea what manner of man he has become, in these four years held hostage at the court of Gwynedd. Best determine first whether he is fit to be king, before we speak of the getting of heirs.”

  “Harsh words, from the one who bore him,” Mahael replied. A faint smile curled within the close-clipped black beard. “And yet, for the sake of the kingdom, we must all of us acknowledge that it could prove necessary to pass over Liam-Lajos in favor of one better suited to rule.”

  As she glanced at him sharply, Teymuraz gave an amused snort.

  “Since my brother has been responsible for the training of the young king’s brother, who is the present heir, I can only think he alludes to four more years of his own regency, if it were necessary for Liam-Lajos to give way to Ronal Rurik. We are all of us aware that Mahael harbors no ambition of his own regarding the throne.”

  Mahael feigned languid interest in a massive seal ring that he wore on his left forefinger, dark eyes heavy-lidded as his thumb absently caressed the design cut into the murky bloodstone.

  “I would not see either of my nephews come to harm,” he said neutrally, “but if any had a right to wield the might of Furstán after them, it would be myself.”

  “No one disputes either part of that statement,” Morag said briskly, coming to sit between them. “It is an unnatural mother who does not wish success for her sons; but not having seen my elder one for several years, I cannot, as regent, speak for his readiness to rule this kingdom. We do not know how he may have been tainted by contact with the court of Gwynedd. He has had his training from Duke Nigel Haldane, who has ever been a fierce and loyal advocate for Gwynedd’s interests—which rarely coincide with Torenth’s interests. And I like it not that, as a condition of his return, we must endure the presence of a Gwyneddan ‘advisor’ always among us, until my son attains the age of eighteen.”

  “We need not ‘endure,’ if the situation becomes too inconvenient,” Mahael remarked. “Human advisors can be gotten around, and I doubt that young Haldane will long risk leaving one of his few Deryni intimates among us.”

  “You’re aware that if interference is detected, you risk war,” Teymuraz said, his voice trailing off in question.

  “My dear Teymuraz, let us not speak of such unpleasantness,” Mahael said silkily. “But even if the Haldane should leave one of his Deryni among us . . . accidents do happen.”

  “Aye, even to princes,” Teymuraz murmured, not looking at either of them, for the previous king, Morag’s eldest son, had died under circumstances many might term “convenient,” shortly after attaining his legal majority. Suspicions of Haldane conspiracies had emerged very quickly from the backlash of shocked grief and outrage—though without a shred of evidence—but it could not be denied that two of those present had greatly benefited by the boy’s death, simply resuming their regency of the previous four years. That one of those regents was the boy’s mother had not stopped speculation in some quarters.

  The Princess Morag ignored the comment, tossing her head with a musical chiming of tiny golden bells at ears and throat, and retrieved the wine she had abando
ned earlier. The stemmed goblet was of delicate green Vezairi glass, almost invisible against the rich moss-green of the brocade table covering. The wine was the color of blood.

  “Teymuraz, you spoke of the Haldane’s intention to wed,” she said, holding the glass to the light after she had sipped from it. “Have you heard aught regarding whom he might choose?”

  Inclining his head, Teymuraz said, “I have cause to wonder whether he might yet persuade the Nabila Rothana to marry him. She and her young son are reported to be visiting Rhemuth; no one knows why.”

  Mahael flicked his long braid back over his shoulder with a dismissive gesture and leaned forward to pour himself another glass of wine.

  “The boy’s paternal grandparents live in Rhemuth,” he said. “There is no mystery to that. Furthermore, Rothana has stated publicly that she will never marry again—and you know the stubbornness of the House of ar-Rafiq. No, I think it far more likely that the King of Gwynedd seeks a queen among the daughters of the Hort of Orsal’s court. His mother passed the winter there; did you know?”

  Morag looked startled, and Teymuraz sat back in his chair with an appraising glance at his brother.

  “Why was I not told?”

  “It was not a state visit,” Mahael answered. “The ostensible purpose was to assist in preparations for the coming nuptials of one of the Orsal’s nieces, who is also a cousin to Queen Jehana by marriage.”

  “That would be one of the Princess Sivorn’s daughters,” Morag observed, arching a dark eyebrow at Mahael’s complacent nod. “Interesting. They are of marriageable age, aren’t they? And Haldanes, too.”

  “Surely not of a sort we need worry about overmuch,” Teymuraz said, with a disparaging wave of his hand.

  “And why not?” Morag asked.

  Teymuraz shrugged. “Their father was Duke Richard Haldane, uncle to Queen Jehana’s late husband—hardly a contender so far as Haldane powers are concerned. Besides, the elder girl is soon to make a Mearan match, arranged by Kelson himself—and ’tis said that the younger is all but betrothed to Prince Cuan of Howicce.”

  “Then, it seems the Haldane demoiselles are safely out of the equation,” Morag said. “That takes us back to the Orsal’s daughters—but surely they’re too young.”

  “The eldest isn’t,” Mahael remarked. “She’s called Rezza Elisabet.” On his lips, the name carried a sibilant frisson that caused both his companions to glance at him sharply, though for different reasons. Teymuraz quickly schooled himself to a more neutral deference before his elder brother.

  “I thought,” said Morag, “that we were talking about a bride for Kelson.”

  “Oh, we are,” Mahael agreed. “But the King of Gwynedd is not alone in his quest for a rich and nubile bride.” He shrugged in amusement at her expression of distaste. “You have continued to spurn my offers of matrimony, dear Morag.”

  “Darling Mahael, I adore you,” she replied, with a faintly poisonous smile, “but we should kill one another within a week.”

  “But, oh, what a week of passion it should be!” He chuckled as she rolled her eyes heavenward. “Perhaps not. Failing your capitulation, however, I must confess that the prospect of a suitable consort has been on my mind of late. In fact, my brother will be greatly relieved to learn that it isn’t the Orsal’s daughter who has caught my fancy, but his niece, the fair Araxie. That flower would be wasted in Howicce, dear Teymuraz.”

  “True enough,” Teymuraz said, much relieved. “But what about Prince Cuan?”

  “He is a boy,” Mahael replied. “And he is not Deryni.”

  Morag smiled mirthlessly and shook her head, pushing back a fold of her purple veil. “The poor girl hasn’t a chance—or the boy. However, this still leaves us with the question of why Jehana has spent the winter at the Orsal’s court. Do you suppose she is seeking a bride for her son among the Orsal’s daughters?”

  Mahael shrugged. “Alas for my brother, I think it possible. And from a Torenthi perspective, it is a far less dangerous match than many being proposed—though marrying into the von Horthy line almost guarantees an heir within a year, if the Haldane does his duty; they are notoriously good breeders. His council would approve of that. Nor would they object to the fact that she is also wealthy and not overly clever.”

  “I object to neither, in the bedchamber,” said Teymuraz. He sighed resignedly. “Ah, sweet Elisabet, thou luscious and succulent peach, ripe for plucking. Fortunate the man who claims thy maidenhead!”

  “We must find wives for both of you!” Morag muttered. “Either that, or a better quality of serving maids. Now, may we please return to the reason I summoned you here?”

  Mahael cast an admonitory but indulgent glance at his younger brother, then returned his attention to Morag.

  “Despite my brother’s obvious disappointment, I reiterate my recommendation regarding the Orsal’s daughter. Such a match would have no immediate ramifications for any of the other lands surrounding Gwynedd. More to the point, I see little likelihood that it would change any of the favorable trade arrangements we have in place at present with the girl’s father.”

  “A telling point,” Morag agreed. “Nothing can be allowed to compromise our southern ports.”

  “Our southern ports would be served just as well if I married the girl,” Teymuraz said a little petulantly. “On the other hand—” An odd look came upon his handsome face. “Dear me, I’ve just conceived a far better reason to see her married to the Haldane.”

  “Which is—?”

  “Just this: Mahael, you said that Queen Jehana had gone to the Orsal’s court to assist in the nuptial preparations for her kinswoman. Have you considered the very unpleasant possibility that she might be arranging for two Haldane weddings in Meara?”

  Mahael gazed at Teymuraz appraisingly, slowly nodding as he leaned back in his chair. “A possibility I had not, indeed, considered, my brother—and unpleasant, to be sure.”

  “What possibility?” Morag demanded.

  Mahael returned his attention to their sister-in-law.

  “We have alluded to the upcoming nuptials of Araxie Haldane’s sister, the Princess Richelle, but without taking adequate note of her bridegroom’s identity. His name is Brecon Ramsay, and he has a sister also ripe for marriage. Perhaps you will now understand why I regard this possibility as unpleasant.”

  “Ramsay,” Morag repeated, going very still. “Reacquaint me with the particulars. I seem to recall a Ramsay marrying into the old Mearan line. . . .”

  “Indeed,” Mahael said with a grim smile. “About a century ago, one Edward Ramsay, a younger son of the Earl of Cloome, took to wife the fair Magrette, youngest daughter of the last Prince of Meara, who had died without surviving male issue. It seemed a safe enough match at the time, since the eldest daughter had married King Malcolm Haldane—an act intended to settle the Mearan succession on the children of that union.

  “But the Dowager Princess of Meara had refused to accept the Haldane marriage settlement, and began promoting the cause of her middle daughter, twin to Malcolm’s queen. Successive Haldane kings down to Kelson himself dealt with that rival line and eventually eradicated it, including—to Kelson’s sorrow—the ill-fated Princess Sidana. Even I would not have guessed that her own brother would slay her at the altar rather than see her wed to a Haldane.

  “That leaves Mearan pretensions now resting with the descendants of the third demoiselle, who married a Ramsay, of which line one Jolyon Ramsay is now the senior representor—and Brecon is his eldest son and heir.”

  “Interesting,” Morag said. “However, I have never heard that the Ramsays entertained any designs on the throne.”

  “They don’t,” Teymuraz chimed in. “And the reason they’ve survived is probably because they’ve remained outside subsequent dynastic wranglings of the Mearan royal house.”

  “And with the more senior lines extinguished,” Mahael went on conspiratorially, “those who continue fighting for Mearan independence may not long
allow this last branch of the Mearan line to remain quietly on the sidelines. It is bad enough that Brecon, the heir to their last hope of a prince of their own, is set to marry Richelle Haldane, Malcolm Haldane’s granddaughter. A marriage between Kelson and Brecon’s sister would strike a double blow at any further thought of Mearan independence.”

  “I see,” Morag said, thoughtful as she turned her wineglass in her fingers. “Are there any other siblings?”

  “One more brother, conveniently in holy orders,” Mahael replied. “With stability in Meara at last, Kelson could turn his full energies toward Torenth—and toward any thought you might entertain of recovering the Festillic legacy for yourself and your sons—both of whom are still quite young. Now, do you understand my concern?”

  “I do, indeed. How is the girl called?”

  “Noelie.”

  “I see,” Morag said. “And perhaps intended for Kelson of Gwynedd. A shrewd alliance, if true. It would achieve exactly what Kelson tried to do with his ill-fated marriage to Sidana of Meara. But this time, his queen’s brother would be safely married to another Haldane.”

  “There is still that rather inconvenient second brother,” said the frail and elderly woman sitting as one of the coadjutors of the Camberian Council, that august and secret body of Deryni mages self-constituted to oversee the affairs of Deryni in the Eleven Kingdoms. They were convened beneath the great purple dome of their hidden mountain eyrie, discussing the same potential match being examined with such wariness in Torenth—though as friends of Kelson Haldane, not his mortal enemies.

  “He has entered holy orders since we last discussed this match,” said Laran ap Pardyce, the physician among them, consulting a list. “He is now Brother Christophle—affirmation of a vocation recognized in childhood. They say he studies for the priesthood.”

  A heavy sigh drew all eyes in the direction of Bishop Denis Arilan, a man well-qualified to speak regarding priesthood, for he had been the first of their race in nearly two hundred years to be successfully ordained a priest—and had seen others fail and die for their presumption. With an easing of the political climate in Gwynedd, and having risen to the episcopate, he secretly had begun ordaining other Deryni priests—and there was a second bishop come to his priestly status without Arilan’s help—but Denis Arilan was still the only cleric to sit on the Council since the time of Camber himself.