The King’s Justice Page 10

  Tiercel looked as if he might have been considering further defiance, but Sofiana, seated to his left, touched two fingers lightly to his lips in restraint.

  “Enough, Tiercel,” she murmured. “Now is not the time.” She glanced back at Arilan, watching stoically a few places away. “What further can you tell us, Denis? By your expression, one might almost think Kelson did give his uncle at least a taste of power.”

  Arilan folded his hands carefully before him and shook his head. “It would have nothing to do with being Haldane, of course—and there are definite limits to what could be bestowed upon a human. We know of several such cases in recent years.”

  “Are you thinking of Bran Coris?” Laran asked.

  “Aye—though one must almost wonder, in retrospect, whether he might not have been at least part Deryni himself. It hardly seems likely that Wencit would have bothered, unless there were something more to work with.” He cocked his head at Sofiana in sudden speculation. “Do you know? Was Bran Coris Deryni?”

  Sofiana gave an odd little smile that might have betokened either disdain or secret knowledge.

  “If he had been, what does it matter, now?”

  “It matters,” Barrett murmured, “because he and Richenda had a son, your sister’s grandson—a child who would be full Deryni, if Bran was. How old is Brendan now?”

  “He will be seven in June,” she replied quietly. “Unfortunately, his father was not Deryni.”

  Kyri sat back with a perplexed sigh. “You could have said as much. He’s another rogue, then: Brendan, little Briony—young Dhugal MacArdry, from an even less explainable bloodline. Incidentally, Denis, how did the MacArdry boy behave? Have you any further speculations on that account?”

  “None. He was door warden for the actual working. He never entered the circle. He seemed to keep his composure, so far as I could tell, but I was rather preoccupied.” He frowned. “Come to think of it, he managed not to be next to me during our meditation time before things got started—whether by chance or design never occurred to me at the time. I had Morgan and Richenda to either side of me. He was between Richenda and Duncan.”

  Tiercel shrugged and gave an impatient sigh. “I hardly think that matters, since we’re really supposed to be talking about Nigel,” he said. “Touchy as Dhugal’s shields are, I suspect he merely opted to minimize possible clashes. Kelson probably told him to. You certainly wouldn’t have wanted that kind of distraction during the ritual.”

  “Thank you for bringing us back to the subject,” Barrett said.

  “And for refraining from your usual line of discussion,” Vivienne added. “Denis, is there anything else that you can tell us about Nigel’s reaction?”

  Arilan shook his head. “Very little, I fear. As planned, Richenda and I were keyed in as facilitators on the secondary level—and what we were permitted to See seemed quite in keeping with what I expected.” He raised an eyebrow wistfully. “Naturally, I can’t give you any details of the actual process.”

  “Naturally,” Vivienne said cynically. “He bound you by oath.”

  “I would think less of him if he had not,” Arilan replied.

  “Pray to every god in heaven that you are never forced to choose among your oaths,” Kyri murmured. “We can accept your judgment that all was done properly for now, but if things should change, I do not think I should like to be in your place.”

  “Fortunately for all of us,” Arilan said dryly, “none of you shall ever have to worry about that possibility.” He shifted position in his high-backed chair and sighed.

  “Now, is there other business for tonight, or may I go home and get some sleep? I must confess that keeping up with a seventeen-year-old king becomes increasingly difficult, even if he were not Deryni.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Thou hast given a banner to them that fear thee, that it may be displayed because of the truth.

  —Psalms 60:4

  Keeping up with a seventeen-year-old king was enough to tax far younger men than Arilan. Though Kelson could have gotten little more sleep than any of the rest of those involved in the previous night’s work, he was up at first light to see that Duncan’s escort had begun to assemble in the castle yard, and summoned his bleary-eyed chief advisors to join him at table before another hour had passed.

  Granted, it was the table in the great hall rather than the council table, for the still growing Kelson rarely missed a meal of late, but he seemed to take perverse delight in the yawns and long-suffering expressions of his lords of state, many of whom made no attempt to disguise their irritation at the early morning summons.

  Nigel alone seemed to match the king for mood and freshness—which surprised Morgan and Duncan, given the ordeal Nigel had undergone only a few hours before. Even Dhugal, nearly two years Kelson’s junior and by no means as involved as the others, propped his elbows on the table and occasionally leaned his chin on one hand while he ate and listened to the king’s briefing. And Dhugal was eager for the day, for he and a handful of his clansmen rode with Duncan at noon to join the other MacArdry levies and the army of Cassan in the north.

  Morgan studied king and prince as he and Duncan paused at the edge of the yard where the ducal escort was mustering. Dhugal had gone ahead of them to be with his borderers, and the two Haldanes were inspecting the mounted men-at-arms, both resplendent this morning in Haldane crimson. The prince regent moved among the men with the same easy grace that had been his brother’s trademark and was now Kelson’s, even managing, with Kelson’s connivance, to bring an occasional smile to the lips of Dhugal’s dour border scouts.

  “God, he’s good,” Morgan murmured. “Sometimes, watching him is like watching Brion at his very best. I think the men would ride to hell and back for him, if he asked.”

  “Oh, they would—though God grant that they never have to,” Duncan agreed, tugging at the cuff of a gauntlet embroidered with the sleeping lion of Cassan. “He certainly seems to have weathered last night in good form, though. One would think he’d had a full night’s sleep—which is more than I can say for myself. Do you think Kelson helped him with a fatigue-banishing spell?”

  Morgan shrugged and smiled as he returned his attention to Kelson again, now examining a new battle standard that Dhugal and Jodrell were unfurling.

  “I don’t know. He may have done. It will be fascinating to see how much Nigel begins picking up on his own this summer, once you and Kelson and I are away.” He sighed. “It’s also going to be strange, having you and Dhugal off in the north.”

  “Aye. God grant that the war will be quickly won, and all of us soon reunited.”

  He did not reiterate—nor did Morgan—that grim possibility that every fighting man must eventually face, at least in some deeply buried, secret part of him: that for some of those who rode out on campaign, even on so glorious a spring day as this, there would be no reunion, at least in this life. That was an unspoken “given” that soldiers almost never voiced, lest the speaking invite the very thing they dreaded. As a bishop, Duncan might laugh off such a notion as superstition; but the soldier in him was more cautious. He was very much the soldier today, in appearance as well as demeanor.

  No cassock or cope or other ecclesiastical accoutrement proclaimed his episcopal rank. The plain silver cross hanging from under his gorget might have belonged to any pious man, and his bishop’s ring was hidden under its embroidered gauntlet. Over close-fitting trews of deerskin and knee-high boots, Duncan had buckled a trim, buff-colored jazerant of quilted leather studded with steel, the edges bound in bright McLain tartan and the McLain device picked out in silken stitches on the left breast. A sword and crozier crossed in saltire behind the embroidered shield gave hint of his dual status, but only at close range.

  There was a helm that denoted his double rank more obviously, circled by a ducal coronet, and with a steel cross splayed above the eyes and extending down the nasal, but that was still hanging on the saddle of his palfrey: a cloud-grey mare chosen for stami
na and smoothness of gait. A squire held her, over near Dhugal and Jodrell. The big, battle-trained destriers were with the baggage train and sumpter animals, along with the heavier armor, none of which would be needed for the swift dash across the plains to the Mearan border.

  “The summer will fly; you’ll see,” Morgan said quietly, after a beat. “Richenda has promised to continue working with Nigel, and to send us progress reports. And when we exchange dispatches, I shall send you more of that excellent wine we drank last night, and you shall drink to all our very good health!”

  As he clasped Duncan by the shoulder, he forced a smile which Duncan returned dutifully, then glanced past him to the men mounting up in the yard.

  “But, I see the archbishops coming out to bless the troops. I suppose we’d best rejoin our respective contingents.”

  “Aye. You are still riding out with us the first few miles, aren’t you?”

  “Certainly. But this blessing is for your lot—unless you’d care to give me a blessing before you go.…”

  Duncan raised one eyebrow in surprise, then grinned unabashedly. “I’m flattered, Alaric. You’ve never asked before.”

  “The last time we left on a major campaign, you weren’t a bishop.” Morgan flashed him a quick, self-conscious grin. “Nor were you even a priest in very good standing, as I recall—at least so far as the Church was concerned.”

  “Mere technicalities,” Duncan muttered, quickly pulling off his right gauntlet and glancing around to see whether they were being observed. “I’m still flattered. I don’t suppose we should call undue attention to ourselves, so you needn’t kneel—but do bow your head.”

  Kelson and Nigel were returning to the great hall steps beside the archbishops, so most attention was focused on the king—which was fortunate, because the flash of sun on Duncan’s episcopal ring triggered potent memories in both Deryni as he raised his hand slightly between them. Morgan caught his breath in an echo of the old awe, then as quickly dipped his head and averted his eyes. The memory was too intimate, too precious, to share with anyone but Duncan.

  The ring had been Bishop Istelyn’s until six months before: hacked from his hand at the orders of Edmond Loris and sent, still circling Istelyn’s finger, as an earnest of Loris’ intention, with his Mearan allies, to wage total war against the Deryni Kelson. When Kelson did not capitulate, Istelyn’s head followed; and Duncan had declared he would be made a bishop with no other ring than the martyred Henry Istelyn’s.

  But the ring held power beyond the mere symbolism of a bishop’s office; and as Duncan’s consecration approached, the presumption of wearing a martyr’s ring weighed increasingly on his conscience—until, on the morning of the ceremony, Morgan insisted he face his fear. Together they had used their Deryni abilities to read the psychic impressions the ring carried—and had experienced what they could only describe later on as a vision of Saint Camber, not the first nor the last of many.

  Camber’s magic was in the gold itself—which had been a communion vessel of some kind, before it was Istelyn’s ring—and the metal seemed to have retained some whisper of its earlier sacramental nature, even through the fire of crucible and forge and the metamorphosis from holy cup to consecrated ring. A measure of that special magic surrounded both of them as Duncan lightly touched Morgan’s bright gold hair.

  “May Almighty God bless and keep you safe, now and forever,” he murmured, tracing a cross on Morgan’s forehead with his thumb. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

  Then the moment was past, and they were moving on into the yard, Duncan striding toward his waiting men and Morgan bounding up the steps by twos to join Kelson, a bright splash of green riding leathers against grey stone. Archbishops Bradene and Cardiel, Bishop Arilan, Nigel, and a handful of courtiers also waited to witness the departure. Not surprisingly, Queen Jehana was not present.

  As Duncan neared the center of the front line, one of Dhugal’s border drummers did a brisk drumroll. At that signal, Baron Jodrell brought forward the new battle standard, bright as a cardinal in his color-bearer’s surcoat over mail and leather, the silk of the standard spilling down the cross-tipped staff and billowing over his gloved hands. Duncan caught a handful of it as he and Jodrell continued to the foot of the stairs and knelt on the bottom-most step, holding the silk clear of the stone when Jodrell lowered the staff in salute to the two archbishops coming down to bless it.

  “Omnipotens Deus, qui es cunctorum benedictio et triumphantium fortitudo …” Bradene prayed, he and Cardiel laying their hands on the standard as Duncan and Jodrell bowed their heads.

  Almighty God, Thou Who dost bless all men, Who dost give strength to those who triumph in Thee: in Thine infinite kindness, hear our humble prayers and with Thy heavenly blessing deign to bless this standard, meant for use in battle, so that it may be a source of strength against aggressive and rebellious peoples. Armed with Thy protective power, may it strike terror in the enemies of Thine anointed, King Kelson.…

  As Bradene continued, Duncan fixed his gaze on one of the red roses scattered over the particolor of blue and white that formed the tails of the standard. The roses symbolized the McLain commitment to the coming venture, as the Haldane lion on its red field, next to the hoist, signified Kelson’s support as king and overlord.

  Duncan touched the silk to his lips as Cardiel aspersed the standard with holy water, and remained kneeling as Kelson came down to join the archbishops. As the king laid his own consecrated hands briefly on the standard, half a hundred lances dipped in salute, swallow-tailed pennons of blue and white almost brushing the ground.

  “Receive this standard, blessed with the blessing of heaven,” Kelson said, helping Jodrell raise the weight of the staff as the latter stood. “May its sight strike terror in all our enemies, and may the Lord grant all who follow it grace to break through the ranks of the enemy with it safely and without harm.”

  “Amen,” Bradene and Cardiel responded.

  The Haldane lion danced on the breeze as Duncan released his handfuls of silk, and the azure and white of the standard’s tails cloaked his shoulders in a mantle of McLain roses. Gravely he ducked his head to receive the flat-linked chain of gilt that Kelson laid around his neck, then offered the king his joined hands in token of his homage.

  “Be our Captain-General in the North, Duke Duncan,” the king said, clasping the ducal hands between his own and thereby raising him up.

  “I will, my Liege, and shall serve you faithfully, upon mine honor and my life.”

  “Cassan!” shouted Duncan’s men, rattling lances against shields as the two exchanged a formal kiss of peace.

  Then Duncan was escorting Jodrell back to their waiting line, bracing the standard against his hip while Jodrell swung up on a mean-tempered blood-bay that had to be sharply curbed before it would move close enough to take the banner back. Beyond, Dhugal waited on a rust-colored mare that matched his hair and brigandine, the reins of Duncan’s grey in his hands.

  He grinned as Duncan mounted, raising a hand toward Kelson and Morgan, who were heading down the steps toward where their own horses and a small escort waited for them to accompany the troops for the first few miles. Behind them on the landing, Nigel had been joined by his three sons. They, the bishops, and a handful of lesser nobles watched attentively as king and champion fell in with Duncan and Dhugal, wheeling to follow the Cassani lancers already eddying out of the yard through the gatehouse passage.

  “Well, then. They’re away,” Nigel said to Conall, who was looking very tight-jawed and upset. “Here—what’s this gloomy face? I thought you were going to ride out with Kelson and Alaric for a way.”

  “He can’t,” said the thirteen-year-old Prince Rory, smiling primly. “Payne hid all his riding boots.”

  “Rory! You said you wouldn’t tell!” Payne blurted, kicking his brother sharply in the ankle and then ducking hastily between him and his father as Conall whirled on him with fratricide in his eyes.
“Papa, don’t let him hit me!”

  “Conall!”

  At Nigel’s warning, Conall reluctantly lowered his fist, but to be sabotaged by a nine-year-old was no mean affront to his adolescent pride. Several men who had overheard Rory’s announcement were fighting to control snickers, and one had already walked away to keep from laughing. Conall could scarcely contain his anger.

  “You’d better thrash him, Father,” he said through clenched teeth, “because if you don’t, I will. I swear it.”

  “You’ll thrash no one without my leave, sir!” Nigel retorted. “You’re a grown man, for God’s sake! You’re almost twice Payne’s age and size. I’m sure it was only a childish—Here now!” he barked, as Payne poked his head from between Rory and his father long enough to stick out his tongue at his eldest brother. “Stop that before I do thrash you! You’re not innocent in this matter, y’know.”

  As Nigel grabbed him by the upper arm and gave him a shake, Payne paled visibly and deflated, all the defiance draining out of him as Nigel went on.

  “I can’t say I blame Conall for being angry, if you’re going to act like a spoiled brat. Perhaps I should let him thrash you. Now, why did you hide all his boots?”

  “It isn’t fair, Father,” he whispered. “Why does Conall get to go on the campaign with Kelson? Why can’t I go, too?”

  Nigel sighed and released the boy’s arm, and even Conall looked a little less angry.

  “We’ve been over all of this before, son. Conall needs the battle experience. He’s going to be knighted next spring. Your time will come.”

  “But Duke Alaric is taking Brendan, and he’s not even seven!”

  “Brendan will be serving his stepfather as a page,” Nigel said patiently. “I need you and Rory to be my page and squire. You know I’m to be regent while Kelson is away. Do you understand what that means?”

  Payne fidgeted and studied the toes of his pointed court boots, trying to hide his sniffles behind a scowl.