Childe Morgan Read online

  “Donal, would you just look at this little man?” she declared. “What a proper young gentleman he looks today!”

  “Aye, he does,” the king agreed. With an impatient gesture, he signed for the squires to bring his state robe and crown. “Let’s see whether he acts the gentleman at court.” He shrugged into the state robe and set the crown on his own head.

  “Alyce, I suggest that you take your charming son and join Sir Jovett and the two Lendour lads to be knighted today. Kenneth, you’re with me. And we shall hope that today’s announcement meets with more favor than the last one I made concerning the two of you.”

  Chapter 3

  “In his days shall the righteous flourish, and abundance of peace, till the moon be no more.”

  —PSALM 72:7

  RETURNING to the hall, Alaric’s hand in hers, Alyce quickly found Zoë and Alazais, who were waiting just beside the nearest of the fireplaces.

  “Goodness,” Zoë said. “What was that all about?”

  “Nothing unpleasant,” Alyce assured her, though she decided to be vague, to preserve the element of surprise that the king obviously intended. “It’s to do with recognizing Alaric as my heir. There’s to be some kind of official acknowledgment at court this afternoon.

  “And speaking of court,” she went on, searching the hall, “we need to find my Lendour men. The king will be knighting two of my squires today, both of them with excellent prospects.” She glanced archly at Alazais. “I think we should introduce them to our Zaizie, don’t you, Zoë?”

  Zoë chuckled softly at that, and Alazais blushed furiously; but one of the reasons Kenneth had brought his youngest daughter to court for the season was to expose her to eligible young men. Geill, the middle daughter, had married the summer before, to a knight in the service of Jared Earl of Kierney, whom both of them now served. Zoë was technically a widow, having been all too briefly married to Alyce’s ill-fated brother Ahern, but marriage was once again on her mind.

  “I think,” said Zoë, “that Zaizie would very much enjoy meeting your incipient knights. I’m sure they are very worthy young men.”

  “Over there,” said Alyce.

  Her glance toward the deep window embrasures facing onto the castle gardens turned the gaze of both younger women in that direction, where the king’s half-brother, Duke Richard, was assembling the year’s crop of boys soon to be made royal pages, all in clean white shirts and scarlet breeches, faces scrubbed and hair mostly tidy. Assisting him were a handful of senior pages to be promoted to squire.

  The knights-to-be, about a dozen of them, were gathering farther back with their sponsors, having kept vigil the night before. Each now wore the distinctive garb indicative of the status about to be conferred: the white under-tunic, symbolic of purity; the black over-tunic, as reminder of the grave to which all would eventually succumb; and over all, the crimson mantle, betokening both the royal house to which they owed allegiance and the blood each was prepared to shed in defense of that house.

  They all looked much alike, of course, thus uniformly arrayed, so Alyce sought out the red and white of the Lendour banner rather than any individual—and spotted it in one of the niches toward the rear of the hall. Cradling its staff in one green-clad arm was Sir Jovett Chandos, Alyce’s childhood friend and a stalwart defender of her rights in Lendour—and also, of late, a young man of particular interest to Zoë Morgan.

  “Alyce, there’s Jovett!” Zoë breathed.

  “Oh, my goodness!” the younger Alazais whispered, eyes wide as saucers as she cast her gaze at the two young candidates standing near Jovett.

  Alyce laughed gently, setting her free hand under the younger girl’s elbow as she began to press her and Zoë in the direction of the three. Young Alaric looked up at all of them in some bewilderment as he let his mother draw him along.

  “I seem to recall a somewhat different opinion two summers ago, when you came with us to Lendour,” Alyce teased. “‘Silly boys,’ I believe you called them.”

  “I never!” Alazais began somewhat indignantly. “No, wait…Not Yves and Xander?”

  “The very same,” Alyce replied. “And I’m told that both of them are now become quite excellent swordsmen, well deserving of the accolade. Nor have I heard that either of them is yet spoken for,” she added sotto voce, with a wink at her youngest stepdaughter.

  “Alyce, stop it!” Alazais hissed, blushing prettily.

  Jovett had noticed their approach, and immediately called his two charges to attention, for Alyce was Lady of Lendour, even if her sex denied her title to the earldom in her own right. Tall and straight in his court robe of emerald green, with his coppery hair sleeked back in a warrior’s knot, it was easy to see how Sir Jovett Chandos had caught Zoë’s fancy; and his mind and soul were no less comely than his appearance. As Alyce and her companions drew near, the two incipient knights sank to one knee and bowed their heads, and Jovett dipped the Lendour banner in salute.

  “Lady of Lendour!”

  “Sir Jovett,” Alyce replied, smiling as she caught the billow of red and white silk in one arm and let him take her other hand to salute it with a kiss. He was Deryni like herself, though secretly so, and his unspoken greeting flashed across the bond of their physical contact, even as his fond glance brushed Zoë.

  You look well and happy, dear Alyce—and young Alaric has grown.

  Sometimes by the day, it seems, came her grateful reply. Do be certain to admire his shoes, she added mischievously.

  “My lady,” he said aloud, bending again in a bow to include all of them. “And can this really be young Master Alaric?” he added, as he righted the Lendour banner. “Why, what handsome shoes you wear today, my lord. Do you think they might fit me?” He drew back the skirt of his long court robe to reveal plain black boots with slightly pointed toes, gold spurs affixed to the heels.

  The boy’s look of bemusement went briefly calculating, then shifted to pleased recognition. “You’re Sir Jovett!” he declared, setting balled fists on both hips. “You have a big spotted horse!”

  “Spotted horse?” Alyce murmured, as she and Zoë exchanged puzzled glances.

  Feigning wide-eyed surprise, Jovett crouched down to the boy’s level, handing off the banner to one of the candidates as he did so.

  “Why, I do, indeed, have a spotted horse, young master. And she now has a spotted foal. I’m surprised that you remember.”

  “I’m not a baby!” Alaric said indignantly. “Mama wouldn’t let me ride with you. She said I wasn’t big enough.”

  With a glance up at Alyce and a suppressed smile, Jovett said, “Well, you’re much bigger now, so perhaps the next time you’re in Cynfyn, your mama will let you ride with me. But meanwhile, I should like to present two more of your knights.” He straightened and jutted his chin toward the still-kneeling pair. “Or at least they’ll be knights in a little while.”

  “Papa told me all about that,” Alaric said wisely. “The king hits them three times with his sword an’ says, ‘You’re a knight.’ An’ they get gold spurs an’ a white belt an’ a sword, an’ then everybody says, ‘Hurrah!’”

  “Indeed, they do,” Jovett agreed, as the boy’s mother and his half-sisters did their best not to laugh. (Both candidates had ducked their heads to cover their own grins.) “But he doesn’t hit them very hard—and not with the sharp edge. It’s done with the flat of the blade, like so.”

  A dagger suddenly appeared in his right hand from a hidden wrist sheath, and he solemnly reached out to tap Alaric lightly on the right shoulder, the left shoulder, and then on the top of the head. A look of awe came over the boy’s face, and he glanced first at his mother, then back at Jovett.

  “Am I a knight now?” he whispered.

  “No, not yet,” Jovett replied with a chuckle, making the blade disappear again. “It has to be done with a sword; and it takes more than just the sword-touch to make a man a knight. But when you’re grown, you will be a knight, I promise you. And though I should be de
lighted to confer that honor when the time comes, I rather think it will be the king who knights you—or maybe Prince Brion.”

  “But he’s only a boy,” Alaric said, confused.

  “Well, yes, but he’s going to be the king someday, just like his father. But before he can knight anyone else, someone older will knight him—because only another knight can make a knight.”

  “Oh,” said Alaric. “Could Papa knight me?” he asked, twisting to look up at his mother.

  “Well, he could, darling,” Alyce replied. “He is a knight. But someday you’ll be a duke, and the king usually likes to knight dukes himself. However, when you are grown,” she added, at signs of incipient rebellion on the upturned face, “and you’re a knight, too, you will make knights—because dukes and earls have the right to knight their own men. If you were a knight now, it would be your honor to knight Yves and Xander here.”

  She jutted her chin toward the two candidates still kneeling beyond Jovett, who both saluted the boy with a right fist to the breast—and did their best to restrain grins of honest delight. Alaric gazed at them appraisingly for a long moment, then drew himself to attention and gravely saluted them back.

  “Well done!” Jovett declared, chuckling as he clapped the boy on the shoulder in approval. “My lady, he already has command presence.”

  “Aye, he does,” she replied, ruffling the boy’s hair fondly. “But now, Alaric, you must give these young gentlemen permission to rise. They’ve been kneeling quite long enough, though I’m sure they were happy to do so. A nod or a slight bow is sufficient.”

  Very soberly, the boy made the two candidates a very proper bow, also gesturing with both hands that they should stand. Obediently the pair rose, also bowing to Alyce and the two women with her. Alazais flushed prettily as Alyce turned to motion her forward.

  “My dear, permit me to make these gentlemen known to you: Yves de Tremelan and Xander of Torrylin, soon to be knights of Lendour. Gentlemen, my husband’s youngest daughter, Alazais Morgan. And I believe you know his eldest, Lady Zoë.”

  Amid the murmured exchanges of courtesy, Alyce became aware of a heightened buzz of conversation rippling through the hall and then a gradual quieting. Simultaneously, those milling in the center of the hall began to drift to the sides, clearing a center aisle and also the space directly before the dais. Being already withdrawn into a far window embrasure, Alyce and her Lendour party had only to turn their attention toward the dais where, very shortly, a chamberlain came forth with his staff of office and rapped smartly on the oak floor of the dais.

  “My lords and ladies, pray, attend.”

  The royal family began to enter and assemble in their appointed places, not down the center aisle, because of the inclement weather, but directly from the doorway to the left of the dais, which led to the withdrawing room behind.

  First came the younger royal children and their attendants, followed by the queen’s ladies and the king’s household, including Sir Jiri Redfearn, Kenneth, and several of the king’s other ministers of state. As the king and queen appeared, attended by Prince Brion in page’s livery, the chamberlain again rapped with his staff of office and announced, “Their Majesties: Donal Blaine Aidan Cinhil Haldane, King of Gwynedd and Lord of the Purple March, and Richeldis his queen, and also His Royal Highness the Prince Brion, Prince of Meara.”

  The royal couple proceeded to their thrones, but did not yet sit. Prince Brion stood attendance on his mother. The two Archbishops MacCartney followed close behind—Desmond of Rhemuth and William of Valoret, both of them coped and mitred appropriate to the season—and were shown to chairs of state to the right side of the dais. Before taking their seats, Archbishop William blessed the assembled company, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.”

  Court began with the usual business peculiar to Twelfth Night Courts, with the king receiving a dozen new pages into royal service and promoting several senior pages to squire. Prince Brion was among the latter, having turned twelve the previous June, and proudly knelt before his father with three others to pledge his ongoing fidelity.

  After each of the new squires had received a pair of blued-steel spurs and a dagger from the king’s own hand, they exchanged their simple pages’ tabards for the more elegant scarlet tunics of royal squires, with the king’s cipher embroidered on the left breast. Prince Brion was the first of the four to be so invested, and stood thereafter at his father’s elbow as duty squire for the remainder of the afternoon. Last of those received as squire that afternoon, separate from the first four, was Jamyl Arilan, nephew of one of Donal’s council lords, who previously had trained as page and squire at the court of Illann King of Llannedd, brother to Queen Richeldis.

  “Master Jamyl, you are most welcome,” Richeldis said to him, as she helped him don the scarlet tunic of a Haldane squire. “My brother speaks highly of you. I wonder that he was willing to give you up.”

  Jamyl smiled, a poised and confident young man of fifteen, and handsome as his uncle must have been in his youth.

  “The king your brother is a man not easily parted from what he wants, my lady, as well you know,” Jamyl replied, “but the king your husband can be very persuasive. And I am given to understand that my lord uncle also pled my cause.” He nodded to Seisyll Arilan, standing behind and at the king’s right hand. “I am honored now to be the second Arilan serving the Crown of Gwynedd.”

  Richeldis inclined her head in acknowledgment of the gracious reply, and glanced at Seisyll, proudly watching.

  “We thank you for your efforts, my Lord Seisyll,” she said. “I am certain that this new squire will be an asset to our court.”

  “That is my fondest wish, Majesty,” he replied with a bow.

  Next on the agenda was the dubbing of the season’s new knights, some come from far afield to receive the accolade from the king’s own hand. Most had been in training with Duke Richard, or at least had served as squires at court for several years, and now, having achieved their majority, were deemed ready to assume the duties and privileges of knighthood. All of the candidates had kept their vigil the night before, following a ritual bath and robing.

  The court candidates came first, according to the usual custom, with each being brought before the king by his sponsor, there to kneel and be invested with golden spurs. The candidate then received the sword accolade from the king’s hand or, in some cases, from the hand of his father or other older male relative who was also a knight, after which the queen girded each new knight with the white belt, symbolic of the purity of his new vocation. After being presented with a goodly sword, the new knight then placed his joined hands between those of the king and pledged his fealty to the Crown of Gwynedd.

  Court candidates were somewhat sparse that year, though the half-dozen dubbed were of excellent quality. Jaska Collins and Ulf Carey excelled at horsemanship. The twins Thomas and Geoffrey de Main, whose swordsmanship was equaled by few others of their age, were so different in every other respect that they might not have even been brothers. Trevor Udaut had been the king’s personal squire for the past several years, and would remain in royal service. Phares Donovan, the last of them, was a keen archer, especially from horseback.

  “Do you like the looks of that one?” Zoë whispered to Alazais, as the queen girded Sir Phares with the white belt. “He’s very well connected.”

  “Zoë, stop it!” Alazais hissed, with a wide-eyed glance over her shoulder at the Lendour candidates.

  “Well, he is well connected, Zaizie,” Alyce agreed, slipping an arm around her youngest stepdaughter’s waist. “His father was castellan to the Earl of Marley.”

  “And it doesn’t hurt that he was squire to Prince Brion,” Zoë added, “and is utterly devoted to him. Hopefully, he will also prove to be a friend to Alaric,” she added more softly.

  For answer, Alyce only slipped her arm through Zoë’s and briefly laid her head against the shoulder of this, her sister of the heart, grateful that Zoë also would alw
ays be a friend to her son. Very shortly, she knew, the king would make public his latest decision regarding all of their fates. Kenneth’s appointment as Earl of Lendour would greatly ease her position as well as his, for she would share his rank—and finally have a status at least somewhat commensurate with her station as mother of a future duke.

  For a Deryni like herself, of course, it was a double-edged distinction, since it would thrust her into public prominence again, when she had only just begun to live down the notoriety of using her powers to unmask murderers at Twelfth Night four years ago. Already, she had seen the brother of one of the murderers, scowling across the hall at her.

  With luck, however, the new rank should help her keep Alaric safe until he was grown and could fulfill the destiny for which he had been born. Toward what else had her life been preparing her, than to support the House of Haldane in whatever way was needful?

  Next to be called forward were two candidates from Meara: Alun Melandry, son of the murdered former royal governor of Ratharkin, and Arthen Talbot, youngest son of the present governor. Alun’s knighting had a bittersweet quality to it, for he had seen his father put to death at the end of a rope by Mearan rebels when he was too young to do anything to stop it. His reception of the accolade now affirmed his determination to carry on in his father’s footsteps, where he would serve among the knights sworn to the service of the present royal governor.

  The son of that royal governor, by contrast, was relaxed and almost informal. Presented by his father, Sir Lucien Talbot, young Arthen knelt eagerly before the king, upturned face alight with joy. Behind him, Sir Lucien carried a goodly sword with which his son would be invested, with the straps of a pair of golden spurs looped over the quillons.