The King's Deryni Read online

  He jutted his chin toward the outer boundaries of the tourney field, where the elite of Gwynedd’s fighting men were gathering along the rails: battle-hardened veterans and those newly belted, and also the squires and pages, Gwynedd’s future knights.

  “Shall we?” Sé said softly.

  With a glance at Kenneth, the king nodded gravely. Nodding in return, his opponent lifted his lance and wheeled to head for the far end of the barrière along which the two would ride. Kenneth accompanied the king to the opposite end and dismounted, giving his mount to Nigel and holding the head of the king’s horse while Brion selected a lance.

  “I know he’s a Knight of the Anvil,” Brion said quietly, staring down the barrière as Kenneth helped him seat the lance. “Anything I should know about their jousting strategy?”

  Kenneth only shook his head and chuckled as he reached out to adjust a stirrup buckle. “Nothing I could tell you, my prince. They spend hours every day, honing their fighting skills. He will probably trounce you right royally—which is as it should be, on this, your first day as a newly dubbed knight. But he won’t humiliate you. What he does, he will do for your own good, to remind you how much you still have to learn.”

  “I already know that,” Brion muttered under his breath.

  He bent helm to lance far enough to tap the visor into place, then let Kenneth lead his mount into position, to the right of his end of the barrière. At the far end, his opponent sat statue still, white-painted lance at rest in one gloved hand, stark against his black raiment.

  Heart pounding as if it were he, about to face Sé Trelawney, Kenneth moved back a few paces, easing toward the sidelines with Nigel. He had no doubt that Brion would be taught an important lesson today, but the means had yet to be shown. What he did know was that Deryni did not come much more puissant than Sir Sé Trelawney, especially when honed by the rigorous training of the Equites Incudis. Could the less experienced king take a pass from the Anviler knight? That remained to be seen.

  The two eyed one another for several long seconds, holding their increasingly fractious mounts at either end of the barrière, until suddenly, as if by unspoken command, both loosed their steeds in the same instant and came thundering down their respective lanes, lances dropping between horses’ necks and shields. The weapons were especially designed for tournament use, to break away on impact—and did, both of them shattering halfway along their lengths as blunted tips struck squarely against shields with a tremendous crash of wood against metal.

  Gasps reverberated amongst the onlookers, and several men started onto the field, but it immediately became clear that both riders were still seated. Duke Richard had moved with the others, but pulled himself up and signaled the others to pull back, for the king was grinning as he pulled up his mount at the far end of the barrière and saluted his opponent with what was left of his lance.

  “Again!” he shouted, casting the shattered weapon aside and calling for a fresh one, which a squire was already running to provide. When his opponent saw what the king intended, he, too, took up a fresh lance and rode to his end of the barrière.

  The outcome of the second run was not so evenly decided. Though both men started well, horses running strong and true, the blunted tip of Brion’s lance wavered just at the last instant, striking off center and skittering off the blank shield and over Sé’s shoulder. Sé’s lance hit more squarely, shattering against Brion’s shield with such force that the king reeled in the saddle, losing a stirrup, and only managed to stay a-horse by throwing his lance aside.

  Sé, seeing this, immediately circled tight and urged his mount into a breathtaking leap up and over the barrière, to crowd hard against Brion’s mount while he menaced the weaponless king with the jagged remnant of his own lance.

  “Have a care, Sir Brion!” he said sharply. “In real battle, this could have been a more deadly weapon, in the hands of a real enemy, and you might well be dead! A tournament is practice for real combat! Never throw away your weapon while an opponent remains armed!”

  With that, he cast the lance stub aside and backed off.

  “Now, shall we give it one more try?” he said lightly, before turning to trot back toward his end of the barrière.

  Shocked almost mute by his opponent’s horsemanship, and how quickly Sé had pressed his advantage, Brion managed to gasp out a shaken, “Very well,” and turned his mount to return to Kenneth.

  “How did he do that?” he muttered under his breath, as Kenneth put another lance into his hand. “Do you think he used magic?”

  “You know he did not, my prince,” Kenneth said sharply. “What he has done is to share some of his experience with you. Gentlemen may play at war games, and even go to war, but in true battle, it is hard men who stay alive. You use whatever weapon is at hand. Remember that.”

  “Believe me, I am not apt to forget it,” Brion said, adjusting his grip on the lance as he moved into position for the final run.

  This time, as both men thundered straight and true along either side of the barrière, Sé’s lance again shattered against the king’s shield with jarring force. Brion’s lance also struck squarely, but instead of breaking away as intended, it bowed in the instant of impact and then skittered over the top of the shield to graze the left side of Sé’s helm, its hand guard walloping the faceplate with enough force to jar the black knight from his mount and wrench the lance from Brion’s hand as Sé fell. Only narrowly did Brion avoid tripping up his own mount as they scrambled clear of the tumbling lance.

  Amazingly, Sé managed to land on his feet, shield still on his arm and still clutching what remained of his lance. He brandished it like a sword as the king came around tight, working to control his mount. In that same, heart-pounding moment, as a collective gasp rippled among the spectators, Sé summoned his own mount with a shrill whistle and, as it galloped toward him, discarded his broken weapon and vaulted back into the saddle. Without pause, he then doubled back sharply, still at the gallop as he bent low to retrieve the lance-stub from the dust.

  By then, Brion was pulling up in confusion, uncertain as Sé set his mount back on its haunches in a flurry of dust and gave the king ironic salute with a flourish of the broken weapon before casting it aside. As his horse settled, abruptly as still as a statue, he let fall his borrowed shield, then dropped his reins to pull off his helm, allowing his mount to move a few steps closer to the king as he hooked the helm’s chin strap to his pommel.

  “Well ridden, my lord,” he said, as he gathered up his reins. “And in all, I think we both have learned useful lessons today.” He glanced around at the debris of shattered lances, then returned his gaze to the king.

  “I will share with you this caution, however. It would be prudent to have a word with those who craft your tournament and practice weapons. Your lance ought to have broken away as mine did. I should hate to see some worthy squire or page in your service take serious injury or death from such a fault.”

  Speechless, Brion could only nod, sweeping off his helmet with both hands. Kenneth had come running to his side by then, Nigel trotting wide-eyed behind him, and Brion handed off the helmet to Kenneth, who passed it on to Nigel.

  “But I salute you, Sir Brion of Gwynedd,” Sé said then, laying his right hand flat over his heart and bowing over it, “and I wish you many years of victory in battle. Until next time, may God hold you in the hollow of His hand.”

  With that, he wheeled and galloped from the field, cutting between groups of men who only gazed after him with mouths agape, too stunned even to think of trying to impede him.

  “What just happened?” Brion said low to Kenneth, a slightly dazed look on his face as Kenneth laid a hand on the king’s bridle.

  “I believe—not to put too fine a point on it—that you were just put in your place, my prince,” Kenneth said with a strained smile. “But I suggest that, if you wish to avoid awkward questions, you make l
ittle of this when we return to the dais. You comported yourself well against a very seasoned knight. Make no acknowledgment of anything more, lest you compromise his usefulness.” He glanced back at the junior lists, and then at the royal pavilion.

  “But I—ah—believe we still have prizes to award,” he said, setting a hand on young Nigel’s shoulder and indicating that he should go on ahead. “A goodly number of young men and boys are eagerly waiting to have the king recognize their accomplishments today. Shall we go back?”

  Chapter 4

  “A wise son maketh a glad father . . .”

  —PROVERBS 15:20

  AS Kenneth took the head of the king’s horse and began leading it slowly back to the royal pavilion, Brion pushed back his arming cap and started pulling off his gauntlets, his mood subdued and thoughtful. Duke Richard came out to meet the pair as they approached the royal pavilion, but the king brushed off his demands for an explanation and merely assured him they would talk later.

  “I’ve taken no harm,” he assured his uncle in a low voice, as he swung down from his mount and handed his gauntlets to Kenneth. “And I do apologize for the delay. Please gather the squires and pages for their prize giving.”

  “But, who was he?” Richard insisted.

  “A friend of Gwynedd, Uncle. A Knight of the Anvil. Beyond that, you will have to ask him. Now, please see to the squires and pages.”

  More members of his family and immediate entourage tried to press him for details as he and Kenneth moved into the royal pavilion, but again he brushed them off, merely reiterating that he was unharmed, and wished to proceed with the conclusion of the afternoon’s activities. Kenneth cleared a path as the two of them worked their way to the rear of the pavilion, where a body squire was waiting with towels and a basin of clean water.

  Pulling off his arming cap, Brion plunged his head into the water and scrubbed vigorously at face and neck and hands, then toweled off and slicked back his hair before donning a gold circlet. Richard, meanwhile, had begun gathering the squires and pages as requested.

  Kenneth stayed by the king’s side as they returned to the front of the pavilion, where Brion took his place in the center chair between his mother and King Illann. Politely but firmly, he declined to comment on what had just transpired on the field. Brion’s younger sisters, Princesses Xenia and Silke, settled onto stools at their mother’s feet, raven hair glistening in the sunlight like blackbirds’ wings, with several ladies-in-waiting ranged to either side. Moving to his customary place behind the chairs, Kenneth politely fended off all questions.

  “It is not for me to say,” was all the comment he would make, good-natured but firm, when pressed for information about the king’s mysterious opponent.

  At Duke Richard’s summons, all the squires and pages in the competition began gathering in front of the dais, many of them with fathers or other male relatives trailing along to gather at the edges. Among them Kenneth noted the glowering presence of Sir Errol Seaton, whose son Cornelius had turned in a less than stellar performance.

  Briskly Richard began moving among the boys, rapidly sorting them into some semblance of order, by age. Most of them had varying numbers of rings looped over an arm: booty from the competition. Conversation immediately ceased as a herald thumped on the floor of the dais with his staff of office and called for attention.

  “Pray, attend the words of the king.”

  Brion smiled and sat forward, glancing to Duke Richard, who was standing among the pages. Most of them wore Haldane page’s livery and looked much older than Alaric and Duncan, who stood together with Llion in their house livery of Corwyn and Kierney. A few were senior pages, nearly ready for squiring. The dozen or so squires were grouped to one side, including Duncan’s brother Kevin, but some of the squires clearly were no longer children.

  “I see that we’re starting with the pages,” the king said easily, looking over the sea of Haldane crimson. “Uncle, I understand that these young gentlemen competed at the rings.”

  “They did, my Liege,” Richard said formally, still annoyed at his nephew’s refusal to identify his opponent. “The rings were a handspan wide, fixed so that they would not rotate during a run,” he added, for the benefit of King Illann and Prince Ronan. “Contestants were given ten runs in which to take as many rings as they could, but a fall disqualified from further participation, as did three consecutive passes without taking a ring.”

  “A worthy practice for future knights,” Brion said with a droll nod, glancing at his royal guests. “As you know, the exercise teaches hand and eye coordination, as well as horsemanship. Mind you, the rings will be smaller when you compete as squires, lads,” he reminded the assembled boys, “and as some of you found out the hard way, it’s more difficult than it looks. How many of you were unhorsed during the competition? All those who fell off, please move over by Duke Richard.”

  Fully a third of the boys moved sheepishly to the duke’s side, Cornelius Seaton among them, though many of them bore at least a few rings. Cornelius had none, and looked none too happy about it. Brion merely raised an eyebrow, shaking his head lightly as he pursed his lips and scanned them.

  “Well, I see that some of you at least managed to snag a ring or two before tasting dust. That’s commendable, but I know that all of you can do better in the future. It isn’t that you will never fall off your horses—my uncle will tell you how often I used to land on my backside when I was first beginning my training—and even the best rider gets dumped occasionally. Today I learned that some riders, like my last noble opponent, even manage to land on their feet, and then vault back into the saddle. Uncle, you must learn how that is done—and then begin to teach it!”

  Duke Richard only bowed slightly in agreement, lips tight-pressed.

  “In any case, with practice, all of us will improve,” the king went on. “And remember that it is also important to learn how to fall off your horse and not injure yourself.” His grey eyes held a twinkle as they swept his listeners. “Happily, all of you seem to have survived that lesson, at least for today.”

  He smiled, then turned his attention to the rest of the pages. “Now, any of you who managed to stay on your horse but missed taking any rings, please step forward.”

  Two of the younger boys shuffled clear of the others, looking hangdog.

  “Well.” Brion looked askance at the pair. “I suppose that boys who can ride but can’t hit a target might serve as couriers, or perhaps carry banners.” He drew a breath and let it out with a dramatic sigh. “But since you aspire to be knights one day, lads, your use of weapons will improve.” He made a shooing motion in the direction of the first group. “Join the ones who can’t ride. All of you still have much to learn.”

  With that, he turned his attention to the remaining pages, of which there were nearly a dozen.

  “Very good. I see that the rest of you all managed to stay mounted and take at least a few rings. Move closer now, right up to the dais.”

  Alaric shuffled forward with the rest, clutching his rings close to his body. Duncan stayed close beside him. Though both had known Brion Haldane since birth, viewing him almost as an elder brother or uncle, it was different standing before the king.

  “Now, all of you raise your left arms and show me your rings.” The royal gaze swept the quickly upraised arms. “I see. Now, if you have five or less, lower your arm and take three steps back.”

  Two boys stepped back.

  “Six or less.”

  Airey Redfearn and another boy retreated.

  Brion surveyed the rest of those standing with upraised arms, then pointed to a boy standing near Alaric, who stood a head taller than he. “Ciarán MacRae, how many rings do you have?”

  “Eight, my lord,” the boy said brightly.

  “Eight. That’s very good, but I see boys with more than that.” He glanced at the others. “Anyone with eight or less,
step back.”

  Ciarán and two more stepped back, including Duncan, and several of them cast interested glances at the stack of rings on Alaric’s arm. But piled together, it was hard to judge how many there really were.

  “Paget Sullivan, how many have you got?” Brion asked the oldest of the remaining boys, a tall twelve-year-old.

  “Ten, Sire,” the lad replied.

  “Ten? Excellent work! And you, Aean Morrisey?”

  “Only nine, Your Grace,” the boy admitted.

  “Ah, but nine is still very, very good. Well done, Aean. And young Alaric Morgan? It looks like you have quite a stack there. How many?”

  “Ten, Sire,” Alaric said confidently.

  “Ten?” The king glanced over his shoulder at Kenneth and raised an eyebrow. “He really took ten? How old is he, Kenneth? He isn’t even officially a page yet, is he?”

  “No, my prince—but he will be eight at Michaelmas. Earl Jared and I are training him—and Sir Llion.” He smiled as he jutted his chin toward Llion, standing with Duncan and trying to be invisible.

  Brion shook his head, half in disbelief, then glanced at his mother, who had come to her feet and was holding a laurel wreath, looking faintly disapproving. Princess Xenia held a small silver cup.

  “Interesting. Very well, I’m giving the prize to Paget Sullivan, because he was the best of the pages competing, with ten rings. Alaric, you aren’t yet an official page, so I’m disqualifying you from the official competition. Paget, come and get your prize.”

  Alaric looked astonished and a little affronted, but after a glance at his father, he simply lowered his arm to cradle his rings and stepped back so that Paget could approach the queen.

  “Congratulations, Master Paget,” Richeldis murmured, setting the wreath atop his curls and then handing him the cup. He, in turn, bowed and kissed her hand.