King Kelson's Bride Read online

  “I’m aware of some of the difficulties,” Kelson said, “and we haven’t time even to think of all of them, much less address them, before I leave tomorrow. And if, God forbid, I shouldn’t return from Torenth, the match makes even better sense. But meanwhile, I should think that a great many of the issues important to the Mearans will already have been addressed in the context of last summer’s negotiations.

  “That should give you a starting point,” he went on, rising. “In fact, it’s just occurred to me that, since we could have a Haldane prince resident in Meara, we might want to consider giving the province viceregal status, down the line—which might placate the separatists. They’d see it as the next best thing to regaining independence as a sovereign principality.” They began walking slowly back toward the great hall. “Of course, he’s young yet. We’d want to give him several experienced men to advise him, in the beginning—let him ease into it.”

  Nigel slowly nodded, for the strategy Kelson had just outlined for Meara was sound, but he did not look particularly pleased.

  “I shall abide by your wishes, of course—but you do realize, I hope, that by giving Noelie Ramsay to Rory, you’re eliminating one of the best matches for yourself.”

  “But it’s an even better match for Gwynedd, Uncle,” Kelson replied with a grimace. “Isn’t that what this is all about, since I can’t marry the woman I love?”

  “Kelson, you know I am sorry.”

  “I do—and if it were your fault, I might resent you for it; but it isn’t.” He heaved a heavy sigh and signalled Dhugal to join them. “But we’ll speak more of royal brides when I return from Torenth. I’ve already been warned to expect another review of likely candidates when we stop at Coroth, on the way. Morgan tells me that Richenda has spent the entire winter collecting portraits, and Arilan apparently has a few new ones as well. I shall do my best to be attentive—for the sake of Gwynedd.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I have peace offerings with me; this day have I payed my vows.

  Proverbs 7:14

  That same morning, while the king and his uncle proceeded with the business of Gwynedd’s royal council, Alaric Morgan, Duke of Corwyn, cast a sidelong glance from under his steel-lined cap at the two Torenthi emissaries riding beside him on the road from Desse to Rhemuth. Behind them, a mixed escort of royal Haldane lancers and desert-robed Moorish cavalry trotted two by two in apparent amity, horses fresh and restive, silent but for the jingle of bits and harness and the soft thud of steel-shod hooves on the unpaved road. From off the wide river rolling placidly to their left, wispy fog dissipated only gradually under a strengthening sun, promising a close, humid day.

  Already, it was growing warm for Morgan’s tastes, especially in riding leathers and light mail. Not a breath of air stirred beyond the faint breeze caused by their passage, and Morgan brushed at an irksome lock of pale, damp hair as he reined back a little to keep from crowding Saer de Traherne’s bay, just ahead. Beside Saer, who was commanding the guard detail, a state herald on a grey palfrey had charge of a swallow-tailed pennon of Haldane crimson, the silk so limp that the crowned golden K cypher of Kelson’s diplomatic service was all but invisible within its drooping folds.

  Better suited to the still air was the triangular pennon carried by one of the Moors, riding directly behind Morgan’s charges, with a stiffener fixed along its top edge, so that the black-and-white leaping-hart badge of Torenth was clearly readable against the field of tenné. The tawny orange was repeated in the feathered aigrettes affixed to the fronts of the Moors’ white turbans, and in the tassels adorning the headstalls and reins of the Moorish steeds.

  Thus far, their journey had been uneventful. The two envoys were Deryni, of course, as was Morgan, and thus capable of significant treachery if they chose to violate the truce mandated by the formal hostage status of their king. But though Gywnedd’s dealings with the Deryni of Torenth had long been fraught with misdirection, deception, and outright treachery, Morgan thought it unlikely that this pair would attempt any overt offensive while on Gwynedd’s soil. Not with Liam’s return to Torenth imminent.

  Of far more concern was the possibility that unknown agents might choose the occasion of Liam’s installation to take their revenge on the king who had kept him in custody for four long years—for Kelson would be assisting at the ceremony and, of necessity, vulnerable, especially working within the unfamiliar context of another culture’s magical symbolism, with himself and his supporters greatly outnumbered. The testing of Torenthi honor was always uncertain.

  And the danger to Liam himself could be as great as any danger to his erstwhile protectors, if the rumors about the boy’s uncles were true. And even if they were not—though Morgan suspected that they were—at the very least, the ceremonies were expected to be excruciatingly elaborate, alien, and long.

  He glanced over his shoulder to smile at his stepson Brendan, who was serving as his page. Brendan gave him a grin. Morgan had debated whether to include the boy on this present errand, if only because of the physical pace—three trips back and forth between Rhemuth and Desse, in the space of as many days—but Brendan had begged to come along.

  At least any actual danger was likely to be minimal, despite their present company, for Brendan was part Deryni—only just eleven, but with well-developed shields and, thanks to his mother’s tutelage, already competent well beyond his years to resist tampering by others of his blood, who might try to take advantage of his youth and his access to high-ranking individuals.

  He was also keen to go to Beldour, though Morgan had thus far avoided giving him an answer. In support of his plea, Brendan had pointed out—quite reasonably, and without a trace of arrogance—that the Deryni skills he was learning from his mother might be helpful on the trip; for he was starting to develop a knack for Truth-Reading, and his youth and his status as a mere page would tend not to put people on their guard. But Morgan was not sure he was prepared to expose the boy to the dangers that accompanied such possibilities—or that Richenda would let him.

  Morgan’s horse misstepped, and he steadied it with hands and legs, returning his attention to the two bearded men riding beside him. The Torenthi delegation had arrived at Desse the previous afternoon, aboard a sleek Torenthi war galley under escort by Morgan’s own flagship, Rhafallia. Morgan had been expecting the senior of the two men. Very early on in Liam’s wardship at the court of Gwynedd, al-Rasoul ibn Tariq had been designated by Liam’s regents as their official liaison between the two kingdoms, and he and Morgan had established a comfortable if guarded working relationship in the four years since.

  But as Morgan noted the circling arm of Saer de Traherne, signalling to extend their pace to a canter, he reflected that he still knew little more about the cultured and exotic Rasoul than he had after that first dramatic introduction, when the Moorish lord had ridden his desert steed right into the great hall at Rhemuth, with a live cheetah sitting behind him on his horse’s crouper. Focused and articulate, with all the glib facility of an accomplished courtier, the dark-skinned Deryni amused, informed, and sometimes vaguely threatened, according to his orders, but revealed little about himself and nothing of his master’s mind save what he chose to disclose.

  Apart from an apparently genuine affection for his young king, only one abiding personal interest had he divulged: a keen appreciation for fine architecture that bordered on the passionate. Himself responsible for the design and execution of several castles and fortified towns at home in Torenth, the keen-eyed Rasoul never failed to spend a portion of his visits to Rhemuth in exploring the architectural wonders of the city—and by speaking freely and at length on this one topic, he managed to avoid discussing anything else in depth. Between him and Morgan had grown mutual respect and even understanding of their respective positions, but there could not be true trust, given the masters they each served. Should political circumstances require it, Morgan had no doubt that Rasoul could be a formidable adversary, indeed.

  Of more immed
iate concern, because he was still largely unknown, was the bearded younger man riding on Rasoul’s other side: Count Mátyás, the youngest brother of the regent Mahael and, therefore, an uncle to the young king—and undoubtedly a Deryni of substantial ability. After Liam himself, only a second nephew and two brothers stood between Mátyás and the Torenthi throne—and kindred blood had never counted for a great deal in the wranglings of the House of Furstán. Though Mátyás was said to be without political ambition, his energies focused on a young family at home and on tending his vineyards, Morgan had his doubts that any Furstán could make such a claim. Acquisition and intrigue were in the Furstán blood, and came as naturally as breathing.

  Mátyás himself seemed to convey nothing beyond mere self-assurance in his rank and station—though his black hair was braided and neatly clubbed at the nape in a warrior’s knot, in echo of the very utilitarian mud-knots binding the tails of the Torenthi steeds, and Morgan had no doubt that he wore mail beneath his outer garments—as, indeed, did every man in the cavalcade. He rode like a warrior, too, relaxed but alert astride a close-coupled black barb, clearly taking in every detail around him; and Morgan reckoned that the aristocratic Mátyás probably could use the long, curved cavalry blade strapped beneath his left thigh—as he undoubtedly could use the powers brooding behind impenetrable shields.

  Yet, for all the expected appurtenances of a powerful man come on an important diplomatic mission, Mátyás somehow was not what Morgan would have expected of a scion of the House of Furstán—gentler, perhaps, and apparently a man of faith. When he first stepped from the gangplank at Desse, inclining his dark head as Rasoul performed the introductions, Morgan had caught the blue glint of sunlight on a fine miniature icon of the Blessed Virgin on his breast, its rich enamels glowing like some rare jewel. And while the count now had tucked it inside his tunic, against loss or damage on the ride to Rhemuth, something in his manner suggested that its wearing and even its possession went beyond mere adornment or social convention. Morgan occasionally had seen Eastern patriarchs wearing two or three such icons, on visits to the Hort of Orsal’s court, their oval frames adorned with rubies and rose diamonds and sometimes a pendant pearl.

  The rest of Mátyás’s attire likewise called to mind the opulence of far Byzantyum rather than the southron silks and flowing robes favored by Rasoul and the rest of their Torenthi escort. His wide-sleeved brocade coat of sapphire-blue was edged with fur and slit to the waist at sides and back, revealing glimpses at throat and wrist of a close-fitting, high-collared tunic of darker blue, lavished with gold bullion. And on his head, no graceful keffiyeh such as Rasoul wore, with its gold-wrapped cords suggestive of a coronet, nor the snowy turbans mostly covering the pointed helmets of their escort, but a tallish, flat-topped cap of close-clipped sable fur, aglitter at the front with a jewelled aigrette.

  Ahead, Saer raised an arm in signal of another change of pace, and the riders dutifully closed down to a brisk walk, the horses snorting and blowing. Now less than an hour out of Rhemuth, they had passed through a forested area of sparse population to emerge on a stretch of road atop a slight embankment that skirted the river. A freshening breeze off the river hinted at a possible shower to break the sultry warmth. Morgan glanced aside, instantly alert, as Mátyás murmured something to Rasoul and then smoothly reined back and aside to change places with the other, so that he and not Rasoul now rode at Morgan’s left knee.

  “Methinks your King of Gwynedd rules a fair and pleasant land,” Mátyás said without preamble, as his pale gaze ranged out across the river to the fertile fields beyond. “Tell me, why do they not plant vines along those slopes?”

  He gestured toward the distant hills, and Morgan recalled the younger man’s reported interest in viniculture. Morgan’s own expertise on the subject extended mainly to the quality of wines he was served at table, for little of Corwyn was well suited to the growing of grapes, but the topic might well serve to draw out further insights regarding this Torenthi prince.

  “I can’t say that I know,” he said. “I should imagine that something about the climate is not right—perhaps the sun’s angle on those hillsides. Lord Rasoul has given me to understand that you are something of an expert in these matters.”

  Mátyás shrugged, a faint smile curving at his lips as he glanced at Rasoul, who nodded.

  “Al-Rasoul is generous, as always,” Mátyás replied. “My vineyards were long neglected, and I still have much to learn. The estate was a legacy from my late half-brother, the Duke Lionel. I believe you and he met, on at least one occasion.”

  Morgan stiffened slightly, for Mátyás must know full well that Morgan had been present when Lionel met his death—though it had been Kelson who killed him, as he also had killed Wencit and Bran Coris, the father of Brendan. Morgan tended to regard the slayings as mercy killings—or, at worst, executions—but Mátyás might not see it that way, especially if he knew that Morgan had shown Kelson the magical means for accomplishing the killings.

  “The circumstances were regrettable, my lord,” Morgan said carefully. “All of us who are bound to the service of our kings do our best to serve them with honor.”

  “So it would seem,” Mátyás agreed. “And the Duke of Corwyn is widely held to be a man of honor, even in my country.” When Morgan did not reply, he sighed and turned his gaze straight ahead, his head bobbing gracefully with the movement of his horse.

  “You must understand, my lord, that I hardly knew Lionel,” he said after a moment. “He was the son of my father’s first wife, and went to court when I was still a weanling. That day with Wencit, he had the ill fortune to be on the losing side—and who can say that Torenth would be the better, if my king and not yours had prevailed?”

  “Surely an unusual perspective for a prince of Torenth,” Morgan observed.

  Mátyás shrugged. “The past is as it was, and as was meant to be. He was my brother, but I can accord no personal blame to you or even to your king. It was Wencit who set out the terms of the fray, and his supposed man who set it all at naught.”

  “True enough,” Morgan allowed.

  “But, enough of this,” Mátyás went on brightly. “I recall it to your memory only to reassure you that I bear you no ill will. The day was in God’s hands—insh’allah, as my esteemed companion al-Rasoul would maintain: as God wills it. And it did gain me Komnénë.” He sighed as he glanced out across the river again.

  “How I do love that place,” he confided. “Its river much resembles this one. My wife and son are there. I love watching the vines grow, and the grapes ripen on the vines.” He grinned almost boyishly as he glanced back at Morgan. “My wife ripens as well. She carries our second child.”

  “Then, congratulations are in order,” Morgan said, himself smiling slightly at the other’s obvious delight in fatherhood. “May I ask how old your boy is?”

  “He will be three in a few months’ time.”

  “Indeed?” Morgan replied, with a grin of his own. “Mine was three in May.”

  Mátyás cast him a thoughtful glance. “Then, perhaps one day they shall be friends.”

  “Perhaps,” Morgan said neutrally. “I should hope they will never be enemies.”

  Mátyás eyed him speculatively, then gave a cautious nod.

  “Insh’allah,” he murmured almost to himself. “And what of Liam-Lajos? Shall he be friends with your Kelson and still remain the friend of his own people?”

  “You shall see for yourself very soon,” Morgan replied with a smile. “I think you will not be disappointed. Look ahead, just through the haze. You can see the towers of Rhemuth.”

  They clip-clopped into the yard of Rhemuth Castle early in the afternoon, after passing along the main thoroughfare of the city below. A courier had been sent ahead from the city gate as soon as their identity was ascertained, so servants were waiting to take the horses and see to the needs of the men.

  “He’s in the middle of court,” Rory said to Morgan, bounding down the great-ha
ll steps just ahead of Lord Pemberly, the deputy-chamberlain, as a pair of pages scurried forward to offer refreshment to the new arrivals—wine for Morgan, Mátyás, and Saer, and cool water for Rasoul, who never took alcohol.

  Morgan drank deeply of his wine—a fruity Vezairi red of excellent ancestry, he was happy to note, with a glance at Mátyás—then wiped his mouth with the back of a hand as Pemberly elbowed his way past Brendan and the servants dealing with the horses.

  “Welcome, my lords. Your Grace, would our guests prefer to go directly in to court, or to refresh themselves first, in the quarters we have prepared for them?”

  “I see no need to delay,” Rasoul spoke up, beckoning Rory closer. “Mátyás, I present to you Duke Nigel’s eldest son, Sir Rory Haldane. Sir Rory, I would have you know Count Mátyás Furstán-Komnénë, one of the uncles of Liam-Lajos.”

  Rory gave the newcomer a smile and an easy neck bow.

  “Count Mátyás, you honor our court. Your nephew has been an eager pupil—an excellent squire. And if I may say so, an engaging addition to the royal household. We shall miss him. I shall miss him.”

  “I see he has won at least one Haldane friend,” Mátyás said with a faint smile. “Is he serving as squire today?”

  “He is, my lord. King Kelson is investing a new baron. Would you care to observe? My younger brother is squiring with your nephew.”

  At Mátyás’s look of inquiry, Morgan gestured toward the great-hall door in invitation.

  “I shouldn’t think they’ll be long, my lord. We can watch from the back of the hall. I gather from Lord Rasoul that you wish no particular ceremony for yourselves.”

  White teeth flashed in Mátyás’s close-trimmed beard, and amusement stirred behind the pale eyes. “Forgive me, my lord, but I doubt whether you can imagine the ceremonies we shall all have to endure, once we return to Beldour. No, we seek no ceremony here in Rhemuth, save what courtesy requires. But I have been instructed to make a presentation to my nephew. If you will permit . . . ?”