In the King's Service Page 9

  The two fell silent at that, for both were well acquainted with the realities of dynastic duty and the cost it sometimes demanded. Just how high that cost could be was something that Jessamy hoped the young queen need never learn firsthand.

  Slowly the galley glided to a halt a few cable-lengths from a cargo vessel with Bremagni markings, and the crew shipped their oars. The splash of a lowering anchor turned the women’s attention toward the bow, where Duke Richard was overseeing the deployment of lines to secure the galley. Abaft, one of the junior squires was already aboard a small dinghy drawn alongside, and was fixing the queen’s colors to a small flagstaff in the bow.

  “It appears we shall be ready to go ashore very shortly,” Richeldis said, turning back to Jessamy. “We’d best make ready. I can hardly wait to see the boys!”

  AMOUNTED escort was waiting to conduct the queen’s party up to the manor house in the hills above Nyford. On this August afternoon, Donal had sent the Duke of Cassan to meet them: the loyal Andrew McLain, of an age with the king, who was veteran of many a military foray in the company of king and royal duke. The duke’s eldest son was one of the senior squires in the queen’s party—Jared Earl of Kierney, due to be knighted at the next Twelfth Night—and he gave his father a cheerful nod as he took charge of the queen’s horse, brought up by one of the men accompanying his father.

  “Welcome home, your Majesty,” Andrew said to the queen, as he made ready to help her mount. “I trust that my son has not disgraced his good name while in your service these past weeks.”

  “Indeed, he has not.” Richeldis favored young Jared with an affectionate smile as she settled into the saddle. “You and Richard have trained up a noble company of squires.” She gestured back toward the ships riding at anchor. “What visitors have we?”

  With a lift of one eyebrow, Andrew turned his attention to adjusting one of the queen’s stirrups, pointedly not looking up at Richeldis or any of the other women, and especially not Jessamy. “An envoy of the Hort of Orsal, your Majesty. And the Earl of Lendour is here, with his three children.”

  His tone was carefully neutral, here within Jessamy’s hearing, but she could sense the wariness that it masked—and saw, by the flicker that passed across the queen’s face, that Richeldis also recognized it. Unlike many at court, Andrew never allowed antipathy for the Deryni to color his courtesy, but it was also clear that his comment was meant as a guarded warning to the queen.

  “I have heard that they are lovely children,” Richeldis said quietly. “And Earl Keryell has ever been loyal and true to the House of Haldane.”

  “You know what they are, m’lady,” Andrew murmured, in an even lower voice.

  “Yes. Thank you, Duke Andrew.” Richeldis gathered up her reins and shifted slightly in her saddle, deliberately turning her attention to Jessamy and the other women. “Come, ladies. I am eager to see my son, as I know the rest of you are eager to see yours. I am told that Prince Brion has taken his first steps, but I would wish to confirm that with my own eyes!”

  WITHIN an hour they were entering the demesne of Carthanelle, the royal manor, perched on a hillside that overlooked the River Lendour and Nyford town and port, to the south. Long a summer residence for the dukes of Carthmoor, it was rarely used by the incumbent, the bachelor Richard, so King Donal and his family were wont to use it themselves. Though discreetly fortified, the house was set within walled parkland so extensive that it gave the illusion of being undefended, with fat cattle drowsing in the golden paddocks to either side of the long avenue approaching the house.

  When the new arrivals had dismounted in the stable yard, one of Carthanelle’s resident stewards was waiting to convey the queen and her ladies to the king. They found him relaxing with several of his gentlemen on a shaded terrace adjoining the formal gardens, tossing crusts of bread to a pair of peacocks. Beyond, dotted among the wide-spreading shade trees, a scattering of nursemaids and governesses were overseeing nearly a score of children, all of them under the age of ten.

  “Over here, my dear,” Donal called, standing and holding out a hand to Richeldis. “Lady Bronna, please bring Prince Brion,” he added, to a neatly clad middle-aged woman not far away, who was holding both hands of a dark-haired toddler as he took a succession of wobbly legged steps.

  With a glad cry, the young queen lifted the hem of her gown and ran across the lawn to sweep the toddler into a joyous hug, showering him with her kisses. At the same time, Jessamy espied her daughter Seffira and her own son’s nurse, Mistress Anjelica, fussing over a large wicker basket, the four-year-old peering over her shoulder.

  Allowing herself a somewhat more restrained smile than the queen’s, Jessamy made her way across the lawn at a pace more appropriate to the heat and her age and slipped an arm around her daughter to kiss her, also sinking to her knees beside the nurse.

  “Hello, darling, have you been a good girl while Mummy was away?”

  “Maman, you’re back!” Seffira squealed, twisting to throw both arms around her mother’s neck and bestow a noisy kiss. “I’ve missed you terribly. And look how big Krispin has got!”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Jessamy replied, nodding to Anjelica, who smiled as she gathered up the infant and laid him in his mother’s arms. “My goodness, you two have done a wonderful job while I’ve been away.”

  “Jesiana helped, too,” Seffira admitted, “but I did a lot, didn’t I, Tante Jeli?”

  “Indeed, you did,” Anjelica agreed. “He’s a good baby, m’lady.“Sleeps through the night, and hardly ever fusses.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” Jessamy replied.

  Quickly she inspected her son, briefly probing the tiny mind, then settled on the edge of a fountain with Seffira beside her, the babe laid across her knees. Across the lawn, the queen had shifted Prince Brion onto her hip as she and Donal spoke with a tall, sandy-haired man of middle years, brightly clad in red and white, who was standing with a protective hand on the shoulder of a lad she judged to be eleven or twelve. Two retainers in the green and black of Corwyn hovered nearby, along with a matronly woman in russet and a thin, ascetic-looking man in vaguely Eastern-looking priest’s robes and a flat-topped hat.

  “Anjelica,” Jessamy said in a low voice, beckoning the nurse back to her side, “do you know who that man is, with their Majesties?”

  “The Earl of Lendour, m’lady, and his son and heir.”

  “I thought as much,” Jessamy replied, nodding. “Do you know what brings him here?”

  “Aye, m’lady. He has brought his daughters as well, to be fostered to the queen’s household. I believe he intends that they should also spend a year or two at the same convent where your daughter resides.”

  Jessamy nodded thoughtfully. “That will be Alyce and Marie. Goodness, I’ve hardly seen those children since their mother died. Where are they, Anjelica?”

  “There, m’lady, under the lilac tree with Lady Jesiana.”

  Affecting only casual interest, Jessamy turned her gaze in the direction indicated by her maid, far across the lawns, to where three young girls were chattering with a pair of handsome, somewhat older squires, all of them seated on the shady grass and with the girls’ bright skirts spread like blossoms. The youngest of the girls was her own Jesiana, the nine-year-old, dark curls loosely tied back by a yellow ribbon.

  The other two were clearly older, but not by much. One was fair and delicate of feature, golden hair tumbling around her shoulders and bound across the brow with a rose-pink ribbon-fillet that matched her simple gown; the other, clad in tender leaf-green, had hair more resembling bronze. Seeing them there, all full of hope and youthful innocence, Jessamy was reminded of a similar pair of girls in a similar season, that dreadful summer of her own passing into adolescence, when her father had died and everything in her life had changed.

  That long-ago summer had borne Jessamy betimes into marriage and motherhood—estates that had come somewhat later to that other girl, the heiress Stevana de Corwyn: eventually abduct
ed and married by force to the man now standing with their son and heir, young Ahern. (The boy was, in fact, a twin to young Marie—Stevana’s second set, though Alyce’s twin very sadly had died shortly after birth.) In the early years, when both their families were young, Jessamy had visited her friend as often as she could, and had brushed the minds of all three Corwyn children. The two women had remained friends until the day Stevana died, miscarried of yet another set of twins that would have been more boys for Corwyn’s line—but sadly, not meant to be.

  Jessamy had seen Stevana’s surviving children but rarely in the years since then, but she was heartened to see that they appeared to be growing into handsome young adults—and now, apparently, were being prepared to enter the adult roles to which their birth entitled them.

  Thoughtful, Jessamy handed young Krispin back into the care of Seffira and his nurse and rose, smoothing her skirts as she made her way toward the lilac tree. The squires, who were wearing the livery of Lendour, scrambled to their feet at her approach, as did the girls, and Jesiana darted into her mother’s embrace with a glad cry.

  “Maman! We saw your ship this morning, from the tower atop the house!”

  “Yes, well, there was very little wind,” Jessamy replied, kissing her daughter’s cheek and nodding acknowledgment to the older girls’ curtsies and the bows of the two squires. “Young sirs, should you not be about your duties?” she said mildly to the latter.

  The pair took their leave with alacrity, to the obvious regret of the girls, and Jessamy opened her arms to Stevana’s daughters.

  “Dear Alyce, and darling Marie, come and give your Tante Jessamy a kiss,” she said. “Do you not remember me? Your mother and I were of an age with you when first we met. She was like the sister I had never had.”

  Relieved recognition lit both young faces, and the girls crowded eagerly into her embrace.

  “Of course we remember!” said the shorter of the two, the one with bronze-colored hair, as she bestowed a kiss on Jessamy’s cheek.

  The blonder one simply laid her head briefly against Jessamy’s shoulder and breathed a sigh of contentment.

  “My, but you have turned into quite the beauties,” Jessamy said, drawing back to look at them. “Alyce, you are the image of your dear mother. And Marie . . . lovely. Simply lovely. Stevana would be so proud of you.”

  Alyce nodded her blond head. “Would that Papa agreed. He intends to marry again. Unfortunately, his intended bride does not like the idea of grown stepdaughters,” she said bleakly.

  “She’s very vain,” Marie chimed in, with a wrinkle of her tip-tilted nose. “We don’t much like her.”

  “I see,” Jessamy said, containing a smile of gentle amusement at Alyce’s description of the two of them as “grown.” But she could sympathize with the girls’ recognition of their incipient stepmother’s resentment. “Jesiana, why don’t you go and see if your sister and Mistress Anjelica need help with Krispin?”

  “Yes, Maman.”

  As the younger girl dipped her a curtsy and headed off at her mother’s bidding, Jessamy drew Stevana’s daughters farther under the shade of the lilac tree and sank down, patting the cool grass beside her.

  “Sit down, my dears. I understand that you are to be fostered at court.”

  Marie’s rosy lips parted in amazement.

  “How did you know? You’ve only just got here.”

  “It often happens,” Jessamy replied, not unkindly. “Do keep your voice down, child. Your father’s new wife will wish to establish her own children in their father’s affections. It is the natural wish of any mother.”

  “She shall not have our brother’s title for her own sons, no matter what she does!” Alyce said in a fierce whisper.

  “Of course she shall not,” Jessamy agreed, patting her hand. “Your brother shall be Duke of Corwyn by right of your dear mother. Nothing can change that. In due time, he also shall be Earl of Lendour, for that is the right of your father’s eldest son. And if, by chance, dear Ahern were to form an affection for a half-brother by this new marriage of your father’s, it would be his right to decline the secondary title in favor of his brother—but that would be his decision, and no other’s.

  “As for you”—she drew the two of them into her embrace again—“your father does you a great service as well, by fostering you to court, for brilliant marriages can be made for the sisters of the next Duke of Corwyn.”

  “Aye, to some whiskered old graybeard who only wants our dowries,” Marie pouted, as Alyce made a moue. “I want to marry for love!”

  Jessamy regarded them with sympathy, but it would do no good to pretend that their station did not carry duties and responsibilities.

  “Of course you do,” she agreed. “But being who and what you are, that may not be possible.” She cast a quick glance around to be certain she could not be overheard. “Even were you merely human, your ducal bloodline would demand that you marry to a certain station—that, else take the veil—and that you may not do until and unless your brother produces an heir.”

  Alyce lowered her gaze, shaking her head bleakly. “It matters little. I have no call to the religious life—and Marie certainly does not.”

  “I did not suppose that either of you did, child,” Jessamy replied. “That grace is given to few—though I am told that you are to spend some time in the convent to finish your education. Don’t pout; you may find that a very rewarding time. I understand that you are to go to Notre Dame d’Arc-en-Ciel—Our Lady of the Rainbow. It is just north of Rhemuth. Did you know that one of my daughters resides there?”

  Marie looked startled, and Alyce’s jaw dropped.

  “She does?”

  “Aye, my second daughter Jessilde—or Sister Iris Jessilde, as she is now called. She has found great contentment there.”

  Alyce bit at her lower lip, clearly taken aback.

  “If she has a true vocation, then I am glad for her,” she murmured, “though I cannot imagine it is a comfortable place for those of our kind.”

  “Actually,” Jessamy said, with another glance over her shoulder, “the Church is quite happy for women of our kind to take up the religious life. Shut away in a convent, we are unlikely to reproduce more of our race.” At the girls’ scandalized expressions, she added, “You needn’t look shocked, my dears. It does happen. Not all are able keep a vow of chastity. But such a life does have its compensations, of course. A cloister provides safety, sustenance, and ample time for study and contemplation. There are far worse fates.”

  After a pause, Alyce whispered, “Mother told me how you were forced to marry when you were near our age. Will the king force us to marry so young, do you think?”

  “I shall do my best to see that he does not,” Jessamy replied. “He will certainly weigh any prospect of your marriages with great care. Never forget that, as Deryni and the sisters of a future duke, your continued existence will always be, first and foremost, a matter of expedience. I cannot stress enough the narrow knife-edge upon which all those of our race are forever balanced—and any stumble could mean your deaths, or the deaths of others.

  “But be of good cheer,” she added, at their glum expressions. “I cannot promise regarding the demands of state, of course, but I count myself fortunate that both their Majesties regard me as a friend as well as a servant of the court.”

  “The queen looks a kind woman,” Marie said hopefully.

  “Darlings, she is hardly more than a girl like you, for all that she is already a mother,” Jessamy reminded them, laughing gently. “She was not yet fifteen when she married the king, and she conceived almost at once. Come November, she will be but seventeen. But—you’ve not yet been presented to her, have you? Of course you have not; we’ve only just arrived.”

  The two girls shook their heads, eyes wide.

  “Then, come, you must make her acquaintance,” Jessamy went on, as the three of them got to their feet. “She will be glad of company closer to her own age. Most of us in the royal househ
old served one or both of the queens before her, and are old enough to be her mother—or yours. And the young men at court will adore you.”

  Smiling encouragement as she moved between them, Jessamy shepherded them back toward where the queen and Prince Brion’s nurse had taken over the glad occupation of leading the young prince in a few halting steps, his little hands supported from either side. The king had drawn apart with Earl Keryell and his son for earnest discussion, but kept glancing back at his son.

  Brion was a sturdy, handsome child, with clear gray eyes and a shock of straight, silky black hair cut short across the forehead and all around his head in imitation of his father’s. On hearing his happy chortle, Donal turned and crouched to hold out both hands, beckoning for Brion to come to him. With an exultant squeal, the boy let go of both supporting hands and toddled confidently into the arms of his sire.

  “Jessamy, would you look?” the queen cried, looking up at her and the demoiselles de Corwyn. “My little man is walking! I can’t believe how much he’s grown while we were away. It has only been a few weeks.”

  Jessamy smiled. “He has, indeed, grown, Majesty. A proper prince he is.”

  “I see that your Krispin thrives as well,” Richeldis observed, with a glance toward the baby’s basket. “He’s a fine, fat babe! And who are these pretty maids?” she added, jutting her chin at the girls.

  “Majesty, these are Earl Keryell’s daughters, Lady Alyce—and Lady Marie.” The girls made grave curtsies as their names were spoken. “They tell me that their father wishes to foster them to court.”

  “So the king has informed me,” the queen replied, leaving Brion to his nurse as she came to let the girls kiss her hand. “Ladies, you are most welcome—and you mustn’t be afraid of his Majesty,” she added, in a conspiratorial whisper. “If he sometimes seems gruff, it is only because he cares so much for all those under his protection. I hope you will be very happy as part of my court.”