Childe Morgan (7 page)

“The castle chapel
is
the logical place to hold it,” Alyce said as she closed the chapel door behind them and leaned against it. Beside her, Zoë was carrying a basket of flowers and sweet herbs for the two grave slabs before the altar steps. Alaric had already wandered ahead and was exploring the south wall, where a painted wooden statue of St. Michael gazed down serenely from a wall niche, wings furled around him like a mantle, gauntleted hands at rest on the hilt of a sword worked in gold and silver. The last time the two women had visited Cynfyn, it had been to bury Ahern, and Alaric had not yet been born.

“I had forgotten the stillness and the beauty of this place,” Zoë murmured.

“Aye,” Alyce replied, “but 'tis a terrible beauty, considering who lies buried here. I would certainly understand if you'd prefer a different venue. Perhaps it isn't the best idea, to begin a new marriage while standing on the grave of one's first husband.”

Zoë glanced away briefly, looking wistful, then slipped an arm around Alyce's waist.

“That's long past now,” she whispered. “I try not to think about it. I did love him, but he was never really my husband except in name. There wasn't time for more.” She brightened and lifted her chin bravely. “I do know that he would have wanted me to be happy.”

She picked up a stem of lavender and breathed in its sweet perfume, then shifted her gaze to the grave slabs before the altar. “I try to put it from my mind that he lies in that grave yonder. For me, I shall always remember him as he was on that day he rode off to Meara, eager and excited to finally be doing what he was born to do, when life was simpler for all of us.”

“Aye, it was,” Alyce murmured. “And if Ahern had lived, he would now be Duke of Corwyn, with
your
son to succeed him rather than mine—which would be simpler for
me
, I'll grant you—and for Alaric. But then
your
son would be facing what Alaric will face, in times to come.”

Zoë glanced at Alaric, who had wandered closer to the end of the chapel, then back at Alyce, a sly smile curving her lips.

“Alyce, if I'm marrying Jovett, my children will
all
be facing what Alaric is facing, won't they? After all, they'll also be half-Deryni.”

Chuckling, Alyce only shook her head.

“Be glad that very few people know about Jovett,” she replied. “And we must do our utmost to ensure that no one finds out, mustn't we?” She glanced at her son, who now was attempting to climb the altar rail next to the statue of St. Michael. “Alaric, darling, please don't do that!” she called, as she and Zoë started in that direction. “Come and help me and Auntie Zoë with these flowers, would you?”

Stopping in midclimb, the boy obediently swung his leg back down and came to join his mother and sister.

“Mama, can I have a flower for Saint Michael?” he asked.

“Yes, of course you can,” she replied, holding the basket down to his level. “What kind do you think he'd like?”

“Maybe a rose,” he said, starting to finger through the blooms. “This big red one is—
ow!
It has big, sharp thorns!”

Zoë cocked her head at him and reached for his hand. “Gracious, did you stab yourself?”

Somewhat indignantly, the boy pulled back his hand and sucked briefly at a finger, then reached for the same flower again.

“Alaric, you just saw that that one has thorns,” his mother said reasonably. “How about this peony? See what a fluffy head it has?”

“No, want the rose!” the boy said firmly, though his touch was more careful as he picked it up. “Saint Michael likes roses! The thorns are sharp like his sword!”

“I can't argue that,” Alyce murmured, as he took off at a run toward the statue of the saint. “Zoë, did we just hear what I think we heard?”

“That he made the connection between the sharpness of swords and of rose thorns?” Zoë answered. “I believe he did. And not yet three.”

Alyce only rolled her eyes heavenward as she knelt down beside the graves of her father and brother, taking flowers from the basket. “Dear God, what we both have to look forward to,” she murmured, and laid a handful of lavender and rosemary on the grave of Keryell of Lendour. “Here's rosemary for remembrance, Papa,” she said. “And roses from your grandson, who already knows about sharp thorns and sharp swords.” She sighed as she laid three white roses amid the fragrant herbs. “I wish you could have known him.”

As she bowed her head in a brief prayer, Zoë quietly took more flowers from the basket and laid them on Ahern's grave.

“Dear Ahern,” she whispered. “Wish me joy, dear heart.”

T
HEY
left for Coroth two days later, arriving just before Midsummer. Jovett accompanied them, to continue learning his new duties as Kenneth's official liaison.

A ducal honor guard met them in the long, slanting light of late afternoon as they wound their way down from the foothills above the city, and escorted them into the city through the St. Matthew Gate. From there, growing crowds watched them ride past the cathedral and on up to the castle itself, increasingly enthusiastic as the identity of the party became known.

It had been seven years since Alyce's last visit to Coroth: a time remembered with wistful sadness, since it had been there that she bore her sister's body for burial, laying her to rest among the remains of most of Corwyn's past dukes and ducal wives. Zoë had accompanied her on that journey; Kenneth had been present in the king's party, but with no inkling that he would one day be the father of Corwyn's heir. Now Lendour's banner rode beside that of Corwyn, announcing the arrival both of Lendour's new lord, who was also one of Corwyn's regents, and of Corwyn's young heir. Alaric perched happily on the saddle in front of his father, smiling and waving in response to the crowd.

By the time they rode into the castle yard, most of the regents of Corwyn had gathered on the great hall steps to greet them. Sir James of Tendal, the hereditary chancellor, welcomed them on behalf of his fellow regents and made perfunctory introductions. All of the names were familiar, from years of correspondence with the regents; now faces could be attached to some of those names. The most memorable was Sir Laurenz Udaut, whose resemblance to his son Trevor was unmistakable. It was he who, with his son, conducted the guests to their apartments and offered them refreshment. Since no formal arrangements had been set for the evening of their arrival, the weary newcomers then retired early, to ready themselves for business in the morning.

The next morning was time for Kenneth to make the more formal acquaintance of the regents of Corwyn. A middle-aged courtier identifying himself as Sir Crescence de Naverie conducted Kenneth and his immediate family down to the great hall to break their fast, chatting of inconsequentials to the adults while they ate and watching young Alaric sidelong as the boy tucked into buttered bread smeared with honey, a cold leg of chicken, which he brandished like a club until curbed by a look from his mother, and a cup of small beer. After that, they repaired to the airy tower chamber where the dukes of Corwyn had long carried out the business of the duchy.

Alyce remembered the chamber only vaguely. She had visited Coroth perhaps half a dozen times as a child, and once to bring Marie's body home. Though she had met the Corwyn regents on that occasion, she remembered little of it, for Ahern then had been the heir, and both of them besides had been mourning the death of their sister.

A lighter atmosphere prevailed today as Crescence conducted her and Kenneth to a pair of high-backed chairs set before the round council table. Zoë and Jovett followed with Alaric in tow, shushing him as he tried to swing from their arms. A watchful Trevor Udaut brought up the rear of the little procession.

The council members were already assembled—eight of them—and had risen as Kenneth and Alyce entered. Most of the faces looked vaguely familiar to Alyce, from the brief introductions of the night before, but she could assign names to only a few. At least the bishop was easy to identify by his purple cassock. And Sir Laurenz Udaut nodded and smiled faintly at her look of recognition.

“My lord, my lady…” Crescence murmured, inviting the two of them to sit.

Kenneth waited until Alyce had settled into her chair before himself taking his seat to her right, nodding to the council to also be seated. While they did so, Kenneth took Alaric onto his lap, and Zoë, Jovett, and Trevor Udaut grouped themselves behind them.

“My lords,” Crescence said again, this time addressing the council as he settled at Kenneth's right, “I present to you Alyce Lady de Corwyn, mother of our future duke, and her husband, Sir Kenneth Morgan, whom the king has created Earl of Lendour for life. Sir Kenneth—or, more properly,
Lord
Kenneth—is now, by these letters patent, premier regent of Corwyn, in right of his son.”

Crescence laid a document on the table before them, with the pendant seal of scarlet wax affixed to its bottom, and inclined his head. As it was passed along to the grey-haired man sitting at the opposite side of the table, Crescence said to Kenneth, “My lord, my lady, these are your regents for Corwyn. May I present them to you?”

Kenneth quirked a wry grin that swept the table.

“Thank you, Sir Crescence. And gentlemen, please allow me to point out that I may be the father of your future duke, and one of his regents, but I am only newly become an earl. Until a few weeks ago, I was a simple knight like many of you. Perhaps we would all be more comfortable if you each introduce yourselves, and tell me briefly of your responsibilities. I regret that I cannot yet attach names to all of your faces. We need to remedy that.”

A brief murmur of agreement whispered among them, and then the dark-clad man seated to the left of Kenneth and Alyce slightly raised one hand.

“I'll begin, then, my lord. Sir Miles Chopard, secretary to this council.”

“Thank you, Sir Miles.” Kenneth nodded in acknowledgment, then flicked his gaze expectantly to the man beyond.

“Michael O'Flynn, Earl Derry,” the next man said. “Counsel to the duchy. And this is my son Seamus.” He indicated a somewhat younger man than Kenneth, seated slightly behind and to his left, with curly brown hair and bright blue eyes.

“My lords,” Kenneth replied, inclining his head.

“Síoda Kushannan, Earl of Airnis,” said the next man, grey-haired and distinguished looking in the robes of a scholar of Grecotha. “I served Duke Stíofan, your lady wife's grandfather. That was a very long time ago,” he added, smiling.

“Then, I shall welcome your experience,” Kenneth replied. “And you, my lord?”

The slender, dark-haired man seated beyond Earl Síoda folded his hands with fastidious care, pursing his lips appraisingly.

“Lord Rathold, my lord, counsel to the duchy. And my colleague is the Bishop of Coroth,” he added, opening a hand toward the silver-haired cleric at his left elbow.

“Esmé Harris, my lord,” the bishop said, inclining his head. “I shall pray that God grants you wisdom in your new estate.”

“The bishop speaks for all of us, my lord,” said James of Tendal, seated directly across from Kenneth and Alyce. “I am, as you know, the hereditary chancellor. In the absence of a duke, I suppose you might say that I stand in the king's stead in Corwyn. My son Robert serves as my aide, and will eventually succeed me.” He nodded toward the younger man at his left elbow, who smiled and inclined his head.

“My lord.”

To Sir Robert's left, Trevor's father smiled and shifted in his chair.

“Sir Laurenz Udaut, my lord. Special counsel.”

Kenneth nodded and shifted his gaze to the priest seated at Udaut's left. “And you, Father?”

The priest inclined his head. “Tivadan, my lord. Chancellor of the Exchequer.”

“A vital function,” Kenneth said with a smile. “And you must be…?” he said to the man between Tivadan and Sir Crescence.

“Hamilton, my lord. Seneschal of Coroth Castle. I bid you welcome.”

“Well met, Lord Hamilton,” Kenneth said. “I look forward to working with all of you.”

“And we with you, my lord,” said the chancellor. “And we are honored to meet our future duke at last,” he added, jutting his chin toward Alaric, who had listened gravely from his seat on his father's lap. “He looks a sturdy lad.”

Kenneth smiled faintly. “It is certainly my intention that he should become the man you would wish, eventually to govern Corwyn. I trust that Lord Kushannan will ensure that he learns of his illustrious great-grandsire and other things pertaining to his illustrious ancestry.” He glanced at Alyce. “Did you know Duke Stíofan?” he said tentatively.

Alyce smiled and shook her head. “Alas, he died before I was born, my lord. But on many a winter's night my mother told tales of him to me and Ahern and Marie, when we were very small. And Alaric bears his second name, Anthony.” She brushed a fond hand against her son's cheek. “Speaking of whom, perhaps Zoë and I should take this young man elsewhere, now that proper introductions have been made, so that you gentlemen can accomplish something useful in what remains of the morning.”

As she made to rise, Trevor Udaut pulled back her chair and the other men came to their feet. Kenneth eased Alaric to the floor to put the boy's hand in his mother's.

“Mama!” Alaric whispered, loud enough for all of them to hear. “Do we have to go
now
?”

“I think it's best, darling,” she replied, crouching down to his level to look him in the eyes. “Papa and these good gentlemen have work to do. Besides that, I wanted to show you where your Grandmama Stevana played when she was a girl.”

The boy's lower lip started to quiver in a pout, but at Zoë's additional cajoling, he let himself be led from the room.

 

L
ATER
that evening, as they lay abed, Kenneth acquainted Alyce with the progress of the day's meeting, and pronounced himself well satisfied.

“The king has chosen his Corwyn regents well,” he said. “Having met them now, I feel far less daunted than I did before, about having the duchy run from a distance. If you had been allowed to rule in your own right, of course, we'd be here most of the year, which would make things much easier. But given the realities of the situation, I'm quite confident that we can manage.”

“Well, there have been regents since my grandfather died, after all,” Alyce pointed out, “and that was eight years ago. My father was never Duke of Corwyn; only Earl of Lendour. And sadly, Ahern only ever got to govern Lendour, and then only for a few months.” She sighed wistfully. “He would have made a wonderful duke.”

“And you would have made a wonderful duchess,” Kenneth said, kissing her on the nose. “And you
are
the duchess, in all but name.”

She smiled and snuggled closer to his side, taking up the invitation his lips had begun.

 

B
EGINNING
the next morning, they settled into what was to become their regular routine for the next few weeks. After breaking their fast in the castle's great hall, where they made a point of chatting with whichever courtiers were present for business later in the morning, Kenneth, his aides, and his future son-in-law adjourned to the council chamber, where they would spend the day hammering out the business of the duchy with its regents. Often Alyce would accompany him, sitting at his side as advisor and sounding board, but on that first day, she and Zoë rode down to the cathedral with Alaric in tow, attended by a maid, Sir Trevor, and Sir Xander of Torrylin, who had accompanied them from Lendour. It was market day, and the cathedral square was crowded with the stalls and goods wagons of local farmers and craftsmen.

“Oh, Alyce, look!” Zoë whispered, as they paused on the cathedral steps while Xander engaged a pair of local men to look after their horses. “Do I see silks on offer over there?” she asked, pointing toward a distant stall where lengths of shimmering silks and damask glistened in the morning sunlight.

“So it would appear,” Alyce replied. “I told you that traders from farther east pass regularly through Corwyn's port. After we've been inside, I thought we might try to find some lengths of silk for your wedding gown. Xander,” she said a bit louder, “you and Melissa may wait here. Feel free to browse at this edge of the market, if you wish.” She did not include Trevor in the order, knowing he would be a discreet shadow for necessary protection.

“Ah, so
that's
why you wanted to come down here so early,” Zoë said, as she and Alyce continued up the steps, Alaric between them and Trevor dutifully following. “You'd mentioned eastern silks on the ride from Cynfyn, but I hadn't expected such prompt attention to the mission.”

“Well, I can't have you disgracing the family when you walk down the aisle to meet Jovett, can I?” Alyce said brightly. “Whether you're my heart-sister or my daughter, it's my responsibility to make certain you're well turned out. Besides,” she added with a sly wink, “you helped me with
my
bridal finery, as I recall.”

“True enough,” Zoë agreed. “Oh, Alyce.” She sighed as they reached the west door and paused to gaze up at the carving above the tympanum, depicting the Last Judgement. “The last time we walked through this door, it was to bury poor Marie. We
have
shared some sad times, haven't we?”

Alyce nodded, remembering the cathedral aisle strewn with the flowers that should have conveyed Marie to her bridal bed, and instead had lined the way to her tomb.