Deryni Checkmate (10 page)

 

AT Castle Coroth, the night’s festivities had begun with the setting of the sun. As darkness descended, richly clad lords and their resplendent ladies had begun to fill the ducal hall with color and sound as they awaited the arrival of their duke. Lord Robert, true to his word, had managed to transform the usually gloomy government chamber into an oasis of light and cheer, a welcome respite from the damp and darkness of the moonless evening.

Beaten bronze chandeliers suspended from the ceiling blazed with the light of a hundred tall candles. Light gleamed from the facets of fine crystal and silver goblets, reflected on the mellow wink of polished pewter and silver service on the dark tables. A dozen pages and squires in emerald green livery scurried around the long trencher tables setting out bread and decanters of mellow Fianna wine. Lute and recorder warbled as a festive undertone to the chatter of the guests, and Lord Robert, stationed near the head of the table, kept a watchful eye out for his lord’s appearance as he chatted with two comely ladies.

As the guests mingled, Morgan’s trusted surgeon, Master Randolph, circulated casually among the assembled nobility and gentry, nodding greeting and pausing occasionally to chat with those he knew. His task tonight, as it usually was on such occasions, was to feel out the mood of his master’s subjects and later to report items of interest. As he made his way across the room, he picked up snatches of conversation.

“Well, I wouldn’t give ye two coppers fer a Bremagni mercenary,” one portly lord was saying to another as his eyes followed a stately brunette across the room. “They can nae be trusted!”

“An’ what about a Bremagni lady?” the other murmured, nudging his companion in the ribs and raising an eyebrow. “Do you think
they
can be trusted?”

“Ah—”

The two exchanged knowing nods and continued to inspect the lady in question, not noticing Master Randolph’s slight smile as he moved on.

“And that’s what the king just doesn’t seem to understand,” said a bright-faced young knight who looked barely old enough to have won his spurs. “It’s all so very simple. Kelson
knows
how Wencit will move once the thaws begin. Why doesn’t he just—”

Yes, why doesn’t he?
Randolph thought with a wry smile.
It’s all so very simple. This young man has the answer to everything.

“And not only that,” a striking red-haired lady was saying to her companion, “it’s rumored that he only stayed long enough to change, and then he was back on a horse and riding out for God knows where. I do hope he returns in time for dinner. You’ve seen him, haven’t you?”

“Ummm,” the blond woman sighed approvingly. “I certainly have. What a pity he’s a priest.”

Master Randolph rolled his eyes in dismay as he continued past the women. Poor Father Duncan was always being sought after by the ladies of the court—almost as much as the duke himself. It was positively disgraceful. It might be a different matter if the priest encouraged them, as some did; but he didn’t. If the good father was lucky, he would manage not to return until dinner was over.

Still scanning the crowd casually, Randolph noticed three of Morgan’s border lords in an earnest conversation over to his right. Morgan, he knew, would be vitally interested in what they had to say. But Randolph dared not go too close. The men knew him to be in Morgan’s confidence and would surely change the subject if they thought they were being too candid for outside listeners. He edged as close as he dared and pretended to listen to two older men discussing falcons.

“Aye, ye dasn’t hae th’ jesses too tight, or tha bird’ll—”

“. . . and so this Warin fellow rides right into my granary yard and says, ‘Do ye like paying taxes to His Grace?’ Well, I sez ta him that sure, nobody likes taxes, but by God, the duke’s tenants gets their money’s worth o’ protection and good government!”

“Humph!” another growled. “Hurd de Blake was telling me just the other day how he’d had four acres of spring wheat burned out by the scoundrel. It’s been a dry winter up north by de Blake’s place, and the wheat burned like Hades. Warin demanded that he make a contribution to the cause, and de Blake told him to go to the devil!”

“. . . nah, I like th’ smaller tyrrits mysel’, so ye can get yer hands around th’ jesses rightlike . . .”

The third man scratched at his beard and shrugged as Randolph strained to hear. “Still, this Warin fellow has a point. The duke
is
half Deryni, an’ makes no secret o’ the fact. Suppose he’s plannin’ to join with Wencit in another Deryni coup, t’put Corwyn under another Interregnum? I dinnae want my manors blasted with heathen Deryni magic when I deny their heresies.”

“Ah, now, ye know our duke would never do a thing like that,” the first lord objected. “Why only the other day . . .”

“My peregrine . . .”

Master Randolph nodded to himself and moved on at that, satisfied that the lords were no immediate threat; were, indeed, only talking about the things others were discussing tonight. Certainly, the people had every right to be curious about their duke’s plans, especially since he was getting ready to go off to war again, taking the flower of Corwyn’s fighting men and leaving the others to more or less fend for themselves.

This continued mention of the troublesome Warin was disturbing, though. In the past month, Randolph had heard far more about the rebel leader and his band than he cared to remember. And apparently the problem was getting worse rather than better. Hurd de Blake’s lands, for example, were more than thirty miles inside the border, much deeper than Randolph had ever heard Warin to penetrate before. The situation was becoming more than just a border problem. Morgan would have to be briefed before court in the morning.

Randolph glanced across the room to see slight movement behind the drapes from which Morgan would make his entrance—the duke’s signal that he was about ready to come in. Randolph nodded and saw the curtain move again as he began to make his way slowly back in that direction.

Morgan let the heavy velvet drapes fall back into place and straightened, satisfied that Randolph had seen his signal and was on his way. Behind him, Gwydion was bickering with Lord Hamilton again, in a low but penetrating tone. Morgan glanced around.

“You stepped on me!” the little troubadour was whispering furiously, pointing down at one elegantly pointed shoe that now bore a decided scuff mark on the side of the toe. His entire outfit was in shades of deep violet and rose, and the dust of Hamilton’s misstep shone like a beacon on the rich suede of the left shoe. Gwydion’s lute was slung across his back with a golden cord, and a sweeping hat with a white cockade was perched atop his thick black curls. The black eyes danced angrily in the swarthy face.

“Sorry,” Hamilton murmured, starting to bend down and brush off the offending dust rather than argue in Morgan’s presence.

“Don’t touch me!” Gwydion yelped, dancing back a few steps and drawing his hands up against his chest in a show of horrified distaste. “You blundering fool, you’ll only make it worse!”

He bent down to dust his own shoe, and the long tippets on his flowing violet sleeves dragged the floor so that he had to dust those, too. Hamilton looked vindictive and grinned malice as Gwydion discovered the new dust, then realized Morgan had seen the whole proceedings and cleared his throat apologetically.

“Sorry, m’lord,” he muttered. “It really wasn’t intentional.” Before Morgan could comment, the curtains parted briefly and Randolph slipped into the alcove.

“Nothing urgent to report, Your Grace,” he said quietly. “There’s a lot of talk about this Warin character, but nothing that can’t wait until morning.”

“Very well.” Morgan nodded toward Gwydion and Hamilton. “If the two of you are quite finished bickering, we’ll go in now.”

“My lord!” Gwydion gasped, drawing himself up indignantly. “It was not I who started this silly quarrel. This oaf—”

“Your Grace,” Hamilton cut in, “am I required to endure—”

“That’s enough—both of you! I don’t want to hear another word!”

At Morgan’s exasperated nod, Lord Hamilton slipped out through the curtains. The lord chamberlain came to attention as the curtains moved beside him, and the room began to hush. Three slow raps of the long staff of office echoed hollowly through the quieting hall, and the chamberlain’s voice rang out.

“His Grace, the Duke of Corwyn: Master of Coroth, Lord General of the Royal Armies, and Champion of the King!”

As the musicians played a short fanfare, Morgan stepped through the parted curtains and paused in the doorway. A murmur of appreciation rippled through the assembled guests as all bowed respectfully. Then, as the musicians resumed their playing, Morgan acknowledged the tribute with a nod and began to move slowly toward his place at table, his entourage falling into place behind him.

Morgan was all in black tonight. Duncan’s unsettling news from Rhemuth had brought with it a note of solemnity that had put him totally out of the mood for following the dictates of a temperamental master of wardrobes. Accordingly, he had put aside the brilliant green of Lord Rathold’s choice and worn black instead, and the devil with what anyone thought.

Severely plain undertunic of slubbed black silk, sleek and close to body and wrists; over that, a sumptuous doublet of black velvet trimmed in jet, high-collared and close around his neck, and with wide sleeves slashed to the elbow to show the silk of the tunic beneath; silk hose disappearing into short black boots of softest leather.

And against this setting, the few articles of jewelry that Morgan permitted himself in such a mood: his gryphon signet on the right hand, emerald inlay of the beast glowing out against its onyx background; on his left, Kelson’s Champion ring with the golden lion of Gwynedd etched on a field of black and gleaming gold. And on his head, the ducal coronet of Corwyn, hammered gold in seven delicate points, crowning the golden head of the Deryni Lord of Corwyn.

He appeared to be unarmed as he strolled toward his place at the head of the tables, for the ruler of Corwyn traditionally had no need to go armed among his dinner guests. But hidden beneath Morgan’s rich attire was the gleam of supple mail protecting vital organs, the slim stiletto in its worn wrist sheath. And the cloak of his Deryni power surrounded him like an invisible mantle wherever he went.

Now he must play the gracious host and settle down to the bore of a state banquet, while inwardly he seethed with impatience and wondered what had happened to Duncan.

 

IT was well after dark when Duncan finally returned to Coroth. His horse had gone lame the last two miles, and he had been obliged to go on foot the rest of the way, resisting the almost overpowering urge to make the animal continue at a normal pace despite its discomfort. He had controlled that impulse. For whatever advantage the hour’s difference in his return might make, it was doubtful that it would be worth ruining one of Alaric’s best saddle horses. Besides that, it was not in Duncan’s nature to purposely torture any living thing.

And so, when he and the animal finally limped into the courtyard, he leading, the tired horse following slowly, it was to find the area almost entirely deserted. The gate guards had passed him without question, since they had been warned to expect his return, but it took him several minutes to find anyone in the stable yard to take his horse. At the invitation of the duke, the squires and pages who normally would have been manning the stable had slipped inside to the back of the hall to hear Gwydion sing.

Dinner was over, he soon discovered; and as he passed among the servants crowded in the doorway he could see that the entertainment was already well underway. Gwydion was performing, seated on the second step of the raised dais at the far end of the hall, his lute cradled easily in his arms. As he sang, Duncan paused to listen. The troubadour apparently deserved the reputation he held throughout the Eleven Kingdoms.

It was a slow, measured melody, born of the highlands of Carthmoor to the west, the land of Gwydion’s youth, filled with the rhythms, the modulations to minor keys, that seemed to characterize the music of the mountain folk.

Gwydion’s clear tenor floated through the still hall, weaving the bittersweet tale of Mathurin and Derverguille, the lovers of legend who had perished in Interregnum times at the hands of the cruel Lord Gerent. Not a soul stirred as the troubadour spun his song.

 

As Duncan scanned the hall, he spied Morgan lounging in his ducal throne at the head of the dais where Gwydion sang. To Morgan’s left, Lord Robert sat flanked by two beautiful women who gazed fondly at Morgan as the troubadour sang. But the seat to Morgan’s right, closest to Duncan, was vacant. He thought that, if he were careful, he might be able to make his way there without creating too much disturbance.

Before he could do more than move in that direction, however, Morgan saw him and shook his head, then rose quietly and made his way to the side of the hall.

“What happened?” he whispered, pulling Duncan behind one of the pillars and glancing around to be certain they were not being overheard.

“The part with Bishop Tolliver went well enough,” Duncan murmured. “He wasn’t enthusiastic about the idea, but he agreed to delay his answer to Loris and Corrigan until he can evaluate the situation. He will let us know when he makes a decision.”

“Well, I suppose it’s better than nothing. What was his general reaction? Do you think he’s on our side?”

Duncan shrugged. “You know Tolliver. He’s squeamish about the whole Deryni aspect of things—but then, everyone is. For now, he seems to be with us. There’s something else, though.”

“Oh?”

“I—ah—think we’d better not talk about it here,” Duncan said, glancing around meaningfully. “I had a visitor on the way back.”