Deryni Checkmate (11 page)

“A vi—” Morgan’s eyes went wide. “You mean, like mine?”

Duncan nodded soberly. “Shall I meet you in the tower room?”

“As soon as I can get away,” Morgan agreed, handing him his signet. “Here, you’d better take this.”

As Duncan moved on toward the door, Morgan took a deep breath to compose himself, then crossed quietly back to his seat. He wondered how long it would be before he could extricate himself gracefully.

 

IN the tower room, Duncan paced back and forth before the fireplace, clasping and unclasping his hands and trying to calm his jangled nerves.

He was much more upset than he had wanted to admit, he knew now. In fact, when he had first entered the room, a short while earlier, he had been overcome by a violent fit of shaking as he thought about his visitation on the road, almost as though an icy wind had blown across his neck.

The attack had passed, and after throwing off his damp riding cloak he had sunk down at the prie-dieu before the tiny altar and tried to pray. But for once, his meditations had brought him little comfort. He couldn’t force himself to concentrate on the words he was trying to form, and he had had to give it up as a lost cause for the moment.

The pacing was not helping either, he realized. As he stopped before the fireplace and held out one hand, he realized that he was still shaking in a delayed reaction to what had happened earlier.

Taking hold of himself sternly, he passed a hand above the kindling laid ready in the fireplace, bringing it to flame, then crossed to Alaric’s desk and unstoppered a crystal decanter there, poured himself a small glass of the strong red wine that Alaric kept for just such emergencies. He drained that glass and poured another, then took it over beside the fur-draped couch. Unbuttoning his cassock halfway to the waist, he loosened his collar and stretched his neck backward to get the kinks out, then lay back on the couch, the glass of wine in his hand. As he rested there, sipping the wine and forcing himself to review what had happened, he began to relax. By the time the gryphon door opened and Alaric entered, he was feeling much better—almost unwilling to get up or talk at all.

“Are you all right?” Morgan asked, crossing to the couch and sitting down beside him.

“Just now, I think I may survive,” Duncan replied dreamily. “A little while ago, I wouldn’t have been so sure. This thing really disturbed me.”

Morgan nodded. “I know the feeling. Do you want to talk about it?”

Duncan sighed heavily. “
He
was there. I was riding along, I rounded a bend in the road a few miles from here, and there he was, standing in the middle of the road. He was wearing a gray monk’s habit, holding a staff in his hand, and—well, his face was almost identical to those portraits we’ve found in the old breviaries and history books.”

“Did he speak to you?”

“Oh, yes,” Duncan agreed heartily. “Just as clearly as you and I are speaking right now. And not only that, he knows what I am. He called me by my mother’s name—Duncan of Corwyn. When I objected and said I was a McLain, he told me that I was also a Corwyn—‘of my sainted mother’s right,’ I believe he put it.”

“Go on,” Morgan said, getting up to pour himself a glass of the red wine.

“Ah . . . next he said that the time was approaching when I would be sorely tested, and would be forced to either accept my powers and begin to use them out in the open, or else forget them. When I objected and told him that as a priest I was forbidden to use those powers, he asked if I were
really
a priest. He knew about the suspension, and he—somehow knew what you and I discussed earlier this afternoon. Remember, when I said that the suspension didn’t really matter that much, that the more I used my Deryni powers, the less important my vows seemed to be? Alaric, I’ve never told that to anyone else, and I know you didn’t. How could he have known that?”

“He knew what we talked about this afternoon?” Morgan said, sitting down again in amazement.

“Almost verbatim. And he didn’t Truth-Read me, either. Alaric, what am I going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Morgan said slowly. “I’m not sure what to think. He’s never been that talkative with me.” He rubbed his eyes and thought a minute. “Tell me, do you think he was human? I mean, do you think he was really there? Or just an apparition, a visual phenomenon?”

“He was there in the flesh,” Duncan said promptly. “He put his hand on the bridle to keep from getting stepped on.” He frowned. “And yet, there were no footprints where he walked. After he’d disappeared, there was still enough light to see my tracks going back the way I’d come, and the horse’s. But none of his.”

Duncan raised up on one elbow. “Now I
really
don’t know. Maybe he
wasn’t
there at all. Maybe I imagined all of it.”

Morgan shook his head and stood abruptly. “No, I’m sure you saw something. I wouldn’t even presume to guess what, at this point, but I think something was there.” He stared at his feet for a moment, then looked up. “Why don’t we sleep on it, eh? You can stay here, if you like. You look as though you’re very comfortable.”

“I doubt I could move if I wanted to,” Duncan said with a grin. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He watched until Morgan had disappeared through the gryphon door, then reached to the floor beside the couch and set aside his glass.

He
had
seen someone on the road back to Castle Coroth. He wondered again who it could have been.

And why?

CHAPTER FIVE

SONG OF SOLOMON 6:10

 

 

 

 

 

AS the cathedral bells tolled Sext in Coroth, Morgan suppressed a yawn and shifted slightly in his chair, trying not to look as bored as he felt. He was reviewing court rolls from cases he had judged the day before, and Lord Robert was working industriously on an account roll across the table from him.

Lord Robert always worked industriously, Morgan acknowledged. Which was probably a good thing, since someone had to do the blasted things. It didn’t seem to bother Robert at all to sit poring over obscure records for hours at a time when things were crumbling around their ears. Of course, that was his job . . .

Morgan sighed and tried to force himself to return to
his
job. As Duke of Corwyn, one of his primary duties when he was in residence was to hear local court presentments once a week and render decisions. He usually enjoyed it, for it enabled him to keep in touch with what was going on in his duchy, to keep abreast of what was troubling his subjects.

But he had been restless even before Duncan’s arrival. The long inactivity forced by almost two months of nothing but attention to administrative detail had left him restive, eager for action. And even daily workouts with sword and lance, occasional forages into the countryside on hunting expeditions, had not been able to entirely take the edge off his discomfiture.

He would be glad when he could leave for Culdi next week. The honest fatigue of the four-day ride would be a welcome change after the glittering but sterile life he had led for the past two months. And it would be especially good to see old friends again—not least, the young king. Even now, Morgan longed to be at his side, protecting and reassuring him in the face of the new crises that were developing daily. Kelson was almost like a son to him. He had a fair idea what sorts of worries must be going through the boy’s mind right now.

Reluctantly, Morgan returned his attention to the correspondence in front of him and scrawled his signature at the bottom of the first sheet. Part of his problem this morning was that the cases he was reviewing seemed so trivial compared to what Morgan knew were the real issues. The writ he had just signed, for example, set a small fine on one Harold Martham for allowing some of his beasts to graze on another man’s lands. As he recalled, the man had actually been resentful over the judgment, even though there was no contesting that he had been in the wrong.

No matter, friend Harold,
Morgan thought to himself.
If you think you have troubles now, just wait until Loris and Corrigan lower the Interdict. You have no idea what trouble is.

It was beginning to look as though there would, indeed, be an Interdict. Yesterday morning, after seeing off the last of his guests, Morgan had sent Duncan to see Bishop Tolliver again, to find out what the archbishops’ messenger had said when he delivered their missive the night before. Duncan had returned hours later with a long face and a troubled mind, for Tolliver had been almost evasive this time, in contrast to his previous amiable reception. Apparently the messenger had frightened Tolliver. At any rate, Duncan had been able to discover nothing.

As Morgan moved his writ to the completed pile, there came a quick, sharp knock at the door, followed by the entry of Gwydion, lute slung over his back. The little troubadour was dressed in the simple brown homespun of the common folk this afternoon, his swarthy face streaked with dust and perspiration. He looked very serious as he came to bow curtly by Morgan’s chair.

“Your Grace, may I have a word?” He glanced at Robert. “In private?”

Morgan leaned back and put his pen down, then gave Gwydion a long, searching look. The foppish popinjay that was the public Gwydion had been replaced by a thin-lipped, determined little man who several times had proven his worth as a gatherer of useful intelligence. Indeed, there was something in his manner, in the look of his black eyes, that made Morgan guess that Gwydion had been about just such a mission. He glanced at Robert and nodded for him to leave, but the chancellor only pursed his lips sourly and did not move.

“My lord, I must protest. Whatever it is, can it not wait? We have only a few more rolls to go, and after that—”

“Sorry, Robert.” Morgan replied, looking back at Gwydion. “I must be the judge of whether it can wait or not. You may come back as soon as we’re finished.”

Robert said nothing, but he scowled vexedly as he stacked his papers and pushed back his chair. Gwydion watched until he had gone and closed the door behind him, then strolled toward the window and eased himself down on the padded window seat.

“I thank you, Your Grace. There are many lords who would not have taken the time to indulge the whims of a mere spinner of tales.”

“I sense you have more than tales to spin,” Morgan said quietly. “What is it you wished to tell me?”

Gwydion unslung his lute and began tuning it, gazing out the window languorously as he spoke.

“I was out in the city this morning, my lord,” he said, strumming his instrument and toying with the pegs. “I have been collecting songs that I thought might please Your Grace’s ears. I fear, now that I’ve found them, though, that they won’t please you at all. Would you like to hear one?”

He turned and looked Morgan full in the eyes, his own gaze glittering with anticipation, and Morgan nodded slowly.

“Very well. This song is one I thought would be of particular interest, since it’s about Deryni. I cannot vouch for the tune or the lyrics, since they are not of my composing, but the concept is . . . disquieting.”

He strummed a few introductory bars, then launched into a spirited and lively melody reminiscent of a child’s play tune.

 

As Gwydion finished the verse, Morgan sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers, his eyes hooded, dark. He sat quietly for a moment, gray eyes studying the singer, then spoke in a low tone.

“Is there more of this?”

The troubadour shrugged. “There are other verses, my lord, other versions. But the poetry is inferior, and I fear they all display more or less the same vitriolic sentiment. Perhaps you would be more interested in the ballad of Duke Cirala.”

“Cirala?”

“Aye, my lord. Apparently he is a villain in every sense of the word—evil, blasphemous, heretical, a liar who deludes his subjects. Fortunately, the song does offer some hope for his poor, oppressed people. I might also suggest that the name Cirala will become quite familiar, if one only spells it backward: A-L-A-R-I-C. At any rate, the poetry is somewhat better than the previous one.”

Again he strummed an introductory chord, this time setting the mood for a slow, sedate, almost hymn-like piece.

 

“Humph!” Morgan snorted when the troubadour had finished. “Where the devil did you ever dredge
that
one up?”

“In a tavern, lord,” the troubadour replied with a dour grin. “And the first was taught me by a ragged street singer near Saint Matthew’s Gate. Is my lord pleased with what I have brought him?”