Deryni Checkmate (4 page)

The king had dined informally tonight, with only Duncan McLain and his uncle, Prince Nigel, to share the table in the royal chambers. Now, across that table, Duncan drained the last dregs from his chased silver goblet and placed it gently on the table. Fire and taper-light winked from the polished metal, casting bright flecks on the table, on the violet-edged black of Duncan’s cassock. The priest gazed across at his young liege lord and smiled, blue eyes calm, contented, serene; then he glanced behind to where Nigel was contending with the seal on a new bottle of wine.

“Do you need help, Nigel?”

“Not unless you can charm this cork with a prayer,” Nigel said with a grunt.

“Certainly.
Benedicite,
” Duncan said, lifting his hand to make the sign that went with the blessing.

The seal chose that minute to give way, allowing the cork to shoot from the neck of the bottle in a shower of red wine. Nigel jumped back in time to avoid a royal dousing, and Kelson leaped from his chair before he, too, could be splashed, but Nigel’s best efforts were not sufficient to spare the table or the wool carpeting beneath his booted feet.

“Holy Saint Michael, you didn’t have to take me so literally!” the prince yelped, chuckling good-naturedly and holding the dripping bottle over the table while the squire mopped the floor. “As I’ve always said, you cannot trust priests.”

“I was about to say the same for princes,” Duncan observed, winking in Kelson’s direction and watching the boy control a smile.

The squire Richard wiped Kelson’s chair and the bottle, then wrung out his cloth over the fire and returned to tackle the table. The flames hissed and flared green as the wine vaporized, and Kelson took his seat and helped move aside goblets and candlesticks so that Richard could wipe up. When the young man had finished, Nigel filled the three goblets and replaced the bottle in its warming rack close by the fire.

Nigel Cluim Gwydion Rhys Haldane was a handsome man. At thirty-four, he was a mature version of what his royal nephew would look like in twenty years, with the same wide smile, the gray Haldane eyes, the quick wit that marked most Haldane males. Like his dead brother Brion, Nigel was a Haldane to the core, his military prowess and learning known and admired throughout the Eleven Kingdoms.

As he took his seat and picked up his goblet, his right hand moved in an unconscious gesture to brush back a lock of jet-black hair, and Duncan felt a twinge of nostalgia at the familiar movement. Only a few months ago, that gesture had been Brion’s as well. Brion, whom Duncan had served in one capacity or another for most of his twenty-nine years. Brion, victim of the same battle of ideologies that even now threatened to rend the country and plunge the Eleven Kingdoms into war.

Now Brion was gone. And his fourteen-year-old son reigned uneasily with the power he had inherited from his illustrious sire. And the tension grew.

Duncan’s gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door from the outer corridor. As he looked up, a very young page in Kelson’s crimson livery entered carrying a steaming silver bowl almost as big as he was. A snowy linen towel was draped over the lad’s shoulder, and a faint scent of lemon reached Duncan’s nostrils as the boy knelt beside Kelson and held out the bowl.

Kelson nodded grave thanks as he dipped his fingers in the warm water and dried his hands on the towel. The boy bowed his head shyly and moved to repeat the performance for Nigel, but he would not look up at the lean figure in royal blue. Nor, when he moved to Duncan’s side, would he look at the priest.

Duncan controlled the urge to smile as he replaced the towel on the boy’s shoulder. But when the boy had scurried from the chamber, he gazed across at Nigel with a mischievous grin.

“Is he one of your pupils, Nigel?” he asked, knowing that it was so. Nigel was in charge of the training of all the pages in the royal household, but Duncan knew that this one was special. In confirmation, Nigel gave a proud nod.

“Payne, my youngest,” he replied. “He has much to learn, but so does every new page. This was his first time to serve officially.”

Kelson smiled and picked up his goblet, idly twirling the stem between his long fingers so that the faceted sides caught the reflection of tunic and fire and tapestried walls.

“I well remember when I was a page, Uncle. Not so very long ago, either. The first time you allowed me to serve my father, I was scared to death.” He leaned his head against the tall chair-back and continued dreamily, “There was no reason to be afraid, of course. He was the same, and I was the same, and the mere fact that I wore court livery shouldn’t have made any difference.

“And yet, it did. Because I was no longer a boy serving his father; I was a royal page serving the king. There’s a big difference.” He glanced across at Nigel. “Payne felt that tonight. Even though I’ve known him all his life, and used to play with him and the other boys, he knew the difference. Tonight I was his king, not a familiar playmate. I wonder if it’s always like that?”

The squire Richard, who had been turning down the state bed on the other side of the room, approached Kelson’s chair and made a short bow.

“Will there be aught else, Sire? Anything I may bring ye?”

“I don’t think so. Uncle? Father Duncan?” The two shook their heads and Kelson nodded. “That’s all for tonight, then, Richard. Check with the household guard before you leave. There should be a coach standing by later on to take Father Duncan back to the basilica.”

“You needn’t bother,” the priest protested. “I’ll be fine on foot.”

“And catch your death of cold? Certainly not. The night’s not fit for man nor beast. Richard, there will be a coach ready for Father Duncan. Understood?”

“Aye, my Liege.”

Nigel drained his goblet and gestured toward the door as it closed behind Richard. “That’s a fine young man, Kelson,” he said, reaching behind to retrieve the wine bottle and pour himself another cup. “He’ll be ready for knighthood soon. One of the finest lads I’ve ever had the pleasure to train. Alaric concurs in that judgment, by the way. Anyone else?”

He proffered the wine bottle, but Kelson shook his head. Duncan inspected his goblet and found it half-empty, held it out for more. As Nigel replaced the bottle, Duncan leaned back in his chair and ruminated aloud.

“Richard FitzWilliam. He must be about seventeen now, isn’t he?”

“Very nearly eighteen,” Kelson amended. “He’s the only son of Baron Fulk FitzWilliam, up in the Kheldish Riding. I’d planned to knight him and a dozen others before we begin the summer campaign. His father will be pleased.”

Nigel nodded. “He’s one of the best. What news of Wencit of Torenth, by the way? Any further word from Cardosa?”

“Not for the past three months,” Kelson replied. “The city has a strong garrison, as you know, but they’ll be snow-bound for a few more weeks at least. And once the high passes are clear, Wencit will be hammering at the gates again. We can’t possibly get relief troops there until the spring flooding is done, and it will be too late by then.”

“So we lose Cardosa.” Nigel sighed, gazing into the depths of his cup.

“And the treaty dies, and war comes,” Duncan added.

Nigel shrugged and began running the tip of his finger along the rim of his goblet. “Hasn’t that been apparent from the start? Brion certainly knew there was that danger when he sent Alaric to Cardosa last summer. And when Brion died and we had to recall Alaric or lose you, Kelson—well, I still think it was a fair exchange: a city for a king. Besides, we haven’t lost Cardosa yet.”

“But we will,” Kelson murmured, lowering his eyes. “And how many lives will be lost in the exchange?” He twined his fingers together and studied them for a moment before continuing. “I sometimes wonder how to weigh those lives against my own. Sometimes I wonder if I’m worth it.”

Duncan exchanged a troubled glance with the king’s uncle, then turned a more reassuring one on Kelson. “Wise kings will always wonder about such things, my prince. The day you stop wondering, stop weighing the lives that hang in the balance—on that day, I shall mourn.”

The young king looked up with a wry grin. “You always know what to say, don’t you? It may not save cities or lives, but at least it soothes the conscience of the king who must decide who survives.” He lowered his eyes again. “I’m sorry. That sounded bitter, didn’t it?”

Duncan’s reply was cut short by a knock at the door, followed by the immediate entrance of young Richard FitzWilliam. Richard’s handsome face was tense, even perplexed, and his dark eyes flashed as he made an apologetic bow.

“Begging your pardon, Sire, but there’s a priest outside who insists he must see ye. I told him ye’d retired for the night, that he should come back tomorrow, but he’s most persistent.”

Before Kelson could reply, a dark-cloaked cleric shouldered past Richard and hurried across the room to kneel at Kelson’s feet. A stiletto had appeared unobtrusively in Kelson’s hand as the man first burst through the doorway, and Nigel half rose from his chair, also reaching for a weapon. But even as the man’s knees hit the floor, Richard was straddling his back, one arm across the intruder’s throat in a choke hold and a knee in the small of the man’s back, the other hand with a dagger at the jugular.

The man grimaced under Richard’s rough handling but made no move to defend himself or to threaten Kelson. Instead, he screwed his eyes shut and extended his empty hands to either side, doing his best to ignore the pressure of Richard’s arm hard across his windpipe.

“Please, Sire, I wish you no harm,” he croaked, grimacing as Richard’s cold blade touched the side of his neck. “I’m Father Hugh de Berry, Archbishop Corrigan’s secretary.”

“Hugh!” Duncan exclaimed, leaning forward anxiously as he recognized the man and signaling Richard to release him. “What the devil? Why didn’t you say so?”

Hugh had opened his eyes with a start at Duncan’s voice, and now he stared pleadingly at his brother priest, his eyes betraying his fear but also his resolution. Richard released his stranglehold and stepped back a pace at Duncan’s repeated gesture, but he did not relax his vigilant pose, nor did he sheath his dagger. Nigel warily took his seat again, but Kelson continued to finger the stiletto he had produced when the man approached.

“You know this man, Father?” Kelson asked.

“He is who he claims to be,” Duncan replied cautiously, “though I cannot speak for his intent after such an entrance. An explanation, Hugh?”

Hugh swallowed with difficulty, then glanced at Kelson and bowed his head. “I beg forgiveness, Sire, but I had to see you. I have certain information I could trust to no one else, and—”

He hazarded another glance at Kelson, then cautiously withdrew a folded piece of parchment from inside the breast of his cassock. His heavy black cloak was dark across the shoulders where the rain had soaked through, and his thinning brown hair glistened with a mist of fine droplets in the dancing taper-light. His fingers trembled as he handed the parchment across to the king. He averted his eyes again as he folded his hands inside his sleeves to hide their shaking.

Kelson frowned and replaced his dagger in its hidden wrist sheath before unfolding the parchment. As Nigel moved a candle closer, Duncan came around to read over the boy’s shoulder. The priest’s face hardened as he scanned the lines, for the formula was familiar, and what he had often feared. Tight-reining his rising alarm, he straightened and glanced at Richard, his blue eyes stormy, grim.

“Richard, would you please wait outside,” he murmured, flicking his gaze to Hugh’s bowed head. “I will vouch for this man’s conduct.”

“Aye, Father.”

As the door closed behind Richard, Duncan returned to his chair and sat, taking the opportunity to fortify himself with several swallows of wine. He continued to study Hugh across the goblet between his hands, looking up as Kelson finished reading and laid the parchment on the table.

“I thank you for this information, Father,” Kelson said, motioning Hugh to rise. “And I apologize for your rough handling. I hope you will understand the necessity, under the circumstances.”

“Of course, Sire,” Hugh murmured self-consciously. “You had no way of knowing what I was. I thank God that Duncan was here to save me from my own impetuosity.”

Duncan nodded, his eyes hooded and dark, but it was obvious he was not thinking about Hugh. His hands were clasped tightly around the silver goblet on the table before him, and the knuckles were white. Kelson did not seem to notice as he glanced at the parchment again.

“I assume this letter has gone out by now,” he said, catching Hugh’s affirmative nod. “Father Duncan, does this mean what I think it does?”

“May Satan doom them both to nine eternal torments,” Duncan whispered under his breath. He looked up sharply, suddenly aware he had spoken aloud, then shook his head and released the goblet. It was oval now instead of round.

“Forgive me, my prince,” he murmured. “It means that Loris and Corrigan have finally decided to do something about Alaric. I’ve been expecting some kind of action for months now, but I never dreamed they’d dare to interdict all of Corwyn for the actions of one man.”

“Well, apparently they
have
dared,” Kelson said uneasily. “Can we stop them?”

Duncan took a deep breath and forced himself to control his anger. “Not directly. We must remember that Loris and Corrigan see Alaric as the key to the whole Deryni question. He’s the highest placed of any known Deryni in the kingdom, and he has never tried to hide what he is. That said, he was never blatant in his use of his powers. But when Brion died, circumstances forced his hand, and he had to use his powers or see you die.”

“And to the archbishops,” Nigel interjected, “magic is evil, and that is that. Also, don’t forget how Alaric made fools of them at the coronation last fall. I rather imagine that has as much to do with the present crisis as any high-sounding motives they may say are behind the move.”