In the King's Service (36 page)

“So, what do you think?” the king asked, after reeling off his reasons. “Are there apt to be objections?”

“None that will be voiced,” Richard replied. “Other than from churchmen, perhaps, because of what he is. In any other candidate, the knee would have put him out of the running—it
is
a handicap, when he’s afoot. But you’ll find few better in the council chamber, as we’ve seen this week; and I’ve sparred with him often enough to know that he swings a mean sword. Even with his bum knee, put him on a horse and he can ride circles around me—and even around you, when you were in your prime.”

Donal chuckled, well aware that he was quite past that prime, but gratified that there were others willing and able to deal with the more physically demanding aspects of rulership—and not really minding that that part of his life was now behind him.

“I’ll take that as a compliment to
him,
rather than a snide comment by a younger brother on my advancing age,” Donal said. “But you’re right—all that bashing and thrashing
is
for younger men. Fortunately, young Ahern is well qualified for both—and for the more subtle disciplines of the council table and strategy board. If that business at Kiltuin had to happen, I’m glad it happened the way it did, because it gave me an opportunity to watch him at work. In time, he could even be the equal of Damian Cathcart, or Jeppe Lascelles at Killingford.”

“Christ, I remember meeting General Jeppe when he was a very old man,” Richard murmured. “If you’re comparing Ahern to him, we’ve a real treat to look forward to, by the time he reaches his prime. I’d definitely go ahead and knight him, Donal—and I’d also confirm him in his Lendour title.”

“Really? The bishops wouldn’t like that,” Donal reminded him.

“Of course they wouldn’t like it. He’s Deryni, and they’re bishops, and by the letter of the law, no Deryni may come into the full authority of high rank until he reaches the age of twenty-five. Not fourteen, and not even eighteen, but twenty-five. Those are stupid laws, Donal, and you should change them.”

“I’ve thought about it,” Donal conceded. “And one day, I might just do it. But in the meantime, I do have to keep at least a reasonable peace with my bishops. Did I tell you that the Bishop of Corwyn wouldn’t even celebrate the Requiem for Ahern’s sister? The family chaplain did it.

“Fortunately, the bishops aren’t going to excommunicate me or him for confirming him to an earl’s coronet before he turns eighteen. We’re only talking about a few months, after all; and given his past services to my crown, there’s no question but that he’s prepared to put his life and his talents on the line again, in my service.”

“It’s the talents that the bishops don’t like,” Richard pointed out. “And they’d happily take his life.”

“Well, not until I’ve had his service in Meara again,” Donal declared. “And meanwhile, come Twelfth Night court, I intend to knight him
and
confirm him as Earl of Lendour. We’ll save the ducal recognition until they’ve gotten used to a Deryni earl.”

 
 
ALYCE de Corwyn was one of the few with advance knowledge of the king’s plans regarding her brother— necessary, since it was she who had the privilege of girding him with his white belt. Sir Jovett Chandos buckled on the golden spurs, and it was Sir Sé Trelawney, arrived only minutes before the ceremony, who presented him with his sword, black-clad and silent as he knelt to watch the king’s Haldane blade flash above the head of his childhood friend, the flat of it touching right shoulder, left shoulder, and head.

Ahern himself was not able to kneel as the three other young men did, who were dubbed that afternoon, but the king had made a point of reiterating the high points of the new knight’s exemplary service, both the summer previous and three years before, and personally assisted him to rise from the faldstool moved into place before he was called forward.

And while the Archbishop of Rhemuth cast cold glances at the king, both then and later, when Ahern was called forward to be formally invested as Earl of Lendour, the king again spoke of Ahern’s sterling service hitherto, and kissed him on both cheeks before placing the coronet upon his brow and the gold signet on his finger, emblematic of his new legal status.

When Ahern reiterated the fealty he had sworn at his knighting, now pledging further leal fidelity as earl, several dozen knights of Lendour and of Corwyn knelt at his back, affirming their support and loyalty as well. Though Gwynedd’s clergy might have their doubts about this setting aside of the law, Ahern’s record spoke for itself among Donal’s other knights. If any disagreed, no one spoke out.

As for Sir Sé Trelawney, present as promised, he appeared much changed in the months since Alyce last had seen him. His long black robe, fastened at the shoulder, had a vaguely eastern look to it, unrelieved by any color save the white slash of his own knight’s belt. In truth, he looked as much the monk as warrior now, a close-clipped beard exaggerating the leaner lines of a form that now was almost ascetic in its sparseness.

Afterward, he had words of congratulation for Ahern, and a kiss on the cheek each for Alyce and Zoë, but he did not stay long after court, quietly riding off into the snow whence he had come, while the hall cleared to set up for the feast.

I think he may have made profession with the Anvilers,
Alyce whispered mind to mind to Vera, who was seated across from her and sharing a trencher with an exceedingly attentive Earl Jared McLain.
I had hoped he might stay longer.

Vera, offering Jared a morsel of succulent pheasant lavished with plum sauce, spared her sister a sympathetic glance.

I’m sorry,
she sent.
I know you were fond of him.

Turning her attention back to the revelry in the hall, Alyce forced a resigned smile as she lowered her head slightly to listen to a comment from Sir Jovett, seated on her other side.

Her brother, meanwhile, seemed to be quite enjoying the company of Zoë Morgan. He had put aside his coronet, but his gold signet flashed in the light of candle and torch as they fed one another tidbits. Sometimes his lips nibbled near her fingertips, or his hand lingered near hers, occasionally caressing the back of a hand, brushing a wrist. Later in the evening, Alyce saw the two of them standing in a shadowed recess of one of the window embrasures, Ahern with one hand set on her waist and she with her face upturned to receive his chaste kiss, fingertips brushing at his chest.

“For someone who made little of our suggestion that she might really become our sister,” Alyce said to Vera much later, in the room the three of them now shared, “it did look like the two of them were getting along rather well.”

Vera laughed and wrapped a shawl more closely around her shoulders, settling down beside Alyce on the sheepskin rug before the fire.

“It did, indeed. I noticed them well after dinner, sitting in one of the window embrasures, just holding hands and looking into one another’s eyes. I—uh—don’t think they noticed me.”

“I don’t think they noticed much of anyone besides one another.” Alyce picked up an ivory-backed brush and began brushing her hair, gazing into the fire.

“Oh, Vera,” she said after a moment. “Six months ago, it was Zoë and I who were waiting for Marie to come in. I hope Zoë will be luckier in love.”

“So do I,” Vera replied. “I think Ahern is quite smitten. And I think Zoë would make him quite a wonderful duchess. Here, give me that and I’ll brush.” She took up the brush that Alyce surrendered and fell to, saying, after a moment, “What would you think of having
two
duchesses in the family?”

Alyce turned to stare at her twin, eyes wide. “Jared McLain?” she breathed. “Truly?”

“Well, it’s early on, as yet,” Vera said, smiling somewhat self-consciously, “but he does need a wife—and a mother for that baby boy of his. One would think he invented babies. At first, he spoke of little else—until he started asking about
my
family. Apparently, the daughter of a Lendouri knight would be well regarded in Kierney—and Cassan.”

Alyce found herself containing a grin. “Well, Keryell
was
a Lendouri knight, among other things,” she said. “And he would have approved of such a match for you, I feel certain.” She cocked her head to one side. “Could you find contentment as Jared’s countess, and eventually his duchess?”

“I think I could,” Vera said softly. “He’s
very
sweet and gentle—and he isn’t at all as grand as I’d feared.”

Giggling together, they sat there, gossiping and brushing one another’s hair, for the best part of an hour before Zoë came tiptoeing in, quite flustered to discover that they were still awake.

“I’m not even going to ask,” Alyce said, laughing, as Zoë dropped onto the sheepskins between them and reached for one of the cups of mulled wine set on the hearth. “We both saw you with Ahern earlier this evening.”

“Well, I
might
have been with someone else,” Zoë said slyly, gulping down some of the wine. “But I wasn’t,” she added with a grin.

She set down the cup and hugged her arms across her chest, closing her eyes in happy remembrance.

“We talked about Cynfyn, and Castle Coroth, and he asked me if I liked them. He told me about growing up with you and Marie—and Vera, I’d forgotten that you lived at Cynfyn for a while as well, after Alyce and Marie came to Arc-en-Ciel. He showed me the signet that the king gave him today, and asked if I’d like to try it on.”

“Now,
that
sounds
serious,
” Vera said, grinning. “He’s only just got it, and already he’s letting pretty girls try it on.”

“Well, he will need a bride,” Alyce said reasonably, “and the king told us in Coroth that he intends to marry off both of us soon. He thinks a great deal of your father, Zoë. That might make you quite an acceptable wife for a future duke.”

“Do you really think so?” Zoë asked, wide-eyed.

“More unlikely things have happened,” Alyce replied. “Remember when Marie and I asked whether you were campaigning to be our sister?”

“But, that was just in fun. I never dreamed—”

“Well, you may well dream tonight,” Vera said, grinning as she poked Zoë in the ribs. “Alyce, you’ll have to speak to that brother of yours, and make sure his intentions are honorable, where our dear Zoë is concerned. Dare we tell her about
my
prospect?”

As Zoë looked at her in question, Alyce slipped her arm around the other girl’s shoulders and smiled.

“Zoë darling, it appears entirely possible that both of you may be duchesses someday.”

 
 
NEITHER of the prospective dukes lingered long in Rhemuth. By mid-January, both had returned to their own lands to hold themselves in readiness for a war all hoped would not be necessary. Their prospective brides pined through the rest of the winter and into spring, though Alyce did her best to divert their energies into the activities of the court and the royal children.

Such diversion served her own purposes as well, as she released her wistful affection for Sé Trelawney to the reality of what she had seen of him during his brief visit in January. Friends they had been during their childhood, and friends they remained; but now Sé had turned to dreams of his own, and a new life with the mysterious and ascetic Knights of the Anvil. That life did not include her, and never could.

 
 
TO no one’s surprise, insurrection flared again in Meara in that spring of 1089, obliging Donal to mount the threatened personal expedition into that rebellious land. By April, the king had begun to assemble the local levies that would go with him to Meara; the Kierney levies would meet him there, on the plains before Ratharkin.

Though proclaimed Prince of Meara at birth, by right of his Mearan mother, Donal Haldane had actually visited Meara only half a dozen times in his life, and two of those previous ventures onto Mearan soil had been under arms, to put down rebellions. The present insurrection was again centered around Donal’s first cousin Judhael, eldest son of his mother’s sister Annalind, neither of whom had ever accepted the succession intended by Donal’s mother or, indeed, his grandfather. More than a decade had passed since a Haldane king last had ridden into Meara under arms, and the present contretemps came of having stopped short of finishing the task he then had set out to do.

This time his brother Richard rode at his side: a mature and formidable general to whom he gladly had relinquished active command of the Gwyneddan expeditionary force, a generation younger than Donal. For his personal safeguarding, the king had retained a crack bodyguard of fast-mounted Lendouri cavalry captained by Ahern Earl of Lendour, giving him the flexibility to go when and where he sensed he was needed, to assess conditions for himself. Among them, though not part of their number, was Sir Kenneth Morgan, now restored to his function as the king’s aide, rarely far from his side since returning from the last expedition into Meara, three years before.

Their advance into that turbulent land was swift and focused, bringing them quickly into the heartland of the rebellious province. Half a day’s ride from Ratharkin, the provincial capital, forward scouts made contact with the first wary outriders from the city, where rebels had ousted the royal governor and occupied part of the city. To the king’s dismay, initial reports regarding rebel numbers suggested that Judhael of Meara had mustered far more support than initially had been supposed. The prospect gave pause to all previous assumptions that this would be any ordinary quashing of a minor dissident insurrection.

That night, as the king and his army encamped between Ratharkin and loyal Trurill, Donal called his commanders to his tent for a council of war.

“I want to know how it’s possible that Judhael can keep alive such support, after so long,” the king said, glancing across the grim faces faintly illuminated in the torchlight. “We’ve had nearly sixty years of wrangling about Meara. Have I truly given these people cause to resent me that much?”