In the King's Service (50 page)

She came back to his embrace again, basking in the warmth of his affection and praise, and did resolve to put it from her mind.

 
 
THE wedding day of Alyce de Corwyn and Sir Kenneth Morgan dawned clear and sunny. Alyce stirred and stretched in the bed she had shared so long with Zoë, opening her eyes to see Zoë gazing at her from the other pillow and smiling.

“What?” Alyce murmured.

Zoë giggled and also stretched. “Just think. In a few hours, you’re going to be my mother.”

Alyce shook her head, also giggling. “Mother to your sisters, maybe—in time. To me, you shall always be my sister.”

“Oh, Alyce, you
are
like a sister to me—far more than my sisters of blood. Promise that you won’t forget me, when you’re a proper married lady.”

“Did you forget
me,
when
you
became a proper married lady?” Alyce said lightly.

“Well, I never was
really
a proper married lady,” Zoë said with a touch of wistfulness. “Sometimes I dream about Ahern, and what it might have been like—
you
know.”

“No, I
don’t
know!” Alyce replied. “At least not yet.” She sat up in bed to take Zoë’s hand. “Oh, Zoë, just think. A day from now, I shall no longer be a maid—and I shan’t even be able to tell you what it was like, because he’s your
father,
for goodness’ sake!”

“Well, it wouldn’t be right, would it?” Zoë said matter-of-factly. “On the other hand . . .” She looked at Alyce slyly. “I’ll bet he’s a very good lover. He’s ever so kind and gentle. Though not so gentle, I’m sure, that he will not give you pleasure! I mean—oh, dear. This
is
going to be complicated, isn’t it?”

Alyce laughed aloud at that and tumbled out of bed, rummaging for a robe.

“Get up, you! You must help me make myself beautiful for your father. This is my wedding day!”

 
 
THE nuptial Mass was to begin at noon, following on the last stroke of the Angelus. By eleven, the convent chapel was prepared, bedecked with flowers and flooded with summer sunlight. The few invited guests had begun to arrive.

The king and queen had come the night before, taking over part of the guest quarters with the three young princes and Princess Xenia, who was bouncing with the excitement of being allowed to serve as Alyce’s flower girl. Also in the royal party were Lady Jessamy and her two daughters still at home, Jesiana and Seffira, along with the king’s two principal aides besides Kenneth: Sir Tiarnán MacRae and Sir Jiri Redfearn. Duke Richard was on assignment in the field, and sent his regrets, but Sir Seisyll Arilan had deputed in his place.

From farther afield came the seneschals of both Corwyn and Lendour, along with several knights each, come to witness the nuptials of this daughter of both houses and to express their glad support for the man who now would become a principal regent for both honors. They had met him often in the past, and knew that Ahern had liked and respected him. Sir Jovett Chandos was among them—and Sir Sé Trelawney, once again come from wherever his personal quest now had taken him. The newly wed Earl of Kierney and his bride arrived, and Vera left his side for a time to spend a few moments with her secret sister.

The sisters and students of Arc-en-Ciel had all lent their efforts to the creation of the gown Alyce donned that morning: a sweep of nubby green silk embroidered with golden gryphons the size of a man’s hand, with Kenneth Morgan’s gold double-tressure bordure set along the hem. She wore the Furstána emeralds at her throat—and on one wrist, the gold bangle of opals and sapphires that had been her mother’s. A bridal wreath of roses in a myriad of hues adorned the tumble of golden hair cascading to her waist, like the one that Cerys Devane had worn to her novice profession; and the now fully professed Sister Iris Cerys was one of the those who held the poles of the rainbow canopy under which the bride would walk down the aisle; Iris Jessilde was the other.

The chapel and players were prepared. The guests, such as there were, had been seated at the westerly ends of the choir stalls, the royal party on the Gospel side—king and queen and royal children, along with members of the king’s staff—and Kenneth’s sisters and younger daughters with the Corwyn and Lendour men on the Epistle side. The scent of summer flowers floated on the still air, dust motes sparkling in the sunlight that streamed through the great rose windows, east and west.

As the last stroke of the Angelus faded, Father Paschal led Sir Kenneth and Sir Jiri Redfearn from the sacristy to the front of the chapel. The convent’s three chaplains were also vested and ready, ranged behind them. When all were in place, Mother Iris Judiana bowed to the four priests, then made her way down the aisle to greet the bride, who was waiting under the rainbow canopy.

At Judiana’s approach, Alyce sank to her knees to receive a blessing. Then, as the king helped her to her feet, coming beneath the canopy with her, the sisters and students of the convent choir began the
Ave Vierge Dorée
—and truly, as the pair of them began their walk down the aisle to where Sir Kenneth Morgan waited, she
was
the “golden virgin” of the anthem.

Later, the details of that next hour blurred together in a series of somewhat disjointed images of ceremony. Preceded by the Princess Xenia, who paused every three steps to gravely fling a handful of rose petals into the air, and by Prince Brion in his pages’ livery, bearing a cushion on which lay the coronets both of Corwyn and Lendour, Alyce made her way down the aisle on the king’s arm, the canopy accompanying them, pausing at the steps into the choir to reverence the altar. Zoë followed behind, as witness and attendant.

Up into the choir then, where the king and Mother Judiana led her out from under the canopy, now no longer sheltered under the Lady’s rainbow mantle but given into the keeping of the man in whose hand the king now set hers, kissing her cheek and then stepping back to take his place beside his queen.

Readings, then, speaking of the duty of husbands and wives to one another and to God—and the joy recounted in the Song of Songs:

My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away, for lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. . . .

Next, the vows, kneeling before Father Paschal as he bade them exchange promises, a ring, a kiss. And then the coronets, brought on their velvet cushion by Prince Brion, which cushion she took and extended to her new husband, that he might lay hands upon the two in token of the responsibilities he now assumed as a regent of Corwyn and Lendour.

The remainder of the Mass then—heavenly bread upon the tongue and the sacred cup shared each to each. And after that, the laying of her floral crown at the feet of the statue of the Virgin, bows to king and queen, and the recessional, following the double line of blue-robed students back up the aisle and into the chapel forecourt, where the girls showered them with flower petals as they emerged into the sunlight.

After, there was a festive wedding supper, and good wishes from the wedding guests: Zoë’s enthusiastic embrace for both of them, the shy kisses of Kenneth’s other two daughters, the awkward embraces of his sisters; the more heartfelt kisses of the three young princes and little Princess Xenia, who kept gathering up the rose petals from the chapel floor so she could shower the couple again; a promise of the king’s ongoing protection and favor; Sé’s promise that he would always be there, if needed. Vera’s grin as she whispered a word or two about what awaited Alyce in the marriage bed.

After supper, the bridal couple were conducted to the principal guest apartment, occupied the night before by the king and queen but now vacated, with their imminent departure to return to the city. When the queen and Jessamy had dressed Alyce for bed, and Father Paschal had blessed the bed and her in it, everyone withdrew save for Kenneth, left standing against the door, simply gazing at her. In the garden beneath the window, the sweet voices of the students sang a gentle bridal blessing from distant Bremagne, that soon faded into stillness with the sound of departing feet on gravel.

He came to her then, in the twilit summer night, shedding his outer robe to slip into the bed beside her. He lay there on his side for a long moment, simply gazing at her, head propped on one elbow, before lifting a reverent hand to brush along her cheek, across her lips, down the curve of her neck to the ribbons at the throat of her night shirt, briefly caressing the sweet swell of her breast.

“Dear God, you are beautiful, in body and in soul!” he whispered, his eyes never leaving hers. “I asked you once before whether you were an angel, for surely I stand before the gates of Paradise.”

As she shivered slightly at his touch, he gently tugged at one of the ribbons until its bow parted, rolling closer then to nuzzle kisses on the creamy skin thus exposed.

“Actually, I’ve just lied to you,” he admitted, raising an eyebrow at her astonished
O
of indignation. “I am not standing
anywhere;
I am lying here beside a beautiful woman who is my wife at last—though a part of me
is
upstanding.”

The playful downward flick of his glance to the region of his groin elicited a giggle and a maidenly blush on the part of his bride, after which he resumed his reverent exploration of her neck, loosing another tie, slipping a gentle hand into the open neck of her gown as his mouth sought hers and began to draw her with him into Paradise.

 
 
SEVERAL times they had their pleasure of one another that night, and again shortly after dawn, before slipping back into languid dozing for another several hours. Around noon, shortly after the Angelus, they surfaced for a meal, brought to their room by a smiling Sister Iris Cerys, who bobbed in blushing curtsy over the tray she presented as Kenneth opened the door.

Later in the afternoon, the newlyweds emerged to stroll hand-in-hand in the convent garden, beginning talk of plans and dreams. Toward suppertime, others began to appear in the garden. Though most of the wedding guests had left, either the night before or first thing that morning, Zoë and Jiri Redfearn remained, along with Jovett Chandos. The five of them supped together that evening with Father Paschal and Mother Judiana, and spoke guardedly of the state of affairs concerning the bishops.

Alyce, who knew better than any of them just how far the bishop’s wrath could extend—and with how little cause—kept largely silent, and lay shivering in Kenneth’s arms later that night, until he kissed away her tears and turned her thoughts to more pleasant contemplations.

 
 
BUT their idyll of married bliss was not to last. The very next morning, not long after first light, Sir Jiri came knocking on their door with missives from the king recalling them all to Rhemuth.

“The king says there’s been trouble up near Sostra. The county of that name belongs to Torenth, of course,” Kenneth said, still skimming the king’s letter, “but the town of Sostra is Corwyn’s, as you know.”

Both were aware that Duke Richard had been patrolling along the Torenthi border since mid-May, hoping his presence would discourage a repeat of the incursions into Corwyn two years before.

“It appears I’m to take up some of my regenting duties somewhat sooner than we expected,” he went on. “Deinol Hartmann has asked for Jovett as well. We should leave as soon as possible.”

They were gone within the hour, Jiri and Jovett in addition to Alyce, Kenneth, and Zoë, clattering into the yard at Rhemuth just past noon.

“Dreadfully sorry to drag you away from your bride, Kenneth,” the king said, before briefing the three who would leave shortly for Sostra.

As he drew them toward the maps spread on the table in the summer council chamber, already starting to review details of the reports he had received from Richard, Seisyll Arilan watched silently from the other side of the room, and wondered why the king had lied.

WHATEVER the reason, Kenneth was away off-and-on for most of the summer and into the autumn, with periodic visits home to deliver dispatches and be reunited with his bride, but never for more than a few days, and never long enough to get her with child.

Jessamy, meanwhile, continued her observations regarding Alyce, recalling her own preparations for the conception of Krispin, and gradually narrowed down a series of optimal target dates.

But Jessamy’s health was fast failing. Alyce and the royal physicians nursed her, but there was little they could do besides ease her pain. By October, she was all but bedridden, and early in November asked for Seisyll Arilan.

“I’m told you wished to see me,” he said quietly, pulling a stool closer to her bed, at her gesture. Her maid had withdrawn, and they were quite alone.

“I am dying, Seisyll,” she murmured. “It may not be today, or even next week, but it will be sooner rather than later.”

“I had heard that,” he replied. “I am very sorry.”

“So am I.” She turned her face to gaze at the canopy above the bed.

“Seisyll, we have not always agreed—you and I. I understand, though I do not accept, the reasons that others felt obliged to dictate the course of my life. I have never understood why there was so much antipathy toward my father, but I accept that perhaps there are things I was not meant to understand.”

When he said nothing, only lowering his eyes, she went on.

“But you must believe me when I tell you that I have tried to act only in ways that would honor my blood and the love I have come to bear for the House of Haldane.”

She paused to cough, and Seisyll watched her in compassion.

“I wish to speak to you of Krispin,” she whispered, when she had caught her breath. “He is gone now, so the telling of his tale cannot hurt him, but because of . . . other things that are in progress, you have a need to know. Take my hand, Seisyll.”

As he did so, she closed her eyes and pulled back her shields, inviting rapport . . . and gave him the full reckoning of Krispin’s begetting, the death of Sief, the deceptions thereafter . . . and now, the plans in train for Alyce de Corwyn, to repeat the king’s mission, that another Deryni heir of his body should be conceived to become the protector of Gwynedd’s future kings. . . .