The King's Deryni (20 page)

•   •   •

T
HE
ruse held in the remaining weeks leading up to Twelfth Night. Alaric did ride the mare once or twice, for lessons in the arena, but Llion made a point of taking the little bay out for daily rides, and for his own weapons practice, and always rode the mare when he needed to accompany Kenneth on missions for the king. So far as he could tell, others at court accepted the supposition that Earl Kenneth was a generous lord, and that Llion simply indulged his young charge from time to time.

Since Llion continued some of Alaric's private training, especially in areas in which Alaric was well ahead of his age-mates, this averted some of the too-close contact that the lad had dreaded. On his own, Alaric even began venturing guarded interactions with a few of the other boys. Some, like Cornelius Seaton, would always remain implacably against him, but a few encounters seemed to hold the potential for more positive relationships, perhaps even a kind of friendship.

“You handle that pony well,” said a voice from the fence, as Alaric pulled up after yet another successful run at the rings with a wooden sword. “Is he the same one you rode at the king's birthday tournament?”

Alaric turned his attention to the speaker: Paget Sullivan, a tall, gangly lad with auburn hair and bright blue eyes, slated for squiring at the upcoming Twelfth Night festivities. There was reserve in his gaze, but no apparent hostility.

“Aye, he is,” Alaric acknowledged, reining the pony closer and halting. “Would you like to try him?”

The other boy looked surprised, but then a faint smile curved at the corners of his mouth. “May I, truly?” he asked.

For answer, Alaric swung one leg over the pommel of his saddle and jumped down, offering the reins with an answering smile.

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” The older boy reinforced his reply with an amiable nod and climbed down from the fence.

“You're Paget Sullivan, aren't you?” Alaric said, as the other set his foot in the stirrup.

Young Paget flinched, then put his raised foot back on the ground and partially turned toward Alaric.

“I am.”

Alaric gave the older boy a nod of approval. “You took ten rings at the king's birthday tourney. That was impressive.”

Paget turned to face Alaric squarely, his expression softening a little. “Thank you. As I recall, you also took ten rings.” He glanced around to see who might be listening, then added, in a lower voice, “Cornelius Seaton was practically livid. He hates you, you know.”

Alaric shrugged. “I've given him no cause, other than to exist.”

Paget snorted. “That's more than enough for Cornelius. He doesn't much like me, either—probably because he considers me a rival, which I am. Come to think of it, there aren't many of the other pages he does like, much less respects.”

“I gathered that,” Alaric said. “But I've heard that he's actually pretty good at ring-tilting—when he isn't getting dumped from his pony.”

“Don't let
him
hear you say that,” Paget murmured, casting a nervous glance under the pony's neck to where the said Cornelius had just come in from riding a set of runs at the rings, and negligently threw his lance aside to nearly hit one of the younger pages. “He does have a fearsome temper.”

“You'd better ride, then, before he sees us talking,” Alaric said, wisely keeping the pony between him and Cornelius.

Tight-lipped, Paget again set foot to stirrup and, this time, sprang up into the saddle. Gathering up the reins, he then cast a conspiratorial grin down at the younger boy. “He'll remember that this is your pony, you know. As soon as he sees me ride out, he's going to know I was talking to you. But if you don't mind, I don't!”

“Enjoy your ride,” was all Alaric said, though he smiled as he said it.

“Thank you—and not just for the ride,” Paget returned with a nod.

With that, he kneed the pony into motion and took off across the arena, heading toward the stand where the practice lances were racked up. He nodded amiably to Cornelius as he passed, seizing a lance on the trot as he continued on toward the ring lists. Fortunately, just as Cornelius recognized the pony and cast a poisonous glance in Alaric's direction, Llion came up beside his charge.

“May I ask what that was all about?” Llion asked, leaning nonchalantly against the fence.

“I told Paget Sullivan he could ride my pony,” Alaric replied. “He's nice. But apparently Cornelius Seaton doesn't like the fact that I talked to Paget.” He grinned up at Llion. “I don't think I care.”

Smiling, Llion gently dunted Alaric on the bicep. “Good lad! It appears you may have made a friend. Just watch out that an old enemy has not become Paget's enemy as well.”

“I think they already didn't like each other much,” Alaric replied. “But I'll watch Paget's back—and mine.”

“See that you do,” Llion replied. “It could be worth both your lives.”

“Our lives?”

“Just remember whose nephew Cornelius is,” Llion said darkly.

“A man that hath friends must show himself friendly . . .”

—PROVERBS 18:24

T
O
the relief of all, Alaric's act of generosity seemed to provoke no serious repercussions. Cornelius Seaton performed extremely well that day, even outriding Paget Sullivan, and seemed more caught up in his own success than in paying much attention to who was mounted on what pony.

The incident also seemed to mark a subtle change in the attitude of Paget Sullivan. Paget's outward attitude around the other boys altered little, and he was careful not to appear too friendly; but neither did he exhibit any sign of dislike or fear or even resentment. And one dreary afternoon midway through November, when Alaric chanced to be reading in an archway of the colonnade skirting the royal gardens, he looked up to see Paget approaching from the direction of the great hall, apparently lost in thought and unaware of his presence.

“Hullo, Paget,” he said softly, as the other drew abreast of him.

The other boy looked up with a start, expressions of surprise, uncertainty, and uneasiness briefly flitting across his face.

“Hello,” Paget replied, glancing around to see whether anyone else was in sight or earshot. When he saw no one, he cautiously ventured a little closer. “What's that you're reading?” He jutted his chin at the manuscript in the other boy's hands.

Alaric shrugged. “Just an old treatise on battle tactics from the Great War. It was written by one of the Torenthi generals who survived Killingford. I have permission to borrow manuscripts from the royal library,” he added, at Paget's raised eyebrow.

“Is it in Torenthi?” Paget moved closer still, to glance down at the scroll open on Alaric's lap. “Good Lord, it is. You can read that?”

“Only a little, but I'm learning. My Aunt Delphine taught me the script; she's my father's sister,” Alaric added, lest Paget construe this somewhat unusual accomplishment as something learned from his Deryni mother. “And Sir Llion helps me sometimes. He grew up near the Torenthi border, so he speaks a little of their tongue. A lot of their military terminology is very close to ours, once you puzzle out the different alphabet.”

Paget raised both eyebrows this time, then flicked a glance at the stone bench beside Alaric, clearly intrigued that an eight-year-old, even a Deryni, should spend his own time in such esoteric pursuits. “Could you show me?”

Flashing a tentative hint of smile, Alaric gave a nod and scooted a little aside to make room, shifting the manuscript so that Paget could have a better view of it, and searched for a passage that he had already puzzled out.

“The general's name was Jurij Orkény—see, there's his name.” He pointed to it and sounded out the pronunciation. “Say it.”

“
Yu-ri Or-kay-nee
,” Paget repeated dutifully.

“That's very good. You now know two words in Torenthi.”

Paget chuckled dubiously. “Two whole words.”

“Don't scoff,” Alaric said lightly. “It's probably more than Cornelius knows.”

Stifling a snicker of agreement, Paget settled closer to look at the name again. “Orkény. Actually, I think I've heard of him. I'd just never seen it written—and certainly not in Torenthi.”

Alaric nodded. “He was on the general staff of Prince Nikola, who didn't survive the battle—which is a good thing, because besides being the brother of Prince Arkady, who soon became King of Torenth, Nikola was supposed to marry Roisían of Meara.”

Paget snorted. “Meara! Trouble, even then. You do know that there's apt to be another Mearan campaign in the spring, don't you?”

“I'd heard that,” Alaric said carefully. “If they go, my father will be riding with the king. They're hoping it will just be a visitation, though—perhaps a royal progress. Rumor has it that old Aude of Meara is dying, and that Princess Caitrin will marry as soon as the body is cold. That would not be a good thing.”

Paget looked at the younger boy in surprise. “Who told you that? And how does an eight-year-old know about such things?”

Alaric turned a guileless gaze on the older boy. “I'm going to be a duke someday, Paget. I'll need to know about such things. Besides, I overheard my father and Sir Llion discussing it one night, when they thought I was already asleep.” He sighed and shook his head. “I hope there isn't another war.”

“So do I,” Paget allowed. “My father is getting too old for battle, but I have uncles who—” He broke off at the sound of footsteps, accompanied by the dark silhouettes of three cloaked figures approaching from the direction of the kitchens. Two of them were the king's sisters, the Princesses Xenia and Silke, but the third was Cornelius Seaton, who was carrying a handled basket from which all three were partaking: tarts, by the look and aroma.

“Your Highnesses!” Paget blurted, springing to his feet as Alaric, too, rose, cradling the manuscript against his chest as both of them bowed.

Xenia, the older of the two girls, looked flustered but returned them a prim curtsy. Silke, who was only ten, broke into a wide grin and ran to bestow an exuberant hug on Paget.

“Paget! What are you doing here? Oh, hullo, Alaric. Cornelius, bring some of the tarts for Paget and Alaric.” Turning back to the pair, she added, “Cook doesn't know we took them. But it was so boring, with all the rain, and the tarts smelled
so
nice. Here, have one. Go ahead.”

His face blank and neutral, Cornelius dutifully brought the basket, which Silke snatched from him and thrust at both boys. Though Paget delved into its depths, indulging the younger princess, Alaric mutely shook his head and stepped back, noting the poisonous glance Cornelius gave him.

“What's the matter,
Deryni
?” Cornelius muttered, when Silke had seized Paget's hand and begun dragging him and the basket back in the direction of her elder sister. “Afraid you'll be caught with stolen tarts, and get into trouble?”

Alaric shook his head again. “Sticky fingers and old manuscripts don't go well together.”

“Old manuscripts? Let's see that,” Cornelius demanded, reaching for the vellum scroll in Alaric's arms. “What have you got there?”

“Leave it!” Alaric ordered, pulling back farther. “It's the king's manuscript, and I have permission!'

Cornelius froze just before his hand could touch the vellum, then drew himself up haughtily. “So, that's the way it is,” he whispered. “Invoking the king's name.” He sniffed disdainfully. “Well, I won't fight you in front of the princesses, but I won't forget this, either,
Deryni
!”

With that, he turned on his heel and followed Paget and Silke, putting on a pleasant expression as he rejoined them. At Silke's insistence, Paget went with the three, but not before casting an apologetic glance in Alaric's direction. Alaric, after a few deep breaths, settled back with his manuscript until Llion came to find him for dinner. By then, it had become too dark to read anyway. He told Llion about the incident while they were cleaning up.

“I didn't know what else to do,” he said, on finishing his account. “It's one thing if he tries to beat me up. It's quite another, if he tries to drag Paget into it. They're both due to be advanced to squire at Twelfth Night, but if Duke Richard catches them fighting, he'll be very cross. He could even hold them back.”

“A run-in with Duke Richard might be just what Cornelius needs,” Llion replied, “though it wouldn't improve the dispositions of his parents or his uncle the bishop. And it would hardly be fair to Paget, who seems to be a fine young man. I've been watching him, since the two of you struck up a friendship, and I'm impressed with what I've seen.”

“Well, what can I do?” Alaric asked. “Now that we're indoors most of the time, because of the weather, there are all kinds of opportunities for Cornelius to lie in wait somewhere, and jump us. And he's much bigger than I am.”

“Let me have a word with your father about this,” Llion said thoughtfully.

“Llion . . .”

“I'll be subtle,” Llion promised.

Much later that night, when even Kenneth had retired to his quarters, Llion took the opportunity to speak to him about his son's dilemma. Alaric pretended to be deep asleep in the adjoining chamber, but Llion suspected that his charge was far more aware than he appeared. He decided to proceed, nonetheless. Best if the boy knew just how dangerous the situation could become, if Cornelius Seaton was not set straight very soon.

“My lord, there is something you should be aware of,” he said to Kenneth, as he pulled the connecting door mostly closed and the older man began to disrobe for the night.

“Oh?” Kenneth's glance at Llion was met with a telling glance in the direction of Alaric's bed, at which Kenneth gave a knowing nod.

“Aye, my lord. Ordinarily, I would take this to Duke Richard, but I don't want the situation to escalate. Are you aware of the hostility of young Cornelius Seaton toward your son?”

Kenneth gave a heavy sigh and sank down on a stool so that Llion could pull off his boots. “What has he done? And what has
Alaric
done?”

“Neither has actually done anything—yet,” Llion replied, pulling off the first boot. “But you may or may not be aware that our lad has been spending a bit more time with Paget Sullivan, Sir Evan Sullivan's boy. I might even venture to call it a friendship—which is difficult for Alaric, for reasons you know.”

“And?”

“And Cornelius has taken exception to this association, and apparently threatened at least Alaric—to the extent that both boys have been avoiding dark corridors, and keeping a wary eye out for Cornelius.”

Kenneth allowed himself another heavy sigh as Llion pulled off the second boot. “Dammit, Llion, can't you keep this situation under wraps until I can get Alaric safely shipped off to Culdi with Jared? I'm trying to help the king plan a Mearan expedition that we all hope will not turn into a full-blown campaign.”

“I'm aware of that, sir. It isn't so much Alaric I'm worried about, as it is Paget. But if Cornelius goes after either of them, and gets called on the carpet by Richard . . . well, his father—or his mother—will have words with her brother the bishop, and you can bet that everything will be blamed on the ‘Deryni brat.'”

Kenneth allowed himself a third great sigh. “Very well. The weather is worsening, but Jared should arrive shortly. I'll see about getting Alaric sworn as his page as soon as the formalities of his own new office are taken care of. Meanwhile, see that you keep a close rein on my son. The last thing we need is an incident. And keep an eye on young Paget as well.”

“Very good, my lord.”

•   •   •

F
ORTUNATELY,
the worsening weather curtailed much outdoor activity as winter settled in, greatly diminishing the likelihood of mishap in the practice arena—and encounters with Cornelius—though horses and ponies still must be fed and groomed, and stalls mucked out. After morning stable duties, while the squires retired to the king's council chamber for lectures, the pages would take over the great hall for arms drill. Most of the exercises involved work at the pell, or vaulting onto the back of a wooden horse, sometimes with sword in hand, but the training was beginning to include instruction in hand-to-hand combat and even wrestling. Alaric paid close attention to those sessions, and even sparred with the younger pages, but always under Llion's watchful eyes. One boy, called Quillan Pargeter, seemed particularly well matched in size, strength, and physical ability, and did not appear to be intimidated by Alaric's lineage, either noble or esoteric. After a while, the two had formed a tentative camaraderie that gave Llion hope that an actual friendship might develop.

Afternoons offered challenges of a more intellectual nature, and sometimes new perspectives. Most afternoons, Duke Richard drafted various of Gwynedd's seasoned warriors to give instruction in military history, heraldry, and noble deportment. In addition, the chamberlain rehearsed the boys regularly in proper table service, and one of the king's chaplains gave them occasional religious instruction. Alaric had hoped he might be excused from the latter, for many priests preferred not to deal with Deryni, but Father Henry was evenhanded and neutral. It was another indication that perhaps, eventually, he might hope to be accepted.

But court was still a very complex and unpredictable place, as he kept being reminded. One midday early in December, still mulling the previous afternoon's lesson on cavalry tactics by a Marley veteran, Alaric fetched his Orkény manuscript and betook himself to one of the deep window embrasures in the great hall, looking out onto the snow-powdered gardens. His father had taken Llion on an errand for the king, so Duke Richard had excused him from the morning's hand-to-hand practice. Some of the squires had come early to afternoon weapons drill and were sparring farther up the hall. He was immersed in his document, snugged up warmly in a fur-lined mantle, when the king came strolling through the hall with Sir Jamyl Arilan, and chanced to notice the boy sitting there.