The King's Deryni (29 page)

“Thank you, grand dame—for
all
that you did,” he whispered. “I will—try to carry on
his
work.” With that, he pressed his lips to her ring in salute . . . and drifted into semi-consciousness as the litter began to move and his hand relaxed.

“He shall set his children under her shelter, and shall lodge under her branches.”

—ECCLESIASTICUS 14:26

O
N
the journey home, his mind dulled by Macon's painkiller, the eight-year-old Alaric was in no condition to ponder the likely further consequences of the afternoon's misadventure. Kevin, however, had been made well aware of Lord Deveril's displeasure, and his apprehension quickly conveyed itself to his brother and cousins. With his father and Earl Kenneth away with the king, he knew it would fall to Duchess Vera to decide on a suitable punishment for their disobedience in riding out so far from home.

To the surprise of all, no summons came that evening. Kevin, as the oldest, was ordered to his room with scant supper and not a word from his stepmother. Duncan and Bronwyn likewise were sent to bed without further comment. Vera did look in on Alaric, but by then Macon had given him another potion to ensure that he slept through the night.

It was the next morning, after a meager breakfast of bread, sliced ham, and watery ale, that Alaric at last found himself summoned to Duchess Vera's solar. Macon accompanied him, after helping him wash and carefully change into a fresh tunic: someone else's, far larger than himself, to allow for the bulk of the bandaged arm. His arm ached, even supported by a sling, but Macon offered him nothing further for the discomfort, and he was not bold enough to ask for anything.

His sister and his two cousins were already in the solar when he and Macon arrived. The three were standing awkwardly in the center of the room, their faces solemn and contrite. Duchess Vera sat straight backed on a wide, low bench before the window, Lord Deveril attending her. She looked drawn and tired, and very, very sad.

No one was invited to sit. No one spoke at first. Bronwyn was sniffling, obviously fighting back tears. Kevin and Duncan would not look at him, and seemed inordinately interested in the toes of their boots.

“Dear, dear children,” Vera finally said after a moment, in a very low voice. “I am so very disappointed in all of you. What on earth were you thinking?”

Alaric joined his cousins in contemplation of footwear, for he had no excuse.

“Did Lord Deveril not make it clear that you were not to go so far from home?” she said after a moment, when none of them offered an explanation. “Kevin, was this the responsible behavior of an elder brother? You are twelve years old, beginning your squire's training. You are nearly a man. If I cannot trust you to look after your brother and your cousins, how can I possibly trust you to look after your father, when you serve him as squire? One day, you will be Duke of Cassan, my love. Is your word so little worth, that you will disobey those put in charge of you while you are growing? And chasing sheep. Really.”

Kevin swallowed audibly, head bowed in shame, then lurched forward to sink to his knees at his stepmother's feet.

“Forgive me, Maman,” he whispered, bending his forehead to her knee. “We just—” He raised his head and shook it, drawing a steadying breath. “I have no excuse, Maman. I am oldest and should have known better. I will accept whatever punishment you see fit.”

Vera nodded slowly, gently setting a hand on his shoulder as she glanced at Duncan, her own son.

“And Duncan, my love—what have
you
to say for yourself?”

Duncan hung his head and also came to kneel at his mother's feet.

“I'm sorry, Maman.”

“And it won't happen again?”

“No, Maman.”

“And Bronwyn? You're the youngest, but you usually have better sense.”

“She did, Maman,” Kevin interjected. “She told us we shouldn't chase the sheep, but we didn't listen.”

Vera cast him a withering look, shaking her head, then gave an exasperated sigh.

“What
am
I to do with you? All of you should have known better. And boys, you have a responsibility as gentlemen to protect your cousin, and to keep her safe. Bronwyn, I don't know what to say.”

“I'm very sorry, Auntie Vera,” Bronwyn whispered, as the two brothers nodded their agreement, eyes still downcast.

“Very well. The three of you may go. Alaric, please stay. Kevin, I feel certain that your father will have a few things to say about this misadventure when he returns. I shall do what I can to intercede in your behalf, but all of you were disobedient, and you knew better. That cannot go on. I'm certain that Lord Deveril can find some extra chores for you today, to remind you of your folly. All of you could have been killed. Go now. I have nothing further to say to you.”

The three of them scrambled to their feet with alacrity and headed for the door, Deveril following casually after. At Vera's nod, Macon also left, closing the door behind him. Alaric, who had yet to speak, gazed at his aunt in apprehension as the others departed, but she beckoned for him to come and sit beside her on the bench. Alaric did as he was bidden, well aware that his own disobedience had led to far more serious consequences—and fearful that his punishment was likely to be commensurate with that seriousness.

“So, what went on out there?” Vera asked softly, when the boy had settled gingerly beside her. “Tell me about the old woman who set your arm.”

Alaric swallowed hard, but he was not eager to go into overmuch detail.

“She was only an old shepherdess, a widow woman,” he said carefully—which was true, as far as it went. “We did chase her sheep, when we first got there,” he admitted, “but it was just for fun. We weren't thinking. But we rounded them back up immediately, when we realized what we'd done. Bronwyn even took her a peace offering: some of the food we had left, after we ate. She liked that. And even Macon was impressed with how well she set my arm,” he added brightly, hoping that might mitigate the circumstances.

“You do realize how easily this could have gone otherwise,” Vera said dryly.

Alaric hung his head. “Yes.”

“It still could go badly, if you don't take care and do what Macon tells you. The king would not be happy if his Duke of Corwyn ruined his sword arm from a foolish, childish prank.”

Alaric swallowed hard and nodded, then dared to cast a quick glance in her direction. To his relief, she was smiling faintly.

“Your arm isn't the only reason I'm concerned, my love,” she said after a moment. “When you ride so far afield, without anyone knowing where you're going, things can happen—as you discovered, to everyone's regret. People are not always what they seem, and you know that many people do not like Deryni. If that woman had discovered what you are, or had taken a true dislike to you, she might have done you serious harm.”

Alaric swallowed painfully and again averted his gaze, well aware that she could very well have made him seriously dead. He had been totally at her mercy. The incident had taught him a powerful lesson, but he wasn't about to betray the old woman, who had spared him—or worry Lady Vera even more.

“I'm sorry that we disobeyed by riding out so far, Auntie Vera—and that we chased the old woman's sheep,” he whispered. “And I'm sorry that we put Lord Deveril and Macon to extra trouble. It won't happen again.”

“Have you apologized to Deveril and Macon?” she replied.

“Not yet,” he admitted sheepishly, with a quick shake of his head, “but I will.”

“See that you do,” came her reply, and then, after a beat, “Does your arm hurt?”

He looked up sharply, for it
did
hurt—though he had somehow managed to put the pain from his mind under her interrogation. “A bit,” he admitted.

“Then, I think it's time you learned how to control your pain,” she said, drawing him around to rest his head in her lap. “Lie back and make yourself as comfortable as you can.” She waited while he settled, sprawled on the bench and with his arm well supported. “Once you learn to control your own pain, it is only a short step to easing the pain of others. A useful skill, don't you think?”

“Yes,” he whispered, though he decided not to mention Llion and the horse bite. As he settled into the comfort of her embrace, she laid one hand gently across his brow and bade him relax. At the nudge of her powers against his shields, he felt his eyes fluttering closed and willed himself to open to her instruction.

The next thing he knew, she was urging him to sit up. Surprisingly, his arm no longer hurt. At the same time, he realized someone was knocking on the solar door—Macon, come to take him back to his room for a light meal and a nap. He ate and napped several times in the course of the rest of the day, before falling into bed in the deepest sleep of all, and did not rouse until the morning.

•   •   •

N
EXT
morning, little though he wished to do it, he was obliged to deal with the obligatory letter to his father, informing him of the accident. What made it worse was that he could not write it himself, with his arm all splinted and in bandages, but had to dictate it for Father Geordan to write down. Thus framed, and filtered through Father Geordan's perspective, it somehow took on the aspect of a confession—which perhaps was inevitable, since the young priest had helped prepare him and Duncan for their First Communion, before their fathers' departure. He later learned that Kevin and Duncan likewise had been obliged to write letters to their father, and decided that the exercise probably was part of their punishment for disobedience. To his great relief, Lady Vera never again mentioned the circumstances of his accident; only did her best to ensure that its physical effects were minimal.

•   •   •

T
HUS
began what would be several months of recuperation. And when Llion returned, a few days after the accident, Alaric was obliged to confess his failings all over again.

“I see,” Llion said, scowling, for he had already spoken with Lord Deveril and Macon. “I assume that I needn't reiterate how foolish it was, to go so far afield.”

Alaric only shook his head, for he could not bear to meet Llion's gaze, to read the disappointment on his mentor's face.

“That's far worse than the fact that you had the accident,” Llion went on. “You could have broken your arm anywhere. God knows, there are enough trees to fall out of, closer to home.”

“We just didn't think,” Alaric said bleakly. “It wasn't
that
much farther from where we usually ride. Things just . . . got out of hand.”

Llion gazed at him for a long moment, saying nothing, then came and put an arm around the boy's shoulders to hug him close.

“I won't tell you to be more careful, because I know you didn't intend to fall out of the tree. But do try to exercise better judgment in the future. If you'd broken your neck instead of your arm, I don't know what I would have done. I do know that I should miss you very much.”

This affirmation of Llion's genuine affection and concern loosed the floodgate of tears that neither Lady Vera nor the disapproval of Lord Deveril and Macon had been able to dislodge. For several minutes, the future Duke of Corwyn sobbed like the boy he still was, burying his face against Llion's shoulder and shaking with finally unpent emotion. Llion said nothing; only held him close until the tears ceased, then offered him a square of linen to dry his eyes and blow his nose.

“Feel better?” he asked quietly, as Alaric awkwardly wadded up the linen square and let Llion take it from him.

The boy only nodded self-consciously.

“Don't dwell on it,” Llion said. “We'll not speak of it again. Far more important is to get you healed and healthy again. Why don't we go downstairs and get something to eat? And then you can have a nap.”

“I'm not a baby, Llion,” Alaric said, faintly affronted. “Despite the tears.”

“No, but you have a broken bone. Give your body time to heal.”

“I suppose.”

•   •   •

T
O
Alaric's surprise, it seemed to require a great deal of energy to knit a broken bone. He had expected to take his injury mostly in his stride, like the lesser injuries he had sustained in his young life, but he mostly ate and slept for the first week or two, disinclined even to attempt anything else. Vaguely he wondered whether Lady Vera was responsible for that, and finally summoned up the will to ask her, one sunny morning early in September, when she informed him that he might begin to resume very light activities, so long as he did not use his injured arm.

“Aunt Vera, is it because of you that I've slept so much lately?” he asked, as she handed him a copy of a treatise on stable management.

A faint smile curved at Vera's lips as she glanced out the window.

“The original of that text is in R'Kassan,” she remarked, “but we're fortunate enough to have a translation. I think the content will be far more useful to you than struggling with another language, at least for now.”