The King's Deryni (33 page)

At the king's look of query, Jared gave a jerky nod.

“It would, indeed, be a great kindness, Sire,” he managed to murmur. “I do not relish the task of telling his children that he is gone.”

Halloran glanced at his mother, who nodded, then gave a slight bow. “Then, it shall be done,” he said quietly.

“For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality.”

—I CORINTHIANS 15:53

I
T
was mid-October by the time a lone rider galloped into Culdi: Kenneth's aide, Sir Xander of Torrylin, asking to be taken directly to Lady Vera. Alaric and Duncan, practicing their stalking skills on the battlements, saw him arrive, but by the time they could reach the stable yard, Xander had disappeared.

“Has he brought letters?” Duncan asked the groom who was walking out Xander's horse.

“I have no idea, my lord,” the man replied.

“He must have gone up to the solar,” Alaric muttered; and he and Duncan took off to Vera's airy dayroom, pelting up the turnpike stair to find Llion and Sir Walter just disappearing behind the closing door.

“Llion, Llion, wait!” Alaric called, for both men looked very serious. But Llion only turned and shook his head, holding up a hand to forbid further exchange, then disappeared inside with Walter.

“What do you think has happened?” Duncan whispered, wide-eyed, as Alaric drew back in confusion, for it was not like Llion to be so brusque.

“I dunno,” Alaric replied. “Something bad.”

“You don't suppose something has happened to one of our fathers?” Duncan ventured timidly. “Or to the king?”

“I guess we'll have to wait until one of them comes out,” Alaric said, trying to keep up a brave face. But he was worried.

Very shortly, Father Geordan came trudging up the stairs, followed by a stunned-looking Kevin.

“What's going on?” Duncan demanded. “I want to see my mother!”

“Not now,” Father Geordan murmured. “Alaric, my boy, come with me, please. And Kevin, you stay with your brother.”

This unexpected order took all three boys by surprise, Alaric not least among them. In something of a daze, he allowed the priest to escort him through the door, which closed behind them. In the room beyond, Llion and Xander both turned somber faces toward him. His Aunt Vera was comforting Geill, his half-sister, along with Sir Walter, Geill's husband. Abruptly Alaric realized that whatever the news Xander had brought, it was something to do with his father, not Duke Jared.

“Llion?” he managed to whisper.

Both Llion and Xander came to him immediately, Llion setting a heavy hand on his shoulder as Xander murmured, “I am so, so sorry, Alaric.”

“Tell me! What has happened?” Alaric blurted, on the verge of tears.

“Come and sit,” Llion said softly, drawing the boy to a seat in the window embrasure. “Your father . . . has passed away. They believe it was his heart.”

Alaric could only gape in horrified disbelief.

“Duke Jared found him,” Xander continued, sitting on the boy's other side. “It appears that he died in his sleep. He had your likeness in his hand: the locket with your portrait, and that of your mother and sister. He also had the letter you sent regarding your broken arm. Clearly, his last thoughts were of you.”

“But—he
can't
be dead! He
can't
be!” Alaric protested, dashing the back of a hand at the tears welling up.

“The king is bringing his body home,” Xander said quietly, blinking back his own tears. “They should arrive in a few days. Meanwhile, I am ordered to ride on to Morganhall with the news. Unless his sisters wish it otherwise, he's to be laid to rest there with his Morgan ancestors.”

This stark statement of what must be was the final straw. The boy dissolved into tears, collapsing into Llion's arms to weep himself into hiccupping exhaustion. He was not aware of when the others, saving Vera and Llion, left the room; only that, when he came to his senses, he was lying partially in Vera's lap, curled in her arms, and Llion had retreated to the window embrasure, where he was gazing sightlessly out the window at the falling night.

“I am so,
so
sorry, my love,” Vera whispered, her arms tightening around his shoulders as he lifted his head.

He sniffled and did his best to compose himself as he sat up, wordlessly accepting the embroidered handkerchief that Vera offered, and wiped at his face, blew his nose. He felt hollow and empty inside, drained of emotion, but he knew he would have to go on, though he had no idea how.

“What—what will happen to me now?” he whispered after a moment.

Vera sadly shook her head. “I don't know, dearest. When the king and your Uncle Jared arrive, I expect they will have made some of those decisions. But I fear that it probably means that you will be going to court far sooner than any of us had hoped.”

Alaric swallowed and nodded. “I expected that.” He closed his eyes briefly, then glanced back at Llion, who had moved closer at his first words. “Llion, did Xander tell you anything else about—how my father died?”

“Only what you know,” Llion replied quietly. “But if he had to die—and it's clear that this was his time—how fortunate to die in a bed, at peace, with his loved ones in his final thoughts. That is not a blessing given to every man.”

“No.” Alaric swallowed again, forcing himself to turn to practicalities. “Xander said that it's planned to bury him at Morganhall. Do you think that's what he would have wanted?”

“I do,” Llion replied. “Your father's Morgan heritage was very important to him. Xander said that the king would have allowed him to be buried in the royal crypts at Rhemuth, but Jared suggested that Morganhall would be more appropriate: to sleep with the generations of other Morgans who have given their loyal service to the Haldanes. Xander has already ridden for Morganhall, to inform your father's sisters of his death and begin making the arrangements.”

Alaric slowly nodded. “Yes, that's as it should be,” he whispered, and suddenly looked even more serious, if that were possible. “What about Bronwyn? Does she know yet?”

Vera shook her head. “Not yet. Do you want to tell her, or shall I? You are head of your family now, my love. If you wish to do it, that is your right.”

“Will you help me?” Alaric answered in a very small voice.

“I will, of course,” Vera replied. “Would you like Llion to help as well?”

Alaric nodded and swallowed hard, reaching out to take Llion's offered hand as he rose. “Please. We'd best do it now. She'll want to know—though I wish I could have gone forever without knowing. Where is she?”

“Probably looking for supper,” Vera replied, rising. “Let's go find her, shall we?”

•   •   •

P
REDICTABLY,
Bronwyn wept when she learned of their father's death. But for the four-year-old, who had spent only a short time actually living with her father, her initial grief soon faded to simple sadness: a theoretical bereavement that could be honored more in the form than in the substance.

By the next morning, she had mostly put her grief behind her—unlike Alaric, who reluctantly made himself return to his drill with Duncan and Kevin, but also spent many a silent hour walking the battlements with Llion and watching the western approach, occasionally reminiscing about the man they both had loved. They were there three days later, when a growing cloud of dust on the distant road suddenly caught Alaric's attention.

“Llion?” he said, stiffening.

Llion followed his gaze, watching as a smaller cloud of dust detached from the rest and moved at speed toward the castle, gradually resolving into an approaching rider in bright Haldane livery.

“They'll be here shortly,” he confirmed, setting a hand on the boy's shoulder. “We'd best go change.”

Very shortly they were down in the castle yard, now attired in the somber black of mourning. Vera had brought Bronwyn down, with Kevin and Duncan to accompany them, and Kenneth's daughter Geill stood with them as well, with her husband supporting her. Only weeks before, the couple had shared the welcome news of Geill's first pregnancy with Vera and the rest of the family, of a coming child who would never know his or her grandsire.

All too soon, the first of the riders entered the yard, accompanied by a great cloud of dust. As the king and Jared dismounted, Alaric drew himself to trembling attention, Llion at his back, his family all around him. Beyond the king, a canopied cart drawn by two horses bore what could only be his father's body, closely wrapped in a shroud made grimy by the dust of the road.

“Alaric, I am so sorry,” the king said, quickly stripping off his riding gloves as he approached the boy.

With a jerky nod that was both an acknowledgment and a bow, Alaric turned his gaze to Jared, who had embraced his wife with one arm but was also watching the boy closely.

“Uncle,” the boy said with a jerky nod. “Xander said that you were the one who found him. Is it really true that his passing was peaceful?”

“So it appeared,” Jared replied. He drew the silver locket from inside his tunic and extended it to the boy. “This was in his hand. And he also had the letter you had sent regarding your broken arm.” He jutted his chin at the arm in question. “I see that you are mostly recovered.”

Alaric gave a vague nod as he accepted the locket, but all his focus was on his father's body as he moved between Jared and the king to approach, clasping the locket close. Drawing near, he reached a hand to almost touch the dusty shroud, but then let the hand fall heavily to his side.

“Xander said that he's to be buried at Morganhall, with his Morgan ancestors,” he said softly, turning slightly toward the king.

“I did offer a place in the royal crypts at Rhemuth,” Brion replied, “but Duke Jared felt that your father would have preferred Morganhall.”

Alaric managed a jerky nod. “It is a kind offer, Sire, but Duke Jared is right. He belongs at Morganhall.” He paused to swallow painfully. “May I—make one personal request?”

“Of course.”

“My mother lies here at Culdi. If it is possible, might he lie beside her for the night? He's already with her, I know, but it would . . . give me comfort.”

“That can certainly be done,” Jared murmured, with a speaking glance at Vera, who had drifted closer to join them. “And a funeral Mass early tomorrow, before we leave for Morganhall, so that the household may pay their respects.”

Alaric said nothing; merely gave a jerky nod, then turned on his heel to flee the yard with Llion. He tried not to think about the body of his beloved father, wrapped in its dusty shroud, and reminded himself again and again that Kenneth Morgan no longer occupied that all too mortal flesh.

•   •   •

H
E
did not make an appearance at table that evening, though he did allow Llion to have a meal brought up for him, and forced himself to pick at it. Later that night, after it was dark, he took Llion with him when he went down to the familiar garden chapel where his mother's tomb lay. The door to the chapel stood open to the night, candlelight spilling out across the threshold. Silent Lendour men with torches stood to either side of the doorway. Just as he and Llion approached, Vera came out of the chapel with Duncan and Kevin, followed by Sir Walter with his arm around a sobbing Geill.

The sight caused Alaric to hold back until they had passed, resolutely avoiding their gaze. Only when the sound of their footsteps on the gravel had faded did he again move toward the open doorway.

“Shall I wait outside?” Llion asked quietly.

“Please.”

Reluctantly the boy moved into the rectangle of light, nodding nervous acknowledgment to the two Lendour men, and drew a cautious breath as he stepped through the doorway. Someone had set fat pillar candles in floor stands at either end of his mother's familiar effigy, and a black-draped catafalque had been drawn close beside it, bearing an open coffin. A banner of Lendour lay across the lower half of both, like a coverlet. The red of the banner looked almost black in the candlelight.

“Come ahead in,” said a quiet voice behind and to his right, speaking from the shadows.

He started at that, but a quick glance revealed the speaker to be the king, clad all in black, who had been standing quietly with another man whom Alaric did not know. The stranger remained in the shadows as the king moved quietly to the coffin and beckoned for Alaric to join him.

“Come and look,” the king said. “It isn't what you're probably expecting.”

Bracing himself, and wondering what the king meant, Alaric came to stand beside him—and drew a startled breath as he dared to look into the coffin. To his surprise, his father's body had been laid out in a long robe embroidered with the Lendour arms rather than the grimy shroud in which he had traveled from Meara. Though a veil of fine gauze covered the face, Alaric could see the contours of the familiar profile through the gauze. A similar veil had covered his mother's face, the last time he had looked upon her.

“He did pass peacefully, Alaric,” the king said softly beside him. “There's no evidence to suggest otherwise. Would you like to see his face?”