The King's Deryni (37 page)

“It is, Sire,” the boy replied, head held high. “And please understand that I am not reluctant to enter your service. It is just that I had always hoped that my father would be here to witness my oath to you—and I am grateful to Duke Jared for having me as his page for this past year and more. But Father Swithun has reminded me that there is a time for everything, in due season. And my duty now is to you, as my king and liege.”

Duke Richard inclined his head in approval, and set a hand on the king's shoulder. “That was well spoken, lad. And the king shares your sorrow at the untimely passing of your father; we all do.” He nodded toward Brion. “Let us take the oath and be done with it, Nephew. This lad has a great deal on his plate right now. We need not make it any more difficult for him than it must be.”

Brion nodded and returned his attention to the boy, who knelt and placed both hands on the quillons of the king's sword.

“Alaric Anthony Morgan of Corwyn,” the king said, “do you promise loyalty and service to me and to my house, accepting the discipline and instruction of those set in authority to train you, to learn the ways of a future knight and duke?”

“I do, my Liege, so help me God,” Alaric replied, his eyes not leaving those of the king. “And because of the special circumstances of my future service, I would now offer you my fealty, as I did for Duke Jared when I entered his service. If that is allowed.”

Nodding, the king shifted his hands to rest over Alaric's on the quillons of the sword.

“I am willing to receive your oath.”

“I, Alaric Anthony Morgan, heir of Corwyn and Lendour, do become your liege man of life and limb and earthly worship, to serve you in good faith and without deception before all others, so help me God.”

“And I receive your oath and fidelity, Alaric Anthony Morgan, heir of Corwyn and Lendour, and I pledge to you the same protection and fidelity that is the right of all my house. So help me God.”

With that, the king returned his sword to its scabbard and turned to where his mother sat with a Haldane tabard now across her lap. Immediately she rose and came to them, assisting her son as he slipped the tabard over Alaric's silver-gilt head.

“Wear it well, young master,” she whispered in his ear, smiling as she tugged one side into place. “I adored your mother.” Then: “Brion, I should like to have this page attend me at court today—if I may.”

The king raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?” At her sidelong look of challenge, he immediately ducked his head in agreement and gave a wry smile. “Certainly, Mother.”

“Excellent!” She drew Alaric to her with an arm around his shoulders. “How soon do you wish to begin court?”

“As soon as we can get everyone assembled. Where are my sisters?”

She nodded at Alaric. “Your first assignment as a Haldane page is to fetch my daughters,” she said. “You know the way to my solar?”

Alaric nodded. “Yes, Majesty.”

“Then, go. They were nearly ready when I left, so there should be no delay. And Llion, give him back his cloak before he leaves. We don't need any of our pages catching their death of cold. Go, lad!”

Sketching her a quick bow, and fidgeting as Llion slung the cloak back around his shoulders and fastened it, Alaric then headed out of the withdrawing room and bolted up the back stairs. He found the princesses just leaving the queen's apartment, both gowned in Haldane crimson, accompanied by a black-clad lady-in-waiting with two silver circlets looped over an arm.

After more than a year's absence from court, he almost did not recognize the elder of the pair. Xenia, at fifteen, had become a poised and haughty young woman, with masses of shiny ebon curls tumbling down her back and abundant curves where there had been few before. Silke, by contrast, was still a merry child with her ebon hair still in a single braid, whose grey eyes lit with immediate delight.

“Alaric? It
is
you!” she squealed, though he deftly fended off the embrace she attempted. “With all the snow, I wasn't sure you'd come.”

The more practical Xenia cast an appraising glance over him, some of her hauteur evaporating in the face of Silke's enthusiasm. “You're taller,” she said, trying not to show that she, too, was pleased. “And why are you wearing Haldane livery? I thought you were page to Duke Jared.”

Alaric shrugged and smiled faintly. “I was. And now I am page to your brother the king—and your mother, today. But we'd best go. They'll be waiting court for us.”

Xenia sighed and rolled her eyes, pressing the back of one hand to her forehead. “Oh, they'll be waiting
court
for us!” she repeated in a mocking tone. “We
are
Haldane princesses, you know.”

“Yes, and your brother is a Haldane king,” the lady-in-waiting reminded them sharply. Alaric thought her name was Lady Megory. “He'll not thank you for keeping everyone waiting.”

“Oh, very well,” Xenia murmured, hooking her arm through that of her younger sister. “Come, Silke. We'll let this
page
lead the way.”

With that, the pair of them chivvied him on ahead of them as they clambered down the back stair to the king's withdrawing room, the lady-in-waiting following with their coronets.

•   •   •

T
O
his relief, Alaric soon discovered that being a page to the queen enabled him to be far more anonymous than a ducal heir. He carried the queen's train as the royal party entered the hall, helping her settle in her chair of state with her daughters at her feet, but after that he mostly stood attentively behind her, hands clasped behind his back, and waited to perform any errand the queen might require. While this placed him somewhat on display, he was very much in the background compared to serving the king, with ample opportunity to observe what was going on.

First, of course, after the presentations of the few foreign envoys who had braved the blizzard, was the reception of new pages, of which there were only two, but even Alaric knew that the boys were important. The first was Prince Cormac of Howicce and Llannedd, presented by his elder brother Ronan, who had become prince regent of the dual kingdoms in June of the previous year, following the incapacitation of their father, King Illann. Prince Cormac was a sturdy lad of about Alaric's age, with a shock of wiry dark blond hair, much resembling his elder brother. Queen Richeldis became wistful and almost teary-eyed as she vested her youngest nephew with the Haldane tabard, watching proudly as he swore his oath to her son.

She then bade him stand beside Alaric while she prepared for the second new page: a dark-haired lad called Xavier Howard; Alaric thought he might be some sort of cousin of Lady Vera. Meanwhile, a servant quietly appeared with a fur-lined cloak for Prince Cormac, who had come before the king in his shirtsleeves to be invested, and was shivering until the servant draped it around his master's shoulders.

“It's warmer in Pwyllheli,” the boy whispered aside to Alaric, hugging the fur around his body.

Next came the new squires; again, there were only two being promoted from page. Aean Morrisey had nearly won the pages' competition at the king's birthday tournament, now eighteen months past; Justis Berringer had also performed well, though Alaric had done better, and had done as well as Aean. There was also an older squire formerly in the service of the Duke of Claibourne, who was joining the Rhemuth court to complete his training.

“I've heard of Tresham MacKenzie,” Alaric whispered aside to Prince Cormac, while two Claibourne men buckled on the blued-steel spurs of a squire. “He's some kind of cousin to Duke Ewan. Supposed to be good with a sword.”

A gimlet look from the queen silenced any further whispered commentary—and in good time, for the knightings were next, though also sparse this year, because of the weather and because several candidates had been knighted early, to receive the accolade along with the king two years previous. Accordingly, there were only two: a sturdy young man called Varian Lemander, who came supported by two knights of Danoc, and a slightly older, studious-looking young man with a slight limp, waiting with his sponsors while the first knight was made.

“He's called Claud de Saeva,” Alaric whispered in response to Prince Cormac's look of query. “I'm told he took a bad fall in training and broke his leg. But he's made a good recovery,” he added, then pursed his lips and feigned interest in his boots as the queen glanced in his direction, though she quickly returned her attention to the candidate now kneeling before her son.

Young Cormac managed to contain his curiosity through the remainder of Sir Varian's knighting, which kept both him and Alaric from attracting any more unwelcome attention. When Claud de Saeva was then called forward, both boys watched avidly, for Cormac was intrigued by everything he was seeing, and seemed unable to resist making whispered asides to Alaric.

To their surprise, and to Alaric's acute embarrassment, the king summoned both of them to assist with buckling on the candidate's golden spurs, making comment that because Claud had endured much on his journey to knighthood, he deserved a matched pair of pages to attend to this part of his investiture. Alaric's cheeks were flaming as he knelt opposite Cormac to do the king's bidding, and he could see the faint smile twitching at the corners of Brion's mouth: certain sign that the king had noticed his exchanges with Cormac.

Afterward, when he and Cormac had retreated behind the queen's chair and the queen herself had vested the new knight with his white belt, Alaric resolved to allow himself no further breaches in the discipline expected of a royal page, though he told himself that he had only been trying to make Cormac feel more at ease in his new circumstances. Still, it was hard to keep an entirely sober demeanor, because he and Cormac would occasionally exchange glances that threatened to send both boys into gales of snickers.

But they managed not to disgrace themselves during what remained of court, when all attention was now rightly focused on the king. Fortunately, that part of court was short. When court was finally adjourned, so that servants could set up the long trestle tables and benches for the feast to follow, the two of them headed for the nearest fireplace to get warm, wrapping their cloaks tight. While they were there, Alaric's friend Paget Sullivan made a point to approach and welcome him back to court, also making himself known to Prince Cormac.

“I'm Paget Sullivan,” he said, extending his hand. “We'd heard that you were coming. Alaric probably won't have told you yet, but he's very interested in strategy and tactics, as I am. He's also one hell of a rider. Time will tell, whether he becomes as good a swordsman.” He grinned. “Do you play cardounet?”

All but overwhelmed by this barrage of friendly banter, Cormac smiled back tentatively and shook his head. “Not well. Is it played a great deal in Rhemuth?”

“A few of us play,” Paget replied, with an arch glance at Alaric. “Some better than others. I've taught Maxen while you were away, Alaric—and Ciarán now plays a bit, too—but we all need a better challenge. Fancy a game later on?”

Alaric quirked him a pleased smile. “That depends on the queen. She seems to like having a matching pair of pages, so we might be kept rather busy.”

“Ah, the perils of being popular with the ladies.” Paget grinned as he glanced across the hall, where the two princesses were talking to one of the senior squires. “But Sir Ninian has me serving Duke Richard's end of the high table, so it looks like we'll all need to be on our toes. I'll see you later. Highness.”

With a quick sketch of a bow, Paget was on his way. Cormac, a bit taken aback, glanced at Alaric in question.

“I gather that he's a friend,” the prince said. Then: “Maybe you ought to tell me about the ones who are
not
friends.”

Alaric looked at him sharply.

“I know who you are,” Cormac said softly, with a quick glance around them. “I also know
what
you are. My father and my brother Ronan told me all about you, and they had it from the king. I want you to know that it doesn't bother me.”

Alaric gave a snort of skepticism and turned his gaze to the fire on the hearth before them, relieved that he would not have to have
that
conversation with Cormac, but he wondered whether the prince truly understood the risks that came with being a friend to Alaric Morgan.

“I doubt he told them
all
about me,” he said quietly. “And you may change your mind when you meet some of the people who are not my friends.”

“Oh?” Cormac cocked his head at Alaric. “What can they do to us? Alaric, you're a future duke, which is practically a prince—and I
am
a prince. Well, not a very important prince, since I have two older brothers, but my father is still a king.”

“That may protect
you
,” Alaric replied, low, “but we're neither of us adults yet. We're vulnerable;
I'm
vulnerable. A few years ago, before I was born, a page at court was murdered, right out in the stable yard. The old king commanded my mother to use her powers to uncover the killers, and one of them turned out to be the brother of a bishop. He was executed. That bishop never forgave her—and he hates
me
because I'm her son.”

Cormac's face had fallen as Alaric's tale unfolded. “That must be—
horrible
!” he managed to murmur. “Having a bishop hate you. But—” He glanced across the hall, where two purple-cloaked figures were moving among the other attendees, then back at Alaric in alarm. “Is it one of
them
?”

Alaric shook his head quickly. “No, no, though I expect those two don't much like me, either. Archbishop Tollendall is probably all right; he's the one who looks more like a monk. The big burly one is Bishop Corrigan. My father told me that he's a friend of Bishop de Nore; that's the one who really hates me. Fortunately, he isn't here this year, thanks to the weather, but his smarmy little nephew is.”