The King's Deryni (54 page)

Richeldis, no longer Gwynedd's first lady, elected to adopt a more sober version of Jehana's ensemble, but done in dove-grey rather than Haldane crimson, with the lions done in red. Silke, speaking animatedly with a bevy of new maids of honor lined up along the wall right of the thrones, had acquired a new gown of crimson and gold. For the king, there was a new, long court robe with his rampant lion device couched in gold from neck to waist on the fine crimson wool, worn under his state mantle of fur-collared crimson wool.

Nor had Jehana stopped with garments. She had also delved into the royal treasury and ferreted out several little-used items of state regalia: a necklace of cabochon rubies set in ruddy gold, called the Haldana jewels; a pair of ornate, gem-encrusted diadems not worn in several generations, according to Queen Richeldis; and for the knighting of Prince Nigel, a pair of golden spurs once worn by Prince Malcolm Haldane.

“They're beautiful,” Nigel murmured, running his fingers over the chasing carved into the gold. Alaric had looped their straps over the hilt of the new sword shortly to be presented to the king's brother. “Are you sure I should wear them? King Malcolm has awfully big boots to fill.”

“Well, these are only his spurs, not his boots,” Alaric replied with a droll grin. “But I'm sure you will rise to the challenge. God knows, I've fought you enough.”

Nigel only chuckled, shaking his head slightly.

The two of them were standing at the back of the hall with the rest of the party that would escort Nigel to the throne, after Brion finished receiving the new squires. The king's younger brother looked quite solemn this morning, garbed for the ceremony in the traditional attire of all candidates for knighthood in Gwynedd: an unadorned black over-robe mostly covering a stark white under-tunic, with a scarlet mantle clasped around his shoulders.

Like many of the young men at court, he had adopted the longer hair favored at the Bremagni court, pulled back in the braided warrior's clout favored by men of fashion there; the new queen had brought a smart escort of bodyguards with her on her marriage, who had introduced the custom. The hairstyle suited Nigel, with his glossy sable hair and grey eyes, though it was more severe than his usual look.

Alaric glanced toward the head of the hall, where this year's crop of new pages were already garbed in their Haldane tabards and waiting to the left of the throne, looking both excited and nervous, though they had already endured the most frightening part, by speaking directly to the king. Brion, meanwhile, was receiving several new squires being promoted from the pages' ranks.

“Only three new pages this year,” Nigel muttered, with a glance aside at Alaric. “And look at them. Were we ever that green?”

Alaric controlled a smile and shrugged. “I suspect we were, sir.
I
was. And you were a prince, so I just assumed that you knew what you were doing.”

“Big assumption,” Nigel replied with a wink, again peering up the hall, where his brother was receiving another squire, this one accompanied by a knight in a red court robe with heraldic adornments. “Hello, who's this? Can you make out the device?”

Alaric followed Prince Nigel's gaze and nodded. “Yes, sir, it's the Earl of Rhendall and his heir,” he said confidently. “I met them briefly before court. Our new squire, the future earl, is called Saer de Traherne. He seems keen enough. Carries himself well. I understand that he'll be here for a few years. There's also a sister around here somewhere, but I don't see her just now. I believe she'll be joining the queen's household. The new queen.”

“Saer de Traherne, eh? I wonder if he's any good with a sword.”

“I expect you'll find out, soon enough,” Alaric replied. “I assume you'll continue training with the squires?”

“Of course. One is always learning.”

“Well, then.”

As the king spoke with the Earl of Rhendall, and Queen Jehana helped young Saer don his Haldane livery, Duke Richard made his way back to where Nigel and Alaric were waiting, along with a senior squire carrying Nigel's furled personal banner.

“You're next,” he said to his nephew. “Are you ready?”

Nigel straightened and tugged resolutely at the hem of his over-tunic. “Ready, sir.”

At the head of the hall, the duty herald stepped to the front of the dais and rapped with his staff against the oak boards. The banner-bearer moved into position at Alaric's right and shook out the scarlet silk to reveal Nigel's crowned golden demi-lion. Richard and Nigel fell in behind them.

“Sire, His Royal Highness the Prince Richard Haldane Duke of Carthmoor begs leave to approach the throne with business to present before Your Majesties.”

At the king's nod, the herald lifted his staff in summons. Taking his lead from the banner, Alaric lifted the sheathed sword with its spurs looped over the hilt and processed down the length of the hall, Richard and Nigel right behind him. The crowd parted before them as they came. Alaric moved slightly to the left and halted, the banner halting to the right, as Richard and Nigel came to the bottom step of the dais and stopped.

“Your Majesties,” Richard proclaimed, “I have the honor to present my nephew, the squire Nigel Cluim Gwydion Rhys Haldane, as a candidate for knighthood.”

Brion tried to maintain a serious expression, but he kept fighting an exuberant grin as he answered, “We are pleased to receive him. Let the candidate be invested with the spurs.”

That was the signal for one of the new pages to bring a red velvet cushion to set before Nigel on the bottom step. As the prince knelt, the other two came to take the spurs from the sword Alaric held, kneeling then to affix them to Nigel's heels. The boys obviously had been well rehearsed, for they did so with little difficulty, even though the straps were new. They then drew back to stand with the other pages.

Brion rose at that, turning to draw the Haldane sword from the jeweled scabbard that Jiri Redfearn held. He cocked the blade over his right shoulder as he turned to his brother, glancing aside at the two queens, who had also come to their feet. Duke Richard had moved to Brion's other side, and stood proudly as the king lifted the sword in salute before bringing it down to touch Nigel's right shoulder.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son”—the sword lifted to descend on Nigel's left shoulder—“and of the Holy Spirit”—the blade lifted to touch the crown of Nigel's head—“be thou a good and faithful knight. Amen.”

Alaric, holding the sword with which Nigel would shortly be invested, clutched it to his breast as a shiver ran along his spine. He had witnessed many a knighting, but the words never failed to thrill him. His grin mirrored the king's as Brion kissed the holy relic in the sword's pommel, then passed it back to Jiri and offered his right hand to his brother to raise him up and embrace him.

“Arise, Sir Nigel, and be invested with the further symbols of your new rank.”

He turned then to his new queen and his mother, who jointly girded Nigel with the white belt. When that was done, Alaric moved without prompting to present Nigel's sword to the king, who in turn presented it to his brother. Nigel kissed the hilt before slipping it into its hangers on his belt. He then dropped to his knees again and offered his joined hands to his brother and king, who took them between his own as Nigel recited the traditional words of fealty:

“I, Nigel Cluim Gwydion Rhys, knight and prince, do become your liege man of life and limb and earthly worship. Faith and truth will I bear unto you, to live and to die, against all manner of folk, so help me God.”

“And I, for my part, will be a faithful liege unto you, Nigel Cluim Gwydion Rhys,” Brion replied, “giving justice and protection for so long as you keep faith with me. So help me God.”

With that he released Nigel's hands, then seized his shoulders and raised him up in an enthusiastic embrace, for the brothers were and always had been close. The cheers of the court resounded among the great hammer beams in affirmation as Brion drew his brother onto the dais with him, where he then proceeded to knight two more candidates. Alaric retreated to stand with the other squires.

•   •   •

A
T
the feast that followed, though Alaric dutifully did his shift of service as a junior squire, he was also free to indulge in the more pleasant aspects of a major feast day at court. Dancing followed the feasting, with the king and queen often leading the dances, and Alaric found himself often called onto the dance floor. Mostly, though, he was all but monopolized by Princess Silke.

He had seen but little of the princess since the previous spring, for she had taken up with her new sister-in-law on Jehana's arrival, and Alaric had been away for much of that time. Now fifteen, she seemed to be putting aside many of her childhood pastimes, though she still had time for Alaric, and drew him onto the floor yet again to partner her in one of the more raucous dances.

“I'm not entirely certain I like this business of acting like a lady,” she confided after the dance, as she pulled him into a shadowed and less trafficked corner of the hall to cool down.

Alaric snorted. “Well, you certainly
look
like a lady, especially tonight. And you do seem to be enjoying your friendship with the new queen.”

“Oh, it isn't Jehana who's the problem. It's dear Maman. Now that I'm a woman, she has started to talk about marrying me off to some horrible Llanneddi prince. She's terrified that I shall end up like poor Xenia.”

“What, married to some Torenthi scoundrel?” Alaric said lightly. “I don't think they have many of those in Llannedd.”

“No, silly. Dead in childbed—or worse, wed to some ancient prince who is only interested in my bloodline.”

He took her hand in his and pressed it to his lips, smiling. “If I were a Llanneddi prince, I would be interested in more than your bloodline, fair princess.”

“Well, you're a
Corwyn
prince,” she said pertly. “Or a duke, which is almost the same thing. Come to think of it, wouldn't
that
set the cat among the pigeons, if I were to marry
you
?”

He shook his head, chuckling. “You know that could never be, princess, even if our hearts were so inclined.”

“Why
not
? You're certainly noble enough. And my brother is very fond of you.
I
am fond of you.”

He looked at her in astonishment, suddenly aware that she was half-serious.

“Silke, you know what I am,” he whispered. “Even if the king approved, even if he
wanted
it, the people would never accept me as your husband. The
Church
would never accept it. You're the king's sister. Your life is not your own.”

“Is it not?”

In emphatic reinforcement of her words, Silke seized his face between her hands and kissed him hard, pressing him farther into the shadows. As she opened her mouth to his, probing with her tongue, he found his arms embracing her, his taut body beginning to answer her urgency. But then, of a sudden, he remembered who and what he was, and who
she
was, and pulled away to lean against the wall, trembling.

“Silke, you mustn't do that,” he breathed. “
We
mustn't.”

“Would it be
that
terrible?” she returned.

“No, but we mustn't. We really mustn't.”

She sighed and leaned against the wall beside him, face flushed. “I know that,” she whispered. “Oh, Alaric, take me away from all this!”

“Silke, you know I can't. . . .”

Very soon after that, the newly knighted Sir Justis Berringer spotted them and approached to bow and extend his hand to her in shy invitation. “Princess, would you care to dance?”

She put on a proper smile and nodded her assent, also giving Alaric a cool nod of thanks as she returned to the floor on Sir Justis's arm. Alaric prayed that no one had seen Silke's momentary indiscretion, and determined not to let it happen again.

Nor was Sir Justis the only young knight with courting on his mind. A little later, now watching moodily from one of the window embrasures, Alaric spotted Prince Nigel partnering a vivacious, dark-eyed girl in a gown of burnished bronze, with a glossy mane of chestnut curls tumbling down her back. She was almost of a height with Nigel, who had changed from his knighting attire to a short tunic of royal-blue velvet worked around the hem with a border of running lions. As the pair passed closer to him, twirling and springing in the pattern of the dance, Alaric became aware of a familiar presence easing in to stand beside him.

“Pretty little thing, isn't she?” Llion murmured, close beside his left ear.

Alaric turned to see Llion and Alazais, who had not been at court that morning but must have arrived only recently, for both were still in travel cloaks.

“You're here.”

“Only just,” Llion replied, easing Alazais's cloak from her shoulders and then removing his own, for the great hall, crowded with dancers, was warm after the out-of-doors. “The road south from Morganhall was icy, worse than we'd been led to expect. I had wanted to be here for Nigel's knighting.”

“Well, it was much like any other knighting,” Alaric replied. “Except that Nigel is a prince, of course. I think he'd be popular with the court even if he weren't royal. We did seem a few short on pages and squires, though.”

Alazais leaned in to kiss her husband lightly on the cheek and took her cloak from him. “If you two don't mind, I think I'll leave you to discussing male things while I pay my respects to Queen Richeldis.”

Llion caught her hand and kissed it fondly, then turned back to Alaric as she headed along the side of the hall toward the dais where the old queen sat amidst the new maids of honor. Across the hall, the young queen was still on the floor with her handsome husband.