“That feels wonderful,” she murmured after a few seconds, eyes still closed. “I could sit here and let you do that all afternoon.”
A faint smile tugged at the rosy lips of the girl addressed as Liesel. Pert and pretty, she was a little younger than the queen and shorter by a head, with hair a slightly paler shade of gold braided and pinned close under the white kerchief that bound it. The pale oatmeal color of her close-sleeved gown was not flattering to most women—which was precisely the intention of the great lords, in choosing it for the castle’s female servants—but Liesel’s high color made it a perfect foil for beauty yet to ripen fully. Her eyes went golden in the sunlight, lit against the pale raiment—eyes that shone with genuine affection for the woman whose hair she continued to brush.
“My lady has beautiful hair,” she said quietly. “Caring for it gives me pleasure as well.”
“Does it?” Michaela smiled dreamily but did not open her eyes. “Aye, it must be something like stroking a cat. It pleasures the cat, but the stroking is also pleasing to the one who does it.”
“’Tis like heavy silk that catches the shimmer of the sunlight, my lady,” Liesel replied. “Small wonder that the king prefers it unbound.”
“Aye, he does.”
Michaela’s smile evaporated as she opened her eyes to glance sidelong at her maid, a haunted look flashing briefly in her gaze.
“Liesel, you must help me do something special with it tonight,” she murmured. “The king dines with me, and tomorrow he rides for Eastmarch. God alone knows if I shall see him again in this life.”
Liesel had stopped brushing and stared at her mistress with pity in her golden eyes.
“Oh, my lady,” she breathed.
Reaching back to pat the girl’s hand, Michaela conjured up a brave smile, suddenly very weary.
“Now, don’t you get weepy, or you’ll make me cry as well,” she whispered. “He must not know how much I fear for him.” She looked about to say more, but then she sighed heavily and felt at her hair again. “I think I’m dry enough now. I really do need a nap.”
“Yes, my lady,” Liesel murmured, eyes downcast.
Covering a yawn with one graceful hand, Miehaela bestirred herself to glance over at the women in the window bay as she rose.
“Dear Lady Estellan, why don’t you and Lirin and Adelicia enjoy the gardens for an hour or two? I’m going to have a nap, so I shan’t need you for a while. Liesel will help me undress.”
She did not linger to see that they went. She did not much care for them anyway, but she had to maintain a facade of geniality. As she made her way back into the bedchamber and watched Liesel turn back the coverlet on the high, canopied bed, with its hangings of crimson damask and gold-shot yellow silk, another heavy yawn claimed her.
“I don’t know why I get so sleepy carrying this baby,” she murmured, as the maid helped her shed the blue over-robe. “Owain didn’t make me this tired.”
“Perhaps this time my lady is more preoccupied,” the maid replied, as her mistress climbed up onto the bed. “But lay you down and rest awhile, your Grace. Sleep is a remedy for many ills.”
Yawning again, Michaela did as she was bade, her eyes closing even as she lay down in her undergown. A deep sigh soon told of her shift into sleep, and the maid, after laying the blue over-robe across the back of a chair, came treading softly back to the bed to lean close to her sleeping mistress.
“Sleep deeper now,” she whispered, as she laid one hand lightly across the royal forehead.
Her own eyes closed briefly, and after a moment a faint gasp escaped her lips. She was shaking her head as she gazed at her mistress once more, concern in her golden gaze.
“God give you gentle rest now, sweet queen,” she whispered, as she withdrew her hand. “Sleep well and wake refreshed. You gave me leave to go and fetch a book of poetry from the library. If you should wake before I return, you also bade me fetch fresh flowers for your hair tonight.”
The ladies in the solar had gone when Liesel came quietly out of the royal bedchamber, though another maid called Elspeth lay napping in the sunshine of the deserted bay, not stirring as Liesel passed through. The usual guards were at their posts in the corridor outside.
“Merry greetings, Mistress Liesel,” their captain said, sauntering over to smile down at her.
She had to tip her head back to look up at him, for she came only to his shoulder, but she had the measure of the man and knew this one could be manipulated.
“God give you grace, Captain,” she said boldly. “My lady is sleeping. Pray you, see she is not disturbed.”
He stepped aside with a courteous salute and let her pass without a word. He had been one of the more brutish of the regular guards when first she came to royal service a few months earlier, but now he was as tame as a fireside tabby in the presence of this bold-eyed slip of a girl.
For the name of the queen’s favorite maid was not Liesel at all, nor was she only a maid. Just now, this golden-eyed daughter of the Healer Rhys Thuryn and Evaine MacRorie was also the sole interface between the royal couple and certain Deryni working behind the scenes to extricate them from their indenture to the lords of state.
Not that either Rhys Michael or his queen were yet aware of “Liesel” ’s true identity or her mission—though she knew, as she headed briskly down the corridor toward a turnpike stair, that this would have to change, and soon.
The eventual plan had been to gain access to the king and awaken his Haldane powers—a task for which Rhysel Thuryn was one of the pivotal players—then stage a sudden coup such as put the king’s father on the throne nearly a quarter century before, spearheaded by Deryni-backed pro-Haldane forces who even now were beginning to gather in remote parts of Gwynedd. The target date had been some five or six months hence, when the queen’s new pregnancy would have progressed to the point that safe delivery of a second heir was likely—as was the increased danger that the king would be eliminated by his captors, once his dynastic duty had been done. That danger was dire enough to hazard making their move despite its attendant perils—for the king could perish in any attempted coup—but his impending departure for Eastmarch on the morrow suddenly placed him in far more immediate danger, if he must face Torenthi magic without a way to counter it.
Fighting down a wave of sick fear, Rhysel gained the welcome dimness of the turnpike stair and started down, left hand trailing along the newel post for balance. Not for the first time, she found herself regretting the circumstances that had kept her mentors from moving in the king’s behalf long ago.
But it simply had not been possible to establish contact with the new king during those precarious days and months immediately following the death of King Javan. Not only was Rhys Michael closely guarded, but no one was sure what reception a Deryni contact might receive, for no one knew how much Javan had confided to his brother before riding out on his final journey north.
Furthermore, the reshuffling of power that had put Rhys Michael on his brother’s throne had also cost his would-be supporters dearly. Though several well-placed Deryni had established a precarious foothold in Javan’s court, keeping their true identities secret and slowly beginning to erode the great lords’ influence, Javan’s fall had brought their deaths as well. It was believed that the great lords had not suspected the Deryni presence; and, indeed, they must never learn of it, else Rhys Michael himself must fall under closer scrutiny—if that were possible.
It also had become clear, once those critical first months were past, that the new king probably was relatively safe where he was, for the time being—at least until he produced an heir or two, and so long as he did not take too long about it. Even the great lords did not desire the extinction of the Haldane line. They wanted another long regency, heralding a succession of grateful and biddable monarchs who would support the dispersal of royal power among the great lords who had engineered their very existence.
But here, theory and expediency might well diverge. Preservi
ng the legitimate succession was most desirable; but if Rhys Michael had declined to cooperate, the great lords had decided very early that it was sufficient for their purposes merely to keep the king alive until some willing surrogate ensured that the queen did, indeed, bear offspring that would be taken for Haldane. What the great lords most desired was a puppet Haldane king; but a puppet bastard carrying the Haldane name would suit them well enough, if it came to that.
Rhysel guessed that the king would have come to understand this all too well, as the months spun on into years. From clandestine probes of Queen Michaela, she knew that the royal couple had delayed conceiving an heir as long as they dared, but the birth of a son in the second year of the king’s reign had made Rhys Michael’s continued survival that much more precarious. He now was no longer the only Haldane. The birth of a second heir, especially another prince, might well push the great lords to a second regicide, once they were certain the second child thrived; for a regency for a four-year-old heir, with a spare in the royal nursery, would require far less effort than maintaining the illusion that a grown king actually ruled his kingdom. Whenever it suited the great lords, whether sparked by actual transgression or mere pique, Rhysel had no doubt that the king would meet a convenient “accident,” as many had done before him.
Thus had it become urgent that the king be brought to his full Haldane powers before the birth of his next child—and now it became essential that he be awakened before he left for Eastmarch, lest he perish at the hands of a Deryni enemy before he had a chance to clean his own house. The prospect would have been daunting enough with time for preparation, months from now, as they had planned. But if they were even to try, on such short notice, the king must be willing to cooperate without reservation, to give himself totally into the guidance of his Deryni allies with little time for wariness or explanations, for there was no time except for trust and the doing of what must be done.
From what Rhysel had learned of the king by her own meager observations, securing that trust would be no easy thing. He had little reason to trust anyone besides his wife and her brother, and certainly not the Deryni who seemed to have abandoned him these past years. What Rhysel thought might swing the balance was a factor she did not believe even her mentors had considered. Both Queen Michaela and her brother possessed Deryni blood of their own; it was diluted and had been rendered impotent in early childhood, but what potential they once had possessed could be restored—if the blocking process could be reversed.
So far as Rhysel knew, only one person now alive could do that—her own brother Tieg, not yet fourteen. She did not want to think about the danger of bringing him here to Rhemuth—for Michaela and Cathan certainly could not go to him—but she and Tieg had already discussed the possibility. She found herself wondering whether Tieg’s unique powers could also catalyze a Haldane’s powers. She knew from reading Michaela that the king had shields and perhaps could Truth-Read—which had kept Rhysel herself from probing more directly—but he would need far greater skills than those to keep him safe from a trained Festillic adversary.
Pale skirts gathered close about her ankles, Rhysel glanced left and right as she emerged from the spiral stair that led down to the library floor. The corridor was deserted, as she had hoped it would be at this time of day, and her slippered feet made no sound as she moved quickly along the expanse of diagonally set black and white tiles. Her true destination was a disused chamber just beyond the library, but to be seen entering it might arouse unwelcome curiosity. So she would go into the library first, fulfilling the errand she had set herself from the queen and also disarming whatever potential betrayal might be lurking there.
The precaution proved to be well taken, for she sensed a presence in the room even before her hand touched the door latch. Forewarned, she opened it boldly and entered. Over at the far left end of the room, glaringly lit by a wash of sunlight from one of the bay windows, a black-clad back was hunched anonymously over one of the writing desks, intent on his scribing. He glanced back over his shoulder as he heard the door, then scrambled awkwardly to his feet, the sunlight casting rusty highlights on a familiar black scholar’s robe, worn and much-patched.
Thank God. She had been expecting one of the sour Custodes scribes. She could deal with this young man.
“Why, Master Donal. God give you grace,” she said lightly, as she closed the library door behind her. “Hard at work, I see.”
He bobbed his head and blushed to the roots of his short-cropped dark hair. The gangly lay scholar adored her and usually became tongue-tied in her presence—a reaction that Rhysel did not try too hard to discourage, since a smitten suitor was far more malleable than a rejected one. Simple courtesy cost nothing, and she did not dislike Donal, for all that he seemed to work willingly for those who were her enemies.
“M-mistress Liesel,” Donal stammered. “Your unexpected p-presence fulfills the promised fairness of a glorious day.”
She favored him with an inclination of her head and an appreciative smile that made him blush even more, then turned her attention to a casual inspection of the room, her gaze brushing lovingly over the manuscripts and bound volumes scattered across another library table. There were more stored in the ceiling-high range of shelves and pigeonholes that occupied the right-hand wall of the room, and the familiar scent of leather and ink was like a heady perfume.
Masking her pleasure, she moved a little closer to the table stacked with books and ran a finger along a spine stamped with gold. Donal knew she could read and write, but he had no notion that her passion for learning probably surpassed his own—one of the many legacies of her beloved parents. That she had put it aside in a greater cause, he probably would never know. All her recent years had been spent trying to absorb the practical knowledge and training to enable her to function as she did now.
“Pretty words, Master Donal,” she said softly, a smile still playing at her lips as she glanced up at him. “But if you think to deter me from my errand with compliments, I must warn you that I will not be swayed. I come at the queen’s behest. My lady bids me bring her the book of Lady Kyla’s poetry, whose binding was to be repaired. Is it ready?”
Ducking his head in happy affirmation, Donal scurried over to the wide library table and sorted quickly through several stacks, finally selecting a vermilion-bound volume from among the rich jewel-tones of leather bindings.
“Aye, here it is.” He burnished the book’s spine against a sleeve, then held it out for her inspection as she came nearer. “Brother Lorenzo brought it back only yesterday.”
As she took the book from him, it was no difficult thing to brush his hand with hers. The instant of contact reinstated controls used several times before, sufficient to forestall any possible interference.
“Thank you, Donal,” she whispered. “The queen will be pleased. Now go back to work and have a lovely dream.” She briefly closed her hand around his slack one, still poised from having given over the book. “Remember only that I came to fetch this. Go now.”
He turned without a word and went back to his desk, settling on his stool to gaze dreamily out the window, his chin propped on one hand, a grey-mottled quill slack in his other. As she opened the library door to slip back out, he was already sinking into the pleasant memory of an old daydream—a gentle fantasy just wishful enough to ensure that the fastidious Donal would never dream of mentioning it to anyone, even a prying Custodes confessor. Pleasant enough for Donal, harmless enough for both of them, and far less intrusive than other measures she might have employed to divert his notice of whatever he might hear from the room next door.
The corridor outside was still deserted as she closed the door quietly behind her. She cast with her powers in both directions, but no one was about. Hugging close the volume of poetry that was her ostensible reason for being in this part of the castle at all, she moved silently to the next door to the left. She already knew the room beyond was unoccupied, but as she gently turned the latch and slipped inside,
she wondered what she would do if someone were assigned permanent quarters here. The location would be ideal for some avid scholar.
As she always did, she breathed a faint sigh when she had eased the door closed behind her, her visual inspection confirming that the small, lime-washed chamber remained disused. A sheen of dust blurred the surfaces of the table and chairs set before the cold hearth in one corner, and the mattress on the simple bed remained folded up against the head, hard against the wall to the right of the door. Despite the austerity of the room thus stripped, she could almost imagine the man who briefly had occupied this room and guarded what it contained, even though she had never met him.
His name had been Etienne de Courcy, and only a handful of men and women knew, or would ever know, how he had aided the Haldane cause. Because he had been loyal to King Javan, the great lords had executed him following the coup that put Rhys Michael on the throne, but they had never guessed that he was Deryni; never guessed that it was he who had spirited away the Deryni wife and daughter of a slain Healer during those first hours of confusion.
And though he might have stayed with them in safety, it had been Etienne’s own choice to return, his powers and memories blocked, to let himself be captured, tortured, and eventually killed rather than risk that the great lords might discover how Deryni had been inserted into the midst of Javan’s court. For that, and to keep this avenue open, Etienne de Courcy had given his life. Guiscard, his elder son, had also died in the Haldane cause, fighting at the side of King Javan.
Breathing a silent prayer of thanksgiving for the lives of both de Courcys, two more martyrs for the survival of her race, Rhysel moved quietly into the center of the room, trying to disturb the dust as little as possible. Stepping onto the only square flagstone for a full arm’s length all around, she braced her feet and bowed her head over the book clasped against her breast. As she let fall her shields, she felt the powerful tingle of a Transfer Portal under her feet, and she drew on the Portal’s power as she warped the energies.
King Javan’s Year Page 63