In the King's Service

by Katherine Kurtz

  “He has said nothing to me on that account,” she said truthfully. “And provided your brother recovers—and God grant that he shall!—he will have some say in whom you wed. But this is not the time to worry overmuch about that.”

  Alyce said nothing, only slipping an arm around her sister’s waist, spent by her weeping. “I suppose we must go tonight to Rhemuth.”

  “No, we have the king’s leave to delay until tomorrow,” Jessamy replied. “And I think you would take comfort in bidding your friends farewell. Perhaps in the morning, before we leave, Father Paschal would offer Mass for your father’s soul,” she added, with a glance at the priest, who nodded.

  “I shall ask Mother Judiana,” he said. “I’m certain she will have no objection. And of course I shall accompany you to Rhemuth—and to Cynfyn, after that. My place now must be at Lord Ahern’s side—and to comfort his sisters.”

  Jessamy nodded. “Then, we should see about getting a few things packed, girls. You need not bring much with you—”

  “But, what of my books, my manuscripts—?”

  “Those can be sent later,” Jessamy assured her. “More important just now is to find warmer clothing for both of you, for the ride back to Rhemuth will be cold as well as wet. I did bring some oiled cloaks for you, such as the soldiers wear, well-lined with squirrel, but you will need warm gloves and hats.”

  “I’m certain those can be found,” Alyce said dully. “Oh, Tante Jessamy, what’s to become of us?”

  “You shall be the toast of the king’s court,” Father Paschal said with a tiny smile. “And when the time comes, your brother shall find himself inundated with suitors for your hands.”

  “If he lives,” Marie said bleakly.

  Chapter 13

  “Let your laughter be turned to mourning, and your joy to heaviness.”

  —JAMES 4:9

  THEY rode out of Arc-en-Ciel shortly before midday of the following morning, though whether the falling snow was better than the rain and sleet of the day before, Jessamy could not say. Alyce and Marie rode together, Jessamy beside the priest, with Sir Jiri’s household escort divided ahead and behind and Jiri himself bringing up the rear. All of them were well-muffled against the cold and the very sticky snow, and no one said much. As Jessamy had suggested, they carried little with them.

  By the time they reached Rhemuth later that afternoon, the light snowfall of the morning had become far more serious, to the point of seriously slowing their progress. Accordingly, all in their party were weary and chilled to the bone by the time they rode into the castle forecourt. As grooms took the horses on into the stable yard, Sir Jiri Redfearn immediately conducted his party through the great hall and into the withdrawing room behind the dais, pausing en route to let them shed their sodden outer cloaks beside one of the great hall fireplaces.

  In winter and in the increasingly chilling days of autumn, Donal was wont to use the chamber as his preferred workroom, and today was dictating correspondence to a clark working at a table near the fire, pacing as he spoke. Behind him, several more men were quietly conversing on a bench and several stools closer to the fire. All of them rose as Jessamy and the two girls entered the room, followed by the priest, and Donal lifted a hand in signal for the clark to cease his writing.

  “Brother Brendan, we’ll finish that later; you may go,” he said. “And the rest of you as well—save for Sir Kenneth. Ladies . . . please come and warm yourselves by the fire; you must be frozen. And you as well, Father. Please be welcome. Ivone, warm up that wine for them, and Jiri, please ask the queen to join us.”

  As Sir Jiri left on his errand, and most of the men before the fire gave way to the newcomers and left, Donal exchanged a measuring glance with Jessamy, who returned a nod of reassurance. He then bent his gaze toward Alyce and Marie, who were sinking uncertainly on the bench to either side of Jessamy, steeling themselves for the further news they did not want to hear. Behind them, the squire was setting out cups for mulled wine, and Sir Kenneth had emerged from shadow, his sandy hair glinting in the firelight as he gave a grim nod to Alyce and Marie.

  “Dear Alyce and Marie,” the king said gently, moving a stool in front of them and sitting, “I am so sorry to bring you back to Rhemuth with such ill tidings. I hope your journey was not too taxing.”

  Alyce remembered proprieties well enough to glance toward Father Paschal, still standing a little apart from them.

  “It was very cold, Sire, but thank you for your concern. May I present Father Paschal Didier, our father’s household chaplain and our tutor of many years. He happened to be visiting Arc-en-Ciel when . . . the news arrived.”

  Donal spared a sparse nod in acknowledgment of the priest’s bow and gestured for him to sit, Kenneth also taking a seat near the king, though farther back.

  “I am grateful for your presence, Father—though I would wish that we met under happier circumstances.” He sighed and turned his attention back to the two girls. “I fear I have no further news beyond what Kenneth brought yesterday, so I cannot tell you whether your brother yet lives. His injury itself was not life-threatening, but the damage was severe, and infection is always a concern.”

  “Perhaps we might know more regarding the nature of his wounds, Sire,” Alyce replied, strain making her voice quaver. “Is he fit to travel? Pray, do not spare us, for I have learned much of surgery and physicking at Arc-en-Ciel, and would know what we must expect.”

  At Donal’s glance, Kenneth cleared his throat uneasily and sat forward a little.

  “Alyce, your brother and your father very probably saved Duke Richard’s life,” Kenneth said, not answering her question. “Mearan separatists had plotted to slay the duke and as many as they could of the delegation, but Lord Ahern discovered the plot in time to raise the alarm, so that we were not taken totally by surprise. In the fracas that followed, your father then killed at least four attackers before he finally took a mortal wound.”

  Marie closed her eyes, biting back tears as Kenneth continued.

  “Your brother also acquitted himself well, and aided me in wrestling your father’s killer to the floor, holding him helpless until others could take him captive, along with several more of the rebels. Rarely have I seen a lad of his age fight more bravely or with more skill.”

  “You have avoided speaking of his wound,” Alyce pointed out.

  Kenneth briefly bowed his head, then looked at her again, not sparing her.

  “Unfortunately, the fighting was still in progress, my lady, and your brother took a leg wound that shattered the left knee. The surgeons are hopeful that he will survive, but he may lose the leg.”

  “Dear God,” she breathed.

  “Alyce, my brother’s own battle-surgeon is caring for him,” Donal assured her, as the queen and one of her ladies entered the room and all of them rose. “Ah, there you are, my dear. Our Alyce and Marie are in need of your comfort.”

  Shaking her head in sympathy, Richeldis came to Alyce and Marie with open arms, sadness written across her pretty face as she enfolded both younger girls in a sisterly embrace.

  “Dear Alyce, Marie—I was truly sorry to hear about your father.”

  “Thank you, Madam,” Alyce murmured, as her sister began crying again. “Sire, my brother—is it truly safe to move him, wounded?”

  Donal moved aside so that his young wife could take his seat on the stool, for she was again with child.

  “I am told that he would not stay at Ratharkin,” said the king, “and that he asked for you often in the days immediately after his injury.” He smiled grimly. “Master Donnard felt that it was safer to move him than to have him pine for his sisters’ loving care.”

  Alyce had been biting at her lower lip as the tale unfolded, her fear mirrored in her eyes, and she swallowed with difficulty before speaking.

  “But—he is going to live . . . ?”

  “Alyce, I can only tell you that he was alive when I left a week ago,” Kenneth said, “and that the surgeons are hope
ful that he shall remain so. He is young and strong.”

  “If it’s any consolation,” Donal added, “Richard hanged the perpetrators to the man—eight of them—and we have the names of several more who appear to have eluded capture, at least for now. I fear this means that we must expect more trouble in the future, but perhaps the example of those executed will at least postpone another Mearan expedition for a year or so. And your father’s sacrifice for Gwynedd will not be forgotten.”

  Tears were spilling from Alyce’s lashes now, but she brushed at them impatiently with the back of one hand, lifting her chin bravely.

  “And what is to become of us, Sire?” she murmured.

  “Alas, that cannot be determined until we know whether your brother will survive,” Donal said reluctantly. “He became Earl of Lendour upon the death of your father, of course, though it will be another ten years before he may wield the full authority of that office; but I shall certainly allow him a say in your fate. For now, until he is mended, your place is at his side.”

  Alyce inclined her head, blinking back more tears.

  “Thank you, Sire. And if he does not survive?”

  Donal glanced at Richeldis and Jessamy, then back at Alyce and Marie, regret in his gaze.

  “That would be . . . difficult, on many levels—and believe me, child, I understand what now concerns you,” he said gently. “You both are of an age to marry soon. Perhaps you have even begun to form personal preferences, though I know you are aware that, being who you are, duty may well oblige you to marry other than where your heart might wish.”

  Alyce nodded, tight-lipped, and Richeldis glanced beseechingly at her husband.

  “My lord . . .”

  “No, she must know the full extent of how things lie,” Donal said, not relenting. “Alyce, your brother has suffered a grave injury in my service, and may not survive. If that should come to pass, I assure you that I should regret that greatly.

  “However, if that should occur—or if he should die without a male heir,” Donal went on, “the two of you would inherit. It would be complicated, so we shall worry about the details when and if that should become necessary. But whatever else may befall, your eventual husbands will have serious responsibilities, because of who and what you are, so you will appreciate why they must be carefully selected.”

  “Donal Haldane, you are no help at all!” the queen declared, as Marie wailed and Alyce began sobbing. “You make it all sound so dreadful and official. But girls, you may be certain that, when the time comes, the king will choose you gentle husbands—else he shall not often have his queen in his bed!” she added, with an admonitory glance at Donal.

  Donal managed a half-hearted chuckle at that, indulgent of what he knew was an attempt to reassure the frightened girls, and Jessamy drew both of them into the circle of her arms again.

  “Shu-shu-shu,” she murmured, “we shall not speak further of marriages just now. Your Majesties, methinks these pretty maids have grieving to do, which is best done in private, in Aunt Jessamy’s arms. Come, darlings. I shall have an extra bed made up in my own chamber for the night. Nothing need be done in haste. We have time and enough to ponder what the future may bring.”

  ALYCE awoke the next morning to find herself alone in Jessamy’s great bed. Marie was nowhere to be seen. She could hear activity through the partially open doorway into the next room, so she rose and made hasty ablutions, re-braiding her hair and dressing hurriedly in her blue school gown, which was all she had, and poked her head next door to investigate.

  Next to the fire, Jessamy and Mistress Anjelica were pulling a tawny gold under-tunic over the head of a child—revealed to be Krispin, as his tousled head emerged from the neck of the garment. Nearby, a somewhat recovered Marie was braiding the hair of Jessamy’s youngest daughter, now eight. Both children looked to have grown a handspan since Alyce last had seen them. Krispin grinned at her as his mother turned aside to retrieve a comb from the mantel. Now nearing five, he was turning into a handsome young man.

  “Look, Mama!” he said, pointing.

  “Well, good morning,” Jessamy said, as she and the others turned and saw Alyce. “We were going to let you sleep awhile longer.” She grimaced as she tried finger-combing Krispin’s tangled hair, and handed the comb to Anjelica.

  “Good heavens, Krispin, did you stand on your head while you slept? Jeli, I’m about convinced that this child invites mice to nest in his hair when he goes to bed for the night. God alone knows how he manages to get his hair so tangled, just from sleeping.”

  Alyce smiled bravely and came to crouch down beside Krispin, who had his boots on, but with the laces dangling. The boy grimaced as Anjelica began working the tangles out of his hair.

  “Good morning, Krispin—and Seffira,” she said.

  Seffira broke away from Marie to come and give Alyce a welcoming hug.

  “Cousin Alyce, I’m so sorry. Mummy says your papa has gone to be with my papa. I’ll bet that makes you sad.”

  Marie pressed her lips tightly together and turned away, obviously schooling her own composure, and Alyce felt her throat start to tighten. She spent several seconds returning Seffira’s hug before gently propelling the child back to Marie’s ministrations.

  “It makes me very sad, Seffira,” she agreed, turning her attention to the lacing of Krispin’s boots. “And my brother was hurt, too. That also makes me sad.”

  “Where did he get hurted?” Krispin wanted to know, yelping as Anjelica worked at a particularly troublesome tangle.

  “In Meara,” Alyce replied without thinking. “Oh—it was his knee that was hurt,” she added, realizing what the boy was really asking. “But it happened while he was helping catch some bad men—and he was very brave.”

  “What did the bad men do?” Seffira asked.

  “Well, some of them had killed our papa. And some of them had tried to kill the king’s brother.”

  “They tried to kill Duke Richard?” Krispin asked, indignant. “He’s the bravest knight in the world! When I grow up, I want to be just like him!”

  “Well, that’s a very fine thing to want,” Alyce agreed, as Anjelica finished combing the boy’s hair, only just controlling a smile. “Duke Richard is a very brave knight.”

  “Mummy, I want to wear my page tabard today!” Krispin declared, sliding from his stool to head for a trunk against the outside wall. “Duke Richard likes us to look smart!”

  Jessamy captured him before he could get very far, and Anjelica came after him with a fur-lined over-tunic.

  “Well, Duke Richard isn’t here right now, dear, so let’s save the tabard until he gets back,” Jessamy said, as she and Anjelica pulled the garment over Krispin’s head.

  “When will that be?” Krispin demanded.

  “In a week or two,” Jessamy replied. “That’s after we’ve been to Mass next Sunday, and maybe after we’ve been to Mass another Sunday.”

  “Oh.” Krispin set his hands on his hips and gave an exasperated sigh, then grinned. “That’s all right, then. If it got dirty, he wouldn’t like that.” He looked up engagingly at Anjelica. “We get something to eat now, Jeli?”

  “Yes, we get something to eat now, love,” Anjelica said, taking the boy’s hand. “Seffira, you come as well. Prince Brion will be waiting for both of you.”

  As she left the room, both children in tow, Jessamy sighed and settled on Krispin’s stool, turning her gaze toward Alyce and Marie. “I think Anjelica and I are getting too old for running after little ones,” she said. “Mothering is a job for the young. Alyce, it’s good to have you back, even under such circumstances. How did you sleep?”

  Alyce ventured a bleak smile. “Well enough, all things considered.” She shook at a fold of her skirt, mud-spattered along the hem. “Would you look at the state of this gown?”

  “There’s a brush behind you, dear. And after we’ve broken our fast, we shall ask among the other ladies and see what can be assembled in the way of essentials.” She went t
o one of the large coffers in the room and lifted the lid to rummage. “Meanwhile, let’s see if we can’t find something suitable in here. The first thing we’ll need will be proper mourning for both of you. The king has ordered a Requiem Mass at noon, for all those slain.”

  “I hate black,” Marie said bleakly, as Jessamy produced an armful of fine black wool from the depths of the coffer and shook it out, testing the length against one, then the other of her charges.

  “I’m sure you do,” Jessamy murmured, one eyebrow raised, as she pressed the gown into Marie’s arms and continued her rummaging. “Unfortunately, the two of you are no longer children. This is the royal court, and all eyes will be upon you in the days to come, and especially once your brother returns to Rhemuth.

  “Therefore, both of you must wear mourning,” she concluded, hauling out another black gown for Alyce. “And with your fair coloring, you’ll both look quite stunning—though that is hardly the purpose of the exercise. Now, go and try those, and then go down to the hall for something to eat. This afternoon, we’ll have the sempstresses up to take measurements for a few new things. Off with you now.”

  IN the coming days, while they awaited Ahern’s return, along with the body of their father, Alyce noticed a subtle change in the way they seemed to be perceived at court. Whether out of sympathy for their bereavement, or the queen’s personal intervention, or simply because they were now older, both the sisters found themselves far more readily accepted than when they last had lived at court, four years before.

  Which should not really have surprised them. Because of the nature of appointments to the queen’s household, faces came and went, some girls staying only for a season, with many a nubile young lass coming from as far afield as Carthmoor, Marley, and Rhendall in search of suitable husbands—a crusade whose excitement was usually shared by all the younger members of the royal household, often in the form of new wardrobes.

  Perhaps because neither of the demoiselles de Corwyn yet entertained aspirations of matrimony for themselves—and had an unmarried brother who was the very eligible future Duke of Corwyn—most of the girls now serving in the queen’s household rose eagerly to this latest challenge, bending their efforts to the assembly of suitable gowns. Some of the garments were made afresh, a few gleaned from others’ coffers, but the result was a modest wardrobe for each in the allotted time.