In the King's Service

by Katherine Kurtz

  Among the instigators of this energy and largesse was a baron’s daughter from Cassan, called Elaine MacInnis, some two years younger than they, whose cheerfulness and sense of style had already made her the petted favorite of most of the older women.

  “It’s a pity that you must wear black for a while,” Elaine said to Alyce, as she and Lady Megory, one of the queen’s permanent household, adjusted the hem on one of the new gowns taking shape in the hands of the sempstresses. “But we’ve given you something else for Christmas and Twelfth Night at Cynfyn. It’s almost black—a very deep green—but it will have rather nice embroidery at the neck. If we get that part done, of course. Lady Jessamy is working the pattern.”

  Elaine’s good nature was contagious, and Alyce soon found herself relaxing a little—which, in turn, seemed to enable others in the royal household to relax as well. This boded well for the future, if the goodwill persisted when they returned from Cynfyn.

  In the meantime, she and Marie spent many an hour starting to settle into other aspects of life at Rhemuth: making the closer acquaintance of the children, exploring the castle’s corridors, daring occasional forays into the royal library and scriptorium, and praying daily for Ahern’s safe return. Later, they would look back on those days as a welcome interlude of ordinary contentment, temporary respite from the renewed sorrow to come.

  Chapter 14

  “Now therefore let me go up, I pray thee, and bury my father.”

  —GENESIS 50:5

  IT was early December when the bodies of the slain came back to Rhemuth, with the first snows powdering the rooftops and gusting down off the plains north of the city. For those whose loved ones had resided at the capital, that essentially would be an end to it, as their families laid them to rest from the churches where they had worshipped in life. For Keryell, there still remained the final journey home, and for his son and heir, the uncertainty of his own future.

  Duke Richard and Seisyll Arilan rode at the head of the cortege, and retired immediately with the king, to give him an update on the situation in Meara. Most of the Haldane lancers had remained in Ratharkin with Earl Jared, in case he needed assistance in the immediate aftermath of what had happened there, but with winter setting in, it was unlikely that any serious trouble would erupt again until the following summer. The Dukes of Cassan and Claibourne had returned to their lands with their troops, and remained on alert, but they, too, would be locked down against any serious campaign until the weather eased late in the spring.

  For Alyce and Marie, the reunion with their brother was tearful but joyous. Young Ahern had survived the initial crisis of his wound, despite his insistence on being moved, and thus far had even kept his leg; but he was exhausted and in great pain by the time he arrived in Rhemuth with the baggage train that brought the bodies. To everyone’s great relief, the surgeons now predicted that amputation probably could be avoided, but the shattered knee would heal stiff and unbending. That was better, by far, than losing the leg, but he was well aware that his injury probably had put paid to any career as a warrior or, indeed, for any other activity requiring great mobility. Whether he would even ride a horse again remained another question yet to be answered.

  Fortunately, Ahern possessed a keen mind and varied interests, as had many an earl and duke before him, and had received a solid grounding in the administrative skills necessary to his rank—and owned the distinction of belonging to the only ducal family in which his Deryni bloodline was at least tolerated. He also possessed a precocious grasp of military strategy that had already brought him to the attention of both the king and Duke Richard—acumen that, once he was fully recovered, might still enable him to make useful contributions as a tactician.

  But few could see much trace of that promise in the gaunt, white-faced youth strapped to the horse-litter that Master Donnard led into the castle yard that bleak December day, shivering with fever and with splinted leg aching and rattled from the journey overland from Meara. And though his sisters bore up bravely at the sight of the shrouded bundle that was their father’s body, wrapped in the red and white banner of his arms and escorted by Sé Trelawney and Jovett Chandos, it was Ahern for whom they now wept, for he scarcely knew them as they came to shower him with relieved kisses, so racked was he by fever.

  Torn between duty to the living and the dead, Alyce delegated Marie and Sé to go with Master Donnard and the king’s own physician to see their brother settled into quarters in the castle. Meanwhile, she and Jovett accompanied her father’s body to the chapel royal, where Father Paschal and the royal chaplains would keep watch through the night.

  But they remained there only long enough for the obligatory prayers proper on receiving a body at the church before retiring to Ahern’s bedside. There she and Marie kept tearful company beside him until he slid at last into merciful sleep, eased past pain by the physician’s medicines but also helped along, when he slept at last, by Alyce’s Deryni touch. The two of them stayed beside him—praying, hoping—until Jessamy finally insisted that they go to bed.

  The following day, the king and queen and all the court of Gwynedd attended the Mass offered by Father Paschal for the soul of Keryell Earl of Lendour—in the chapel royal rather than Rhemuth Cathedral or even the basilica within the walls of Rhemuth Castle, for Ahern was insistent that he be allowed to stand upright before his father’s coffin, braced on crutches and supported by the two young knights who had brought him from Ratharkin. His sisters stood to either side, gowned and veiled in black, and managed not to shed a tear where anyone could see.

  Prince Richard Duke of Carthmoor led the cortege that set out the following morning for the Lendouri capital of Cynfyn, where Earl Keryell would be laid to rest with his ancestors. In addition to an honor guard of Haldane lancers, King Donal had sent along half a dozen of his senior knights to remain in Cynfyn and assist its seneschal in setting up the council that would advise the new Earl Ahern until he came of age, still ten years hence. The late earl’s chaplain, Father Paschal, was also in the party, along with the sisters of the new earl, several of the queen’s ladies as chaperones, assorted domestic servants, and the two young knights who had accompanied Keryell from Ratharkin.

  During the week-long journey across the great plain east of Rhemuth, the two girls took turns keeping Ahern company, one sharing the wagon where he lay with his splinted leg pillowed and stretched before him, the other riding elsewhere in the party. Alyce made a point of varying her position in the cavalcade, riding sometime with the other ladies or Father Paschal and sometimes even at Duke Richard’s side, but Marie, more often than not, could be found beside Sir Sé Trelawney.

  The weather turned colder as they traveled eastward from Rhemuth, with occasional sleety showers, but at least the snow held off. By following the southern bank of the River Molling, they managed to avoid the worst of the weather already sweeping down from the north. Though the temperature plummeted at night, and their horses crunched through a heavy rime of frost every morning, any serious snowfall held off until they were making their final ascent into the Lendour foothills.

  They arrived at Castle Cynfyn but a fortnight before Christmas, under a soft curtain of gently falling snow. Entering the castle bailey through the outer gatehouse arch, the cortege passed upward along a narrow avenue lined with Lendouri archers drawn up as an honor guard to admit the late earl to his capital for the final time. Interspersed among them were many of his retainers from Coroth, come to pay their respects, for Keryell had also been principal regent for Corwyn after the death of his children’s mother, Stevana de Corwyn.

  Deinol Hartmann, their father’s seneschal, was awaiting their arrival on the steps of the hall, along with the wife their father had taken some three years previously. Now twice a widow, the Dowager Countess Rosmerta stood icy and remote in her widow’s weeds, at her side a grown daughter from her first marriage, effusive in her greeting of Duke Richard, the king’s brother, but according her stepson only the barest of curtsies as Sir
Deinol bent to kiss the boy’s hand in affirmation of his new status. Alyce and Marie she acknowledged hardly at all.

  Keryell Earl of Lendour lay that night before the altar of the church within the castle walls, guarded by his men. The evening meal in his hall that night was a joyless, strained affair, with the bachelor Duke Richard seated in the place of honor at the right hand of the widow, whose attempts to engage his interest were politely turned aside; he and his knights retired as soon as could be reckoned seemly.

  Alyce and Marie were not present to see it, for they took a sparser meal in Ahern’s room with Sé and Jovett. Later, while Father Paschal sat with Ahern, the two knights accompanied Alyce and Marie on a late-night visit to the church, where they were heartened to see the dozens of folk from round-about come to pay their final respects and offer up a prayer, for Keryell had been much respected in the lands he had ruled.

  Father Paschal celebrated the Requiem Mass the next morning, after which Keryell was laid to rest beneath the floor of the castle’s private chapel, directly before the altar. Duke Richard lent an extra dignity to the affair by his mere presence, and let it be known how much his brother esteemed the sacrifice made by the late earl—and spoke, as well, of the courage and honor of the new one.

  Ahern bore up manfully throughout, allowing himself to be carried to the church in a litter; but from there, for the interment, he hobbled the distance between church and chapel on his crutches, though the effort exhausted him. Keryell’s widow made much of her rights and prerogatives, so his daughters were mostly ignored.

  That night, when the castle at last settled into sleep, the two sisters retired wearily to the chamber that been Alyce’s in childhood, bundling up in fur-lined cloaks as they huddled on a pile of sheepskins spread before the fire. Picking up a stick of kindling, Marie began poking among the embers.

  “So,” she said. “Our father is dead and buried. And what shall become of us now?”

  Alyce slowly shook her head. “Who can know? In the short term, I suppose we go back to Rhemuth after Christmas and Twelfth Night.”

  “I wish we could stay with Ahern,” Marie muttered mutinously.

  “You know we can’t.” After a moment, Alyce gave a heavy sigh, clasping her arms around her knees to rest her chin on one forearm.

  “This doesn’t much change our situation, you know,” she said. “Until and unless Ahern has children, preferably sons, we’re still only heartbeats away from the succession of a dukedom and an earldom.”

  “You’re only heartbeats away,” Marie replied. “You’re the oldest.”

  “Yes, but if I die without heirs, you’re the heir.”

  Her sister did not look up from her prodding of the fire.

  “What if I don’t want to be the heir?” she muttered.

  Alyce smiled bleakly and reached across to clasp her sister’s hand.

  “Then, pray for our brother’s health—and mine,” she said.

  AHERN mostly slept for the first few days after his father’s burial, leaving Duke Richard to begin shaping the council that would assist the new earl as he began taking up the reins of his new rank. Virtually everyone interesting was involved in the process, even Father Paschal, so Alyce and Marie spent the first few days re-exploring their favorite childhood haunts—and avoiding Lady Rosmerta. Which was not difficult, because the widow mainly kept to her own rooms.

  But each evening, as the newcomers relaxed into the resuming pace of life at Castle Cynfyn, the sad castle hall slowly began to regain a softer air, as the gentle sounds of lyre and harp and occasional sweet voices were heard increasingly during supper, slowly lifting spirits into the hopefulness of the Advent season. Most of Ahern’s council were older, and preferred Duke Richard’s company to that of mere adolescents, but Sé and Jovett made certain that the new earl’s sisters did not lack for company.

  Sometimes, on bright, clear mornings when the sun set the snow all aglitter, the four of them would venture out on brief, brisk rides through the surrounding hills, though always attended by at least half a dozen other knights. As Christmas approached, Alyce began to notice that her sister was often in Sé’s company, and almost always managed to ride beside him when they went on their outings.

  But the two young knights were not often available in the daytime, and the weather was gradually worsening as Christmas approached. It was on a cold, blustery day that kept everyone inside, a few days before the Christmas Vigil, that Alyce found herself recruited with her sister to decorate the castle chapel for the solemnities of Christmas Eve, for the coming of the Holy Child was still an occasion for rejoicing, even if hearts still were heavy with Keryell’s passing.

  “I think this needs more holly,” Marie said, though with little enthusiasm. “What do you think?”

  They were huddled on a bench at the rear of the chapel with a firepot at their feet, surrounded by evergreen boughs and runners of bright ivy and sprigs of red-berried holly. They had already plaited the first half of a garland intended to adorn the altar rail, and Alyce was laying out the framework for the other half.

  She glanced at her sister’s work and reached for another trailer of ivy.

  “It looks all right to me.”

  Marie gave a sigh and tucked in another sprig of holly anyway.

  “I still wish we could stay here with Ahern.”

  “Don’t you mean with Sé?” Alyce replied, arching a delicate eyebrow at her sister.

  Marie blushed furiously and ducked her head closer to her work.

  “Don’t try to deny it,” Alyce said. “I’ve seen the two of you, making eyes at one another.”

  Marie glanced sidelong at her sister, trying unsuccessfully to control a grin. “Are you going to tease me forever, now that you’ve guessed?”

  “Well, maybe not forever.” Alyce smiled. “But don’t get your hopes up, Mares. I suspect that the king has someone more lofty in mind for you than a simple knight.”

  “He is hardly simple!” Marie said indignantly.

  “Not in the sense I know you mean,” Alyce agreed. “But marriage with him would not advance any of the king’s concerns. Unfortunately, that’s what our marriages are for.”

  “What if we ran away?” Marie said.

  “And do what? Get married anyway? They’d catch you, Mares. And then they’d annul you, and probably lock you up in a convent somewhere until they married you by force to someone else. And Sé would be disgraced—maybe even found out.”

  “You’re so mean! It isn’t fair!”

  “‘Fair’ has nothing to do with it. I’m reminding you of realities.”

  “Fah! for realities,” Marie muttered. “I want him, Alyce.”

  “And I want lots of things, dear sister, but merely wanting is not necessarily enough.”

  The sound of approaching footsteps stayed her from saying more, and she fell silent, glancing up distractedly as someone in a flash of saffron-colored skirts and a cloak of forest green came in and deposited an armload of scarlet ribbons and pine cones at their feet.

  “I’m so glad you’ve used mostly pine and ivy instead of holly,” said a low, musical voice. “The pine has a much nicer smell. But I thought you might like to work some color in with it. Besides, I’m avoiding Lady Rosmerta.”

  Both sisters broke into appreciative grins. In the months following Keryell’s remarriage, Vera Howard had been one of several well-born girls fostered to the household of his new countess—much to the indignation, at first, of Marie, who had tearfully suggested that perhaps their father’s motives had been more self-serving than altruistic, by installing half a dozen nubile young women in the very accessible context of his new wife’s boudoir.

  “That sounds like jealousy to me, Mares,” Alyce had declared, trying to cajole her sister out of her mood. “I know you’re angry with Father, for sending us away; and I know you don’t much like the Lady Rosmerta—I don’t, either. But by that reasoning, we were living in the queen’s household for the convenience of the kin
g—and you know that isn’t true!”

  Marie had humphed at that, and flounced around the room for several minutes, but finally had agreed, albeit grudgingly, that Alyce was probably right. When, a few months later, the two of them had actually met some of their stepmother’s fosterlings, in conjunction with a brief visit by their father and stepmother en route to Twelfth Night court in Rhemuth, even Marie had actually liked the other girls.

  They especially had liked Vera Howard, the one who had just joined them: a lively, well-spoken lass with honey-brown hair falling straight to her hips and gray-green eyes that recalled the luminance of sunlight on a tranquil sea. Vera’s father was Sir Orban Howard, a knight with lands not far from Castle Cynfyn, and her mother and theirs had been close friends.

  “I’ve given up working with holly,” Alyce informed the newcomer. “It prickles your fingers to death—though it does have nice color. But the ribbons will be just what’s needed. I don’t suppose you’d like to give us a hand?”

  “Actually, I did come to offer a bit of help,” Vera replied, “though not with pine boughs.” She quirked them a guileless smile and turned briefly to pull the chapel door closed, then sank down beside Alyce on the bench. As she stretched one hand before them and opened it, a spark of greenish light flared in her palm and quickly took on the shape of a winged gryphon less than a hand-span high.

  The apparition turned its head as if to look at both of them; then, as it spread its wings, seemed to fold in on itself before disappearing with a faint pop that was more felt than heard.