He raised his head slightly to glance down at his leg, lightly touching the shaft of the arrow with his fingertips, then lay back with a grimace and a sigh, casting a reassuring glance at his daughter, riding along beside them.
“Is the arrowhead embedded?” he asked, returning his gaze to Alyce. “Will it have to be cut out?”
She shook her head slightly. “I think not, my lord—or, only a little, perhaps. It mostly went through—though I fear that your saddle is ruined. And your horse is in a very ill temper—though he is only slightly injured.”
He chuckled bleakly at that, smiling faintly as he looked back at her. His eyes were the same shade of sandy steel-gray as his hair, though with a hint of sea-blue in their depths. Though his face was weathered and tanned, bespeaking much service in the field, she sensed that the crinkles at the corners of his eyes came mostly of good humor.
“He isn’t a very good horse anyway,” Kenneth confided. “I’d meant to ride another today, but the vile beast cast a shoe and there was no time to have it reset.” He glanced away with a snort. “Not that that horse is much better. When the shoe came off, the nails ripped an almighty chunk out of the edge of his hoof. I suspect he’ll be lame for weeks. And I reckon it could be months before a smith will be able to keep a shoe on that foot. But I don’t suppose that I shall be riding again very soon anyway. . . .”
He was talking, she knew, to take his mind from his injury. In fact, Sir Kenneth owned excellent mounts, some of them given him by the king. All the horses had been fractious before they rode out that morning, for the weather had turned very cold in the past few days, and a hard frost had been on the cobbles. She had seen Sir Kenneth’s first horse cast its shoe in the stable yard as they were mounting up to leave, jinking and kicking out at any other animal that got too near—and somehow managing to catch the edge of the shoe with its own hoof, so that it very nearly fell.
Alyce smiled and nodded knowingly. “I was aware of the incident, my lord. The queen was convinced you were both going down. They should spread more straw on the cobbles when it’s frosty.”
“A sensible horse wouldn’t act up like that on slick cobbles,” Kenneth retorted. “But he is fast—at least when he isn’t trying to kill himself and me.”
He fell silent at that, tensing as he shifted in the hay, trying to find a more comfortable position. Alyce checked his wound, but he did not seem to be bleeding—though he would, when the arrow was drawn. When he grimaced and closed his eyes, obviously concentrating on trying to ease his pain, she considered nudging him back into sleep; but there were too many eyes upon them.
They rattled into the forecourt of Rhemuth Castle just as the shadows were lengthening. The king’s physician and Duke Richard’s battle-surgeon were waiting as they carried Sir Kenneth through the hall and into one of the ground-level guest rooms that opened off the royal gardens. The queen joined them very shortly, and directed Alyce to assist the physicians as they dealt with the wound, she and Zoë holding basins and towels as the surgeon eased the arrow through far enough to cut off the arrowhead and then drew out the shaft.
Though Kenneth uttered not a sound as this was done, and bled less than they had feared, his face went gradually more and more taut and pale, until Richeldis nodded minutely to Alyce to intervene. The patient had been given a draught of strong spirits before they began, and now Alyce gave him more, at the same time brushing his mind with hers as she lifted his head to put the cup to his lips, nudging him gently into sleep.
If the surgeon noticed how quickly the draught worked, he said nothing, only bending to his work of cleaning and bandaging the wound, backing off then to wash his hands as the queen laid a hand on the sleeping man’s forehead.
“The test will be whether a fever develops,” she said, shifting then to help Alyce and Zoë pull the blankets up to cover him. “It appears we should have given him more drink, and sooner. It would have spared him some discomfort. We’ll let him sleep now,” she said to the room at large. “Alyce, I know you and Zoë will wish to sit with him and keep him comfortable. I’ll send someone to relieve you in a few hours.”
The guarded look that passed between her and Alyce made it clear what she meant, having experienced the ease of Deryni powers during childbirth and other times of discomfort—though usually from Jessamy. The church did not approve, of course, but it was a perquisite of royalty to ignore certain of the laws that governed ordinary folk, though discretion was always essential, even for a queen.
Still, the wife of the king and the mother of future kings could be forgiven certain lapses, so long as they did not occur too often or too flagrantly; and none could dispute that Sir Kenneth Morgan was the king’s good servant, and had taken an arrow meant for his sovereign. Alyce saw the hardening of Father Denit’s expression as he watched from the doorway, and guessed that he suspected what had just transpired, but she did not think he would countermand the queen’s order, under the circumstances, though he might well mention his displeasure to the king—or to the archbishop. He gave them a stiff nod in lieu of a bow before turning on his heel to leave the room.
“I’ll send Jessamy to you a little later. Be careful,” the queen whispered to Alyce, briefly hugging her and Zoë around the shoulders before herself departing, along with the physician.
THE care they had taken in dealing with Sir Kenneth’s injury soon reaped dividends, for he never developed the fever the queen had feared, and his wound healed cleanly. After a few days, he was allowed to sit with his leg propped up before the fire in his room, where he received daily visitors: Sir Jiri, with a favorite cardounet board and playing pieces, and sometimes ladies sent by the queen to sing for him while they strummed at lute and psaltery and crwth.
He also read a great deal, and was read to, sometimes by his daughter, but more often by Alyce. With the latter, it was usually histories borrowed from the king’s library—and sometimes, correspondence sent by the king for his review. But occasionally, she found copies of popular ballads and poetry lying on the cabinet beside his chair. He colored when he saw that she had noticed.
In truth, the convalescent was finding himself most agreeably distracted by the gentle attentions of the queen’s ladies, and entertaining such thoughts as had not crossed his mind since the death of his wife, several years before.
Oh, there had been the occasional flirtation with tavern maids and farmers’ daughters when he was in the field, and gentle dalliance with certain ladies of his sisters’ households when he went home to the ancestral estates of Morganhall to visit his younger daughters, who were being raised by their aunts. But largely, he had thrown himself into his military career, with increasing service to the king himself, growing mostly resigned to the likelihood that he would live out his life as a widower. He was but a simple knight, albeit a trusted servant of the king. What could he offer a woman?—he, whose meager income from the Morgan estates must go to support the children of his youth.
Yet now he was surprised to find himself thinking decidedly domestic thoughts, little though there was any practicality to such thinking. He had not the wherewithal to support a wife and possibly a second family. Even so, the idea began to surface more and more often during those weeks of convalescence, daily in the company of the beautiful and accomplished ladies of the queen’s household, and of one young lady, in particular.
Alyce de Corwyn . . . heiress to one of the richest duchies in all the Eleven Kingdoms. She was so far above him as to be the embodiment of a fantasy he could hardly even conceive, at least in this life. When first they had met at Arc-en-Ciel, he had esteemed her as his daughter’s friend, almost as another daughter of his own. Now, as their association shifted into adult friendship, he decided that he had not been far off the mark when he had compared her to an angel, during that long, pain-filled journey back to the castle after his injury.
Of course, she was Deryni. He had no idea what that might mean in practical terms, but he knew that it put her all but outside the pale
where the Church was concerned. Being who she was, she had the protection of the Crown for so long as she walked a narrow path of propriety and care, keeping her powers securely leashed and curbed—she could not help what she was. But were she to stray from what the Church regarded as acceptable for those of her race, even the king’s favor might not be enough to save her. Oddly, he had never felt threatened by close proximity to her—or if he had, it was because she was so beautiful, and so beyond his reach.
Further time spent in her company during the weeks of his convalescence only underlined both his longing and the uselessness of it—but still, he continued to catch her image invading his thoughts in many an unguarded moment, and gradually his dreams as well. Once he was back on his feet, walking with a stick at first, he would find himself gazing after her as he took a turn in the royal gardens of a sunny morning, while she and his daughter and the other ladies played with the younger royal children.
He threw himself into his work with a vengeance, spending many a gray morning or afternoon in the king’s chancery, reviewing diplomatic correspondence, and attending meetings of the royal council when called by the king. Often he and the king worked long into the night on drafts of documents that needed to be prepared, taking a private supper in the king’s apartments while they worked.
It was on one such stormy evening early in December that the queen intruded to inquire about certain arrangements for Christmas court, now in its serious planning stages. Attending her that evening was Alyce de Corwyn.
“My lord, you simply must do something about your sons,” the queen announced, before she and Alyce were even properly through the door. “Brion and Blaine are pestering me to distraction about those ponies.”
“I told you that I was considering the matter,” the king began.
“Well, it simply won’t do to keep putting it off,” the queen replied. “You aren’t the one who has to listen to them, day in and day out—”
“Perhaps we should continue this discussion in private,” he said under his breath, as he set a hand firmly under the queen’s elbow and escorted her into the next room, closing the door behind them.
After a few seconds, Kenneth exchanged bemused glances with Alyce and he remembered his manners enough to gesture toward the chair at the other end of the table where he and Donal had been working. As had begun to happen increasingly of late, he found himself reacting to her presence like some green adolescent. Each time he saw her, he found her more intriguing, and was struck by her beauty of soul as well as form.
“I do beg your pardon,” he said. “Please, sit down. The king is in one of his stubborn moods this evening, so their meeting may take some time. May I offer you some refreshment?”
He nodded toward the flask of wine toward the center of the table, but she shook her head as she sat.
“I thank you, no,” she said. “Zoë and I supped with the queen and the royal children earlier. It was hardly fancy fare, but her tastes are simple when she is not required to preside at the king’s table.”
He nodded agreement and took his seat, several places down from her.
“They are all well, then?” he asked, after a slightly awkward pause, suddenly at a loss for words.
“Aye, they are,” she replied. “Except that Prince Brion does long for a R’Kassan barb at year-end. It is all he talks about lately. That was the source of the queen’s comments, when we entered.”
Kenneth gave a snort, unbending a little. “He is not yet nine. The king will never allow it.”
“I have tried to prepare him for disappointment in that regard,” she replied, smiling. “He rides well, but I fear that a R’Kassan would be quite unsuitable. On the other hand,” she added, “I believe that the queen has been making inquiries about Llanneddi mountain ponies for both the older princes.”
“Ah, I know them well,” Kenneth agreed, warming to the subject of horses, which were one of his own passions. “I rode many a Llanner when I was a boy. Most of them stand only about twelve hands at the withers, but they look a lot like miniature R’Kassans—though with a mountain pony’s more sensible temperament. They’d be perfect for the princes, at this point in their training.”
“Aye, that’s what the queen thought,” Alyce replied. “She told me she’d grown up riding them—and her brother still maintains quite a fine herd. . . .”
They continued to discuss horses—a safe topic, Kenneth felt—for most of an hour, until finally the king and queen emerged from their meeting, both of them smiling. The queen, in fact, looked slightly flushed, her hair somewhat less tidy than when she and the king had withdrawn. Both Kenneth and Alyce rose as the royal pair entered.
“That’s settled, then,” the queen was saying, as she clung to her husband’s arm. “You won’t forget, now?”
“Of course I won’t forget,” the king replied. “Now, off with you—both of you,” he added, with a nod toward Alyce. “Sir Kenneth and I must finish this document.”
The queen arched an eyebrow at him and kissed the air in his direction, smiling, then headed for the door, Alyce hurrying to keep up. When they had gone, Donal sat back down at his place, grinning as he topped up his cup of wine.
“I do love being married, and to that woman,” he confided, lifting his cup to Kenneth and then taking a sip. “Kenneth, have you never thought to remarry? You’re still a young man.”
Kenneth reached for his own cup to cover his discomfiture, wondering whether his interest in Alyce was that obvious.
“Hardly young, Sire. I am three-and-forty, and I have two daughters to support besides Zoë—and I assure you that I am exceedingly grateful of her place here at court. My sisters are raising the younger ones, so I need not worry for their daily care, but they all must be dowered. Hardly room there, I think, for a new wife and children.”
“Humph. Then it seems I must find you a rich heiress,” Donal said lightly. “You’ve certainly earned some more tangible mark of my favor than a mere thank-you. How many times is it, now, that you have saved me or one of my family?”
“I was only doing my duty, Sire, as your liegeman,” Kenneth protested.
Donal gave a snort. “More than that, I think.” He cocked his head at the younger man, considering. “I don’t suppose you might fancy that lovely filly who was just here with the queen? We heard you talking about horses.”
Kenneth felt himself flushing, momentarily at a loss for words. Did the king think he had been campaigning for this all along?
“I would—never aspire that high, Sire. The gift of Lady Alyce’s marriage is a powerful bargaining tool. You must use it to bind some great lord’s loyalty. You already have my loyalty—and my life, if needs be.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” the king replied, his gaze going distant as he mulled the possibility. “That’s why the notion suddenly makes a great deal of sense. For such a marriage would also bind the loyalty of your sons—one of whom would be the next Duke of Corwyn.”
Kenneth could feel his pulse pounding in his temples, hardly able to comprehend what he was hearing—and tried not to let himself even begin to hope that it might come to pass.
“Allow me to consider this further,” the king said then, standing in his place as Kenneth also got hastily to his feet. “We’ll finish this tomorrow. Meanwhile, think on the possibility—that is, if the idea appeals to you.”
“It does, Sire—how could I not be honored that you would even think it? But I—I am old enough to be the lady’s father. She may not wish—”
“Nonsense. She shall marry where I say she shall. She knows her duty.” The king picked up his wine cup and took a deep quaff. “Go now. I must give this further thought. We shall speak again on the matter.”
Chapter 25
“A wise man shall promote himself to honor with his words, and he that hath understanding will please great men.”
—ECCLESIASTICUS 20:27
NOTHING more was said for many days. It was well into Advent before Sir Kenneth Mo
rgan again found himself in a setting that permitted private conversation with the king.
He and Tiarnán MacRae had spent several hours that morning with the king and Seisyll Arilan, reviewing a sheaf of commissions delivered earlier from the royal chancery, all requiring the royal assent and seal. The snug withdrawing room was the perfect refuge from the weather outside, with a goodly fire on the grate and tapestries hung on the walls to keep the damp at bay: a favorite place for the king to work in wintertime. The scent of cinnamon, cloves, and lemons spiced the air, wafting upward from a pot of mulled wine warming near the fire.
“Thank you, Seisyll, Tiernán. I think that will be all for now,” the king said, leaning back in his chair to stretch. “Kenneth can help me deal with the rest of these. How is your leg this morning?” he added to Kenneth, as the others withdrew. “It’s a dreadful day outside. Does the cold make your wound ache?”
Kenneth busied himself gathering up the documents, trying his best to be casual as he jogged them into a tidier stack and placed them in front of the king for signature. He had tried not to think too much about what they had discussed the last time they spoke privily—and especially, had tried not to get his hopes up.
“Thank you for asking, Sire. I’m mostly mended, I think. I rode for an hour yesterday, though I am feeling the effects today. But I attribute that more to a month out of the saddle than to the actual injury. In all, I am content.”
“And I am happy to hear it.” Donal scrawled his signature to a commission, glanced at the next, then pushed the remaining pile back to Kenneth. “There must be an easier way to deal with these. If you’ll lay them out in a line, on that table over there, I’ll move along behind you and sign them. They’re the new year appointments, for Twelfth Night court. I approved them weeks ago.”
Kenneth did as he was directed, then fetched a wax jack and lit it from one of the candles set on the table where they were working, for the documents must next be sealed. As Donal moved back to the first document, removing his signet ring, Kenneth brought the wax, tipping a little of it at the foot of the first decree.
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