In the King's Service

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Nonetheless, I am excommunicate,” she replied. “Nor have I been able to ascertain what would satisfy the archbishop. And until the ban is lifted, I am barred from reception of the sacraments. Including marriage.”

  “Quite so,” Paschal said. “And I am of the distinct impression that you favor the prospect of marriage with Sir Kenneth Morgan, and may even be eager for it.” He smiled and shrugged at her look of surprise. “A good confessor can sense a change of heart, dear child. I have known since your childhood that the dynastic expectations of your eventual marriage were a cause of concern to you. But Sir Kenneth is not what you feared, is he?”

  She shook her head. “Not at all. He is a good man, Father,” she said shyly, “tender and kind. To have come to care for him is nothing that I ever could have anticipated, but it . . . happened. And to know that marriage with him would also serve the king’s needs is both happy coincidence and an answer to my prayers. With the king’s blessing, I would marry him even without the Church’s blessing—but I should rather have both. It was Sir Kenneth who suggested that I approach you about blessing our union, since he knows of the affection that has bound you to my house for many years. But I cannot ask you to intervene if it would leave you in the ill graces of the archbishop.”

  “I have been obliged to tread a narrow line with your Gwynedd clergy,” he admitted, “but in this, it may be possible to . . . adjust the archbishop’s attitude.”

  She looked at him sharply. “You don’t mean to tamper with his mind? His absolution must be honest, else it is nothing worth.”

  “Since the ‘sin’ to be absolved was no sin at all, it little matters whether the absolution is honest,” Paschal replied. “But you need not fear. I shall appeal to a reasoning he cannot resist. Perhaps you would be so good as to ask Sir Kenneth to accompany us to the cathedral tomorrow morning. I feel certain that he will wish to be at the side of his betrothed when she humbles herself before the archbishop and offers her contrition, so that she may be married before God.”

  “Father, I am not contrite over what I did!” she reminded him.

  “No, but as a good daughter of the Church, you will tell the archbishop that you wish to purge yourself of any guilt over having done what the king required of you, in confirming the truth of statements made by those involved with the murder of an innocent child.

  “The archbishop, in turn, will assign you a period of penitential contemplation at—say—the convent of Notre Dame d’Arc-en-Ciel, which shall also serve as a retreat in preparation for your marriage from that house. This will also remove your marriage from the glare of possibly negative reaction if it were to occur here at court. Does that—satisfy the scruples of your conscience?”

  She was grinning by the time he finished, and threw her arms around him in an exuberant hug.

  “Father, I do love you! But, will the archbishop truly agree?”

  “He will,” he assured her. “Your offense was not great—and would have occasioned little comment, had it not been Bishop de Nore’s brother involved; Sir Morian does what you did on a regular basis, though that is in Meara. And it would not surprise me if the Lady Jessamy has done it for the king, on more than one occasion.

  “Nonetheless, because a bishop’s brother was involved, and because the bishops must save face, you must be seen to show contrition and make amends for your part in it, victim though you were of the king’s expediency—for which he has already been forgiven. My part in the affair must be subtle—to . . . persuade the archbishop that this is a just resolution—but on a one-time basis, it will be safe enough. Just mind that you do not affront him again, if at all possible.”

  “It was never my intention to affront him at all,” she replied.

  “Then, we are agreed,” he said, smiling.

  THE meeting with the archbishop took place not the next day, but the day following, due to his previous engagements. But other than that, all went according to plan. Gowned and veiled in penitential black, Alyce de Corwyn presented herself before Archbishop William in the company of her childhood confessor and her betrothed, kneeling to beg his forgiveness and praying to be received back into the ranks of the faithful, that she might be free to marry according to the wishes of the king.

  The archbishop listened dutifully enough—somewhat stiff at first, in the presence of a priest unknown to him and not under his jurisdiction—but he was won over when Paschal casually drew him aside to clarify a point of Alyce’s statement . . . and found himself unaccountably moved to pity.

  “It does seem that the king placed you in a somewhat untenable position, obliged to use your powers in his service,” the archbishop allowed, when he and Paschal returned to where Alyce and Kenneth still knelt, and Paschal again knelt beside her. “And Father Paschal assures me that your betrothed is an honorable and God-fearing man, who will do his utmost to see that you stray not again into the dangerous proclivities to which your race is prone. Sir Kenneth, do you pledge to do so, that your wife-to-be come not before me again in mortal peril of her soul?”

  Alyce could sense the resentment coursing through Kenneth’s body as he knelt beside her, but he humbly bowed his head.

  “I do pledge it, Excellency.”

  “Then, I absolve you of your sins, Alyce de Corwyn,” the archbishop made the sign of the cross above her bowed head, “and I lift the excommunication imposed in another place, receiving you back into the company of the faithful. For penance, I direct you to present yourself forthwith at the convent of Notre Dame d’Arc-en-Ciel, where I believe you were once a student, and there to make a month’s retreat preparatory to your marriage from that place. Father Paschal, I give you license to perform the blessing of such marriage—and hope never again to see any of the three of you before me in any matter of disobedience to Holy Mother Church. Do I make myself clear?”

  “You do, your Excellency—and thank you,” Paschal replied, bending to kiss the archbishop’s ring—and slightly blurring all that had just transpired.

  “Thank you, Excellency,” Alyce and Kenneth murmured together, also bowing low.

  THE resolution greatly relieved the king, when he heard of it, though he was less than pleased to learn that Alyce was to go immediately to Arc-en-Ciel, there to prepare for her wedding.

  “I have promised that I shall not touch her before her husband has her,” he told Jessamy peevishly, that night before Alyce was to leave, “but I cannot afford to delay overlong. Nor can you.”

  “My preparations are under way,” she replied, “but my strength is not what it once was. I have taken opportunity to examine her old training triggers, and they are intact. I shall give you access closer to your need for them. For now, however, she will be safe enough at Arc-en-Ciel—from Kenneth and from you. When she returns, a married woman, we shall need a few more months to refine the timing of the deed. And you might begin amassing a set of errands for her husband, to keep him from her during the times she is most likely to conceive.”

  Donal shook his head in both disbelief and resignation.

  “How casually I make plans to cuckold my friend,” he murmured. “But it must be done.” He looked away briefly. “You will attend the wedding? The queen and I shall be present—and it will be I who give away the bride.”

  “You will not truly have given her until all of this is over, Sire,” she said, “but at least your participation sets a seal on their marriage, in the eyes of the court. Think carefully whether you really intend to do this thing—for once it is set in motion, you know the deception you will have to maintain thereafter.”

  “It is, indeed, my intention,” he murmured. “For the sake of my son, and out of loving memory of the one who was lost, I must do it.”

  “Then, God help us both.”

  ALYCE’S return to Arc-en-Ciel was more an occasion of joy than of penitential gloom. Zoë went with her, to help her prepare for her upcoming nuptials, and Paschal took up residence with the other chaplains for the duration, to be available for
the pastoral counseling that accompanied the ostensible reason for Alyce’s presence there again. Her only sadness was that she would be missing Vera’s wedding, which was to occur while she was on retreat.

  Mother Judiana received both girls with open arms, installing them in the room they had shared before, and the other sisters and the students eagerly fell to work on the stitchery for a bridal trousseau. Though Alyce did spend time with Father Paschal every day, in obedience to the archbishop’s instruction that this was to be a time of penitence regarding her Deryni nature, the priest geared these sessions more toward the meditations proper to a more traditional pre-nuptial retreat, though without the presence of the groom.

  In light of what she had been obliged to do in the wake of Krispin’s murder, Paschal also gave her regular sessions of advanced training in the more subtle use of her powers. After one such session, when she had emerged from trance, he looked at her oddly, as if considering whether to share some facet of what had just occurred.

  “Are you aware that the old triggers your father set are still in place?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she replied. “Don’t you use them regularly, in our sessions?”

  “I do.” He paused, again considering. “Lady Jessamy was given access to those triggers as well,” he said then. “Has she used them much?”

  She shook her head. “Very rarely. I suppose Father’s original intention was that she might be able to augment our training. That would have been before he decided to have you come to us regularly.”

  “That’s very interesting,” he murmured. “When would you say was the last time she used the triggers?”

  “Oh, ages ago. Probably after Father was killed—or it might have been when I brought Ahern’s body back through Rhemuth, on my way to take him home to Cynfyn. I was exhausted, and she made me sleep.”

  “Nothing more recently?”

  “No. Why are you asking?”

  “Because she appears to have been poking around in the last week or so before you came here,” Paschal said baldly. “Have you any idea why she might have done that?”

  “None at all . . . no.”

  “I did not think you did,” Paschal replied. “And that is very curious—and disturbing.”

  “But—why would she do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know. And it is possible there may be some benign explanation—though, by rights, she should have released the triggers years ago, when I resumed responsibility for your training. Were it not for the hidden trace of her most recent contact, I would have attributed the omission to oversight. . . .”

  “Paschal, you’re frightening me . . . ,” she began, eyes wide.

  “No need, child,” he assured her, patting her hand. “I’ve taken care of it. I’ve left the triggers partially engaged, so that you’ll give the external responses she expects, if she should try this again; but I’ve also given you discretion, to override any commands she might try to set. Unless you choose to let her know, she shouldn’t realize that anything has changed. I don’t know what game she may be playing—but I do know that I want you to be the winner, if she insists upon including you in that game, without your knowledge and very possibly against your will.”

  Alyce gave a shiver, shaking her head.

  “It makes no sense. What possible motive could she have?”

  “I wish I knew,” Paschal replied. “But, put it from your mind for now. You will soon be a bride, and much in your life will change. For one thing, you shall be in your husband’s keeping—not Jessamy’s, not mine, or even the king’s or queen’s. You are coming well into your inheritance, dear Alyce, and I am very proud of you.”

  She came back to his embrace again, basking in the warmth of his affection and praise, and did resolve to put it from her mind.

  THE wedding day of Alyce de Corwyn and Sir Kenneth Morgan dawned clear and sunny. Alyce stirred and stretched in the bed she had shared so long with Zoë, opening her eyes to see Zoë gazing at her from the other pillow and smiling.

  “What?” Alyce murmured.

  Zoë giggled and also stretched. “Just think. In a few hours, you’re going to be my mother.”

  Alyce shook her head, also giggling. “Mother to your sisters, maybe—in time. To me, you shall always be my sister.”

  “Oh, Alyce, you are like a sister to me—far more than my sisters of blood. Promise that you won’t forget me, when you’re a proper married lady.”

  “Did you forget me, when you became a proper married lady?” Alyce said lightly.

  “Well, I never was really a proper married lady,” Zoë said with a touch of wistfulness. “Sometimes I dream about Ahern, and what it might have been like—you know.”

  “No, I don’t know!” Alyce replied. “At least not yet.” She sat up in bed to take Zoë’s hand. “Oh, Zoë, just think. A day from now, I shall no longer be a maid—and I shan’t even be able to tell you what it was like, because he’s your father, for goodness’ sake!”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be right, would it?” Zoë said matter-of-factly. “On the other hand . . .” She looked at Alyce slyly. “I’ll bet he’s a very good lover. He’s ever so kind and gentle. Though not so gentle, I’m sure, that he will not give you pleasure! I mean—oh, dear. This is going to be complicated, isn’t it?”

  Alyce laughed aloud at that and tumbled out of bed, rummaging for a robe.

  “Get up, you! You must help me make myself beautiful for your father. This is my wedding day!”

  THE nuptial Mass was to begin at noon, following on the last stroke of the Angelus. By eleven, the convent chapel was prepared, bedecked with flowers and flooded with summer sunlight. The few invited guests had begun to arrive.

  The king and queen had come the night before, taking over part of the guest quarters with the three young princes and Princess Xenia, who was bouncing with the excitement of being allowed to serve as Alyce’s flower girl. Also in the royal party were Lady Jessamy and her two daughters still at home, Jesiana and Seffira, along with the king’s two principal aides besides Kenneth: Sir Tiarnán MacRae and Sir Jiri Redfearn. Duke Richard was on assignment in the field, and sent his regrets, but Sir Seisyll Arilan had deputed in his place.

  From farther afield came the seneschals of both Corwyn and Lendour, along with several knights each, come to witness the nuptials of this daughter of both houses and to express their glad support for the man who now would become a principal regent for both honors. They had met him often in the past, and knew that Ahern had liked and respected him. Sir Jovett Chandos was among them—and Sir Sé Trelawney, once again come from wherever his personal quest now had taken him. The newly wed Earl of Kierney and his bride arrived, and Vera left his side for a time to spend a few moments with her secret sister.

  The sisters and students of Arc-en-Ciel had all lent their efforts to the creation of the gown Alyce donned that morning: a sweep of nubby green silk embroidered with golden gryphons the size of a man’s hand, with Kenneth Morgan’s gold double-tressure bordure set along the hem. She wore the Furstána emeralds at her throat—and on one wrist, the gold bangle of opals and sapphires that had been her mother’s. A bridal wreath of roses in a myriad of hues adorned the tumble of golden hair cascading to her waist, like the one that Cerys Devane had worn to her novice profession; and the now fully professed Sister Iris Cerys was one of the those who held the poles of the rainbow canopy under which the bride would walk down the aisle; Iris Jessilde was the other.

  The chapel and players were prepared. The guests, such as there were, had been seated at the westerly ends of the choir stalls, the royal party on the Gospel side—king and queen and royal children, along with members of the king’s staff—and Kenneth’s sisters and younger daughters with the Corwyn and Lendour men on the Epistle side. The scent of summer flowers floated on the still air, dust motes sparkling in the sunlight that streamed through the great rose windows, east and west.

  As the last stroke of the Angelus faded, Father Paschal led Sir K
enneth and Sir Jiri Redfearn from the sacristy to the front of the chapel. The convent’s three chaplains were also vested and ready, ranged behind them. When all were in place, Mother Iris Judiana bowed to the four priests, then made her way down the aisle to greet the bride, who was waiting under the rainbow canopy.

  At Judiana’s approach, Alyce sank to her knees to receive a blessing. Then, as the king helped her to her feet, coming beneath the canopy with her, the sisters and students of the convent choir began the Ave Vierge Dorée—and truly, as the pair of them began their walk down the aisle to where Sir Kenneth Morgan waited, she was the “golden virgin” of the anthem.

  Later, the details of that next hour blurred together in a series of somewhat disjointed images of ceremony. Preceded by the Princess Xenia, who paused every three steps to gravely fling a handful of rose petals into the air, and by Prince Brion in his pages’ livery, bearing a cushion on which lay the coronets both of Corwyn and Lendour, Alyce made her way down the aisle on the king’s arm, the canopy accompanying them, pausing at the steps into the choir to reverence the altar. Zoë followed behind, as witness and attendant.

  Up into the choir then, where the king and Mother Judiana led her out from under the canopy, now no longer sheltered under the Lady’s rainbow mantle but given into the keeping of the man in whose hand the king now set hers, kissing her cheek and then stepping back to take his place beside his queen.

  Readings, then, speaking of the duty of husbands and wives to one another and to God—and the joy recounted in the Song of Songs:

  “Surge, propera, amica mea, Columba mea, formosa mea, et veni. . . .”

  My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away, for lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. . . .