It was a less festive occasion than it should have been, for custom required that the court remain in mourning until a new king was crowned. Accordingly, King Brion wore deepest black in memory of his late father, though the fabrics were sumptuous, and a prince’s coronet crowned his sable head. He also wore the other accoutrements of his Haldane heritage: the royal brooch with its Haldane Lion clasping his mantle, the Ring of Fire, and the Eye of Rom glowing in his right ear.
But the Haldane sword was not yet his to wield. His uncle, Duke Richard, had charge of that, and would later use it to give the accolade to several young candidates for knighthood.
First, however, there were official greetings to be delivered from neighboring rulers already present for the now-delayed coronation, presentations to be made, petitions to be offered up. Fortunately, there were no Torenthi princes to send shivers up the spines of Kenneth Morgan or Seisyll Arilan or Michon de Courcy, though Count János Sokrat did make an appearance on behalf of the King of Torenth to express his condolences over the passing of the late king.
To all of these, King Brion responded graciously and competently, much as his father might have done. Watching from his place near the throne, Kenneth could see much of the old king in him, and knew that Donal Blaine Haldane had trained his heir well. Occasionally Brion would glance aside at one or another of his advisors for guidance or confirmation, but for the most part he moved the business of the court along smoothly, and seemed to enjoy himself.
He definitely enjoyed the next item on the agenda, once the foreign ambassadors had been received: the investiture of the new crop of royal pages, come to be sworn in and receive their crimson tabards from the hands of the king. The promotion of several senior pages to squire also brought a smile to the new king’s lips, though he was technically still a squire himself; and Prince Nigel, serving their mother as duty page for the Twelfth Night Court, watched the proceedings with wistful longing, for it would be several years before he was old enough to join them.
Only two knights were made that day: young Arran MacEwan, a distant cousin of the Duke of Claibourne, and Ewan de Traherne Earl of Rhendall, whose family obligations had delayed the original plans for his knighting, several years before. For both of them, King Brion conducted the ceremony of knighthood without deviation from what had always been done, save that it was Duke Richard’s hand wielding the Haldane sword, with Brion’s hand atop it. But both new knights then swore fealty with their hands between those of the king, to the evident satisfaction of all concerned.
Following this routine business, the rest of the court progressed mostly according to expectation. Given the delay anticipated before the new king could be properly crowned, those peers present were summoned forward to renew their fealty to the Crown of Gwynedd. Kenneth had already given the new king a fealty unsuspected by any of the others present, and had renewed his oath as an officer of state with the other members of the crown council, shortly after Brion’s accession; but when the earls were called, he went forward with his son at his side, to kneel and set his hands between those of the king.
No words accompanied the renewal of these oaths, for none were needed; but before Kenneth could rise, Brion smiled and briefly laid a hand on young Alaric’s head as if in blessing, and leaned forward to murmur words intended only for Kenneth’s ears.
“I look forward to the day when the heir of Corwyn, my father’s Airleas, may take his place among my other peers,” he said quietly, before letting his hand slip softly from the silver-gilt head.
Kenneth doubted that the king’s words meant much to the four-year-old Alaric, but Kenneth found himself greatly moved as he rose and the two of them made way for the next earl and then the barons. Leading his son back to their place among his Lendour knights, he put the boy in Sir Llion’s charge, then returned to stand with the king’s advisors beside the throne.
There followed a further succession of the king’s subjects, seemingly endless, coming to pay their respects or offer gestures of loyalty. Later on came more official greetings from neighboring lands, with emissaries and ambassadors offering the felicitations of their masters and presenting gifts.
One of those present who did not go forward was a man from distant Cardosa, who had no business before the throne of Gwynedd. But his presence was noted by at least one of the crown advisors standing at the king’s side, and another man amid the throng gathered in the great hall, who had affirmed a baron’s oath of fealty earlier in the afternoon. Both men were members of the Camberian Council.
“What was he doing in Rhemuth, and at the king’s court?” Michon muttered to Seisyll Arilan, as the two of them withdrew into one of the window embrasures during a lull in the banqueting that followed.
“You saw him, too, then?” Seisyll replied, with an automatic glance out across the crowded hall. “I was fairly certain I’d caught just a glimpse of him, as the peers were coming forward to swear, but then I couldn’t find him again, and I thought I’d been mistaken. Are you certain?”
Michon folded his arms across his chest and turned to gaze out the window to the dark garden beyond, though in fact he was studying the crowd behind them, reflected in the black of the window glass.
“Oh, he was here, all right,” he said, “hardly an arm’s length away—and he saw that I had recognized him. But then people moved between us, quite possibly at his instigation, and I lost him. But it was definitely Zachris Pomeroy.”
“The devil take him!” Seisyll said under his breath. “What do you suppose he was up to? Spying for Prince Hogan? Surely you don’t think he came here to kill the king.”
“Not this time, or not yet,” Michon murmured, with a glance toward the dais, where the king sat at the high table between his mother and his brother Nigel, all of whom were laughing at the antics of a jongleur’s sleight-of-hand, as was Duke Richard, seated on the queen’s other side. “I’ve already told your nephew to stay close; and he knows what Pomeroy looks like. Sir Kenneth is also nearby, as always, though he doesn’t know about this specific threat—and I don’t know of a way to warn him without revealing ourselves.”
He nodded toward the left side of the dais, where Jamyl Arilan was carefully topping up Bishop Corrigan’s wine from a pewter ewer, a towel over one shoulder of his Haldane squire’s livery, though his gaze roved continually, always returning to the king. Farther along the table, Sir Kenneth was chatting companionably with Sir Trevor Udaut, though he, too, turned his glance often in the king’s direction.
“I still don’t like it,” Seisyll muttered. “What can we do?”
“We tell the Council, once the king has retired for the night,” Michon said, “and meanwhile, we keep a sharp eye. And I would say that we bring Jamyl with us later, except that I’ll feel more certain of the king’s safety if we leave him here while we’re away. We can brief him afterward.”
OTHERS voiced similar concerns much later that night, in the Camberian Council’s secret meeting chamber.
“The gall of the man!” said Vivienne de Jordanet. “Rhydon, did you know he was planning this?”
Rhydon Sasillion, the youngest of their number, sat back in his chair with a tiny sigh.
“If I had known, I would have told you,” he said patiently. “Please remember that I am not an intimate of Zachris Pomeroy; I cannot be and still keep my oaths to the Council. Nor am I any longer a student of Camille Furstána—again, because I cannot be. I am good at what I do, brethren, else you would not have invited me to join your number, but I am not good enough to hide such shields as I possess from the likes of her. I do still have a casual relationship with Pomeroy, but I have given him to understand that I have not the nerve to become involved in his political ambitions.”
Across the table, Michon lifted a hand in acceptance of Rhydon’s declaration. “Peace, Rhydon. We are well aware of what a difficult position we have asked you to function in. What is your assessment of the reason for Pomeroy’s appearance at the king’s first Twelfth Night Court?�
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Rhydon inclined his head in appreciation of Michon’s gesture of conciliation. “He is ambitious, as we all know. His support for Prince Hogan grows with each passing week, for he knows that a Festillic return to power would mean titles and lands as his reward, if he assists it.
“Having said that,” he went on, “I would guess that tonight’s excursion into forbidden waters was intended simply to observe the new Haldane king and ascertain his weaknesses—besides his obvious youth. After all, Pomeroy made no hostile move toward the king.”
“Not directly, no,” Seisyll muttered, “or not that we know of. But we have no way to know whether he perhaps subverted some of those around the king, laying his web of treachery in preparation for more serious assaults.”
“Well, whatever the cost, we must at least get the boy safely crowned,” Michon said, “and try to learn what part of the Haldane legacy he may have at his beckoning. Rhydon, can we rely on you to track down Pomeroy, to monitor his movements? For if he comes near the king again, I will have his life!”
Rhydon nodded. “I have three or four men I can call upon, who know him by sight and are also reliable and discreet.”
“Deryni?” Oisín asked.
“Of course,” Rhydon replied, “though I would hope not to compromise them. We are, all of us in the eastern borders, wary of what is happening, in general, to those of our blood.”
“As are we, farther west,” Oisín agreed. “I shall certainly put out the word in my area, though I doubt Pomeroy has business that would bring him there.”
“He had no business in Rhemuth,” Barrett said darkly, “yet he chose to go there.”
“And it cannot be for any good purpose,” Vivienne agreed.
“It seems to me,” said Khoren, speaking for the first time, “that it might behoove us to neutralize this particular threat before it can become more focused.”
“I tend to agree,” Vivienne said. “Even his continued existence represents a grave danger to the king.”
“If you are saying what I think I am hearing,” Barrett said softly, “that is a cold assessment.”
“Cold or not, let me make it perfectly clear, then,” Vivienne replied. “If he is found again in the king’s vicinity, I say take him out—before it is too late!”
IT was Rhydon who was designated to spearhead the effort, for his prior acquaintance with the renegade Deyrni was most likely to give him access. They had reckoned it most probable that Pomeroy would make his move at the coronation, at the earliest, the exact date of which now depended upon the election of a new Archbishop of Valoret. Even then, he might not show—it was possible that his intentions had been misinterpreted—but they could not take that chance.
Accordingly, while Rhydon went on the hunt, confident that he could carry out his mission—or at least set it up—those members of the Council also having legitimate reason to stay close to the king’s household did so, in those days and weeks following Twelfth Night Court. Rhydon, in particular, made certain to keep in touch with his Deryni contacts at the borders; but of Zachris Pomeroy there was no sign for many weeks.
Meanwhile, the Gwynedd Curia ground through their deliberations regarding who should succeed to the See of Valoret. Competition was spirited, for the office carried considerable secular power in addition to being the highest ecclesiastical office in the land. Archbishop Desmond presided over the deliberations, being senior in rank, though he could not have been said to be neutral in his outlook. Other serious candidates for the office were several, and evaluated as much by their hard line against Deryni as their spiritual soundness and administrative ability. Of the fifteen bishops attending, perhaps three could be considered as serious contenders.
At the top of the list was Desmond MacCartney himself, Archbishop of Rhemuth for the past four years and its auxiliary bishop for several years before that. O’Beirne of Dhassa might have been a good choice, but at sixty-five and in failing health, he was perhaps too old. Paul Tollendal, the energetic Bishop of Marbury, seemed a far better choice, at fifty-two, with a solid reputation as a bulwark against Deryni incursions from the east, and already fifteen years’ experience in his episcopate.
Also in the running, at least on paper, was Cosmo Murray, the aged Bishop of Nyford, whose adamant stance against Deryni was echoed in his far younger auxiliary, Oliver de Nore. But at seventy-four, Murray was adjudged too old, and de Nore too young at forty-five. Sadly, the assessment regarding Murray proved correct before the synod even settled down to serious deliberations, for the old man passed away during one of the sessions, simply nodding off and falling off his bench.
Bishop Murray’s death occasioned a recess of several days to see to his funeral obsequies, after which Oliver de Nore was confirmed to the See of Nyford by acclamation before leaving for Nyford to bury his predecessor, which really could not be delayed. It also took de Nore out of the running for the slot in Valoret, having just been elected to Nyford—an event that gave several royal observers cause for relief.
The deliberations ground on, with balloting finally narrowing to two candidates: Paul Tollendal and Desmond MacCartney. In the end, perhaps it was Archbishop Desmond’s relatively shorter tenure in Rhemuth that became the deciding factor for many of the delegates—hardly ten years a bishop, against Tollendal’s fifteen. On the second day of March, in the year 1096, the Curia of Gwynedd elected Bishop Paul Tollendal of Marbury to be Archbishop of Valoret and Primate of All Gwynedd. For his successor in Marbury, the curia chose the itinerant Bishop Fisken Cromarty.
Word was sent to Rhemuth at once by fast courier, that Archbishop Paul’s elevation and enthronement would take place in Valoret’s All Saints’ Cathedral in five days’ time, to allow clergy from the surrounding areas to attend. The curia and archbishop-elect also recommended that the king’s coronation date be set for the twenty-fourth of March. On hearing this news, the new king announced his intention to ride at once for Valoret to see the new archbishop installed. It was not a popular decision.
“I like it not, Sire,” said Seisyll Arilan, speaking in council the morning the news arrived. “Your coronation is but three weeks away, and if you go to Valoret first, that will leave hardly a fortnight for final preparations when you return.”
Brion rolled his eyes like the teenaged boy he still was, even though a king, and schooled his response to the tone and words he knew a king must use.
“My lord, we have been preparing for nearly three months now, and we have been cooped up for all the winter long. I need to get out among my people, as my father was wont to do; and I may be saddled with this new archbishop for many years, for good or ill. Best if we start off on the right foot, whereby I pay my respects to him as a dutiful son of the Church and then he pays his respects to me as his new king. I should prefer to begin that process before he comes to Rhemuth to crown me. I want it clear from the beginning just where we stand.”
Duke Richard raised an appraising eyebrow, seeing much of the young king’s father in him. “If that is what you intend, Sire”—the preamble left no doubt that he accepted the boy’s authority—“then we must make certain that you remain safe for your journey. I would advise taking troops with you to Valoret—perhaps a score, in addition to a modest household.” He held up a hand to stave off the objection about to leave Seisyll’s lips. “Any more would make it impossible to travel quickly, and would take more time to organize than is possible, with the coronation but a few weeks away. Less might be foolish, from the standpoint of safety.”
Brion glanced in question at Kenneth, who inclined his head in agreement.
“It seems a reasonable plan to me, my prince. But if you plan to do it, best we ride straight through, and leave this very afternoon, before word can get out of your plans. That will also lessen the possibility of ambush along the way.”
“Surely you don’t fear that?” Queen Richeldis said, wide-eyed at what had already been said—and not said.
Kenneth shrugged. “He is yet an uncrown
ed king, my lady. And if aught should happen to him, his heir is only nine. I think I understand why he wishes to do this thing—and I cannot fault his reasons, having myself suffered the less-than-welcome attention of bishops in the past—but there is a danger. That is a part of the lot of kings, but at least we can minimize it, if His Majesty agrees.”
“His Majesty certainly agrees!” Brion retorted. “The sooner we leave, the better! I’ve been waiting for weeks! It’s time to start acting like the king you all believe me to be.”
“And he is, indeed, acting like a king,” Richard said mildly, though he was smiling as he rose. “I advise you all to travel light,” he continued. “Kenneth, if you’ll help my eager nephew to pack what he’ll need, I shall see to the lancer escort. Tiarnán and Jiri, you’ll accompany us.”
“Take my nephew as well, Your Highness, to see to the king’s squiring,” Seisyll quickly interjected.
Richard inclined his head in agreement. “I will welcome an Arilan on this venture—and I know that you yourself do not relish the idea of a two-day dash upriver in the spring snows.”
“No, those days are behind me, I fear,” Seisyll replied, smiling. “Besides, Her Majesty may have need of my counsel in your absence.”
LATER that night, when the royal troop had ridden out, Seisyll Arilan assembled the Camberian Council in their domed meeting place.
“I should prefer that he weren’t going,” he told the six others seated around the octagonal table, “but his reasons are sound. And while Paul Tollendal would not have been my first choice as archbishop, I can think of several worse.”
Michon de Courcy snorted and leaned back in his high-backed chair. “So can I,” he replied, “and one of them is now become Bishop of Nyford. Someone really must do something about that man.”
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