The King's Deryni

by Katherine Kurtz

  “It’s safe enough in here,” Alaric replied. “There’s no one to overhear.”

  “Yes there is,” Duncan countered, jerking his chin at the Presence lamp, then quirking a sheepish expression. “I guess He knows all about it, though.”

  “Well, if they were angels, like we think, of course He does,” Alaric agreed. He fell silent for several seconds, then added, “Let’s ask your mama. Maybe she saw them, too.”

  “Maybe,” Duncan said uncertainly, though he scrambled to his feet and followed as Alaric rose and started toward the chapel door.

  They had no opportunity to ask her that night. When they returned to the room where Duncan’s grandfather had died, they could see Lady Vera inside with the widowed Gramma Jesma and Grandrew’s sister Nesta, the three of them tenderly preparing the body for its waking through the night and on the morrow, but Sir Walter turned them away—and, in fact, personally escorted them back to Alaric’s chamber, where he put them in Llion’s charge.

  “Lady Vera has duties to perform this evening, lads, as do I,” he told them. “Besides that, it’s been a long day for everyone. ’Tis time both of you were in bed. I’m sure Sir Llion will agree.”

  “I do, indeed,” Llion said. “Duncan, if you’d like, you may stay here tonight with Alaric. There will be a lot going on tomorrow, and you’ll both need a good night’s sleep. Wash up now, and go to bed.”

  Bed was the last thing that either boy had in mind at that point, but experience and common sense had taught the pair that it was best to at least appear to go along with the instructions of their elders—and this certainly was not the time to test the limits of Llion’s patience. Besides, Llion was usually right. Accordingly, both boys did as they were bidden, and soon had slipped safely into sleep.

  Morning found their resolve undiminished by the interruption of sleep. Bright and early, when the pair had washed and dressed in clean shirts and breeches and wolfed down some bread and hard-boiled eggs in the castle hall, they crept up to the solar room where Duncan’s mother habitually spent the early part of her days. That morning, gowned in the plain black of mourning, the new Duchess Vera was bent over a writing desk set to catch the light from a window that looked down on the castle garden, her honey-brown hair caught back under a black caul. She looked up as they eased the door open and peered inside, smiling and laying aside her quill as she opened her arms to her son.

  “Ah, there you are, my love. Come in, come in, both of you.” She caught Duncan in a quick embrace, kissing the top of his head, then gave Alaric a hug and a kiss as well. “I see that Llion brought you the clean shirts I had him lay out for you. Duncan, you’ll want to put on your plaid before the funeral, to honor your grandfather. Did both of you sleep well?”

  “Mama, we saw angels last night,” Duncan said baldly, as he drew back to look at her.

  Vera tensed almost imperceptibly, then nodded to Alaric. “Please go and make sure that you latched the door, love. I assume that you saw them, too?”

  Alaric nodded solemnly, then scooted off to obey when Vera jutted her chin toward the door. As he returned, she drew the two of them into the window embrasure to settle onto a bench to either side of her, each in the curve of an arm.

  “Now, quietly, tell me all about it,” she murmured, giving each a reassuring hug. “We should have a few moments before anyone comes. Just what do you think you saw?”

  They told her, haltingly at first, but then in whispered, fervent phrases that could leave little doubt.

  “There were two down by the end of the bed, with their hands held up like when Father Paschal says Mass, an’ there was light all around them!” Duncan murmured, wide-eyed, as Alaric nodded emphatic agreement and chimed in.

  “An’ there were two more, one up by Grandrew’s head. One was really big, an’ he had swoopy wings that nearly scraped the ceiling. They were dark green like that old rooster’s tail, out in the vegetable garden. An’ there was light all around ’em, too, but nobody else seemed to notice!”

  Through several elaborations on this theme, Vera listened without interruption, nodding in encouragement until the pair finally wound down and merely stared at her hopefully.

  “Four of them, you say?” She raised an eyebrow at their nods of agreement. “Who do you think they might have been?”

  The boys exchanged uncertain glances.

  “I’ll give you a clue. Do you remember that night when Auntie Alyce and I took you down to the garden chapel in the middle of the night?”

  Both boys went wide-eyed.

  “Archangels?” Duncan breathed. “Really?”

  “Why did they come?” Alaric wanted to know.

  “Because I invited them,” Vera replied softly, “and because they chose to come.”

  Duncan’s eyes went even wider. “Why would they do that?”

  She smiled and hugged both of them closer. “Because angels adore holiness,” she told them, “and the time of a soul’s passing into the next life is very holy. I wasn’t sure you would see them, but I knew I would. And I would like to think that Grandrew may have seen them, too.”

  “Did Papa see them?” Alaric whispered uncertainly. “Or Uncle Jared?”

  Vera smiled a little sadly and shook her head, giving Alaric another hug. “I don’t think so, dear. Most times, it’s only Deryni who can see them, and then only if they’re focused and really want to see them—and if the angels are willing to be seen. But sometimes even humans feel the brush of the angels’ wings when someone is passing. It helps them remember that God’s love is with them, even in death.”

  “Do you think Papa maybe felt the wings, then?” Duncan asked, cocking his head.

  “I’m sure he knows that God was with Grandrew, love—and that Grandrew is now with God.”

  “Then, death is not such a bad thing,” Alaric said thoughtfully. “Not if you go to be with God.”

  Vera nodded thoughtfully. “It can be a sad thing, for those left behind,” she clarified. “And sometimes it comes far sooner than seems right. And sometimes the dying itself can be very, very hard. But Grandrew’s passing was as peaceful as any I have seen. He was a good man, and lived a long, full life. Now he is resting for a time in God’s love.”

  “What happens when he’s rested enough?” Duncan wanted to know.

  Vera suppressed a chuckle at the question: seven-year-olds wrestling with the great conundrums pondered by wise men throughout the ages.

  “We don’t know that, my love. But God knows His plan for each of us. And the plan for the two of you, right now, is to get yourselves ready to attend Grandrew’s funeral. Would you do that for me, while I finish dressing? Duncan, I’ve laid out that sleeping lion brooch with your plaid—and yes, I know that the wool is itchy and hot in summer. Alaric, tell Llion that I said you should put on one of your heraldic surcoats, in honor of your great-uncle. And both of you should wash your faces and comb your hair.”

  The boys did as they were bidden, Alaric pulling on his Corwyn surcoat over his shirt and breeches and then rejoining his cousin when it was time to go downstairs. To his surprise, he found his father and Llion in urgent consultation with Jared and a knight he recognized from his father’s manor at Morganhall: Sir Calix Howard, who had married his former nurse, Melissa, and stayed on at Morganhall to protect the household there. Alaric’s two Morgan aunts lived at Morganhall—Aunt Delphine and Aunt Claara—and also Claara’s granddaughter Clarice Fraser, who was six.

  More important, his sister Bronwyn lived at Morganhall, and she was only four. He adored Bronwyn, and hoped nothing had happened to her, but the serious expressions on the faces of the grown-ups sent him pelting across the hall to join them.

  “Papa, what is it?” he blurted. “Has something happened to Bronwyn?”

  “Nay, nay, she is well,” his father replied, circling his son’s shoulders with a reassuring arm and giving h
im a quick hug. “It’s your Aunt Claara. She’s taken a bad fall and broken her hip. Now, hush while Sir Calix finishes telling me about it.”

  Calix, a short, sturdy man in his fifties, with grey-streaked side-braids mingled with his hair, glanced uncertainly at his lord’s son and heir, then at Kenneth.

  “Shall I really continue, my lord?” he asked in a low voice.

  Kenneth inclined his head. “Alaric is the future Duke of Corwyn, Calix. He needs to be exposed to life in all its misfortune as well as its triumphs.”

  “Very well, my lord.” Calix ducked his head in agreement. “But whatever the outcome, I fear you will need to make some changes at Morganhall. Lady Delphine declares that she is perfectly able to continue running the estate, as she has long done, but she will need help in the daily management of the household. That has always been Lady Claara’s function.”

  “I understand,” Kenneth said.

  “And you will need to engage several more maids to help with the care of the children,” Calix went on. “My Melissa will help, of course, along with our own daughter, but more hands will be required. And if Lady Claara should not survive this, I think it likely that Sir Paxon will soon come to take little Clarice back to his own people.”

  “Aye, that would not surprise me,” Kenneth agreed. “And given what has happened, perhaps ’tis time to reconsider Bronwyn’s care, though I had thought to delay a bit longer.”

  At Calix’s look of question, Kenneth went on.

  “It has been in my mind for several months, Calix. The timing is ill, but it has always been my intention eventually to move my daughter to Lady Vera’s care, as was the wish of my dear wife.” He cast a sidelong glance at Jared. “But right now, Vera will have her hands full, settling into her new station. I cannot ask that of her yet.”

  “That need not be a concern just now,” Jared said low, speaking for the first time. “She must accompany me to Ballymar, of course, to bury my father, and we’ll progress through Cassan on the way back here. But I fully intend that Twelfth Night shall see us back in Rhemuth. By then, you should know what changes are required at Morganhall—and I assume that you still intend to visit Lendour and Corwyn this year, as you usually do?”

  Kenneth sighed and nodded. “Now, more than ever—especially if I must shift personnel to Morganhall.” He glanced at Llion, who was waiting expectantly. “We’ll leave immediately after the funeral, Llion. If you’d be so good as to begin making the arrangements. . . .”

  “You needn’t stay for that,” Jared interjected. “Family must come first. Andrew would understand.”

  Kenneth shook his head. “No, Andrew is my family as well: my mother’s only brother. I can spare a few more hours to pay my final respects. Have I time before Mass to write a quick letter to the king? He should know of my change of plans.”

  “Use my writing room,” Jared replied, with a gesture toward the withdrawing room off the great hall. “Someone will call you when they’re ready in the church.”

  Chapter 9

  “Even a child is known by his doings, whether his work be pure, and whether it be right.”

  —PROVERBS 20:11

  AS it happened, there was more than enough time for letter writing, for the start of Duke Andrew’s Requiem was somewhat delayed owing to the sheer number of local folk come to pay their respects to their late duke. Accordingly, it was mid-afternoon before Kenneth could lead his party out the gates of Culdi, riding hard along the route they had traveled only weeks before. As on the journey north, Alaric rode a small horse rather than a pony, but this time with no other child along to keep him company. Fortunately, he was accustomed to interacting with adults, and rode in turn with several of his father’s knights besides Llion.

  Other than boredom and the hardship of the road, then, their southward journey was uneventful. They reached the ancient Morgan seat nearly a week later, to find that Claara seemed to have survived her injury, but was unlikely ever to walk again. After spending a few minutes at her bedside, and greeting his daughter, Kenneth conferred briefly with Father Swithun and the household steward, Master Leopold, then asked Delphine to join him in his quarters.

  “I’m sure you’ve thought about this in the past several weeks,” he said, pouring her a cup of ale. “Calix tells me that you’re going to need additional help, if you’re all to remain at Morganhall.”

  “Of course we shall remain at Morganhall,” Delphine said indignantly. “Morganhall is our home.”

  “And that is why I’m making arrangements to bring in some assistance.”

  Delphine nodded, her momentary indignation appeased. “Good. I’m perfectly willing and able to continue managing the estate, but help would be welcome, especially now. Leopold and Calix are treasures, but they are still only two men—and it would ease my mind considerably if we had more of a male presence here. I had been meaning to mention it the last time you were here, but none of us like to admit that we’re getting older. Now, with Claara virtually an invalid—well, we could use the additional help.”

  Kenneth nodded. “I already have some men in mind.”

  “I am very glad to hear it,” Delphine replied. “I should hate to see the estate fall into decline. It would be good if there were something left by the time all of us are gone—perhaps a dowry for Bronwyn. God knows, Alaric shan’t need the income, what with his duchy and with Lendour after you. But we must think about these things.”

  “Indeed, we must,” Kenneth agreed. “I shall have this resolved before the winter snows. Can you manage until then?”

  “With God’s help. Your daughter Zoë sends us supplies from time to time, and men to help with the harvest. Will you go to Lendour when you leave here? I know she would love to see you and Alaric.”

  He smiled. “And I am pining to see my grandchildren. I must make my annual visit to Lendour, in any case—and to Coroth, as well.”

  Delphine nodded. “And what of Bronwyn? This is the only home she’s ever known.”

  “I know that,” Kenneth replied. “And you and Claara are the only mothers she’s known. Alyce wanted Vera to have the care of both the children, in time. But now is not the time, with Vera and Jared busy burying Duke Andrew.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Delphine said. “And don’t mistake me. Bronwyn is a delight, and I don’t regret a minute of having her here. But you need to make permanent arrangements sooner rather than later. She’s very attached to Claara’s granddaughter. Clarice, she’s called. Her father will probably arrive any day now. I sent him word soon after Claara’s accident, when it became clear that Claara would not be able to care for her any longer.”

  In fact, little Clarice’s father arrived the following afternoon: Sir Paxon Fraser, a handsome knight in the service of the Earl of Rhendall. After he had greeted his young daughter and paid his respects to his mother-in-law, he joined Kenneth in the solar room that overlooked the castle garden.

  “Have a seat and take some ale, Sir Paxon,” Kenneth said, pouring from a glazed pottery pitcher into a pair of treen cups. “It’s cold from a spring in the cellar. Just the thing for a sultry afternoon.”

  Sir Paxon smiled nervously and sat, taking the cup Kenneth offered and lifting it in salute.

  “Thank you, my lord. Good health to you.” He took a long quaff and, at Kenneth’s gesture of invitation, held out his cup for a refill.

  “You appear to have ridden hard,” Kenneth remarked. “Am I to gather that the Earl of Rhendall keeps you quite busy?”

  Sir Paxon gave a genial shrug. “He keeps all his household knights busy. But I have no complaints. He is a good overlord, and has given my son a place as page in his household.”

  “Mine is soon to enter Duke Jared’s service,” Kenneth said, jutting his chin in the direction of the garden below as he sipped at his ale. “And I gather that our daughters have become fast friends. I am hoping I can per
suade you to let her stay here awhile longer, while I sort out more permanent arrangements.”

  Paxon glanced into the garden below, where the two girls were playing with a clutch of gangly stable kittens. Nearby, in the shade of a pear tree near the garden wall, the mother cat had found a comfortable perch on Alaric’s chest as he sprawled in the cool grass.

  “The girls are close in age, aren’t they?” Paxon replied. “And they seem to get on well. How old is Bronwyn? A little younger than my daughter, I think?”

  “She will be five in December,” Kenneth replied, trying not to dwell on the reminder that, in December, it also would be five years since Alyce’s untimely death. “How old is Clarice?”

  “Six, nearly seven. And she can be a handful. With Claara laid up, Delphine certainly won’t be able to keep up with the pair of them.”

  “Delphine assures me that she can manage for the present, if she has help,” Kenneth replied. “I intend to leave for Lendour within the week to secure that help. I have retainers there that I can spare. It would only be for a few months—a year at most,” he added hopefully. “I had already planned to move Bronwyn to the care of Vera McLain, as was her mother’s dying wish. But frankly, this is not a good time, with Jared just come into his ducal rank. I assume you heard that Duke Andrew passed a few weeks ago.” Paxon nodded that he had.

  “Jared and Vera won’t even be back in this part of the kingdom until late autumn,” Kenneth went on. “You would be doing me a great service if you’d allow Clarice to stay here until I can make my arrangements. But I do understand, if you’d prefer to have her with you.”

  Paxon sighed and sat back in his chair, toying with his cup. “It isn’t that, my lord. My own duties keep me often in the field, and she and her grandmother adore one another, so I’d prefer not to deprive them of one another’s company—especially not now.” The younger knight looked up with another sigh. “But there are additional factors to consider. Clarice has a brother she hardly knows; I should like to remedy that. Granted, Kian has his duties as page, but they would be in the same household; and the earl has a daughter only a few years older than Clarice: Meraude, she’s called. Exposure in an earl’s household is far more likely to fetch my girl a good marriage.”