And who had released Jorian? Alaric thought it must surely have been Sé, for he knew no other adult Deryni who might have gained access to the execution and been powerful enough to do what had been done. But was it? And could it have been Sé who had shouted from across the square, or had caused someone else to do so?
Whatever its source, the shout had silenced the hecklers, ignorant men who rejoiced in the death of a Deryni, but Alaric noticed that soldiers in the archbishop’s livery were moving briskly among the men and boys gathered at that side of the square, obviously looking for the person who had cried out. Sir Errol was even eyeing Alaric suspiciously, though he seemed satisfied that Alaric knew nothing of what had happened.
Meanwhile, the fire had totally engulfed the stake in the center of the square, its roar punctuated by the snap and crackle of burning timber that underscored the horror of the deed. No other sound could be heard as the thick column of greasy black smoke rushed upward from the pyre, carrying with it the sweet stench of burning flesh.
Alaric managed not to disgrace himself by vomiting or fainting, but it took a great deal of effort, and he could see and hear others with less fortitude—which made his own struggle even harder. Even though he knew that Jorian’s soul no longer inhabited the blackened husk writhing in the flames, that the movement came only of the physical reaction of mortal flesh with fire, his stomach told him otherwise. Even Father Creoda looked queasy, and mostly kept his eyes averted, fighting nausea.
The bishops retired momentarily, and the gathered seminarians were dismissed shortly after that. A few had fainted, and many of them were battling varying degrees of unwellness. As they shuffled from the square, to disappear inside the abbey precincts, the lay witnesses also began to leave. Cornelius Seaton approached briefly to speak with his father and then depart, though not before giving Alaric a sneering up-and-down glance that spoke volumes without him saying a word.
“You are free to go now,” Sir Errol said to Father Creoda, with a curt nod to Llion and Jamyl. “Do you wish an escort back to your lodgings?”
“That will not be necessary,” Jamyl said stonily. “Our men await us outside. Good day to you, sir.”
With that, he pressed between Alaric and the priest and seized an arm of each, bearing them away from the horror of the square.
Alaric tried to watch for Sir Sé as they mounted up and rode out from Arx Fidei, but he saw no trace of him.
Chapter 42
“Kings’ daughters were among thy honourable women . . .”
—PSALMS 45:9
ALARIC knew he was but poor company on the ride back to Rhemuth, but what he had witnessed at Arx Fidei would not leave his thoughts. He took but meager comfort in his growing belief that someone, probably Sé, had given release to the dying Jorian, for a part of him remained convinced that, somehow, he should have been able to help. Though none of it was logical, his continued sense of helplessness made him even more determined to learn as much as he could, as quickly as he could, to change things for the future.
Of course, without another Deryni to teach him, that determination was more aspirational than practical, but it was all he had. Sadly, he sensed that such training was beyond the ability of his Aunt Vera.
If only he had some way to contact Sé, to ask about what he had done at the execution, how he had managed to give Jorian release—if, indeed, it had been Sé. But who else could it have been?
Unfortunately, Alaric had never figured out how to summon Sé. So far as he knew, Sé’s periodic appearances came mostly in response to his own perceptions of Alaric’s needs—though the Anviler knight did seem to have a knack for knowing when Alaric truly had need of him or his training. But even with the aid of Sé’s medallion, Alaric’s ability to interact with Sé had only ever been at Sé’s instigation, passive on Alaric’s part, never with Alaric initiating the contact.
But the medallion did raise a possibility. As they rode into Rhemuth at last, midway through November, Alaric found himself wondering whether he could reach out to Sé using the focus of his St. Camber medal, since he had used Sé’s medal for that purpose. Of course, those had been very different circumstances, using Sé’s medal while he made himself open to Sé’s call. He resolved to do just that.
First, however, he knew he must report back to the king. His friend Ciarán MacRae was duty squire that day, and came to escort him to the king’s withdrawing room before he could even dismount.
“He said to fetch you as soon as you returned,” Ciarán told him, as they made their way through the great hall. “Duke Richard is with him.”
“I’m not in trouble, am I?” Alaric said.
“Why would you be in trouble? You did a very brave thing, to go voluntarily to witness that execution.” Ciarán paused a beat. “Was it as terrible as I imagine?”
Alaric could not look at Ciarán, almost stumbling as they went up the steps toward the withdrawing room.
“Far worse,” he whispered. “Whatever you can imagine, it was worse. But thank you for asking.”
He paused just outside the door, drawing a deep breath to brace himself, then rapped lightly on the door before entering. He found the king and his uncle bent over a sheaf of maps spread open on the worktable, but both of them straightened as Alaric hesitated just inside the door.
“Come in,” the king said, gesturing him closer. “Welcome back.”
Alaric automatically smoothed at his travel-stained riding leathers as he came into the room, suddenly aware that he was not yet in his livery.
“Please excuse my attire, Sire,” he murmured. “I would have changed first, but Ciarán said you wished to see me.”
“I do. Uncle, could you give us a moment?” he added, with a nod at Duke Richard. He then indicated that Alaric should take a seat with him before the fire, briefly warming his hands from its heat.
“I am very sorry that you felt obliged to go to Arx Fidei,” he said at last. “It must have been—difficult. Do you wish to talk about it?”
Alaric sat, very deliberately intertwining his fingers and resting them on his knees, fixing his gaze on the crossed thumbs. “Not particularly.” After a beat: “Have you ever seen a man burn, Sire? Or smelled it?”
He heard the king’s quick intake of breath, and sensed him shifting in his chair. “No. No, I haven’t.”
“Nor had I, before Arx Fidei. Oh, I’d smelled it, as a child. There was Hallowdale, to somewhat prepare me.” He blinked back angry tears. “On the way to recover Xenia and her baby, we bypassed that town, and again on the way back. Llion wouldn’t let us stay there or even ride through it; he’d been with me, before. Both times, it seemed to me that I could still smell the reek of burnt flesh. For me, I doubt that will ever change.” He shook his head, but did not look at the king as he continued.
“Did you know, there’s a sound, too, when a person burns—beyond the screaming you might expect, though Jorian de Courcy didn’t make a sound. You can hear the whoosh as the kindling flares up, the pop and crack of the wood igniting—and then, if you listen very closely, the sizzle . . . like meat searing on a spit. Except that it isn’t meat on a spit; it’s a human being.” He briefly closed his eyes. “At least by then, Jorian was beyond pain, but I hope never again to witness such a sight.”
“I should have been there,” Brion whispered.
“And done what?” Alaric shook his head. “There was nothing you could have done, without defying the laws of the Church and the land, just as there was nothing I could do except be his witness. One day, perhaps it will be different.” But not yet, he added to himself, though someone did something, to give that poor man release. But he could not say that to the king.
“I promise you that we shall work toward that day,” Brion said quietly. “Meanwhile, I am more grateful than you will ever know. If you had not offered to comply with the archbishop’s order, I might have—”
/> “No!” Alaric said hotly. “I would not have let you defy him! Sire,” he added, less heatedly. “Not on my account. I told you, I know very well what happened when your father and my mother tried to defy the bishops. I was brought up on the tale. At least I could prevent that, even if Jorian couldn’t be saved.”
“And I thank you for that service, believe me.” The king sighed heavily and got to his feet, resting the heels of both hands against the mantel to gaze into a fire that was far more benign than the one they had been discussing.
“I expect you’ll want some time alone, after all of this,” he said after a few seconds, not looking at Alaric. “Take as much time as you need. Take Llion and go home to Morganhall for a few weeks, if that will help. Stay until Twelfth Night, if you like.”
“I won’t run away,” Alaric said flatly. “I wouldn’t give de Nore that satisfaction.”
The king turned to gaze at him silently, then gave a nod.
“Very well. I’ll tell my uncle to expect you back to your regular duties in the morning.”
• • •
ALARIC retired to his quarters to find that Ciarán had gone ahead of him to order up a hot bath. Once the servants had finished filling the tub, he stripped off his riding leathers and immersed himself in the hot water, trying to relax, but his thoughts kept returning to the horror at Arx Fidei. Vexed with himself, he sat upright and scrubbed himself with a vengeance, trying to scour away every last vestige of what he had witnessed. Then, after drying off and readying for bed, he retrieved his St. Camber medal and ensconced himself in his familiar bed, using the medal as a focus to try to contact Sé. He slid into sleep without any awareness of whether or not he had been successful.
• • •
SO,” Llion said to him the following morning, as they broke their fast down in the great hall, “do you mean to take the king up on his offer?”
“What offer?” Alaric replied.
“To go away for a few weeks.”
Alaric snorted. “What would it solve? I’d still be Deryni, and Jorian would still be dead, and the world would still be what it is.”
“Then, you’ll be returning to your duties as royal squire,” Llion said.
“Aye.”
Llion nodded. “Probably the best decision. I’ll plan to escort Alazais back to Morganhall on my own, then. I’ll only be gone a few days. And I believe Jamyl is heading out to Tre-Arilan. There was a message waiting for him, from his wife. Apparently their young son is ill.”
“Not seriously, I hope?”
“I don’t know. In any case, the king has given both of us leave to return to our families for the nonce.” He paused a beat. “You’ll be all right on your own, will you?”
Alaric nodded. “Aye, it will be good to get back into training, though I haven’t exactly been idle while I was away.” He quirked an ironic smile. “Grown-up activities, one might say. But I suppose it might give me better credibility with the other squires.”
“Yes, I suppose it might.” Llion clapped Alaric on the shoulder. “Good luck to you, then. I’ll see you in a few days.”
• • •
LLION and Alazais duly left later that morning, as did Jamyl. Meanwhile, Alaric threw himself back into his training. His experiences of the past several months did, indeed, seem to change the way some of the other squires regarded him, though not necessarily for the better. After all, he was still Deryni, like the executed man.
He found his own attitude becoming more focused, intent, especially his martial training. If some of the youthful joy had gone out of his fighting, his more adult focus more than made up for it. Duke Richard himself sparred with him several times, and seemed pleased with his progress.
At least his domestic duties seemed little changed, as he resumed his place in the rota of squires who served the royal family at court. As before, he found himself often in attendance on the old queen—and sometimes on the new one, though Richeldis did make a point to draw him aside and warn him that her new daughter-in-law seemed very wary regarding the subject of Deryni.
“You know that that is not a problem for me,” she said, “but Jehana . . . is very wary of you. And that chaplain she brought with her, and the two sisters . . .” She shook her head. “Just be careful.”
• • •
DESPITE that warning, Alaric soon began to understand how the other squires and pages almost universally had fallen under the spell of the beautiful and accomplished Jehana, as the court now was styling her. With her youth and beauty, and her soft Bremagni accent, and her somewhat exotic Bremagni customs and attire, she had brought a breath of fresh air to the Gwynedd court. Princess Silke also seemed to have been doting on every word of the new young queen during his absence, and sparkled under her influence.
As for the king, Alaric had never seen him happier, or more content. Indeed, with a new wife to please, even the king’s dress sense had changed. Where once Brion Haldane had favored mostly utilitarian attire unless a state occasion required otherwise, his sartorial choices now were beginning to reflect the more refined tastes of his stylish and vivacious wife. He seemed almost gregarious, and increasingly was often to be seen on the dance floor with the queen, when musicians played following supper.
Which, when Alaric thought about it, was hardly surprising, since he had observed that dancing was a popular pastime in the queen’s native Bremagne. Indeed, the dancing classes hinted by Airey and Prys were a reality, he soon discovered, with even the knights being drawn into the festivities.
Before he knew it, he was attending lessons along with the others. Moreover, Duke Richard heartily approved of it, and had noted that dancing had the serendipitous side effect of improving the dexterity of a warrior’s footwork during swordplay. The court’s youngest squire proved a quick study, and enjoyed the dancing as well, which quickly put him in demand as a dancing partner.
By the time Twelfth Night approached, he had danced with most of the younger ladies of the court, some of them many times, and had become a favorite partner of Princess Silke.
The feast of Christmas came and went, along with Queen Jehana’s first appearance at the St. Stephen’s Day court, the day after. There, while the king proudly watched from one side, Jehana joined the old queen in distributing the traditional gifts of food and clothing to the city’s poor. Princess Silke happily joined them, along with Alazais, who had returned to Rhemuth with Llion at the beginning of December with their young daughter.
Afterward, while the women sought warmth in the cathedral, Brion heard petitions on the cathedral steps, as was his usual wont. Alaric, for his part, attended on the king with Llion and Jamyl and mostly observed, beginning to be regarded as much a junior advisor as a squire now, after his initiative earlier in the year.
Twelfth Night court that year would prove more festive than most that Alaric could remember. Not only was Nigel to be knighted, but for the first time King Brion would have his own queen at his side.
Jehana had spent months planning the entertainments and the menu for the feast, and overseeing the preparation of new attire for the royal party. Her over-gown of pleated crimson velvet parted in the front to show exquisite embroidery of tiny golden lions all over the cream underskirt.
Richeldis, no longer Gwynedd’s first lady, elected to adopt a more sober version of Jehana’s ensemble, but done in dove-grey rather than Haldane crimson, with the lions done in red. Silke, speaking animatedly with a bevy of new maids of honor lined up along the wall right of the thrones, had acquired a new gown of crimson and gold. For the king, there was a new, long court robe with his rampant lion device couched in gold from neck to waist on the fine crimson wool, worn under his state mantle of fur-collared crimson wool.
Nor had Jehana stopped with garments. She had also delved into the royal treasury and ferreted out several little-used items of state regalia: a necklace of cabochon rubi
es set in ruddy gold, called the Haldana jewels; a pair of ornate, gem-encrusted diadems not worn in several generations, according to Queen Richeldis; and for the knighting of Prince Nigel, a pair of golden spurs once worn by Prince Malcolm Haldane.
“They’re beautiful,” Nigel murmured, running his fingers over the chasing carved into the gold. Alaric had looped their straps over the hilt of the new sword shortly to be presented to the king’s brother. “Are you sure I should wear them? King Malcolm has awfully big boots to fill.”
“Well, these are only his spurs, not his boots,” Alaric replied with a droll grin. “But I’m sure you will rise to the challenge. God knows, I’ve fought you enough.”
Nigel only chuckled, shaking his head slightly.
The two of them were standing at the back of the hall with the rest of the party that would escort Nigel to the throne, after Brion finished receiving the new squires. The king’s younger brother looked quite solemn this morning, garbed for the ceremony in the traditional attire of all candidates for knighthood in Gwynedd: an unadorned black over-robe mostly covering a stark white under-tunic, with a scarlet mantle clasped around his shoulders.
Like many of the young men at court, he had adopted the longer hair favored at the Bremagni court, pulled back in the braided warrior’s clout favored by men of fashion there; the new queen had brought a smart escort of bodyguards with her on her marriage, who had introduced the custom. The hairstyle suited Nigel, with his glossy sable hair and grey eyes, though it was more severe than his usual look.
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