Gwydion unslung his lute and began tuning it, gazing out the window dreamily as he spoke.
"I was out in the city this morning, my lord," he said, strumming his instrument and toying with the pegs. "I've been collecting songs that I thought might please Your Grace's ears. I fear, now that I've found them, though, that they won't please you at all. Would you like to hear one?"
He turned and looked Morgan full in the eyes, his own gaze glittering with anticipation, and Morgan nodded slowly.
"Very well. This song is one I thought you'd be especially interested in, my lord, since it's about Deryni. I can't vouch for the tune or the lyrics, since they're not my arrangement, but the thought is there."
He strummed a few introductory bars, then launched into a spirited and lively melody reminiscent of a child's play tune.
"Hey, hey, riddle me, do: Why are Deryni becoming so few? Hey, hey, riddle me right: Why should the gryphon be wary tonight? Deryni are fewer since many are dead, So, gryphon, beware, or you'll lose yer green head1. Hey, hey, ye've riddled me well. Riddle again and see what I'll tell."
As Gwydion finished the verse, Morgan sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers, his eyes hooded, dark. He sat quietly for a moment, his grey eyes studying the singer, then spoke in a low tone.
"Is there more of this?"
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The troubadour shiugged. "There are other verses, Lord, other versions. But the poetry is inferior, and I fear they all display more or less the same vitriolic humor. Perhaps you would be interested in 'The Bal-kd of Duke Cirala.' "
"Duke Cirala?"
"Yes, m'lord. Apparently he's a villain in every sense of the word—evil, blasphemous, heretical, a liar who deludes his subjects. Fortunately, the song does offer some hope for the poor oppressed people. I might also mention that the name Cirala is quite familiar if one only spells it backward: C—I—R—A—L—A—A—L— A—R—I—C. At any rate, the poetry is a little better than the other one."
Again he strummed an introductory chord, this time setting the mood for a slow, sedate, almost hymnlike piece.
"Ofenses hath Cirala -made before the Lord Most High. The servants of the Lord must smite his gryphon from the
sb>-
Facades of gold and radiance deceive the eyes of men, But Du^e Cirala's heresies are J^noum by Lord Warin.
O men of Corwyn, lend your aid to mend Cirala's ways. Cirala's heresy must stop, or all of Corwyn pays. If naive men, in innocence, condone the Devil's deeds. They still are doomed. Tis on false faith that evil often feeds.
And so the day of judgement comes. Cirala's time is near. The servants of the Lord must rise, and put aside their fear. God's Chosen is the noble Warin, powerful and urise. Rise, men beneath the gryphon's claws, and still CiraJa's lies!"
"Humph!" Morgan snorted when the troubadour had finished. "Where the Devil did you ever dredge that one up, Gwydion?"
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77
"In a tavern, Lord," the troubadour replied with a dour grin. "And the first was taught me by a ragged street singer near Saint Matthew's Gate. Is my lord pleased with what I have brought him?"
"Not pleased with the content, but I am pleased that you told me. How much of this is about, do you think?"
Gwydion gently placed his lute on the cushioned seat beside him and leaned back against the side of the window, hands clasped behind his head. "It is difficult to say, Lord. I was out for only a few hours, but there are several versions of both songs, and probably others totally different that I did not hear. If my lord will heed some advice from a spinner of tales, you should combat this with other songs. Shall I attempt to compose something worthy?"
"I'm not certain that would be wise just now," Morgan said. "What do you—"
There was a discreet knock at the door, and Morgan looked up in annoyance. "Come."
Robert opened the door and stepped through, disapproval written all across his face. "Lord Rather de Corbie is here to see you, Your Grace."
"Ah, send him in."
Robert stepped aside, and a contingent of men in the sea green livery of the Hort of Orsal marched in in a double row. Behind them walked the redoubtable Rather de Corbie, Ambassador Extraordinaire of the Hort of Orsal. Morgan stood at his place and smiled as the double file split and lined up in front of him and Rather stopped and bowed.
"Duke Alaric," the man boomed, in a voice that simply did not match his five-foot stature. "I bring felicitations and greetings from His Hortic Majesty. He trusts you are well."
"Indeed, I am, Rather," Morgan said, shaking the man's hand enthusiastically. "And how is the old sea lion?"
78 Deryni Checkmate
Rather rumbled in laughter. "The Orsal's family has just been blessed with yet another heir, and the Orsal himself hopes that you will soon be able to come to see him." He glanced at Gwydion and Robert and then continued. "There are certain matters of navigation rights and defense he wishes to discuss, and he hopes that you will bring your military advisors with you. Spring is upon us, you know."
Morgan nodded knowingly. Between the two, of them, he and the Hort of Orsal controlled water passage from the Twin Rivers to the sea, a route of extreme tactical advantage should Wencit of Torenth decide to invade along the coast. And since Morgan would be away with the army in a few weeks, arrangements must be made with the Orsal to protect Corwyn's sea approaches in his absence.
"When does he want me to come, Rather?" Morgan asked, knowing that the Orsal's request was fairly urgent, yet aware that he could not go until tomorrow at the earliest because of the impending contact with Derry tonight.
"Today, with me?" Rather asked cagily, watching Morgan for reaction.
Morgan shook his head. "How about in the morning?" he asked. He motioned Robert and Gwydion to leave them. "Rhafallia is in port. I can sail with the tide and be there by Terce. That would give us the rest of the morning and all afternoon until I have to return. What do you say?"
Rather shrugged. "It's fine with me, Alaric. You know that. I only carry messages back and forth. Whether the Orsal will agree or not is something only the Orsal knows."
"Good, then," Morgan said, slapping Rather on the shoulder in a comradely gesture. "How about something to eat before you and your men leave? My cousin Duncan is visiting, and I'd like you to meet him."
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Rather made a short bow. "I accept with pleasure. And you must promise to tell me what news you hear from the young king. The Orsal is still chagrined that he had to miss Kelson's coronation duel, you know."
Later that afternoon when amenities with Rather de Corbie had been concluded and the feisty old warrior was on his way home, Morgan found himself once again the reluctant captive of Lord Robert. Robert had decreed that today must see the completion of Bronwyn's dowry arrangements, and so he and Morgan had cloistered themselves in the solarium with the documents in question. Duncan had wandered out to the armorer's pavilion an hour earlier to inquire about the progress of a new sword he was having made, and Gwydion was out combing the city for more songs of unrest.
As Robert's voice droned on and on, Morgan tried to force himself to pay attention. He reminded himself for at least the fifteenth time this week that this was a necessary if tedious part of governing; and the realization did about as much good as the previous fourteen reminders had. He would rather have been doing just about anything at the moment.
" 'Rendering of the account of Corwode manor,'" Robert read. " "They say that Corwode was wont to be in the hands of the king. And the Lord King Brion, father of the king who now is, gave the aforesaid manor to Lord Kenneth Morgan and his heirs. And it is held of the king by service of three men at arms in time of war.'"
Just as Robert drew breath to begin the next paragraph, the solarium door opened and Duncan padded in breathing heavily. Bare-legged and clad only in a damp linen exercise tunic and soft boots, the priest had evidently been trying the balance of hi
s new blade with the armorer. He flung a rough grey towel around his shoulders and wiped his face with a corner
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Deiyni Checkmate
of it as he strode across the room, his left hand clutching a folded and sealed piece of parchment.
"This just came in by courier," he said, grinning and tossing the parchment to the table. "I think it's from Bronwyn."
He perched on the table edge and nodded greeting to Robert, but the chancellor laid his pen aside with a sigh and sat back with a very vexed expression. Morgan chose to ignore the reaction, and broke the seal in a shower of red wax shards. His eyes lit with pleasure as he scanned the first few lines, and he leaned back in his chair and smiled.
"Your illustrious brother definitely has a way with women, Duncan," the duke said. "Listen to this. It's so typical of Bronwyn."
" 'My dearest brother Alaric, I scarce can believe it is happening at last, but in just a few short days I shall be the Lady Bronwyn McLain, Countess of Kierney, future Duchess of Cassan, and most important of all, wife to my beloved Kevin. It hardly seems possible, but the Jove we have always shared seems now to grow even stronger with each passing hour.' "
He looked up at Duncan and raised an indulgent eyebrow, and Duncan shook his head and grinned.
" 'This will probably be the last letter before I see you in Cu/di, but Dufce /ared is urging me to be brief. He and Lady Margaret have been showering us with gifts, and he says that today's is especially impressive. Kevin sends his Jove and wonders whether you were able to arrange for the troubadour Gwydion to perform at our wedding feast. Kevin was so impressed when he heard him sing at Valoret last winter, and I too am very eager to hear him.
" 'Give my Jove to Duncan and Deny and Lord Robert, and tell them that / look forward to seeing them at the wedding. And hurry to share the happiest day of your loving sister, Bronwyn.' "
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81
Duncan wiped his sweating face again and smiled, then took the letter and scanned it again.
"You know, I never really believed I'd see Kevin so domesticated. At thirty-three and still unmarried, I was beginning to think he should have been the priest instead of me."
"Well, it certainly wasn't Bronwyn's fault," Morgan laughed. "I think she decided when she was about ten that Kevin was to be the only man in her life. Only a provision of our mother's will has kept them apart this long. The McLains may be hard-headed, but they can't compare to the stubbornness of a half Deryni wench who's determined to get what she wants."
Duncan snorted and headed for the door. "I think 1*11 go and badger the armorer some more. Anything is easier than trying to argue with a man who thinks, his sister is perfect!"
With a chuckle, Morgan leaned back in his chair and put his booted feet up on the leather stool, his spirits restored.
"Robert," he said, smiling out the window at nothing in particular, "remind me to tell Gwydion he's leaving for Culdi in the morning, will you?"
"Yes, m'lord."
"And let's get back to those accounts, shall we? Really, Robert, you're getting insufferably lax these days."
"I, Your Grace?" Robert murmured, looking up from the note he had made.
"Yes, yes, let's get on with it. If we work hard, I think we can finish these blasted things by nightfall and I can ship them out with Gwydion in the mom-ing. I can't remember when I've been more bored."
Lady Bronwyn de Morgan, however, was far from bored. At that moment, she and her future mother-in-law, the Duchess Margaret, were selecting the gowns that Bronwyn would take to Culdi in the morning for
82 Deryni Checkmate
the wedding festivities. The ornate dress that she would wear for the ceremony itself was carefully laid out on the bed ready to be packed, its flowing skirt and sleeves aglisten with tiny silver paillettes and rose-flashing balasses.
Several other bright garments were also laid out neatly on the bed. And on the floor were two leather-bound trunks, one of which was nearly packed and ready to be closed. Two serving maids were busy adding the last touches to that chest before starting on the second, but Bronwyn kept finding last minute items to add that forced the maids to redo half the packing.
It was an unusually sunny day for March. Though it had rained hard during the night, the morning had dawned in a burst of lemon-streaked glory. Now, at mid-afternoon, the ground was almost dry. Pale sunlight streamed into the chamber through open balcony doors. And near those doors, three ladies-in-waiting stitched industriously on Bronwyn's trousseau, their nimble fingers moving quickly over the fine linens and silks. Two of them worked on the fine gauze veil their mistress would wear for her marriage, applying delicate lace to the edges with steady hands. The third embroidered Bronwyn's new McLain crest in gold on a pair of supple leather gloves.
Behind the ladies, next to the fire, two young girls curled up on velvet cushions, the older of the two strumming and playing a crewth. As she caressed the strings and hummed an accompaniment; her younger companion kept time with a timbrel and sang the lower, contrapuntal portion of the song. A fat orange cat dozed peacefully at their feet, only a slightly twitching tail betraying the fact that he was alive.
Now, brides are traditionally beautiful, especially daughters of nobility. And Bronwyn de Morgan was certainly no exception. But of all the ladies in the room that afternoon, even the bride to be, it would
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Kave been difficult to find a lady of gentler breeding or character than Lady Margaret McLain.
Lady Margaret was Duke Jared's third duchess-lady of that twice-bereft lord who had thought that he could never love again after the death of his second wife Vera, the mother of Duncan. He had hardly known his first bride; the Duchess Elaine had lived but a day after the birth of Jared's first son, Kevin. But his marriage to the Lady Vera three years later had been a long and happy one—twenty-six years of joy in an age when marriages of state were rarely more than affectionate matches of convenience, and almost never touched by romantic love.
The marriage had brought more children: first Duncan, then a daughter who had died in infancy, and then young Alaric and Bronwyn Morgan, when their wardship descended to Jared on the death of his cousin Kenneth, the children's father.
Then, four years ago, all that had ended. Lady Vera had contracted a strange wasting disease which drained her of vitality and left her helpless. Not even her Deryni powers (for she was full Deryni, the sister of Morgan's mother, though no one knew) could keep life from gradually ebbing away.
And then there was the Lady Margaret—a woman of no great physical beauty, a childless widow of forty who would never bear Jared another heir, but a quiet lady of gentle soul who could offer the one thing Jared sought above all else—Lady Margaret McLain, who had taught Jared how to love again.
So now that same lady fussed over Bronwyn's wedding arrangements as though Bronwyn were her own daughter, watching over the serving maids and supervising activities with a mother's sharp eye. Since Duncan had chosen not to wed, only Kevin and his wife would carry on the McLain line now. There would be no more McLain daughters born or married into the family until Bronwyn bore heirs. So the pre-
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parations for this marriage would have to last a long
time.
Margaret glanced aside at Bronwyn and smiled, then slipped over to a carved wooden cabinet and unlocked it with a key from the jeweled chatelaine at her waist. As she began searching its shelves, Bronwyn took up a jeweled kirtle of rose watered-silk and held it in front of herself, walking thoughtfully to a large mirror standing in the comer of the room.
Bronwyn de Morgan was a beautiful woman. Tall and slim, with rich golden hair flowing sleekly down her back, she was the embodiment of all the best qualities of her Deryni mother, the Lady Alyce. The wide eyes in the oval face were a pale blue, bordering on grey when her moods changed. The rose gown she held in front of her accentuated the pale, flawless complexion, the bloom of ros
es in cheek and lip.
She studied her reflection carefully for a moment, weighing the effect the garment could be expected to produce, then nodded approvingly and laid it on the bed beside her wedding gown.
"I like this one for the ball the night we arrive in Culdi, don't you, Lady Margaret?" she asked, smoothing the folds of the dress and looking across to see what Margaret was doing. "Kevin has seen it before, but that doesn't matter."
Margaret took a gold velvet-covered box from a shelf in the cabinet and brought it over to Bronwyn. It was about ten inches square and a hand-width deep, and she handed it to Bronwyn with a gentle smile.
"Here is something else Kevin has seen before, my dear/' she said gently, watching for Bronwyn's reaction as the girl began to open it. "It's been in the McLain family for many years. I like to think it brings luck to the women who wear it."
Bronwyn lifted the lid and gasped in wonder. A high tiara heavy with diamonds glittered brilliantly
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against a bed of black velvet, throwing a shower of flashing fire on Bronwyn's simple blue gown.
"It's magnificent!" Bronwyn breathed, carefully setting the box on the bed and lifting out the tiara. "This is the McLain nuptial crown, isn't it?"
Margaret nodded. "Why don't you try it on? I want to see how it will look with your veil. Martha, bring the veil, will you, please?"
As Lady Martha and her companion brought the veil, Bronwyn moved to the mirror again and stared at the reflection of the tiara in her hands. Margaret and Martha draped the unfinished veil over Bronwyn's golden hair and fussed with it until it hung to suit them, and then Margaret took the tiara and placed it gently atop the veil.
Lady Martha handed her a smaller mirror so she could see the back, and as Bronwyn turned to look she was startled to see two men standing in the doorway of the room. One was her future father-in-law, Duke Jared. The other was only vaguely familiar.
"You look absolutely enchanting, my dear," Jared said, crossing toward her with a smile. "If I were Kevin, I'd have carried you off years ago, and damn your mother's will."
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