Childe Morgan cm-2

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Childe Morgan cm-2 Page 22

by Katherine Kurtz


  The weather worsened as they rode south. The first snow of the season caught them on a deserted stretch of road still several hours’ ride from Rhemuth: icy rain, at first, which quickly changed to sleet and then to slushy snow.

  They took shelter when it became clear that this was no passing shower or even a fast-moving storm, huddling under the canopy of ancient and venerable trees ranged around a roadside shrine to some obscure saint; but by then, they were soaked to the skin. Kenneth and one of the guards who had accompanied them managed to start a fire, which gave at least a little respite from the numbing cold that settled in the predawn hours; but Donal insisted on resuming their journey at first light, in what now had turned to honest snow.

  «He’ll catch his death of cold», the guard officer grumbled under his breath, as they checked girths and prepared to mount up again. «Sire, will you not at least tarry long enough to dry out?»

  «I cannot longer leave the queen alone in her grief», Donal said stubbornly, leading his mount from under the trees, irritation edging his voice. «Kenneth, tell this man that I know what I am doing».

  Forcing a wry semblance of a smile, Kenneth said, «Leonard, he does know what he’s doing. After all, he is the king».

  Chuckling despite himself, Donal accepted a leg up from Kenneth and settled in his saddle as the others mounted as well.

  «Yes, I am», he agreed. «And now the king wishes to go home, with all speed». He sighed and glanced aside at Kenneth as they prepared to move out. «But with Jathan’s laughter gone», he murmured, so that even Kenneth could barely hear, «it will never be the same».

  They rode into Rhemuth at mid-morning, shivering in the hard frost that remained in the wake of the previous night’s snow. The snow itself had mostly disappeared under the early morning sun, but that only left their footing muddy and sometimes precarious.

  They stopped at the cathedral on the way into the city, where Donal slipped in by a side door and made his way down into the crypt, Kenneth accompanying him. The noonday Mass was in progress, the sound of the sung responses drifting on the chill air along with the scent of incense and the more pungent smell of dampness as they descended the stair.

  Cap in hand, Kenneth waited in the doorway of the royal vault with his head bowed as the king entered and shuffled heavily to the yet uninscribed slab that marked Prince Jathan’s final resting place. Fragrant boughs of evergreen lay atop the slab, along with a battered toy rabbit made from rough-woven linen and stuffed with wool. The coffin that lay beneath the slab had been pitifully small, like so many other Haldane coffins interred in the cathedral crypt, for childhood illness and mishap took their toll among royal children as well as those not so nobly born. Near a dozen Haldane children of this generation lay there, not only the three now lost by Queen Richeldis but the many stillborn and short-lived infants born to Donal’s first queen, Dulchesse: pitiful evidence of her dogged but ineffectual attempts to breed a Haldane heir. Dulchesse herself also lay there, as well as the tragic Krispin MacAthan.

  Awareness of all these dead Haldanes drifted across Kenneth’s recollections as he watched the king drop heavily to both knees beside the grave of his latest Haldane bereavement and lay his splayed hands upon the blank slab, head bowed. After a moment, the king’s hand moved to clasp the stuffed rabbit toy and clutch it to his bosom, shoulders heaving with silent weeping. Having lost children of his own, Kenneth tried not to think about what Donal must be enduring as he mourned this newest loss, and tried especially not to think of the danger into which he had just allowed his own son to be placed, in service of the king kneeling before him.

  Only after several minutes did the king lift his head and cross himself, heaving himself painfully to his feet. Kenneth was there to assist him when he faltered, setting an arm under the king’s elbow to steady him as he straightened and replaced the stuffed toy amid the evergreen boughs.

  «Kenneth, I’ve lost another of my boys», the king said in a strangled little voice, shaking his head as if denying might reverse the tragedy. «I pray that God will take no more from me. Was it because of Krispin, do you think? Is He punishing me for my infidelity?»

  «Sire, I am not your confessor», Kenneth said gently.

  «Nay, nay, I know that», the king replied. He briefly bowed his head into a hand covering his eyes, taking another deep breath to steady himself.

  «Forgive me», he murmured after a moment, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders. «We must return to the castle. Brion may have returned by now». He shook his head. «He will be horrified to learn that his own pony was his brother’s death».

  «He cannot be blamed for that, Sire», Kenneth replied. «Brion will know that».

  «Aye, in his mind», Donal agreed. «But his heart will say otherwise. If I die untimely, Kenneth, you must be a true friend to my son. You must make certain that all my sacrifices have not been in vain».

  «I shall do what I can to serve him, Sire, as shall my son. You have my word on it».

  * * *

  But Brion had not returned, nor had any of the king’s outriders been able to locate him precisely.

  «We presume that he is still somewhere in Kheldour», Tiarnán MacRae told the king, reporting when Donal had summoned him to the withdrawing chamber at the head of the great hall. «He left the Duke of Claibourne a week ago. If he headed directly home, he may be in the Rhendall Mountains, caught by early storms».

  Donal, huddled before the fire with blankets around his shoulders and hot bricks under his feet, shook his head and took another gulp of mulled wine, listening despondently while Tiarnán and Jiri organized additional parties to go in search of the missing royal heir. Upon his initial return from his clandestine visit to Morganhall with Kenneth, wet and cold from a night on the road, Richeldis had tried to persuade her husband to take a hot bath and retire to his bed, but the king had stubbornly refused, only conceding to change into dry clothes.

  Prince Brion did return, the very next morning, though the king was dozing by the fire when the prince’s party rode into the castle yard in the middle of another snow shower. No one dared to tell Brion the terrible news as he and his uncle raced through the great hall and into the king’s withdrawing chamber, Kenneth and Tiarnán right behind them. Their brisk, breathless announcement concerning a skirmish in Eastmarch, delivered to a just-awakened king, caused Donal to order fresh horses saddled immediately, his harness brought, and a troop called out to accompany him.

  «Donal, it isn’t necessary», Duke Richard assured him, countering the command with a gesture. He was nearly as excited as his nephew. «Brion handled the situation like a seasoned campaigner. Granted, he had some guidance from his old uncle, but he would have done just as well if I hadn’t been there».

  «Is that true?» Donal asked his son, somewhat taken aback.

  Prince Brion grinned, eyes briefly averting in honest modesty as he cast off his damp cloak and flounced onto a stool closer to the fire. Four months in the saddle with his uncle and sampling the fare at some of the finest tables in Gwynedd had sparked an adolescent growth spurt, putting muscle and inches on the gawky fourteen-year-old who had ridden out of Rhemuth in July. The jacket of the crimson riding leathers donned new at his coming of age a month before his departure now strained across the shoulders and fell open down the front, also gone short at the wrists; the leggings he wore were obviously borrowed, for they did not match. Even his face had lost much of its boyish contour, the refinement only enhanced by the fact that he had not cut his hair during his absence, and now wore it tied back at the nape.

  «They were only some rabble, Sire: minor vassals of the Earl of Eastmarch». His voice had broken, too, and it was a young man who now spoke, no longer a boy. «But you’ll want to keep an eye on that area in the future. It appears that Rorik of Eastmarch may be getting ideas above his station».

  «Some of his men were occupying lands in the Arranal valley that rightly belong to Marley», Richard explained, also sitting. «When we
showed the royal colors, they pulled back quickly enough. After that, Brion decided that we ought to pay a quick call on Earl Rorik, so he could remind Rorik in person that aggression against his neighbors would not be tolerated. I do believe that Messire of Eastmarch got the message». He glanced sidelong at his royal nephew and smiled. «Your son and heir did well, Donal».

  Donal had begun to smile as the story unfolded, and started to give Brion a pleased dunt on the bicep. But then he remembered the more terrible news weighing on his soul, only temporarily put aside in the relief that his eldest son was safely returned; for Brion clearly did not yet know of his younger brother’s tragic death. As the king looked briefly away, grief stilling his expression, Kenneth quietly sent Tiarnán on his way and closed the door, himself remaining just inside the door and doing his best to become invisible. Brion’s face fell.

  «Sire, is it not what you would have wished?» the prince asked hesitantly.

  Stifling a sob, Donal beckoned for his heir to come and sit beside him. Richard went very still.

  «Donal, what’s wrong?» the royal duke said, for he had finally noticed that Donal, Kenneth, and all the court they had seen were in mourning.

  «There was…an accident while you were away», Donal said haltingly. «Brion, your brother Jathan…»

  «What’s happened?» Brion demanded, his face going ashen.

  «He’s dead», the king said baldly, flinching as Brion recoiled at the news. «He…»

  «What happened?» Brion repeated, steel in his voice. «Whoever did this, I’ll kill him!»

  «Then kill your accursed pony!» Donal blurted. «For the wretched beast was your brother’s death!»

  «Donal, no!» Richard breathed, horrified, as Brion simply stared at his father, aghast.

  Trembling, Donal closed his eyes, not wanting to remember but haunted by the image of the bloodied Jathan, lying motionless in his mother’s arms…and slipping away. And there had been nothing anyone could do.

  «You know how he loved that pony, how he coveted that pony», he whispered.

  «I was going to give it to him at Twelfth Night», Brion managed to choke out, voice cracking, as tears runneled down his cheeks. «And I was going to teach him how to ride it. How did he —?»

  Shaking his head, Donal reached to take his son’s hand and forced himself to recall the terrible details.

  «He went out to the stables early, before the grooms were even up», he said woodenly. «Somehow he managed to saddle the pony, but he didn’t get the girth tight enough. He led it out to the paddock and got on…and somehow he ended up with his foot caught in the off stirrup, and the saddle under the pony’s belly, and… and…» He shook his head, tears streaming down his face. «He died in your mother’s arms».

  Brion wept then, sliding to his knees at his father’s feet to lay his head in Donal’s lap and sob, no longer a confident prince flushed with the success of his first adult mission but a grieving boy who had lost a brother. Richard, too, was dashing at tears with the back of a hand, for Prince Jathan had been a beloved nephew. Kenneth, silent witness from his post against the closed door, could only pray that the three princes would soon find the strength and comfort to deal with their grief. It was several minutes before Brion regained enough composure to get shakily to his feet, sniffling and wiping at the tears on his cheeks with both hands as he drew himself erect.

  «I–I should like to see my brother», he said to his father.

  Donal shook his head numbly. «You cannot, son. We buried him six days ago».

  «You buried him?» Brion repeated, blank incomprehension in his eyes.

  Donal looked away. «I sent outriders to look for you as soon as it happened», he replied, his voice a little strangled, «but I could not ask your mother to delay overlong. As it was, we waited several days». He swallowed noisily. «He lies beside your brother Blaine».

  Brion slowly nodded. «Then I shall go to him», he said quietly. «But first, I must go to my mother. Sir Kenneth, may I ask you to accompany me?»

  Kenneth straightened from his post against the door and bent his head in agreement. «I am yours to command, my prince».

  Brion only just recalled his manners enough to give his father a perfunctory bow before fleeing through the door that Kenneth hastily opened. When they had gone, Richard poured a cup of mulled wine for himself and another for his brother, setting the warm cup in the king’s hand.

  «Should I go with them?» he asked. «After he has seen the queen, of course».

  Donal shook his head wearily. «Kenneth is good with helping men deal with their grief. And you have left me with little doubt but that Brion is a man now».

  «Still», Richard breathed, «it is hard to lose a brother».

  Donal shrugged, sipping at his wine. «No harder, surely, than to lose a son».

  «I wouldn’t know, on either count», Richard said. «I do know that I shall lose you some day — if you don’t lose me first! But as for sons…Well, let us just say that I should probably find a wife before I worry about that».

  Donal leaned back in his chair and drank again, somewhat recovering what composure he still could summon and smiling faintly. «I have given you little time to think of that, have I? I’m sorry. I truly do recommend it, Richard — and fatherhood».

  Richard also smiled, lifting his cup in salute, relieved that his brother’s melancholy seemed to be lifting, if only momentarily. «I shall take you at your word on both counts. You may certainly be proud of your son. He truly did handle the situation in Eastmarch with a wisdom far beyond his years».

  «I am very glad to hear you say that», Donal replied. «And I’m sure the men will be very glad that they don’t have to go out in this weather. I must confess that I wasn’t all that keen, though I would have done it. If we are very, very fortunate, I think we can breathe a sigh of relief now, and mostly relax until the spring, when time will have eased our grief».

  * * *

  It was a noble aspiration, but one fated not to be obtainable. After a somewhat subdued supper with his brother and his queen, and indulgence in the hot bath Richeldis had recommended earlier, the king retired with sufficient determination to tackle several pieces of important correspondence before making his way to the queen’s bed, where he managed to exercise his conjugal duties with considerable vigor. Afterward, both he and Richeldis attributed his heated state to the ardor of their coupling, meant to exorcise some of their grief of the past week.

  But it became clear, the next morning, that the heat of the night before was more than passion. He awoke feverish and achy, with a scratchy throat and the beginnings of a runny nose, all of which got worse as the day progressed, though he insisted on keeping to his usual schedule.

  «You’ve taken a chill, Sire», Kenneth said reproachfully. «You should wrap up in bed and stay warm».

  «A king has no time for that!» the king declared, though the declaration would have carried more weight, had he not been obliged to wipe at his nose and running eyes with a soggy square of linen.

  «Donal, don’t be a dolt!» Richeldis told him later that afternoon, noting his peaked appearance when they returned to the withdrawing room from hearing the younger children recite their catechism for Father Anselm. Brion and Richard were seated at the work table nearer the fire, taking turns dictating a report to a scribe concerning their actions in Eastmarch, and Kenneth was bent over several maps with Tiarnán and Jiri Redfearn.

  «Donal!» the queen repeated, tugging at his arm. «You’ve overdone, and not taken proper care of yourself, and now you’ve caught a cold. You’re going to be miserable, whatever you do».

  She slid her arms around his neck, leaning closer to whisper as she nuzzled near the Eye of Rom glittering in his right earlobe. «Darling, why don’t you come to bed with me?» she whispered. «Good gracious, you’re burning up! But no matter; we could try to sweat it out, the way we did last night, mmm?»

  He snorted, both pleased and scandalized that she would sp
eak of it, but also mindful that they were not alone.

  «Perhaps I should retire early», he said casually. «Our son seems to have handled things well enough without my presence».

  «Sire, shall I send for your physician?» Tiarnán asked.

  «No doctors», Donal said gruffly. «I’ll take supper in my lady’s chamber, and make an early night of it».

  But though the king did preside briefly at the high table in the great hall that evening — an informal meal always set out for those resident in the castle — he only picked at his food. Richeldis did her best to tempt him — with the promise of further romantic dalliance as well as delicacies sent up from the kitchen, once they retired, though both had lost their appeal as he crawled, shivering, into the queen’s bed and curled up beside her.

  His condition worsened during the night, and had become full-blown misery by morning. Delegating the day’s appointments to Prince Brion and his brother Richard, the king stayed abed and slept for most of the day, wheezing when he was asleep and wheezing, sneezing, and coughing when awake. That evening he did allow the royal physician to examine him, but Master Cillian could only recommend a light diet and plenty of fluids, and herbal remedies to hopefully lower his fever and ease his aching joints.

  All of which was of little avail, for his condition declined with each passing day, as increasing congestion impaired his breathing and fever fuddled his mind. His wife rarely left his side in the next week, and Prince Brion likewise spent hours in waiting, lest his father rally enough to summon him. Kenneth, for his part, fretted for the king’s health not only for the sake of Donal himself, and the welfare of the kingdom, but also for the impact this illness might have on Alaric, if the king should fail to recover.

  After the first few days, the priests began a campaign of prayers for the king’s recovery, while the king’s council uneasily saw to the business of running the kingdom with Duke Richard at the helm and Prince Brion at his right hand. At least in public, no one dared to speculate on how things might change under the direction of a new king only just come of age.

 

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