«Kenneth, get him down from there», he murmured. «Gently. Dear God, that man deserved a better end than this!»
The king lingered in Ratharkin for another week, for a new royal governor must be designated, at least for the interim, and a sharp lesson must be delivered to the Mearans, even though Ratharkin, in the end, had remained mostly loyal to their king. Calling a council of the great lords who had accompanied him on the Mearan campaign, Donal heard their recommendations and assessments of the situation, told them what he would have liked to do to the Mearans, then allowed his righteous anger to be tempered by the practicalities of those who would have to keep the peace once he departed.
«Very sadly, I am now short one royal governor, gentlemen», he told them. «At least for the interim, it will have to be one of you. Do I hear any volunteers?»
The men around him exchanged glances. Such an appointment was an honor and an opportunity for advancement, a chance to prove one's worth to the Crown, but it was also a virtual exile; and all were well aware of the fate of the last royal governor of Meara, lying in his coffin in the nearby chapel.
«I know what I'm asking», Donal said, when no one spoke up. «And I don't expect the post to be permanent. We all know that a Mearan is best suited for the position. But I don't know that I have any Mearans I can trust right now. And none of us can go back to Rhemuth until I have someone in place here».
Ursic Duke of Claibourne glanced around the table, then cleared his throat. «If I might make a recommendation, Sire», he said tentatively.
All eyes turned in his direction, for the advice of a duke always carried heavy weight. Donal merely smiled and gave a wave of his hand.
«All right, out with it, Ursic. Who's to be the lucky man?»
«Well, he is, perhaps, a bit young for such responsibility», Ursic allowed, «but he has been well tutored at his fathers knee. And that father would not be far away, if he needed assistance from time to time. Until a permanent royal governor can be appointed, of course».
By now, all eyes had turned toward the man obviously fitting Ursic's description: Duke Andrew's son, Jared Earl of Kierney. Though but five-and-twenty, Jared McLain was also a battle-seasoned soldier and a man exceedingly well schooled in the duties he would eventually take on when he succeeded his father as Duke of Cassan — which lands did, indeed, border on rebellious Meara. Said Duke of Cassan had raised one eyebrow at this nomination of his son for such an important appointment, nodding faintly. The prospective appointee looked thunderstruck.
«Well, what do you say, Sir Jared?» the king asked. «Are you willing to take it on?»
Jared's astonishment shifted from shock through consternation into pleased satisfaction. «I am, Sire — if you're sure I'm ready for it. I know that I am young».
Donal snorted and gave the younger man a grim smile. «Old enough to be husband, father, and widower as well as warrior. It occurred to me that you might value some worthwhile work to take your mind from your loss».
Jared glanced at his folded hands on the table before him.
«So long as it does not leave my young son fatherless as well as motherless, Sire».
«Well, we shall certainly endeavor to make certain that does not happen», the king said. «And when I have relieved you of this burden by appointment of a permanent governor, we must see about finding you a new bride. Meanwhile, I trust that you will not be aggrieved to be parted awhile from your infant son?»
Jared fought back an impulse for a grin, and Andrew covered a smile with his hand.
«Sire, I have considered taking a new bride», Jared allowed. «But even were I to remarry tomorrow, I would be hard-pressed to quickly reclaim my son from my mother and his doting aunties».
«'Tis true», his father agreed. «My wife and my sisters would be inconsolable, were young Kevin to leave my household just yet. And indeed, since he is my only grandson at present, I confess that I should be less than happy myself».
Sir Kenneth Morgan had snickered at the mention of doting aunties, and shrugged as the king looked at him in question, still smiling.
«'Tis all true, Sire», he said. «One of those doting aunties is my dear mother. At least if the worst were to befall, young Kevin McLain would never lack for kinfolk».
«Then it appears that a tour of service from Jared in Meara would not place undue stress on your domestic arrangements», Donal said to the McLains, father and son.
«Aye, Sire. So long as he fares better than Meara's last royal governor», Andrew replied gravely. «He is my only son, and I shall not get another».
«With one like Jared, you shall not need another», the king replied. «And accordingly, I shall be pleased to make him my governor in Meara, at least until next spring».
In one thing only would the king not be moved — and that was the manner in which he chose to pay tribute to his late former governor. Taking counsel of his lords who knew Meara better than he, he agreed to exact no retribution against the citizens of Ratharkin for the killing of Iolo Melandry, knowing that to be the crime of Judhael and his rebels. But on the day appointed for installing Jared Earl of Kierney as Ratharkin s new interim governor, the king summoned all those holding Mearan offices of any description to attend him in the great hall of the citadel and there renew their oaths of loyalty upon Iolo's body, laid upon a bier in the center of the hall and draped to the waist with the king's own Haldane standard.
Only then, after each man had bowed to the body and kissed its slippered toe in homage, were they allowed to approach the new governor and press their foreheads to his hand, in token of their obedience to him and the crown he would henceforth represent. Morian being still in the field, as was Duke Richard, Ahern Earl of Lendour was requested to stand with the king at the side of the hall and gauge whether his subjects were earnest in their acknowledgement of Meara's new governor — for while Ahern was still new in the more subtle applications of his powers, such as Morian regularly employed, he could certainly Truth-Read.
But neither Ahern nor the king could detect any duplicity among the men who came forward to swear; and no one refused to comply. Still, it was with a heavy heart that the king prepared to return to Rhemuth, the immediate crisis having been resolved.
* * *
Meanwhile, they must wait for Richard and Morian, for the resolution of that part of the tale had yet to be learned. It was late in May, on the afternoon before they were to depart, that both Richard and Morian returned. The king had been walking on the ramparts of the inner citadel with Duke Ursic, Ahern, and Sir Kenneth Morgan, having spent the morning going over administrative matters with Jared and the local sheriff, one Wilce Melandry, nephew of the slain Iolo.
It was Ahern who first spotted the banners at the head of the column clattering into the yard below, and touched the king's arm to direct his attention there. Foremost among the banners was that of the king's brother, with his three golden demi-lions replacing the Haldane lion on the scarlet field, though there could be no doubt that Richard Duke of Carthmoor was entirely a Haldane.
«Ah, here's Richard», Donal murmured, and immediately headed down to the yard.
But Richard's news was mixed, and he had brought back none of the important Mearan prisoners for which Donal had hoped.
«We never even got a glimpse of Judhael», Richard muttered, as he and Morian walked with the king into the day-room Donal had appropriated during his stay in Ratharkin. «Morian caught up with Francis Delaney and a few of the others, who'd been escorting Judhael’s daughters, but they were odd men out in what turned out to be a suicide stand, so that the women could get away. The only good news on that front — and it sounds calloused, saying this — is that Onora apparently went into labor along the way, and died giving birth, or soon after».
«What of the child?» Donal demanded, waving both of them to chairs.
«Probably dead», Morian replied. «It was a girl, but my informant didn't think it would survive».
«Well, there's a blessing
, at least», the king muttered. «One less Mearan 'princess' I'll have to contend with. I don't suppose you saw any bodies».
«Not of any Mearan princesses», Morian replied. «I was riding separate from Duke Richard, as you know, and we were the ones to catch up with the rear guard they left behind to create a diversion. We killed most of them outright, gave the coup to the wounded, and questioned the rest before executing them. There were two of note: the Earl of Somerdale's brother and a Sir Robard Kincaid — kin, I believe, to your late aunt's husband. At the time, we thought we might catch up with the others, so we didn't try to bring along any prisoners. They were small fish, in any case».
«No, you did as I would have done», Donal murmured. «I take it that Somerdale had been with them?»
«Aye, and Michael MacDonald, the Princess Onora's husband. They took her body with them, and Princess Caitrin had the babe».
Donal sighed and shook his head, genuinely distressed. «It's bad business, Morian — not that there was any help for it. And no sign of any of the others?» he asked, returning his attention to Richard.
«None. They might have evaporated into thin air, for all we saw of them, once we'd left the area around Ratharkin. Those mountains to the south are among the most rugged in this part of the country, as you know. And Judhael knows them; we don't».
«No, I'm not faulting you», Donal said. He sat back with a sigh and ran his hands through his hair. «God, I'm getting too old for this — and killing women and children has always been bad business».
«It was their own folly that killed them, Donal — you know that», Richard said.
«I know; they chose to rebel. At least Onora did. But not the babe».
«The sad fortunes of war», Richard said.
«Aye, the fortunes of war», Donal agreed. «And they stink!»
* * *
Given the new news Richard and Morian had brought, the king determined to remain in Ratharkin somewhat longer than he had first intended — though, as spring gave way to summer of 1089, Donal of Gwynedd had good reason to be hopeful about the future. While his Mearan campaign had fallen short of the complete success he had sought, several of the principal trouble-makers being still at large, he had dealt expeditiously with the most immediately troublesome of the Mearan dissidents and left a promising lieutenant to take on the duties of interim royal governor, with at least the short-term prospect of enforcing a lasting peace on that rebellious land.
It was well into June by the time the king at last judged it safe to depart for Rhemuth, with the levies of Andrew of Cassan and Ursic of Claibourne ordered to linger in the Ratharkin area before withdrawing for the winter. The king and his party departed at a leisurely pace, for the weather was fine, and more tangible evidence of the royal presence could do no harm in the wake of the Mearan troubles.
But three days out of the Mearan capital, the morning after what everyone had judged quite a respectable meal at a manor near Old Cùilteine, Ahern of Lendour took ill.
At first he tried to dismiss the dull discomfort in his belly as mere reaction to something in the previous night's fare that had not agreed with him, gamely mounting up with the others and falling in beside Sir Kenneth Morgan as they pressed on toward Rhemuth. But within a few hours, the cramping had worsened, obliging him to rein to the side of the road and slide from the saddle for a bout of vomiting.
He had hoped that would ease him, but it did not. Someone muttered about the possibility of poisoning, but the battle-surgeon who probed at his belly shook his head, grim-visaged as he gauged the patient's rapid pulse rate and felt for fever in the stricken man's armpits.
«What is it?» Donal asked quietly, when the battle-surgeon had completed his examination, leaving Sir Kenneth and Jovett Chandos to contend with another bout of Ahern's gasping dry-heaves.
«Not good, Sire», the man admitted, glancing also at Duke Richard, who was listening anxiously. «He should not travel. Is there a house of religion nearby, where the brothers or sisters might tend him?»
«There's an abbey a few miles hence», Richard replied.
«Then I suggest that someone be sent to fetch a wagon. I fear that he could not bear the pain, to ride the distance ahorse».
«Is the danger mortal?» the king asked.
«I fear that it may be, Sire», came the reluctant reply. «We must make him as comfortable as may be, and pray mat God may spare his life».
«But — can nothing be done?»
Richard laid his hand on his brother's sleeve, shaking his head. «Only to entreat heaven for a miracle», he said. «Having kept his leg on this same road, however, I fear he may not merit a second miracle, in this life. I have seen these signs before».
They sent a rider ahead to the abbey at once, Richard taking the returning army on to make the next night's camp in the abbey's vicinity. Donal and Sir Kenneth Morgan stayed at the stricken man's side, along with the battle-surgeon, Sir Jovett, and a dozen of Ahern's Lendouri cavalry for protection. The wagon arrived at midafternoon, with two gray-clad sisters riding amid a pile of featherbeds, ready to receive their patient.
Ahern's condition, meanwhile, had continued to deteriorate, his fever now accompanied by chills. The sister who examined him before they loaded him into the wagon looked no more hopeful than the battle-surgeon had been, and tsked to her companion as the stricken man was lifted up and settled, groaning.
«Such a handsome young man», she murmured regretfully, shaking her head.
«Is there no hope?» the king asked her, suddenly convinced of the seriousness of the situation.
«There is always hope, Sire», the sister replied. «But you must prepare yourself, as must he…»
* * *
They reached the Abbey of Saint Bridget's just at dusk, where the sisters ensconced Ahern in their infirmary and did what they could to ease his pain. When the king and his officers had taken a hasty supper for which few had appetite, they conferred outside the stricken man's door.
«I regret to inform you, Sire, that he is not likely to survive», the battle-surgeon told them, after conferring with the abbey's sister-chirurgeon. «He has a sister, I believe? She should be told».
«And brought here to be with him», Sir Kenneth blurted, greatly disturbed. «They are Deryni; she may be able to do something».
«And your daughter had hopes of a future with him as well, did she not?» Donal said quietly, for the word had gotten out, in the course of the campaign, that Ahern was much taken with Sir Kenneth Morgan's daughter and, on the night after their victory at Ratharkin, had asked him for her hand — and been granted it.
For answer, Kenneth only closed his eyes, jaw clenching as he gave a jerky nod.
Go, Kenneth», Donal whispered, clasping the other man's shoulder. «Bring back both of them».
Chapter 23
«And he died, and was buried in one of the sepulchres of his fathers».[24]
Two days later, on a sunny morning late in June, Sir Kenneth Morgan urged his lathered steed up the final approach to Rhemuth Castle's gatehouse and clattered into the yard. Summoned by a page, the castellan left in charge in the king's absence came out to meet him as he trudged wearily up the great hall steps.
«Is it ill news from Meara?» the man demanded. «Shall I summon the council?»
«Nay, there's naught amiss with Meara», Sir Kenneth assured him. «The king is on his way back, unharmed, and Jared of Kierney acts as governor in Ratharkin. Where shall I find my daughter, and Lady Alyce de Corwyn?»
On learning that the latter was likely to be in the castle gardens with some of the children, he headed there first, following the page who scampered on ahead of him. Unshaven and stinking from two days in the saddle, he slicked at his hair and tried to make himself more presentable as they passed through a side door of the hall and along a cloistered walkway toward the wider spaces of the parkland beyond. In truth, however, with the news he brought, Kenneth guessed that the finely bred Alyce de Corwyn would take little notice of t
he bearer of that news.
Indeed, she did not notice him at all at first, lounging in the shade of a fruited pear tree and deeply absorbed in a book, the Princess Xenia and a large black-and-white cat sprawled with abandon amid Alyce's skirts — a splash of vibrant lavender against the green of the lawn.
Farther beyond, at the edge of the duck pond, a squawking of waterfowl marked the location of two more maids of honor crouched down beside young Prince Nigel, turned two the previous February, pointing out the line of newly hatched cygnets strung behind a pair of swans gliding toward them on the water. Behind the three, various ducks, several aggressive geese, and a pair of peafowl were squabbling for scraps of bread that the boy had cast along the water's edge.
Kenneth's precipitous approach sent alarm among the assorted poultry flocked around Prince Nigel. As the peacock suddenly fanned its tail feathers and emitted a raucous screech that sounded like a child crying for help, young Nigel burst into tears and both Alyce and Xenia looked up — and saw Sir Kenneth Morgan approaching fast, a red-faced page running to keep up. Sir Kenneth looked positively grim, dust-streaked and still lightly armed for travel, and Alyce scrambled to her feet at once, dislodging princess and cat and sending the latter scurrying for safety into the sheltering branches of the pear tree.
«Sir Kenneth, what is it?» she cried. «Is it Ahern?»
«Alyce, I am so sorry», he said, reeling as she flung herself into his arms, searching his eyes for some sign of hope. «He was uninjured in the campaign, but he's taken ill. «The king bids me bring you to his side. He lies at an abbey near Cùilteine. He bade me bring Zoë as well. Ahern had asked for her hand when the campaign was finished, and I — had given it», he finished, faltering at his own last words.
«He isn't going to die, is he?» Alyce demanded, desperate for details, but not daring to probe for them — not Sir Kenneth, who was the father of her dearest friend.
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