“Of course.”
As Mátyás withdrew to speak briefly to one of the Moors waiting in the background, Rasoul followed where Rory was already leading, up the shallow stairs to the level of the hall. As the two disappeared inside, Morgan following with Mátyás, the Moors began to form up in a guard of honor, two of them unlashing a bulky bundle from behind one of the saddles.
The great hall was flooded with golden light from the range of long windows along the western side, beyond which lay the castle’s formal gardens. On the dais far at the end of the hall, before an attentive assemblage of perhaps threescore men and women, Kelson sat at ease in the midst of a handful of his great lords of state, a jewelled circlet on his raven head and a naked sword across the knees of red riding leathers, listening as a herald read from an unfurled document. Duncan and Dhugal flanked him, the former clad in the purple of his episcopal rank, the latter tartan-clad and ducally crowned.
At the foot of the dais steps knelt the dark-haired figure of Jatham Kilshane, wearing a heraldic surcoat of scarlet, ermine, and gold. As Morgan glanced aside at Mátyás, he wondered what impression the Torenthi lord was taking from his first glimpse of the court of Gwynedd’s sovereign.
The herald lowered his scroll, and Kelson swept a hand toward Jatham as he glanced at Dhugal, who moved briskly down a step to take the new baron’s oath, his red hair and coronet sparkling in a beam of sunlight that fell upon the pair of them as Jatham offered his joined hands. Beyond the sweep of green, black, and white tartan brooched to Dhugal’s right shoulder, two squires laden with regalia stood waiting in a glare of sunlight—Payne and Liam, looking remarkably alike in their crimson Haldane livery, Payne’s clubbed hair glinting blue-black, Liam’s lit with tawny highlights in the harsh sunlight. Behind them, Nigel leaned on the staff of a furled banner, with Janniver and Meraude watching from the slight recess of a long window behind him.
“There’s your nephew, holding the cushion with the coronets,” Morgan murmured to Count Mátyás. “From this far back, it’s sometimes difficult to distinguish, when they’re in livery. The other squire is Payne Haldane.”
“Ah. And the young man in tartan?”
“Dhugal Duke of Cassan, the new baron’s feudal superior,” Morgan replied. “He is also the king’s foster brother.”
“I see.”
“. . . do become your vassal of life and limb, and enter your fealty, and do homage for the Barony of Kilshane and all its lands and folk . . .” Jatham was saying, his hands now set between Dhugal’s.
As the oath continued, Mátyás turned in response to some whispered comment from Rasoul, making comment of his own. Morgan did not attempt to listen, satisfied to let his attention range restlessly across the hall, marking Kelson’s immediate focus as Rory slipped to his side to whisper in his ear—and a subtly heightened vigilance on the part of Duncan, standing at the king’s other side, as his blue eyes flicked out across the assemblage.
“. . . pledge unto you and all your people the protection of Cassan and of our lord King Kelson of Gwynedd, of whom I hold,” Dhugal was saying, “to defend you from every creature with all my power, giving loyalty for loyalty and justice for honor . . .”
Himself sweeping the assemblage, Morgan at once found the reason for Duncan’s vigilance—a tall, black-robed figure melting back from the throng to glide purposefully toward the rear doors: the hieromonk Irenaeus, sent the previous winter to instruct Liam in Torenthi protocol and the specifics of ceremonial he would need for his enthronement. Arilan, in particular, had been none too happy about his arrival, for the hieromonk’s secondary brief had been to examine Liam’s orthodoxy—certainly diluted and possibly tainted by four years of exposure to Western religious observance; and the ongoing presence at court of a Deryni of Irenaeus’s probable ability was always a danger.
Fortunately, Father Irenaeus had proven affable, intelligent, and not overly dogmatic, and appeared unalarmed by any deficiencies in his hostage king’s spiritual state. Nor—so far as anyone could tell—had he ever crossed beyond the bounds appropriate to his calling; Father Nivard, who had spent much time with him, had declared him a very spiritual man.
The hieromonk nodded to Morgan as he approached—a dark-eyed, somewhat florid individual with grey speckling his long black hair and beard, the black veil of his flat-topped headdress billowing behind him. When he had quietly greeted Rasoul and Mátyás, the latter bending to kiss his hand in respect for his office, the three of them slipped back outside, presumably to organize the Torenthi presentation. Morgan gazed after them for a moment, then sent Brendan as well, ostensibly to offer any required assistance but also to observe.
Meanwhile, the ceremony of investiture was winding to a close, the new baron being dubbed by the king and invested with the symbols of his estate. As soon as Jatham and his new baroness had retired to the side of the dais, accompanied by the good-natured murmurs of the court’s approval, Morgan strode boldly forward.
Kelson had noted his arrival well before Rory came to notify him, and gazed down the hall expectantly as Morgan approached, an aisle parting before him and a hush radiating outward from his path, for most of those present were aware of his recent mission. With a dip of his head for the sake of convention, Morgan continued up the dais steps in a few easy bounds, there dropping to a crouch at Kelson’s right hand. Duncan and Dhugal had moved to the king’s left, the latter now holding Kelson’s sword, and both eased closer at Morgan’s summoning glance.
“The man with Rasoul is Count Mátyás Furstán-Komnénë, a brother of Mahael,” Morgan murmured, in response to Kelson’s unasked question. He is also, he added silently, the half-brother of Lionel, whom you killed with Wencit andBrendan’s father. In fairness, he seems to bear you no ill will—though he made a point of letting me know that he knew. “They’ve asked for no great formality,” he went on verbally. “It might be politic to have young Liam receive them.”
Inclining his head in immediate understanding, and hoping Mátyás would not become a problem, Kelson glanced beyond Morgan to where Liam waited beside Nigel, crooking a finger for the boy to join them. Liam came at once, dropping to one knee close beside Morgan, his back to the great-hall doors.
“Sire?”
Kelson smiled faintly as he leaned closer. “Liam-Lajos, King of Torenth, is it your pleasure to receive emissaries from your kingdom?”
The tone of the question had been deliberately casual, and audible only to those immediately around them, but Liam stiffened slightly, restraining an impulse to look back over his shoulder.
“Sire, must I?” he murmured. “I am still your squire for a few more days.”
“And you are also their king,” Kelson said quietly. “Do you not wish to accord them the courtesy of your recognition? They have come a very great distance to escort you home.”
“Who are they?” Liam asked.
Kelson glanced at Morgan, who inclined his head to Liam.
“Your old friend Rasoul—alas, without his cheetah—and a Count Mátyás.”
“Uncle Mátyás is here?” Liam breathed, his eyes widening.
“Aye. He seems pleasant enough,” Morgan replied. “Is there something we should know about him?”
“No, sir, it’s just that—Sire, this is most unexpected,” he blurted, his gaze darting back to Kelson. “Here, before your court—I had not thought—”
“If you prefer me to receive them, I will do it,” Kelson said. “We all know there will be a period of adjustment. But this might be an easy beginning.”
Liam looked less than comfortable with the prospect, but he nodded dutifully as he swallowed and lifted his chin.
“I will be pleased to receive my envoys,” he said formally. “Father Irenaeus has instructed me in the proper protocols.”
“I doubt you’ll need to worry about protocol,” Kelson replied, smiling. “Apparently they wish no great formality. Now, stand here at my right hand.”
Liam visibly braced himself, drawing
a deep breath, but he managed to cover most of his nervousness as he obeyed. Morgan also rose, both of them turning to face down the great hall.
“Admit the emissaries from Torenth,” Kelson said to the herald, rising to take the sheathed Haldane sword from Dhugal and cradling it in the crook of his left arm.
The order was passed. Almost immediately, the double doors at the end of the great hall swung back and white-robed Moors began filing in, two by two; but there were only five pairs of them, and with no accompanying flourish of kettledrums or trumpets or any of the other embellishments of Oriental pageantry that sometimes had accompanied Torenthi embassies in years gone by.
Behind the white robes, and sweeping between them as the two files parted, came al-Rasoul ibn Tariq, his desert silks of amber and gold by now well familiar at court, followed closely by Father Irenaeus and a bearded, younger man who could only be Count Mátyás. The latter bore draped across one arm a gold-glittering swath of rich purple damask, and favored Kelson with a formal inclination of his head as Father Irenaeus bowed over folded hands and Rasoul made a more flamboyant salute, sweeping a graceful brown hand to breast, lips, and forehead.
“May Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful, grant peace and health to all within this house,” Rasoul said. “As ever, I bring greeting unto Kelson of Gwynedd from the regents of Torenth—the Lady Morag Furstána and my lord Mahael Furstán d’Arjenol. In addition, I bring especial greeting unto my sovereign liege lord and padishah, Liam-Lajos, whom I congratulate upon the attaining of his majority, and whose return is eagerly awaited by his loyal subjects.” He bowed again to Liam.
“By my lord Kelson’s gracious leave, I would also present the compliments of Count Mátyás Furstán-Komnénë, brother to my lord Mahael, who comes bearing gifts for their royal nephew.”
Kelson nodded as Mátyás also bowed again, more deeply than before.
“We thank you, Lord Rasoul. As always, you are welcome at our court. Count Mátyás, as well: My compliments to your House. Liam-Lajos, you have our leave to receive your uncle’s presentation.”
Liam drew a deep breath and stepped forward, inclining his head as Rasoul, Mátyás, and Irenaeus all bowed deeply from the waist.
“My lord Rasoul, it is always good to see you,” the boy said a little stiffly. “And Uncle Mátyás: I have not seen you in a very long time.”
“The want has not been of my choosing,” Mátyás replied, smiling faintly. “We have both of us been otherwise occupied, these past four years. But I begged Mahael to let me come to bring you home. I have missed you, Laje.”
The boy’s eyes had lost a little of their slightly haunted look as Mátyás spoke, and he even managed a weak smile at the old pet name.
“Thank you, Mátyás,” he murmured.
“You would thank me more, I think, if I could spare you all the pomp and ceremonial that lies ahead. But Father Irenaeus tells us that you are well prepared. To that end, your lady mother sends this robe of state, that you may be fitly attired to enter your kingdom.”
He shook out the folds of purple damask and fanned the garment on the steps before him—a long coat cut very like the one he wore, though edged with miniver and lavished with even more gold bouillon and jeweled buttons than his own.
“I did point out that such a garment would hardly be appropriate with squire’s livery, or suitable for a sea voyage,” Mátyás said, with an arch shrug at Liam’s look of dismay. “But she did insist.” He passed the collar of the coat to Rasoul, who gathered it back across an arm. “Meanwhile, this second token sent by your uncles Mahael and Teymuraz will perhaps prove more to your liking, and suitable for a wider variety of attire. They bade me help them select it from the treasury at Beldour.”
From where it had been hidden, looped over the arm that had borne the robe, Mátyás produced a handsome circlet of beaten gold, nearly the width of a man’s three fingers, set round with smoky balas rubies, baroque pearls, and chunky, rough-polished emeralds the size of a man’s thumbnail.
“It is not the crown of Furstán—yet,” Mátyás said, extending it in both hands, “but perhaps it will serve until you are girded at Holy Iób.”
He had set one foot on the bottom step of the dais as he spoke, perhaps intending to come closer; but before he could ascend or Liam could come down to take it, Morgan briskly intervened, taking the jewelled circlet from Mátyás’s hands and testing with his powers in the few seconds it took to pass the object up to Kelson.
It’s clean, came Morgan’s assessment, but the giving of it is meant to be symbolic. Only you should convey any coronet to Liam, as your vassal.
But Kelson had marked the symbolic intent even before Morgan pointed it out, and could hardly fault Mátyás for attempting to assert the independence of his prince, regardless of any resentment he might or might not harbor toward Kelson himself. He smiled faintly as his own quick probe confirmed nothing more sinister than a Christian blessing. Nor had he expected that there would be, for even Mahael would not be so bold as to attempt an attack on Liam or himself in full view of the court of Gwynedd, risking open and immediate war.
The count looked almost amused as Kelson passed the circlet on to Liam, perhaps having expected that his gesture would be thwarted. The boy smiled bleakly as he took the diadem with a whispered thanks, giving it a perfunctory glance, but he did not put it on.
“I thank you, Uncle. I shall wear this at a more appropriate time. I am—still in service as a squire today.”
“Surely, your service has now ended, my prince,” Rasoul said reasonably. “You are about to return to your own people.”
Liam dropped his gaze, looking decidedly uncomfortable, and Kelson suddenly wondered whether the boy’s reaction came of simple nervousness or something more.
“Perhaps we should continue this discussion in private,” he said quietly, gently setting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Clearly, this is a time of great change for Liam-Lajos. Gentlemen, perhaps you would be so good as to join us in the withdrawing room.”
CHAPTER FIVE
That they may set him with princes, even with the princes of his people.
Psalm 113:8
Kelson kept his manner casual and easy as he ushered Liam toward the side door, gathering Nigel and Dhugal with a glance as Payne scurried ahead to draw back the heavy drape curtaining the arched doorway. He hoped he was being overprotective, but he dared not assume that Liam’s uneasiness was born of mere nerves. At least to Kelson, Count Mátyás was very much an unknown quantity—and he was Mahael’s brother.
Glancing behind them, to a rising murmur of speculation as they left the dais, he saw Rasoul tossing the damask coat to Father Irenaeus, exchanging a glance with Mátyás as both of them followed; but since Irenaeus was not being included, Kelson signed for Duncan to remain as well, though Morgan was already bringing up the rear. He could feel Liam’s growing tension under his hand as they came before the panelled room behind the dais, where he often held impromptu council meetings.
“Gentlemen, we’ll join you in a moment,” he said to Rasoul and Mátyás, handing his sword and coronet to Dhugal and gesturing for the pair to enter. “Alaric, perhaps you and Dhugal would be so good as to acquaint our guests with the proposed plans for this evening. Uncle Nigel, please attend us. . . .”
Rasoul and Mátyás had little choice but to comply, though they looked less than happy as Morgan ushered them into the room and Dhugal followed. As soon as the door began to close, Kelson drew Nigel and Liam into an alcove near the stair, standing shoulder to shoulder with his uncle to shield Liam from curious eyes, for there were servants and guards passing occasionally.
“Now would you like to tell me about Mátyás?” Kelson said, though he kept his voice very low. “Or is it something about the gifts? What is it, Liam? I have to know, or I can’t protect you.”
Liam ducked his head, nervously fingering the jewelled circlet still in his hands. The muscles worked in his throat, but no words came out.
“It isn’t Uncle Mátyás, Sire,” he finally managed to whisper, shaking his head. “He was my first tutor in the ars magica. I know he would never do me harm. And it isn’t the gifts he brought; it’s—what they mean, I suppose.”
“Ah, that you must be a king now,” Kelson guessed. “I hoped it was only that. But you are well prepared—or as prepared as we can make you. You’ve certainly had more preparation than I did.”
“I know that.”
As Liam briefly glanced up, sudden tears sparkled in his dark eyes—much to his mortification—and he angrily dashed at them with the back of a hand, looking away again. Smiling faintly, Nigel produced a square of fine linen and handed it to him, ever the attentive squire-master and surrogate father.
“Liam, you’ve been here four years,” he said quietly, as the boy dabbed fiercely at the tears. “You’ve formed attachments. That’s only natural—and proper. But you know it was never intended that you should remain here indefinitely. Your fosterage was meant to keep you safe while you grew into manhood and learned the skills needed by a king. You’ve now done both—at least as much as one can, at fourteen.”
“And under the laws of your land and mine, that makes me a man!” Liam muttered, a mutinous tone to his voice, though he kept it low. “That means I can now make my own decisions about my future. It means that if I choose, I don’t have to go back!”
“That’s true, you don’t,” Kelson replied, with a glance warning the alarmed Nigel not to interfere. “Under law, you have reached your majority—which means that you could, indeed, refuse to go back; and under law, we’d be powerless to make you go.
“But also under law, if you weren’t to go back, your uncle Mahael could and probably would declare the throne vacant, and install Ronal in your place. Your brother is only ten years old, Liam; hardly older than you were when Alroy died—and Mahael is next in line. With you out of the way, how long do you think he would let this brother live? And then, he’d be king.”