“Kenneth, I am not ill!” Alyce protested. “I am simply pregnant.”
“Yes, and you are carrying a precious burden: our daughter,” Kenneth replied coolly, though he smiled as he said it, a hand lightly skimming her abdomen. “Trevor, you have your orders.”
“Aye, m’lord,” Trevor said with a grin.
Alyce made a moue at her husband, but then she twined her arms around his neck and drew him down for a kiss before heading off to begin packing for the journey.
THE distaff-halves of the two families were resettled at Morganhall by the middle of October, much to the delight of Kenneth’s two sisters—and with the approval of Alaric, Duncan, and Kevin as well, for there were other children to play with, and more hounds to induct Alaric’s new puppy into the canine mysteries. Claara, the younger of the sisters, had been widowed young, and had a daughter and granddaughter staying with her until the spring. Little Clarice was nearly four, slightly younger than Alaric, and as full of mischief as any child Alyce had ever seen.
By contrast, Kenneth’s other sister, Delphine, the elder of the pair, had never married, but she adored her nieces and nephews, and was delighted to have the extra company through the end of the year, especially with the promise of additional provisions to feed them all. It was Delphine who ran the Morganhall estate on her brother’s behalf—and usually turned a profit.
She was also, it soon emerged, an accomplished poet, and soon had enlisted Alyce’s services in copying out a small collection of her poems as a Christmas gift for her brother. The familiar work set Alyce to remembering the days she and Zoë had spent together in the scriptorium at Arc-en-Ciel, and the illuminated book the two of them later had crafted for the king for another Christmas, now several years past.
She wrote to Zoë shortly after her arrival at Morganhall, informing her of the move down from Culdi and her scrivening project, and inquiring after Zoë’s new pregnancy, for her heart-sister was due to deliver early in the new year.
“I wish Zoë could be with us,” she said wistfully to Vera, as the two of them sat in a sheltered patch of sunshine in a corner of the stable yard and watched their sons romping with the new puppy. Farther off, Llion groomed Cockleburr and prepared for a ride. “Perhaps next summer I shall take Alaric to Cynfyn for a few months; you could join us, if Jared agreed. Little Kailan will be walking by then. And maybe he’ll have a baby brother.”
Vera smiled and nodded, basking in the sunshine and inhaling deeply of the musky stable-scent and the tang of autumn leaves burning in the nearby garden.
“It might be possible,” she replied. “It would certainly be pleasant. Maybe I will…”
In that moment, as the two sisters sat in the autumn sun and dreamed of the future, all things seemed possible.
Chapter 19
“Whom, being his firstborn, he nourisheth with discipline,
and giving him the light of his love doth not forsake him.”
—ECCLESIASTICUS 17:18
THE work on Delphine Morgan’s manuscript occupied much of Alyce’s time in the weeks that followed, as her pregnancy advanced and sitting became preferable to more strenuous exertion. She was obliged to hastily put the manuscript aside, however, when her husband paid her a surprise visit late in October.
“I think our daughter may arrive early,” she told him, later that night, as she lay contentedly in the curve of his arm after a day spent watching him interact with their son. “She is certainly very active. Here, feel.” She took his hand and placed it on her abdomen so he could feel the baby moving.
“Maybe you miscalculated,” Kenneth said, though a delighted grin creased his face at this tangible evidence of the new life his wife was carrying.
“It’s possible. I had thought she might be born around Christmas, but now…”
“So long as she and you are healthy,” Kenneth said happily. “And I will try to be here for the birth. Incidentally, I had a letter from Jovett last week, tucked in with more official correspondence from Cynfyn. He tells me that both Kailan and Zoë are getting bigger by the day, and she says she thinks the new baby is determined to kick out her ribs. They both seem certain that it will be another boy. Could they really know that?”
Alyce shrugged, smiling. “I knew; but Zoë isn’t Deryni. Heaven knows whether Jovett has the skill. Men usually don’t, since they don’t bear. Now, if Sé were to put his mind to it…”
“Is that an Anviller talent? Determining the sex of babies?” Kenneth asked, grinning.
“I doubt it,” Alyce replied, “though they are very talented. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from him?”
Kenneth shook his head. “I had thought he might make an appearance in June, for Prince Brion’s coming of age. It’s the sort of thing that his order tends to keep track of. But I suppose he was otherwise occupied.”
“And Brion—is he still on his progress?” she asked.
“Aye, but they should be heading south any time now. The weather will turn very soon. The last I heard, they were up in Claibourne.”
“Duke Ewan probably has him out hunting,” she replied, snuggling closer to his side. “He’ll probably catch his death of cold. The queen told me once that Haldane males are about the most stubborn men in all of creation, and she long ago despaired of making them dress sensibly or come indoors when the weather is foul!”
“They do love their hunting,” Kenneth agreed. “In Brion’s case, though, I can hardly blame him. Duke Richard’s last letter said that the new mare is absolutely sensational in the hunting field. Brion couldn’t be more pleased. It seems that Oisín Adair’s reputation is well deserved.”
“So it seems,” Alyce agreed, shifting to ease her back. “In the spring, after I’m more of a size to consider getting on a horse again, perhaps you might have him look for a nice Llanner mare for me. And it won’t be long before Alaric will need a proper pony: something gentle and reliable. There’s only so much he can do with Cockleburr, though Llion swears that horse treats the boy like he was made of glass.”
“I’ll mention your concerns to Master Oisín the next time I see him,” Kenneth agreed. “And I think I’ll see about getting Llion a better mount as well. I should’ve done it months ago. Cockleburr really is about ready for honorable retirement.”
“So long as you keep him around for Alaric’s sake,” Alyce replied. “He’s still worth his keep—a fine old beast for a beginning rider.”
“I promise you he shall have a place with us for the rest of his life,” Kenneth agreed sleepily.
KENNETH stayed only two days before returning to the capital, for he had no leave to remain longer. A letter from Zoë arrived two days after his departure, though it mostly confirmed news that Kenneth had already shared with Alyce. It did, however, include a quick sketch of an emaciated lion chewing on the tail of a very fat squirrel, alluding to the teasing artistic assessments the two of them had made regarding one another’s work during the many hours they had shared in the scriptorium at Arc-en-Ciel.
Alyce wrote back that very day, reporting her progress on Delphine Morgan’s scrivening project—nearly complete—and adding her own, less competent drawing of a very fat lion with several squirrels’ tails in its teeth.
I wish you were here, she added in a postscript. We could compare fat bellies, and our babies could have kicking contests to see which one bruises its mother’s innards the most! Your A.
The weather turned the next day, but Alyce sent the letter off by courier nonetheless. With luck, Zoë would have it by mid-November. Another day saw Delphine’s project completed.
“And in good time,” she told her husband’s sister by the fire that night, as she watched Delphine turn the pages and admire the fine calligraphy and embellished capitals. “I shan’t be comfortable bent over a writing desk again until after this baby is born!”
“This is beautiful, Alyce,” Delphine murmured. “Thank you so much. I know Kenneth will be pleased.”
It was early in November, o
nly a few days later, when late-night visitors clattered into the yard at Morganhall, unannounced and unexpected. The night was brittle with cold, and Alyce had been reading by the fire in her bed-chamber, drowsing over a difficult passage in the writings of Pharaïlde ní Padramos—a gift from her husband on his last visit. She looked up at an urgent knock on her door, somewhat startled when Sir Llion then slipped inside without waiting for permission.
“Llion?” she said somewhat reproachfully, drawing a fur-lined robe more closely around her shoulders, for she was in her night shift.
“Riders in the yard, my lady,” he murmured breathlessly, his eyes wide and awed. “It’s Lord Kenneth, with three others. I—I think one of them may be the king!”
At once Alyce put aside her manuscript and rose, one hand drawing the outer robe more protectively over her pregnant belly as she slid her feet into fleece-lined slippers. Her hair was braided for the night, its heavy plait spilling over one shoulder.
“Something has happened,” she murmured, half to herself. “Go attend them. I’ll be down directly.”
The young knight dipped his chin in agreement and withdrew, but before Alyce could do more than slip her arms into the sleeve-slits of the outer robe, her mind racing over conjectures about the reason for another royal visit, the door opened again.
She turned to see Kenneth framed in the oak-limned doorway, still cloaked and booted and spurred, a fur-lined cap in his gloved hands. His handsome face was taut, devoid of expression.
“The king is here,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I’ve left him in my writing room. He’s…not well, Alyce. There’s been a tragic accident at Rhemuth. Prince Jathan is dead.”
“Jathan?” She sank back onto her chair. “Dear God, he can’t be. What happened?”
Shaking his head, looking near to collapse himself, Kenneth braced one arm along the mantel, fingering the cap in his other hand.
“He had begged for a pony for his birthday, but Donal said he was too young.” He sighed heavily, closing his eyes, not wanting to remember.
“But Jathan was headstrong, as you know. A week ago, he went into the stables before dawn. He saddled the pony that used to be Brion’s—God knows how!—and took him out into one of the paddocks alone.”
“But that pony was steady,” Alyce murmured, stunned, “and Jathan is—was—a good rider…”
“Aye, he was—for a four-year-old,” Kenneth agreed. “But horses are horses, and odd things can spook them at odd times and for odd causes. No one saw it happen.” He drew himself up and made himself continue.
“A little later, when the grooms began their morning duties, one of them noticed the stall door open, and no pony. More annoyed than worried, he went looking for it.” He shook his head wearily.
“He soon spotted it grazing on the far side of the paddock, but something looked…wrong. When he went to investigate, he found the saddle slipped under the pony’s belly and—and Jathan…with his foot caught in the off stirrup.”
A sob caught in Alyce’s throat as she closed her eyes, shaking her head. “Dear God,” she whispered.
“He…must have been dragged for some distance,” Kenneth went on reluctantly. “And kicked…several times. He was still alive when they found him, but he—died in the queen’s arms a short time later. The entire court is stunned.” He shook his head again.
“They buried Jathan two days ago, beside Prince Blaine. Brion is still on progress in the north, and has not yet been located. Donal is distraught. I think his heart is broken. But he insisted on coming here tonight. I believe he means to finish what he started at Culdi.”
“Dear, merciful Lady, I cannot imagine what he is suffering,” Alyce murmured through her tears. “To lose a second child so quickly—it is hardly three years since Blaine…And Jathan was so young, nearly the same age as Alaric.”
Kenneth gave a stiff nod, acutely aware of the precariousness of life.
“It’s Alaric he’s come to see,” he said quietly. “But he’s asked to see you first. I told him I’d send you.”
“Will you not come with me?”
Kenneth’s footsteps were as gentle as his voice and his touch as he came and took her hands in his, kissed the palms tenderly. “Not this time, my dear. Go to him. I’ll wait by Alaric’s door.”
Wordlessly she nodded and squeezed his hand, letting him help her drape an additional shawl over her fur-lined over-robe but keeping her face averted so he would not see her tears. But by the time she had descended the tower stair and crossed the rush-strewn great hall, her eyes were dry and she had composed herself to meet the man who waited.
She rapped lightly on the door to the writing room and entered without waiting for a response, securing the latch before she turned to look for him. She could see an unfamiliar hat hooked over one of the finials of Kenneth’s favorite chair, which was angled to face the blazing fireplace. She stifled a quick gasp of shock as he stood and turned to face her, leaning heavily on a walking staff.
Even prepared to see him grief-stricken and distraught, she had not expected this. The puissant king who had come to them only weeks before, still powerful and strong, had been replaced by a haggard shadow of that man. His black riding leathers hung loosely on his stooped frame, a heavy dagger on his belt pulling almost painfully at his shrunken waist. His hair and beard had gone nearly all to grey, as had his complexion, and his face was lined by creases and wrinkles that had been mere hints of laughter before.
His eyes had changed the least: still grey and clear, but more world-weary now, with a starker shadow of grief in their depths. His hands were white-knuckled on the carved staff he had used to get to his feet, but he managed a reassuring smile as he extended one hand for hers and merely clasped it tightly.
“So, we are quite the pair,” the king said softly. “I, pining for yet another lost son, and you, blossoming with the promise of new life yet to be born.”
She attempted a brief, wan smile, but could not gainsay his observation.
“Sire, I am so sorry to hear of your loss,” she murmured.
“Aye. Three sons have I lost now.” He released her hand and sank back into his chair, looking, if possible, even more ashen. “This string of sorrows underlines my mortality, and makes it all the more urgent that you and I complete our final work. Where is the boy?”
“He is sleeping just now,” she replied, a little stunned at his urgency. “Kenneth and I will bring him in a few minutes. I—Sire, you do not look well. Forgive me for saying so, but you make me fear that your need for him might come sooner than either of us had hoped. Is there something I should know?”
He looked away, not answering, then leaned his staff in the crook of his arm and beckoned her closer, again taking one of her hands as she knelt beside the chair. His eyes sought hers urgently as he searched for his next words.
“Alyce, can you forgive me for what I’ve done to you and Kenneth and the boy? God help me, if I could have seen some other way, I would have taken it—I tried to—but even I have not been wholly free of choice. I suppose it comes with the crown. Perhaps our children will be more fortunate.”
She glanced at their clasped hands, sharing his sorrow.
“I did not think the King of Gwynedd subject to any other’s choices.”
“He is,” Donal whispered, his eyes closing briefly, as if in pain. “God help him, he is.”
“And what of Prince Brion,” she said softly, unsettled a little by his distress. “Is he ready for what is to come? Will he be able to stand in your place when—when you are gone?”
“As well as any king of tender years, and better than most. But that is why I have come to you tonight, Alyce: to make provisions against that day.”
“God grant that it may be long in coming, then,” she murmured. “Alaric is so young. Surely there were others of Deryni blood who could have served you just as well, who have the years already to work the Haldane magic for your heir.”
“There was another
, as you know,” Donal said softly, barely breathing the words. “By now, he would have been very nearly old enough—but he died.”
“I do know, Sire,” she whispered, declining to mention the murdered Krispin’s name. “But…could you not enlist the services of some other Deryni?” she ventured, after a beat. “Sir Morian, perhaps. He is said to have served you well in Meara—or so I had heard. Kenneth has told me of his usefulness.”
“Not for this,” the king murmured.
Trembling, he pulled her hand closer to clasp it between both of his and press it to his heart, gazing beyond her into a realm where reality was different and children were not called to do an adult’s work. Rarely had she felt so at peace and so protected, though reason told her that the feeling was illusory.
They remained that way for several seconds before he eased his caress of her hand to stare down at her again. His eyes held her immobile as she gazed up at him, her heart pounding as though it might burst from her breast, and she could not seem to move, knew herself to be completely at his will.
But then he blinked and shook his head ever so slightly, leaned down instead to kiss her hand. She felt a constriction rising in her throat as he released her and turned his face away, but she forced herself to push it down as she also pushed herself ponderously to her feet. When he did not speak for several seconds, she cleared her throat expectantly.
“Shall I bring him now, Sire?” she asked softly.
“Please do.”
She heard him settling back into the chair as she fled the room.
KENNETH was waiting for her at the top of the landing as he had promised, compassion in the sea-grey eyes as he slipped an arm around her thickened waist and accompanied her into their son’s room, where she summoned handfire to light their way. Alaric stirred in his sleep as they approached his cot, smiling a little as he dreamed. His fine golden hair was tousled and a little damp where it curled against his neck, his face angelic in slumber. Alyce bent and kissed his cheek tenderly, then took a candlestick from beside his bed and passed a hand over the wick, flaring it to life even as she quenched her handfire.