“Then, why?”
“Come and sit down with me, and I’ll try to tell you,” he said, starting to draw her toward the benches facing one another in the window embrasure. “Or would you and our son be more comfortable in bed?”
“Our son is perfectly content where he is,” Richenda replied, pulling back when he would have changed direction to draw her toward their sleeping chamber, though she did manage a sheepish smile. “And his mother knows better than to get into bed with his father when she hopes to learn anything of serious import.”
Morgan smiled halfheartedly. “Now, would I try to seduce a woman who’s eight months gone with child?”
“I’m sure we could find some mutally satisfying dalliance,” she replied coyly, now drawing him into the window embrasure. “However, I suspect that such diversion, pleasant though it undoubtedly would be, might also divert a certain gentleman from revealing what he has promised.”
“I didn’t precisely promise,” Morgan said, as she settled on one of the benches and braced a pillow against the small of her back.
“You said you would tell me why you haven’t let me be your regent,” Richenda said. “As far as I’m concerned, that’s a promise.”
“Very well.”
Morgan sighed and sat opposite her, twisting at his gryphon signet as he rested his forearms on his knees.
“You said earlier that you aren’t even mistress of this house,” he said after a few seconds’ pause. “In a sense, that’s true, though the problem lies in a totally different quadrant from what you might think.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it didn’t take long for the servants to accept you, when I brought you home as my wife. They’re paid to do their jobs, and—no slight intended toward you, but—I suspect they would have accepted almost anyone that their bachelor duke brought home to be his duchess.”
Richenda nodded carefully. “It took a while, even so, but we were hardly here that first year or so, what with one thing and another.”
“True. The problem isn’t with my officers, either. Hillary adores you, and I think Hamilton looks upon you almost as the daughter he never had. Nor need I justify Master Randolph or Father Tagas, I think.”
“But there are those who are opposed to me,” Richenda guessed. “Alaric, what in the world for? I’ve never done anything to any of your people. I’ve never been anything but loyal to you and your interests.”
“Ah, there’s a key word—loyalty,” Morgan said. “And it’s apparently a subject of concern among the junior officers and the men.”
“My loyalty?” Richenda asked, astonished.
Morgan turned his face toward the window, wishing the sun warming his face could warm his soul, for he did not want to tell Richenda this.
“Your loyalty,” he repeated. “Because of Bran.”
He watched her in his peripheral vision. At first he thought she would not catch what he was driving at—and he did not want to say it. But though she went white, one hand clenching into a fist down in the folds of her skirt, where she thought he could not see it, she only closed her eyes briefly and then herself turned her face toward the sun streaming in through the window.
“Because my first husband was a traitor, they fear that I will be, too,” she said after a moment.
“In a word, yes.”
She swallowed audibly, but she did not break her numb staring into the sunlight.
“I won’t speak against him, Alaric,” she said softly. “I know he died in dishonor, at Kelson’s hand—and Kelson had not only the right but the duty to do what he did. It was a mercy, in the long reckoning. But Bran Coris was my husband and the father of my first-born, and he loved me in his way. Nor do I think he chose a traitor’s part willingly. I shall believe until the day I die that Wencit of Torenth seduced him into treason.”
“Seduced or not, that does not absolve him of the responsibility for his actions.”
“Of course it doesn’t. Bran had a taste for power that was not being satisfied as a fairly minor earl of King Brion’s court. I knew that and accepted it, for the sake of peace between us and the hope of raising Brendan to a better life one day.
“But to suggest that I would follow Bran in treason—that’s preposterous! Why, even if they suspected me of the most base and mercenary motives imaginable, what more could I possibly hope to gain than what I already have? I am wife to the most powerful man in all the Eleven Kingdoms, after the king himself—unless, of course, they fear I will seek the crown.” She laid a hand on his arm in horror. “Alaric, they don’t think that, do they?”
Morgan chuckled mirthlessly. “Oddly enough, it doesn’t seem to be your loyalty to Kelson that’s in question—except indirectly, perhaps.”
“But loyalty is the issue?”
“Yes.”
“But, if not to Kelson, then, to whom?”
“To me.”
“To you?”
Morgan turned to look at her as he nodded.
“To me.”
“But—why? Have I ever given you any cause to doubt me?”
“Of course not. Now perhaps you understand why I’ve been so reluctant to tell you about this.”
“But, what possible reason could they have to think me disloyal?”
“As near as I can determine, the main reason is called Brendan,” Morgan said.
“Brendan?”
“Darling, I never pretended you were going to like what I had to say. I’d hoped I’d never have to tell you, it’s all so insane.”
“But he’s only a little boy—”
“He’s your son by another marriage,” Morgan said bluntly, cutting her off. “When our first child was a girl, they feared you might eventually try to push her aside and give Brendan the precedence in Corwyn that should be reserved for our son. I’m hoping that once Kelric is born, and it’s known that I have no intention of allowing the two boys’ inheritances to mingle, or to cut either one out of what is rightfully his, the objections will finally die down. They’ll both be your sons, after all—each with a sizable fortune to inherit in his own right.”
“And your people actually believe this?” she asked, still unable to believe it herself.
“Not necessarily the people, but the men,” Morgan replied. “Or so I’m told. And certainly not all of them, though apparently there are enough that Hillary has been fearful of precipitating a general mutiny, if you were put in charge and anything were to happen in my absence—whether or not it was your fault. My men are rather fiercely loyal, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“And they expect that your wife is not, simply because her first husband betrayed his overlord? Alaric, that isn’t fair.”
“I didn’t say it was fair; I’m simply reporting what I’ve been told. And with everything else I’ve had on my mind, there simply hasn’t been time to track down the truth of the matter.”
“Well, you could have told me before this,” she pouted. “I wonder if you have any idea the kinds of things I was imagining for why you wouldn’t give me my wife’s due. I—”
A knock at the outer door cut her off in mid-statement, and Morgan gave her an apologetic shrug as he rose and stepped into the opening of the window embrasure, where he could be seen from the doorway.
“Come.”
An entire contingent was waiting to enter: Lord Rathold, his chamberlain and master of wardrobe, carrying a state coronet he had brought up from the ducal treasury; Lord Hamilton and the chancellor, Lord Robert of Tendall, the latter robed to assist at the coming assizes court; and bringing up the rear, Sean Lord Derry, Morgan’s former military aide and now his lieutenant for Corwyn, escorting a messenger wearing the deep green cloak and cassock of the monastic chapter at Rhemuth. But before Derry could edge the messenger past the others, Lord Robert let out a gasp as he saw the tally sticks and counters scattered over the carpet before the counting table.
“Your Grace, what has happened?” Robert asked. “The tallies—”
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“I have the necessary figures in my head, Robert,” Morgan said, coming down out of the embrasure. “Don’t worry yourself about it. One of the jewels on this damned sleeve caught in the cloth and pulled everything off before I realized what was happening. Rathold, you’d better check the settings after court. In the meantime, please have someone clean up the mess. There’s ink spilled, too.”
As he took his coronet from a dismayed Rathold and set it on his head, the old man was shaking his head.
“I don’t see how that could have happened, Your Grace. I always check so carefully—”
“Yes, well—I probably snagged it on something else first. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. Just see to the mess,” Morgan said, easing past him toward the messenger waiting with Derry. “Brother, you have something for me?”
The monk bowed respectfully, handing over a pair of sealed missives from his scrip.
“Correspondence from Bishop McLain and the Prince Regent, Your Grace.”
“Thank you.”
The monk’s use of Duncan’s proper title assured him that the news was not of Duncan’s deposition or other ill fate at the hands of the synod meeting in Valoret—at least not yet, or so far as the monk knew—and the physical contact as the missives changed hands conveyed no other apprehension about Duncan, so Morgan opened Nigel’s letter first, turning slightly and lifting his arms to read it so that Rathold could buckle on his sword belt and make last-minute adjustments to his attire. Nor was Duncan’s status the subject of Nigel’s missive, though what Morgan read instead made him go a little cold, all the same. He had only met Tiercel de Claron twice, but the death of any member of the Camberian Council could not but affect him and those close to him.
“Bad news, m’lord?” Derry asked.
“A death,” Morgan murmured, scanning the rest of Nigel’s letter but learning little beyond a superficial report of Duncan’s finding of the body. “More an acquaintance than an actual friend, but he wielded a great deal of influence in some circles.”
Derry nodded. “Anyone I might know?”
“No,” Morgan said quietly, “I don’t think so.” He looked up at the others waiting on him and decided that Duncan’s letter was best read in private. “Please go ahead to the great hall, gentlemen. I’ll join you directly, when I’ve read the other letter. And see that this good brother is given a hot meal and a decent bed, would you, Derry?”
“Right away, sir. This way, if you please, brother.”
As they were filing out, Morgan turned back into the room, easing loose the outer seal on Duncan’s letter. He had thought it might contain a hidden message, discernible only to Deryni senses, but it did not—though the one at the bottom of the page, next to Duncan’s signature, did. Richenda had come to the opening of the window embrasure at his words about a death and she came down the rest of the way when she saw Morgan scanning the written part of the message.
“Who died?” she asked.
Morgan did not look up as he continued reading Duncan’s letter, but he held out Nigel’s, which she took.
“Tiercel de Claron. Apparently he fell down a flight of stairs and broke his neck—though what he was doing in that secret passage that leads out of Kelson’s old rooms, I have no idea. Duncan pretty much reiterates what Nigel’s said—at least there’s no bad news about the bishops. But there’s an extra message in his seal.”
He touched his fingertips to the seal and closed his eyes for several seconds, taking a deep breath to trigger the light trance state necessary to read the message beyond the words penned on the single sheet of vellum. Duncan’s synopsis was short and concise, telling of the finding and initial examination of the body, bringing Nigel back to look at it as well, the grueling ride to Valoret to inform Arilan, Arilan’s reaction, and of Arilan’s bringing both of them back to Rhemuth through a Portal in the sacristy at the Cathedral of All Saints, to which Duncan now had access. Tiercel’s body had been taken to the Camberian Council, but Duncan, to his immense relief, had not been obliged to go and testify before them in person concerning his finding of the body, though he had allowed Arilan a deep reading of his memories surrounding the event. No action was required on Morgan’s part, for all the evidence pointed to accidental death, but Duncan had felt he should know.
Morgan let out a weary sigh as he came out of trance, allowing Richenda to read what he had learned from the seal as he handed her Duncan’s letter and let her retain his hand a moment longer. Tiercel’s death brought the number of councillors down to six—an event that could not but send them into an even greater state of disfocus than was their usual wont, so far as Morgan’s experience could tell. But perhaps this would shift their attention away from Kelson, Duncan, and himself for a while. He had no idea whether they, through Arilan, had been trying to influence the proceedings in Valoret—he knew Arilan was very unhappy about Duncan confirming his Deryni status in front of the entire court—but perhaps they would concentrate on finding new councillors for a while now and leave Duncan alone.
He was thinking about the Council chamber, remembering the one time he had been there, and trying to envision it, as he took a subdued Richenda on his arm and went into the great hall for court a few minutes later.
And in a domed chamber atop a remote mountain many miles away, the six remaining members of the Camberian Council were, indeed, discussing Duncan, Morgan, and the king—but it was not the same king Morgan had in mind.
“Denis, the fact remains—King Kelson is dead, and Nigel must be the new king,” Vivienne was saying. “This presents us with a unique opportunity to reassert our influence over the House of Haldane.”
“Oh, must you be so cold-blooded about it?” Barrett murmured, uncharacteristically snappish. “Unlike the rest of us, Denis was close to Kelson. Let him have a decent interval of mourning.”
“If he observes a ‘decent’ interval of mourning,” Kyri said, “the moment may pass before we can seize it. Of the four persons designated to assist in bringing Nigel to his full Haldane potential, three are safely occupied, for at least another two or three days. That leaves the initiative with you, Denis. The question is, can you bring Nigel to full potential alone?”
Arilan, still exhausted by the monumental effort it had taken to assemble the Council a few hours before, leaned his dark head against the back of his chair and closed his eyes.
“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I’m not sure it’s wise, in any case. What’s wrong with waiting for Morgan and Duncan?”
“Don’t be naïve,” Kyri said. “This is our chance to break the hold that Morgan has had on the last two Haldane kings. If we can’t control him, and you won’t allow us to eliminate him permanently, then pushing him out of the facilitation is at least a reasonable alternative.”
“Must it really come to that?” Arilan said.
Barrett bowed his hairless head, shaking it sadly.
“We know how you feel about them, Denis,” he said. “But Kyri is right. Having you trigger Nigel’s Haldane potential wouldn’t exactly give us any more control over him than we had over Kelson, God rest his soul.” He crossed himself halfheartedly—a motion copied by most of the others, with varying degrees of impatience. “But at least we would know more about the process, so that when the time comes to bring Conall or one of his brothers along, we’ll be in a position of greater influence.”
“I don’t know whether I can do it alone,” Arilan repeated. “I’m sure things were set, even in me, that were supposed to trigger at the appropriate time, but Nigel’s in no state right now, even if I were.”
“But he was prepared to become king, if anything had happened to Kelson in battle last summer,” Sofiana said neutrally.
Arilan nodded. “Yes, but that was last summer. Who would have thought Kelson would meet his end on his knight’s quest, falling off a goddamn embankment? After all he’s survived, to go that way—”
“Then, is Nigel despondent?” Vivienne asked impatiently.
“No, but he’s very deeply grieving and stunned. I wouldn’t know how to begin to approach him about such a thing.”
Laran pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Perhaps some medical intervention might be appropriate,” he ventured. “We have medications that can ease the process. You used some of them on Nigel before. I suggest that such assistance is definitely indicated now, if you’re to try to trigger the reaction alone. You shouldn’t have to worry about physical or even psychological resistance while you’re juggling more esoteric balances.”
Choking back a sob, Arilan folded his arms on the table before him and laid his forehead against his sleeve.
“I can’t think about it right now, Laran. Why can’t I make you understand that? All of you.”
His shoulders shook as he surrendered to his own grief and shock, for the first time since passing his terrible news on to Duncan, hours before. Only Sofiana, realizing that he was weeping silently, had the presence of mind to clear the chamber and leave him in peace for a while, grieving with him as she led the others downstairs to the ritual chamber known as the keeill, there to guide them in a silent meditation for the repose of the dead king’s soul.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Chasten thy son while there is hope, and let not thy soul spare for his crying.
—Proverbs 19:18
Dhugal fought down an urge to gag as he made himself gnaw on a charred chunk of rank, stringy horsemeat, washing down each bite with water because he knew he had to eat or starve.
He had never been partial to horse, even properly prepared—though, when times were lean, he had sometimes eaten it in the borders, of necessity—and he hated overcooked meat. This was neither properly prepared nor rare the way he liked it—and starting to go bad besides. Not bad enough to make him sick, but bad enough that he hardly cared that this was the last of it that was at all edible. At least partially burning it did help to disguise the flavor.
Unfortunately, the bloated carcass had already been half-ripe when he found it, perhaps a day earlier—though day and night had no meaning in this cavern of perpetual darkess. His nose had led him to it. It had been wedged in a tangle of flood wrack, held fast by the savage current not far downstream of where he still kept hopeful vigil beside the unconscious Kelson. It had been Jowan’s horse. He had watched horse and rider go over the edge, what seemed like half a lifetime ago. He wondered whether young Jowan had met a kinder fate.