The King’s Justice (15 page)

“Very well, my lady,” Kelson said quietly. “We shall take you at your word—for now.”

His gaze shifted to young Liam, standing taut and defiant beside his mother, precociously regal in his heavy russet court robes and scaled-down crown. The boy had the same tawny coloring as Wencit, but his eyes were black, echoing Morag's darker beauty. And even though the boy was only ten, Kelson sensed the presence of rigid, powerful shields. Already, Liam of Torenth was becoming a Deryni to be reckoned with.

“Liam of Torenth, we welcome you to our court,” Kelson said formally. “Are you now prepared, before God and these witnesses, to do homage for your lands of Torenth and to pledge us your fealty, as was specified in the treaty between your father and ourself?”

The boy inclined his head in a curt gesture of agreement. “I am prepared, my lord.”

At his response, Kelson glanced aside at Bishop Arilan, who specifically had been asked to administer the oath because he was Deryni, and could shield completely against any deception Morag might attempt—and without revealing what
he
was. As Arilan came forward, little Brendan Coris gravely carrying the Gospel book, Liam cast an uneasy glance at his mother.

But then he approached the throne without prompting as Kelson stood, to sink gracefully to both knees on a cushion that young Payne placed at Kelson's feet. He took off his crown with both hands and gave it over to Payne as Arilan held the book before him, then laid both hands flat on the jeweled cover.

Kelson held up one hand before Liam could draw breath to speak.

“My Lady Morag, we shall ask you to kneel as well, in token of your support of your son's oath, as his regent.”

He sensed Morag was all but biting her tongue behind clenched teeth, but she said not a word as she moved to kneel beside and slightly behind Liam. Her dark eyes glittered like obsidian as she clasped her hands firmly to her son's shoulders on either side, head raised haughtily in as much defiance as she dared in the court of her brother's conqueror.

“Will you require my assistance with your oath, young sir?” Arilan asked Liam, low enough that he could not be heard beyond the dais.

Liam shook his head, then lifted his eyes boldly to Kelson's.

“I, Liam, King of Torenth and all the lands therein, do enter your homage and become your vassal of life and limb. I will observe my homage and perform for you the services which I owe, in good faith and without deceit. So help me, God.”

When he had kissed the sacred book, Arilan took it to Kelson, who likewise laid both hands upon it.

“And we, for our part, do make known to all those present and to come that we do receive this Liam as King of Torenth and all the lands therein, and take him as our vassal. And we shall guarantee to him the lands held of us, and protect and defend him against every creature with all our power, in good faith and without deceit. So help me, God.”

He, too, kissed the sacred book, then took the crown Payne had been holding and raised it slightly above the kneeling Liam's head.

“Take from our hands this symbol of the fee we have confirmed to you this day,” Kelson said, setting the jeweled circlet back on Liam's tawny head. “Wear it in faith and honor, that the oaths we have sworn may be nobly kept.”

“All that I have promised today, I shall faithfully keep,” Liam responded, lifting his joined hands to Kelson in the traditional posture of giving fealty.

Kelson enclosed the joined hands between his own and raised Liam up, but the hands were cold, even in the warm hall, and the onyx eyes of Liam's mother colder still. As he and Liam exchanged a frigid kiss of peace, and Liam turned to assist his mother to rise, Kelson conceived a prudent precaution regarding the two. He sent his intention to Morgan in a tight-focused flash of thought as he resumed his seat on the throne, and sensed emphatic approval in Morgan's shift a little closer to his side. The hands of his champion moved casually to the hilt of his broadsword, and even Nigel seemed suddenly more attentive.

“A moment more, your Highnesses,” Kelson said quietly, stopping Morag and Liam stark in their tracks as they prepared to rejoin their entourage. “We must ask your indulgence in one further matter.”

Two pairs of night-dark eyes fastened on him, Liam's merely curious, Morag's more suspicious.

“We have fulfilled the letter of our obligation to you, Kelson of Gwynedd,” Morag said, daring him to deny it. “You will understand if I do not care to tarry at the court of my husband's and my brother's murderer.”

Her hostility elicited a murmur of surprise and indignation among the watching nobles of the court, but Kelson refused to rise to the insult.

“I need not justify myself to you, my lady,” Kelson said evenly. “I do not require your approval or your love. I do require your obedience.”

“And I have obeyed!”

Kelson inclined his head patiently. “It is true that you have complied with my requirements before this court—but you did not bring your younger son as you were commanded. Nor have I any way of verifying that young Ronal is, indeed, too frail to make the journey. I shall therefore insist that you and your elder son remain in Rhemuth through the summer, as earnest of your brother-in-law's good behavior.”

“What?”

“Duke Mahael has the Torenthi heir,” Kelson went on, raising his voice to cut off her further outburst. “You will appreciate that I cannot risk his possible belligerence on my eastern border while I am subduing a rebellion on my western one. You and young Liam shall be kept in honorable custody by my uncle, Prince Nigel, and shall be permitted free communication with Duke Mahael to assure him of your safety, but you shall remain here at least until the fall, when I return from my campaign. Your brother would have been far more harsh, I think, had the circumstances been reversed.”

He feared, for a moment, that Morag would continue to resist, but the sister of his old adversary was wise enough to know when she had met her match. She expressed the sort of indignation one might expect of any royal person suddenly become hostage against her will, and voiced additional objections when it was learned that Liam would be lodged in separate quarters, but Kelson suspected it was more on principle than with any real hope of persuading him to relent.

Still, he did not relax his vigilance until he and Morgan personally had seen her to the quarters Nigel hastily prepared. And he set Arilan to ensure that the Deryni Morag did not use her powers to engineer an escape before more permanent measures could be taken. He would place her in Richenda's charge as soon as that could be arranged. He put aside his court robes and crown and went with Morgan to find her, as soon as he was certain Arilan had things under control.

They found Morgan's duchess in the cool of the cloister garden, writing under a shade tree. Several letters and ancient-looking scrolls lay on the bench beside her, along with a pot of ink and paraphernalia for sealing letters. On a blanket spread underneath another tree nearby, a nurse supervised the play of Richenda's and Morgan's baby daughter Briony, a merry toddler of nearly eighteen months.

“Good day, my lord—Sire,” Richenda said, starting to rise as Morgan and the king approached. “What stormy faces you wear. Is anything wrong?”

Grimacing, Kelson motioned her to sit down, himself sinking down on the grass at her feet and glancing sidelong at the nurse.

“I don't think so—now. I'm going to need your help, though. Alaric, let's keep this a bit private, shall we?”

At Kelson's gesture, Morgan went and gave the nurse leave to go, bouncing the laughing Briony in his arms as he returned. As he plopped down on the grass beside Kelson, holding the child in his lap and making faces to amuse her, Kelson sighed and lay back on the grass, hands clasped behind his head.

“I'm sorry to interrupt your writing,” he said. “I've come to ask a special favor. I've just taken two Deryni hostages.”

Richenda set aside her pen and parchment and smoothed the skirts of her gown over her knees. She wore the pale blue she often favored in summer—a shade that made her eyes look almost as light as the sky Kelson could see through the leaves overhead. Those eyes looked back at him now with surprise and frank curiosity, the mind beyond them as still and as calm as a pool of high lake water.

“Two Deryni hostages,” she repeated softly. “I should have expected three.”

Kelson raised his head long enough to look at her in surprise.

“You
expected
me to take hostages?”

Richenda shrugged delicately. “I expected three rather than two, if you did. Did you not receive Morag of Torenth and her two sons this morning?”

Kelson sighed and glanced aside at the towheaded Briony, now perched on hands and knees in the grass between him and her father.

“She only brought Liam. She said Ronal was too ill to travel, so she'd left him in the charge of Mahael of Arjenol. Liam swore his oaths dutifully enough, but something didn't seem quite right. With Ronal under Mahael's control, I was afraid he might use my absence as an excuse to raise trouble to our east. I can't risk that if I'm to be in Meara all summer.”

“I quite agree,” Richenda said. “You're concerned, then, that Morag and Liam are Deryni, and might work mischief here in Rhemuth while you're away.”

“Or simply escape,” Kelson answered, amazed, as always, at her immediate grasp of all the ramifications. “I've set Arilan to working out precautions against that for now—and I doubt Liam will be much problem, though he's going to be very powerful when he's grown. Right now, he's still a little boy; he'll be playing with Payne and Rory before a week is out.”

“Aye, that's very likely true,” Richenda agreed. “Morag, however, is
not
a child.”

“Good God, no! And she hates me. If I had any doubts about
that
, I don't any longer. I suppose I'm most concerned that, in trying to escape, she might try to subvert the servants. I don't
think
she could construct a Portal without assistance—”

Richenda shook her head at Kelson's look of question.

“Nay, few could.”

“So that means that any other kind of escape attempt would almost have to involve others,” Kelson finished.

“That's easy enough to prevent,” Richenda said.

Kelson smiled wanly. “I was hoping you'd say that. In the meantime, I should imagine she'll eventually want the company of other women—at least after a while. You'd be in a perfect position to see that she doesn't get out of line.”

“So,” Richenda said, in a tone that softened the potential bite of her words, “I'm to be the guardian of two Deryni queens. I don't mind,” she added, at Kelson's look of dismay. “At least Morag isn't ashamed of what she is.”

“Nor would she have any reluctance to use what she is to improve her lot,” Morgan said, capturing a giggling Briony by one bare foot before she could crawl out of reach. “As Wencit's sister, her training was probably incredible. I want you to be careful, Richenda.”

Richenda smiled and laced her fingers together on her knee. “With all due respect, my lord, I suspect the Lady Morag and I may have shared some of the same masters. I had finished a letter to one of them only moments before you and Kelson came into the garden.” She picked up one of the scrolls and dropped it on Kelson's stomach. “I had that from him a few days ago. It's a contemporary account of Saint Camber's death at Iomaire.”

Kelson lurched to a sitting position and opened the scroll. “Camber's death,” he breathed, scanning the closely penned lines. “Any mention of his burial place?”

“The MacRorie family vaults at Caerrorie,” Richenda replied, “now in ruins. The body isn't there anymore, of course.”

“Destroyed when his sainthood was rescinded?”

Shaking her head, Richenda picked up another scroll. “No. At the time he was declared a saint, it was believed he'd been bodily assumed into heaven, as befitted one of the blessed. His son, however, claimed he'd moved the body to another resting place—though he never would say where. He was a priest. For some reason, though, he was always against the canonization.”

“Bad blood between father and son?” Morgan asked, scooping the wiggling Briony under one arm as he scooted closer to inspect the scroll over Kelson's shoulder.

“Gracious, no. They were devoted.”

“Listen to this, you two,” Kelson murmured, reading from the scroll.
“So did Joram MacRorie and the Vicar of the Michaelines return from the field of battle with the body of the slain Earl Camber.…”
He looked up. “Who were the Michaelines?”

“A militant order of priest-knights,” Richenda replied. “Joram and several other Deryni important in the Restoration are said to have been of that order. The vicar mentioned is Father Alister Cullen, later the last Deryni bishop.”

“Well, not the
very
last,” Morgan said with a grin, shifting Briony to his shoulder. “We know of at least two since then.”

Kelson snorted and continued scanning down the scroll.

“Damn, I wish we didn't have to campaign in Meara this summer! This is fascinating. Who did you say had sent it?”

“I didn't, but his name is Azim. He's—” She cocked her head at the leaves above their heads as she searched for the right relationship. “He's my cousin's husband's uncle—which must make him some kind of relative by marriage, but I haven't the foggiest notion what he'd be. I've always called him uncle, but I know that isn't right. What's more important for our purposes is his affiliation with the Knights of the Anvil, down in Djellarda. Have you heard of them, Sire?”

Kelson nodded. “Hospitaller knights of some sort, aren't they? They guard the routes to the Holy Land.
Very
ferocious fighters, and not entirely Christian.”