The King’s Justice (55 page)

The sunshine had also brought Nigel's duchess, Meraude, down from the ladies' solar for the afternoon, to stitch and read with two companions in the good north light. Meraude's baby daughter Eirian dozed placidly in a basket at her mother's side. The Princess Janniver tended the baby from time to time, sad-eyed and wistful beneath her mane of yellow curls—Janniver, whom Kelson and his men had been too late to save from dishonor at the hands of Mearan rebels the summer before, now rejected by father and betrothed and left no refuge save the court of Gwynedd. But the other young woman—

Kelson made himself draw a deep breath and tell himself again that the other one was no more for him than Janniver was. At just seventeen, Rothana of Nur Hallaj was beautiful in a dusky, eastern way that made Kelson's knees weak if he thought about it too long. Her breeding was impeccable, for she was a princess of the Forcinn and Richenda's kin by marriage, but she was also
Sister
Rothana, a novice nun of the Order of Saint Brigid, even if her vows were not yet final.

She was also Deryni, perhaps as powerful and certainly as self-willed as Morgan's Richenda, if less thoroughly trained—which made her doubly fascinating to a Deryni king now more than a year a widower from a marriage never consummated and being pressed increasingly by family and royal counselors to take another bride.

At least Kelson had managed to postpone
that
inevitability for the moment, ostensibly out of respect for his slain first bride. But to avow that he still mourned his lost Sidana carried less and less weight as the months passed. He continued to wear the ring he had given her—a narrow gold band with a ruby-eyed Haldane lion carved on a facet pared from the top—but it bespoke habit rather than conviction, more than a year after Sidana's death. Nor had he worn black for her since returning from his Mearan campaign the previous summer, other than to observe the anniversary of her death, in January.

He had met Rothana on that campaign, while he scoured the Mearan borderlands for traces of his dead bride's rebellious elder brother. He had first seen her in the desecrated ruins of her abbey as she tried to comfort the weeping Janniver—pale blue habit smudged with soot and her heavy, blue-black hair escaping from a braid as thick as a man's wrist. Though Rothana herself had been untouched by the raiders, at least in body, her Deryni senses had amplified the terror and humiliation of those around her and left a uniquely Deryni anger.

But the psychic cost to Rothana had not occurred to Kelson, most interested just then in finding out who had been responsible for the attack. That night, after setting his guards and returning to the abbey church where the remaining sisters had set up a hospice to care for the injured, he had wanted to use his powers to read Janniver's memory of the attack and perhaps identify her assailant. But Rothana had held that to be too intimate a contact with the already violated princess and had forbidden it—though she did agree to read the memory herself and transmit to Kelson the information he required.

Only, when she did, she had also given him a taste of the rape from
Janniver's
point of view, with all its hurt and humiliation and anguish. It had
not
been pleasant. Kelson himself was yet a virgin, for a variety of tiresome but practical reasons that seemed valid to him, as king, but occasionally he had wondered, since that night, whether the intense psychic experience of reliving Janniver's ordeal would unman him when the time came for his own sexual initiation. He had been taught to believe that rape and the act of love were as different as night and day, but until he knew for certain, from his own experience, his imagination sometimes inspired far more apprehension than confidence.

That Rothana had been the one to trigger that apprehension made Kelson even more wary where she was concerned—especially since it was her shadow-face and form that occasionally intruded, all unbidden, on the increasingly erotic fantasies that he, like most eighteen-year-old males, experienced in his dreams. There were other faces, to be sure, but none whom he could identify as living, breathing women.

That only made the apprehension even more concrete, for Rothana
was
a living, breathing woman—and vowed to God. Despite that avowal, something more frighteningly personal and intense than the violence of Janniver's rape had also surged across their brief psychic link. Both of them had been denying it all winter, with only indifferent success, neither willing to admit or accept that the attraction was mutual.

“Good afternoon, Kelson,” Meraude said, she and both girls rising to make him dutiful curtsies as Kelson and his companions approached—though Rothana kept her dark eyes primly averted to the scroll she had been reading, as was seemly for a female religious in the presence of three virile young men just coming into their prime. Janniver dared a glance at them, but she blushed prettily and retreated all in a fluster when Jatham eased a little closer to his master's side—and to her—and tried, unsuccessfully, to keep from smiling.

“Why, Aunt Meraude, what a pleasant surprise,” Kelson said, suddenly aware of the chemistry between his soon-to-be ex-squire and the princess and making an effort to be courtly, despite the ache behind his eyes. “Pray, ladies, be seated. I see that the spring sunshine has brought out the flowers.”

His frankly appreciative survey of the three of them left no doubt that he was
not
talking about flowers that grew in the castle gardens beyond.

“Why, here's a fair rose of Rhenndall,” he went on, with a bow flourished in Meraude's direction, “and Mary bells, to honor our Blessed Lady.” He gave restrained and proper salute to Rothana's pale blue habit. “And surely here is a golden jonquil, Princess, unless I disremember all my lessons in botany. Dhugal, have you ever seen fairer blossoms? Or you, Jatham?”

As a blushing Janniver ducked her head and fumbled for a hank of yarn in her embroidery basket, Jatham knelt to retrieve one that tumbled from her lap.

“Never, Sire,” he breathed. “'Tis the loveliest bouquet that
I
have ever seen.”

“Why, my lords, you shall turn our heads with such flattery,” Meraude scolded, though she could not keep the mirth from her eyes. “Besides, 'tis far too early for most flowers.”

“But not too early,” Rothana said, lifting her eyes boldly to Kelson's, “to ask His Majesty about the greenery for the basilica tomorrow. May I speak with you for a moment in private, Sire?” she continued, touching his sleeve as she brushed past to lead him away from the others. “Please to come into the next window with me and look into the garden, where I may point out what might be useful. At this time of year, the possibilities are somewhat limited, but there are a few that might suit. After all, it is not fitting that young men should keep their knight's vigil before an unadorned altar.”

She had said all in a low voice, so that only he and their immediate company could hear; but, by the time they were well into the next window bay, Kelson was certain that every eye in the hall must have turned to observe their withdrawal. Nor were they safe from curious eyes in the garden itself.

“Come and pretend you are looking at the garden, my lord,” Rothana murmured, setting a finger against the glass and only watching him sidelong. “I have something I must ask you that could not be said before the others—though, with your head still smarting from the test of
merasha
, perhaps we should delay until another time.”

Kelson swallowed nervously and moved closer, though he was careful not to touch her, dutifully pretending to follow the discourse she was
not
giving about flowers and such.

“Did Meraude tell you that,” he asked, “or is it that apparent?”

“Why, both, my lord. I should be dull-witted, indeed, if I should fail to recognize such aftereffects in one of our race.”

“I see.” He made himself draw a deep breath to steady out both the noted aftereffects and the effect
she
was having on him.

“If you are too ill, we
can
delay, my lord,” she said quietly. “I would not increase your discomfort.”

“If you know what I went through last night, then you know what it's costing me to function today—but, no, there's no need for delay.” He drew another deep breath. “What did you wish to ask me?”

“Very well, my lord. It concerns your squire. What can you tell me of him?”

“Jatham?”

He knew immediately that her interest was in Janniver's behalf, for he had seen the Connaiti princess' reaction when his squire came into her presence; but even so, he felt a quick pang of alarm clench at his throat as he feared, just for an instant, that Rothana asked for her own sake. Something of that fear must have slipped past his still unsteady shields, for suddenly she blinked and seemed to bite back a distressed smile, though she covered most of the reaction by turning deliberately to look out at the garden again.

“Nay, do not look in his direction, my lord. We are here to inspect the garden. And pray, keep your voice down. But you saw how he and Janniver looked at one another. I can tell you that she is quite taken with him—and it seems there is a certain attraction on his part as well, though I suspect he believes himself too far beneath her ever to have his suit encouraged. What is his lineage, if I may ask?”

The question annoyed Kelson, perhaps because he had heard it asked all too often about potential royal brides.

“Oh, come, my lord, he cannot be baseborn, or he could not be a royal squire,” Rothana murmured, her soft voice tinged with impatience. “Therefore, he must be of gentle, if not noble birth—and he will be
Sir
Jatham, come Tuesday, will he not? And the accolade well deserved, from everything I hear.”

Kelson snorted. “If you have heard all that, my lady, I wonder that you need to ask
my
counsel.”

“Oh, fie, that is but common gossip around court, Sire! I had hoped you might tell me more of the
man
. I would see my little princess honorably wed—” Her face fell. “Or, is Jatham one of those men who would not deign to offer marriage to a ruined girl?”

“Ruined?” Kelson found himself saying, not a little defensively. “Isn't that a trifle harsh, my lady, and you her friend?”

Rothana looked out at the garden again, dark eyes shuttered.

“Pray, remember that there are others nearby, my lord. The world is sometimes harsh. And the harsh truth of this matter is that most men prefer their brides unsullied. Kings and princes insist upon it.”

“
This
king would not!”

“No?” she returned. “Would
you
marry her, then, my lord? I think not. Nor would your lords of state permit it, even if you so desired. Besides, could you truly take her to your sacred marriage bed, knowing that Ithel of Meara had had his pleasure of—”

“Pleasure?” Kelson remembered only just in time that he must keep his voice down and managed not to shout. “Madame, there was precious little of pleasure in
that
act, for
either
of them!—as you, yourself, should know!”

Rothana recoiled a step at that, herself obviously reminded of the intimacy of that moment when she had forced the memory of Janniver's rape upon him in the ruins at Saint Brigid's—and what else had passed between them.

“Forgive me, Sire. I should never have done that to you,” she whispered. “I am occasionally far too willful for a nun. It was an unconscionable liberty on my part.”

Breathing out audibly, Kelson managed a taut, careful nod.

“Aye, it was,” he conceded, at least partially mollified. “But probably a valuable piece of education for a king. And you're right that I wouldn't marry Janniver—though not because of anything that happened to her at Saint Brigid's. I suppose I still dare allow myself to hope that love will have a part in the selection of my next wife.”

“I hope that it may, my lord,” Rothana murmured.

“And I. Still, I won't have you speaking that way of Janniver. The poor girl didn't ask to be raped, after all—though one might think she had, judging from the correspondence I've had in the last six months from her father and her former husband-to-be.” He sighed. “I'm afraid they're two princes of the kind you were talking about.”

“Alas, I must agree, Sire,” Rothana replied quietly. “But your Jatham, I pray, is not a prince, or even such a man.”

“No.”

“Then, would he have her to wife, do you think?”

Kelson managed a wry smile. “I think he might, given the slightest encouragement.”

“
Royal
encouragement, Sire?” she asked, looking at him sidelong.

“Well, I can't
command
the man to fall in love.”

“Oh, no one said anything about commanding, Sire. You need not even
persuade
him, as only one of our blood could do.”

She turned her gaze to the forgotten garden once more.

“Well, then, that's settled,” she murmured. “Just say that you will do your best to encourage him—and then we can get on with this dreary business of picking out the greenery.”

“Dreary—greenery?”

“Well, that
is
why we're standing here, looking out at the garden, is it not?”

“Why,
Sister
Rothana, you
love
this, don't you?” Kelson blurted, in that instant, amazed beyond thinking of his own romantic interests. “Can it be that the little nun is actually called to be a matchmaker?”

He regretted that, the instant he had said it, for it was all to near his own wishes in the matter. He was horrified to realize that he was blushing, but mercifully she had kept her gaze riveted to the garden, pretending that she had not heard.

“Now, then,” she breathed, after he had had time to recover. “We were selecting greenery—and we really should go back to the others. Yes, ivy, I think, for the knighting of a winter king and his compan—”