The Bishop’s Heir (39 page)

Burchard de Varian, Earl of Eastmarch since the conclusion of the war with Torenth two years before, arrived at midweek as expected with Generals Gloddruth, Remie, and Elas in his train, along with half a dozen barons and other lesser lords. A few days later, the Earl of Danoc came with two more of Kelson's generals, Godwin and Perris, and also the young Earl of Jenas, whose father had fallen with Jared McLain at Candor Rhea. Not at all expected was the man waiting for Morgan outside his quarters when he returned alone from Mass on Christmas Eve.

“What the—who's there?” Morgan demanded, hand reaching warily toward the hilt of his sword.

Sean Lord Derry, the young noble who once had been Morgan's aide and now served as his lieutenant in Corwyn, stood away from the wall where he had been leaning and held out empty hands, a sheepish grin flickering across his earnest face as he inclined his head in salute.

“Christmas blessings, Your Grace. I hope you don't mind that we didn't join you for Mass, but we only arrived just on midnight.”

His blue eyes held a twinkle of mirth at Morgan's surprise, but also a note of apprehension. He flinched as Morgan seized him by the shoulders to stare at him, but he did not avert his gaze.

“Sean, what on earth are you doing here?” Morgan murmured, though he had an idea exactly what the younger man was doing. “And what do you mean,
we
? Good God, you didn't bring Richenda, did you?”

Derry raised one eyebrow in an expression he had picked up from his former master. “Your lady wife decided she'd like to keep Christmas with her husband, Your Grace. If I hadn't brought her, I suspect she would have come on her own.”

“Aye, she probably would have,” Morgan muttered under his breath. “I wish you could have tried to talk her out of it, though.”

“Do you think I
didn't
try?” Derry asked indignantly. “I know what your orders were. I can't say my heart was really in it, though. I think she's about had enough of Coroth for a while.”

Morgan sighed, awareness of
that
situation catapulting back to consciousness as it had not for several weeks, so far from home himself. For all the personal satisfaction his marriage with Richenda had brought him, there were still vast areas of their relationship which had not yet come into balance. Chief among them was the question of how much authority his new wife should assume during his all too frequent absences from his own court—and that decision, to Morgan's continued dismay, was not entirely his to make, for all that he was Corwyn's duke.

In the ordinary course of things, certainly within the first year of their marriage, Morgan's duchess should have become his chatelaine at Coroth and regent of Corwyn in his absence. Morgan had not granted Richenda that status. The fact was that many of his own men distrusted her—not because she was Deryni, for probably no one at Coroth even suspected that—or would have cared, if they had, since Corwyn's duke was Deryni anyway—but because her first husband had betrayed the Crown.

Perhaps she was tainted with treachery as well, they reasoned—perhaps even plotting revenge for her first husband's death, for the sake of her son by him. As Dowager Countess of Marley, she already had young Brendan's guardianship jointly with her new husband, with virtual freedom to manage the lands and income of the six-year-old earl as she chose. If anything were to happen to Morgan, Her Grace the Dowager Duchess of Corwyn and Dowager Countess of Marley would have access to Corwyn's vast wealth as well, until the infant Duchess Briony came of age. For such power and position, what might the former wife of a known traitor
not
do?

It was all utter nonsense, of course; but convincing his men of that, other than the few officers close to Morgan, had proven far more difficult than Morgan ever imagined. He had expected some controversy and suspicion when he first brought his bride home to Coroth, less than a year after Bran Coris' death, but he had thought the suspicion would diminish as they came to know and trust her. They had not.

They did not trust her because they did not know her. They did not know her because when Morgan was away, which was far more often than he would have liked, she kept largely to herself, having no authority to exercise in his absence. He could not give her authority, since they did not trust her—and they did not trust her because they had no opportunity to observe any behavior that might have confirmed her stated loyalty to her new lord. It was an unfortunate vicious circle that Morgan had not yet figured out how to break.

Hence, Richenda had remained a mere resident of his castle at Coroth, treated courteously enough by the immediate ducal household, but given no responsibility. Explanation had been easy enough in the beginning, when Richenda was at first new to Coroth and then pregnant with their first child—both good reasons for letting Morgan's seneschal and garrison commander continue to run things in his absence as they had for years; but Briony was eleven months old now, and Richenda had been Duchess of Corwyn for nearly two years. The old excuses had grown lame, and Morgan could not bring himself to admit the real reasons to his wife. Small wonder that the intelligent and capable Richenda chafed increasingly under what appeared to be irrational restrictions on her role as his wife.

“You know what the problem is, Derry,” Morgan said with a heavy sigh. “There just hasn't been time to do much about it. I don't want to hurt her.”

Derry averted his eyes and hooked his thumbs in his sword belt, chewing at his lower lip.

“Do you think it
doesn't
hurt her, not knowing why you shut her out of your affairs?” he said quietly, looking up again. “Forgive me, sir, but in the past year I've spent far more time with your wife than you have. She's far too well-bred to pry, even though she easily could, but she senses the distrust on the part of the men. And if you don't tell her that you don't share their distrust—” He swallowed. “Sir, I—thought being Deryni was supposed to make it easier to work these things out.”

“Sometimes that makes it harder, Derry,” Morgan whispered. “Don't you reproach me, too.”

“I'm sorry, m'lord.”

“It isn't your fault,” Morgan said after a few seconds. “Maybe her coming here is for the best, though. With a spring campaign almost inevitable, I was already planning to have you bring her to court as soon as the weather broke again. Kelson has made it clear that she'd be welcome on his council as Brendan's regent—and I suspect her presence would be doubly welcome now that we have Sidana of Meara to hostage.”

“Sidana?” Derry said. “Here? How did you manage that? Is he going to marry her?”

Morgan chuckled despite his concern over this new turn of affairs. “Odd how that proposition seems obvious to everyone but Kelson himself. He may. A lot depends on the answer we get from Meara tomorrow.”

“Ah.”

“I'll fill you in on all the details after court tomorrow, if you haven't already found out from other sources by then,” Morgan went on. “I'm sure there'll be a briefing, once we've had the Mearan's answer. In the meantime, you should probably get some sleep—and I undoubtedly should go and greet my wife. I assume, by the way, that Hamilton and Hillary have things under control at home?”

“Aye, m'lord. And my mother has charge of the little ones.”

“That's fine. How many men did you bring?”

“Half a dozen—and one maid for Her Grace. I hope you're not angry, sir.”

“No, I'm not angry.” Morgan sighed, then clapped Derry on the shoulder as he set his hand on the door latch.

“Go get some sleep, then. We'll see you at court in the morning. And thank you for bringing my wife here safely, Sean.”

“My pleasure, m'lord.”

As Derry sketched a bow and turned to go, obviously relieved, Morgan lifted the latch and slipped into his quarters, softly closing the door behind him.

Only firelight greeted him at first. Near the curtained entrance to the garderobe, he could make out a small pile of trunks and travel valises that had not been there earlier, a fur-lined cloak spread before the fire to dry, but there was no sign of the maid who should have accompanied them. Moving on through the room and into the adjoining bedchamber, a glimmer of candlelight caught his eye from behind the curtains of his canopied bed. He darted a quick Deryni probe inside as he approached, confirming the presence of Richenda and not some lurking assassin, but he resolutely shuttered off the part of his mind that dealt with the subject he most definitely did
not
want to discuss, on this first night back together in months.

“It was too late to join you for Mass,” a soft, tentative voice whispered as Morgan parted the curtains with both hands, “but I've said my own prayers. Shall you come to bed now, my lord?”

Richenda lay in the middle of the bed with the sleeping furs pulled close under her chin, her face aglow in the light of the single candle set in a sconce at the head of the bed. Her eyes, bluer than any summer lake, mirrored a mixture of mischief and uncertainty as she gazed up at him, flame gold hair completely veiling the pillow beneath her head. The gold of his marriage ring on her hand glittered bright and chill as she fingered the edge of the sleeping fur at her throat. She was nervous. He knew she was expecting him to be angry.

“So. Just what do you think you're doing here?” he asked, his words cool but his eyes warming as her thought reached out in caress. “And stop that when I'm trying to scold you.”

Lowering her eyes demurely, she obeyed, though as she raised up on her elbows to look at him again, the furs slipped down a little to expose a bare shoulder and shake his composure.

“I came to keep Christmas with my lord and husband,” she murmured, letting another tendril of thought brush more lingeringly against his mind. “Should I not have come?”

The contact was excruciating pleasure after so long a parting. With a gasp, Morgan dropped his surface shields to her and lurched onto the bed, taking her in his arms and pressing his lips hungrily to hers as she embraced him. The touch of her flesh, intensified by the touch of mind against mind, sent fire pulsing along every nerve. He groaned as she pushed him far enough away to unbuckle his swordbelt, both of them trembling as she slipped it from his waist with one hand and cast the sword on the bed beside them while she worked at the clasp of his cloak with her other hand, her lips continuing to nuzzle kisses on his neck and throat.

“
All
the clothing, my lord,” she whispered around the kisses, starting on the laces of his overtunic. “Especially the boots. I've brought our own linens from Coroth and put them on the bed, and I won't have you ripping holes with your spurs.”

He raised up on his elbows in astonishment and burst out laughing at that, causing her to begin giggling as well, then shook his head and sat up all the way, still grinning, the fire in his loins only banked, not slaked, as he drew up his knees to unfasten low indoor boots.

“Fortunately for both of us, I didn't ride today, so I'm not wearing spurs and I can manage the boots myself,” he said, as the buckles came free. “It would take far too long to call a squire.”

“Oh, aye,” she agreed, wide-eyed and dutiful.

Grinning, he kicked both feet through the curtain opening and heard the satisfying slap of leather hitting floor somewhere outside. His overtunic quickly followed the boots. She sat up to help him with his mail shirt, but the sleeping furs slipped down around her waist, almost too distracting even for Deryni self-control, and he had to close his eyes and take several deep, shuddering breaths while together they peeled the dead weight of the chain up his torso and over his shoulders. His overtunic came up partway as well, tangling around his neck with the mail, and he could sense her mirth as his head got stuck when she tried to pull both off at once.

“Just hold still until I get this sorted out,” she whispered.

He could feel her body warm against his back as she rose up on her knees behind to free him, every nerve tingling at the touch of her hair trailing over one of his shoulders. She tugged at the tunic and muttered as something started to rip. He yelped as one ear got bent.

More fumbling at the tangled opening, a grunt as she lifted the weight of the chain, and he was finally free. Drawing a deep breath, he pushed the mail and the rumpled undertunic out of the bed and turned to gaze at her again, doing his best to suppress a foolish grin.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Her smile was still just a little tentative as she nodded in answer, but her eyes never left his as she brushed one hand down his side to play at the waist of his breeches.

“And you are
sure
you're not angry, my lord?” she murmured.

“You know that I should be,” he said, taking her in his arms and bearing her gently back onto the bed with the weight of his body. “But I'm not. That passed as soon as I saw you lying here. All I can think about is how long it's been since I've been in your bed. I think you must be some kind of witch—a Deryni witch, perhaps.”

She laughed delightedly at that and drew him down to kiss him, lightly at first and then more lingeringly, as their speech shifted beyond mere words.

A witch, am I?
she whispered in his mind
And have I ensorcelled you, my love?

Totally and utterly
, he managed to reply, before losing himself in the growing urgency of what her hands were doing, working at the laces of his breeches.
God, how I've missed you, Richenda!

But even in the sharing of minds as well as bodies, he was not
totally
ensorcelled. Some things he knew she understood he
could
not share, for he held the trust of other minds besides her own and might not grant those trusts even to a wife without leave.

But the thing he
would
not share remained a niggling frustration, doubly irritating to Richenda because Morgan would not really acknowledge its existence. To ease the rebuff, he gave her his perception of the events since their last reunion: the color and intrigue of the synod at Culdi; Loris' escape; the attempt on Duncan's life; Kelson's foray into the borderlands of Transha—and Dhugal and his shields.