The Bishop’s Heir (40 page)

“
Shields
?” Richenda whispered, drawing back to search his eyes even as her mind continued to read what he offered. “Is he one of us?”

“We think so,” Morgan replied, “but we're not sure. No one can get past the shields, and he doesn't know how to lower them. Most attempts to read him have been so painful that he's become afraid for anyone else to try—except Duncan. Duncan doesn't hurt him, but Duncan doesn't get past the shields, either.”

“Does Dhugal
want
to be read?” Richenda asked.

Morgan shrugged. “He
says
he does—though he hasn't gone out of his way to let us try. Not that any of us have had the time to pursue the matter. Maybe you'll have some ideas for new approaches. Duncan's actually the logical choice to do it, but he's been as busy as the rest of us.”

By the time he had given her the rest of what he knew of Dhugal—the capture by Loris, Istelyn's mortal danger, the daring escape from Ratharkin, with its resultant royal hostages, and Dhugal's totally unexpected reaction to Duncan's consecration—Richenda was quite taken with the challenge the young border lord presented.

“I have a few ideas already,” she said thoughtfully. “Be sure I get to meet him at court tomorrow.”

“You'll hardly be able to avoid it,” Morgan chuckled. “He's being formally invested as Earl of Transha. And then the real excitement begins.”

“Caitrin's answer to Kelson's ultimatum,” Richenda guessed.

Morgan sighed and nodded. “Aye. And since we really don't expect her to submit, it's almost certainly war in the spring—and a royal wedding for Kelson and Sidana at Twelfth Night.”

Richenda stiffened in his arms and turned her face away at that, and Morgan could only hold her close in comfort and wait for the moment to pass, regretting the off-handedness of his last remark. He had never pressed her for the intimate details of her own first marriage, but he knew she had had no more say about it than Sidana would have. Unless they entered the religious life, marriages of state were almost inevitable for daughters of great houses. Richenda had been just sixteen when she married Bran Coris, and had never even seen her future husband before their wedding day.

“Oh, I understand all the dynastic reasons for a marriage between Gwynedd and Meara,” she finally said, huddling back into the curve of his arm for reassurance. “They've been fighting for generations. It could finally resolve that old, old argument.”

She gave a heavy sigh before continuing.

“But Kelson and Sidana—they're people, Alaric, not kingdoms. I don't know the girl at all, but I know Kelson. He's a kind and generous young man, and I know he'll do his best to make the marriage more than just a legal form for getting heirs, but—but—”

“But neither of them really has a choice,” Morgan said, answering what she could not articulate. “I know. It doesn't make me very happy either. Unfortunately, such duties go with a crown.”

“I suppose.” She was silent a long time, her thoughts shuttered inside those private areas Morgan would not have thought of invading, until finally she sighed again.

“Well, if the marriage happens, you're going to have to take charge of Kelson,” she said. “I don't know how a man feels about such things, but I do know how a woman feels. Despite whatever
she
may want, Sidana of Meara will probably be our next queen. She's bound to be afraid and unhappy and upset, but there's no reason it has to be as bad as it could be. I've been in a similar position; perhaps I can help her see the positive aspects. If you'll allow it, I'll ask to be a lady-in-waiting—and her friend, if she'll have me. I feel so sorry for the girl, Alaric.”

“My beautiful Richenda,” Morgan murmured, drawing her closer into the circle of his arms. “I am so very, very glad I found you.”

He had also found, he reflected, as he drifted off to sleep, at least a temporary diversion for his wife's discontent—so long as she remained in Rhemuth, at any rate.

Early Christmas morning, Haldane scouts reported the approach of a Mearan herald and a man-at-arms, perhaps two hours away at their present pace. A page brought the news to Kelson in Dhugal's chamber, where king and border lord had been speculating on that very subject while Dhugal dressed for his investiture. The king himself wore an ankle-length court robe of Haldane scarlet, ermine showing at wrists and hem and along the deep slits front and back, but he had not yet put on his crown or the other accoutrements of his kingship.

“I don't like the sound of that, do you?” Kelson asked, when page and squire had been dismissed, watching Dhugal knot a narrow sash over his grey woolen tunic. “A herald and one man-at-arms. Not even a delegation. What do you suppose it means?”

With a snort, Dhugal shook out a cloak of fine MacArdry tartan and slung it around his shoulders, holding it closed with one hand while he rummaged in a wooden casket for a suitable brooch. The yellow, black, and grey plaid made bright contrast to the nubby grey wool beneath.

“Not a surrender, I'll warrant—but then, we never did really expect that, did we? I take it you
will
receive them?”

“I will—
after
we've finished with your investiture. It won't do them any harm to cool their heels for a while. That's part of what heralds are paid to do.”

“That's true, I suppose.”

As Dhugal threaded the pin of a heavy ring brooch through the two edges of his cloak, Kelson raised an eyebrow and leaned closer, tipping the carved silver toward the light with two fingers underneath the edge.

“That's a striking piece. Border silver?”

Dhugal nodded and turned the ring into place, fussing with the arrangement of the cloak's folds on his shoulders.

“Aye. This one's a MacArdry clan motif. It's been in the family for generations. I suppose I really ought to wear the chiefs torc, too. Ciard said he'd put it in the bottom of the casket. Would you see if you can find it?”

With a grunt for answer, Kelson turned his attention to the wooden casket. He remembered the torc. Old Caulay had worn it when he came forward to swear fealty at Kelson's coronation. Underneath several other brooches and rings, something the right size and shape lay wrapped in the folds of a white rabbit pelt. Ornately chased end bosses in the shape of golden horses' heads protruded from the fur as Kelson slid it out from under the other things, but he handed it off without a second look as he continued to poke at what was left in the chest.

“It looks like Ciard brought you the entire Transha treasury,” he said, pulling out a ring encrusted with granulated gold. “Is this a Transha seal?”

“That? Oh, aye. Transha, as opposed to MacArdry.” Dhugal burnished the torc against his sleeve and then slipped it around his neck, pulling his braid free and adjusting cloak and collar so they would not interfere. “It probably ought to be added to the rest of the regalia, actually. I think it goes with the coronet. Does someone have that?”

“Probably Ciard,” Kelson replied. “One of your men, at any rate.” He slipped the signet on his own finger, where he would not lose it, and poked in the casket some more. “Here, this one's nice—the cloak clasp with the lion's head. Why don't you wear that instead of the ring brooch?”

“That?” Dhugal gave it a perfunctory glance as he took it from Kelson, then shook his head and put the clasp back in the casket.

“Not today for that one, I think—though I promise to wear it to your wedding, if you end up marrying Sidana.” He closed the lid of the casket with a hollow clunk. “I'm told my father gave it to my mother on their wedding day—which makes it far more suitable for a celebration of love than for the creation of a warlord, don't you agree?”

“Hmmm, I suppose. I still like it better than the ring brooch, though.”

Dhugal, thrusting a sheathed dirk through the back of his sash, grinned and gave a sheepish nod.

“So do I, if you really want the truth. But if I didn't wear the proper badges of my rank as chief, especially for my first formal reception at court, I might offend my clansmen. They think it's far more important to be their chief than it is to be your earl. You know how it is in the borders.”

“Oh, aye,” Kelson said, mimicking Dhugal's broad border accent and smiling as he bade him twirl around for inspection.

He was sober again by the time Dhugal finished turning, though, the grey Haldane eyes shadowed with just a trace of apprehension.

“What's wrong?” Dhugal asked.

Sighing, Kelson glanced at his boots. “I wish that all I had to do this morning was to make you an earl,” he said quietly. “I'm not looking forward to the rest.”

“Neither is anyone else,” Dhugal replied.

“Then, why do we
do
it?”

“I suppose—because we have to.”

“We have to,” Kelson repeated.

Drawing a deep breath, he let it out explosively and looked up with a grin that was only a little strained.

“Well, if you put it
that
way, I suppose it's time I finished putting on the badges of
my
rank, don't you think? Can't make you an earl without them, you know.”

“Certainly not!” Dhugal retorted, picking up the cue.

They continued to banter on that level all the while Kelson finished dressing, and even up to the very doors of the great hall.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

And I shall even betroth thee unto me in faithfulness
.

—Hosea 2:20

Christmas Court: The tang of evergreen and cedar in Kelson's nostrils—more pungent scent of pine knots dipped in pitch, lighting his way through the packed, murmuring hall. Silver trumpet voices, a flourish of drums. Bright-clad forms giving him obeisance as he moved among them; rows of courtiers in holiday finery, some lightly armed, ladies bright and graceful as songbirds.

As on most great feast days, he wore the jewelled state crown of his coronation rather than the simpler circlet of gold he usually favored. His black hair fell loose on his shoulders. A belt of gilded leather girded his father's sword at his waist; a jewel-encrusted sceptre lay cradled in the crook of his left arm. Before ascending the dais to the canopied chair of state, he passed to the left where the bishops waited and knelt briefly for Bradene's Christmas blessing, hoarding the brief peacefulness as he took his throne.

It was to be the only island of calm. No sooner was he seated than the drums rolled to command attention to a herald who proclaimed the opening of Christmas Court. The loyal greetings of his vassals followed—mostly a rapid blur. Head inclining to acknowledge their bows, hand extending to receive the brush of lips in homage, murmured words of thanks, of inquiry after their families and lands, each man replaced by the next in rapid succession.

He brightened at the unexpected approach of Derry—for he had not known the young lord was coming to Christmas Court—then rose to kiss the smiling Richenda's hand when Morgan brought her forward, suddenly understanding Derry's presence. Still, one presentation ran into the next all too quickly, the pace slowing only when Dhugal came forward to be invested. And even that sped by too fast to really savor.

Border plaids and braids and silver-mounted dirks, the skirl of pipes. Dhugal kneeling before him. Words of condolence for the death of the old earl, welcome for the new. The act of homage and oath of fealty, Dhugal's hands between his own.

Dubbing with the great sword, bright line of silver gleaming between them—and girding Dhugal with another sword, Dhugal's own, on the gilded belt of his earldom.…

“With this sword defend the defenseless and punish evil, always remembering that honor, like the sword, has two edges: justice and mercy.…”

The presentation of banner and cauldron: tokens of Dhugal's authority to lead in war and his duty to feed and support his vassals … and the vesting with the ring and coronet.

“Though its worth in precious metal is token of thy rank and dignity, let its weight also remind thee of thy duty, and of the responsibility which thou sharest now with us. Arise, Dhugal MacArdry, Earl of Transha, and stand at our right hand, among our other well-beloved and trusty counsellors.”

Pipers had skirled again in spirited interlude as Dhugal's clansmen paraded him around the hall on their shoulders, chanting a border salute, but all too soon the maelstorm began anew.

The Mearan herald coming forward, courteous in his own demeanor, but delivering words of defiance in behalf of his mistress—spurning the offer of clemancy, abandoning the royal hostages to their fate.

And Istelyn's bloody, waxen head displayed aloft by a handful of matted hair, stark declaration of the fate of any man who broke faith with Meara.

And even then it did not stop. The hall erupted to howls of outrage and shouted threats of retribution. Several women fainted. More than one of Kelson's retainers had to be forcibly restrained from taking out his fury on the herald before the man was whisked away into protective custody. When king and chief advisors had retired to the privacy of the council chamber, reaction exploded even more heatedly. Too stunned and sick-at-heart even to think about what he was going to do next, Kelson sat with his head in his hands and merely shut out everything for several minutes, letting the others get the anger out of their systems, only looking up when Bradene, close on his left, called him repeatedly.

“Sire? Sire, I beg of you! I am not a vengeful man, Sire, but this is an unforgivable affront,” Bradene was saying, twisting his pectoral cross in nervous, agitated hands. “Surely there is no longer any question of marrying a Mearan!”

“If I don't marry her, my only other choice is to kill her,” Kelson said wearily. “Would you have me vent my anger against an innocent hostage?”

“Innocent?” Jodrell snorted. “Since when did the guilt or innocence of hostages have anything to do with their fate? Beg pardon, Sire, but Henry Istelyn was far more innocent than any Mearan princeling. His fate cries out for vengeance!”