The Bishop’s Heir (44 page)

“I'd like Richenda to remain at court when we go on campaign in the spring.”

“You mean here in Rhemuth?”

“Yes.”

“What about the children. Aren't they still in Coroth?”

“I can have them brought here as soon as the weather lets up. They'll be fine where they are, through the winter months. Derry's mother has become their governess. And my staff have things under control otherwise.”

Kelson grimaced, obviously having trouble following Morgan's logic.

“So the children join Richenda here in the spring and they all stay here through the campaign. I still don't understand why.”

“Well, for one thing, your future queen has taken a fancy to my wife, as you well know,” Morgan replied. “That would be reason enough, all by itself. She could also help your aunt. With a new baby on the way, Meraude shouldn't have to shoulder the duties of chatelaine indefinitely; and until you're sure you've won Sidana's loyalty, you won't be able to trust her with those duties.”

Kelson nodded profoundly. “Aye, that's true enough. And I'm sure Aunt Meraude would welcome Richenda's company. But won't Richenda be needed at Coroth, with you away?”

Morgan bowed his head and toyed with the stem of his goblet, wishing desperately that she were.

“No,” he whispered.

“
No
? But she's your duchess. Who else is equipped to manage things for that long in your absence?”

“Not the former wife of a traitor,” Morgan said quietly.

“
What
?”

“They don't trust her, Kelson. I think they mean well, but I suppose they're afraid she'll betray me. Maybe they think she'll take revenge for my part in Bran's death.”

“But
I
killed Bran—and partially for that very reason; so no one could later say you killed him to get his wife.”

Morgan sighed. “I know. There's more. Hillary says they're nervous about her being co-guardian for Brendan—that if something were to happen to me, she'd have Corwyn
and
Marley at her disposal until Brendan and Briony came of age. And then, if she were to betray
you
—”

“Alaric, that's insane!” Kelson blurted. “She's loyal! She'd never betray either of us! There must be some other explanation.” He made a vexed face. “It's probably Hamilton and Hillary's fault, not wanting to let go of the authority they've had all these years you weren't married. One can hardly blame them for being jealous.”

Morgan shook his head. “I wish it were that simple, my prince. Actually, Hamilton and Hillary like her very much. They're as mystified as you and I. But a few of
their
officers have come right out and told them they can't be responsible for the men's behavior if I leave her in charge and something goes wrong—even if it isn't her fault.” He sighed. “So I
haven't
given her any authority, and I haven't been able to bring myself to tell her why. It would make it seem like I agreed with them.”

Kelson was sobering fast as he listened to Morgan's account, and he set aside his cup with a grimace of distaste as Morgan finished.

“You should have told me sooner.”

“I didn't want to bother you. Before Carsten of Meara died and everything blew up, I thought I'd be home all winter and get things straightened out. Now it's going to be the end of next summer before I get home. I didn't know she was coming for Christmas court, you know, but I'm glad she did, under the circumstances. Rhemuth will be the best place for her until I get things sorted out.”

“You still should have told me. Does Duncan know?”

“No. No one else.” He broke off as Duncan appeared in the garderobe doorway supporting a weak and contrite Dhugal.

“He's going to be fine,” Duncan called, grinning as he helped Dhugal cross the room and sit gingerly in his former place. “He isn't nearly as drunk now as he was a few minutes ago, are you, son? I think he's learned a valuable lesson, too.”

“Aye. Never again,” Dhugal nodded miserably. “What kind of wine
was
that, anyway? I've
never
felt this awful before, just from drinking.”

Lazily, Morgan raised his cup to sniff at its contents. “Fianna red. It's quite good, actually. Does your head hurt?”

“Like a smithy's forging swords,” Dhugal muttered, palming across both his eyes and tipping his head against the chair back. “I may die.”

Duncan, perching casually on Dhugal's chair arm, slipped one hand behind the back of Dhugal's head and began to massage at the base of his skull, steadying him with his other hand on a shoulder as Dhugal sighed and immediately began to relax. Morgan, guessing what Duncan was about and sensing that Dhugal did not, glanced at Kelson and prepared to divert Dhugal's attention further. At least they might salvage something for Dhugal from this evening's work.

“Well, I suppose we all know
that
feeling,” he said with a smile, sending the king a hint of their intentions. “Red wine is the worst offender, too. I remember one night with Derry in Jen-nan Vale—long before you were king, Kelson—when he and I got so drunk on the local vintage that I was sure it was the end of both of us. Derry can really drink, too. He got up on a table and sang a song.…”

He spun the yarn for several minutes, he and Kelson watching Dhugal fall increasingly under Duncan's influence all unawares, the hands slowly sinking to rest on his lap, the lines disappearing from his forehead as he relaxed in sleep. After a few more minutes, Duncan shifted one hand briefly to cover Dhugal's closed eyes. When he looked up at Morgan and Kelson, he grinned.

“Well done. He isn't exactly controlled, but he's asleep. I didn't want to push my luck. The shields are still very much in place. And if he thought he had a headache just now, wait until morning!”

“I'd rather
not
think about that,” Kelson muttered.

“Ah, but
you
have a choice,” Morgan said, sitting back in his chair and setting aside his cup with a grin. “One of the side-benefits of having healing talents is being able to ease the morning after. Actually, we could probably help Dhugal, too, but it's much harder having to work around shields. Maybe that will be an incentive for him to learn to lower them.”

“I hope
something
soon is!” Kelson murmured. Sighing, he stood and ran a hand through his rumpled hair. “But it's time we all got some sleep, I suppose. Duncan, why don't you bring Dhugal on into my room; there's plenty of room for two in my bed, at least until tomorrow night—and then you and Alaric can put me out of my misery as well.”

A little unsteadily, but declining Morgan's offer of assistance, the king led the way into the sleeping chamber and shed his outer garments.

“Make everything be right when I wake up, Alaric,” he whispered, as he lay back and Morgan sat down beside him. “Please.”

“Close your eyes and go to sleep, my prince,” Morgan said softly.

He let himself sink into trance as Kelson obeyed, spreading his hand across Kelson's forehead to touch the closing eyelids with thumb and middle finger, wrapping his consciousness lovingly around that of his king and guiding it into stillness. After a few seconds, Duncan joined him in rapport, the two Deryni gradually extending ease and healing upon the king, comfort to soul and mind as well as body.

Epiphany dawned cold but clear for the royal nuptials. Shortly after dawn, Morgan was already attending to the few remaining details that must be resolved before the start of the bridal procession, which would wind its way from Rhemuth Keep down to the cathedral below. He did not mind rising early, since his bed was empty anyway—though in a good cause. Richenda had spent the night with the nervous royal bride. Two hours before the wedding procession was to begin, heading down the corridor that led past Kelson's apartments, he met Duncan just emerging.

“How is he?” Morgan asked, as the two of them continued on down the corridor.

Duncan smiled. “Well enough. I've just heard his confession—and he's as nervous as I've ever seen him over something that isn't mortally dangerous—but he's in good spirits. ‘Hopeful' is probably be the best word to describe him.”

“Well, that's reassuring,” Morgan said. “How about Dhugal?”

“I don't know. He'd gone to change before I arrived. I gather that loud noises and sudden movements are not his favorite things just now, however. Poor lad.”

“Well, we all had to learn that the hard way, didn't we?” Morgan replied. “Incidentally, and on a far more optimistic note, did you know that Llewell's consented to lead his sister's horse this morning, and to stand witness to the marriage?”

Duncan chuckled. “I'm not surprised to hear it. I'm told he had Bradene hear his confession yesterday. Apparently he's quite contrite.”

“More likely, Nigel sat him down and had a little chat about the realities of being a hostage prince,” Morgan snorted. “But—well, look who's still alive despite his hangover!” he added jovially, as Dhugal came around a corner at the far end of the corridor, headed in their direction.

The boy wore formal border garb this morning: bright MacArdry tartan pleated around his body and caught at the shoulder of his doublet with silver, hair braided and knotted in customary border fashion and tied with black silk. He sketched a half-hearted bow as they met, but the movement obviously distressed him. Morgan laid a comradely hand on his shoulder and leaned down to peer into the bloodshot eyes, giving him a speculative smile.

“What's wrong, Dhugal?”

“That isn't funny, sir,” Dhugal whispered, grimacing. “It isn't fair, either. Kelson acts like he didn't have a thing to drink last night. I feel like the top of my head is going to come off.”

Morgan raised one eyebrow and clucked his tongue sympathetically. “Well, when you learn to lower those shields of yours, we'll be able to cure your hangover, too, won't we, Duncan?” he quipped.

But Duncan's face was still and devoid of expression, his mind suddenly shut tight to Morgan's tentative and surprised probe. Morgan could isolate no one thing which made him aware of something not quite right, but the shadow was there. Duncan blinked as he felt their eyes on him, as if dragging himself up from contemplation of something grim and even soul-shaking.

“Duncan?”

“I'm sorry. I was thinking about something else. What was it you asked?”

“I was just teasing Dhugal about his hangover,” Morgan said, trying to make light of Duncan's sudden change of mood. “Did you forget to do something?”

“Yes, I did,” Duncan replied, seizing gratefully on the excuse Morgan offered. “I need to go back to my quarters for a few minutes. Could you give me a hand?”

“Of course. Do you think it will take very long?”

“No. Just something I need you for.” Duncan glanced back at Dhugal. “We're probably keeping you from your duties as well, Dhugal. I must say that it's pleasant to see formal border garb at court again, however. Is your cloak clasp a MacArdry design?”

“This?” Dhugal pulled the clasp away from his body with a thumb and glanced down at it. “No, I don't think so. My father had it when he was a boy. I don't know where he got it. He gave it to my mother the day they were married, and she left it to me when she died. I don't wear it very often, but Kelson thought it was appropriate for a wedding. It
is
rather striking, isn't it?”

“Yes, it is.” Duncan glanced at Morgan even more urgently. “But, I really must take care of that errand. Alaric, are you coming?”

The Deryni bishop would say nothing else as he led Morgan not to his apartments but to the little study where they had met after his consecration. Nor would he lower his shields. Only when they were inside did he relax a little, though he still was like a tightly wound spring as he crossed to the little prie-dieu in the corner by the window and dropped to his knees. Morgan watched him curiously from the center of the chamber, not pressing a contact. Finally, Duncan crossed himself and stood, turning a grave profile toward the amber glass of the window.

“You're owed an explanation for the last little while,” he said softly, beckoning Morgan to come closer. “I can only say that this is something that never occurred to me in my wildest dreams. It's—going to take some getting used to.”

Morgan frowned as he stopped within arm's reach of Duncan, afraid to touch him.

“Would you please tell me what you're talking about? What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“In a way, I suppose I have.” Duncan chewed on his lower lip and sighed. “Alaric, I wasn't just being courteous when I complimented Dhugal on his border garb and asked about that cloak clasp. And then, when he told me where he'd gotten it—”

He sighed again, dropping his gaze to the violet slippers showing at the hem of his cassock.

“That clasp used to be mine, Alaric. I gave it to Dhugal's sister many years ago, under exactly the circumstances he described.” He paused to swallow with difficulty.

“Only—now I think the ‘brother' born a little while later may not have been her brother at all. I—think Dhugal may be her son—and mine.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

Yet will I bring an heir unto thee
.

—Micah 1:15

As Duncan raised his eyes to Morgan's, he did not need Deryni abilities to read the shock and astonishment written there. He knew that he must be projecting much the same feeling himself. He, like Morgan, was finding it hard to believe, but the clasp spoke for itself—and Dhugal would be
exactly
the right age.

The memories of those long-ago years started to well into consciousness, but Duncan pushed them down for just another moment as he gestured toward the two chairs facing the fireplace. He tried to keep his shields closed and not to think much at all as he made his feet move in that direction and Morgan followed, and could not quite decide whether it was elation or stark terror threatening to overwhelm him when he unleashed the memories at last. He sat, eyes unfocused through the fire on the hearth, and was only dimly aware of Morgan sitting down beside him, moving his chair closer to face him almost head-on, so that their knees were nearly touching.