“Dearest daughter in Christ, known among us as Sister Iris Jessilde, receive now the veil of a fully vowed member of this order, the clear, celestial blue of our Lady’s mantle, enfolding you in the bright rainbow that signifies God’s promise and our Lady’s benison. May you dwell ever in the Son-light that creates this Sign,
In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.
”
As she had done for Cerys, now she traced a cross on Jessilde’s forehead, before placing a gold ring on the marriage finger of her left hand. Jessilde raised that hand above her head, so that all could see the ring, then bent to kiss Judiana’s hand before being raised up.
After that, she took back the coiled braid of her hair from the silver salver and laid it on the altar in offering, as Cerys had offered up her flower crown. One day, in one of their sessions with Father Paschal, he had told Alyce and Marie and Jessilde that, in the days before the great persecutions, the men of the all-Deryni Order of Saint Gabriél had worn a similar braid, though of four strands, never cutting their hair once they had made their vows; and if forced by circumstance to cut their braids, had been obliged to dispose of the braid in ritual far more intricate than Jessilde’s simple offering.
Alyce thought about that parallel all through the Mass that followed, wondering how many others within these walls were aware of that ancient Deryni custom besides those Father Paschal had told.
MICHON de Courcy knew, though he would have been surprised to learn how many others present were also privy to that knowledge. His purpose in attending Jessilde MacAthan’s final profession, while ostensibly to honor this important milestone in the life of his son’s sister-in-law, was actually a long awaited opportunity to hopefully gain him access for that closer look at her younger brother; for there had been little doubt in Michon’s mind that the boy’s mother, Jessamy, would ride up from Rhemuth for the event, and probably would bring all of her younger children—as, indeed, she had done.
Not that she had been pleased to see Michon in the party with her eldest daughter—though, given his familial connection, he was certain that no one else would have thought his presence inappropriate. The king and queen certainly had been cordial enough.
But he suspected that it was Jessamy who, to remove young Krispin from such close proximity to a man who might uncover the truth about him, had instigated the boy’s sudden dash forward to sit with the princes—though Krispin’s impulsive action was not altogether inappropriate or unexpected, under the circumstances. The young princes
had
occupied the best seats in the house for a close view of the proceedings; and though, by special dispensation, the Mass ran well into the afternoon, the three boys had been quite well behaved, given their young ages.
But though Michon had feared that the change of seating arrangement might stymie any chance of success in the true purpose of his presence, he found his opportunity later that evening when, after supper in the refectory with the rest of the close family and friends invited to stay the night, he chanced to be walking in the cloister garden. After pausing to chat briefly with Sir Kenneth Morgan and his daughter—and Lady Alyce de Corwyn, in whose presence he kept himself carefully shielded—he noticed three dark heads clustered somewhat conspiratorially in a sheltered corner of the garden, one of their owners poking at something on the ground. Wandering closer, he saw that the object of their interest was a very small, very dead bird—a swallow, by the look of it, not yet fully fledged.
“What a pity,” he said, as he crouched down casually among them. “What do you suppose happened?”
There in the convent garden, none of the three showed any sign of wariness, for they had seen Michon in the church, sitting behind Krispin’s mother, and knew he was kin to one of the nuns.
“I think he falled out of his nest,” said Prince Brion, who was senior of the three both by age and by rank. Under the eaves above them, Michon could see the bulges of several tiny nests plastered close against the rafters.
“But, why didn’t he fly?” Blaine said plaintively.
“Because his wings are too small,” Brion replied, grasping the tips of both tiny wings and stretching them out to display their juvenile state. “See, they’re only little. But I think he was going to be a swallow, like those up there.”
He glanced upward at a nest tucked up under the eaves, with several little heads looking down at them with beady little eyes. Nearby, several adult swallows were clinging to precarious toeholds amid the ends of the rafters, heads swiveling to watch them.
“I see more babies up there!” Blaine cried.
At the same time, Brion started to turn the bird over for a closer look at the markings on its throat, but Krispin recoiled, wrinkling up his nose in disgust.
“Ugh, it’s got crawly things on it! Leave it alone!”
Brion abandoned the bird at once, wiping both hands against his crimson tunic, and Blaine hastily backed off a step, lower lip a-quiver. He collided with the crouching Michon, who slipped a comforting arm around him and also took the opportunity to do the same to Krispin.
“It’s all right, son. That’s part of nature’s way,” he said, reassuring young Blaine and, at the same time, quickly daring a very gentle touch of the other boy’s mind—and then a deeper probe, when the first touch seemed not to be noticed. “Do you think we ought to bury him?”
“That’s a good idea,” Brion said. Already showing signs of leadership, he immediately started to scoop out a suitable hole with his bare hands.
“Maybe he’s just sleeping,” young Blaine said hopefully, as he watched his brother dig.
“No, I’m afraid he’s dead, son,” Michon replied.
“But—why did he falled out of the nest?” Blaine insisted. “Why didn’t the mama bird or the papa bird help him?”
“I’m sure they wanted to,” Michon assured him, redirecting the boy’s attention to the adult swallows watching from above. “I’m sure they’re very sad. Don’t you see them looking down at us? They’re watching to make sure we take good care of their baby.”
“Oh,” said Blaine, apparently satisfied with this explanation.
“Shouldn’t we wrap him in something soft then, before we bury him?” Krispin asked, turning to look at Michon. “I can get a handkerchief from Mama. . . .”
“I have another idea,” Michon replied, for he did not want the boy to go just yet. “Birds are nature’s creatures. Why don’t you line his little grave with leaves, or flower petals? That would make him a very soft bed.”
“An’ it will make him smell better, too!” Brion said, looking up with a pixie grin as he continued to scoop fresh earth. “Blaine, you go get some flowers.”
As Blaine raced off to pillage the nearest rosebush, ruthlessly pulling off the heads of several blown blooms, Krispin glanced up again at Michon, still taking comfort from his embrace.
“You know a lot about birds, don’t you, sir?” he asked.
“Well, I know a lot about a few things and a little about a lot of things,” Michon admitted. “I do know that your particular bird would have grown up to be a very fine swallow. I love watching them wheel in the sun. . . .”
And as Blaine returned and the three boys set about shredding roses and lining the little grave, Michon continued to crouch among them to encourage and advise—and was able to probe undetected into young Krispin’s mind, discovering most of what he had come there to learn.
Chapter 12
“Thy men shall fall by the sword, and thy mighty in the war.”
—ISAIAH 3:25
“’VE finally managed a look at Krispin MacAthan,” Michon announced to the Camberian Council a few days later, accessing their meeting place from the Portal at Rhemuth Cathedral. “I cannot tell you for certain that he is Donal Haldane’s son; but I
can
tell you that I do not believe Sief can have been his father.”
After deflecting their startled flurry of questions and demands for clarification, he reached his arms to either side to link hands with Barrett and Vivienne, flanking him left and right, and waited while the others did likewise, drawing them quickly into a deep rapport that enabled them to share what he had learned. When they came out of the trance, his fellow councilors glanced uneasily among themselves, uncertain what it all meant.
“Far more useful, of course, would have been to question Jessamy directly,” Michon reminded them. “Krispin himself knows nothing of the man whose name he bears, save what he has been told. And if Donal Haldane
is
his father, I still have no idea how that came to pass.”
“In the usual way, one would assume,” Oisín murmured, in a droll aside to Seisyll.
“Whatever his paternity,” Michon went on, ignoring the remark, “we are fortunate, indeed, that Krispin MacAthan— or Krispin Haldane, as he probably should be called—exhibits none of the worrying characteristics that made his grandfather so dangerous. Nor does he seem to favor his mother, in that regard. If anything, he somewhat reminds me of Morian—who will need to be told that he need not pursue our previous request,” he added, with a glance at Oisín. “All things considered, his Deryni heritage, combined with whatever it is that makes the Haldanes so curiously formidable, seems to have produced a child of quite interesting potential.”
Dominy raised an elegant eyebrow. “Pray, define ‘interesting, ’ in this context,” she said.
Several of them smiled ruefully at that, and Michon shrugged. “The boy is only three. If we cannot bend him to our purposes, he can always be eliminated later on. But this one bears watching, I think. Actually, the boy is nearly of an age to begin his training as a page—which means that he will be far more accessible in the future. Accordingly, it might be profitable for Seisyll to watch for opportunities to gain his friendship.”
“I have been doing that for the past three years,” Seisyll replied, “but it is true that he should become more accessible in the future. And it’s a relief to know that we need make no immediate decisions.”
“There is another decision that will require our attention sooner rather than later,” Michon went on. “I saw Keryell’s girls while I was at Arc-en-Ciel. They’ve both become quite the beauties.”
“Probably as well, then, that they are locked away in a convent for now,” Dominy said mildly. “What are they now? Maybe fifteen or so?”
“Fourteen and fifteen,” Barrett replied. “Ripe enough for marriage.”
“Yes, well,” Seisyll muttered. “The last time I spoke to Keryell about his plans for them, he was quite willing to be guided by our recommendations. And I can guide the king, of course. I have him thinking about several likely candidates who would inject the right Deryni blood into the Corwyn line.”
“Those matches aren’t nearly as critical as they once might have been,” Oisín pointed out. “Rather, we should be thinking about a match for their brother Ahern. He is easing nicely into the promise of his line, and his father has been campaigning him rather heavily the past year or so. When the time comes, he should make quite a formidable Duke of Corwyn.”
Vivienne had been nodding as he spoke. “Ah, yes. Surprisingly good bloodlines. I know that no one was pleased when Keryell seized Stevana de Corwyn and married her by force, but the outcome has been most salubrious—and even Keryell himself seems to have come around to the discipline of the Council.”
“Perhaps we should send him on a mission to Carthane,” Dominy said. “Something must be done about Bishop Oliver de Nore. . . .”
BUT for Donal Haldane, while Carthane and its Deryni persecutions remained a troublesome source of periodic unrest, it was westward that he looked with increasing uneasiness, for Meara remained yet unsettled. His sons were thriving, the harvests plentiful, and with the decade at its mid-point, even Nimur of Torenth seemed to have turned his aspirations away from Gwynedd, campaigning eastward past Arjenol that season. By September of 1085, when Queen Richeldis presented Donal with the dainty daughter she had longed for, christened Xenia, the king could look back on several seasons of peace, though most of the year to date had been bracketed with military readiness.
That spring, acting on rumors of growing unrest in Meara, Donal had appointed his half-brother, Duke Richard, to assume active field command of the Gwyneddan Army. Richard, in turn, had spent the summer organizing the Gwynedd levies and drilling the standing units—and to good purpose, for August had seen a royal birth in Meara: a son, to the Princess Onora, who was daughter of the present Mearan pretender, Prince Judhael.
The birth of a male heir had rekindled Mearan aspirations to independence, even though the marriage of Donal’s father with Roisian of Meara was to have settled the Mearan succession after the death of her father without male issue. Prince Judhael was Roisian’s nephew, son of the Princess Annalind, who had been Roisian’s twin.
But the widow of the last prince, the Dowager Princess Urracca, had promoted the cause of Annalind, the younger twin, over that of Roisian, whom she deemed a traitor to her land for having married Malcolm Haldane. All three were now long dead—mother and both daughters—but Annalind’s son Judhael had begun to attract renewed support among Mearan separatists. During that winter following the birth of Judhael’s grandson, his wife—who was Llanneddi, aunt to Queen Richeldis—wrote several times to her niece in Rhemuth, warning that, if a Mearan accommodation could not be reached, their respective husbands were headed for war.
All through that winter and into the spring of 1086, much of the gossip and speculation at the court of Rhemuth was focused on the prospect of rebellion brewing in the west. At midsummer, the king gave his brother Richard a commission as acting viceroy of Meara and sent him to Ratharkin to set up a court of inquiry, with instructions to enlist the full assistance of the Lady Jessamy’s brother, Sir Morian du Joux. By this, he meant Deryni assistance.