Serving as the prince’s advisors and staff were Lord Seisyll Arilan, Sir Kenneth Morgan, and Keryell Earl of Lendour, who brought along his son Ahern. In addition, the king sent summons of array to two of his earls whose holdings lay near Meara’s borders, and who thus had a personal interest in holding the peace in Meara: Jared of Kierney and Caulay of Transha, both of them in their youthful prime and both bringing small but powerful levies to enforce the king’s authority, if necessary. Finally, as a sign of his personal authority, the king also sent along a squadron of Haldane lancers.
By Lammastide, Duke Richard had assembled his team in Ratharkin and begun to hear grievances. By Michaelmas, it had become clear that most of the Mearan complaints were groundless or trivial, and that the Mearans were but wasting the court’s time.
Matters came to a head late in October, though the aftermath fell just short of all-out war. It was Keryell and Ahern who, on the eve of the Feast of All Saints, just managed to foil an assassination plot that might have claimed Richard, the royal governor, and perhaps several more high-ranking Gwyneddan men—except that Ahern de Corwyn had chanced to detect the rebels’ intentions before they could be fully carried out, he being young and, therefore, not fully under their suspicion. Nor was it widely known in Meara that he and his father were Deryni.
The concerted response by the king’s men was enough to prevent serious harm to Richard himself, but not enough to save Keryell and several Haldane lancers who were cut down in the fighting. Two of the assassins were also killed outright.
“How could this have happened?” Richard whispered, nursing a badly bruised hand in his chambers that night with Seisyll, Morian, and the two young earls whose levies had provided the military force for a successful defense. Sir Kenneth Morgan, tonight acting as Richard’s aide, was pouring wine for all of them, and sported a bloodied bandage across his forehead and a blackened right eye. “Jared, how many others did we lose?”
“Five of your Haldane lancers, two of my own, and one of Caulay’s, your Highness,” Jared replied, “and we could lose several more from their wounds. Keryell’s boy may lose a leg. The knee was shattered.”
“Damn!” Shaking his head, Richard let it fall heavily onto his undamaged hand. “Bad enough, to lose his father. And now, if he lives, he’ll be a cripple all his days.”
“Your Highness, this canna be allowed tae go unpunished,” Earl Caulay said, his border brogue thick with emotion, for the man he had lost had been a cousin. “If ye dinna nip it in the bud right now, there’ll be another full-scale rebellion within five years, mark my words.”
“I agree,” Seisyll said. “The plot obviously had been long in the planning, and it very nearly succeeded. It seems clear that they were after you—and that is a direct attack on the king your brother.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Richard said. “How many prisoners have we?”
“Eight,” Morian replied promptly. “And we killed another ten.”
“Did many escape, do you think?” Richard asked.
Seisyll exchanged a glance with Morian. The two of them had gone among the prisoners a few hours earlier, reading their guilt.
“I doubt it,” Seisyll said.
“Most of the prisoners are known trouble-makers,” Morian added.
Richard slowly lifted his head. At thirty, he was a seasoned warrior, already with a reputation on and off the field, but in this hour he looked far older.
“I am minded to hang them all, gentlemen,” he said, “for only by sharp example may we hope to discourage future treachery of this sort. I do not doubt that Caulay is right: that we shall have to mount another punitive expedition here within the next few years. But stern measures now might postpone it a while longer.” He sighed. “I like it not, that I must be the one to send word of our losses to my brother. I had not thought to lose him an earl on this mission, and especially not . . .”
His vague sigh in the direction of Morian made it clear that he was regretting the loss of Keryell’s Deryni skills as well as the man himself. The others exchanged grim glances, but when no one else spoke up, Sir Kenneth said gently, “Shall I prepare the execution order, your Highness?”
WORD of what Richard had caused to be done reached Rhemuth on a wet and blustery morning some five days later, though he and his returning troops—and the bodies of the slain—would not arrive for another fortnight. With the news from Ratharkin came lists: those killed or executed in the king’s name and those who had died in his service.
Donal received the report, both verbal and written, in the snug withdrawing room behind the screens at the end of the great hall, and immediately called for an aide and a clark. Sir Kenneth Morgan had brought the news, muddy and rain-bedraggled, and shifted uneasily from one booted foot to the other as the king read, wringing rain from a sodden hank of sandy hair pulled back at his nape. Doing his best to stifle a sneeze, he let a squire exchange his dripping cloak for a warm, dry blanket and sat as Donal waved him to a stool set close before the fire, gratefully accepting the cup of mulled wine a page thrust into his fist.
“How bad is it
really,
Kenneth?” the king asked, still scanning the lists.
“Bad enough, Sire,” Kenneth replied. “We were very, very lucky that our losses weren’t worse.”
As Kenneth closed cold-numbed fingers around his cup and took a long pull at his wine, Donal said, “I see here that you and Keryell may well have saved my brother’s life—that you were the heroes of the day. Did you know that Richard said that in this letter?”
Kenneth nearly choked on his wine, looking up in surprise mixed with faint discomfiture. A knight of only minor holdings, about to turn forty, he had been the king’s loyal servant for more than half his life—still well fit for field or council table, but hitherto quietly resigned that fame and fortune were unlikely to be his.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” Donal said, quirking him a faint smile.
“I but did my duty, Sire, as I would have done for you,” Kenneth said, when he had stopped coughing.
“Well, you did it very well, and I’ll not forget. Now, go get yourself a hot meal and a bed.” As Sir Kenneth rose to do the king’s bidding, the summoned men entered, the aide saluting with fist to breast and the clark bowing over the writing case clutched to his chest.
“Again, well done,” Donal said, as the exhausted man took his leave. “Tiarnán, I have just received ill news from Ratharkin,” he went on, beckoning the aide closer. “Who are Earl Keryell’s stewards in Lendour and Corwyn, in his absence?”
“In Corwyn, that would be the seneschal of Coroth, my Liege,” the aide replied, glancing after Sir Kenneth. “For Lendour, I don’t know; I would need to make inquiries. Has something happened to Earl Keryell?”
“Unfortunately, it has.” Donal handed Tiarnán the lists he had just received. “There was an assassination attempt. Richard is safe, and he hanged all the perpetrators, but Keryell is slain, and five lancers, along with several others from Kierney and Transha. Keryell’s son is gravely wounded. I’ll ask you to notify the families of the lancers; their names are there.” He nodded toward the lists in Tiernán’s hand. “Father Farian will help you with the necessary letters, and I’ll need to send some of my own. As for Keryell’s daughters, I think that warrants more personal attention.” He rose and stepped into the corridor to summon a page.
“Ivone, please ask Lady Jessamy to attend us,” he said. “Tell her I shall need her to ride to Arc-en-Ciel at once. And have Sir Jiri Redfearn assemble a suitable escort. It’s vile weather to send her out, but this kind of news comes best from another woman—at least the bare bones of it.”
As the page scurried off to carry out the king’s instructions, Tiarnán quickly scanned down the lists, grim-faced, shaking his head.
“Ill news, indeed, Sire. I recognize several of these names—on both sides. And with Ahern injured and still under-age, it occurs to me that you’ll need regencies in Lendour and Corwyn. Do you wish me to summon the appropriate men?”
Donal shook his head. “Not at this time. Just advise the stewards what has happened, and say that I have taken Corwyn and Lendour directly under my protection for the nonce, pending more permanent arrangements. If young Ahern doesn’t live, Keryell’s daughters are about to become very important heiresses.”
THE page who summoned Jessamy to join the king did not know the reason, but his instructions that she was to prepare to ride to Arc-en-Ciel told her that it must concern Alyce and Marie, or possibly Zoë Morgan, whose fathers were presently on assignment in Ratharkin. Everyone at court knew the precarious nature of Duke Richard’s mission in Meara, and what other high-ranking lords were in his party.
The king was dictating to Father Farian when she entered the room, now dressed to accommodate the freezing rain outside. Nearby, Sir Tiarnán MacRae was busy with his own pen and parchments. One look at their faces warned her that the news must be bad, indeed.
“You sent for me, Sire?”
He sighed and looked around at her, waving dismissal to the page who had brought her and also casting an absent glance at Tiarnán and the young priest, who now were conferring in low tones.
“I’ve had ill news from Ratharkin,” he said without preamble.
“Yes, Sire,” she murmured. “Not of Duke Richard, I trust?”
“No, he is well, thank God, but Keryell Earl of Lendour has been slain, along with several others, and his son is sorely wounded. His daughters must be informed. I’ll not burden you with details that are better saved for
them,
but you should know that young Ahern may yet succumb to his injuries—though he was yet alive when the news left Ratharkin.”
“That is, at least, one blessing,” she murmured. “Have you word of Sir Kenneth Morgan? His daughter is also at Arc-en-Ciel.”
“Tell her that he is well,” the king replied. “He brought the news, and I have sent him to bed.” He shook his head wearily. “I do not envy you this mission, my lady. Would you rather I sent another?”
“No, Sire,” Jessamy said softly. “Better it comes from me than from a stranger.”
Donal nodded. “Thank you. I had hoped that would be your answer. I’ve asked Sir Jiri Redfearn to assemble an escort. He should have horses ready by the time you reach the stable yard.”
“Thank you, Sire,” Jessamy murmured. “Do you wish us to stay the night at Arc-en-Ciel or to return immediately? The weather—”
“—is beastly, I know,” the king said, finishing her sentence. “Let the girls decide—though I see no need for overmuch haste. Kenneth said that the bodies of the slain will not reach Rhemuth for a week or more.” He paused a beat, sorrow in his face. “You’d best be on your way.”
“Very good, Sire,” she whispered, sinking in an obedient curtsy.
AN early dusk was descending as the sister-portress admitted the half-dozen riders drawn up in the driving rain outside the convent gate. Lady Jessamy MacAthan was well known at Arc-en-Ciel, and her instructions were accepted without question as she bade one of the sisters to take Sir Jiri and his men into the outer parlor to warm before the fire.
“Pray, bring them dry blankets and food and drink as well,” Jessamy said, letting another sister take her own sodden cloak and exchange it for a dry robe lined with fur. “I come on the king’s urgent business, and must speak with Alyce and Marie.”
“They are with a visitor, my lady,” Sister Iris Agatha informed her. “Their family chaplain. Do you wish me to interrupt them?”
Jessamy looked at the blue-robed sister sharply. “Father Paschal is here?”
The sister nodded. “He is, my lady. They do have permission for him to call on them. Their father gave his leave shortly after they joined us.”
“Oh, I’m well aware of
that,
” Jessamy assured her. “I’m simply glad to learn that he’s here. Unfortunately, I bring ill news concerning Earl Keryell. He’s been killed in Ratharkin, and the girls’ brother is seriously wounded. I’ve been sent to fetch them back to Rhemuth. I’m sure Father Paschal will wish to accompany them.”
“Indeed, I’m sure he will,” Sister Iris Agatha replied, eyes wide with surprise and compassion. “Are we—at war with Meara?”
Jessamy gave a weary shrug. “I would assume not, since the king said nothing of that. I have no details, save that Zoë Morgan’s father brought the news—so she, at least, may rest easy. May we go now?”
WHEN, after a discreet knock, Zoë herself opened the door of the writing room adjoining the convent’s main library, Jessamy brushed past her with only a perfunctory greeting, leaving Sister Iris Agatha standing outside as she pulled the door shut behind her. Across the room, the Corwyn sisters were rising from seats before the fire, near to a slight, black-robed figure bent over a brown leather satchel.
“Tante Jessamy!” Alyce cried, delighted, though her face fell as she saw the older woman’s somber expression, and her sister grabbed her hand, apprehension growing. Now sixteen, Alyce de Corwyn was coming into stunning young womanhood, with creamy skin and dark-lashed eyes the same blue as her fur-lined over-robe. Marie, a year younger, was of rosier complexion, with a bronze braid instead of Alyce’s gold, but equally attractive.
“Tante Jessamy, what’s wrong?” Alyce asked, when the older woman did not immediately speak. “What can have brought you out in such dreadful weather?”
Saying nothing yet, Jessamy came to slip an arm around the waists of both girls and hug them close in greeting, gazing past them at the man in R’Kassan clergy robes, who straightened to give her a guarded inclination of his head. Clergy trained at the great R’Kassan seminaries were widely respected for their erudition and soundness of doctrine, but it was not widely known that priests like Paschal sometimes ventured quietly into Gwynedd by special mission, usually as private chaplains and tutors of noble children.
That some of them were Deryni was even less well known. But because their first duty was to their patrons rather than local bishops, and because they tended to keep a low profile, they usually were left alone. Jessamy had met Paschal briefly at Carthanelle, when Keryell of Lendour had given his daughters into the queen’s keeping, and she was well aware of who and what he really was.