She had laughed aloud at that very satisfying image, though she had soon dismissed it as highly unlikely to happen, given the queen’s affection for the pair. Besides that, it would be most difficult to prove any misconduct on their part without Muriella herself becoming involved—and that might well put Sé off her for good, thereby totally defeating the purpose of the exercise. No, getting rid of the sisters was definitely desirable, but there must be some more subtle way to do it.
It was on a showery afternoon early in September that the idea came to her, as she puttered in the stillroom with a decoction of fragrances derived from roses, lavender, and honeysuckle. Muriella had amassed considerable knowledge of herb lore during her several years at court, not only aromatic and culinary herbs but medicinal ones. Sometimes she assisted Father Denit, the queen’s chaplain, in the preparation of simples for use by the royal physician; and on that day, as she and the priest checked the stocks of medicinal herbs, she found her fingers lingering over those substances whose use required extreme caution: substances that could kill.
Shocked at her own audacity, she tried to put such thoughts from her mind, forcing herself not to react, but the notion would not leave her. The next day found her in the royal library, poring over a particular herbal. And gradually, a plan began to take shape, involving a confection of ground almonds, honey, and certain other substances that might be added to the almond paste.
It could be done, she decided. It would be dangerous, if she were found out, but was Sir Sé not worth a little risk? Her disdain for her rivals was well known, so she would need to recruit an unwitting accomplice to her plan, but that, too, could be done. The more she considered, the more possible the prospect seemed. For with Marie out of the way, and perhaps Alyce as well, Muriella was certain that she could win the affection of the dashing Sé Trelawney. . . .
MURIELLAseized her opportunity on a sultry day late in September, when a series of seemingly unrelated events chanced to spiral into disaster. It began as Lord Seisyll Arilan strolled into the castle gardens, having spent the morning in council with the queen and the Archbishop of Rhemuth—always a less than pleasant prospect, because Archbishop William made no secret of his dislike of Deryni.
Accordingly, Seisyll was always extremely careful never to put a foot wrong, in his dealings with the man. He understood that William MacCartney was likely to be the next Archbishop of Valoret, when Michael of Kheldour died; and while he had no particular quarrel with Gwynedd’s Primate, he knew he would be greatly relieved to have William MacCartney as far away as possible.
That afternoon, however, Seisyll had aspirations in another direction altogether. For with both the king and Duke Richard away from court for the past several months, Seisyll had been watching for an opportunity to have his own look at Master Krispin MacAthan—or Krispin Haldane, as Seisyll increasingly believed the boy to be. Not since Michon’s encounter with the boy in the cloister garden at Arc-en-Ciel had anyone from the Camberian Council been able to conduct even a cursory examination. But on such a lazy, hazy summer afternoon, with formal training sessions suspended and most of the children of the royal household at leisure, who knew what might be possible?
He had chosen his time with care, at an hour when many of the adults and not a few of the children were apt to be drowsing, even napping—and who would suspect otherwise? As Seisyll strolled, he took himself to the vicinity of the castle’s apple orchard rather than the more formal gardens that lay adjacent to the royal apartments, for he had heard mention that some of the younger boys, Krispin included, had lately conceived a passion for toy boats, which they were wont to try out in the fishpond that served the castle kitchens.
He pulled an apple from one of the trees and began to eat it as he passed through the orchard, peering beyond to where he believed the pond to be. He saw the squire first: a reliable young man in Haldane scarlet, reclining in the shade of another tree and also partaking of the orchard’s fruit as he watched the three younger boys crouched at the water’s edge.
The tallest of the boys was definitely a Haldane prince, as the second sable-headed lad might also be, all of them dressed in a motley assortment of well-worn and nearly outgrown summer tunics, sleeves rolled above the elbows and tunic-tails ruched up between bare legs as they waded ankle-deep in the shallows and shepherded the boats. The creamy sail of the red boat was painted with a Haldane lion, proclaiming it to be the property of Prince Brion. Another boy with brown hair was fiddling with the saffron sail of a blue-painted boat—the lad’s name was Isan Fitzmartin, Seisyll recalled.
Krispin MacAthan’s boat was green, and sported a sail of the dull red-ochre hue common to the Southern Sea. All three boys straightened attentively as Seisyll approached, and the squire sat forward and started to get to his feet, but Seisyll waved him back as he nodded to the boys and came to crouch down companionably at the water’s edge.
“Good afternoon, your Highness—and Master Krispin, Isan,” Seisyll said amiably. “Those are very fine boats you have there, but do you think Cook will mind that you’re frightening his fish?”
“Good afternoon, Lord Arilan,” Prince Brion replied, speaking for the three of them. “They
are
fine boats, aren’t they? Master Edward, the carpenter, made them for us, and some of the queen’s ladies sewed the sails.”
His sunny smile clearly was meant to distract Seisyll’s interest in the frightened fish, and the impish grins of Krispin and Isan were likewise endearing. As the young prince turned to prod at his craft with a stick, and Isan set his boat back adrift, Seisyll reached out with his mind to gently nudge the red and blue boats out of reach of their owners, as if wafted by a wayward breath of breeze. Krispin’s, by contrast, drifted a little closer.
“And very fine work it is, too,” Seisyll agreed. “Krispin, may I see that one?”
Nodding solemnly, Krispin plucked his boat out of the water and waded closer to Seisyll to extend it for inspection.
“Ah, yes, indeed,” Seisyll said, laying hands on the craft but also overlapping the hands of its owner, holding it, turning it to other angles, but not actually taking it—for by doing so, he was able to make and keep contact, at the same time extending a probe.
“Yes, that’s very fine,” he said, tilting the boat this way and that. “When I was a boy, I had a boat very like this one. My father made it for me—and one for my brother. We used to race them across a millpond in the village green near Tre-Arilan.
“I believe that was the summer I dreamed of becoming a great sea-farer, for my father had taken us to Orsalia earlier that summer, on one of the great galleys of the Duke of Corwyn’s caralighter fleet. As I recall, he made the boats for us while we were on that journey. At the time, I didn’t realize that sea voyages can actually be quite tedious. To me, it was sheer excitement.”
All three boys had been listening with rapt attention as Seisyll shared this boyhood reminiscence—which was time enough for the master Deryni to note several startling similarities between Krispin’s psychic resonances and those of the king.
“Was it very fast, my lord?” Krispin asked eagerly.
“Not very,” Seisyll said lightly. “I expect your boat is far faster. In fact, mine was appallingly slow. And it hadn’t nearly as nice a sail as yours.”
He used the boy’s pleasure at this compliment as cover for deftly disengaging his probe, also setting a gentle blur over any memory of the contact. It would not hold up to close scrutiny, but no such scrutiny was likely if no suspicion was raised.
“No, yours is far finer than the one I remember,” Seisyll went on. “The sail is particularly fine. May I ask who made it for you?”
“Lady Marie did the stitching, my lord,” Krispin replied, beaming as he stood a little straighter. “She’s ever so nice. But Mother gave her handkerchief, and Lady Muriella helped me gather the right herbs to dye it. And Lady Zoë painted the lion on Brion’s one.” He cocked his dark head wistfully. “It must be an awful lot of work to be a girl, my lord.”
Chuckling, Seisyll gestured toward the other two boats, now beginning to catch the breeze and move back toward their respective owners. Glancing back in that direction, Krispin smiled sunnily and turned to set his own boat back in the water, giving it a gentle push to send it on its way. As its sail caught a breeze and continued to move, the boy straightened to watch it go. Beyond, a duty squire entered the garden with a travel-stained knight in tow—apparently a messenger carrying dispatches, for he was rummaging in a leather satchel slung over one shoulder.
“Look, a messenger!” Prince Brion cried, pointing.
“Where do you think he’s come from?” Krispin said.
“Let’s go see!” said Isan.
Instantly the three boys bolted in that direction, leaving the boats abandoned in the fishpond. Smiling, Seisyll bent and willed the boats close enough to retrieve, then set them in a row at the edge before following after. Unless he was greatly mistaken, the just-arrived messenger was one of the knights who served Ahern de Corwyn—which meant that there would be news possibly requiring the attention of the crown council.
DEEPER in the main garden, not far from the royal apartments, the arrival of the messenger was also noted by Marie de Corwyn, as his attending squire led him in the direction of the queen’s solar. She had washed her hair earlier that morning, and was combing it dry in the dappled sunshine underneath a rose arbor. She rose expectantly as the messenger drew near, about to pass not far away, and he saw her and raised one gloved hand in greeting.
“Jovett!” she called. “Have you anything for me?”
“That I do,” the young man replied, grinning as he held up a folded and sealed square of parchment. “And your brother also sends you his duty and respect.”
She blushed prettily and ran to take it from him, standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, then ran her fingertips over the seal as he continued on. It was a scenario enacted half a dozen times in the course of the summer, as the king’s expedition in Corwyn stretched on, and no one thought it odd.
One discreet observer, in fact, welcomed it, for it provided the opportunity she had been waiting for. A little while later, when the queen had received the messages and assembled the crown council to deal with them, one of her ladies pressed a small package into the hands of a junior maid of honor, with instructions to bring it immediately to the Lady Marie.
“Say that the Corwyn messenger omitted to deliver this when he first arrived,” Muriella told the girl. “I believe he said that it comes from her brother.”
The girl’s name was Brigetta Delacorte. She was a shy young thing, only recently come to court. A child, really. One who Muriella knew could be intimidated into silence, if the need arose.
“You’d best go now,” Muriella urged, with a sweet smile.
Chapter 18
“Hast thou children? Instruct them, and bow down their neck from their youth.”
—ECCLESIASTICUS 7:23
MARIE had returned to her arbor seat and was reading Sé’s letter when young Brigetta Delacorte found her.
“Lady Marie, look what your brother has sent you,” the girl said, offering the package timidly. She was young and petite, only barely come to womanhood, and awed with life at Rhemuth. “I suppose it must have been at the bottom of the messenger’s pouch.”
Marie looked up in some surprise at the small bundle the girl extended, wrapped in a piece of fine ivory damask and tied with a length of green ribbon. It was about the size of a man’s hand—a box, by the feel of it, as she took it from Brigetta and hefted it in speculation.
“What on earth?” she murmured delightedly.
As she set it on her lap and pulled the tails of the bow to untie it, Brigetta stood beside her, watching eagerly as the length of green silk unfurled.
“What do you think he’s sent you?” the girl asked, craning to see.
“Well, I won’t know until I open it, will I?” Marie replied.
She handed the ribbon to the younger girl, then began unwrapping the box from its swath of damask. Beneath the folds of fabric, the box was revealed as quite a handsome item, polished smooth and lightly stained to a walnut shade. The confectionary scent of honey and almonds and roses drifted upward as she lifted the lid to discover more damask—and under it, half a dozen rose-shaped sweets, each adorned with real rose petals sticky with crystallized honey.
“Ooooh, marchpane!” Brigitta murmured. “Wherever did he get it? I
love
marchpane!”
Laughing, Marie took one herself and extended the box. “Have one, then—but only one. And I’ll want to share them with the others.”
“Mmmm,” Brigetta sighed, as she bit into hers and savored the flavor. “Heavenly!”
“Yes, indeed, very nice,” Marie agreed, nibbling at her piece. Across the garden, she could see Prince Brion approaching with young Krispin and Isan; she wondered what had happened to their boats. The crown prince was not fond of marchpane, but she knew Isan fancied it; she wasn’t sure about Krispin. As they saw that she had noticed them, they broke into a run to join her. Smiling, she beckoned them closer, holding out the box as they came crowding around.
“What’s that, Lady Marie?” Prince Brion demanded.
“Marchpane, which you don’t like,” Marie replied, offering the box to Isan. “But Isan likes it. And how about you, Krispin?”
Grinning delightedly, Isan plucked out one of the pieces and popped it whole into his mouth, cheeks bulging as he chewed it and pleasure lighting his blue eyes. Krispin, less adventurous than some, eyed the dwindling box of marchpane somewhat dubiously.
“Go ahead and try it,” Marie urged. “How else will you know whether you like it or not?”
Thus encouraged, Krispin plucked out one of the pieces and cautiously bit off half of it. But after a few chews, his grin faded to dislike and he spat it out.