The day began with the usual sequence of ceremonials customarily conducted at Twelfth Night court: knightings, squirings, and the enrollment of new pages for training in the royal household. Five new knights received the accolade, from diverse parts of the kingdom, and seven senior pages were promoted to squire.
Krispin MacAthan was among four new pages enrolled that day, finally allowed to exchange the play-tabard he had worn in aspiration for the full page’s livery such as Prince Brion had donned the previous year. Both the young prince and the boy’s mother had made much of young Krispin, to the notable disapproval of a delegation from Carthane. However, this was hardly surprising, since it was widely known that Jessamy and her son were Deryni, and Carthane was the principal venue in which Bishop Oliver de Nore continued to pursue his campaign of harassment against Deryni who stepped at all out of line.
As the king placed the scarlet page’s tabard over Krispin’s head, he was aware of the minor flurry of disgruntlement generated by this public distinction accorded a Deryni, but he also noted its source: several men in the party of a portly baron called Deldour, who had long been known for his antipathy toward Deryni. The man had been a minor irritant for years down in Carthane, his name periodically linked with the odd incident of Deryni persecution—but nothing serious. He was mostly a complainer and a boor.
His plaint this year, when the time came for presenting petitions for the king’s justice, had to do with grazing rights along the Eirian, far from the troubles in Nyford. While he
was
known to be friends with Oliver de Nore, one of the itinerant bishops active in the ongoing persecution of Deryni—and had even taken Bishop Oliver’s younger brother into his service as a chaplain—Deldour himself was considered to be a mere irritant rather than any particular threat. The presence of the bishop’s brother hinted at potentials for more serious unpleasantness—and Zoë noted him, and recognized him as Alyce’s old nemesis from Arc-en-Ciel, Father Septimus de Nore—but she was not about to intrude on the betrothal of her father and her dearest friend by bringing up past unpleasantness.
Lord Deldour’s ire had only increased at the feast that followed court, when the king summoned Sir Kenneth Morgan and Lady Alyce de Corwyn to the high table and there joined their hands, lauding Kenneth’s faithfulness and valor and, in token of his esteem, declaring his intention that the two should wed. A royal chaplain had been holding himself in readiness, and came at the king’s beckoning to seal the betrothal with the blessing of the Church, to much astonished murmuring among the assembled lords and ladies and a renewed wave of mutterings within Lord Deldour’s party.
For the most part, however, Sir Kenneth Morgan’s change in fortune was lauded as just recompense for faithful services rendered, and brought him many a heartfelt expression of congratulation from friends and colleagues. The king observed this reaction with no little relief as the active feasting gave way to divers entertainments: minstrels and dancing, a troupe of jugglers and a fire-eater, and even a masque prettily played by some of the ladies of the queen’s household and several of the older squires, recounting the courtship of Malcolm and Roisian.
Jared Earl of Kierney played the part of King Malcolm, wearing a tinsel crown that looked a good deal like the real state crown that Donal had worn earlier at his official court, with crosses and leaves intertwined; and his own betrothed, Lady Vera Howard, briefly returned to court for Twelfth Night, played the role of Roisian of Meara with sweetness and verve. When “King Malcolm” finally swept his princess into his arms and kissed her heartily, in front of Sir Jovett Chandos dressed as an archbishop in a tall miter, all the audience applauded wildly, shouting and hooting with delight, for the widower Jared and the lovely and spritely Vera were to be married in early May, and the match was popular.
Alyce and Kenneth watched from seats that had been vacated for them at the high table, at the king’s right hand, Zoë sitting happily to her father’s other side. Dancing followed the masque, interspersed with more boisterous minstrelsy, and the freely flowing wine slowly shifted the atmosphere from decorous to earthy, as couples sought out the shadows of hall and cloister garden. No doubt reminded of the Twelfth Night previous, Zoë grew more wistful as the night wore, and made no objection when her father quietly opined that perhaps it was time to retire.
When the three of them reached the door to the room that she and Alyce shared, she accepted her father’s gentle kiss and then disappeared inside. Alyce would have followed her, but Kenneth caught her hand.
“Stay a moment,” he murmured, drawing her back from the door. “She will be missing your brother, and probably would like to weep a while in privacy.”
Saying nothing, for she knew Kenneth was right, Alyce only nodded and let herself be led into the recess of the next closed doorway, her hand still in his. She, too, was missing her brother, and all the promise lost with his passing—and the night had made her far more aware of the weight that had passed to her own shoulders, with his death. When her own tears started to flow, Kenneth drew her into the circle of his arms and gently pressed her to his chest, simply holding her while she wept, one hand caressing the tumble of her hair.
She began to reclaim her composure after a few minutes, lifting her head to knuckle at her tears with the back of one hand, a little embarrassed by her lapse.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, daring to look at him. “I suppose I needed a good weep as much as Zoë.”
“You are surely entitled to weep,” he murmured.
He caught her left hand and pressed it his lips, tasting the salt of her tears. As he lifted his eyes to hers, she felt his thumb caressing the ring he had given her only hours earlier, at their betrothal—and the subtle tightening of the arm that still surrounded her, almost a spasm, as if marking some momentous shift in their relationship.
“Alyce,” he dared to whisper, so softly that she almost could not hear him, “I should very much like to kiss you.”
Her heart had begun thumping in her breast, and her eyes anxiously searched his as she managed a faint nod. Releasing her hand, he brushed reverent fingertips along the curve of her cheek, then gently tilted her chin upward to receive his chaste kiss.
At least it began that way, though that first kiss soon gave way to another that was not chaste at all. The touch of his lips seemed to ignite a delicious tingling from head to toe, and her arms slid up around his neck, pulling him closer. A tiny moan escaped her as his lips nuzzled briefly down one side of her neck and then back to her mouth, his embrace hardening.
She could feel her body answering as he kissed her again, far more thoroughly this time. When, finally, he drew back with a shudder, turning his face slightly away from her, she was trembling and breathless, weak-kneed, and only reluctantly let her hands slip back onto his chest as he dared to meet her gaze again.
“I—think, perhaps, you should go to your room now,” he said quietly. “For if you stay here much longer, dear Alyce, I—cannot guarantee that you shall go later with your virtue intact.”
She had dared to Truth-Read him as he spoke, and suddenly realized by what little margin he had pulled himself back from taking full advantage of her inexperience. And while her trembling body still declared its willingness—nay, its eagerness—to resume the delicious dalliance of the past few minutes, this was hardly the time nor the place. Sufficient, for now, to know that their eventual union would be no mere coupling out of dynastic duty, but something far more. Just what, she was not certain, but for now, both of them would have to be content to wait to discover it.
“You’re right, of course,” she whispered, stepping a little back from him, though her one hand lingered on his sleeve before surrendering the touch of him. “I should see if Zoë is all right.”
Smiling tremulously, she kissed the fingertips of her right hand, then touched them to his lips as she murmured, “Good night, dear Kenneth.”
With that, she made her way quickly back to the door of her own room and went inside, closing and barring it after her.
VERY early the next morning, shortly after first light, a furious pounding on the door brought both Alyce and Zoë bolt-upright in their bed.
“What on earth?” Zoë murmured.
Alyce was already tumbling from the bed and padding toward the door, pulling back the bolt, wrenching the door wide enough to reveal a very frightened-looking squire—one of those promoted from page the day before.
“Lady Alyce, you’re to come to the stable yard at once,” he blurted. “The king commands it.”
“The king? Whatever for?” Zoë asked, coming up behind Alyce.
“There’s been an accident, miss,” the boy replied.
“What kind of accident?” Alyce wanted to know.
“Just come, my lady, please!” The boy looked scared and desperate. “I’m not to give you any further details.”
“Why ever not—?” Zoë began.
“We’d best get dressed,” Alyce cut in, starting to close the door and then looking at the boy again. “It’s Trevor, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my lady.” The boy immediately calmed at this remembrance of his name. “You’d best wrap up warm, my lady. It’s bitter cold out there. And poor Krispin—”
He broke off, frightened-looking, biting at his lip, and Alyce exchanged a glance with Zoë before closing the door.
“What do you suppose happened?” Zoë whispered, as she and Alyce hastily pulled on warm woolen gowns over their nightdresses, then set about donning stockings and sturdy boots.
“I don’t know,” said Alyce. “But Trevor was in a dreadful state.”
They finished dressing, pulled on warm cloaks and caps and gloves, and raced down to the stable yard right behind Trevor. But to their surprise, he led them on toward the secondary yard, where about a dozen men were clustered around the well-head next to a large watering trough. The king and his brother were watching Sir Tiarnán MacRae and Sir Kenneth help a very young page out of the well itself, where a rope disappeared over the edge.
When the boy had cleared the edge, to be bundled in a warm cloak by Richard, two burly stablemen started to haul on the rope, obviously raising something heavier than a mere bucket of water. The king’s physician and Duke Richard’s battle-surgeon, Master Donnard, were there as well. All of them looked dreadful.
Pushing down a queasy sensation in the pit of her stomach, Alyce made her way to the side of Sir Jiri Redfearn, Zoë close behind her.
“Jiri, what’s happened?” she murmured.
Jiri shook his head, never taking his eyes from the well-head. “Bad business, my lady. Apparently, one of the pages fell down the well and drowned.”
“Dear God, which one?” Zoë murmured.
“I’m afraid it’s Lady Jessamy’s lad, milady,” Jiri said. “We’ve been looking for him most of the night.”
“But—how could he fall down the well?” Alyce asked. “Surely it’s too narrow.”
Jiri shrugged. “We wondered that, too. He went in head-first. They had to send another boy down to tie a rope around his ankles. Only way to get him out.”
As he said that, two booted feet appeared over the edge of the well-head—a child’s feet—and a flash of crimson page’s livery, just before the men closed in around him to block any further view by the two young women.
“Stay here!” Jiri ordered, turning briefly to face them and pointing emphatically at the ground, before heading toward the well at a brisk trot.
Alyce and Zoë could not hear what the men were saying, but the king himself came to wrap his cloak around the little body as it emerged fully from the well, letting Richard and Kenneth help lay the boy on the ground. The two physicians moved in quickly, but only crouched briefly before reluctantly withdrawing, shaking their heads. Master Donnard looked particularly stunned. After a moment, the king himself came over to where the two young women waited, his face white and drawn. His glance at Zoë allowed for no appeal.
“Leave us, please. I would have a word in private with Lady Alyce.”
When Zoë had withdrawn, wandering closer to where two young pages were anxiously craning their necks to see more of the fate of their young friend, the king turned back to Alyce, though not without a backward look over his shoulder in the direction of the well.
“Dear Alyce, I must ask a very great favor of you,” he said in a very low voice. “There’s been murder done here during the night, and I
will
know who is responsible.”
“It was Krispin?” she murmured, stunned. “He was
murdered?
”
Donal closed his eyes briefly and nodded. “Aye, and worse than just murder. And it is I who must tell his mother. And because she
is
his mother, I cannot ask her to do what I now must ask of you.”
“What would you have of me, Sire?” she whispered.
“If Morian were here, I would ask him, but—” Donal made a gesture of dismissal of the thought with one hand and returned his stunned gaze to her face, almost as if he had not heard her. “Alyce, I do not know the extent of your training, but I am hoping it will be enough to do what needs to be done. Do you know of a procedure called a death-reading?”
Cautiously she gave a nod.
“And have you had training in its use?”
She allowed herself a slight, ironic smile. “I know the theory, Sire. But I had little opportunity to apply it, at the convent. However, I am willing to do what I can.”
He sighed and gave a nod. “I shall have the area cleared, then, so that you may work undisturbed—for I am given to understand that much can sometimes be learned from the place where the crime took place. And I would not expose you to any more notoriety than is necessary, by asking you to work before witnesses who, quite probably, would see such magery as a demonstration of demonic powers. Sir Kenneth, I believe, is somewhat accustomed to seeing you work, from having had you tend his injury last autumn?”