Seisyll shook his head and let out a sigh, still much affected by what he had seen.
“They flogged him then: thirty strokes, as he had meted out to Septimus de Nore, five strokes each from six different monks. Thank God it was not the flagellum, as was used on de Nore. The weals glistened with royal blood—and it is red, not blue or purple, as some would have it—but he uttered not a sound.
“When it was done, he took back his shirt, kissed the hand of each of the six monks who had flogged him, then knelt before Archbishop William to receive absolution and Holy Communion. He spoke not at all as we rode with him back to the castle. Lady Alyce came to bathe his stripes and anoint them with soothing salves. I do not think he spoke with her, either, though it was clear how he had incurred them.
“I left him sleeping peacefully—on his stomach, to be sure. I think there will be no scarring, but he will not soon forget this night, or the cost of his momentary defiance. At least he is restored to grace.”
The others were shaking their heads by the time he finished.
“This is bad business, with the bishops,” Barrett said. “I like it not, that the king yielded to their pressure.”
“He had little choice,” Khoren retorted. “Your bishops in Gwynedd are not like ours in Andelon. Headstrong they are, and blind in the matter of anything Deryni. There will be more trouble, mark my words.”
Chapter 29
“Marry thy daughter, and so shalt thou have performed a weighty matter; but give her to a man of understanding.”
—ECCLESIASTICUS 7:25
HEADSTRONG the bishops of Gwynedd might be, but there was at least one man prepared to beard them in their den—though in the subtle way only possible for a Deryni. Despite a flurry of letters from Alyce de Corwyn, none finally reached Father Paschal Didier until mid-April. It was early May before he was able to present himself in Rhemuth.
“This should never have happened,” he told her, when she had given her rendition of the events of the Twelfth Night previous. “You have done nothing wrong. It cannot be considered a sin to discern the truth—and the truth, in this instance, enabled true evil-doers to be brought to light.”
“Nonetheless, I am excommunicate,” she replied. “Nor have I been able to ascertain what would satisfy the archbishop. And until the ban is lifted, I am barred from reception of the sacraments. Including marriage.”
“Quite so,” Paschal said. “And I am of the distinct impression that you favor the prospect of marriage with Sir Kenneth Morgan, and may even be eager for it.” He smiled and shrugged at her look of surprise. “A good confessor can sense a change of heart, dear child. I have known since your childhood that the dynastic expectations of your eventual marriage were a cause of concern to you. But Sir Kenneth is not what you feared, is he?”
She shook her head. “Not at all. He is a good man, Father,” she said shyly, “tender and kind. To have come to care for him is nothing that I ever could have anticipated, but it . . . happened. And to know that marriage with him would also serve the king’s needs is both happy coincidence and an answer to my prayers. With the king’s blessing, I would marry him even without the Church’s blessing—but I should rather have both. It was Sir Kenneth who suggested that I approach
you
about blessing our union, since he knows of the affection that has bound you to my house for many years. But I cannot ask you to intervene if it would leave you in the ill graces of the archbishop.”
“I
have
been obliged to tread a narrow line with your Gwynedd clergy,” he admitted, “but in this, it may be possible to . . . adjust the archbishop’s attitude.”
She looked at him sharply. “You don’t mean to tamper with his mind? His absolution must be honest, else it is nothing worth.”
“Since the ‘sin’ to be absolved was no sin at all, it little matters whether the absolution is honest,” Paschal replied. “But you need not fear. I shall appeal to a reasoning he cannot resist. Perhaps you would be so good as to ask Sir Kenneth to accompany us to the cathedral tomorrow morning. I feel certain that he will wish to be at the side of his betrothed when she humbles herself before the archbishop and offers her contrition, so that she may be married before God.”
“Father, I am
not
contrite over what I did!” she reminded him.
“No, but as a good daughter of the Church, you will tell the archbishop that you wish to purge yourself of any guilt over having done what the king required of you, in confirming the truth of statements made by those involved with the murder of an innocent child.
“The archbishop, in turn, will assign you a period of penitential contemplation at—say—the convent of Notre Dame d’Arc-en-Ciel, which shall also serve as a retreat in preparation for your marriage from that house. This will also remove your marriage from the glare of possibly negative reaction if it were to occur here at court. Does that—satisfy the scruples of your conscience?”
She was grinning by the time he finished, and threw her arms around him in an exuberant hug.
“Father, I do love you! But, will the archbishop truly agree?”
“He will,” he assured her. “Your offense was not great—and would have occasioned little comment, had it not been Bishop de Nore’s brother involved; Sir Morian does what you did on a regular basis, though that is in Meara. And it would not surprise me if the Lady Jessamy has done it for the king, on more than one occasion.
“Nonetheless, because a bishop’s brother
was
involved, and because the bishops must save face, you must be seen to show contrition and make amends for your part in it, victim though you were of the king’s expediency—for which
he
has already been forgiven. My part in the affair must be subtle—to . . .
persuade
the archbishop that this is a just resolution—but on a one-time basis, it will be safe enough. Just mind that you do not affront him again, if at all possible.”
“It was never my intention to affront him at all,” she replied.
“Then, we are agreed,” he said, smiling.
THE meeting with the archbishop took place not the next day, but the day following, due to his previous engagements. But other than that, all went according to plan. Gowned and veiled in penitential black, Alyce de Corwyn presented herself before Archbishop William in the company of her childhood confessor and her betrothed, kneeling to beg his forgiveness and praying to be received back into the ranks of the faithful, that she might be free to marry according to the wishes of the king.
The archbishop listened dutifully enough—somewhat stiff at first, in the presence of a priest unknown to him and not under his jurisdiction—but he was won over when Paschal casually drew him aside to clarify a point of Alyce’s statement . . . and found himself unaccountably moved to pity.
“It does seem that the king placed you in a somewhat untenable position, obliged to use your powers in his service,” the archbishop allowed, when he and Paschal returned to where Alyce and Kenneth still knelt, and Paschal again knelt beside her. “And Father Paschal assures me that your betrothed is an honorable and God-fearing man, who will do his utmost to see that you stray not again into the dangerous proclivities to which your race is prone. Sir Kenneth, do you pledge to do so, that your wife-to-be come not before me again in mortal peril of her soul?”
Alyce could sense the resentment coursing through Kenneth’s body as he knelt beside her, but he humbly bowed his head.
“I do pledge it, Excellency.”
“Then, I absolve you of your sins, Alyce de Corwyn,” the archbishop made the sign of the cross above her bowed head, “and I lift the excommunication imposed in another place, receiving you back into the company of the faithful. For penance, I direct you to present yourself forthwith at the convent of Notre Dame d’Arc-en-Ciel, where I believe you were once a student, and there to make a month’s retreat preparatory to your marriage from that place. Father Paschal, I give you license to perform the blessing of such marriage—and hope never again to see any of the three of you before me in any matter of disobedience to Holy Mother Church. Do I make myself clear?”
“You do, your Excellency—and thank you,” Paschal replied, bending to kiss the archbishop’s ring—and slightly blurring all that had just transpired.
“Thank you, Excellency,” Alyce and Kenneth murmured together, also bowing low.
THE resolution greatly relieved the king, when he heard of it, though he was less than pleased to learn that Alyce was to go immediately to Arc-en-Ciel, there to prepare for her wedding.
“I have promised that I shall not touch her before her husband has her,” he told Jessamy peevishly, that night before Alyce was to leave, “but I cannot afford to delay overlong. Nor can you.”
“My preparations are under way,” she replied, “but my strength is not what it once was. I have taken opportunity to examine her old training triggers, and they are intact. I shall give you access closer to your need for them. For now, however, she will be safe enough at Arc-en-Ciel—from Kenneth and from you. When she returns, a married woman, we shall need a few more months to refine the timing of the deed. And you might begin amassing a set of errands for her husband, to keep him from her during the times she is most likely to conceive.”
Donal shook his head in both disbelief and resignation.
“How casually I make plans to cuckold my friend,” he murmured. “But it must be done.” He looked away briefly. “You will attend the wedding? The queen and I shall be present—and it will be I who give away the bride.”
“You will not truly have
given
her until all of this is over, Sire,” she said, “but at least your participation sets a seal on their marriage, in the eyes of the court. Think carefully whether you really intend to do this thing—for once it is set in motion, you know the deception you will have to maintain thereafter.”
“It is, indeed, my intention,” he murmured. “For the sake of my son, and out of loving memory of the one who was lost, I must do it.”
“Then, God help us both.”
ALYCE’S return to Arc-en-Ciel was more an occasion of joy than of penitential gloom. Zoë went with her, to help her prepare for her upcoming nuptials, and Paschal took up residence with the other chaplains for the duration, to be available for the pastoral counseling that accompanied the ostensible reason for Alyce’s presence there again. Her only sadness was that she would be missing Vera’s wedding, which was to occur while she was on retreat.
Mother Judiana received both girls with open arms, installing them in the room they had shared before, and the other sisters and the students eagerly fell to work on the stitchery for a bridal trousseau. Though Alyce did spend time with Father Paschal every day, in obedience to the archbishop’s instruction that this was to be a time of penitence regarding her Deryni nature, the priest geared these sessions more toward the meditations proper to a more traditional pre-nuptial retreat, though without the presence of the groom.
In light of what she had been obliged to do in the wake of Krispin’s murder, Paschal also gave her regular sessions of advanced training in the more subtle use of her powers. After one such session, when she had emerged from trance, he looked at her oddly, as if considering whether to share some facet of what had just occurred.
“Are you aware that the old triggers your father set are still in place?” he asked.
“Of course,” she replied. “Don’t you use them regularly, in our sessions?”
“I do.” He paused, again considering. “Lady Jessamy was given access to those triggers as well,” he said then. “Has she used them much?”
She shook her head. “Very rarely. I suppose Father’s original intention was that she might be able to augment our training. That would have been before he decided to have you come to us regularly.”
“That’s very interesting,” he murmured. “When would you say was the last time she used the triggers?”
“Oh, ages ago. Probably after Father was killed—or it might have been when I brought Ahern’s body back through Rhemuth, on my way to take him home to Cynfyn. I was exhausted, and she made me sleep.”
“Nothing more recently?”
“No. Why are you asking?”
“Because she appears to have been poking around in the last week or so before you came here,” Paschal said baldly. “Have you any idea why she might have done that?”
“None at all . . . no.”
“I did not think you did,” Paschal replied. “And
that
is very curious—and disturbing.”
“But—why would she do such a thing?”
“I don’t know. And it is possible there may be some benign explanation—though, by rights, she should have released the triggers years ago, when I resumed responsibility for your training. Were it not for the hidden trace of her most recent contact, I would have attributed the omission to oversight. . . .”
“Paschal, you’re frightening me . . . ,” she began, eyes wide.
“No need, child,” he assured her, patting her hand. “I’ve taken care of it. I’ve left the triggers partially engaged, so that you’ll give the external responses she expects, if she should try this again; but I’ve also given you discretion, to override any commands she might try to set. Unless you choose to let her know, she shouldn’t realize that anything has changed. I don’t know what game she may be playing—but I do know that I want
you
to be the winner, if she insists upon including you in that game, without your knowledge and very possibly against your will.”
Alyce gave a shiver, shaking her head.
“It makes no sense. What possible motive could she have?”
“I wish I knew,” Paschal replied. “But, put it from your mind for now. You will soon be a bride, and much in your life will change. For one thing, you shall be in your husband’s keeping—not Jessamy’s, not mine, or even the king’s or queen’s. You are coming well into your inheritance, dear Alyce, and I am very proud of you.”