The Deryni Archives Part 11

"Of course, by the king!" Morgan muttered, rising and shooing Derry out of the window embrasure as he s.n.a.t.c.hed up his coronet. "Here, take this for me. By all the saints, I think you're more in awe of him than you are of me!"

"Well, he is the king, my lord!" Derry whispered. Morgan's coronet seemed to tingle in his hands. "Before today, I'd only even seen him half a dozen times-and never had him speak to me."

Morgan only shook his head and chuckled as he guided Derry along the perimeter of the hall toward the royal dais. As at the Sieur de Vali's knighting, the Deryni duke did nothing to call attention to himself or his companion, but his mere pa.s.sage accomplished that. Derry was very aware of being watched, and of how conversations fell off, then resumed after he and Morgan had pa.s.sed by. He sensed-not precisely an overt hostility toward Morgan, for no one would dare that to the king's friend, in the king's hall, with the king present, but at least a caution, bordering on suspicion; and it was now directed at himself as well as Morgan. Derry could feel their eyes following him, marking how he carried Morgan's coronet, and he avoided looking at his uncle as he pa.s.sed close to where Trevor stood chatting with one of the barons who held lands adjoining his-though he saw Trevor's shocked expression out of the corner of his eye.

By the time they reached the royal dais, where Brion and a youngish-looking priest sat listening to Queen Jehana tune a lute, young Prince Kelson sitting cross-legged at their feet, Derry had nearly forgotten how awed he was of the king-though that came flooding back into consciousness as Morgan paused at the foot of the steps to bow, Derry nervously echoing his salute. Brion had set his crown aside during the afternoon's feasting, but even without it, there was no mistaking who was Master of Gwynedd.

"Well, Alaric, I see you've been making the further acquaintance of one of our newest knights," the king said easily, setting aside a cup of ale. "Sir Sean O'Flynn, the Earl Derry, I believe?" As Derry made another nervous bow, King Brion grinned. "And I'll bet you thought I wouldn't remember, didn't you, what with all the other new young knights I made today?"

Derry swallowed hard, unsure how to take the royal bantering.

"Sire, you've made the lad speechless," Morgan said, coming to Derry's rescue with a smile. "You must make a point in future to speak to your young knights at other times besides at oath-givings, before full court. I don't seem to intimidate him."

"Oh, and does he not, young Derry?" the king said, turning his grey Haldane gaze full on Derry in mock seriousness. "And what mischief is this afoot, that my Deryni duke and one of my newest knights come before me like this?"

"Tis no mischief, Sire," Derry managed to blurt out, summoning his courage from G.o.d knew where. "His Grace has asked-" He glanced at Morgan for support and got a nod of approval. "His Grace has asked that I enter his service, Sire. With Your Majesty's approval, I would ask that you witness our oaths, for I have accepted his offer with all my heart."

Brion nodded, his faint smile almost lost in the close-clipped black beard, and Queen Jehana set down her lute with a cold composure and rose.

"If you will excuse me, my lord," she murmured, "I have just recalled an errand elsewhere. Good day to you, Father Arilan."

Kelson glanced up at his father anxiously as his mother left, but Brion did not seem at all surprised at his queen's behavior. Nor did the priest.

"You must forgive the queen, young Derry," Arilan said softly. "I fear Her Majesty does not share our lord king's affection for his Deryni duke."

"Now, Denis," the king replied. "We mustn't give the lad the wrong idea."

"Best he knows what he will have to face, Sire, if he intends to serve a Deryni," the priest said. "Few are as tolerant as Your Majesty."

Brion snorted, laying a hand on his son's shoulder, then glanced at Morgan, who had not changed expression throughout the exchange.

"Well, Alaric, it does not seem that all my young knights are as tongue-tied as you would have me believe," he said lightly. "Young Derry has spoken very well. Would that I had learned his mettle sooner, for I would have taken him to my own service."

"Ah, but by granting him to me, Sire," Morgan pointed out, "you likewise gain his service, for by serving me, he serves you as well."

Brion chuckled, shaking his head in defeat.

"Enough, both of you. I know when I am bested. Denis, would you please hand me my crown?"

Morgan put on his own coronet as the priest rose to obey, and Brion glanced conspiratorially at Derry as he and Morgan knelt.

"You'll want to make the further acquaintance of Father Arilan, if you spend much time with Morgan," Brion said, as the priest handed him his crown and sat down again. "He's one of the few priests at court who won't lecture you about why you shouldn't consort with a Deryni. He's my confessor, and young Kelson's, and I recommend him highly."

Derry darted a quick glance at Arilan, but the priest only shrugged and smiled, gesturing with his eyes toward the crown Brion now held toward the two about to exchange oaths. Morgan had already laid his right hand upon it, and Derry quickly followed suit, awed to be actually touching the crown of Gwynedd.

"Sean Seamus O'Flynn, Lord Derry," Brion said, "do you, here before myself and G.o.d as witnesses, solemnly swear that you will render faithful service to Alaric Anthony Morgan, Duke of Corwyn, in all matters saving your duty to your king and the honor of this realm, so help you, G.o.d?"

"I do solemnly swear it, my Liege, so help me, G.o.d!" Derry whispered fervently.

Brion shifted his gaze to the smiling Morgan.

"And do you, Alaric Anthony Morgan, Duke of Corwyn, here before myself and G.o.d as witnesses, solemnly swear that you will be a true and honest overlord to this knight, Sean Seamus O'Flynn, Earl Derry, in all matters saving your duty to your king and the honor of this realm, so help you, G.o.d?"

"By my honor and by all the powers I have to command, I swear it, my Lord and my King, so help me, G.o.d," Morgan said steadily. "And if ever I should break this oath, may my powers desert me in my hour of need. So be it."

Brion smiled, raising the crown out of their touch to hand it back to Arilan.

"So be it, then," he repeated. "And I wish you both well of the partnership," he added, gesturing for them to rise. "Now, Alaric, have you spoken to Nigel yet about those archers of his? What can he have been thinking when he allowed them to use Bremagni bows?-though you mustn't let Jehana hear me speaking ill of her homeland. Still, everyone knows that the R'Ka.s.sans are the finest archers around. And Derry, see whether you can find Lord Rhodri, would you? Denis will help you. He's somewhere in the hall. I can't imagine what's happened to the musicians he promised for this afternoon's entertainment."

"I'll come, too," said the eight-year-old Kelson, scrambling to his feet as Arilan rose to show Derry the way.

So, with that royal and priestly escort, did Scan Lord Derry begin his service both to the Crown of Gwynedd and to Alaric Morgan.

trial spring, 1118 Writing "Trial" was one of the more challenging projects I've undertaken in the Deryni world. It didn't come as an answer to a question I asked myself or my characters about the Deryni; it came of putting together elements that I was given, and weaving them into a story. I should explain.

In the winter of 1984, I went to a small, new science fiction convention in the western United States. As sometimes happens to small, new conventions, this one had underestimated its costs and had run into financial difficulties. To raise money to get themselves out of their monetary crunch, the Con committee asked each of the pros present to donate something to be auctioned off: an autographed copy of a book, a ma.n.u.script, a dead ballpoint pen used by the author-whatever might induce fans to part with some of their cash in a worthy cause. I thought about the request, then offered the following: I would write a one-page scene involving the successful bidder with the Deryni character of his or her choice, general theme to be specified by purchaser.

Well, I never dreamed what a stir this would create; no one did. The committee put the scene as the last item on the auction, and the fans went bonkers. When the bidding reached three figures, and people began forming consortia to pool their resources, I upped the ante to a two-page scene, if two or more people won it, with two Deryni characters of their choice.

I honestly don't recall how much the scene brought, though I believe it would have been a quite respectable payment for the average length short story in a typical science fiction or fantasy magazine, but the irony was that the two gentlemen who bought the scene had never read any of the Deryni books! The first buyer, an intense young man with a blondish mustache and the mythically suggestive last name of Stalker, wanted to be a King's Ranger, and voiced a preference for a pretty Deryni lady as companion in the scene-perhaps a minstrel. The other buyer, who goes by the name of Ferris and affects a Norse personna in the SCA (Society for Creative Anachronism), is a swordsmith who shows up at a lot of conventions selling weapons and armor. He wanted to be a version of his SCA self. But they both agreed that I could use my own discretion and put them with whatever Deryni characters I wanted.

So I took down physical descriptions and addresses and promised to get back to them as soon as I could. And I thought a lot, for several months-until suddenly, a storyline started to develop.

Well. I hadn't intended for the exercise to turn into a whole story, but I got carried away. (In fact, as the story began to materialize, I even entertained the notion that I might use it as my contribution to the Andre Norton anthology-but it soon turned the wrong direction for that.) Before I knew it, Ferris was an itinerant swordsmith from Eistenfalla, off the map north of Torenth, who had come to Kiltuin in Corwyn, Morgan's territory, to peddle weapons. Kiltuin, just downriver from Fathane but on the Corwyn side, is a port town held by Ralf Tolliver, Morgan's bishop; and Tolliver runs a tight ship-no lawlessness in Kiltuin.

But Ferris is a foreigner in town and doesn't speak the language very well; and he gets set up by- But, read the story and see what happens. Stalker didn't get his Deryni minstrel girl, but he did get to be a King's Ranger; and Ferris got far more than he bargained for.

TRIAL.

Pain dragged Ferris back to consciousness-a head-splitting point of fire pulsing behind his right ear, someone kicking him repeatedly in the ribs, and pressure crushing the fingers of his sword hand around something hard and sticky-warm.

"Jesu, she bled like a stuck pig!" someone muttered, "Watch out he doesn't get you with that knife!"

"He isn't getting anybody now!" a second voice answered, another kick punctuating the words. "Let's take care of the b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

More voices joined in-harsh, urgent, conspiratorial-in a tongue Ferris only barely understood, even fully conscious; but their mood was clear even if the exact meaning was not. Sheer survival instinct made him try to arch and roll away from his tormentors, but he could not get the weapon in his hand to connect with anything but air. Two of them pinned his arms then, while two more continued pummeling and kicking. One particularly vicious blow connected with his solar plexus, eliciting a Whoof! of anguish and shoving him perilously near unconsciousness.

Where, in the name of the All-Father, was he? And why were these men trying to kill him? The last thing he remembered, he'd been leaving the Green Man Tavern, happily inebriated after drinking part of the profits of a very good sale. In fact, he'd sold the sword off his own belt.

But when he'd heard screams and the sound of a scuffle, and then the scrabble of running feet- "Here now! What's going on?" a new voice demanded, the snap of authority causing the kicking to stop and Ferris' tormenters to draw back a little in consternation as light bobbled toward them and hard-shod footsteps approached.

"d.a.m.n, it's the watch!" one muttered.

"Get the knife away from him!" another responded, wrenching the hilt out of Ferris' numb fingers. "Ho, the watch! Come get this fellow! He's murdered the girl!"

It was only then, as they jerked him to his feet by both arms, that Ferris saw the crumpled body sprawled where he had just lain-and the dark stain spreading on the cobbles around her, bright crimson even by light of the approaching lantern. It soaked her fine linen gown and pooled where it still seeped from terrible wounds in her chest and a gaping slash across her throat.

"Hold him! Don't let him get away!"

But he was not trying to get away. After the beating he had taken, it was all he could do just to stay conscious. A groggy glance at his own clothing revealed that he, too, was covered with blood, and he feared yery little of it was his own. His buff leather jerkin was slick with it, and he could feel it stiffening already in the fine hairs on the backs of his hands, clotting in his hair and beard where it had spattered.

"Please, I have done nothing!" he managed to gasp, as the man with the lantern pushed closer, muttering orders to the liveried men following him-and backed away almost immediately to fend off a second man who was trying to get a better look.

"Oh, G.o.d, is it Lillas?"

"You don't want to see this."

"He killed her! The b.l.o.o.d.y b.a.s.t.a.r.d's killed her!"

"I never saw her before!"

"Quiet, you!"

A knee to Ferris' groin doubled him up with pain, but he knew he must not let them silence him.

"No! By all the G.o.ds, I swear it!" he cried. "These men attacked me. I have killed no one!"

"By all the G.o.ds, he swears, eh?" One of the men holding Ferns forced him to his knees with a vicious twist of one of his already aching arms. "Heathen b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" He spat contemptuously in Ferris' face. "The h.e.l.l he didn't!"

"Aye, there's no mistaking that!" another chimed in. "He's carved her up right proper, he has. G.o.d, would you just look at all this blood?"

The second man paid little attention to the exchange, still intent on getting past the sergeant for a look at the girl's body; but he pulled up short when he had seen her, shock and anguished disbelief quickly giving way to cold loathing as he straightened and turned to stare at Ferris.

"Stalker, no!" the man with the lantern cautioned, seizing a handful ef the other's sleeve. "Don't do anything stupid!"

But the man addressed as Stalker only shook off the restraint and drew himself a little taller, staring down at Ferris as if he might slay him with a glance, his face white in the lantern light. Unlike the watch, in their town livery of russet and gold, he wore the ciphered leather doublet and thigh-high boots of a King's Ranger, a c.o.c.kade of egret feathers jutting from the crown of his green leather hunt cap. He might have been of an age with Ferris-certainly no more than thirty-but his face, in his tight-leashed grief, had taken on an ageless and almost androgynous beauty, like statues of the Old Ones Ferris once had seen in the temple at Eistenfalla. For an instant, the man called Stalker was one of those Old Ones-and Ferris greatly feared for his very soul, even though he knew he was innocent.

"He's guilty as sin, Ranger," one of Ferris' captors volunteered, taking advantage of the taut silence. "We caught him with the knife in his hand."

"That's right," another agreed. "She was on the ground by the time we got here. There was nothing we could do."

His captors spoke far too fast for Ferris to catch most of what they said after that, but he did not have to understand every word to know that he was in serious trouble. He tried several times to argue his innocence, but he was not fluent enough to think of what to say until the moment was already past to say it- and his head was still spinning from the combined effect of drink and the blows he had taken.

The situation was a cla.s.sic setup: the stranger in town framed for the crimes of the locals. And a stranger who was a foreigner as well, and who spoke the language badly, would find it nearly impossible to prove his innocence, especially when he appeared to have been taken literally red-handed.

"Well, I don't think we need to waste any more time arguing in the street," the watch sergeant finally said, stepping closer to the ranger. "It's pretty clear what happened."

"Aye, sir," another man of the watch chimed in. "Fresh fruit for the gallows tree, eh, lads?"

The men laughed; and Ferris stiffened, for he understood those words all too well. He had seen the rotting bodies gibbeted outside the town gates. For an instant he wondered whether they meant to hang him now, without a trial.

Not that a trial would necessarily help. Kiltuin town belonged to the Bishop of Corwyn, who had the meting of High as well as Low Justice within its bounds-and Kiltuin, rowdy port town and near to the border with hostile Torenth, was a place where the High Justice must often be invoked. The right to impose capital punishment went with the meting of High Justice, and murder was second only to treason in the list of crimes meriting the death penalty.

Nor might murder be the only crime of which Ferris was accused. Bishop Ralf Tolliver was said to be a fair and honest judge, but he was also a Christian bishop; and while Ferris respected the faith practiced in Gwynedd, he embraced another religion. Just what religion might become all too clear during trial before a man like Tolliver. In times not too far past, even in parts of Ferris' own homeland, those who followed the path of the All-Father had suffered nearly the same kinds of terrible persecutions as the Deryni, whose magic was said to d.a.m.n them to the Christians' version of the Seven h.e.l.ls Ferris feared. Ferris had heard it rumored that Corwyn's Duke, Tolliver's temporal overlord, was half Deryni, but he did not know whether to believe that or not. He had never personally met a Deryni.

"Sergeant, take him before I do something we may all regret," the ranger said finally, the temperate words obviously uttered only with the greatest of difficulty as he averted his eyes from Ferris and the body stretched motionless beside them. "Only the bishop may determine what fruit the gallows tree shall bear. His Excellency will see justice done."

The sergeant of the watch let out a sigh of relief and motioned his men forward with a jut of his chin.

"Right. Let's bind him securely, then, lads. He looks like a sc.r.a.pper. What's your name, man?" he demanded, as they looped the leather around Ferris' wrists and drew them roughly behind him.

That, at least, Ferris understood perfectly well. It was the first time they had bothered to ask him anything. If only he could get them to listen.

"My name is Ferris." He winced as the thongs tightened on his wrists and another was looped around his neck like a halter. "I make swords. I did not kill the girl."

"Sure you didn't," the sergeant said. "That's what they all say. Take him away, lads. The bishop will try him in the morning."

To Ferris' surprise, he suffered no further physical abuse once the watch had him in their charge and led him away. The dungeons beneath the bishop's hall were clean enough and occupied by only a handful of other wretches awaiting justice the next morning, so Ferris was given a cell of his own-though not an opportunity to wash off the blood of the girl he had not slain.

He spent what was left of the night nursing his bruised ribs and throbbing head, the latter made doubly agonizing by his hangover and a tender knot behind one ear. Lying there on the straw, pain dulling his ability to reason, his hand itched for even one of the many blades he had forged over the years, and a chance to use it-if not to fight his way out of here, then at least to cheat the hangman of his prey and die in a manner of his own choosing, for he had little hope that his word would be taken over that of the four toughs who had framed him. In fact, it was probably they who had killed the girl and had seized on his vulnerability- drunk and a stranger in town-to pin the blame on him. Ah, G.o.ds, it was hopeless!

It got worse, too. The guards who came to get him shortly after dawn had been well trained, and he never had a chance to even try to escape. All too efficiently, they cuffed his hands in front of him with fine, key-locked manacles, the workmanship worthy of his own skills, and virtually escape-proof. Then they laced a stout wooden bar through his bent elbows and behind the small of his back.

He had expected the restraints, but he had not expected the leather gag they buckled tightly around his head, with its wooden mouthpiece like a horse's bit thrust between his teeth and partway down his throat. He retched and gagged almost uncontrollably as they fitted it on him, and found that any attempt to make a sound produced a similar gagging reflex.

"Keep quiet and it isn't all that bad," one of the guards said, as Ferris caught his breath and straightened cautiously to stare at them in shock. The man was a different guard from any of the night before. "You'll get your chance to speak. The witnesses said you'd a foul mouth on you. His Excellency doesn't like to be interrupted when he's hearing a case."

Well, there was little likelihood of that, Ferris thought bitterly, as they took him, staggering a little, up the steep stone stairs and into the bishop's hall, steering him by the ends of the bar through his arms. Had they troubled to ask, he would have given them his word of his silence, but why should they bother? As far as they were concerned, his guilt was a foregone conclusion. All that remained was the bishop's confirmation. As they led him down the length of the hall toward the dais and Bishop Tolliver's chair of state, Ferris made himself study the man who held his life and death in his hands.

The bishop was younger than Ferris had expected: fortyish and fit-no paunchy churchman, he. The tonsured brown hair was scarcely touched with grey, and his clean-shaven face glowed with the healthy tan of one who enjoyed regular outings in the open air. His waist probably had gained no more than a few finger-widths since adolescence.

Polished riding boots with spurs protruded beneath the hem of his purple ca.s.sock, and he wore the purple mantle of his office like the prince he was. The hand adorned with a bishop's amethyst was quick and graceful as it made some signal to a clark reading back the transcript of the trial just completed, and Ferris thought it might have wielded a sword or a crozier with equal facility.

The steely-eyed appraisal of the trained warrior was in Tolliver's eyes as he flicked his gaze briefly toward the approaching Ferris, and the swordsmith found himself automatically measuring the man for one of his finer blades-until the bishop's glance shifted to the four well-dressed men lounging on a bench opposite the prisoner's dock. With a start that almost made him choke on his gag, Ferris realized that the men were the same who had accused him the night before-clearly men of substance and some standing in the town!

The shock of that discovery, and the resulting futility of his own position, kept Ferris from paying very much attention to what happened next. He had enough presence of mind to incline his head in respect as his guards paused to salute the bishop-an act that clearly startled more than one person in the hall, not the least of whom was the ranger seated with the clarks to the bishop's right-but mounting the prisoner's dock was an indignity he had hoped never to face. He might be a foreign devil in their eyes, but, by the G.o.ds, he was an honest man!

His guards remained with him once he was in place, each with a hand resting on an end of his controlling bar, as if they expected him to try to bolt for freedom. The three men of the previous night's watch sat on a bench between the dock and the bishop. Other people were in the hall as well, but Ferris had no idea whether they had business with the court or were merely curiosity seekers. Far at the back of the hall, on a black-draped catafalque, lay a coffin covered with a black pall. He guessed, with a sickish feeling in his guts, that it was the girl's. Lillis, the ranger had called her.

Ferris tried to follow what his accusers said, but the language barrier and the frustration and discomfort of his own physical situation served to run most of what was said into a vague blur of mounting evidence against him-circ.u.mstantial, to be sure, but weighted by the stature of the men who accused him. Each new testimony embellished on the previous one and d.a.m.ned him further.

An unexpected development came with the statement of one of the two black-habited nuns who had prepared the girl's body for burial. Ferris gathered, from what he could catch of the woman's soft, self-conscious testimony, that the girl had been of good family and reputation, convent-educated, and betrothed to the royal ranger seated with the clarks-admirable traits, but hardly pertinent to whether or not Ferris had killed her, so far as he could tell.

But as the bishop pursued his questioning of the woman, the reason suddenly became all too clear. For suddenly she burst into tears and babbled out a short but impa.s.sioned accusation, the most prominent word of which was rape.

"I'll kill him!" the ranger screamed, launching himself across the hall at Ferris as the four accusers leaped to their feet and added their own verbal abuse.

Until the ranger actually had his hands around Ferns' throat, Ferris could not believe what he had heard. His vision was going grey by the time the guards could prise the ranger's hands loose and drag him, cursing and weeping, to the foot of the dock to hold him. Ferris' guards hoisted him back to his feet by the bar across his back, checking his gag to make certain he could breathe again, but Ferris hardly cared as he gasped for air. He had caught the sense of the new accusation, if not the exact terms, and it was even more outrageous than the first-and doubly d.a.m.ning.

But while the bailiffs were restoring order to the court, and before the bishop could admonish those responsible for the outburst, two newcomers appeared in the doorway whose presence produced an instant hush and cessation of activity. People on either side of the center aisle rose as the two came forward, the women bobbing self-conscious curtsies and the men tugging at forelocks in respect.

No one told Ferris who they were, of course. The younger one in the bright blue cloak appeared to be a squire or aide-a fresh-faced lad probably still in his teens, moving with the grace of good training, merry blue eyes peering from beneath a mane of untamed brown curls. But the other- It was he who had brought the proceedings so abruptly to a halt, though he was hardly more than a lad himself. No accoutrement of rank or feature of attire had caused the deference he received as he strode toward the dais with the boy at his side. His travel-stained black riding leathers were quite unremarkable for a man whose appearance has just elicited so dramatic a response, the sword at his belt no more than serviceable, so far as Ferris could tell from his own vantage point, though certainly a constant and accustomed part of his life.

Nor was the man particularly physically imposing or menacing, though there was that about him which spoke of unmistakable power come of authority that is not questioned. He was a bit above average height, with the lean, graceful physique of a man accustomed to rigorous physical activity-he was probably a master of the weapon at his side-but he had none of that hardness one often saw in mercenaries or other professional soldiers. On the contrary, his features declared gentle breeding: grey eyes in a handsome, clean-shaven face; firm jaw; a close-cropped cap of pale gold hair, straight and fine.