The Deryni Archives Part 9

Flexing the fingers of one hand against the other, Carolus nodded. "We did misjudge him," he agreed, "but it will not happen again. The Haldane still is a usurper. When Aldred and Charissa are wed, we must ensure that their joint inheritance shall include both these kingdoms. We shall be watching both the Haldane and this upstart Deryni half-breed."

As the others nodded agreement, and the king and Carolus began questioning Ha.s.san more fully, Wencit silently reviewed the battle and the following discussion, marking many points to be considered at more leisure. He had learned more than one important thing today. For one, Aldred was a fool. If he came to the throne after Carolus, he could no more hold it than Hogan had been able to stand against the Haldane. Nor did Carolus himself show much better promise, though Wencit had never thought to look at his brother in this light before. That alone was food for much solitary thought and contemplation.

As for the Haldane and Morgan, they, too, merited further study, especially the latter. Though the half-Deryni youth was still scarcely more than a boy, he clearly was going to be a factor to be reckoned with in the future-and he was surely part of the key to eventually destroying the Haldane. Perhaps, if the Fates willed it so, Wencit himself might even be the instrument of Morgan's eventual downfall. Far less likely things were possible....

the knighting of derry May, 1115 Over the years, one of my most popular non-Deryni characters has always been Sean Lord Derry, Morgan's aide. He's an intriguing fellow: loyal, competent, sensitive-and very human. I've often been asked how Morgan and Derry met and how Derry came to be in Morgan's service. So this is that story.

Interestingly enough, it almost didn't get written. Originally, I started writing it from Morgan's point of view, and was having a terrible time getting it to flow. After spending nearly a week working on genealogical charts and time-lines-anything to avoid actually sitting down to write it (though at least I now know how Morgan and Duncan are descended from Rhys and Evaine's children)-I finally spent an entire day grinding out about five pages. That was a Friday. I write on a computer these days; and when I sat down at the machine on Monday to resume work on the story, I could not get the computer to access the file on the disk. I couldn't get into the file; I couldn't copy the disk; I was locked out. Apparently, the disk had gone bad.

So I made a lame attempt to reconstruct-which almost never works-then dumped everything and started over from scratch, on another disk, only from Derry's point of view, this time-anything to get the words moving again. And this time Derry came alive, and the story flowed.

I almost wish I could say that a later attempt to get into the original file yielded no impediments, once I'd changed the perspective of the story; but it didn't happen that way. Nor am I bold enough to expect divine intervention of that magnitude on a regular basis. Like Denis Arilan, I tend to think G.o.d works most often through mortal agents-or perhaps, sometimes, through mechanical devices constructed by mortals. Suffice it to say that the first attempt was lost, and good riddance; and that the process of coping with that loss gave me the impetus to rethink my approach and let the story come out the way it should have done in the first place.

The result, whatever sparked it, certainly fills in some interesting background about Derry and his family. Why, after all, would a young n.o.bleman of apparent promise want to become a duke's aide, rather than remain his own master? Alaric Morgan's by then undeniable personal charisma is certainly a very important factor, but might not another part be the wonder of Brion's court, as seen through the eyes of a relatively unsophisticated minor lord of only eighteen, newly knighted, who has only ever seen his king a few times and never spoken to him face-to-face?

We catch another glimpse of the maturing Denis Arilan, too, ten years after his ordination to the priesthood, and see how his role in royal circles has evolved.

THE KNIGHTING OF DERRY.

Sean Lord Derry, eighteen and less than a fortnight from knighthood at the hands of King Brion of Gwynedd, let out his breath in a sigh of longing as he watched the horse handlers parade their charges along the narrow, rail-fenced track that led toward the auction yards of the spring horse fair at Rh.e.l.ledd. The particular object of his longing had yet to appear in the procession, but that hardly mattered, since even the starting price set on the animal Derry wanted was quite beyond his means. An earl he might be, but his holdings in the eastern Marches were quite modest, as earldoms went, and only recently begun to recover from the death duties due the Crown after the demise of Derry's father nine years before. His Uncle Trevor, hardly better off than he, had offered what was, for him, a generous subsidy, as his own gift on the occasion of his only nephew's knighting; but Derry knew that even the combined sum was not nearly enough.

"The bay isn't bad," Uncle Trevor murmured, pointing out a quiet-mannered animal with broad white stockings on its forelegs. "I don't care for his markings, but he has a good chest and kind eyes. I checked his bloodlines, and they're respectable enough. Or, there was a dark brown earlier. You remember him. We could afford either of those, I think."

Derry shrugged, not taking his eyes from the horses still emerging from the far holding yard.

"They're all right," he conceded. "The chestnut though..."

"Well, I can't blame you for wanting him," Trevor said sympathetically, as the stallion in question appeared at the far end of the track. "He's a horse fit for a king, Sean. I only hope you won't be too disappointed if we can't afford him."

"I know we probably can't," Derry replied. "I'm prepared for that. The bay or the brown will be all right, if we don't get the chestnut, but G.o.d, how I'd love to have that fellow!"

"You and every other horseman present," Trevor muttered.

Nodding distracted agreement, Derry eased up another rail on the restraining fence and craned in the direction of his intended prize, chewing at his lower lip as the stallion was led very near their vantage point. His blue eyes drank in every ripple of hard muscles playing under satin coat as the animal pranced and curvetted against the restraint of his two handlers and occasionally whinnied defiance at the lesser stallions ahead and behind him.

"Sweet Jesu, he's magnificent!" Derry breathed, ducking his head in apology to his uncle's scowl of disapproval at the near blasphemy. "Sorry, Uncle."

The stallion was magnificent, though: a deep-chested liver chestnut with not a speck of white on him, the finest R'Ka.s.san bloodlines proclaimed in high crest, powerful jowls, and large, intelligent brown eyes. With a stallion like this standing at stud and a careful breeding program, Derry could change the entire character of Marcher remounts within five years. Nor would stud fees from local tenants and lesser n.o.bility in the area hurt Derry's economic state. Such a mount would also do Derry proud when he rode into Rhemuth town to be knighted. It was hardly a week away...

He was dreaming of that glorious day, himself mounted on the chestnut in full warrior's panoply, bright blue bardings glowing in the sunshine, when disaster erupted. Without warning, a small child with flapping skirts and sleeves ducked under the lowest rail of the restraining fence to dart to the other side-and tripped, nearly under the nose of a nasty-tempered grey fidgeting just behind the chestnut.

The startled grey needed no further excuse to explode. Tossing its head and squealing indignation, it went back on it haunches in a perfect levade, yanking its startled handler off his feet, then snaked its long neck around to clamp powerful jaws on the man's shoulder and shake him as a terrier might shake a rat, only letting go as the chestnut also reared up at the commotion and whirled to scream a challenge, shedding his handlers with no more effort than if he had shaken off mice.

Derry was already vaulting over the top rail as he heard the sickening, hollow thud of steel-shod hooves connecting with the chest of one of the handlers, and he only narrowly avoided the same fate as he dashed behind the grey to tackle the cringing child and roll both of them clear. The stallions were fighting in earnest by the time he could pick himself up and hoist the child over the rails and into the waiting arms of another man, and grooms and handlers were swarming everywhere, trying to get the other stallions away before more were drawn into battle. In the clouds of dust being raised by the fray, Derry had a hard time seeing what had happened to the original handlers, but he thought he saw one dust-covered form lying motionless near the railing-and another man curled in a ball almost directly beneath the plunging hooves, arms raised in futile attempt to protect his head.

"Sean, no!" he heard his uncle shout, even as he dashed out to attempt a second rescue, s.n.a.t.c.hing for the trailing lead rein of the chestnut.

He managed to get a hand on it, but the stallion jerked its head and pulled him off balance before he could let go, throwing him squarely in the path of one of the grey's plunging forelegs. It was a knee that slammed into his jaw rather than a hoof, thank G.o.d- but it still made him see stars as he recoiled and rolled to his feet again. Another hoof flashed dangerously close to his head and grazed his shoulder, opening a deep gash but deflected from bone-breaking force by two men in black suddenly hauling at the grey's headstall and tackling its neck.

The diversion provided an opportunity for the man on the ground to roll clear, however; and by the time Derry could make another try for the chestnut, twisting one sweat-lathered brown ear to get the stallion's head down, the two black-clad men had the grey subdued.

"Easy, boy! Whoa! Whoa!" Derry crooned, letting up on the ear as the stallion subsided.

One of the men in black had whipped off his leather tunic and used it to blindfold the grey, the better to lead him away from his rival, and Derry's chestnut likewise quieted as Derry stroked and soothed, turning its head away from the grey. But the movement, as the animal pivoted obediently on the forehand, revealed a serious limp to the rear, and the near hind leg was bleeding. Derry could feel every tortured muscle in his own body protesting as he handed over the lead rein to a couple of grooms who suddenly materialized beside him, now that the danger was over, and automatically moved back to check the injured leg. A sick feeling knotted in the pit of his stomach as he ran trembling hands down the sweaty flank and found the damage.

"A nasty bite," said a low, pleasant voice almost at his ear. "And a bowed tendon, I should think. What a pity."

Derry glanced up only long enough to see that it was one of the black-clad men who had caught the grey stallion-the one who had given up his tunic as a blindfold. Bright mail glinted on the man's chest-unusual to wear under riding leathers-but Derry dismissed that oddity for the moment as he manipulated the injured leg, one hand gentling the stallion against the pain the movement obviously cost.

"I don't think it's torn all the way through," he murmured, kneeling as he set the hoof back on the ground. "If we can st.i.tch and immobilize it, and keep him from ripping it further, he may be all right."

"He'll never be sound for battle," the man said. "Best to let them put him down."

"No!" Derry said. "I have a blacksmith who can make a special shoe to support the leg until it heals. Uncle Trevor, see if you can find me a medical kit, would you? And somebody make sure he doesn't put any weight on that leg. It's worth a try, isn't it?"

As the mail-clad man signalled to someone Derry could not see, taking the horse's head to stroke and soothe, another man in brown leathers came to peer over Derry's shoulder.

"Bowed tendon, eh? Blast the luck! Thanks for your efforts, son, but my man will take over from here. Maclyn, we're going to have to put him down."

"No! You can't!" Derry cried. "At least let me try to fix him."

"It isn't worth the trouble, son. He's never going to be sound."

"Not for battle, no. He could still be used for breeding though. He doesn't have to be sound for that, as long as he isn't in pain."

"It's no good, son."

"Are you the owner?" Derry demanded.

"Yes."

"Then, I'll buy him for what he'd bring from the butchers! And I-I'll buy another proper horse from you as well. I had my eye on two others."

The man stroked his jaw thoughtfully.

"Which two?"

"Well, there was a dark brown one-very muscular-and a bay with odd white forelegs."

"Ah. The bay is one of mine," the man said. "I'm asking two hundred gold marks for him. Give me three and you can have him and this one."

"Julius!" the man in mail admonished. "That's usurous! Dead, this animal isn't worth twenty, hide and all."

"He is if he can eventually stand at stud, my lord," Julius said.

"But that's a gamble," the mail-clad man pointed out. "And you were ready to put the animal down. Let the boy have both for two-fifty, and you'll have made far more from your bad luck than you deserve."

"Well-"

"Come on, Julius," the man wheedled. "I'll buy that black mare at the ridiculous price you're asking."

"And her foal?"

"And her foal," the man agreed. "But only for an additional fifty. And that's doing you a favor!"

"Oh, very well. You drive a hard bargain, my lord."

As the two men shook hands, Derry could hardly believe his good fortune, for the agreed price was hardly half what the chestnut was worth-if Derry could make good his boast to repair the injury.

A groom brought a bucket of water, and Derry began carefully sponging out the stallion's wound, amazed that the animal did not protest. Indeed, the powerful warhorse had grown as meek and quiet as a lamb under the hands of the stranger lord in mail. Derry's head was beginning to throb from the blow to his jaw, and his own blood ran down his left arm as he worked, mingling with the stallion's, but he paid it no mind- nor to his own growing discomfort. He would be all right until he stood up, at least. His Uncle Trevor came to crouch beside him, unrolling a small medical kit with needles and sutures, and Romare, the blacksmith from Castle Derry, eased closer to inspect the injury.

"I've boasted about your talents, Romare," Derry murmured, "but you've taught me everything I know about horses. Can we save him?"

"Since you've bought him, it's certainly worth a try, m'lord," Romare replied. "But why don't you let me take over here? I can throw sutures as well as the next man. And someone ought to see your arm. You're bleeding more than you think."

"He's right, you know," said the man in mail, reaching across to grasp Derry's arm below the laceration as Derry rose wobblingly, steadying himself with a hand against the stallion's side. "From the looks of it, you're going to need a few sutures yourself. That's quite a lump you've got on your jaw, too." Bloodstained fingers lifted to lightly brush the knot, already bruising. "Randolph, would you take a look at this, when you're finished with the groom?"

Derry had time to note only pale grey eyes and a shock of short-cropped yellow hair above the man's mail shirt before his vision went dark, and he fainted.

Derry's next awareness was a resurgence of the throb in his jaw, a stinging pain overlying the ache in his left upper arm, and someone humming tunelessly, close to his head. He opened his eyes to see a pleasant-faced man in black bending over him, drawing a damp length of black silk from the b.l.o.o.d.y ruin of his left shirt sleeve. The stout blue linen had been slit from elbow to shoulder to bare a laceration as long as a man's hand, and the sharp stinging came from the needle the man was using to close the wound.

"Well, h.e.l.lo," the man said, smiling as he drew his thread snug. "You're among the living again, I see. When you fainted, I feared you might have a concussion, but now I think it was simply from the shock. You ought to be fine when you've had some rest."

"How long was I out?" Derry murmured.

"Oh, not very long. I've only just started sewing you up. Actually, I suppose we could have just cleaned and bandaged it, but this will leave you with less scarring. You young men of the n.o.bility end up with enough scars, as it is. Murderous sharp, those warhorses' shoes-and filthy, too, though I think I've gotten the wound clean enough. If you had to miss the cleaning or the suturing, I think you got the best of the bargain by sleeping through the former-not that this is pleasant, I'll grant you. I'm Master Randolph, by the way, and I'm trained to do this, so you needn't worry. My lord didn't want you turned over to just any local barber-surgeon."

Derry did his best not to gape as the man's monologue wound down, though he did stare a bit. The man who had identified himself as Master Randolph appeared to be in his mid-thirties, and bore a small gryphon's head on the badge embroidered on his left breast-shades of green and gold on black, the shield outlined in gold. Derry blinked, vague recognition of the badge nibbling at the edges of memory, then raised his head for a better look at what the man was doing, grimacing as the needle bit again into the edge of the wound.

"You do neat work," Derry murmured, as he laid his head back down and tried not to flinch. "I'm Sean Derry."

"Yes, I know. The Earl Derry. Your uncle told me," the man replied. "Incidentally, he's gone to settle accounts with Julius. Your smithy's working on the chestnut. And you've either driven a very shrewd bargain or bought yourself some very expensive horse-meat and hide."

"I know," Derry replied, laying his good arm across his eyes. "It's a gamble I probably shouldn't have taken. We've spent so much already, getting me outfitted for my knighting. I probably could've gotten the bay for far less, too, if he'd gone to auction. His confirmation is good, but those white legs would've brought the price down."

"Hmmm, he'll be a serviceable mount for you," Randolph said. "And those white legs will make him- distinctive."

Derry started to chuckle at that, stifling a yelp as one of the st.i.tches pinched, and picked up his head to see what Randolph was doing. The wound was perhaps a third closed. As he murmured apologetically and laid his head back, turning his face away, he was startled to find another man crouching on his other side-the man in the mail shirt. Derry wondered when he'd come in.

"Well, young Lord Derry, how are you doing?" the man asked, smiling. "Is the good Master Randolph just about finished torturing you?"

His grey eyes held a hint of fog and summer rain, but lit with sunlight. And contrary to Derry's earlier impression, he was probably little older than Derry himself-mid-twenties, at the most. Derry found himself liking the man instantly.

"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir," he said, smiling tentatively. "You both seem to know who I am, but I'm afraid I don't know you."

"Hmmm, that isn't important just now," the man murmured. "What is important is getting you patched up. You were quite a hero today, you know. The parents of the child you saved are ready to nominate you for sainthood. How's that lump on your jaw? He didn't hit his head anywhere else, did he, Ran?" he asked the surgeon, probing with both hands in Derry's curly brown hair to feel for swelling.

About to pursue the question, Derry felt an almost uncontrollable urge to yawn-and winced in the middle of it, as Master Randolph's needle continued its annoying work.

"Think about something else," the man in the mail shirt said softly, those incredible silvery eyes gently catching and holding his as the man's hands braced his head from either side. "Close your eyes and imagine yourself somewhere else. Detach yourself from the discomfort."

Yawning hugely, Derry obeyed, and found that the discomfort did diminish. In fact, he even dozed. When he came to his senses again, the man in the mail shirt was gone, and Master Randolph was tucking in the last ends of the bandage on his shoulder. Uncle Trevor was sitting on a stool, looking down at him anxiously.

"How do you feel?" Trevor asked.

"Like I've been kicked by a horse in the shoulder and jaw," Derry replied, stirring gingerly to raise himself on his elbows. "Where did my mysterious benefactor go? I wanted to thank him. And who was he?"

Master Randolph smiled as he tossed the last of his instruments in a medical satchel and closed its flap.

"He's gone to take care of business-and he knows you're grateful, son." Randolph stood and slung the satchel's strap over his shoulder. "As to who he was, I expect he'd have told you if he wanted you to know just now. But you'll figure it out. Good day to you, young Lord Derry, and Baron Varagh."

He was gone before Derry could protest. Mystified, Derry sat up and glanced at his uncle.

"Do you know who he was?" he whispered. "Obviously some high-born lord-"

"Among the highest born," Trevor said quietly. "What did he do to you?"

"Do to me? What do you mean?"

"Did he touch you? Do you remember anything he said?"

"Well, yes, he touched me! He was checking to see if I'd hit my-who was he, Uncle?"

Trevor snorted, biting back a bitter grimace. "The Duke of Corwyn, Alaric Morgan."

"Cor-Alaric Morgan! The Deryni?" Derry breathed.

"Aye."

"Well, b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!" was all Derry could think to say as he lay back again, laying his forearm across his forehead and trying to remember all that had transpired. "So that was the great Morgan."

He knew he probably should be afraid, for the magical Deryni were said to be able to corrupt a man's soul with a glance, much less a touch; but somehow he could not feel anything but admiration for what Morgan had done for him, both in the horse yard and after, while Master Randolph tended his wound. He still liked what he had seen in the pale, silvery eyes- and he was not sure he had ever believed what the priests taught about the Deryni as a race.

As for Morgan's forbidden magic-well, if Derry had tasted it when Morgan told him to put the pain from his mind, that hardly smacked of evil in Derry's book. To be free of pain while a surgeon worked-that had to be a blessing, not a curse, for any fighting man. And if Morgan had other, less benign powers?

He decided not to think about that possibility. He refused to judge any man on hearsay-even a Deryni. Fearsome powers Morgan might have, but everything Derry had observed of the man spoke of temperance, compa.s.sion, and a n.o.blesse oblige that could only be born-never created by mere rank. He wondered whether he would see the Deryni duke at court when he went to Rhemuth to be knighted. Morgan was said to be the king's friend, after all. And now that Derry knew who Morgan was, a proper thank-you for his help at Rh.e.l.ledd seemed entirely appropriate.

The week that followed would have been frantic enough for Derry, dashing about to complete the final preparations for his journey, but it was made all the more grueling by the aftermath of his injuries-nothing serious, but enough to slow him down considerably, for every bone and muscle in his body ached for several days after the incident, and his head throbbed for nearly a week. Because of the possible head injury, Uncle Trevor insisted that Derry return to Castle Derry in a horse litter, himself making the necessary arrangements to leave the chestnut stallion temporarily in a stall at Rh.e.l.ledd, with the smithy Romare to care for him. Derry's mother, when she was not scolding her only son for having squandered his meager funds on a potentially useless animal, fussed over him unmercifully until it finally was time to leave for Rhemuth.

And so, accompanied by his mother, his sister and her family, and his Uncle Trevor, who would stand as his sponsor, Derry worried about finances on the leisurely ride to the capital, rather than devoting much time to thinking about the Deryni duke, Alaric Morgan. Trevor's son, the eleven-year-old Padrig, rode at Derry's side as page, thrilled to be visiting the capital for the first time; and the boy's enthusiasm helped to restore some of Derry's good humor for the journey. The white-legged bay proved to be a smooth-gaited and even-tempered mount, worth every penny Derry had paid for him and the chestnut; and Romare's last report before they left declared the chestnut to be mending well-so perhaps Derry's financial straits were not as desperate as he had feared at first.

Once Derry arrived at Rhemuth, he had little occasion to consider Morgan either. The duke was not in evidence as Derry and the other knightly candidates went through the final rehearsals for the ceremony, though the young Sieur de Vali declared Morgan to be his sponsor when asked. Derry was attended by his Uncle Trevor at the ritual bathing of the candidates that night, receiving the robes of white, black, and red from him before making confession and beginning his all-night vigil over his arms in the basilica within the walls of the castle, but someone else did that duty for Morgan's candidate.

Not until the actual morning of the knighting ceremony did Derry even see Morgan, waiting quietly at the back of the great hall beside de Vali, whose overlord Morgan was. As Derry pa.s.sed him with Trevor and Padrig, that mere glimpse set all the unasked and unanswered questions about the man whirling through Derry's mind.