Castle
Derry - November 823
Derry was a swamp favored
by cold rain, impenetrable fog, and surly people. Albion frowned as the
massive, banded gates swung open for them. Even this castle did not seem
welcoming or prosperous.
No doubt their party was
no more welcome to the lord than to his subjects. Very well. Albion
could grant a defeated and conquered people their resentment, so long as
it did not spill over into outright rebellion.
He dismounted as stable
hands ran to take the horses. A servant in a thick woolen cloak bowed
before him and motioned him into the keep. Clearly even the natives did
not chose to stand in this storm.
The servant left them in
what must be the main hall. Tables were laid for supper, though the high
table lacked even the most basic linens, silver or candlesticks. In
fact, the lord's table seemed to have been unoccupied for some time. Not
a single bench or chair remained behind it. No man would be so foolish
as to move that heavy furniture from the dais if he were planning to use
it again soon.
Another servant appeared
with a tray of warm bread, butter and cheese. His companion carried a
large carafe of steaming cider and several cups.
"At least the
hospitality here has not suffered." Albion's boyhood friend, Sir
Josce St. Cyr, helped himself to a cup of cider. "This will keep
the toes warm tonight, whatever may happen."
"And keep us from
our business. I'd think better of the master if he made himself
known." Albion sniffed the cider. It was good, the quality of the
cider itself making up for a lack of spices.
"For a man about to
meet his bride you look remarkably relaxed." Albion kept his voice
lowered.
*Don't whisper on my
account,* Josce shot back, adding a mental chuckle to soften the bite of
the retort. *Just because I don't have your skill doesn't mean I can't
hear you perfectly well. Besides, my lack of abilities may just get me a
warm bedmate and a fine living. What more can a man ask.*
*I admit, Festil's plan
is unique. Imagine choosing the worst stud stock to breed mares to.*
Albion set his cup down. *Let's get on with this.*
He stopped the first
servant, who seemed to be in charge if the quality of his tunic and size
of his girth could be any indication. "Where is your master? I
would speak with him now."
"That won't be
possible, m'lord." The man bowed nervously.
"What do you mean
'won't be possible'?" Albion drew himself up to his full height and
let a bit of his aura flare around his head. If that did not get some
obedience out of these reluctant servants he'd use stronger measures.
"I have a message
for your lord and I mean to deliver it to him," he continued in his
most careful tones. "If that means you must awaken him, do
so."
"Would that I could,
m'lord. But you see --"
"I fear it would
take more magic than even the Deryni posess to accomplish that."
Albion turned as the
servant bowed and slipped away. A slight figure swathed in black wool
from hood to heels approached him. Her steady step and the tilt of her
head told him he was looking at the lady of the manor.
Graceful hands pushed
back the hood. Torchlight dusted damp brown curls with highlights of
flame. It took Albion a long moment to realize he was out of breath. He
had forgotten to breathe.
"If you would speak
to my father, my lord, he is lying in our chapel until tomorrow. I will
show you the way, if you like." Her voice settled like soft music
on his ear. Albion thought she would be a fine counterpart to his lute
if she sang at all.
Josce elbowed him in the
ribs. Albion forced himself to remember his business. He gave the lady a
short neck bow and fished the king's writ from his pouch.
"His Royal Highness
sends his regrets on the loss of your father, my lady. He bids you look
to him for your protection now as you are left without support in this
world. He would see to your welfare."
The lady's soft brown
eyes flashed with silver sparks at his speech. Clearly she did not wish
Festil's protection, for her lips disappeared between clenched teeth.
Passion flushed the cold from her cheeks with bright color, but she held
her tongue.
Intelligent as well as
beautiful. Albion allowed himself to smile. She would see the wisdom of
compliance. Her estates would do well if the people followed their
lady's lead in common sense.
But oh! how he would love
to kiss the lingering defiance from her sweet face.
Albion quashed that
thought aborning. Best conclude this business quickly so he could
remember he was supposed to guard the lady's honor, not compromise it.
"As you must realize, my lady, His Highness would see you settled
as soon as possible. My orders are to bring you directly to his court at
Rhemuth. We will leave on the morrow."
She shook her head in
firm denial before he finished speaking. From the way her shoulders
tensed Albion sensed he was about to face serious resistance.
"My lord, you must
understand that is not possible at this time." Her cracking voice
told him she fought against tears, even if her words were measured
perfectly. "My father is not yet buried. I must see to his effects
and assure myself the estates will run smoothly in my absence. I cannot
simply leave, not for any reason."
Before Albion could
answer, Josce stepped in front of him. The courteous bow he gave the
lady set Albion's teeth on edge.
"Sir Josce St. Cyr,
in service to His Royal Highness Festil of Gwynedd. At your service,
dear lady," he added as he lifted one of her slim hands to his
lips. "I am quite certain our Lord King will not mind a bit if we
delay long enough for you to see to your affairs here. A week or two
should cause no difficulty, and --"
"Unfortunately, the
king's business cannot wait even for so important a matter as this
is." Albion gave Josce a glare that usually sent even confident
courtiers into spasms. *Remember who is in command here,* he sent to his
friend's mind.
*Have half a heart,
Albion,* Josce replied in the same fashion. *A day or two won't make a
difference. Besides, you're supposed to give me a chance to court the
lady.*
*And you can do your
courting on your own time, in Rhemuth.*
Albion thrust the missive toward her more firmly than he intended.
The parchment roll
slapped her outstretched hand smartly. One of her neat oval fingernails
broke as it hit. He thought he saw candlelight glisten on a tear
hovering at the edge of her eyelashes.
Still she broke the
king's seal and read his intent as if it were no more than a shopping
list. When she re-rolled the parchment the
set of her lips told Albion she would not be hurried for any man, even
his king.
"I am certain your
seneschal can handle everything for you while you are away," he
told her. Even he thought he sounded like an idiot, but he should ease
her feelings somewhat. "We will wait until your father is properly
buried. You did say you intended to inter him on the morrow, did you
not?"
"Of course we will.
There is little point in prolonging this, as there are none of his
contemporaries available to attend his funeral.
"I will instruct the
staff to see to your accommodations and prepare my things for travel.
You are welcome to take supper in the hall, of course, but I will keep
vigil with my father until it is time to lay him to rest." She
lifted her hood. Clearly the interview was over.
"By your leave, my
lords," she asked in a voice tight with unshed tears as she
departed the hall far too quickly.
Josce slammed his empty
cider cup on the table. "Damn me, but she is the most beautiful
thing I've ever seen in my life. She's mine, Albion. Mine!" His
smile reeked of self assurance. "She just doesn't know it
yet."
"Would it not be
helpful to know your future bride's name before you post the
banns?" Albion finished his cider and waved one of his squires
over. "Tell whoever is in charge of this place we will dine in our
chambers this night so as not to disturb the household overmuch."
"What matter her
name? It's not the name that's important. Did you notice those eyes? A
man could drown in them and never regret it. And what a magnificent pair
of --"
"Don't even say
it!" Albion silenced Josce even if he knew his friend was right. It
seemed everything about the lady was designed to entrance a man. And she
seemed to have two of all her best features. Eyes, lips, cheeks, hands .
. .
"Let us see what
sort of comfort this keep can offer for a night out of the rain."
Isolde shook her head as
her portly cook planted beefy hands on his hips. "You will serve
them, Jack."
"I'll be givin' 'em
the slops from the hog bucket. That's all!" Jack's -
shook with his outrage. "After what their kind did to Master
Brandonn, that they can come here an' demand ye see to their needs
before yer lord father's laid down beside yer dear mother! Just say the
word, Mistress, an' they'll be wishin' their guts was hung from lances
afore I'm done wi' 'em."
"You will not poison
them, Jack. Just think what would happen should the usurper learn his
knights fared ill here. I do not like it one bit better than you
do," she added as Jack drew breath to argue. "But it's best
for all concerned if we take things as we can. After all, we don't
actually know any of them struck a blow against Brandonn, do we? They
have done us no harm thus far."
"They got ye wet
when there were no need for it. That's harm enough." Jack continued
muttering as he turned back to his stew pots.
As Isolde turned, Jack's
wife, Gretta, dipped the best curtsy a woman of her size and age could
be expected to. "Beggin' yer pardon, Mistress. Where would ye have
me put them foreign bastards?"
Behind Isolde, Jack
growled loudly enough for most of the kitchen to hear, "In
hell!"
"Put the two leaders
in Brandonn's room, Gretta. Find space for the rest where you can. But
not in Father's chamber," she added firmly. "That room can
remain as it is for the time being."
"Of course,
Mistress."
A ghost of an idea
flitted through Isolde's mind so quickly she did not stop to consider
the wisdom of it. "Gretta," she commanded as if the plan had
been long in the making, "be certain the maids lay fresh herbs in
the mattresses. They are a bit stale, you know, after being so long
neglected."
"An' what would ye
have them foreigners smell like?" Gretta's scowl reminded Isolde of
a bull mastiff with something caught in its teeth.
"Oh, lavender, I
suppose. And stinging nettle."
Gretta's smile was
positively evil. "An' when the soft-arsed
bastards complain I'll tell 'em it's Master Brandonn's ghost who don't
like to be disturbed. It's brilliant, m'lady! Something Master Brandonn
would hae thought o'."
Tears for her dead
brother stung Isolde's eyes. "If everything here is under control I
will return to the chapel. Father should not be left with only the
candles for company this night."
Isolde returned to the
chapel, picked up her clairsach, and settled down near her father's
bier. With one nail broken the tunes were harder to coax from the
strings. Still, the music was as soothing as it always had been.
She drifted for a time in
dreams drawn from the harp and her memories. Her mother had played the
instrument, on long nights beside the fire in the cozy family chambers
and during sunlit summer days in the gardens as she watched the birds in
the carefully tended fruit trees. Isolde had been all of three when her
mother first set her chubby fingers to the strings and taught her the
chords.
Ten years earlier her
mother had contracted a fever and died, leaving Isolde in charge of both
harp and household. Now with her father dead the instrument remained her
comfort, her support, her friend as it always had.
And so she played to the
ghosts.
The chamber was clean and
furnished to better comfort than Albion would have believed for so small
a keep. The bed boasted a thick mattress stuffed with goose feathers.
Two braziers held coals to warm the room, while a large rack of candles
provided ample light.
A desk near the candle
rack held several stoppered ink bottles, a small cup with sharpened
quills and a small stack of untouched vellum. From the stains on the
desk, the normal occupant of this room was a dedicated scholar.
"The Mistress won't
like ye bein' in here, an' I don't mind tellin' ye that," the plump
housekeeper said as she laid a stack of fresh towels on the washstand.
"I don't much like it neither, but it's the best room to be had 'cept
for hers, an' ye'll not be settin' foot in there I can promise ye!"
"Heaven forfend!"
Josce stepped back to avoid the line of servants hauling water to the
large copper bathtub set between the braziers. He reached for one of the
ink bottles.
"Don't ye touch
nothin', ye ignorant outlander!" The housekeeper shooed Josce from
the desk with a wave of her plump hand. "Ye may be not knowin', but
this was Master Brandonn's room. We're keepin' it just as it was so as
his ghost will know it's got a home to come back to.
"An' don't think he
doesn't come visit on occasion," the housekeeper added with a
wicked grin as she laid out soap and a heavy scrub brush. "He don't
much like ye foreign devils, an' that be the God's own truth."
"And I suppose you
feel differently?" Albion tried not to chuckle at the woman's
bluster. She reminded him of a mother hen who feels her chick threatened
by some interfering outsider.
"I keeps my opinions
to myself, Master, an' that's a fact." The woman brushed her hands
over her apron. "I suppose I'm to pack up my lady's belongings for
this harebrained journey ye are draggin' her off on far too soon to be
decent?"
The woman had a talent
for phrasing a question so he could not fault her for insolence, yet he
could not mistake her true feelings on the matter. Albion decided
whoever the fortunate bridegroom might be he would be well served to
work his way to this harridan's good side as quickly as possible.
"If you would be so
good as to pack her clothes it will smooth things over in the
morning," he answered with as straight a face as he could manage.
For an answer, the
housekeeper gave him a hearty "Harrumph!" and stalked from the
room with one last warning. "Mind yer sleep, Masters. Master
Brandonn likes his privacy, so he does."
Josce inspected the ink
bottle once the servants were gone. "Dried to a crust," he
declared as he replaced it on the desk. "I suppose we should not
have expected a warm welcome. Still the bed's soft and the water's
hot."
"And I wonder where
our hostess can have taken herself off to?" Albion frowned, his
mind still drifting treacherously back to the beautiful lady of the
keep.
"Most probably she's
in the chapel, keeping the watch." Josce shrugged. "Can you
blame her? For God's sake, Albion, she's just lost her father. Give her
time to grieve."
"She's had more time
than most widows and orphans of the old king's supporters. I'm not
certain I trust her out of my sight."
"She seemed cordial
enough in the hall."
Albion nodded as he shed
his tunic. The bath did look inviting. He stretched his mind into the
water, but detected no hint of poison. It was safe enough.
"She is clever, I'll
give her that. She was not about to endanger her people by arousing our
anger. That doesn't mean she welcomes us, or that she is planning no
treachery."
Josce laughed. "You
see danger in every pretty face, my friend." He wagged his finger
at Albion like a disgruntled schoolmaster. "There are innocent
women, you know."
"And they are as few
as hairs on a hen, my trusting fool."
Albion tested the soap.
It was well made, soft and smooth, scented with sandalwood and thyme.
The sort of stuff one saved for important guests or loved family
members.
"I think I will join
her in her vigil," he decided as he soaped and rinsed his hair.
"It might be well to keep an eye on her this night. After all, we
were sent here in part to look for trouble."
Josce actually laughed
aloud. "Do you think that angel is a source of partisan unrest?
Albion, can you hear yourself? You've been around the Festil's court for
far too long. Come back to the real world."
"And you are far too
trusting to be safe in any man's company. If any but myself had heard
you your head would now be on a pole above the city gates." Albion
shook his head as he reached for a towel. "Rebels are where you
find them, my friend. I intend to search thoroughly before we leave this
place."
He tried to hide even
from himself his own eagerness to spend more time in the lady's company. |