Katherine Kurtz: Childe Morgan

Christmas Eve, 1093

The fair-haired woman who paused in the doorway to the royal crypt was the Lady Alyce, Deryni heiress to the Duchy of Corwyn and now the wife of Sir Kenneth Morgan, and mother of his son. Fondly she watched as the black-cloaked Queen of Gwynedd touched a wax spill to the torch set in a cresset on a side wall, then used the spill to light a votive candle shielded in red glass.

The child sleeping beneath the stone lid of the sepulcher on which she placed the votive light had been gone more than a year now, but Alyce knew that a day never passed when Richeldis of Gwynedd did not remember this, the second-born of her four sons, and mourn his loss. Blaine Emanuel Haldane had been only nine when he passed into the care of God’s holy angels.

Nor did it much matter now just how or why Prince Blaine had met his premature death, though his bravery had saved his younger sister from drowning. Gallant though his action had been, the chill he took that day had been the death of him hardly a week later, wheezing for breath and finally succumbing to the illness that gradually filled his lungs with fluid and finally choked out his life. Though the royal physicians had done their best to save him, the boy’s condition had been beyond their skill, either to cure him or even much to ease his suffering. Only recently had his mother begun to smile again, and to emerge from the profound depression she had suffered following the young prince’s death.

Breathing a heavy sigh, the queen sank to her knees to pray, head bowing over her hands, which were folded on Blaine’s tomb. Alyce knelt as well, quietly reaching behind her to pull a basket of greenery closer. Earlier, she and another of the queen’s ladies had helped gather cuttings of what sparse winter foliage the royal gardens had to offer, floral tributes intended not just for Prince Blaine but for several other notables buried here in the royal crypt, sleeping with Haldane princes and princesses.

«Please bring the basket, Alyce», the queen said suddenly, getting to her feet and turning.

Rising wordlessly, Alyce brought the basket closer so that Richeldis could select a single white camellia blossom, which she kissed and then laid on her son’s tomb beside the votive candle. She then added a sprig of winter holly, rich with berries, and a companion cutting of evergreen, tied with a ribbon of Haldane crimson.

«Sleep gently, my son», the queen murmured, bending briefly to touch her lips to the cool marble.

As she took the basket and moved on to lay tributes at several other Haldane graves, Alyce paid her own respects at another pair of tombs: the Lady Jessamy, wife of Sir Sief MacAthan, and Krispin her son — who also had been the son of the king, though Alyce doubted that Richeldis had ever learned of this. The plan had been that Krispin, heir to the magic of his Deryni mother and the similar magic of the Haldanes, should grow to be a Deryni protector to the king’s eldest son and heir, Prince Brion.

But the Deryni were feared in most of Gwynedd, and hated by many, especially Gwynedd’s clergy. It had been such fear and hatred that had led to young Krispin’s murder, setting at naught all the king’s plans. One of those responsible had been a priest, the brother of a bishop, the guilt of all the murderers discovered and revealed by Alyce’s own magic. In all, three men had been executed.

Now it was Alyce’s son who was being groomed to assume the role meant for the ill-fated Krispin: another child of a Deryni mother. Young Alaric had turned two in September, and Prince Brion was a mature twelve-and-a-half, but already the two were bonding like brothers — and might have been brothers in fact, if the king had had his way.

But in this, at least, Donal Haldane had found himself thwarted before he could even attempt to carry out his intent. Alyce still found herself awed by the loyalty and love that had enabled her husband to forgive the king for what he had tried to do, and to pledge their child to the king’s service even before his birth, so that Prince Brion should have his Deryni protector.

Never mind that the two-year-old Alaric would be in no position to do much protecting of anyone for some time. Fortunately, King Donal was yet hale and strong, and might expect to live many more years before his own son came to the throne. In the meantime, God willing, Alaric would be given the time to grow into his responsibilities, and be ready to take them up when the time came.

«So many Haldanes», the queen said softly, intruding on Alyce’s reflections as she turned to look at the younger woman. «This is where they all lie, and where I shall lie, one day».

«True enough, madam», Alyce replied lightly, «but, please God, not for many a year».

Behind them, a rustling of fabric reminded Alyce of another waiting just at the doorway to the royal crypt: Zoë Morgan, her husband’s eldest daughter, beloved friend from Alyce’s schoolgirl days, briefly the wife of her late brother, but still and always her sister of the heart — and now, by dint of marriage with Zoë’s father, her stepdaughter as well.

«Alyce, there’s a squire clearing his throat at the top of the stair», Zoë whispered, glancing over her shoulder as she moved nearer.

«He’s expected», Alyce whispered back. «He’ll be here about the council meeting. Madam», she called, raising her voice slightly, «it’s time to go».

«Good heavens, already?» Richeldis turned in surprise, looking younger than her twenty-eight years. «I will have time to change, won’t I? I can’t go to the council looking like a crow, in all this black!»

Smiling, Zoë moved a little nearer, lifting a beckoning arm. «We have time, if you come now, madam. I believe it’s Jamyl who’s come to remind us. He knows to bring the summons just that bit earlier than he’d need to do».

«Clever Jamyl», Richeldis said with a low chuckle. «He is precisely the kind of squire I like. He must have sisters and lots of other female relatives. Now, if I could only persuade the king to give me earlier reminders when I’m dressing for a state occasion. He does hate it when I’m late».

So saying, she passed a final, wistful caress along the top of her dead son’s tomb, then gathered her skirts to pass Alyce and follow Zoë up the stairs, where a mounted escort and a carriage waited at the foot of the cathedral steps to take them back up to the castle.

Several weeks later, on a bitter cold morning early in January of the new year, a solitary figure in a heavy cloak and hood emerged from a side door of that same cathedral and made his way into the cemetery beyond.

An icy sleet was knifing the air on this Feast of the Epiphany, also called Twelfth Night, unlike that other, unspeakable Twelfth Night now four years past. Then, heavy snow had cast its pall over Gwynedd, the city of Rhemuth, and the bleak burial ground adjoining the cathedral, where Bishop Oliver de Nore now huddled in the lee of the apse and gazed unseeing at his brother’s grave.

«Why, Sepp?» the bishop whispered to the rain, tugging his oiled leather hood farther onto his head.

In the intervening years, he had learned far too much of his brother’s ignoble death — and imagination embellished such details as others had dared to tell him: how, on the word of a Deryni sorceress, the king had condemned Father Septimus de Nore as an accessory to murder and ordered him flogged and thrown headfirst down a well in the royal stable yard.