But for better or for worse, most of the other Deryni she detected were old acquaintances of her father, a few of whom had even been present in Coroth on that fateful night. Instinctively, she gave them wide berth. The ones who came to worry her far more were the ones she could not detect.
Recognition of this deficiency in her abilities made her determined to rectify it, though she dared not go to Sief for the training she knew she needed. Fortunately, her studies with her father had been sufficiently advanced that she was able to shield her true intentions from Sief and begin formulating her own plans for the future, though she knew that she needed to know more. Unfortunately, she was still a child, albeit an exceedingly well-educated one for her age and sex. But at least Sief mostly left her alone for those next three years.
Once she had settled into the routine of the royal household, she had begun looking for ways to further her education — at least the conventional part of it. When she let it be known that she possessed a fair copy hand and read and spoke several classical languages, she soon found herself being summoned to the royal library to assist in cataloging the king's manuscript collection. There she came to the especial attention of Father Mungo, the aged chaplain to the royal household, who was taken with her learning and her willingness to learn (and most assuredly did not know that she was Deryni), and soon began giving her private tutorials.
She shortly discovered that both the king and the crown prince frequented the library on a regular basis — and thereby gained permission to spend time there whenever her duties permitted. Further honing of her esoteric talents would have to wait until she could figure out a way to gain access to teachers, or at least to texts, but in the meantime, Father Mungo's lessons and her own explorations in the royal library filled the time and gave her more tools for later on.
But she had known that her reprieve must end. On the day of her fourteenth birthday, on a sunny morning in early autumn, she was obliged to stand with Sief before the Archbishop of Rhemuth and reaffirm her marriage vows, in the presence of Malcolm and his new queen, the Lady Síle, Donal and Dulchesse, and all the royal household, for Sief was well regarded at court, and all agreed that he had shown remarkable forbearance in waiting three years for his bride. Reassured by Dulchesse, and gently briefed regarding what to expect when Sief finally came to her bed, Jessamy had endured her wedding night with reasonable grace.
She had conceived within months, shortly after the new queen was delivered of a prince christened Richard. Her own firstborn, a boy also named Sief, would have been a playmate for the new prince, but the infant died hardly a week after birth. Jessamy had not yet turned fifteen.
More pregnancies had followed at barely two-year intervals after that: a succession of mostly healthy girls, stillborn boys, and early miscarriages. The ones who did not survive were allowed burial in a corner of the royal crypt, for the childless Dulchesse began to regard them as the children she would never have. Queen Síle had also come to mourn Jessamy's losses — and Dulchesse's barrenness — and buried several children of her own, in time. The three women had visited the little graves regularly until Queen Síle's death, the same year as King Malcolm's. Dulchesse, finally queen at last, had died but two years ago. Now Jessamy laid flowers on the other women's graves as well as those of the children, sometimes in the company of the new queen, Richeldis, who had quickly borne King Donal his long-awaited heir.
For Jessamy herself, there had been only a few pregnancies after the birth of Jesiana, her nine-year-old, and only one brought to term until Krispin: yet another girl, now four, called Seffira, whom Jessamy loved dearly. Though Sief was mostly indifferent to his daughters, his desire for a son was still strong, and he continued to visit her bed on a tiresomely regular basis, despite the apparent waning of her fertility. Sometimes she wondered whether her own antipathy had kept her from quickening — especially when this latest child had been so easy to conceive. Young Krispin, however, had been greatly desired — though not in the sense that her husband supposed.
His very begetting had been profoundly different from any of the others — no resentful and resigned yielding to marital duty, but welcome fruit of a well-planned series of quick, focused couplings that were timed to the most propitious few days of her monthly cycle, accomplished quite dispassionately amid briefly lifted skirts in a shadowed upper corridor of the castle, where others rarely went — or bent over a library table, or braced against a hay bale far at the back of the royal stables, surrounded by the warm, dusty fragrance of lazing horses. Her pulse quickened at the very thought of those days, though it was the daring of what she had done rather than lust that excited her.
Within days she had known she was with child, and thought she could pinpoint exactly when conception had occurred, though she let Sief think that it had come of their usual, more conventional conjugal encounters. The memory stirred a pleasant aching in her loins, quite apart from the soreness after birth, intensified by the sweet suckling of the babe at her breast.
A tap at the room's inner door announced the intrusion of the babe's nurse, white-coifed head ducking in apology as she eased into the light of the candles burning beside the curtained bed.
«You have a visitor, milady», the woman said. The king has come to pay his respects. Shall I take the baby?»
«No, show him in», Jessamy replied. «Then leave us».
«Alone, milady?» Anjelica said, looking faintly scandalized.
«Anjelica, he's the king».
«Yes, milady».
The woman withdrew dutifully, unaware that her compliance had been encouraged by Jessamy's deft reinforcement. Very shortly, the king peered around the door and then entered, closing the door behind him and grinning. Jessamy smiled in return, inclining her head over the baby's in as much of a bow as could be managed from a mostly reclining position. As she looked up, she saw a flicker of pleased amusement kindle behind the clear gray eyes.
He did not look his age, though she knew that she looked hers, especially after the rigors of late pregnancy and childbirth — and she, more than a decade his junior. Now past fifty, Donal Blaine Aidan Cinhil was still the epitome of Haldane comeliness, fit and dashing in his scarlet hunting leathers. Gold embroidery of a coronet circled the crown of his scarlet hunting cap, and a white plume curled rakishly over one eye, caught in place with a jeweled brooch. While his close-clipped beard and his moustache were acquiring decided speckles of gray, hardly a trace of silver threaded his black hair — unlike her own once-dark tresses. The loosely plaited braid tumbling over one shoulder was decidedly piebald.
He took off his cap as he came farther into the room, tossing it onto a chest at the foot of the great bed with easy grace. He had been born in the halcyon years shortly following Gwynedd's costly victory at Killingford in 1025, the only surviving son of Malcolm Haldane and Roisian of Meara, whose marriage was to have cemented a lasting peace between the two lands. Instead, it had spawned a new dispute regarding the Mearan succession — and launched the first in an ongoing series of Haldane military incursions back into Meara.
The succession, even in Gwynedd, had remained precarious in the years that followed, for Donal was the only male heir Malcolm had produced by his first marriage, despite several children by assorted mistresses, the known ones legitimated shortly before his death but without dynastic rights. Donal's half-siblings had made good marriages and served him loyally, and Malcolm's second marriage to Queen Síle had produced another true-born prince in Duke Richard — Donal's heir presumptive until the birth of Prince Brion, little though Richard aspired to the crown. Though trained from birth to rule after Donal, if need be, none had rejoiced more than he when, within a year of his brother's new nuptials, Queen Richeldis had presented Donal with his long-awaited son: Prince Brion Donal Cinhil Urien Haldane, born the previous June.
«Good evening, Sire», Jessamy said to the father of that prince, as he moved closer beside the bed. «How fares the son and heir?»
«He flourishes», Donal replied, smiling. «When I put a sword in his hand, he doesn't want to let go. I expect he will be walking soon. He pulls himself up already. And how fares your son and heir?»
«He suckles well. He knows to reach out for what he wants. His father has reason to be proud of him».
«May I see him?» Donal asked, craning for a closer look.
«Of course».
Gathering the infant's blankets around him, and carefully supporting the tiny head, Jessamy held out the bundle to the king, who took the babe in the crook of his arm and proceeded to inspect him thoroughly.
«He appears to have the correct number of fingers and toes and other appendages», Donal declared. «And those are warrior's hands», he added, letting the infant seize one of his fingers and convey it to the tiny rosebud mouth. «He will be a fitting companion for a prince».
«One had hoped that would be the case», Jessamy agreed good-naturedly.
«Brothers — that's what they'll be», came the reply. «He's perfect. His hair will be like yours, I think», Donal went on, gently cupping the child's downy head. «But those are not your eyes, or Sief’s».
«No», was all the child's mother replied.
Chuckling softly, Donal let himself sit on the edge of the bed, and was carefully giving the child back into its mother's keeping when the bedroom door opened and Sief entered.
«Ah, and here's the proud father now», Donal said, twisting around to greet the newcomer. «I'd come to congratulate you, Sief, and to inspect the new bairn. And to cheer the mother in her childbed, if the truth be known. My queen tells me that a new mother appreciates such things. Not that she speaks to me overmuch, of late. The morning sickness is a trial she would liefer have foregone for a few more months».
Sief found himself smiling dutifully in response to the king's boyish grin, though he could not say why he found it unsettling to find Donal here.
They had long been friends beyond mere courtier and prince. He had served Donal Haldane for most of his life — had been assigned by King Malcolm as the prince's first aide, when Sief was a new-made knight and Donal but a lad of ten — and been his confidant and brother-in-arms through many a campaign and court intrigue. It had taken most of a decade for the young prince to guess that Sief was Deryni. By then, Sief had come to realize that Donal possessed certain powers of his own that were somewhat similar, somehow related to his kingship. Malcolm had possessed them as well, and perhaps had also recognized Sief for what he was, though they had never spoken of it.
Sief had never spoken of it to the Council, either, though privately he had intimated to Donal that certain of his not inconsiderable powers were at the prince's service. After all, part of the reason for the Council's very existence — and for Sief’s placement in the royal household — was to safeguard the Haldane line on the throne of Gwynedd; for the Haldanes knew, as other humans did not, that the Deryni, properly ruled, posed little threat to the human population.
In practice, Sief’s direct service to the king as a Deryni had been limited, and extremely discreet. Those of his race were able to determine when a person was lying — a talent of undoubted use to a king. In addition, a trained Deryni could usually compel disclosures when a person attempted simply to tell part of the truth, or to withhold it. With care, the memories of a person subjected to such attentions could even be blurred to hide what had been done — though such investigations were always carried out in private. The court was only aware that Sir Sief MacAthan was an extremely skilled interrogator. More often, he merely stood at the king's side and observed, only later reporting on the veracity of what had been said.
Over the years, such attention to nuance of truth and falsehood had become second-nature when in the king's presence. Why, then, were Sief’s senses suddenly all atingle? Surely it was not at the prospect that the queen was once again with child.
«Then, the palace gossip is correct», Sief said tentatively.
«Palace gossip», Donal said, standing up with fists set to hips. «Surety you don't pay any mind to that.»
«I do, when it may pertain to the welfare of the kingdom, Sire», Sief replied. «Prince Brion is still shy of his first birthday. It is still very early for a new pregnancy for the queen. Self-restraint, my lord», he added, trying not to sound self-righteous.
«A king needs an heir and a spare», Donal said breezily, «and good men to guard them and guide them as they grow. You know the heartache of losing sons, Sief. I must make certain that Brion has brothers».
Suddenly Sief caught just a flicker of subtle evasion: not a lie, but a truth not fully divulged. To his consternation, it sparked a dread possibility that had never come to mind before, but which might make sense of several things in the year since the prince's birth; but he put such thoughts aside as he forced an uneasy chuckle.
«Just now», Sief said, «methinks Prince Brion needs his mother more than he needs brothers. At least have a care for her, Sire. People would talk, were you to take a third queen».
Donal shrugged, and his next words again left Sief with the impression that all was not being said.
«People will always talk about kings. I little care, so long as the succession is secure».
«There is Duke Richard, if all else were to fail», Sief pointed out.
«True enough. But my brother Richard aspires to a warrior's fame — and he has the sheer ability to excel at it. He little cares for the finer diplomacies of the council chamber — or even of marriage, at least thus far», Donal added with a shrug. «Besides that, he is the fruit of my father's loins; not mine».
«Aye, but blood is blood, Sire», Sief said, echoing the words of the Council not an hour earlier. «Richard is as much a Haldane as you or the new prince».
He thought he saw Jessamy stiffen slightly at those words, though her gray-streaked head was bowed over the infant in her arms.