«Nay, there's naught amiss with Meara», Sir Kenneth assured him. «The king is on his way back, unharmed, and Jared of Kierney acts as governor in Ratharkin. Where shall I find my daughter, and Lady Alyce de Corwyn?»
On learning that the latter was likely to be in the castle gardens with some of the children, he headed there first, following the page who scampered on ahead of him. Unshaven and stinking from two days in the saddle, he slicked at his hair and tried to make himself more presentable as they passed through a side door of the hall and along a cloistered walkway toward the wider spaces of the parkland beyond. In truth, however, with the news he brought, Kenneth guessed that the finely bred Alyce de Corwyn would take little notice of the bearer of that news.
Indeed, she did not notice him at all at first, lounging in the shade of a fruited pear tree and deeply absorbed in a book, the Princess Xenia and a large black-and-white cat sprawled with abandon amid Alyce's skirts — a splash of vibrant lavender against the green of the lawn.
Farther beyond, at the edge of the duck pond, a squawking of waterfowl marked the location of two more maids of honor crouched down beside young Prince Nigel, turned two the previous February, pointing out the line of newly hatched cygnets strung behind a pair of swans gliding toward them on the water. Behind the three, various ducks, several aggressive geese, and a pair of peafowl were squabbling for scraps of bread that the boy had cast along the water's edge.
Kenneth's precipitous approach sent alarm among the assorted poultry flocked around Prince Nigel. As the peacock suddenly fanned its tail feathers and emitted a raucous screech that sounded like a child crying for help, young Nigel burst into tears and both Alyce and Xenia looked up — and saw Sir Kenneth Morgan approaching fast, a red-faced page running to keep up. Sir Kenneth looked positively grim, dust-streaked and still lightly armed for travel, and Alyce scrambled to her feet at once, dislodging princess and cat and sending the latter scurrying for safety into the sheltering branches of the pear tree.
«Sir Kenneth, what is it?» she cried. «Is it Ahern?»
«Alyce, I am so sorry», he said, reeling as she flung herself into his arms, searching his eyes for some sign of hope. «He was uninjured in the campaign, but he's taken ill. «The king bids me bring you to his side. He lies at an abbey near Cùilteine. He bade me bring Zoë as well. Ahern had asked for her hand when the campaign was finished, and I — had given it», he finished, faltering at his own last words.
«He isn't going to die, is he?» Alyce demanded, desperate for details, but not daring to probe for them — not Sir Kenneth, who was the father of her dearest friend.
«Dear child, I don't know», he murmured, embracing her awkwardly, a detached part of him desperately aware of his disheveled state, concerned that she was ruining her lovely gown.
Alyce left Princess Xenia in the care of the two girls with Prince Nigel. On the way to the queen's chambers to find Zoë, Kenneth told her what he could of her brother's illness, not sparing her any details, for he had too much respect for her not to be honest, even were she not Deryni.
«I have occasionally seen men recover from this, but the outlook is not good. It is an inflammation of the gut, which often ruptures — and then the belly fills with corruption, and the victim dies».
«How long?» she asked breathlessly, as they raced back along a cloister corridor.
«God willing, he will recover. But if not… another week or two, perhaps — no more».
«Sweet Jesu, no…»
They had crossed almost the width of the formal part of the gardens as they spoke, and were approaching a set of double doors opening onto the gardens from the queen's summer apartments. Within, in the sunny morning room, the queen lay half-reclining on a damask-draped day-bed, her dark hair caught in a loose plait over one shoulder of her loose-fitting gown and a cool compress held against her forehead. She was bearing again, this new pregnancy discovered shortly before the king's departure for Meara, and she was still much afflicted with morning sickness, as she had been for all but one of her previous pregnancies.
Jessamy sat attentively beside her, hands busy with a drop spindle as she and the queen chatted. Behind them, in a sunnier window, Zoë and Vera and several others were stitching on an embroidery frame, and the ladies Miranda and Tiphane were practicing a new lute duet, albeit somewhat badly, the former making grimaces of distaste whenever the latter plucked a false note, which was often.
The pair stopped playing as the page bowed and entered to state their business, and the other ladies stopped stitching. Zoë rose apprehensively as she saw the expression on her father's face. Alyce held back a little as Sir Kenneth ventured into the room apologetically and bowed to the queen.
«Sir Kenneth, what is it?» Richeldis asked, laying aside her compress and sitting up. «What has happened?»
«I beg you to pardon me, your Majesty», he said. «The king is well, but Earl Ahern is taken seriously ill». Zoë gasped, one hand flying to her lips. «His Majesty bids Lady Alyce to come at once, to care for her brother, and asks for you as well, dear Zoë «. He held out his hand to her. «Ahern had asked for your hand, daughter, and pending your consent, I had given it to him».
She flew to him, weeping in his arms while the rest plied him with questions, few of which he could answer. Vera came to Alyce and clutched her hand, offering her silent support.
«My news is two days old. I wish I could tell you more», Kenneth said, as horrified speculation shifted to the practicalities of immediate travel. «I have arranged for horses along the way back. Travel as lightly as you can, but we may be gone for several weeks».
They were on the road again before an hour had passed, dressed in stout travel attire, now accompanied by an escort of four fresh lancers for the protection of the women. Later, both Alyce and Zoë would remember that ride only as a blur of pounding hooves and aching backs and legs, quick meals snatched at intervals along the way, less frequent stops to try to catch a few hours' rest.
For the latter, at least, Alyce could offer assistance of a sort, by means of fatigue-banishing techniques she had learned years before from Father Paschal. For herself and Zoë, this posed no dilemma, for Zoë was well-accustomed to her touch. In the case of Kenneth, though he was already exhausted from his ride to fetch them, she was reticent to offer it; but Kenneth surprised her by asking whether she could do it.
«It doesn't frighten me», he told her candidly. «On those campaigns in Meara, I've often watched Sir Morian work, and occasionally, he's even lent a hand when some of us were dead on our feet and needed to stay alert. It was quite an extraordinary experience, and I don't know why the bishops keep insisting that this sort of thing is wrong».
«Well, they do», she said, half-disbelieving his trust. «Lie down and let me see what I can do».
She took care to go no deeper than she must, for her experience had been largely confined to herself and Zoë, Vera, and of course, Father Paschal. But Kenneth was a good subject, and woke much refreshed an hour later, when they must mount up again.
For herself, her attempts at rest were less successful, for her worry for her brother deepened with every mile they traveled; and though she tried several times to touch his mind, she could not, at such distance and unassisted. She wished Vera was with her, but since their true relationship was still not known, that had not been possible, just as it had not been when she had laid dear Marie to rest.
They passed through the returning army half a day before reaching the abbey, and picked up a fresh escort and fresher horses. Duke Richard had brought the army forward, and reported that Ahern had still been alive when they left him at the Abbey of Saint Bridget's. The king and several dozen of his men had remained behind with the stricken Ahern, to await the arrival of Alyce and Zoë.
Even with the use of Alyce's fatigue-banishing spells, all three of them were exhausted by the time they reached the abbey where Ahern lay. Seeing him huddled in his sickbed, his bedclothes damp with his sweat, did little to lift their spirits.
«Alyce, thank God!» he gasped, as the sisters admitted her and Zoë to his sickroom. «And darling Zoë… Alyce, I pray you, help me…»
But there was only so much she could do, even when she had sent the sisters from the room and stationed Sir Kenneth outside the door to keep intruders at bay while she employed her powers as best she could. Zoë held his hand, and bathed his fevered brow, but there was little else she could do.
The king's battle-surgeon now held out little hope. Curled on his side, with his good knee drawn up to his chest, Ahern periodically was racked by rigours, now burning with fever, grown far worse in the four days since Kenneth had left to fetch her. When Alyce tried to examine his belly, it was taut and hard, and extremely tender. Her powers told her only that something was very wrong.
«I fear the bowel has ruptured», the surgeon told her, after she came out of his room. «We have tried to keep him quiet, and have given him nothing by mouth save a little water, but his agony has been intense. And his breath — the foetor oris». He shook his head. «It is only a matter of time».
She cried a little then, weeping wearily against Sir Kenneth's chest, then dried her tears and went back into her brother's room. After putting him to sleep — and breathing a silent prayer that a miracle might yet come to pass — she gave her grim report to the king, then fell gratefully into the bed the sisters provided and slept through the night, Zoë curled dismally beside her.
Ahern was no better the next morning, though at least his night had been peaceful. In truth, he was now slipping in and out of coma, and his features had begun to take on a waxen, transparent quality. A priest had been summoned to administer the last rites, and was waiting outside the room with the king and Duke Richard. Sir Jovett was changing a compress on his forehead, in an ongoing attempt to ease his fever.
«I don't want to die here, Alyce», he told her, rousing at about midday as she and Zoë held his hands and Kenneth tried to comfort both of them. «And I wanted to marry Zoë. I still do!» he declared, turning his burning gaze first on her and then on her father, then lifting her hand to his lips.
«Zoë Morgan, will you consent to do me the very great honor of giving me your hand in marriage?» he murmured.
«I will, she breathed, tears streaming down her cheeks. «I will!»
«Then, someone, fetch that priest», he rasped. «And there should be other witnesses. Is the king about? And Jovett — call Jovett, my faithful friend…»
Kenneth had already gone to fetch the priest, waiting outside with the king and Duke Richard, and returned immediately with all three of them, Jovett following behind.
«But, my lord», the priest was protesting, «he should receive Unction first. He may not have much time».
«Time enough to marry this fair lass», the king replied, grasping the priest's sleeve and propelling him to the bedside. «Do it, Father!»
Trembling, the priest put on his stole and joined their right hands, leading them through a much abbreviated form of the wedding vows.
«Ego conjugo vos in matrimonium: In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen», he concluded, when they had taken one another for better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death did them part, and Ahern had given her his name and the gold ring engraved with the arms of Lendour — not yet impaled with the Corwyn arms, as had one day been his expectation, but token, nonetheless, of his intentions.
Only then did he allow the priest to anoint him for his final journey, and give him viaticum to speed him on his way. When he slipped again into coma a little while later, Alyce sealed him from pain and gently kissed his forehead in farewell, then left him in the care of his bride of but an hour, herding everyone else out of the room.
It was but another hour later when Zoë appeared at the door, eyes downcast, and stood aside to let them look beyond to where he now lay at peace.
Later that morning, after Ahern's friends had paid their respects, the priest who had married him, shriven him, and given him the Last Rites of his faith sang him a Requiem there in the abbey, his soul uplifted by the angel-voices of the sisters who had cared for him in his final days.
Few mourned more profoundly than his king, who knelt beside Ahern's grieving sister and his bride of only hours with his face buried in his hands, pondering what would become of the gaping hole left by the dead man's untimely passing. In his all too short life, Ahern de Corwyn had taken on the mantle of his noble inheritance with passion and courage, overcoming adversities that might have seduced a lesser man into accepting the life of a wealthy and privileged cripple.
Only recently had the first stirrings of a born military genius begun to blossom — along with a quiet self-confidence regarding his Deryni gifts. Both had been of inestimable value in the campaign just past — and both had been lost with his death. Ahern had been but eighteen.