Ensuring that she took a suitable father for that son now became yet another burden that Donal Haldane must bear, for Alyce de Corwyn shared the same blood and heritage as the dead man, and likely with similar potential. Any son of Alyce must be mentored by a father of unimpeachable integrity, with the ability to guide up the boy in the way he should go — a pair of safe hands in which to entrust the power that came with eventually taking the reins of ducal authority in Corwyn.
No such considerations yet stirred the mind of the potential mother of such a duke. For Alyce, the losing of her beloved brother represented a shock not unlike what she had experienced after the death of their father, three years before, and the loss of their sister, not a year past.
Once again, Zoë Morgan knelt at her side, but this time not merely as bosom companion but as sister, briefly bound to Ahern in law and spirit, but fated never to consummate that union. If Alyce now wept, she wept for Zoë as much as for Ahern — and for herself. Her brother's death changed many things. Some things, however, remained sadly and always the same.
The cheerless journey back to Rhemuth with Ahern's body was eased somewhat by Zoë's presence, sharing her grief. Again, the robes of mourning must be pulled from coffers, and again a Requiem was sung for a departed earl of Lendour in the chapel royal, before sending his body home for burial. Though Duke of Corwyn by birth, Ahern de Corwyn had never ruled in his ducal lands, so the decision was taken to inter him at Cynfyn with his father and other scions of the Lendour line.
Much of the next few weeks seemed like a repeat of the obsequies for Keryell three years before, though with an even larger turn-out. Ahern had won the hearts of all his Lendouri subjects during the months of his convalescence and the mastery of his injury’s aftermath, and his people had been well proud when the king consented not only to knight him ahead of custom but to confirm him in his Lendour title, also departing from what the law ordinarily allowed.
Corwyn, too, paid him homage in death, in far greater numbers than they had for his father, for Ahern would have been their duke in fact, had he lived; Keryell had never been aught but caretaker, where Corwyn was concerned.
His young widow they took to their hearts as well, with wistful regret that she now would never carry on his line. The knights who would have been his support and mainstay as he took up his duties — Deinol Hartmann, Jovett Chandos, and even Sé Trelawney come from his unknown duties in far R'Kassi — rallied to the support of his sister, promising to keep safe in trust the lands that now would pass through her line instead of Ahern's.
Both Alyce and Zoë were exhausted by the time they arrived back in Rhemuth, though their return at least was marked by happier anticipation as the time approached for the queen's latest lying-in. In addition, the king had appointed a permanent governor for Ratharkin, a baron from the Purple March called Lucien Talbot, which had relieved Earl Jared to return to Rhemuth and make his formal declaration to Vera to become his wife. Very shortly after, Vera had journeyed to her family home near Cynfyn, there to make preparations for a wedding in Kierney the following spring. Letters were awaiting Alyce and Zoë, telling of the wedding plans and inviting their participation in the happy event.
That news, and the birth of a healthy daughter to the queen, early in September, did much to raise the spirits of the court. The baby's christening a few weeks later, as Silke Anne, was cause for rejoicing: renewal of life in the midst of death. Gradually the pain of Ahern's passing began to fade, and gradually, both Alyce and Zoë began to smile again.
It was early November when what began as a day's pleasant diversion set off a chain of events fated to have far-reaching results. The weather, too, had changed, not many days before, and a light powdering of snow lay on the ground: the first of the season. The king was preparing to lead a hunting expedition out into the forests north of the city, and had invited the queen and her ladies to accompany him. It would be her first such outing since the birth of Princess Silke. Richeldis, a fine rider, had been delighted to agree.
Accordingly, certain of her ladies were asked to ride with the royal party, Alyce and Zoë among them. It was an activity usually declined by the older ladies of the court, but the younger ones always relished a day in the field, surrounded by handsome men and handsome horses and with far less scrutiny than was possible within the castle walls.
On this particular day, the king's party included his handsome and unmarried brother Richard, nearly a dozen of Duke Richard's most promising squires, some to be knighted at the Twelfth Night to come, and many of the members of the king's council — perhaps twenty in all, along with as many huntsmen and men-at-arms. Sir Kenneth Morgan rode at the king's side: steady and reliable, attractive enough, but more of an age with Richard's generation than that of the king's other aides and the squires.
The day was sparkling, the sunshine bright and brisk, the horses frisky. They had a good ride for the first two hours, and good luck against the stag. One of the senior squires in the party brought down an eight-point buck, and the falconers totted up a good day's bag in pigeon and rabbit.
The ambush had been planned by someone with disturbing foreknowledge of the king's movements. Fortunately, the archers who carried out the attack were far less efficient. The first arrow only grazed the back of the king's hand, ruining a perfectly good pair of hawking gloves and his good humor; the second took Sir Kenneth Morgan solidly through the back of his thigh, pinning him to his saddle and sending his mount into a fit of bucking affront at this wound to its back. Before a third could be loosed, the king's men had their master on the ground and protected by a layer of knights and squires, and more of them were surging into the trees to isolate and overwhelm the attackers.
Alyce would recall the next few minutes as a confusion of screaming and fighting and fear. Riding with Zoë at the queen's side, she heard the king's exclamation and Sir Kenneth's startled cry as his mount began bucking, and saw the riders nearest the king bear him to the ground for safety, others spurring toward the trees, and the source of the attack. At the same time, other men grabbed the queen's reins and drew her away from the confusion, one of the squires kneeing Alyce's mount aside to follow them.
It was all over very quickly. As the king's men dragged several belligerent men from the trees, somewhat the worse for wear, others helped the king to his feet while more men swarmed around Sir Kenneth's plunging horse and wrenched its neck downward, one throwing a cloak over its head to hoodwink it and, hopefully, calm it while others went to the aid of the wounded man.
«Careful! His leg is pinned to the saddle!» one man warned, as Kenneth cried out and groped at the grasping hands when someone started to help him down. «Somebody, make this damned horse stop dancing!»
«The barb's gone right through the saddle», another man said, sliding a hand under the pinned leg. «I think it's into the horse's back as well».
«Well, make him stand still, or we'll have to put him down. Someone loose that girth! Easy!»
The horse was still snorting and prancing, trying to buck, to rear, but its handlers mostly kept it with all four feet on the ground. Kenneth was gasping with pain, for every jigging movement of the animal tore at the shaft through his leg. Boldly Alyce broke away from the queen's party, a horrified Zoë following, and rode to where the drama was being played out, jumping down to join the rescuers.
«Let me help», she murmured, pulling off her riding gloves as she pushed her way through to the horse's head and reached for it.
«Stay clear, m'lady, or you'll get kicked!» one of the men warned, as she skittered back from a flailing hoof. Another was drawing his dagger, obviously intending the coup de grâce to still the animal's plunging.
«Let me touch him», she said, shouldering past the man's blade, already focusing her powers as she slipped her hands under the muffling cloak. «I'm Deryni. I can calm him».
A few of them backed off a little at this reminder of what she was, but the horse subsided immediately under the touch of her hand and mind, still whuffling and snorting but with all four legs now firmly planted, head dropping obediently.
«Easy, boy… That's it. Good boy… Now, brace the saddle and pull it off with him», she ordered, slipping one hand along the horse's neck to grasp Kenneth's nearest wrist, flesh to flesh. «Give it good support, and try not to hurt him too much. Sir Kenneth, look at me!»
He did, concentrating through his pain — and found himself captured by her eyes, caught by a sensation of falling into them, even as the men began lifting him and the saddle clear of the horse. The movement still hurt him — and he cried out as they carefully lowered him to the ground — but she moved with him, still grasping his wrist, wary of the horse as it was led out of the way, snorting.
Two men continued to support the heavy saddle as two more examined the angle of the arrow jutting from Kenneth's leg. Zoë had crowded in behind Alyce, craning to see her father's condition. As Alyce scrambled to his head, laying both her hands along the sides of his face and taking him into unconsciousness, one of the men carefully wrapped both hands around the feathered end of the shaft, obviously intending to attempt withdrawing it.
«Don't try to pull it», one of the other men warned. «The barb's gone all the way through».
«Just break off the fletching», another man said. «It's going to be easier on him if the shaft is pulled on through, once it's free of the saddle».
«Wait», said another man, working with one hand squeezed flat between saddle and pinned flesh. «I've nearly got it loose… there!»
At his nod, men lifted the saddle clear, those closest bending for a closer look at the arrow transfixing Kenneth's thigh. A knot of observers had gathered to give suggestions for separating man and saddle, and now eased forward warily as Alyce, too, shifted her attention to the damage done. Zoë dropped to her knees at her father's head, casting anxious glances between him, Alyce, and the wound.
The tip of the arrowhead, a wicked-looking barbed affair made for bringing down large game — or men — was just protruding from the back of Kenneth's thigh, and would surely do additional damage as it exited, whichever way it was removed. Alyce knew he would also bleed a great deal, though at least the arrow had passed through deep muscle, well away from the great vessel whose severance meant almost instant death.
«I wouldn't break off the arrow just yet», she said, moving one hand to stay the man about to do so. «It may be better to cut the arrowhead off cleanly, back at the castle, and then back the arrow out of the wound, with plenty of shaft for a handgrip. He's going to bleed a great deal».
«Do as she says», came the voice of the king, suddenly among the onlookers. «I won't lose him because we rushed things here in the field. Can he ride?» he asked, crouching down between Alyce and Zoë.
«Not really, Sire. He'd be far safer and more comfortable in a litter or a wagon, if one can be arranged».
«See to it», Donal ordered two of his men. «And go gently, Rannulf. He took that arrow for me».
They were several hours getting Kenneth home, carrying him in a litter until they could commandeer a wagon and bed him down in that. They padded out the wagon bed with hay and wadded cloaks to keep the injured leg supported, and Alyce settled down beside him to keep careful watch over his condition. The king had ridden on ahead with the prisoners, and another party had taken the queen and the rest of her ladies back to the castle by the most direct route, though a junior maid had been left behind for propriety's sake, riding just ahead of the wagon with Jiri Redfearn. Zoë rode anxiously alongside the wagon, and half a dozen of his knights behind.
After a while, Alyce allowed Kenneth to regain consciousness, blurring as much as she dared of his pain. She could feel the eyes of the king's men upon her as she sat there — judging, assessing, many of them disapproving — for she had been obliged to use her powers far more openly than was her usual wont; but it was not in her nature to let any living thing suffer, if she was able to do something about it. Sir Kenneth Morgan was the father of her dearest friend, a kind and gentle man, and had always treated her with the utmost courtesy and even affection, though he knew full well what she was.
«I must be dead», he murmured, after a long interval of jouncing along in comparative silence, accompanied by only the rumble of the wheels, the jingle of harness, and the occasional low-voiced converse of their escort.
She looked at him sharply.
«Are you in pain?»
He gave her a faint, strained smile and a slight shake of his head.
«No worse than before, dear girl. But since I am in the keeping of an angel, I can only suppose that I have passed to the next world».
She raised an eyebrow and gave him a genteel snort, along with a faint smile of her own.
«I doubt these gentlemen would agree, my lord». She gave a slight jut of her chin in the direction of the men accompanying them. «Most would judge me anything but an angel. But I am glad that your discomfort is not too great».
He raised his head slightly to glance down at his leg, lightly touching the shaft of the arrow with his fingertips, then lay back with a grimace and a sigh, casting a reassuring glance at his daughter, riding along beside them.
«Is the arrowhead embedded?» he asked, returning his gaze to Alyce. «Will it have to be cut out?»
She shook her head slightly. «I think not, my lord — or, only a little, perhaps. It mostly went through — though I fear that your saddle is ruined. And your horse is in a very ill temper — though he is only slightly injured».
He chuckled bleakly at that, smiling faintly as he looked back at her. His eyes were the same shade of sandy steel-gray as his hair, though with a hint of sea-blue in their depths. Though his face was weathered and tanned, bespeaking much service in the field, she sensed that the crinkles at the corners of his eyes came mostly of good humor.