The Bishop’s Heir (11 page)

“I've brought m'brother home tae sup with us, Da,” he said in his broad border accent. “He would count it a great favor if ye could put his other rank aside for a night, for he would do honor to our house an' blood for sake o' the bond he shares wi' me. Will ye nae greet him as a kinsman an' a son?”

For an interminable instant, Kelson feared that Caulay would not go along, that the close-knit bonds of border kinship would force him back into the royal role he was so often obliged to play. But then the old man's face split in a pleased grin and he held out a huge hand to Kelson, the brown eyes warming.

“Aye, and it's pleased that I am to see ye, son,” he said softly. “I left ye a boy, and ye've come back a man. Will ye nae give yer old Da the kiss of peace?”

Solemnly Kelson placed his hand in Caulay's and rose, inclining his head in proper salute, borderer to hosting chief, acutely aware of the eyes upon him. When he bent to kiss the old man's cheek, however, a ragged murmur of approval rippled among the bordermen and the pipes struck up a dutiful salute, this time punctuated by drums.

It was not the most spontaneous of welcomes, but it was a start. Pretending not to notice Conall's sour looks farther down the table, and the confused expressions on most of the rest of his retinue, Kelson took his seat, smiling. Brion would never have done this, but Kelson was not Brion. They would just have to adjust to the fact that he was going to develop his own style. He laughed at a joke Dhugal murmured in an aside, and when Ciard came to serve them roast fowl and beef on a trencher of hearty highland bread, he dug in with his fingers in proper border fashion.

He and Caulay made casual small talk through the meal, Kelson touching on some of his experiences of the past three years and the old chief proudly recounting Dhugal's skill as a future border chief. Only passing comment was made on his own failing health.

Out of respect for his host, Kelson veered away from politics or any other subjects of possible controversy, intending to save such conversation for more private surrounds, perhaps later that night. But just before the sweet was served—a sticky confection of crushed almonds and biscuit and honey—Caulay made passing reference to his brother Sicard, whose wife was the Mearan Pretender.

“What's she like, the Lady Caitrin?” Kelson asked, trying to keep too much interest out of his tone. To his relief, Caulay was neither offended nor reticent, wine having loosened his tongue to the point of amiability.

“Ach, she nurses an old dream whose time passed lang ago,” Caulay said. “I did nae ever like her. She's of an age wi' me—no spring hen-chick, she—but she has fierce bairns an'a fiercer mate. She an' my brother—!”

He spat contemptuously, and Kelson raised an eyebrow in feigned surprise.

“You and Sicard had a falling out?”

“Ye might say that,” the old man allowed. “Truth is, he an' I were never close. I'm nae close to the bairns, either—leastways not the boys. Ithel an' Llewell, they're named—though I expect ye know that. About your age, they are—mayhap a year or so younger. The girl, though—”

“Not another daughter,” Kelson breathed, almost to himself.

Old Caulay immediately caught his drift, however, and laughed uproariously as he clapped Kelson on the shoulder.

“Ach, I see they've been pushing ye to choose a mate, haven't they, lad? Well, a man could do far worse than sweet Sidana. Her name means ‘silk' in the old tongue, an' she has all the grace the boys an' their mother lack. Pretty she is, as well as heiress to a great name, wi' fine sleek hair that reaches to her knees—brown as a chestnut burr it is—an' eyes like a bonnie fawn. Fair white teeth, too, an' hips tae bear a man many fine sons, though she can nae be more than fifteen.”

“You sound as if you're trying to marry her off,” Kelson said with a smile. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

Caulay's shoulders lifted with a coy shrug, even though he was shaking his head no.

“Weel, 'tis not I who'd presume tae barter a bride for my king, son,” the old man said. “But if a man wanted tae resolve an old, old rift an' bring peace tae his people, he could do far worse than marryin' Sidana. If I thought it would help, I'd marry Dhugal to her—or praise God, if I were a younger man, an' could find a willing priest, I'd marry her myself, an' she my own dear niece.”

Kelson smiled wanly, remembering what he once read about incest of an only slightly closer degree toppling a throne two centuries before—though there had been a Deryni question in the case of Imre and Ariella, as well.

But Caulay's theoretical solution would certainly have no such repercussions, even if it were to occur. For that matter, he supposed
he
and Sidana were distantly related—his eyes glazed a little as he tried to sort out the generations of cousins through a common great-great-grandfather—though they were certainly outside the bounds of consanguinity proscribed by the Church.

“I don't think it will be necessary for you to make the sacrifice,” he reassured Caulay, with a faint, droll grin.

“Ach, o' course not. ‘Tis a Haldane husband she'd be needin', not another borderer, tae muddy matters further. If not Yer Grace, then perhaps yer young cousin, there—”

The old man glanced down the table where Conall had moved to sit between Ewan and Jodrell, brooding over his wine cup.

“Nah, on second reflection, Conall would nae do,” Caulay went on more soberly. “She would nae be happy with the likes o' him—though methinks yer young cousin has ambitions o' his own. Power can be a great temptation, son. But I need nae tell ye about that, do I?”

Surprised, Kelson glanced at Conall and then back at Caulay.

“Conall?”

“Ach, I dinnae mean to cast a shadow on yer cousin, lad. But Sidana is a fair marriage prize, an' could give her husband a fair claim to Meara. With the right persuasion, from the right man, her brothers might even be moved to abandon their claims.”

Kelson chuckled grimly and shook his head, running a finger along the rim of his cup.

“I'm trying to avoid that kind of persuasion, Caulay,” he said softly. “I don't
want
to have to march into Meara the way my father and grandfather did, and solve things with a sword. But I don't intend to give up what's lawfully mine, either.”

Caulay's bearded face clouded and he dropped his gaze to stare into the depths of his goblet. “That may be the only way, son,” he whispered darkly. “Young Ithel wants a throne. He won't be content to rule over an exile court in Laas, once his mother is gone.”

“You speak as if that might be imminent,” Kelson breathed, gently reaching out to read the truth of Caulay's words. “Is Ithel plotting something?”

“I dinnae know particulars. I dinnae care to know.” Caulay took a long pull at his wine and shook his head. “It's only some rumors I've heard. What young man does not have ambition? I dinnae care to say more.”

Chilled, Kelson nudged his cup aside and stared at Caulay. The old man was telling the truth, as far as he went, but what were the rumors he had heard? If Ithel of Meara was actively plotting a revolt …

“I need to know, Caulay,” he murmured, as he touched his wrist and started trying to Mind-See. “If you know something—”

“I know nothing!” Caulay whispered, eyes flashing as he yanked away his wrist. “An' if ye press me for nothing, then—”

The skirl of pipes began outside the hall just then, and Caulay broke off and shook his head apologetically, taking another deep draught from his cup. While Kelson searched for a tactful way to reapproach the subject, two pipers marched in from the far end of the hall, preceding a white-robed old man brandishing two evergreen boughs like bushy swords. Conversation died away as they entered, even the rowdier of the clansmen putting aside their cups to brush caps in salute as the old man passed. The women standing curtseyed, and even the children serving table stopped where they were to render appropriate respect.

“Kinkellyan, the chief bard,” Dhugal murmured in his ear, as the old man came between the two pipers and continued toward them. “This could be very important. Stay seated for now, but pay very close attention.”

As the man reached the lowest step of the dais and stopped, crossing the boughs over his head in salute as he bowed, the music ended and Dhugal stood, raising a cup in answering salute to the man in white.

“Bright moon and starshine on thy path, noble bard. The MacArdry and all his kin welcome Kinkellyan to the hall of Transha.”

The old man inclined his head and murmured a phrase Kelson did not quite catch, sweeping the narrow boughs in his hands to either side as if to open an embrace. Kelson thought he had heard his name, but he could not be sure. Dhugal replied with an answering phrase in the border tongue, then bowed and glanced at his father. Old Caulay seemed to have forgotten his previous agitation, and bowed low over his place at table as he, too, raised his cup in salutation.

“Kinkellyan offers you his bardic blessing and asks that you be afforded the enduring friendship of the clan,” Dhugal murmured to Kelson out of the side of his mouth. “The MacArdry has accepted on your behalf. Stand up and bow, and then do whatever seems appropriate after Kinkellyan and I have finished.”

As Kelson obeyed, Dhugal bowed to his father and left the table, descending the dais to enthusiastic hammerings of fists on tabletops by all his kinsmen. Kelson's men looked mystified, except for old Ewan.

In slow, almost ritual mime, Dhugal took the boughs from the old bard and bowed again, then crossed them in saltire above his head and pivoted slowly on the balls of his feet until he faced Kelson, bending to lay them that way on the floor as the pipers skirled a few introductory bars. The tempo changed as he straightened and set his hands on his hips, rising again on the balls of his feet, and Dhugal began to dance.

Kelson felt his own feet stir as he watched, for the pipes seemed to beckon almost magically. For just an instant, as Dhugal moved from the first quarter to the second, his eyes locked with Kelson's in a linking so profound that memory surged across the link almost as surely as if Dhugal, too, had been Deryni and deliberately sent his thought winging into Kelson's mind—the two of them, half a lifetime ago, facing one another over crossed swords, not evergreen boughs, treading out the measures of the dance Dhugal how performed as it was meant to be done. All at once Kelson knew what Dhugal had meant—
do whatever seems appropriate
—and he found himself edging out from behind the table and down off the dais to where Dhugal spun and leaped.

The pipers never faltered as the king came onto the floor. Kelson could sense the expectation of the audience all around, some pleased, some thoroughly mystified, but the old bard looked not at all surprised, though he raised a white eyebrow. Dhugal was just finishing the first set of measuring steps around the ends of the boughs, pivoting and rocking, with first one arm and then the other raised above his head, but when he saw Kelson ease into the quarter which was about to be opposite him, he grinned and gave a nod, setting balled fists on his hips to repeat the first set as he completed the figure. Kelson caught the very first step of the repeat by letting his feet carry him as they had so many years before, mirroring Dhugal a little stiffly at first, but then with growing confidence as those in the hall, clansmen and lowland knights alike, looked on in astonishment.

As they shifted into the next set of figures, beating out a more emphatic rhythm as they danced within the quarters instead of all around the edges, feet never touching the branches, Kelson could sense that throbbing link again, melding his movements with Dhugal's. With rare abandon, he let his world shrink down to flying feet and evergreens and Dhugal's joyous grin. He was only dimly aware when the men and women around them started clapping and stamping in time to the music, urging them on, sharing the magic which had nothing to do with being Deryni.

Kelson was panting with exhaustion by the time they began the final set of figures, but he did not falter, springing lightly from quarter to quarter, heel and toe, until finally the rhythm changed, the music ebbed to a single sustained note, and he and Dhugal were bowing to one another on opposite sides of the evergreen cross, hands set on hips. The hall went wild.

The clansmen and their women continued to cheer as the two grinning young men half-collapsed against one another, both of them gasping for breath. Other than Ewan, most of Kelson's other retainers looked stunned, though a few had relaxed enough to join in good-naturedly, not the least of whom was Baron Jodrell. Conall sat sullenly between him and Ewan, his arms folded and lips set in grim disapproval, but at the center of the table the MacArdry chief was beaming, his earlier agitation apparently forgotten. As Dhugal and Kelson stumbled up the dais, arm in arm, he held out a newly filled cup in both hands.

“
Air do slainte!”
he cried, the others taking up the shout as Dhugal and then Kelson drank deeply from the cup.
To your very good health!

The cheering subsided as Dhugal held up an arm for silence, and he was still a little breathless as he turned Kelson to face his people, one arm still around the king's shoulders.

“Kinsmen, this is my foster-brother, Kelson,” he said with a grin. “As you can see, he is a brother of our blood, as well as one of my choosing. That he is also my king is a great joy to me, and I freely give him my allegiance as lord as well as brother and kinsman. Will you honor him the same, for my sake?”

The renewed shouting and cheers were all the confirmation Dhugal needed. As Kelson stood back, pleased, still panting from the exertion of the dance and wondering just how he had managed to bring them around—these dour mountain folk who were usually so slow to admit a lowlander to their midst—Dhugal turned and knelt at his feet, slipping his joined hands between Kelson's and touching them to his forehead in homage.