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Happy St Patrick's Day. Enjoy the one day of the year when the whole world is Irish.

A Gryphon by the Tail Chapter 14

Started by Alkari, August 11, 2010, 07:37:11 AM

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Alkari

Previous chapter:  http://www.rhemuthcastle.com/index.php?topic=520.msg2373#msg2373

Chapter 14.

It had stopped snowing sometime that morning.  There was no sun, but the sky was definitely lighter and even hinted at a fine day tomorrow.  Despite the chill, it was good to be outside again.  Richenda adjusted her cloak and made her way past the stables and along the cobblestones towards St Hilary's.    

She pondered the morning's conversation with Meraude.   She'd liked the duchess from their first meeting, but had never expected a discussion like that.   Prince Nigel Haldane would not have married a fool, but I never dreamt she'd put things together so quickly – or that she'd have those concerns for Alaric.

Richenda paused at a small gate in the hedge that bordered the castle parklands, leaning on it to stare across to the kitchen gardens against the farthest wall.  Is that how people will see me?  A desperate traitor's widow who has somehow managed to trap Alaric Morgan into marriage?  Or, as Meraude had suggested later, will most people see it as a political match - marrying that widow to a loyal duke, and hopefully ensuring the succession in Corwyn.  Convenient and practical.

Certainly any wife of Alaric's would be expected to produce an heir.  And as soon as possible.   She frowned, trying to remember one of those conversations in Dhassa with her Uncle Thomas and Denis Arilan.  How old did they say Alaric was?  Twenty nine – or would it now be thirty?   She was in love with the man and didn't even know his exact age!   Certainly most nobles in his position would have been well and truly married with a family by now.  Why hadn't he married?  Was it because of people's fear of marrying a known Deryni?   Was it what Meraude had said – that he wanted marriage for something more than reasons of state?  Or was part of his love for her founded in a growing recognition that Corwyn needed an heir?   She gave a half laugh, half sigh at the memory of that single kiss the night before the battle.  A kiss that they both knew may have been their only moment together in this world.   No, there'd definitely been no thought of heirs or ducal dynasties when they'd fallen so passionately in love last summer.   Though perhaps it was lucky they hadn't let those passions run away with them when he'd come to her apartments last week late on Twelfth Night ...

The obligation to produce an heir didn't worry her.  At least she already knew she could have children.  That was the first duty of married women in noble houses, after all, and daughters were raised to expect this as a normal part of their lives.   It was surely a bonus if you actually liked, or even loved, your husband so that the process was more than a mere chore or duty to be endured.  

Had it been a chore with Bran?  She sighed wistfully again and continued strolling towards the basilica.  The young and hopeful girl who had married Bran Coris some five years ago seemed like another person in another lifetime: it hadn't been her choice, but at least Bran had been young and good looking, not an elderly widower seeking a second or third wife.  A youthful earl marrying a baron's daughter and granddaughter of a prince: it was a 'good' marriage on both sides.  Sharing a bed with Bran hadn't been onerous, and she'd done her best to please him.  He'd been gentle enough and didn't seem to have any complaints, though sometimes afterwards she'd lain there wondering if it all could somehow be different.   Was that even possible?  Was it reasonable to expect passion as a part of marriage?  She'd read love poetry and other more exotic literature while studying at court in Andelon, but her experience of marriage had sometimes led her to question whether poets and writers viewed life through a haze that was rosy rather than realistic.  

Rosy or realistic, she'd done her duty, becoming pregnant with Brendan after only three months, and producing Rhiannon two years after his birth.  A proper family for an earl, though she knew Bran would have preferred another son instead of a daughter.  

Rhiannon.  She pushed those thoughts down, telling herself that now was not the time to indulge in more grief for her little daughter.   Does Alaric know about Rhiannon? Once more she checked her walk, trying to remember whether she'd ever mentioned it, or let him see any of her memories.  No, that's something he doesn't yet know about me, she thought, though I'll tell him sometime.  When we're both ready for the pain.   He's lost enough people of his own – he doesn't need to add the burden of my loss.

She found herself at St Hilary's western porch.   A large holly bush, bright with berries, splashed colour against the grey stone wall to the right.   She moved through into the nave, pausing to cross herself and letting her eyes adjust to the dim light inside.  Candles burned in racks to either side of the altar, and torches shone from the pillars along the northern wall.   There was no-one in sight, and she walked slowly down the nave, glancing into the series of bays on the northern side, each with its arched window.  

At the foot of the altar steps she halted, dipping once more in reverence before turning aside into the first of the pews.    Although the church was cold, she let her hood fall back as she sat and slowly gazed around.  The main window behind the altar was a standard picture of Christ on the cross, with kneeling figures of soldiers and weeping women below Him.  To the right was St Hilary, a sturdy but smiling figure in vaguely eastern bishop's robes, his arms outstretched in apparent welcome.  She wasn't familiar with this particular saint, or what the bishop had done to reach that exalted status.  

He gaze moved left; her stomach clenched and she swallowed painfully.  For this window showed a smiling Jesus, sitting on a bench with a chubby babe on His knee and children around Him.   A blue-clad boy with brown curls, a blond haired lad leading a lamb, a taller girl with brown hair and a basket of flowers – and on the right, a tiny girl with long golden hair, wearing a coronet of daisies and holding up a handful of yellow and white flowers.  The inscription below was simply the Gospel reference – Mark X: XIV.

Suffer the little children to come unto me.   Words engraved on her heart, and on the little tombstone in Marbury, overlooked by the manor's beautiful dogwood tree.  Rhiannon.  The horrible, empty ache was still there, and she knew it would never truly go away.  You couldn't forget the death of your child, no matter how many years passed or how many other children you had.   Members of her household in Marbury knew better than to mention it when the anniversary of her daughter's death had come round before Christmas.  But what horrid, twisted quirk of fate arranged that the date of Bran's death would have been Rhiannon's second birthday?    She stared up at the window, eyes misting as she remembered her daughter.  Rhiannon had learnt to walk in their garden, staggering and tumbling on the soft lawn, often reaching out to grab the nearest flower or interesting plant before lurching to her feet again.   She'd loved the yellow dandelions and little white daisies, and Richenda had woven them into chains and garlands for her.  There'd always been flowers and laughter with little Rhiannon ...    

She was roused by the sound of a door opening to her left, and men approaching.  

"Lady Richenda?"  The gentle voice was familiar and a Deryni probe swiftly confirmed their identities.  She took a deep breath, hoping her eyes didn't give her away.

"Father Duncan."   She rose and moved out of the pew, managing to smile.  

"Is there something wrong?  May I help you?"   Duncan held out his hand, looking concerned.  

"No, no – thank you.  Nothing's wrong."   Behind Duncan she could see Alaric, discreetly staying back in the shadows of a pillar.

"Are you sure you're all right?  You look a little upset."  

"I'm all right, Father.  Truly - I just went for a walk, and thought I'd come down to see the basilica.  I've never been inside.  And I don't know anything about St Hilary."   She smiled again, more confidently this time, and looked over at Alaric.  "Alaric?"

He reached her in a couple of long strides, taking her hands and kissing them.  His expression mirrored Duncan's concern.  'Richenda, what's the matter?"   He didn't release her hand.

"Nothing, Alaric.  I wandered inside here and was looking at the windows.  I wondered about St Hilary.   The window seems to suggest he wasn't from Gwynnedd - his robes look vaguely eastern.  And what did he do to get made a saint?"  

Duncan chuckled.  "I think a few people have asked that over the years, if some of the stories about him are true.  He's said to have been 'enthusiastic, learned, zealous in his works but imprudent. "

"Zealous but imprudent – I can see that creating problems, especially for a bishop."

Alaric laughed.  "Probably a polite way of saying he was an occasional nuisance to the church hierarchy at the time.   I remember seeing something about him in Talbot's Lives of the Saints.  There's a copy in the library."   He looked up at the windows as she'd done, letting his gaze move from St Hilary's picture across the main window and on to the left hand one.  She felt his sudden hesitation, the slightest tightening of his hand on hers; saw the glance he shared with Duncan.  He knows.  They both do.

"I'd enjoy showing you round his chapel," said Duncan quietly, "but I suspect it's not my company you want right now, Richenda.  Use my study if you like, Alaric."   The two men exchanged another long look, then Duncan nodded sympathetically and walked off towards the western door.

Alaric took her hand and led her into a small book-lined room, still warm from the banked fire.  She stood mutely near the table in the middle, staring at the coals, aware of Alaric adding logs to the fire, then removing their cloaks, before coming to take her into his arms.
     
"The window with the children – Rhiannon?"  

She nodded, swallowing painfully. "She – she loved – flowers.  Like - like the girl in the window," she whispered.  She sent him a brief vision of her daughter, toddling around and giggling, wearing a chain of white daises.

"Dearest, I'm so sorry," he murmured into her hair, cradling her against him.  His mind brushed hers, soothing and loving, understanding her grief and loss.

She let herself cry then, all the tears she'd been holding back that afternoon, the tears she'd somehow never been able to shed with Bran.   They scalded her eyes, ran down her cheeks and sank into the wool of Alaric's tunic; he said nothing, just held her close until at last she found she could cry no more.  

"When – when did you find out?" she gulped, her voice muffled against his chest.

"Cardiel.  After the Council meeting."

The Council meeting had been days ago.  "What – I mean – how ...?"

"Ewan said a few things as we thought.  Cardiel took some of us aside afterwards."  She drew back slightly to look up at him.   "Just Kelson, Nigel, Duncan and me," he assured her, drawing her back against him.  "Cardiel – he said he hoped you'd marry again 'one day', but asked that Kelson take your wishes into account if possible, and that you be given time to get over things.  That's when he told us about Rhiannon, and why you came to Dhassa early in the year."

So Uncle Thomas had told them.   She wasn't sure whether to be glad or angry, but it was too late now.  And maybe it was better that they did know; he'd certainly saved her the pain of finding the right time to tell Alaric.  

"I would have told you eventually.  I just – I just didn't want to – to add to everything for you."  Once again she leant back, this time reaching up to touch his cheek.  

"I haven't lost a child though.  I can't imagine what that would be like."  

"Llyndruth Meadows – the day Bran died.  That would have been her second birthday.   And he'd taken Brendan."  She hadn't planned to tell him that, didn't know why she said it.  The words came pouring out before she knew it.

He stiffened; his shields slammed up, and she could read the shock on his face.  His hands gripped her shoulders.  "Sweet Jesu – that day?"

Oh God, why had she said it?  Why had she told him that of all things?  But it was too late now.  

He closed his eyes for a moment.  "Richenda – I ..."  He shrugged helplessly.  "I'm sorry."

"Oh, of course it's not your fault.   It just – happened like that."  She shivered.  "I don't know whether Fate likes twisting the knife, or whether it just has a ghastly sense of humour."

He snorted wryly.  "As long as you don't try to tell me it was somehow the will of a loving God.  My faith's been rather shaken this last year."

"No.  I don't find that particular platitude very comforting either."

He let out a short laugh.  "Duncan would understand.  Though a few bishops would probably argue the point.  But I guess that's why they're priests and bishops."

She smiled shakily, then walked over to the fire.  A coal flared briefly, spluttered and tumbled down a few inches.   "Alaric, there's one other thing about that day.  Maybe it isn't the right time to ask you, but now we're talking about – everything - I just need to know." She paused, wondering how to speak of this last remaining thing between them.

He moved across to stand beside her.  "Bran."  

Has it been bothering him too?  She nodded.

"What happened.  And did I kill him."  His voice was flat.

'Yes.  I thought I wouldn't want to know – kept telling myself not to ask.   But I need to put it to rest somehow.   Even if it's only – only ..."   How can I explain why I need to know?

"For you?  Us?  Or to answer Brendan when he's older?"

"Brendan's part of it.  And I know you would have done what you did even if you and I had never met.   It could never change how I feel about you.  But I – Bran was my husband, and I need to know."

He stood silently, staring at the fire.  She didn't dare reach out to him in any way.  She could hear movements in the chapel; monks preparing for vespers.  

"I suppose I've been waiting for this.  Wondering if you'd ask.  Whether I'd want to know in your position.  Even whether I should be the one to bring it up, talk about it."    He paused.   "Did I kill Bran?   No – and yes.   But it's not what you think."  He turned to face her.  "Yes, I'll tell you.  But I won't ever – show you."

"Alaric, I would never ask you to do that."

"We'll miss Vespers – do you mind?  Will your maids worry?"  She shook her head and he led her over to Duncan's table, pulled out two chairs and seated her in one, then went and rummaged at the back of a bookshelf.  "I know he's got some hidden here somewhere – aha!"  He produced two tiny glasses and a dark brown bottle.  "And no, I am not raiding the altar wine – this is the finest MacRorie's Old.   Duncan's emergency remedy."

She managed a half smile at that.  He filled the glasses and handed her one, then took his own seat, sipping the dark golden liquid thoughtfully.

"Richenda, you've got more right than anyone to know.  But this is for you only – not even Nigel knows, and I don't think Denis Arilan's told your uncle either."  

"Of course."

He was silent for a moment, turning the glass slowly between his fingers.  She sipped her own: the liquid was smoky mellow, with fiery warmth.

"The Duel Arcane.   It was a duel to the death, you know that."  A brief nod.  "The four on Wencit's team – Wencit, his half brother Lionel, Bran, and a man called Rhydon of Eastmarch."   Oh yes, she knew those other two names.  

"When the circle was completed, Rhydon suggested we have a drink first.  Produced a flask, offered it to Wencit, Bran and Lionel, so we didn't think they were trying to poison us.  So the four of them drank."   He paused.   "Only – it was a poison – for them."

"Poison? For them?" she whispered, not comprehending.

"Yes.  You see, Rhydon – wasn't Rhydon.   He was – well, I won't tell you his name – but he was a member of the Camberian Council.  Took on Rhydon's identity, said he'd been planning to deal with Wencit for a long time, and couldn't risk us losing the fight."

"So Bran was poisoned?"

Alaric drained the rest of his glass, poured another.  "Rhydon had taken something beforehand.  Said the poison was a bit like merasha, and there wasn't any antidote, but the stuff he'd taken would speed things up for him.  He died – quite quickly."  

A merasha-like poison, no known antidote – but something to speed up death – oh God, she knew what he must have used.  What it did.  And how long it could take a person to die. Despite her drink, she shivered.  But it hadn't taken that long.

"Wencit and the others.  A mercy killing.   What they call a coup de grace."  

"You understand?"  He looked slightly surprised.  

"Yes.  And you had to use magic.  You wouldn't have had weapons."

"I would have done it myself to spare Kelson.  I knew how.  And I've killed people before, though not like that.  But Kelson insisted he was the king, it was his duty.  So – I showed him."

She nodded: his earlier No and Yes now made sense.   She sipped the rest of her drink, imagining what it would have been like in that circle, understanding what had happened.  Bran had been dead the moment he'd taken that mouthful from the flask.  Whatever Alaric had done, he had not killed Bran.   She studied his face, reading his fears and uncertainty, and reached out to cover his hand with hers.

"Thank you. Thank you for ending it quickly.  And for sparing him from a terrible death."

Their fingers twined, her eyes held his.  He relaxed his shields, and suddenly they were sharing what had so far been unspoken between them since the summer: hidden fears and lingering doubts, questions for which they hadn't found words, guilt, regrets and sadness.  Reassurance of their love.  
 
The chapel bell sounded, calling them to Vespers.  Reluctantly she lowered her eyes and broke the contact.   "Thank you," she whispered again.

Outside the early winter evening was closing in.  The only light in the study was the glow from the dying fire.  Alaric sighed and conjured a lone candle into life.   He rose, stretched, replaced the bottle of whisky and eyed the two glasses.  "Water's out the front," he muttered ruefully.

"Let me do the housework."    She made a graceful gesture with both hands and the glasses filled with water.  She swirled them round, upended them, and handed them back to Alaric.  A flick of one hand, and the water disappeared from floor and table.  

He put the glasses away and grinned.  "Handy spell.  You'll have to teach me.  Might make it easier to keep clean on campaign."

"Oh, there's a good shower spell for that."  He doused the fire and candle, and she took his arm as they left the chapel by the side door near the study.  "Though we should wait for summer - you'll probably get rather wet while learning!"

"Will you bring the soap?"  

She snorted.  "Alaric, did you intend to be naked when I teach you?"

"It could make the lessons interesting.  Of course, I would require my teacher to be in the same state."  

The laughter took them by surprise: they stood for a few moments in each others arms, shaking with quiet merriment so they wouldn't be overheard in the chapel.   Clean, wonderful, healing laughter, washing away the tensions of the afternoon, putting the past behind them where it belonged.

They reached the corner of the basilica, but he led her across to the far wall of the yard.  "It's nearly dark and the garden paths will be slippery by now.  There's a better way."

He did something to a stone in the wall; they slipped into the doorway that opened, and conjured handfires when it closed behind them.   "It takes us all the way back to the castle," he said, taking her free hand and leading her along the narrow passage.  "Your maids will probably be worrying by now.  It's nearly time for supper.   We can come out in the corner just near your apartments."

They emerged in the side passage as he promised. It was very dark, the corner lit only by distant torchlight from the main corridor.  There was no-one nearby.  She put her arms around him and kissed him tenderly, wishing she could prolong matters but knowing she had to go.  He knew it too.

"You could come back to my quarters of course – I'd like a bath and I've plenty of soap – but I suspect your maids would worry.  And Meraude will probably call out the palace guard for a search if you don't turn up for supper in the great hall."

"I know.  She's a dear.  And if you don't turn up to supper too, Duncan will probably join the search!"

He laughed, escorted her to her door, and blew her a parting kiss as she opened it.

______________

Next chapter: http://www.rhemuthcastle.com/index.php?topic=522.0


AnnieUK

Well done!  This troublesome chapter has turned out beautifully in the end.  These two have a lot of baggage, so nice to see them getting stuff out in the open.

Evie

*sigh!*  That was well worth the wait.

And *sporfle* at the shower spell suggestion....   :D
"In necessariis unitas, in non-necessariis libertas, in utrisque caritas."

--WARNING!!!--
I have a vocabulary in excess of 75,000 words, and I'm not afraid to use it!

Elkhound


Alkari

Thank you all.   *sigh*  Glad the chapter finally worked itself out.  And at least I can now spend a day or so pondering on momentous things like what soap Alaric prefers  :D    (Being a soldier male, it's probably 'just soap' - as long as it doesn't smell too female fancy!)

Elkhound

Quote from: Alkari on August 11, 2010, 05:05:38 PM
Thank you all.   *sigh*  Glad the chapter finally worked itself out.  And at least I can now spend a day or so pondering on momentous things like what soap Alaric prefers  :D    (Being a soldier male, it's probably 'just soap' - as long as it doesn't smell too female fancy!)

Lavender & rosemary.

Evie

Quite complementary scents, too, since they're in the same plant family.
"In necessariis unitas, in non-necessariis libertas, in utrisque caritas."

--WARNING!!!--
I have a vocabulary in excess of 75,000 words, and I'm not afraid to use it!

Alkari

Thank you, Elkhound.    Richenda has taken note - purely 'for training purposes' of course :D

Elkhound

Quote from: Alkari on August 11, 2010, 09:58:16 PM
Thank you, Elkhound.    Richenda has taken note - purely 'for training purposes' of course :D

Of course.

kirienne (RIP)

What a lovely chapter this is. You've handled the questions Richenda had about Bran's death so well, as well as keeping her from having to tell Alaric about Rhiannon --you showed such kindnedd in sparring her that.
I am so very much looking forward to a chapter on their engagement, although I'd truly prefer to have the man to myself. Oh well, since I can't have him, at least Richenda loves him and will be a wonderful wife and soul mate to him.

Elkhound

Richenda, sparring?  I don't remember that.  I never thought her as much of a fighter.

Alkari

Quote from: Elkhound on August 12, 2010, 09:07:44 PM
Richenda, sparring?  I don't remember that.  I never thought her as much of a fighter.
Hmmm - just ask Alaric - see QFSC.   :D

Evie

Quote from: Alkari on August 12, 2010, 09:46:50 PM
Quote from: Elkhound on August 12, 2010, 09:07:44 PM
Richenda, sparring?  I don't remember that.  I never thought her as much of a fighter.
Hmmm - just ask Alaric - see QFSC.   :D

Those tallies will never be the same.  And Alaric will bite his tongue clear through before he ever makes the mistake again of giving his wife the "don't worry your pretty little head" treatment.   ;D
"In necessariis unitas, in non-necessariis libertas, in utrisque caritas."

--WARNING!!!--
I have a vocabulary in excess of 75,000 words, and I'm not afraid to use it!

Alkari

Quote from: Evie on August 12, 2010, 10:34:23 PM
Those tallies will never be the same.  And Alaric will bite his tongue clear through before he ever makes the mistake again of giving his wife the "don't worry your pretty little head" treatment.   ;D

He'll find it rather hard to bite his tongue or anything else if his head has become unattached to his body!    ;D

Elkhound

I still want those 'ladies' to get their comeuppances.  :'(