return, but it took him several minutes to find anyone in the stable yard to take his horse. At the invitation of the duke, the squires and pages who normally would have been manning the stable had slipped inside to the back of the hall to hear Gwydion sing.
Dinner was over, he soon discovered; and as he passed among the servants crowded in the doorway he could see that the entertainment was already well underway. Gwydion was performing, seated on the second step of the raised dais at the far end of the hall, his lute cradled easily in his arms. As he sang, Duncan paused to listen. The troubadour apparently deserved the reputation he held throughout the Eleven Kingdoms.
It was a slow, measured melody, born of the highlands of Carthmoor to the west, the land of Gwydion’s youth, filled with the rhythms, the modulations to minor keys, that seemed to characterize the music of the mountain folk.
Gwydion’s clear tenor floated through the still hall, weaving the bittersweet tale of Mathurin and Derverguille, the lovers of legend who had perished in Interregnum times at the hands of the cruel Lord Gerent. Not a soul stirred as the troubadour spun his song.
So how shall I sing to the sparkling morn?
How to the children yet unborn?
Can I survive with heart forlorn?
My Lord Mathurin is dead.
As Duncan scanned the hall, he spied Morgan lounging in his ducal throne at the head of the dais where Gwydion sang. To Morgan’s left, Lord Robert sat flanked by two beautiful women who gazed fondly at Morgan as the troubadour sang. But the seat to Morgan’s right, closest to Duncan, was vacant. He thought that, if he were careful, he might be able to make his way there without creating too much disturbance.
Before he could do more than move in that direction, however, Morgan saw him and shook his head, then rose quietly and made his way to the side of the hall.
“What happened?” he whispered, pulling Duncan behind one of the pillars and glancing around to be certain they were not being overheard.
“The part with Bishop Tolliver went well enough,” Duncan murmured. “He wasn’t enthusiastic about the idea, but he agreed to delay his answer to Loris and Corrigan until he can evaluate the situation. He will let us know when he makes a decision.”
“Well, I suppose it’s better than nothing. What was his general reaction? Do you think he’s on our side?”
Duncan shrugged. “You know Tolliver. He’s squeamish about the whole Deryni aspect of things—but then, everyone is. For now, he seems to be with us. There’s something else, though.”
“Oh?”
“I—ah—think we’d better not talk about it here,” Duncan said, glancing around meaningfully. “I had a visitor on the way back.”
“A vi—” Morgan’s eyes went wide. “You mean, like mine?”
Duncan nodded soberly. “Shall I meet you in the tower room?”
“As soon as I can get away,” Morgan agreed, handing him his signet. “Here, you’d better take this.”
As Duncan moved on toward the door, Morgan took a deep breath to compose himself, then crossed quietly back to his seat. He wondered how long it would be before he could extricate himself gracefully.
IN the tower room, Duncan paced back and forth before the fireplace, clasping and unclasping his hands and trying to calm his jangled nerves.
He was much more upset than he had wanted to admit, he knew now. In fact, when he had first entered the room, a short while earlier, he had been overcome by a violent fit of shaking as he thought about his visitation on the road, almost as though an icy wind had blown across his neck.
The attack had passed, and after throwing off his damp riding cloak he had sunk down at the prie-dieu before the tiny altar and tried to pray. But for once, his meditations had brought him little comfort. He couldn’t force himself to concentrate on the words he was trying to form, and he had had to give it up as a lost cause for the moment.
The pacing was not
Dinner was over, he soon discovered; and as he passed among the servants crowded in the doorway he could see that the entertainment was already well underway. Gwydion was performing, seated on the second step of the raised dais at the far end of the hall, his lute cradled easily in his arms. As he sang, Duncan paused to listen. The troubadour apparently deserved the reputation he held throughout the Eleven Kingdoms.
It was a slow, measured melody, born of the highlands of Carthmoor to the west, the land of Gwydion’s youth, filled with the rhythms, the modulations to minor keys, that seemed to characterize the music of the mountain folk.
Gwydion’s clear tenor floated through the still hall, weaving the bittersweet tale of Mathurin and Derverguille, the lovers of legend who had perished in Interregnum times at the hands of the cruel Lord Gerent. Not a soul stirred as the troubadour spun his song.
So how shall I sing to the sparkling morn?
How to the children yet unborn?
Can I survive with heart forlorn?
My Lord Mathurin is dead.
As Duncan scanned the hall, he spied Morgan lounging in his ducal throne at the head of the dais where Gwydion sang. To Morgan’s left, Lord Robert sat flanked by two beautiful women who gazed fondly at Morgan as the troubadour sang. But the seat to Morgan’s right, closest to Duncan, was vacant. He thought that, if he were careful, he might be able to make his way there without creating too much disturbance.
Before he could do more than move in that direction, however, Morgan saw him and shook his head, then rose quietly and made his way to the side of the hall.
“What happened?” he whispered, pulling Duncan behind one of the pillars and glancing around to be certain they were not being overheard.
“The part with Bishop Tolliver went well enough,” Duncan murmured. “He wasn’t enthusiastic about the idea, but he agreed to delay his answer to Loris and Corrigan until he can evaluate the situation. He will let us know when he makes a decision.”
“Well, I suppose it’s better than nothing. What was his general reaction? Do you think he’s on our side?”
Duncan shrugged. “You know Tolliver. He’s squeamish about the whole Deryni aspect of things—but then, everyone is. For now, he seems to be with us. There’s something else, though.”
“Oh?”
“I—ah—think we’d better not talk about it here,” Duncan said, glancing around meaningfully. “I had a visitor on the way back.”
“A vi—” Morgan’s eyes went wide. “You mean, like mine?”
Duncan nodded soberly. “Shall I meet you in the tower room?”
“As soon as I can get away,” Morgan agreed, handing him his signet. “Here, you’d better take this.”
As Duncan moved on toward the door, Morgan took a deep breath to compose himself, then crossed quietly back to his seat. He wondered how long it would be before he could extricate himself gracefully.
IN the tower room, Duncan paced back and forth before the fireplace, clasping and unclasping his hands and trying to calm his jangled nerves.
He was much more upset than he had wanted to admit, he knew now. In fact, when he had first entered the room, a short while earlier, he had been overcome by a violent fit of shaking as he thought about his visitation on the road, almost as though an icy wind had blown across his neck.
The attack had passed, and after throwing off his damp riding cloak he had sunk down at the prie-dieu before the tiny altar and tried to pray. But for once, his meditations had brought him little comfort. He couldn’t force himself to concentrate on the words he was trying to form, and he had had to give it up as a lost cause for the moment.
The pacing was not
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