life. Not that the House of Corwyn had not been good to him, he rationalized. His own family, the lords of Tendal, had held the hereditary chancellorship of Corwyn for two centuries now, since before the Restoration. And through all those years, the dukes of Corwyn had been fair and honest rulers, even if they were Deryni. Being strictly objective, Robert found he had no complaints.
Of course, he had to put up with Morgan’s capricious whims occasionally, like today. But that was all a part of the game they played. The duke probably had good reason for insisting on adjournment this afternoon.
Still, it would have been nice to win occasionally . . .
Recalled to duty, Robert gathered up his documents and stored them neatly in a cabinet near the window. Actually, it was just as well the duke had called a halt for the afternoon. Though Morgan probably had conveniently forgotten about it, there was to be a state banquet in the great hall tonight—and if he, Robert, did not see to its details, the affair was certain to be a resounding social disaster. Morgan was notorious for eschewing formal functions unless they were absolutely necessary. His disposition was not likely to be improved by the presence of a number of eligible ladies who keenly desired to become the next Duchess of Corwyn.
Smiling faintly and whistling lightly under his breath, Robert dusted his hands together and headed toward the great hall the way Morgan had gone. After this afternoon’s session, it would be a distinct pleasure to watch Morgan squirm under the scrutiny of those ladies tonight.
MORGAN scanned the courtyard instinctively as he left the great hall. Far across the yard by the stables, he saw a stable lad running beside a handsome chestnut destrier, one of the R’Kassan stallions the Hortic traders had brought in last week. The great horse was barely trotting, one of his long strides making three or four of the boy’s. And to the left by the forge, Morgan’s young military aide, Sean Lord Derry, was engaged in earnest converse with James the blacksmith, apparently trying to reach agreement on how the animal should be shod.
Derry saw Morgan and lifted a hand in greeting, but he did not cease his wrangling with the smithy. Horses were very important to young Derry, who considered himself an expert—which, in fact, he was. Consequently, he was not to be bullied by a mere blacksmith.
Morgan was just as glad that Derry did not join him. Astute as the young Marcher lord might be about some subjects, he did not always understand the moods of his commander. And while Morgan usually enjoyed Derry’s company, he did not feel like talking just now. That was why he had fled Lord Robert’s account briefing, why he had bolted outside at the first opportunity. There would be enough of pressure and responsibility later tonight.
He reached a side gate to the right of the great hall and let himself through. The gardens were still dead from the long winter, but that would probably ensure that he could be alone for a while. He saw a man cleaning the falcon mews far to the left, close by the stable area, but he knew he would not be disturbed from there. Miles the falconer was a mute—though his eyes and ears were doubly sharp, as seeming compensation for the handicap—and the old man preferred the clicks and whistles of his falcons, which he could imitate, to the speech of men. He would not bother with a lonely duke who sought the solitude of the deserted gardens.
Slowly Morgan began to walk down a path away from the mews, his hands clasped behind him. He knew why he was restless today. Part of it was the political situation—only delayed, not resolved, by Kelson’s defeat of the Shadowed One last fall. Charissa was dead, and her traitor accomplice Ian, too; but an even more formidable adversary now prepared to take her place: Wencit of Torenth, whose scouting parties were already reported along the mountains to the northeast.
And Cardosa—that
Of course, he had to put up with Morgan’s capricious whims occasionally, like today. But that was all a part of the game they played. The duke probably had good reason for insisting on adjournment this afternoon.
Still, it would have been nice to win occasionally . . .
Recalled to duty, Robert gathered up his documents and stored them neatly in a cabinet near the window. Actually, it was just as well the duke had called a halt for the afternoon. Though Morgan probably had conveniently forgotten about it, there was to be a state banquet in the great hall tonight—and if he, Robert, did not see to its details, the affair was certain to be a resounding social disaster. Morgan was notorious for eschewing formal functions unless they were absolutely necessary. His disposition was not likely to be improved by the presence of a number of eligible ladies who keenly desired to become the next Duchess of Corwyn.
Smiling faintly and whistling lightly under his breath, Robert dusted his hands together and headed toward the great hall the way Morgan had gone. After this afternoon’s session, it would be a distinct pleasure to watch Morgan squirm under the scrutiny of those ladies tonight.
MORGAN scanned the courtyard instinctively as he left the great hall. Far across the yard by the stables, he saw a stable lad running beside a handsome chestnut destrier, one of the R’Kassan stallions the Hortic traders had brought in last week. The great horse was barely trotting, one of his long strides making three or four of the boy’s. And to the left by the forge, Morgan’s young military aide, Sean Lord Derry, was engaged in earnest converse with James the blacksmith, apparently trying to reach agreement on how the animal should be shod.
Derry saw Morgan and lifted a hand in greeting, but he did not cease his wrangling with the smithy. Horses were very important to young Derry, who considered himself an expert—which, in fact, he was. Consequently, he was not to be bullied by a mere blacksmith.
Morgan was just as glad that Derry did not join him. Astute as the young Marcher lord might be about some subjects, he did not always understand the moods of his commander. And while Morgan usually enjoyed Derry’s company, he did not feel like talking just now. That was why he had fled Lord Robert’s account briefing, why he had bolted outside at the first opportunity. There would be enough of pressure and responsibility later tonight.
He reached a side gate to the right of the great hall and let himself through. The gardens were still dead from the long winter, but that would probably ensure that he could be alone for a while. He saw a man cleaning the falcon mews far to the left, close by the stable area, but he knew he would not be disturbed from there. Miles the falconer was a mute—though his eyes and ears were doubly sharp, as seeming compensation for the handicap—and the old man preferred the clicks and whistles of his falcons, which he could imitate, to the speech of men. He would not bother with a lonely duke who sought the solitude of the deserted gardens.
Slowly Morgan began to walk down a path away from the mews, his hands clasped behind him. He knew why he was restless today. Part of it was the political situation—only delayed, not resolved, by Kelson’s defeat of the Shadowed One last fall. Charissa was dead, and her traitor accomplice Ian, too; but an even more formidable adversary now prepared to take her place: Wencit of Torenth, whose scouting parties were already reported along the mountains to the northeast.
And Cardosa—that
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