"Kurtz, Katherine - Deryni Chronicles 02 - Deryni Checkmate 1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kurtz Katherine)

"Monsignor Gorony, Your Excellency."
Gorony strode to Corrigan's chair and dropped to one knee to kiss the archbishop's ring, then stood at Corrigan's signal to wait attentively
"Thank you, Father Hugh. I believe that will be all for tonight," Corrigan said, starting to wave dismissal.
Loris cleared his throat, and Corrigan glanced in his direction.
"The suspension we spoke of earlier, Patrick? We had agreed that the man must be disciplined, had we not?"
"Oh, yes, of course," Corrigan murmured. He rummaged briefly among the papers piled at one corner of the desk, then extracted one and pushed it across the desk to Hugh.
"This is the draft of a writ of summons I need as soon as possible, Father. When the official document is drawn up, would you return it for my signature?"
"Yes, Excellency/'
As Hugh took the paper and headed for the door, Corrigan resumed his conversation with Gorony.
"Now, this is the letter you're to deliver to Bishop Tolliver. I've a barge waiting to take you to the free port of Concaradine, and from there you can take ship with one of the merchant fleets. You should be in Corwyn within three days."
Father Hugh de Berry frowned as he closed the door to the archbishop's study and began walking down the long, torch-lined corridor toward his chancery office. It was cold and damp, and the corridor was drafty. Hugh shivered and clasped his arms across his chest as he walked, debating what he should do.
Hugh was Patrick Corrigan's personal secretary, and as such was privy to information not normally accessible to one of his comparative youth. He was a bright man, if not brilliant. And he had always been honest, discreet, and totally loyal to the Church he served through the person of the archbishop.
Lately, though, his faith had been sorely shaken at least his faith in the man he served. The letter he had copied for Corrigan this afternoon had helped to do that. And as he remembered, Hugh shivered again this time, not from the cold.
Gwynedd was in danger. This had been apparent since King Brion fell at Candor Rhea last fall. It had been evident when Brion's heir, the boy Kelson, had been forced to battle the evil Charissa for his throne but a few weeks later. And it had been painfully obvious whenever Morgan, the boy's Deryni protector, had had to use his awesome powers to slow down the inevitable conflagration that all knew must follow on the heels of such events. And it would follow.
It was no secret, for example, that the Deryni tyrant Wencit of Torenth would plunge the kingdom into war by midsummer at latest. And the young king must certainly he aware of the unrest being generated in his kingdom by rising anti-Deryni sentiment. Kelson had begun to feel the brunt of that reaction ever since the disclosure of his own half-Deryni ancestry at the coronation last fall.
But now, with Interdict threatened for all of Corwyn
Hugh pressed one hand against his chest where the original draft of Corrigan's letter now rested next to his skin. He knew that the archbishop would not approve of what he was about to do in fact, would be furious if he found out but the matter was too important for the king not to be made aware of it. Kelson must be warned.
If Interdict fell on Corwyn, Morgan's loyalties would be divided at a time when all his energies were needed at the king's side. It could fatally affect the king and also Morgan's plans for the war effort. And while Hugh, as a priest, could hardly condone Morgan's fearsome powers, they were nonetheless real and needed if Gwynedd was to survive the onslaught.
Hugh paused beneath the torch outside the chancery office door and-began to scan the letter in his hand, hoping the copy could be entrusted to one of his subordinates. Skipping over the archbishop's standard salutation for such documents, he gasped as he read the name of the addressee, then forced himself to reread it Monsignor Duncan Howard McLain.
Duncan' Hugh thought to himself. "My God, what's he done?"
Duncan McLain was the young confessor to the king, and Hugh's own boyhood friend. They had grown up together, gone to school together. What could Duncan possibly have done to incur such action?
Knitting his brows together in consternation, Hugh read the letter, his apprehension increasing as he read.
. . . summarily suspended and ordered fo present yourself before our ecclesiastical court . . . give answer as to why you should not be censured . . . your part in the scandals surrounding the king's coronation November last . . . questionable activities . . . consorting with heretics. . .
My God, Hugh thought, unwilling to go on, he's been tainted by Morgan too. I wonder if he knows about this.
Lowering the paper, Hugh made his decision. Obviously, he must go to the king first. That had been his original intention, and the matter was of kingdom-wide importance.
But then he must find Duncan and warn him. If Duncan submitted himself to the archbishop's court under the present circumstances, there was no telling what might happen. He could even be excommunicated.
Hugh shuddered at that and crossed himself. For the threat of excommunication was, on a personal level, as terrible as Interdict was for a geographical area. Both cut off the transgressor from all sacraments of the Church and all contact with God-fearing men. It must not come to that for Duncan.
Composing himself, Hugh pushed open the chancery door and walked calmly to a desk where a monk was sharpening a quill pen.
"His Excellency needs this as soon as possible, Brother James," he said, casually placing the document on the desk. "Will you take care of it, please? I have a few errands to do."
"Certainly, Father," the monk replied.

CHAPTER TWO
I am the son of the wise, the son of ancient kings.
Isaiah 19:11

"MORE VENISON, SIRE?"
The red-liveried squire kneeling beside Kelson held out a steaming platter of venison in gravy, but Kelson shook his head and pushed his silver trencher aside with a smile. His crimson tunic was open at the neck, his raven head bare of any royal ornament. And he had hours ago discarded his wet boots in favor of soft scarlet slippers. He sighed and stretched his legs closer to the гre> wiggling his feet contentedly as the squire removed the venison and began to clear the table.
The young king had dined informally tonight, with only Duncan McLain and his uncle, Prince Nigel, to share the table in the royal chambers. Now, across that table, Duncan drained the last dregs from his chased silver goblet and placed it gently on the table. Fire and taperlight winked from the polished metal, casting bright flecks on the table, on the violet-edged black of Duncan's cassock. The priest gazed across at his young liege lord and smiled, blue eyes calm, contented, serene; then he glanced behind to where Nigel was struggling to break the seal on a new bottle of wine.
"Do you need help, Nigel?"
"Not unless you can charm this cork with a prayer," Nigel grunted.
"Certainly. Benedicte," Duncan said, lifting his hand to make the sign that went with the blessing.
The seal chose that minute to crack, and the cork shot from the neck of the bottle in a rain of red wine. Nigel jumped back in time to avoid a royal dousing, and Kelson leaped from his chair before he too could be splashed, but Nigel's best efforts were not sufficient to spare the table or the wool carpeting beneath his booted feet.
"Holy St. Michael, you didn't have to take me so literally, Duncan!" the prince yelped, chuckling good-naturedly and holding the dripping bottle over the table while the squire mopped the floor. "As I've always said, you can't trust a priest."
"I was about to say the same for princes," Duncan observed, winking in Kelson's direction and watching the boy control a smile.
The squire Richard wiped Kelson's chair and the bottle, then wrung his cloth over the fire and returned to tackle the table. The flames hissed and flared green as the wine vaporized, and Kelson took his seat and helped pick up, goblets and candlesticks so that Richard could wipe up. When the young man had finished, Nigel filled the three goblets and replaced the bottle in its warming rack close by the fire.
Nigel Cluim Gwydion Rhys Haldane was a handsome man. At thirty-four, he was a mature version of what his royal nephew would look like in twenty years, with the same wide smile, the grey Haldane eyes, the quick wit that marked every Haldane male. Like his dead brother Brion, Nigel was a Haldane to the core, his military prowess and learning known and admired throughout the Eleven Kingdoms. As he took his seat and picked up his goblet, his right hand moved in an unconscious gesture to brush back a strand of jet black hair, and Duncan felt a twinge of nostalgia at the familiar movement,
Only a few months ago, that gesture had been Brion's as well. Brion, whom Duncan had served in one capacity or another for most of his twenty-nine years. Brion, victim of the same battle of ideologies which even now threatened to rend the country and plunge the Eleven Kingdoms into war.
Now Brion was. gone. And his fourteen-year-old son reigned uneasily with the power he had inherited from his illustrious sire. And the tension grew.
Duncan's gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door from the outer corridor. As he looked up, a very young page in Kelson's crimson livery entered carrying a steaming silver bowl almost as big as he was. A snowy linen towel was draped over the lad's shoulder, and a faint scent of lemon reached Duncan's nostrils as the boy knelt beside Kelson and held out the bowl.
Kelson nodded grave thanks as he dipped his fingers in the warm water and dried his hands on the towel. The boy bowed his head shyly and moved to repeat the performance for Nigel, but he would not look up at the lean figure in royal blue. Nor, when he moved to Duncan's side, would he look at the priest.