Such diversion served her own purposes as well, as she released her wistful affection for Sé Trelawnev to the reality of what she had seen of him during his brief visit in January. Friends they had been during their childhood, and friends they remained; but now Sé had turned to dreams of his own, and. a new life with the mysterious and ascetic Knights of the Anvil. That life did not include her, and never could.
To no one's surprise, insurrection flared again in Meara in that spring of 1089, obliging Donal to mount the threatened personal expedition into that rebellious land. By April, the king had begun to assemble the local levies that would go with him to Meara; the Kierney levies would meet him there, on the plains before Ratharkin.
Though proclaimed Prince of Meara at birth, by right of his Mearan mother, Donal Haldane had actually visited Meara only half a dozen times in his life, and two of those previous ventures onto Mearan soil had been under arms, to put down rebellions. The present insurrection was again centered around Donal's first cousin Judhael, eldest son of his mother's sister Annalind, neither of whom had ever accepted the succession intended by Donal's mother or, indeed, his grandfather. More than a decade had passed since a Haldane king last had ridden into Meara under arms, and the present contretemps came of having stopped short of finishing the task he then had set out to do.
This time his brother Richard rode at his side: a mature and formidable general to whom he gladly had relinquished active command of the Gwyneddan expeditionary force, a generation younger than Donal. For his personal safeguarding, the king had retained a crack bodyguard of fast-mounted Lendouri cavalry captained by Ahern Earl of Lendour, giving him the flexibility to go when and where he sensed he was needed, to assess conditions for himself. Among them, though not part of their number, was Sir Kenneth Morgan, now restored to his function as the king's aide, rarely far from his side since returning from the last expedition into Meara, three years before.
Their advance into that turbulent land was swift and focused, bringing them quickly into the heartland of the rebellious province. Half a day's ride from Ratharkin, the provincial capital, forward scouts made contact with the first wary outriders from the city, where rebels had ousted the royal governor and occupied part of the city. To the king's dismay, initial reports regarding rebel numbers suggested that Judhael of Meara had mustered far more support than initially had been supposed. The prospect gave pause to all previous assumptions that this would be any ordinary quashing of a minor dissident insurrection.
That night, as the king and his army encamped between Ratharkin and loyal Trurill, Donal called his commanders to his tent for a council of war.
«I want to know how it's possible that Judhael can keep alive such support, after so long», the king said, glancing across the grim faces faintly illuminated in the torchlight. «We've had nearly sixty years of wrangling about Meara. Have I truly given these people cause to resent me that much?»
Andrew McLain, senior among Gwynedd's dukes, shook his grizzled head, infinitely patient. His son Jared was already scouring the hills south of Ratharkin, seeking intelligence regarding local opposition.
«Not at all, Sire», Andrew said. «This is a regrettable legacy of your father's generation, and Jolyon of Meara, and the Great War. Your parents' marriage was intended to resolve the succession of the principality. It was your grandmother who simply would not accept the loss of Mearan sovereignty».
Richard snorted. «Meara was hardly sovereign, even then, Andrew. It's been a vassal state for more than two hundred years».
«A vassal state, yes», said Ursic of Claibourne. «But still with its own prince, its own court. A royal governor is hardly the same, no matter how well liked he may be — and Iolo Melandry, while loyal and competent, has hardly been well-liked in Meara, as you know».
Duke Andrew grimaced and shook his head. «They wouldn't have liked any royal governor. You know that, Ursic. These stiff-necked Mearans only understand force».
Donal's sharp glance forestalled any further digression into what was agreed by all present. He was well aware that most of the troubles with Meara during his lifetime could be laid at the feet of the maternal grandmother he had never known. Widowed in the Great War, and beloved of the Mearan people, the Princess Urracca had disowned Donal's mother when, seeking an end to the slaughter, her daughter Roisian had fled to Gwynedd and wed Gwynedd's king. Annalind, she declared, was Meara's true heiress; and by that reckoning, many Mearans regarded Annalind's son Judhael as Meara's true prince. It was Judhael who had sparked the present insurrection, as he had the previous one.
«It won't end, you know», Ursic said. «Not until you've killed off the rest of the line».
Several of the others nodded in vehement agreement, a few murmuring to one another, but Donal set his jaw defiantly, raking them all with his gray Haldane gaze.
«Ursic, these are my own people, my mother's blood kin. I have no wish to slay them».
«But slay them you must, Sire — if not now, then at some time in the future», Ursic replied. «For Mearans will never let go of what they regard as theirs. They are a people of honor and passion, with a vehement hatred for what they regard as betrayal of loyalty. And in their eyes, that was the crime of your mother — that she should abandon her lands and people and give herself in marriage to an enemy of Meara».
«We were never enemies of Meara!» Donal snapped, slapping the flat of his hand against the map table. «And my mother was trying to avert the very kind of bloodshed that seems inevitable on the morrow — for I will have what is mine!»
«That may exact a heavy price, Sire», Duke Andrew said.
Then so be it!» Donal retorted, lurching to his feet. «Leave us — all of you!» His ringed hand stabbed emphatically at the tent flap, where Ahern stood guard with Sir Jovett Chandos. «Except for Richard and Morian — and Ahern. You stay. And someone have that scout sent in, who saw the Mearan array at Ratharkin».
In a shuffle of booted feet and creaking harness, the others filed out, leaving Richard, Morian, and Ahern to settle on camp stools as the king motioned them closer and sank into his own chair.
«Well, what is to be done?» he murmured, searching all three attentive faces.
Richard glanced furtively at the two Deryni, then at the carpet beneath his feet, faint apprehension in his expression. At thirty-three, he was just coming into his prime: lean and fit, his shock of sable hair only beginning to silver at the temples, and visible mainly in his close-trimmed beard and mustache.
«It appears you have already decided what is to be done», Richard said quietly, looking up at his brother.
«And you don't approve».
Glancing again at the two Deryni, Richard gave a shrug.
«That isn't for me to say. I'm not the king».
«No. You aren't».
Footsteps and the clink and creak of harness approached outside the tent flap, just before one of the king's bodyguards pulled back the heavy canvas to admit a nondescript-looking scout in dusty tan riding leathers.
«You sent for me, Sire?»
«I did. Sit here, please». Donal hooked a stool closer with a booted toe and indicated it with his chin. «It's Josquin Gramercy, isn't it? Ahern, bring him that writing desk and light, if you will».
Ahern complied without comment, moving the small campaign chest before the stool and setting out parchment, pen, and ink, then bringing a lit candlestick, which he set to the left. Morian had risen to make room, and moved behind the scout as he settled on the stool, one hand casually coming to rest on the man's shoulder. The man started to look up, then seemed to deflate slightly, chin sinking to his chest and eyes closing. Ahern, unaccustomed to seeing a Deryni work so openly, raised one eyebrow.