«Is the arrowhead embedded?» he asked, returning his gaze to Alyce. «Will it have to be cut out?»

She shook her head slightly. «I think not, my lord — or, only a little, perhaps. It mostly went through — though I fear that your saddle is ruined. And your horse is in a very ill temper — though he is only slightly injured».

He chuckled bleakly at that, smiling faintly as he looked back at her. His eyes were the same shade of sandy steel-gray as his hair, though with a hint of sea-blue in their depths. Though his face was weathered and tanned, bespeaking much service in the field, she sensed that the crinkles at the corners of his eyes came mostly of good humor.

«He isn't a very good horse anyway», Kenneth confided. «I'd meant to ride another today, but the vile beast cast a shoe and there was no time to have it reset». He glanced away with a snort. «Not that that horse is much better. When the shoe came off, the nails ripped an almighty chunk out of the edge of his hoof. I suspect he'll be lame for weeks. And I reckon it could be months before a smith will be able to keep a shoe on that foot. But I don't suppose that I shall be riding again very soon anyway…».

He was talking, she knew, to take his mind from his injury. In fact, Sir Kenneth owned excellent mounts, some of them given him by the king. All the horses had been fractious before they rode out that morning, for the weather had turned very cold in the past few days, and a hard frost had been on the cobbles. She had seen Sir Kenneth's first horse cast its shoe in the stable yard as they were mounting up to leave, jinking and kicking out at any other animal that got too near — and somehow managing to catch the edge of the shoe with its own hoof, so that it very nearly fell.

Alyce smiled and nodded knowingly. «I was aware of the incident, my lord. The queen was convinced you were both going down. They should spread more straw on the cobbles when it's frosty».

«A sensible horse wouldn't act up like that on slick cobbles», Kenneth retorted. «But he is fast — at least when he isn't trying to kill himself and me».

He fell silent at that, tensing as he shifted in the hay, trying to find a more comfortable position. Alyce checked his wound, but he did not seem to be bleeding — though he would, when the arrow was drawn. When he grimaced and closed his eyes, obviously concentrating on trying to ease his pain, she considered nudging him back into sleep; but there were too many eyes upon them.

They rattled into the forecourt of Rhemuth Castle just as the shadows were lengthening. The king's physician and Duke Richard's battle-surgeon were waiting as they carried Sir Kenneth through the hall and into one of the ground-level guest rooms that opened off the royal gardens. The queen joined them very shortly, and directed Alyce to assist the physicians as they dealt with the wound, she and Zoë holding basins and towels as the surgeon eased the arrow through far enough to cut off the arrowhead and then drew out the shaft.

Though Kenneth uttered not a sound as this was done, and bled less than they had feared, his face went gradually more and more taut and pale, until Richeldis nodded minutely to Alyce to intervene. The patient had been given a draught of strong spirits before they began, and now Alyce gave him more, at the same time brushing his mind with hers as she lifted his head to put the cup to his lips, nudging him gently into sleep.

If the surgeon noticed how quickly the draught worked, he said nothing, only bending to his work of cleaning and bandaging the wound, backing off then to wash his hands as the queen laid a hand on the sleeping man's forehead.

«The test will be whether a fever develops», she said, shifting then to help Alyce and Zoë pull the blankets up to cover him. «It appears we should have given him more drink, and sooner. It would have spared him some discomfort. We'll let him sleep now», she said to the room at large. «Alyce, I know you and Zoë will wish to sit with him and keep him comfortable. I'll send someone to relieve you in a few hours».

The guarded look that passed between her and Alyce made it clear what she meant, having experienced the ease of Deryni powers during childbirth and other times of discomfort — though usually from Jessamy. The church did not approve, of course, but it was a perquisite of royalty to ignore certain of the laws that governed ordinary folk, though discretion was always essential, even for a queen.

Still, the wife of the king and the mother of future kings could be forgiven certain lapses, so long as they did not occur too often or too flagrantly; and none could dispute that Sir Kenneth Morgan was the king's good servant, and had taken an arrow meant for his sovereign. Alyce saw the hardening of Father Denit's expression as he watched from the doorway, and guessed that he suspected what had just transpired, but she did not think he would countermand the queen's order, under the circumstances, though he might well mention his displeasure to the king — or to the archbishop. He gave them a stiff nod in lieu of a bow before turning on his heel to leave the room.

«I'll send Jessamy to you a little later. Be careful», the queen whispered to Alyce, briefly hugging her and Zoë around the shoulders before herself departing, along with the physician.

The care they had taken in dealing with Sir Kenneth's injury soon reaped dividends, for he never developed the fever the queen had feared, and his wound healed cleanly. After a few days, he was allowed to sit with his leg propped up before the fire in his room, where he received daily visitors: Sir Jiri, with a favorite cardounet board and playing pieces, and sometimes ladies sent by the queen to sing for him while they strummed at lute and psaltery and crwth.

He also read a great deal, and was read to, sometimes by his daughter, but more often by Alyce. With the latter, it was usually histories borrowed from the king's library — and sometimes, correspondence sent by the king for his review. But occasionally, she found copies of popular ballads and poetry lying on the cabinet beside his chair. He colored when he saw that she had noticed.

In truth, the convalescent was finding himself most agreeably distracted by the gentle attentions of the queen's ladies, and entertaining such thoughts as had not crossed his mind since the death of his wife, several years before.

Oh, there had been the occasional flirtation with tavern maids and farmers' daughters when he was in the field, and gentle dalliance with certain ladies of his sisters' households when he went home to the ancestral estates of Morganhall to visit his younger daughters, who were being raised by their aunts. But largely, he had thrown himself into his military career, with increasing service to the king himself, growing mostly resigned to the likelihood that he would live out his life as a widower. He was but a simple knight, albeit a trusted servant of the king. What could he offer a woman? — he, whose meager income from the Morgan estates must go to support the children of his youth.

Yet now he was surprised to find himself thinking decidedly domestic thoughts, little though there was any practicality to such thinking. He had not the wherewithal to support a wife and possibly a second family. Even so, the idea began to surface more and more often during those weeks of convalescence, daily in the company of the beautiful and accomplished ladies of the queen's household, and of one young lady, in particular.

Alyce de Corwyn… heiress to one of the richest duchies in all the Eleven Kingdoms. She was so far above him as to be the embodiment of a fantasy he could hardly even conceive, at least in this life. When first they had met at Arc-en-Ciel, he had esteemed her as his daughter's friend, almost as another daughter of his own. Now, as their association shifted into adult friendship, he decided that he had not been far off the mark when he had compared her to an angel, during that long, pain-filled journey back to the castle after his injury.