(Based on the "Chronicles of the Deryni," "Histories of King Kelson," and related short stories by Katherine Kurtz)

April, 1127. Coroth, Corwyn

Alaric Morgan, Duke of Corwyn, and arguably the most powerful temporal vassal of the kingdom of Gwynedd, blinked as he stepped out of the cathedral and into the morning sunshine. He had not been expecting its brightness, rapt as he was in pondering his faith. Morgan did not usually consider himself deeply religious, that was for his cousin Duncan and other priests, but today, as it happened every Good Friday, he had been overcome by the harrowing Passion of the Lord. Even now, a grown man and a warrior experienced in death, and one who had witnessed cruelty and irrational hatred firsthand, he was shocked by the familiar story. But the more he thought about it, the less surprised he was at his reaction. He remembered the horror that had consumed him after Brion had been killed, and when Kelson had nearly been lost, and tried to imagine the hatred and anger that he would feel if anyone were to do his young king harm. And, however much he was attached to his earthly lord, what was a worldly king to a divine one? The Crucifixion was, in fact, no less than the murder of his God, and he, Alaric Morgan, by his sins had helped to allow that murder.

Some would have said that those sins included his very nature, for Corwyn's duke was of the race of Deryni, those gifted in magic and consequently feared and hated by many who were simply human. But Morgan had long since come to terms with his heritage, and was almost entirely certain that God did not hold his powers against him. Still, like any man, and particularly one who held such temporal power as his, he had sins in number enough. But even knowing that he bore a share of the guilt for the death of Christ, he couldn't help but marvel at the wickedness and shortsightedness of the Romans and the Jews. Surely they must have seen the divinity in the one they mocked and murdered. It bespoke of pure evil, without hope of redemption. It was all Morgan could do to keep his hands from clenching at his sides. His discomposure was evident, psychically, if not physically, he realized, as he heard, as if from far away, the clear voice of his young Deryni daughter, Briony, who was to young to have understood either the Latin of the Mass or to have truly grasped the import of the day.

"Why is Papa mad?" She was asking her mother.

"Papa isn't mad, Briony," the Duchess Richenda said in a quiet, even subdued tone. She too, had been affected by the service, but that was only natural, thought Morgan. Women were often more sensitive to such things. Richenda was patiently reminding their daughter of her catechism and of the gravity of the day, explaining that Papa was sad and angry at the suffering of Christ, who had died for the sins of the world.

Morgan forced his thoughts to return from the recesses of his mind. He was in his capital of Coroth, with his beloved wife and children - his beautiful daughter Briony and his infant heir, Kelric - by his one side, and his faithful aide Derry by his other. There was no shame in being a devout man, no shame in mourning on a day of penitence, but he need not forget the world utterly. There was plenty of good in it.

In spite of the Holy day, or, more probably, because of it, many citizens of Coroth clustered in the streets, though both their gossiping voices and, of some, their clothes, were more subdued than had the time of the year been different. Coroth had always been loyal to her Deryni overlords, and her people were glad to see their duke, whose duties so often called him to the king's court at Rhemuth, among them once more. As the ducal party passed, they offered deep reverences to Morgan and his duchess, and smiled at innocent Kelric, sleeping in his nurse's arms, and at Briony, who now bore a solemn expression on her childish face.

One moment, it was a peaceful early-spring morning; the next, there was yelling, and an angry knot of citizenry blocked the street. From somewhere within the mass of people, a girl screamed. Richenda gripped her daughter's hand more tightly, and half-turned to make sure that there were guards surrounding herself and her children. Morgan noticed that men of the Town Watch, who should have been breaking up this blatant disruption of the peace, were instead conferring nervously, evidently unwilling or afraid to become involved. This was not the sort of thing that happened in his lands. Lawbreakers were punished quickly and firmly; the peace was kept at all cost. Well then, he would have to step in himself. He walked purposefully towards the disturbance. Richenda hesitated a moment, then followed. The sight of their duke galvanized the Watch at last. They entered into the fray, and it was only a few moments before a reasonable amount of order had been restored. The crowd of onlookers parted and the instigators of the disturbance were separated to allow Morgan through.

Upon seeing what was in the center, Richenda, who had stepped up to her husband's side, immediately pressed Briony's face into her skirts.

"Do not look," she ordered softly. She turned to hand off her daughter to one of her ladies who had accompanied them to Mass, and then gave quiet but authoritative orders: a detachment of the guards was to see her children and attendants safely to the castle. Now. She would stay with her lord.

Morgan looked at the scene in disbelief. His first thought was that the citizens who stood before him had suddenly gone mad. There could be no other explanation for the old man who lay crumpled on the ground. His head was bloodied and his eyes were closed. If he breathed, it was too shallowly to stir the loose robe that he wore. His tall, conical hat rolled slowly in a circle at Morgan's feet. Beside him knelt a young woman, probably both his daughter and the one who had screamed. She was not more than fifteen or sixteen years of age, and was trembling. A scarf covered her hair in the Moorish manner. They were Jews. Morgan could hear Derry take in his breath quickly, and Richenda, behind him, giving instructions. He allowed for himself no visible reaction.

"What is this violence, and on such a day?" He demanded, though it was now clear to him what had happened. Some of the men of Coroth had been avenging the murder of Christ.

There was no immediate answer. One of the men looked down, as if ashamed, but the others stared defiantly.

"It's no more'n they deserve, saving Your Grace," answered someone at last.

"Aye. Murderers. That's what they are. They didn't show any mercy to Lord Jesus, why should they get any from us?"

From back in the crowd, a woman cried out. Morgan could not see her face. "They took my son, my baby, to murder for their blood rites!"

Richenda opened her mouth to speak, and stepped forward a little. This got her husband's attention.

"Richenda!" Morgan exclaimed. "I had thought that you were with your children, my lady. This is no fit business for one in your condition!" It wasn't how he had meant to say it. He had only been concerned for her safety and for that of their unborn, he had been afraid that real violence might rear up, given the bloodthirsty mood of the mob, but the consequent, quickly-supressed look that flitted across his wife's face did not leave his mind easily. "Derry!" He called to his aide.

The young border lord had knelt down to take the pulse of the old Jew, with the slightest bit of reluctance, Morgan thought he recalled. Now, he looked up. "He'll live, m'lord," he said cheerfully, "it only looks nastier than it is."

Morgan nodded. "Then please escort my lady back to the castle." Richenda looked askance at that, but stifled her outcry. As the widow of a traitor, she would always be suspect in the eyes of her husband's people. The slightest seeming of disobedience to him could lose her the acceptance and respect she had grudgingly won from them.

And so she submitted easily, making a slight curtesy and saying only: "I had but thought a woman's compassion would be needed here, my lord." He did not respond, only kissing her hand absently in farewell, before handing her off to Derry and turning back to the problem before him.

Morgan was in a quandary. His law was strict in the matter of public brawling, not to mention unaggravated assault, but he found now, within the context of this riot, that he could not blame his people for their anger. As a Christian, could he in good faith look askance on what was a natural reaction against a cursed and evil people? 'Let his death be on us and our children,' the Jewish priests had said to Pilate. No, the Jews could not reasonably expect long tolerance in a Christian country. And yet, he could not condone lawlessness, as much as his sympathies lay with the lawbreakers, not their victims. Neither could he appear indecisive, he realized. His authority would be undermined if it seemed he did not know what to do about the situation. This had never been a problem he had faced before. He looked down at the young Jewess. She had been trying to wipe some of the blood from her father's face, but under Morgan's frigid gaze she froze.

"Please, Your Grace," she whispered, her eyes on the ground. "Please. Give us your protection. They will kill us all." She glanced at her father, still unmoving, and shook for a moment with horror and fear. She weeps for her father and for her people, Morgan thought, but she would have cheered to see the Christ scourged and crucified.

"They will kill us, my lord" she sobbed. "Burn our homes, kill us all… Please, mercy, Your Grace." She bent to bring the hem of Morgan's cloak to her lips in supplication.

Morgan was paralyzed. In that instant he saw his sister Bronwyn, tragically dead several years; he saw his wife Richenda, his daughter Briony, even his mother, the Lady Alyce de Corwyn, in what few memories he had of her. He saw them - they were all melded together as one, but yet were all separate in his mind - kneeling before a stern human lord, their only crime being their race, for all were Deryni. How could he be so blind? For centuries, his people too had been victims of senseless violence for the long-past crimes of a very few of their number. Richenda's words came back in an echo: "I had thought that a woman's compassion would be needed here." Not a woman's compassion, but the compassion of humanity, humanity that somehow encompassed all, Deryni and human, Christian and Jew. And he had been no better than his one-time nemesis Edmund Loris, the fanatic, Deryni-hating bishop, or, indeed, than any of the vicious men who had persecuted those with magic through the ages.

"Any man who has a quarrel, citizen or no, he may take it to my courts," he announced to the crowd, "where it will be treated fairly." But I will not brook that any take justice into his own hands." He looked at the men who still stared defiantly, and said to the Watch that which he ought to have said at the very first: "These men would have murdered. They have caused a riot, and on a holy day. Do your duty on them!" Assuring himself that his orders had been obeyed, and with a curt signal to the remaining men of his household, he turned abruptly and strode off.

He did not look back to see how the Jewess managed to get her injured father back to the Jewish Quarter. He did not want to look, did not want to see. Though he was reluctant to admit it even to himself, he was ashamed at the revelation that he might have faults that ran as deep as those of his most dire enemies, and a little ashamed too that even now he could not banish a lingering anger at the Jews from his heart. Neither did he like to admit, he realized as he crossed the castle courtyard, that his wife had seen more clearly than had he, and that he had ignored her advice. That gave him pause. Perhaps he ought to have walked more slowly so as to postpone the inevitable "I told you so," however kindly and respectfully Richenda would phrase it.

As he climbed the stairs to his personal chambers, he took some comfort in that he had fulfilled his obligation as Duke of Corwyn, albeit at the expense of his personal feelings. And those-perhaps he could become more tolerant. The Dowager Queen Jehana was said to be softening her opinions of the Deryni; surely he could soften his of the Jews. With a sigh, Morgan squared his shoulders and entered his lady's solar to apologize.

Revised 23-3-05, 6-6-05