Camber the Heretic (18 page)

As the boy's mouth gaped, Camber urged him across the final steps to the bed and leaned across the body, deftly removing the Ring of Fire from Cinhil's hand. Before Alroy could question or protest, Camber caught his left hand and slipped the band into place. The ring was huge on him, of course, but even as it slid home on his finger, Camber sensed the trigger being activated, felt a slight psychic shudder go through the boy's young mind as the potentials were released, though he knew there was no conscious awareness on Alroy's part that anything had happened.

“This is my father's gift?” Alroy asked shyly, staring into the fire of the stones and pursing his lips in wonder. He could not know that his own blood had added to the stones' luster.

“It is your father's gift, my prince,” Camber said. “Ah, I know it is too large,” he continued, removing the ring and putting it into Alroy's hand, now that its work, at least on this Haldane, was done. “But you shall grow into it—or it can be made smaller, if you like. I believe it was your father's intention that this become part of the regalia of Gwynedd. Perhaps one day your son shall wear it at his coronation.”

Alroy smiled tentatively and closed the ring in his hand. “I should like that,” he murmured. His face took on a more serious mien. “But, do you think I shall ever have a son, Bishop Cullen?”

“Of course you shall,” Camber began. But then he was cut off by Murdoch moving in and taking the boy's arm, almost jerking the prince away from the bed and from Camber.

“There will be time enough for idle chit-chat later on, Bishop Cullen. For now, it is late, and the princes need their rest.”

“Certainly, my lord,” Camber returned smoothly, making a slight bow. “I simply thought His Highness should have his father's gift to comfort him. It is not an easy thing for young boys to lose their father.”

“Their
father
felt that a council of regents was best suited to determine what is best for the princes, Bishop Cullen—not a single man,” Murdoch said softly. “You would do well to remember that.” He thrust the confused Alroy back into the hands of Rhun, who towered over the boy with his hands resting firmly on the young shoulders.

“Furthermore,” Murdoch continued, “you are advised that the regency council will convene its first meeting tomorrow. You will be informed of the exact time and place. I would advise you to consider carefully the role which you wish to play in the new administration. I know that you will abide by law and custom in all things, as you have hitherto.”

“My sole aim is the service of the Crown,” Camber replied neutrally, though he wondered to himself why Murdoch had chosen those particular words.

The earl's gaunt face showed a semblance of a tight, artificial smile. “Excellent. Then we shall all get along splendidly. Goodnight, Bishop.”

And, turning on his heel, he spread his arms and herded all his party out of the chamber. Those who remained exchanged resigned glances and began moving toward the door also, Jebediah beginning to shepherd the household back to their duties while Rhys and Joram paused just outside. Sorle disappeared into the adjoining bathing chamber, preparing to do final squire's service for his dead master, and even Father Alfred withdrew a little from his recitation of the Litany for the Dead, to give the bishop a last moment alone with the dead king.

Sadly, Camber moved closer to the head of the bed and gazed down at the familiar form, laid his hand lightly on the cold ones crossed on the still, silent breast.

“Goodnight, my prince,” he whispered under his breath. “I shall do my best for your sons, as I have always done for you.”

But he could not go on after that, and had to content himself with a final bow of his head as the tears welled in the icy Alister eyes. He did not remember leaving the room. It was Joram who put him to bed for what remained of the night.

Camber's fellow regents wasted no time in making certain their hold on the new king. By noon, while cathedral and church bells tolled the old king's passing, Cinhil's body had already lain in state for three hours in the main chapel of the castle, not far from the chamber adjoining the great hall where Cinhil's council had customarily met. After a noon Mass, which Archbishop Jaffray celebrated in that same chapel, young pages delivered the summons to convene the regency council. Camber spent a few more minutes in meditation, praying Divine guidance for the young king, then made his way into the council chamber, Joram at his heels.

The other regents were already there—Murdoch, Tammaron, Rhun, and Bishop Hubert—standing in a little cluster to the right of the king's chair and talking with Earl Ewan, son of the ailing Duke Sighere. Others of the regular council were also there: Udaut, the constable, and Archbishop Oriss, and Baron Torcuill de la Marche, the latter sitting in the chair directly to the left of Camber's accustomed place at the foot of the table. None of these three men were strangers to the political arena, both Udaut and Oriss having been among Cinhil's original council lords, and Torcuill going back even to Imre's council. But Udaut and Oriss would probably survive the reorganization which was surely about to take place, where Torcuill would not, for Udaut and Oriss were not Deryni. The regents themselves were entitled to seats on the regency council by statute, as was the person holding the office of Primate of Gwynedd—currently Jaffray of Carbury, a former Gabrilite and most certainly Deryni. All others served at the pleasure of those six men. With only two of the six Deryni, Camber and Jaffray, the odds were not overwhelmingly reassuring.

Alroy sat at the head of the table, looking uncomfortable and abandoned in his father's carved, high-backed chair. Though they had set a cushion under him, the illusion of greater height did not really disguise the fact that the new king was still a frightened boy of not-quite-twelve. The grey Haldane eyes were dark-smudged shadows in the pale face, the tunic of unrelieved black only emphasizing the boy's fatigue and recent illness, as well as his usual pallor. His only royal ornaments were a silver circlet bound across his brow and his father's Ring of Fire, which he wore suspended from a fine chain around his neck. The Eye of Rom was obscured by his collar-length hair, but Camber knew it was there; and should anyone notice and inquire, Alroy would “remember” that his father had given each of the boys an earring a few days before, when he knew he was dying. On the table before Alroy lay his father's sheathed sword, the weapon appearing rather more innocent by daylight than it had by magic's light the night before.

Camber suppressed a smile at that, wondering whether even the other Deryni in the room, other than Joram, could sense the aura of power around the sword—though even they would doubtless sense it only as the proper hallowing of a king's sword, not a magical blade. With all the dignity of his three offices—regent, chancellor, and bishop—he strode quietly into the chamber and paused beside his chair at the opposite end of the table from Alroy. The thought of his fellow regents swearing their oaths of office on a magical sword was some consolation for the calculating looks they gave him as he made his bow to Alroy.

“My liege. My lords.”

The boy nodded nervously, and Murdoch turned to give him a curt, haughty nod, only just concealing his outright loathing for his adversary.

“Please just be seated until the others arrive, my lord chancellor,” he said.

With that, he turned back to Tammaron and murmured something in a low voice. Camber could not hear what passed between them, but it was fairly apparent from Tammaron's expression and the amused chuckle of Rhun of Horthness that the remark had not been complimentary.

As Camber took his seat, exchanging a troubled glance with Torcuill and Joram to his left, Jebediah came in with Bishop Kai, the third of the Deryni bishops in Gwynedd. After a crisp, military bow to young Alroy and a nod to the other regents, Jebediah slipped into his seat at Camber's right and laid his marshal's baton on the table before him. Bishop Kai sat to his right. After a slight pause, Jebediah leaned slightly toward Camber and whispered from behind a casually raised hand.

“I don't like the feel of this. Murdoch looks entirely too pleased with himself. And what's Ewan doing here? I thought he was tending his father.”

Camber intertwined his fingers and rested his elbows on the table, likewise speaking from behind the barrier of his hands. “I rather expect he's to be your replacement, Jeb, since he's here today.”

“My replacement?”

“Why else would he be here? I would have guessed Duke Sighere, but no one knows whether he will ever be well again. In Sighere's absence, what more logical choice than his eldest son and heir?”

“Ewan, eh?” Jebediah sighed resignedly. “Well, we could certainly do worse, I suppose. It could have been Rhun.”

Camber shook his head. “Too young. Even Rhun knows that.”

“But not too young to be a regent,” Jebediah reminded him.

“I never said I understood Cinhil's criteria for selecting regents,” Camber replied. “Ah, here comes Jaffray. I have a feeling that's all they've asked for this first meeting. I suspected that they'd want to keep it small, at least in the beginning.”

They half-rose as the archbishop reached his chair and bowed to Alroy, but even his arrival did not bring a hint of a smile to the boy's face, though Jaffray had been a frequent visitor to his father's table and chambers.

Have they poisoned him against even Jaffray?
Camber wondered, nodding to Jaffray as the archbishop sat down. He and Jaffray might well be the only Deryni left on the council, if the other regents did as thorough a housecleaning as Camber anticipated. He did not envy the archbishop.

“My Lords, if we could please come to order,” Murdoch said, rapping with his knuckles on the table for their attention. “My Lord Marshal, would you please convene the council?”

Everyone stood except Alroy, who obviously had been coached. Jebediah picked up his baton and saluted the king, then drew himself to attention.

“My Lords, this, the first council of King Alroy Bearand Brion Haldane, is called to order. Let Justice, tempered by Mercy, prevail in all our judgments.”

“So be it,” Murdoch replied, in an almost flippant tone.

As seats were taken again, Murdoch gathered a sheaf of parchment documents on the table in front of him and jogged them on the edges, a self-important gesture carefully calculated to draw their attention to him.

“First order of business will be the recognition of the Lords Regent,” Murdoch said, no longer able to control a slight smirk. “As was previously made public at a court of our late beloved King Cinhil, the following persons have been named to act as regents during the minority of King Alroy: Earl Tammaron Fitz-Arthur, Bishop Alister Cullen, Bishop Hubert MacInnis, Baron Rhun of Horthness, and myself, Murdoch of Carthane, earl.”

He consulted the top sheet in the stack of documents in his hands, then surveyed the table again. Camber had a quick, almost indistinguishable flash of foreboding, and wondered what Murdoch had in mind. Everyone knew who the regents were to be. Everyone also knew that the next item on the agenda should be the swearing in of those regents. What game was Murdoch trying to play?

“Ordinarily,” Murdoch continued smoothly, “said regents would be duly sworn to office at this time. However, under the terms of a recent edict signed by our late beloved King Cinhil, which sets forth detailed procedures for the operation of a regency council—” Camber sat forward, suddenly alarmed.
He
had seen no such procedures. “—I find that it is the prerogative of any four regents to expel and replace a fifth of their number if they unanimously adjudge him to be incompatible.”

His gaze was directly at Camber, a clear challenge.

“I am sorry to have to inform you all that Earl Tammaron, Bishop Hubert, Baron Rhun, and myself do adjudge Bishop Alister Cullen to be incompatible with the aims and operations of the regency council of our beloved King Alroy, and we do, therefore, expel him from our number.”

A low muttering of astonishment, both approving and disapproving, rippled through the assembled men, but Murdoch held up one hand for silence and continued speaking.

“We do also, according to the wishes of our late beloved King Cinhil, and with the consent of our Lord King Alroy, choose Duke Sighere of Claibourne to be the fifth of our company, and do appoint his son and heir, Earl Ewan, to serve in the capacity of acting regent until such time as Duke Sighere's health may permit him to assume the office in his own right. Bishop Cullen, am I to gather, by your stern expression, that you do not approve?”

Camber did not give Murdoch the satisfaction of seeing him stand—only leveled his icy Alister gaze down the length of the table to look the human lord in the eyes. Around him, he could feel the consternation of a great many other people, Deryni and human alike, but he feared that it would make little difference. Murdoch would not have dared to take such a preposterous course of action unless he had the document to back him up. But Camber could not imagine how Cinhil might have signed such a document, knowing what it was.

“The Earl of Carthane is an astute observer, as usual,” Camber said evenly. “How clever of him to deduce that I would disapprove of such a document and its use against me. He can, of course, produce the alleged document, and unimpeachable witnesses to its signature?”

“He can, of course,” Murdoch said disdainfully. “And should anyone take it in his mind to destroy said document, it should be known that this is but one of three originals, all signed by the king and witnessed by Lord Udaut and Archbishop Oriss—both of whom, the chancellor will note, are not themselves regents.”

With a condescending little smirk which could no longer be controlled, he passed the top document on his stack along the table to Oriss and Udaut, who glanced at it and then nodded apologetically to Camber as they passed it on; to Jebediah, who could only sigh; and then to Camber. Camber scanned the text closely, seeing how the division of lines in the tightly penned script might have been misread or skipped over, even if Cinhil
had
been reading carefully—though, if it had been buried in the midst of a great deal of routine correspondence, Cinhil might
not
have been reading carefully, in these last weeks of increasing illness—then confirmed the date and witness seals.