Camber the Heretic (64 page)

And in the sacristy, Rhys and Tavis winked into existence via Portal. For the first time in twenty-four hours, Rhys's luck held; the sacristy was deserted. He stumbled and staggered a little on the deep Kheldish carpet, grabbing onto Tavis's arm for support as he glanced around wildly to assess their safety.

“We must be mad!” Tavis muttered under his breath. “What if there had been someone here?”

“Well, there wasn't,” Rhys returned, drawing a deep, steadying breath as he moved toward the doorway. “And there was no other way to get here in time.”

The little corridor outside the sacristy was likewise deserted, but, as Rhys slipped along it and moved toward the door which led into the sanctuary, he could see and hear that he had arrived only just in time. The Mass was over, the altar nearly restored to its usual configuration. The cathedral monks were singing the last Gospel. As soon as they finished, the recessional procession would form up and, after a blessing and short exhortation from the new archbishop, all of them would file back up the packed nave—straight into the waiting clutches of the regents and their soldiers.

Several priests and deacons were standing in front of the doorway, and Rhys had to crane his neck to see whether Camber was sitting on the primatial throne. He spotted him, apparently absorbed in staring down the left side of the nave. Rhys stepped farther into the doorway, still not visible from the nave, but apparent to Camber, if he would only look this way, but the archbishop did not. In desperation, Rhys raised an arm and began slowly waving it back and forth behind the priests, hoping that the movement would somehow catch Camber's attention, or Joram's. Finally, Joram glanced his way.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Rhys watched Joram bend slightly to whisper in Camber's ear, saw Camber's slow, controlled turn of head to look where Joram indicated.

A look of relief mixed with alarm flashed across the craggy Alister-face almost too quickly for any but an intimate to assess. Camber glanced down the nave once more, then returned a sidelong glance to Rhys.

Rhys, what's happened? Are you all right?
came the sharply focused thought, so intense it almost seared in Rhys's still groggy mind.

In reflex, Rhys shook his head and shut his eyes, unable either to modulate the intensity of Camber's question or to return an answer. When he looked up again, he saw Camber's face taut, the tall body tensed as if he were considering rising and coming to Rhys directly.

But he must not do that! Desperately, Rhys shook his head, trying to think of a way he could go to Camber without making a major spectacle. At least in this, though, Tavis had anticipated him and was pulling the short cloak from Rhys's shoulders.

“What are you doing?” Rhys whispered, at the same time seeing the white fabric bunched over Tavis's left arm.

“Here, put on this alb,” Tavis replied, dropping the cloak on the floor and lifting the other garment over Rhys's head. “In the confusion, you can pass as a priest. Hurry.”

Without argument, Rhys slipped his arms into the sleeves and tugged the robe into place, glancing at Camber as he took the cincture which Tavis proffered and knotted it around his waist. Now, if he could only manage to make his way across the sanctuary without arousing special attention …

But first, he must be certain that Tavis got away safely.

“Listen, you mustn't stay here,” he whispered. “You mustn't be seen and recognized, if you're to be of any use to Javan in the future.”

“But, I can't just leave you here, unprotected,” Tavis murmured. “You're not nearly back to your full strength. How will you get away?”

“Once I get out there, I'll be with Alister and Joram,” Rhys replied. “If we fail, at least we fail together. Now, promise me you'll go back to safety. You now know where the Portal is in Jaffray's apartments. Go back there and then make your way to Javan as quickly as you can.”

“All right,” Tavis agreed sullenly.

“Promise me!” Rhys insisted.

Defiantly, Tavis took Rhys's hand from his shoulder with his good hand and pressed him toward the door. “All right, I promise. Now get out there and warn them, before it's too late.”

With a quick prayer, Rhys gave a nod and turned back toward the door, took a deep breath and folded his hands before him. The priests and deacons moved aside to let him pass, but already the recessional line-up was forming in the choir. Rhys paused to bow before the high altar, then he had reached Camber's throne and knelt, taking Camber's right hand in both of his and kissing it fervently to cover his unscheduled appearance.

“The regents are waiting outside to take you all prisoner,” he whispered. “I got here as soon as I could.”

Camber, now with physical contact to work with, could not control a gasp of shock and consternation as he reached out with his mind and encountered Rhys's still-addled state.

My God, Rhys, what's happened to you?
he sent, glancing at the doorway from which Rhys had appeared and seeing Tavis still waiting there, though in shadow.
Did Tavis do this to you?

Yes, but there isn't time to explain now
, Rhys managed to reply, without verbalizing this time.
How are we going to get out of this?

The procession was forming in earnest now, and Archbishop Oriss and Bishops Dermot and Niallan were approaching to escort Camber to his place. In desperation, Camber reached out into Rhys's mind with force, probing deeply as the Healer let fall all his shields to give as much information as possible in the shortest time.

Under the circumstances, Camber's touch could hardly be gentle. As he withdrew, his own mind reeling with the implications of what he had just read, Rhys teetered dangerously on his knees. Quickly Camber slipped his right hand under the Healer's elbow and raised him as he himself stood. He was so appalled at Rhys's mental condition that he could hardly think; and Joram, who had been catching the overflow from his exchange with Rhys, had no ideas either.

He must somehow defuse the situation. If the regents dared to enter the cathedral to try to take him, the people must know what was happening. As yet, he could detect no sign of intrusion at the far end of the cathedral.

The people were standing shoulder to shoulder, waiting for his blessing when his procession should move out of the cathedral. But as he eased into place behind Joram and his processional cross, flanked by the unsteady Rhys on one side and Archbishop Oriss on the other, he saw Jebediah finally making his way up the steps from the nave to the choir and heading toward him. The procession began moving, to the low chant of a psalm whose words eluded Camber in the confusion of trying to assess what was happening, and he met Jebediah just in the center of the choir. The head of the procession was already down the steps which Jebediah had just ascended, and beginning to move slowly up the center aisle. Jebediah looked surprised to see Rhys dressed as a priest.

“Alister, the outer courtyard is filled with armed men,” he reported, loud enough that the other bishops near Camber could also hear. “Murdoch, Tammaron, and Ewan are there on horseback, with several of their captains, and I think I saw Hubert and the king. We couldn't stop that many. I'm sorry.”

“Then, it
is
a confrontation,” Camber said in a low voice, taking a closer grip on the crozier in his left hand, “Rhys says they plan to take all the bishops prisoner and force a new election.”

“More likely kill you all,” Jebediah breathed. “At least it wouldn't surprise me if those men had orders not to be too careful with some of the bishops. Bishop Niallan, Dermot, I would think you're prime targets, along with Alister.”

As those within earshot reacted, Camber nodded grimly.

“I fear you're right, Jeb. Well, I suppose this calls for drastic action. My Lord Bishops,” he called, raising his voice and his crozier, “stop the procession and attend me. Quickly.”

At his words, those nearest him gasped, jostling those ahead of them and passing the word until the entire procession had halted and the choir monks had ceased their singing. A murmur of surprise and curiosity rippled through the congregation, quickly subsiding as the procession melted back to either side of the choir screen to frame the new archbishop coming forward to stand there on the steps. Quickly the other bishops clustered to either side of him, those who had not been close enough to hear Jebediah's warning staring in amazement at their new leader, gaping as those who had heard spread the essence of the news until their archbishop raised his hand for silence. At his right, Joram moved into place with the jewelled processional cross of the primatial office, underlining Camber's authority as he began to speak.

“Good people of Valoret, I pray your attention for yet a little while longer.”

His words brought an almost immediate cessation of sound in the rest of the cathedral.

“This day you have seen me enthroned as your archbishop and primate. As you are doubtless aware, choosing a worthy successor to Jaffray of Carbury was not an easy task. After many weeks of deadlocked voting in which I was not even a candidate, two of the men who
were
candidates came to me and begged me to be their leader. They said that both, with their supporters, could endorse me; and combining both factions would give us the majority vote we needed to elect a new archbishop.

“I was reluctant to accept their proposal, for I knew that there were certain other of our brethren who would never support my candidacy, but finally I told them that, if the next day's vote proved their earnest, I would accept the yoke which they and the Holy Spirit chose to lay upon me.”

Outside in the yard, he could hear voices shouting, and the sound of steel-shod hooves echoing against the paving stones, and he realized he had not much time.

“I do not shrink from that duty or that yoke, for I believe that I have something to offer the people of Gwynedd. But now I have learned, even as I was preparing to leave this cathedral and give you my blessing, that there are those who would dispute the right of your bishops to elect their primate from among themselves.”

A murmur of consternation began to grow in the congregation, but Camber held up his hand and raised his voice to keep above them.

“Not only would they dispute that right, but they would force the bishops of Gwynedd to elect an archbishop of
their
choosing, whether or not the bishops agree.”

“Who would do that?”—“Who?”—“Who?”—“Give us their names!” the shouts began to ring out.

At that moment, the doors at the rear of the cathedral were thrown back and a mass of horsemen appeared, silhouetted against the snow. The lead riders wore the livery of the House of Haldane, but as those parted, Camber could just make out the device of Murdoch of Carthane.

“Alister Cullen, come out into the yard!” Murdoch cried, spurring his horse right into the doorway, to fidget and slip on the inlaid tiles of the floor.

“There is your answer, good people!” Camber cried, gesturing toward Murdoch.

Furious, Murdoch wheeled his horse around in a tight little circle.

“Bishops of Gwynedd, I command you, in the name of the king, to cease this folly. Your king will be lenient, but only if you abide by his will!”

“Since when is the synod of bishops bound by the will of the king in such a thing as this?” Dermot shouted back. “Or rather, by the will of the regents! Alister Cullen is our legally elected, properly enthroned archbishop. The regents have no right—”

“The regents have
every
right to protect the kingdom for its king!” Murdoch retorted. “Alister Cullen is an agitator, with his Deryni powers and his Deryni insinuations into the affairs of this kingdom. He is not acceptable to the Crown!”

Eustace, usually so jovial and light-hearted, took a step forward. “Has the king said that? I think not!”

“Then, he
shall
say it!” Murdoch retorted, before Eustace could continue. He sidled his horse closer to the doorway again. “Make way for the King's Grace! Stand aside, you! Make way!”

And as Camber and the others watched incredulously, the soldiers parted behind Murdoch and King Alroy came riding through on a white horse bedecked in scarlet bardings. He wore his scaled-down crown of crosses and leaves, a scarlet surcoat worked with the Lion of Gwynedd on his chest, and mail gleaming at neck and wrists and knees. The sheathed state sword of Gwynedd hung from his saddle, and a mounted knight followed at his stirrup, bearing the banner of the kingdom.

An awed murmur sighed through the cathedral, and Camber knew that they had lost. He had not expected Alroy to be with the regents on such a mission. The king's presence lent a legitimacy to which the people were already responding—the old Haldane mystique. The fine distinction between Crown and advisors was already blurring. Camber could feel it in the air.

“People of Gwynedd,” Alroy said, in a clear, loud voice, “our regent has spoken truly. It is against our wish that Alister Cullen has been elected to this highest of ecclesiastical offices. We do therefore declare his election to be null and void. We command our bishops to meet again and reconsider our wishes. And if anyone defies us at this time, we order our regents and military forces to take them into custody to await our further pleasure.”

A stunned silence met the end of Alroy's speech, but only for a few seconds. Then Dermot O'Beirne was stepping out from the others, his dark eyes flashing with anger.

“Sire, this is not meet!” he cried, pounding the iron-shod foot of his crozier once against the marble step in emphasis. “Further, it is against law and custom. Archbishop Cullen was elected by due process. Not even the king may—”

“The king,” Murdoch interrupted in an imperious tone, “may do what he wills! Your resistance is very dangerous, Bishop O'Beirne!”

“And if you have advised the king in this matter, then your counsel is dangerous, Earl Murdoch!” Dermot retorted. “The people will never stand—”