The Bastard Prince (19 page)

Nor was she solely dependent upon the men remaining from her husband's disastrous foray up to Culliecairn, where Miklos' forces showed no signs of withdrawing. Hrorik's nephew, the twenty-year-old Duke Graham of Claibourne, had rushed to her assistance as soon as he heard the news, with two hundred men now encamped round about Castle Lochalyn. Sighere, Hrorik's brother, had brought another hundred from Marley to add to the scores who were continuing to pour in from the farther reaches of Eastmarch itself. Rumor had it that the king was bringing another two to three hundred and would arrive within a few days—news brought by fast messengers from along the line of the king's march, not by magic.

In Rhemuth, meanwhile, Queen Michaela could gain little news of what went on beyond the walls of the royal apartments. The sparse reports she had from Rhysel from time to time assured her of Joram's ongoing efforts to place agents among the forces massing in Eastmarch; but as she had no real knowledge of military thinking and what was appropriate preparation for war, such reports meant little. She received the odd, brief letter from the king as he made his way north and east by stages, but she knew the letters were read before they left his encampments, and again before being placed in her hands. Accordingly, the letters spoke only of missing her and Owain and concerns for her health and that of the child she carried.

Nor did her domestic situation alter much, other than to accommodate the brief upheaval of Court routine caused by Udaut's death. Because it was expected, she made herself put on mourning and attend Udaut's semi-state funeral in Saint Hilary's Basilica, at the foot of the castle, but she hardened her heart to the prayers offered for the dead man's repose. Let God forgive the man who had been part of the conspiracy that murdered King Javan and put her husband on the throne; she would not. Kindness toward the grieving Lirin came more easily, for she well remembered grieving her own father, and she readily granted Udaut's only daughter leave from royal service to mourn.

Other than this brief deviation from normal court routine, the days that followed passed with little variation, each one much like the one before. Especially with the king absent, Michaela chafed increasingly under the emptiness of the life imposed on a captive queen. Only at day's end did joy touch her heart, when a bathed and fed but inevitably sleepy little Prince Owain was brought by his nurse for an all too brief visit.

But never in private. The nurse had orders to remain always in attendance, and usually at least a few of her ladies-in-waiting also remained. Nor were visits to the nursery permitted, being thought disruptive to the young prince's routine. Even discussion of her unhappiness with the situation could result in the loss of any visiting privileges at all.

Thus denied even the pretense of mothering her child, Michaela was expected to join her ladies in “suitable” pastimes during the remainder of the daylight hours—listening to one or another of them read or sing, plying her hand at needlework, which she was growing to detest, and pretending to find diversion in the idle gossip that passed for intellectual stimulation in this stifling environment. Occasionally, when the weather was fine, she was allowed to escape to the gardens for an hour's stroll, for walking was deemed beneficial for an expectant mother, but usually the incessant chatter followed her even there.

At least one of her ladies must accompany her to Mass, as well—though at least they must keep silent during the service. With concentration, Michaela could use the murmur of the Latin to foster an illusion of silence, provided she put from mind that most of the celebrants were priests of the detested
Custodes Fidei
—and if not a
Custodes
man, Hubert himself was apt to be presiding. Michaela had no idea whether she derived any spiritual benefit from so shifting the focus of the Mass, using the silence to dream dire fates for her oppressors, but at least it offered respite from mindless chatter; and in that semi-privacy, when she did turn her thoughts to prayers for Rhysem's safety and deliverance, she sometimes thought she caught a glimmer of what might have driven Javan to seek out refuge in the monastery, when it was he who was plotting how to free Gwynedd's crown.

Rhysel was able to provide more active encouragement in this regard. Though her place as maid within the royal household did not permit her unlimited access to the queen, at least it was regular, morning and night. The queen's increasing propensity for afternoon naps gave added excuse for Rhysel to be much about the royal apartments, there to take down the queen's hair and brush it after lunch, in preparation for the royal nap, and then to arrange it again for the evening, especially if the queen was expected to preside at table in the great hall.

Michaela came to treasure the time when Rhysel was working on her hair, for the physical contact permitted the two of them to hold silent converse under the very noses of Estellan and the others who vied for the honor of serving in the queen's entourage. In more private moments, when Rhysel helped the queen retire for her naps, occasional instruction could be imparted in further refinement of such powers as she had.

“We must be very, very careful in this,” Rhysel whispered, one afternoon when the other ladies all happened to be out of the room momentarily. “I know this is heady business, but just remember that if we're ever discovered, it can mean both our deaths.”

Michaela tossed her tawny mane. “Do you think I haven't been living with that threat for the last six years?” she said. “Not yours, of course, but Rhysem and I have always been that close to the edge.”

As she indicated a hair's breadth between thumb and forefinger, Rhysel nodded.

“I know that, and you're both incredibly brave. Just remember that even Deryni are vulnerable. You can't help anyone if you're dead.”

Lady Estellan returned at that with a cup of cool wine, ending their verbal exchange, but the stark truth of Rhysel's warning tempered Michaela's enthusiasm thereafter, though at least this turn of events had given her a new glimmering of hope.

En route to Eastmarch, meanwhile, Rhys Michael was concerned with his own stark truths. Udaut's death had left a breath of uneasy speculation within the royal entourage that never really died down. Though not even Albertus could point to foul play, some whispered that such a freakish accident was a portent of ill luck to come. Cathan noted that the chaplains seemed to be doing a brisk business in confessions and the blessing of arms and steeds and holy medals, and at least for the first few days, Fulk reported that the men talked of little else around the campfires at night.

Rhys Michael's own observations tended to confirm the sense of ill ease. In the sparse leisure time that remained to the great lords between the end of each day's march and finally seeking out their beds—the ongoing chores of regular inspection of the men and dealing with the dispatches that caught up with them daily, both from behind and ahead of march—the king knew that Rhun and Manfred, at least, continued to expend a fair amount of time and energy rehashing the circumstances of Udaut's death. Dimitri seemed somewhat more in evidence than usual, but he never approached the king; fortunately for him, it did not seem to have occurred to his masters that he could have had any part in the death. Rhys Michael continued warily to test his powers as they rode along, but nothing occurred to necessitate even thinking about action that might uncloak his newfound abilities prematurely.

Thus did the first few days pass uneventfully, as the expedition sped north and eastward, skirting the southerly bank of the Eirian, overnighting under the stars or sometimes at establishments of the
Custodes Fidei
, where the king and at least his great lords found proper lodging and the troops encamped in the fields round about. They made good time, and only one other incident marred their progress, again having to do with horses. What made it stand out particularly in Rhys Michael's mind was that it involved another of the great lords.

It had happened three days out, while they were riding along an embankment that skirted the Eirian. Albertus had been riding at the front with some of his
Custodes
knights when a swarm of bees suddenly attacked the lead riders, stinging men and beasts and scattering that end of the march. Though both Albertus and his mount avoided being stung, one of his companion's efforts to escape sent him careening into Albertus' mount, and both animals went sliding and scrambling down the embankment and into fairly deep water.

Albertus managed to keep his seat, sputtering and swearing as he swam his horse toward shallower water, but his companion was not so fortunate. Still swatting at bees, the man flailed for balance but lost it as his horse scrambled for footing, dragged under by his armor and sinking from sight even as Albertus turned to try to aid him. By the time Albertus and others could find him and drag him out, he could not be revived.

This second freak accident of the campaign put a further damper on spirits as the column re-formed and continued on, the body of the dead
Custodes
man tied across his horse's saddle for delivery to his brethren at the next
Custodes
House they passed. Quickly supplied with a dry cloak by one of his squires, Albertus seemed shaken but none the worse for wear as he gigged his horse with his spurs and headed farther back along the line of march to bully stragglers, keeping a wary eye out for further swarms of bees, but the oddness of the incident was sufficient to make the king wonder whether Dimitri had attempted to strike again and gotten the wrong man. The accident was totally unlike the one that had claimed Udaut and would have been entirely plausible, had it been Albertus who drowned, but who could say? He certainly was not going to seek out Dimitri to ask.

They passed near Valoret later that day, pausing only long enough to dispatch two men to Ramos with the body of the drowned man and to pick up the troops promised by Hubert from the
Custodes Fidei
garrison there: eighty
Custodes
knights and men-at-arms under Lord Joshua Delacroix, Hubert's commander-general. They camped under the stars that night, but very near Rhun's seat at Sheele. When Rhun's levy of twenty knights joined them that evening, they were accompanied by his castellan, Sir Drogo de Palance, who brought several wagonloads of roasted meats, cheeses, fresh bread, and wine for the enjoyment of his lord, the king, and their staff.

A festive mood prevailed in the camp that night, at least among the officers, who were invited to dine in Rhun's command tent, but Rhys Michael was sober as he retired to write his daily letter to Michaela. He dared not voice his suspicions regarding Albertus' mishap, just as he had not dared to commit his suspicions about Udaut's death to writing, but he did relate the incident in as straightforward a manner as he could manage, in a tone that almost applauded the earl marshal's unfortunate luck—a reaction that would arouse no suspicion at all from those who read his correspondence before he sent it or Michaela received it. Perhaps Rhysel would be able to read between the lines and draw more discerning conclusions.

The growing royal cavalcade headed slightly easterly with the dawn, picking up Manfred's levy of fifty lancers at a rendezvous point near Ebor and passing well onto the plain of Iomaire, where they camped under the stars once again. Commanding Manfred's levies was his son Iver, the Earl of Kierney, who had gained his title by marrying well. Now in his thirties, Iver MacInnis had become his father's hand in the north, dividing his time between his wife's estates in Kierney and his father's lands in Culdi, for Iver would own both, once his father died. His addition to the growing royal party only underlined Rhys Michael's despair that he would never break free.

The last day but one saw them pressing north and east at speed across the vast heartland of Iomaire. They were more than two hundred strong by the time they encamped that evening in the fields around Saint Cassian's Abbey, another
Custodes
House. As was customary, the king and his great lords and officers were given accommodations in the abbey guesthouse. Messengers were awaiting the king's arrival with new maps and dispatches from Lady Sudrey, who promised a full four hundred men when the royal forces joined them on the plain before the Coldoire Pass.

Following a quick perusal of the messages waiting, clerks were set to work drafting responses, and shortly the king and his officers went in to a frugal supper in the abbey refectory, hosted by the abbot and his obedientiaries. Attendance at Compline followed, obligatory in return for the hospitality shown, and thereafter, Rhys Michael retired to the single room assigned him and his aides at one end of the guesthouse.

The accommodations were as sparse as the meal. Two pallets had been added to the usual stark configuration of one narrow bed and a functional washstand with earthen pitcher, wooden bowl, and rough grey towels. Out of deference to the special needs a king might have for dealing with dispatches and the like, a round table and three mismatched chairs had been provided nearer the room's single high window, feebly lit by rushlights in a standing rack beside it. More general illumination came from several iron lanterns hung from metal hooks set into two of the walls. The place smelled faintly of sweet herbs and the new straw that had been strewn on the flag-stoned floor.

“We've slept in far worse,” Fulk said good-naturedly, as he slung his saddlebags onto one of the pallets.

“Aye, and eaten far better,” Cathan replied. “I can't say I envy the abbot his cook.”

“Well, it was better than camp fare,” Rhys Michael said.

It was early yet for sleeping, so the king sent Cathan for a bottle of wine while he and Fulk spread out the maps he had brought from their pre-supper briefing, intending to review the terrain of the Coldoire Pass and the fortress of Culliecairn, perched on its rocky crag. A knock at the door summoned Fulk to answer it, expecting Cathan, and he fell back in some dismay as Albertus swept into the room, followed by a second man bearing a torch to light their way.