The Bastard Prince (50 page)

“Lord Cathan, I must ask you not to make this any more difficult than it already is,” Lior said mildly, as Gallard restrained the younger man, then controlled him with a choke hold when he tried to twist free. “Your loyalty to the king cannot be faulted, but it won't help him now. I shall tell you the official story just once. If you forget it, it could cost you your life. Lord Fulk, I advise you to listen carefully as well. I don't intend to repeat myself.”

Fulk had started to go to Cathan's aid, but halted at Lior's warning, stiffening as Manfred came around to lay a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Remember who you are, son,” Manfred murmured. “None of this is your affair.”

Fulk darted an affronted, helpless look at Cathan but subsided, as had Cathan. Physical resistance clearly was useless. As Cathan carefully shuffled to get his feet back under him, bracing against Gallard's leather-clad arm, the pressure eased across his throat, but the
Custodes
knight did not release him even then.

“That's much more sensible,” Lior purred, casting his glance back to where Polidorus and Magan continued to work, ignoring Stevanus. “Now, as you know, the king has had the very best of medical attention, but his illness became far more serious than initially supposed. Despite the most zealous of care, his hand became gangrenous and had to be amputated. Most unfortunately, his Highness did not survive the shock of the procedure.”

“It isn't true,” Cathan whispered. “You bled him to death!”

“Not at all,” Polidorus interjected, blithely continuing to suture the dead flesh. “While it's true that his Highness was bled several times, to relieve the evil humours causing his fever, numerous witnesses saw him alive this morning after the last of the bloodlettings.”

“That's still what killed him,” Cathan said stubbornly.

Scowling, Rhun bestirred himself to come and stand directly in front of Cathan, his pale eyes cold and even more pitiless than usual. Whatever differences had existed between him and Manfred earlier, the two apparently had resolved them and now were in one accord.

“If you say that outside this room, you may well suffer the same fate, brother of the queen or no,” he said quietly. “The king's injured hand had become badly infected and had to be amputated. Weakened by his fever, he sadly did not survive the surgery. Anyone who says otherwise will be dealt with most unpleasantly.
Anyone
.”

Cathan could only close his eyes briefly in dismay, swallowing with difficulty. Fulk had gone pale with disbelief, shrinking back a little under Manfred's hand. Stevanus only shook his head, eyes closed, swaying so alarmingly that Lior caught a hand under his elbow.

“I trust that everyone now understands the rules of engagement,” the
Custodes
priest said quietly. “Lord Fulk, I believe that neither you nor Lord Cathan got very much sleep last night. Perhaps Master Stevanus would be so good as to provide a suitable sleeping potion for each of you—and for himself as well. A rather strong one, I should think. See to it, Stevanus,” he said sharply, releasing the battle surgeon's arm. “None of you will be required until tomorrow, when we leave for Rhemuth, and I do not wish to see any of you stirring before that time.”

Outraged, Cathan started struggling again, hardly caring when Gallard's choke hold took him swooping into unconsciousness. As he started to come around, gasping for breath and with his heartbeat pounding in his ears, he found himself flat on his back on the floor, with Stevanus lifting his head and setting a little metal cup to his lips.

“Just drink it,” the battle surgeon murmured urgently, as Cathan pressed his lips together stubbornly and tried to shake his head. “If you won't, I'll have to stick you with
merasha
. I'll have no choice.”

Cathan made himself gag it down, tears of impotence welling in his eyes, laying back then to catch his breath as the queasy disorientation of returning consciousness began to give way to the drifting, woolly-headed sensation of the sedative taking hold. After a minute or two, Gallard and another
Custodes
knight came and took him and Fulk into custody, escorting them civilly enough to another room; but Cathan never remembered his head hitting the pillow.

Meanwhile, Queron had made good his escape from Saint Ostrythe's, blocking memories of his passage and slipping through the convent gate on his little donkey before any serious effort could be organized to detain him. As soon as he could gain shelter in the next village, hiding the donkey in a farmer's barn while he secreted himself in the hayloft, he put himself in trance and sent out an urgent call to Jesse or Ansel or Tieg, all of whom should be nearby.

It was Jesse who caught the summons, though full contact was delayed until he also found a safe place in which to open to rapport. That done, Queron passed on a full account of what he had learned and witnessed at Saint Ostrythe's, saving only the content of Rhys Michael's final confession. Jesse was stunned, but agreed to make certain the news was passed on to the Kheldour lords.

They must not come until they've received the news by conventional means
, Queron reiterated,
but this time can be used to plan their strategy. None of us thought it would be this soon
.

Shall we send them to Rhemuth, then?
Jesse asked.

Aye, as quickly as possible. I have no doubt the regents will wish to crown the young king as soon as possible
—
they may even try to do it privately—but it will take a little while to sort out the new regency, with Albertus and Paulin out of the picture. I'm also not sure how long Cathan will be safe there. It's essential that he go back, for reasons I'll convey to Joram in detail, but his position will become more and more precarious as the queen's pregnancy progresses. Be thinking on this. Meanwhile, I shall be heading back to Sanctuary
.

When he had ended the contact, he lay there in the straw for perhaps a quarter hour more, first running through a fatigue-banishing spell and then considering whether he ought to attempt a second contact now with Joram or whoever was on duty in the council chamber. After reflection, sensing that he was not yet fully restored, he decided that it was wisest first to put more distance between himself and whatever soldiers might be out looking for an aged priest named Donatus, who had heard the king's last confession.

Descending from the hayloft, he retrieved the little donkey and made his way without incident back to the farmer's barn where he had left the brown mare. This time, besides exchanging mounts again, he left a gold coin in compensation for a set of the farmer's clothes and another quick meal, and by dusk was riding at speed through the forest tracts that would lead him back to Caerrorie in a few days' time.

He would stop again in a few hours, to attempt the call to Joram, but for now he could only ride, focused on his intent that the day's events should bring success in the end, praying that their efforts would be enough, praying for the young king who lay dead at Saint Ostrythe's, and praying for the far younger little king who lay somewhere in Rhemuth, as yet oblivious to the weight of the crown which this day had passed to him all unknowing.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-EIGHT

A wicked messenger falleth into mischief; but a faithful ambassador is health.

—Proverbs 13:17

While the new king of Gwynedd slept in Rhemuth Castle, as unaware as those around him that his destiny was upon him—and in four-year-old innocence, unlikely to comprehend his new estate, even had he known—one set as a guardian of his welfare moved unobtrusively among the men dining noisily in the castle's great hall, filling wine goblets when needed and looking for a young knight she had never seen before.

Rhysel had received word that he was coming two days before, passed from Jesse to Joram and then to her. His name was Sir Robert Ainslie, and what he carried was of inestimable value to the future of the Haldane line. That the king had managed not only to draw up a codicil to his will, naming regents of his own choosing, but also to smuggle it out from under the great lords' noses, was no mean feat. It was already common gossip around the castle that Lord Albertus had been killed while on the campaign in Eastmarch, with Father Paulin so badly injured that he was not expected to live.

What was not common gossip was the way Albertus and Paulin had met their fates. Rhysel knew, because Joram had passed on what was picked up from the link they had set in Dimitri. She was sure that Hubert and the other great lords also knew—or thought they did. Rhysel still could hardly believe that the king really had emerged unscathed and unsuspected from the incident. She had told the queen of none of this, just as she had kept back the extent of the king's recent injury, though she now feared the latter to be rather more severe than first thought.

Neither had she yet told the queen of the messenger she now awaited, nor of what the man carried. There was time enough for that, once Rhysel had it in her hands. As she had last night and the previous one, as the officers protecting Rhemuth gathered at the long trestle tables for the evening meal, she lightly scanned each new man who came into the hall whose face was not already familiar to her. Though she knew the messenger's name and that he must be reasonably young, her sources had been able to tell her nothing of his physical appearance. She hoped his arrival would not cause someone to wonder why he had returned prematurely from the campaign with the king.

When she finally caught his trace, she realized she need not have worried. His appearance would never turn heads, even in court attire. He was not unattractive; simply not memorable. He was stocky and nearly a head shorter than most of the other men in the hall, soberly clad in nondescript brown riding leathers, and only his gilded spurs and the dingy white belt supporting a good but plain sword declared his knightly rank—yet another anonymous young knight perhaps come to Court to seek royal service. He had halted uncertainly just inside the doorway, looking tired and a little irritable as he pulled off a leather cap and swept a watery blue gaze across the hall, obviously looking for someone, one hand riffling idly through curly brown hair that was starting to thin on top.

Changing her pitcher for a fuller one, Rhysel took up an empty goblet and began casually working her way toward him, changing direction as he started to make his way slowly along the row of window embrasures that overlooked the gardens. By the time she drew near to him, he had found a place at the end of one of the long tables and had sunk down wearily on one of the benches. She gave him a friendly smile as she filled the goblet and set it before him with a curtsey and managed to brush his hand with hers as she withdrew, confirming that he was, indeed, Sir Robert Ainslie.

“You look thirsty, my lord,” she said coyly, refilling the cups of several of the other men seated around him. “Have you ridden far today?”

“Not so far as I would ride tonight,” he said with a grin, taking appreciative measure of her with his eyes as he lifted his cup in salute and then took a healthy quaff.

Ribald hoots of approval surrounded them as he set it down, still grinning, and swept her onto his knee to bend her in a lusty kiss. Giving only token struggle, she let him enjoy it—for she had put the notion in his mind—and used the opportunity to probe him. The missive was inside his tunic. That confirmed, she set instructions for a later rendezvous and a present withdrawal. Young Robert surfaced from the kiss flushed and ardent, blue eyes smouldering, but he let her go without protest as she disentangled herself good-naturedly from his embrace and reclaimed her pitcher.

“A notable introduction, sir knight, but you needs must feed your weary body before indulging other appetites,” she said, lightly laughing as she beckoned to a serving squire with a full platter of roast pork. “At least Rhemuth can sleep easy, knowing she has such lusty knights defending her.”

He grinned and made another grab in her direction, kissing his hand to her when she deftly avoided him, and was grinning still as he helped himself to food and began wolfing it down, interspersed with banter with his fellows.

She slipped out of the hall as soon after that as she could and made her way to the chapel royal to wait for him. It was one of the few public places in the castle where both of them might be seen without causing comment and where some degree of privacy might be hoped for or at least arranged. An old soldier and one of the elderly laundresses were praying in the chapel, so after lighting a votive candle and kneeling for a brief prayer of her own, Rhysel went back outside to lurk in the shadows.

He came half an hour later, a trifle less steady on his feet than he had been, but alert and purposeful as he spotted her beckoning gesture and came to join her in the little vestibule past the chapel doors. His blue eyes were boyish-wide and mystified, and she decided he was somewhat younger than she had first supposed, perhaps hardly older than herself.

“You have something for me?” she whispered, as he took her hands.

“Aye, for the queen,” he replied. “But how came it that you spoke to me so openly in the hall? I was told to be most wary.”

It was not open at all
, she whispered in his mind, catching control before he could tense and start to draw back in alarm.
I am Deryni in service to the king. You're in no danger. Give me what you carry
.

Without will to resist, he reached into the front of his tunic and produced the document, folded to palm size and sealed on the outside with the king's seal. Even as her fingers touched it, the door to the chapel opened from the inside.

By the time the old soldier had emerged, limping and leaning heavily on a stick, Rhysel had drawn her dazed accomplice into an embrace to rival the one in the hall, the incriminating document pressed between their bodies as their lips pressed together, his body shielding her face from the soldier's gaze as she again linked her mind deeply with his and bade him assist in the illusion they were creating for the old man's benefit. Robert was only human, but he adapted to her instruction without hesitation or question, bending her back in the curve of one arm in a passionate kiss while the other hand probed deep into her bodice—and also secreted his document there.