The Bastard Prince (54 page)

Gallard gave a shout as Cathan tumbled, but it was too late for Cloyce de Clarendon to catch him. The startled
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knight caught enough of a handful of tunic to slow his charge's fall, but keeping hold would have dragged him off, too, and Cathan was already hitting the water.

Cathan started flailing weakly as he briefly sank beneath the surface, glad he was only wearing riding leathers and the water was only knee-deep on the horses. To his relief, Robert Ainslie was off his horse and dragging his head above the water before he could even worry about being stepped on or kicked or possibly drowned.

“Easy, my lord,” Robert murmured, as Cathan struggled to a sitting position with his help and started coughing, affecting grogginess and disorientation. In that same instant, Cathan had almost the impression that Robert himself, who was not Deryni, had willed him to Read. The message came through in a burst of crystal clarity—reassurance from Rhysel and tight-focused instructions that he would have to examine later, when Gallard de Breffni stopped yanking him out of Robert's grasp.

“I've got him!” Gallard snapped, as Cathan murmured, “Sorry, I nodded off.” “Leave him to me. He hasn't been sleeping well since the king's death. Just help get him back on his horse.”

Apparently taking Gallard at his word, as Cathan continued to murmur embarrassed protestations of apology, Robert gave a hand getting the queen's brother back up onto his mount. The further contact gave Cathan opportunity to send the gist of what had been done to him while Robert was away. Both compassion and determination showed on the young knight's face as he handed up the reins, but he turned away and sprang back onto his own horse without a word as Gallard also remounted.

Despite the mildness of the summer evening, Cathan could feel himself starting to shiver, as much from after-reaction as from any real chill, and he gratefully drew close the dry cloak Cloyce laid around his shoulders. His leathers were already getting clammy. As they carried on toward the abbey gates ahead, he wondered whether he could get out of the usual vigil beside Rhysem's coffin that night. He thought Rhysem would not mind; and with his medication mostly worn off, he was not certain he could contain his relief at the news Robert had given him.

That the codicil was delivered was greatly reassuring; that the Kheldour lords were on their way was news more welcome yet. And that at least one further ally was already with the royal party was most personally reassuring of all.

Later that evening, when duties at last released him, Sir Robert Ainslie casually made his way to the tent of a handful of borderers who had joined his father's party a few days before his arrival. Their leader had sought him out that morning and given him new instructions.

“I was wondering when you'd get here,” Jesse MacGregor said, beckoning Robert across the bodies of several sleeping men to a space beside the stool where he was sitting, cleaning a boot by lantern-light. “I'm glad it wasn't cold. I take it you did make contact?”

“Aye.”

“All right, sit yourself down and let's see whether he was able to send anything back. The others won't stir.”

He set the boot aside as Robert settled gingerly, patting his knee to invite the younger man to lean against it. As strong hands drew Robert back, thumbs slipping upward into the curly brown hair, time seemed to pause. When Robert next became aware of anything, the Deryni was breathing out a long sigh, his hands kneading gently once at his tight shoulder muscles and then releasing him. Robert felt revitalized, though he knew he would sleep heavily when he shortly sought his bedroll.

“You did that very well,” Jesse murmured. “He did
his
part very well, despite what he's been through.”

Robert nodded. “I was surprised at that myself.”

“He's alive, though, and that's what's most important for now,” Jesse whispered, shifting his gaze into the lantern flame. “We'll be in Rhemuth in a few more days, and God willing, the Kheldour lords will be there shortly after that. Once that happens, I have a feeling things are going to move very quickly indeed, for better or for worse.” He glanced at Robert. “Are you afraid?”

“I'd be mad not to be,” Robert admitted, nodding. “But that isn't going to stop me from doing what must be done.”

Jesse smiled. “Good man. You've been more help man you know. For now, stay close and watch for any chance to gain some kind of regular access to Cathan. I'll let you know what happens next. You'd better go and sleep now, though.”

When the younger man had gone, Jesse extinguished the lantern and lay back on his pallet, soon imparting his night's report to Joram, who was waiting to add this most current piece of the puzzle to the master picture building in a Michaeline war room, deep within the stronghold that had housed him and his renegade band of Deryni for nearly a decade now.

You can't get to Cathan yourself?
Joram asked.

I don't see how. But at least I think we'll get him to Rhemuth alive. What's the word on the Kheldour lords?

On their way
, came the answer.
They shouldn't be more than two or three days behind you
.

In Rhemuth, at that same hour, what remained of Gwynedd's royal council was about to receive the latest news to arrive from the returning expeditionary force. Archbishop Hubert had been dining privately with Tammaron, Richard, and Secorim in the withdrawing room behind the dais of the great hall. Earlier, Hubert had presided at Archbishop Oriss' funeral rites, with all the Court in attendance—an affair that stretched well into the afternoon, by the time they laid Oriss' body to rest with his predecessors' in the episcopal crypt beneath the high altar.

As they lingered over wine and sweetmeats, rehashing the significance of the day's events, Tammaron and Richard still wore the deep mourning of earlier in the day; Secorim was always clad in funereal
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black, and Hubert had put aside the usual robes of his rank in favor of a plain black cassock, retaining episcopal purple only in the broad cincture bound around his ample girth—and in the episcopal ring and the amethysts studding the jeweled pectoral cross suspended at his breast.

One pudgy hand darted to that cross as a guard admitted a haggard-looking messenger wearing Culdi livery—Sir Rondel, Lord Manfred's own principal aide. Rondel pulled off his gloves as he came to kneel and kiss Hubert's ring and remained kneeling and with head bowed until the door had closed behind him. Hubert saw that his hands were shaking.

“Is my brother dead?” Hubert asked quietly.

Rondel shook his head, only then daring to look up.

“No, your Grace. Lord Manfred is well. I—regret to inform you that the king has died—”

“What?”

“When? Where?”

“Let him finish!” Hubert snapped, holding up a hand for their silence. “Out with it, man. How came this to be?”

“At—at Saint Ostrythe's Convent, near Ebor, some three days ago,” Rondel stammered, daring to look up. “He took a raging fever. His—hand became badly infected and had to be amputated. Unfortunately, he did not survive the surgery.”

The stunned buzz of their comment died away as Hubert slowly crossed himself, his rosy face gone ashen, the tiny lips trembling.

“You—have further details of this?” he whispered, after a few seconds.

“I do, your Grace.” He got to his feet, his composure returning. “Might I suggest, however, that this company first retire to the council chamber?” He touched a hand to his breast. “I have further information to convey to your Lordships, but my Lord Manfred suggested that its sensitive nature recommends the utmost in discretion.”

Stunned to silence by his implications and the stark unexpectedness of his news, they retired immediately to the more secure council chamber, ordered by Hubert to say nothing en route. Secorim set
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guards outside the double doors as servants lit candles and torches in the room and then departed. As they took their customary places around the long table, Hubert and Secorim on one side, Tammaron and Richard on the other, Hubert reflected that there were not nearly enough of them—especially not if, as the king had threatened, there really was a codicil that broke his most recent will and named Kheldour appointees to what had just become a council of regency.

But not everyone at the table knew about the codicil—Secorim did not—and until Hubert knew the circumstances of the king's death, he was not going to raise the issue. By the light of a candelabrum set at the end of the table where they huddled, he held out his hand to Sir Rondel, seated in Manfred's customary spot three places to the right. Impassive and silent, Rondel passed a sealed packet across Father Secorim, directly to Hubert. Hubert broke the seals and scanned over the text—written in Manfred's crabbed hand but also signed and sealed by Rhun—then passed it over to Tammaron, who pulled the candelabrum closer and began to read aloud.

“‘Manfred MacInnis unto his brother and Father in God, Hubert, Archbishop of Valoret and Primate of All Gwynedd; and also unto Earl Tammaron Fitz-Arthur, Chancellor of Gwynedd, and Richard Murdoch, Acting Constable, Greetings.'”

Not having read Secorim's name among the addressees, Tammaron glanced at Hubert, who gestured with a hand for him to continue.

“‘I regret to report the death this afternoon of our sovereign lord, King Rhys Michael Alister Haldane, who succumbed to his injuries at about the hour of three after an illness bravely fought. His Highness had received the final sacraments and died peacefully, his weakened body being unable to survive necessary surgery.

“‘His Highness' body will be brought back to Rhemuth by stages, departing Saint Ostrythe's Convent tomorrow morning. We estimate arrival in Rhemuth on or about the third of July. Owing to the season, I recommend a short lying-in-state, with funeral to follow on the fifth of July.

“‘Given at Saint Ostrythe's Convent, this twenty-eighth day of June, in the Year of Our Lord Nine Hundred Twenty-Eight, under our hands and seals: Manfred, Vice-Marshal and Regent; Rhun, Earl Marshal and Regent.'”

Tammaron looked up when he had finished reading, glancing at Hubert and then back at Rondel.

“I had hoped for more detail,” he said a little pettishly. “Sir Rondel, would you be so good as to elucidate?”

Rondel lowered his eyes. “I have been told to be brutally frank, my lords. You are aware of the alleged codicil to the king's will?”

As Tammaron and Richard nodded, Hubert said to Secorim, “The king claims to have written a codicil to his will while in Eastmarch, appointing the Duke of Claibourne and the Earl of Marley as regents in the event of his death. Several copies, duly signed and witnessed, are said to exist. Sir Rondel, am I to take it from your comment that you do not believe there ever was a codicil?”

Rondel met Hubert's gaze coolly, not flinching.

“I do not, your Grace. What is more, my Lord Manfred does not believe it exists.”

“But Rhun believes it exists,” Tammaron said.

“That's as may be.” Rondel looked decidedly uncomfortable. “My lord, I am bound to tell you this, because my Lord Rhun will tell you anyway, when he and Lord Manfred reach Rhemuth. There was a—difference of opinion in the choice of treatment for the king's injury. Before even leaving Lochalyn Castle, he developed a heavy fever. Master Stevanus, the battle surgeon attending the king, had allowed the use of a Deryni drug to reduce it, given by the chatelaine of Lochalyn, but the infirmarian at Saint Cassian's withdrew the Deryni drug and recommended cautery and bleeding to release the evil humours, both of which the king refused. That was when he informed Lord Rhun of the existence of the so-called codicil.”

“Are you suggesting that the king invented this story to avoid receiving unpleasant but necessary treatment?” Hubert asked.

Rondel inclined his head. “So your brother believed, your Grace. He was also furious that the king would dare to use the threat of a codicil to defy himself and Lord Rhun. When the king's condition continued to deteriorate, Lord Manfred decided to allow the bloodletting recommended by Brother Polidorus. The official story—which will be borne out by the condition of the body—is that the king's hand had to be amputated, and he did not survive this surgery.”

“And what is the
true
story?” Tammaron whispered, suddenly gone white.

Rondel swallowed and looked very uneasy. “If you later confront me on this, my lord, I will deny I ever said it. The king's fever had worsened to the point that convulsions halted our journey. Brother Polidorus again recommended bleeding to release the ill humours, and this time Lord Manfred allowed it.”

“And did the king agree to this kind of treatment?” Hubert asked sharply.

“It was for his own good—”

“
Did he agree?
” Hubert repeated. “More specifically, was force employed?”

Rondel flicked his gaze to his hands, clasped rigid on the table before him.

“It was only really necessary the first time,” he whispered. “The
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men held him.”

“I see.” Hubert studied the knight without blinking, glanced casually at the ashen-faced Secorim, then returned his gaze to Rondel.

“Father Secorim is a priest of the
Ordo Custodum Fidei
, Sir Rondel. Are you aware of a
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discipline called minution?”

Rondel swallowed. “I am, your Grace.”

“Then you are also aware that it is a very specialized form of bloodletting, with both physical and spiritual benefits. Occasionally, in very special cases, a form of minution is administered in lieu of the coup de grâce. Isn't that right, Richard? Please tell Sir Rondel how your father received the coup.”

“Lord Rhun and a
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surgeon opened his veins,” Richard whispered, his eyes wide and frightened.