The Bastard Prince (55 page)

“Rondel, is that what happened to the king?” Hubert asked.

“It wasn't the coup,” Rondel whispered. “They meant to release the ill humours causing the fever.”

“And how many times was the king bled?” Hubert persisted. “Do you know?”

“I was only present the first time, your Grace.”

“
How many times?
”

“F-four, I think.”

“And over what period of time?” Hubert said more gently.

“Less than a day.”

“I see. And after he eventually succumbed to this entirely benevolent treatment, his hand was cut off to support a more acceptable medical explanation.”

“He was already very weak!” Rondel blurted. “Even if he hadn't been bled, he might not have survived the surgery. It little matters now.”

“It matters if the story of the codicil is true!” Hubert snapped. “And my dear, impulsive brother dared to wager that it is not! Dear God, Manfred, you always were pigheaded!”

“Your Grace, the king's defiance could not be tolerated!” Rondel said. “What matters it if a fatal blood loss came
before
the amputation of his hand rather than because of it? 'Twill be a new regency now.”

“Pray God it will not be far newer than any of us bargained for,” Tammaron muttered. “Why did Rhun do nothing to stop this? He surely realized what Manfred really intended. From his earlier letter, I'd have sworn he was convinced the codicil was real.”

Rondel drew a deep breath and let it out. “The—ah—two gentlemen quarreled on this point, my lord. After the king's collapse, the
Custodes
physician again pressed for bleeding as the best course of treatment, and Lord Manfred finally agreed. Lord Rhun was—under the influence of
merasha
when the order was given to proceed. I believe he later conceded that Manfred had acted correctly.”

“For all our sakes, I hope he did,” Hubert said, folding his hands before him to tap his thumbs against rosebud lips. “In this case, however, I would have been inclined to let nature take its course. But it's done now. How many know the particulars in this matter?”

Rondel's gaze flicked nervously to the table. “Other than those in this room—Lords Manfred and Rhun, Sir Cathan, Sir Fulk. The rest were
Custodes
men, lay and vowed, including Brother Polidorus, the physician who carried out the treatment, and the battle surgeon Stevanus, who refused to have any part of it. Those considered to be risks have been dealt with.”

“Where is my son?” Tammaron said evenly.

“Oh, safe, my lord, never fear,” Rondel assured him. “He was sent next morning to Cassan, under heavy guard. Lord Manfred trusts you'll put in a word to make certain he holds his tongue. The battle surgeon Stevanus and those
Custodes
men deemed less than trustworthy in this regard were to be sent on to the
Custodes
abbey at Ramos, whence I believe it's intended they shall not depart. Out of deference to your Grace's regard for Lord Cathan and his calming influence on the queen, he travels well sedated with the king's funeral cortege, having himself been weakened by bleeding, to make it clear what must be his fate if he does not cooperate. I trust these arrangements meet with your satisfaction, your Grace? My lords?”

Hubert nodded slowly, already adjusting to the new parameters his brother had placed on the situation by his rash action.

“Yes, they do,” he murmured. “If, indeed, the codicil does not exist, Manfred has done what probably ought to have been done some time ago. The story will hold, I think.” He glanced at Secorim, who was the newest member of their conspiracy. “Are you able to deal with this, Secorim? If not, just say the word, and I shall post you off to some remote abbey where you can live out your life in peace, so long as you keep
your
peace.”

It was a lie, of course, for he would have Secorim killed here and now if he showed any sign of wavering; but though obviously shaken by what he had just heard, the
Custodes
archbishop-designate did not flicker an eyelash as he gravely nodded.

“I have given you my vow of obedience, your Grace,” he murmured. “I am greatly saddened to hear of the king's unfortunate demise. Clearly, he had the best of care.”

Hubert allowed himself a faint, sly smile. “I think my new Archbishop of Rhemuth and I shall get on very well,” he said. “But enough of this. We now are regents for a very young new king. It's late to roust him from his bed, but the mother should be told, I think—gently, lest her grief dislodge the babe she carries—and with a physician there to give her a soothing potion. After a night's sleep, she should be past the worst of the shock and reasonably able to accompany us to the boy's chamber in the morning. Meanwhile, I shall post extra guards outside his apartments, but the news of the king's death is to be suppressed until tomorrow. Are we all agreed?”

At their nods, he rose.

“Very well, then. Tammaron, please fetch Master James and have him prepare a sleeping draught for her Highness.”

A short while later, as Rhysel brushed out the queen's hair in preparation for retiring, Archbishop Hubert came with one of the Court physicians to inform the queen that her husband was dead. Rhysel guessed their mission as they came into the room and held tightly to the queen's hand as she rose to receive them—and knew that the queen guessed, even before Hubert opened his mouth. Michaela blanched and sat back down again, covering her face with the hand Rhysel was not holding, and Rhysel damped the pain as the inexorable words conveyed their dread message.

“It is not believed that he suffered greatly, my lady,” Hubert said quietly. “He simply was not strong enough to survive the surgery. I am very sorry. I've had Master James prepare you a sleeping draught. I strongly recommend that you drink it—for the sake of the child you carry, if not for your own. In the morning, if you wish, I—shall allow you to inform young Owain. He is king now, of course, and there are proclamations to be drafted, ceremonies to be performed, but I believe there is no need to wake him at this hour.”

As Michaela managed a jerky nod, saying nothing, Rhysel took the cup from the court physician and set it in the queen's hand, urging her to drink. The queen obeyed without demur and numbly allowed herself to be put to bed. A quarter hour later she had escaped into sleep. The tears would come with the morning.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-ONE

His sons come to honour, and he knoweth it not.

—Job 14:21

Michaela woke to the slow, leaden tolling of church bells and a dull ache of heart that knew for whom they tolled. Rhysel lay beside her, fully clothed, faithful guardian through the night. The younger woman sat up as Michaela stirred, gently setting a hand on her wrist.

“Mika, you must be strong,” she whispered.

Michaela drew a deep breath and let it out in a heavy sigh, grateful for the human intimacy of the other's mere presence at such a time.

“I feel numb inside,” she replied. “I know he's gone, but I can hardly feel it. Is that your doing?”

Gravely Rhysel nodded.

“You have a child on the way and another who will need you today, especially. I have never lost a husband, but I was seven when my father died.” She gave a wan smile. “When I learned of it, I had only my grief to contend with, devastating though that was. I did not become a king as well.”

Michaela could feel tears welling in her eyes, but she blinked them back and sniffled resolutely, wiping her free hand across her eyes as she sat up.

“I'll be all right,” she whispered. “You'd better help me dress. I want to be ready when they let me go to Owain. You don't think he'll have guessed, from the bells?”

Rhysel shook her head. “He's very young, and there have been ample bells these past few days.”

Half an hour later, dressed in deepest mourning, Michaela sat waiting among her black-clad ladies in the shade of the solar, eyes downcast, turning Rhysem's marriage ring on her finger. She would have preferred to go to her son informally, with her hair tumbled loose and free the way he liked it, but protocol required otherwise of queens, especially on such a day. Under Lady Estellan's tight-lipped direction, Rhysel had been obliged to scrape back the queen's wheaten mane in a tight knot before covering it with the mandatory widow's coif and veil. Michaela made no protest to this, but stubbornly declined the prescribed jeweled diadem in favor of a light circlet of gold and silver roses—because that was Owain's favorite.

The waiting now began. While Michaela's women sat murmuring prayers all around her, Rhysel settled quietly at her feet, her head resting lightly against the queen's knee as she continued to urge calm and serenity—for she would not be allowed to accompany the queen to the new little king's apartments.

A knock at an outer door brought Rhysel to her feet and set Lady Estellan hurrying to answer it. Shortly she returned with the queen's two visitors of the night before, plus Tammaron, Richard Murdoch, and Father Secorim. As the archbishop and Secorim bowed, somber and correct in their ecclesiastical robes, the physician hung back to study his royal patient. Tammaron and Richard came to kneel and kiss the queen's hand.

“Your Highness, our condolences this morning come on behalf of the Regency Council,” Hubert said. “Did your Highness spend a quiet night?”

“I am well enough, your Grace,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “May I see my son now?”

“If Master James feels you are strong enough.”

Michaela sighed as the physician silently came to clasp her wrist. After a moment he released her and lightly felt her forehead.

“Her pulse is steady, your Grace. She seems composed enough, but this will be a difficult day. Your Highness, may I recommend something to ease you? Nothing as strong as last night. I know you would have your wits about you when you speak to the King's Grace.”

“I thank you, no, Master James,” she said, rising purposefully. “Your Grace, I would go now to my son.”

Only Tammaron's wife, Lady Nieve, was allowed to accompany her as the regents escorted her to the nursery apartments occupied by the young prince. All of them remained in an adjoining anteroom as the queen went on into the prince's solar, where he had been lining up toy knights on the floor of a window embrasure. His little tunic of Haldane crimson was a bright splash of color against the whitewashed stone. A sad-eyed governess had been supervising his play, but withdrew immediately at Michaela's appearance, only pausing to bob her a sympathetic curtsey.

“Good morning, my love,” Michaela called, smiling and holding her arms out to Owain as he scrambled to his feet with a crow of delight and ran to embrace her around the knees.

“Mummy! Come and see my knights! There's one that looks like Papa. He's going to fight the bad prince who wants to take away his crown.”

Fighting back her grief, smiling despite it as she bent to kiss him, she let him lead her back to the window embrasure, where she sank down on the step to let him point out his favorites. There was, indeed, a knight on a white horse that looked something like Rhysem, with a tiny gold lion painted on his crimson shield and a little crown on his helm. Cathan had made them for Owain the previous winter, and they were rather larger than the usual sort, standing halfway to the boy's knees. Another knight on a grey carried a miniature Haldane banner.

“That's Uncle Cathan,” Owain said, pointing him out, “and there's the bad prince. He keeps falling down.”

She looked beyond the royal forces at a motley array of smaller figures painted in the tawny and black and white of Torenth, one of which had fallen over. Stiffening her resolve, Michaela held out her arms to Owain again.

“Darling, come and sit on Mummy's lap, would you? I have something to tell you.”

Owain looked at her curiously and picked up the figures of his father and Cathan before coming to climb down a step and then ease onto her lap, settling a little uneasily as he twisted around to watch her. She hugged him close for a moment, pressing a kiss to the tousle of black, sweet-smelling hair, then reached around him to gently stroke a fingertip across the crown on the figure of the king.

“Darling, something very sad has happened to your papa. He hurt his hand, and it made him very sick. His doctors tried very hard to make him better, but he—”

“Papa's sick?” Owain whispered, his little face going still and anxious.

Michaela shook her head, blinking back tears. “Not anymore, my darling,” she whispered. “Your papa is with the angels now. His hurt hand made him very, very, ill, so—the angels have taken him to be with God.”

“With—God?” the boy repeated, bewildered.

“Your papa has died, my love. He's gone to Heaven, to be with God.”

“No!” Owain said flatly. “My papa can't be dead.”

“Oh, darling, I wish it weren't true—you know I do. But it is. It's very, very sad, but—”

“Who hurted my papa's hand?” Owain demanded, anger flashing in the grey Haldane eyes as tears began to well. “Did the bad prince hurt my papa?”

“I—don't know exactly, darling,” she heard herself saying. “We'll know more when …”

She let her voice trail away as he collapsed weeping in her arms, sobbing his little heart out, the toy knights still clutched in both hands. She wept with him, letting fall the tears she had denied herself the night before but aware, in some deep recess of dispassionate logic, that her grief was tempered still by the discipline Rhysel had imposed, lest the shock do harm to the other life she carried. She felt it as a profound sadness that might well persist until her dying day, but not a life-shattering sorrow that might keep her from her duty.

As Owain gradually subsided to hiccoughs and moist sniffling, huddled down in her lap, Michaela also mastered her tears. Pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve, she wiped her eyes and composed herself, then produced another one to blot away her son's tears.