The Bishop’s Heir (26 page)

“Dearly beloved brother,” Loris intoned solemnly, “ancient custom dictates that bishops-elect are to be questioned before the people on their resolve to keep the faith and discharge their duties justly. I therefore ask thee, Judhael of Meara, whether thou art resolved by the grace of the Holy Spirit to discharge to the end of thy life the office entrusted to us by the apostles which is about to be passed on to thee by the imposition of our hands?”

“I am,” Judhael answered.

“And art thou resolved to be faithful and constant in proclaiming the gospel of Our Lord?”

“I am.”

The ritual dialogue went on, but Dhugal had no stomach to listen closely. Whatever promises Judhael made under these circumstances, and however pious a man he might have been before the advent of Loris' plotting, Dhugal was as certain as he was of his own simple faith that Judhael of Meara was damned for participating in this mockery of holy rite. Why did God not strike him dead? Was there no justice, even in the very House of God?

He feared greatly for Istelyn, too, though it was the man's body which gave him greater concern than the man's soul. He could not but admire the man's courage—forced to condone the affair by the presence of his body but unyielding in his resolve that he would not support it in his heart—but Dhugal was made of more practical stuff. He did wonder whether he himself had taken the easier way, by pretending to go along with those he knew to be wrong—and whether Istelyn was right: that Dhugal
was
dishonored by going as far as he had gone already. And as for how far he intended to go, if there were opportunity—

“Beloved brothers and sisters,” Loris chanted, standing to face the congregation, “let us pray for this man chosen to provide for the needs of God's Holy Church. Let us pray that Almighty God in His goodness will fill him with abundant grace.”

Dhugal knelt with the others at that, watching the forsworn Judhael prostrate himself before the altar while the rest of the bishops knelt around him, even Istelyn being propped kneeling at his faldstool to the side. The choir sang a
Kyrie
, familiar to Dhugal even in its embellished form, then shifted deftly into a litany of angels and saints invoked to bless the man being consecrated.

“
Sancta Maria
…”

“
Ora pro nobis.”

“
Sancte Michael
…”

“
Ora pro nobis.”

“
Sancte Gabriel
…”

“
Ora pro nobis.”

“
Sancte Raphael
…”

“
Ora pro nobis.”

“
Sancte Uriel
…”

“
Ora pro nobis.”

“
Omnes sancti Angeli et Archangeli
…”

“
Orate pro nobis
…”

The litany went on and on, the cadences lulling the senses, and Dhugal let his mind drift back to his own dilemma. Though he had given his word he would not try to escape, his duty to Kelson dictated otherwise, despite the terrible oath Loris had made him swear on holy relics. He knew Istelyn did not approve, and counted an oath on oath, regardless of the circumstances under which it was made—and perhaps he was right. Perhaps there was no compromising with evil.

But the greater evil, if Kelson did not learn of what was happening here today, seemed to Dhugal to outweight the niceties of semantics. If he could escape, it was his duty to do so, regardless of his sworn oath. Time enough, if he succeeded, to seek absolution. He would
not
betray his brother.

Increasingly angry and indignant, he watched the traitor bishops go through the form of consecrating Judhael: the imposition of hands, the anointing with sacred chrism, the giving of ring, mitre, and crozier, the bringing of the gifts of eucharistic bread and wine by his family—Caitrin and Sicard and their children. At least they did not ask him to assist them.

But he
was
expected to go forward and receive communion with the rest of them, after the new bishop had ordained a deacon and concelebrated Mass with his new brothers. And he was spared receiving it from Judhael only to have Loris himself lay the consecrated wafer on his tongue. Dhugal had all he could do not to choke on it as he returned to his place with folded hands and downcast eyes, hating the hypocrisy which forced him to pretend the same traitor's game which they played in earnest. He prayed as he had never prayed before that God would forgive him for receiving the Sacrament with as much loathing in his heart as he felt for the treacherous Loris.

The final strains of a solemn sung
Te Deum
followed them out onto the cathedral porch when it was over. Surrounded by senior clergy and his family, the new bishop paused on the cathedral steps to impart his first episcopal blessings to the people outside. Dhugal was drawn along with them, by virtue of his kinship with Sicard, but surveillance seemed to have lessened in the general excitement of the event and he found it possible to ease into the background, almost blending in with the family's lesser retainers. The bite of a coming storm was in the wind, so he pulled up the fur-edged hood of his cloak against it and began a casual survey of the cathedral square while he pretended merely to savor the fresh air. Other than to enter the cathedral a few hours before, he had not been out of doors since his arrival in the city.

From what he could see, the physical layout was not entirely impossible. He did not know Ratharkin at all, but movement in and out of the square appeared to be unhampered and unregulated. The south gates of the city lay less than half a mile beyond the mouth of a narrow street opening off west of the square. He had marked the way well in his mind as they rode here this morning, and a possible alternate route through another side street.

Of more important immediate concern was the help or hindrance Dhugal might expect from the milling citizens, many of whom were making their way closer to kneel for the new bishop's blessing. From what he had overheard, no one seemed to see Judhael's creation as Bishop of Ratharkin as any encroachment on the recently installed Istelyn, for Istelyn was Bishop of Meara. Besides, was not Bishop Istelyn standing at the new bishop's side, affirming the new bishop's legitimacy, by his mere presence? Clearly, Judhael was meant to assist the bishop installed by archbishops and king a fortnight before—and who would have informed them otherwise?

The presence of Caitrin and her family, standing beneath a banner in the Mearan royal colors, only added local interest, for who of the common folk knew what lord had placed his hands between whose? If Meara's senior royal was here, publicly witnessing the elevation of her nephew in the presence of the king's duly appointed and enthroned representative, Bishop Istelyn, who could say she was not entitled? And a prelate of Mearan royal blood could not but please most residents of this ancient Mearan city, regardless of the lip-service professed to the Crown of Gwynedd.

Dhugal dared not expect support from Ratharkin's citizens, then. But at least the public acclamation of Judhael, distasteful as it was to Dhugal, perhaps gave convenient cover to explore escape options; for with attention centered on Judhael and the rest of the Mearan royal family, there was very little notice being taken of Dhugal. Foot soldiers mingled with the throngs in the square, lining the cathedral steps as well, but none were very close to Dhugal. Less than a score of mounted knights and men-at-arms patrolled the area. Two of them sat their mounts at ease near the gate leading back into the cathedral compound, only casually watching the crowd, but the nearest other men on horseback were clear across the square. If Dhugal could make his way close enough to surprise the men and secure one of the horses.…

Blowing on his gloved hands to warm them, he eased his way a few steps farther to his left, closer to the guards, casually eying the nearer horse—a wiry, fast-looking bay. Almost immediately the animal tossed its head and snorted, swinging its hindquarters against the sorrel beside it and dancing a little jig until its rider curbed it sharply. The other rider looked irritated and murmured something to his companion that Dhugal could not hear, as he jerked at his own mount's mouth, but when the two stood once more at ease, both of them were several horse-lengths closer than they had been. It occurred to Dhugal to wonder whether the animals somehow had been aware of his scrutiny, but he dismissed the notion almost at once. He was good with horses, but not
that
good.

The pageantry of Judhael's acclamation continued on the cathedral steps, but many of the Mearan folk were also hailing Caitrin now. From under his hood, Dhugal watched her bask in their homage, wondering whether they realized their treason—or if they cared. It was also beginning to snow again. Soon, despite the sweetness of public acclaim, they would all pack up and go inside, and his opportunity would be lost.

He sidled a little closer to the horses, trying his best to appear nonchalant—and nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a tug at his cloak from the right.

“Ithel, it's getting cold. I think we ought to—oh, I beg your pardon.”

The voice was Sidana's; and as he curbed his initial urge to whirl in response and slowly turned instead, he saw by her expression what had happened. He was wearing Ithel's clothes. Immediately he sensed a way to take advantage of the error—if only he were given time to carry through.

“No need to beg
my
pardon, fair cousin,” he murmured in his best court accents, catching her gloved hand to press it to his lips. “You're the only one who's addressed a kind word to me all morning—even if it
was
meant for someone else.”

She blinked uncertainly, too flustered to withdraw her hand.

“In faith, cousin, I had not known you pined for our kindness. You were merry enough last night, but wine will make even false men seem hale and earnest. My father was not certain you felt the bond of blood as strongly as we.”

With a shrug, Dhugal let go her hand and wrapped his cloak more closely around him, stamping his feet against the cold and withdrawing turtlelike into the closeness of his hood.

“In faith, cousin, the cold out here is cold enough without the chill of family rejection. The ride from my father's lands taught me much of the realities of life. If my uncle your father can make my fortune in the new order, then it behooves me to listen to my blood—and especially to so fair a kinswoman.”

The color rose in her cheeks at that, but she dared a tiny smile as she returned his gaze.

“Are you flirting with me, kinsman?” she asked, dark eyes teasing just a little. “We
are
first cousins, after all.”

Dhugal decided not to pursue that line, though he let his eyes sweep her face in frank appraisal. With a tiny smile of his own, he shrugged and merely brushed a few snowflakes off the ruff of her hood. She paled a little and stifled a nervous giggle, poised to flee.

“Wh-what are you doing?” she whispered.

“Why, displaying cousinly concern for your well-being, my lady,” he answered softly. “Did you not complain of the cold, only a moment ago?”

“Aye, it
is
getting colder.”

“Then, allow me to act in your brother's stead,” he said, taking her arm and gesturing gallantly toward the side gate—which also brought him closer to the unsuspecting guards. “I would not have so fair a flower as my cousin blighted by the chill. We can warm ourselves by the fire in the bishop's hall and have something hot to drink.…”

He had kept his face averted in his hood as they walked, ostensibly against the wind; and as he set his hand to the gate latch and deliberately fumbled, the two mounted guards moved closer, the man on the sorrel dismounting with alacrity to give assistance—for he recognized Sidana, and thought her richly cloaked companion to be her royal brother. The man presented half a dozen open targets as he eased importantly between princess and supposed prince and bent to the latch—and likely never even felt the dagger which Dhugal filched from the man's own boot-top and jammed home underneath his ribs.

Before the stricken guard did more than wobble, eyes glazing even as a half-gasp died in his throat, Dhugal had wrenched the man's sword from its scabbard and was lunging to catch the startled bay by the reins, twisting the bit to yank it deftly to its knees and unseat its hapless rider. The exertion jabbed fire across his ribs, but he ignored the pain and vaulted into the bay's empty saddle, grunting as the animal lurched to its feet. He kicked it into motion, hunting for his stirrups. The horse squealed and lashed out with battle-trained heels at foot soldiers approaching from the rear. Sidana finally screamed.

He ignored her cry, for others were scattering and screaming all around him as well, parting before the plunging greathorse like a surging human tide. The bay's former rider snatched at his reins, but Dhugal whirled his mount on its haunches and sent the man staggering—in the direction of the snorting sorrel. Brutally, Dhugal kneed the bay between the man and his new intended prize, knocking him to the ground before he could grab the dangling reins of either steed. The bay tried to bite him while he was down, and the man came up cursing it and him and slashing with a dagger, trying to hamstring horse or rider.

The man was bellowing for help now, still trying to catch the sorrel. Dhugal had to stop him, or his chance was lost. Swooping precariously low to slash at the man, he blocked another attempt to remount, at the same time praying that the animal would rear. To his astonishment, it did. The descending hooves slammed the man directly into one of Dhugal's swordblows. Blood sprayed from a hand-wide gash in the man's neck and reddened the trampled snow as his body disappeared under the sorrel's churning hooves. Sidana, cowering against the still-closed gate, stared at the carnage in mute horror as Dhugal grabbed a fistful of reins and glanced around wildly for the nearest escape route—which was fast being filled by foot soldiers and other mounted men pressing through the throngs. He suspected that most of them had no idea who he really was.