The Bishop’s Heir (41 page)

“Aye, and if I did allow vengeance to rule me, what kind of a king would I be?” Kelson countered. “I swore oaths, Jodrell! Oaths to uphold law—to temper justice with mercy—not to take vengeance!”

“I see no justice here,” Jodrell muttered almost inaudibly, as he shifted angrily in his chair.

“What was that, Jodrell?”

“I said that it seems you intend to allow the offspring of traitors to go unpunished, Sire!” Jodrell said in a louder voice, his handsome face distorted by a scowl, “and to reward one of them with the very crown her mother tries to seize so treacherously! Mercy is
weakness
in this case, Sire. The Mearan bitch slew the hostage she took; it is our right to slay the ones we hold.”

“An eye for an eye?” Kelson said. “I think not. And you yourself admit that it is Caitrin who has rebelled against me.”

“Aye,
rebelled
, Sire!” Bradene boomed. “And committed sacrilegious murder! Shall the sins of the fathers not be visited upon the children? She had a
bishop
executed, Kelson! A man anointed of God! And before they took his life, Edmund Loris had the audacity not only to excommunicate him, but to degrade him from the priesthood—Henry Istelyn: one of the godliest men I have ever known!”

As Kelson searched for a temperate reply, for this was getting quite out of hand, Cardiel shook his head and laid a restraining hand on Bradene's sleeve.

“Peace, brother,” he said quietly. “No one will argue that Istelyn was not a godly man. But given that he
was
a godly man, he will not have faltered when faced with his martyrdom in the cause of king and faith. Loris' action was empty of substance.”

“Of course it was empty,” Bradene retorted. “That isn't at issue here. Empty or not, Istelyn had to face an unjust death—alone, bereft of the outward solace of his office. And to die so horribly,” he finished lamely, anger dissolving away to grief.

Cardiel sighed and looked down at the table, tears in his eyes.

“Dear, dear brother, I beg you, do not torment yourself this way. In all things, Henry Istelyn was the king's and God's good servant. We
must
believe that he died in the faith—that he did what
any
of us would pray we had the grace to do, were we in his place—and that his faith sustained him through—”

“No!” Bradene gasped, anger flaring again. “Let the faith of the Mearan brats sustain
them
, as they meet their justly deserved fate as traitor's kin! Sire, I
cannot
find it in my heart to let this pass. One
crushes
a viper's brood—one does not
marry
it!”

Morgan, seated at the king's right hand with Richenda close beside him, could not fail to catch the overflow of shock and stomach-churning grief that flared for just an instant as the two archbishops argued. It was quickly damped, but he knew Richenda had sensed it, too. He could feel her trembling, her hand clenched tight in his. He knew also what it was costing Kelson not to lash out in his own anger and sense of helplessness. No matter what the king did, some would not agree.

Hurting with Kelson, Morgan turned pleading eyes on the two archbishops, letting his glance include everyone around the table.

“Let
be
, my lords!” he said, cutting off another heated exchange. “Do you think your railing makes his decision any easier? What are you trying to do to him? Do you think he does not
know?
How heavy must the crown
be
?”

“How heavy was
Istelyn's
burden?” Bradene muttered.

But any further outburst was forestalled by Arilan's withering glance and the pained, compassionate shake of Cardiel's grey head.

“
Please
, Bradene,” Cardiel murmured. “Duke Alaric is right. However terrible and unjust may have been our brother Istelyn's fate, that is past. He is beyond our ability to help or hinder him. We must not let the wisdom of our future decisions be clouded by our grief and outrage.”

“Archbishop Cardiel is correct,” Nigel agreed. “If we kill our hostages, we lose all hope of any peaceful resolution to the Mearan question. Spite will only breed yet more spite, and—”

“Aye, now
there's
a key word,” Ewan butted in. “Breeding. Let the lad get on with his wooing, Archbishop. He needs to breed an heir.”

A rumble of agreement from the other laymen around the table gave Ewan encouragement to go on.

“Go ahead and marry the lass, Sire. Wed her and bed her as quickly as ye may—and get her with child before the spring campaign! There are many in Meara who'll come flocking to yer standard if there's an heir to two crowns in the offing. But ye haven't time to waste.”

As Bradene sighed and bowed his head, lifting a ringed hand in grudging acquiescence, a little of the tension seemed to leave the room. After a moment, Nigel gazed down the table at his royal nephew, attempting a strained smile.

“Wise counsel, Kelson,” he said quietly, “though I should have phrased it a trifle more delicately. You need an heir of your own body and you need a Mearan alliance. And the heir born of a Mearan union would be the strongest asset of all. I know this marriage is not what you would have chosen, had things been different, but—” He shrugged. “What can I say, except to wish you the best of fortune and offer you every power at my disposal to facilitate this match?”

Kelson glanced up at Nigel listlessly, hands folded still and quiet. “Thank you, Uncle. Please do not mistake my lack of enthusiasm for lack of gratitude. All that you and Duke Ewan have said is perfectly correct.” He sighed. “We must now pray that the Lady Sidana sees matters in a similar light.”

“And if she does not—” Arilan said archly, his glance again conveying the implication of extraordinary methods of persuasion. “Will you marry her anyway, against her will?”

“I have already said that I would,” Kelson answered a little sharply. “Will
you
perform the ceremony, Bishop, if I bring an unwilling bride before the altar?”

Arilan pursed his lips, nodding resolutely. Bradene and Cardiel looked shocked. Ewan snorted.

“Take him at his word, Sire. This is no time for too many niceties. If she will nae have ye at first, bed her and
then
wed her—or at least threaten to do it. She'll come around.”

That remark elicited its own flurry of comment and indignation, principally among the clergy but also from Richenda and Dhugal, until Kelson finally cleared his throat and swept them all with his grey Haldane eyes, some of the old, hard fire of his father's day touching each one.

“I'll manage my own wooing, thank you, gentlemen,” he said when they had quieted. “It will be conducted with as much honor as possible on both our parts, but there
shall
be a royal wedding at Twelfth Night, I promise you, one way or another.”

“Why the delay?” asked Saer de Traherne. “If part of the purpose of this exercise is to get an heir before the spring campaign, Sire, you should be sowing the seeds as quickly as possible. The Mearan lass is young. It may take her a while to begin breeding.”

As Kelson blushed furiously, at a loss how to answer, Duncan came to his rescue.

“If I read his Majesty's intentions correctly, my lord, I suspect he plans to crown his queen on the same day he marries her, which presents a somewhat different logistical problem than merely publishing the banns and bringing the intended couple before a priest.”

As Kelson nodded and murmured, “Aye,” obviously grateful for the rescue, Duncan went on, “Indeed, if the lady is to be enthroned in state fitting the consort of the King of Gwynedd, we shall all find ourselves hard-pressed to complete the preparations in so short a time. And as I'm sure the Lady Richenda will confirm, twelve days will be only barely adequate to prepare the gowns and jewels that our queen-to-be will require for this momentous event.”

“'Tis true, my lords,” Richenda said quietly. “Not only that, I beg you have some care for poor Sidana herself. Is it asking too much that she should have at least a little time to prepare for the role being thrust upon her?”

“She will hae guessed what's in store,” Ewan muttered. “She has been bred to her duty. Dinnae coddle the lass too much, Sire.”

“Indeed, do not coddle her at all,” Richenda retorted, before Kelson could reply. “But I speak as one who was herself a bride of expediency, wed to the benefit of lands rather than any desire of my own. Give the girl a few days to realize her duty, to decide that this is what she herself wants, for the sake of her own land. She may thank you in years to come, when she is your queen.”

“And I thank
you
, my lady,” Kelson murmured. “You do right to remind us of Sidana's part in all of this.”

She inclined her head gracefully.

“May I also ask you to serve her while you are at court?” he went on, with a strained, hopeful grin. “And perhaps to supervise the feminine aspects of our preparations? I have no illusions that she will be any more enthusiastic about this match than I am, but perhaps your experience and sympathy can help her accept what must be.”

“I would be most honored to serve your intended queen, Sire, both now and in the future,” Richenda murmured. “My lord and I discussed the very matter only this morning.”

“Ah,” Kelson said. “Well, that's a relief.”

He glanced at the rest of them, drawing a deep breath and letting it out audibly, then stood. Immediately the rest stood as well.

“Very well, then, gentlemen—and my lady,” he said. “I go now to speak with your future queen. Lady Richenda, I would be pleased if you would accompany me—and Bishop Duncan as well. I leave the rest of you to continue setting plans for the coming nuptials. Uncle, I shall ask you to preside in my absence.”

Kelson was glad, a little while later, that he had asked Richenda and Duncan to go with him, for he found himself more anxious than he wanted to admit, as he led them along the dimly lit corridor. He had installed Sidana in his mother's former apartments on her arrival in Rhemuth, judging them the only suitable quarters for a princess of however dubious seniority; now he wondered whether he had been contemplating this visit all along.

His mouth was dry as dust as he approached the outer door, and he cleared his throat nervously as he motioned Duncan on ahead to announce him. The guards came to smart attention and rendered royal salute as the three of them approached, but he gave sign for them to be at ease as he straightened a fold of his heavy court robe. He had exchanged his state crown for a simpler, lighter circlet of gold, and he glanced nervously at the shadow he cast by torchlight as Duncan paused before the door. Richenda waited slightly behind him.

“You're sure you're ready to go through with this, Sire?” Duncan murmured, glancing aside at him with hand poised on the brocaded bell pull.

Swallowing awkwardly, Kelson nodded, conveying just a little of his sense of apprehensive duty in a lightning thought as Duncan's yank brought an answering chime of bells. The Deryni bishop glanced at him again in comradely support and compassion and composed his own expression as the door was opened by a serving maid. The girl gaped at his episcopal purple.

“The king wishes to see the Lady Sidana, child,” Duncan said quietly, putting on his most reassuring yet commanding demeanor. “May we come in?”

A little flustered, both by his rank and his mere male presence, the girl dropped him a curtsey and stood aside to let them enter, making another, deeper reverence to the king, whose eyes she would not even meet. As she closed the door behind them, Duchess Meraude appeared in the doorway to the next room, smiling as she saw who had arrived.

“Nephew,” she said, coming forward to dip in formal curtsey. “You are most welcome. And Bishop Duncan—and
Richenda
! Ah, Richenda, what a welcome Christmas gift
you
are! Alaric neglected to tell me you were coming.”

As the two women embraced happily, even Kelson managed a wan smile, murmuring his own greeting as Meraude brushed his cheek with a dutiful kiss. He was always suprised at how short Meraude was. The top of her head reached only to his chin. In his new awareness of things feminine, sweeping his glance over her deep green gown, he found his eyes drawn unabashedly to her slightly swollen abdomen.

“Ah, yes, there's finally to be another little one,” she said casually, noticing his notice. “She's due late in the spring.”

“
She?”
Richenda said, smiling.

“Yes, how do you know it's a girl?” Kelson asked.

“Well, with three boys already, I'm allowed to hope it's a little girl,” Meraude replied. “Not that I would wish her the fate of
some
princesses.” She glanced among the three of them speculatively. “
Is
there to be a royal wedding? Is that what you've come to tell her?”

Biting at his lower lip, Kelson nodded. “I fear it is, Aunt. And I—think it best if only Father Duncan accompanies me just now.”

“Of course, Sire,” Meraude murmured, suddenly a little cooler. “She's in the solar.”

She held her head high as she led king and bishop across the room. She might have been a queen herself. The long hair coiled at the back of her head beneath her veil was black as any Haldane's, her complexion fair and smooth. As she paused at the entrance to the solar and turned to beckon him pass through, she looked hardly older than her royal charge—who turned and froze in the mouth of a deep window embrasure on the other side of the room.

“Good afternoon, my lady,” Kelson said neutrally.

Sidana blanched at the sound of his voice, immediately turning away from him to stare out at the falling snow, her apprehension apparent even from where Kelson stood. The dying sun shining through the window beyond cast reddish highlights on her long chestnut hair and purpled the pale blue of her gown.