The Bishop’s Heir (5 page)

He supposed he should not be annoyed that the man did not recognize him. Other than his own brief foray into Culdi two years before for the ill-fated wedding of Kevin McLain and Morgan's sister Bronwyn, Kelson doubted any other Haldane had penetrated this deep into the western borderlands for several years before his father's death. His progress of the summer just past had been confined primarily to Meara itself, and the flatlands of Kierney and Cassan. And even were bordermen not notorious for their indifference to lowland titles of nobility, how could a mere border sergeant be expected to know his king by sight?

“I am Kelson,” he said patiently, pushing back a sweat-stained arming cap from damp black hair and handing off his helmet to a waiting squire. “It appears that the presence of this particular Haldane was rather timely. You are—?”

The man dipped his head in dutiful if chilly respect.

“Gendon, my Lord King, in service to the Baron of Trurill.”

Kelson favored the man with the same sort of cool, impersonal nod which he himself had received, then scooped damp tendrils of hair from his face with the back of one mailed gauntlet as he glanced over the prisoners being secured by Gendon's men. How to unbend the man?

“Gendon, eh?” he said neutrally. “Tell me, Master Gendon, what brought about this little set-to? Actually, I'm not sure you needed our help at all. They weren't very well armed.”

“They're outlaws, my lord,” came the surprised reply, as if that explained everything. “They raid across the borders for livestock—sometimes even women and children.”

“Oh?”

“Well, we try to stop it, of course, my lord,” the man went on a little defensively. “The baron posts a regular patrol, as is his duty, but a man can slip off into these hills with half a dozen sheep and never be seen again. The young Laird MacArdry says this particular lot have been plaguing Transha as well.”

“The young laird—you mean Dhugal, the chief's son?” Kelson asked, his more personal interest suddenly piqued.

Gendon raised one eyebrow in surprise. “You know young Dhugal, my lord?”

“You might say that,” Kelson replied with a grin. “I don't suppose you've seen him lately?”

“Lately? Aye, my lord. Every blessed day.”

But as Gendon gestured toward his men and twisted in his saddle to look, clearly taken aback at this lowland king's apparent recognition of highland relationships, Kelson had already spotted the object of his inquiry: a slight, ramrod-straight rider wrapped in a grey, black, and yellow plaid which only partially hid the russet leather of a neat Connaiti brigandine. He was talking to a Trurill man balancing on one leg beside his horse, gesturing for someone else to come and assist the man. A mail coif partially obscured the hair which would have made a beacon of his presence out of war harness, but the shaggy brown-and-white spotted border horse he rode was well known to Kelson, though its markings were common enough not to be remarked during the heat of battle—doubtless the reason Kelson had not noticed them earlier.

The MacArdry heir became aware of the royal scrutiny at about the same moment Kelson first saw him. One look at the riders sitting beneath the royal standard was enough to make him break away and urge his mount into a trot toward the king, grinning hugely.

“Dhugal MacArdry, what the devil is
that
?” Kelson shouted, pointing a gauntleted finger at the other's steed and grinning almost as widely as he. “Surely, 'tis no
horse
that looks so strange!”

The young MacArdry drew rein and almost flung himself from the saddle, pushing his coif back from bright copper-bronze hair as he thumped to both knees before the king's horse.

“Why, 'tis the beast who threw Your Grace the first half-dozen times you tried to ride her!” Dhugal replied. His sword hung from a baldric over his left shoulder, rigged to be drawn from the left, but he half-drew it with his right hand and offered the pommel in salute, face glowing with pride.

“Welcome to the borders—my King! It's been too many years.”

“Aye, and I shall trounce you for a knave if you don't get off your knees at once!” Kelson said happily, signalling the other to rise. “I was your brother before I was your king. Conall, look how he's grown! Ewan, you remember my foster-brother, don't you?”

“Aye, Sire—and the mischief which which both of you used to terrorize my pages' school! 'Tis good to see you, Master Dhugal.”

“And you, Your Grace.”

As Dhugal let his sword slip back into its scabbard and stood, and Kelson jumped down from his tall R'Kassan stallion, Conall also nodded in tight-lipped response to Dhugal's slight bow in his direction; the two had been keen rivals in those earlier days. Though nearly as tall as Kelson, the young border lord looked hardly older than when he had left court four years before, a sprinkling of freckles across his nose and cheeks only adding to the childlike first impression. Large, square front teeth flashed bright white as his face creased in a pleased, open grin, the smudge of reddish mustache across his upper lip hardly more than adolescent down. But the eyes which met Kelson's were no longer those of a child.

The two young men embraced exuberantly, thumping each other on the back and then drawing apart to study the other more soberly. Kelson did not resist as Dhugal took his hand and pressed fervent lips to the back of the gauntlet in homage before looking back at him.

“How
are
you, Dhugal?” he murmured.

“I am well, my prince, now that you are here,” Dhugal replied softly, in the cultured court accents he had learned so many years before. “We have heard stories here in the west, of course, but—” He shrugged and grinned broadly. “Well, frankly, I did not think to see Your Grace in person until the day I came to claim my earldom. The borders and highlands have never been a favorite haunt of Haldane kings.”

“The borders are loved by
this
Haldane,” Kelson said, flashing with fond remembrance on the image of Dhugal's elderly father, who had fostered Dhugal to court when he was seven and Kelson nine. “And praise God it did not take your father's death to bring us back together after all. How
is
old Caulay?”

“He does as well as one might hope,” Dhugal replied, a trifle more subdued. “He's not travelled since your coronation, though. I've spent the past three years standing in for him, learning a proper border soldier's trade. I—don't suppose my apprenticeship can last much longer now.”

“His illness is worse, then. Dhugal, I'm sorry,” Kelson murmured. But before he could continue, Gendon, the Trurill sergeant, cleared his throat.

“Your pardon, Lord King, but young MacArdry does have duties. Dhugal, there are wounded.”

“Aye, Sergeant, I'll see to them directly.” Dhugal gave Kelson a short bow of apology. “By your leave, Sire.”

“Of course. My men will assist.”

Most of the injuries were slight—the minor cuts and bruises expected of any rough and tumble altercation—but a few of the men, Trurill and prisoners alike, sported more serious wounds. One man was dead, despite the apparent restraint shown by all. Kelson detailed his battle surgeon and the squires to work with the bordermen and, when it became clear that Gendon did not intend to return to Trurill that night, gave orders for camp to be made. Conall he assigned to Ewan's supervision, to observe how the old duke integrated his command with Gendon's.

Kelson himself wandered in the forming Trurill camp with only Jodrell for escort, saying little but watching everything with interest. Recalling Dhugal's comment about the “stories” which had come westward in the past three years, he wondered what preconceptions these highland men might have about him as a result. In the eyes of men such as these, that Kelson was a Haldane was reason enough to suspect him. What further suspicion might have been generated by tales of his magic?

But when he tried chatting with a few of them, he sensed that their reticence had as much to do with his lowland origins as with his rank or any vague uneasiness they might have because he was part Deryni. They were respectful enough, in their rough, border way, but they offered no more than was asked for, never volunteering information.

The prisoners volunteered no information either, though that was hardly surprising. Nor was the information which
was
extracted, sometimes forcefully, of anything but local interest. Kelson Truth-Read a few of them while others asked the questions, but there seemed no point in flaunting his Deryni abilities when the interrogators were getting exactly the same answers he was. The distance between these men and himself had little to do with magic, but the loneliness was just as real. Eventually he found himself watching Dhugal from behind and signalled Jodrell not to speak.

Dhugal was kneeling beside the most seriously wounded of his own men, Kelson's squire Jatham assisting him, unaware of the royal scrutiny. His plaid lay discarded in a heap beside him, sword and baldric atop it, and Kelson could see that he had unbuckled the front of his brigandine for greater ease of movement as he bent to his surgeoning duties.

Dhugal's patient was a sturdy mountain lad hardly older than himself but half again as large, sporting a gash from wrist to elbow which would probably render him useless as a swordsman in the future, if he even kept the arm. His other brawny arm was pressed across his eyes, the bearded face beneath it drained of color. As the squire poured water over the wound and Dhugal loosened the tourniquet above it just slightly, bright blood pumped from deep within. Even from where he stood, Kelson could see that the cut had severed deep muscles and probably arteries.

“Damn!” Dhugal muttered under his breath, tightening the tourniquet again and muttering an apology as his patient sucked in breath between his teeth in pain. Neither he, his assistant, nor his patient seemed to notice Kelson's presence as he picked up a needle trailing a length of gut threat.

“Ye must nae move now, Bertie, if we're tae save yer arm,” Dhugal said, his earlier court accents blurred with the lilt of the highlands now, as he positioned the bloody arm to his liking and shifted Jatham's grip. “Hold him steady as ye can, lad.”

As Bertie braced himself and young Jatham clamped down at wrist and bicep, Kelson touched the squire's shoulder and nodded as he looked up, startled. Dhugal, too, blinked as he suddenly became aware of Kelson's presence.

“Why don't you let me take over here, Jatham?” he said to the boy, smiling and signalling him to move aside. “He's a little big for you to hold. Go with Baron Jodrell.”

As Jodrell and the boy withdrew, Kelson dropped to his knees across from Dhugal and rinsed his hands in the basin of clean water near the patient's head, permitting himself a little smile as Dhugal stared at him in amazement.

“I was beginning to feel useless,” Kelson explained. “Besides, it looked as if young Bertie, here, nearly outweighted you both. Hello, Bertie,” he added, as their patient uncovered his eyes to squint at him suspiciously.

“Well, then.” Dhugal grinned, the lilt of the highlands muted to only a slight blurr as he shifted to court dialect. “Last I heard, you weren't a battle surgeon.”

“Last I heard, neither were you,” Kelson countered. “I suspect we've both learned some things in the past few years. What would you like me to do?”

Dhugal made a grim attempt at a chuckle. “Hold his arm steady, then—just there,” he said, repositioning the arm and guiding Kelson's hands into place as his patient continued to stare.

“Unfortunately,” Dhugal went on, “battle surgeoning isn't one of the things I've had time to learn as well as I'd like—more's the pity for friend Bertie, here. Just because I've made something of a reputation patching up horses, he's convinced I can put
him
back together, aren't ye, Bertie?” he added, lapsing into border dialect again for just a few words.

“Ach, just watch who yer comparin' to a horse, young MacArdry,” Bertie replied good-naturedly, though he hissed through his teeth and then tried to curl up on his side in reflex as Dhugal probed in the wound.

Moving nimbly, Dhugal helped Kelson immobilize the arm and again attempted to place his first suture, shifting from court speech to border dialect and back again with ease, though his face reflected the strain of the other.

“Bertie MacArdry, ye may be as
strong
as a horse, in smell if not in muscle,” he ranted, “but if ye wish sommat besides a sleeve-filler, ye
must
lie still! Kelson, you've got to keep his arm from moving, or it's little use. I can't control his bleeding if he thrashes around.”

Kelson did his best, slipping easily into the old camaraderie he and Dhugal had enjoyed so long ago, as boys, and which remained so comfortable now that they were men. But as Dhugal continued to probe, and Bertie gasped and tensed again, Kelson glanced over his shoulder and, in a moment of sudden decision, shifted the back of one bloodied hand to the man's forehead, reaching out with his Deryni senses.

“Sleep, Bertie,” he whispered, slipping his wrist down over the man's eyes and feeling the tense body go limp. “Go to sleep and remember nothing of this when you wake. No pain. Just sleep.”

Dhugal's hand faltered and paused in midstitch as he sensed the change come over his patient, but when he looked across at Kelson there was only wonder—not the fear the king had come so often to expect in the past few years. After a few seconds, Dhugal returned to his task, working more quickly now, a faint smile playing across his lips.

“You have, indeed, learned a few things in four years, haven't you, Sire?” he asked softly, when he had tied off the last of the internal sutures and cut the gut thread close to the knot.

“You didn't use my title when we were boys, Dhugal, and I wish you wouldn't in the future, at least in private,” Kelson murmured. “And I would have to say that you've learned a few things yourself.”