The Bishop’s Heir (9 page)

Judhael looked puzzled and a little uneasy, but he agreed readily enough. When one aspired to high office in the confirmation of the king, one did not decline the invitation of the king's friend and confidant. He watched dispassionately as Morgan closed the chapel door behind them, inclining his head and preceding him down the short aisle when Morgan gestured toward the front of the chapel. Both men genuflected and signed themselves when they reached the altar rail, Morgan and then Judhael easing onto the kneelers which lay along its length. Morgan bowed his head for a moment as if in prayer, letting Judhael's curiosity and apprehension grow, then glanced at the priest sidelong.

“You're acquainted with my cousin, Father Duncan McLain, I believe,” he said softly.

Judhael cocked his head and stared at Morgan in surprise.

“Why, I'm aware that he is secretary to the Lord Archbishop of Rhemuth, Your Grace. He's been keeping the accounts of the interviews this week.”

“That he has,” Morgan murmured, opening his mind to Truth-Read. “Are you aware that he was set upon by a boy with a knife earlier this evening?”

Judhael's eyes widened at the news, then shuttered behind a quickly composed mask of concern.

“Father McLain is a priest like myself, Your Grace,” he said in a low, uninflected voice. “I am sorry to hear that someone would attempt his sacrilegious murder, but it grieves me far more to think that you might believe me involved in any way.”

“You have no knowledge of it, then?” Morgan asked, a little taken aback to realize that Judhael was telling the truth.

“None, Your Grace.”

“I see.”

No knowledge whatsoever. Judhael really had not known. Morgan gazed searchingly into the priest's eyes for several seconds, not doing anything but looking—though Judhael might construe what he liked, and hopefully panic enough to let slip some additional bit of information—but Judhael met his gaze with no more uneasiness than anyone might have exhibited when stared at by a Deryni, the extent of whose powers were uncertain.

“Just one more question, then,” Morgan said, choosing his words carefully. “When was the last time you heard from your aunt?”

Judhael hardly batted an eye.

“Last Christmastide, Your Grace. Why do you ask?”

Last Christmastide, long before Meara's bishopric became vacant, Morgan noted. Nor was there any duplicity in Judhael's answer. Not only was Judhael innocent of knowledge about the attempt on Duncan, but he did not seem to be involved in any machinations his aunt might have planned for his insertion into a bishop's see—though Judhael surely had his own ambitions.

Morgan dared not push the issue any further, however. Judhael was beginning to look more anxious, and the only way to go from here was to actually force a deep reading on the priest—and Arilan would very likely skin him if he got wind of it, after his earlier lecture to Cardiel.

“Very well, Father. I'll leave you, then. Thank you for your time. If you've a mind to ease a soul, you might whisper a prayer for the boy with the knife. I'm afraid he died unshriven.”

He signed himself slowly and deliberately, not taking his eyes from Judhael's, then rose and glided back up the aisle. Judhael was still kneeling, face buried in his hands, when Morgan glanced back just before going out.

He walked for a while after that, reviewing what he had done and finally inquiring among the guards as to what had happened to the body of Duncan's attacker. He found it in the infirmary, covered with a blanket, and he stared at the face of the dead boy for some time, wondering who had sent him.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

Thou hast made us to drink the wine of astonishment
.

—Psalms 60:3

Farther north and east of Culdi, nearer the coast, an early dusk began to settle as Kelson and his warband urged their weary horses along the final stretch approaching Castle Transha, cloaks pulled close against an increasingly bitter drizzle. Dhugal, riding at the king's side, had set them a brisk pace since leaving the Trurill patrol at midmorning, pushing to reach the shelter of his father's castle before dark. They slowed as the grade of the road got steeper, Dhugal expectantly searching the rain ahead until the vast pile which was Transha gradually took shape, almost black against the darkening sky. The young border lord grinned as he glanced aside at the king.

“We're nearly there now,” he said cheerily. “My father's castellan should have everything prepared. We've been observed for the past hour, you know.”

“Oh?”

Surprised and a little taken aback, Kelson turned to look at Dhugal in question, for he had been scanning the craggy hills with Deryni senses as well as sight for nearly that long, and had defected nothing.

“Don't worry,” Dhugal went on with a chuckle. “I didn't see them either. But then, I'm not as experienced as Ciard yet. He signalled me when we made our last rest stop.”

Ciard. Of course. He had been the only other MacArdry retainer riding with the Trurill patrol, so of course had come with them. Kelson remembered him well from the days of Dhugal's fosterage at court. Glancing back thoughtfully at the middle-aged gillie riding a few ranks behind, he recalled being told that Ciard O Ruane had been made Dhugal's personal attendant and bodyguard by the MacArdry chief himself, shortly after Dhugal's birth. Kelson had never known him to be far from his young charge's side. The man's almost uncanny ability in the field had mystified Kelson even in the old days; and Deryni perceptions gained since their last contact had added no further explanation.

“Ciard. I might have known,” Kelson muttered aside to Dhugal, as he returned his attention to the narrowing trail ahead. “I suppose next you'll be telling me he does it with that borderer Second Sight you mentioned yesterday.”

“Why, I thought your kind knew all about such things,” Dhugal replied with another chuckle. “You really needn't worry, though. I personally guarantee my people's loyalty—though I should warn you not to be surprised if your welcome seems a little cool at first. Even if you weren't the king, you
are
a lowlander. Both make you an oddity this far west.”

And being Deryni makes me odder still
, Kelson added in his own mind, completing what Dhugal had not said. Despite Dhugal's assurance, he could not suppress a faint itch between his shoulderblades.

The air tasted increasingly of salt as they approached the castle's outer defenses, and the gulls screeching overhead gave odd counterpoint to the dull clop of mud-clogged hooves and the muted jingle of harness. Ewan and Conall followed directly behind, the rain-soaked Haldane standard flapping wetly against Conall's gloved hand and occasionally lifting enough on the rising wind to actually be read. Dhugal had advised them not to furl it, so that there could be no mistaking their identity. The rest of the warband also followed by twos, Ciard with one of Ewan's gillies and then Jodrell, Traherne, and the rest of the column—knights, squires, and servants.

They came within easy bowshot of the outer curtain before Kelson at last spotted lookouts manning the battlements high above, barely silhouetted against the grey sky. Torchlight flickered at some of the arrow slits piercing the stone of the barbican gate, betokening human habitation there as well—a suspicion confirmed by Kelson's Deryni senses—but no one appeared at closer hand. The column slowed almost to a stop as they neared the gatehouse.

“They know who you are, but not why you're here,” Dhugal murmured, as the heavy doors swung outward and chains clattered on windlass drums, raising the heavy portcullis. “One can hardly blame them for being wary.”

“I suppose not.”

As soon as there was headroom beneath the portcullis, Ciard kneed his pony past them with a scrambling of unshod hooves and jogged into the gatehouse passage, seizing a torch from a wall bracket before leading on across the drawbridge beyond. He reined in and looked back as he reached the other side, gesturing for them to follow, and Dhugal set heels to his own pony at once. Kelson glanced upward as he and the rest of the column followed Dhugal through the gatehouse, and was rewarded with a glimpse of a red-cheeked border face watching from a murder-hole high above. The man gave a nod and touched two fingers to the front of his highland bonnet before disappearing, but Kelson sensed that the salute was as much for Dhugal as for him.

The hollow clatter of the horses' hooves on the drawbridge gave way to the more solid ring of steel on flint paving as they reached the other side of the ditch protecting the outer ward, and as they resumed climbing, Kelson reflected that if ever a castle had been designed to take all advantage of its natural defenses, Transha was it. The road spiraling upward to the left rapidly became a steep, narrow killing zone, the seaward side sheering off in a heart-stopping plunge to the surf crashing far below. On their unshielded right, the keep itself rose forty feet above their heads, the gaps along the crenellated wall providing easy vantage points from which to bombard an approaching enemy. The way was wide enough for two border ponies side by side, but the Haldane great-horses were obliged to go single file. Sea gulls swooped in for a closer look at the intruders, veering off with angry cries when a horse would snort or a cloak would flap. The smell of the sea was strong, even when they had passed beneath a second gatehouse.

“Bring light for the young master and his guests!” Ciard cried, turning his pony in a tight circle and waving his torch as the Haldane column clattered into the inner ward. “'Tis I, Ciard O Ruane. Th' young master is home. Where is Caball MacArdry? Bring light, I tell ye!”

His voice brought immediate response. As torches flared all around the perimeter of the yard and voices began to buzz, a breathless stableboy came scurrying to take his pony. Kelson sat his greathorse beside Dhugal and the spotted pony and watched Ciard stride toward them. Behind them, the yard was filling with the rest of the Haldane warband, but Kelson signalled them to remain mounted before himself swinging to the ground. Dhugal was already there to take his reins, giving both their animals over to Ciard before setting his hand under Kelson's elbow to guide him toward the stair leading up to the great hall.

“Ho, Caball!” Dhugal called, as the door to the hall opened and a knot of tartan-clad men began to descend the stair. Some of them had pulled an edge of plaid over their heads against the rain, and a few bore torches. The leader wore the two feathers of a clan chieftain in his cap, and his bearded face split in a pleased grin as he came hurrying down to meet the unexpected visitors.

“Master Dhugal!”

“My father's castellan,” Dhugal murmured aside to Kelson, as the men reached the bottom of the stair. “Caball, is all prepared to give fair guesting to the King's Majesty? Sire, I present my kinsman Caball MacArdry, who speaks for the clan and The MacArdry. How
is
my father, Caball?”

“The MacArdry's leal greeting, Lord King,” Caball replied, touching his cap in salute and making his nod include his young master as well as his sovereign. “Dhugal, Himself will be heartened to see ye hame sae unexpectedly.” He returned his attention to Kelson. “We cannae offer more than simple border fare on sae short a notice, but The MacArdry looks forward tae greetin' ye himself, when ye hae refreshed yerself, an' extends his hospitality tae yerself an' yer men tae sup with him in his hall.”

“Please tell the MacArdry that I look forward to seeing him as well,” Kelson replied, inclining his head graciously. “I've not had that pleasure since he came to see me crowned, and Dhugal tells me he's not been well of late. I'm sorry to hear that.”

The castellan dipped his chin in clipped acknowledgment, rain dripping from his beard.

“As for the fare,” Kelson went on with a disarming smile, “we've been in the field for several days. Any hot meal and a roof over our heads will be most welcome.”

Caball seemed to unbend a little as he glanced back at Dhugal. “I think we can do that much for ye, sir—an' perhaps a mite better. Dhugal, we'll bed th' King's Grace an' such others as he wishes in yer quarters. The men can sleep in the hall with our own garrison, when supper's done.”

“Prince Conall will be with us, then,” Dhugal replied, looking to Kelson for confirmation, “and perhaps Jodrell and Traherne—or Duke Ewan, of course, unless they'd prefer to sleep with the men. Will that be satisfactory, Sire?”

“Ewan of Claibourne?” Caball murmured, head jerking up to search the riders behind the king. “By yer leave, sir, I'll make th' rest of the arrangements with him. Dhugal, take His Grace in out of the rain.”

He and his henchmen were already moving past them before Kelson could do more than nod, border affinity for another highland man drawing the castellan instinctively toward Ewan's distinctive tartan mantle, his casual salute in Kelson's direction almost an afterthought. Kelson was only bemused, used to the brusque manners of bordermen from his dealings with Dhugal and his attendants as a boy, but an affronted Prince Conall kneed his greathorse nearer the king in shocked outrage.

“Do you intend to let him treat you that way?” he demanded in a loud stage whisper, bending beneath the dripping Haldane standard to peer at Kelson. “He dismissed you like a servant!”

“He asked my leave. Don't make a scene,” Kelson warned, as he laid a hand on his cousin's reins. “The man has a job to do.”

“Yes! To show proper respect for his overlord!”

“No disrespect was intended,” Kelson replied, “and standing in the rain is no time for formality. I am not offended.”

But Conall was, and he continued to fume and mutter to himself all the way up the newel stair behind Dhugal and Kelson, not ceasing his complaints even when the three of them reached a snug little room at the top of the tower. Kelson's squire came to help them off with their boots, but Conall continued to reiterate his displeasure about border disregard for rank and precedence, ending with a graceless remark about the accommodations. Kelson sent the squire out of the room before taking Conall to task, afterward apologizing to an uncomfortable Dhugal. The air was charged with resentment as the three young men began stripping off rain-sodden harness and tunics to wash for supper.