The Bastard Prince
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Also by Katherine Kurtz
The Deryni Novels
The Chronicles of the Deryni
Deryni Rising
Deryni Checkmate
High Deryni
The Legends of Camber of Culdi
Camber of Culdi
Saint Camber
Camber the Heretic
The Histories of King Kelson
The Bishop’s Heir
The King’s Justice
The Quest for Saint Camber
The Heirs of Saint Camber
The Harrowing of Gwynedd
King Javan’s Year
The Bastard Prince
The Childe Morgan Trilogy
In the King’s Service
Childe Morgan
The King’s Deryni
Other novels
King Kelson’s Bride
The Bastard Prince
The Heirs of Saint Camber, Volume Three
Katherine Kurtz
For
my very dear friend,
DENIS O’CONOR DON,
Prince of Connacht.
If Ireland were still a monarchy,
he would be High King.
Contents
Prologue He hath put forth his hands against such as be at peace with him; he hath broken his covenant.
—Psalms 55:20
I Therefore pride compasseth them about as a chain; violence covereth them as a garment.
—Psalms 73:6
II Be not deceived: evil communications corrupt good manners.
—I Corinthians 15:34
III And if it be meet that I go also, they shall go with me.
—I Corinthians 16:4
IV Miss not the discourse of the elders: for they also learned of their fathers, and of them thou shalt learn understanding, and to give answer as need requireth.
—Ecclesiasticus 8:9
V There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear.
—I John 4:18
VI Then a spirit passed before my face; the hair of my flesh stood up: It stood still, but I could not discern the form thereof: an image was before mine eyes, there was silence, and I heard a voice.
—Job 4:15–16
VII Thanks be to God for His unspeakable gift.
—II Corinthians 9:15
VIII Who causeth the righteous to go astray in an evil way, he shall fall himself into his own pit.
—Proverbs 28:10
IX Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy: when I fall, I shall arise; when I sit in darkness, the Lord shall be a light unto me.
—Micah 7:8
X Look to yourselves, that we lose not those things which we have wrought, but that we receive a full reward.
—II John 1:8
XI Keep thee far from the man who hath power to kill … lest he take away thy life presently.
—Ecclesiasticus 9:13
XII Whereas thy servant worketh truly, entreat him not evil, nor the hireling that bestoweth himself wholly for thee.
—Ecclesiasticus 7:20
XIII Rejoice not over thy greatest enemy being dead, but remember that we die all.
—Ecclesiasticus 8:7
XIV I have seen the foolish taking root.
—Job 5:3
XV And that we may be delivered from unreasonable men.
—II Thessalonians 3:2
XVI With arrows and with bows shall men come thither.
—Isaiah 7:24
XVII Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight.
—Psalms 144:1
XVIII For gold is tried in the fire, and acceptable men in the furnace of adversity.
—Ecclesiasticus 2:5
XIX Who will bring me into the strong city?
—Psalms 60:9
XX Righteous lips are the delight of kings; and they love him that speaketh right.
—Proverbs 16:13
XXI And for this cause God shall send them strong delusion, that they should believe a lie.
—II Thessalonians 2:11
XXII They gather themselves together against the soul of the righteous, and condemn the innocent blood.
—Psalms 94:21
XXIII Keep thee far from the man that hath power to kill … lest he take away thy life presently.
—Ecclesiasticus 9:13
XXIV Traitors, heady, high-minded, lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God.
—II Timothy 3:4
XXV And as troops of robbers wait for a man, so the company of priests murder in the way by consent.
—Hosea 6:9
XXVI For I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand.
—II Timothy 4:6
XXVII I have seen the wicked in great power.
—Psalms 37:35
XXVIII A wicked messenger falleth into mischief; but a faithful ambassador is health.
—Proverbs 13:17
XXIX For she is privy to the mysteries of the knowledge of God, and a lover of his works.
—Wisdom of Solomon 8:4
XXX And through covetousness shall they with feigned words make merchandise of you.
—II Peter 2:3
XXXI His sons come to honour, and he knoweth it not.
—Job 14:21
XXXII Then the chief captain came near, and took him, and commanded him to be bound with two chains.
—Acts 21:33
XXXIII I speak of the things which I have made touching the king.
—Psalms 45:1
XXXIV Their bodies are buried in peace; but their name liveth for evermore.
—Ecclesiasticus 44:14
XXXV But if ye bite and devour one another, take heed that ye be not consumed one of another.
—Galatians 5:15
XXXVI And those which remain shall hear, and fear, and shall henceforth commit no more any such evil among you.
—Deuteronomy 19:20
Appendix I: Index of Characters
Appendix II: Index of Places
Appendix III: Partial Lineage of the Haldane Kings
Appendix IV: The Festillic Kings of Gwynedd and Their Descendants
Appendix V: Partial Lineage of the MacRories
About the Author
PROLOGUE
He hath put forth his hands against such as be at peace with him; he hath broken his covenant.
—Psalms 55:20
The nagging drizzle of the night before had yielded to clearing skies at dawn, but a persistent overcast remained even at noontime on this chill day in early June of the Year of Our Lord 928, now seventh in the reign of Rhys Michael Alister Haldane, King of Gwynedd. Climbing to the castle’s highest rooftop walk, two women had braved a cutting wind to seek out a sheltered angle between cap-house and rampart wall, a natural sun trap that was warm enough to shrug off fur-lined cloaks and begin to thaw chilled bones while they resumed their watch of the day before.
It was a better place than most to await the return of their men, now several days overdue. To the south they could see for miles across the vast plain of Iomaire—and a lesser distance eastward, to where the mists of the Rhelljan foothills obscured the approach to the vital Coldoire Pass. It was toward this pass that their men had ridden, more than a week ago, and it was toward Coldoire that the elder of the pair now turned her gaze yet again, shading her dark eyes against the glare of sunlight on persisting tatters of fog.
She had kept this kind of vigil all too many times before. Sudrey of Eastmarch had been chatelaine of this castle for fully twenty years. She was hardly more than a child her
self when she first came to Lochalyn as a bride and, within the year, bore the daughter who would become the taller, redheaded young woman fretting at her side. Apart from the death of a beloved brother, a decade ago, the intervening years had been mostly kind, though she and Hrorik had never been blessed with any more children. Stacia was their only child and sole heir, herself now a mother, suckling an infant son but hours old when his father and grandfather had spurred urgently toward the Coldoire Pass to investigate reports of Torenthi troop incursions.
“D’ye think it’s only yesterday’s storm that’s delayed them?” Stacia suddenly blurted, startling one of the wolfhounds basking at her feet as she rose to peer out over the rampart again, clasping her son closer. “Dear God, what if sommat’s happened to Corban? They should hae been back days ago. Oh, sommat’s happened—I know it has!”
“Hush, child. We don’t know anything yet.”
But as Sudrey of Eastmarch gazed out at the Coldoire mists, her lips compressing in a tight, expectant line, she very much feared that she did know more than she cared to admit. Not of Stacia’s beloved Corban, but of her own dear Hrorik.
The dread confirmation would come soon; she could feel it. She carried but little of the blood of the magical race that once had ruled this land, and she had denied what she had for more than half her life, but it was enough to give her sudden, blinding flashes of unsought knowledge when she least expected or wanted it. Nor had she ever received but rudimentary training in the use of the powers that might have been hers to command, for she and her brother had been orphaned young and brought up by their uncle, a Deryni lordling whose abuse of his power and privilege eventually had led his tenants to turn on him and kill him.
That had been just on the eve of the overthrow of King Imre of Festil and the Haldane Restoration. After that had come the turmoil and wars that left her and her brother hostages of Hrorik’s father, the fierce but kindhearted Duke Sighere of Claibourne, for she and Kennet were both of them distant kin to the royal House of Torenth. In those days, she had deemed it the better part of prudence to pretend that she had no powers at all; and after a time, she had almost forgotten that she ever did. She had never expected to fall in love with one of her jailer’s sons …
Her wistful recollections had distracted her from her watch across the castle ramparts, so that it was Stacia who first saw the riders, first only a handful and then dozens of them, picking their way slowly and painfully along the muddy, winding track that led down from the mist of the Rhelljans to approach the castle gates.
“They’re comin’!” Stacia breathed, pressing hard against the rampart edge as she squinted against the glare. “Look ye, there’s Da’s banner!”
Sudrey’s breath caught in her throat as she, too, began to make out the battle standard borne by one of the lead riders—a silver saltire and two golden suns against an azure field.
“Mother—I dinnae see Corban’s banner,” Stacia cried. “Mother, where is’t? Corban—”
She was turning to careen down the turnpike stair before Sudrey could stop her, moaning and clutching her son fearfully to her shoulder, the wolfhounds lumbering after. Behind her, Sudrey cast her own anxious gaze over the approaching riders again, now seeing what her daughter had failed to notice: the dark, irregular shape bound across the saddle of one of the horses nearer the banner, wrapped round in a greeny tweed cloak that she herself had mended before her husband rode out, what seemed like an eternity ago.
Later, she would not remember her own numbed descent of the narrow, winding stair; only that, all at once, she was down in the castle yard with men and horses churning all around her, the din and the stench of blood and death almost beyond imagining. Across the yard, her son-in-law all but tumbled from his spent mount to stagger toward her, one bandaged and bloodstained arm braced around the shoulders of his weeping but relieved young wife.
He was grimy and exhausted, young Corban, his helmet gone, his sweat-matted black hair mostly pulled free of its border clout, his leather brigandine showing the signs of heavy battle survived. As he reached Sudrey, he collapsed to armored knees at her feet, his broad, leather-clad shoulders heaving with a dry sob as he crushed her to him with his free hand, burying his bearded face against her skirts.
“Forgive me, I couldnae save him!” he gasped. “They’ve ta’en Culliecairn—God knows why! We lost dozens, an’ most of those returnin’ carry wounds. They lured us wi’ a flag o’ truce, then o’erran us. We must get word tae Sighere an’ Graham an’ beg reinforcements—an’ from the king!”
“Is it invasion?” Sudrey heard herself calmly asking.
“I cannae say.” Corban raised his head and drew back a little, dark eyes as bleak and empty as her heart. “They wore the livery o’ Prince Miklos of Torenth. It could be one prong of an all-out invasion. We must see if Sighere’s outposts hae seen activity in the Arranal region or along the coast.”
Her mind flicked back at once to a private meeting several months before at Lochalyn: herself, Hrorik, and the strikingly handsome Prince Miklos—who was technically a distant cousin—and another, slightly younger man, as dark as Miklos was fair, then presumed merely to be the prince’s aide. Hrorik had reluctantly encouraged the meeting, not out of any love for Torenth but in hopes of putting to rest nearly seven years’ worth of letters sent periodically from the Court at Beldour, the Torenthi capital, badgering his wife about her hostage status.
She had answered that question quite firmly: that she was no longer hostage or Torenthi, but gave her loyalty to her husband’s liege lord in Rhemuth. The Torenthi prince had been quietly furious. Hence, this present conflict probably was not really about border disputes; it was Miklos’ response to her refusal to espouse the cause of his companion, finally revealed as Prince Marek of Festil, Pretender to the Crown of Gwynedd. And now Sudrey’s refusal had cost her her beloved Hrorik and the lives of many other loyal Eastmarch men.
“I do not think there will be activity farther north,” she whispered, raising her gaze above Corban’s head to where Eastmarch squires and men-at-arms were loosing the lashings that held a sad, tweed-wrapped shape across the saddle of a spent bay mare. “This is not the true invasion—though eventually, that will come. Hrorik and I had feared that such might happen, but not so soon. Prince Miklos tried to win me to his cause some months ago, appealing to my Torenthi blood. I refused, and this is the result. It has to do with the Festillic Pretender.”
“A feint, then, for testin’ the waters?” Corban asked, leaning heavily on Stacia to get to his feet.
“Aye—and perhaps a deliberate provocation, to lure the young king out of Rhemuth. They will know, or at least suspect, that he is not a free agent. I pray that, in meeting this new threat, he is also able to come into his own.”
“God grant it!” Corban said fervently. “But meanwhile, I must see that Eastmarch doesnae become the Pretender’s own.” He bent to press his lips to his son’s forehead, then thrust his bewildered wife from him as he called to several of the Eastmarch captains.
“Attend me, men of Eastmarch. We must ride for Marley, to seek Sighere’s aid. Elgin, I need those fresh horses now. Nicholas, have ye seen to those provisions? Murray, I give ye command o’ the garrison here at Lochalyn. I’m takin’ half a dozen men, in addition to Elgin. Will that leave ye enou’ tae hold the castle?”
Stacia looked thunderstruck, though Sudrey knew that Corban was only doing what he must, under the circumstances. He was a good commander, the son she had never borne. Behind him, some of the fittest-looking men were already mounting up again, others shouting answers to his questions.
“But, ye cannae just leave!” Stacia wailed. “What about my da? What about our bairn? What about me?”
“Mo rùn, my heart, your da is dead. I share yer grief, but I cannae change fate.” He turned aside to nod gruff thanks as a man brought up a fresh horse, setting foot to stirrup and springing up into the saddle. The animal was fractious, and nearly unseated him as another man off
ered him the flapping Eastmarch banner.
“But—that’s my father’s banner!” Stacia gasped, clutching her son closer and barely avoiding the horse’s hooves as her husband fought his mount and deftly footed the banner’s staff at his stirrup.
“Stacia, my daurlin’, have ye no been listenin’?” Corban said. “This is your banner, now that yer father is dead. ’Tis you who are Countess of Eastmarch. An’ that makes me Earl of Eastmarch, so ’tis also my banner. An’ one day, if we all live through this, it will be his banner.” He jerked his bearded chin toward their now squalling son, then cast a beseeching look at his wife’s mother.
“My lady, I beg ye to make her understand. I cannae delay more. See to the wounded. Bury Hrorik. Hold this castle, howe’er best ye can. I’ll bring ye help as soon as I may. Murray’s sendin’ messengers on to Rhemuth to inform the king. God keep ye.”
He was spurring back out the castle gates at the head of his tiny escort before either woman could gainsay him, the bright blue and gold and silver of the Eastmarch banner fluttering boldly above his head. Watching him go, Sudrey of Eastmarch, née of Rhorau, found herself already shifting into that calm, passionless efficiency that must be her bulwark for the next little while, setting aside the grief that would render her useless if she let it take over.
“Jervis, please start bringing the wounded into the great hall,” she said to her household steward, turning her back on the men now carrying the long, tweed-wrapped bundle toward the castle’s chapel. “That will serve the best as infirmary, until we can get everyone taken care of. Have the kitchen start boiling water and tell the women to gather bandages. And summon Father Collumcille and Father Derfel and that midwife from down in the village. She may be some help. And Murray—”
“Aye, my lady?”
“Did my husband’s battle surgeon come back from Culliecairn?”
“He did, my lady.” Murray was instructing the two messengers about to leave for Rhemuth, and looked like he, too, could use the surgeon’s services—or at least a woman’s hands—to clean and bind his wounds. “He’s already working on some men o’er in the stable entrance.”
“Well, have him move everything and everybody into the great hall as soon as he can. I want some order to this.”