The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy Page 11
He felt the tingle of heightened awareness in his fingertips, in his lips, behind his eyes; he sensed the nearness of the man Benedict on the other side of the grille, listening carefully to what Camber was saying, though Rhys himself heard not a word. Gently, he brought his right hand up to the brass of the grillework, rested his fingertips against the metal, warm to the touch.
Slitting his eyes open, bringing them close to the grille, he could see the outline of Benedict’s head against it, see the skin of his face pressed against the metal as he leaned close to hear the words which Camber spoke but Rhys did not hear. He marshalled his strength for a leap across the short space separating him from the man on the other side, letting his hand go flat against the grille, only millimeters of brass separating hand from other’s head.
Then he was extending himself across the greater void of mind to mind, slipping undetected through the other’s consciousness, which was so intent on words, mere words, while the real meaning wrapped itself around his mind. Then Rhys was in the other’s mind, questing gently for the proper spots to touch, probing relentlessly, but undetected, for the contact which would bring temporary oblivion.
He found it. He steadied his healing hold around the cause of consciousness, exerted pressure, and felt the other’s growing dizziness, the buzz of blurred responsiveness as Camber’s words ceased to make sense. Then the other was slumping against the wall, sliding to the floor unconscious, and another was rushing to his side, amazement and fear radiating from him.
Rhys gave a final touch to the other’s mind, to be certain that consciousness would be gone a sufficient length of time, then withdrew abruptly. He found that he was drenched with sweat, his left hand gripped tightly on Camber’s arm, the older man staring at him with respect and a little discomfort. He let go of Camber’s arm, reverting to spoken speech with a tremulous voice.
“What’s happened?”
“He’s fainted,” Camber murmured, a faint smile playing across his lips. “Brother Benedict!” he called. “Brother Benedict, are you all right?”
“He’s passed out. I think he’s ill,” came the voice of the abbot from the other side. “Brother Paul, Brother Phineas, attend us!”
A sound of running feet.
“Benedict, speak to us! Phineas, send for the infirmarian. He’s had a shock and passed out. Benedict, are you all right?”
Rhys tried to peer through the grille, but Camber merely continued to kneel, his head cocked slightly as he listened.
Offer to help, he mouthed silently.
Rhys pressed closer to the grille.
“Father Abbot, is there anything I can do to help? It’s Lord Rhys.”
Again they were ignored. There was the sound of more running feet, a low murmur of voices, and then a new voice saying, “I don’t understand why he doesn’t come around, Father Abbot. If he’s just fainted, he should have come around by now.”
“He’s been bled too much, if you ask me,” another voice said. “I told him that twice in the same month was too much.”
“Perhaps it isn’t just a fainting spell,” said a third. “Maybe it’s the plague!”
“The plague?” someone whispered. “Heaven preserve us!”
“Nonsense. Do you want to start a panic?” It was the voice of the abbot. “Lord Rhys, are you still there?”
“Yes, Father Abbot. I heard what happened. Is there anything I can do to help?”
He looked at Camber, and Camber nodded in hopeful anticipation.
“I’m not certain, my lord. Brother Benedict seems to have fainted, and our infirmarian is unable to revive him. Would you be willing to see him?”
“Please, Father Abbot, I would be most honored to lend whatever assistance I can. I feel somewhat responsible.” Camber rolled his eyes, smothering a chuckle, and Rhys flashed him a nervous glance. “I had no idea he would become so overwrought at the news of his grandfather’s death,” he added hastily.
“You are not to blame, my lord. Brother Phineas, please bring Lord Rhys inside. The rest of you, help me to take Brother Benedict to his cell.”
As sounds faded from the adjoining room, Camber stood stiffly and gave a great sigh.
“How long?” he whispered.
“Perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes.” Rhys hauled himself to his feet while trying to peer again through the brass grille. “I had a devil of a time putting him out, though. I should try to read him properly before I bring him around. It may be our only chance.”
“At least we’ll get a look at the inside of the compound,” Camber agreed. “If we—”
He broke off and coughed just before the door opened, and was straightening his robe as Brother Phineas peered into the chamber.
“Lord Rhys?”
“May I bring Brother Kyriell with me? We’ve worked together before.”
“Well—”
“Please, Brother. I am a monk,” Camber reminded him. “Come, there isn’t time to waste.”
That night, in their room at a distant inn, Camber and Rhys sat on either side of a small table, a lighted candle between them, their hands linked loosely to either side. On arriving, they had eaten a hasty meal in the common room downstairs, again thawing out from their wintry ride, then had hied themselves to their chamber. The past half-hour had been spent in deep trance, as Rhys imparted to Camber the little he had learned in his brief exploration of Cinhil’s mind; the impressions were more easily conveyed from mind to mind than in spoken words.
Cinhil. Now they were free to voice the name.
Camber was the first to stir, and he sat back in his chair with a sigh as he broke off contact, shaking his fingertips to restore the circulation. Rhys’s eyelids fluttered, and then he too was taking one deep breath, two, three, clearing away the residual effects of the trance from his mind. Camber suppressed a yawn as he poured mulled ale for the two of them.
“Your reading was only superficial, of course—and had to be, under the circumstances. But offhand, I will have to say that I’m impressed.”
Rhys rubbed his eyes and forced them to focus on the older man. “Aye. He’s brilliant, if undeveloped. But—” He sighed, a weary, frustrated sound. “Damn it, why does the man have to have a true vocation for the priesthood? That’s going to complicate things.”
“The man must be true to himself, else he would not be a true Haldane,” Camber smiled. “Cinhil is a priest, he feels that he was called to be that, and he is a good one. He could be no other, given his present circumstances.”
“Joram would understand that; I don’t,” Rhys said testily. “The question is, will he forsake that vocation for a crown? I think it’s clear that, with proper training, he has the ability to rule. But will he? Which will come first for him? The duty of his birth, or the duty of his vows? He’s going to have to make one hell of a choice. For that matter, can we even afford to let him make that choice?”
“To forsake his vows and wear the Crown.” Camber sighed. “To take a wife, produce heirs, re-establish a dynasty—things which, for most men, would be a joyous task. But it will never be so for Cinhil. He is a priest forever, I fear. And though we may force him to put aside his monkish robes, and walk the world again, and take a wife, and wear the crown of his ancestors—and we must do that, I know that now—I suspect he will nevermore be a truly happy man. We dare not even let him make the decision for himself, if there is any chance he will refuse us. Cinhil Haldane must be King.”
“Aye …”
Rhys rested his elbows on the table and let his hands support his head, strangely melancholy.
Camber was silent for a long time. Then: “You’re not certain, are you?”
Rhys shook his head wearily. “We know so little about him, Camber. What if we’re wrong?”
“That’s supposed to be my line.” Camber chuckled. “You and Joram are the ones who were going to be the crusaders against tyranny, and oust the evil king, and restore the true heir.”
Rhys smiled despite his fatigue, b
ut his expression was solemn as he looked again at Camber. “I know. And you’re right, of course. Cinhil has too much potential for us not to attempt a Restoration. But the price …”
“It will be high for all of us,” Camber nodded. “The peasants’ deaths will not be the last we shall have to pay. And Cinhil—Even if we bring him out of Saint Foillan’s, there’s still the matter of convincing him that he and only he can make the coup successful. I hesitate even to contemplate what that will cost the inner man.”
Rhys could only nod agreement as he readied himself for bed. But sleep did not come easily that night, for all his bone-weariness and mental fog from the day’s exertions. Long after Camber’s deep breathing told him that the other slept, Rhys lay staring at the dark ceiling of the chamber, listening to the night sounds of the inn, the winter wind whistling outside the shutters.
He kept thinking of the parts of Cinhil which he had not been able to read, which lay behind close-guarded shields that he had not expected to find in a human, and which he had not dared to probe, for fear of discovery.
He wondered how much Cinhil really knew of his true identity. And he wondered if the thought had ever crossed Cinhil’s mind that he might one day be called upon to assume his Haldane heritage and the Crown of Gwynedd.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wrath is cruel, and anger is outrageous; but who is able to stand before envy?
—Proverbs 27:4
In the practice yard of the royal armory at Valoret, Imre of Festil was hacking at a pell with a blunted blade, under the sharp-eyed scrutiny of a master of arms. A score of his retainers watched from the perimeter of the yard and occasionally shouted out words of encouragement and advice. But all other arms play had ceased when the king took the field. The caprice of Imre’s favor being what it was of late, few men were anxious to risk a misunderstanding of their intent.
Imre was exceedingly nervous of unsheathed steel in his presence, even when it was borne by men known to be loyal to the Crown. Some few men he permitted this liberty—Armagh and Selkirk, his chief weapons masters, and a handful of others. But to raise steel against the king at any time could be construed as treason, if the king chose to view it that way—even if the alleged traitor believed himself to have acted in sport. Would-be sparring partners risked contending with the king’s bodyguards, two of whom were lounging even now, with deceptive casualness, near the entrance to the armory proper, within easy hearing of the royal voice. It made the session less than relaxed.
Imre’s own martial abilities were not outstanding, which partly accounted for his attitude. His slight stature and indulgent upbringing had not been conducive to the molding of a master swordsman, nor was this really in Imre’s area of interest. He was judged by his fighting masters to be merely competent with broadsword and shield, and they had long ago despaired of teaching him to wield a greatsword or couch a lance with any degree of proficiency. However, this did not mean that the king’s skill should be taken lightly. His apparent level of competence was often deceiving. More than one adversary had made a mistake, only to have Imre’s blade slip suddenly home beneath a careless guard. Though his bodyguards were always nearby, it was clear—to those who knew—that Imre did not always have to rely on others’ steel to save him from would-be assassins.
Indeed, Imre’s favored weapon was not the sword at all, but the more sub le dagger. At this deadly game, even his instructors had to concede that the king had few peers. Armagh, the master now scrutinizing Imre’s swordwork with the pells, bore a long, raised scar across one forearm to this day—lasting reminder of a practice bout in which he had allowed himself to become careless.
Imre, his pell work completed, turned and saluted the instructor in question, then strode into the center of the yard and began readjusting a vambrace that had begun to slip.
Master Selkirk, who had been arming on the sidelines, took this as his signal and moved onto the field, ponderous in heavy padding, mail, and great barrel helm. Bending knee before the king he offered up his blunted sword, hilt first, as was customary when requesting permission to cross blades with the Crown.
Imre laughed inside his helmet and touched Selkirk’s helm lightly with his own sword in acceptance, then saluted his retainers with a flourish as they burst into scattered applause. Soon he and Selkirk were circling warily, each looking for the best opening blow. The retainers resumed their low conversation as Selkirk and the king began sparring.
Cathan MacRorie was among the circle of intimates waiting upon the king this morning. Indeed, it was Cathan’s first appearance at an inner Court function in many a week. Though he had dutifully appeared at Court each day since his return after the executions, he had not been summoned to the royal presence until this very day. In fact, Imre had made pointed detours to avoid any encounter with his former favorite.
But today had been different. Cathan had presented himself at the Chapel Royal for the morning devotions of the Court as usual, fully expecting to be royally snubbed as he had been for the past three weeks. But instead, when the king had emerged from his session with his confessor, he had headed straight for Cathan and embraced him warmly, declaring his unhappiness at having shunned his friend for these many weeks. He had realized, he said, that Cathan’s behavior regarding the executed hostages was out of filial duty to his father, and not out of defiance of his king and friend. And he, Imre, had been wrong to exclude his good and faithful Cathan from his presence for doing only what he ought, as a dutiful son. Could Cathan ever forgive him?
Cathan could. Much taken aback, and flattered by the king’s public show of reconciliation, Cathan was only too willing to renew the royal friendship: despite Imre’s faults, Cathan was still devoted to the king. The invitation to watch Imre at the armoury was further proof that all was forgiven.
Now Cathan stood in the place of honor beside Imre’s squire, the king’s tankard and towel in his hands. He smiled and nodded approval as Imre completed a particularly difficult combination move against Selkirk and glanced in his direction. Behind him, Jamie Drummond and Guaire of Arliss applauded politely, their faces betraying none of the misgivings they felt about the entire morning’s events. Cathan, in his happiness, had already decided to ignore the glares which were coming this way from the other side of the yard.
The source of the majority of these glares was Coel Howell, standing sullenly beside the two warrior-earls, Maldred and Santare. It was Coel who had supplanted Cathan with Imre during the past few weeks, and who now faced possible exclusion if Cathan should be restored to the royal favor.
After a few minutes, Coel called his squire and began pulling on gauntlets, coif, and helm. He made an inaudible remark which set his companions to sniggering as they glanced in Cathan’s direction. The sparring slowed to a halt as Coel took up sword and shield and strode onto the field.
“Sire, I mean no offense to Master Selkirk, but ’tis apparent that he is weary today, and cannot give Your Grace the challenge you desire. I am hardly a match for Your Highness, but I would be honored to provide you more energetic sport.”
“Aye, friend Coel,” the king grinned, dismissing Selkirk with a wave of his sword. “Come and have to!”
Coel bowed in formal request to approach with steel, and then the two began to spar.
Cathan’s mouth tightened as he watched, not certain what to make of his kinsman’s move. Coel was more than ten years the king’s senior, and outweighed Imre by a considerable amount—a fact which made for a distinct advantage against the small and lightweight king.
Imre was fast—there was no doubt about that. And his form was basically sound: the finest swordsmen in the land had been his mentors at one time or another. In fact, Cathan had never seen him in better form than he was today. But Coel was the better swordsman, though he rarely made a public spectacle of this talent. And he was pulling his blows whenever he could get away with it.
Cathan’s lips compressed in a hard, tight line as he realized what Coel was doing.
But it was part and parcel of a larger plan.
A seemingly chance parry raised a little to the right brought a flash of sunlight lancing into Coel’s helm—not Imre’s—reflecting blindingly off a leaded window behind the king. Coel missed his step and faltered, dropping his shield just a fraction, and Imre used the opening to advantage. His blunted sword came swooping from behind his head in a solid blow to the side of Coel’s helm, connecting with a sound which echoed across the yard and made Coel stagger.
Playing the game to its proper conclusion—for, with proper weapons, he would have been dead—Coel reeled and let fall his sword, then toppled slowly and noisily to the ground. Imre’s courtiers applauded politely as the king doffed his helmet and extended a hand to help Coel up.
“Well fought!” the king laughed, clenching the older man’s wrist in his fist as Coel scrambled to his feet. “I’ll swear, you nearly had me there. Bad luck for the sun to flash in your eyes that way!”
“Nay, ’twas your skill, Sire,” Coel replied, smiling as he gave his shield to a waiting squire. “I fought well enough today, but you are improving. The best man won—that is all.” He pulled off his helm and gauntlets, as well, and gave them to a waiting page.