The Quest for Saint Camber Read online

  “Perhaps. Tell me, do you really expect to find Saint Camber’s relics this summer?”

  “I hope to. It’s important to me.” He gulped another swallow of his wine. “Does that interest you—the prospect of restoring his cult in Gwynedd?”

  “As a Deryni? Of course it does. We haven’t many Deryni saints—even discredited ones. His cult was never really strong in Nur Hallaj, but it never quite died out, either—perhaps because so many Michaelines fled through the Forcinn, after they were expelled from Gwynedd.”

  Kelson swallowed, suddenly awkward as he saw the opportunity to ask the question he had been wanting to ask all evening.

  “How about as a religious?” he murmured. “Does your order support what I want to do?”

  “My order is not Deryni, Sire,” she said demurely, from under lowered lashes. “Nor have I made a point of telling them what you want to do.”

  “Did you—ah—receive some special dispensation to wear—er, not to wear your habit today?” Kelson dared to ask.

  She looked him full in the eyes for just a second, far more boldly than he had dreamed she would dare, then quickly glanced at her feet, slippered in purple velvet.

  “I—did not think it needful to ask, Sire. I am a princess of royal blood, privileged to reside in the household of a most noble king. On the day that king was to receive his knighthood, it seemed fitting that I dress in a way appropriate to my station, to do him honor.”

  Kelson swallowed, still not satisfied with her answer.

  “I appreciate the honor you have done me, Princess, but I would not have you compromise the honor you owe to God. I am a man. I am not made of iron.”

  “I know that,” she said, a blush staining her cheeks, even beneath her veil.

  “And?” he persisted.

  “And I—have found, in these past few months, that I am no longer certain I mean to take my final vows,” she managed to whisper. “I—have never questioned my vocation before now.”

  When she did not go on and would not look up at him, Kelson slowly nodded, cautious relief flooding into his breast. Thank God Morgan had not come to rescue him when Kelson first had wished it.

  “You need say no more, my lady,” he murmured. “In a few days, I shall be leaving again for several months. Perhaps—both of us might spend some of that time apart in careful consideration of what your words might mean. I pray that you—and God—will forgive me if I dare to hope you do not take final vows.”

  “There is nothing to forgive, Sire—or, if there is, I forgive you freely, as I know Our Lord will also do. This decision is mine to make. It is I who must resolve the questions rising in my own heart. You are not the cause of those questions; you are only a catalyst. It might well be that I would have reached this point even if we had never met.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Kelson tossed off the rest of his wine, then glanced out uneasily into the hall again. Now was the time for Morgan to show up. He had learned what he set out to learn and was well content with what he had found out—at least for now—but he did not wish to risk destroying it by dwelling on the point, or by encouraging court gossip that might also put pressure on this fragile victory. Fortunately, rescue was ready at hand, for Morgan was, indeed, approaching.

  “Ah, Morgan,” he hailed him. “I see that you’ve returned. Do you have a report for me?”

  “Most assuredly, Sire,” Morgan said, bowing and then handing Rothana down the step from the window bay. “My lady, I apologize if I’ve interrupted your conversation.”

  “Nay, Your Grace, methinks I should see how the Princess Janniver fares. If you will excuse me. Sire.”

  When she had made her curtsey and retired, Morgan turned back to Kelson.

  “All’s well?” the king asked.

  “Aye. Rasoul and his men should be underway by now. We left them just short of Desse. Rasoul gave me his solemn oath that he wouldn’t go anywhere but there. If he was lying, I couldn’t tell. What’s happened while we were gone?”

  Kelson shrugged and came down out of the window bay, and the two of them headed slowly toward the dais where a rowdy handful of Dhugal’s bordermen had surrounded him and Duncan and were singing them a bawdy song.

  “Nothing much,” the king said. “I was a little uneasy about our Torenthi plans, after some of the things Rasoul said, so I’ve called a meeting of the privy council for noon tomorrow. I’d rather have done it tonight, but this was hardly the time or place. It occurred to me that Rothana might have some additional insight on Rasoul’s thinking, since he used to frequent her father’s court when she was a girl, so I’ve asked her to join us.”

  Morgan nodded. “What about Cardiel and Arilan? Are they coming?”

  “I suppose. After you and Duncan left, they disappeared.” Kelson hunched down in his crimson mantle and studied his spur straps as they continued to walk. “I suppose they retired early; it was a long day. Anyway, I sent pages to both their apartments with written notice.”

  Morgan nodded grimly. “I—think they were not pleased with Duncan’s revelation. It remains to be seen what they’ll do about it—though it shouldn’t affect tomorrow’s meeting. Even Rasoul recognized that there was something wrong, however. And I think Duncan may be having second thoughts now.”

  They had nearly reached the dais, and Dhugal’s jubilant bordermen turned to greet them with a ragged chorus of border cheers and upraised goblets, most of them empty. The newly knighted Jass MacArdry had removed his crimson mantle and draped it ceremoniously around Duncan’s shoulders, and one of the MacArdry drummers was beating a slurred tattoo with his sticks on the edge of a stool, his drum having been temporarily “lost” through the good graces of the efficient deputy of Lord Rhodri.

  “Urram do’n Righ!” said Ciard O Ruane, sloshing wine into Kelson’s cup and thrusting another into Morgan’s hand as a pair of pages saw to the others. “Homage to our king! Th’ MacArdry’s men salute ye, Ceannard Mhor, fer rightin’ the wrong tha’ was done t’ this fine son of th’ McLains! ’Twas well done, t’knight Sir Duncan. Slainte!”

  “Air do slainte, gentlemen,” Kelson responded with a grin, lifting his cup in salute. “To your very good health! And I’m glad you approve.”

  “Slainte, Ard Righ … slainte!” the bordermen responded, draining their cups to the dregs and sweeping great bows to the high king.

  “I thank you for your vote of confidence, gentlemen. That’s heartening, after the words of the Torenthi ambassador. Dolfin—”

  He snapped his fingers to catch the attention of his new senior squire, waiting attendance at the back of the dais.

  “Aye, my lord?”

  “Dolfin, please tell Lord Rhodri that I said to break out a beaker of our best Fianna wine for the enjoyment of these leal MacArdry men.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And have I anyone on duty in my apartments tonight, or are they all here reveling?”

  “No, my lord. Ivo Hepburn awaits your pleasure.”

  “Ah, good. You can retire, then, after you’ve run that errand to Rhodri. I shan’t need both of you tonight.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  When the lad had hurried off to do Kelson’s bidding, with the MacArdry men trailing after to claim their promised reward, Kelson sighed and glanced around the quieting hall. The musicians had finished their last piece and were packing up instruments in the rear gallery, and inebriated revelers who had no other quarters in the castle were beginning to bed down on pallets along the edges of the hall. The ladies largely had withdrawn.

  “God, I’m tired,” Kelson breathed.

  “You’re tired,” Dhugal said with a snort, “I’m the one who’s been doing all the dancing.”

  “And your father and I,” said Morgan, “are the ones who rode nearly to Desse and back while you and our gracious king feasted and drank yourselves nearly to happy oblivion. And that being the case, I, for one, am about ready for some serious drinking before I go up to bed.” He loosened
the throat of his tunic and glanced wistfully at the other three. “Anyone care to join me? Ewan brought Nigel a fine old flask of Vezaire port to celebrate Conall’s knighting, and the good dukes have invited Saer and me to sample it. We might even talk about bishops. There’s room for a few more, if anyone wants.”

  Duncan shook his head wearily. “Not I, I’m afraid. Vezaire port may be smooth going down, but in the morning you’ll wish it had done no such thing. And tomorrow morning, I have to be a bishop again.” A worried look flitted across his face for an instant and was as quickly replaced by a roguish grin. “In case any of you have forgotten, tomorrow is Ash Wednesday. I expect to see all three of you at the cathedral for my first Mass and ashes. No pious knight would miss it.”

  “I hate it when he puts things that way,” Morgan muttered, with a pained grimace. “I suppose that means he isn’t coming. Either of you care to join me? If you shiny new knights don’t mind drinking with tired old generals, that is.”

  “I think Dhugal and I will pass as well,” Kelson replied with a grin, “though not because of the company. It has been a long day, and this shiny new knight who’s king has something he’d like to discuss with another of his shiny new knights, before either of them passes out from exhaustion. Do you mind, Dhugal?”

  “Me? Not at all, Sire.”

  “We’ll walk out with you, though,” Kelson said.

  They parted just outside the hall, Morgan and Duncan quickly disappearing in separate directions, and Kelson and Dhugal making their way briskly to Kelson’s tower apartments. Squire Ivo, a perky twelve-year-old with a thicket of dark, curly hair, had Kelson’s slippers laid out and a fire already lit on the hearth, anxious to please, but he obviously was put off balance when Kelson requested water for himself and his guest instead of the wine the boy had ready.

  “Just—water, my lord?”

  “That’s right. Just water. God knows I’ve had enough wine. Or would you prefer wine, Dhugal?”

  “Water is fine for me, Sire,” Dhugal replied, carefully formal in front of the new squire, as the two of them sat before the fireplace.

  “Water it is, then, Ivo.”

  Ivo brought the water dutifully enough and set pitcher and cups on the hearth as directed before crouching to remove his new master’s spurs and boots, but Kelson could see at once that the boy was all set to be too attentive, once his duties were completed. Nor would he be dismissed as easily as the more experienced Dolfin, who had already been in Kelson’s service as junior squire for a year or more and knew his master’s preferences.

  I suppose I’d better get this over with, once and for all, the king whispered in Dhugal’s mind, flicking him a resigned glance when Ivo had ducked his head to wrestle with a balky buckle on the right spur. Pay attention. You may need to do something like this for yourself some day.

  And as he casually dropped his right hand to the boy’s bent head, he reached out with his mind for control.

  “Relax, Ivo,” he commanded, intensifying his mental touch as the young mind unexpectedly sensed the intrusion and the body started to tense. “No, close your eyes and don’t fight me. I promise I won’t hurt you—on the oaths we exchanged.”

  Kelson sensed that the boy had been half-expecting something of this sort—one could hardly spend much time around court and not have heard at least rumors of what the king could do with his mysterious powers—but he was pleased when the resistance immediately ceased and the young mind tried to still, though he could feel a faint trembling beneath his hand.

  Continuing to croon words of encouragement and reassurance, the king drew the boy’s dark head gently against his knee and deepened control, then sat forward slightly so he could ease both hands to either side, thumbs resting against the boy’s temples and fingers sliding among the crisp curls for closer contact yet. Immediately the trembling stopped. He let his gaze shift to focus through the fire as he set his instructions.

  “That’s much better. No need to be frightened. Listen carefully now. When you’ve finished with the boots, you’re to lie down on your pallet and go to sleep. You’ll not stir unless someone from the outside should knock. If you should overhear anything spoken between myself and Earl Dhugal tonight, you’ll forget it. In fact, if at any time in the future you should overhear conversation between myself and any other person, you’re to forget it unless I, personally, ask you to remember. This is something I require of all my squires and pages, do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lord,” the boy whispered.

  “Good.” Kelson sat back quietly, keeping contact only with a light touch of one hand on the side of the boy’s neck. “You can stop being anxious, then. I doubt we’ll ever need to have this conversation again. In fact, this is the most I’ll ever do to you without your consent, unless it’s a life and death situation. If you pay attention to your duties, you’ll find I’m extremely easy to work for. All right? You can look at me now, if you want—really.”

  The boy lifted his head and blinked a little tentatively, just slightly glassy-eyed, but the former tension was gone.

  “I’ll do my best, my lord.”

  “Fine. That’s all I’ll ever ask of any man: his best. Now, you’ll follow the instructions I’ve just given you, but you’ll forget I gave them.” He clasped his hand once on the boy’s shoulder with a smile and released control. “You can finish with the boots now.”

  As he sat back with a deliberately vocal yawn, stretching his arms to either side, the boy returned immediately to the recalcitrant spur strap, leaving Dhugal the opportunity to cast an impressed glance at his blood brother as he poured himself another cup of water, yawning.

  “I must learn how you do that,” Dhugal said, saluting Kelson with the cup.

  “What, yawn? You’re doing very well without instruction, I should think. And we’ve certainly earned the right.” As Ivo pulled off the offending spur, followed quickly by its boot, and scrambled to his feet, boots and spurs in his arms, Kelson yawned again and gave the boy a reassuring wink.

  “Well done, Ivo. You see, the king’s feet stink just like anyone else’s, after two nights and a day inside boots. I put those on before the vigil last night and haven’t had them off since.”

  He grinned as the boy tried to stifle a surprised gasp, and deliberately shifted his gaze as he gestured toward the spur strap dangling from the boy’s hand.

  “Incidentally, I think Duke Alaric must have gotten that strap one hole too tight, when he was putting it on me this morning. That’s why it gave you trouble. Perhaps you can work on it in the morning.”

  “I’ll—be happy to, Sire,” the boy managed to reply, eyes shining as he clutched the boots and spurs to his breast. “Will there be anything else tonight, sir?”

  “No, Ivo. Nothing else. You may go to bed. Incidentally, you’d best wake me in time for Mass at Terce. If I don’t show up, Bishop Duncan will have me saying Pater Nosters until I’m fifty. It’s Ash Wednesday, you know.”

  “Aye, my lord,” the boy agreed. “Ah—how long will you need?”

  Kelson smiled. “You’d better allow an hour. With as much wine as I drank tonight, I may find it a little difficult to get going. Oh, and Ivo—”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “It’s a prerogative of royal squires to attend Mass with the king, if they like. You’re most welcome to come along.”

  “Oh, yes, my lord!” the boy breathed, his face wreathed in smiles as he gave the king a parting bow.

  When he had left the room and closed the door, Kelson sighed and stretched his legs closer to the fire, luxuriating in the warmth and the feel of the bearskin rug against his stockinged feet.

  “Ah, that Ivo’s going to be a good one, Dhugal,” he murmured.

  “You’re not so bad yourself,” Dhugal said admiringly. “God, how I love to watch you work with your men. I hope I’m half as good someday.”

  Kelson snorted and picked up his cup of water. “I wish I could work as well with women. That’s what I w
anted to talk to you about.”

  “Women? Or one woman in particular?” Dhugal asked, raising an eyebrow in speculation.

  “Does it show?”

  “Well, since the only woman you spent any time with at all this evening was Rothana—assuming we can discount your Aunt Meraude—I gather that you must mean her. But no, it doesn’t show. Besides, she’s a nun, isn’t she—or going to be?”

  “That was the assumption, up until tonight. I didn’t expect you to have noticed, though. You were too busy trying to figure out how to get the Earl of Carthane’s daughter off in a dark corner. You’re no help at all.”

  “I did get Carthane’s daughter off in a corner—and got a kiss for my trouble, too!” Dhugal said with a wicked grin. “But, what do you mean, ‘that was the assumption’? Isn’t Rothana going to be a nun?” He cocked his head. “Good God, come to think of it, she wasn’t wearing her religious habit, was she? Something sort of—purplish, and foreign looking.”

  “She said it was because of the formality of the court, to do honor to the knightings, as a prince’s daughter.” He sipped at his cup. “Two breaths later, though, she said that she—was no longer certain she intended to take her final vows.”

  “Sweet Jesu,” Dhugal breathed.

  Tentatively, he reached out his mind to Kelson’s, not surprised or offended when the other’s thoughts remained shielded from him.

  “Are you in love with her?” he asked.

  Slowly Kelson shook his head, not looking at his friend, holding the cool side of his cup against his forehead.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, she is Deryni, and royal,” Dhugal ventured. “And she’s certainly beautiful. Those are all excellent recommendations. Is it because she was supposed to become a nun that you’re unsure?”

  Smiling, Kelson shook his head again, gazing unseeing into the fire as his thumb played at the ring on the little finger of his left hand. Dhugal saw the gesture and guessed another possible reason for Kelson’s uncertainty, for the slender band had been Kelson’s bridal token to his dead first wife Sidana, the Mearan princess whose name meant silk—second cousin to Dhugal himself, and slain by her own brother before her marriage vows with Kelson were even minutes old. Dhugal had never been able to decide for certain whether Kelson had actually loved Sidana. He knew that Kelson had tried to convince himself that he loved her, especially after the fact; but perhaps guilt over her death was as much a motivation as love.