The Bastard Prince Page 3

  “Beg pardon, Sire,” his senior aide murmured, easing past the squire with a plain white belt in his hands.

  Faintly bemused, the king lifted both arms away from his sides to allow it. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, Sir Fulk Fitz-Arthur was several years his junior, obliging and loyal enough in most things, but loyal first to his father, Lord Tammaron, if pushed to a choice. Rhys Michael tried to avoid forcing that choice whenever possible, for he honestly liked Fulk and sensed that the liking was mutual; but not for an instant did he believe that mere fondness might make Fulk overlook forbidden deviations from what the great lords permitted.

  Far more certain was the loyalty of his other aide, who was shaking out a scarlet over-robe over in the better light of an open window. A year younger than Fulk, and brother to Rhys Michael’s beloved Michaela, Sir Cathan Drummond had been a towheaded squire of twelve on that awful day of the coup, witness to much of the slaughter, nearly a victim himself, and as helpless as Rhys Michael to prevent any of it.

  Fortunately, the great lords had stopped short of killing the queen’s brother the way they had so many others of those loyal to the Haldanes. After several months’ confinement following the coup, upon giving his solemn oath never to speak of what he had witnessed that day, Cathan had been permitted to return to the royal household, the token member actually to be chosen by the new king and queen and the only person, other than themselves, on whom they could always and utterly rely.

  It had not taken Cathan long to discover what he must do in order to stay alive, even if he was the queen’s brother. Grudgingly permitted to resume his training in arms, as well as the gentler accomplishments expected of noble young men headed toward knighthood, he had quickly learned not to do too well at anything that might suggest a threat to those who were the true masters at Rhemuth Castle. His eventual knighting, the previous Twelfth Night, had been one of the few acts as king that Rhys Michael had performed gladly, of his own volition. Permission to appoint Cathan as a second aide had been an unexpected dividend of the evening, though the king suspected expediency rather than charity to have been Hubert’s motive. Now a belted knight as well as brother to the queen, Cathan was least apt to cause trouble if he continued directly in the royal household, where he could be watched. It kept Cathan himself under scrutiny, but at least it allowed Rhys Michael an adult confidant and ally besides his wife.

  As if sensing the king’s fond gaze upon him, Cathan came smiling now to lay the scarlet over-robe around his sovereign’s shoulders. The fronts were stiff with gold embroidery, as were the wide cuffs of the sleeves, and the broad clasp Cathan snapped closed across the chest resembled the morse of a bishop’s cope. He had pinned to the robe’s left shoulder a large, fist-sized brooch with the golden lion of Gwynedd embossed upon it, the background inlaid in crimson enamel—Michaela’s gift to the king on the birth of little Prince Owain. For the three of them, it had come to symbolize their hopes of a House of Haldane no longer fettered by the great lords.

  Blessing Cathan for having thought of it, especially today, Rhys Michael let his fingertips brash the brooch in passing as he adjusted the hang of a flowing sleeve, knowing Cathan would catch the significance. Fulk had turned away briefly to fetch a burnished metal mirror, so missed the gesture entirely.

  “A good choice, Sire,” Fulk declared, as he angled the mirror to reflect the royal image.

  “Yes, I thought so.”

  Critically the king studied the overall effect, nervously ruffling one hand through the short-cropped black cap of his hair as he turned to view himself from several angles. He would have preferred to wear his hair longer, perhaps pulled back in a queue or braid, but for some reason the great lords insisted that he keep it short—almost clerical in its severity, though without the shaved tonsure. He had often wondered why—further assertion of their control over every aspect of his life, he suspected. But it sometimes had occurred to him to wonder whether they thought that, as with Samson, they could keep him from gaining strength by cutting his hair.

  At least the stark barbering let the Eye of Rom be seen. The great ruby glowering in his right earlobe had belonged to his father and both his brothers before him and was regarded as part of the official regalia of Gwynedd. King Cinhil had been the first Haldane to wear the stone, but the men who eventually became the great lords of Gwynedd remained unaware that it had been given to Cinhil by the Deryni mage later to be known as Saint Camber. Ancient tradition, likewise unknown to the great lords, identified the stone as one of the gifts of the Magi to the Christ Child, later sold to finance the flight to Egypt. Whether or not that was true, Rhys Michael regarded it as one of his few true links with the kingship he feared he might never wield in fact.

  “This will do nicely,” he said, turning back to Cathan. “Let’s have the crown, then.”

  From a handsome wooden casket studded with brass nail heads, Cathan carefully lifted out the gold and silver State Crown of Gwynedd, with its leaves and crosses intertwined. Cabochon rubies the size of a man’s thumbnail had been added to the crown since the coronation six years before, with lesser gems also gleaming among the crown’s interstices. Against the sable Haldane hair, as Rhys Michael ducked his head to receive it, the effect was truly majestic.

  “Yes, indeed,” Fulk murmured approvingly, as he surveyed the king over the top of the mirror, and Cathan also grinned his agreement. “That should make the Torenthi herald sit up and take notice.”

  “Let’s see, shall we?” the king replied, smiling.

  Before that question could be answered, though, he must first submit to a final briefing, back in the little withdrawing room behind the dais of the great hall. Afterward, he was told to delay his entrance while the great lords took their own places and the hall had a chance to settle—which also gave him opportunity to survey his audience before he went out. He reviewed his instructions and prayed for courage as he cautiously twitched aside a fold of the heavy velvet that curtained the opening through the screens to the dais beyond.

  The high-beamed hall was not as crowded as it might have been—which was just as well, since he expected this would be a rather less congenial court than most, based on the news from Eastmarch and that assumed to be borne by the Torenthi herald. Accordingly, he was a little surprised to see a fair number of ladies present—mostly the wives and daughters of the great lords or ladies from the queen’s household, twittering anxiously among themselves as they settled on benches in the window embrasures that overlooked the castle gardens. A few were even carrying baskets of embroidery.

  He supposed this did concern them, if Gwynedd went to war. Michaela had wanted to attend, but Hubert had forbidden it. He and Paulin were standing along the right side of the dais, Paulin apparently briefing the seated Archbishop Oriss, who had been specially summoned from his sickbed for the occasion and who looked as if he might not make it through the court Behind them, Tammaron was instructing a captain of archers, surreptitiously indicating the long gallery that overlooked the right side of the hall. Farther to the left, just off the dais, Rhun and Manfred appeared to be lecturing an angry looking Lord Richard Murdoch. Albertus was not in evidence. Out in the hall itself, scores of knights and lesser courtiers were also drifting toward the dais where the king shortly would emerge.

  And far at the back of the hall, carefully watched by guards in Haldane livery, the legation from Torenth was waiting: half a dozen men-at-arms in eastern-style armor, cloaked in the tawny orange of the Torenthi House of Furstan. One of them bore a flagstaff trailing a banner of white silk. Beneath that banner stood a short, dark man who must be the Torenthi herald. As expected, his tabard bore the springing black hart of Furstan on a silver roundel, differenced of a golden coronet around its proud neck.

  “I think they’re about ready for us, Sire,” Fulk murmured close by his right ear.

  With a grunt for answer, Rhys Michael let fall the curtain and held out his hand to Cathan for the sheathed Haldane sword, laying it in the cradle of his lef
t arm with the hilt like a cross at his elbow. At his nod, Fulk grasped an edge of the heavy curtain and drew it aside, following when the king and then Cathan had gone through.

  Those first to notice his entrance stirred and then grew silent as he crossed the dais, turning to follow his progress and bowing when he passed, but not giving his arrival the formality of a state entry, lest too much ceremony acknowledge the importance of the men waiting. Rhys Michael acknowledged their bows with an air of preoccupation, settling stiffly into the throne-chair set under the Haldane canopy, and then handing off the Haldane sword to Cathan again. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing it were Javan still alive to sit here in his place, but he made himself dismiss the thought as futile. Javan was dead, and he was alive; and if he hoped to stay alive, he must be very, very careful how he handled this.

  And as Constable Udaut came forward to inquire about the visitors seeking audience at the back of the hall, another reason for caution suddenly became clear. Lord Albertus was entering through the screen entrance at the other side of the dais, accompanied by the two haggard-looking Eastmarch messengers and a handful of his staff, mostly black-robed Custodes knights. Among the latter, similarly garbed in black, was a small, dark man known only as Dimitri, said to be Deryni, though few at court were aware of that. Though ostensibly employed by Paulin and the Custodes Fidei, his exact allegiance was unknown, the last time Rhys Michael heard—and it had been Javan who had told him that, in one of their last conversations before Javan rode off to what was to be his death. In the back of his mind, Rhys Michael had always wondered whether the mysterious Dimitri was at least partially responsible for the treachery.

  It was certain that Javan’s Deryni allies had not counted Dimitri an ally; and whether he was working only for Paulin and his Custodes remained an unanswered question. Not for the first time, Rhys Michael lamented the fact that not one of Javan’s Deryni allies had managed to make contact with him since Javan’s death, though reason reminded him of their small numbers even then; and the few that he knew of personally had died by the same treachery that took Javan.

  The one ray of hope that made him keep believing that there had ever been Deryni backing for the House of Haldane was the fact that, as Javan had predicted, Rhys Michael gradually had learned to discern whether a man was telling the truth. This usually was a Deryni talent, he knew, and ordinary humans could not detect or prevent its use against them—a decided advantage in his present circumstances, except that even if Dimitri had not been present, the Torenthi herald and at least some of his escort undoubtedly were Deryni.

  This rather canceled out any advantage his meager talent might have given him; for Deryni, though they could not prevent being Truth-Read, sometimes could detect it. It would not do for the Torenthi herald to know what Rhys Michael could do, even if he could keep it from Dimitri.

  He dared not Truth-Read during court today, then—and he must guard his own words, for both the herald and Dimitri undoubtedly would seek to Truth-Read him. As Albertus and his party came to stand just behind Rhun and Manfred and Richard, the king shifted his attention back to Udaut, who had started purposefully toward the back of the hall.

  Udaut did not announce the visitors waiting there; merely gave them leave with a gesture to approach, turning then to proceed back up the hall in the assumption that they would follow. They did, but the men-at-arms made their own statement of their presence, drawing to attention with much stamping and clashing of arms in martial drill, then pacing behind Udaut with heavy tread, the banner bearer and a bemused herald following almost indolently behind.

  When the six guardsmen reached the dais before the throne, they came to a halt with another stamping of steel-shod feet and clashing of mailed fists on ornate breastplates, then parted to make an aisle through which their leader might proceed. The man with the banner footed his staff with a clash of metal against the wooden floor, dipping the white silk in salute as the herald gave a restrained, formal bow.

  “Rhys Haldane of Gwynedd,” the herald said, the clear voice lightly accented as he drew himself erect from his bow. The man’s dark hair was cut short around his long face, the severity emphasizing high cheekbones and slightly canted dark eyes above a thin moustache and a small, close-clipped beard. “Hear the words of my master, the Prince Miklos of Torenth, who acts in behalf of his kinsman, the royal Marek of Festil, rightful king of this realm.”

  “Sir, you stand before the rightful king of this realm!” Richard Murdoch said, hotheaded and belligerent as he took a step forward, one gloved hand wrapped taut over the pommel of his sword. “You will observe appropriate courtesy.”

  The herald inclined his head indulgently toward the younger man. “My master has not sent me to debate titles, my lord. His message is for the Haldane.”

  “Then, speak,” Rhys Michael said, before Richard could reply. “The Haldane is listening.”

  “My lord.” The herald inclined his head again. “My gracious prince bids me instruct this court on the antiquity of the noble House of Festil, which sprang from the royal line of Torenth and ruled in Gwynedd for nearly a century. Prince Marek of Festil is the current representer of that noble house. Through his marriage last year to the Princess Charis, Duchess of Tolan and sister to my lord Prince Miklos and King Arion of Torenth, Prince Marek has confirmed, ratified, and strengthened his royal heritage. Already, the royal and ducal line is renewed and secured in the person of his firstborn son, the future Duke of Tolan, who also will rule one day in Gwynedd as King Imre the Second.”

  A low mutter escaped Rhun’s lips, but Hubert slightly raised a pudgy hand in forbearance. Rhys Michael felt a cold chill of dread churning in his gut, spiced by anger, but the herald was not yet finished.

  “To that end,” the man went on, “and in celebration of the birth of the young prince, my lord Prince Miklos would invite the Haldane court to attend his nephew’s christening at Culliecairn, which castle and town my lord Miklos means to present to the royal child as a christening gift.”

  A murmur of outrage began to ruffle through the hall, but the herald’s voice rose above it as he continued.

  “If the Haldane would dispute the giving of Culliecairn to this heir of Prince Marek, let him present himself before the city gates within ten days, no later than Saint John’s Eve, prepared to show legal proofs why Culliecairn should not become the birthright of Prince Imre of Festil.”

  “By God, he goes too far!” Manfred muttered dangerously.

  “He has some cheek!” Tammaron declared.

  “This is an outrage not to be borne!” Rhun roared.

  Though in total agreement for once, Rhys Michael kept his anger in check, staying further uproar of his great lords with an upraised hand which, somewhat to his surprise, was heeded.

  “Peace, gentlemen. We must not confuse the messenger with the message. What is your name, sir herald?”

  “Eugen von Rostov, my lord,” the man replied, with a curt inclination of his head.

  “Eugen von Rostov.” Rhys Michael repeated the name, giving its pronunciation the same accent as its owner did. “Pray, forgive me if I appear to have missed something, but is it Prince Miklos or Prince Marek who affronts my sovereignty by laying claim to my property?”

  Smiling faintly, the herald favored Rhys Michael with a graceful inclination of his dark head. “Why, ’tis not intended to affront Gwynedd’s sovereignty, my lord, but to ameliorate a slight, no doubt unintentional, incurred when Gwynedd neglected to invite a representative of Torenth to your Highness’ coronation. No doubt the precipitous timing of that event contributed to the oversight, following hardly a year after your predecessor’s coronation. Nonetheless, my lord’s advisors felt certain that your Highness would wish to make amends by attending a similarly auspicious royal event in Torenth.”

  “The christening of my rival’s heir in Culliecairn, sir herald?” Rhys Michael replied. “Surely you jest. Not only that, your geography is faulty. Culliecairn is in Gwynedd.�
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  The herald spread his hands in a dismissive gesture. “No longer, my lord. Furthermore, its giving to my Lord Marek’s heir satisfies the social obligation of presenting suitable gifts at the christening of a royal heir. Having designated the castle and town of Culliecairn as a sufficiently princely endowment for his royal nephew, my lord Prince Miklos took possession last week, thus sparing you the effort of bringing a gift along.”

  “I prefer to make my own decisions regarding the giving of gifts,” Rhys Michael said quietly, “and while I understand a father’s pride in the birth of a son, you will excuse me, I hope, if I do not share your enthusiasm regarding a further pretender to my throne.

  “Furthermore”—he gestured toward the messengers—“I am informed by these good gentlemen that your master’s seizure of my property has cost the lives of many good men, including my loyal Earl of Eastmarch, to whom Culliecairn’s security had been entrusted.”

  “No loss of life was intended,” the herald said smoothly, “but alas, some men did die.”

  “Indeed, the death of the Earl of Eastmarch is the only thing that would have permitted your master’s entry into Culliecairn,” Rhys Michael retorted. He drew a deep breath before going on.

  “I therefore must regard the action of your master as an act of unwarranted hostility on the part of a foreign prince. If Miklos does this as a private individual, then I shall appeal to his brother the King of Torenth, who is his overlord, for King Arion surely will not wish his vassal to threaten the borders of a neighbor with whom Arion himself is at peace. If it is done as a prince of Torenth, with King Arion’s knowledge, then Miklos risks war between our two kingdoms. And if he does it in behalf of Marek of Festil, then he supports a rebellious and illegitimate claimant against my throne—which, again, could be construed as a formal declaration of hostilities between our two kingdoms. Pray, what is his intention, sir herald?”