The Bastard Prince Page 4

  The herald inclined his head. “My master has not confided his deeper motivations regarding such matters, my lord. I am instructed merely to convey his intentions regarding Culliecairn.”

  So saying, he reached casually to the small of his back, up under his tabard, and slowly withdrew a brown leather gauntlet, which he tossed almost offhandedly on the carpet at Rhys Michael’s feet.

  “If you wish a more formal declaration,” the herald went on, “there is a gage in token of my master’s claim. You may take it up or not, as pleases you, but to take back Culliecairn, you will have to discuss the terms with my master.”

  The gage lay a handspan from Rhys Michael’s left boot. The challenge was not unexpected, and he had in mind what he must say, once he picked it up, but he knew he must confirm the terms with the great lords before he acted. He must also make himself calm down.

  “Let my ministers attend me,” he said, getting smoothly to his feet and glancing at Hubert, who nodded minutely. “The Lord Constable will see to our guests while we confer. Let refreshment be brought if they desire it. My lords, attend.”

  Within minutes, he was facing the agitated handful of them in the little withdrawing room behind the dais, one forefinger punching the air for emphasis as he argued his point.

  “This news changes the entire focus of what was told me before court,” he was saying. “It’s a direct challenge to the sovereignty of this kingdom. You must let me answer it. If I don’t, I lose all credibility; Gwynedd loses all credibility.”

  “Sire, we aren’t prepared to go to war with Torenth,” Tammaron began.

  “That’s fine, since this isn’t about a war with Torenth. Arion isn’t behind this. It’s Miklos, on behalf of Marek of Festil, and it isn’t even a war with Marek. Do you really think he’d make a true bid to take back the throne? Not now. Not with only one infant son between him and the obliteration of his house.”

  “Has it occurred to you,” Paulin said, “that this could be a ruse to lure you from safety? You aren’t that much more secure than Marek, with only one heir living and hope of another. The man is Deryni, Sire. So is Miklos. So is Arion. What if they mean to use their accursed magic against you?”

  Rhys Michael turned away with a faintly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, for he had no answer for that argument.

  “I can’t worry about that just now,” he said softly. “As an anointed king, I believe and hope that divine grace will be granted me to withstand even their magic. It may also be that, against an army, magic is not so effective as it is against an individual man. ’Tis said that an arrow or a sword can be faster and more deadly than a spell—I don’t know.

  “But this I do know: If you allow any foreign prince to take and keep Culliecairn, which belongs to Gwynedd, then the very sovereignty of the Crown of Gwynedd is a sham, never mind the man who wears that crown. I’ve learned to accept my own impotence as a man, but I beg you not to further hollow away the crown you hope someday to put upon my son’s head. What kind of a kingdom would you leave to your sons?”

  The question took Richard sufficiently off guard to silence him. Rhun and Tammaron were also at a loss for words, for all three had sons who stood to inherit the power wielded by their fathers. Manfred exchanged a glance with Hubert, for his sons, too—Hubert’s nephews—had also benefited from the power wielded by their kin at court. Even Albertus became more subdued, for in order to become Grand Master of the Custodes knights, he had resigned his title early to a son already at court—Bonner Sinclair, the young Earl of Tarleton, who was also nephew to Paulin.

  Of all the men in that room, only Robert Oriss had attained his position of influence without the connivance of the former regents and had been uninvolved in the coup. Unlike Hubert, Rhemuth’s archbishop had no relatives who stood to benefit from his high office; but seeing the royal house purified of its Deryni taints was an aspiration all of them shared.

  “No one wishes to impugn the sovereignty of the crown, Sire,” the old archbishop said slowly. “But perhaps Culliecairn does not represent an erosion of royal authority so much as an erosion of royal loyalties—in this case, loyalties to the Crown. What of the Earl of Eastmarch, who should have protected and held Culliecairn for you? He has a Torenthi wife. It is even said she comes of Deryni stock. Who is to say that it was not Eastmarch’s connivance that helped betray Culliecairn to its captors?”

  “If so, he has already paid with his life,” Rhys Michael said quietly. “But Hrorik would never betray me. I trust my northern vassals, and especially the Earl of Eastmarch and his kin. However, I betray him, if I do not ride to the aid of his widow.”

  “Perhaps we ought to send a viceroy,” Manfred said, clearly with himself in mind for such an appointment. “I like not the thought of putting your Highness at risk.”

  “If it were Culdi taken,” the king replied, “and a taunting challenge came, would you send a mere deputy? No, you would go. And this is the theft of a fortress at the northern gateway to my kingdom, to be handed over to the heir of my arch-rival, a man who would seize my throne. I will abide by your guidance, gentlemen, as needs I must, but surely you see why I must go.”

  They disputed the prospect for several minutes more, Tammaron and then Hubert sketching out the details of what he might say in his reply. Before they went back in, he slid the Haldane sword into its holders on his belt, setting his hand on its pommel as he returned through the curtained doorway that Fulk and Cathan parted for him. Up in the gallery, the watching archers lowered their bows and stepped back from sight, though their arrows remained nocked.

  “I trust you will pardon the brief interruption,” Rhys Michael said mildly, remaining standing as he faced the Torenthi herald once more. “I further note that the gage of your master’s challenge yet lies before my throne. I find his belligerence most distressing, for I have never wished him ill, but I am prepared to respond in the way that I must, if he persists in this folly. Is he determined to press this futile attempt to give my castle of Culliecairn to the pretender’s heir?”

  “Not futile, my lord, since he does possess it,” the herald replied. “What answer shall I give him?”

  “Why, that I refute his claim and have taken up his gage,” Rhys Michael said quietly, “for it is certain that neither your master, the Festillic Pretender, nor any other person outside Gwynedd shall keep Culliecairn.” He bent and scooped up the gauntlet almost before anyone could react, hefting it briefly in one hand before tossing it deftly back to the herald, who caught it against his chest.

  “Tell your master that I shall meet him at Culliecairn no later than the Eve of Saint John, at which time he shall render up my property,” Rhys Michael said. “Tell him that I regret he has forced us to meet under arms, for I remember him kindly from my brother’s coronation and would rather have counted him as a friend.”

  “When friendship would diminish a king’s crown, he needs must discount it, my lord,” the herald replied.

  “Aye, that is true. I cannot count as friends those who befriend my enemies. If your royal master would assist the Festillic Pretender, who seeks to wrest back the crown my father restored after seventy years of usurpation, then he declares himself my enemy as well. Tell him what I have said and warn Marek of Festil that I shall ask and give no quarter where he and his are concerned. You may go in safety.”

  Without further comment, he turned on his heel and strode from the dais to disappear through the curtained doorway in the screen behind. Cathan and Fulk followed, nearly colliding with the king, who had stopped just inside to draw a deep breath, shivering in after-reaction.

  “Well said, Sire!” Fulk whispered fiercely, as Cathan urged the king farther from the screen so other of the great lords could come through. Glancing back a little dazedly, Rhys Michael saw the Torenthi contingent making an uncertain withdrawal, for their audience had suddenly evaporated.

  “You handled that very well, your Highness,” Hubert said, suddenly beside him, his touch bringing b
ack the king’s focus in a flash. “Why don’t you rest for half an hour or so? Be assured that Lord Albertus will see our visitors safely out of Rhemuth. Meanwhile, I’ll have Lord Tammaron convene the council. You’ll be called when we’re ready for you again. Having made our decision, I would hope that the royal party could leave first thing in the morning. You’d best advise the queen. Fulk, Cathan, would you please accompany his Royal Highness back to his quarters?”

  If the king objected to this cavalier treatment, he gave no outward sign of it, merely drawing deep breath and setting his hand resolutely on the hilt of the Haldane sword before mounting the turnpike stair that led back to the royal apartments. Hubert watched him go, joined a moment later by his brother, who also had been watching the exchange.

  “He did that far better than I expected,” Manfred said.

  “Aye, there’s a great deal to be said for Haldane blood,” Hubert replied, “even when it’s been suppressed. Imagine what the sons will be like, who will never have been exposed to corruption from outside.”

  Manfred nodded thoughtfully. “It’s just possible that we may have gotten to him in time. I wouldn’t have predicted it, after our rocky beginning.” He snorted, with an ironic little smile. “Not that he has any choice but to follow our guidance, does he? Still, it’s for his own good.”

  “And ours,” Hubert reminded him.

  “And ours, granted,” Manfred agreed. “But it’s for the good of Gwynedd, too, if we’re to keep the Deryni taint out of Court. And isn’t that what keeping the Festils at bay is all about?—besides preserving the Haldane line, of course.”

  Hubert nodded grimly. “Never the Festils again, no matter what else we have to do to ensure it,” he said emphatically. “But, go ahead and help Tammaron begin summoning the council. Take Archbishop Oriss with you. I want to have a word with Paulin. I’ll join you directly.”

  Paulin was waiting for him in the little withdrawing room behind the dais screen, with several of his Custodes brethren and the wiry little man known to them as Dimitri. The latter was cloaked and cowled in black, so that he looked almost like one of them, but he was not—not of their Order, not strictly of their faith, and not even fully human, by their reckoning, for he was Deryni.

  Especially for this last reason, Paulin’s Custodes companions were giving him wide berth, bunched a little uneasily to one side of the fireplace while Dimitri stood before it, hands folded in the sleeves of his robe, gazing into the flames. He glanced around slowly, almost as if awakened from a sleep, as Paulin pulled two chairs closer for himself and Hubert and they sat.

  “Tell us about the herald and his party,” Paulin said without preamble. “All Deryni?”

  “Aye, my lord, but very well behaved.” Dimitri made them a profound bow, then folded to his knees before them to sink back on his heels, hands resting on his thighs. “It was almost as if they—sensed another Deryni presence in the hall besides themselves. Not I, my lord,” he added, before Paulin could ask. “I kept my shields damped; they cannot have known. This meant that I dared not essay beyond the simplest Truth-Reading—but nor did they. That is what I meant by ‘well behaved.’ In fact, none but the herald even sought to Truth-Read. I would have expected more—some attempt to Read beyond the mere words of the king’s responses, to catch any hint of bravado or bluff.”

  “Is it possible he was bluffing?” one of the black-clad monks asked. “The herald, I mean.”

  Dimitri slowly shook his head. “I think not,” he said thoughtfully. “The herald at least believes that Prince Miklos holds Culliecairn for the Pretender’s son and that the challenge has only to do with the future ownership of the castle.”

  “Then, could this be an excuse to draw our strength up to Coldoire while Torenthi forces make more serious encroachments elsewhere?” The speaker was a dark-haired Custodes knight called Cloyce, who was one of Albertus’ aides.

  Dimitri inclined his head.

  “I cannot rule out such motivations, my lord, based on what I perceived,” he allowed. “You must rely upon more conventional information to confirm or deny such possibilities. All I can say for certain is that the herald spoke no direct lie in what he told the king—and that, beyond confirming that the king also did not lie, he did not press whatever advantage his blood might have given him, by attempting to probe beyond simple truth.”

  Hubert grimaced. “What about the king, then? Is it possible,” he asked slowly, “that something in the king himself deterred closer scrutiny? You did mention another possibly Deryni presence in the hall. We’ve always believed Rhys Michael was untainted in that regard, but Javan or someone close to him was skilled enough to manipulate me briefly, all those years ago.”

  Looking almost perplexed, Dimitri shook his head. “Why do you persist in this questioning, my lord? You have never permitted me to examine his Highness—and I accept that it is because you fear I might somehow seize control and then manipulate him for my own ends, whatever you can think those might be, after so many years of loyal service—but some ability to shield is not that uncommon in humans, especially if the subject has been exposed to Deryni. Since all three Haldane brothers were in the care of Deryni tutors and Healers in their early childhood, it may be that the king retained some residual benefit from that time.”

  “I would hardly call it a benefit,” Paulin muttered.

  Dimitri shrugged. “If the herald was deterred from employing advantages he might have utilized, then I should count it as a benefit, my lord,” he replied. “But be advised that such shielding ability as is sometimes encountered in humans usually yields readily to physical contact. Had the herald had occasion to touch the king, the outcome might have been quite different—though, of course, any serious encroachment would take time, especially if one wished one’s efforts to go undetected.”

  The Deryni agent’s attempt to defuse any threat that might be perceived from himself did little to reassure most of the men listening, though Hubert, at least, did not seem alarmed.

  “The king knows better than to let a Deryni touch him,” the archbishop said flatly. “He fears those of Torenth far more than he fears us.”

  “So long as he fears us both,” Paulin murmured, casting Hubert a sour look. “Shall we adjourn to the council chamber? They’ll be mostly gathered by now, and we should agree on a plan of action before we summon the king to join us.”

  “Quite true,” Hubert agreed, lumbering to his feet with difficulty. “Dimitri, you will hold yourself in readiness for the afternoon, but for now, you may go.”

  As he and Paulin headed out of the room, the two Custodes men falling in behind them, Dimitri bowed low to touch his forehead to the floor, remaining thus until they had gone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  And if it be meet that I go also, they shall go with me.

  —I Corinthians 16:4

  In the royal apartments, meanwhile, the king was stealing a few minutes with his wife before duty called him back to the great lords’ business. When he came striding into the solar that linked their respective sections of the royal apartments, he found her sitting in a pool of sunshine near the window while the youngest and prettiest of her maids combed out her freshly washed hair.

  “My lord!” she cried, her face alight with the joy of him as she sprang to her feet. The royal blue of her overgown was a shade darker than her eyes, and the damp mane of her hair fell like a wheaten curtain nearly to her hips, shifting heavily as she handed off a towel to the maid.

  Beyond her in the wide bay of the window, interrupted in their needlework and gossip, three of her ladies-in-waiting also rose—all of them chosen by the great lords, wives and daughters mostly, and also their agents and spies, not really friends. They fell silent and dipped in formal curtsies as he entered, civil enough after six years, and the little maid also bowed and backed away from the queen, her comb clutched to her breast and eyes downcast.

  “Ladies,” the king murmured.

  He allowed himself a slight smil
e, but he ventured no further comment as he crossed the room and led Michaela into the privacy of their bedchamber. He had left the State Crown with Cathan when he came through his own quarters, but he still wore the crimson over-robe with the Haldane brooch.

  “I’m to go,” he said, the words falling with the threat of unknown peril as he drew her to sit beside him on the edge of the great state bed.

  Like all the Court, she had known of the Eastmarch messengers who arrived earlier that morning, and her troubled gaze never left his face as he related the gist of what had just transpired in the great hall and the room beyond. She said nothing as he spoke, but he could sense her growing fear.

  “So that’s as much as I know, for now,” he concluded, when he had outlined his intentions. “I don’t think this is the full-blown challenge we’ve been fearing—Marek of Festil wouldn’t chance it, with only the one heir—but on the faint chance that it is, it’s essential that I go in person. Not even the great lords could disagree. Shall you be very brave while I’m gone? If—anything should happen, you must be a strong regent for Owain and—”

  His voice broke off as his gaze and one suddenly trembling hand dropped to caress the gently rounded curve of her abdomen. Shuddering, she stifled a sob and drew him to her, pulling him down on the bed atop her, seeking reassurance in his embrace. The faint perfume of her damp hair invited him to bury his face and hands in it, to drown his own apprehensions in loving her, but the knowledge that a summons from the great lords was imminent made him push such temptations to the back of his mind and draw apart a little. Raising up on his elbows, he took one pale hand to press a tender kiss to its palm.

  “God, how I adore you, Mika,” he whispered, searching her blue eyes. “I can hardly breathe for wanting you, but Cathan or Fulk will be knocking on the door any second. It’s what I’ve been longing for—a council meeting where they may actually credit what I have to say—but it also means parting from you. Maybe forever, when I go tomorrow.”