The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy Read online

  “Camber? Aye,” Rhys breathed. “If he thinks a Restoration is the only answer, I’d feel a lot better about the whole thing.”

  “Come on, then,” Joram yawned. “We’d best get what sleep we can before they roust this place for morning prayers.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Hear counsel and receive instruction, that thou mayest be wise in thy latter end.

  —Proverbs 19:20

  They got little sleep in what remained of the night, though neither counted that amiss in light of the information they had gleaned. No sooner had they staggered back to the receiving room and rolled up in blankets by the fire than it was time to rise for morning devotions. Far earlier than they had hoped, in these days of slackening ecclesiastical discipline, they were roused by one of the abbey’s lay brethren, who stood vigilant watch in the doorway until both men were on their feet and pulling on still-damp clothes, however groggily.

  Rhys thought the brother’s behavior a little odd, and said as much when they were finally left alone to finish dressing. But Joram merely laughed at that and reminded his friend that this was, after all, a monastery. The brother had obviously taken them for ordinary travellers, who had prevailed upon the abbey for shelter from the night. In the brother’s estimation, if said travellers could be induced to reclaim their undoubtedly lapsed souls in exchange for the night’s lodging, so much the better.

  Rhys had to agree that the logic of the argument was probably sound—a warm, dry place to sleep ought surely to be worth a Mass—but unlike Joram, Rhys’s brain did not tend to function at its best so early in the morning, especially after little or no sleep. It was with some reluctance, then, that he followed Joram into the abbey church a few minutes later, trying to assume an air of piety which he simply did not feel at an hour he tended to regard as ungodly.

  The morning was half spent before they could break away. After Mass, the abbot had insisted upon a leisurely breaking of the night’s fast with them, and had been full of questions about the capital and what was happening there these days. When, at last, they were able to take their leave, it was to face a sunless, leaden sky which promised still more rain to come.

  The horses were frisky and eager to be off, their hooves striking sparks off the cobbles of the windswept abbey yard. But the clatter turned to splash all too soon, as they reached the muddy road; rain was already beginning to mist again in the sharp, cold air. Before they had ridden two miles, both men were once more soaked to the skin.

  The rain continued for most of the afternoon, though it had subsided to a mere annoying drizzle by the time they reached the outskirts of the MacRorie manorial estates. As they topped the last rise before the descent through the village, their eyes were drawn to the high hill beyond, to jewel-like Tor Caerrorie, Camber’s seat, green-gray slate roofs glimmering in their wash of recent rain. The two halted at the top of the rise and glanced at one another conspiratorially, a roguish gleam coming into Joram’s priestly eye. Then they rode laughing down the slope and into the village, whooping like a pair of schoolboys as they splashed along the road.

  They would have thundered on through, sending chickens and dogs and children scurrying for safety, had they not spied a MacRorie man-at-arms standing with two horses outside the little village church. One of the horses evoked only passing interest, for it was of no particular breeding or caparisoning; but the other was a little sorrel mare which both men recognized instantly. As they drew rein, the man-at-arms peered at them and then waved enthusiastically, his face lighting with pleasure.

  “Father Joram!”

  Joram grinned as he jumped from the saddle and embraced the man warmly.

  “Sam’l, old friend, how have you been? Is that my sister’s horse I see?”

  “Aye, Father, you know it is,” the man chuckled. “Her Ladyship’s just teaching the village lads their catechism. She’ll be out in a minute. Can ye wait and ride back to the castle with us?”

  “Just try to make me leave!” Joram said. He turned to grin at Rhys, who had dismounted in a more leisurely fashion. “Rhys, you remember Sam’l, don’t you?”

  “Of course. How is everything, Sam’l?” Rhys replied, shaking the older man’s hand.

  Sam’l bowed, pleased at the gesture, then became guarded, lowered his eyes uncomfortably. “I, ah—Ye won’t have heard about the murder, or ye would not ask that question.”

  “Murder?”

  Rhys glanced at Joram, and the priest laid his hand on the old retainer’s shoulder.

  “What’s happened, Sam’l? Who was killed?”

  Sam’l chewed his lower lip for several seconds, then raised cautious eyes to meet Joram’s. “’Twas a Deryni, Father, here in the village a few days ago. He was none such as any of us would give a care about—you knew the upstart, that Lord Rannulf—”

  “A Deryni!” Joram breathed.

  “Aye, and the King is invoking the Law of Festil. He’s taken fifty hostages, and threatens to hang two each day until the murderer comes forth, since the Truth-Readers canna learn the names of the guilty. The killings begin tomorrow.”

  Rhys whistled low under his breath. “That explains a lot. It didn’t seem important at the time, but I wondered why the messengers were going back and forth from Valoret yesterday. I must have passed three or four on my way to Saint Liam’s.”

  Joram grunted. “Haven’t they any clues to the real murderer, Sam’l?”

  “Not yet, Father. Not any one person, at any rate. There be those who think it was the Willimites, but we have no proof. The Lord Camber has had men out asking questions for the past two days, and his own Truth-Readers among them, but—nothing. What with the general uneasiness about the tariff and all, and now this, he’s worried that other Deryni may be threatened. It was he who asked me to ride along with the young mistress today. He was afraid she might be harmed.”

  “Sam’l, I love you dearly, but you’re an alarmist,” came a light, musical voice behind them. They turned to see a cloaked Evaine sweeping down the church steps, bright hair escaping from her hood.

  “Father knows I can take care of myself,” she continued. “Besides, who would try to harm me? I’ve done nothing to offend the Willimites, if they’re the ones to blame. And I certainly have nothing to fear from these good people.”

  She gestured toward the village with a nod of her head and smiled, slipping her arm around her brother’s waist in warm greeting as her eyes met Rhys’s. Rhys took her hand and kissed it, trying to control the momentary confusion which a first reunion with Evaine seemed to bring lately—and was pleasantly startled when she pulled him closer and kissed him lightly on the cheek, slipping her arm around him, too. Sam’l was also feeling the charm which Evaine could exude when she chose to, and he could not seem to find his tongue.

  “Very pretty, Sister dear,” Joram murmured indulgently. “But you’re going to have to do better than that. Is it true that Father thinks you’re in danger?”

  “Of course not.” She touched her forehead playfully to his and made a face. “It’s our loyal servants like Sam’l who were concerned about my safety. I’ll be perfectly all right, really.”

  “Well, I want to hear more about this,” Joram said. He disengaged himself from his sister’s embrace and signed for Sam’l to bring her horse. “We’d better get back to the castle, if you’re through here. Rhys, you can go starry-eyed later. I want to find out what really happened.”

  “So, that’s as much as anyone knows,” Camber concluded, when the story had been told around the fire that evening. “Rannulf was found at dawn by old Widow Claret, and she went into hysterics because the body was on her land. Or I should say, part of the body was on her land. The head and one quarter. The rest—Well, let us just say that several other families in the village got similarly shocking awakenings that morning. The bailiff reported it to me shortly after dawn.”

  Rhys and Joram nodded knowingly as Camber refilled their glasses, imagining the activity which would have been precipi
tated by such an event; and no word was spoken for several minutes. The last of the servants had been sent to bed an hour ago, and now only the three men and Evaine remained by the fireplace in the Great Hall.

  Rhys, sitting near Evaine, sipped distractedly at the mulled wine in his cup and glanced at Joram, catching his slight nod. Gathering his resolve, he turned to address Camber.

  “Sir, there is something which Joram and I think you ought to know about. It may or may not have a bearing on what we’ve just been discussing.”

  There was something in his voice which bespoke more urgency than his mere words, and all eyes turned toward Rhys. The young man bowed his head and searched for the proper way to begin, appreciating the gentle hand which Evaine laid on his. Especially, he could feel Camber’s gaze upon him.

  “You all know that I am a Healer, that my calling brings me into contact with many people.” He cleared his throat nervously and took another swallow of wine before continuing.

  “Two days ago, an old man died. He was not an important man—at least not to outward appearances. But the story he told me on his deathbed has caused me a great deal of soul-searching.” He raised golden eyes to meet Camber’s squarely. “Sir, he claimed to be Prince Aidan Haldane, a younger son of the last Haldane king.”

  No word was spoken in response, but the listeners exchanged cautious glances, Camber shifting to Joram’s face to read in his son’s eyes that what Rhys said was true. Wordlessly, he signed for Rhys to continue.

  Rhys lowered his gaze once more. “I did something then that I have rarely done,” he said slowly. “At the old man’s request—nay, almost his command—I went deeply into his mind to confirm what he had told me; and it was so. He was Prince Aidan. What is more important, he had a legitimate son, and his son had a son. The son is long dead—of plague, twenty years ago. But we have reason to believe that the grandson still lives.” He looked up, directly into Camber’s eyes again. “The grandson would be Prince Cinhil Donal Ifor Haldane, lawful heir to the Throne of Gwynedd.”

  There was silence for a dozen heartbeats, a soft sigh of wonder from Evaine, her blue eyes wide with the implications of the statement—and then all attention turned to Camber. The Deryni lord had said nothing yet: he was still weighing and evaluating, reading the thoughts in Rhys’s eyes. But then he broke the spell and let his gaze pass over them all. As he scanned them, each unconsciously deferred to him, respectful yet unafraid. Even the usually ebullient Joram was silent under his father’s scrutiny.

  “You say you have reason to believe this grandson still lives, Rhys. Have you any idea of his whereabouts?”

  Rhys shook his head. “Not exactly, sir. But we think we have the possibilities narrowed down to five. You see, he’s a contemplative monk of the Ordo Verbi Dei—or he was some twenty years ago, when he took his vows. That’s the last his grandfather heard from him. Also, we don’t know Cinhil’s secular name—only the religious name he took when he was ordained: Benedictus. And we don’t know his father’s secular name, either—only his royal one, Alroy. There are five Benedicts of the right age in the order right now. Prince Cinhil, if he’s still alive, should be one of them.”

  “I see.”

  Camber sighed and leaned back in his chair, carefully setting his wineglass on the hearth beside him. “This Cinhil, or Benedict, as he is known now, is a cloistered monk, then? Assuming that you could find him, what do you propose to do with him?”

  This time it was Joram’s turn to answer. “We’re not certain, Father. We think that we can discover which one of the five is the man we’re looking for, without arousing undue suspicion in the meantime. We have even talked about what might be involved in smuggling him out of his monastery, if it comes to that. Naturally, we would have to evaluate his potential first. After that,” he shrugged, “it remains to be seen.”

  “Well said, Joram.” Camber nodded. “Your training has enabled you to talk around treason quite glibly. But, what is it that you wish me to do? To condone your search, your possible treason? I resigned from Imre’s council because I do not like the man personally. And you know my feelings about the laws he has proclaimed since his accession. But I have never advocated his overthrow. Would you have me commit myself to such an endeavor, for a man I have never even met?—whom neither of you has ever met? Even your Michaelines would not be so bold, I think. Have you told your vicar general about this?”

  Joram shifted in his chair and glanced at Rhys, lacing his fingers together uneasily. “No, sir, I haven’t. And I—we’re certainly not asking for such a commitment from you at this time. But surely you understand why we must at least investigate, why we must find out more about this Haldane heir. Then—Well, you’re the one who knows best among us how the present regime is functioning or not functioning. We were hoping you might lend us your wise counsel in deciding what must be done next.”

  “My wise counsel, not that of the Michaelines?” Camber asked gently.

  “Father, I know you don’t approve of—”

  “Nay, my approval or disapproval has nothing to do with it, Son,” Camber interjected. “I shan’t try to make you choose between your family and your order. In truth, if this endeavor should go the way you obviously wish it to, I would be the first to suggest that you seek their assistance. A Restoration needs zealous soldiers, and the Michaelines are of the finest. You could not succeed without them, were your Cinhil the Lord God Himself—which I fancy he is not.”

  Joram nodded cautiously, taken aback by his father’s unaccustomed support of the Michaelines, however qualified.

  “But, back to your missing Haldane,” Camber continued. “Suppose he’s an imbecile? Or suppose he doesn’t want to be king?—which is likely, if he has any sense at all. Suppose he holds his religious vows stronger than a mere accident of birth? Or suppose that he knows who he is, and wants no part of his royal heritage? Did it occur to either of you that he may have entered holy orders for that very reason, to seal himself off forever from the temptation to bring about his own destruction? I hardly need remind you that the Church frowns upon suicide.”

  “You’re assuming that we would fail,” Joram said, resentment edging his voice.

  “No, I’m simply asking you to weigh as many of the possibilities as you can. This is not a game, or an academic exercise. Once you commit yourselves, there will be lives in jeopardy—and not only your own.”

  Joram exchanged an imploring glance with Rhys, and the Healer sat forward in his chair. “Sir,” said Rhys, “we’ve considered most of what you’ve said, believe me. But for our own integrity, we must at least talk to the man. If he is who his grandfather said he is, and if he has any potential at all, then we’ll decide what to do next. But we’ll need your help, once we reach that stage.” He glanced down at his feet as he continued. “We can find Cinhil, we can read him, we can know his soul better than it would be possible for almost any other man. But we’re not sure we’re competent—at least I don’t think that I am—to make the final evaluation, that final reckoning as to whether or not the man should be king. Of course, we won’t let him know anything other than the fact that his grandfather has died, until we’re sure that he won’t go screaming off to his abbot. We only want your permission to seek him out at this point. Will you give us your blessing, sir?”

  “Would you give this up if I said no?” Camber countered.

  Both men stared at Camber long and hard; then, in unison, they shook their heads, neither needing to ask the other’s feeling. Camber flicked his glance from Rhys to Joram, and then to Evaine. His daughter’s face gave no clue as to her stand on the issue.

  “Well, Daughter, your brother and Rhys appear intent upon making this a family endeavor,” he said lightly. “Is this why you drew me into political discussion the other day, or was that mere coincidence? How far have you been drawn into this thing?”

  “Why, I knew nothing of this before tonight,” Evaine began defensively, then realized that her father was teasing her—and why
. “But I’m glad that we did talk,” she went on, looking at him sidelong, “because I think that Rhys and Joram have some very valid arguments.”

  “Very well,” Camber smiled. “I will play Devil’s advocate and you will defend. Now, what think you of our would-be King of Gwynedd?”

  “I think you cannot expect me to have any opinion, since I have not met the man, Father. But I agree that Rhys and Joram must investigate further, to discover whether their Benedict is Cinhil Haldane.”

  “Why?”

  “That is more difficult,” Evaine conceded. “It is not so much this man as it is any Haldane claimant to the throne.”

  “You would overthrow the present king?”

  Evaine controlled a smile. “Come, now, Father. We all know your true reasons for resigning from Imre’s court. I think we must agree that there are few redeeming features about having such a man on the throne, other than the fact that there have been no real alternatives up until now.

  “But, if there is the possibility of a legitimate heir, a logical successor, a chance for the restoration of an old and noble line which ruled Gwynedd successfully and well for several centuries … After all, it was not for ill governing that the Haldanes were overthrown, however much our Deryni-written histories would like to justify the coup. To my mind, the Festillic line, in their greed, have broken trust beyond repair. If a better claimant has come to light, he should be considered.”

  Camber had listened to his daughter’s speech with a slight smile on his face, hands folded before him, forefingers tapping lightly against pursed lips. As she finished, he gave a wan chuckle and glanced at Rhys and Joram.

  “You see what happens when you educate a daughter? Your words come back to haunt you. Joram, never educate your daughters.”

  “I hardly think it likely that the opportunity will arise,” Joram grinned.