The Bishop’s Heir Read online

  “Why, I thought your kind knew all about such things,” Dhugal replied with another chuckle. “You really needn’t worry, though. I personally guarantee my people’s loyalty—though I should warn you not to be surprised if your welcome seems a little cool at first. Even if you weren’t the king, you are a lowlander. Both make you an oddity this far west.”

  And being Deryni makes me odder still, Kelson added in his own mind, completing what Dhugal had not said. Despite Dhugal’s assurance, he could not suppress a faint itch between his shoulderblades.

  The air tasted increasingly of salt as they approached the castle’s outer defenses, and the gulls screeching overhead gave odd counterpoint to the dull clop of mud-clogged hooves and the muted jingle of harness. Ewan and Conall followed directly behind, the rain-soaked Haldane standard flapping wetly against Conall’s gloved hand and occasionally lifting enough on the rising wind to actually be read. Dhugal had advised them not to furl it, so that there could be no mistaking their identity. The rest of the warband also followed by twos, Ciard with one of Ewan’s gillies and then Jodrell, Traherne, and the rest of the column—knights, squires, and servants.

  They came within easy bowshot of the outer curtain before Kelson at last spotted lookouts manning the battlements high above, barely silhouetted against the grey sky. Torchlight flickered at some of the arrow slits piercing the stone of the barbican gate, betokening human habitation there as well—a suspicion confirmed by Kelson’s Deryni senses—but no one appeared at closer hand. The column slowed almost to a stop as they neared the gatehouse.

  “They know who you are, but not why you’re here,” Dhugal murmured, as the heavy doors swung outward and chains clattered on windlass drums, raising the heavy portcullis. “One can hardly blame them for being wary.”

  “I suppose not.”

  As soon as there was headroom beneath the portcullis, Ciard kneed his pony past them with a scrambling of unshod hooves and jogged into the gatehouse passage, seizing a torch from a wall bracket before leading on across the drawbridge beyond. He reined in and looked back as he reached the other side, gesturing for them to follow, and Dhugal set heels to his own pony at once. Kelson glanced upward as he and the rest of the column followed Dhugal through the gatehouse, and was rewarded with a glimpse of a red-cheeked border face watching from a murder-hole high above. The man gave a nod and touched two fingers to the front of his highland bonnet before disappearing, but Kelson sensed that the salute was as much for Dhugal as for him.

  The hollow clatter of the horses’ hooves on the drawbridge gave way to the more solid ring of steel on flint paving as they reached the other side of the ditch protecting the outer ward, and as they resumed climbing, Kelson reflected that if ever a castle had been designed to take all advantage of its natural defenses, Transha was it. The road spiraling upward to the left rapidly became a steep, narrow killing zone, the seaward side sheering off in a heart-stopping plunge to the surf crashing far below. On their unshielded right, the keep itself rose forty feet above their heads, the gaps along the crenellated wall providing easy vantage points from which to bombard an approaching enemy. The way was wide enough for two border ponies side by side, but the Haldane great-horses were obliged to go single file. Sea gulls swooped in for a closer look at the intruders, veering off with angry cries when a horse would snort or a cloak would flap. The smell of the sea was strong, even when they had passed beneath a second gatehouse.

  “Bring light for the young master and his guests!” Ciard cried, turning his pony in a tight circle and waving his torch as the Haldane column clattered into the inner ward. “’Tis I, Ciard O Ruane. Th’ young master is home. Where is Caball MacArdry? Bring light, I tell ye!”

  His voice brought immediate response. As torches flared all around the perimeter of the yard and voices began to buzz, a breathless stableboy came scurrying to take his pony. Kelson sat his greathorse beside Dhugal and the spotted pony and watched Ciard stride toward them. Behind them, the yard was filling with the rest of the Haldane warband, but Kelson signalled them to remain mounted before himself swinging to the ground. Dhugal was already there to take his reins, giving both their animals over to Ciard before setting his hand under Kelson’s elbow to guide him toward the stair leading up to the great hall.

  “Ho, Caball!” Dhugal called, as the door to the hall opened and a knot of tartan-clad men began to descend the stair. Some of them had pulled an edge of plaid over their heads against the rain, and a few bore torches. The leader wore the two feathers of a clan chieftain in his cap, and his bearded face split in a pleased grin as he came hurrying down to meet the unexpected visitors.

  “Master Dhugal!”

  “My father’s castellan,” Dhugal murmured aside to Kelson, as the men reached the bottom of the stair. “Caball, is all prepared to give fair guesting to the King’s Majesty? Sire, I present my kinsman Caball MacArdry, who speaks for the clan and The MacArdry. How is my father, Caball?”

  “The MacArdry’s leal greeting, Lord King,” Caball replied, touching his cap in salute and making his nod include his young master as well as his sovereign. “Dhugal, Himself will be heartened to see ye hame sae unexpectedly.” He returned his attention to Kelson. “We cannae offer more than simple border fare on sae short a notice, but The MacArdry looks forward tae greetin’ ye himself, when ye hae refreshed yerself, an’ extends his hospitality tae yerself an’ yer men tae sup with him in his hall.”

  “Please tell the MacArdry that I look forward to seeing him as well,” Kelson replied, inclining his head graciously. “I’ve not had that pleasure since he came to see me crowned, and Dhugal tells me he’s not been well of late. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  The castellan dipped his chin in clipped acknowledgment, rain dripping from his beard.

  “As for the fare,” Kelson went on with a disarming smile, “we’ve been in the field for several days. Any hot meal and a roof over our heads will be most welcome.”

  Caball seemed to unbend a little as he glanced back at Dhugal. “I think we can do that much for ye, sir—an’ perhaps a mite better. Dhugal, we’ll bed th’ King’s Grace an’ such others as he wishes in yer quarters. The men can sleep in the hall with our own garrison, when supper’s done.”

  “Prince Conall will be with us, then,” Dhugal replied, looking to Kelson for confirmation, “and perhaps Jodrell and Traherne—or Duke Ewan, of course, unless they’d prefer to sleep with the men. Will that be satisfactory, Sire?”

  “Ewan of Claibourne?” Caball murmured, head jerking up to search the riders behind the king. “By yer leave, sir, I’ll make th’ rest of the arrangements with him. Dhugal, take His Grace in out of the rain.”

  He and his henchmen were already moving past them before Kelson could do more than nod, border affinity for another highland man drawing the castellan instinctively toward Ewan’s distinctive tartan mantle, his casual salute in Kelson’s direction almost an afterthought. Kelson was only bemused, used to the brusque manners of bordermen from his dealings with Dhugal and his attendants as a boy, but an affronted Prince Conall kneed his greathorse nearer the king in shocked outrage.

  “Do you intend to let him treat you that way?” he demanded in a loud stage whisper, bending beneath the dripping Haldane standard to peer at Kelson. “He dismissed you like a servant!”

  “He asked my leave. Don’t make a scene,” Kelson warned, as he laid a hand on his cousin’s reins. “The man has a job to do.”

  “Yes! To show proper respect for his overlord!”

  “No disrespect was intended,” Kelson replied, “and standing in the rain is no time for formality. I am not offended.”

  But Conall was, and he continued to fume and mutter to himself all the way up the newel stair behind Dhugal and Kelson, not ceasing his complaints even when the three of them reached a snug little room at the top of the tower. Kelson’s squire came to help them off with their boots, but Conall continued to reiterate his displeasure about border disregard for rank and p
recedence, ending with a graceless remark about the accommodations. Kelson sent the squire out of the room before taking Conall to task, afterward apologizing to an uncomfortable Dhugal. The air was charged with resentment as the three young men began stripping off rain-sodden harness and tunics to wash for supper.

  In the sullen silence of the next little while, Kelson could not help noticing the contrast between Dhugal’s casual dismissal of the incident and Conall’s petulant formality. His cousin’s behavior had embarrassed him greatly. The squire soon returned with their meager baggage and helped Conall dress in a fresh court tunic which was far too ornate for this casual highland setting, but when Kelson tried tactfully to mention that to Conall, his cousin renewed his tirade about stiff-necked bordermen and declared that he would show them all how a proper prince behaved, donning a silver circlet of rank as he stalked out the door. Kelson sent the squire after him, hoping he could prevent Conall from insulting any other bordermen he encountered, and pulled a clean woolen singlet from his own pack in silence.

  “I really am sorry about Conall’s boorishness,” he said after a moment, as Dhugal’s head emerged from the neck of a saffron-colored shirt. “I hope it’s only the folly of youth.”

  “Youth?” Dhugal made a rude noise, his courtly veneer vanishing in border frankness. “Kelson, he’s a year older than I am. If respect is what he values, he’ll never win it with behavior like that. He’s second in line for the throne, too.”

  Kelson crouched to help his foster-brother finish arranging the pleats of a great kilt on the floor, unable to disagree.

  “That’s true, in theory,” he said, watching Dhugal lie down on the kilt to belt it around his narrow waist. “Thank God his father comes first—and I’ve never heard anyone say an unkind word about Nigel. Perhaps by the end of next year there will be a new heir altogether. Still, you’re right about youth being no excuse for rude behavior. Conall can be a terrible boor.”

  Dhugal, sitting up to brooch part of the plaid to his shoulder with an amethyst the size of plover’s egg, looked up from the gem’s clasp with a start to stare at the king.

  “Bugger Conall! What do you mean, a new heir? Kelson, you aren’t betrothed, are you?”

  “No, no, not that, yet,” Kelson replied with a chuckle. “But don’t look so shocked. I’m seventeen and I’m a king. It’s expected. Nigel and Aunt Meraude have been badgering me for over a year, and Morgan nearly as long.”

  “Morgan, too?”

  Kelson shrugged wistfully. “Well, all of them are right, of course. The succession has to be secured. I’ve lost count of the princesses and countesses and other eligible girls I’ve had to inspect in the last year. Every lordling in Gwynedd with a marriageable daughter or sister between the ages of twelve and thirty has been finding some excuse to bring her to court. Even Morgan is threatening to trot out some R’Kassan princess for Twelfth Night. She’s a relative of his wife.”

  “His wife?” Dhugal stared even harder, though now he, too, was grinning. “So that’s what it’s all about! Morgan’s gotten married, so now he thinks everyone else ought to be. Who’s the lady?”

  Kelson shook his head and grinned. He kept forgetting how isolated Transha was from the capital and its doings.

  “You are out of touch, aren’t you? You did know I’d made him Lord Protector of the South, didn’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know that Torenth has a regency again?” Kelson ventured.

  “A regency? What happend to Prince Alroy?”

  Kelson sighed, trying to keep at least some of the old worry out of his voice.

  “A fall from a horse, around Midsummer. He broke his neck. From what I’ve been able to gather, it was clearly an accident, but he’d just come of age. So some folk are saying I arranged it—the way Charissa arranged my father’s death.”

  “You mean, with magic?” Dhugal whispered.

  Kelson nodded. “They don’t know me very well, do they?”

  “But, what possible motive could you have, even if you were able to—are you able to kill someone with magic, Kelson?”

  “If you mean, do I have the ability to kill someone with magic, the answer is yes—I have the power and the knowledge to do so,” Kelson said quietly. “I’ve—had to do it once already. I killed Alroy’s father and uncle that way—and the Earl of Marley. I’m not proud of it, but there was no other way at the time. And I’d do it again to protect my kingdom.”

  He swallowed uncomfortably. “As for motive, I’m afraid I have that, too. Keeping a minor on the throne of Torenth lessens the chance that Torenth will move against me in anything but border skirmishes, at least until the new king is of age. Liam, Alroy’s next brother, is only nine. That gives me nearly five years to get things settled in Meara, before I have to worry seriously about Torenth again—maybe more. I didn’t kill Liam’s brother, though.”

  “I believe you,” Dhugal said.

  The three words were spoken quietly, with little inflection, but Kelson knew that they were true. Four years had passed since he and Dhugal last had met, but he could sense that the old closeness had not weakened with the passage of the years and all that had gone on during them. He glanced down at his hands, the hands which literally held the power of life and death over so many, then shook his head, knowing he would never be able to put aside the knowledge of his power.

  “But, enough of all this,” Kelson continued more brightly. “You asked about Morgan, and Morgan’s wife. He married Richenda of Marley a year ago last spring. They have a little daughter who’s nearly a year old now. Briony, she’s called.”

  “For your father,” Dhugal murmured, nodding approvingly. “I like that. But Richenda of Marley—wasn’t she the Countess of Marley? Didn’t you just say you’d had to kill her husband?”

  “Yes. But she wasn’t responsible for her husband’s treason,” he said softly. “Nor was their son. I confirmed young Brendan in the Earldom of Marley when he turned six this past summer. I’ve made him Morgan’s ward, until he’s of age, and Richenda his regent.”

  “And what will he say when he’s older, and he learns who killed his father?” Dhugal whispered. “Suppose he comes to hate you for it?”

  “I suppose I hope that by then, he’ll have learned why I had to do it,” Kelson said with a sigh. “Bran Coris’ was one of the first lives I had to take. Unfortunately, it won’t be the last. At least I’ve learned a few things since then—not that they’d make any difference if I had to do over again.” He sighed again, a gesture of finality.

  “But that’s done. There’s no sense brooding about something I can’t change. One thing I hope I can change is the reception I got when I rode in here an hour ago.”

  Dhugal laughed aloud, the solemnity of the past few minutes dispelled.

  “Now, that will be magic, if you can accomplish that. You saw them, Kelson. They’re bordermen. Most of them have never been to court, and never will. You can’t expect to earn their respect overnight.”

  “Not overnight, no. But I do have an idea for making a start, perhaps.”

  Half an hour later, two young bordermen emerged from the tower room where only one had entered. Dhugal’s comment about his long hair the day before had given Kelson his inspiration. He had decided not to hazard a great kilt such as Dhugal himself wore, for he was disinclined to trust a garment which depended on only a belt to discipline so many pleats, so he had chosen a set of Dhugal’s rust-colored border leathers instead—close-fitting trews and sleeveless doublet over a saffron wool shirt like Dhugal’s. A length of grey, black, and yellow MacArdry plaid was caught across his chest baldric style and secured at the left shoulder with a deeply chased silver ring brooch, and soft indoor boots of buckskin encased his feet in comfort. Instead of the golden circlet which would have adorned his head at any normal court function, he wore a border bonnet like Dhugal’s. His black hair made a borderman’s braid shorter by a handspan than Dhugal’s copper one, but that, plus the clothing, tr
ansformed the king from a polished young lowland noble into a darker echo of the chief’s son. Now, if only old Caulay would play along.

  He began to hear the skirl of pipers tuning as he followed Dhugal down the newel stair and along the passage toward the castle’s great hall—dissonant and whining at first, but then catching and carrying a traditional border air, one of the few he knew. The music put a new spring in his step as he and Dhugal emerged near the entrance to the hall, and he could hear Dhugal whistling softly under his breath.

  Border henchmen, servants, and a few Haldane men alike milled in the anteroom outside the open doors to the hall, but in Dhugal’s company, dressed as he was, no one paid Kelson any particular notice. Seizing a torch from a fire-blackened cresset, Dhugal led him through the press and quickly through a nondescript wooden door just beyond the entryway, signing for silence as he continued up a steep, narrow intramural passageway which paralleled the great hall. When Kelson judged them to be about halfway along its length, Dhugal stopped and uncovered two narrow squints cut at different angles in the stone, carefully holding his torch below and close to the wall to shield its light. Using each squint in turn, Kelson could see nearly all the length of the hall below, though the entrance and the dais at the other end were out of range.

  “It looks like most of your men who aren’t on duty are already seated,” Dhugal murmured, gazing downward with Kelson. “You can see how they’ve all kept to themselves, though. A lot is going to depend on how you’re received.”

  Kelson nodded as he studied the hall. Since, by border custom, all clansmen were more or less of equal rank, there were no separate arrangements for nobles and men-at-arms. He saw Duke Ewan moving down the hall with a surly-looking Conall—to be seated at the high table, Dhugal assured him—but other than them, almost all the rest of the royal entourage seemed to be crowded on either side of a long table parallelling one side wall—carefully isolated, Kelson noted, from the rest of the clansmen and their women. Hospitality, it seemed, had its limits.