Saint Camber Page 7

  He tried to make some sense out of things, as his commanders began drifting from the hall to see to their individual responsibilities. The tide of their movements swirled around him but did not really touch him, for they knew that his approval in these matters had been largely for show. He was not, nor did he claim to be, a military man.

  But even to Cinhil’s unpracticed eye, the probable deployment of Ariella’s army had shifted drastically since the last time he had thought to look seriously at a map board. That positions should change was not surprising, of course. And it was certainly to be hoped that their information would become more reliable as battletime drew near.

  But he was amazed at the new confidence in the voices he had heard this morning. They had spoken in far more definite terms than he had been led to expect, based on the uncertainty and anxiety they had displayed the last time he had paid attention to a military planning session.

  Cinhil admitted himself mystified by it all, for he did not pretend to understand a great deal of what had been discussed. And there was too much certainty around him now to think of questioning, of asking what might happen if things did not go as they had planned. Still, he worried.

  Ariella was devious—even he knew this. Even if their information were correct—which was by no means certain, so far as he could tell—suppose Ariella changed her mind? Women did. Or, God forbid, suppose the information was incorrect to begin with—or, worse, deliberately false, set to mislead them? If either case were true, Jebediah and the other battle leaders were committing the royal Gwynedd levies to disastrous positions. He was surprised to find that he cared.

  He asked Rhys about it later, when the last orders had been signed and sealed, and most of the others had hurried off to make final preparations for departure. He knew that, where military matters were concerned, Rhys probably knew little more than he did. Still, the young Healer had been silent but supportive all throughout the morning’s long session. Cinhil wondered where he got his self-confidence.

  “A word with you, Rhys?” he murmured as Rhys started to pass the chair where they had left him.

  Rhys returned an easy smile.

  “How may I serve you, Sire?”

  “You may answer a few questions,” Cinhil said, waving his squire aside and motioning Rhys to sit down beside him. “Everyone seems so resolute this morning, so certain of what is happening. Is this usual?”

  Rhys ran a hand through unruly red hair and cocked his head at the king.

  “Well, Sire, I really can’t say, not being a warrior sort. One is supposed to appear optimistic, though. It gives the men courage.”

  Cinhil leaned back, unconvinced, studying the Healer through narrowed eyes.

  “My studies indicate that realism is preferable, at least among the leaders. Father Cullen said something yesterday about new information which was expected. Could any new information be reliable enough to risk everything on it?”

  “Those who understand these things seem to think so, Sire,” Rhys said glibly. “Why, what did Father Cullen tell you?”

  “That there was possibly to be some new information. Actually, he was rather evasive.”

  “I see.”

  Rhys glanced at the floor, as though considering what Cinhil had said, and Cinhil leaned forward to lay his hand on the Healer’s arm.

  “Rhys, you do me no service if you, too, are evasive,” he said in a low voice. “What did he mean? Surely, if there was something important afoot, you would have been included.”

  “There was a—spy, Sire.”

  “A spy? For or against us?”

  “For. He—glimpsed Ariella’s battle plans and managed to bring them to us during the night. We—know that the plans are accurate—or were, when he saw them. So now we must move quickly, before she has time to change her strategy or consider how much we really might have learned. That is why we prepare to move out at dusk.”

  “A spy.” Cinhil sat back in his chair and studied Rhys. The young Healer met his eyes squarely, but there was nothing there to read besides anticipation for what Cinhil might ask next. Cinhil pursed his lips thoughtfully, suddenly certain that there was more Rhys was not telling him.

  “What else, Rhys? Come, now. I’m not a child. A spy at Ariella’s court would have brought far more information than that.”

  Rhys raised a reddish eyebrow and regarded Cinhil evenly, appraisingly. “I hesitate to tell you this, Sire, but it’s something you will have to learn eventually. As you know, Ariella was with child by Imre when she fled Gwynedd. What no one knew for certain, up until last night, is that she was safely delivered of a son a few months later. The child thrives, Sire.”

  Cinhil’s mouth went dry, and he tried to keep his mind from darting, unbidden, to the children in the Valoret nursery. Why should a child of incest thrive, while his own—

  He shook his head, forcing his thoughts from his own children to hers. If Ariella’s child lived, it would be a menace to his throne in the years to come, even if they should manage to defeat and destroy its mother. He tried to tell himself that it did not matter, but it did. It mattered a great deal. His sons, despite their ill-begotten origins, deserved peace when they eventually succeeded him. It was not fair that an incestuous bastard—

  He hit the table with his fist, not noticing until he had done it that his nails had cut bloody half-moons in his palm. Rhys grimaced at the sound, and Cinhil took a deep breath to regain control as he looked up at the Healer again.

  “Your news is unwelcome, but you did right to tell me,” he said softly. “What—else did you learn?”

  “That there may be arcane offenses on Ariella’s part,” Rhys replied. “We’re certain that she’s at least partially responsible for the bad weather. Now that we know, some of our more accomplished people can look for a way to counteract it.”

  “By ‘accomplished people,’ I assume you mean Deryni?”

  “There is no other way to fight one such as Ariella, Sire.”

  Cinhil sighed, shading his eyes with his hand and shaking his head.

  So, it had come to this. Despite everything, Deryni powers were to be used in this war. He shrank from that realization, as he shrank from his own recognition of the powers he himself held, given to him by the Deryni—shrank from the memory of what he had done with those powers the day before, in his undisciplined rage. His session with his confessor the night before had convinced him, more than ever, that use of those powers must be avoided whenever possible; the temptation was too great. And yet, another part of him acknowledged that their use might be required again, within the week.

  He came back with a start as Rhys stood to bow, suddenly aware that someone was approaching from behind him, almost certainly Evaine and his queen. Carefully schooling his features, he turned in his chair to confirm, then also got to his feet to bow.

  Megan—how she had frightened him at first, and still did. Not yet sixteen when they married, she had borne him three sons already—and she but a few months past seventeen now. But the year and a half of their marriage had not set easily upon her. The graceful, wide-eyed girl he had first seen on their wedding night was gone forever.

  True, the wheaten hair still shone like mellow gold, and the dusting of freckles still played across the tip-tilted nose. But the turquoise eyes were sadder now, the fair brow furrowed in an expression of almost perpetual worry. She had dressed to try to please him, he knew, in a fur-lined gown of sea-blue wool. But the color only accentuated the drawn lines of her face, and the jeweled coif of a married woman and a queen made her chin seem pinched and gaunt.

  He had ill used her, he knew—not through any physical abuse, but through his indifference, his aloofness, which hurt her even more. He regretted it, and yet he could not seem to help himself. He wanted to make amends, but he did not know how—not without compromising his own conscience even further.

  He raised her up and kissed her hands, as any man might kiss the hands of his queen, then bestowed a fatherly kiss on her f
orehead. Megan raised her head at that, as though hoping for something more, but he turned away under the pretext of raising up Evaine.

  “Greetings, my ladies,” he said to all of them, as he kissed Evaine’s hand and gestured for Megan’s ladies-in-waiting to rise. “What means this invasion of gentleness here, in the hall of war?”

  Evaine took Rhys’s hand and leaned closer against him as she gazed across at Cinhil.

  “I told Her Highness that you would ride out with the army tonight, Sire. She wished that we might arm you, as we did before your first battle. All is in readiness. Please do not refuse.”

  Cinhil glanced from Evaine to Megan, back to Evaine, and knew he was undone.

  “I see I am outnumbered,” he said lightly. “I surrender.”

  An hour later, bathed and dressed, he stood patiently in the center of his chamber while the women put the final touches on his attire.

  It was similar to what he had worn that night he took the crown, though the need for real physical protection was much greater this time. Over silk and leather undergarments, he had drawn on the strange, gold-washed mail, which still retained that otherworldliness he had noticed the first time he wore it. Gold-chased vambraces were buckled to his forearms, with matching greaves over the leather breeches and boots which he had pulled on. Over it all, he donned the surcoat of scarlet silk, blazoned with the Gwynedd lion in gold. This time, it was Megan who buckled the sword around his waist, her fingers trembling as she fastened the white leather of the belt.

  Sorle, his squire, was permitted to enter then, bearing Cinhil’s shield and his great barrel helm with the coronet of Gwynedd. Cinhil inspected those items as if he knew what he was supposed to be looking for, then took the red gauntlets which Evaine offered and tucked them into his belt. His light, personal coronet he placed on his head before leading all of them downstairs to the Chapel Royal for Mass.

  They were all there, as he had known they would be: Camber and Joram and Cullen and Jebediah and all the rest of them who had been in the war council earlier that day. Cinhil nodded to them as they fell in behind him to enter the chapel. Beside him, Megan walked with her head erect but her eyes following his every movement. Evaine had dropped back to be with her husband, and other ladies had also joined them for last moments with their loved ones. As the royal party took their places, kneeling in the now-crowded church, a choir began to sing the Te Deum. Cinhil bowed his head in prayer, all else put from his mind, as Archbishop Anscom began the Mass.

  When it was over, and he had received his Lord in Holy Communion, Cinhil tarried for a little longer on the chapel while the others filed out—all except Megan, still kneeling at his side. One of the most difficult moments still lay ahead, he knew.

  When they were alone, he stood to face his queen.

  “My lord,” she whispered, tears already welling in her eyes.

  Cinhil shook his head and touched her chin lightly with one finger.

  “Nay, little Megan, do not weep. I shall return soon. You must be brave, and guard our sons, and pray for me.”

  “I—will, my lord,” she said, trying hard to choke back a sob. “But, if you should not come back, I—”

  She bowed her head, unable to speak, and Cinhil gathered her awkwardly in his arms and held her close against his armor.

  “Megan,” he murmured, after a moment.

  “My lord?”

  “Megan, I’m sorry that I can’t be exactly what you want me to be.”

  She pulled back to gaze up at him in innocence and trust. “Nay, my lord, do not say it. I am—most fortunate among women. Only—only, my lord is so often apart, and—”

  “I know, Megan. I’m sorry. But I—am what I am.”

  “I know, my lord.”

  Her eyes were downcast, her lower lip quivering on the edge of tears again, and Cinhil knew he could not cope with that. Searching his heart, he found a possible way to ease her unhappiness without compromising his own resolution—if she would cooperate.

  “Megan, will you do something for me? Something very special?”

  She looked up at him immediately, her eyes alight with hope and anticipation.

  Quickly, for he dared not let her raise her hopes for nothing, he knelt before her, taking her hands in his. She started to kneel, too, but he shook his head and put her hands together between his.

  “Nay, Megan, do not kneel. What I ask is only within your power to give. I want—I need your blessing, to keep me safe in battle.” With one hand, he reached up and removed his coronet, keeping her hands in his other. Then he bowed his head and released her hands, balancing his coronet on his upraised knee.

  “Bless me with your love, my little queen,” he whispered, praying that she would seize on this small act to sustain her—and him—through the rest of their good-bye.

  There was a long silence, and for a moment he feared that she would refuse. But then he felt a gentle touch on his hair, the weight of both her slender hands on his head. He closed his eyes and tried to feel the emotions of her blessing as she took a deep breath.

  “May the Lord our God go with you, beloved, now and forever. May He shield you in the shadow of His wings and keep you safe. May Almighty God have mercy on us all, and forgive us for what we have done. And may the Blessed Mother cloak you in her mantle and bring you back to me. In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.”

  Her hands left his head as she crossed herself, and he followed suit before looking up at her. Her tears were gone, a new serenity upon her face, as he stood and replaced his coronet. He took her hands in his again.

  “Thank you, my lady. I shall carry that blessing into battle as a shield. But now—” He kissed one hand, then the other. “I must go.”

  He started to bend and kiss her forehead, as he had in the hall earlier, but suddenly she was standing on tiptoes and pressing her lips to his. He was startled and tried to draw away, but she clung the more tightly to him, a tiny sob whimpering in her throat as her mouth opened against his.

  He was only flesh, he told himself a few moments later, as he walked slowly from the church to meet his retinue. He could not have helped it—not without creating a scene and humiliating the young woman who had given so much for him already.

  But another part of him yearned to turn back to her, where she knelt with downcast eyes at the altar rail. Another part yearned to take her in his arms again, and press her slender body next to his, and feel her gentle curves, even through the mail and leather he wore—to crush his hungry mouth to hers and drink so deeply—

  He swallowed and glanced at the floor as he approached the doorway, grateful for the layers of mail and leather which shielded him now from view. Fortunately, it was darkening outside, an early dusk with the rainy weather, and he did not think they could see his flushed face very clearly. He busied himself with his gauntlets as he approached them, bending his head so that Sorle could remove his coronet and pull up his mail coif.

  Then Cullen was laying the great, fur-lined cloak around his shoulders, and Cinhil was drawing the furry hood close around his neck and ears, striding down the chapel steps to where his war horse awaited him. Joram was already mounted on the other side, and Camber and Rhys sat their horses just ahead of his, Rhys nearest the steps, where Evaine stood with her hand on her husband’s stirrup.

  Cinhil nodded to Cullen as he gathered up his horse’s reins, fingering the red leather thoughtfully as Cullen gave him a leg up and helped him get settled. He saw Sorle and Father Alfred mounting their palfreys, watched Cullen spring up on his own chestnut stallion.

  Then the column was moving out, and a Michaeline knight bearing his Gwynedd standard was falling in ahead of him, and he was able to put her from his mind, his body already trading the anguish of his longing for the anguish of the saddle. It would be a long, long ride.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Am I therefore become your enemy, because I tell you the truth?

  —Galatians 4:16

  T
he royal army rode through the night, and through the dawn, and well into the forenoon, accompanied by a steady drizzle. Though the rain was not as heavy as it had been, still it soaked the horses and it soaked the men, and eventually soaked even the great lords in their oiled cloaks of leather and fur. Damp horses and men steamed in the watery sunshine as the sun rose higher in the summer sky.

  They stopped just before noon to rest the men and to feed and water the horses, having traversed nearly the half of Gwynedd in their march toward the border. Though the pace had been stiff, however, not even the foot soldiers were unduly wearied; Imre had at least left a legacy of well-trained and conditioned men. It was their present king who was feeling the worst effects of the journey.

  Cinhil’s every muscle ached with the slightest movement, and tortured thighs and buttocks had long since lost their ability to torment him to any greater degree. Still ill accustomed to riding any great distance, though his general horsemanship had improved considerably, Cinhil had tried to catch what jolting sleep he could during the night, when the horses walked, knowing that those whose job it was would keep his horse with the others. But every session of trotting would jar his entire body anew. Compared to that, the few times of travel at the canter were sheerest bliss.

  When they had stopped, Cinhil sat his horse unmoving for several seconds, wondering whether he still had the strength to swing down from the saddle without falling. He could not delay too long, for Jebediah and his lieutenants were dismounting all around him, and Cinhil knew that someone would be there shortly to take his horse.