The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy

by Katherine Kurtz

  Half an hour later, he was elbowing his way through the throng gathered in the yard of the Chapel Royal, his head—though not his heart—much cleared by his ride. Cathan looked neither left nor right as he crossed the yard toward the chapel, hunching down in the fur collar of his cloak and hoping to avoid conversation about the night before.

  But anonymity was not to be his that morning. Confrontation in the form of his wife’s kinsman, Coel Howell, was looming unavoidably in his path. Coel had apparently been watching from the instant Cathan and Crinan rode into the yard. The older man’s thin lips contorted in a smug, strained little smile as he nodded greeting to his brother-by-marriage.

  “Good morning.” He moved closer so that there was no way Cathan could gracefully avoid him. “Did you sleep well last night, brother mine? You look a little tired.”

  Cathan bristled mentally, but managed to keep any outward sign of his anger from showing.

  “Well enough, thank you. And you?”

  “I generally have little trouble sleeping,” Coel drawled, watching hawklike for any sign of weakness or regret. “But then, I have no reason to be anxious.” He toyed idly with his riding crop, glancing up at the watery sun, then returned his attention to Cathan. “I hear that you have a new page,” was his next remark.

  “A new page?”

  “Yes, recruited from among your peasants.”

  Cathan felt his jaw muscles tighten, and wondered how the man had known. Maldred must have told the entire Court, after he and Cathan left the keep.

  “That’s true,” he finally said. “I bring several to Tal Traeth for training each year. Why do you ask?”

  Coel shrugged. “No special reason. I was just curious, I suppose. Surely you will have guessed that you were a topic of merry conversation after Maldred returned last night?”

  “How fortunate that I could provide such amusement for His Grace’s Court, even in my absence,” Cathan said, in as droll a tone as he could manage. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have things to attend to, as I am sure you must.”

  He started to push past Coel and flee into the chapel, but Coel put a gloved hand on his shoulder and restrained him.

  “His Grace is in very good spirits this morning, Cathan,” he said pointedly. “He has asked me to ride at his side in the hunt today.”

  “Should I offer my congratulations?”

  “That is your concern. However, if you were to say or do something which distressed him, so that he became irritable and nasty, as is sometimes his wont, I would not look upon it as a kindness. In fact, I would be greatly annoyed, kinsman or not.”

  “You need not worry on my account,” Cathan said evenly. “I have no intention of speaking with His Grace unless he himself requests it. Now, if you will permit me to pass, I should like to pray in private before Mass. Innocent peasant folk are to die today.”

  “Innocent?” Coel arched a skeptical eyebrow as Cathan pressed past him. “Why, Cathan, I’m surprised. I shouldn’t think that peasants ever qualify as innocent. But then, you MacRories always were an odd lot.”

  When Mass was over and Cathan had received the Sacrament, he was able to make his way back to his horse and mount up without having to converse with anyone. Mercifully, Crinan had made a place for them near the rear of the procession of huntsmen, away from anyone to whom his master might have felt obliged to speak. It was an awkward moment when the Princess Ariella rode past with several of her ladies and blew him a lighthearted kiss from the tips of her gloved fingers; but she did not stop, for which Cathan gave great thanks. He was not certain he could have faced her just then.

  It was well that Crinan had made such provisions; for as they rode out the city gatgs a little while later, the huntsmen winding their hunting horns and whipping the hounds into order, two bodies were swinging from gibbets a little way above the wall, one of them, by size, hardly more than a child.

  Cathan’s vision swam at that, and for a long time he rode in total silence, head bowed, one arm clutched lightly across his aching, throbbing chest. He tried not to think about the identities of the two victims, much less of the others who would join them over the next twenty-four days. But try as he might, he could not resolve the guilt he was feeling, the sorrow which ate like a canker at his heart and mind. He could have saved them, if he had tried harder—surely he could have.

  He could find no comfort, nor would he for a long time.

  Most of October passed, and with it the executions of the hostages. True to his word, Imre did not relent in the slayings; nor, on the other hand, did he threaten any further reprisals against the village whose people had failed to come forth with the killers of his vassal, Lord Rannulf. The peasants mourned their dead, but at least there were no more deaths.

  But besides the kinfolk of the people who died, it was probably Cathan who suffered most from the tragedy—Cathan who, for twenty-five days, anguished anew with each rising of the sun, each dawn portending the deaths of two more of his people; each of whom, but for his choice, might have lived if he had chosen that one instead of the boy Revan.

  Somehow he retained his sanity, possibly because of the special tenacity which has always been a characteristic of the Deryni race. Through the enforced merriment of the hunt with King and Court, he tried hard—and successfully—to mask the loathing he found himself feeling for Imre’s stubbornness, so unlike the Imre he had known and loved in times past.

  The hunting expedition lasted not one week or even two, but nearly three, in the end. And by the time the royal party returned to Valoret, it was all Cathan could do to contain his rage and frustration at not being able to get through to Imre and make him stop the slayings.

  Imre was likewise provoked at Cathan’s dogged obstinacy, and began snubbing him at Court. Cathan, not trusting himself to remain in the capital with the recalcitrant king, betook himself and the boy Revan to Saint Liam’s and the comfort of his priest-brother. There he went into retreat for the duration of the appointed days, sinking into ever deeper depression with each new sunrise.

  Toward the last, he took to staying more and more in the room they had assigned him, speaking little, eating hardly at all, unable even to look at Revan, whose salvation had been bought at the cost of the other lives. When, on the final day, he received word of the last death—the pregnant girl, her child born dead the week before, on the day her husband died—Cathan could no longer contain his grief. Joram’s frantic message brought both Camber and Rhys hurrying to the retreat at Saint Liam’s; and it took many hours of talk and prayer and gentle reasoning before Cathan began to come out of his depression. Even then, Rhys’s healing gifts had to be applied more than once, before the old Cathan began to re-emerge.

  A week later, on All Souls’ Eve, Cathan kept vigil alone in the cold abbey church, all through the long and lonely night. He never spoke of the preceding month again, nor would he discuss what must have gone through his mind during his private vigil. But after Mass the following morning, he and Camber and Joram and Rhys set out at last for the MacRorie manse at Caerrorie. It was a very quiet homecoming.

  Understandably, then, it was some time before Rhys and Joram were able to resume their search for the Haldane heir. During the executions, they had felt their places to be with Camber and his people; and Cathan’s breakdown had delayed them further. Thus it was not until the Feast of Saint Illtyd, in the first week of November, that they found themselves at last on the road to Saint Piran’s.

  Anticipation was; high as they covered the few remaining miles.

  The first snow was on the ground. It had fallen during the night while they slept, covering the ground with a fluffy blanket of white which dazzled the eye and made the horizon blend in with the blank, featureless sky. The damp air chilled them to the bone, and the horses frisked and pranced at the new sensation, frost coating the tiny whiskers on their muzzles and making them snort in annoyance. The two riders sat straight in the saddle, watching the road for hidden potholes and other hazards; they
were the first to come this way this morning. The horses’ hooves broke the virgin snow in a spray of fine, feathery wake.

  “Are we nearly there?” Rhys asked, after they had ridden in silence for nearly an hour.

  Joram blew on a gloved hand and held it to his face to warm it. “It’s just ahead. Those are some of the outbuildings off to the left. Actually, we could have made it last night, but it would have been late. We stand a much better chance of getting what we want by showing up at a decent hour.”

  They topped a rise, then drew rein to gaze down into a wide valley. Less snow was on the ground here, and the outbuildings of the monastic compound could be seen spread across the whole valley floor. At the other end of the valley, the priory proper stood atop a slight promontory, a gilded cross glinting from the church tower. In between, the neatly ordered fields were spread in early-morning tranquillity, the high-piled haystacks and barns covered lightly with the season’s first snow. To the right, brothers in heavy brown habits and tabard-aprons were turning the cows out to pasture, the morning milking done. A thin curl of smoke drifted from the top of the refectory hall, adjacent to the main monastic buildings.

  “They must have hundreds of hides of land here,” Rhys remarked, as they made their way toward the main gate. “I thought that the Ordo Verbi Dei was fairly small.”

  Joram nodded. “There are some younger sons of a cadet branch of the royal family in holy orders, though—the current royal family, that is. I think the gift of land dates from the time of Festil I.”

  Their reception was far different from the last time they had ridden together through monastic gates. The gate warder, a layman in gray working tunic, bowed from the waist and swept off his cap, clutching it to his chest as they passed. No sooner had they reined in than their horses’ bridles were taken by a pair of black-robed novices. The novices bowed respectfully as the two men dismounted, though they appeared to regard the Michaeline badge on Joram’s mantle with some trepidation.

  A gray-clad lay brother hurried across the courtyard to meet them, bowing nervous greeting first to his fellow religious, then to the Healer’s green.

  “Good morning, Father, my lord. God’s blessings be upon you. My name is Brother Cieran. How may I serve you?”

  Joram returned the man’s bow politely, maintaining a cool and slightly aloof air. “Good morning, Brother. I am Lord Joram MacRorie, of the Order of Saint Michael. This is Lord Rhys Thuryn. We should like to speak with your prior.”

  “Certainly, noble sirs.” The man bowed again. “If you will come this way, please, I shall ask His Excellency to attend you.”

  As the man turned away, Joram cast a sidelong glance of reassurance at Rhys, then fell into step behind Brother Cieran.

  They were led across the courtyard and through a long passageway, then along one side of a cloister garden, snow-dotted now, and into a rather large presence chamber. There they were left to wait, surrounded by four wainscotted walls and an assortment of religious paintings—no chairs or benches—until an elderly man in a white habit entered from the opposite end of the room. He had pure white hair and rather startled-looking brown eyes, and wore a plain silver cross on a braided leather thong around his neck.

  “I am Father Stephen, Prior of Saint Piran’s,” he said, bowing slightly. “How mav I serve you, Father, my lord?”

  Very soon, the two were being shown by Brother Cieran into a small, close room with a wooden bench along the wall opposite the door. There was an opening at about waist level, no more than a handspan in diameter, filled in with a grille made of tightly woven rushes or strips of bark—Joram could not be certain in the dim light.

  Brother Cieran indicated that they should be seated, then bowed and gently closed the door behind him.

  Air and some light came through a tiny skylight in the ceiling, but otherwise the room was very gloomy. A brighter light came from beyond the grille, but the light source was apparently the open doorway of a room similar to the one they now occupied. A shadow momentarily blocked the light as someone entered, and then the door closed. They could hear someone breathing noisily through his nose—a someone who then drew near the grille and sat.

  There was short silence, during which no one said anything. Abruptly, Joram sat down to the left of the grille, motioning Rhys to sit opposite him.

  “Brother Benedict?”

  The man cleared his throat. “I am Brother Benedict. You must forgive me, but I am ill-accustomed to speaking anymore.”

  “I understand,” Joram replied, glancing at Rhys and steeling himself before continuing. “Ah, Brother Benedict, our mission is a rather delicate one. I am a priest of Saint Michael, and my companion is a Healer. Recently we had occasion to attend upon a dying man who claimed to have a grandson called Benedict in your order. Could you be that man?”

  They heard a gasp on the other side, a pause, and then, in a low voice: “What was his name, Father?”

  “Ah, we would really prefer to have you tell us, Brother Benedict,” Joram replied. “I can tell you that he lived in Valoret.”

  A low-breathed sigh followed, and the man cleared his throat. “Praise be to God, my grandfather lives in Rengarth, and always has. He is a poor cobbler, and would have no business in the capital that I know of. His name is Dunstan.”

  Dunstan. Not Aidan, or even Dan. This, at least, was not their lost Benedict. Joram sighed, glanced at Rhys, who had lowered his forehead weakly against his hand.

  “Dunstan,” Joram repeated. “No, this was not the name of the man we attended. Perhaps the other Brother Benedict is the man we seek. Would you ask him to come to us, Brother?”

  “Of course, Father.”

  “And may your grandfather Dunstan live many happy years to come.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  There was the shuffling sound of the other rising, the glint of light as the door was opened, then silence on the far side of the grille.

  Joram glanced at Rhys, who was raising his head and looking very frayed around the edges.

  “What’s the matter? Too much pressure?” Joram murmured, with a slight smile.

  Rhys sighed and shook his head, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. “I don’t think I’m cut out for a life of intrigue, Joram. I was a simple Healer before you came along. I moved openly, in high circles. This stealth—”

  The light on the other side of the grille was blocked again as someone entered, and Rhys broke off quickly.

  Whoever had entered walked with a pronounced limp, dragging one foot behind him. He was shaken with a coughing fit before he could cross to the other side; and when the coughing finally stopped, the effort of lowering himself to the bench was almost a physical thing. Rhys reached out a mental probe to read the man’s soundness, but recoiled almost instantly. If this was their Benedict, their quest would end very shortly; even in finding him, they would soon lose: the man’s lungs were nearly eaten away by disease.

  Rhys swallowed with difficulty, then signalled Joram to go ahead.

  “Good morning, Brother Benedict,” Joram said easily. “We thank you for coming to us.”

  “I try to be compliant,” the man murmured. “It would do little good to complain at this late date. If I could but fly—But, no matter, I’ll elude them yet. There is more than one way to breach these walls.”

  Rhys glanced sharply at Joram. “You wish to leave, Brother?”

  The man coughed again. “It matters little anymore. If, twenty years ago, my enemies had been less cruel … Still, there are worse ways to be locked away. How may I assist you, my sons? You did not come to hear my problems.”

  Joram glanced at Rhys, certain that the same questions were probably going through the Healer’s mind. What had happened to this man twenty years ago? He knew what the man was implying: unprincipled men had been known to place their enemies into enforced monastic seclusion before. And twenty years ago … But if this was their Benedict, a diseased and dying man …

  “Ah, I am a priest of
the Order of Saint Michael, Brother Benedict. My colleague is a Healer. Recently we had occasion to attend upon the death of an old man who may have been your grandfather.”

  A sharp intake of breath was audible on the other side, which brought on another coughing fit. When it had ceased, there was a long silence, and then: “May he rot in Hell!”

  “I beg your pardon?” Rhys stammered.

  “I said, may he rot in Hell, that miserable man! He and his friends were the ones who put me here, who stole my youth, my dreams—”

  “A moment!” Joram interjected. “What was his name?”

  “His name?” the monk repeated. “His name was one hated by me, though it was the same as that of my blessed father. His name was James.”

  James. Not Daniel. Praised be, Joram thought, that this bitter man is not the prince we have come to seek. It meant that their search must continue to the remaining three Benedicts, but at least there was still hope.

  He stood easily, beckoning Rhys to do the same, suspecting that the other was as eager as himself to move on, now that this possibility had proven false. He cleared his throat to gain the attention of the man on the other side of the grille.

  “We thank you for your trouble, Brother Benedict. However, the man we attended was apparently not the man of whom you speak. I—cannot, in conscience, wish you the vengeance you seek, but I shall pray that your escape will be quick and merciful.”

  The man cleared his throat again, his tone almost meek. “You—you won’t tell the Father Prior what I said, will you, Father? I—Forgive me. Perhaps this is why we are allowed so few visitors, why enclosure is so strictly enforced. I thought I had mastered my hatred, but with death approaching—Forgive me.”