Imre grinned delightedly, raising a hand to summon Cathan. As Cathan approached, he forced himself to ignore the indulgent look which Coel was giving him behind the king’s back. Imre took the towel and mopped it across his sweat-begrimed face. Then, handing it to Coel to use, he took up the tankard and raised it to Cathan.
“To your most excellent kinsman,” he said, tipping back his head to drink thirstily. What was left was passed to Coel, who tossed off the remainder with casual ease.
Then the king was turning to go, his hand outstretched to bid Coel attend him. He did not see the expression on Coel’s face as he handed Cathan the empty tankard and dropped the soiled towel across his arm, or hear the laughter of Coel’s friends as Cathan’s face went crimson at the affront.
Cathan watched until the two had disappeared from view, then shoved the towel into the tankard in hurt disgust and gave it to Imre’s page, stalking off in the opposite direction to nurse his pride. Apparently Coel had made greater inroads with Imre than he had dreamed. Nor had the king totally forgiven him.
Later, in the royal bath, Imre lounged tranquilly in a steaming pool sunk several feet into the bathhouse floor. The water was scented with fine herbs and spices, the steam rising from the surface and swirling lazily in the cold air above. Imre lay back in the pool with his head resting on the edge, eyes closed, the rest of his body totally submerged.
Coel had doffed his armor and washed perfunctorily before dismissing the bath attendants, and now he brought a fresh towel from a cupboard on the other side of the room, dropped to his haunches beside the dozing king. His face betrayed no emotion, but the tension showed in his voice.
“Are you comfortable, Sire?”
Imre opened one languid eye and peered at Coel.
“What is it? You’ve been bustling around like a hen who’s lost her chicks.”
Coel pulled a stool closer to the pool and sat on it, cradling Imre’s towel in his lap. “Sire, this may be none of my business—and if that is the case, you have only to say it and I shall withdraw the question—but I wonder whether, as it appears, you intend to take Cathan back into your confidence.”
“You think I shouldn’t?”
Coel raised an elegant eyebrow. “Well, perhaps I oughtn’t to say this of my own kinsman, but I’m not at all certain he’s stable anymore, Sire. He’s changed since he came back after the executions last month. He’s grown moody, a bit secretive. And then, there’s the talk about him and Rannulf.”
“What talk?” came the bored query.
“Well, that he may know more than he’s indicated about Rannulfs murder—that he may know who did it.”
“What?” Imre sat bolt upright in his bath, then immediately hunched back down into the warm water. “Who told you that? That’s preposterous.”
Coel assumed an injured expression. “Is it, Sire? Cathan has never liked Rannulf. He disapproved of his life-style, his methods of handling the peasants of his demesne. I understand he even threw Rannulf off his father’s manor once, during your Lord Father’s reign, while Camber was here in the capital.”
Imre thrust out his lower lip in a petulant expression. “That doesn’t mean he murdered Rannulf.”
“I didn’t say he did, Sire,” Coel rejoined quickly. “I simply said that there’s been talk that he knows who did, and that he may be protecting the real murderers. We’re fairly certain that it was the Willimites who actually did it.”
“Then, Cathan knows the Willimites? He knows who they are?”
Coel shrugged. “I cannot say, Sire. I merely relate what I have heard. However, until you are convinced of Cathan’s innocence in this matter, I should keep my counsel to myself, if I were you. You know how Cathan’s father feels about you. And his brother, Joram, is a priest of Saint Michael, which order is also not your friend. If those elements were to come together to oppose you …”
He let his voice trail off suggestively, and Imre’s eyes narrowed. It was obvious to Coel that Imre had taken the bait, and that his mind was churning in exactly the direction Coel intended. Abruptly, Imre sat up in his pool, then lurched to his feet.
“Mind you, I’m not saying I believe what you say,” the king told him, wrapping the towel around himself and stepping from the bath, “but one can’t be too careful. Send my dressers in, and then bring Earl Maldred to my study. If there is anything amiss, I want to know about it, and I don’t want to arouse Cathan’s suspicions. Hurry, it’s cold standing here.”
It was later that same afternoon when Joram and Rhys arrived in Valoret, heading immediately for Cathan’s town house of Tal Traeth. Since Camber and Rhys had made their visit to Saint Foillan’s and gained confirmation of Prince Cinhil’s presence there, Camber had spent the past two weeks exploring possible approaches to the situation with Joram and Rhys and Evaine, making preliminary plans. In a strained meeting with Joram’s Vicar General Cullen at Cheltham, the Michaelines had been tentatively committed to the endeavor; Camber and Cullen were even now mapping out the Michaeline strategy in the overall plan.
It now fell to Joram and Rhys to determine Cathan’s circumstances, and to decide how much, if anything, he might or must be told in advance of their move, now planned for the week before Christmas. If Cathan was still reliable, after the traumas of the months before, there was a chance he could be of great help to them. But if they had any doubts, they would simply have to work around him, trusting that events would permit them to pull him to a place of safety after Cinhil was in their hands. For now, their greatest strength lay in surprise, in not allowing any hint of their plans to reach the royal ears. There was no room for error, for they would have no second chance. If Cinhil died without issue, there would never be another Haldane heir.
They were met in the loggia by Wulpher, the steward, who informed them that Lord Cathan would join them presently in the solar. The November day was brisk, and the solar chill; but the sunshine was warm on the roof beyond. There it was that Cathan found them a few minutes later, leather riding cloaks thrown back on their shoulders.
They turned and smiled as Cathan stepped onto the roof.
As on the last time they had seen him, when he rode out of Caerrorie a month before, Cathan was pale and drawn-looking, though his cheeks were flushed as though from recent exertion. A child’s ball was clutched in one hand, and he glanced at it and shrugged apologetically.
“I’ve been playing with the children in the garden,” he said uneasily. “I’m afraid I’d been neglecting them.”
“It’s a good day for such things,” Joram smiled. “How are my two hellion nephews?”
“They’re well.” Cathan returned the smile automatically, then tossed the ball into a corner and gestured nervously for them to be seated. He pulled a wooden stool closer to their bench and straddled it, a shadow of pain flitting across his face as he added, “Revan’s been playing with them, too. He’s very good with young children, you know.”
As he glanced at the floor to compose himself, Joram and Rhys exchanged worried glances.
“Don’t you think it might be better if you sent Revan back to Father?” Joram asked softly. “If every sight or thought of him reminds you of the pain …”
“No,” Cathan whispered. “Revan stays with me. He is the one good thing to survive those awful weeks, and I need to be reminded of that—that something good did come of it. Otherwise, I think I should go mad.”
“But—”
“The subject is closed!”
He pivoted on his stool to turn his back to them, fighting for control, then slowly returned to face them once more, his eyes not meeting theirs.
“But you didn’t come to hear me speak of that. What brings you to Valoret this close to Yuletide? I wasn’t expecting to see you until I got to Caerrorie for Christmas.”
“Ah, I had some business to attend to for the order,” Joram lied easily, “and thought I would pay a visit to our future brother-in-law here.” He gestured toward Rhys. “So we decided to see how you
were doing. How are things at Court?”
Cathan glanced up, panic-stricken for just an instant, then concentrated on his hands, folded between his knees. “Strained, unpredictable, exasperating, fragile.”
“If you would rather not talk about it …”
“No, I suppose I should. Actually, it has been fairly constant up until today—constantly dismal, that is. Imre has been ignoring me, acting as though I wasn’t even there. Then this morning, before chapel, he came out of Confession and embraced me like a brother. He said that he had been wrong to be angry with me, that I had only been doing my filial duty by pleading for the villagers. I thought he had forgiven me. He even invited me to watch his weapons play in the armory yard.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted, to be forgiven?” Joram asked carefully.
Cathan sighed. “I don’t know. I suppose so. But once we got there, everything started going wrong again. Coel started to play up to Imre, as he always does, and then let him win in a practice bout—though you know what a poor swordsman Imre is, compared with Coel. But Coel managed to make it look like an honest defeat—or at least, he convinced Imre. When Imre left, it was Coel who was asked to attend him in the bath—not I. And Coel left me holding Imre’s empty tankard and dirty towel, with the Court snickering behind my back.”
“Isn’t that getting rather blatant, even for Coel?” Rhys finally said.
Cathan raised his hands in a helpless gesture, then slumped back on his stool. “What am I to do, Rhys? I’m beginning to think he actually hates me. It’s gone far beyond mere rivalry. God knows, we were never what you would call friends, even before I married his sister, Elinor, but lately …” He sighed. “I keep telling myself that if he’s Elinor’s brother, there must be something good to the man. But if he cares for her—and I sometimes even wonder about that—his fondness certainly doesn’t extend to the rest of her family. He’s ambitious, Joram. He wants to rule. And if he can’t rule, he at least wants to be the power behind the throne. Do you know that he’s even brought Elinor’s half sister to Court? I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to get Imre to marry her.”
“Is that likely?” Joram asked.
“Who knows? She’s beautiful, well connected, God knows! Imre will probably never even notice how deeply she’s in thrall to her brother.” He smiled sardonically. “On the other hand, Princess Ariella has hated Melissa Howell from the moment she set eyes on her. Too much competition. I’m sure she realizes that Imre will have to marry eventually—if only for dynastic reasons—but in the meantime, she wants to be the one to influence him. In fact, that could be part of what turned Imre against me. I—ah—haven’t been terribly receptive to Her Highness’s advances.”
“I had heard Court gossip to that effect.” Rhys grinned wickedly. “A very vindictive lady. Serves you right for being a happily married man!”
“Which reminds me, how is Elinor?” Joram asked. “After our sister, I’ll swear your Elinor is the fairest damsel in the kingdom—enough to make a man consider forsaking his vows, I’ll warrant. Is she well?”
Pleased at the compliment despite his depression, Cathan managed a smile. “Aye, she’s well enough, though she doesn’t deserve the black moods I’ve been showing her lately. I wish I could shake this—this notion of impending doom, but—Damn it, Joram, what am I going to do? This constant tension, the indecision—it’s ripping me apart!”
“I know,” Joram replied with a sigh.
He gazed off at the city lying spread against the horizon, inclining his head slightly at Rhys’s silent query. When he finally spoke, his voice was very low.
“Cathan, do you remember, when you were ill, how we talked about Imre?”
“Yes.”
“How do you feel about the situation now, after the past month, after today?”
“I—”
Cathan lowered his eyes, and the words came slowly, haltingly, each word dragged from deep within him, his voice recalling prior pain. He did not seem to notice when Rhys’s hand crept to rest lightly on his wrist—ostensibly to gauge his pulse, should Cathan ask, but also better to read his overall condition, both mental and physical. Or if he noticed it, he did not show it. His voice was scarcely more than a whisper.
“I—don’t know anymore. Before, there would have been no doubt. I loved him like a brother, as I love either of you. We were very close. When he did—what he did—last month, it nearly killed me, Joram—both to see what he caused to happen to those people, and to see what his act did to us. But you don’t desert your brother just because he’s made a mistake, do you?—even if it’s a terrible one.” He looked up defiantly, first at one of them, then the other. “I still love him, Joram. God help me, but I do. The past month—even today’s humiliation—they don’t change that. I suppose I—I’ll just have to learn to live with the situation.”
Joram sighed, the sound telling Rhys all he needed to know of Joram’s assessment, and the physician let his hand fall away. They could expect no help from Cathan. Rhys rose as Joram also stood.
“I’m sorry, Cathan,” Joram murmured, clasping his brother’s shoulders in sympathy. “But at least you seem to be looking at the situation realistically. I don’t have to tell you to be wary of the caprices of kings.”
Cathan shook his head, and Joram nodded.
“Aye. Well, I wish we could stay longer, but Rhys has patients to see, and I have a lot to accomplish before I head back to Saint Liam’s. Take care.”
Cathan stood, feeling suddenly alien and alone. “When will I see you again?”
“For Christmas, I suspect. Imre will let you come home, won’t he?”
“I suppose so, once he’s opened the Yule Court. He likes to have everyone at the formal ceremonies, but after that I have no particular reason to stay. Elinor and the boys will be there, at any rate.”
He clasped the hands that were offered and exchanged good-byes, then raised hesitant fingers in farewell as the two, suddenly strangers to him now, made their way back into the solar and out the door. He sat alone on the roof for a long time, until the chiller wind of approaching evening reminded him that it was time to go inside.
The two who descended the stairs at Tal Traeth had planned their next move even before letting themselves out through the courtyard gate. They had discussed with Camber the possibility that Cathan would be incapable of assisting them, so confirmation of that eventuality did not delay their plans. Making arrangements to meet at Rhys’s house by dusk, they mounted up and went their separate ways. They did not notice the men-at-arms who watched from across the square, nor were they aware that they were followed, each by a single rider.
The man following Joram had a short ride, for the priest went only as far as the parish church of Saint John’s, not far from Fullers’ Alley and the former abode of a deceased textile merchant—though the man could not know of the latter. There he watched the priest dismount and enter the parish house, emerging nearly an hour later with a new briskness to his stride.
Joram saw the guardsman across the way, fiddling with a harness buckle and checking his horse’s hooves, but he did not make a connection: he had not seen the man across the square from Cathan’s. Nor did he note that the man followed, at a discreet distance, all the way back to Rhys’s house. It simply had not occurred to him that he might be watched so soon.
The other man had a more difficult time of it. He was able to follow Rhys to the castle without mishap, and observed the Healer enter the royal archives there. But from his hastily gained vantage point outside the window, he could not see what his subject did with the several bound volumes which he pulled from the shelves after the attendant had left the room. Mentally, he marked the places of the volumes on the shelves and, when Rhys returned them and left a while later, he went into the room and took the books down again to flip through their pages, another guardsman being sent to follow the subject from the archives.
But the volumes were very old, and the man’s limited schooling did not en
able him to read them. Furrowing his brow in annoyance, he returned the books to their places and left to report to his master. He found his colleague already there, and the master waiting.
The priest had gone to Saint John’s Church in the textile district, the first man reported, where he had entered the parish house and then left a short while later. He had then been followed to the house of one Lord Rhys Thuryn, a Healer. No, he had no idea what the priest had been doing at Saint John’s. There had been no one with him, so he had not dared linger to investigate, for fear of losing his quarry.
The second man told his story, then, and added that he had discovered his subject to be that same Rhys Thuryn to whose house his colleague had trailed the priest; he had asked the attendant in the archives. Yes, he could identify the volumes which the young lord had consulted. No, he had no idea what the man had been looking for. A second pair of men were now guarding the house where the two were holed up. Did his lordship wish the two brought in?
His lordship did not.
Turning the information over in his mind, Coel Howell considered what his agents had told him, then gestured for one of them to bring his cloak. This was working out just fine. He had no idea what Rhys Thuryn and Joram MacRorie were up to; but it certainly looked suspicious, and it might well fit in with what he was already planning. He picked up his riding gloves and began pulling them on.
“Bors, I want you to go back to Saint John’s and find out what your man wanted there. From your description and the fact that he ended up at Rhys Thuryn’s he has to be Lord Cathan’s brother, Father Joram—a Michaeline, I might add, so be careful.”
“Aye, m’lord. I’ll see to it right away.”
“Do that. It would be interesting to learn whether Father Joram also asked to see written records at Saint John’s. Fulk?”
The second agent, who was adjusting his master’s cloak around his shoulders, inclined his head as he closed the clasp.
“Aye, m’lord?”
“I want you to come with me and show me the books that Thuryn took off the shelves. I want to know what they were looking for.”
The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy Page 12