Cathan died as he collapsed in Imre’s arms, his handsome face guileless, astonished, as innocent as a child’s.
Imre, when he saw what he had done, sank slowly to the floor with the dead Cathan in his arms; cradled his beloved friend wordlessly, mindlessly, Cathan’s blood clotting on the bold robe of winter white and silver which he wore.
It was thus that Coel Howell found them a quarter-hour later, after repeated inquiries of Imre’s squires had revealed only that the king was still alone with Lord Cathan and did not wish to be disturbed.
Coel accepted that excuse at first, toying with the head of his staff in annoyance as the minutes dragged on. Finally, when he could stand it no longer, he limped to the door and knocked—then knocked again, louder. When there was no response, he eased the door open a crack and peered in, froze, then slipped inside and closed the door securely behind him, his breath catching in his throat.
Imre, his back to the door, was slouched motionless over a still, white-garbed form, a dark smear of blood staining the tiled floor beside him. The king did not move as Coel made his way haltingly across the polished marble, and for just an instant Coel wondered if all the blood was Cathan’s.
“Sire? Your Grace, are you all right?”
Imre still did not respond, though by now Coel could see that he was breathing. The king held Cathan’s lifeless body loosely in his arms, the tawny head laid close against his chest, Imre’s dark hair tumbling down to hide his face. There was blood on Imre’s hands and on a silver-chased dagger lying by his knee.
Carefully, Coel knelt beside the pair, wincing as he eased his bandaged leg.
“Your Grace, are you injured? What happened?”
Imre flinched at the voice, but he did not look up.
“I killed him, Coel. I had to,” he whispered, so softly that Coel missed the first few words. “What you said, it was true. He lied to me, but—but—Oh, God, what am I going to do? I’ve killed him!”
He raised a tear-streaked face to stare miserably at Coel, his eyes puffy and red from weeping. Then he looked down at Cathan and slowly relaxed his grip, let the body sag from his arms to lie across his lap. The face was startled still, even in death, the eyes half open and staring. Imre shuddered as he saw them, but when Coel tried to reach across and close them, Imre struck his hand away and closed the eyes himself. Then he eased the body to the floor, shaking his head as though on the verge of tears again, stiflng a sob.
Coel swallowed nervously and wiped damp palms against his thighs, acutely aware that he must end this scene before Imre broke down completely. He had not expected this. He had caught Imre’s meaning clearly enough this morning—that Cathan would not die by the headman’s ax or other public execution—but he had not anticipated that Imre would do the deed himself. A calculated accident, perhaps, or even an assassination—but not this bloodying of the royal hands.
Still, he must not falter now. Imre believed himself to have been betrayed by Cathan; and he must continue to believe that, if Cathan’s death were to do Coel any good. He must plant the seeds of confirmation now, while Imre was still vulnerable. Besides, with the investigation proceeding on the activities of Joram MacRorie and Rhys Thuryn, perhaps soon he would not have to manufacture evidence.
“Come away, Sire,” he said gently. “There is nothing you can do. The past is past forever. You did as you must do.”
Imre sniffed noisily several times, shook his head from side to side. “He lied to me, Coel,” he whispered. “I gave him trust and love, and he returned betrayal.”
“Yet, even in that, you showed your love through mercy, Sire. Not every king would let a traitor die so well.”
“Not precisely traitor,” Imre breathed. “No, this was private treachery we settled. I could not let him face the ax for that.”
“Then, best to die the way he did, before ought else could be discovered, Sire,” Coel murmured, casting the new seed and hoping it would grow.
There was a short pause, and then Imre looked up at Coel in dull dismay.
“What?”
“I am sorry, Sire. There are indications that he may have been involved in something more. Pray, do not trouble yourself with it now. The man is dead.”
“What else?” Imre insisted. “I want to know.”
“I don’t know myself, exactly,” Coel said, feigning reluctance. “Something involving his family, his brother Joram and a Healer named Rhys Thuryn, probably his father as well. I have no certain proof as yet, only suspicions. But all of them bear watching. Shall I see to it?”
The king blinked and swallowed hard, his eyes glazed with his grief, then nodded once, curtly. He raised his arm as though to wipe his sleeve across his face, but there was blood on his hand and spattered down the fur cuff, as well as the great stain across his chest where he had held the dying Cathan close. He froze, as though seeing the blood for the first time, then looked up at Coel with eyes that were suddenly frightened, like a small, lost boy’s.
“My God, he’s dead. What will his father say?”
“What does it matter?” Coel replied archly. “Though you choose to view him otherwise, Camber MacRorie is a subject like any other. You need not justify your actions to him. Besides, he himself is suspect.”
“But—”
“So far as the outside world need know, Cathan MacRorie simply collapsed and died while speaking with his king before the opening of the Yule Court,” Coel said sternly, his eyes catching and holding Imre’s. “You are the king. Who will dare to gainsay you?”
“But, the wound—”
“If you do not acknowledge its existence, then it does not exist,” Coel said firmly. “Come, Sire.” He held out his hand. “The Court is waiting, and you must change your clothes. While you do that, I will make arrangements for the body to be returned to Caerrorie.”
Dazedly but compliantly, Imre gazed down once more at the still form of Cathan and touched his shoulder a final time in farewell. Then he sighed deeply and climbed to his feet.
But he did not take the hand which Coel offered, nor would he meet the older man’s eyes. And when Coel left the king in the hands of his dressers to wash and change, the nobleman was both thoughtful and uneasy. Coel’s words, as he penned his orders to the guards, were studied, cautious.
Half an hour later, armed with the orders he had written, Coel knocked on the door to Imre’s inner chambers and then opened it, not waiting for the servants to admit him.
A crash of breaking glass rang out in the next room, followed by the emergence of a red-faced squire who was trying to mop a purple stain off his white winter livery. Almost immediately, Imre could be heard calling for more wine. By the sound, he had already had more than was wise.
“My Liege,” Coel called, stepping cautiously into the sleeping room, “it’s getting very late.”
With a clatter of wooden rings, the curtain of a dressing alcove was pulled back to reveal a flushed and wild-eyed Imre clutching at the fabric with one bejewelled hand, a silver goblet in the other. Hair awry, he was wearing a court tunic of scarlet velvet, almost indecently short, which was richly encrusted across the front and at throat and wrists with threads of gold bullion.
Two body servants, clad in white velvet and fur as Imre had been earlier, were looking very uncomfortable, one of them holding Imre’s crown in nervous, gloved fingers, the other clutching an ivory comb. Beyond them, in the next room, Coel could see the ruin of what had been Imre’s dressing chamber, chests of clothes dumped in disarray, a mound of crimson-stained white velvet lying in a heap in the middle of the floor. It took little imagination to picture the royal mayhem which must have taken place once Imre was alone with his servants and had a copious amount of wine in his otherwise empty stomach.
The servant with the comb shifted uneasily and started to bring it toward his master’s head, then thought better of it and glanced warily at Coel.
“His Grace has decided to wear scarlet tonight, my lord,” he announced, his tone clear
ly indicating his disapproval and that he hoped for the older man’s support.
“Whatever His Grace wishes,” Coel replied. He sketched a short bow in Imre’s direction and tucked the parchment he was holding into his tunic. “Sire, your appearance will dazzle all the Court. However, if you will permit, I would be honored to assist you to finish dressing, so that these gentle lads can be about their other duties.”
Imre looked at him closely, swaying slightly on his feet, then stifled a slight, uncontrollable giggle. “Of course, my dear man. Send the louts away.”
Snatching the comb, he made an energetic attempt to tame his hair, nearly sloshing wine down the front of his new tunic with the vigor of his attack; then he stood meekly as Coel rescued the goblet and set it on a side table.
Coel ushered the servants to the door of the dressing chamber and gestured toward the bloodstained robe, mouthing the order to burn it, then closed the door behind them and returned to where Imre was cheerfully tangling his hair worse than it had been before. With a bow and a smile, Coel prised the comb out of Imre’s hand and began working the tangles out of the long chestnut locks. When he had finished, he turned away to pick up the crown which the squires had left, and returned his attention just in time to keep Imre from draining the goblet again.
Luckily, Imre was still at the pliable stage, so he did not resist when Coel took the cup from him. But God knew, the king had had enough to drink for a while. Whether Imre came out of the Great Hall under his own power was his own business; and if he had to be carried out, that would not be the first time. But he must at least be able to maneuver his way into the hall, or the Princess Ariella would be even more furious than she was certain to be at their late arrival. Coel put the cup out of reach and hoped that Imre would not make a scene. Imre, drunk, could be a very difficult young man.
But Imre did not resist. He let himself be drawn up to attention, and the crown put on his head, then stood still while Coel fastened the short, ermine-lined mantle over one shoulder, the fur contrasting vividly against the blood red of tunic, hose, and shoes. Only when they were heading for the door, Imre leaning heavily on his arm, did Coel remember the orders stuck inside his tunic. Abruptly, he turned the king around and marched him back to a writing desk, pulling the parchment out.
“Just one last thing, Sire,” he said, spreading the parchment on the writing table, “and then we’ll go into the hall and get you some more wine.”
As he dipped a quill in ink and extended it to Imre, the king’s eyes grew cold, like agate, and Coel suddenly realized that much, if not all, of the drunkenness was a façade.
“The orders concerning Camber?” Imre asked, enunciating each syllable with great care.
Coel nodded, an instant of uncertainty racing through his mind, though no trace of it showed on his face.
Imre studied him for a long moment, then snatched the pen from him and scrawled his name at the bottom of the page. Half in apprehension and half in amazement, Coel watched as Imre thrust the quill back into its holder, ruining the point in the process, and turned away. Imre had not even read the orders, had not glanced at the contents.
“Do you not wish to read it first, Sire?”
“No.”
Imre took a few steps away and bowed his head, and Coel looked down at the page, at the drying ink, at the words he himself had inscribed—innocuous, this time, at least—then decided to risk further inquiry.
“I could have written anything, you know, Sire. It could be death warrants for all of them.”
“Not even you would dare that,” Imre replied in a low voice, not looking back at him. “I have signed it; most men would take that as a sign of trust. Do you question the judgment of your king?”
Coel contained a smile, then picked up the parchment and inspected the signature—dry now—before creasing the orders sharply. “Certainly not, Sire. Do you wish to seal it, or shall I?”
“The seal is in the box,” Imre said softly. “Once, it was his province. Now it is yours, to tell of his foul murder.”
“His sad demise, Sire,” Coel corrected, in a similar tone but with growing confidence. “Unfortunate”—he paused for emphasis, plucking the seal from its box—“but necessary.”
“Necessary,” Imre repeated in a strained whisper.
He did not hear the wax as it hissed and spat, falling on the parchment and receiving the imprint of the royal seal. And shortly after that, they were striding down the corridor toward the Great Hall, Imre with a cup in his hand once more—Coel had not dared to refuse it to him—and the orders on their way to the guards who would escort Cathan’s body home to Camber.
The feast that night went even more badly than Coel had feared, given Imre’s initial state of inebriation.
Ariella, predictably annoyed at her brother’s failure to appear at the appointed hour, had waited a reasonable amount of time, the guests milling restlessly in the hall, then had made her own entrance and ordered the company seated—though even she did not dare to begin the feast without Imre. But the musicians played and the wine flowed freely, and the conversation sparkled at the Yule Court of Imre of Festil, as did his guests.
Seated at the high table beside her brother’s empty chair, Ariella laughed and drank and flirted with the great lords and gentlemen seated near her, her vivid beauty glowing from its setting of velvet and satin and snow-white fur. Diamonds blazed at throat and wrists and around the hem of her gown; more trembled seductively on her forehead beneath the silky fur hood which confined her hair and framed her face like some strange winter flower.
All the company was garbed in white tonight, out of deference to Imre’s wishes for a true winter court, and thus it was with a breath of surprise that the assembled gentles greeted the appearance of their monarch in the doorway of the Great Hall, clothed from head to toe in scarlet, except for the lining of the mantle he wore. From his demeanor and the cup in his hand, it was simple to deduce what had delayed the King’s Grace—or so they thought.
Without pausing for ceremony, Imre wove his way down the hall, Coel limping in a little embarrassment at his right elbow. The surprised guests knocked over benches and stools to get to their feet and bow as he passed, though Imre would not have known the difference if they had not moved. Ariella, better accustomed than most to her brother’s idiosyncrasies when he had been drinking, picked up a new goblet of wine as he approached and offered it to him with a curtsey as he reached the dais and staggered to his seat.
“You’re drunk and you’re late,” she whispered, sotto voce, as he took the cup and drained it to the dregs. “Where on earth have you been?”
“In Hell, madame, in Hell.”
Imre burped, then waved the Court to their seats and bade the musicians play.
As music and conversation resumed, Coel slipped to his accustomed seat near the high table and sat, watching apprehensively, as Imre drank a second goblet, ignored Ariella’s further attempts to question him, then paused while a page refilled his cup and drained that, too. The stewards had not even been able to get the first course served before the king lurched to his feet, his face flushed from the wine, the cup unsteady in his hand.
“Why do you laugh and sport among yourselves?” he shouted.
The room was quickly hushed, and the musicians broke off with a few discordant notes.
“Why do you make merry?” the king repeated, indignation coarsening his voice, his eyes glittering dangerously. “You, Selkirk, why such merriment on this night, of all nights?”
The weapons master, seated at a table partway down the hall with a number of his fellows, jumped hastily to his feet and bowed, his face as white as the tunic he wore.
“By your leave, Your Grace, but you did command it.”
“I?” Imre paused to take a deep draught from his goblet. “I did command it,” he repeated incredulously, as though he had never heard of anything so preposterous. “Damn you, Selkirk, do you not know that a man is dead?”
He hurled
the goblet toward the shrinking weapons master, where it narrowly missed a page’s ducking head, then swept his arm across the table, sending silver ewers and platters crashing to the floor.
“Damn you, get out! All of you, get out!”
He picked up another ewer—this one of glass—and dashed it to the floor with an oath, then lurched backward and overturned his chair as he stumbled from the hall.
His sister, stunned and outraged at his actions, murmured instructions to the head steward to clear the hall, then followed in the direction Imre had gone. A wide-eyed guard pointed out the chamber into which the king had disappeared, but all of Ariella’s cajoling and pleading could not induce him to come out. Finally, in a fit of temper herself, Ariella stalked back to the hall to see that her orders had been obeyed, before retiring to her chambers to sleep.
Imre also slept, after a time, sprawled facedown on the floor of his refuge chamber, a cup of wine staining the carpet beside his head. But guilt and an urgent bladder awakened him before many hours had passed, and it was with extreme care that he staggered, still quite drunk, into the room’s garderobe to relieve himself. His head was reeling from the wine, and he poured himself another cup with shaking hands before venturing to the chamber door and raising the bar.
Outside, the torches in the cressets were nearly burned down, the corridors silent. A lone guard snapped to attention and gave a royal salute as the king made his way down the narrow passage, fending himself off from the walls with his empty hand. Faintly, from the direction he had come, Imre could hear the sounds of servants clearing away the disaster in the Great Hall, and abruptly the reason for his drinking came back to him.
With that, he was taken by a fit of shaking, and it was all he could do to bring the cup to his lips and drink again. Then he was climbing the winding stairs toward his chambers, halting to rest halfway up, then turning and descending again, shuffling uncertainly down another passageway to another winding stair.
The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy Page 15