Santare pulled the missive before him and scanned it briefly. When he had finished, he leaned back in his chair and hooked thumbs in his ample belt, nodding slowly.
“No wonder we couldn’t find Draper. He’s been holed up in a monastery all these years. They must’ve traced him through the records at Saint Jarlath’s, the same way we were trying to trace Benedict. And yet …”
The earl got to his feet and began pacing, his boots stirring the rushes beneath them. Coel watched him, hawk-like, scarcely able to contain his impatience.
“You know, that’s odd,” Santare continued, after several circuits of the room. “According to the archbishop’s report, they went to Saint Foillan’s for the first time a good month ago, but they didn’t do anything. It’s as though they weren’t sure he was the right one. The question is, the right one what? Why all this interest in a simple monk from a family of merchants?”
One of the aides cleared his throat hesitantly. “There—ah—have been the rumors of the Haldane, m’lord. You’ve seen the handbills that are starting to appear.”
“Willimite speculation and wishful thinking!” Coel snapped. “That may be what they’re trying to imply, but it simply won’t work.”
“But, Thuryn did steal the painting of Ifor Haldane, sir,” the second aide volunteered. “He must have had a reason.”
“It’s a fraud. It has to be!” Coel insisted. “No Haldane survived the Coup. Everyone knows that.”
“But if one had, wouldn’t this be a bloody good time for him to turn up?” Santare said, motioning the aides to leave them.
Coel sat back and planted a booted foot on the edge of the hearth in disgust as the door closed behind the aides. “Yes, it would,” he agreed grudgingly. “But, it doesn’t make sense. This whole thing doesn’t make sense. What is a Haldane to the MacRories? They’re Deryni, the same as you and I. Certainly, Camber has no reason to love the king, especially after the way Cathan died; but, damn it, they’re all Deryni! He can’t seriously mean to replace Imre with a human king of the old line—or worse, one who only says he’s of the old line. Where’s their proof? And where is Camber?”
“I don’t know,” Santare shrugged. “We’ve questioned the servants and peasants at Caerrorie, of course—”
“And learned nothing! Santare, I find it difficult to believe that skilled inquisitors were unable to extract even one jot of information about Camber’s plans or motivations. If it were up to me—”
“If it were up to you, I have no doubt that half of Camber’s servants would now be swinging at the ends of ropes, the way those peasants ended up in October—for not divulging information which they did not have,” Santare said pointedly. “Don’t you think that a Deryni as powerful as Camber could manage to keep his plans secure from a few human servants, if he wanted to—and be certain that no one could get that information out of them?”
“But, he’s got to be somewhere!”
Further argument was curtailed by the explosive entrance of a very out-of-breath young squire in Imre’s personal colors. A look of relief crossed the lad’s face as he swept off his cap and bowed.
“My lords, the King’s Grace commands your presence in his chambers at once. He—” The boy paused to gulp another breath. “He is most distraught, my lords. It would do well not to tarry.”
As one, Coel and Santare bolted for the door.
“Miserable, ungrateful, misbegotten whoresons!” Imre was screaming, as Coel and Santare were admitted to his chamber. “Lying, deceitful—Coel! Do you know what they’ve done? Can you conceive—”
“What who has done, Your Grace?” Coel interjected, bowing cautiously.
“The Michaelines! Filthy, two-faced, double-crossing, treacherous—”
“Sire! What have they done?”
Imre glared at him, wild-eyed, then flung his hands into the air and flounced into a chair. “They’ve disappeared—every last treasonous one of them! They took their treasury, their altar plate—everything! They’re just—gone!”
“Gone …” Santare breathed.
His reaction was lost on Imre, who lurched to his feet and immediately launched into a new stream of invective, proclaiming fluent and obscene descriptions of the base birth and gross physical habits of the order in question. Santare, awed and more than a little apprehensive, tried to discern a motive, forcing himself to begin planning for the safety of the realm.
Such action by an order as wealthy and powerful as the Michaelines, coupled with the evidence of a MacRorie conspiracy, pointed to only one thing: there was a plot brewing to attempt the overthrow of Imre and replace him with an alleged Haldane heir. And if the Michaelines were involved, then they must be well convinced that this heir was a true Haldane, and that they looked for at least a reasonable chance of success in their endeavor. Even now, the Michaeline knights must be gathering somewhere, preparing to make their move. By removing their noncombatant members to places of safety, they had rendered themselves invulnerable to reprisal. Why, the Michaelines could be anywhere!
Coel, too, was not blind to the ramifications of the Michaeline disappearance, though his thoughts, as the king raged on, were of a more personal and immediately sobering bent. He had thought himself so clever. Why, he had not been clever at all! All of his planning, his merciless engineering of Cathan’s apparent betrayal, the assassination of Maldred, Cathan’s own murder—all of these had been unwittingly aiding a real conspiracy. He had seen himself as architect of a new power base in Gwynedd, not dreaming of the real enormity of the greater plan. He was but a pawn in a game whose magnitude he was only now beginning to comprehend. And now he could envision himself being swept along in that game, impelled by forces which he, himself, had helped to focus. Would he eventually be a sacrifice for his own king?
“I’ll show them!” Imre was shouting, as Coel’s attention snapped back to the immediate crisis. “They’ll be sorry they dared to defy me!”
Still cursing under his breath, Imre flung himself into the chair behind his writing desk and began scribbling furiously, muttering all the while as Coel and Santare exchanged stunned glances. At length, the king sanded the ink, sealed the foot of the page with his personal signet, and stood, flourishing it under Santare’s nose with a malicious smirk contorting his face.
“You will see to the execution of these commands immediately, Santare.”
“Sire?”
“Go ahead, take it!” Imre said, shaking the page impatiently. “The Michaelines dare to oppose me? They think to replace me with another king? Well, we’ll see! The present king intends to make things very uncomfortable. See to it!” he barked.
Santare bowed his head, not daring to look at the page he now held in his hand.
“Aye, My Liege.”
“And if, in the process, you should happen to run any stray Michaelines to ground,” Imre added, “I want them brought to me immediately. Do you understand? Regardless of the hour. I want to question each one of them personally, before he’s executed as a traitor!”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Then get out! Both of you!”
Outside, Santare exhaled in relief—the first real breathing he had allowed himself since entering the king’s presence—then unrolled the parchment, turning away pointedly when Coel made as though to read over his shoulder. The earl scanned the document slowly, meticulously, as Coel fidgeted in impatience; then he handed it over, as Coel had known he would.
Imre, by the Grace of God, etc., to all leal subjects of Our Realm, greeting.
Know that We have this day been most grievously and treacherously betrayed by members of the Order of Saint Michael, which Order We do dissolve, disband, and abolish. We declare its former brethren outlaw, its goods and lands forfeit to the Crown. We include in this ban all those bearing the name MacRorie: especially Camber, the former Earl of Culdi; Joram MacRorie, a priest of the Michaeline Order; and the Healer known as Rhys Thuryn.
To Our well-beloved Santare, Earl of Grand-Telli
e, we give command to proceed to the Michaeline Commanderie at Cheltham with a royal force and take into custody all persons residing there. The establishment shall be sacked and burned, its buildings levelled, its lands sown with salt, this to be accomplished no later than the Feast of Saint Olympias, one week hence. An additional Michaeline establishment shall be dealt with in this manner each week, until the Vicar General of the Order shall present himself before Us on bended knee and surrender both his Order and all members of Clan MacRorie, severally and collectively. Reward is offered for the capture of any and all …
There was more, but even Coel had no stomach for it.
“Per intercessionem beati Michaëlis Archangeli, stantis a dextris altari incensi …”
The words of the liturgy floated fervent and a little desperate on the incense-laden air, barely audible in the listening gallery where Camber MacRorie waited. The celebrant was Cinhil Haldane, thurible in hand, a deacon following behind to lift the edge of his chasuble as he circled and censed the altar. Camber observed in silence as priest-prince and monk completed their circuit and incensed one another again, watching as the deacon put the incense aside and then poured water over Cinhil’s fingertips into a small earthen bowl.
“Lavabo inter innocentes manus meas …”
He had not talked with Cinhil yet today—in fact, had not seen the prince since the previous afternoon, just prior to his last discussion with Alister Cullen. But he had not been heartened by their progress to date. Though Cinhil had been with them for nearly two weeks now, they still had not been able to win him to their cause.
Physically, Cinhil was docile enough. He went where he was told and did as he was bidden. He read the writings they brought him, answered dutifully when questioned on what he had read—even, on occasion, showed sparks of genuine insight into the problems of this land he was but now coming to know about. But he volunteered no word or action and did his best to show no sign of interest or caring about the position for which he was being groomed at such great cost.
It was not resistance as such. That they could have coped with, with force, if necessary. It was an almost studied apathy; an immersion, to the exclusion of nearly all outside influence, in the world he had chosen as a very young man over twenty years before. He tolerated his present situation because he must; but he would allow no inkling of human feeling for his denied birthright to intrude upon his conscience and the world in which he had lived for the past score of years. So long as they permitted him to celebrate Mass daily, he was reluctantly compliant.
Except that this morning, for the first time since his arrival, he was showing signs of human apprehension, almost despair. Camber suspected he knew the reason why.
Footsteps warned of the approach of another in the passageway behind him, and then Alister Cullen was slipping into the gallery to join him. Nodding greeting, Camber stepped aside to let the Michaeline general peer down into the chapel. Cullen’s demeanor betrayed nothing.
“Orate fratres,” Cinhil prayed, his arms spread in desperate supplication, “ut meum ac vestrum sacrificium acceptabile fiat apud Deum Patrem omnipotentem.”
Camber glanced at Cullen carefully. “I assume you’ve told him?”
Cullen sighed and nodded once, wearily, then gestured with his chin that they should go outside. By the brighter torchlight in the outer corridor, Camber could read the concern which had not been evident in the dim listening gallery. He suspected that Cullen was suffering from more than lack of sleep.
“I spoke with him last night for a long time,” Cullen said.
“I surmised as much. And?”
Cullen shook his head in frustration. “I really don’t know. I think I’ve finally convinced him that he really will have to give up his priesthood, but he’s scared witless.”
“So was I …” Camber mused, almost without thinking. Then, realizing that Cullen might not understand, he continued. “Of course, I didn’t give up mine for a crown—only for the promise of an earldom, after my older brothers died. Nor had I actually been ordained—I was only a deacon. But I recall the anguish, the soul-searching. I thought at the time that I had a real vocation as a priest.”
“You would have been wasted on the Church, and you know it,” Cullen growled, admiration tinging his voice despite the actual words.
“Perhaps—though I think I could have been a good priest. On the other hand, I like to think I’ve been privileged to do important work in the outside world. And of course, if I’d ignored my family obligations and gone your way”—he chanced a sidelong glance at Cullen and controlled the urge to smile—“there’d have been no Joram, and probably no Prince Cinhil, here and now, causing us our present dilemma. What, besides his understandable apprehension, seems to be the problem?”
“He’s convinced that he has a true vocation—which he has,” Cullen said brusquely. “He also feels that, even if he were to make the sacrifices we’re demanding, the people wouldn’t accept him. After all, why should they?”
“Ask those who have suffered at the hands of our current king, whether they be human or Deryni, and you need not ask any further. The Haldanes were never guilty of such acts. Besides, no one has seen Cinhil yet.” He broke into a grin. “For that matter, he hasn’t seen himself for a few weeks. With that beard, and with his tonsure grown out!” He permitted himself a grim chuckle. “Well, let’s just say that when the barber gets through with him this morning, he’s going to bear very little resemblance to the clean-shaven, ascetic Brother Benedict who came to us two weeks ago.”
“Has he seen the painting yet?”
“It will be waiting for him after he’s trimmed, right beside the mirror. And if that doesn’t jolt him into an awareness of who and what he is, I don’t know what will.”
“I do.” The Michaeline general extracted a much-folded piece of parchment from his cassock. “Take a look at this.”
“Which is?”
“My list of candidates for future queen of Gwynedd.” Cullen smiled wanly as Camber uncreased the parchment. “I know he’s going to fight this, too, but we’ve got to get that man married. We need another heir after Cinhil, and we need one quickly.”
“It still takes nine months, the last I heard,” Camber murmured. He was aware of Cullen folding his arms across his chest as he scanned the list.
“If I could get him married today, it wouldn’t be soon enough to suit me,” Cullen muttered. “As it is, I’d like to make a choice by the end of the week, and marry them on Christmas Eve. That’s a week from today.”
“I see,” Camber said. “I notice that your list includes my young ward, Megan de Cameron. Do you consider her a serious contender?”
“If you have no objections. My main concern, other than her ability to bear children, of course, is that our future queen be of absolutely impeccable background. Other than Cinhil’s having left the priesthood, there must be no breath of scandal touching the marriage and eventual heir.”
“Well, you’ll find none concerning Megan,” Camber said. “She’s young, but I suspect that’s what Cinhil needs. Besides that, she has a strong sense of duty, no other attachments, she’s healthy—and I think she just might like him.”
“That’s coincidental,” Cullen rumbled. “My main concern is finding someone who—”
“No, it’s not coincidental, Alister,” Camber interrupted. “Megan may be my ward, and technically I have the right to bestow her marriage on whom I choose, but I would never match her with someone she couldn’t care for. No more than I would force my own daughter to marry for dynastic reasons.”
“For God’s sake, stop sounding like a father, Camber. I haven’t even picked her yet.”
“I—”
Abruptly, Camber closed his mouth and stared at Cullen, then shook his head and began to chuckle. After a few seconds, Cullen, too, began to smile.
“Christmas Eve …” Camber finally said, as the tension dissolved away. “Do you plan to perform the ceremony yourself?”
&
nbsp; “Unless you have someone better in mind.”
“Not intrinsically better, but better for Cinhil,” Camber replied. “May I make the arrangements?”
“Please do.”
“Thank you.”
“Can you tell me whom you have in mind?”
“No. But I assure you, if I can get him to agree, you’ll approve.”
“Hmm. Very well.” Cullen glanced at his feet, then raised his eyes to meet Camber’s once more. “There’s—ah—one other thing. I wasn’t going to tell you yet, but I suppose you ought to know. Imre has started reprisals against the order.”
Camber was instantly serious once more. “What happened?”
“The Commanderie at Cheltham,” Cullen said dully. “Imre’s troops occupied it two days ago. They took everything they could carry off, torched the rest. Now I understand they’re pulling down the walls that are still standing and salting the fields. The rumor is that they will destroy a former Michaeline establishment every week until I surrender you and the order. Of course, that’s out of the question.”
Camber could only nod mutely.
“So, it seems that honor extracts a high price from all of us, eh, my friend?” Cullen finally said, recovering some of his former bravado. “But no one ever promised us it would be easy.” He glanced toward the gallery and sighed. “Well, I’d best be waiting when His Highness finishes Mass. I’ll send him to you when the barber and I are done with him.”
“Send him to Joram, if I’m not in my chamber,” Camber agreed. “Perhaps some of Joram’s enthusiasm will rub off.”
Cullen shrugged at that, as though to indicate his doubt that anything enthusiastic could rub off on the despondent Cinhil, then lifted a hand in farewell and headed off down the corridor.
Camber returned to the listening gallery, but Cinhil had finished his Mass and was disappearing with his monk escort through the door. With a sigh, Camber made his way down to the chapel door and slipped inside. Rhys was waiting for him, standing expectantly to one side of the altar.
The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy Page 23