And Nimur? Why, what king would refuse to support his subjects’ annexation of new lands to enrich his crown? No one was fool enough to think that those who helped a Festillic king back to his throne would not be handsomely rewarded.
Accordingly, military reorganization must be high on Cinhil’s list of priorities. He must have reliable troops to call up on very short notice, especially in the vicinity of the Gwynedd-Torenth borderlands adjoining Eastmarch.
Granted, there was little that could be done during the fierce winter months to train soldiers, since the peasant levies had returned to their farms for the harvest and could not be called again until after the spring planting. But there were many indoor activities which could be pursued in castle yards and halls, so that if Cinhil’s fighting men were not better trained by spring, at least they would be better armed.
Accordingly, armorers were set to forge new blades and spearheads and helmets. Apprentices began the tedious task of knitting mail and sewing metal rings and plates to leather hauberks. And everyone with armor of his own must see to its repair during the winter, so that all would be properly outfitted when the spring thaws came.
Fletchers feathered thousands of fine, polished arrows of seasoned wood which would not warp or split when the weather changed. Close-grained lengths of yew and hickory were cut and hung to season in the warmth of smoky rooms, to be planed and shaped and bent into longbows, the staple weapons of the Gwynedd yeomanry.
Tanners, with ample material available following the autumn slaughter of beasts against the winter, prepared caps and cuirasses and shields and other body armor of leather, boiled hard and tough, wove cords and bowstrings of gut; crafted other harness of various sorts for men and beasts of war.
And on another side, Lord Jebediah and the other two earls of the council, Fintan and Tamarron, began to develop a long-range plan for the raising and training of well-mounted and well-armed horsemen, for Jebediah saw cavalry as the reckoning force of the future. While Jebediah and the earls worked out details of recruitment and training programs, Baron Hildred and several lesser lords began making the rounds of all the best-known stud farms in Gwynedd, inspecting stallions and their progeny and acquiring brood mares to begin a new breeding program in the spring—for Jebediah would have his elite troops mounted on taller and faster horses than had hitherto been available. A number of R’Kassan stallions had been captured in the war, for Ariella’s Torenthi allies had been importing the swift desert horses for generations. Jebediah and Hildred saw the blood of these sires as a powerful factor in improving the Gwyneddan native breed over the next decade.
Progress continued more slowly on Camber’s personal projects, but it did continue. Within a few weeks, he had managed to arrange a schedule which allowed ample time with Cinhil and the court, yet still left an hour or so each evening for his own inner workings.
After very little string-pulling at all, Joram was appointed as the chancellor’s confidential secretary, with the blessings of Crevan Allyn and the king’s pleased approval, and was installed in quarters immediately adjoining Camber’s in one wing of the archbishop’s palace. So far as Camber and Joram were concerned, it was an ideal arrangement.
Evaine and Rhys, too, were actively brought back into the picture now—though it was through their own offices and those of the queen, rather than Camber’s, that satisfactory arrangements were eventually made. Megan had been trying for months to persuade Evaine to accept a post as lady-in-waiting; and though there were several other Healers at court, many of them far older and with much more impressive credentials, the queen preferred Rhys above all others.
At length, when Evaine finally acquiesced, the court was treated to nearly a week of high spirits on the part of the usually mouselike little queen. Even Cinhil noticed the difference, and thanked Evaine for coming to Megan’s aid. Soon, Evaine and Rhys had been assigned semi-permanent quarters in the royal keep, where both of them could be near Megan’s solar and the royal nursery. Evaine, when she was not required to attend the queen, began work on translating the vital documents which Camber had brought from Grecotha.
Contrary to what Joram had feared, Evaine did not appeal Camber’s prohibition against lone experimentation with the material she was translating. It was evident from the first that the information was too powerful to be trifled with. Camber said little, but he thought about it a great deal; and often he and Joram and Rhys and Evaine would sit and talk until the wee hours of the morning, pushing aside goblets and the remains of spare meals to manipulate unactivated ward cubes into different patterns on the table as they tried to make sense of what Evaine told them.
And so the Feast of Christmas came and went, and Twelfth Night, too; and Camber and his family thought less and less about their old lives, caught up as they were in the wonder of their own explorations and the intricacies of beginning to forge a new social order.
Evaine maintained correspondence with Elinor in Caerrorie, who kept her informed of the boys’ health and mentioned in passing that the winter weather seemed to have dampened the enthusiasm of the many pilgrims who had used to frequent Camber’s tomb. Only a few folk came there now, though they still left prayers and devotions. But Caerrorie seemed far from Valoret. And as winter deepened, those in Valoret thought less and less about the now-empty tomb and all it represented.
The first intimation that the matter had not died came in early February, but a few days before Camber was to make a month-long visitation to Grecotha. He would be there until the Feast of Saint Piran—long enough to inspect the work done by his staff in his absence, to direct further activities for the spring and early summer, and to perform those sacerdotal offices which could not be handled by other than a bishop. By the Ides of March, he must be back. The king planned to convene his Spring Court early, for Sighere of Eastmarch had sent word of his intention to parley in person. For that, the king would have his chancellor at his side, bishop or no.
But on this chill February morning, the Bishop of Grecotha was still ensconced in his apartments in the archbishop’s palace—quarters somewhat more sumptuous than those he had occupied during his first sojourn, when he had been a mere vicar general. He was seated comfortably before a large but inefficient fireplace, with his head leaned against the chairback and his eyes closed and a towel of nubby gray linen draped close around his shoulders. Guaire had just finished lathering his face and was carefully drawing a razor across the stubble of the night’s beard—a duty he had taken on himself ever since Camber’s consecration.
Joram stood beside the hearth and read aloud from the bishop’s schedule for the day, one blue-clad arm laid casually along the warm stone of the mantelpiece. His fur-lined winter cloak was pushed back off his shoulders, but he had not removed it even at that proximity to supposed heat, for he was well aware of the inefficiency of his father’s fireplace at farther than an armspan. He had no intention of letting his backside freeze.
“So, after Mass and breakfast with Anscom, you have a meeting with His Highness and Lord Jebediah for the remainder of the morning,” Joram explained. “I’ve transcribed our notes from yesterday, and Guaire drew up the revised map sections, so it should be only a matter of review—unless they want to start on something new, of course.”
Camber grunted appreciatively, but did not move, out of deference to Guaire’s razor.
“This afternoon, the Court is invited to go stag hunting with Baron Murdoch and his party,” Joram continued smoothly. “It seems that Murdoch spotted a white stag in the forest yesterday, and insists on running it down. As coincidence would have it, his wife and sons just brought him five new couples of coursing hounds to show off.”
Joram’s last statement had been delivered in precisely the same noncommittal tone as the rest, but something nonetheless made Camber open one eye to glance at his son. As he had suspected, Joram’s face wore a look of undisguised contempt.
Joram had never liked Murdoch. Nor had Camber, for that matter. Murdoch of Carthane w
as the scion of one of those old human families which had once ruled in Gwynedd, and whose lands had been confiscated when the first Festil seized the throne of Gwynedd almost a century before. In those intervening years and generations, Murdoch’s ancestors had tried every underhanded scheme they could devise to regain influence with their Deryni masters.
Now that a new administration was in power, Murdoch was following in the family tradition. He had come to Cinhil’s court almost three months before to petition for the return of his family’s lands—which Cinhil had granted, though he had not yet given back the title of earl which went with those lands. In Cinhil’s mind, Murdoch was earnest, loyal, and seemed to be sympathetic to Cinhil’s personal situation. At one time, he had almost entered the same religious order as Cinhil—or so Murdoch said.
“Baron Murdoch, eh?” Camber murmured drolly. “Yes, he and his do seem to be much in evidence of late, don’t they?”
“I think it no secret that Murdoch works toward a valuable and undeserved appointment at court,” Joram replied, arching one finely defined eyebrow. “He may get it, too. I fear our king is sometimes too easily moved by a tale of past injustice and a pious mien.”
With a snort of exasperation for court toadies in general and Baron Murdoch in particular, Camber shifted in his chair and started to make a sharp retort, causing Guaire to gasp and draw his razor hand away quickly. With a shrug of apology, Camber laid his head back again and sighed, silent as Guaire resumed his task. He was contemplating the self-seeking Baron Murdoch, and mentally reviewing how he might possibly broach the subject with Cinhil, when he became aware that Guaire seemed unusually withdrawn this morning, a trace of unaccustomed brusqueness clipping his movements as he laid aside his razor and wiped the last traces of soap from his master’s face.
Camber wriggled into a more upright sitting position as Guaire began combing his hair, trying to observe Guaire unobtrusively out of the corner of his vision and wondering whether the apparent nervousness was just his imagination. His expression must have betrayed some of his curiosity just then, for Guaire suddenly glanced away self-consciously and began tugging at the thick, iron-gray hair even more awkwardly. When he had finished, far more perfunctorily than usual, he whisked the towel from Camber’s shoulders and used it to dust off imaginary specks of lint and hairs from the violet cassock as his master stood. He did not seem to want to meet Camber’s eyes.
“Is anything wrong, Guaire? You seem distracted this morning.”
Guaire turned away momentarily to pick up Camber’s skullcap of violet silk. His face was impassive as he reached up to set it in place on the wiry gray hair.
“No, Your Grace. There’s nothing wrong. Should there be?”
“I don’t know.”
Thoughtfully, Camber turned to slip his arms into a dull, wine-colored over-robe lined with fur, which Joram held ready for him. As he turned back to Guaire, to receive his cross and chain of gold, he caught Guaire’s eyes again—just a flash of an apprehensive, almost haunted look. He tried to put on a more benign expression as he bowed his head to receive the chain around his neck.
Guaire swallowed and looked down at his feet as Camber straightened.
“Your Grace, there is something …” he began tentatively.
“I thought there might be,” Camber said kindly, sitting down again and inviting Guaire to a seat on a stool to the right of his chair. Beyond Guaire, Joram had returned to the writing desk and was unobtrusively rearranging the scrolls, but Camber sensed that he was now watching Guaire as well. He wondered whether Joram had picked up the same air of uneasiness.
“All right,” Camber said gently, trying to put Guaire at ease. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
“I—yes, Your Grace.” Guaire swallowed hard, dry-mouthed, and his gaze, usually straightforward and guileless, kept shifting to points around the room and on Camber’s person—anywhere except the pale, sea-ice eyes—as he searched for words.
Patiently, Camber settled back in his chair to wait, twining his fingers before him in an Alister gesture so familiar by now that it seemed second nature.
Guaire took a deep breath and looked up again, finally managing to meet Camber’s eyes.
“Your Grace, I—I seek a boon,” he murmured, starting to draw confidence now that the first words were out. “It—it is not one which, strictly speaking, you yourself can really give.” He paused to draw a reinforcing breath. “But I dare hope that you will choose to encourage its giving. Your opinion carries great weight with His Grace the Archbishop.”
“His Grace best knows his own mind,” Camber said carefully, wondering what Guaire was driving at, “though it is true that he has been known to heed my counsel on occasion. I must remind you, however, that if you have already asked His Grace this boon and been refused, there is doubtless little I can or should do.”
“Oh, no, Your Grace. I have not asked him yet. I—in truth, I hesitate to approach him. That is why I came to you. If he should scoff—”
“Scoff? Why should he scoff at a request made in sincerity?” Camber asked. “Is it a matter of faith? If it is, I can tell you that he is aware of your spiritual growth. I have kept him apprised of your progress.”
Guaire lowered his eyes. “Your Grace has not the whole of it,” he murmured. “I fear my faith has grown in ways you have not foreseen, nor would approve. I am near to taking holy orders, Your Grace.”
“And you think I’d not approve of that?” Camber shook his head. “Guaire, perhaps you have misread my earlier words. I counseled only that you not rush rashly into vows which would forever change your life. If you have found your way, and are happy in it, then I am happy, too.”
“Do you truly mean that?”
“Of course. Tell me about your new-found vocation. What order have you chosen?”
“It—is a newly forming order, Your Grace.” He glanced up fearfully. “And I beg you not to press me now for names and places, for I have already sworn vows of discretion. Promise you will not.”
“I promise,” Camber agreed. “But tell me what you can.”
Guaire took a deep breath. “We—we plan to devote ourselves to a new saint, Your Grace. We will seek permission to establish his first shrine in the cathedral here in Valoret. We plan to petition the Council of Bishops for his immediate canonization. There is ample evidence of his miracles.”
“A new saint?” Camber arched a bushy eyebrow, hiding a shiver of foreboding which darted across his mind. “There are channels through which one goes, Guaire. Of which saint are you speaking? I was not aware of any great upsurge of miracles of late.”
Guaire bowed his head, tongue-tied now that the moment had come to reveal his plans.
“Come, now. Don’t be shy,” Camber insisted. “Who is it?”
“It—it is Lord Camber, Your Grace.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
And the servant of the Lord must not strive; but be gentle unto all men, apt to teach, patient, in meekness instructing those that oppose themselves.
—II Timothy 2:24–25
Camber’s head shot up in horror at the name. At the same instant, behind Guaire, he saw Joram’s involuntary start.
God! Had he heard aright? Camber? Guaire could not have meant him, Camber!
“Your Grace cannot be that surprised,” Guaire continued, mistaking Camber’s horror for startled ignorance. “Surely you have heard how his cult flourishes at Caerrorie. The numbers are somewhat less since the onset of winter, but daily, since his death, scores of pilgrims have flocked to his tomb to seek his intercession and blessing. We would establish his first shrine there, except that his family opposes any mention of his sainthood. I beg your pardon, Father Joram.”
He chanced a look at Joram, who was standing pale and mute, hands supported against the writing desk behind him, then returned his attention to Camber.
“But even they cannot deny the miracles, Your Grace,” Guaire concluded, in a whisper which somehow managed to sound defiant.<
br />
Camber swallowed, fearing to ask further, yet knowing that he must. He did not dare look again at Joram, for fear of what even Alister’s face might betray.
“Did you say—miracles?”
Guaire nodded gravely. “Do you not remember how I came to you the night of his funeral, after you found me mourning by his coffin and brought me to Brother Johannes? I told you of my dream—how he appeared and asked that I carry on his work.”
An icy chill rippled down Camber’s spine at the emphasized he, and he wiped a hand across his face in consternation, trying to remember exactly what Guaire had told him that night. In the past months of hard work, he had almost managed to forget the incident. He certainly had believed Guaire to have forgotten it, for the young man had never mentioned it again after that night.
What was he going to do? Whatever had he been thinking, to couch his comfort in a form which could be so misinterpreted?
“Do you not remember, Your Grace?”
Guaire’s hesitant voice broke through his numbed thinking, and Camber looked back at the earnest young face, schooling his own features to calm. The temptation was great to reach out and read Guaire’s mind right now—to probe relentlessly for the names, the details of all involved in what had just become a waking nightmare—at least to Truth-Read him.
And yet, the last would do no good, for Guaire was telling the truth—at least, the truth as he perceived it. And the first temptation was equally unacceptable, since Camber—or Alister Cullen—had given his word that he would not pry. Besides, all moral and aesthetic squeamishness aside, if he did break his promise and tamper with Guaire’s mind to learn what he wanted, there was a distinct chance that the very tampering could arouse suspicions he would rather not raise about Alister Cullen, if not Camber himself.
The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy Page 72