“One vote for Hubert MacInnis,” Zephram read, fully prepared to be bored again.
Niallan plucked the next ballot out of the chalice and read it in a neutral voice.
“One vote for Hubert MacInnis.”
“A vote for—Alister Cullen!” Zephram gasped, nearly letting his second ballot slip from his fingers as he glanced at Hubert in shock.
Hubert had half come to his feet at the name, and watched with mouth agape as Niallan fished the next ballot out of the chalice and unfolded it with steady hands.
“Another vote for Alister Cullen,” Niallan said with a nod, his face absolutely unreadable.
“That’s impossible,” Hubert muttered under his breath, still frozen between standing and sitting as yet a third time Zephram read, “Alister Cullen.”
Niallan’s glance flicked to the ballot in Zephram’s hand as he pulled another slip of parchment from the chalice and unfolded it, looked down at the name in his hand.
“Hubert MacInnis.”
As he laid the ballot on the first stack they had started, Hubert nodded slightly and settled back on the edge of his seat.
“Hubert MacInnis,” Zephram read.
“Hubert MacInnis,” repeated Niallan.
But then: “Alister Cullen … Alister Cullen … Alister Cullen …” until the chalice was empty. All the ballots lay in two piles only, and Hubert’s pile was obviously far smaller.
“For Hubert MacInnis, five,” Niallan said softly, spreading the ballots and confirming the number. “For Alister Cullen.…” He counted the ballots, then counted them again as everyone in the room also counted the slap of each parchment piece being placed on the altar.
“Ten for Alister Cullen, Bishop of Grecotha,” Niallan said finally, raising his eyes to scan them all in confirmation. “The Holy Spirit has granted us accord. Praise be to God, we have a new Primate of Gwynedd!”
“That’s impossible!”
But Hubert’s gasp was all but drowned out by eight other voices affirming Niallan’s proclamation. As Archbishop Oriss rose and stepped down from the dais, to be the first to kneel at Camber’s feet and kiss his hand in homage, the others who had elected him also rose in a scrape of chairs and made their way to join him and similarly pledge their loyalty.
When they had finished and stood ranged to either side of their new archbishop, nine strong, Hubert still had not moved from his place. Zephram and the three new bishops had joined him, and were now clumped nervously to the left of him, wearing varied expressions of uncertainty and shock.
Slowly and deliberately, Camber rested his hands on the arms of what had now become his primatial throne, ice-colored Alister eyes gazing evenly across the chamber at the man who had just been defeated.
“Bishop MacInnis, please believe that I did not seek this office,” he said softly. “We had been laboring with a deadlocked vote for many weeks now. Last night, four of our brethren, including your two former opponents, sought me out in my chambers. They said that I was the only compromise candidate who could consolidate our august brotherhood, and begged me to accept their combined support, for the sake of the kingdom and the health of our holy Mother Church. I feared to agree, knowing how you feel about me on many levels and aware of the stated wishes of His Highness, but the deadlock seemed otherwise insurmountable. Finally, I told them that they might nominate me only if God could give them no better choice. Apparently, He has not seen fit to do so, and so here am I, your duly elected archbishop and primate. If you cannot see it in your heart to give recognition to my person, will you not at least acknowledge my office?”
“Never!” Hubert blurted, lurching to his feet and glaring across the chamber at Camber and those who stood around him. “You have defied the king! The king and his regents chose me to be Jaffray’s successor, and you knew that. It was your duty, the duty of all of you to support the king’s wishes in this matter! We have done our duty, we five. We go now to report your failure to him!”
With that, Hubert pushed past his supporters angrily and stalked out of the chapter house, the other four following uncertainly.
Niallan turned to Camber with a deferential bow. “Well, my Lord Archbishop,” the Dhassa bishop said, addressing Camber by his new, formal title for the first time, “I think it wise if, under the circumstances, you do not delay your enthronement. Do you agree, my brothers?”
The others nodded and muttered agreement, though many of them were clearly nervous in the wake of Hubert’s outburst and threats. At their assent, Niallan returned his attention to Camber and raised an eyebrow in question.
“Alister?”
“Very well.”
“Good, then,” Niallan said. “Today is the Vigil of Christmas. I would recommend that the ceremony take place tomorrow morning, before as many witnesses as we can manage. Give the regents as little time to think about it as possible. The cathedral will be packed for all the Christmas Masses, especially when the people hear that Alister Cullen is to be their new archbishop.”
Camber allowed a wry smile to touch his lips, matching Niallan’s own. “I thank you for your confidence in my popularity. However, it should be pointed out that opening the cathedral will also open the possibility of retaliatory action on the part of the regents, who are going to have the time to think about it, and who are not going to be pleased when they learn of my election. It will also not be easy to maintain control in that large a crowd.”
“Or to move against you without being quite blatant,” Dermot countered. “Even the regents are going to have to think twice before they try to stop your enthronement in front of so many people.”
Murmurs of agreement and vigorous noddings of heads punctuated Dermot’s observation as he continued.
“To that end, I believe we must take precautions. Were I in your place, I think I would want Earl Jebediah of Alcara in charge of my household guard. I suggest that you call him back to Valoret as soon as possible—assuming, of course, that you know where he is. I can think of no man better qualified to ensure our safety.”
“I quite agree,” Camber replied. He glanced over the others, then settled on Kai Descantor. “Kai, I do not usually ask a bishop to be my messenger, but would you please go and tell my secretary what has happened and ask him to contact Jebediah? He knows how.”
He had not intended an open reference to Deryni methods of contact, but all of them knew that Alister Cullen’s secretary was the son of Camber of Culdi; and he had further asked a Deryni bishop to convey his message to a Deryni priest. His words elicited first a grin and then a low, appreciative chuckle from Niallan. Camber surveyed them all, the pale Alister-eyes gone uncharacteristically mild, then glanced innocently at Niallan.
“Dear me, I don’t suppose I should have said that, should I? Well, I dare say, you all knew that you were getting a Deryni when you elected me, gentlemen.”
“Aye, we did that, Your Grace,” Dermot said with a smile of genuine warmth. “I’ll go and tell Joram if you wish—though he may already have anticipated you.”
“Thank you.” Camber drew a deep breath and let it out with an emphatic sigh. “Now, Robert, as the only one here who has ever been enthroned as an archbishop, suppose you review for us what’s going to be involved. If we’re to do this thing tomorrow, we all had better get our parts straight. The regents will be enough to worry about.”
Robert Oriss gave a slight bow and moved closer, taking a seat at Camber’s gesture as the rest pulled chairs and stools closer and settled around him.
The news of Alister Cullen’s election was even less well received by the rest of the regents than it had been by Hubert himself. Rhun, whose reaction Camber had most feared, was still out on maneuvers in the Lendour highlands, so the effects of his wrath would not be known immediately; but Murdoch and Tammaron more than made up for Rhun’s absence. Only Ewan handled the news with anything approaching dignity and restraint, though he, too, was clearly displeased.
Just before Hubert arrived, his three fell
ow regents and the young king had been hearing morning petitions in the great hall. Alroy’s presence, of course, was more formality than necessity, since it was the regents, and usually Tammaron, who would judge the merits of a case and then recommend a disposition, to which Alroy had only to give formal assent. But the king’s presence was a useful fiction in establishing a suitable royal image. He was a Haldane, descendant of great Haldane kings. He was in his Court, listening to the problems of his people. Surely the kingdom was in good hands.
The true holders of the reins of government were equally in evidence. Murdoch and Ewan sat impressively behind an ornately carved table to Alroy’s right, quietly ostentatious in their coronets and fur-lined court robes, respectively officious and merely official. Tammaron, the chancellor’s collar of H’s rich against his robe, stood directly left of the throne. Farther to Alroy’s left and down off the dais, a second table served as desk for a pair of tonsured clarks huddled myopically over several stacks of scrolls and parchment documents. Three liveried heralds maintained order among the score or more petitioners still waiting to be heard.
The current suit was a domestic one, typical of the sort which it was traditional to bring for the king’s judgment at Christmastide, like half a dozen others which the Court had already heard that morning. The presiding herald, who must read the petition, sounded as bored as king and regents looked as he recited the background of a complaint brought by one Master Gilbert, silversmith, against his neighbor, Dickon Thompson the baker, whose son had presumed to court the silversmith’s daughter, against the orders of both sets of parents. The girl’s condition was obvious, enhanced by the fact that she clasped her hands protectively over her swollen abdomen. The matter was routine. The court would order that the two should wed.
And far at the rear of the hall, in a deep window recess that overlooked the snow-covered courtyard at the side and gave view of the old keep beyond, Prince Javan and his Healer sat unobtrusively and listened to the proceedings—though that occupation would not have been apparent from outward appearances. Tavis had propped his booted feet on the opposite seat cushion and leaned his head against the white-washed wall at his back as if he were dozing, while Javan stitched diligently on a red leather headstall he was making, apparently quite absorbed in his work.
But both he and Tavis were using their apparent activities to mask their true intent, for the regents generally were not in favor of either Javan or Rhys Michael attending Courts or council meetings unless there was a particular need for them to do so. Ignorance, they felt, would help to keep superfluous princes in line until and unless needed.
It had not taken long for Javan and Tavis to figure out this rationale, and even less time to decide upon a course of action to counteract the ill effects. They had not been blatant in their protests, or pressed the matter publicly, once they realized the game the regents were playing. They simply had begun to find valid and seemingly innocent reasons for being in and around the great hall when business was being conducted, coupling with that a few careful indications that perhaps Prince Javan was just a little simple, a deficiency quite in keeping with the expectations of those for whom Javan’s club foot was already an issue. The charade was distasteful to Javan, but he and Tavis had finally decided that it was the most feasible ploy if he wished to stay clear of the regents’ attention and continue to learn.
And so he and Tavis had begun to make a practice of spending their mornings and often their afternoons in the little window recess at the rear of the hall, whether or not anything was happening there, taking the meager sunshine which managed to slant in and warm them as they sat and whiled away the time. The acoustics in the window recess were excellent, and made it quite unnecessary for a would-be listener to reveal himself to the front of the hall as long as he was content only to listen and not to see.
Now Javan and Tavis sat in that recess, as had become their usual wont, seemingly relaxed and totally oblivious to the fact that Court was in session at the other end of the hall. Tavis was still motionless, and Javan had just finished attaching the last of a series of thin silver discs to the browband of the headstall he was making, when the doors at the end of the hall opened and Bishop Hubert came through, followed by Bishop Alfred and three other prelates whose faces were familiar to Javan but whose names he did not know. Javan nudged Tavis to get his attention as the quintet strode down the hall, looking neither left nor right.
“Look, it’s some of the bishops,” Javan whispered, edging closer to Tavis so that he could watch them a little longer before they disappeared from sight. “Do you suppose they’ve finally elected an archbishop?”
“If they have, I don’t think it’s Hubert,” Tavis murmured in response, automatically casting out just a little with his Deryni senses to try to read more of the bishop’s mood. “Good God, he’s angry. I don’t dare try to read any deeper, for fear that one of the regents’ trained spies is watching, but I wouldn’t care to have that kind of hatred directed at me.”
As Hubert and his party disappeared behind the edge of the recess, Javan slipped onto the cushioned bench nearer the front of the hall and eased closer to the opening, peering cautiously around the corner. At least for a few minutes, the attention of those at the other end of the hall would be occupied by the men who had just arrived. If he were careful, he probably would not be spotted.
“Your Highness.” Hubert came to a halt and sketched a quick bow to Alroy as his companions did likewise. “I beg pardon for this intrusion, but I must speak with my fellow regents.”
And then, as the others straightened and stood where they had stopped, Hubert beckoned Tammaron and strode over to Murdoch’s and Ewan’s table. Despite the acoustics, neither Javan nor Tavis could hear what Hubert said, though Javan could see his head wagging emphatically, but Tammaron’s face went red and Murdoch’s voice was a near-bellow.
“They what?”
There followed some incoherent sputtering, and then Tammaron crossed back to the king and bent to whisper something in his ear. Alroy’s jaw dropped at Tammaron’s words, but then he was nodding and renewing his grip on his scepter, raising his chin to address the petitioners, who had been waiting and watching curiously the while.
“Good gentles, we must beg your indulgence for this interruption, but a matter has come up which requires our consultation with our regents. If you will leave your names with a herald as you leave, we shall make every effort to hear your petitions in the same order we would have heard them today, but on the day after Christmas.”
With that, he stood, and the heralds began ushering people back out of the hall. Quickly Javan jerked his head back out of sight, staring at Tavis wide-eyed as people began to pass them en route to the doors at the end of the hall.
“Do you know what’s—”
“Ssssssh,” Tavis breathed, holding a finger before his lips and closing his eyes briefly. “And, yes, that’s what I thought I’d heard, but I wanted to make sure.” He opened his eyes and looked at Javan. “The other bishops have elected Alister Cullen Archbishop of Valoret.”
Javan pursed his lips as if to make a low whistle. Almost all the petitioners were gone now, and they could hear the scrape of chairs as Murdoch and Ewan moved from behind their table, Murdoch’s whiny voice muttering something about not standing for this.
“Then, let’s do something about it,” Hubert answered. “Let’s call Oriel, and have him sent to Rhun—”
“Let’s not talk about it here,” came Tammaron’s voice, cold and precise in the growing quiet of the empty hall. “Guard, have Lord Oriel join us in the withdrawing room. Your Highness, I think you’d best go to your apartments. This is adults’ work.”
They heard Alroy’s thin, reedy assent, reluctant, by the sound, and then the echo of light footsteps. After that, even the voices of the regents died away as they, too, left the hall. When Javan chanced another peek around the corner of the alcove, only the clarks and two of the heralds remained, clearing away the clutter of
the interrupted court.
Mystified, Javan turned back to Tavis, almost afraid to speak.
“What do you think they’re going to do?”
“I don’t know,” Tavis whispered, “but I’m almost certain I’m not going to like it.” He considered for a moment, then cocked his head at Javan. “Do you want me to try to find out?”
“Could you?”
“Perhaps. If they’re going to have Oriel contact Rhun, I might be able to pick up something more of their plans from him, without his knowing. It would be good practice for dealing with Rhys, too. He’s come back to Valoret, you know. He arrived early this morning.”
“He did? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It slipped my mind. I didn’t see the connection, earlier. Now, I suspect that Alister must have found out last night that he was going to be elected, and sent for Rhys to come.”
“I see,” Javan said thoughtfully. “But—let’s get back to Rhys in a moment. What about Oriel? Do you really think you can read him without his knowing?”
“Not ‘read’ him, precisely, but—never mind. Someday I’ll try to explain it.” He stood and peered around the corner, then smoothed his tunic with his hand and drew his mantle closely around him as he glanced back at Javan.
“Go back to your chamber and stay there, my prince. Plead indisposition. I’ll join you as soon as I can. If I’ve not returned by dark, start discreetly trying to find out why. It may mean that I’ve been discovered, in which case you’re the only possible one who might be able to save me.”
“I understand,” Javan whispered. “Be careful, though.”
“Sound advice.” Tavis grinned. “You follow it, as well.”
With that, he made a casual bow and headed quite unhurriedly toward the far end of the hall, nodding to the clarks as he passed. Javan gathered up his cloak and leatherwork and limped slowly in the opposite direction, out the main doors of the hall and along the covered walk which led to his quarters.
The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy Page 129