Drums rolled, brisk and commanding, and guard details from the castle garrison came to attention outside each pavilion to escort the contenders and their banners onto the field. Murdoch was preceded by the black aurochs of Carthane on a crimson field; Hrorik followed the Eastmarch standard, golden suns and a silver saltire on blue. The two wore gambesons of quilted leather under embroidered surcoats that repeated the devices on the banners, and greaves and vambraces of boiled leather, but no true armor. They would don steel caps and mail coifs later on, but helmets would not be permitted. Both carried swords and long poniards at their belts.
Trailed by the Earl Marshal and the banner-bearers, the combatants approached, eyeing one another sidelong. Hrorik went at once to his knees when they had reached the barrier between field and royal enclosure, head bowing in homage, but Murdoch gave Javan a long, cold look before slowly sinking down, arrogance in every line of his body. Javan met Murdoch’s glare without flinching, resting his left hand on the hilt of the Haldane sword as he stood.
“Hrorik of Eastmarch and Murdoch of Carthane,” he said, “you have come upon this field of trial by combat, accuser and accused, and agreed to do battle to prove the right of your claims. I charge you, before God, to conduct yourselves according to the terms of such combat. Battle shall commence on horseback and proceed until mortal injury is done to one of the contending parties. All weapons are allowed. No quarter shall be asked, and none given. Having heard these charges, have you any questions?”
When only silence answered him, Javan turned to Hubert, waiting in cope and mitre to bless the two. The archbishop’s pudgy hands were trembling on his pastoral staff, for if he had not sanctioned Murdoch’s actions that other day, neither had he forbidden or even discouraged them. As a clergyman, he could not be called out on the question, but his guilt would be indicated clearly enough if Murdoch fell, even if Hubert himself was never made to answer in this life. The archbishop looked queasy and restive as he raised his right hand in the formula of blessing.
“Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus. Amen.”
The two crossed themselves and got to their feet, Hrorik bowing again to Javan, Murdoch merely inclining his head. Then they were striding back to their respective ends of the field where war-horses and weapons waited. The Earl Marshal retired to mount up, then rode to the center of the field. Below the royal box, a Custodes battle surgeon and a priest slipped quietly into place beside a court physician. Oriel was standing behind Javan again, for Prince Miklos and his party occupied a pavilion directly opposite the royal box.
Silence descended as the two now-mounted combatants turned at the ends of the field to face one another, barely curbing increasingly fractious mounts, shields glinting in the sun, lances at the ready—not the lightweight, breakaway lances of the tournament field but shorter, heavier war lances. The jingle of harness and the creak of saddle leather were the only sounds besides the snorting of the horses. Albertus, watching them, turned toward Javan and bowed low in the saddle, then straightened to back his horse deftly to the other side of the field, baton raised. When he had reined in, he glanced toward Javan once more, caught the royal nod, and brought the end of the baton down sharply.
Suddenly given their heads, the battle chargers bolted, whinnying defiance as heavy hooves pounded down the sun-parched footing of the battleground. Lance tips winked in the sun as they dropped, just before the two engaged, but deft shieldwork deflected both blows, splintering Hrorik’s lance full along its length and spinning Murdoch’s out of his hand.
Both men dragged their mounts’ heads around to make another pass, Murdoch fumbling for his sword, Hrorik heaving the remnants of his shattered lance directly in the path of Murdoch’s charging steed. The angle was just right to tangle the lance between the grey’s heavy forelegs. The horse screamed as it went down in a tangle of thrashing hooves, and Murdoch was pitched over the animal’s shoulder.
He managed to keep hold of the reins as he tumbled in a twisting somersault—incredible, for someone still clutching sword and shield—but he somehow accomplished a three-point landing on both hands and a knee, sword still in his fist and shield intact. He was already scrambling back into the saddle as Hrorik made his turn and came around for another pass, drawing a battle ax from his saddlebow.
Squealing its rage, the grey lurched to its feet with Murdoch aboard and went for Hrorik’s bay as the two closed. Murdoch only barely managed to retain both seat and sword. The grey got its teeth in the other stallion’s throat and the two reared up, screaming, but Hrorik’s ax was already singing forward and down, smiting the grey between the ears, splitting its skull and severing the bridle strap to leave Murdoch with a handful of reins connected with nothing at all as the bit dropped out of the grey’s gasping mouth.
Only barely did Murdoch manage to block Hrorik’s next blow, catching the haft of the ax on the quillons of his sword with a bone-jarring impact. As the grey sank to its knees, dying, and Hrorik maneuvered for another blow, Murdoch frantically threw himself to one side to avoid being pinned.
The tip of his blade was coming up, though, even as he rolled clear. He braced the hilt against the ground as Hrorik’s bay reared again, struck out with steel-shod hooves, then came down—full onto Murdoch’s sword.
The horse screamed with pain; Hrorik screamed in rage. Roaring his glee, Murdoch twisted his blade as he wrenched it free, opening the animal’s belly and spilling its guts to tangle in its flailing hooves. Now it was Hrorik’s turn to bail out of the saddle, desperate to be clear of a thrashing, dying horse, using his shield to block Murdoch’s blade as he kicked free of spur-tangled stirrups and scrambled for his footing.
Combat now settled down in earnest, sword and shield against ax and shield. Most of the spectators had come to their feet as the first exchange of blows went sour and horses started being cut from under riders. Javan and his immediate attendants remained seated, maintaining the required decorum, but Javan’s hands were clenched in a death-grip on the ends of the arms of his chair. He had groaned for the horses’ fate, and now he flinched at nearly every blow, wondering how long it must go on. The crown seemed to burn into his brow, and each clash of steel on steel seemed to pound at his brain.
The two fought more than a score of exchanges, parry and riposte, thrust and counterthrust, attack and counterattack, before the scales began to swing. In the beginning, once the two had won clear of the encumbering bulk of dead horseflesh, they had seemed quite evenly matched, settling down to cool-headed, almost logical exchanges—a dance of death, but almost beautiful in its horror. Gradually, however, Hrorik’s slight advantage of age began to tell.
It began with a cut to Murdoch’s right shoulder, shallow but bloody, answered by a thin graze along Hrorik’s forehead. First blood seemed to break the impasse, though; and before long, Murdoch was bleeding from half a dozen wounds, painful enough to slow him down, but none yet serious enough to give his opponent the victory he sought. Hrorik was bloody, too, but all of his wounds were superficial.
The glittering upward arc of the telling blow was almost offhanded. Surely it was moving far too slowly for Murdoch not to get out of the way in time.
But Murdoch did not move fast enough, and Hrorik’s already bloody ax cut a deep, clean gash across Murdoch’s lower belly, right through crimson surcoat and quilted leather padding.
Its import was not immediately apparent. The blood was not readily visible against the surcoat, and Murdoch clutched at his belly and staggered back with hardly a louder cry than many another he had made. After throwing his shield at Hrorik’s head with a roar of defiance, he launched another savage sword attack, left hand now pressed to his belly as the right hand wove a deadly net of steel before him. The burst of aggression got him through Hrorik’s defenses enough to lay open his ax arm just above the elbow.
Bellowing with outrage, Hrorik fell back and also threw aside his shield, shifting his ax to his other hand and wading into another atta
ck. This one caught Murdoch behind the right knee, hamstringing him. As he fell groaning, clutching at this new wound—but never relinquishing his sword—the extent of the previous wound was revealed at last: a gaping gash as wide as a man’s hand, through which could be seen the bloody bulge of entrails. His free hand shifted back almost immediately in futile attempt to press back what was sundered, but blood was leaking from between his gloved fingers.
A groan passed among the assembled witnesses as the gravity of the wound registered. As Murdoch staggered, Hrorik pulled up short, ax still upraised—then slowly straightened and let the weapon sink to his side, a wolfish grin curving his lips.
“Welcome tae hell, Murdoch!” he said softly, breathing hard, gesturing toward the belly wound with his ax.
The Earl Marshal and Richard Murdoch were already running onto the field, soldiers of the garrison preventing anyone else from following. Richard’s face contorted with horror as he flung himself down beside his father and made futile motions to staunch the bleeding. Albertus bent dispassionately over the fallen man, coolly noting the dirt already befouling the wound, the grey gleam of entrails exposed, then turned expectantly to Hrorik.
“The victory is yours, my Lord of Eastmarch. Finish him.”
“Let someone else finish him,” Hrorik replied, casting the bloody ax at Murdoch’s feet.
Richard Murdoch looked up in shock, as if unable to comprehend. Javan had come to his feet at Albertus’ words, straining to see and hear, and signalled the guards to let Sighere go to Hrorik.
“According to the agreed terms of combat,” Albertus said calmly, “battle was to be to the death, with no quarter given. Until he is dead, you have not won.”
“I hae won,” Hrorik said contemptuously, as Sighere came to throw an arm around his shoulder and Murdoch at last rallied enough to open his eyes and look up, panting with the pain. “He cannae recover, no more could Ewan recover from the hurt done tae him. But I will gie ye better an’ ye gave my brother, Murdoch o’ Carthane!” he said, pointing a shaking, bloody finger at his vanquished foe. “I dinnae demand the rippin’ o’ yer mind—an’ I willnae deny ye the coup. But I willnae do it. Upon my soul, I willnae.”
As he turned to walk away, leaning heavily on his brother, others were pouring onto the field: Rhun and Manfred, Hubert, a surgeon, Murdoch’s wife, and his other son—and Javan himself following more sedately, accompanied by Rhys Michael, Charlan, Guiscard, and Lord Jerowen. Hubert went to the wounded man immediately, easing his bulk to his knees, the surgeon crouching to examine the belly wound. Elaine, Murdoch’s wife, was restrained from coming too close by her younger son Cashel. As Javan approached, he heard Hubert say to his brother Manfred, “Get Oriel over here!”
Manfred was gone before Javan could gainsay it, returning almost immediately with a pale-looking Oriel, one burly fist locked tightly on the Healer’s bicep. Oriel bit back a sob as Manfred flung him to his knees beside Hubert and the wounded Murdoch, who was panting with the pain.
“Help him!” Hubert commanded.
“My lord, I—”
“I said, help him!” Hubert repeated, with a vicious backhand across Oriel’s face that cut his cheek with his bishop’s ring. “Defy me, and your family shall pay the consequences, I swear it, Oriel!”
“Archbishop, enough!” Javan said, seizing Hubert’s wrist to prevent another blow. “You may not compel him to do that!”
Hubert jerked his hand away and glared at the king.
“How dare you!” he whispered, under his breath but loud enough for Javan to hear. “I may command my servant to do whatever I please!”
“My lord, you may not compel anyone to give aid to a man dealt a mortal wound in trial by combat,” Javan said quietly. “I will permit mercy freely given, but never compulsion. Furthermore, Master Oriel is no longer your servant. From this moment hence, he is part of my own household, and I give him the right to decide whether he wishes to grant mercy to one who has so greatly wronged him.”
“And how has my father wronged him?” Richard demanded. “He is Deryni. He has no rights to be wronged!”
“He would dispute that point, I think,” Javan said. “But did you truly think it was only Ewan’s kin who had quarrel with him? Even if Murdoch did not himself slay Ewan—and I believe it was his dagger buried to the hilt in Ewan’s gut—his direct order was responsible for the deaths of at least four other persons, one of them under circumstances so excruciating, I hope you cannot imagine.”
“They were Deryni!” Richard said contemptuously.
“Aye, they were—three of them: a woman and her two young sons, gentle and harmless. Oriel was able to do nothing to ease the plight of Declan Carmody and his family that day, nor was I; but I will not raise a finger to force any man to give ease to Murdoch of Carthane. Master Oriel, you are free to help him or not, as you choose, and will suffer no punishment, whatever your decision.”
Trembling, not meeting any of their eyes, Oriel slowly extended his hand above Murdoch’s wound, though he did not touch it. After a long moment, he returned his hand to his lap to clasp with the other and looked up impassively at Hubert.
“I think you must know that the Healing of this wound is beyond my skill or any other’s, my lord—saving, perhaps, a miracle,” he said quietly. “Unfortunately, Deryni such as myself are not often granted such grace.”
“But you cannot simply let him suffer!” Hubert began.
“I can and will block the pain, if Lord Murdoch requests it of me, my lord,” Oriel replied. “So much my Healer’s Oath requires, in the name of humanity.”
The wounded man snorted, contempt mingled with his pain. “As if humanity were a Deryni trait!” he gasped. “You’ll not hear me beg to the likes of you! I’ll see you rot in hell first!”
Oriel turned his pale gaze directly on Murdoch. “My Lord Murdoch may, indeed, see me in hell, for that surely is his destination,” he said quietly. “For myself, I commend me to the mercy of the Most High God, to Whom all shall surely answer on the day of judgment.”
“Careful, Healer!” Hubert warned. “You skirt dangerously near blasphemy.”
“I mean no disrespect, my lord,” Oriel murmured. “I seek but to do my work in peace, wishing harm to no man.”
“And what of my father?” Richard demanded. “There is your work, Healer.”
Slowly Oriel shook his head. “I can give no false hope, my lord. Lord Murdoch must understand that his wound is fatal. If it runs its course, death will not come easily or quickly. The bowel has been breached, and the wound will rot from within. I can block the pain, but I can do nothing about the rot, especially in this heat. The end could be days in coming—perhaps even weeks.”
Murdoch had gone even paler as Oriel spoke, and now turned his face away, choking back a sob.
“Perhaps,” Oriel went on more coldly, “Lord Murdoch may take comfort from the knowledge that he will have ample time to repent of his sins—a luxury he did not allow Duke Ewan or his other victims. I suggest you shrive him quickly, my Lord Archbishop, before the pain becomes too great—for I see he will not bear a Deryni to touch him. And then, best pray for someone else to do him the office that Declan did for Duke Ewan.”
Hubert closed his eyes briefly, for while the Church did not officially condone the coup de grace, no one could deny its existence—and its preference to the prolonged agony that Murdoch now faced.
“Then you must perform that office, Master Oriel,” Hubert said suddenly. “In the name of mercy, I beg you. You have the means. You can make the passing easy.”
Boldly Oriel met Hubert’s gaze. “I can, but upon my soul, I will not,” he said. “As Healer, it is my office to give life, not to take it. Let some other perform that office.”
“But—”
As Hubert turned his entreaty to Javan, the king merely shook his head and signalled to Oriel to join him. “Do not appeal to me, Archbishop. This is not my argument; but if you make it my argument, I, too, have recoll
ection of deeds for which Murdoch is responsible, and must count the balance not yet paid, even were he six months in the dying.”
So saying, he gathered his party to him and turned to follow Hrorik and Sighere off the field, leaving Murdoch groaning on the ground and his sons and friends pondering what to do.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
And another dieth in the bitterness of his soul …
—Job 21:25
An hour later Murdoch of Carthane lay taut and pain-wracked on what he knew would be his deathbed, teeth locked in a grimace against the burning in his gut, hurting with every breath he drew. Beside him, his wife of more than twenty years kept dabbing at his brow with cloths wrung out in cool water, but he found her ministrations increasingly more annoying than soothing. She meant well, and he loved her for her devotion even to this bitter end, but it would take more than water to quell the fire that was eating at his life.
And it would only get worse as the hours wore on. Already the agony had been unspeakable. Lord Albertus’ battle surgeon and a court physician both had offered him syrup of poppies before beginning their grisly work—for even cutting away his armor and clothing had been excruciating—but Murdoch had declined, setting his teeth in a strip of leather to keep from screaming as they began treating his wounds.
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