They had done their best to be gentle. Even so, he had passed out from the pain long before they got to the belly wound—which was as well, since all they could do for that one was to gently bathe the protruding parts with warm water and press them back inside him, there to be secured with a pad of clean linen pressed close against the opening and many turns of wide white bandage wrapped tightly around his belly. It was no attempt at repair, but at least the bandaging gave him some support. In other times, they would have afforded his leg wound more thorough treatment than mere bandaging, perhaps even trying to suture the severed muscles, but being crippled for life was the least of Murdoch of Carthane’s worries today.
He regained consciousness at about the time they finished what little they could do for him medically, as they washed the last of the blood and dirt from his mangled body and gently clothed him in a cool white robe that, all too soon, would become his shroud. He had known it, and they had known it, but they had gone through the motions nonetheless—as if anyone could do anything other than to prolong his agony. The pain in his gut was still agonizing, a burning that never abated but only shifted intensity, but at least his reason was not blurred by drugs. He had never been one to shirk his duty as he saw it, and there was much he still must say to those gathered around him.
He pressed his less injured left arm hard against the bandages binding his belly and signalled Rhun with his eyes.
“Help me to sit up,” he whispered, gasping as Rhun obeyed, bruising his benefactor with the strength of his grip as his fingers dug into the other’s forearm.
Richard, his son and heir, helped arrange pillows behind his sire’s back, assisted by his ashen-faced young wife. Cashel, Murdoch’s younger son, also came near. Archbishop Hubert had given the wounded man the Sacrament before they began working on him and stood resignedly behind the Custodes battle surgeon. The Church and the coup de grace had reached an understanding long ago.
“Now listen to me, all of you,” Murdoch demanded, his breathing quick and labored from the pain. “Our headstrong boy-king has got the bit between his teeth. I warned you there would be trouble, but you spinelessly let him take the crown.”
“Could Rhys Michael have stopped Hrorik from making the challenge?” Richard demanded. “I very much doubt it.”
“A different king might have been induced to forbid the challenge,” Murdoch retorted. “Javan has always hated me, since those first days of the regency. And after the deaths of Duke Ewan and the Deryni Carmody, it was clear that his hatred had found a focus.”
“Would that such hatred might focus on the Deryni,” Hubert muttered. “And now, to have taken Oriel directly to his service—”
“That can be remedied, in time,” Rhun observed. “Perhaps it’s time we eliminated all Deryni at Court—and I say that as one who has a Deryni still usefully in my employ, though I would slay him with my own hand if I thought it was in the kingdom’s best interests. But Sitric knows his place. He would not have dared to refuse his services the way Oriel did.”
Murdoch snorted, wincing at the pain it cost him. “Do you really think I would have let him lay a finger on me?” he said contemptuously. “The very touch of a Deryni is defiling! No, you have the right of it. ’Tis time, indeed, that the taint was removed from Court.”
“Such action will require extensive changes to the law,” Hubert pointed out. “We went to considerable trouble to justify the use of collaborators in the first place. Rhun, you’re free to do with your own Deryni as you see fit—have him strangled in his bed, if it suits you—but I no longer have that option where Oriel is concerned. Their families, of course, are another matter.”
Richard’s young wife froze. “You surely don’t mean to butcher their families,” she whispered in a rare show of spirit.
“That doesn’t concern you, Lirin,” Richard snapped. “Archbishop, are you suggesting that we simply do away with all Deryni collaborators, even the Healers?”
“We have few Healers left anyway,” Hubert muttered. “And Oriel was the least controversial. We did without Healers in the past and we can do without them in the future.”
Murdoch grimaced as he tried to find a more comfortable position, gasping as the movement sent pain shooting through his body.
“I would advise that you tread very cautiously,” he whispered, motioning for his wife to remove one of his pillows. “Remember the example of Declan Carmody. Not all of them will go docilely to their fate.” He closed his eyes and shook his head, letting out a heavy sigh.
“Forgive me, I can bear no more. You who remain must decide what is to be done about the king, because you must bear the consequences. Would that I might remain with you to carry on the fight, but Hrorik has decreed otherwise.” He grimaced against new pain, then turned his gaze to the court physician.
“Please take the women out of here, Master James,” he said evenly. “This will not require their witness.”
“No,” Elaine whispered. “I want to stay.”
“Not this time, my heart,” he rasped, shaking his head. “Take Lirin and go. You, too, Archbishop, though I ask your final blessing. Only my sons and my friend Rhun and this good surgeon shall stay. Fear not. I shall be brief.”
Weeping quietly, Elaine laid her arms around the shoulders of the stunned Lirin and let the court physician lead them out of the room. Hubert, after bowing his head briefly in a final prayer for the man about to die, signed him with the Cross and then turned to follow. As the door closed behind them, the battle surgeon was already straightening Murdoch’s left arm at his side, looping a length of leather thong around it above the elbow and tightening it down.
“A moment,” Murdoch rasped, setting his free hand atop the surgeon’s to stay what he was doing.
The movement hurt him, and he groaned against the pain.
“Rest easy, my lord,” the surgeon said in a low voice, catching the hand and bidding Rhun take it. “You need not bear this any longer. Soon there will be no more pain, I promise you.”
“It isn’t that,” Murdoch gasped, shaking his head. “I do not fear death. Nor do I question your skill, good brother, but I—would have my friend’s hand release me.”
Rhun stiffened, and Murdoch’s sons both glanced at one another helplessly.
“Murdoch—” Rhun began.
“No, hear me,” Murdoch said, his voice tight and hoarsened by pain. “A stranger’s hand gives but cold comfort—I mean you no offense, Brother Surgeon. My sons I cannot ask. But no one will question if you act for me in this. Will you do it?”
Rhun’s lean face was oddly lit by emotion rarely shown.
“We have faced many battles, old friend,” he whispered. “In heat of combat is one thing, even friend to friend—steel to throat, when speed must propel the hand of mercy, but—”
“My lord, we have a gentler way,” the surgeon said quietly. “If Lord Murdoch permits, I will guide you.”
Murdoch’s eyes closed in relief. “It is agreeable to me, if my friend finds it so. Forgive me, Rhun, for laying this burden upon you.”
“I forgive you,” the other whispered.
After several taut heartbeats of silence, Rhun tore his gaze from the face of his friend and glanced at the surgeon, who had upturned the arm he had bound and was fingering at the bulge of the veins, first at the elbow and then at the top of the wrist.
“Rest you easy, my lord,” the surgeon murmured to Murdoch, stroking the arm as he passed a sharp scalpel across to Rhun, shielded behind his hand so Murdoch would not see it. “You have already lost a great deal of blood. This will be very quick. You need not fear.”
When it was over, Rhun lingered to compose himself while the battle surgeon and Murdoch’s sons made the body seemly to look upon, for the sake of the women waiting outside. He left when the women were admitted, not daring to meet their eyes as he passed, retiring to an adjoining room where Hubert had withdrawn. Paulin and Albertus had joined the archbishop while he waited, and the three clerics crossed themselves d
utifully as Rhun entered the room. His expression left no doubt as to Murdoch’s passing.
“A grim business, Lord Rhun,” Paulin murmured as the earl pulled out a chair beside the table and folded into it, gratefully accepting a cup of wine Albertus offered him. “Unfortunately, such things are sometimes necessary.”
Rhun tossed off the wine and held out his cup for more.
“He requested my hand rather than the surgeon’s,” he said quietly, rubbing at his eyes. “I have—often performed the office in the field, but never—like this. This was—a gentle mercy, but—too calculated.” He took another deep pull from the cup. “I would rather not speak of it further.”
Hubert turned away, retreating to a nearby window to stare out at the afternoon sun, and Paulin sat down opposite Rhun.
“What will you do now?” he asked gently.
Rhun set down his cup and sighed. “Go back to Carthane with Richard. He’s shattered, as you can well imagine. Taking on all of his father’s responsibilities so young will not be easy. I’ve offered to travel with the family and help with the burial arrangements—and after.”
“When will you leave?”
“Sometime tomorrow. With his temper, he’ll not want to risk staying long in Rhemuth until his anger has cooled. The summer heat puts further urgency upon matters.” He closed his eyes and shook his head briefly. “I don’t want to think about it. I do intend to insist that he delay long enough to present himself before the king, to be confirmed in his titles. Given the king’s acquiescence in what almost amounted to judicial murder, young Richard will not find this an easy task, but I shall do my utmost to ensure that he says and does nothing that might jeopardize his confirmation. Time enough, later on, for thoughts of vengeance.”
Paulin nodded. Hubert had come back over while Rhun spoke, and exchanged a guarded glance with the Custodes Vicar General as he eased himself into another chair beside him.
“I shall keep in mind the new Earl of Carthane’s desire for vengeance,” Paulin said carefully. “May I assume that Rhun of Horthness also harbors a—resentment of what has taken place?”
“We’ll speak more of it when I return from Carthane,” Rhun said. “But, yes, I think you could certainly say that both Richard and I harbor a ‘resentment.’”
They said nothing as he stood to take his leave, but when he had gone, Paulin glanced meaningfully at his two associates.
“Thank God that man is an ally,” he said.
“Aye, thank God,” Hubert replied. He glanced at the amethyst on his hand, then back at Paulin. “And what of you? Will you still go back to Arx Fidei, as was your intention before this Murdoch thing came up?”
Paulin allowed himself a scowl. “My Inquisitor General still is dead, my lord. We should have left this morning to take him home for burial.” He worried at a hangnail on one long thumb, then eyed Hubert again. “Have you thought any more about what we discussed the other day, concerning Serafin’s death?”
Hubert shot him a sour look, a frown furrowing the smooth skin between the baby-blue eyes. “When did I have time?” he replied. “And what does Lior say? You said he was with Serafin when it happened.”
“Yes, he was. And I’ve since recalled that I thought he and Father Lior intended to visit Father Faelan that night. Lior never mentioned it, though.”
“Faelan,” Hubert said thoughtfully. “Well, I’m sure you aren’t going to find that he had any part in Serafin’s death. It still escapes me why the king wanted him in the first place. Have you asked him about it? Serafin, I mean.”
Paulin shook his head. “Not yet, but it can wait. It’s only a few weeks until Faelan is due for his monthly debriefing. Meanwhile, I’ll question Lior further. He may remember more than he thinks he does.”
Hubert heaved a heavy sigh and lumbered to his feet. “Well, I wish you well of it—though I still think you’re grasping for straws. If I could, I’d lend you Oriel. Unfortunately, the king has taken that option out of my hands.
“But you must pardon me now. Pastoral duties call. The bereaved family will wish a Mass said for the repose of Murdoch’s soul.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Go not after thy lusts, but refrain thyself from thine appetites.
—Ecclesiasticus 18:30
Word came to Javan that evening that Murdoch was dead.
“It’s done,” Guiscard said, reporting to the king shortly after dark. “Apparently he asked Rhun to do the actual deed. Hrorik is resting comfortably—exhausted, of course, and he lost a fair amount of blood from his combined wounds, but he’ll be fine. Oriel’s been to see him.”
Javan nodded slowly. He was sitting in the window of his presence chamber in a lightweight linen tunic, bare-legged, Charlan silent across from him. The night was sultry and still—not a good night for dying, or for being the instrument of someone’s death, even that of an enemy.
“I wish I could say I regretted Murdoch’s death,” he said after a moment. “But I honestly believe that justice was done, and seen to be done. A Higher justice—not mine.” He sighed heavily. “It still gives me great personal satisfaction to know he’s dead.” He sighed again. “Did he—die well, do you know?”
“I really couldn’t say,” Guiscard said. “I’m told that he received the Sacraments from Archbishop Hubert. I believe his sons were present at the end. All things considered, his passing was probably far gentler than he deserved.”
The hard note in Guiscard’s voice caused Javan to look up sharply, somewhat relieved to know that he was not the only one who did not mourn Murdoch’s passing. When the Deryni turned away, moving back into the room to lean both hands on the trestle table, Javan got slowly to his feet.
“So, what are the first repercussions we’ll have to weather?” he asked, coming to pour wine for Guiscard and pushing the cup across the table to him. “How is Richard taking it?”
Guiscard took a long pull from the cup before sinking down in the nearest chair, for once unmindful of the protocol that should have kept him standing until the king sat.
“Richard has asked that you receive him formally as the new Earl of Carthane in the morning, after which he requests leave to take his father home to Carthane for burial,” he said wearily, rubbing at his eyes. “I believe Rhun intends to accompany him, to assist with the practicalities of the funeral and assumption of local governance.”
Nodding, Javan wearily turned back toward the window embrasure, where it was cooler. Charlan had risen when the king did and remained leaning against the window’s center mullion, arms crossed on his chest, quietly listening.
“I can’t refuse, of course,” Javan said, sinking back down on the bottom step of the embrasure. “He’s done nothing to merit attainder. It’s no crime to loathe the man you believe responsible for your father’s death. I don’t much like him, either, if only because he’s his father’s son.
“If the loathing turns to treason, that’s another matter; but until and unless he demonstrates treachery, the law says there’s nothing I can do to him. So I suppose, for now, we play out our designated roles as king and new liege man. He may go to Carthane, and good riddance; and I will acknowledge him in his title before he leaves.”
Guiscard gave him a little nod. “Shall I so inform him, Sire?” he asked. “He will not be abed yet.”
“Please do so,” Javan replied. “Say that I shall be pleased to convene Court after Mass in the morning and that his petition will be favorably received at that time.” His expression hardened as he gazed out the window at the sleeping city, and he glanced back at Guiscard.
“Tell him also,” the king went on, “that I shall brook no continuation of the quarrel that led to his father’s demise. So far as I am concerned, the matter is closed. If he insists on keeping old wounds open, I cannot answer for the consequences.”
“Words that strong, Sire?” Guiscard asked, as Charlan also looked at him askance.
Javan allowed himself a grim, wolfish smile. “I must assert myse
lf, gentlemen. Murdoch’s death will have provided a rallying point for some of my enemies. I must pray that strength and justice will provide a rallying point for those who would be my friends.”
If Javan had hoped for an immediate sign of some such polarization in his behalf, he was doomed to disappointment. His supporters were there in full force the next morning to witness the new Earl of Carthane’s reception, but they were fewer in numbers and in political weight than those who had sided with the departed Murdoch.
Nor was the Court gala or at all glittering, despite the recency of a coronation—other than Prince Miklos, quietly resplendent in his tawny eastern silks. The heat was partially to blame, but most folk of either political persuasion instinctively chose quiet attire for a Court of such potential explosiveness—for no one really knew what Richard Murdoch planned by way of any public statement about his father’s death. Nor did they know what further action might be taken by the king.
Out of deference for the feelings of the women of Murdoch’s family, even Javan returned to the semimourning he had worn before his coronation—a deep-grey tunic, open at the throat, relieved only by the belt of silver plaques that carried the Haldane sword. Since this morning also was very much an official function, he also wore the State Crown of crosses and leaves intertwined, with the Ring of Fire on his hand.
He convened Court in the great hall this time, for the recognition of an earl—especially this earl—was of sufficient gravity to attract observers who otherwise might not make the effort to attend. Archbishop Hubert stood at his right as witness for the Church, with Father Faelan holding the Book on which the oaths must be sealed. Rhys Michael sat on Javan’s immediate left, with Charlan just beyond him. Oriel again stood behind the king, since Prince Miklos was present, but he looked uneasy at having to be so near Hubert, and did not appear to have slept well.
Mercifully, or perhaps ominously, the Custodes Fidei were but little in evidence, Paulin and his party having left Rhemuth at first light to escort the body of Brother Serafin back to Arx Fidei for burial. Albertus had remained, since the Earl Marshal’s presence was desirable for witness of Richard’s oath, but Guiscard had told Javan that the Custodes Grand Master was expected to ride out immediately after court to catch up with his Custodes brethren.
King Javan’s Year Page 35