The Quest for Saint Camber

by Katherine Kurtz

  Then he sneezed again, several times in rapid succession; and when he could see properly, after blowing his nose, the chamberlain was nearly at his side already, with a look of extreme solicitude for the king and a reproving glance for the archbishop’s secretary.

  “Father, you should have let His Majesty wait inside the doors, out of the wind,” said the chamberlain, a portly priest of middle years named Father Elroy. “Sire, I’m dreadfully sorry. The weather has everything askew. Please come in. Would you prefer to sit or stand for your address?”

  “I’d prefer to lie down,” Kelson said sourly, “though, since that doesn’t seem to be one of the available options, I suppose I’ll sit. I don’t know that I could speak from a supine position anyway—I’m sorry, Father,” he amended, cutting himself off at Father Elroy’s recoil to his sharp answer. “It isn’t your fault I’ve got this beastly cold or that the weather’s rotten. Do you suppose we’ll have forty days and forty nights of rain, for our sins?”

  Father Elroy managed a prim smile, uncertain whether to be mollified by the king’s apology, annoyed at the slightly irreverent reference to Scripture, or still affronted.

  “Your Majesty surely recalls that the Lord vowed never to mete that punishment again and gave us the rainbow as sign of His promise.” The priest’s reply had started out stuffy, but then his strait-laced expression softened to one of very human commiseration. “On the other hand, Sire, thirty-nine days and nights would not surprise me, judging by what we’ve seen so far.”

  And at his wink, Kelson chuckled despite his misery and clapped Father Elroy on the shoulder in appreciation as he moved on into the hall, wiping his nose again and then pushing back his hood. Perhaps he could get through this after all. It did seem a little warmer, now that he was out of the wind and damp.

  “My Lord Archbishops, Your Excellencies, Reverend Lords,” said the chamberlain, rapping his iron-shod staff to call them all to order, “His Majesty the King.”

  All those not already standing rose as Kelson strode across the tiled floor to approach the dais where the archbishops were enthroned. Dhugal did not accompany him, but slipped into a place at the rear of the hall near Saer de Traherne and Jass, his back against the doors the archbishop’s secretary closed and barred.

  The prelates and other clerics bowed as Kelson passed, some of them with familiar faces, many not. All of the bishops had chairs on the ground level of the circular chamber, each with a chaplain attending at his side; the rest stood in two rows along the tiered stone benches ringing the hall, some of them crowded very close. Five of the chairs were empty: Duncan’s, beside Cardiel; that of the vacant See of Meara, whose incumbent had been so brutally murdered more than a year before—and whose sainthood would be under consideration during the days and probably weeks to come; and those of the three titled bishops currently under suspension for their parts in or acquiescence to that murder, at least one of them almost certain to lose his office, if not his life, in addition to the freedom that he, like the other suspendees, had already lost.

  No chairs had been set out at all for the five itinerant bishops also under suspension for the Mearan misadventure, though doubtless at least a few vacancies would be created and filled by the time the prelates finished disciplining their wayward brethren. Father Lael had shown Kelson a list of the seven itinerant bishops who were not under suspension, assuring him that every one of them would make a point to be present, and Kelson believed it. He and the little priest had linked up all seven names with faces while they waited for Mass to begin, between Kelson’s sneezes. Lael had never used precisely the imagery of vultures gathering to dine off the carcasses of their fallen fellows, but that was the impression with which Kelson was left.

  And if some of the itinerant bishops expected to become titled, then their offices would fall vacant—to be filled, perhaps, from the ranks of the many abbots and priors and other high-ranking churchmen who had also made a point to be present for consideration. It was far worse than the jockeying and maneuvering that had gone on to choose the last Bishop of Meara. This synod must replace that office again and also choose several more prelates. Kelson wondered if there had been so profound a shakeup of the episcopate since the first massive reorganizations following the Restoration.

  “Welcome to Valoret, Sire,” Archbishop Bradene said, bowing over Kelson’s hand when the king had ascended the steps of the dais and bent his knee to kiss the primate’s ring. “I am most sorry that our prayers were not more efficacious in bringing finer weather for your journey. Perhaps you would have been better served had you ridden directly here with Archbishop Cardiel and Bishops Arilan and Wolfram after your knighting—on the occasion of which, incidentally, all of our colleagues here present who were not able to witness that most momentous event offer their most sincere congratulations, along with their prayers that Your Majesty may ever find the fulfillment of your knightly vows a joy, rather than a burden.”

  “Thank you, my Lord Archbishop,” Kelson murmured, waving off a monk who was trying to approach surreptitiously with the chair the chamberlain had ordered. “Thank you, Father, I’ll stand, after all. It will encourage me to be brief. Pardon me, my lords.”

  He stepped up between the two archbishops, gathering up the edges of his cloak to hop over the firepot, then turned and pushed it nearer the edge of the dais with his boot, so he could stand behind it and still be even with the archbishops. The warmth was blessed respite from the cold and damp he had just left outside, and he shook the front edges of his cloak a little to either side to trap and hold the heat. The fur-lined wool was a deep, subdued crimson, so dark as to be almost black in the dim light, and parted to show only the white gleam of his knight’s belt against unadorned grey as he held his gloved hands over the firepot to warm them. The hilt of a dagger protruded from one boot top, but that was his only visible weapon. He wore no apparent jewelry save his golden circlet and the Eye of Rom that had been his father’s.

  “Pray, be seated, my lords. The rain has me a trifle indisposed, so I hope you will forgive me if what I say seems more blunt than my usual wont.”

  As the assembly obeyed, settling with an expectant murmur, Kelson rubbed his gloved hands together a few times, surveying his audience, then gave his nose what he hoped would be the last wipe for a while and tucked his handkerchief into one sleeve.

  “I bid you good afternoon, Reverend Lords,” he said, warming his hands again as he inclined his head in respect. “I thank you for your felicitations and for the opportunity to address you before you begin your deliberations. Many of you I have met before, but I have yet to make some of your acquaintances. If I do not succumb to this chill I seem to have taken from the rain that Father Elroy assures me will not last forty days and nights—though it could last for thirty and nine, he tells me—I shall look forward to meeting all of you this evening at dinner.”

  His quip brought a modest ripple of amusement, but Kelson feared it might be the last such as he hooked his thumbs in his belt and prepared to make the transition to the real meat of what he had to say.

  “Now, as I have assured many of you in the past, I value your advice and counsel greatly, in temporal as well as spiritual matters. I hope, therefore, that you will not think it too presumptuous if I offer my advice and counsel on a few of the spiritual matters which you will be considering during this synod.”

  A few murmurs whispered through their ranks at that, but he had not expected otherwise. At least they were not hostile. And he was feeling better, now that he was speaking to them, having to think on his feet. He simply must be careful that he was not too candid and risk turning them against him.

  “First of all, I do not envy you your task of disciplining those among your number, none present here today—” He quirked them a grateful smile. “—who broke faith with you and with me during the unfortunate business of last summer. As you no doubt have already been informed, I rendered justice then—with the advice and consent of Archbishop Cardiel and Bi
shop McLain—to three clerics whose treason against me and against your chosen hierarchy was so great that, in conscience, I should have felt compelled to intervene if the Church had not herself voluntarily surrendered them to temporal justice.

  “Fortunately, the crimes of all three individuals were such that there was no disagreement among their superiors and myself regarding disposition. Former Archbishop Edmund Loris, Monsignor Lawrence Gorony, and Prince-Bishop Judhael of Meara were executed by my command in July of last year—the latter primarily for reasons of state, which I regret, though his canonical betrayals and disobediences were such that his superiors did not dispute the political necessity, under the circumstances. And it is my understanding that the other two would have been hanged by an ecclesiastical court, had I not been there to do it.

  “With those three executions, and several more purely secular ones necessitated by trial of certain individuals for particular crimes against chivalry and the conventions of wartime, the letter of the king’s justice has been satisfied. I seek no additional deaths, for far too many have died already as a result of last summer’s treachery and its terrible aftermath. However, I wish it noted that, should you see fit to impose the death penalty on additional parties involved in the Mearan unpleasantness, I will support your decision. I believe there are eight men in question, all of them bishops, all of them now in custody of the Archbishop of Valoret.”

  He let them ruminate that for a moment while he paused to cough and blow his nose. That part had not been too difficult. He had simply been reiterating what most of them already knew. Nor was the next topic apt to draw much controversy.

  “The second item I wish to address is connected with the first, for it concerns the election of a successor to the See of Meara, presently vacant, and of successors to those vacancies likely to be created by your actions in the first item—for even if the lives of some or all of those offenders be spared, I suspect that you will find at least a few of those men no longer fit to hold high episcopal office.

  “Regarding those elections, I will say only that I am aware of the qualifications of some of the candidates considered during your deliberations two years ago and believe that some of those men are probably even more qualified now than they were then. I am sure you will give them all due consideration, as well as new candidates who have come to notice since. Several weeks ago, after consultation with several of my temporal advisors, I gave Archbishop Cardiel a letter outlining some of my own observations and recommendations regarding candidates known to me. He will share that information with you at the appropriate time. I trust I need not remind you, however, that you and those you elect wield and shall wield extensive temporal power as well as spiritual and that your choices must, therefore, be considered in a temporal light as well. The events of the past few years and of last summer, in particular, have shown us amply that it is no longer sufficient for a bishop merely to be a pious churchman and shepherd of his flock. He also must be an administrator and sometimes a politician—though I should point out that he ought never to allow his spiritual obligations to be overshadowed by the latter occupation. In the matter of elections, then, I shall simply wish you clear minds, honest hearts, and souls that listen to the direction of the Holy Spirit, as you deliberate to choose new Shepherds of the Flock.”

  A mild stirring whispered through the chapter house at that, as Kelson paused to dab again at his miserable nose—which was beginning to tickle, in the warmth from the firepot—but he knew he could quell that with his next statement.

  “The third point I wish to address concerns one of your number no longer with us—Bishop Henry Istelyn, of blessed and much missed memory, who, I believe, is to be considered for canonization.”

  The murmuring instantly ceased. He knew he had their complete and undivided attention.

  “I can only say that my own dealings with His Excellency were always of the most satisfactory nature and that his loyalty to crown and cross was unshaken to the end. If martyrs have merit, if only in providing examples to all of us, then surely Henry Istelyn was one such shining example and ought surely to be recognized for the courageous and godly life he lived, as I am sure Our Lord already has recognized him in heaven. It is my fervent wish that at some time not very far in the future, we shall be able to make official petitions to Saint Henry Istelyn, Bishop and Martyr.”

  A sigh of agreement whispered through the hall at that, and Kelson knew he had set the stage properly for the last and most difficult thing he had to say to them this afternoon. This was the one that was most important, in the long view, and would require the most delicate balance. He wished he could think more clearly.

  “Finally,” he said—and here several of his listeners shifted uneasily in their seats. “Finally, I would commend to your careful consideration the continued modification of the Ramos Conventions, which have governed the interpretation of our law, both civil and canon, for nearly two hundred years. I will not attempt to tell you that all the statutes of Ramos should be struck down, for they should not. Nor will I deny that some of the statutes are worthy and honorable laws.

  “But for those laws dealing specifically with members of any particular—let us be candid, gentlemen. For those laws dealing specifically with those known as Deryni, I would ask your careful and prayerful consideration.

  “Civil law regarding Deryni has been gradually changing in the past few decades, as individual Deryni have begun guardedly to prove their worth and loyalty to the crown—as was surely true in many instances even during the worst of the Interregnum times. My own father, may he rest in peace, dared to rescind or amend several of the most troublesome civil statutes, such as those forbidding even Deryni of proven loyalty to hold office or noble titles or even to own land, like any yeoman farmer.

  “But canon law has not been as forgiving of what, I begin to believe, was more often political avarice, such as I warned you of earlier, than any moral or spiritual deficiency inherent in Deryni as a people. You, yourselves, in the past year, finally have agreed that the death penalty ought not to be imposed on a Deryni who simply seeks, in the passion of a true vocation, to be ordained a priest—though, thank God, no test of this deviation from the still-extant section of the Ramos statutes has been called for. I wonder if most of you even know how, over the last two centuries, the discovery of would-be Deryni priests has been ensured.”

  “Do you know, Sire?” called a voice from the right side of the hall.

  “Who asked that?” he countered, searching the upturned faces. “Speak up. You won’t be punished for your honest question—I swear it.”

  Slowly a man in the black habit and blue girdle of the Ordo Vox Dei stood. Kelson noted him well for further investigation, then nodded for him to be seated.

  “Yes, I know,” he said quietly. “Not all the details of implementation, but I am aware of the method itself. Steps are being taken to deal with it, for it is the hand of man, not God, which singles out so and which has sent so many to the flames.”

  “Has Bishop McLain told you this, Sire?” asked another man, from the left, though Kelson saw him before he finished speaking and fixed him with his gaze.

  “Bishop McLain knows about it now, but he was not the one who told me. Nor was he the instrument of his own salvation when he was ordained, more than twenty years ago.”

  There. Let them sweat that little piece of information, to prepare them for the likelihood that others besides Duncan might have gotten past their precious system. He dared not look at Arilan, who must be even more on edge than he was.

  “I put it to you that an entire rethinking of the Deryni question is in order, gentlemen. Man’s ways are fallible, as God’s are not. God calls men to be His priests when and where and how He wills, whether they be human or Deryni or some mixture of the two. It is time to remove all human penalties whatsoever from this crime that is not and has never been a crime, and to judge a man’s worthiness for the priesthood by the kind of life he leads—not by the gifts he
may or may not have been born with. If you insist upon maintaining this cold and illogical stance regarding Deryni, then you do me no honor either—though all of you have sworn to defend and uphold me, as I have sworn to defend and uphold you. For my mother, however vehemently she may try to deny it, has given me a legacy of Deryni blood that I value no less highly than the Haldane blood that runs in my veins. I pray you, keep that in mind as you deliberate in these next weeks.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  A day of darkness and of gloominess, a day of clouds and of thick darkness.

  —Joel 2:2

  Rain was still bucketing down by late afternoon, when Kelson had finished his speech, both archbishops had addressed the assembly, and the synod had adjourned to the archbishop’s palace for supper. Kelson’s cold had not improved, so he retired soon after eating and let Father Lael give him a physick in a shot of hot and potent Rhenndish brandywine. He doubted it would do much to cure the cold, but it made Father Lael feel better—and it did feel good going down, balm to his scratchy throat. After he had dutifully tossed it off, he bade Dhugal help him into deep, controlled trance-sleep—which, if it did not cure him, would at least release him from conscious misery through the night. The last thing he heard, before he slipped beyond caring, was the soft drone of Dhugal’s voice, coaxing him deeper into trance, and the steady patter of rain on the leaded roof.

  And it was raining in Rhemuth, later that night, when Duncan, working late in his study, laid aside his quill and knuckled at bleary eyes. During his “indisposition” of the past week, he had begun to take on occasional secretarial duties for Nigel—a sometimes mindless and often boring pastime, but it kept his mind off what might be happening in Valoret and it helped Nigel. The transcription he had been working on for the last two days was of the latter sort, even more boring than most, but at least it was finally finished and could be taken to the prince. The hour was late, but not so late that Nigel would be already abed—though, judging from the sound of the rain pelting down outside, that was probably the best place to be on a night like this.