The King’s Justice

by Katherine Kurtz

  “I don’t like the looks of that,” Morgan murmured, as several agitated-looking lancers on foot came out a shattered postern door.

  As one, he and Kelson set spurs to their mounts and moved out at the trot, splitting to either side of Jatham and the standard and clattering on with their escort trailing raggedly behind. The troop had regained some semblance of order by the time they reached the foot of the steps, but the faces of the lancers turning to acknowledge were tight-jawed and grim. One of the younger men had sunk to a crouch to put head between knees, near to fainting, and their officer raised a tight-lipped and outraged face as Morgan reined to a halt, grabbing at the horse’s headstall to keep from getting stepped on. Behind them, a greenish-looking Conall stumbled out ahead of Roger, the feisty young Earl of Jenas, who looked as if he cheerfully could have killed the first person who crossed him.

  “What’s happened?” Morgan demanded, swinging down from his mount and pulling off his helm.

  The lancer captain shook his head, handing off the reins of Morgan’s horse to one of his men and steadying Kelson’s as the king also dismounted.

  “Something for that traitor Trurill to be very proud of, I suppose, Your Grace. It’s a convent—or was. What else is there to say?”

  “How do you know it was Trurill?” Kelson asked, as he also removed his helm and pushed back his mail coif. By his tone, and the casual ease with which he cradled the helm under his arm, Morgan guessed that the implications obvious to a man more battle-seasoned than Kelson simply had not yet registered with the seventeen-year-old king. That Kelson might not fully understand apparently had not yet occurred to Roger, either, for the young earl charged blithely on to give the king the answer he had asked for.

  “Oh, it was Trurill, all right, Sire,” Earl Roger said, contempt for the name so thick in his words that Morgan could almost taste it. “The sisters don’t know anything about coats of arms, but one of the monks described him to a fare-thee—Conall, goddammit, if you’re going to be sick, do it somewhere else!” he snapped, suddenly clamping a gloved hand on the prince’s nearer forearm and giving him a stiff shake. “These things happen!”

  “What—things?” Kelson demanded, stunned, not wanting to believe what he was starting to realize. “Are you saying—”

  “Kelson, they—raped the sisters,” Conall whispered, too numb with shock to object to the liberty Roger had taken with his royal person. “They—even killed some of them. And they d-desecrated the church! They—”

  “They rutted in the aisles and they pissed on the High Altar, Sire!” Roger said bluntly, outrage smoldering in his eyes. “There isn’t any pretty, noble way to say it, because there isn’t anything pretty or noble about it—or about men who would do such a thing. If you’ve never seen something like this before—well, it’s probably time you did, just so you know the kind of animal you’re dealing with in Brice of Trurill!”

  Roger’s outburst left little doubt in Morgan’s mind what they would find inside. Tightly leashing his own anger, he passed the earl his helm, with its telltale coronet of rank, and bade the ashen Kelson do the same, catching an all-too-vivid preview from the man’s mind as their hands brushed in the transfer.

  Quickly he and the king shouldered between Roger and the now shaking Conall and climbed the glass and stone-littered steps. The distraught cries of the injured and bereft floated on the still air with the stench of smoke and blood and excrement as they neared the shattered doors. But even the Deryni imaging that Morgan tried to relay was not sufficient to prepare Kelson for what lay inside.

  Rape was a crime at no time condoned by any knight or other man of honor, much less the desecration of a holy place—though the former occurred all too often in time of war for it to be regarded as uncommon. The rape of Saint Brigid’s, then, as Morgan soon discovered the place was called, was all the more despicable because the chief victims had been nuns, whose consecrated status generally preserved them from the fate more often meted out to their secular sisters.

  “We begged them to spare us, my lord,” one of the blue-robed women told Morgan, sobbing, as he and Kelson paused in one of the less-damaged side chapels, currently commandeered as a hospice for the injured. “We gave them the foodstuffs they asked for. We emptied our storerooms to them. We did not dream they would violate the sanctuary of the church to—to take their pleasure of us.”

  “Beastly, savage men!” another agreed, her anger at odds with her physical attitude of prayer as she knelt and watched a tattered and bruised old monk give Extreme Unction to a sister sprawled motionless in the doorway leading from church to cloister garth. “Like animals they were! May God forgive them for what they’ve done, for I never shall, and it cost me the bliss of paradise!”

  Once past his initial, disbelieving shock, Kelson weathered the inspection reasonably well, he and Morgan passing all unrecognized among the survivors, if somewhat suspiciously received—though that was for being men, as much as anything. In the minds of most, Kelson’s crimson brigandine with its golden lion apparently linked him vaguely with Haldane service in some way—perhaps a squire or young man-at-arms, by his age, or aide to the courteous, fair-haired lord in black and green—but that was all. And Morgan’s own armorial bearings would not be expected to be familiar to a tiny community of women tucked away in the foothills of southern Meara.

  “Oh, they were highborn lords as well as common soldiers,” came the unanimous accusation of all questioned, with little variation. “Most of them wore fancy armor such as your own.”

  Others recalled border tartans and leathers, and eyed Kelson’s border braid with some suspicion.

  “Could you describe any of the tartans, or the designs on shields or surcoats?” Morgan always asked. “Even colors could help us identify who they were.”

  But most were too cowed, or too dazed, or both, to recall any truly useful details, and both Morgan and Kelson were reluctant to attempt Deryni persuasion under the circumstances. Not until they took their questioning into a corner of the ruined garden did the pattern of response shift.

  There they found what at first appeared to be merely a repeat of the same grim story: a hysterically sobbing young girl with masses of curly blond hair who cowered in the arms of another at their approach. Both wore the pale blue habit of novices of the order, though the latter was decently coiffed. Neither looked to be above sixteen.

  “Oh, what does it matter who he was?” came the unexpectedly defiant reply of the coherent one, as she raised a tear-streaked face to glare angrily at the two armored men. “He told her he was sick and tired of having to knuckle under to arrogant bishops and priests, and that he was going to show them he was a man.

  “A man—ha!” Outraged fire flashed in her dark brown eyes. “Big, important man, to rape an innocent woman! She had nothing to do with these bishops who supposedly offended him. Now her betrothed will never have her!”

  “Her betrothed?” Kelson asked, crouching down beside them. “And—bishops? But, is she not a sister?”

  “The Princess Janniver?” The girl shot him an amazed look, blinking at his obvious surprise. “Ah, I thought everyone knew by now.”

  Grimacing, for the princess had redoubled her weeping at the sound of her name and title, the darker girl pulled off the pale blue coif covering her hair and pressed it into Janniver’s hands to use as a handkerchief. A thick, blue-black braid tumbled down the back of her own rumpled and soot-streaked habit, and she pushed a damp tendril out of her eyes with the back of one grimy hand before looking back at Kelson a little less belligerently, one arm still around the weeping Janniver. Morgan guessed she had no idea who either of them was.

  “Well, then, my lords. Where to begin?” she said, with a brave attempt at nonchalance. The lilt of eastern climes was in her voice, consistent with her dark hair and eyes and olive skin.

  “She’s the only daughter of a prince of the Connait,” she went on. “She was on her way to be married to the King of Llannedd, and paused here
to make a prenuptial retreat. It’s customary for visitors to wear the habit of novices during their stay with us,” she added. “That’s why her attacker thought she was one of us.”

  As Kelson glanced up at Morgan in question, the Deryni lord also dropped to his knees beside them.

  “Is she actually injured or only badly frightened, child?” Morgan asked gently.

  The girl shook her head and drew the sobbing Janniver closer into the circle of her arms in a vain attempt to comfort her.

  “Mostly frightened, I think,” she whispered. “She—won’t talk about it.”

  “And you?” Morgan persisted.

  The girl sniffled and bowed her head over Janniver’s golden curls.

  “I was untouched,” she murmured. “I was in the cellars with two other sisters when the soldiers came. We hid. They didn’t find us, but they—brutalized Sister Constance. Four of them. She was very old, and she—died.” She lifted her eyes defiantly. “What difference does it make to you?” she challenged. “Do you ask out of true concern, or to titillate your own male lust?”

  “I ask because I have a wife and baby daughter at home,” Morgan said softly, refusing to take offense. “Because I would pray that some other man might show similar compassion if they had suffered what you and the princess have endured. I thought I might be able to help. I have some ability as a healer.”

  “And do you, sir?” The girl’s eyes flashed. “Well, we have some ability as healers ourselves. Has no one told you? We are a hospitaller order. We were founded to tend the sick and injured.” Her eyes went softly unfocused and began to brim with tears as she quickly looked out at the ruined yard beyond him.

  “We exist to give succor to the ill and injured, doing harm to no man. What more fitting reward could we ask than to have men—”

  Her voice broke in a sob. As the tears began to flow, and she buried her face in one hand, Morgan eased a little closer and reached out to touch her arm, at the same time mentally warning Kelson to see to Janniver, who had cringed back and gasped at his approach.

  “No! Please d—” Janniver began.

  But Kelson was already seizing one wrist to keep the princess within reach, passing a hand gently but insistently over her forehead and willing her to sleep. Before she could even finish her plea, she was plummeting into blessed unconsciousness, Kelson scrambling closer to catch her before she could collapse into a rose bush, a dead weight in his arms.

  But Morgan, attempting the same sort of approach with Janniver’s companion, met an entirely different response: the surge of powerful shields springing up in reflex as his mind brushed hers—a trained, disciplined defense—and then quick shifting to a more neutral balance point as one Deryni mind recognized another and she read his benign intent.

  “Who are you?” he murmured, as she sagged against his chest with a little groan of relief and abandoned any physical resistance, shoulders shaking in silent reaction as she tried to gulp back her tears.

  “Rothana,” she replied. “My—father is Hakim, Emir Nur Hallaj. Who—who are you?”

  She’s Deryni! Morgan sent to Kelson with an incredulous glance. And kin to Richenda, if I’m not mistaken.

  “I’m Morgan,” he said gently. “That’s Kelson of Gwynedd. And I believe you and my wife are related by marriage.”

  “Your—your wife?”

  He felt her stiffen at his revelation, but he could read nothing behind her now impenetrable shields as she drew back to look at him. Nor did she make any attempt to touch his mind again.

  Kelson shifted the dead weight of Janniver in his arms to gape at both of them in amazement.

  “Is she really related to Richenda?”

  “Richenda?” Rothana whispered. “Richenda of Rheljan is your wife? She who was Countess of Marley?”

  “Aye, among other things,” Morgan said neutrally. “She is Duchess of Corwyn now, however.”

  “Oh, merciful God, of course,” Rothana murmured, clasping both hands before her lips as she shook her head in disbelief. “Morgan—the Deryni Duke of Corwyn—and Kelson Haldane, King of Gwynedd. I should have known.”

  “Well, I knew our fame had gone before us,” Morgan muttered, “but—”

  “Oh, no, my lord, I meant no slight. But I remember Richenda from my childhood, before her marriage to Bran Coris. She used to play with me, and—”

  She stiffened and broke off as she glanced from Morgan to Kelson.

  “She had a son by Bran Coris, my lord. And Bran betrayed you.”

  “Aye,” Kelson replied. “But his son did not. Surely you don’t suppose I would have harmed—”

  “Of course she didn’t,” Morgan said. “In fact—have you ever met the boy, my lady?”

  Rothana shook her head.

  “Perhaps you’d like to, then,” Morgan went on, trying to put Rothana at ease and lighten the mood. “Sup with us this evening, and you shall. My stepson, Brendan Coris, serves as my page on this campaign. He’s seven. Richenda and I have a daughter as well, over a year old. Briony, she’s called. You hadn’t heard of our marriage?”

  “No, I had not.”

  Once over her initial surprise, Rothana seemed not at all dismayed at the news, and soon was asking eager questions about the children and Richenda, though she gracefully declined Morgan’s supper invitation.

  “I thank you, my lord, but I must not,” she said softly, returning her attention to the sleeping Janniver. “It would not be seemly for me to partake of better than my sisters and the townsfolk may expect, even were I not needed to help tend the injured. Besides, the princess will need me when she awakens—and I thank you, Sire, for granting her such ease as should have been my duty, had I myself not been so shaken by this day’s villainy.”

  “I’ll send some of our battle surgeons to assist you,” Kelson said quietly. “And provisions—to the town as well. And work details to help with the cleanup and any burials.”

  As he went to give the necessary orders, Morgan carried the sleeping Janniver into the church at Rothana’s direction and left both in the care of the abbess. Later that night, after supping and hearing reports from their commanders and scout captains on the probable route of the raiders, Morgan and a coolly silent Kelson returned to the abbey to check on the progress both of their royal patient and the abbey in general.

  “The men are doing a masterly job of cleaning up,” Archbishop Cardiel told them, just coming out the door of the church with Father Lael, the wiry little priest who served as his own battle surgeon and chaplain. “They’re nearly done in the church. I should be able to reconsecrate it before we leave in the morning.”

  “And the sisters?” Morgan asked.

  Cardiel shrugged and sighed. “Not as easy a question as the physical surrounds, Alaric, though I suppose they’re doing as well as can be expected. I’ve just gotten some actual figures from the abbess.”

  “How many killed?” Kelson asked.

  “Fortunately, not as many as we first feared,” Cardiel replied. “Casualties were highest among the men, of course. Five lay brothers and a monk were killed outright when they tried to defend the women, and a few more roughed up—the usual sort of thing. Only three sisters died, though: one during the assault and two more as a result of injuries. Actually, more escaped than not.”

  “Thank God for that,” Kelson murmured, shifting his attention to Lael. “There were few deaths in the town, at least. What about the princess?”

  The usually merry Father Lael, his surgeon’s satchel slung jauntily over his shoulder, glanced back at the doorway through which he and Cardiel had just emerged and heaved a heavy sigh.

  “I’ve given her a sedative, Sire. Physically, I’m sure she’ll mend quickly. That old biddy of an abbess would hardly let me near her, of course, but she’s young and strong—and the little novice who’s with her claims there are no serious physical injuries.” He sighed again.

  “The other hurts are the ones that take so long to heal. It’s too bad she can’t
just forget. Or, can she?” he added, glancing expectantly first at Morgan, then at Kelson, for he had seen both of them work often enough to surmise some of their potentials. “You could make her forget, couldn’t you?”

  As Kelson glanced at his feet, suddenly inaccessible—Morgan had no idea why—Morgan cleared his throat gently, bringing Lael’s attention back to him.

  “Within the bounds of propriety, we’ll certainly do what we can, Father,” he said softly, at the same time trying to ascertain the reason for Kelson’s isolation. “However, if the abbess wouldn’t let an archbishop’s battle surgeon-chaplain touch her charge, you can imagine how she’ll feel about a Deryni duke and a hot-blooded young king whose soul may also be somewhat suspect.”

  “What if she won’t let us see Janniver?” Kelson murmured, still tight-shuttered when the two priests had gone on and he and Morgan were making their way toward the chapel where Janniver slept. “God, I should have done it while I had the chance, when we first found her.”

  “Done what?”

  “Read her memory. Remember, Rothana said that Janniver’s attacker ranted about arrogant bishops and priests. Suppose he was talking about Loris?”

  “Hmmm, the description certainly fits,” Morgan agreed.

  “Of course it does. And even if he wasn’t talking about Loris, he may have said something else that will give us some clue as to who’s leading the rebel bands in this area. Besides, I want the bastard!”

  “Ah,” Morgan said, suddenly understanding Kelson’s mood. “And what if Rothana’s already done what the good Father Lael suggested we do?”

  Kelson stopped dead in his tracks and looked at Morgan aghast. “Good Lord, you don’t suppose she has, do you?”

  Rothana had not; but her cool efficiency quickly turned to vehement resistance when Kelson told her what he wished to do.

  “No, no, and a thousand times, no!” she whispered, as she and Kelson glared at one another across the sleeping girl and Morgan watched uncomfortably from the chapel doorway. The abbess had left Rothana in charge before setting out on her rounds, but the Deryni novice was quite sufficient a defender for the sleeping princess.