When the prayers had been concluded, Anscom turned and descended the three low steps, cope and miter glittering in the candlelit chamber. Joram and Cullen moved from Cinhil’s sides to Anscom’s, waited for the archbishop to speak.
“Who art thou,” the archbishop demanded, “who makest bold to approach the altar of the Lord?”
Blanching, Cinhil stood up and managed a nervous bow, all self-possession dissolving as the time came to speak the fateful words. “May—may it please Your Grace, I am”—he swallowed hard—“Cinhil Donal Ifor Haldane, son of Alroy, grandson of Aidan, great-grandson of King Ifor Haldane of Gwynedd, and the last of my line.” He paused to draw shaky breath. “I come to claim the birthright of my name and family.”
“And what proof bringest thou, Cinhil Haldane, that thou art, indeed, the true-born heir of Gwynedd and, therefore, Prince in this realm?”
The green-cloaked Rhys stepped forward and presented a sheaf of parchment. “Your Grace, I present the baptismal records of Prince Cinhil and his father, Alroy. Though the records were kept in the mundane names which the Haldanes were forced to use while in hiding these past eighty years, I vow and affirm that Daniel Draper, Prince Cinhil’s grandsire of record, was, in reality, Prince Aidan, true-born son of Ifor Haldane, last of the Haldane kings before the present dynasty.”
Joram brought forth the Gospel, and Rhys laid his hand upon it. “This I swear by my gifts of Sight and Healing, and may God rip them from me and destroy me if I speak ought but the truth.”
At this Rhys bowed, Anscom bowed, and Rhys returned to his former place to be replaced by young Davin MacRorie, bearing his silver circlet on its cushion of velvet. As Joram extended the book once more, Anscom took the circlet in his gloved hands and laid it on the open pages.
“Kneel, Cinhil Haldane,” he said in a firm voice.
Cinhil obeyed.
“Cinhil Donal Ifor Haldane,” the archbishop intoned, holding his hands above the prince’s bowed head, “I acknowledge thee Heir of Haldane and Prince of Gwynedd in exile.” The hands came to rest upon the silvered head. “Though it is not within my power to restore thee to thy rightful place at this time, I give thee this circlet as a token of thy royalty.” He took the circlet and held it above Cinhil’s head. “It is my fervent prayer that one day soon I may replace it with a crown of gold, in regal, public splendor, as is thy due. Until then, wear this as a reminder of the weight of responsibility which thou assumest for thy people.”
With that, he put the circlet of silver on Cinhil’s head, then raised him up and bowed.
Cinhil acknowledged the bow awkwardly, then glanced at Camber and Rhys and, removing the circlet, knelt once more. “Your Grace, I accept this circlet in the spirit it was given, but I bear the burden of prior vows which prevent my full assumption of the duties that accompany it.”
“Dost thou, then, wish release from those vows, my son?”
“Not for myself, but for the sake of my people, Your Grace,” Cinhil murmured, barely audible. “I am the last of my royal line. If I shrink from my responsibilities, my people will suffer longer under the tyrant’s heel. Though I love my former life, I am told that I may better serve God’s purpose, for now, by taking up my birthright and my crown, to free my people from the bondage of the conquerors and restore just rule.”
“We thank thee for thy former service and do release thee from thy vows. Ego te absolvo …”
As the archbishop recited the words of the release, Evaine stirred in the gallery chamber, to lead a frightened but determined young girl down the narrow steps to the chapel door. A moment later, the door was opening again, this time to admit a silver-clad princess who kept her eyes averted as she came to meet her bridegroom. All eyes turned toward her as she glided to the altar and made her obeisance—all save Cinhil’s. The prince, standing to her right, kept his attention fixed mostly on the crucifix on the archbishop’s breast, not daring to glance aside.
His vows released, it was this part of the ceremony which frightened Cinhil most; and he had difficulty concentrating on what was being said. He let himself be led through the ceremony, responding when he was told, until he suddenly realized that he had said the vows of marriage, and that a low, quavering contralto voice was now repeating similar vows at his side.
“I, Megan de Cameron, only begotten daughter of the Lord and Lady of Farnham and ward of my Lord Camber MacRorie, Earl of Culdi, wittingly and of deliberate mind, having fifteen years completed in the month of January last past, contract matrimony with the right excellent and noble Prince Cinhil Donal Ifor Haldane, Heir of Gwynedd, and take the said Prince Cinhil of Gwynedd for my husband and spouse, all others for him forsake, during his and my lives natural, and thereto I plight and give him my faith and troth.”
Then there was a slender band of gold in Cinhil’s hand, and he was slipping it on the finger of this strange young girl. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.” After that, he vaguely remembered joining hands with her while the archbishop laid the ends of his stole across their hands and pronounced a blessing—and then Mass.
He thought he remembered receiving Communion, but for the first time in his life he could not be sure. Because after that they bade him take the crown of holly and rosemary from Megan’s head and remove the pins which held her coiled hair in place. It came tumbling down in a cloud of wheaten glory, sweet-smelling, soft as gossamer, reaching nearly to her waist—and he nearly dropped the silver circlet they bade him place upon her head.
Only when he was safely in his chamber, and she in another, was he able to think clearly again—and then, his thoughts did little to ease his anxiety. After a few minutes, Joram came in to help him undress, then left him standing numbly before the fire in a fur-lined dressing gown.
He did not know how long it would be before they came for him, and though he knelt dutifully at the prie-dieu in the corner of the room and tried to say his evening prayers, the words came stiff and meaningless, holding little comfort. He trembled as he knelt there.
All too soon, a knock at the door called him from his tangled thoughts, and then a torchlit procession escorted him to the door of the nuptial chamber. As the door opened, he could see the archbishop sprinkling the bed with holy water. A pale, shy face peered out above the top of the sleeping furs; it was surrounded by all-too-familiar wheaten hair.
He entered, hesitantly, and the archbishop bowed to the occupant of the bed and then bowed to Cinhil and blessed him with holy water as well. A reassuring touch on the shoulder as he passed, and then archbishop and attendants and ladies and everyone except the two of them were departing, the door closing; and they were alone.
Cinhil swallowed heavily and studied the floor with great interest. Finally, he chanced a cautious glance at the girl in the bed. To his surprise, she looked at least as frightened as he felt. He wondered whether he looked the same to her. He looked away quickly.
“My—my lady,” he whispered, his voice cracking and betraying him as he tried to speak. “I—thou knowest what manner of man I am, that—that I know not the ways of women …”
His voice trailed off, and he dared to raise his eyes to hers. They were deep pools of sea-blue, eyes a man might drown in—and he could not have looked away now if he had wanted to.
“Then, we are even, my lord,” she murmured, not quite so frightened as before, “for I know not the ways of men. But thou art my husband”—she extended her hand tentatively—“and I am thy wife. Wilt thou come and let us learn together the ways of men and women?”
The bed was wide, and she lay toward the middle. To take her hand, as he knew he must—and as he suddenly wanted to do—he had to cross the several feet separating them and sit on the bed. He did. And after a moment, when they had gazed into one another’s eyes as best they could in the dim light, she brought his hand to her cheek and rubbed it gently. He was astonished to find her cheek damp with tears, incredibly soft lips brushing the back of his hand.
Alarmed that he
might have frightened her, he shifted to peer at her more closely, and soon found his other hand stroking her hair, wiping her tears away. Then she was reaching up to touch his face, his beard, to run her fingers lightly along the edge of his mustache, to brush her fingertips across his lips; and he was responding, kissing her palm.
Camber, when he looked in on them in the early dawn hours, found them peacefully entwined in one another’s arms, the bedclothes in disarray, Cinhil’s fur-lined robe discarded across the foot of the bed. As he eased his way back out of the room, a smile on his lips, he breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving to whatever saint watched over nuptial beds. Whoever it was, that saint had apparently done his or her work well.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
And they put him in ward, that the mind of the Lord might be shewed them.
—Leviticus 24:12
The days stretched into weeks, and the weeks into months, until it was spring—spring, with its promise of new beginnings. Deep in the rockbound fastness of the haven, the exiles could not see the usual signs of spring: the flowering trees and the leaping forth of all the new grasses and blossoms of the meadows. But there was a greater flowering in the womb of her who was, perhaps, to be their future queen. Archbishop Anscom himself returned to the haven long enough to celebrate the Mass of Thanksgiving. And with the expectation of the royal birth in the fall, they at last had a timetable toward which to work; they had not dared risk Cinhil in a coup until the royal succession was assured. The next season’s snow would bring with it the winter of Imre’s reign.
For Cinhil, however, this spring was not a time of rejoicing. Frightened and conscience-stricken at what he had done, he betook himself more and more to his academic studies after that, shunning his young bride’s bed and keeping himself apart as much as possible. Though Rhys assured him that he had fathered a son, and had only to wait until October to see the living proof, Cinhil pushed the knowledge out of his mind and raised his defenses even more. They might force him to become a prince, and even a king, but he did not have to like it. Never again did he come as close to letting down his shields as he had in the chapel that day at his last celebrated Mass, or on the afternoon of his wedding when he spoke of his vocation as a priest. He refused even to address the possibility of assuming Deryni-like powers on his own.
One rather curious gain had been made, however.
Though Cinhil still would not speak to Camber or Joram or any of the other men in the compound about other than what was required, he did talk with Evaine sometimes. And, oddly enough, it was not until after her marriage to Rhys on Twelfth Night that the breakthrough began. Joram had blessed the union, with Camber and the entire population of the haven standing proudly by. But though Cinhil had attended, with Megan, and wished the couple well, he had retired to his own quarters soon after the ceremony, oddly pale and quieter than even he was wont to be. He had not felt like celebrating, he told Evaine later.
But if Evaine’s marriage shook Cinhil almost like his own, at least it placed Evaine in another, safer relationship to him. He was not aware, and she would never have dreamed of telling him and jeopardizing the fragile trust which was building between them, but there had been a potential there—at least on Cinhil’s part—for quite a different relationship than he would have approved or been comfortable with. Whatever the potential, however, that facet was closed to him forever when she made her marriage vows to Rhys. What Cinhil did not realize was that the way had been opened for an even more intimate association: he had no reference point for the union of minds.
It became their practice to meet each afternoon to talk, occasionally with Rhys or Joram in attendance, but more often just the two of them, sitting comfortably before the fireplace in his outer chamber. He told her of his childhood, of his father and grandfather, and sometimes they even talked about his life in the monastery—a thing he had never discussed with anyone before, and certainly not with a woman.
And her reaction surprised him. He wondered at the insight she displayed when he described the communion he felt with the Deity—not so much because she was a woman, for that had not even occurred to him (he knew of the great female mystics of past centuries)—but he found it difficult to comprehend that any layman could approach the spiritual ecstasies which he had experienced in his own religious life. He had thought such experiences a prerogative of those totally committed to God—in a word, to those with a religious vocation. And Evaine, married to Rhys Thuryn, had clearly had no call to a traditional religious life.
For a while, he marked it down to her association with her priest-brother, with whom she was very close. But then he began to realize that she shared it with her father and her husband as well, and he wondered whether it was a trait coincidentally common to all four individuals in question, or whether it was somehow related to their Deryniness—that otherness which sometimes set them all so far apart. He examined his own feelings in the matter, and he found that this quality of otherness was really not so alien at all. That, too, surprised him; but again, he kept pushing the growing recognition out of his mind.
The true turning point in their relationship came one day late in March. He had come upon her praying in the chapel, and had found such a look of peace upon her, such tranquil oneness with the Universe as she knelt there, that he had almost himself knelt in awe of it. Shortly, she became aware of his presence—or perhaps she had known it all along—and she opened her eyes and turned to look at him. When she did, there was a glow of such pure radiance, such sanctity, about her, that he had not dared to speak until they had left the chapel. Even then, he responded to her few comments mostly in monosyllables until they were safely in his study room and he had closed the door. He felt that he must ask her of what he had seen—felt he could ask. But he was having trouble finding just the right words.
As she seated herself before the fireplace, he noticed a small, golden stone in her hand. She toyed with it unconsciously, her fingertips caressing its smoothness with an abstract contentment. Suddenly, Cinhil had to find out what it was.
“What have you there, my lady?”
“This?” Evaine glanced casually at the stone. “It’s called shiral. It comes from the mountains of Kierney, near my father’s seat of Cor Culdi. He gave it to me last year, after I asked an almost identical question of him.”
She handed it to him with a smile, and he turned it over in his hand, watching its surface catch the light in liquid ripples.
“Is it only a trinket a toy?” he asked, after a long pause. “It occurs to me that I have seen you carry it before, though I never paid it much mind. It must mean something very special to you.”
Evaine lowered her eyes, speculating on just how much Cinhil had seen; then she decided to venture an experiment.
“Aye, it is special, Your Highness. Partly because my father gave it to me, of course, but also for other reasons. Would you like me to show you what my father did with it, when I asked your question?”
His eyes flicked to the crystal, his features tensing as his fingers clenched on it spasmodically. Then he shook the emotion and looked back at her again.
“Your words are innocent enough, my lady. And yet, I feel a certain foreboding. Should I?”
She held out her hand, a gentle smile on her lips and in her eyes as she tried to put him at his ease once more. She knew, as he put the crystal into her hand, that he had felt something from it—even if he was not aware of what it was.
“You must not fear it, Your Highness—no more than one should fear to approach the Sacraments when one is in a state of grace,” she breathed, couching her words in terms she thought he might understand. “The crystal itself contains neither good nor evil, though it does have power. But one must approach it with respect and awareness of what one is doing. It can be a link—perhaps with the Deity?”
She moved her shoulders in a shrug, the crystal winking in the palm of her hand. Cinhil leaned forward to look into her eyes intently.
“Does it have
something to do with the look I saw on your face in the chapel a little while ago?”
“It did not cause it, though it may, perhaps, enhance it,” she replied softly. “That is but one of its uses.”
Cinhil let out a long breath, never taking his eyes from hers.
“Show me,” he whispered.
With a slight inclination of her head, Evaine sat back and rested her elbows on the arms of her chair, holding the stone lightly between the tips of her fingers, as she had seen her father hold it so long before. Staring into its depths, she took a deep breath and exhaled softly, willing her senses to extend around the crystal. At first, only the reflection of the firelight flared in its depths; but then it began to glow of itself.
Still in light trance, Evaine shifted her eyes to Cinhil’s, the crystal pulsating coldly between them.
“It is a focus, and a finding,” she whispered, her face expressionless. “This is but the beginning. From here, I could go—”
She broke off and shook her head, passing a hand before her eyes, and the light in the crystal died. Cinhil sat forward in alarm, not comprehending what he had just seen.
“Is anything wrong?” he asked, reaching out to touch her arm in concern.
Noting the touch, but not daring to react to it, Evaine shook her head and smiled, glancing at the crystal and then back at him.
“Nothing wrong,” she assured him. “It’s a trifle difficult to speak while maintaining the light, though,” she lied. “I can better answer your questions in my normal state.”
“Then, what you were doing was not—normal?”
“Well, it was normal for Deryni—or rather, let us say that it was not abnormal,” she smiled. “The shiral crystal is an aid to concentration. Anything can be used as a focal point, but the shiral is better than most, because it shows you, by glowing, when you’ve reached the minimum level of concentration. Anything bright will do: a ring, a fleck of sunlight on glass. For that matter, you don’t really need anything physical, though it does help, especially in the beginning.”
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