The Bastard Prince

by Katherine Kurtz

  The comment elicited a flurry of self-conscious signs of the Cross and an order for more light. As servants brought candles for the table and set several torches in wall cressets, Rhun steered the discussion in less hysterical directions.

  “I think it’s fair to conclude that Dimitri probably has been working for Miklos all along,” he said, after he had given the abbot a more objective account of the attack on Paulin. “I can’t tell you what made Paulin recruit him. Personally, I’ve never been comfortable with the idea of using Deryni, even when we had them bound by hostages, and I misliked this arrangement from the first time I heard about it. By then, it was too late. You Custodes were convinced that Dimitri was reliable, and you’d come to depend on him.”

  “Father Paulin assured us—” Lior began.

  “Yes, I know. So did Albertus.” Rhun sighed and rubbed both hands across his face, then set both elbows on the table.

  “All right, forget about what Dimitri may have done in the past,” he said. “Let’s consider what he’s probably done recently and how that may affect us. Aside from any subtle influence he may have had on those with whom he had direct contact over the years, he’ll have been reporting regularly to Miklos, almost certainly by means of a magical link of some kind. That means that Miklos knew precisely what had been said at Court when his herald came, long before the herald could return.”

  Gallard de Breffni pushed his cup away, a scowl creasing his blond brows. “Conventional spies could have done the same, sending messages by relays. Even so, it doesn’t give Miklos any particular edge, just to know that we’re on our way.”

  “Perhaps not. But what new orders did Dimitri receive, once he’d reported?”

  “To begin killing off key figures in Gwynedd?” the abbot guessed. “You all seem fairly certain that this Udaut was not the victim of an accident.”

  “But, why would Miklos of Torenth want Udaut dead?” Stevanus asked. “It isn’t as if Udaut was a brilliant commander whose loss would cripple our military strength. He wasn’t even coming along on this venture.”

  “No, but I replaced him with Richard Murdoch,” Rhun said, “so we lost his services on this campaign. And now I feel certain that Albertus was meant to drown at that ford.”

  “Dimitri still got him,” Manfred pointed out. “It just took a few more days. He got Paulin, too. I wouldn’t necessarily regard those as crippling losses for the campaign—losing you and Albertus would have been far worse—but the Custodes have been badly damaged.”

  Abbot Kimball nodded dismally. “Father Paulin was our founder and a man of great faith. Replacing him will not be easy.”

  Thereafter, the discussion digressed to concerns mainly of interest to the Custodes, though the hint of hysteria kept intruding. The king’s part in all of it became less and less an issue, and he gradually concluded that he probably had gotten through the incident relatively unscathed. As Lior and Magan launched into a brief but heated philosophical debate on the relative wickedness of merely being Deryni, Rhys Michael found himself starting to drift off and even yawn. The abbot eventually noticed and spoke up as soon as a lull in the conversation allowed.

  “I think we might allow the king to retire now,” he said, himself covering a yawn. “Our remaining business mainly concerns the Order. Sir Gallard, perhaps you would be so good as to show his Highness and his aides to the guest chamber here in my lodgings. Sire, I doubted you would wish to return to the scene of tonight’s—ah—unfortunate occurrence, so I took the liberty of having your things brought up.”

  Indeed, Rhys Michael had never intended to return to the room where two men had died and a third should have done, and was able to offer the abbot gracious thanks for the courtesy. The choice of escorts was unfortunate, but he firmly squelched his distaste and allowed Sir Gallard de Breffni to escort him and his aides out of the abbot’s parlour and down a short corridor to a well-appointed chamber half again the size of the one they had vacated.

  “They could have given us this room at the start,” Fulk said, when the door had closed behind the retreating Gallard. “That other wasn’t proper accommodation for a king.”

  “Just lead me to the nearest bed,” Rhys Michael murmured. “As long as we aren’t sleeping in a torture chamber, I don’t really much care.”

  He let Cathan pull his boots and managed to stay on his feet long enough to get out of his riding leathers, but he was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillows.

  Except that he dreamed, fitful and restless, for all that was left of the night. Vivid images of Dimitri’s tortured body intermingled with others older but no less potent: Gallard de Breffni coldly running his sword into the gut of the astonished Sir Tomais, that day of the coup … and Sir Sorle and Master Oriel, cut down by arrows a while later …

  And more arrows slamming into his brother’s body … and Javan sinking back into the arms of the loyal Sir Charlan, who died at Albertus’ order, as one of his Custodes knights stabbed him in the back, and blood gushed from his mouth …

  And blood pouring from Paulin’s mouth as Stevanus probed deep with his fingers and pulled loose the tongue, bitten almost through … Stevanus’ knife flashing as he finished the job, lest Paulin choke … and Paulin screaming, shrieking mindlessly, as Dimitri ripped his mind, and ripped …

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I have seen the foolish taking root.

  —Job 5:3

  The dawn tolling of a single, deep-throated bell finally intruded enough to drag Rhys Michael from restless sleep. The cheerless cadence would have rendered further sleep impossible, even if memory of the previous night had not come tumbling back into consciousness.

  He sat up with a start. At the foot of the bed, Cathan was laying out a clean tunic for him to put on before donning riding leathers and armor, himself already armed and dressed for departure.

  “Lord Manfred has been asking for you,” Cathan said, as Fulk brought in hot water and a basin and towels. “They’re burying Albertus here, this morning, before we leave. Mass will be as soon as they can get everyone organized.”

  Groaning, Rhys Michael fell back on his pillows and rubbed at his eyes, then blearily rolled over and staggered to his feet, well aware that it was useless to hope for any reprieve.

  “What’s the word on Paulin?” he asked, as he padded over to the garderobe. “Did he make it through the night?”

  “Well, he’s still alive,” Fulk’s terse reply came. “Whether that’s a blessing remains to be seen. We’ll have to leave him here with the brothers, of course. He hasn’t stirred, hasn’t regained consciousness. Father Lior says it’s by no means certain that he ever will.”

  Emerging from the garderobe, Rhys Michael stripped off his stale tunic of the day before and tossed it to Cathan on his way to the basin and pitcher. From what had spilled over during Dimitri’s attack on Paulin, he suspected that, if anything, Lior was being overly optimistic. His newly acquired Haldane wisdom suggested that those few who survived mind-ripping on the scale he had witnessed the night before sometimes lingered for weeks or even months, but usually as little more than vegetables. He was not certain even Paulin deserved that—though after what had been done to Dimitri, he could not imagine that the scales were much out of balance. Death would be a mercy for Paulin, as it had been for the Deryni.

  The funeral bell continued to toll as Rhys Michael quickly washed and dressed and his aides packed up the few personal items that had emerged from saddlebags for morning use. He questioned whether it was necessary to don armor until after they had heard Mass, but Fulk informed him that the new earl marshal wanted to be ready to ride out as soon as they had buried Albertus.

  “They are going to let us eat before we go, I hope,” Rhys Michael said, letting them help him buckle on the red brigandine over his riding leathers.

  “Only travel fare, in the saddle,” Cathan replied. “We’re already going to be several hours later riding out than was planned.”

  The king finished arm
ing in silence, belting on the Haldane sword while Cathan knelt to adjust one of his spurs. He pulled on his cloak before following Cathan down the stairs and into the abbot’s yard. Fulk brought up the rear, with the saddlebags slung over one shoulder. Waiting in the yard were Lord Joshua Delacroix and six Custodes knights. The new acting Master of the Custodes looked underslept and a trifle uneasy, which probably described the condition of just about everyone at Saint Cassian’s this morning. Rhys Michael was certainly on edge.

  “Be pleased to come with me, Sire,” Lord Joshua said, snapping to brisk attention. “I have orders to escort the three of you to Lord Rhun.”

  Something in the tone made Rhys Michael wonder briefly whether some new suspicion had surfaced in Rhun’s mind after they parted the night before—but then, courtly courtesies had never been a particular attribute of either the Custodes or Rhun. That Cathan and Fulk were included in the bidding suggested that this probably was just a guard of honor to convey them to the abbey church, Rhun flexing his muscles as earl marshal. Still, Rhys Michael set his hand on the hilt of his sword as he gave Joshua a sparse nod of assent and fell in with him and his men, Cathan and Fulk flanking him a half a pace behind.

  Passing through a narrow slype passageway, they emerged into bright sunshine and the not unexpected bustle of men and horses beginning to assemble in the open yard before the abbey church, which loomed grey and squat on their left. The tolling of the bell was louder here and damped the usual banter that would have accompanied mere preparations to be off. Alerted to the king’s presence by his crimson brigandine amid all the black of his Custodes escort, men gave way with grave deference, a pinch-faced squire coming immediately to relieve Fulk of the saddlebags. Many of them were heading up the steps and into the church, mostly Custodes knights, but to the king’s surprise, Lord Joshua continued to lead them straight across the yard.

  “I thought we were going to Mass,” Rhys Michael said, holding back a little. “Isn’t that the church?”

  “It is, Sire, but Lord Rhun desires you to join him in the infirmary first.”

  “To see Father Paulin?”

  “So I would assume, sir.”

  Rhys Michael let himself relax just a little. Joshua Delacroix was a man of maddeningly few words, but it made sense that the king should be brought to pay a courtesy call on Paulin’s sickroom, since the expedition would be riding out directly after Mass. Seeing the stricken vicar-general was not a duty Rhys Michael particularly relished, but he supposed it was the least he could do. Paulin was not likely to give him trouble ever again.

  They crossed the remainder of the abbey yard without further exchange, accompanied only by the solemn tolling of the bell and the quiet milling of the gathering Custodes men. Above the arched entrance gate to the cellarer’s yard, which would admit them through the stores range to the inner cloister, he could see the dense black smoke of something burning in the yard beyond. They had come back this way the night before, from the refectory, and Rhys Michael assumed that the infirmary must he somewhere beyond. Because of the tolling of the bell, he could not hear the crackle of the flames as they passed under the arched gateway, but he caught a whiff of the smoke just as they emerged into the sunlight again.

  He stopped dead, left hand clenching tightly around the pommel of the Haldane sword, abruptly thankful he had not yet broken his fast. Over near the yard’s outer wall, the source of the greasy black smoke now became all too obvious. The sight sickened him, never mind that Dimitri would have been dead for hours by the time they chained him to the stake and lit the pyre. Kindling and bundles of fagots were mounded waist-high all around, well ablaze, and the body itself was engulfed in flames.

  The Custodes were responsible for this, without doubt, exacting the last measure of petty vengeance on an enemy now beyond their reach. Several were standing close by, prodding at the pyre with long poles to encourage the flames. Forcing down the gorge rising in his throat, for he knew this fate also was meted out to living men, Rhys Michael crossed himself and averted his eyes.

  “They didn’t have to do this,” he muttered, well under his breath.

  Ahead of him, Lord Joshua suddenly had realized that he no longer had an entourage and turned to glance back at the king. Seeing the king’s expression, he returned immediately, hand set on the hilt of his sword.

  “Please come along, Sire. They’re waiting for you.”

  “Why are they doing this?” Rhys Michael demanded. As he gestured toward the pyre, Lord Joshua moved a little closer, reluctant to meet the royal gaze.

  “Sire, they say he loosed black magic in the abbey last night,” he murmured, keeping his voice low so that only Rhys Michael could hear. “The abbot feared contamination, if the body was not burned.”

  “That’s superstitious nonsense,” the king retorted. “The man was dead.”

  “Fortunate for him, Sire. If he’d survived his interrogation, he would have been burned alive.”

  “I thought spies were hanged, drawn, and quartered.”

  “Aye, sir, but burning is the penalty for sacrilege. The Deryni killed a professed Christian knight with magic and also used it to attack a mitred abbot. That gives the Order precedence in dealing with the crime.”

  It was useless to argue with the single-minded Joshua, who was only a tool. Biting back a number of highly satisfying retorts, none of which would endear him to his Custodes keepers, the king glanced reluctantly at the fire again. Though the face was no longer recognizable, for which Rhys Michael was thankful, the limbs were starting to contract in the heat, moving eerily. With a shudder, he turned his back on the blaze.

  “We were on our way to see Father Paulin, I believe,” he said quietly.

  With a smart salute, Lord Joshua turned to lead the way, taking them through the cellarer’s stores and on into the cloister garth, along the south range, past kitchens and refectory and thence through another arcaded passage that led to the very steps of the infirmary hall. Still a little numbed by the scene in the cellarer’s yard, the king paid no special note to the chanting he could hear as he entered and followed Lord Joshua down a long central corridor.

  To his consternation, the scene in Paulin’s sickroom was perhaps even more grotesque than what they had just witnessed. They had shed their escort knights at the door, but Cathan and Fulk were at his heels and nearly ran him down when, just at the open doorway, he stopped dead.

  Because so many men were crowded inside, the room seemed far smaller than it actually was. Two beds occupied the center of the chamber, on the nearer of which lay the still, deathly pale form of Paulin. To the king’s astonishment, Albertus’ body lay on the other, decked out in the full ceremonial robes of his former office. Two monks with thuribles were censing the beds from either side, and six more were ranged along the side toward Albertus, chanting the responses to an antiphon being sung by the abbot. Aspergillum in hand, the abbot was punctuating his verses with sprinkles of holy water over the two beds.

  “Pax huic domui …”

  “Et omnibus habitantibus in ea.”

  “Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo, et mundabor …”

  “Lavabis me, et super nivem dealababor.”

  “Miserere me, Deus …”

  “Secundum misericordiam tuam.”

  With incense smoke filling the room and the aural onslaught of chanting, Rhys Michael noticed only as afterthought that all the principals of the previous night’s debacle also were present, kneeling hard against the wall toward the foot of the beds: the four Custodes men who had conducted the interrogation—Lior, Magan, Stevanus, and Gallard—and Manfred and Rhun, nearest the door. Brother Polidorus, the infirmarian, was huddled against Paulin’s bedside with his back to the king, mostly kneeling with his head jammed down over folded hands, but occasionally rising up to check his patient’s pulse or peer hopefully under a slack eyelid.

  “Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domine …”

  “Qui fecit caelum et terram.”

  “Deus hui
c domui …”

  “Et omnibus habitantibus in ea.”

  “Exorcizo te, immunde spiritus …”

  Rhun noticed the king’s arrival just as Rhys Michael started to whisper a horrified comment to Cathan and shot him a sharp look. The abbot had turned to sprinkle holy water on the kneeling observers, but as soon as he turned his chanting back in Paulin’s direction, Rhun crossed himself and quietly rose to come over to the doorway, drawing the king and his aides a few steps outside the room.

  “I do not wish to hear your opinion of what is being done here,” he said very quietly, keeping his eyes on the abbot but with his voice directed to the king. “Please accept that Abbot Kimball and Father Lior believe it prudent and efficacious.”

  “Are they exorcising Paulin and Albertus?” Rhys Michael whispered, incredulous.

  “You will refrain from any comment or expression that might detract from the dignity of this occasion,” Rhun murmured. “You heard Brother Polidorus’ comment last night—wondering whether Dimitri’s black magic had summoned evil spirits under this roof. They decided it was best to be safe, in case he did bring evil into the house.”

  “And that’s why they’re burning Dimitri’s body,” Rhys Michael said. “Just to be safe.”

  “To be safe, and to keep us safe,” Rhun murmured. “That is why you and your aides will also submit yourselves for exorcism before we go to Mass.” Rhys Michael looked up at him in quick rebellion. “Defiance in this matter would be most unwise, Sire, regardless of whatever personal distaste you might feel. This gesture costs little and retains the goodwill of the Custodes. You might even derive some benefit. We still do not know what the Deryni might have done to you, that you say you cannot remember.”

  All Rhys Michael’s protests died in his throat. Dimitri had done nothing to him, of course—except to save his life—but if he hoped to maintain the illusion that something might have happened, and thereby reinforce his own innocence, then submitting to the abbot’s ministrations must be a part of that illusion.