The Bastard Prince

by Katherine Kurtz

  “I questioned one of the archers on that point, after I’d Read his account of all the magic flying around,” Jesse said. “He thought a horse might have stepped on the hand. How seriously remains to be seen. The man didn’t see much sign of bleeding, but that isn’t necessarily good.”

  “True enough,” Ansel agreed. “If he did get stepped on, then it could be anything from a bad bruise to badly broken bones. That’s his sword hand, too.”

  Tieg snorted. “It doesn’t much matter which hand it is, pain-wise. It’s going to slow him down.”

  “Don’t even think about trying to sneak in and help him,” Ansel said, looking at him sharply. “At least right now, until we know more, we can’t afford to risk losing you.”

  Tieg looked a little sullen, but could not disagree with the logic.

  “Right, then,” Ansel murmured. “I think we’d better let Joram know what’s happened. This has all taken a turn that I don’t think anyone expected—least of all, the king. I don’t know how much of what went on out there was his doing, but Sudrey ended up dead, and probably Miklos as well. I also don’t know what kinds of questions Rhun has already asked, but I hope to God that the king has answers.”

  Jesse nodded. “Well, I don’t think he’s going to be having answers to much of anything else tonight. If Stevanus had to set broken bones, he’s probably given him a stiff sedative and painkiller—which would account for his somewhat unsteady movements. Do you want to notify Joram, or shall I?”

  “I’ll do it,” Ansel said. “And let’s do put a watch on his tent through the night, just in case. After that, you’d better turn in—both of you. I think we’ve learned about all we can without interviewing some of the principals—which isn’t going to be possible—and it’s getting too late to be out and about in the camp without arousing suspicion.”

  “Agreed,” Jesse murmured, and took his leave to go and set up the desired surveillance. Tieg, though none too happy with the arrangement, retired to the doorway of the tent to sit as guardian while Ansel shifted over to his bedroll and stretched out, starting to compose himself to reach out for the contact with Joram.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Who will bring me into the strong city?

  —Psalms 60:9

  Rhys Michael Haldane knew nothing of the efforts expended in his behalf that night. Soon oblivious, thanks to Stevanus’ drug, he dreamed deep, disturbing dreams that he could not remember upon awakening—though at least he did sleep pain-free through the night, as the surgeon had promised.

  The sounds of the awakening camp and the throb of his hand woke him a little after dawn, with a dull headache behind his eyes, a foul-tasting mouth, and a ferocious thirst Cathan was asleep in a chair beside his camp bed, and Fulk had brought hot water for morning ablutions—and ale to quell the thirst. He felt a little better once he had drunk it down, but his whole body ached.

  He was appalled to discover how helpless he was, with the use of only one hand, and found himself obliged to suffer the ministrations of both his aides to help him wash and dress. Since no one had come to tell him otherwise, he decided that armor might not be necessary, at least for the moment, and bade them help him don a full-sleeved linen tunic over leather breeches and boots. Stevanus came in just as Cathan was attempting to readjust the sling that supported his right arm, so the king enlisted his assistance. The hand was throbbing in time with his pulse beat, but Stevanus advised against another dose of the syrup of poppies until after he had eaten. The king had Cathan put a light cloak on him, fastening it at the shoulder with the Haldane brooch, and drew part of it over the sling before heading over to the command tent for the morning briefing.

  Welcome news greeted him when he met his great lords over a substantial breakfast. No incidents had marred the night’s peace, and true to Marek’s missive of the night before, Torenthi troops had begun to ride out of Culliecairn at first light. The long column of them now stretched far up the Coldoire Pass to disappear into the steppes of Tolan. There had been no further Torenthi communication.

  “Some of Sighere’s scouts saw what they believed to have been Prince Miklos’ funeral cortege leaving with the first outriders, just at dawn,” Manfred told him. “There were several horse litters and an ecclesiastical contingent that probably was the patriarch’s party. The last of the troops should clear by midafternoon, so that we can go and inspect the city.”

  Meanwhile, Marley and Eastmarch skirmish parties were observing the Torenthi line of retreat, dogging their heels, prepared to encourage stragglers. After breakfast, Rhun and Manfred rode out with Corban and another of the Eastmarch commanders to oversee, along with Lord Joshua and the principal Custodes captains. The king was left in the charge of Father Lior and Master Stevanus, with reluctant permission to ride to Lochalyn and pay his respects to the castle’s new mistress. To his disgust, Lior insisted upon bringing along a Custodes escort, including the detested Gallard de Breffni.

  On the short ride up to Lochalyn, with the pain of his hand throbbing up his arm with every jolting step, Rhys Michael racked his brain for an excuse to shake his keepers and speak privately with Stacia. A ghost of a plan was taking shape in his mind, but it would come to naught without the support of the Kheldour lords.

  To his surprise and relief, he found the Duke of Claibourne’s banner flying alongside that of Eastmarch as they rode beneath the gatehouse arch, with at least a dozen dour Claibourne men drawn up in a guard of honor outside the castle’s chapel. Gallard de Breffni’s brusque condescension proved to be his undoing—and Rhys Michael’s salvation—for when Gallard attempted to send his Custodes in to supplant the duke’s men, ordering the borderers aside for the king to pass, Rhys Michael had to intervene before indignation and verbal resistance escalated into armed conflict. Following on the heels of such evenhanded mediation, his courteous request to present his condolences privately to the bereaved countess enlisted the immediate support of the duke’s men, who made it abundantly clear to Gallard, Lior, and their Custodes companions that the king might enter, but none other.

  “I think it might be politic if you took your men up to the hall for some refreshment, my lord,” he told the angry Gallard. “Perhaps some wine will cool hot tempers. I should hate to see our Kheldish hosts offended over so trifling an issue.”

  When Lior would have tried to stay behind, Rhys Michael put him in his place as well.

  “Please go with Lord Gallard, Father. I may be some little while. Cathan and Fulk will wait here for me—and Master Stevanus, if you wish. Lady Stacia’s mother gave her life in my service yesterday. The least I can do is to offer my condolences and spend a time in prayer with her.”

  It was the sort of pious justification to which even Lior could hardly take exception. Not giving the Custodes priest a chance to find one, Rhys Michael turned and went into the chapel.

  The faint scent of incense and beeswax hung on the air as he quietly closed the door behind him and moved down the center of the tiny nave, accompanied by the faint jingle of his spurs. The open coffin was set on hurdles on a rich Kheldish carpet just before the altar, guarded by six thick, honey-colored candles on tall candlesticks. A proud, straight-backed figure gowned and coiffed in black sat at the coffin’s head, her back to the door. Young Claibourne was kneeling at the altar rail directly left of the coffin, face in his hands and huddled down in a mantle of grey border tweed. He glanced back at the sound of the king’s approach and would have risen in surprised respect, but Rhys Michael waved him back to his knees as he paused to bow to the altar and then passed to the coffin’s right.

  His unexpected presence elicited a tiny gasp from Stacia, who had her infant son on her lap. Her pretty face was pinched and pale against the black veil binding the fiery hair, all her vitality drained away in the wake of this new grief. Beyond her in the open coffin, her mother lay wrapped in a cocoon of fine blue border tweed, face lightly shrouded by a veil of white lawn.

  Rhys Michael crossed himself awkwardly with his
bandaged hand and sank to his knees beside the coffin, steadying himself against its edge with his good hand as he bowed his head. It was he who was responsible for Stacia’s bereavement—both father and mother lost in the space of less than a fortnight, and in his service. When he had knelt here with Sudrey, not three days before, he had never dreamed that he would cause her so soon to lie at the side of the loyal Hrorik, whose body lay beneath the very floor where her coffin rested.

  As he had on his ride from the Gwynedd encampment, he found himself reliving the events of the day before, well aware that he might not have survived without her help—and that she might still be alive, had it not been for him. He found himself wondering, not for the first time, whether she really would have died from her injuries, had she not chosen to hasten the process with her own magic—and whether he dared ask the help of her kin.

  After offering a prayer for the soul of Sudrey of Eastmarch, and for divine mercy on Deryni in general, he got awkwardly to his feet and gently drew aside the veil of white lawn to press a respectful kiss to her forehead. He made himself draw a deep, steadying breath as he let the veil fall back in place and turned to face her daughter and her nephew. Young Claibourne had gotten to his feet as the king rose, and both his face and Stacia’s were unreadable.

  “Sudrey of Eastmarch was a very great lady,” the king said softly. “Would that I had had the opportunity to know her better.”

  Claibourne glanced at his cousin a little uncertainly, then back at the king.

  “If the King’s Grace were more inclined to visit his northern provinces, he would hae had such opportunity,” the duke said, though his tone conveyed no hint of disapproval. “E’en so, she kept faith with yer Royal House.”

  Rhys Michael cradled his aching arm in his good one, absently kneading at the stiff muscles along the forearm.

  “Had it been wholly in my choice,” he said quietly, “I would have come. Of all the great lords of Gwynedd, none have served my House half so well as the sons and grandsons of Sighere of Kheldour—and this daughter by marriage,” he added, nodding toward Sudrey’s coffin. “Claibourne, Eastmarch, and Marley—these are the brightest jewels in my crown.”

  “If they be yer brightest jewels, then why did ye no come?” Stacia asked. “Are ye no the king? Whose choice was’t, if not yours?”

  Rhys Michael glanced at her bleakly, wondering how much of the truth he dared to tell them—and set to Truth-Read them. With Rhun and the others off on other business, this might be a unique opportunity to sound out the loyalties of Kheldour. Graham and Stacia were of an age with himself, of a younger generation than had spawned the great lords who ruled in Gwynedd, and Graham’s father had been murdered through the great lords’ treachery. Perhaps Kheldour could become the source of military strength Rhys Michael would need to take back control of his crown. But he would never know, if he did not ask.

  He glanced back at the church door, still closed, then moved closer to the pair, drawing Graham with him to kneel at Stacia’s feet.

  “Please listen closely, because I may not have much time,” he murmured. “If any of my men should enter besides my light-haired aide, we are praying together for Sudrey’s soul. The great lords have gone to elaborate lengths to conceal it, but believe me when I tell you that I have been a prisoner for these six years of my reign, ever since they arranged for the murder of my brother and seized control of Rhemuth.”

  “The murder—” Graham began. “Ye mean, King Javan?”

  Rhys Michael nodded.

  “But, they said that renegade Michaelines—”

  “It wasn’t renegade Michaelines,” Rhys Michael said softly. “His own great lords betrayed him. And that same day that Javan was killed, probably at the very same hour, Archbishop Hubert and others took me prisoner in Rhemuth Castle. They drugged me and forced me to watch while they slaughtered the few men still loyal to Javan. The shock made my wife miscarry of what would have been our firstborn son.”

  “Dear holy Mother,” Stacia whispered, wide-eyed, clutching her own son more closely to her breast “But, why?”

  “To retain their power, of course. Javan was proving to be too powerful a king. They’d meant to pass over him in my favor. They’d hoped to keep him in the monastery and shunt him off into a harmless religious vocation. They didn’t realize that he himself had sought out the monastery as a place to grow to manhood in safety, while he also gained the education he would need to rule. He never intended to be a monk. Weren’t you surprised when you heard that Alroy was dead, and it was Javan to be crowned, not me?”

  “Well, aye,” Graham admitted. “But you didnae seem upset by it, when we came tae Rhemuth fer his coronation.”

  “Of course I wasn’t. Javan was always supposed to be king after Alroy. Knowing what befell your father, Graham, believe me when I tell you that the great lords have stopped at nothing to retain the power they seized after my father’s death. All during my brother Alroy’s reign, even once the legitimate regency had ended, he was kept drugged to ensure his compliance, and the great lords actually ruled.”

  “D’ye think my father found out, an’ that’s why they killed him?” Graham asked, horrified.

  “If he didn’t know, he would have found out, if he’d spent much time at Court,” Rhys Michael replied. “And I’m convinced that the only reason you remained safe was because your uncles were quick enough to uphold your rights and then smart enough to pull back to the fastness of the borders and the Kheldour highlands, where the regents dared not come. As long as none of you tried to interfere in Rhemuth, they were content to let you remain unmolested in the north; but you saw how savagely Murdoch went after Hrorik, when you came to Javan’s coronation.”

  “But, they all swore Javan allegiance, before God an’ on holy relics,” Graham murmured. “I was there; I heard them do it!”

  “Aye, and they were forsworn within the year,” Rhys Michael replied. “Javan saw the danger from the beginning and tried to warn me, but I didn’t want to see. As he began gaining strength, they began trying to undermine him. They were very good at it. Both Hubert and Manfred secretly encouraged me to marry, even though Javan warned me of the danger, if there were minor heirs while the great lords still had such power. I didn’t believe him—I didn’t want to believe him, because I really do love Michaela—but I agreed to back off.

  “When it became clear that I wasn’t going to go against my brother, they had me kidnapped by ‘Ansel MacRorie’ and ‘renegade Michaelines,’ then had me ‘rescued’ by Manfred’s men. They even arranged some convincing injuries in the process—and there I was, ‘safe’ in Manfred’s castle to recover, and with Michaela conveniently there to nurse me back to health. She didn’t know they were using her, of course. We both believed it was all real at the time, and we let the circumstances carry us right into marriage. Once Michaela was pregnant, it was only a matter of time before they set up Javan’s murder.”

  Graham was still shaking his head slightly. “I cannae believe they would murder an anointed king,” he whispered. “I mean, I dinnae doubt yer word, Sire, but—”

  Rhys Michael glanced back at the door, then returned his gaze to Graham. “I understand,” he said. “I didn’t want to believe it either, at first. There’s worse, too. Once Javan was dead, they kept me drugged until after my coronation, the way they’d done with Alroy. And once Michaela had recovered from her miscarriage, they—ordered us to start producing Haldane heirs.”

  “They ordered—” Stacia began. “But, ye cannae order someone tae do that.”

  Rhys Michael allowed himself a bitter smile. “To survive, and to ensure the survival of one’s line, one learns to be far more flexible than you can possibly imagine, my lady,” he said softly. “We delayed as long as we dared, but the ultimate threat was that if I didn’t impregnate my wife, there were willing volunteers waiting in the wings to ensure that the job got done—and who would have known? Neither of us were ever allowed unsupervised contact with the outsid
e world. From the time Alroy died, the eventual aim has been to secure the succession and then eliminate both Javan and me—which would give them another long regency in which to further entrench their power.

  “They’ve got one heir now, and they’ll have another after the first of the year. I expect I’m living on borrowed time. By the time my sons come of age, the authority of the crown will be so thoroughly bound up in the hands of Gwynedd’s great lords that they won’t even know it could be any other way. Unless … listen carefully,” Rhys Michael said, drawing the two close. “I have a plan.”

  Stacia dared to lay a hand on his—cautious, tentative, sympathetic.

  “Ye—dinnae sound like ye expect to get back to Rhemuth alive, Sire.”

  He shrugged. “Rhun probably would just as soon I’d died yesterday with Sudrey. It would have made life a great deal less complicated for him and the other great lords—though at least there’re three fewer of them than when we rode out of Rhemuth.”

  Graham nodded, tight-jawed. “We’ll no miss the likes o’ Paulin an’ Albertus,” he muttered. “Custodes bastards! But—how can we help? Wha’ can we do fer ye?”

  Rhys Michael closed his eyes briefly in relief. “Do you mean that?” he whispered.

  “Of course I do,” Graham replied. “The Haldanes have always been friends o’ my House. It wasnae Haldane treachery that slew my father. I know my uncle Sighere would agree, too. How can we help?”

  Rhys Michael swallowed with difficulty and touched his good hand to Graham’s. “Now that you’ve offered, I’m—not sure. I’d hoped for your support, but I haven’t had much time to work through the details. Eventually, I may need military support, but for now—” He raised an eyebrow in sudden inspiration. “Would you and Sighere agree to be appointed regents for my son, if anything should happen to me before he comes of age?”

  “Regents? Aye, whate’er ye wish, Sire.” Graham paused a beat. “Are ye sure?”