The Bastard Prince

by Katherine Kurtz

  “But, it’s murder,” Rhys Michael murmured, despair curling in his gut like a slithering snake. “What’s more, it’s sacrilege. But then, you’ve killed a king before, haven’t you? At least Javan was able to die in the field, with his sword in his hand!”

  Smiling a terrible little smile, Manfred walked over to the bed and glanced dispassionately at the basin collecting the king’s blood, now nearly filled.

  “I am not a vindictive man, Sire. I give you my faithful promise that when the time comes, you may die with your sword in your hand, if you wish—with the very sword that Javan held in his hand, in his last moments. But it will not be today.”

  At his nod, Brother Polidorus set aside his lancet and pressed a pad of clean towel to the wound in the king’s arm, lifting it clear so that Father Magan could remove the bowl of royal blood. When they had washed the arm clean, Polidorus applied a new dressing and bound it up, then directed Cathan to press his fingers against the dressing to be sure the wound was stanched, for they did not loose the restraints.

  “Thank you, Brother Polidorus,” Manfred murmured. “Your services may be required again during the night, if our patient shows no sign of improvement, but for now, you may go. Sire, I’ll send Master Stevanus and Lord Fulk back to you after Father Lior has had a word with you.”

  Polidorus made Manfred a slight bow and retreated with him, the Custodes knights following with the groggy Rhun stumbling between them. When they had gone, Lior came over to the bed to sniff disdainfully at the bowl of blood still set on the table beside it. Father Magan was quietly gathering up the bloodied towels and instruments, collecting them on a wooden tray.

  “A pity your Deryni friends could not be here, Sire,” Lior said softly. “No doubt they would find royal blood highly desirable for their rites of abomination. As it is, the custom in religious houses is to fertilize the gardens with the products of bloodletting. Perhaps in a year or two, the good sisters will be able to tell us whether royal blood is superior to merely mortal blood for that purpose.”

  Increasingly light-headed, either from the loss of blood or the sedative earlier, Rhys Michael could hardly believe what he had just heard. But it was Cathan who challenged the Custodes priest, blue eyes wide with horror and indignation.

  “Just what is that supposed to mean?” he demanded. “That’s a lie, about the Deryni!”

  “Oh, had you not heard of their blood rites?” Lior asked. “Of course, you mostly escaped their taint. I remember testing you. But ’tis well known that the Deryni consort with demons, who demand blood of their devotees. My sources inform me that royal blood is considered to be only slightly less efficacious than that of virgins or infants. In some cases, it is more useful. Be thankful that they do not have access to your body, Sire, much less to your soul.”

  Cathan had blanched, unable to reply, and Rhys Michael could only turn his face away in loathing. His breathing had become more labored, and his thinking was not as clear as it had been.

  “Speaking of which,” Lior went on, “I shall have a priest come to you in a little while. I am sure you will wish to make confession and receive Extreme Unction, being in mortal peril. I would offer my services, but somehow I doubt you would find me acceptable. Or Father Magan, I expect.” Rhys Michael could only shake his head numbly. “Well, I shall find someone. Good evening, Sire.”

  When he and Magan had gone out, taking the tray and the blood with them, Stevanus was allowed to return, Fulk also coming to stand uneasily by the king’s bed.

  “I am truly sorry, Sire,” the battle surgeon murmured, looking distraught. “I tried to stop them. Sir Fulk tried as well, but we could only insist so far.”

  Rhys Michael closed his eyes, tensing for a new set of convulsions he could feel coming on.

  “I know,” he whispered. “You’re none of you to blame. Cathan—”

  Cathan’s hand closed around his good one, and he hung on for his life as the spasms racked him again and Stevanus and Fulk tried to still his thrashing. Thereafter he slipped into troubled sleep, given respite at last by his sedation, his three guardians keeping watch by turns, as day slipped into evening and to night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  For I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand.

  —II Timothy 4:6

  Queron caught up with the Gwynedd army late in the morning of the next day. He had expected to find them much farther south, and caught intimations of a royal pause only a little after dawn, when he paused at a farmer’s steading to beg food and drink.

  “Aye, Father, they’re camped round about the convent up the road,” the goodwife told him, as she poured him fresh milk from a crockery jar. “They say the king fell ill, an’ they took him there for the good sisters to care for him.”

  Queron soon found opportunity to probe the woman more closely, but she had already told all she knew. Begging a slab of cheese and a hunk of bread, he left the brown mare in exchange for the farmer’s more suitable grey donkey and set off up the road, wolfing down the food for sustenance and planning how he might gain access to the king.

  The cover he had chosen was an excellent start. Not only did his obviously advanced years present no physical threat to whatever laymen might be responsible for the king’s safety, but his monastic habit virtually guaranteed the hospitality of just about any religious house. An itinerant cleric could always be prevailed upon to share the latest news of the outside world in exchange for his supper and a bed, while also enabling his hosts to exercise Christian charity. A visiting priest also might be asked to hear the odd confession and perhaps celebrate Mass, if the community did not have its own resident chaplain. Begging a noonday meal was perhaps not as satisfactory an entrée as requesting travelers’ fare and lodgings at day’s end, but Queron reflected that he could always make the donkey limp temporarily, if no other ruse seemed likely to gain him entrance.

  He did not have to resort to such tactics. Though he could see the vast sprawl of the army’s encampment across the fields as he approached, and there was much evidence of horsemen riding to and fro on the road as he neared the convent gates, no one gave him a second glance as he guided the little donkey under the entrance arch. Across the cobbled courtyard, several armed men were tending horses outside what he presumed must be the guesthouse, and more horses stood tied beside what appeared to be the entrance to the stable yard. As he drew rein, a smiling young sister in a black wimple and habit came to greet him, setting work-roughened hands on the donkey’s bridle as he slid to the ground.

  “God’s greeting to you, good brother. Welcome to Saint Ostrythe’s. How may we serve you?”

  “God’s greeting to you, Sister. Might I trouble you for a bite to eat and fodder for my four-legged friend? ’Tis a long ride yet to Saint Jarlath’s, and I do not know where the evening will find me. My name is Father Donatus.”

  “And I am Sister Winifred,” she said, bobbing him a curtsey. “Of course you may find hospitality in this house, Father. I fear the fare may be less ample than our usual wont, for we guest the king and his party, but you are welcome to share what we have. Come and I’ll show you where to put your beast.”

  Following her into the stable yard, Queron took in as much as he could of the layout of the place, alert for any sign of the king’s presence nearby; but he could find no trace.

  “Tell me, what brings the king to these parts?” he asked, as she led him past several soldiers into a well-built barn.

  The little nun gave a sad shrug, stroking the donkey’s neck as she guided it into a spacious box stall strewn with sweet-smelling hay.

  “I fear he is very ill, Father. They brought him here yesterday, all but unconscious, and ’tis said that even bleeding has not eased him. Mother Prioress instructed us to pray for him, both last night and this morning.”

  Stunned, Queron laid a hand on her shoulder, gently taking control as he turned her to face him and then probed deep. Sister Winifred’s discretion was what might b
e expected of a religious, but her knowledge of the king’s condition was not confined to a mere glimpse or convent gossip. She was only a very junior member of the community, but she had been one of several sisters to tend the king immediately after his arrival.

  From her he read the king’s condition at that time and what had been done for him in her presence. The injured hand had not been dealt with, for it was fever and convulsions that had interrupted his journey. Queron would have preferred talicil for the fever and could have prescribed several specific Deryni drugs that might have eased the very alarming spasms, but the tea brewed from white willow bark conveyed some of the same benefits as talicil, and sedation, in general, usually helped to ease convulsions.

  Unfortunately, Sister Winifred had no direct knowledge about the bloodletting, though it was understood that the king almost certainly had been bled more than once since his arrival and possibly as many as three or four times. That was alarming enough, but earlier this morning, one of the king’s officers had made inquiries concerning the availability of the convent’s chaplain—which seemed odd to young Winifred, since the king’s immediate party certainly had several priests among their number. One had celebrated Mass for them this morning, for the convent’s resident priest was away.

  This additional piece of information struck a dread chill in Queron’s heart. That a priest was being sought was ill news, indeed, for it bespoke the very real possibility that the king was in danger of death. And how like Rhys Michael to refuse the services of his Custodes priests. Queron recalled being told that the dying Alroy had done precisely the same thing, only finally receiving his last Communion from his brother Javan’s hands.

  But herein lay a possible way to gain access to the king, not as an itinerant hospitaller but as a disinterested and neutral priest who might be acceptable to a man who knew the failings of his own priests far too well to entrust his soul to them as he approached death. It was not what Queron had hoped to accomplish, and he tried not to let himself expect that he was in time to make a difference as a Healer; but at least if Queron was too late to save the king’s life, perhaps he might help ease that life to a more peaceful close, with the solace of a friend beside him, even in the midst of his enemies …

  “It grieves me to hear that the king is so ill, Sister,” Queron murmured, shaking his head, smoothly releasing her without memory of any passage of time. “Far from home and kin, it must give him comfort to receive the loving care of this House. And for his soul’s cure, I should imagine he has the ministrations of many good priests.”

  She dropped her gaze and folded her hands in the wide sleeves of her habit, biting at her lower lip. “I—am not certain he has yet received the sacraments, Father. Earlier this morning, one of his young officers was inquiring for a priest; alas, ours is away. Later, the senior of the king’s priests said Mass for us—a Father Lior—but he seemed preoccupied and almost angry. I—wonder whether he and his brother priests may be out of favor with the king. I can think of no other reason to ask for ours.”

  Queron raised an eyebrow. “You think he would not see his own priests? But—oh, dear. Sister, I can hardly claim to be the sort of courtly, sophisticated priest to which the king must be accustomed, but do you suppose he still needs one? I would be honored to offer what solace I may, if he would think it no impertinence from a humble country cleric.”

  Sister Winifred smiled hopefully.

  “You’re very generous, Father. I can take you to the king’s men. It may be that his Highness would be well content to confess himself to a priest who knows him not at all. Perhaps there lies the problem.”

  “Perhaps,” Queron agreed.

  Leaving the stable with Sister Winifred, Queron followed her back across the central courtyard and through into the cloister garth, heading for the Chapter House. It appeared the king’s officers had appropriated the building for a temporary command headquarters. Several Custodes guards were posted outside the open doorway, some of them looking grim, indeed, but they gave only casual interest to the aged, brown-robed cleric who followed silently at the heels of the pretty Sister Winifred, hands folded piously in the sleeves of his habit and head ducked down in his cowl. Fortunately, Queron had never had a face-to-face meeting with any of the men likely to be inside, though he knew most of them by others’ mental recall and description.

  “Beg pardon, my lords,” Sister Winifred said, peering timidly into the open doorway and bobbing a nervous curtsey as several of the men looked up. “One of the young officers was inquiring earlier this morning about a priest. This is Father Donatus, on his way to Saint Jarlath’s. Could he be of any assistance?”

  An intense, black-eyed priest in Custodes habit detached himself from a knot of Custodes officers and came over to the doorway—Father Lior, Queron realized.

  “What was that name again, Father?” Lior asked.

  “Donatus,” Queron said, making the obviously grander Lior a deferential bow, eyes averted. “I do beg your pardon, Father, but perhaps Sister was mistaken. I was told a priest was required, but I see several priests among you.”

  Behind Lior, Manfred gave a snort. Rhun of Horthness stood beside him, sullenly nursing a large goblet.

  “Well, Lior, your prayers are answered,” Manfred said. “I doubt it will make much difference to him, but I’m sure you priestly types will feel better about all of this if the proprieties are observed.”

  Biting back whatever retort had come to mind, Lior merely folded his hands behind his back and curtly gestured to Queron with his chin as he headed out the door.

  “Come with me, please, Father. Thank you, Sister.”

  A few minutes later, Lior was leading Queron past a pair of Custodes guards and into a dim, close room tinged with the sweetness of incense and beeswax and the underscent of blood. Two motionless figures in leather and shirtsleeves knelt to either side of a white-covered bed, and a third in the black tunic of a Custodes battle surgeon turned a compress on the forehead of the bed’s occupant. Though Queron had never met any of the three, he recognized all of them as they looked up—Cathan, Fulk, and Stevanus—and he sent a quick burst of thought to Cathan, who alone might guess what he was.

  Say nothing. I am sent by Joram.

  “This is Father Donatus,” Lior said, gesturing toward Queron. “How is his Highness?”

  “Quiet,” Stevanus said, setting his compress aside, not meeting Lior’s eyes as he got to his feet. “It—cannot be much longer.”

  Lior’s lips tightened, and he shook his head, piously folding his hands at his waist. “These are sad times, indeed, Father. I gave his Highness holy anointing early this morning, when his condition became grave, but he would not speak to me, he would not make last confession, nor would he receive Viaticum. If you can reach him, if you can persuade him to make his peace with God, I would count it a personal favor.”

  “I am honored to offer that comfort to any soul in need, Father,” Queron said quietly, somewhat surprised to find that Lior’s regret seemed genuine—though he was also aware that Lior took little personal risk by asking another priest to hear the king’s last confession, since any accusations against Lior or the others would be sealed by the confidentiality of that sacrament. “If we may have some privacy, please?”

  “Of course.”

  With a pointed glance at the others, Lior began making shooing motions to urge them out of the room. Cathan rose obediently enough, though clearly on the brink of tears, but he lingered near the foot of the bed as Fulk, Stevanus, and then Lior passed outside.

  “Might I stay in the room, please, Father?” he whispered. “Maybe over in the corner? He has been like a brother to me. The queen is my sister.”

  “Not just now, son,” Queron said, setting his hands on Cathan’s shoulders to guide him to the door—and in those seconds Reading all he could of what had been done to the king. “Why don’t you wait outside with the others? I promise I’ll call you before the end.”

  Cathan choked back a
sob but gave a nod as well, for Queron had sent explicit instructions during the brief contact. When he had passed outside, Queron gently closed the door and then came back to gaze down at the king.

  Rhys Michael’s eyes were closed, and his labored breathing barely stirred the stark white sheet pulled up to midchest. He was no longer restrained. Both arms lay outside the sheeting, the right hand heavily bandaged and splinted and lesser bandages binding both arms at the elbows, evidence of the repeated bleedings. Cathan had witnessed four, though the king probably had not been aware of the last of these. He still had lucid moments, but they were becoming fewer and shorter.

  Crossing himself with weary resignation, Queron knelt at the king’s left and took the slack hand in one of his, chafing it gently as his other hand came to rest on Rhys Michael’s forehead, Reading deep as a Healer Reads and knowing, as only a Healer can know, that all his powers could not reverse what had been set in motion. The physical damage to the hand could still be Healed—and Queron would have been willing to risk personal discovery, if such Healing might save the king’s life—but nothing could be done to replace the vast quantities of blood the king had lost, or to quell the fever burning away what little strength remained to him.

  The pain Queron blocked, for that, at least, he could do; but nothing more for the body that housed Rhys Michael Haldane’s soul. The king stirred slightly at this respite, though his breathing still was labored, and he did not open his eyes.

  “Rhysem, I know you can hear me,” Queron whispered softly, very near the king’s ear. “It’s Dom Queron. Joram has sent me. I deeply regret that I cannot Heal you, but is there anything else I can offer you? Don’t try to speak aloud; just give me your thoughts. Rest in the Mercy and let me help you find your peace.”

  The hope that had stirred faintly in Rhys Michael’s soul fluttered back and was stilled, yielding once more to resigned acceptance, for he had given up any real hope of surviving this when they bled him the second time. Before the third time, Manfred had even laid the Haldane sword under his hand, in confirmation of their intentions, though he already had been too weak to hold it. Still, this final acceptance of what soon must be his fate enabled him to send his thought to Queron strong and focused.