The Legends of Camber of Culdi Trilogy

by Katherine Kurtz

  And in another part of the city, unaware that their afternoon’s actions were even then being pondered and analyzed, Rhys and Joram were spreading the results of their labors upon a small table in Rhys’s chamber, the room warded against hostile influence, the high windows sealed from light.

  Rhys unrolled his discovery, a painting of a man crowned with gold, a coat of arms embroidered on the arras behind him. The man was slender and dark, black hair and beard and mustache silvered with middle age, gray eyes direct, clear, but unable to foresee the fate which had awaited him but a few years after he sat for the portrait. The shield on the arras showed the royal arms of the Haldanes of Gwynedd: gules, a lion rampant guardant or. The name inscribed at the bottom of the painting read: Iforus, Rex Gwyneddis.

  “The blood does run true,” Rhys whispered, holding the painting closer to the light and appraising it with a critical eye. “Camber will be pleased. Put a beard and mustache on our Cinhil, grow out his tonsure, take him out of that monk’s robe, and it could almost be the same man. It’s amazing that no one has ever noticed the resemblance before.”

  “Not really,” Joram replied. “Who would make the connection? Everyone thinks all the Haldanes died in the coup, and most of the people who could remember what Ifor looked like, first-hand, are long dead. Besides, who looks closely beyond a monk’s habit and tonsure, or would have reason to?”

  “You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “You’re not a priest.” Joram grinned. “Are there any other paintings?”

  “A few. I tried to take the one least likely to be missed. How did you do?”

  “Pretty well.”

  Joram pulled a packet of parchment from his cassock and began unfolding it into two separate pieces. He spread the first one on the table.

  “Here we are: the third entry for December 28, Anno Domini 843, being 5 Festilus II, under baptisms. ‘On the Feast of the Holy Innocents was baptized one Royston John, son of Daniel the Draper and Avis his wife.’ Which makes our prince’s father legitimately born.

  “And here”—he spread the other page—“under baptisms for the 27th of April, Anno Domini 860, being 10 Festilus III, the Feast of Saint Maccul: ‘Father Edward did baptize one Nicholas Gabriel, son of Royston the Draper and Nellwyn his wife, who died in his birth.’

  “And with those, our prince is legitimate, his descent unbroken, and we have written proof to show to Father and my vicar general. I wanted to pull the pages registering the marriages of both sets of parents as well, but one of them must have taken place in another parish—at least it wasn’t in Saint John’s records—and the other spread onto a second page. These are sufficient, though. And I doubt they’ll be missed, unless someone is looking for a specific entry that got pulled with these.”

  “That should do it, then.” Rhys nodded, stifling a yawn as he scanned the two pages and handed them back to Joram. “By the way, I’ve left word for Gifford to wake us just after Lauds, so we can be away by first light. Wat will have the horses saddled and ready.”

  Joram, with the contented smile of a man with a job well done, nodded and indulged in a luxurious stretch, then refolded the two pages and slipped them into the medical pouch which Rhys brought, next to the rolled portrait. Unless total disaster befell them, the documents would be safe there, for the medical pouch of a Healer was nearly as sacrosanct as a priest’s person, and arcanely guarded as well.

  As Joram spread his hands to neutralize the wards and Rhys leaned to blow out the candle on the table, however, they could not know that their abode was being watched. Nor would they guess that they would be followed the next morning when they rode out of Valoret.

  CHAPTER NINE

  When he speaketh fair, believe him not: for there are seven abominations in his heart.

  —Proverbs 26:25

  True to their plan, Joram and Rhys were among the first travellers to ride out of Valoret when the Watch opened the city gates the next morning.

  There was not yet any snow on the ground. Valoret, lying in the lowlands at the foot of the Lendour range, was usually among the last to feel the brunt of winter. But a heavy frost had silvered everything during the night, banishing the previous day’s warmth with portents of colder weather to come. That, plus the copious amounts of rain they had already had in the weeks before, had left the road muddy, slick, and sometimes partially submerged. Hidden holes and stones were a constant hazard to the horses, and once, after a particularly nasty near-spill, Rhys even had to dismount to check his horse’s legs for injuries. The animal had been favoring one foot for several minutes.

  It was after this stop, when he and Joram were starting off again, that Joram first noticed the three men following them. They had been aware, for several hours, that there were other travellers on the road behind them. That was to be expected, for this was a major track into the Lendours. The men wore livery; they were probably in the service of one of the local barons. It was probably coincidence—and the basic paranoia of the two conspirators, now that incriminating evidence was secreted in their belongings.

  But when the three men dropped back after the stop, Joram’s suspicions were kindled. There was no benign reason for anyone to be following them; and for whatever reason, the men represented a potential threat to their mission. Joram had gotten a good look at the men when they had come their closest, and one of them was familiar from somewhere. When the connection came, the priest swore softly under his breath, drew his horse alongside Rhys’s with an annoyed tug on the reins.

  “We are being followed!” he said in a low voice. “One of those men was outside Saint John’s yesterday when I left. He probably picked us up at Cathan’s.”

  “At Cathan’s?” Rhys forced himself to keep his eyes straight ahead, resisting the impulse to look over his shoulder. “My God, do you suppose I was followed, too? What if they’ve found out we took the pages?”

  Joram shook his head. “I don’t think they have. And if they have, they can’t have discovered why yet. Imre’s not that astute.”

  “Don’t underestimate him,” Rhys said doubtfully.

  He took several deep breaths to steady himself, swallowed with a throat that was suddenly dry. Joram controlled a smile.

  “Relax, Rhys. If they’d wanted to take us, they could have done it last night at your house, or this morning when we left, or just now when we stopped and they almost caught up with us.”

  “Then why are they following us?”

  Joram shrugged. “To find out where we’re going, I suppose. Imre may be keeping track of everyone who contacts Cathan these days. Or he may be watching Michaelines this week, and it’s just coincidence. We have to assume that someone is asking questions at Saint John’s and the archives, too, though. I wonder …”

  “You wonder what?”

  “I wonder if we should force their hands, let them know that we know they’re following us, and confront them.” He glanced sidelong at Rhys, noting the other’s growing discomfort. “Or, we could try to lose them.”

  “And risk confirming that we have something to hide?” Rhys retorted, almost without thinking. “Innocent people don’t generally have any reason to suspect that someone is following them.”

  Joram laughed out loud. “Very good. You’re learning.” He glanced over his shoulder, but their pursuers were out of sight behind a bend.

  Rhys breathed a mental sigh of relief. “Then, we’re not going to do anything?”

  “Just ride on to Caerrorie, as we’d planned,” Joram said. He touched spurs to his horse and speeded up the pace, then laughed again as the mud flew up behind them. “And if they want to sit and watch Caerrorie all through Yuletide, they’re certainly welcome. They’ll do it in the snow, though, if I’m any judge.” He glanced at the sky. “I’ll bet one of them will be riding back to report to Imre as soon as we’ve arrived.”

  Joram was not far wrong in his last surmise, though it was to Coel Howell, not Imre, that the man reported.

&nb
sp; The man arrived at noon the next day to relate that Joram and Rhys were apparently planning to stay at Caerrorie for some time. Questioning of the peasants in the adjoining village had revealed that it was the custom of Clan MacRorie to spend most of the Yule season at the castle, though Father Joram would probably split his time between his family and his duties at Saint Liam’s. Lord Cathan and his family were expected to arrive within the week.

  Coel received the news with thoughtful interest, adding it to the rest of the storehouse of knowledge he was accumulating about the MacRories and their associates. He had not yet been able to ascertain what part Joram and Rhys had in all of this. In attempting to oust his rival, Cathan, he had not dared to hope that Cathan’s own kin might supply corroborative evidence for his ruin; nor was this in any way certain even now.

  But he did know that Joram MacRorie had apparently taken several pages from the parish register at Saint John’s—perhaps as many as four or five—though it was possible that some of the missing pages had been removed before Joram came. The priest at Saint John’s had been able to recall which volumes Father Joram had asked to see, and had, for a price, been quite cooperative about furnishing an index by which the missing pages might be reconstructed. Coel had several clerks working on that already.

  He further suspected that more pages would be found missing from the volumes which Rhys Thuryn had inspected in the archives—and more of his men were checking on that. So far, however, Coel could see no real connection with Cathan—not that that meant there was none, or that he could not make it appear that there was.

  Thanking the messenger for the information, Coel gave orders for him to continue the surveillance at Caerrorie, then dismissed the man and returned to his immediate plans.

  Tonight, if all went well, he would set into motion the wheels which would destroy his rival once and for all. As for the information on Joram and Rhys, it was not necessary for his other plan at all—though it might be added fuel for the fire by morning. He would see how Imre reacted after tonight. That would tell him a great deal about what he would do next.…

  Early evening found Coel hunched over a pint of good dark ale with Earl Maldred, whose men had been assisting in the investigation.

  The inn where they had met was not far from Cathan’s Tal Traeth, which was ostensibly why Coel had asked Maldred to join him here this evening—to discuss what he had learned of Cathan’s alleged actions so far, and to inspect the area for themselves. Maldred, who did not often have the opportunity to indulge in personal investigations anymore, had leaped at the chance to get involved again. For the past hour, he and Coel had been trading tales of their younger days. Maldred even had stories told him by his grandfather, who had fought at the side of the first Festillic king some eighty years before.

  Coel drained off the rest of his ale with a hearty swallow as the Watch cried the second hour of the night, then slapped the tabletop lightly and pushed back his chair.

  “We’d best take our positions, my lord,” he said, standing and tugging his swordbelt in place. “My informant said that a man came shortly after Curfew last night. If he comes again, we ought to be there.”

  Maldred grunted and tossed off the rest of his tankard as well, then wiped his beard across his sleeve and lurched to his feet. With Maldred’s height and build, it would have been foolish to think that Maldred was drunk, or even a touch fuddled. An old military man like himself would have learned to hold his drink long ago in order to have reached his present station. Nonetheless, Coel suspected that the ale had taken the edge off Maldred’s alertness—and that was precisely what Coel intended. Controlling a self-indulgent smile, he led the way out of the inn.

  It was dark and cold outside—it would likely snow before midnight—and the grooms waiting beside the horses were huddled around a torch stuck in the ground, hunched down in their warm winter cloaks. They snapped to attention as Maldred approached and gave them some low-voiced orders, then melted into the black beyond the circle of torchlight.

  Maldred took up the torch and strode back to Coel, his manner quite matter-of-fact.

  “I’ve sent Carle and Joseph around the side to join your men. Where do we go from here?”

  “This way,” Coel murmured, leading down a dark, narrow side street.

  Coel’s shadow was harsh before him as he walked; Maldred’s footsteps echoed close behind. A few turns, and they were moving along an ever darker alleyway, the glow of other torches at the far end making a beckoning haven a few hundred yards away. Senses attuned, Coel forced himself to move briskly, confidently, with Maldred unsuspecting at his heels—for who would attack two armed men?

  The slightest scuff of boot on gritted stone, and it was begun!

  As the torch fell from Maldred’s fingers, Coel whirled, cloak swirling to conceal the dagger he now clutched in his hand, the blade tucked close along his forearm. Maldred made no outcry—could make none. His assailant was a dark shadow close against his back, sinewy arms pinioning struggles as Maldred clawed frantically, futilely, at the fine cord biting into his neck.

  But Maldred’s silent struggle was for naught, and quickly finished. In seconds, the assassin was lowering his lifeless body to the ground, knotting the cord, which had disappeared into a thin, bloody crease in his victim’s neck.

  Coel reached to his belt with his empty hand and withdrew a small, weighty pouch, which he tossed to the ground with a golden clink as he stepped closer to the torch guttering on the ground.

  “Let’s be quick about it,” he whispered, drawing his sword and laying it quietly beside the torch. “Finish up and get out of here. I haven’t got all night.”

  Quickly, stealthily, the assassin glided to the pouch and stooped to pick it up, never seeing or even sensing the dagger which spun from Coel’s hand to bury itself in his heart.

  As the man toppled soundlessly to the ground, Coel darted forward and seized the pouch, jamming it into his tunic and withdrawing instead a piece of parchment, burned across the top, a pendant seal attached below. This he placed very near the torch beside the slain assassin. Then he drew the assassin’s dagger and laid the blade against his own thigh, steeling himself before plunging it deep into the muscles of his left leg. As the pain swept over him, he screamed.

  To the Watch’s credit, they were not long in coming. But they were too late to save the illustrious Earl Maldred from the assassin’s garrotte, or to get any information out of the assassin himself. They found Lord Coel half fainting in a pool of his own blood, trying to beat out the smouldering edges of a piece of parchment which was signed and sealed with an all-too-familiar name.

  Lord Coel, as they stanched his wound, was able to tell them how he and Maldred had been beset while they walked through the alley, and that the assailant had tried to burn the piece of parchment as he died. But Coel urged them not to let news of Maldred’s death or the parchment become known until he had a chance to tell the king in the morning. And then he passed out.

  The Watch, well-trained men that they were, obeyed his orders without question, conveying him swiftly to his working quarters at the castle, where his own body squire tended to his wound and bandaged him. It was not too serious a wound, the squire assured them—not even serious enough to warrant a Healer’s efforts—though his lordship had lost a great deal of blood, and would surely be walking with the aid of a stick for a week or so.

  Shooing them all out of his master’s chamber, the squire gave orders for the two bodies to be held at a nearby abbey, then assured the men that Lord Coel would give further orders when he awoke in the morning. Coel, when he was certain he was alone, opened his eyes and glanced around the room triumphantly, then closed them and promptly went to sleep.

  It was still very early the next morning, when Coel made his way, with the help of a staff and leaning on the arm of a servant, to the entrance to Imre’s suite. He was dressed soberly but tastefully in gray velvet lined with fur, his thigh heavily bandaged under its thick woolen hose. One of
the watchmen who had shared the previous night’s misadventure was hovering anxiously at his elbow, clutching the piece of parchment which Coel had rescued from the torch.

  A guard challenged them at the door, but there was something about Coel this morning which forbade resistance.

  “I must speak with His Grace,” Coel said.

  “His Grace is still abed, my lord. I shouldn’t disturb him, if I were you.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Coel said, and with a weary sigh reached past the guard and opened the door.

  The guard stood aside in confusion, not daring to stop him, and Coel and the watchman passed into the room. Imre’s sleeping chamber lay beyond another door on the other side of the room, and one of the king’s body servants ran to announce him as Coel limped across the polished floor.

  “Sire, Lord Coel is here to see you.”

  “What?”

  A rustling of bedclothes and muffled protests sounded from within the room, emphatic but unintelligible, and then: “Coel? What’s he doing here at this hour?”

  Coel stepped into the doorway and addressed the closed curtains of the royal bed. “A thousand pardons, Sire, but it was unavoidable.”

  He hobbled into the room, his staff echoing hollowly on the lozenged tiles.

  Abruptly, the royal head was thrust through an opening in the bed curtains, the brown hair disheveled.

  “Coel, what the devil?”

  As Imre’s eyes took in the staff, the limp, the bandaged thigh, then flicked beyond to the watchman standing guard at the door, Coel bowed deeply from the waist, spreading his empty hands in an apologetic gesture.

  “I fear I suffered a mishap during the night, Sire. Fortunately, I was not badly injured. The wound appears far more serious than it actually is.”

  “But what happened?” Imre nearly shouted. He threw back the curtains of his bed and started to leap out, then thought better of it as he realized how cold it was, and pulled the bedclothes around himself instead. “By God, Coel, don’t just stand there. Bring a stool and tell me what happened. You mustn’t fatigue your leg.”