He met their eyes uncertainly as he got to his feet.
“I heard voices as I passed outside,” he said, by way of guilty explanation. “I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t realize that folk would be about their business so early.”
“The priests will be saying Mass for the men very shortly,” Camber said neutrally. “It is common custom for the commanders to hear Mass earlier, lest they get caught up in battle preparations and omit that sacrament.”
“I—didn’t know,” Cinhil stammered.
“You didn’t ask,” Camber replied. “Had we realized you might wish to hear Mass with us, you would have been invited. However, we were led by your actions to expect that you preferred your own chaplain to perform that office for you.”
“So he would have, had I not been led to discover you,” Cinhil said. “I didn’t mean to pry, but—”
“But His Grace was mightily curious,” Cullen said, turning to regard the king with an appraising glance as he folded his chasuble. “And when he discovered a Michaeline Mass in progress, a Deryni Mass, he feared the worst.”
He laid the chasuble away in its trunk and began removing the rest of his vestments. “Was the King’s Grace surprised, or disappointed?”
“Disappointed?” Cinhil looked at the half-clad priest incredulously. “Why, to receive the Eucharist thus again—it was, it was—my God, Alister, I would have thought you, at least, would have understood!”
Cullen had stripped down to his undergarments, and now began drawing on the leathers and chain mail of war.
“Pious words, Cinhil. But you half expected something more, didn’t you? Did you distrust us so much, even in the faith we share, that you would expect some profanation of this greatest magic? Did you, perhaps, even hope for it, as an excuse to make some real break with our Deryni race, to somehow soothe your wretched conscience?”
“Alister, no!” Rhys whispered.
“What?” Cinhil appeared dazed.
“Well, did you?” Cullen insisted.
“How dare you!” Cinhil blurted out. “You—all of you—you are responsible for my state!”
“You are responsible for your own state!” Joram interjected. “You make pious noises, but your actions say otherwise. No one forced you to do what you did.”
“No one forced me? How could I refuse? I was an innocent priest, knowing only the monastic life for nearly all my forty-three years. You and Rhys wrenched me from my abbey against my will, tore me from the life I loved, and thrust me among men even more ruthless than yourselves!”
“Were you ever abused?” Cullen replied. “Did anyone ever ill use you, once you were safe in sanctuary?”
“Not physically,” Cinhil whispered. “You did not have to. You were the vicar general of one of the most powerful and well-respected religious orders in the known world. Camber was—and is—Camber. What more can I say of him? And then, there was the Healer.” He gestured toward Rhys. “And my brother priest Joram, who commanded me to ‘feed my sheep,’ and Archbishop Anscom, the Primate of All Gwynedd. And even your shy, innocent daughter, Camber—ah, how she betrayed me! And all of you were telling me that it was my bounden duty to leave my state of grace, my sacred calling, and take a crown I did not want!”
“You listened,” Camber said quietly.
“Yes, I listened. What else was I to do? Had I dared to defy you, you would either have killed me or wrenched my mind to make me do your will. I could not stand against all of you. I was only one frail human man.”
“And have there been no martyrs before?” Cullen observed coldly. “That, too, was a choice open to you, had you dared to take it. If your beliefs were as fervent as you now say, why did you not continue to refuse us, come what might? We were not easy on you, Cinhil, but you cannot wholly lay the blame on us. With a stronger vessel, we could not have succeeded.”
“Well, perhaps you have not succeeded yet!” Cinhil shouted.
With a sob of indignation, he lurched from the pavilion at a dead run, clutching his cloak around him like a madman.
“Open warfare,” Camber murmured, when Cinhil’s pounding footfalls had faded from hearing.
“He’ll come to his senses,” Cullen said. “He must, or I have truly set us all to ruin. I’m sorry. I suppose it was the final eruption of all my own frustration.”
Joram bowed his head, toying with a stole he still held in his hands. “I’m partially to blame. I lost my temper. I goaded him. Father, I’m sorry you had to be associated with this. It will only make things more difficult for you.”
He looked up at his father in sorrow, but Camber merely shrugged and smiled.
“He has a few hours to cool off. Perhaps he needed to hear that. It was truth—as was his side.”
“Truth.” Cullen sighed and buckled his sword over the blue Michaeline surcoat he now wore.
“Truth. In a few hours, I expect we shall all know real truth.”
CHAPTER SIX
I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.
—II Timothy 4:7
There was no time to ponder further consequences in the hour which followed. Final orders must be given, scouting reports digested, horses fed and groomed and saddled, weapons inspected and tested one final time before the coming battle.
Camber, with a subdued Joram at his side, repaired to his Culdi levies to confer with his captains. Cullen gave his Michaeline knights as tough an inspection as they had ever stood, tight-lipped and taciturn as his second-in-command led him along the battle lines.
To Rhys had fallen the task of organizing a hospital corps, of making optimum use of the dozen Healers and perhaps twice that many human surgeons they had been able to recruit for the war effort. The surgeons and their assistants would have their hands full by the end of the day, for the Healers’ ministrations must be confined to those in mortal need, while the surgeons took care of lesser injuries. Those who could be helped by neither would see the priests, for the cure of their souls, if nothing else.
But even Rhys’s planning would make little difference to the majority. Battle shock, added to actual injuries, would claim more lives than could be saved, even had they three times the number of Healers. They dared not risk such valuable men in actual battle, with the result that the wounded must lie where they fell until the battle was over.
As for Cinhil, there was little that could be done. The king retreated to his pavilion precipitously after leaving Cullen and the others, and was not seen again until time for him to mount the great horse Frostling and ascend the ridge. Jebediah escorted the king, having been warned by Joram of the verbal altercation with Cullen, and he did his best to remain as unobtrusive as possible while still performing his duties. Orders were given quietly, preferably after asking Cinhil’s formal permission. Cinhil responded in as few words as possible, civil but much subdued, with the taut precision of anger held rigidly in check.
Where the men were concerned, Cinhil played his part well. Though no one dared to cross him, they read his silence as quiet confidence. But within the protection of steel and leather, Cinhil was anything but calm. He clenched his teeth and willed his hands steady on the charger’s reins, grateful for the shelter of his crowned helm. His innards tied in knots as he gazed down at the battle array forming on the field beneath him, and his throat constricted at the sight of the enemy assembling far across the plain. A cadre of knights surrounded him as bodyguard, mixed Deryni and human, but they afforded little comfort since he did not know most of them.
And farther along the ridge, Camber and his son also watched the forming enemy lines. Though a gray mist still hugged the plain, smudging the distances with dampness, they could see the banners and the shadows of hundreds of men, mounted and afoot, and the flash of diffused sunlight on readied weapons.
Camber glanced at Joram, then back at the pale, empty plain spread before them, suspecting that his son was thinking much the same thing he was.
“You’re wondering whet
her it’s all worth it, aren’t you?” he said, an ironic smile twitching at his lips.
Joram’s eyes narrowed, but he did not shift his gaze from the plain below. “He was a pompous idiot this morning,” he said bitterly. “All we’ve worked for, all we’ve tried to make him understand—nothing. Is there no one he trusts?”
“Apparently not, at least for the moment. My hopes were as high as yours for Alister to gain his confidence—higher, perhaps, knowing my own total inadequacy in this area. I never thought that Alister would light into him like that—or you.”
Joram snorted and glanced down at his saddlebow. “You, yourself, admitted it was the truth.”
“Aye, it was. But the more I think about it, the less certain I am that he was ready for it. I must confess, I thought Alister’s patience was a little longer than that, too.”
“It was,” Joram murmured. “I hadn’t had a chance to tell you about it, but he tried again, last night, to let Cinhil know that he wanted to help. He was soundly rebuffed. It took Jebediah and me nearly an hour, after he got back, to convince Alister that his gesture had not been in vain, that it was Cinhil’s problem and not his. Even then, I think he had the feeling that he was getting close, that Cinhil had almost accepted the offer of friendship. I confess, I was not so patient. I had to walk out of the pavilion last night, when Cinhil continued to raise objections about the watch-wards. I was afraid I’d say something I’d later regret, if I stayed any longer. I suppose I should have left this morning, too.”
“Then why did Alister—”
“This morning? I suppose it was just the final blow, on top of all the normal tension of battle preparations, to find Cinhil spying on us. Behind his gruff exterior is a sensitive, vulnerable man.”
Camber sighed. “I didn’t know about last night. Do you think the breach can be mended?”
“That’s hard to say. Alister Cullen is proud, as you know well, but he also cares a great deal about Cinhil, in his own way. It’s a curious affection which has grown up over the past year or so. I think—I hope—that Cinhil senses that. God knows, he’s going to have to learn to trust someone, if he’s to survive.”
“Then God grant that this is only a temporary setback,” Camber replied. “Cinhil is frightened, and he’s stubborn. I don’t think he realized that he was dealing with another man almost as stubborn as himself.”
Joram chuckled, despite the gravity of the situation. “Aye, that’s true. Alister is one of the more stubborn men I’ve ever encountered—almost as stubborn as you, at times.”
Camber laughed. “No one could be that stubborn. Not even your infamous vicar general. Speaking of which, here he comes, looking as grim as the Apocalypse. What ho, Alister?” he called.
Cullen spurred his chestnut up the remaining slope and drew rein. His blue surcoat was already spattered with mud, but he wore a surprisingly cheerful expression.
“Well, it’s only a matter of half an hour or so now. So far as we can tell, her troop deployment is just as you said it would be—not a sign of treachery. One of our scouting parties had a minor skirmish with one of her patrols just at sunup, but neither side lost any men. If I didn’t know that there was no such thing, I’d say this has all the shape of a classic battle encounter.”
Camber smiled grimly. “I didn’t think she could know how much I’d found out. And there really wasn’t time for her to change her plans too drastically and still proceed with the invasion now.”
“Just blind luck,” Cullen muttered. “And that’s what it’s going to be, all day. She still has us outnumbered.”
“How is Cinhil?” Joram asked, abruptly changing the subject.
Cullen sighed. “Avoiding me, whenever possible. Still, I don’t think it’s permanent. Certainly, he’s brooding about this morning. His feelings were hurt. But he’s in control. I think things will smooth out, once this is over.”
Camber clapped a mailed gauntlet to Cullen’s shoulder and nodded. “That is welcome news, at least. As for the battle, is there anything special we should keep in mind?”
A battle horn sounded farther over on the ridge, where the king sat his horse between Jebediah and Bayvel Cameron, surrounded by his knightly bodyguard. Cullen gathered up his reins and smiled.
“Just keep your shield up and your head down,” he said, guiding his horse around them to head toward his own men, farther to the left. “Good battle, my friends. God grant we meet again, at day’s end!”
With that, he was off, cantering easily toward the Michaeline cavalry assembled on the northernmost portion of the ridge. Below them in the plain, the infantry of Gwynedd was drawn up in orderly companies, beginning to move out in the gray mist at a smart pace. Cullen’s Michaelines streamed down the hill and started heading farther north, to attempt a pincer movement.
Camber sighed and glanced south, at the smaller army of Earl Sighere, whose Eastmarch levies had caught up with them late the day before, then surveyed his own Culdi knights waiting patiently behind him for his signal. He and Joram would lead the Culdi levies today, each of them taking a command of cavalry and half the foot. Young Guaire had also brought a small force from his demesne at Arliss, but he had elected to place his men under Camber’s command as well, that he might carry Camber’s personal standard into battle at his side.
The young man approached as Camber turned in the saddle, a squire walking beside his horse and carrying Camber’s shield. A Michaeline brother had brought Joram’s shield, and the priest took it up as Guaire fell into place at Camber’s left.
“Lord Jebediah sends ready to advance, m’lord,” Guaire said.
Camber took up his own shield—gules and azure impaled by a sword and coronet—and settled it into place over gauntlet and vambrace, then stood in his stirrups and raised his arm in acknowledgement to Jebediah, watching them from a quarter-mile farther south on the ridge. He glanced back at his men as he drew his sword, but they had already seen his hand signal and knew what it meant. Reins of anxious chargers were gathered more closely, feet set more squarely in stirrups, lances more firmly seated in stirrup rests, shields shifted on steel-clad arms.
Camber studied them for an instant, appraising that all were ready, then signaled advance and started down the slope with Joram and Guaire. The foot levies before him were already moving, banners stirring bright and graceful against the gray of morning.
Cinhil, too, rode down that slope, secure in helm and mail, the royal Lion shield of Gwynedd on his arm, a sword buckled fast at his side. But a battle mace was clutched in one mailed hand, resting lightly across his saddlebow—a weapon requiring far less skill on his part than a sword, should an enemy actually break through his bodyguard. A Michaeline knight bore the royal standard beside him, and the Michaeline grand master rode a little ahead with the best of his men. At Cinhil’s back followed a dozen human knights of noble family, swords and lances gleaming in the wan morning light.
Silken banners moved sluggishly across the plain. Silken surcoats glowed like rich jewels in the subdued light, glittering against the damp green of spring-flooded foliage. There was little sound besides the muted drum of hooves and the jingle of harness and equipment as the troops advanced. The horses’ hooves and the men’s feet flattened the spring wheat of the Gwynedd plain and ground the good grain into ruin. The mud rose higher on the horses’ legs, spattering their noble riders and dulling weapons’ shine.
They seemed to ride forever at the walk and then at the trot, foot soldiers hanging on to the stirrups of their accompanying knights as the pace increased. But then, as the distance closed, the silence was shattered by war cries, and men and horses began to run, and the order and beauty of the morning turned to carnage as the first hail of arrows just preceded the initial clash.
The first engagement lasted nearly two hours; the second, more than four. After each initial shock, the fighting settled down to close-fighting melees, strategies and tactics all but abandoned in the chaos of hand-to-hand encounter. The plain turned to
a sea of mud and blood and trampled bodies of men and animals as the two armies waged their battle.
The enemy which Gwynedd faced was of a mixed lot. Most were the warriors of Ariella’s Torenthi allies, kin and vassals of her mother’s family in the east, strangely alien in their rune-carved breastplates and fine-wrought mail and conical helmets embellished with silks and furs. Such men fought hard and grim, neither asking nor giving quarter, with no hint of mercy in their dark, narrow eyes.
Worse than these, though, in many respects, were the Gwynedd men who fought for Ariella: once-mighty landholders of the former Festillic overlords who had fled into exile for the promise of unearned lands and riches when their unthroned mistress should regain her crown. These had far more to lose than their Torenthi allies, for capture or defeat would bring certain retribution from the Haldane king now on the throne of Gwynedd. Such men battled wildly and took many chances. Better the quick death of the battlefield than what a just Haldane would deal to captured traitors.
The fighting went hard, on both sides. By mid-morning Camber had lost fully a quarter of his knights and nearly threescore men afoot, and by afternoon those losses had nearly doubled. He himself had two horses cut from under him, only to be remounted from riderless beasts of the enemy slain. Once, it was Guaire who came to his rescue, snagging the reins of a squealing bay mare even as he struck her rider down and trampled him under the hooves of his own gray, the while keeping Camber’s banner aloft. He shielded Camber and kept the trembling animal steady until Camber could scramble out of the mud and swing into the saddle. Another time, an anonymous archer in the livery of the royal guard helped him capture a loose sorrel stallion, when his valiant little mare had sunk beneath him with her throat thrust through by an enemy spear.
Camber even saw Ariella once, though he was never able to win close enough to threaten her. Surrounded by an escort of twenty heavily armored knights, she rode among the rear lines of her army in armoring befitting any male war leader, her slender body encased in leather and mail, dark hair coiled tight beneath a crowned steel cap. Several times she attempted to bring magic into play, but it was too risky in such close combat, and her tentative ventures were either too destructive to her own men or could be easily countered by the Deryni among Cinhil’s men. After a time, she abandoned arcane assaults altogether, instead attempting to inspire courage and enthusiasm among her men by her mere presence in the rear of the lines. She wore no weapon, and the fighting never really approached her person.
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