Evaine maintained correspondence with Elinor in Caerrorie, who kept her informed of the boys’ health and mentioned in passing that the winter weather seemed to have dampened the enthusiasm of the many pilgrims who had used to frequent Camber’s tomb. Only a few folk came there now, though they still left prayers and devotions. But Caerrorie seemed far from Valoret. And as winter deepened, those in Valoret thought less and less about the now-empty tomb and all it represented.
The first intimation that the matter had not died came in early February, but a few days before Camber was to make a month-long visitation to Grecotha. He would be there until the Feast of Saint Piran—long enough to inspect the work done by his staff in his absence, to direct further activities for the spring and early summer, and to perform those sacerdotal offices which could not be handled by other than a bishop. By the Ides of March, he must be back. The king planned to convene his Spring Court early, for Sighere of Eastmarch had sent word of his intention to parley in person. For that, the king would have his chancellor at his side, bishop or no.
But on this chill February morning, the Bishop of Grecotha was still ensconced in his apartments in the archbishop’s palace—quarters somewhat more sumptuous than those he had occupied during his first sojourn, when he had been a mere vicar general. He was seated comfortably before a large but inefficient fireplace, with his head leaned against the chairback and his eyes closed and a towel of nubby gray linen draped close around his shoulders. Guaire had just finished lathering his face and was carefully drawing a razor across the stubble of the night’s beard—a duty he had taken on himself ever since Camber’s consecration.
Joram stood beside the hearth and read aloud from the bishop’s schedule for the day, one blue-clad arm laid casually along the warm stone of the mantelpiece. His fur-lined winter cloak was pushed back off his shoulders, but he had not removed it even at that proximity to supposed heat, for he was well aware of the inefficiency of his father’s fireplace at farther than an armspan. He had no intention of letting his backside freeze.
“So, after Mass and breakfast with Anscom, you have a meeting with His Highness and Lord Jebediah for the remainder of the morning,” Joram explained. “I’ve transcribed our notes from yesterday, and Guaire drew up the revised map sections, so it should be only a matter of review—unless they want to start on something new, of course.”
Camber grunted appreciatively, but did not move, out of deference to Guaire’s razor.
“This afternoon, the Court is invited to go stag hunting with Baron Murdoch and his party,” Joram continued smoothly. “It seems that Murdoch spotted a white stag in the forest yesterday, and insists on running it down. As coincidence would have it, his wife and sons just brought him five new couples of coursing hounds to show off.”
Joram’s last statement had been delivered in precisely the same noncommittal tone as the rest, but something nonetheless made Camber open one eye to glance at his son. As he had suspected, Joram’s face wore a look of undisguised contempt.
Joram had never liked Murdoch. Nor had Camber, for that matter. Murdoch of Carthane was the scion of one of those old human families which had once ruled in Gwynedd, and whose lands had been confiscated when the first Festil seized the throne of Gwynedd almost a century before. In those intervening years and generations, Murdoch’s ancestors had tried every underhanded scheme they could devise to regain influence with their Deryni masters.
Now that a new administration was in power, Murdoch was following in the family tradition. He had come to Cinhil’s court almost three months before to petition for the return of his family’s lands—which Cinhil had granted, though he had not yet given back the title of earl which went with those lands. In Cinhil’s mind, Murdoch was earnest, loyal, and seemed to be sympathetic to Cinhil’s personal situation. At one time, he had almost entered the same religious order as Cinhil—or so Murdoch said.
“Baron Murdoch, eh?” Camber murmured drolly. “Yes, he and his do seem to be much in evidence of late, don’t they?”
“I think it no secret that Murdoch works toward a valuable and undeserved appointment at court,” Joram replied, arching one finely defined eyebrow. “He may get it, too. I fear our king is sometimes too easily moved by a tale of past injustice and a pious mien.”
With a snort of exasperation for court toadies in general and Baron Murdoch in particular, Camber shifted in his chair and started to make a sharp retort, causing Guaire to gasp and draw his razor hand away quickly. With a shrug of apology, Camber laid his head back again and sighed, silent as Guaire resumed his task. He was contemplating the self-seeking Baron Murdoch, and mentally reviewing how he might possibly broach the subject with Cinhil, when he became aware that Guaire seemed unusually withdrawn this morning, a trace of unaccustomed brusqueness clipping his movements as he laid aside his razor and wiped the last traces of soap from his master’s face.
Camber wriggled into a more upright sitting position as Guaire began combing his hair, trying to observe Guaire unobtrusively out of the corner of his vision and wondering whether the apparent nervousness was just his imagination. His expression must have betrayed some of his curiosity just then, for Guaire suddenly glanced away self-consciously and began tugging at the thick, iron-gray hair even more awkwardly. When he had finished, far more perfunctorily than usual, he whisked the towel from Camber’s shoulders and used it to dust off imaginary specks of lint and hairs from the violet cassock as his master stood. He did not seem to want to meet Camber’s eyes.
“Is anything wrong, Guaire? You seem distracted this morning.”
Guaire turned away momentarily to pick up Camber’s skullcap of violet silk. His face was impassive as he reached up to set it in place on the wiry gray hair.
“No, Your Grace. There’s nothing wrong. Should there be?”
“I don’t know.”
Thoughtfully, Camber turned to slip his arms into a dull, wine-colored over-robe lined with fur, which Joram held ready for him. As he turned back to Guaire, to receive his cross and chain of gold, he caught Guaire’s eyes again—just a flash of an apprehensive, almost haunted look. He tried to put on a more benign expression as he bowed his head to receive the chain around his neck.
Guaire swallowed and looked down at his feet as Camber straightened.
“Your Grace, there is something …” he began tentatively.
“I thought there might be,” Camber said kindly, sitting down again and inviting Guaire to a seat on a stool to the right of his chair. Beyond Guaire, Joram had returned to the writing desk and was unobtrusively rearranging the scrolls, but Camber sensed that he was now watching Guaire as well. He wondered whether Joram had picked up the same air of uneasiness.
“All right,” Camber said gently, trying to put Guaire at ease. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
“I—yes, Your Grace.” Guaire swallowed hard, dry-mouthed, and his gaze, usually straightforward and guileless, kept shifting to points around the room and on Camber’s person—anywhere except the pale, sea-ice eyes—as he searched for words.
Patiently, Camber settled back in his chair to wait, twining his fingers before him in an Alister gesture so familiar by now that it seemed second nature.
Guaire took a deep breath and looked up again, finally managing to meet Camber’s eyes.
“Your Grace, I—I seek a boon,” he murmured, starting to draw confidence now that the first words were out. “It—it is not one which, strictly speaking, you yourself can really give.” He paused to draw a reinforcing breath. “But I dare hope that you will choose to encourage its giving. Your opinion carries great weight with His Grace the Archbishop.”
“His Grace best knows his own mind,” Camber said carefully, wondering what Guaire was driving at, “though it is true that he has been known to heed my counsel on occasion. I must remind you, however, that if you have already asked His Grace this boon and been refused, there is doubtless little I can or should do.”
“Oh, no, Your Gr
ace. I have not asked him yet. I—in truth, I hesitate to approach him. That is why I came to you. If he should scoff—”
“Scoff? Why should he scoff at a request made in sincerity?” Camber asked. “Is it a matter of faith? If it is, I can tell you that he is aware of your spiritual growth. I have kept him apprised of your progress.”
Guaire lowered his eyes. “Your Grace has not the whole of it,” he murmured. “I fear my faith has grown in ways you have not foreseen, nor would approve. I am near to taking holy orders, Your Grace.”
“And you think I’d not approve of that?” Camber shook his head. “Guaire, perhaps you have misread my earlier words. I counseled only that you not rush rashly into vows which would forever change your life. If you have found your way, and are happy in it, then I am happy, too.”
“Do you truly mean that?”
“Of course. Tell me about your new-found vocation. What order have you chosen?”
“It—is a newly forming order, Your Grace.” He glanced up fearfully. “And I beg you not to press me now for names and places, for I have already sworn vows of discretion. Promise you will not.”
“I promise,” Camber agreed. “But tell me what you can.”
Guaire took a deep breath. “We—we plan to devote ourselves to a new saint, Your Grace. We will seek permission to establish his first shrine in the cathedral here in Valoret. We plan to petition the Council of Bishops for his immediate canonization. There is ample evidence of his miracles.”
“A new saint?” Camber arched a bushy eyebrow, hiding a shiver of foreboding which darted across his mind. “There are channels through which one goes, Guaire. Of which saint are you speaking? I was not aware of any great upsurge of miracles of late.”
Guaire bowed his head, tongue-tied now that the moment had come to reveal his plans.
“Come, now. Don’t be shy,” Camber insisted. “Who is it?”
“It—it is Lord Camber, Your Grace.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
And the servant of the Lord must not strive; but be gentle unto all men, apt to teach, patient, in meekness instructing those that oppose themselves.
—II Timothy 2:24–25
Camber’s head shot up in horror at the name. At the same instant, behind Guaire, he saw Joram’s involuntary start.
God! Had he heard aright? Camber? Guaire could not have meant him, Camber!
“Your Grace cannot be that surprised,” Guaire continued, mistaking Camber’s horror for startled ignorance. “Surely you have heard how his cult flourishes at Caerrorie. The numbers are somewhat less since the onset of winter, but daily, since his death, scores of pilgrims have flocked to his tomb to seek his intercession and blessing. We would establish his first shrine there, except that his family opposes any mention of his sainthood. I beg your pardon, Father Joram.”
He chanced a look at Joram, who was standing pale and mute, hands supported against the writing desk behind him, then returned his attention to Camber.
“But even they cannot deny the miracles, Your Grace,” Guaire concluded, in a whisper which somehow managed to sound defiant.
Camber swallowed, fearing to ask further, yet knowing that he must. He did not dare look again at Joram, for fear of what even Alister’s face might betray.
“Did you say—miracles?”
Guaire nodded gravely. “Do you not remember how I came to you the night of his funeral, after you found me mourning by his coffin and brought me to Brother Johannes? I told you of my dream—how he appeared and asked that I carry on his work.”
An icy chill rippled down Camber’s spine at the emphasized he, and he wiped a hand across his face in consternation, trying to remember exactly what Guaire had told him that night. In the past months of hard work, he had almost managed to forget the incident. He certainly had believed Guaire to have forgotten it, for the young man had never mentioned it again after that night.
What was he going to do? Whatever had he been thinking, to couch his comfort in a form which could be so misinterpreted?
“Do you not remember, Your Grace?”
Guaire’s hesitant voice broke through his numbed thinking, and Camber looked back at the earnest young face, schooling his own features to calm. The temptation was great to reach out and read Guaire’s mind right now—to probe relentlessly for the names, the details of all involved in what had just become a waking nightmare—at least to Truth-Read him.
And yet, the last would do no good, for Guaire was telling the truth—at least, the truth as he perceived it. And the first temptation was equally unacceptable, since Camber—or Alister Cullen—had given his word that he would not pry. Besides, all moral and aesthetic squeamishness aside, if he did break his promise and tamper with Guaire’s mind to learn what he wanted, there was a distinct chance that the very tampering could arouse suspicions he would rather not raise about Alister Cullen, if not Camber himself.
He could not afford that; and the possibility was very real. If there were other Deryni involved in Guaire’s formative religious movement—and here, his meeting with the redoubtable Queron Kinevan became greatly suspect—then Camber had to assume that all of them, human and Deryni alike, were probably in periodic close communion of minds. Guaire, like any other human working closely with Deryni—especially a master like Queron—would have grown more sensitive to Deryni contacts in general. And while an adept like Camber might delve deep enough to hide the signs of his probing from Guaire’s human awareness, he could not be sure of deceiving another Deryni.
But what could he do? Guaire was here and now. If Camber dared not use his Deryni abilities to change Guaire’s mind, he wondered whether there was, perhaps, some logical way to convince Guaire that his miracle had been no miracle at all, but only the dream Camber now wished it had been. Success on that front would not solve the problem, would not end the burgeoning order devoting itself to “Saint Camber,” but it might at least provide an opening wedge.
And Guaire might let fall some additional clues about his Order’s plans. Anscom could be alerted; and he, who knew Camber to be no martyred saint, would stall and delay any official recognition of a Camber cult for as long as he could—perhaps indefinitely.
Determined to do just that, Camber gathered the shreds of his logic around him and looked at Guaire again, at the same time sending Joram a stern admonition not to interfere, to let him handle this.
Camber coughed self-consciously. “Aye, I remember, son,” he finally managed to murmur. “But surely you don’t really believe that Camber appeared to you that night? You said yourself that it was a dream.”
Guaire looked past him, eyes unfocused on the flickering fire as he retreated to some inner recall.
“I remember it as being dreamlike,” he said slowly, “and yet, there was that about it which was no dream. Just before he appeared, I remember waking and being very aware of the room around me: of Brother Johannes snoring in his chair—and that, in itself, was strange—of the warmth of the fire, the wavering light, the smells and textures of the bedclothes around me. His coming was no less real than those.”
“Dreams can be very vivid,” Camber said tentatively.
“Aye, but I do not think this was a dream,” Guaire insisted, turning his gaze back on Camber with its full intensity. “I think that he was there, in some mystical way I can’t explain. I think he came back from beyond. I think he continues to guide and inspire us, to the good and aid of all mankind. Do you not agree that these are the kinds of things he would have done, had not the mad Ariella slain him? To urge us to carry on the work he started?”
Camber squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. “These are the kinds of things he always espoused,” he had to agree. “But he was no saint, Guaire. He was a man, like other men. He had strengths and weaknesses, and the same kinds of temptations which assail us all. Being Deryni, perhaps his temptations were even greater than we dreamed. I do not think he was a saint, Guaire.”
“No? But you admired him.”
&nb
sp; “Yes.”
“You admired him so much that you took his name in religion as your own, that his memory might live on.”
“That is true,” Camber conceded, wishing desperately that he had done no such thing. “But that hardly makes the man a saint.”
Guaire bowed his head. “I know it is not always easy to see these things, Your Grace—especially when one has been so close to a man, as you were to him.” He looked up, a beatific smile on his lips. “But you’ll see. God willing, you and many others—even his children—will come to know his greatness as we have. That is one reason we wish to build his shrine in the cathedral, where his body lay before its last journey, so that all may pay him reverence. One day, his tomb at Caerrorie will be a shrine as well. To some, it is already. I only wish that Father Joram would permit us freer access, even if he does not yet believe.”
He turned to gauge his effect on Joram, but the young priest had half turned away, face buried in his hands as he tried to get his emotions under control. With a shrug, Guaire stood and smiled again at his master, compassion glowing in his eyes.
“Camber touches him,” he said softly, “and, in time, will touch all men. Forgive me for pressing the issue, Your Grace, I see now that my request was premature. I’ll not speak to His Grace the archbishop, and you need not petition him on my behalf. God will find a way, when it is time.”
“Guaire—”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
Camber stood, trying to decide how he was going to phrase this. He dared not actually forbid Guaire to pursue his apparent goal, for Guaire was not bound to him by any formal vows of obedience; nor did Camber think such would have held him, if they had been sworn.
Guaire must have sensed the drift of Camber’s hesitation, for his next words and actions took the matter forever out of Camber’s control. Dropping to one knee, he took Camber’s hand and dutifully kissed his ring. His head remained bowed, but his voice was steady, leaving no doubt of his resolve.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but I see that I’ve put you in a difficult position. I regret that. As you know, it had been my intention to continue serving you as Camber bade me, but I see now that I can better serve him in other ways.” He looked up, meeting Camber’s eyes squarely.
Saint Camber Page 33
