Saint Camber

by Katherine Kurtz

  Camber, wearing the full ecclesiastical vestments in which he had been consecrated bishop, with the addition of his collar of office, stood directly to Cinhil’s right, clerical as well as secular advisor for the occasion, since Archbishop Anscom was abed with a digestive upset—an event which was occurring with disturbing regularity of late.

  Cinhil himself sat in a long velvet robe of Haldane crimson, his golden lion bright upon his breast. Miniver showed at sleeves and neck, repeating the snow-white of the belt girding his waist. On his head was the state crown of Gwynedd, jewel-winking gold with crosses and leaves intertwined, more formal than was his usual wont, in marked contrast to the silvered sable of his hair and beard. The ruby Eye of Rom was barely visible among the strands of collar-length hair over his right ear whenever he turned his head and the great jewel caught the light of torch and candle.

  Trumpets sounded a fanfare, brief but honorable, the entry doors swung apart at the opposite end of the hall, and all eyes turned in that direction.

  First to enter was a company of Cinhil’s own knights, lightly armed, but patently prepared to quell any disturbance which might be engendered by the men they escorted. Following them walked Sighere’s knights, two by two, battle-armed and vaguely menacing in the mystery of their intentions.

  Eight of the knights marched before their master, helm-shadowed eyes watchful, wary, as they approached the dais and bowed, brief inclinations of proud heads, giving no more obeisance than strictest courtesy required. As Sighere came between their ranks, herald on his left, a captain on his right, and his war banner at his back, his knights split to either side and bowed again with well-trained precision, the depth of their bows leaving no doubt as to just whom these men owed their allegiance.

  Sighere, when he reached the dais steps, stopped and removed his helm with a sparseness of motion appropriate to the iron-willed man who had recently subdued most of proud Kheldour. He wore a mail coif beneath the helm; but when he handed that helm to his captain, he did not uncover to the king. Dark eyes gazed out impassively from their frame of metal links, the mind behind them shrewdly measuring the man who wore the crown of Gwynedd.

  Sighere’s herald footed his master’s standard on the lowest step of the dais and bowed with precise formality.

  “Sighere, Earl of Eastmarch and Warlord of Kheldour, brings greetings to His Royal Highness Cinhil Donal Ifor Haldane, King of Gwynedd and Lord of Meara, Mooryn, and the Purple March,” the herald recited.

  Sighere bowed, a stiff inclination of his upper body, but there was something in the set of his mouth, almost hidden behind a bristling red beard, which Camber could read as almost a smile, tempering the solemnity of the occasion to a game which Sighere played for the benefit of those watching, lest what was to come seem far too easy. Abruptly, Camber was certain that Sighere meant to offer a full alliance, though the exact terms still remained to be disclosed. He glanced at Cinhil to ascertain whether the king had caught Sighere’s intentions, but Cinhil’s nod of acknowledgment to Sighere’s greeting betrayed nothing of his inner state.

  “Your Royal Highness,” the herald continued, “my master bids me say the following: The King’s Most Excellent Grace will no doubt recall how our two hosts of Gwynedd and Eastmarch did fight side by side in war last year, and did prevail against a common enemy. After that great battle, we two did go our separate ways, to rebuild our war-torn lands and stabilize a new order, free from the Festillic tyrant’s heel.

  “But, while the King’s Grace built his peace in Gwynedd, I and mine were forced to battle other enemies which stood to threaten Eastmarch in the north. This we did. Kheldour now lies beneath the guard of my son Ewan and an Eastmarch army, secure for now, except for its capital of Rhorau, but uneasy for want of ample troops. If assault should come from either Torenth or rebellious Rhendall, whose mountains hide many things, we are undone; and not only our Kheldish holdings, but Eastmarch as well—and with us, your border buffer which we maintained in our common struggle last year.

  “I, Sighere of Eastmarch, therefore propose the following alliance—not as full equals, for you are ruler of a mighty kingdom and I, though owing fealty to no other suzerain, am yet a petty prince beside Your Grace’s might—yet, I would become Your Grace’s chiefest vassal.

  “If Your Grace will consent to accept my sword in liege fealty, to take conquered Kheldour as part of Gwynedd, to protect and defend it from the likes of those who have lately ruled, then I, Sighere, will be your man of life and limb, serving you in all things as are within my power. In return, I ask only that Your Grace grant unto me, and all the heirs of my body whatsoever, such titles and lands as Your Grace may deem fitting for one who has thus enlarged your kingdom. As Your Grace’s viceroy in Kheldour, I would rule in Your Grace’s name, governing Kheldour’s people in justice, to the greater good of all your people of Gwynedd.”

  As the herald finished speaking, Sighere drew his sword and kissed its blade, then knelt and laid it on the top step of the dais before him, the hilt toward Cinhil’s throne. He bowed his head, still kneeling, as Cinhil leaned to consult with his chancellor, also beckoning Jebediah to approach. Sighere’s knights had also knelt as their overlord did, and Cinhil glanced at all of them thoughtfully.

  “He blusters, as was always his wont, but what think you from a military point of view, Jeb?” he whispered, as the marshal crouched beside the throne.

  Jebediah gave a slight nod. “Acceptance will mean a summer campaign, at least in Rhendall, and there remain many details to be worked out, but the offer is a princely one, Sire. With Sighere’s strength added to our own, we can hold what he has won and greatly reinforce our eastern front. A lesser campaign of this sort would also give us an opportunity to test our new military organization before we must answer a more serious threat in the future.”

  “My thoughts precisely,” Cinhil murmured. “Alister?”

  Camber also nodded. “The offer is princely, Sire. And I have heard naught but good of Sighere, despite his blustering façade. If he gives his word, then he is your man, come what may. I think you could find far worse viceroys than Sighere of Eastmarch, for any of your lands.”

  With a nod, Cinhil sat straight in his chair, giving Jebediah time to get to his feet, then stood and let his gaze brush Sighere’s kneeling men, settle on the earl himself, who now gazed up stolidly from his place at the foot of the dais. The sword of promise lay bright on the dais between them.

  “My Lord Sighere,” Cinhil said, in a voice which carried to the farthest reaches of the hall, “we are greatly moved by this noble offer, and are minded to accept your allegiance under the general terms specified. But take up your sword, I pray you. No oaths are yet required, and certainly no surrenders. We must speak further on the details of what you propose.”

  Sighere had started to retrieve his sword at Cinhil’s bidding, but then he hesitated and stood instead.

  “Your Highness.” His voice was a pleasing tenor, unexpected in so large and robust-looking a man. “I have no wish to defy you so early in our relationship …” There was a rustle of discontent among Cinhil’s knights. “But, I pray you, let me bind myself in oath.”

  The knights relaxed, with a few audible sighs.

  “I concede that further negotiations will be necessary,” Sighere continued, “but in the meantime, your assistance in Kheldour is much needed. I would not have formalities lose either of us what we desire. The word of Cinhil Haldane is sufficient to me to ensure that all are fairly treated.”

  There was a murmur of approval at that last, and Cinhil bade Camber come closer. Camber could see the king’s satisfaction, and suddenly he wondered whether Cinhil had worked this all out before, unbeknownst to any of the rest of them. Perhaps they had all underestimated Cinhil.

  “My Lord Bishop, are you prepared to witness Lord Sighere’s oath, since he does desire it?”

  With a bow, Camber beckoned for a young sub-deacon, who held a jewel-encrusted Gospel book.

  “I
am prepared, Sire.”

  Nodding, Cinhil turned to face Sighere once more.

  “Sighere, Earl of Eastmarch, you may approach us. My Lord Marshal, please bring his sword.”

  As Sighere slowly climbed the dais steps, sweeping back his coif at last to bare his head, Jebediah moved behind him and took up his sword. Sighere, easing himself down on greaved and mailed knees, lifted his hands to Cinhil, palm to palm. Cinhil took Sighere’s hands between his own and let his eyes meet Sighere’s brown ones as Jebediah knelt on one knee with Sighere’s sword.

  “I, Sighere, do become your liegeman of life and limb,” the kneeling man said in a low but steady voice. “Faith and truth will I bear unto you, in living and dying, against all manner of folk, so help me God.”

  With that, he leaned forward to touch his forehead to their joined hands.

  Cinhil, obviously much moved by the gesture, drew a steadying breath before returning the oath.

  “This do I hear, Sighere of Eastmarch. And I, for my part, pledge the protection of Gwynedd to you and all your people, to defend you from every creature with all my power. This is the word of Cinhil Donal Ifor Haldane, King of Gwynedd and Kheldour, Lord of Meara and Mooryn and the Purple March, Overlord of Eastmarch. So help me God.”

  With that, Cinhil released Sighere’s hands and leaned to kiss the Gospel which Camber extended with a bow. The Book was then presented to Sighere, who also touched it reverently with his lips. As Camber was withdrawing the Book, Cinhil took Sighere’s sword from Jebediah and held it with the blade up, signaling for Sighere to remain kneeling.

  “Sighere of Eastmarch,” Cinhil said, glancing along the length of the blade, “in token of the oaths we have just exchanged, I shall return your sword—but not before it, too, becomes a symbol of the bonds we have forged this day.”

  Deftly he brought the flat of the blade down on Sighere’s right shoulder. The earl flushed with pleasure and bowed his head as he realized what Cinhil was doing.

  “Sighere of Eastmarch, I confirm you in your present rank and titles—” He moved the blade to strike Sighere’s left shoulder lightly. “—with the understanding that more suitable forms have yet to be decided.”

  He brought the flat of the blade down lightly on Sighere’s bowed head, then raised the sword and laid it across both his hands to present it to Sighere. The earl, receiving the sword with another bow of his head, kissed the blade and then slid it back into its sheath with a resounding click.

  The sound was the signal for loud and spontaneous cheering all through the hall, as Earl Sighere of East-march was raised by the king’s own hands and taken to meet his new brothers.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  And let us not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.

  —Galatians 6:9

  The alliance with Sighere somewhat changed Cinhil’s summer plans. Instead of remaining at Valoret to continue his administrative reforms, he accompanied his army into Kheldour with Jebediah and Sighere, observing with increasing interest how those two able generals subdued and consolidated the lands which Sighere had given largely in name.

  His chancellor he left at the capital, to assist Queen Megan in her duties as regent during his absence and to direct further work on the judicial reforms which Cinhil proposed to treat at his Winter Court, when he returned. Rhys and Joram also stayed in Valoret, Rhys to attend the expectant queen and Joram to continue his service to the chancellor-bishop.

  Almost as an afterthought, Cinhil sent a lesser portion of his army with Earls Fintan and Tamarron, to patrol the Eastmarch-Torenth borderlands and prevent any Torenthi invasion force from cutting off his main van in Kheldour. It was a wise move; for if Nimur of Torenth had contemplated such an invasion with his ransomed men, he did not follow through. In any case, all was quiet on Gwynedd’s new eastern border that summer of 906. Cinhil could never know whether or not his deterrent had been necessary.

  In the north, Cinhil’s forces encountered little resistance. The greater part of Kheldour had accepted Sighere’s liberating army the previous autumn, and by now greeted the almost-legendary King Cinhil as a long-awaited friend. Rhendall was more difficult, for the rugged terrain of that mountain region afforded ample hiding places for Festillic forays against the occupying Gwynedd army. But by the end of August, even the last of the Kheldour Festils had been ferreted out of their hiding place between Rhendall’s twin lakes, the young niece and nephew of the slain Termod finally surrendering their fortress stronghold of Rhorau.

  Cinhil would not allow the two to be killed, though Sighere urged it and Jebediah counseled the same; for they were, both of them, hardly more than children. Nor could he allow them to go free and breed future Festillic threats. God knew, one such threat in Torenth was enough to anticipate. Reluctantly, he consigned them to the wardenship of Sighere’s eldest son, Ewan, to whom he also gave the lordship of the entire Rhendall region. Ewan would keep the two in close but honorable captivity until the end of their days—a grim fate, but not so grim as some which Cinhil had considered.

  Further consolidation was also accomplished during that summer’s campaign. Hrorik, Sighere’s middle son, so distinguished himself in battle that he became a chief vassal of Cinhil in his own right, receiving most of the lands of his father’s former earldom of Eastmarch as his holding. Sighere’s youngest son, also named Sighere, was granted the new earldom to be called Marley, carved out of the northern portions of old Eastmarch, for he had also served Cinhil most valiantly. In all three of Sighere’s sons, Cinhil counted himself fortunate. He could not conceive of more loyal and powerful allies to hold this newest extension of his kingdom.

  But for Sighere himself was reserved the greatest honor of all: to be created a duke—the first ever in Gwynedd—and to receive for himself and his heirs the royal Duchy of Claibourne, so named for the principal city of the northwesternmost portion of old Kheldour. Duke Sighere also became Viceroy of the Kheldish Riding, that office to become the hereditary due of the Dukes of Claibourne for as long as Sighere’s line should last. Rhendall, now held by Ewan, would be the secondary title of the Claibourne dukes, borne during the duke’s lifetime by his eldest son but functioning as a separate earldom under that son so long as father and son both lived. On Sighere’s death, Ewan would become Duke of Claibourne as well as Earl of Rhendall, until he had a son to administer the lesser title. Of course, the viceregal office also went with the ducal inheritance. Sighere had great reason to be pleased as the summer days began to shorten.

  And in Valoret, the weeks and months passed as quickly for Camber as they did for his king, if with less dramatic excitement than what Cinhil daily faced in Kheldour. The shift from spring to summer brought Queen Megan’s condition to the notice of anyone with the eyes to see, her blossoming happiness the delight of all who loved their usually sad-faced young queen. Evaine, too, began to show unmistakable signs of impending motherhood, to be delivered shortly past Christmas. Rhys, physician to both women, could hardly decide whether he was more pleased with the improved health and spirits of Megan or the splendid progress of the son his wife carried beneath her heart.

  Of course, Megan’s son would be another heir for Gwynedd—and God knew, they needed another. But thought of his own son brought a tremor of excitement to Rhys’s mind whenever he thought about him. In fact, he sometimes found it difficult to reconcile his own joyous wonderment with the utter calm and serenity which Evaine increasingly displayed. Her entire outlook took on a mellowness which was quite alien to the Evaine Rhys knew so well. Even Joram ceased the occasional sharp comments which he and his sister had sometimes exchanged in the past.

  Camber, too, noticed the change in his daughter, and the corresponding change it wrought in Rhys and Joram. He cherished his time with Evaine and tried to be a sounding board for both his sons’ wonder, helping his daughter ease into this new phase of her life and becoming less demanding of her time as the child within her grew. Many hours they spent togethe
r, father and daughter, sometimes translating the ancient records and discussing what they had found, speculating on the enigmatic ward cubes, but more often simply relaxing in each other’s minds.

  Together they explored the implications of the role Camber had chosen to assume. The matter of sainthood they especially considered, not only from its impact on Gwynedd’s future but from its possible effect on Camber himself. Almost, they could justify the public side—if not to Joram’s satisfaction, at least to their own. But Camber continued to brood on the inner morality, and what effect the common acclamation of Camber as saint might have on the living Camber’s mind. There was simply no way of knowing. He hoped they would never have to know.

  Cinhil’s absence allowed them far greater freedom than they would have had, to meet and plan and try to decide what to do. Little by little, pieces of information did begin to sift together.

  For example, through a chance encounter with Dom Emrys, the abbot of the Order of Saint Gabriel, who had come to court to complain of encroachments on the Order’s fields near Saint Neot’s, Camber learned that Queron Kinevan had left the Gabrilite Order in April. Emrys seemed still to be surprised at this, for the Healer-priest had held an enviable reputation both in his community and in the secular world. Emrys could offer no explanation as to why Queron had left or where he had gone.

  From another source, Rhys discovered that Queron had been involved in the purchase of a partially fortified and much ruined manor called Dolban, which lay on the road which ran northeast out of Valoret along the river toward Caerrorie. Further investigation revealed only that Dom Queron had been seen in the area once or twice, no longer wearing the white robes of his former Order, and that extensive building activity was now being carried on behind the restored walls of Castle Dolban.

  That last fascinated Camber, for he could not imagine where Queron had gotten the money to pursue such a project, the priest having previously sworn vows of poverty to his Order; but increasing pressures at court prevented him from pursuing the investigation overmuch. Even though Cinhil was still in Kheldour, and not expected back until mid-September, the council—or such of it as was in residence—was required to meet twice weekly and send detailed reports to the king. The queen was increasingly unable to sit through the meetings, her time coming due about the same time that Cinhil was expected home; and Anscom, who had always handled a great portion of the ecclesiastical liaison, had suffered recurrent illnesses throughout the summer, and was more often absent than present.