“Monster?” he murmured. “Good God, no, Cinhil! That was the furthest thing from my mind, believe me. I confess, I was surprised. You know the law in this regard as well as I—better, perhaps, for you surely considered very carefully before doing what you did.”
Cinhil nodded miserably, too overcome to make a verbal response.
“Tell me, does it give you comfort, what you do?” Camber asked gently.
“It—is my life’s blood!” Cinhil choked, head bowing over the chasuble in his arms.
For a moment, Camber said nothing, not daring to disturb the balance which Cinhil was so precariously maintaining between longing and near despair. He watched Cinhil’s thumb caress the folds of creamy silk, caught the trembling of the hand Cinhil thought he could not see. He wondered whether Cinhil thought he would try to take the chasuble away from him.
“Cinhil?” he finally said, leaning closer but not touching the tensed body. “Cinhil, I want you to realize that I understand what has brought you to this. I understand, and I do not condemn you for it. I will not even forbid it. Nor can I think that Our Lord, in His infinite comprehension of all men’s hearts, would hold such love of Him against you.”
Cinhil swallowed and raised his head slowly, dazed eyes seeking visual confirmation of what he had just heard.
“Do you really mean that?”
“I do.”
Cinhil seemed to ponder that for a moment, but then he glanced at Camber’s bishop’s ring and sighed as he began folding the chasuble once more.
“Well, you may be right about Him—I want to believe that you are. But what about the bishops? What will they do to me when they find out?”
“Why, how should they find out, Sire?” Camber asked, his brow furrowing as Cinhil laid the vestment back in the trunk. “You’ve confessed to me. Do you intend to confess to the rest, as well?”
“You won’t tell them, then?” Cinhil said hopefully.
For answer, Camber reached into the trunk and felt among the folded vestments until he found what he had seen before: a wide, embroidered stole of violet silk. This he pulled out and held across the fingers of his right hand, his eyes rising to meet Cinhil’s.
“Do you see this, Sire?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there is another like it, which you cannot see. It has lain around my neck since I rose from yonder chair beside the fire. How should I tell anyone what you have confided? Do you think my vows less binding than your own?”
They prayed together after that; and in a little while, Cinhil shyly asked his brother priest to help him celebrate a Mass. With some misgivings, Camber consented, serving as deacon and making the responses as Cinhil moved through the rite. But his hesitancy soon melted away in the fire of Cinhil’s devotion; and partway through the Mass, the king’s thoughts and prayers began to soar with the same fervent clarity which Camber had not seen since a long-ago night in a hidden, rock-bound chapel. So open and single of mind was Cinhil that Camber could almost have read him like a fine-penned scroll at noon, without the king being any the wiser. The experience confirmed that Camber had been right in taking an accepting stance on Cinhil’s technical disobedience, and helped to cement even further the rapport which had been building steadily between king and bishop all through the past year.
But for all its reassurance, the incident was strained for Camber. By the time he left, an hour later, he was even more in need of the solitude he had originally sought. Taking a torch from one of the guards at the foot of the King’s Tower, he made his way back through the castle yard and out the southern gate once more, hardly daring to let himself think about what he had just learned. When finally he re-entered the wing of the archbishop’s palace where his own apartments lay, he went down instead of up, into the older levels, passing at last through a modest oak door onto a stone-paved landing. A small chapel lay below him, accessible by a wide, man-high flight of stairs which ended in the center of the chamber.
It was not Camber’s favorite retreat, especially at this winter time of year, but it was out of the way and usually deserted, as it was tonight: a fitting refuge for one who must wrestle ancient wars of conscience. The simple barrel vaulting had originally been lime-washed, in hopes that the white would help to gather the scant daylight which filtered through the three arched lights set high and deep above the door; but time and the dampness had made the lime flake off in unsightly patches. The walls, once frescoed with scenes from the life of the Virgin, had long since been abandoned as a lost cause and mostly chipped back to the bare stone.
Still, the chapel was not in ruin. The floor was kept scoured clean and the altar maintained, for the place was still used by the occasional overflow of visiting priests who must find somewhere to celebrate their daily Office. But there were no frills. The altar was bare of ornament except for the necessary linens, two candles in nondescript holders, a plain wooden crucifix, almost crude in its execution, and a graceful but time-grayed statue of the Virgin which stood with downcast eyes beside an unpretentious tabernacle, arms folded across her breast in an attitude of perpetual adoration. No place for high-flown grandeur, this.
With a sigh, Camber started down the steps, his torch casting a circle of ruddy light around his feet as he descended, the only illumination besides the sanctuary lamp burning red above the altar. He bowed and crossed himself at the foot of the steps, then shoved his torch into a cresset set in the rough north wall. Then he returned to the space before the altar and lowered himself to the floor, to lay prostrate as he had on the night of his ordination, only the layers of his mantle somewhat insulating him from the cold and dampness of the stone.
God help him, where did he now stand? What had he done today, in the furtherance of his own perhaps misguided judgment? Was he going to be able to live with what he had wrought, in the days and months and years ahead?
What about Cinhil, for example? Camber had told him that an infinitely compassionate God would not hold his loving disobedience against him—but suppose Camber was wrong? By reassuring Cinhil, perhaps Camber was plunging the already foundering king into even deeper disfavor with a God who was also infinitely just.
And while he was on the subject of justice, what would a just God have to say, in the final reckoning, to a man who was allowing His Church to be led astray and call holy one who knew himself not to be as he appeared, whose entire present existence was based upon a grand deception?
Was he wrong to let the charade continue? Had he now involved God’s honor? Had he really been motivated by the betterment of the kingdom, or was he a victim of his own pride, seduced by the arrogant belief that his guidance, and no other, could save the kingdom and the king?
And yet, his original justification still seemed solid. Without Cinhil, coolly plucked from his monastic life and forced to assume his destined role as king, Gwynedd would probably still lie under the cruel and negligent rule of Imre of Festil. And without the continuing temperance of Alister Cullen, whoever the guiding mind behind the external façade, Cinhil would have been expending far too much energy in sullen resentment of the man who had placed him where he still did not wish to be.
Now Cinhil was beginning to function as a king should function, especially as he found his own personal stride within the framework of the part he had been dealt. Already, awesome gains had been made in the governance of Gwynedd, not to mention the expansion in size and alliances. If Camber had not done what he had done, where would Cinhil be today? Where might Gwynedd be tomorrow?
The opening of the chapel door intruded on his inner dialogue at that. His first thought was to wonder whether someone had sought and found him, or if it was simply someone else looking for a quiet retreat, who had also known that this chapel was not often used at this hour.
He did not move as footsteps entered and paused on the landing, hoping that whoever it was would have the good sense to go away and leave him in peace, seeing his attitude of prostration and realizing that he did not wish to be disturbed.
But the intruder did not move from the top of the landing. Camber could hear him breathing lightly, caught the hollow scrape of boot on stone as the watcher shifted weight minutely. The total absence of any psychic impression told him that the intruder was Deryni, too, his mind carefully shielded from any intrusion. The door closed, but the footsteps had not moved back through the doorway first.
With a sigh, Camber raised his head and got stiffly to his knees, the cold which had permeated him suddenly achingly apparent. His hood fell back from his head as he turned to look up.
Jebediah stood there on the landing above him, handsome face turned to a grim mask by the light of the torch he held, white sword belt gleaming against the dark of the rest of his raiment.
“I thought I might find you here,” he said in a low voice.
Camber felt a shiver of apprehension ascend his spine, a chill unconnected with the tomb-coldness of the room itself. Why had Jebediah sought him out, and why so grave of mien? Could the grand master possibly suspect that Alister Cullen was not all he seemed? Had Camber made some fatal error in council this afternoon?
No, that was paranoia slipping into his thinking. As serious as the possibility of suspicion was the probability that Jebediah had finally decided to press him for the reasons for their decreased personal relationship in the past year. While that could prove distinctly awkward, it was far preferable to suspicions of Alister himself.
Camber got clumsily to his feet, giving Jebediah an open, welcoming smile.
“Ah, Jebediah. And here, I thought I’d found a refuge, safe even from you,” he said lightly. “After this afternoon, and several hours with the king, I felt the unmistakable need for solitude. But you are always welcome.”
“Am I?”
Turning, Jebediah dropped the door bar into place with an ominous thud and then moved rapidly down the steps to put his torch on the wall opposite Camber’s.
“Actually, I thought we might talk,” he continued, bending his knee to the Presence signified by the altar lamp. “We really don’t get much chance any more, you know—except officially, of course. Frankly, I find our joint planning sessions with Cinhil and the council a poor substitute for the times we used to share.”
“Well, our various duties—”
“Are perhaps not the real reason for our distance,” Jebediah interrupted. He leaned both hands on the hilt of his sword and looked at the floor. “Strange, but I have the recurring notion—and I pray I’m wrong—that being the bishop’s secretary is perhaps more important than merely being His Grace’s friend of many years’ standing. I’m sorry if that sounds petulant, Alister.”
Camber, hands clasped behind his back in an unconscious Alister gesture, was so startled at the bitterness in those last words that he could only stare in amazement. Why, Jebediah was jealous of Joram!
“My God, Jeb, you surely don’t think that, do you?” he asked softly, when he had recovered from his initial shock. “Why, we’ve both been so busy this past year, I in Grecotha and here, and you here and on campaign—I thought you understood that. Joram was with me, almost like a son. Surely you don’t begrudge him my support now, when he needs it most?”
“Begrudge him? No,” Jebediah whispered. “I envy him, though. It’s a fault, I know, but I can’t help it. I envy his time with you, his interaction with your life, the way we used to be. We were both busy in the old days, too, Alister, but we still managed to find the time to share our problems and successes.” He looked up, hardly able to meet Camber’s eyes, in his misery. “Oh, I understand that you’re a bishop now, and cannot, in your office, open all to me. I understand that.” He looked away again. “But I always thought you realized how much your friendship meant to me. Sometimes it’s almost as if you had died instead of Camber.”
All but gasping inwardly, Camber wondered whether Jebediah realized what he had said. The statement had to have been a chance one. Jebediah was concerned about his apparent replacement in Alister’s affections by Joram. He was not worried about the year-dead Camber, at least for now. Jebediah could not know the truth, or even suspect. He was too blunt to pretend innocence on that important an issue.
But suspicion could grow, if Camber did not do something, and quickly. Jebediah was a very astute observer, and might even guess the truth, in time. And in his present bitter state, if Camber could not immediately ensure his cooperation and silence, then he could not be allowed to leave this room.
That judgment was a harsh one, Camber knew. It was not one he even wished to consider, but there might eventually be no other way around it. Jebediah was strong, both physically and psychically. If it came to a purely physical confrontation, Camber doubted very much whether he could beat the battle-fit younger man. At one time, Alister and Jebediah had been well matched in speed and skill; but Camber, though competent, had never been the swordsman Alister had been, and certainly had not been able to keep up his practice in these past grueling months.
Even an arcane confrontation was not a certain victory, though here Camber would have the decided edge. Jebediah would not be expecting a psychic ambush. Alister had always been somewhat reticent about using his Deryni abilities except for inner exploration, whereas Camber had honed all his talents to a fine edge.
But Jebediah knew Alister’s mental touch intimately. Part of the great attraction between the two men had always been their similar levels of potential and intuition, the groundpoint for frequent communion of minds in deep spiritual sharing—a sensitive side to the grand master which few other warriors even suspected.
Yes, given the alternatives, a psychic approach was undoubtedly the best; but it would have to be on Camber’s terms from the beginning. If Camber were to succeed, he must overwhelm Jebediah’s defenses before he even realized that battle had been engaged—and that would depend upon how much control he could secure before Jebediah realized he was not dealing with Alister. Total success would enable him to take Jebediah into his confidence and win him as an ally; even partial failure would make of Jebediah a prisoner or, worse, a casualty. Camber did not even want to think about the latter possibility.
Whatever the outcome, the task must be begun. Only a few seconds had elapsed while Camber weighed the possibilities, but now he must make his move or risk complicating an already delicate situation. Shifting his weight uncomfortably, he chanced a hesitant, sidelong glance at Jebediah, allowing the pale, sea-ice eyes to mirror some of the real pain which Alister would have felt at Jebediah’s jealous words.
“I’m—sorry, Jeb. I hadn’t realized.”
“No, I don’t suppose you did,” Jebediah whispered, head still bowed.
Wetting his lips nervously, Camber continued, letting the part of him that was Alister come to the fore, there at the most surface level of his awareness.
“Can you forgive me?” he asked. “It’s a fault to become so wrapped up in one’s own affairs that one hasn’t time for comfort. It must have been terrible for you.”
Jebediah dared to lift his head, though he still could not bear to meet the sea-ice eyes. “Aye, it was terrible. I doubt you can even imagine how it hurt to see you struggling alone, before Camber’s funeral. You wouldn’t share your burden. You totally shut me out. I never did understand why.”
As he finally looked Camber full in the face, Camber realized that this was the opening he had been trying to build, to set Jebediah up for the psychic encounter which would decide both their futures.
Swallowing, Camber returned Jebediah’s gaze, letting just a trace of Alister’s most surface levels, of concern and remorse, open to the other’s query. Instantly he saw a spark of hopefulness igniting in the other’s eyes, caught Jebediah’s quick intake of breath as he finally met something in his friend’s mind beyond rigid shields.
“Dare I hope?” Jebediah murmured.
“You know it cannot be as it was before,” Camber breathed, neither opening further nor shutting down what contact had been made. “I have promises to guard now whi
ch were not mine before.”
Jebediah nodded, wide-eyed, accepting without question.
“But if you are willing to yield control,” Camber continued, “to let me be the one who guides the depth of our exchange—then perhaps I can share some of what has occupied my mind these many months of separation. Later, when I am more certain of my own limitations, perhaps a more equal sharing will be possible.”
A shy, hopeful smile twitched at Jebediah’s mouth, almost out of place on the rugged, handsome face. “Hardly the promise of our former communion, but I understand the reason. You will forgive me if I mourn that necessity just a little?”
“I should always forgive you, Jeb,” Camber answered quietly, himself mourning the necessity as he acknowledged his own intentions. “Shall we sit here on the steps? It’s been a long day, and my bones ache from the cold.”
As Camber drew his mantle closer and sat on the second step, easing his back against the next, Jebediah folded his lean body to a seat on the bottommost one without a word, the tooled scabbard of his sword stretched between them along the length of his outstretched, booted legs.
“This will be rather different from the old days,” the grand master said, taking a deep breath as he raised his eyes to Camber. “I’m as nervous as before a battle.”
“I know,” Camber replied.
He dropped his hands to Jebediah’s shoulders and pulled him back to lean against his knee, at the same time gathering his own essence deep within him, so that only the Alister part of him might show at first. As he raised his right hand, the one which wore the bishop’s ring, he hesitated for just an instant to clench and unclench his fist as though warming his fingers—long enough for the purple gemstone to catch Jebediah’s eye and remind him, if only on some deep, inner level, of the reason for this unequal sharing.
Then he brought that hand to the back of Jebediah’s neck, to cup the already tilting head in the fan of his fingers. Jebediah responded immediately to the familiar touch, breathing out with a sigh and letting his head loll against Camber’s hand, eyes fluttering dreamily as he began to open to the contact. Camber let a little more of Alister’s personality seep through the bond being forged and felt Jebediah’s consciousness stilling in further response, no hint of suspicion yet fogging the clarity of that well-ordered mind.
Saint Camber Page 40
