The King’s Justice

by Katherine Kurtz

  Duncan cupped his left hand protectively over the ring on his right and cradled both next to his chest, careful not to jar his nailless fingertips.

  “I’d ask who else you think it could have been,” Duncan replied, “but I shouldn’t like to sound facetious. One thing is certain: it wasn’t Loris. Now do you understand why Kelson wants to restore Camber to his proper place of honor?”

  “But, I’m not Deryni,” Cardiel murmured. “I thought he only appeared to other Deryni. He’s a Deryni saint.”

  “Yes, but he was originally the Defender of Humankind, as well as being patron of Deryni magic,” Morgan said. “Nor do we know that he only appears to Deryni. We only know that a few Deryni in this tent have seen him before. Besides, he didn’t exactly appear to you; you saw him through our link with the ring—not that that lessens the experience, to be sure. Duncan, do you think it was something new that has been added to the ring, or some residual from before?”

  Duncan shook his head. “Hard to say. I don’t think it was residual. Thomas, we’re fairly certain that the ring was made out of a chalice or some other Mass vessel—apparently something closely associated with Camber himself, that he himself used. Do you happen to know who made Istelyn’s ring?”

  “I have no idea. I suppose it’s quite possible that a piece of altar plate might have been melted down to make it, though. But, Istelyn wasn’t Deryni—was he?”

  “Not that anyone knows,” Morgan answered. “And unfortunately, we’ll never get a chance to find out. I’d be interested to learn more about his family, though.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out, when we get back to Rhemuth,” Cardiel replied. “And speaking of Rhemuth, will you be able to contact Richenda tonight, Alaric? Nigel should be told that this Mearan matter is just about resolved.”

  “It isn’t resolved until I have Caitrin’s surrender,” Kelson interjected, before Morgan could answer, “but I agree that they ought to know what’s happened so far. Besides, I suspect it will be easier to make the contact from here than from Laas.”

  Morgan sighed. “It won’t be easy from here, given how tired we all are. But you’re right; it won’t get any easier. We’ll try around midnight, after I’ve had time to sleep a little more. If I may, I’ll ask all of you to assist me in the link—except Duncan, of course.”

  “Alaric, I’m not an invalid—” Duncan began.

  “Yes, you are! And the sooner you stop being difficult, the sooner you won’t be an invalid.”

  “I want to help!”

  “You can help most by going to sleep.”

  The suggestion was backed by psychic insistence, and Duncan yawned hugely as he slumped back against his pillows, fighting to keep his eyes open.

  “Alaric, that isn’t fair,” he complained around another yawn.

  “Life sometimes isn’t fair,” Morgan countered, touching Duncan lightly between the eyes. “We all know that from bitter experience. Now, go to sleep.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  He hath stripped me of my glory and taken the crown from my head.

  —Job 19:9

  They were not able to make contact with Richenda that night; but they did the following—and learned of all the Torenthi intrigues that had been developing since their last contact.

  “Now it’s even more important that we bring this to a speedy conclusion,” Kelson told Morgan the next morning, as they rode toward Laas, sweltering in the summer heat of the plains. “It sounds like things are under control, but I should be there to deal with the situation personally.”

  Nothing had changed in Rhemuth by the time they laid siege to Laas, a week later. Duncan continued to grow stronger with each passing day, finally abandoning his litter for good on the day they arrived, though the toes of his boots were cut out to spare his healing feet and he wore lightweight gloves to protect his tender fingertips. He still tired easily and would for some time, given what he had suffered, but he knew how much it irked Loris and Gorony to see him riding when he should have been consumed to ashes, and it gave him satisfaction to watch them mutter to one another as they rode in chains between their guards.

  Meanwhile, Kelson and the grand army of Gwynedd laid siege to the city of Laas, numbers swollen by the addition of the Mearan partisans who had sworn Kelson their loyalty after the battle of Dorna. The shackled Loris and Gorony rode with a handful of other Mearan partisans who had remained yet unwilling to swear the king their allegiance. The bodies of Sicard and Ithel traveled in makeshift coffins in the back of a sumpter wagon and had begun to stink in the heat.

  Just before noon on the day following their arrival, when the city had had ample opportunity to worry about the campfires of the Haldane host spread wide across the plain the night before, Kelson rode under a parley flag to the edge of bowshot from the city walls, escorted by Dukes Alaric, Ewan, and Duncan. Archbishop Cardiel, Dhugal, and an honor guard of six Haldane knights also accompanied the king, Baron Jodrell and a further six guards shepherding Loris and Gorony. At length, a lone herald rode out from a postern door in the city gate, taut and professionally expressionless beneath his own white parley banner.

  “My mistress bids me ask your intentions, King of Gwynedd,” the man said, sparse but courteous in the salute he rendered Kelson and his company.

  Kelson, his open-faced helmet crowned with gem-studded gold, studied the man quietly.

  “Your mistress will have guessed that my intentions cannot be altogether peaceful, under the circumstances,” he said. “Surely, she will have noted that we hold captive her former general, Edmund Loris, and the priest Gorony, and that others formerly of her service likewise ride beneath Haldane banners. In addition there have been—other developments that I suspect she would rather hear from someone of higher rank—no offense to yourself intended.”

  The man raised his head a little more proudly, but his words were tempered with care.

  “I am a knight and my lady’s ambassador, Sir King. I believe that betokens her trust in me, to carry what message you will.”

  Kelson glanced at the reins in his gloved hands, red leather stark against white. He and Dhugal had argued over the choice of envoys to bring the Mearan pretender the news—of husband and son slain, as well as Kelson’s terms—but Dhugal had spoken from the vantage point of kinsman and had won, in the end.

  “There are circumstances unknown to you, Sir Knight, which are best entrusted to your lady’s ears alone. Therefore, it is my desire to send my own envoy back with you, to treat with your lady. I trust that she will guarantee his safe conduct?”

  “Sire! My lady is an honorable woman.”

  “Aye, we all try to be honorable,” Kelson said wearily. “Will you give my envoy safe conduct?”

  “Of course.” The envoy eyed Morgan and Duncan a little suspiciously. “Though I do not think my lady would be pleased to receive Deryni—no offense intended to your lordships,” he added.

  Kelson smiled wanly. “I had thought to send her an earl, not a duke,” he said quietly. “And a kinsman as well, though I fear their last parting was not on the best of terms. Will she receive her nephew, Earl Dhugal MacArdry, do you think?”

  The man gave Dhugal a long, measured look, then returned his eyes to the king, suddenly uneasy.

  “Her offer of safe conduct will extend to the earl,” he said haltingly, “only—do you know what has happened to Lord Sicard, Sire?”

  Kelson nodded gravely.

  “I do. But that news is for your lady first,” he said, “and best come from Earl Dhugal. Will you take him to her now?”

  Dhugal and the envoy exchanged hardly a dozen words as they rode toward the gates of Laas. There was little they could say. Dhugal was solemn with the weight of the news he bore to Caitrin, and the envoy could hardly be expected to welcome the bearer of terms which almost certainly told the end of assertions of Mearan independence.

  Betokening his status as ambassador rather than warrior-earl, Dhugal wore riding leathers instead of war
harness, with neither sword nor dagger at his belt. He had brooched a new MacArdry plaid across his chest to underline his kinship with the Mearan pretender, and a border bonnet bearing the three eagle feathers of a clan chief graced his head, border braid tied with a black ribbon. He moved at the Mearan envoy’s side with brisk self-assurance as the two of them passed through the gates and dismounted in the castle yard, looking neither left nor right as he followed the envoy up the stairs and down a side corridor, rather than passing through the great hall.

  Caitrin was waiting for him in a withdrawing room overlooking a cloister garden, flanked by Judhael, Bishop Creoda, and the four itinerant bishops who had supported Loris and the Mearan bid for independence: Mir de Kierney, Gilbert Desmond, Raymer de Valence, and Calder of Sheele, an uncle on his mother’s side—no, actually a great-uncle. Caitrin’s seamed face went whiter than her raiment as she saw what ambassador the king had sent.

  “How dare he send you, of all people?” she murmured, looking so pale Dhugal feared she might faint. “How can you even look me in the eyes?”

  Dhugal made her a careful salute, king’s ambassador to enemy sovereign.

  “My lady, you cannot suppose that any Haldane ambassador will bring you news you wish to hear,” he said quietly. “His Majesty thought you would at least prefer to hear it from a kinsman.”

  Carefully Caitrin composed her features as became a queen, setting her hands awkwardly on the arms of the chair which, in that moment, had become only a shadow of a throne.

  “What—news?” she murmured. “Sicard?”

  “Dead, my lady.”

  “And my—my son?”

  “The same.”

  As her hands flew to her lips to cover an anguished, soundless wail, Judhael knelt by the arm of her chair and laid his head against her knee, and Creoda urgently moved a few steps closer to Dhugal.

  “What of Archbishop Loris?”

  Dhugal’s manner turned colder, even though he knew he should try to maintain a strict neutrality as Kelson’s spokesman.

  “Taken, Excellency. And Monsignor Gorony as well. They await the king’s justice.”

  “But, that isn’t possible,” Creoda whispered, more to himself than to anyone else, as Judhael paled and the other clerics buzzed among themselves, aghast.

  “I assure you, it is not only possible, it is true, Excellency,” Dhugal said coolly. “And frankly—”

  He cut himself off, for it was not his place to speak of what Loris and Gorony had done to his father, or to intimate in any way that his relationship with Duncan was anything other than borderman to borderman.

  “But, you will all be acquainted with His Majesty’s feelings on that matter, in due time. For now, it is my charge to instruct her ladyship on the terms His Majesty is willing to offer.”

  “How dare he offer me terms?” Caitrin murmured.

  Dhugal cocked his head curiously. “Why, because you have lost, my lady. Surely, you cannot think otherwise.”

  Drawing herself back to composure with a sheer act of will, Caitrin leveled her gaze on him again.

  “I am secure in my own capital of Laas, young MacArdry,” she said firmly, “Your Kelson cannot drive me from here.”

  “Drive you?” Dhugal glanced at the others in amazement. “Madame, you are under siege. Your chief advisors are captured or killed. Your army was bested in the field and has been sworn to Haldane loyalty, as should have happened generations ago. His Majesty has only to wait you out. And wait he shall, if needs be. You cannot escape. Your cause is lost.”

  Judhael laid a trembling hand on his aunt’s and raised his eyes boldly to Dhugal’s.

  “What are the king’s terms, cousin?” he said quietly.

  “I shall read them to you,” Dhugal replied, withdrawing the scroll from the front of his riding leathers and drawing a deep breath.

  “Kelson Cinhil Rhys Anthony Haldane, by the Grace of God King of Gwynedd, Prince of Meara, and Lord of the Purple March, unto the Lady Caitrin Quinnell, soi-disant Pretender of Meara,” he said steadily, as he unrolled the scroll. “Lady: Further resistance against your lawful sovereign will only result in the senseless spending of more Mearan lives; and each death of a loyal Haldane man will bring the eventual execution of ten Mearans, once battle is done. However, if your ladyship will surrender unconditionally, we are minded to offer the following terms:

  “One. No further reprisals will be taken against the Mearan populace at large, though the nobility and all former military personnel will be required to swear allegiance to King Kelson of Gwynedd as their rightful sovereign and liege and will face summary execution if this oath is forsworn in the future. Individuals who have defied the law of Gwynedd in such a manner as to cause harm to others shall be dealt with on an individual basis.

  “Two.” He took another deep breath, not looking up as he read the next provision. “Permission will be granted for the bodies of Sicard MacArdry and Ithel of Meara to be given honorable burial here in Laas. The Lady Caitrin will be permitted leave to attend such ceremonies as are customary.”

  “How did they die?” came Caitrin’s voice, cutting through the formality of the rehearsed speech.

  Dhugal looked up, then slowly lowered the scroll.

  “Are the details that important now, my lady?” he asked softly. “They will only distress you further.”

  “Tell me!” she demanded. “Otherwise, I shall not listen to another word of your lord’s demands.”

  “Very well.”

  Uncomfortably, Dhugal let the scroll curl back on itself, trying to soften the truth a little by his choice of words.

  “Your husband fell with a sword in his hand, madame,” he said softly. “I—am told that he died bravely, preferring death to capture, when he realized he had lost your army.”

  “Yes,” she breathed. “That would have been his wish. Did you see him fall?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “But it was quick?” she urged. “Tell me he did not suffer.”

  “I believe he did not, my lady,” Dhugal said, seeing in his memory the arrow protruding from Sicard’s eye. “His wound would have been immediately fatal. I doubt he felt much.”

  “Praise be to God for that, at least,” she whispered into clasped hands, before looking up again. “And my son?”

  Dhugal swallowed, aware that this one would wound Caitrin even more than her husband’s death had. But he could find little sympathy in his heart for Ithel.

  “Two weeks ago, at Talacara, Prince Ithel was taken prisoner,” he said. “That day, he and Baron Brice of Trurill were tried, convicted, and executed for their treason.”

  “How—executed?” Caitrin breathed.

  “They were hanged.”

  There had been no way to soften the word, no way to prepare her for its starkness. As she closed her eyes, reeling in her chair, Judhael bent to comfort her, himself ashen with apprehension—for if Ithel, who was the heir, had been executed, what chance had he, as next in line?

  “I—shall not press you for further details,” Caitrin murmured, after recovering most of her composure. She took Judhael’s hand as she gestured for Dhugal to continue, turning her eyes to gaze out the sunlit window through a film of tears.

  “Three,” Dhugal said, unrolling the scroll to read once more. “After giving assurance that she will never again rise in arms against the rightful sovereign of Meara, namely King Kelson of Gwynedd or his heirs, the Lady Caitrin will be permitted to retire to a convent of His Majesty’s choosing for the rest of her natural life, there to spend her time as a religious of that house, doing penance and praying for the souls of those who died as a result of her rebellion.”

  “It is generous, my lady,” Judhael murmured, tears welling in his own eyes as he stroked her trembling hand with his. “Dhugal, what of me?”

  “Four,” Dhugal went on, not daring to look at the young bishop. “In the matter of Judhael of Meara, nephew of the Lady Caitrin and sometime Bishop of Ratharkin: for his tre
ason, both secular and ecclesiastical, and because His Majesty does not intend to allow another potential Mearan rebellion to form around said bishop, as heir to the Lady Caitrin, Judhael of Meara’s life is forfeit.”

  A little gasp escaped Judhael’s lips, and he swayed on his knees, going even paler. Caitrin moaned and hugged his shoulders convulsively. But before the other bishops could do more than mutter, Dhugal cleared his throat and stayed them with a shake of his head.

  “However, for that Judhael is, by his descent from the ancient princes of Meara, a prince by birth as well as by episcopal elevation, King Kelson grants said Judhael the dignity of a prince’s death by beheading with the sword, outside the public eye, and honorable burial with his kin here in Laas.”

  He looked up furtively at the stunned Judhael, avoiding his eyes, then glanced at the other clerics as he returned to his scroll.

  “Five. After determination of any civil culpability, Bishop Creoda and any other dissident clergy who have been associated with the Mearan uprising shall answer to an ecclesiastical court to be convened by Archbishops Bradene and Cardiel, and the king shall abide by the recommendation of that court.” He let the scroll curl back on itself as he looked up at last. “No further concessions are open to discussion.”

  There followed a harried few moments of recapitulation, with several clarifications of the exact terms offered, before Caitrin stood shakily to signify that the audience was at an end.

  “Tell your king that his terms are harsh, young Dhugal, but we shall consider them, and give him our answer at noon.”

  “Aye, madame, I shall,” he murmured, making her a polite bow of agreement.

  “Thank you. And Dhugal—”

  “Aye, madame?”

  Swallowing, she signaled Judhael to withdraw with the other bishops and motioned Dhugal closer, drawing him into the partial shelter of the nearby window embrasure. The sun lit his tied-back hair like a helmet of burnished copper as he gazed at her awkwardly, and he started as she suddenly produced a little dagger from her sleeve.