The King’s Justice

by Katherine Kurtz

  Book III, The Quest for Saint Camber,

  will chronicle Kelson’s quest to fulfill his dream

  of restoring Saint Camber to his rightful place

  as patron saint of Deryni magic and Defender of Humankind.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Histories of King Kelson

  CHAPTER ONE

  I will make him my firstborn.

  —Psalms 89:27

  “Well, it’s a relief finally to have official confirmation that my foster brother is not a bastard!” King Kelson of Gwynedd said.

  He flung a playful arm around the neck of Dhugal MacArdry as the two of them followed Dhugal’s father and Duke Alaric Morgan into Kelson’s suite of rooms in Rhemuth Castle, Bishop Denis Arilan bringing up the rear. All of them were dripping rain. It was the Saturday before the beginning of Lent, the Vigil of Quinquagesima Sunday, the first day of March in the Year of Our Lord 1125, and Kelson Haldane had been King of Gwynedd for a little more than four years. He had turned eighteen the previous November.

  “Not that I ever believed he was, of course,” Kelson went on drolly, “or that it would have made any difference to me if he had been. I am glad that I won’t have to defy the law to knight him on Tuesday, however.”

  The bluster evoked a chuckle from Morgan and a snort of disapproval from Arilan as everyone shed wet cloaks and gathered before the fire, for all were aware that the king might have done precisely that, if necessary, to see proper honor done to his beloved foster brother. Kelson had already waived the usual age requirement for the accolade—a royal prerogative whose exercise would raise no eyebrows, given Dhugal’s outstanding service in the previous summer’s campaign, and Dhugal only just seventeen. Several others were also being knighted early, for the same reason.

  But age was one thing—a somewhat arbitrary milestone that easily might be set aside for reasonable cause, even royal whim. The bar sinister was quite another. Even with royal patronage, illegitimacy was normally a serious, if not absolute, bar to knighthood.

  Fortunately, Bishop Ducan McLain had proven today, to the satisfaction of an archbishop’s tribunal, that long before entering holy orders, he and Dhugal’s mother had exchanged vows that constituted a valid, if irregular, marriage. The proving had not been easy. The first sticking point had been that the vows were witnessed only by the two principals and the sacred Presence signified by the ever-burning lamp in the chapel of Duncan’s father, at Culdi.

  “Mind you, I don’t dispute the precedent of per verba de praesenti,” old Bishop Wolfram de Blanet had said, acting as devil’s advocate as he and Arilan reviewed the case for Archbishop Cardiel in closed session. “Common law in the borders has long recognized the validity of a marriage declared before witnesses when no priest was available—though the Church has always urged a more solemn ratification at some future date.”

  Duncan, standing alone before the tribunal’s long table, shook his head in objection, aware of the tension of his son and the others seated behind him. Other than one of Cardiel’s clarks, taking down a careful transcript at the end of the table, only Dhugal, Morgan, the king, and Nigel had been permitted to attend.

  “Your Excellency knows that was not possible,” Duncan said. “I never saw her again. She died the following winter.”

  “Yes, so you have said. The salient point here, however, which must be addressed, has nothing to do with omission of a later regularization of the marriage, but whether a declaration before the Blessed Sacrament in fact fulfills the elements of per verba de praesenti.”

  Arilan, serving as Duncan’s counsel, cleared his throat.

  “Ah, there is a parallel precedent in ancient Talmudic law, Wolfram,” he pointed out. “I doubt the comparison has often been invoked, but we have in the sacred tabernacle, before which the Presence lamp burns, a direct lineal descendant of the Jewish Ark of the Covenant. Interestingly enough, the Ark was permitted, in necessity, to substitute for one of the quorum of ten adult males required for many public rituals of Jewish worship.”

  “Implying that the Ark functioned as a witness of sorts?” Wolfram asked, frowning.

  Arilan nodded. “Beyond question. Surely at least equal in weight to the mere mortals making up the other nine—and in symbol, at least, the physical representative of the presence of the living God. If, as we believe, God is physically present in the Blessed Sacrament as the Body and Blood of Christ, then can the Holy Presence in the tabernacle before which Duncan and Maryse made their vows be any less valid a witness?”

  Duncan scarcely dared to breathe as the import of the argument sank in; he sensed that the others, seated behind him, recognized it, too. Arilan had scored a point not easily refuted; for to deny the real Presence of God in the Sacrament housed in the tabernacle was clearly blasphemy.

  Wolfram pursed his lips and looked to Cardiel for guidance, but the archbishop only raised an eyebrow, turning the initiative back to Wolfram. Cardiel was already far from neutral in this case, being Duncan’s immediate superior. He did not know, in the way that many others in the room knew, that Duncan was telling the truth—but he sincerely believed he was. Unfortunately, neither believing nor knowing was sufficient in a court of ecclesiastical law, especially when the latter came of Deryni proving.

  For Duncan McLain, besides being a bishop and the father of a son, was also Deryni—a member of that magical race whose powers had been feared and condemned by the Church for nearly two centuries. Duncan’s identity as Deryni was not widely known outside the highest ecclesiastical circles, and even there was not officially acknowledged—for though the Church had long prohibited Deryni from entering the priesthood, Duncan McLain was an able, pious, and loyal churchman, Deryni or not—but speculation was rife. Thus far, Duncan had managed neither to confirm nor deny what he was.

  There were other Deryni in the room as well, though only one besides the king was openly known to be so. Folk had always known who and what Alaric Morgan was. Protected by Kelson’s Haldane grandfather and father through childhood and youth, he eventually had come to grudging acceptance at court because of his unswerving loyalty to the House of Haldane and because he had the good sense not to flaunt his abilities. Even the human Bishop Wolfram acknowledged guarded respect for the fair-haired man in black sitting at the king’s elbow.

  The fact that Morgan was Duncan’s cousin must surely fuel old Wolfram’s suspicions that Duncan was Deryni, too, though—and that Dhugal might also be, if Duncan was. What Wolfram did not suspect was that Bishop Denis Arilan also shared that distinction—though everyone else present except the clark knew it. And though any one of the Deryni could have verified the truth of Duncan’s claim by using their magical powers—and some had—that evidence might not be presented, for the Church’s official position regarding the Deryni race and their magical powers was still quite negative.

  “You beg the question, Denis,” Wolfram finally said. “Naturally, any declaration made before the Blessed Sacrament would have been witnessed in that sense.” He jerked his chin vaguely over his shoulder toward the open doorway of the adjoining chapel. “The Light burns in there, too, and His Presence is among us in this room.”

  “Far be it from me to dispute that,” Arilan replied, spreading his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

  “It is usual, however,” Wolfram added, “to be able to produce witnesses who can testify to what they’ve witnessed.”

  “Implying that God could not, if He wished?” Arilan asked.

  “You know that isn’t what I meant!”

  “Of course not,” Arilan agreed. “I would point out, however, that after eighteen years, even human witnesses are not always available.”

  “Aye, that’s true enough.” Wolfram scowled and turned his vexed attention back to Duncan, only partially mollified. “I don’t suppose you confessed this alleged marriage before entering holy orders?” he ventured. “I needn’t remind you, I hope, that marriage is an impediment to orders.”

  “Only if h
e had, indeed, been married and was still married at the time of entering orders,” Arilan replied, before Duncan could answer. “But the lady, alas, had died. So you either ask a meaningless question, Wolfram, or else you intrude on the seal of privacy between a man and his confessor—who, I believe, is no longer with us, in any case. Am I correct, Duncan?”

  Breathing a careful sigh, Duncan nodded once. “Aye, my lord. He was an old man even then. He lived only a few months past my ordination.”

  “Damned convenient,” Wolfram muttered.

  “Now, Wolfram, be reasonable,” Cardiel chided gently. “The man would be past eighty, after all.”

  “It’s still convenient, my lord.”

  “But not to the point, in any case,” Duncan said softly. “Because even if he still lived, Excellency, and I gave him leave to speak of matters of the confessional, he could tell you little of Maryse. My sin was in failing to be more bold, in not trying harder to contact her in the months that followed, before she died. But she and I had committed no sin. We were married in God’s eyes.”

  “Aye, so you say.”

  And that, indeed, was the ultimate question, for who would presume to claim he saw through God’s eyes? A more practical question was to ask whether vows had, indeed, been exchanged, thereby contracting a valid marriage. If so, then Dhugal MacArdry was Duncan’s true-born son, entitled to his name and all the other honors that went with that high lineage.

  Or was Dhugal MacArdry only the result of innocent but unsanctioned fumbling between desperate young lovers who knew they would be parted on the morrow, and Duncan’s present assertion but an attempt, after the fact, to legitimize the son he had never dreamed would come of that union?

  Such an attempt certainly would be understandable. Indeed, it was to nearly everyone’s benefit that Duncan should be able to prove his son’s legitimacy. A direct legal heir would enable Duncan to resign his secular titles to his son during his lifetime, thus releasing his own energies for the high episcopal office he held. That would please the Church. Dhugal’s accession to his father’s estates would ensure loyal continuity for another generation in the ducal and county estates of Cassan and Kierney—which would please Kelson.

  And of course, Dhugal himself would benefit. Through tanistry, from the man he now knew to be his maternal grandfather, Maryse’s father, he was already Earl of Transha and Chief of Clan MacArdry. That would not change, regardless of the outcome here today. His Transha men adored him. But if, in time, he also succeeded to the vast estates of Duncan McLain, adjacent to his own Transha lands, he would be one of the most powerful magnates in all the Eleven Kingdoms.

  In purely practical terms, Dhugal eventually would get his patrimony anyway, since, if Duncan died without legitimate heir, the last of the McLains, his lands would escheat to the Crown—and the king then could bestow those lands on whom he pleased. Or, for that matter, Duncan could resign his lands and titles to the king during his lifetime—and the king still could give them to Dhugal, bastard or not.

  But grants of lands were far from the thoughts of most present here this morning. It was the honor of Dhugal’s impending knighthood that stood to gain or lose, depending on the outcome of this hearing. If doubt remained that Duncan McLain had made his claim in utter honesty, it could color Dhugal’s reception beyond even a king’s ability to make it right. Thus had Wolfram de Blanet been appointed to argue against the case, in every way he could, so that no one might say, later on, that a biased court had found in Duncan’s favor.

  “We have only his word,” Wolfram finally said, folding his hands on the table before him. “I see no other way around it.”

  Cardiel nodded unhappily, obviously feeling the weight of his official responsibility.

  “I’m afraid I must agree. We appear to have reached an impasse, then. It all comes back to whether Duncan’s oath can be deemed sufficient—whether he did, in fact, make vows with Maryse MacArdry before the Blessed Sacrament. As a private person, and Duncan’s friend, I have no doubt that he is telling the truth. But as archbishop, I cannot accept his unsupported word simply because he is one of my bishops. I could not accept that from a layman, and I certainly cannot accept it from one of my spiritual sons.”

  “I agree,” Arilan said, fiddling with the feathered end of a goose-quill pen as he glanced at the king and then at Morgan. “A pity we cannot accept evidence confirmed by Deryni powers. Duke Alaric’s testimony would be prejudiced, in any case, since he is kin to Duncan, but you Deryni do have ways to verify whether a man is telling the truth, don’t you?”

  The question was for Wolfram’s benefit, of course, for the Deryni Arilan knew full well what those of his race were capable of, but the scene he would now attempt to unfold had been carefully orchestrated by bishop, duke, and king the night before, to suggest a no less reliable verification of Duncan’s oath that the Church could accept. For the Haldane line was also possessed of power—a power not unlike that wielded by the Deryni, though the Haldane power was held to be linked with that house’s divine right to rule.

  But much depended upon Wolfram’s recognition of that fact, and his faith in it, and whether they had read their man correctly.

  “Deryni are not the only ones to have this power, Bishop Arilan,” Kelson said, staying Morgan with a hand on his sleeve as he himself rose to address the court. “Perhaps here is an answer to your dilemma. We Haldanes can tell when a man is lying. It is a power of our sacred kingship. If I were to question Bishop McLain and could ascertain beyond doubt that he is telling the truth about his marriage to Dhugal’s mother, would that satisfy this tribunal?”

  Arilan raised an eyebrow in guarded assent and looked to Cardiel, careful not to appear too eager, and breathed a cautious sigh of relief when his superior did not immediately veto the notion. Clearly, the human Cardiel understood what the king was proposing, but he still was archbishop, and forms must be observed.

  And Wolfram, as devil’s advocate, would be even more insistent that propriety be maintained. Wolfram de Blanet did not hate Deryni—which was one of the main reasons, besides being impeccably honest, that he had been appointed to this tribunal—but as an itinerant bishop, not often exposed to the few known Deryni at court, he knew little about them, other than through hearsay. Even the enlightened leadership of the past four years could not immediately overturn two centuries of suspicion and hatred. And some of the Haldane abilities fell into a grey area about which Wolfram was quite unsure.

  “What is it, Wolfram?” Cardiel asked quietly, noting the older man’s expression of consternation. “I assure you, the king can do what he proposes. I have seen him question prisoners in the field. There is no evil in it. And his results were always verifiable by—those whose talents are less acceptable to this court.”

  “Meaning Duke Alaric?” Wolfram asked, flicking Morgan an uneasy glance.

  “Yes.”

  Wolfram drew a deep, shuddery breath, visibly pushing aside his apprehensions to return to the task he had been assigned, and let out a heavy sigh.

  “Very well. I would not presume to question His Majesty’s ability to do what he says he can do—or the judgment of my Lord Archbishop that such an ability is benign.” He paused to clear his throat. “Legally speaking, however, I wonder whether it is prudent to enlist his Majesty’s assistance in this matter. Lord Dhugal is his foster brother, after all.”

  “Are you suggesting that I might distort the truth for the sake of the love I bear him?” Kelson asked.

  Wolfram paled, but he did not flinch from the king’s gaze.

  “I suggest nothing of the sort, Sire. But others might.”

  “Aye, so they might.”

  Before Wolfram could do more than gasp, the king suddenly drew his sword and sank to one knee before the tribunal, reversing the weapon to grasp it beneath the quillons and extending the cross of the hilt at arm’s length between them and himself.

  “I swear on my father’s sword, on my crown, and on my hopes for the s
alvation of my immortal soul that I have spoken and shall speak only the truth in the matter here before this court. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, amen.”

  He kissed the sacred relic encased in the hilt, then let the tip of the blade rest on the floor before him, keeping his arm extended as he glanced toward Wolfram and the others.

  “I am willing to repeat my oath, or any other you may prefer, in yonder chapel,” he added, nodding toward the open doorway behind them. “And I assure you that I do not take such oaths lightly.”

  “No one questions that, Sire,” Wolfram said, looking a little embarrassed. “But—” He sighed uncomfortably. “Sire, Duncan McLain is said by some to be Deryni.”

  “I don’t believe that’s at issue here,” Kelson said mildly, getting to his feet. “The question is whether the man contracted a valid marriage with the mother of his son.”

  “But—if he were Deryni, Sire—could he not evade even your reading of the truth?”

  With an exasperated sigh, Kelson turned toward Morgan, sitting at his right, and held out the hilt of the sword.

  “Morgan, remembering the oaths of fealty and homage you have sworn to me and to my father before me, and further enjoined by your hand on this sacred sword, would you please tell Bishop Wolfram the limitations of Truth-Reading, if Duncan McLain were Deryni?”

  Quietly Morgan stood, laying his bare right hand on the relic in the royal sword hilt. It was not often that Kelson invoked the name of his father, with all the very special associations that called up for Alaric Morgan.

  “For simple Truth-Reading, whether or not the subject is Deryni has no bearing,” Morgan said quietly. “His Majesty would have no difficulty distinguishing truth from a lie. The operative limitation to Truth-Reading is that the right questions must be asked. Nothing in Truth-Reading compels a man to tell the truth; it simply betrays him when he does not.”

  Wolfram swallowed uneasily, only partially reassured.