“Connor, slow up, will you? You’re walking too fast, and the cobbles are slippery. Be a sport, and tell me what’s going on.”
The guard Connor, a freckled, stoutly built fellow barely out of his teens, glanced uncomfortably at his royal charge, though he did shorten his pace to accommodate Javan’s slight limp. This particular man was inclined to humor all three princes, but he clearly had his orders.
“You know I’m not supposed to say, your Highness,” he murmured. “You’ll find out, soon enough.”
“Then, what difference will a few minutes make? Connor, I’m dying of suspense. Please?”
Connor snorted good-naturedly. Javan could tell he was wavering. They were nearly across the snow-covered courtyard, preparing to mount the ice-slick steps to the great hall entrance, so as the man set his hand under the prince’s elbow to steady him, Javan reached out just slightly with his mind and nudged.
“Come on, Connor, tell me!” Javan whispered fiercely. “Just a hint. Am I under arrest, or is this about last night?”
Connor snorted and glanced around uneasily as they climbed, wiping at his nose with a casual brush of his sleeve. The gesture also covered the slight movement of his lips.
“Nah, it isn’t you, lad. It’s the trouble last night,” he admitted in a low voice. “There’s Deryni involved, and someone was killed. That’s all I know. But you never heard it from me!”
Javan faked a stumble to cover his reaction, mixed of relief for his personal safety and horror for his friends, but he was able to manage a wry grin as he caught himself on Connor’s arm.
“Heard what?” he whispered.
He feared for Tavis and Ansel, though, as he followed Connor through the great hall, for he was remembering another day, not four months past, when the dead body of Ansel’s brother had been brought to this very place. Please God, it was not Ansel today—or Tavis!
Fortunately, no dead bodies occupied the hall or the regents’ withdrawing room this time—though Jamie Drummond gave him a scare at first, sprawled unmoving in an armchair against the righthand wall. A closer look reassured him that Jamie was breathing, though unconscious; and since the Healer Oriel was in attendance and did not look concerned, Javan relaxed a little.
But he was not at all sure he liked the looks of the priest standing beside Oriel, also watching Jamie. The man appeared to be in his early forties, with bright black eyes that missed nothing. The badge embroidered over his left breast was quite unfamiliar to Javan, as was the unusual cincture of braided red and gold knotted over the black cassock. Javan could not imagine what Order wore such a habit. He supposed the man could not be some strange new sort of Deryni sniffer, given the regents’ ban on Deryni priests, but that supposition did not make him any less uneasy.
He became more uneasy when he saw that Ansel’s mother, the Lady Elinor, also had been included in the morning’s gathering. She was dressed all in black, her fair hair partially covered by a veil of black lace, and she had been weeping. Her chair was set in the center of the room with its back to where Jamie slumped, a guard standing directly behind her so she could not see her husband if she turned. The Deryni sniffer Declan Carmody, no longer in chains, crouched beside her with a cup in his hand, nervously dividing his attention between her and Archbishop Hubert, who stood in front of her—which made Javan wonder whether Tavis had succeeded in blocking her Deryni powers before disaster intervened, for Hubert looked suspicious. But then, Hubert almost always looked suspicious.
Murdoch and Tammaron stood beyond, with Manfred MacInnis and Manfred’s seedy son Iver, all of them congregated around a chair of state obviously meant for Alroy, though the king was not yet present. Manfred had been making some emphatic point to Tammaron, but he abandoned it immediately as Javan came into the room, all four of them sketching him offhand bows. Beside them, a few paces to the right of the state chair, Javan could just see Rhys Michael silhouetted against the fireplace behind, gaily clad in royal blue and white, looking almost excited at whatever was taking place.
“Ah, your Highness,” Murdoch said, motioning Javan to a stool beside Rhys Michael’s as Hubert also turned his attention on the prince, pink rosebud lips pursed thoughtfully. “No doubt you are wondering why you have been summoned here. I apologize for the mystery. It seems a Deryni plot was interrupted last night. We are just wrapping up the loose ends, as you see. A pity your Tavis O’Neill is not here to assist these others of his race who have consented to use their accursed talents for the good of the realm.”
God, could they know? Had they captured Tavis or Ansel last night and now were testing Javan? And if Tavis had been captured, would he want Javan to defend him to the point of compromising his own situation?
“O’Neill?” Javan managed to put a full measure of scorn and bitterness into his voice as he limped toward his seat, pointedly favoring the lame foot and taking care to feign far more discomfort than he usually felt, even on bad days, hating what he knew he must say. “I trusted him and he abandoned me! Good riddance to that one.”
Fortunately, Alroy’s arrival spared Javan having to answer any challenge someone might wish to make of that denial, though he knew it was what the regents had long hoped to hear. The lack of challenge probably also meant that Tavis had not been caught or killed. All rose at the king’s entrance saving Jamie, who appeared to be either ill or drugged—he definitely was not dead. Elinor had to be helped to her feet by Carmody’s hand under her elbow, so dazed was she.
Alroy noticed that and gave Hubert a sour glance as he flopped down in the chair of state. He actually looked annoyed, which was rare for Alroy. Haldane crimson cloaked him, and the Haldane sword clattered against the chair as he settled, but he had not bothered with any kind of circlet or crown. His black hair was rumpled from pushing back the fur-lined hood attached to a capelet around his shoulders, and dark circles stained the fair skin under his eyes. Nor did he look as if he had slept much.
“Would someone please tell me what is going on?” he said. “I can’t seem to get a straight answer out of anybody.” His face showed even more disapproval as Elinor wobbled back into her chair and leaned her head on her hands. “I heard an unholy commotion last night, but no one would tell me what had happened. What’s wrong with the Lady Elinor, and what have you done to Jamie Drummond? Surely you don’t expect me to believe that the two of them somehow were to blame.”
Shaking his head, Hubert came over to Alroy and bowed over his hand, smiling with prim forbearance.
“Do not trouble yourself, my Liege. Deryni intruders entered the castle through a hitherto unknown Portal last night. Whatever else they may have come to do, they murdered a young girl.”
“What?”
“Since one of the assassins is believed to have been the outlaw Ansel MacRorie, Lady Elinor’s son,” Hubert went on blithely, “we thought to question her and her good lord about the matter—and to ascertain, at the same time, just how much of a Deryni threat they themselves might pose. It should have been done when they first returned to court,” Hubert added, at Alroy’s expression of stunned outrage. “They have always claimed to be of very little Deryni blood, but one never knows.”
Javan managed not to show his own dismay—at least no more than Alroy was doing—but inside, he was near panic.
God, it had been Ansel who was recognized!—though apparently not caught, for Hubert had said they only believed that to have been the identity of one of the intruders. And Tavis must have gotten away as well, thank God!
But what girl had been killed? Surely not by Ansel or Tavis. And what had been done to Elinor and Jamie? With Oriel and Declan Carmody present, Javan’s imagination suggested a variety of unpleasant possibilities that might be applied to his own person with equal ease, if anyone had cause to suspect he had any knowledge of last night’s events. He must try to be invisible to the two Deryni and pray that suspicion did not turn his way.
And who had been killed? Maybe Rhys Michael knew, since he had gotten here fir
st. Surely no one would take it amiss if Javan evidenced a curiosity about that.
Leaning a little closer to his younger brother, Javan poked him in the ribs, hardly moving his lips as he whispered, “Who got killed?”
“The Lady Giesele MacLean,” Rhys Michael whispered back. “They think somebody smothered her with a pillow—probably Ansel.”
“He smothered her?” Javan gasped, though at Tammaron’s sharp glance he immediately stifled further reaction.
Fortunately, his near-outburst was completely overshadowed by Alroy’s reaction to what Hubert had said. The king had come to his feet during Javan’s exchange with Rhys Michael, and he looked as if he might faint.
“What have you done to Lady Elinor and her husband?” the king demanded. “You—you haven’t harmed them, have you?” he ventured, voicing an even more immediate concern to Javan than Giesele’s death—for his own fate might be the same as theirs. “The lady has always been so kind to me, and I have never had reason to doubt Lord Jamie’s loyalty.”
Manfred snorted derisively. “Sire, really! Your dear Lady Elinor was previously married to one of the sons of the heretic Camber himself. Her son Davin died a traitor, not a year ago, and her son Ansel apparently means to follow in his brother’s footsteps. He certainly left his own footprints in blood, when he fled our men last night. Oh, do sit down, Sire! You’re making far too much of this.”
Ansel had been wounded, then. Javan prayed it was not serious. And as Alroy sank back into his chair, cowed by the insolent Manfred—on whom Javan wished only the cruelest of fates!—Javan silently applauded his brother for this rare display of backbone in attempting to defend Elinor and Jamie.
“I—cannot speak for Lord Ansel, of course,” Alroy said, only a little more meekly than before. “I believe I have not seen him since my coronation. But is the lady to be held accountable for the actions of her grown sons? I was given to understand that there had been little contact with them, even at the time of Lord Davin’s death—that she had severed almost all contact with the MacRorie family when she married Lord James.”
Murdoch smiled mirthlessly and leaned both arms along the back of Alroy’s chair, forcing the king to twist around if he wished to look up at him—which he did.
“Fortunately for both the lady and her second lord, Master Declan has confirmed that there was no recent contact,” Murdoch said. He looked almost disappointed. “And since your Highness seems to value them so highly, I am pleased to be able to tell you that neither the lady nor her lord shows any sign of the accursed Deryni blood we feared might sway them to treason. Father Lior and his Order are becoming quite adept at ferreting out secret Deryni.”
He gestured toward the stranger priest, who made the king a respectful bow, right hand to breast, but Alroy only stared, the grey Haldane eyes dark and frightened.
“I ask you again, what have you done to them?” he whispered. “And who is this Father Lior, that he can discover who is Deryni and who is not? I do not recognize the habit.”
“Nor should you, my Liege,” Hubert replied, “though all shall be revealed in due time. Father Lior, bring in the Lady Richeldis and proceed. We must set the king’s mind at ease.”
As the priest left to do Hubert’s bidding, Javan tensed inside. He now liked the mysterious Father Lior even less than he had before, and wondered who else might fall under scrutiny before Lior was done—and whether Tavis had gotten to everyone that he intended. Drugs of some kind were being used in conjunction with the Truth-Reading Oriel and Declan obviously were supplying, for he could see Oriel stirring something in a horn cup, over beside the unconscious Jamie. Certain drugs were Deryni-specific, Javan knew—like the one called merasha, which would affect a Deryni but only put a human recipient to sleep—but he had no idea what Oriel was using.
Whatever it was, it had not betrayed Elinor or Jamie. He could only hope that Richeldis would react the same—and young Michaela and Cathan Drummond, if it came to that—and that he would not be required to undergo a similar testing.
He tried not to look disapproving or even particularly interested as Iver MacInnis and a guard picked up the chair bearing the now sleeping Elinor and deposited her beside the equally somnolent Jamie. He even yawned as Father Lior came back in with another priest of his unknown Order, leading a frightened-looking Richeldis MacLean between them.
Or, was it Richeldis? Javan had to look twice to be sure. He had never paid that much attention, but this girl seemed a good deal more grown up than the slightly plump adolescent he had seen at the wedding feast, not a week before. The black gown was partially responsible—and also made her look slimmer—and her dark hair had been pulled back off her face and braided, the plaits pinned across the top of her head to show off a long, graceful neck—though a sheer black veil kept him from getting too close a look. Why, she was almost pretty—though not with her eyes all puffy and red-rimmed from weeping, of course.
Nor was Javan the only one to notice the difference, as Lior and his companion brought Richeldis before the king. Murdoch and even Tammaron accorded her far more than fatherly interest as she dipped in a wobbly curtsey, on the verge of tears again, and Manfred’s son Iver looked so pleased and even proprietary that Javan abruptly wondered if he could have had a part in the death of Richeldis’ sister.
Or if not Iver himself, then someone else on his behalf. After all, Giesele’s death made Richeldis sole heiress of the Kierney lands and titles, once Earl Iain died—and Iver had been paying court to both girls at the wedding feast.
“My condolences on your loss, my lady,” Alroy said without prompting, sitting back restlessly in his chair—oddly disquieted for Alroy, who usually did not resist the regents’ direction. “If it is within my power, you may be certain your sister’s murderers will be brought to justice.”
The frightened girl said nothing as she rose from her curtsey, only going a little paler as she stole a glance at her guardians slumped senseless in their chairs. At a snap of Hubert’s fingers, a guard brought another chair into the center of the room and set it behind her. She sat because she knew she had no choice, hands clenched white-knuckled in her lap, but she held her head a little higher as Father Lior folded the veil back from her face—a true daughter of the nobility, though her chin quivered with her terror. Oriel came over with his cup, and the other priest withdrew to stand by Declan and the Drummonds.
“My Lady Richeldis, I am required to ask you certain questions,” Father Lior said quietly. “Father Burton has already taken your oath to answer truthfully.” He gestured toward his fellow priest with a square, workmanlike hand. “I shall remind you that you imperil your immortal soul if you lie—and that retribution shall strike you in this world, before you can even plead before a heavenly Judge, if Master Oriel discerns any shred of deliberate misdirection or omission. Do you understand?”
Tears swam in the dark, swollen eyes, but she bobbed her head in assent.
“Excellent. Now, please tell us what you remember of last night. What time did you go to bed?”
She swallowed, glancing fearfully at the impassive Oriel.
“It—it was not long past Vespers, Father,” she whispered. “My—my sister and I said our prayers, as we always do, and—and we went to sleep.”
“And when did you awaken?” Lior asked.
“I—I don’t know exactly.”
“What woke you then?”
“I—heard shouting in the corridor outside. I was frightened. I ran to the door, but there were soldiers running back and forth, and no one would tell me what was happening. And then my sister—”
“Go on. What of your sister?”
Richeldis swallowed noisily. “She—didn’t wake up. And when I went to her, and tried to rouse her, she—”
“Yes?”
“She wasn’t breathing.”
Richeldis’ voice broke off in a tiny sob as she buried her face in her hands, but Lior was not content with that. Signalling Oriel with a brusque jerk of his c
hin, he took the cup the Healer handed him and watched Oriel take the girl’s wrists, pulling her hands from her face. She continued to weep as the Healer stared at her—Javan guessed he must be probing fairly deeply—but then he shook his head and released her, sinking to one knee to slide an arm around her shoulders in compassion.
“She conceals nothing, Father,” Oriel murmured, looking up at the priest with sick despair in his eyes. “She knows nothing of her sister’s murder—I swear it! Richeldis woke. Her sister did not. Nor is she Deryni, by any test I know to apply.”
“You have not yet applied this test,” Lior replied, holding out the cup.
“Is that really necessary?” Alroy suddenly blurted, his tone sharper than Javan had heard it in a long time. “If Oriel says she isn’t Deryni, then she isn’t Deryni.”
“I would prefer to have independent confirmation of that pronouncement, your Highness,” Hubert snapped. “She is, after all, the granddaughter of Camber MacRorie’s full sister. We do not know how potent that blood might be. Oriel, the cup, if you please.”
Sighing, Oriel took it and returned his attention to the girl, who was trembling as she stared at what was in his hand.
“Drink it, child,” Oriel murmured, shaking his head as she set her hands against his to keep it at a distance. “Please, little one. I desire this no more than you, but you will drink, if his Grace says you must. I promise, you have nothing to fear. The draught will act as a sedative. It will be good to sleep, after all that’s happened. That’s right,” he encouraged, as she ceased resisting and let him set the cup to her lips. “Small sips, but you must drink it all. There’s my brave girl.”
He handed off the cup to Lior when she had finished, letting her bury her face against his shoulder and sob while he held her in simple human comfort. After a few minutes, when he raised his eyes to Lior’s and shook his head, Declan came, at Lior’s summons, and set his hands lightly on her shoulders. By then, her sobbing had ceased and she was still.
The Harrowing of Gwynedd Page 16
