The Harrowing of Gwynedd

by Katherine Kurtz

  “All is as Master Oriel has said,” Declan said after a moment, his face devoid of expression. “She has been acquainted with many Deryni, because of her family, but she herself shows no sign of the blood. She certainly is no threat to your plans.”

  “Careful, Carmody,” Hubert warned. “We’ll have no show of your disapproval.”

  “Disapproval, your Grace?” Declan said mildly, ignoring Oriel’s startled gesture to subside. “Why should I disapprove of being forced to use my powers in ways not intended, to further the goals of avaricious men who probably envy the very things in me they say they fear?”

  “Hold your tongue, sir, if you care for your family!” Murdoch ordered. “You are on the dangerous edge of insolence.”

  “Were it not for my family, you would see far more than insolence,” Declan retorted, his voice harsh with his hatred as he stepped out from behind Richeldis’ chair. “How long do you think a man can live this way, Murdoch? Do you think we have no honor, simply because the bishops say our souls are damned because of what we are?”

  “Carmody!” Tammaron said. “Don’t be a fool! Standing orders are that if any harm comes to one of us while you are present, your family will be executed in the most excruciating manner possible. Are you willing to risk that for the sake of a moment’s satisfaction?”

  For an instant, Javan was afraid Declan was willing to risk precisely that—and secretly almost hoped he would—but then the captive Deryni drew a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, head bowing in surrender as he dropped his hands to his sides. Oriel, still on his knees with the sleeping Richeldis, ducked his own head as well, obviously appalled at what his fellow Deryni nearly had been driven to do and praying that the regents’ retribution would not fall upon him as well.

  And retribution there would be, too. That was obvious as Murdoch stepped from behind Alroy’s throne, arms folded across his chest. Alroy looked a little scared, and Rhys Michael as well. Javan did not like what he saw in Murdoch’s eyes as the regent studied Declan with calculating intent.

  “I will have your apology, Deryni,” Murdoch said quietly.

  Declan did not lift his eyes, whether as further act of defiance or because he did not yet trust himself to maintain control.

  “You have it, my lord,” Declan said, the words toneless and without expression.

  “No, you will give it on bended knee,” Murdoch said, pointing to the floor before him. “You will crawl to me and beg my forgiveness, and you will place my foot on your neck in token of your submission. Any other action—” His voice rose sharply on the last three words, as Declan’s head snapped up to glare outrage.

  “Any other action,” Murdoch repeated coldly, “will result in dire consequences for your family. For your wife, perhaps, and maybe even your pretty little sons. Yes, I think my soldiers might enjoy such playthings, don’t you, Carmody?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Who will rise up against the evildoers? or who will stand up for me against the workers of iniquity?

  —Psalms 94:16

  Declan blanched and then colored, swaying a little on his feet as he sucked in an agonized breath between clenched teeth. His hands had balled into fists, though he managed to keep them at his sides, and Javan hoped never again to see the look in Declan’s eyes. Almost, he could fancy he saw faint sparks beginning to crackle in the Deryni’s hair like tiny, captive lightnings.

  “Murdoch, you push him too far!” Tammaron gasped.

  “No, it’s he who pushes too far,” Murdoch said coolly. “He forgets his very precarious place.”

  The colossal arrogance of the man only reaffirmed all Javan’s loathing. Both appalled and furious that Murdoch could be so stupid, he watched the regent slide one proprietary hand along the back of Alroy’s chair, the thumb of the other hand hooking casually in the gilded belt, very near his dagger—as if either would help, against a Deryni! Alroy himself reminded Javan of a trapped mouse, caught between the menace of a cat’s claws and the striking range of a deadly serpent. As a guard scuttled outside to summon help, Hubert and the other regents began backing warily away from the throne, Father Lior retreating beside his fellow priest. Only Murdoch seemed to be without fear.

  “Go ahead, Carmody,” Murdoch said contemptuously. “Raise a hand against me, and you won’t leave this room alive.” As if to underline his threat, half a dozen archers crowded into the doorway with bows at full draw. “Not only that, your family will still die.” He jabbed a warning forefinger at Oriel as well. “Yours too, Oriel, if you let him! Now, on your knees, Carmody, and crawl! Now!”

  Declan was shaking like a man with palsy, clenched fists risen to waist level now, self-restraint clearly near the breaking point.

  “Declan, it isn’t worth it,” Oriel whispered, in a room that all at once had become far too quiet, and far, far too small. “Don’t do it, Declan. Don’t throw everything away. Do as he says.”

  Declan did not seem to hear him. The thickening silence swallowed up the sound. From their place of hoped-for safety, flattened against the wall with the two priests, Tammaron and then Manfred began making cautious, urgent gestures for the king and princes to come away—for they were far too close to Murdoch, if Declan lost control. Iver had ducked behind the chair where Jamie Drummond slumbered on, oblivious to the danger.

  At least Rhys Michael finally saw the danger, slowly easing far enough above his stool to step backward over it and then inch almost imperceptibly toward the other regents. But Alroy still seemed frozen in his chair. Javan, as much concerned for the fate of the two Deryni as he was for his own safety, stayed put on his own stool, within an arm’s stretch of Murdoch, trying to decide whether he really could see a faint aura beginning to surround Oriel’s head as well as Declan’s.

  “Do as he says, Declan,” Oriel repeated softly. “It isn’t worth the price you’d have to pay. And you’d make me pay it, too. Please, Declan. Don’t make me turn against my own kind, any more than I already have.”

  For another endless instant, Javan was not even sure anyone in the room was breathing—and could not believe that Murdoch did not realize how closely he was courting death. The arrogant fool stood glaring across at his intended victim as if the weight of his office would actually afford him some protection if Declan went over the edge. Javan had never seen a Deryni unleash the full force of his power against an enemy, but he did not want to start now—even to be rid of the despicable Murdoch!

  He did not have to. All at once, Declan’s face contorted in a silent sob and he sank slowly to his knees, eyes closed, biting back a low, animal moan of grief as he pitched forward onto his hands. For a moment he stayed that way, panting as his head wove back and forth in useless denial. Then he began crawling jerkily toward Murdoch.

  Other than the harsh rasp of Declan’s breathing, only the hollow thud of his hands against the wooden floor and the soft, irregular drag of his knees intruded on the silence as he drew nearer Murdoch’s polished boots. Very cautiously, Javan began to breathe again, aware of others doing the same. Behind Declan, still crouched beside. Richeldis’ chair, the watching Oriel had assumed almost an attitude of prayer. By the door, at Hubert’s tiny, cautious hand signal, the archers relaxed to only half-draw, watching in wary amazement as Declan stopped at Murdoch’s feet.

  Fascinated almost against his will, Javan noted the spurs glittering on Murdoch’s heels, golden rowels and silver chains flashing in the light of torches and fire behind as the regent shifted weight. Not a man but held his breath as Declan slowly stretched a trembling hand toward Murdoch’s right ankle.

  “Say the words first, Carmody,” Murdoch commanded, before Declan could touch him.

  Declan froze, his fist clenching empty air as his head drooped lower between his shoulders. At his stifled little sob, Murdoch nudged the fist with the toe of his boot.

  “Say them!”

  “I—b-beg—forgiveness!” Declan managed to choke out.

  “You are forgiven,” Murdoch repl
ied. “Now complete your penance.”

  Blindly Declan groped for Murdoch’s boot again, now intent only on ending the humiliation as quickly as possible; but Murdoch clearly had other plans. The regent lifted his foot as Declan touched it, but not far enough to reach the bowed neck—not with Declan still on hands and knees.

  Declan understood what more Murdoch intended, though—and all at once, Javan did, too. With an impotent whimper, Declan collapsed onto first one and then the other elbow, drawing his knees up close beneath his chest. Then he bent his forehead to the floor, finally setting Murdoch’s booted foot on the back of his neck. Murdoch held it there for a full count of ten, its spur glinting in Declan’s brown hair, before lifting it disdainfully to back off a step. Declan did not stir.

  “Now get up,” the regent said in a low voice. “And if you ever defy me again, I swear I’ll make you sorry you ever lived.”

  But Declan did not get up or even move, other than to collapse weakly onto his side, one arm protectively cradling his head as his body slowly curled into a rigid, trembling ball. Indeed, he seemed not even to hear as Murdoch’s repeated order to get up gave way to shouts and then to increasingly emphatic proddings with Murdoch’s boot.

  “No! Don’t! You’re hurting him!” Oriel pleaded, scrambling to Declan’s side. “Declan? Declan!”

  But even Oriel could not rouse his fellow Deryni from the bleak twilight world of futility and despair into which he had withdrawn. Murdoch had, indeed, pushed Declan too far, if in a different manner than the one Tammaron had feared.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Murdoch demanded, as the other regents cautiously gathered round to stare down at the stricken man. “Why doesn’t he respond?”

  Tight-lipped, Oriel shook his head, motioning for one of the priests to bring him his Healer’s satchel. “He can’t, my lord.”

  “What do you mean, he can’t?” Hubert chimed in. “And what do you intend to do, without even asking anyone’s leave?”

  “First, I’m going to give him a strong sedative,” Oriel replied, as he snatched the bag from Lior and began rummaging in it. “He’s retreated deep into his own mind to escape what you made him do. If I can force him to sleep deeply enough, before that escape becomes too entrenched, he should be able to endure waking up properly when the sedative wears off.”

  “Why, Master Oriel,” Murdoch said softly, “do I detect a certain note of—ah—disapproval of my methods?”

  Oriel produced a blue glass vial from the bag and worked the stopper loose. “What you think you detect may be quite different from what I might mean, my lord,” he said, grimacing as he had to force the selected drug between Declan’s clenched teeth. “But for now, you must excuse me. For this treatment to work, I must try to go into his mind for a time and sort things out. I will not be able to converse while I do so.”

  “Now, see here!” Manfred began.

  But Oriel did not wait for permission to proceed, only setting his hands to either side of Declan’s head and closing his eyes, his own head bowing lower and lower over Declan’s as he pushed himself deep into Healing trance. Nor did anyone dare to challenge him.

  Javan watched in awe, the regents more in apprehension and even irritation. Manfred finally summoned guards to take Richeldis and the sleeping Drummonds out of the room, when it became clear that Oriel’s task would not be quickly done. A little later, when more guards brought in the two Drummond children, Oriel was still bowed motionless over Declan’s supine form. The children looked frightened, clinging to one another for comfort as the guards gave them over to the charge of Fathers Lior and Burton. Earl Tammaron drew Hubert a little aside as he saw them, though Javan still could hear what he said.

  “Must we go on with this?” Tammaron murmured, stealing a look at the quaking Michaela. “Surely you don’t believe these little ones know anything.”

  Hubert, returning his attention to Oriel for a few seconds, scowled as he glanced back at Tammaron. “Are you suggesting that the children should not be questioned?”

  “To what purpose?” Tammaron replied. “They can’t have seen or heard anything.”

  “Probably not,” Hubert conceded, “but I would prefer to be sure. And besides that, there is still the question of their blood.”

  “Their blood?” Tammaron snorted. “You mean you still think they might be Deryni? That’s preposterous. You saw their parents tested.”

  “We saw their mother and her husband tested,” Hubert amended. “You assume that James Drummond is, indeed, their father.”

  Rolling his eyes heavenward, Tammaron gave an enormous sigh. “I suppose you have reason to believe he is not?”

  “Not at all. In fact, I think it most improbable. But it is not impossible, Tammaron; and the Deryni taint is insidious. I’ll not chance having their spawn brought up among us, unbeknownst.”

  “Then, have Lior test them with merasha, and be done with it,” Manfred said, joining the conversation. “If they’re truly innocent, it will only make them sleep.”

  “Hmmm, true. And it need not be Oriel who questions them, I suppose.” With a thoughtful expression on his face, Hubert glanced at the children, trembling between Fathers Lior and Burton, then crooked his finger for the two to approach. The ten-year-old Michaela raised her chin bravely and took her younger brother’s hand as, together, they came before the archbishop. The girl bobbed in a tiny, nervous curtsey and the boy ducked his head in a bow.

  “Please, your Grace, can you tell us what has happened to our parents?” Michaela asked. “No one will tell us anything, and there were so many guards rushing to and fro last night.”

  “You needn’t concern yourself, child,” Hubert murmured, setting his hand briefly on her head and then brushing her brother’s cheek. “Your parents are quite safe. You shall see them a little later, after you’ve answered a few questions.”

  “What—questions, your Grace?” Michaela asked.

  “Simple questions, my child,” Hubert said softly, “requiring simple answers. So long as you tell the truth, you have nothing to fear.” Fingering the jewelled pectoral cross lying on his ample chest, he glanced at Cathan. “Tell me, young Cathan, how old are you?”

  “Eight, your Grace,” Cathan replied.

  “Excellent. And have you made your First Communion yet?”

  As the boy gave him a tremulous nod, Hubert echoed it, his rosebud lips pursing in a priggish smile.

  “Good. And since I know that your sister is old enough to have done so, that means that I can be certain you both know right from wrong, and what God will do to you if you lie.” He shifted his placid blue gaze to Michaela. “You do know what happens to children who lie, do you not, Michaela?”

  Michaela swallowed noisily, her lower lip trembling as her blue eyes swam with tears. “They—they are damned for all eternity, your Grace,” she whispered.

  “Alas, that is correct,” Hubert said sadly. “But if you are truthful with me, you have nothing to fear, do you?”

  “N-no, your Grace.”

  “Good. Now, with your hands on this cross, I require that you answer my questions as fully as you can.” As he spoke, he took their right hands and set them on his pectoral cross, holding them flat there beneath his own. “Remember that you swear on holy relics, and if you lie, the angels will weep. Do you understand?”

  Tremulously both children nodded.

  “Excellent. My first question is this, then. Do you know what happened to your cousin Giesele last night?”

  The two glanced at one another and then back at Hubert.

  “She—died,” Michaela said.

  “Do you know how it happened?” Hubert persisted.

  Cathan’s eyes widened, and he nodded sagely. “She was smothered with a pillow!” he said, with all the conspiratorial fervor of a child who does not truly understand what death means.

  “Smothered with a pillow, eh?” Hubert replied. “How do you know that?”

  Michaela whimpered a little and snuffl
ed. “We—we heard the guards talking. They say that—that our brother did it. But Ansel wouldn’t do a thing like that! That was wicked! Wicked!”

  “It was, indeed,” Hubert agreed. “I don’t suppose either of you saw or heard anything?”

  But neither child had. Javan was as certain of that as if he had Truth-Read them—though he did not dare to do that, with Oriel still in the room and deep in working trance. Fortunately, Hubert’s further questions only served to confirm their innocence.

  “Very well, then, children. Your answers please me greatly,” he said, smiling unctuously as he released their hands and sketched the sign of blessing over their nervously bowed heads. “Father Lior, I believe our young friends have had quite enough fright for one day, and precious little sleep last night. Perhaps you might give them some soothing draught to help them get a little rest, eh?”

  As Lior bowed, bringing out cups that had been ready for some time and extending one toward each child, Michaela stiffened, her arms slipping protectively around her brother’s shoulders, and Cathan glanced up at his sister for reassurance. Michaela’s lower lip trembled a little as she glanced from the cups to Father Lior and back to the archbishop.

  “And, it please your Grace, I should rather not sleep until we have seen our parents,” she whispered. “The knowledge that they are safe will be far more soothing than any draught drunk from a cup.”

  “And I should rather that you drank the draught that Father Lior has so kindly prepared,” Hubert replied, the smile evaporating from his face. “I trust that I shall not need to make threats to gain your cooperation.”

  “But you said we might see our parents,” Michaela said plaintively, on the verge of tears. “You promised we could.”

  “I said you might see them later,” Hubert said coldly, taking the cups from Father Lior and thrusting them in front of the two. “I shall determine when that might be. Now, do as you’re told.”