“Sire, this is Nidian ap Pedr,” Kenneth said, keeping his hand on the man’s elbow. “He says he has ridden from Ratharkin, and he claims to have important information for you. He’s unarmed.”
“Indeed?”
With a glance at his three companions, Donal shifted his camp stool a little to one side of where Josquin was working and gestured for Kenneth to release the newcomer.
“Very well, Nidian ap Pedr, what is it you wish to tell me?” he said.
Biting at his lower lip, cap clamped close to his breast, Nidian dropped to his knees before the king, too frightened to meet his gaze.
“Have mercy, Sire!” he blurted. “I beg you, do not punish Ratharkin for the sins of only a few. I swear to you that we are loyal there! It is the Lord Judhael who makes war against you, and would deny you what is yours. He has men before the city gates, and more who have occupied the fortifications of the gatehouse and keep, against the wishes of Ratharkin’s loyal folk. I am come to offer you the assistance of those who keep their oaths.”
“Indeed. And how did Judhael manage to gain such a foothold?” Donal asked.
Nidian ventured a quick, desperate glance at the king, then ducked his head again, cheeks flaming.
“In truth, Sire, the Lord Judhael acted before his true intentions became known to us. He has brought men down out of the mountains to the west and raised the standard of rebellion, claiming to be our true prince—and we were content that he should make such claim in local things, so long as he did you proper service as your vassal. But he has seized your Majesty’s governor, and I—fear they may have hanged him.”
“They’ve hanged Iolo Melandry?” Richard said disbelievingly.
Donal, meanwhile, had seized the wretched Nidian by the neck of his tunic and jerked him closer, cold anger flaring in the gray eyes. As the man cringed under this sudden onslaught of Haldane anger, hands fluttering weakly upward in a futile warding-off gesture, Donal cast a sharp glance at Morian for confirmation that the man was telling the truth, though he knew from his own abilities that it was so. The Deryni lord inclined his head minutely, but also flicked a meaningful glance in the direction of the altogether too attentive Sir Kenneth Morgan, still waiting near the tent flap.
“The Devil take him!” Donal murmured, enough recalled to the need for caution that he released the hapless Nidian with an apologetic smoothing of the rumpled tunic. “This goes beyond what may be forgiven, even of kin. I should have hacked off the last of that rotten branch the last time I ventured into this stubborn land.” He rose and, unable to engage in the restless pacing that usually helped him defuse anger or frustration, glanced back at the bearer of this unwelcome news. “Who else rides with that traitorous dog?” he demanded.
“I—I do not know their names, Sire,” Nidian whispered. “But many high-born lords answered his summons to Ratharkin, beneath many a noble banner.”
“Hardly noble, if they fly against their rightful king,” Kenneth dared to mutter.
The words recalled the king to caution, for even the trusted Sir Kenneth should not be allowed to witness what Donal now had in mind.
“Well, I will know who they are,” he said softly. “Kenneth, please wait outside, and let no one disturb us for the next little while. I feel certain that Master Nidian can tell us more.”
The Mearan looked briefly alarmed as Sir Kenneth dutifully withdrew, but he was given no time to speculate on his likely fate. As the tent flap fell into place, Morian was already moving forward to drop a heavy hand to the back of Nidian’s neck, steadying with the other hand as his subject collapsed back on his hunkers, head lolling forward.
“Ah, yes,” Morian said after a few seconds, the look of trance glazing the blue-violet eyes. “Master Nidian is, indeed, deficient in the matter of names, but he has an excellent eye for faces and those traitor banners. Judhael himself, of course . . . the Earl of Somerdale and his brother . . . Sir Robard Kincaid and his eldest son . . . Basil of Castleroo . . . Blaise of Trurill . . . Sir Michael MacDonald . . . and curiously enough, both Judhael’s daughters. . . .”
“Both?” Donal said, surprised. “I had heard that the younger one is with child.”
“So she is,” Morian agreed, seeing what the other three could not. “Far gone with child. I wonder that they would risk her in such an enterprise. But I cannot imagine what other pregnant woman it might be, desperate enough to ride with the royal party.”
“It is said that she and her husband dote on one another,” Richard offered.
“So I have heard,” Donal replied. “That would account for young MacDonald’s presence. Seek out such other details as may be useful,” he said to Morian. “How is it that he means to assist us?”
After another long moment, Morian smiled and lifted his head, returning his focus to the king.
“It appears that our Master Nidian can deliver what he promises, Sire.”
“Show me,” Donal said softly.
With a nod, Morian glanced aside at Josquin, who was putting the finishing touches to his map, at Ahern, then gestured toward the remains of their meal, stacked nearby on a silver tray.
“If Sir Ahern would be so good as to clear the supper things off that tray, we’ll see what can be done,” he said. Keeping one hand on the kneeling and entranced Nidian, he reached across to touch the scout Josquin lightly on the shoulder. “Have you finished, Master Josquin?”
The scout looked up with a start and smiled faintly, setting aside his quill.
“I have, my lord. Will it serve?”
“I’m sure it will serve very well,” the king said, rising to delve into a pouch at his waist. “Here’s a silver penny for your trouble, Master Josquin—and my thanks for a job well done.” He pressed the coin into the scout’s hand and clapped him on the shoulder. “Now, go and get a meal and some sleep. I shall need you on the morrow.”
As the scout withdrew, grinning sheepishly at this tangible sign of the royal favor, Donal glanced to where Ahern was clearing the supper tray, then moved the campaign chest closer and sat again on his camp stool, picking up the new map. Morian, meanwhile, had hauled the entranced Nidian to his feet and guided him to the stool just vacated by the scout, pulling another stool near and sitting knee-to-knee with him. At his gesture, Ahern set the silver tray across both their laps and moved back to stand behind Morian.
“You will be familiar with the basic principles of scrying,” Morian said to Ahern, at the same time directing Richard to stand before the tent flap. “This will be a demonstration of a military application, for gathering intelligence.”
He nodded to the king, who leaned back to snare a flagon of wine from a camp table behind him. As he unstoppered it to pour some onto the tray, the reflected torchlight made of the silver tray a blood-dark mirror.
“Nidian, I want you to imagine that you’re looking through the wine and the tray,” Morian said very softly, setting both the other man’s hands on the edge of the tray and holding them there with his own. “Imagine that you can see your feet through the tray. Don’t try to focus; just relax and drift, let it happen. I give you my word that you’ll come to no harm.”
The Mearan’s eyelids flickered, but his gaze did not waver from the shallow wash of wine. Cautiously Ahern set his hand on Morian’s shoulder, trying the most tentative of contacts, so that he could better monitor what the more experienced Deryni did—and deepened the contact as Morian allowed it.
“Now recall what you’ve just told us, Master Nidian, and what you saw,” Morian urged softly. “Don’t speak. Simply allow your memories to flow, and try to focus on every detail you can remember.”
A faint sigh escaped the man’s lips, and his head sank a little lower as the tension eased into expectant silence. After a few seconds, as Donal and Ahern watched and Richard craned his neck to see past their subject, a faint miasma seemed to rise from the surface of the wine, clouding the flat expanse of burgundy with a silvery sheen reflected from beneath, resolving then into mist
y images of stone ramparts, bartizans with conical roofs, portcullises barring sturdy gates, and defenders massed along the battlements of distant Ratharkin.
The colors of old Meara fluttered above the walls of the ancient city, rather than the scarlet and gold standard of Donal’s royal governor. And camped before the walls of the city were the Mearan levies—far more than anyone had thought Judhael could assemble.
At Donal’s gesture, Richard came softly closer and the two brothers studied what was shown, noting the troop deployments and encampments, estimating numbers. After a silent interval, Richard withdrew to one side to make notations on the map. When it became clear that no more was to come, Donal tipped the contents of the tray onto grass at one edge of the tent while Morian adjusted Nidian’s memory of what had just occurred.
“What will he remember of this?” Richard murmured, as Donal wiped off the tray with a cloth.
“Only that he was asked to report again on what he saw, and that he did so, while notes were taken. That is what happened,” Donal added, cocking an eyebrow at his brother.
“As you say . . .” Richard murmured.
When they had given Nidian back into the custody of Sir Kenneth, still waiting outside, the king recalled his officers and spent another half hour advising them of a revised strategy for the coming day before settling down for a few hours’ sleep.
Chapter 22
“The Lord hath set at nought all my mighty men in the midst of me.”
—LAMENTATIONS 1:15
THEY rose before dawn, to prepare for a battle Donal hoped they would not have to fight. After hearing Mass with his officers in the open air before his tent, the king broke his fast while Kenneth armed him and he gave final instructions to his brother. Morian listened silently, already armed and ready, the roundels and martlet on his green surcoat gleaming in the early morning light. He did not ride with the king when the royal party mounted up to make their way to Ratharkin, departing in another direction with a squadron of Claibourne cavalry and orders of his own. Dukes Andrew and Ursic likewise had their orders.
An hour later, the king was drawing rein before the gates of Ratharkin beneath his royal standard, his brother at his side. Ahern and his Lendouri cavalry rode behind him, and a herald rode well before him under a white flag of truce, to carry his terms to the city.
The Mearan answer was an arrow through the herald’s heart, defying all conventions of honorable warfare and unleashing the cold relentlessness of Haldane justice: justice which Donal Haldane had the means to deliver. That the rebels were betrayed from within the city they had thought to hold was fitting judgment of their folly as, an hour later, the king’s loyal subjects in Ratharkin infiltrated the rebel-held gatehouse and threw open the city gates to their royal deliverers, as Nidian ap Pedr had promised.
The next two hours saw heavy fighting in the streets of Ratharkin, quickly focusing on the rebel-held fortress of the city’s inner citadel. Casualties were heavy on the Mearan side and light among the royalist troops. Judhael of Meara soon abandoned his position, seeing the futility of continued resistance in the face of Ratharkin’s betrayal. As the vanquished prince fled deeper into Meara, Duke Andrew and his Cassani cavalry in pursuit, some of the junior Mearan royals made a dash southward toward the mountains of Cloome. Donal sent Richard after them, himself remaining in Ratharkin with Duke Ursic and an occupation force to restore order. It was in the great hall of the recaptured inner citadel that they found the body of Iolo Melandry, the city’s royal governor, hoisted to the full height of one of the main hammer-beams.
“Damn them all,” Donal said softly, as he gazed up at the bloated body and blackened face of the saintly little man he had called friend, who had upheld Haldane rights in Meara for more than a decade. “Damn them!” Running a trembling hand over his eyes, he turned to the men at his side, trying to put the image of Iolo’s face out of his memory.
“Kenneth, get him down from there,” he murmured. “Gently. Dear God, that man deserved a better end than this!”
The king lingered in Ratharkin for another week, for a new royal governor must be designated, at least for the interim, and a sharp lesson must be delivered to the Mearans, even though Ratharkin, in the end, had remained mostly loyal to their king. Calling a council of the great lords who had accompanied him on the Mearan campaign, Donal heard their recommendations and assessments of the situation, told them what he would have liked to do to the Mearans, then allowed his righteous anger to be tempered by the practicalities of those who would have to keep the peace once he departed.
“Very sadly, I am now short one royal governor, gentlemen,” he told them. “At least for the interim, it will have to be one of you. Do I hear any volunteers?”
The men around him exchanged glances. Such an appointment was an honor and an opportunity for advancement, a chance to prove one’s worth to the Crown, but it was also a virtual exile; and all were well aware of the fate of the last royal governor of Meara, lying in his coffin in the nearby chapel.
“I know what I’m asking,” Donal said, when no one spoke up. “And I don’t expect the post to be permanent. We all know that a Mearan is best suited for the position. But I don’t know that I have any Mearans I can trust right now. And none of us can go back to Rhemuth until I have someone in place here.”
Ursic Duke of Claibourne glanced around the table, then cleared his throat. “If I might make a recommendation, Sire,” he said tentatively.
All eyes turned in his direction, for the advice of a duke always carried heavy weight. Donal merely smiled and gave a wave of his hand.
“All right, out with it, Ursic. Who’s to be the lucky man?”
“Well, he is, perhaps, a bit young for such responsibility,” Ursic allowed, “but he has been well tutored at his father’s knee. And that father would not be far away, if he needed assistance from time to time. Until a permanent royal governor can be appointed, of course.”
By now, all eyes had turned toward the man obviously fitting Ursic’s description: Duke Andrew’s son, Jared Earl of Kierney. Though but five-and-twenty, Jared McLain was also a battle-seasoned soldier and a man exceedingly well schooled in the duties he would eventually take on when he succeeded his father as Duke of Cassan—which lands did, indeed, border on rebellious Meara. Said Duke of Cassan had raised one eyebrow at this nomination of his son for such an important appointment, nodding faintly. The prospective appointee looked thunderstruck.
“Well, what do you say, Sir Jared?” the king asked. “Are you willing to take it on?”
Jared’s astonishment shifted from shock through consternation into pleased satisfaction. “I am, Sire—if you’re sure I’m ready for it. I know that I am young.”
Donal snorted and gave the younger man a grim smile. “Old enough to be husband, father, and widower as well as warrior. It occurred to me that you might value some worthwhile work to take your mind from your loss.”
Jared glanced at his folded hands on the table before him. “So long as it does not leave my young son fatherless as well as motherless, Sire.”
“Well, we shall certainly endeavor to make certain that does not happen,” the king said. “And when I have relieved you of this burden by appointment of a permanent governor, we must see about finding you a new bride. Meanwhile, I trust that you will not be aggrieved to be parted awhile from your infant son?”
Jared fought back an impulse for a grin, and Andrew covered a smile with his hand.
“Sire, I have considered taking a new bride,” Jared allowed. “But even were I to remarry tomorrow, I would be hard-pressed to quickly reclaim my son from my mother and his doting aunties.”
“’Tis true,” his father agreed. “My wife and my sisters would be inconsolable, were young Kevin to leave my household just yet. And indeed, since he is my only grandson at present, I confess that I should be less than happy myself.”
Sir Kenneth Morgan had snickered at the mention of doting aunties, and shrugged as the king look
ed at him in question, still smiling.
“’Tis all true, Sire,” he said. “One of those doting aunties is my dear mother. At least if the worst were to befall, young Kevin McLain would never lack for kinfolk.”
“Then it appears that a tour of service from Jared in Meara would not place undue stress on your domestic arrangements,” Donal said to the McLains, father and son.
“Aye, Sire. So long as he fares better than Meara’s last royal governor,” Andrew replied gravely. “He is my only son, and I shall not get another.”
“With one like Jared, you shall not need another,” the king replied. “And accordingly, I shall be pleased to make him my governor in Meara, at least until next spring.”
In one thing only would the king not be moved—and that was the manner in which he chose to pay tribute to his late former governor. Taking counsel of his lords who knew Meara better than he, he agreed to exact no retribution against the citizens of Ratharkin for the killing of Iolo Melandry, knowing that to be the crime of Judhael and his rebels. But on the day appointed for installing Jared Earl of Kierney as Ratharkin’s new interim governor, the king summoned all those holding Mearan offices of any description to attend him in the great hall of the citadel and there renew their oaths of loyalty upon Iolo’s body, laid upon a bier in the center of the hall and draped to the waist with the king’s own Haldane standard.
Only then, after each man had bowed to the body and kissed its slippered toe in homage, were they allowed to approach the new governor and press their foreheads to his hand, in token of their obedience to him and the crown he would henceforth represent. Morian being still in the field, as was Duke Richard, Ahern Earl of Lendour was requested to stand with the king at the side of the hall and gauge whether his subjects were earnest in their acknowledgement of Meara’s new governor—for while Ahern was still new in the more subtle applications of his powers, such as Morian regularly employed, he could certainly Truth-Read.
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