Hoping for a clue to that, at least, she slipped her hands under the cloak and inside his shirt, probing with her powers to check the lungs—yes, filled with fluid, so he had still been alive when he went into the water. But if God had been merciful, the boy had been unconscious by then, or soon after. She hoped it had been quick.
“All right, that’s the easy part,” she murmured, shifting her hands back to his head.
Without further remark, she took several deep breaths and closed her eyes, shifting into trance and extending her mind into what remained of that of Krispin MacAthan. To her surprise, his shields had been fairly well developed for one so young. But in death, little remained of what protection those shields had given him. Slipping past them easily, she began casting for recent memories that she knew, focusing on the glittering festivities of the Twelfth Night court, and Krispin’s personal highlight of receiving his official livery as one of the king’s pages.
He had been so proud—had been looking forward to this day for several years, and especially since Prince Brion had assumed the royal livery the year before. He had served at table early in the feast, bringing towels and basins of warm water to the worthies at the high table when they first sat down: the traditional first table-service of any new page, offering hospitality to a guest. He had served the queen and then his own mother, both of whom accepted his service with grave attention.
He had enjoyed the feast then, sampling the dainties brought by the older boys and stuffing himself with his favorite things. A little later, he had slipped out to the stables to visit his new Llanneddi pony—the gift of his mother, Alyce, and Zoë, so that the lad would have a mount as good as those of his princely companions.
That had been the beginning of a fatal sequence of events. He had been picking out the pony’s feet, bracing each dainty hoof against his lap while he used a hoof pick to rake out muck from the frog.
Excessive zeal seemed, in turn, to have loosened the shoe on the off hind hoof, but he had promised the pony that they would see the farrier in the morning, and even made up a song about clip-clopping across the stable yard to have it fixed. When the two strangers appeared on the other side of the stall door, drawn by his singing and his chatter, they had seemed friendly enough, and had even offered to come into the stall to take a closer look at the delinquent shoe.
Though she tried not to tense, Alyce braced herself for what she knew must surely be coming next, what she did not wish to know, for the critical moments were surely approaching. And unlike the few death-readings she had performed in the past, usually on bodies come to the convent several days after death—too late to really winkle out much detail—this death was very recent. Furthermore, overnight immersion in the cold water had greatly retarded the entire dispersal process. There was plenty of detail—far more than anyone should have to endure, and especially a child so young.
The two men had come into the stall and closed the gate. Once inside, under cover of admiring the pony and tsking over the loose shoe, the pair had overwhelmed the boy before he even was aware he was in danger, one of them clamping a heavy hand over mouth and nose, stifling any chance of drawing breath to cry out as the men roughly bore him down into the straw and began fumbling at his breeches.
Unable to breathe, the boy’s resistance quickly had spun into darkness—from which he was shortly roused by the pain, as his assailants took turns using him as a stallion serviced a mare—the only blurred reference his stunned awareness could summon for what they were doing to him.
He had fought them—oh, how he had fought!—flailing with his heels, squirming, biting—anything to escape, to hurt them, to try to make them stop. He had even, through his fog of pain, somehow known that he must try to summon his special powers to defend himself—but he was yet too young, and too unskilled, and could not concentrate, for the pain. And every time he thought he might be about to break free, they had cut off his breathing again, or cuffed him into senselessness.
How long it had lasted, Alyce had no firm sense. But when the pain eventually stopped, there had been another dressed all in black, who had pulled the other men away at first, and turned the boy over in the straw—and recoiled at the sight of his bruised and tear-stained face.
But his supposed benefactor had turned out to be no benefactor at all, and hissed at the other two about “damned Deryni brat!” and “What were you thinking?” just before a powerful hand locked around his throat and squeezed him into darkness once again.
One last time Krispin MacAthan had managed to fight his way back to consciousness, only to find himself being lifted onto the edge of a low wall made of stone—no, the opening of a well, he realized with horror, as they stuffed his arms and head into the opening. He had started to struggle again, trying to cry out, but a heavy blow to the side of his head had cut off the beginning of his cry for help.
The last thing he knew, he was flailing for his life as he skidded down the well-shaft, desperately trying to slow his descent with hands, with fingernails, with booted feet that could find no purchase against the slimy stone. The shock of hitting the cold water far below momentarily restored his clear-headedness, but it was too late. His reflex gasp only sucked water into his lungs; and trapped head-down by the narrowness of the well-shaft, unable to twist upright, his only chance of survival ebbed with his fading consciousness.
That final darkness had Alyce gasping, too, as she surfaced from trance, coughing to clear the memory of the cold death that had flooded into Krispin’s lungs. As she roused, Zoë threw her arms around her, holding her close, and Kenneth leaned across the boy’s body to grasp her wrist.
“Breathe, Alyce!” he ordered. “You’re all right. Just breathe.”
She did, forcing herself to take a few deep, steadying breaths, then shakily looked up at the two of them, father and daughter.
“There were three of them,” she managed to whisper, forcing order and distance on what she had seen and felt. “Two were men-at-arms, I think. They had him first. But it seems to have been the third man’s idea to throw him down the well. And no, he wasn’t yet dead, at that point. He drowned.”
“Could you identify the men?” Kenneth asked.
“If I had suspects to question, I could certainly tell whether they were lying. There was something about the third man. . . .”
Casting back for his image, she closed her eyes to bring it into focus—and opened them with a start as she realized that she knew him.
“Dear God, it was Septimus de Nore!”
“Lord Deldour’s priest? Are you sure?” Kenneth asked.
She nodded. “Absolutely. He was one of the chaplains at Arc-en-Ciel, when I first went there. I had several run-ins with him. You remember him, Zoë.”
Zoë nodded. “He was terrible. And he hated Deryni.”
“And who was he with yesterday?” Alyce persisted. “Lord Deldour, who also hates Deryni.” New images came into focus in her stunned mind. “That’s what the badges were on the other men’s tunics. They were Deldour’s men.” She swept her gaze numbly toward the stable. “Have they already left?”
“I would be very surprised if they’d stayed around,” Kenneth said, getting to his feet. “You’re sure about this, Alyce?” he asked, looking down at her. “Deldour is a powerful man, and the priest’s brother is a bishop.”
“I know who and what they are,” Alyce said coldly. “And yes, I’m sure.”
Chapter 27
“Blame not before thou hast examined the truth; understand first, and then rebuke.”
—ECCLESIASTICUS 11:7
KENNETH’S quick inquiries in the main stable yard confirmed that, yes, Lord Deldour’s party had left the night before, said to be headed south out along the Carthane road. While a cavalry troop made ready to ride, Kenneth told Duke Richard what had been discovered. Delegating Kenneth to take the news to the king, Richard himself mounted up and took out the troop designated to apprehend and return Lord Deldour and those in his company, especially th
e priest Septimus de Nore.
Once they had gone, Kenneth pressed Alyce for a fuller account of what she had learned, then passed that information on to the king, sparing her that. Meanwhile, women from the queen’s household tenderly received the body of the murdered Krispin MacAthan, helping his mother wash away the dirt and blood and dressing him in fresh page’s livery before laying him out, at her request, in her own bed, where the women would keep watch and say prayers for his soul.
Later that night, numbed by her loss, Jessamy asked Alyce to join her in her deathwatch, sitting rigid beside her son’s body, wordlessly stroking his hand as tears rolled down her cheeks. Though she asked, as a mother must, regarding what had been discovered in her son’s death-reading, Alyce declined to add to Jessamy’s grief by going into overmuch detail, only assuring her that the perpetrators would be brought to justice.
The king was not in evidence that night, being closeted with his council regarding what should be done when the miscreants were brought in. Whatever Donal’s own feelings in the matter, any public display of his grief was carefully tempered to only that expected of one who has seen brutality done to any child. Of his true kinship with the murdered boy, he dared speak to no one, not even Jessamy, in her present state.
Richard and his men did not return that night, but they rode into the yard at Rhemuth Castle the following morning, the eighth of January, with an irate Lord Deldour, Father Septimus de Nore, and Deldour’s six men-at-arms under heavy guard. Richard had given Deldour no specifics of the reason for the summons back to Rhemuth, mentioning only that the king had recalled certain business that he wished to discuss with the Carthane lord. Deldour was livid, but Richard had refused to be moved. None of the Carthane party looked happy as they drew rein in the yard and dismounted.
They were even less happy when they found themselves disarmed, Lord Deldour as well—not restrained, but escorted forthwith to the king’s withdrawing room behind the dais in the great hall. Deldour complained all the way, protesting his innocence of any wrong-doing, but he fell suddenly silent as he was admitted to the royal presence.
Two chairs of state had been set before the fireplace for the king and queen, who both were dressed in funereal black, both wearing crowns. The two courtiers standing behind them likewise wore black, as well as the young woman standing beside the queen. Ranged along both side walls of the room were archers—eight of them, black crepe banding their upper arms and with arrows nocked to their short recurve bows—each choosing a target as Richard closed the door behind them and stood with his back against it, one hand on the hilt of his sword.
“What on earth is the meaning of this?” Deldour asked, most of his former belligerence evaporating as the gravity of the situation became apparent.
“I, in turn, might ask the same question,” the king replied. “A child was murdered here two nights past. Brutally. Obscenely. By two of your men. And that man condoned and finished the job.” His finger stabbed at Septimus de Nore.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Septimus blustered.
“Do not further disgrace your cloth by a lie,” Donal said calmly. “The only remaining question is, which of the six behind you brutalized the boy?”
“This is preposterous!” Deldour blurted. “What on earth would make you concoct such charges?”
“Ask him if the charges are false,” Donal replied, pointing randomly at one of the men-at-arms. “Did you participate in the rape and murder of one of my pages?”
The man went white, looking wildly at the other men as he fell to his knees, lifting his joined hands to the king in trembling entreaty.
“Sire, I swear I know nothing of this!” he blurted. “I swear to you, on my mother’s life—”
“I do not want your mother’s life!” the king snapped. “But I will have the lives of the men who did this. How about you?” He stabbed his finger at another white-faced man. “Did you do it?”
The man melted to his knees, speechless with terror.
“Speak up, man. One word is sufficient: yes or no.”
“N-no, Sire,” the man whispered.
“And you?” The royal glare shifted to the man directly behind the nay-sayer.
“I am innocent, Sire,” the man said defiantly. “What kind of man would murder a child?”
“Two of the men in this room,” Donal replied, his eyes narrowing. “But let us see how many of them we have uncovered thus far. Lady Alyce?”
As he turned his head in her direction, Alyce moved softly behind the chairs of state to stand at the king’s right hand. With her fair hair covered by a close-wrapped veil like the queen’s, the men in custody had paid her scant attention until now. But she saw recognition lighting in their eyes as she moved, remembering her from her Twelfth Night betrothal, and naked fear and even loathing flickered among them.
“The second man is lying, Sire,” she said quietly. “And his accomplice will be one of the three you have not yet put to the question.”
The guilty man gave a sob, cringing back on his hunkers and covering his face with his hands. Consternation stirred immediately among the others, stilled only when the bowmen raised their weapons and half-drew in warning. Lord Deldour was staring at the guilty man as if he suddenly had sprouted horns, even shying back from the two men who had been cleared, as they scuttled sideways on their knees, distancing themselves from their wretched comrade.
Septimus de Nore had gone even paler in his black cassock, though he had stood his ground thus far. As the king swept his gaze over the remaining suspects, the three of them sank raggedly to their knees, white faces averted, cringing both from fear of the king’s wrath and the even more dangerous scrutiny of the woman whose blood they now remembered.
“Ask him again, Sire,” Alyce said softly, indicating the guilty man with a jut of her chin.
“No, you ask him this time,” the king replied, his voice hard and cold. “Be very specific, and use whatever persuasion you deem necessary.”
She looked at him sharply, for she did not think it wise to be blatant about her powers in front of hostile witnesses. But even as she balked at the prospect, a way around it occurred to her.
“Very well, Sire,” she murmured, returning her gaze to the guilty man.
He cringed anew, beginning to whimper, but she only continued to look at him until he glanced up again—and found himself snared in her eyes.
“What is your name?” she asked quietly.
“A-Alvin de Marco,” he managed to whisper.
“Thank you.” She inclined her head to him, aware that all eyes were now upon her. “Alvin de Marco, you have nothing to fear from me, for it is merely my gift to know when a man tells the truth—and when he lies. It is the wrath of the king you should fear, in answer for your crime—and God’s judgement, at that final reckoning, if you do not repent of your sins and purge yourself of your guilt.”
“Do not you presume to lecture him about anything to do with God!” Septimus blurted, livid with anger. “What has a Deryni to do with God? What worth is a Deryni’s word? How dare you?”
She glanced at him mildly, staying the king’s intervention with a slightly raised palm. “I am no longer your student, that you may lecture me, Father. It is not I who am on trial here.”
“This is no trial!” Septimus retorted. “You have no proof that any of us had a hand in whatever happened here!”
“You know full well what happened here,” the king cut in, “and I will decide what is sufficient proof. Proceed, my lady.”
Inclining her head, Alyce returned her attention to the cowering Alvin de Marco.
“Alvin, did you assault the boy?”
Sniveling now, trembling, the man gave a nod of his head.
“Say it, Alvin: yes or no.”
“Y-yes,” the wretched man managed to croak.
“And another man also did the same?”
Again, “Yes.”
“Please point him out to us, Alvin.”
/> Trembling, the accused turned on his knees to find his accomplice, but the guilty man had already betrayed himself by the pool of urine spreading outward from his cringing form.
“You miserable worm!” the king said softly, ice in each condemning word. “You have the bollocks to bugger a little boy, but not to admit your guilt like a man. Well, we’ll at least see if we can’t find a punishment to fit the crime. Captain?”
The officer of the archers stepped forward smartly and bowed.
“Sire?”
“Take those two to the guardhouse and fetch them a priest—not that one, because he’s disgraced his office, but I’ll not deny any man the chance to make peace with God before he dies. It’s more than they gave the boy. But when that’s done, I want them taken to the stable yard where the crime was committed and strung up—and geld them first. As for this miserable excuse for a man,” he concluded, glaring at Septimus, “I have an altogether more fitting disposition in mind for him.”
SEISYLL Arilan had been one of the courtiers attending the king that gray day in January, and was able to report the fate of Septimus de Nore when he met with the Camberian Council a few days later.
“I must give Donal Haldane credit,” he said, when he had outlined the basic events of the past week for those unable to be present at a previous emergency meeting. “It was Old Testament justice—there were some rumblings about some aspects of the proceedings—but I think most would agree that the end result did fit the circumstances.”
The execution of Lord Deldour’s two men had, indeed, been met with general approval, as the word got out. Assaults against children were never condoned or even tolerated, whether the child was human or Deryni. Many years before, disgruntlement about a child predator had lit the first sparks that led to the Haldane Restoration of 917.
The fate of Father Septimus de Nore had sparked rather different reactions, not because he was innocent of murder—because he was not—but because he was a priest, and the brother of a bishop. Grandly claiming benefit of clergy, and making much of his family connection, he had demanded to be bound over to ecclesiastical justice, preferably his brother’s, by which he might have anticipated being locked away to a life of penitence and self-mortification—or even gone free with a mild reprimand, since his victim had been Deryni.
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