“Perhaps. But we shall never know now, shall we?”
Donal looked away, biting back an angry retort.
“Donal, we must end this impasse,” the archbishop murmured. “What would it hurt, to make some small concession?1 You achieved your aim. Septimus paid with his life. Conceding your error will not undo the justice you saw fit to impose. But you must not require your people to suffer further, because of your stubbornness.”
After a long moment, the king turned his face slightly toward the archbishop.
“What would you require of me, to make a reconciliation with the Church?”
“Do you repent of your deeds?”
“Of the execution of Septimus de Nore—no. But I regret that I was obliged to bypass the authority of the Church, in my pursuit of justice.”
A long silence fell between them as the archbishop considered. Then:
“I am willing to accept that statement as an act of contrition,” he said. “However, I would require a more public act of penance.”
“How public, and what sort of penance?” the king countered, warning in his eyes.
The archbishop again considered, not flinching from the king’s gaze.
“For penance—thirty lashes, as you ordered given to Father de Nore,” he finally said, holding up a hand to stay the king’s protest. “I would allow the use of a simple leather scourge of four unknotted thongs, rather than the weighted strands customarily used in the flogging of a criminal. But you shall accept this purging in the presence of the full cathedral chapter, assembled within the privacy of the chapter house at the cathedral.”
“And you will lift the interdict, and the excommunication?”
“I will,” the archbishop replied. “I shall personally receive you back into the bosom of Mother Church and grant you absolution, at which time you will receive Holy Communion, as a sign of your reconciliation. Do you agree?”
Donal closed his eyes for a long moment, then nodded.
“When can it be done?” he whispered.
“A preparation of three days’ fasting should be sufficient,” the archbishop allowed. “Bread and water only. I suggest you spend it in seclusion. You may have two men to accompany you for the purgation. I should warn you that I shall allow Oliver de Nore to be present with my monks.”
“Do not press me too hard, Archbishop!” Donal warned.
“The affront was against his brother,” the archbishop replied coolly. “He has a right to be present. But he shall not lay hand on the whip. My monks shall see to that.”
Donal let out an explosive breath, then gave a nod.
“Agreed.
“Then, three days hence,” Archbishop William said. “And have I your word that you shall abide by these conditions, I shall lift the interdict immediately upon my return to the cathedral.”
“You have it,” the king replied. “This should be Holy Week. I would not subject my people to any further deprivation.”
“A commendable sentiment, Sire. Then, I shall expect your presence on Thursday evening—after Mass and the stripping of the altars, I think. Perhaps an hour after that, when those keeping vigil have mostly gone. That should ensure the privacy you require. We shall await you in the chapter house.”
“As you say, Archbishop.”
THE king told no one of the accommodation he had reached with the archbishop, though by morning, with the interdict lifted, it could be surmised that some arrangement had been agreed. He canceled all public appearances for the next three days and kept to his private chambers, seeing no one. Limited to bread and water by the terms of his fast, he found his perceptions sharpening at first, and spent a great deal of time considering, as fully as possible, the many interlocking ramifications of the past several months since Twelfth Night.
Most wide-reaching, of course, was the rift he had created between Church and state, by his defiance of canon law—though that was about to be rectified. More personally troubling was the act that had started the unfortunate chain of events. With Krispin dead, not only had he lost a son, but the intended protector for his firstborn.
It was a deplorable state of affairs, and had haunted him increasingly as the weeks passed, for he was growing no younger. The aftermath of Krispin’s murder had underlined how precarious was the safety of anyone possessing powers unlike the rest of humankind; pretty Alyce de Corwyn was still excommunicate, and Jessamy had become a pitied recluse, still mourning the death of her son. With the right preparation, young Brion would have powers not unlike those of a Deryni—and might also fall victim to those who hated such things, if he had not protection and guidance.
For that, the king decided he must provide another protector. And as he contemplated this need, a possible plan began to take shape in his mind.
IT was Holy Thursday, the night the king was to present himself at the cathedral, that the Lady Jessamy MacAthan also made her way there, first to attend the Maundy Mass, with its washing of the feet. But then, as the stripping of the altars began, with the solemn processions of the Reserved Sacrament to the altar of repose, she slipped down into the crypt to pray beside her son’s tomb.
She had found herself visiting the graves of her children with increasing regularity in the past months, for she had begun to sense that she would not be long in joining them. She now believed a canker to be festering in her womb, and guessed that the affliction very likely would be mortal. At times, when she lay awake in the night with the dull pain gnawing at her innards, she even wondered whether God was punishing her for bearing this, the last of her children, and the only boy among them. Even more, she worried that the boy’s father had not been her husband.
“Dear, dear Krispin,” she murmured, lifting her head to run a caressing hand across the top of the marble lid, now carved with his name and the years of his brief life. She had brought spring wildflowers to adorn the tomb for Easter, as she had done for her other children buried here, and she shook her head in sad resignation as she inhaled deeply of the flowers’ clean fragrance.
“I thought I might find you here,” came a low voice from the doorway behind her.
She had not heard his distant footsteps, over the murmur of chanting voices in the cathedral above, but she knew his presence, and only half turned her head toward him, resenting his intrusion.
“Good evening, Sire. I am surprised that you would come here at this hour.”
“You did.”
He came and knelt beside her, bowing his head briefly in prayer and then crossing himself before turning to sit on the kneeler beside her, facing the only exit from the chamber.
“I miss him, too, Jessamy,” he said after a moment.
She sank down to also sit, hunkering down in the lining of her cloak, for it was chill in the royal crypt.
“All the same, was it wise for you to come here, being excommunicate?” she asked.
“I, too, have children buried here,” he replied. “And shortly, I go to make my peace with the Church. Besides, I left two good men standing guard upstairs. No one may enter save by going past them. And your maid is keeping vigil before the altar of repose—and will do so until I rouse her, or you do.”
“Then, you came here specifically to see me,” she ventured.
“In part. And to avail myself of the witness of only the dead.”
“Then, you chose well, for I shall soon be among them,” she said.
“What?” He kept his voice low, but his surprise was unmistakable.
“I have a canker in my womb. I doubt I shall see the autumn.”
His silence was like a wall between them.
“I am very sorry to hear that,” he finally said softly.
She shrugged. “I am sorry to have to say it. I had hoped for many more years. Sadly, I am not to be granted that.” She shrugged again and sighed.
“But that is not why you came down here to seek me out. Nor, I think, was it to visit my son—our son.”
“No.” He turned his face slightly away f
rom her, scuffing at the grit under his boot. “I go later to meet with the archbishop and his monks, to purge myself of my guilt in executing our son’s killer—not the man’s death, but the going outside canon law to do it. I have been fasting for three days. It is true that fasting sharpens the mind.”
“I have long told you that,” she murmured, smiling faintly as she leaned her head against the side of her son’s tomb.
He inclined his head in agreement, but went on with his previous train of thought.
“I have been thinking about the loss of our son, and how Brion now shall have no protector. One of the men with me tonight is Sir Kenneth Morgan, who is to marry Alyce de Corwyn—who is Deryni. It occurs to me that a de Corwyn son might make an acceptable replacement for . . . the one who was lost.”
“How casually you set him aside,” she said bitterly. “But then, you did not hold his lifeless body in your arms. You did not see the injuries done it. You did not clutch at the wrenching in your heart when they laid him in this tomb, or feel a part of your soul die as the lid slid into place.”
She had felt him tense beside her as she spoke, each new observation like a physical blow, but he only said, “No. I did not.
“But never believe that I did not love him, in my way,” he went on, after a few seconds. “What I could do, I did—and my purgation later tonight will be the cost of it. But there is nothing that you or I can do to change what was and is. He is gone. I have other sons who must be protected. As a king, I must put that above all other considerations.”
“Yes, I am well aware of what you have been willing to do, to protect those sons,” she said dully.
“Then, you will understand why I am minded to place that protection into the hands of the next Duke of Corwyn, who will be half Deryni.”
She gave a mirthless chuckle and lightly shook her head. “Better half Deryni than no Deryni at all,” she said. “But even if Alyce were to wed your precious Kenneth tomorrow, I doubt that I shall ever see any child of that union.” She paused a beat. “Or—is it that you do not mean it to be Sir Kenneth’s child?”
When he said nothing, she shifted position to stare at him more directly. “Donal?”
“It is the obvious solution to my present dilemma.”
“That assumes that she would agree to such an arrangement,” Jessamy said incredulously.
“You did.”
She snorted. “I was a respectable matron with many children already, and a husband I merely tolerated.”
“She shall have a husband,” Donal said mildly.
“And then you would ask her to bear your child? I think not.”
“You do not think that I would ask her?” the king countered.
“I do not think she would agree to it,” Jessamy said. “And if you took her against her will, all would know of the child’s bastardy. Besides, her first son must be the next Duke of Corwyn—and you may not have time to breed a second.”
“Her first son shall be duke regardless of his father—and I had not thought to take her against her will,” Donal said carefully. “I had not thought to let her be aware of it at all. You could help me do that.”
“I—?”
He gave a careful nod. “Did you not tell me, years ago, that her father Keryell had set certain controls upon her and her sister before sending them to court, and had given those controls into your keeping?”
She turned her face away, troubled by what she was hearing.
“Those controls were set so that I might assist in their training, and to ensure that they exercised due caution regarding what they are. By rights, I should have released her by now.”
“But you have not released her, have you?”
“No.”
“Then, it appears that you can, indeed, help me in what I desire.”
A heavy silence fell between them, stirred only by the sound of their breathing for a long moment, as Jessamy weighed her answer. In the cathedral above, the sounds of public devotion were gradually fading away, the last worshippers departing for the night.
“You are asking me to deceive her,” she finally said, “to use the trust her father placed in me as a tool for your purposes.”
“I am asking you to serve the future of my line,” he replied. “Of a time, you believed that to be a worthy cause. Worthy enough to bear me a son in secret, to be the protector and boon companion of Gwynedd’s next king.”
“A son who now is dead,” she said bleakly. “And you would attempt this experiment again?”
“Yes.”
She rose, turning to rest both hands on the lid of Krispin’s sarcophagus.
“I will not have her reputation sullied. She must be safely married first.”
“Of course.”
“And she must never know what you do to her. She must believe that any child is her husband’s.”
“I would treasure such a child as well, for Sir Kenneth Morgan is a good and faithful servant of the Crown, as well as a friend. And there is time for many children of his loins. My time is limited.”
“Not so limited as mine,” she retorted. “Still, I will do as you ask. But you are not to have her maidenhead. At least grant her husband that grace!”
With obvious reluctance, he inclined his head.
“There is still the matter of her excommunication,” he said. “Once my own is lifted, I shall be free to see to hers. Meanwhile, I believe that she has summoned her family chaplain from Cynfyn, who will perform the marriage regardless. I would hope for a wedding in May or June. And after that . . .”
Jessamy slowly nodded. “I will need to make certain preparations,” she said. “I have made little use of the triggers set by her father; those must be assessed, to be certain they shall serve our needs.”
“Could not the same purpose be served by a flask of good wine, suitably embellished?” Donal said lightly.
“Once, perhaps. But the getting of a child may take several attempts—though I shall enlist one of the laundresses to begin making note of her monthly courses. From that, I shall be able to ascertain the spans when she is likely to be fertile. And once she is married, you, in turn, must be certain to keep her husband from her during those days, until the time is propitious for your own endeavors.”
He gave a nod, closing his eyes briefly against the sight of her, remembering the getting of that son who was lost, and praying that the getting of another would be as expeditious.
“Thank you,” he whispered. Silence had settled in the cathedral above as he reached up to take her hand, pressed it to his lips.
“I must go now,” he murmured, reluctantly getting to his feet. “I fear that I have an appointment with an archbishop. Be sure that, for the sake of our sweet Krispin, I shall offer up my penance gladly.”
MUCH later that night, when the king was safely returned to his bed, his stripes dressed, and Kenneth left to keep watch outside his door, Seisyll Arilan reported to the Camberian Council on what had transpired.
“He had not truly prepared us for what was to happen,” Seisyll said, “though we knew that the meeting had something to do with the reconciliation in progress between king and Church. He had gone down into the royal crypts beforehand—to pray, he said, though we had earlier seen Lady Jesamy enter there as well. One may surmise that perhaps he told her of the price he was about to pay for having avenged her son.
“He looked shaken when he came out—though perhaps that was the effect of three days’ fasting. We went next to the chapter house, where the monks had been gathering for the past half hour. The archbishop was there, waiting before the sedilla, and so was Bishop de Nore, the brother of the priest who was executed.
“Before entering the room; the king removed his cloak, his sword, his boots, his over-robe, and gave them into our care, then lay himself prostrate before the two bishops, with the monks ranged around the edges of the room. I could not hear what was said between them, but after a little while, the king came onto his knees and put off his shirt
before lying down again, this time with his arms outstretched in a cross.”
Seisyll shook his head and let out a sigh, still much affected by what he had seen.
“They flogged him then: thirty strokes, as he had meted out to Septimus de Nore, five strokes each from six different monks. Thank God it was not the flagellum, as was used on de Nore. The weals glistened with royal blood—and it is red, not blue or purple, as some would have it—but he uttered not a sound.
“When it was done, he took back his shirt, kissed the hand of each of the six monks who had flogged him, then knelt before Archbishop William to receive absolution and Holy Communion. He spoke not at all as we rode with him back to the castle. Lady Alyce came to bathe his stripes and anoint them with soothing salves. I do not think he spoke with her, either, though it was clear how he had incurred them.
“I left him sleeping peacefully—on his stomach, to be sure. I think there will be no scarring, but he will not soon forget this night, or the cost of his momentary defiance. At least he is restored to grace.”
The others were shaking their heads by the time he finished.
“This is bad business, with the bishops,” Barrett said. “I like it not, that the king yielded to their pressure.”
“He had little choice,” Khoren retorted. “Your bishops in Gwynedd are not like ours in Andelon. Headstrong they are, and blind in the matter of anything Deryni. There will be more trouble, mark my words.”
Chapter 29
“Marry thy daughter, and so shalt thou have performed a weighty matter; but give her to a man of understanding.”
—ECCLESIASTICUS 7:25
HEADSTRONG the bishops of Gwynedd might be, but there was at least one man prepared to beard them in their den—though in the subtle way only possible for a Deryni. Despite a flurry of letters from Alyce de Corwyn, none finally reached Father Paschal Didier until mid-April. It was early May before he was able to present himself in Rhemuth.
“This should never have happened,” he told her, when she had given her rendition of the events of the Twelfth Night previous. “You have done nothing wrong. It cannot be considered a sin to discern the truth—and the truth, in this instance, enabled true evil-doers to be brought to light.”
In the King's Service Page 37
