“All right,” Joram sighed. “Here’s one in 26 Festilus III, when you get those three. It’s going to be a long night.”
Three hours later, they had compiled a list of sixteen names, three of which they were able to eliminate immediately as belonging to identifiable noble houses. Unfortunately, they did not know the father’s full name, and there was no reference to grandparents in the records.
So the two were left with a list of thirteen. Further winnowing with regard to age from other records cut the list to ten. But next they must search out all the death records for the ten Benedicts and discover which ones, if any, were still alive. The eastern windows of the library were graying with approaching dawn when the last scroll was replaced on its shelf and the two sat back to relax.
“Five still alive and of the right age,” Joram murmured, stretching his arms over his head and indulging in a tremendous yawn. “It’s a good thing we insisted on coming here tonight. Can you imagine the whole abbey breathing down our necks in the daytime, wondering what in the world we were up to?”
Rhys laid aside his quill and shook his fingers, then picked up the list. His eyes felt gravelly from lack of sleep, but the list was in his hands.
26 F III Andrew, son of James, age 45—Saint Piran’s Priory
28 F III Nicholas, son of Royston, age 43—Saint Foillan’s Abbey
31 F III John, son of Daniel, age 42—Saint Piran’s Priory
32 F III Robert, son of Peter, age 39—Saint Ultan’s Priory
2 Bl. Matthew, son of Carlus, age 46—Saint Illtyd’s Monastery
He scanned the list once more, then handed it across to Joram.
“Well, what now? I’ve never even heard of half these places. Where are Saint Ultan’s and Saint Foillan’s?”
Joram looked at the list also, then folded it and tucked it into his robe. “Saint Ultan’s is down in Mooryn, near the coast. Saint Foillan’s is in the Lendour highlands, about three days’ ride southeast of here. I think we’d be better off to try Saint Piran’s first, though. That’s only a day’s ride north, and two of our candidates are there. Also, it’s too much to hope for, but this second one at Saint Piran’s, this John son of Daniel, is an awfully close name to be associated with the Haldane line. The name John is close to Ifor, who would have been our Benedict’s great-grandfather, the last Haldane king. And of course, your man’s name was Daniel. He might have named his son the same.”
“And if neither of the Benedicts at Saint Piran’s is the one, what then?”
“Then we’ll try Saint Foillan’s, and Saint Ultan’s, and even Saint llltyd’s, if we have to—though I don’t relish heading down toward Nyford with the building going on. I hope your riding muscles are in better shape than mine.”
He rubbed his backside and gave a droll grin, and Rhys had to chuckle. Gathering up the extra parchment they had been using as working notes, Rhys started to wad it up, but Joram reached across and took it from him, held each piece to the rushlight flame, and watched it burn to ash. Rhys said nothing during the operation, but as they rose to go he glanced across at Joram.
“You know, you just destroyed my last illusion of innocence,” he said in a low voice. “We can still say, for now, that we’re only interested in finding Brother Benedict. As long as no one makes any other connection, we’re safe enough. But, once we find him, then what? What do you do with a lost heir except depose the current monarch and restore the old line?”
Joram had picked up the two rushlights as Rhys spoke, and now he turned to face his companion once more, his face lit eerily from below by the flickering yellow light.
“Yes, it’s high treason, quite clearly. It’s treason even to be searching for him—never mind whether we plan to put him on the throne or not. On the other hand, the whole thing could end very shortly. We may find that our Brother Benedict, even if he’s still alive, is so entirely unsuitable for the Crown, after twenty years in seclusion, that even Imre would be preferable.”
“My God, I hadn’t even considered that possibility.”
“Again, just a matter of perspective,” Joram smiled. “Think about this, though: Even if he should be willing to forsake his vows and reclaim his birthright—which is by no means certain—that’s only the beginning. A man may be born to be king, but if he hasn’t also been trained to be king, chances are he’ll have a rough time of it. Even we Michaelines, critical as we are of Imre and his policies, haven’t yet preached his overthrow.”
He glanced down at the rushlights, his lips a firm line of shadow.
“Not that we haven’t considered it, I’ll grant you,” he added. “When Imre proclaimed the tariff for the new capital at Nyford, there was nearly a mutiny in the ranks. A military order like the Michaelines—Well, you know our reputation. But deposing an anointed king is serious business, even with due cause. Thank God, even our hotheads realized that.”
Rhys stared at Joram silently for several heartbeats, then averted his eyes. “Your Michaelines—they could make much of the information we’ve gathered tonight, couldn’t they?”
“I suspect they could,” Joram murmured, “if they had it.”
Rhys looked up. “And do you intend to tell them?”
“I don’t think that decision is entirely mine to make, do you?” Joram countered. “Perhaps some of your native caution has rubbed off on me, Rhys, or perhaps I’m just remembering the thin edge my order rides just now. In any event, any action we take if we do find Cinhil, and he is suitable, will involve a lot of other people. I’d like to tell Father about him first, if you have no objections.”
“Camber? Aye,” Rhys breathed. “If he thinks a Restoration is the only answer, I’d feel a lot better about the whole thing.”
“Come on, then,” Joram yawned. “We’d best get what sleep we can before they roust this place for morning prayers.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Hear counsel and receive instruction, that thou mayest be wise in thy latter end.
—Proverbs 19:20
They got little sleep in what remained of the night, though neither counted that amiss in light of the information they had gleaned. No sooner had they staggered back to the receiving room and rolled up in blankets by the fire than it was time to rise for morning devotions. Far earlier than they had hoped, in these days of slackening ecclesiastical discipline, they were roused by one of the abbey’s lay brethren, who stood vigilant watch in the doorway until both men were on their feet and pulling on still-damp clothes, however groggily.
Rhys thought the brother’s behavior a little odd, and said as much when they were finally left alone to finish dressing. But Joram merely laughed at that and reminded his friend that this was, after all, a monastery. The brother had obviously taken them for ordinary travellers, who had prevailed upon the abbey for shelter from the night. In the brother’s estimation, if said travellers could be induced to reclaim their undoubtedly lapsed souls in exchange for the night’s lodging, so much the better.
Rhys had to agree that the logic of the argument was probably sound—a warm, dry place to sleep ought surely to be worth a Mass—but unlike Joram, Rhys’s brain did not tend to function at its best so early in the morning, especially after little or no sleep. It was with some reluctance, then, that he followed Joram into the abbey church a few minutes later, trying to assume an air of piety which he simply did not feel at an hour he tended to regard as ungodly.
The morning was half spent before they could break away. After Mass, the abbot had insisted upon a leisurely breaking of the night’s fast with them, and had been full of questions about the capital and what was happening there these days. When, at last, they were able to take their leave, it was to face a sunless, leaden sky which promised still more rain to come.
The horses were frisky and eager to be off, their hooves striking sparks off the cobbles of the windswept abbey yard. But the clatter turned to splash all too soon, as they reached the muddy road; rain was already beginning to mist again in the sharp, co
ld air. Before they had ridden two miles, both men were once more soaked to the skin.
The rain continued for most of the afternoon, though it had subsided to a mere annoying drizzle by the time they reached the outskirts of the MacRorie manorial estates. As they topped the last rise before the descent through the village, their eyes were drawn to the high hill beyond, to jewel-like Tor Caerrorie, Camber’s seat, green-gray slate roofs glimmering in their wash of recent rain. The two halted at the top of the rise and glanced at one another conspiratorially, a roguish gleam coming into Joram’s priestly eye. Then they rode laughing down the slope and into the village, whooping like a pair of schoolboys as they splashed along the road.
They would have thundered on through, sending chickens and dogs and children scurrying for safety, had they not spied a MacRorie man-at-arms standing with two horses outside the little village church. One of the horses evoked only passing interest, for it was of no particular breeding or caparisoning; but the other was a little sorrel mare which both men recognized instantly. As they drew rein, the man-at-arms peered at them and then waved enthusiastically, his face lighting with pleasure.
“Father Joram!”
Joram grinned as he jumped from the saddle and embraced the man warmly.
“Sam’l, old friend, how have you been? Is that my sister’s horse I see?”
“Aye, Father, you know it is,” the man chuckled. “Her Ladyship’s just teaching the village lads their catechism. She’ll be out in a minute. Can ye wait and ride back to the castle with us?”
“Just try to make me leave!” Joram said. He turned to grin at Rhys, who had dismounted in a more leisurely fashion. “Rhys, you remember Sam’l, don’t you?”
“Of course. How is everything, Sam’l?” Rhys replied, shaking the older man’s hand.
Sam’l bowed, pleased at the gesture, then became guarded, lowered his eyes uncomfortably. “I, ah—Ye won’t have heard about the murder, or ye would not ask that question.”
“Murder?”
Rhys glanced at Joram, and the priest laid his hand on the old retainer’s shoulder.
“What’s happened, Sam’l? Who was killed?”
Sam’l chewed his lower lip for several seconds, then raised cautious eyes to meet Joram’s. “’Twas a Deryni, Father, here in the village a few days ago. He was none such as any of us would give a care about—you knew the upstart, that Lord Rannulf—”
“A Deryni!” Joram breathed.
“Aye, and the King is invoking the Law of Festil. He’s taken fifty hostages, and threatens to hang two each day until the murderer comes forth, since the Truth-Readers canna learn the names of the guilty. The killings begin tomorrow.”
Rhys whistled low under his breath. “That explains a lot. It didn’t seem important at the time, but I wondered why the messengers were going back and forth from Valoret yesterday. I must have passed three or four on my way to Saint Liam’s.”
Joram grunted. “Haven’t they any clues to the real murderer, Sam’l?”
“Not yet, Father. Not any one person, at any rate. There be those who think it was the Willimites, but we have no proof. The Lord Camber has had men out asking questions for the past two days, and his own Truth-Readers among them, but—nothing. What with the general uneasiness about the tariff and all, and now this, he’s worried that other Deryni may be threatened. It was he who asked me to ride along with the young mistress today. He was afraid she might be harmed.”
“Sam’l, I love you dearly, but you’re an alarmist,” came a light, musical voice behind them. They turned to see a cloaked Evaine sweeping down the church steps, bright hair escaping from her hood.
“Father knows I can take care of myself,” she continued. “Besides, who would try to harm me? I’ve done nothing to offend the Willimites, if they’re the ones to blame. And I certainly have nothing to fear from these good people.”
She gestured toward the village with a nod of her head and smiled, slipping her arm around her brother’s waist in warm greeting as her eyes met Rhys’s. Rhys took her hand and kissed it, trying to control the momentary confusion which a first reunion with Evaine seemed to bring lately—and was pleasantly startled when she pulled him closer and kissed him lightly on the cheek, slipping her arm around him, too. Sam’l was also feeling the charm which Evaine could exude when she chose to, and he could not seem to find his tongue.
“Very pretty, Sister dear,” Joram murmured indulgently. “But you’re going to have to do better than that. Is it true that Father thinks you’re in danger?”
“Of course not.” She touched her forehead playfully to his and made a face. “It’s our loyal servants like Sam’l who were concerned about my safety. I’ll be perfectly all right, really.”
“Well, I want to hear more about this,” Joram said. He disengaged himself from his sister’s embrace and signed for Sam’l to bring her horse. “We’d better get back to the castle, if you’re through here. Rhys, you can go starry-eyed later. I want to find out what really happened.”
“So, that’s as much as anyone knows,” Camber concluded, when the story had been told around the fire that evening. “Rannulf was found at dawn by old Widow Claret, and she went into hysterics because the body was on her land. Or I should say, part of the body was on her land. The head and one quarter. The rest—Well, let us just say that several other families in the village got similarly shocking awakenings that morning. The bailiff reported it to me shortly after dawn.”
Rhys and Joram nodded knowingly as Camber refilled their glasses, imagining the activity which would have been precipitated by such an event; and no word was spoken for several minutes. The last of the servants had been sent to bed an hour ago, and now only the three men and Evaine remained by the fireplace in the Great Hall.
Rhys, sitting near Evaine, sipped distractedly at the mulled wine in his cup and glanced at Joram, catching his slight nod. Gathering his resolve, he turned to address Camber.
“Sir, there is something which Joram and I think you ought to know about. It may or may not have a bearing on what we’ve just been discussing.”
There was something in his voice which bespoke more urgency than his mere words, and all eyes turned toward Rhys. The young man bowed his head and searched for the proper way to begin, appreciating the gentle hand which Evaine laid on his. Especially, he could feel Camber’s gaze upon him.
“You all know that I am a Healer, that my calling brings me into contact with many people.” He cleared his throat nervously and took another swallow of wine before continuing.
“Two days ago, an old man died. He was not an important man—at least not to outward appearances. But the story he told me on his deathbed has caused me a great deal of soul-searching.” He raised golden eyes to meet Camber’s squarely. “Sir, he claimed to be Prince Aidan Haldane, a younger son of the last Haldane king.”
No word was spoken in response, but the listeners exchanged cautious glances, Camber shifting to Joram’s face to read in his son’s eyes that what Rhys said was true. Wordlessly, he signed for Rhys to continue.
Rhys lowered his gaze once more. “I did something then that I have rarely done,” he said slowly. “At the old man’s request—nay, almost his command—I went deeply into his mind to confirm what he had told me; and it was so. He was Prince Aidan. What is more important, he had a legitimate son, and his son had a son. The son is long dead—of plague, twenty years ago. But we have reason to believe that the grandson still lives.” He looked up, directly into Camber’s eyes again. “The grandson would be Prince Cinhil Donal Ifor Haldane, lawful heir to the Throne of Gwynedd.”
There was silence for a dozen heartbeats, a soft sigh of wonder from Evaine, her blue eyes wide with the implications of the statement—and then all attention turned to Camber. The Deryni lord had said nothing yet: he was still weighing and evaluating, reading the thoughts in Rhys’s eyes. But then he broke the spell and let his gaze pass over them all. As he scanned them, each unconsciously deferred to h
im, respectful yet unafraid. Even the usually ebullient Joram was silent under his father’s scrutiny.
“You say you have reason to believe this grandson still lives, Rhys. Have you any idea of his whereabouts?”
Rhys shook his head. “Not exactly, sir. But we think we have the possibilities narrowed down to five. You see, he’s a contemplative monk of the Ordo Verbi Dei—or he was some twenty years ago, when he took his vows. That’s the last his grandfather heard from him. Also, we don’t know Cinhil’s secular name—only the religious name he took when he was ordained: Benedictus. And we don’t know his father’s secular name, either—only his royal one, Alroy. There are five Benedicts of the right age in the order right now. Prince Cinhil, if he’s still alive, should be one of them.”
“I see.”
Camber sighed and leaned back in his chair, carefully setting his wineglass on the hearth beside him. “This Cinhil, or Benedict, as he is known now, is a cloistered monk, then? Assuming that you could find him, what do you propose to do with him?”
This time it was Joram’s turn to answer. “We’re not certain, Father. We think that we can discover which one of the five is the man we’re looking for, without arousing undue suspicion in the meantime. We have even talked about what might be involved in smuggling him out of his monastery, if it comes to that. Naturally, we would have to evaluate his potential first. After that,” he shrugged, “it remains to be seen.”
“Well said, Joram.” Camber nodded. “Your training has enabled you to talk around treason quite glibly. But, what is it that you wish me to do? To condone your search, your possible treason? I resigned from Imre’s council because I do not like the man personally. And you know my feelings about the laws he has proclaimed since his accession. But I have never advocated his overthrow. Would you have me commit myself to such an endeavor, for a man I have never even met?—whom neither of you has ever met? Even your Michaelines would not be so bold, I think. Have you told your vicar general about this?”
Camber of Culdi Page 5
