Camber of Culdi

by Katherine Kurtz

  Cathan MacRorie was among the circle of intimates waiting upon the king this morning. Indeed, it was Cathan’s first appearance at an inner Court function in many a week. Though he had dutifully appeared at Court each day since his return after the executions, he had not been summoned to the royal presence until this very day. In fact, Imre had made pointed detours to avoid any encounter with his former favorite.

  But today had been different. Cathan had presented himself at the Chapel Royal for the morning devotions of the Court as usual, fully expecting to be royally snubbed as he had been for the past three weeks. But instead, when the king had emerged from his session with his confessor, he had headed straight for Cathan and embraced him warmly, declaring his unhappiness at having shunned his friend for these many weeks. He had realized, he said, that Cathan’s behavior regarding the executed hostages was out of filial duty to his father, and not out of defiance of his king and friend. And he, Imre, had been wrong to exclude his good and faithful Cathan from his presence for doing only what he ought, as a dutiful son. Could Cathan ever forgive him?

  Cathan could. Much taken aback, and flattered by the king’s public show of reconciliation, Cathan was only too willing to renew the royal friendship: despite Imre’s faults, Cathan was still devoted to the king. The invitation to watch Imre at the armoury was further proof that all was forgiven.

  Now Cathan stood in the place of honor beside Imre’s squire, the king’s tankard and towel in his hands. He smiled and nodded approval as Imre completed a particularly difficult combination move against Selkirk and glanced in his direction. Behind him, Jamie Drummond and Guaire of Arliss applauded politely, their faces betraying none of the misgivings they felt about the entire morning’s events. Cathan, in his happiness, had already decided to ignore the glares which were coming this way from the other side of the yard.

  The source of the majority of these glares was Coel Howell, standing sullenly beside the two warrior-earls, Maldred and Santare. It was Coel who had supplanted Cathan with Imre during the past few weeks, and who now faced possible exclusion if Cathan should be restored to the royal favor.

  After a few minutes, Coel called his squire and began pulling on gauntlets, coif, and helm. He made an inaudible remark which set his companions to sniggering as they glanced in Cathan’s direction. The sparring slowed to a halt as Coel took up sword and shield and strode onto the field.

  “Sire, I mean no offense to Master Selkirk, but ’tis apparent that he is weary today, and cannot give Your Grace the challenge you desire. I am hardly a match for Your Highness, but I would be honored to provide you more energetic sport.”

  “Aye, friend Coel,” the king grinned, dismissing Selkirk with a wave of his sword. “Come and have to!”

  Coel bowed in formal request to approach with steel, and then the two began to spar.

  Cathan’s mouth tightened as he watched, not certain what to make of his kinsman’s move. Coel was more than ten years the king’s senior, and outweighed Imre by a considerable amount—a fact which made for a distinct advantage against the small and lightweight king.

  Imre was fast—there was no doubt about that. And his form was basically sound: the finest swordsmen in the land had been his mentors at one time or another. In fact, Cathan had never seen him in better form than he was today. But Coel was the better swordsman, though he rarely made a public spectacle of this talent. And he was pulling his blows whenever he could get away with it.

  Cathan’s lips compressed in a hard, tight line as he realized what Coel was doing.

  It was a typical Coel maneuver. By slowing his speed just a fraction, by deliberately misjudging openings, responding to feints, he could make Imre appear to be the master, pandering to the royal ego, which so needed bolstering. Cathan watched as Imre slipped and recovered on the beaten earth, backed off to straighten his helm with a gauntleted sword hand, and resumed his stance. As the fighters closed once again, Cathan saw that Coel was playing with his opponent, maneuvering him around so that the sun shone in his eyes and made his blows even less sure. Cathan frowned, for he did not recognize this as part of Coel’s apparent plan.

  But it was part and parcel of a larger plan.

  A seemingly chance parry raised a little to the right brought a flash of sunlight lancing into Coel’s helm—not Imre’s—reflecting blindingly off a leaded window behind the king. Coel missed his step and faltered, dropping his shield just a fraction, and Imre used the opening to advantage. His blunted sword came swooping from behind his head in a solid blow to the side of Coel’s helm, connecting with a sound which echoed across the yard and made Coel stagger.

  Playing the game to its proper conclusion—for, with proper weapons, he would have been dead—Coel reeled and let fall his sword, then toppled slowly and noisily to the ground. Imre’s courtiers applauded politely as the king doffed his helmet and extended a hand to help Coel up.

  “Well fought!” the king laughed, clenching the older man’s wrist in his fist as Coel scrambled to his feet. “I’ll swear, you nearly had me there. Bad luck for the sun to flash in your eyes that way!”

  “Nay, ’twas your skill, Sire,” Coel replied, smiling as he gave his shield to a waiting squire. “I fought well enough today, but you are improving. The best man won—that is all.” He pulled off his helm and gauntlets, as well, and gave them to a waiting page.

  Imre grinned delightedly, raising a hand to summon Cathan. As Cathan approached, he forced himself to ignore the indulgent look which Coel was giving him behind the king’s back. Imre took the towel and mopped it across his sweat-begrimed face. Then, handing it to Coel to use, he took up the tankard and raised it to Cathan.

  “To your most excellent kinsman,” he said, tipping back his head to drink thirstily. What was left was passed to Coel, who tossed off the remainder with casual ease.

  Then the king was turning to go, his hand outstretched to bid Coel attend him. He did not see the expression on Coel’s face as he handed Cathan the empty tankard and dropped the soiled towel across his arm, or hear the laughter of Coel’s friends as Cathan’s face went crimson at the affront.

  Cathan watched until the two had disappeared from view, then shoved the towel into the tankard in hurt disgust and gave it to Imre’s page, stalking off in the opposite direction to nurse his pride. Apparently Coel had made greater inroads with Imre than he had dreamed. Nor had the king totally forgiven him.

  Later, in the royal bath, Imre lounged tranquilly in a steaming pool sunk several feet into the bathhouse floor. The water was scented with fine herbs and spices, the steam rising from the surface and swirling lazily in the cold air above. Imre lay back in the pool with his head resting on the edge, eyes closed, the rest of his body totally submerged.

  Coel had doffed his armor and washed perfunctorily before dismissing the bath attendants, and now he brought a fresh towel from a cupboard on the other side of the room, dropped to his haunches beside the dozing king. His face betrayed no emotion, but the tension showed in his voice.

  “Are you comfortable, Sire?”

  Imre opened one languid eye and peered at Coel.

  “What is it? You’ve been bustling around like a hen who’s lost her chicks.”

  Coel pulled a stool closer to the pool and sat on it, cradling Imre’s towel in his lap. “Sire, this may be none of my business—and if that is the case, you have only to say it and I shall withdraw the question—but I wonder whether, as it appears, you intend to take Cathan back into your confidence.”

  “You think I shouldn’t?”

  Coel raised an elegant eyebrow. “Well, perhaps I oughtn’t to say this of my own kinsman, but I’m not at all certain he’s stable anymore, Sire. He’s changed since he came back after the executions last month. He’s grown moody, a bit secretive. And then, there’s the talk about him and Rannulf.”

  “What talk?” came the bored query.

  “Well, that he may know more than he’s indicated about Rannulfs murder—that he may know who
did it.”

  “What?” Imre sat bolt upright in his bath, then immediately hunched back down into the warm water. “Who told you that? That’s preposterous.”

  Coel assumed an injured expression. “Is it, Sire? Cathan has never liked Rannulf. He disapproved of his life-style, his methods of handling the peasants of his demesne. I understand he even threw Rannulf off his father’s manor once, during your Lord Father’s reign, while Camber was here in the capital.”

  Imre thrust out his lower lip in a petulant expression. “That doesn’t mean he murdered Rannulf.”

  “I didn’t say he did, Sire,” Coel rejoined quickly. “I simply said that there’s been talk that he knows who did, and that he may be protecting the real murderers. We’re fairly certain that it was the Willimites who actually did it.”

  “Then, Cathan knows the Willimites? He knows who they are?”

  Coel shrugged. “I cannot say, Sire. I merely relate what I have heard. However, until you are convinced of Cathan’s innocence in this matter, I should keep my counsel to myself, if I were you. You know how Cathan’s father feels about you. And his brother, Joram, is a priest of Saint Michael, which order is also not your friend. If those elements were to come together to oppose you …”

  He let his voice trail off suggestively, and Imre’s eyes narrowed. It was obvious to Coel that Imre had taken the bait, and that his mind was churning in exactly the direction Coel intended. Abruptly, Imre sat up in his pool, then lurched to his feet.

  “Mind you, I’m not saying I believe what you say,” the king told him, wrapping the towel around himself and stepping from the bath, “but one can’t be too careful. Send my dressers in, and then bring Earl Maldred to my study. If there is anything amiss, I want to know about it, and I don’t want to arouse Cathan’s suspicions. Hurry, it’s cold standing here.”

  It was later that same afternoon when Joram and Rhys arrived in Valoret, heading immediately for Cathan’s town house of Tal Traeth. Since Camber and Rhys had made their visit to Saint Foillan’s and gained confirmation of Prince Cinhil’s presence there, Camber had spent the past two weeks exploring possible approaches to the situation with Joram and Rhys and Evaine, making preliminary plans. In a strained meeting with Joram’s Vicar General Cullen at Cheltham, the Michaelines had been tentatively committed to the endeavor; Camber and Cullen were even now mapping out the Michaeline strategy in the overall plan.

  It now fell to Joram and Rhys to determine Cathan’s circumstances, and to decide how much, if anything, he might or must be told in advance of their move, now planned for the week before Christmas. If Cathan was still reliable, after the traumas of the months before, there was a chance he could be of great help to them. But if they had any doubts, they would simply have to work around him, trusting that events would permit them to pull him to a place of safety after Cinhil was in their hands. For now, their greatest strength lay in surprise, in not allowing any hint of their plans to reach the royal ears. There was no room for error, for they would have no second chance. If Cinhil died without issue, there would never be another Haldane heir.

  They were met in the loggia by Wulpher, the steward, who informed them that Lord Cathan would join them presently in the solar. The November day was brisk, and the solar chill; but the sunshine was warm on the roof beyond. There it was that Cathan found them a few minutes later, leather riding cloaks thrown back on their shoulders.

  They turned and smiled as Cathan stepped onto the roof.

  As on the last time they had seen him, when he rode out of Caerrorie a month before, Cathan was pale and drawn-looking, though his cheeks were flushed as though from recent exertion. A child’s ball was clutched in one hand, and he glanced at it and shrugged apologetically.

  “I’ve been playing with the children in the garden,” he said uneasily. “I’m afraid I’d been neglecting them.”

  “It’s a good day for such things,” Joram smiled. “How are my two hellion nephews?”

  “They’re well.” Cathan returned the smile automatically, then tossed the ball into a corner and gestured nervously for them to be seated. He pulled a wooden stool closer to their bench and straddled it, a shadow of pain flitting across his face as he added, “Revan’s been playing with them, too. He’s very good with young children, you know.”

  As he glanced at the floor to compose himself, Joram and Rhys exchanged worried glances.

  “Don’t you think it might be better if you sent Revan back to Father?” Joram asked softly. “If every sight or thought of him reminds you of the pain …”

  “No,” Cathan whispered. “Revan stays with me. He is the one good thing to survive those awful weeks, and I need to be reminded of that—that something good did come of it. Otherwise, I think I should go mad.”

  “But—”

  “The subject is closed!”

  He pivoted on his stool to turn his back to them, fighting for control, then slowly returned to face them once more, his eyes not meeting theirs.

  “But you didn’t come to hear me speak of that. What brings you to Valoret this close to Yuletide? I wasn’t expecting to see you until I got to Caerrorie for Christmas.”

  “Ah, I had some business to attend to for the order,” Joram lied easily, “and thought I would pay a visit to our future brother-in-law here.” He gestured toward Rhys. “So we decided to see how you were doing. How are things at Court?”

  Cathan glanced up, panic-stricken for just an instant, then concentrated on his hands, folded between his knees. “Strained, unpredictable, exasperating, fragile.”

  “If you would rather not talk about it …”

  “No, I suppose I should. Actually, it has been fairly constant up until today—constantly dismal, that is. Imre has been ignoring me, acting as though I wasn’t even there. Then this morning, before chapel, he came out of Confession and embraced me like a brother. He said that he had been wrong to be angry with me, that I had only been doing my filial duty by pleading for the villagers. I thought he had forgiven me. He even invited me to watch his weapons play in the armory yard.”

  “Isn’t that what you wanted, to be forgiven?” Joram asked carefully.

  Cathan sighed. “I don’t know. I suppose so. But once we got there, everything started going wrong again. Coel started to play up to Imre, as he always does, and then let him win in a practice bout—though you know what a poor swordsman Imre is, compared with Coel. But Coel managed to make it look like an honest defeat—or at least, he convinced Imre. When Imre left, it was Coel who was asked to attend him in the bath—not I. And Coel left me holding Imre’s empty tankard and dirty towel, with the Court snickering behind my back.”

  “Isn’t that getting rather blatant, even for Coel?” Rhys finally said.

  Cathan raised his hands in a helpless gesture, then slumped back on his stool. “What am I to do, Rhys? I’m beginning to think he actually hates me. It’s gone far beyond mere rivalry. God knows, we were never what you would call friends, even before I married his sister, Elinor, but lately …” He sighed. “I keep telling myself that if he’s Elinor’s brother, there must be something good to the man. But if he cares for her—and I sometimes even wonder about that—his fondness certainly doesn’t extend to the rest of her family. He’s ambitious, Joram. He wants to rule. And if he can’t rule, he at least wants to be the power behind the throne. Do you know that he’s even brought Elinor’s half sister to Court? I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to get Imre to marry her.”

  “Is that likely?” Joram asked.

  “Who knows? She’s beautiful, well connected, God knows! Imre will probably never even notice how deeply she’s in thrall to her brother.” He smiled sardonically. “On the other hand, Princess Ariella has hated Melissa Howell from the moment she set eyes on her. Too much competition. I’m sure she realizes that Imre will have to marry eventually—if only for dynastic reasons—but in the meantime, she wants to be the one to influence him. In fact, that could be part of what turned Imre against
me. I—ah—haven’t been terribly receptive to Her Highness’s advances.”

  “I had heard Court gossip to that effect.” Rhys grinned wickedly. “A very vindictive lady. Serves you right for being a happily married man!”

  “Which reminds me, how is Elinor?” Joram asked. “After our sister, I’ll swear your Elinor is the fairest damsel in the kingdom—enough to make a man consider forsaking his vows, I’ll warrant. Is she well?”

  Pleased at the compliment despite his depression, Cathan managed a smile. “Aye, she’s well enough, though she doesn’t deserve the black moods I’ve been showing her lately. I wish I could shake this—this notion of impending doom, but—Damn it, Joram, what am I going to do? This constant tension, the indecision—it’s ripping me apart!”

  “I know,” Joram replied with a sigh.

  He gazed off at the city lying spread against the horizon, inclining his head slightly at Rhys’s silent query. When he finally spoke, his voice was very low.

  “Cathan, do you remember, when you were ill, how we talked about Imre?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you feel about the situation now, after the past month, after today?”

  “I—”

  Cathan lowered his eyes, and the words came slowly, haltingly, each word dragged from deep within him, his voice recalling prior pain. He did not seem to notice when Rhys’s hand crept to rest lightly on his wrist—ostensibly to gauge his pulse, should Cathan ask, but also better to read his overall condition, both mental and physical. Or if he noticed it, he did not show it. His voice was scarcely more than a whisper.

  “I—don’t know anymore. Before, there would have been no doubt. I loved him like a brother, as I love either of you. We were very close. When he did—what he did—last month, it nearly killed me, Joram—both to see what he caused to happen to those people, and to see what his act did to us. But you don’t desert your brother just because he’s made a mistake, do you?—even if it’s a terrible one.” He looked up defiantly, first at one of them, then the other. “I still love him, Joram. God help me, but I do. The past month—even today’s humiliation—they don’t change that. I suppose I—I’ll just have to learn to live with the situation.”