Camber of Culdi

by Katherine Kurtz

  The slightest scuff of boot on gritted stone, and it was begun!

  As the torch fell from Maldred’s fingers, Coel whirled, cloak swirling to conceal the dagger he now clutched in his hand, the blade tucked close along his forearm. Maldred made no outcry—could make none. His assailant was a dark shadow close against his back, sinewy arms pinioning struggles as Maldred clawed frantically, futilely, at the fine cord biting into his neck.

  But Maldred’s silent struggle was for naught, and quickly finished. In seconds, the assassin was lowering his lifeless body to the ground, knotting the cord, which had disappeared into a thin, bloody crease in his victim’s neck.

  Coel reached to his belt with his empty hand and withdrew a small, weighty pouch, which he tossed to the ground with a golden clink as he stepped closer to the torch guttering on the ground.

  “Let’s be quick about it,” he whispered, drawing his sword and laying it quietly beside the torch. “Finish up and get out of here. I haven’t got all night.”

  Quickly, stealthily, the assassin glided to the pouch and stooped to pick it up, never seeing or even sensing the dagger which spun from Coel’s hand to bury itself in his heart.

  As the man toppled soundlessly to the ground, Coel darted forward and seized the pouch, jamming it into his tunic and withdrawing instead a piece of parchment, burned across the top, a pendant seal attached below. This he placed very near the torch beside the slain assassin. Then he drew the assassin’s dagger and laid the blade against his own thigh, steeling himself before plunging it deep into the muscles of his left leg. As the pain swept over him, he screamed.

  To the Watch’s credit, they were not long in coming. But they were too late to save the illustrious Earl Maldred from the assassin’s garrotte, or to get any information out of the assassin himself. They found Lord Coel half fainting in a pool of his own blood, trying to beat out the smouldering edges of a piece of parchment which was signed and sealed with an all-too-familiar name.

  Lord Coel, as they stanched his wound, was able to tell them how he and Maldred had been beset while they walked through the alley, and that the assailant had tried to burn the piece of parchment as he died. But Coel urged them not to let news of Maldred’s death or the parchment become known until he had a chance to tell the king in the morning. And then he passed out.

  The Watch, well-trained men that they were, obeyed his orders without question, conveying him swiftly to his working quarters at the castle, where his own body squire tended to his wound and bandaged him. It was not too serious a wound, the squire assured them—not even serious enough to warrant a Healer’s efforts—though his lordship had lost a great deal of blood, and would surely be walking with the aid of a stick for a week or so.

  Shooing them all out of his master’s chamber, the squire gave orders for the two bodies to be held at a nearby abbey, then assured the men that Lord Coel would give further orders when he awoke in the morning. Coel, when he was certain he was alone, opened his eyes and glanced around the room triumphantly, then closed them and promptly went to sleep.

  It was still very early the next morning, when Coel made his way, with the help of a staff and leaning on the arm of a servant, to the entrance to Imre’s suite. He was dressed soberly but tastefully in gray velvet lined with fur, his thigh heavily bandaged under its thick woolen hose. One of the watchmen who had shared the previous night’s misadventure was hovering anxiously at his elbow, clutching the piece of parchment which Coel had rescued from the torch.

  A guard challenged them at the door, but there was something about Coel this morning which forbade resistance.

  “I must speak with His Grace,” Coel said.

  “His Grace is still abed, my lord. I shouldn’t disturb him, if I were you.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Coel said, and with a weary sigh reached past the guard and opened the door.

  The guard stood aside in confusion, not daring to stop him, and Coel and the watchman passed into the room. Imre’s sleeping chamber lay beyond another door on the other side of the room, and one of the king’s body servants ran to announce him as Coel limped across the polished floor.

  “Sire, Lord Coel is here to see you.”

  “What?”

  A rustling of bedclothes and muffled protests sounded from within the room, emphatic but unintelligible, and then: “Coel? What’s he doing here at this hour?”

  Coel stepped into the doorway and addressed the closed curtains of the royal bed. “A thousand pardons, Sire, but it was unavoidable.”

  He hobbled into the room, his staff echoing hollowly on the lozenged tiles.

  Abruptly, the royal head was thrust through an opening in the bed curtains, the brown hair disheveled.

  “Coel, what the devil?”

  As Imre’s eyes took in the staff, the limp, the bandaged thigh, then flicked beyond to the watchman standing guard at the door, Coel bowed deeply from the waist, spreading his empty hands in an apologetic gesture.

  “I fear I suffered a mishap during the night, Sire. Fortunately, I was not badly injured. The wound appears far more serious than it actually is.”

  “But what happened?” Imre nearly shouted. He threw back the curtains of his bed and started to leap out, then thought better of it as he realized how cold it was, and pulled the bedclothes around himself instead. “By God, Coel, don’t just stand there. Bring a stool and tell me what happened. You mustn’t fatigue your leg.”

  Coel did as he was bidden, settling painfully with his leg outstretched before him, cradling his staff against his knee.

  “We were beset by an assassin, Sire,” he said, letting a hint of real pain touch his voice. “Earl Maldred is dead. I’m sorry.”

  “Maldred dead!” Imre drew the bedclothes more closely around himself and huddled down, stunned at the news. “How?”

  “Garrotted,” Coel said in a low voice. “We were cutting through an alley, and the man came at him from behind, got him before I could even turn around. I drew my sword, but the man was fast—cursed fast. He got me in the leg with his dagger before I could more than clear the scabbard. When he tried to rob my money pouch, I stopped him with my throwing knife. I’m afraid I killed him.”

  “You’re afraid—” Imre was at once delighted and horrified. “Well, my God, Coel, he was trying to kill you!”

  Coel lowered his eyes. “True, Sire. But now we can never be absolutely certain who hired him to make the attempt.”

  “What?” Imre scrambled to the edge of the bed and leaned toward Coel eagerly, the long hair falling in his eyes. He pushed it behind his ears with an impatient gesture, clutching the bedclothes around himself with his other hand. “You mean, you think he was a hired assassin? Do you have any idea who hired him?”

  “Unfortunately, I do,” Coel murmured.

  He gestured to the watchman, who approached and bowed, keeping his eyes averted. Imre stared at him, then at Coel, sensing that he was about to learn more than he had bargained for.

  “Watchman, please tell the King’s Grace what you saw.”

  The man swallowed and nodded his head. “An’ it please Your Grace, I was the Watch of the Guard in the sou’western sector of the city last night. It was nearly Curfew, and I and my partner was walking our rounds, when we hears this scream from one of the alleys. We runs toward the scream as fast as we can and finds His Lordship wounded, with the two bodies beside him. He was trying to stop this from burning in the torchfire.”

  The man held out the piece of parchment, and Coel took it from him and extended it toward Imre. The king started to reach for it, then withdrew his hand and sat up straighter, a sudden foreboding flashing across his mind.

  “What is it?” the king asked.

  Coel swallowed. “Your Grace will not be pleased to see this, but justice must be done. I myself do not even remember doing what the watchman just described.”

  “What is it?” Imre repeated, his voice edged with impatience and a little apprehension.


  Coel signalled the watchman to leave, then moved his stool closer to the royal bedside. “Apparently the assassin was trying to destroy this as he died, to keep it from being discovered. I can only conclude that he was trying to protect whomever had hired him to attempt the assassination. He nearly succeeded.”

  “Who do you think it was?” Imre asked, his eyes wide.

  “You won’t like it, Sire.”

  “Damn you, Coel, I already don’t like it!” Imre shouted, slamming his fist into the bed beside him. “Who was it?”

  Coel held the parchment down where Imre could read it.

  “Cathan MacRorie,” he said in a low voice.

  There was no mistaking the signature or the seal.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging: and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise.

  —Proverbs 20:1

  “Cathan!” Imre whispered, after he had resumed breathing. “But, that’s not possible. There must be some mistake. He would never …”

  Coel nodded slowly, closed his eyes as though unwilling to believe it himself. “I know, Sire. Now you will understand my reluctance to tell you. In light of the rumors concerning Cathan and the Willimites—Well, the apparent connection is rather incriminating.”

  “A connection …” Imre repeated, lying back on the pillows and staring up at the canopy for a long moment. “How—how do you see this connection?”

  Coel cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Well, it was Maldred who was responsible for the execution of Cathan’s villagers. If Cathan is in league with the Willimites, as they say, then Maldred would have been an extremely likely next target.”

  “But, Maldred was acting on my orders. I ordered the executions,” Imre said plaintively. “If Cathan wanted revenge for the villagers, he should have struck at m—Oh, my God!”

  He broke off suddenly, realizing what he had almost said, then brought a clenched fist to his mouth in horror, turned his face to the wall. For a full minute he remained that way, Coel longing to know what he was thinking but not daring to attempt to touch the royal mind.

  Finally, Imre turned his face upward again, studying the ceiling of the canopy with eyes that were cold and dry. His voice, when he spoke, was a deadly monotone.

  “Bring me my robe.”

  Coel, not daring to disobey, did as he was bidden, holding the fur-lined robe until Imre climbed mechanically out of the bed, shrugged bare shoulders into it, and knotted the cord around his waist. The king strode to the fireplace and stood there staring into the flames for a long time, the firelight reflecting redly off his tousled hair. Then he turned his face slightly toward Coel. The older man had not moved from his place near the curtained bed.

  “If Cathan has done this thing, he will be punished. Do you understand?”

  Coel nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  “But I will not have any official action taken against him. Is that also understood?”

  Coel looked across at Imre carefully, trying to discern the reason behind the statement. “No official action, Sire?”

  “None,” Imre replied. He turned back to the fire. “If Cathan is guilty of the crimes which you have suggested, he is clearly a traitor and shall meet a traitor’s fate. But I will not have him come to public trial, do you understand that? Cathan MacRorie will never bow before the headsman’s ax.”

  “Then, how—?”

  “That is not your concern!” Imre snapped. “I shall deal with this myself. Where is the parchment?”

  Coel glanced at the writing in his hand, then brought it to Imre. Without the batting of a royal eye, Imre consigned it to the flames, watching until there was nothing left but ash. He poked the ash to powder with a piece of kindling, then threw that into the fire.

  “That no longer exists,” Imre whispered, as the flames leaped up again. “Who else knew of it?”

  “Only the watchman and his fellow, Sire. I was apparently clearheaded enough to order them to keep it secret.”

  “Very well. You will obliterate their memories of it. Use whatever means you must, though I would have you spare their lives, if at all possible. It was not their fault they saw what they ought not.”

  “I shall execute your orders myself, Sire,” Coel replied with a slight bow, glad that Imre could not see his face.

  “And you are to mention this to no one.”

  “My lips are sealed, Sire.”

  “You may go.”

  “Your Grace,” Coel murmured, bowing against his staff and turning to leave.

  “And one last thing,” the king’s voice added, when Coel had nearly reached the door.

  “My Liege?”

  “I wish you to send a messenger requesting Cathan’s presence here in my chambers before the feast tonight.”

  Coel turned as fast as his wounded leg would permit. “Here, Sire?”

  “You have heard my command. Now, go!” Imre choked.

  As Coel slipped through the doorway and closed the door behind him, he could hear faint sobs coming from within.

  The summons was relayed to Cathan. Obedient to the king’s command, he presented himself at the castle at the appointed time, garbed in the prescribed tunic, robe, and cloak of winter white.

  It was dark outside already, and had been snowing steadily since mid-afternoon. Looking up at the bleak façade of the castle keep, Cathan found himself wishing he were somewhere else—anywhere but here. He could not explain the feeling; he had never felt it about Imre before. He put it from his mind as the door was opened and he climbed from his litter.

  He was given admittance by an under-steward, who took his outer cloak and cap without ceremony and then entrusted him to a young page bearing a torch.

  The page lighted him through a series of narrow passageways and vaulted chambers, finally leading him up the steep, spiral staircase to the royal apartments. The lad’s knock brought one of Imre’s own white-liveried squires to the door, and the young man bowed correct welcome before ushering Cathan into an austere presence chamber. There was no word of explanation.

  As soon as Cathan was alone, he turned to survey the room. He had been here many times before, but that had always been in summertime, at the intimate little supper gatherings Imre loved—his closest friends and advisors, and perhaps a few musicians or bards. But Cathan had never been here alone before, and never in winter. The room—floored, walled, and ceiled in white marble and alabaster—was cold and drafty, despite the fire burning on the hearth—and it was darker than he remembered it, though there were lighted candle sconces spaced around the walls. He supposed it seemed so because the room was empty.

  He started toward the fire, but then his eye was caught by a door standing slightly ajar, a gleam of brighter light streaming from within the adjoining room. Drawn by the light, he wandered over to it and peered in.

  It was a tiny, private chantry, hardly more than a closet, also totally lined in white marble and ablaze with candles. Even the kneeling cushion before the tiny altar was covered in pale, silvery damask. The place reminded Cathan of nothing so much as a tomb. Now, why had he thought that? he wondered, as he folded his arms across his chest against the chill. In summer, this chamber had always been a cool refuge from the noonday heat, banked with flowers and rushlights, the scent of sweet spices and rosemary mingling on the air. How else should it be in winter, except cold and bleak, especially when its master—

  No, he would not dwell on that. He knew what made the room so bleak, what laid the weight of winter on his soul. Imre would come—else, why had he called him here? But it would never be the way it was in the old days, before the murder of a corrupt and debauched Deryni had rent their friendship for the sake of human lives. Accept it, Cathan: the world is not what it was.

  He bowed his head and breathed a silent prayer at that, then crossed himself and turned to go back to the fire in the presence chambers but was startled to discover Imre standing beside the closed outer door, leaning against it with his h
ands behind him. Cathan froze and stared. He had not heard the king enter.

  “So solemn for Yule Court?” Imre said, slowly crossing the distance separating them.

  He was garbed from chin to toes in a sweep of ice-white velvet, furred at hem and sleeves and throat with bands of white fox. A belt of gem-set silver plaques bound the fullness of the robe into deep folds which scarcely stirred as he walked. A heavy silver chain encircled his neck and hung almost to his waist. His head was bare, the chestnut hair spread shining and loose on his shoulders. His face was still, guarded, as he gazed across at Cathan.

  Cathan dropped to his knees and kissed the hand which was extended. “Pardon, Sire. I was not certain of the reception I should receive.”

  “Have you any reason to be fearful?” Imre inquired, clasping his hands behind him once more and moving to the chantry doorway.

  Cathan blinked and scrambled to his feet, to stand awkwardly a few feet behind his king.

  “I know of no reason, Sire. If I have offended in some way of which I am not aware, I pray you to tell me how, so that I may make amends. Surely the King knows me to be his good and faithful servant. At one time, he did me the honor to call me friend.”

  Imre glanced at the floor at that, then leaned his hands along either side of the chantry doorjamb with a sigh. A sheathed, silver-chased dagger was thrust through the back of his belt; it had not been apparent before beneath the wide, fur-lined sleeves. He did not turn his head as he spoke again.

  “Aye, you are that, Cathan,” he said quietly. “You must forgive me if I am but poor company tonight. I have just learned of the death of a friend.”

  Cathan controlled the urge to breathe a sigh of relief. Perhaps he was not the source of Imre’s moodiness after all.

  “I’m sorry, Sire.”

  “Don’t you even want to know who it was?” Imre said, half turning to gauge Cathan’s reaction. “It was Earl Maldred.”