Cathan’s lips made a silent O of surprise.
“He was struck down by a hired assassin,” Imre added, watching Cathan’s face change to an expression of shock. “Garrotted. In fact, I thought you might be praying for him when I came in—but of course, you couldn’t have known.”
“No, I …”
Cathan turned his face away and tried to compose himself, aware of Imre’s eyes on him, searching out his reaction.
Maldred dead! And struck down by a hired assassin! But there must be more to it than that. There was a tension in Imre, an anticipation. Imre was waiting for him to say something. But what? That he was sorry? He dared not lie. He had never lied to Imre—never, in all their years.
“If you mourn, then I am sorry,” Cathan said carefully.
“You’re sorry because I mourn—but not because Maldred is dead.” Imre laughed bitterly. “Well, I suppose that’s sufficient. I know you had no great love for him. He killed your peasants, after all. By your reckoning, he deserved his fate.”
“I—”
Cathan glanced at the floor in confusion, not understanding the direction the conversation was taking—then fearing that he did.
“Sire, if you suggest that I would have wished this upon Earl Maldred, I beg you to put it from your mind. Perhaps Maldred did carry out his orders with more zeal than was necessary. In fact, I am almost certain he did,” he added, almost under his breath. “But I cannot fault him for doing his duty.”
“But you fault me, don’t you?” Imre snapped, whirling on Cathan to look him in the eye. “I gave the orders for the executions, Cathan. I am the king. The law is the law. Do you dare rebuke me for carrying out that law?”
“Sire, I never said—”
“Of course, you never said!” Imre shouted. “Even you would not have dared to presume upon our friendship to that extent. But you thought it, didn’t you? Ah, Cathan, I had thought to be better served than this from you, of all people!”
Cathan shook his head in disbelief, no longer certain he was following Imre’s logic. Or that there was logic. “I never blamed you personally, Sire. I swear it! If there was bitterness in my heart, it was for your office, your crown, not the man who must stand and sometimes bend under the weight of it.”
As he raised his gaze to meet Imre’s, there were tears in his eyes. Imre saw and looked away, into the chantry, his arms clasped tightly against his chest.
“You never, in thought or deed, held me to blame for the deaths of those peasants?”
Cathan dropped to both knees, lifting his hands in supplication. “As God is my witness, I swear it, Imre,” he whispered.
A long silence followed, broken only by the sounds of their breathing, and then Imre reached slowly to the chantry door and pulled it closed. He stood in the presence chamber with his back to Cathan for a long time, hands resting loosely on the latch, then turned and leaned against the door once more.
“Well, perhaps the Willimites killed Maldred, then,” he said calmly. “That’s who they say killed Rannulf, you know. Get up, get up.”
Cathan obeyed, standing awkwardly before the now subdued Imre, but the king would not look him in the eye. He seemed as ill at ease as Cathan felt, and Cathan had the feeling that he should say something—anything—but the words would not come. Silently, he watched as Imre wandered idly over to one of the candle sconces and gazed up at the candle flames, touched his finger to a rivulet of hot wax. What could he say? What could Imre say?
“There are other rumors afoot about Rannulf’s murder, Cathan. Did you know that?”
“Other—rumors, Sire?” Cathan said, swallowing uneasily.
“There are those who would like to implicate you in some way.”
“Me?”
“Yes. Preposterous, isn’t it?” Imre said. The lips were smiling as Imre turned, but the eyes were cold as flint. “They postulate that the reason you were so distressed at the executions is that you could have saved those people, that you were a Willimite sympathizer, and countenanced Rannulf’s murder. That’s specious, of course, but you and he did have words more than once, didn’t you?”
“Sire, he was a cruel, sadistic man,” Cathan said defensively. “Deryni or no, I did not permit him on our lands, nor did my father. Everyone knew that. I did not countenance his murder—but I cannot, in conscience, say that I was sorry to hear of it.”
“Even when you learned that he died a common traitor’s death? He was noble, Cathan, noble.”
“His murderers apparently thought he deserved it,” Cathan said enigmatically.
Imre started at that, turning his head away and closing his eyes in pain, though Cathan could not see that.
“Noble traitors face the headsman’s ax or the sword, not the gibbet and knives, the horrible agonies which Rannulf suffered.”
“And nobility is not necessarily a thing conferred by birth, Sire,” Cathan said softly. “If a man be without it, all the laurels and diadems and crowns in the world cannot make him so.”
“No,” Imre breathed. “Nor can the meanest death take it away.”
He stared down at his hands, turning them front and back dazedly, as though he did not really see them, then schooled his face to a gentler mien.
“But, we digress,” he said, turning to walk slowly toward Cathan, his hand outstretched. “And the hour of Court draws near. Come, my friend. We must seem to be merry, though in our hearts we mourn.”
He reached out as though to embrace Cathan, his lips smiling even as his heart twisted itself in his breast. But as his arm encircled Cathan’s shoulder, and Cathan smiled with relief, Imre’s other hand was moving to the hilt of the dagger he wore in the hollow of his back. A deft shift of weight, a flick of the wrist, and it was done, the dagger driving upward beneath the ribs, piercing arteries and nerves and pounding heart in one fatal stab.
Cathan died as he collapsed in Imre’s arms, his handsome face guileless, astonished, as innocent as a child’s.
Imre, when he saw what he had done, sank slowly to the floor with the dead Cathan in his arms; cradled his beloved friend wordlessly, mindlessly, Cathan’s blood clotting on the bold robe of winter white and silver which he wore.
It was thus that Coel Howell found them a quarter-hour later, after repeated inquiries of Imre’s squires had revealed only that the king was still alone with Lord Cathan and did not wish to be disturbed.
Coel accepted that excuse at first, toying with the head of his staff in annoyance as the minutes dragged on. Finally, when he could stand it no longer, he limped to the door and knocked—then knocked again, louder. When there was no response, he eased the door open a crack and peered in, froze, then slipped inside and closed the door securely behind him, his breath catching in his throat.
Imre, his back to the door, was slouched motionless over a still, white-garbed form, a dark smear of blood staining the tiled floor beside him. The king did not move as Coel made his way haltingly across the polished marble, and for just an instant Coel wondered if all the blood was Cathan’s.
“Sire? Your Grace, are you all right?”
Imre still did not respond, though by now Coel could see that he was breathing. The king held Cathan’s lifeless body loosely in his arms, the tawny head laid close against his chest, Imre’s dark hair tumbling down to hide his face. There was blood on Imre’s hands and on a silver-chased dagger lying by his knee.
Carefully, Coel knelt beside the pair, wincing as he eased his bandaged leg.
“Your Grace, are you injured? What happened?”
Imre flinched at the voice, but he did not look up.
“I killed him, Coel. I had to,” he whispered, so softly that Coel missed the first few words. “What you said, it was true. He lied to me, but—but—Oh, God, what am I going to do? I’ve killed him!”
He raised a tear-streaked face to stare miserably at Coel, his eyes puffy and red from weeping. Then he looked down at Cathan and slowly relaxed his grip, let the body sag from his arms to lie
across his lap. The face was startled still, even in death, the eyes half open and staring. Imre shuddered as he saw them, but when Coel tried to reach across and close them, Imre struck his hand away and closed the eyes himself. Then he eased the body to the floor, shaking his head as though on the verge of tears again, stiflng a sob.
Coel swallowed nervously and wiped damp palms against his thighs, acutely aware that he must end this scene before Imre broke down completely. He had not expected this. He had caught Imre’s meaning clearly enough this morning—that Cathan would not die by the headman’s ax or other public execution—but he had not anticipated that Imre would do the deed himself. A calculated accident, perhaps, or even an assassination—but not this bloodying of the royal hands.
Still, he must not falter now. Imre believed himself to have been betrayed by Cathan; and he must continue to believe that, if Cathan’s death were to do Coel any good. He must plant the seeds of confirmation now, while Imre was still vulnerable. Besides, with the investigation proceeding on the activities of Joram MacRorie and Rhys Thuryn, perhaps soon he would not have to manufacture evidence.
“Come away, Sire,” he said gently. “There is nothing you can do. The past is past forever. You did as you must do.”
Imre sniffed noisily several times, shook his head from side to side. “He lied to me, Coel,” he whispered. “I gave him trust and love, and he returned betrayal.”
“Yet, even in that, you showed your love through mercy, Sire. Not every king would let a traitor die so well.”
“Not precisely traitor,” Imre breathed. “No, this was private treachery we settled. I could not let him face the ax for that.”
“Then, best to die the way he did, before ought else could be discovered, Sire,” Coel murmured, casting the new seed and hoping it would grow.
There was a short pause, and then Imre looked up at Coel in dull dismay.
“What?”
“I am sorry, Sire. There are indications that he may have been involved in something more. Pray, do not trouble yourself with it now. The man is dead.”
“What else?” Imre insisted. “I want to know.”
“I don’t know myself, exactly,” Coel said, feigning reluctance. “Something involving his family, his brother Joram and a Healer named Rhys Thuryn, probably his father as well. I have no certain proof as yet, only suspicions. But all of them bear watching. Shall I see to it?”
The king blinked and swallowed hard, his eyes glazed with his grief, then nodded once, curtly. He raised his arm as though to wipe his sleeve across his face, but there was blood on his hand and spattered down the fur cuff, as well as the great stain across his chest where he had held the dying Cathan close. He froze, as though seeing the blood for the first time, then looked up at Coel with eyes that were suddenly frightened, like a small, lost boy’s.
“My God, he’s dead. What will his father say?”
“What does it matter?” Coel replied archly. “Though you choose to view him otherwise, Camber MacRorie is a subject like any other. You need not justify your actions to him. Besides, he himself is suspect.”
“But—”
“So far as the outside world need know, Cathan MacRorie simply collapsed and died while speaking with his king before the opening of the Yule Court,” Coel said sternly, his eyes catching and holding Imre’s. “You are the king. Who will dare to gainsay you?”
“But, the wound—”
“If you do not acknowledge its existence, then it does not exist,” Coel said firmly. “Come, Sire.” He held out his hand. “The Court is waiting, and you must change your clothes. While you do that, I will make arrangements for the body to be returned to Caerrorie.”
Dazedly but compliantly, Imre gazed down once more at the still form of Cathan and touched his shoulder a final time in farewell. Then he sighed deeply and climbed to his feet.
But he did not take the hand which Coel offered, nor would he meet the older man’s eyes. And when Coel left the king in the hands of his dressers to wash and change, the nobleman was both thoughtful and uneasy. Coel’s words, as he penned his orders to the guards, were studied, cautious.
Half an hour later, armed with the orders he had written, Coel knocked on the door to Imre’s inner chambers and then opened it, not waiting for the servants to admit him.
A crash of breaking glass rang out in the next room, followed by the emergence of a red-faced squire who was trying to mop a purple stain off his white winter livery. Almost immediately, Imre could be heard calling for more wine. By the sound, he had already had more than was wise.
“My Liege,” Coel called, stepping cautiously into the sleeping room, “it’s getting very late.”
With a clatter of wooden rings, the curtain of a dressing alcove was pulled back to reveal a flushed and wild-eyed Imre clutching at the fabric with one bejewelled hand, a silver goblet in the other. Hair awry, he was wearing a court tunic of scarlet velvet, almost indecently short, which was richly encrusted across the front and at throat and wrists with threads of gold bullion.
Two body servants, clad in white velvet and fur as Imre had been earlier, were looking very uncomfortable, one of them holding Imre’s crown in nervous, gloved fingers, the other clutching an ivory comb. Beyond them, in the next room, Coel could see the ruin of what had been Imre’s dressing chamber, chests of clothes dumped in disarray, a mound of crimson-stained white velvet lying in a heap in the middle of the floor. It took little imagination to picture the royal mayhem which must have taken place once Imre was alone with his servants and had a copious amount of wine in his otherwise empty stomach.
The servant with the comb shifted uneasily and started to bring it toward his master’s head, then thought better of it and glanced warily at Coel.
“His Grace has decided to wear scarlet tonight, my lord,” he announced, his tone clearly indicating his disapproval and that he hoped for the older man’s support.
“Whatever His Grace wishes,” Coel replied. He sketched a short bow in Imre’s direction and tucked the parchment he was holding into his tunic. “Sire, your appearance will dazzle all the Court. However, if you will permit, I would be honored to assist you to finish dressing, so that these gentle lads can be about their other duties.”
Imre looked at him closely, swaying slightly on his feet, then stifled a slight, uncontrollable giggle. “Of course, my dear man. Send the louts away.”
Snatching the comb, he made an energetic attempt to tame his hair, nearly sloshing wine down the front of his new tunic with the vigor of his attack; then he stood meekly as Coel rescued the goblet and set it on a side table.
Coel ushered the servants to the door of the dressing chamber and gestured toward the bloodstained robe, mouthing the order to burn it, then closed the door behind them and returned to where Imre was cheerfully tangling his hair worse than it had been before. With a bow and a smile, Coel prised the comb out of Imre’s hand and began working the tangles out of the long chestnut locks. When he had finished, he turned away to pick up the crown which the squires had left, and returned his attention just in time to keep Imre from draining the goblet again.
Luckily, Imre was still at the pliable stage, so he did not resist when Coel took the cup from him. But God knew, the king had had enough to drink for a while. Whether Imre came out of the Great Hall under his own power was his own business; and if he had to be carried out, that would not be the first time. But he must at least be able to maneuver his way into the hall, or the Princess Ariella would be even more furious than she was certain to be at their late arrival. Coel put the cup out of reach and hoped that Imre would not make a scene. Imre, drunk, could be a very difficult young man.
But Imre did not resist. He let himself be drawn up to attention, and the crown put on his head, then stood still while Coel fastened the short, ermine-lined mantle over one shoulder, the fur contrasting vividly against the blood red of tunic, hose, and shoes. Only when they were heading for the door, Imre leaning heavily on his arm, di
d Coel remember the orders stuck inside his tunic. Abruptly, he turned the king around and marched him back to a writing desk, pulling the parchment out.
“Just one last thing, Sire,” he said, spreading the parchment on the writing table, “and then we’ll go into the hall and get you some more wine.”
As he dipped a quill in ink and extended it to Imre, the king’s eyes grew cold, like agate, and Coel suddenly realized that much, if not all, of the drunkenness was a façade.
“The orders concerning Camber?” Imre asked, enunciating each syllable with great care.
Coel nodded, an instant of uncertainty racing through his mind, though no trace of it showed on his face.
Imre studied him for a long moment, then snatched the pen from him and scrawled his name at the bottom of the page. Half in apprehension and half in amazement, Coel watched as Imre thrust the quill back into its holder, ruining the point in the process, and turned away. Imre had not even read the orders, had not glanced at the contents.
“Do you not wish to read it first, Sire?”
“No.”
Imre took a few steps away and bowed his head, and Coel looked down at the page, at the drying ink, at the words he himself had inscribed—innocuous, this time, at least—then decided to risk further inquiry.
“I could have written anything, you know, Sire. It could be death warrants for all of them.”
“Not even you would dare that,” Imre replied in a low voice, not looking back at him. “I have signed it; most men would take that as a sign of trust. Do you question the judgment of your king?”
Coel contained a smile, then picked up the parchment and inspected the signature—dry now—before creasing the orders sharply. “Certainly not, Sire. Do you wish to seal it, or shall I?”
“The seal is in the box,” Imre said softly. “Once, it was his province. Now it is yours, to tell of his foul murder.”
“His sad demise, Sire,” Coel corrected, in a similar tone but with growing confidence. “Unfortunate”—he paused for emphasis, plucking the seal from its box—“but necessary.”
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