“I don’t know,” the archbishop replied, though his tone sounded doubtful. “On the other hand, Joram is a Michaeline, and they have long been agitators.”
“Agitators, yes,” Robert Oriss snorted. “But, against a fellow priest? I see no political issue in a man like Brother Benedict.”
“Nor do I,” the archbishop sighed. “But there is a political issue surrounding the MacRories. You’ve heard the rumors about Cathan MacRorie’s death, haven’t you?”
Robert had not.
“Well, there is now some talk that young Cathan did not simply die—that he was killed, some say by the king’s own hand. If true, it could explain Imre’s erratic behavior at his Yule Court feast. And it certainly gives Joram, or Camber, or Rhys a motive for political retaliation of some kind.” He frowned. “But not against a cloistered monk. I’ll confess, I haven’t any answers, Robert. Have you?”
The vicar general had none.
After another silent period, the archbishop stood and slowly walked to the window, laying his hands wearily along the wide casement edging. Outside, the snow was falling.
“Leave us, please, Robert,” the archbishop finally said in a low voice.
The vicar general, noting the lapse into the formal “we,” stood at once and bowed, backing silently out the door and closing it behind him. The archbishop, when he had gone, returned to his chair and sat down, touched the discarded letter briefly, folded his arms on the table, and lowered his head to pray.
Though he had not indicated so to Robert Oriss, Archbishop Anscom knew who had accompanied Rhys Thuryn to Saint Foillan’s, and was now implicated in an abduction. He and the “monk” had studied for the priesthood together at Grecotha and had shared a thousand moments of the joys and sorrows of the world.
For “Brother Kyriell” was the name which had been used in religion by Camber of Culdi.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
There is one alone, and there is not a second; yea, he hath neither child nor brother; yet is there no end to all his labour; neither is his eye satisfied with riches.
—Ecclesiastes 4:8
Whatever Anscom’s personal feelings about the MacRories, and about Camber MacRorie in particular, the good archbishop was also a servant of the Crown; and duty dictated that, even though the abduction of a monk was an ecclesiastical matter, it must be reported to the king.
Anscom did delete the physical description of Brother Kyriell; let Imre figure out who the mysterious monk was. In the meantime, perhaps Anscom could contact Camber and find out what was going on. For Camber to reassume his old religious name as a subterfuge was very much out of character for the Camber Anscom knew. Perhaps Camber was trying to tell him something; or perhaps there was another Brother Kyriell, and it was all coincidence—though Anscom tended to mistrust coincidence. Whatever the explanation, Anscom wanted to know.
Accordingly, the archbishop’s missive went through regular channels; no sense in giving the king a head start, if Camber was involved.
And so, in due course, it was delivered, not to the king but to Earl Santare, named but the week before to head the investigation of the apparent MacRorie conspiracy. Coel Howell had made it his practice in the past week to shadow Santare and be as helpful as possible, even to the extent of sharing with Santare some of the intelligence he had gathered on his own; and thus he was also present when the missive arrived. But even before they received the new information, their combined resources had already turned up some interesting coincidences—or were they coincidences?
They had known for some time, for example, that Daniel Draper, one of the men named in the documents stolen by Joram, had died of natural causes but a scant two months ago—and that he had been attended on his deathbed by none other than Lord Rhys Thuryn.
But further inquiry, in Thuryn’s household and surrounds, had revealed that the same Rhys Thuryn, on the evening after the old man’s death, had taken horse and ridden out of the city. Though his servants insisted that he had but gone to Caerrorie for Michaelmas, the brethren of Saint Liam’s Monastery School—where Father Joram MacRorie was currently assigned—claimed that Thuryn and Father Joram had ridden off in great haste the same day, and in driving rain, in the direction of Saint Jarlath’s Monastery.
Curious.
And as if that were not enough, the monks of Saint Jarlath’s told how the two had inveigled permission, in the dead of night, to consult the abbey’s induction records. The crowning touch to the entire piece of work was the statement of one Gregory of Arden, Abbot of Saint Jarlath’s, who remembered the two saying that they were looking for a Brother Benedict whose grandfather had died recently in Valoret. Coel’s scribes were compiling a list of Brothers Benedict in the order even now. It was just possible that they were on the verge of locating the missing Nicholas Draper.
Coel and Santare were together with a couple of Santare’s aides when the archbishop’s messenger arrived, and it fell to Coel to receive the letter and break the seal. His feet propped comfortably on the edge of the raised hearth, a tankard of ale at his elbow, Coel read impassively until he had come almost to the end, the silence broken only by the crackle of the fire. Then he started and sat up abruptly, swinging his feet under him in astonishment.
“S’blood! Would you look at this?” He shoved the parchment under the earl’s nose. “You wanted to know what Joram MacRorie and Thuryn were doing? Well, I can tell you about Thuryn. And I’ll bet that this Brother Kyriell was MacRorie! What do you want to bet that this Brother Benedict and our Nicholas Draper are one and the same person?”
Santare pulled the missive before him and scanned it briefly. When he had finished, he leaned back in his chair and hooked thumbs in his ample belt, nodding slowly.
“No wonder we couldn’t find Draper. He’s been holed up in a monastery all these years. They must’ve traced him through the records at Saint Jarlath’s, the same way we were trying to trace Benedict. And yet …”
The earl got to his feet and began pacing, his boots stirring the rushes beneath them. Coel watched him, hawk-like, scarcely able to contain his impatience.
“You know, that’s odd,” Santare continued, after several circuits of the room. “According to the archbishop’s report, they went to Saint Foillan’s for the first time a good month ago, but they didn’t do anything. It’s as though they weren’t sure he was the right one. The question is, the right one what? Why all this interest in a simple monk from a family of merchants?”
One of the aides cleared his throat hesitantly. “There—ah—have been the rumors of the Haldane, m’lord. You’ve seen the handbills that are starting to appear.”
“Willimite speculation and wishful thinking!” Coel snapped. “That may be what they’re trying to imply, but it simply won’t work.”
“But, Thuryn did steal the painting of Ifor Haldane, sir,” the second aide volunteered. “He must have had a reason.”
“It’s a fraud. It has to be!” Coel insisted. “No Haldane survived the Coup. Everyone knows that.”
“But if one had, wouldn’t this be a bloody good time for him to turn up?” Santare said, motioning the aides to leave them.
Coel sat back and planted a booted foot on the edge of the hearth in disgust as the door closed behind the aides. “Yes, it would,” he agreed grudgingly. “But, it doesn’t make sense. This whole thing doesn’t make sense. What is a Haldane to the MacRories? They’re Deryni, the same as you and I. Certainly, Camber has no reason to love the king, especially after the way Cathan died; but, damn it, they’re all Deryni! He can’t seriously mean to replace Imre with a human king of the old line—or worse, one who only says he’s of the old line. Where’s their proof? And where is Camber?”
“I don’t know,” Santare shrugged. “We’ve questioned the servants and peasants at Caerrorie, of course—”
“And learned nothing! Santare, I find it difficult to believe that skilled inquisitors were unable to extract even one jot of information about Camber’s plans
or motivations. If it were up to me—”
“If it were up to you, I have no doubt that half of Camber’s servants would now be swinging at the ends of ropes, the way those peasants ended up in October—for not divulging information which they did not have,” Santare said pointedly. “Don’t you think that a Deryni as powerful as Camber could manage to keep his plans secure from a few human servants, if he wanted to—and be certain that no one could get that information out of them?”
“But, he’s got to be somewhere!”
Further argument was curtailed by the explosive entrance of a very out-of-breath young squire in Imre’s personal colors. A look of relief crossed the lad’s face as he swept off his cap and bowed.
“My lords, the King’s Grace commands your presence in his chambers at once. He—” The boy paused to gulp another breath. “He is most distraught, my lords. It would do well not to tarry.”
As one, Coel and Santare bolted for the door.
“Miserable, ungrateful, misbegotten whoresons!” Imre was screaming, as Coel and Santare were admitted to his chamber. “Lying, deceitful—Coel! Do you know what they’ve done? Can you conceive—”
“What who has done, Your Grace?” Coel interjected, bowing cautiously.
“The Michaelines! Filthy, two-faced, double-crossing, treacherous—”
“Sire! What have they done?”
Imre glared at him, wild-eyed, then flung his hands into the air and flounced into a chair. “They’ve disappeared—every last treasonous one of them! They took their treasury, their altar plate—everything! They’re just—gone!”
“Gone …” Santare breathed.
His reaction was lost on Imre, who lurched to his feet and immediately launched into a new stream of invective, proclaiming fluent and obscene descriptions of the base birth and gross physical habits of the order in question. Santare, awed and more than a little apprehensive, tried to discern a motive, forcing himself to begin planning for the safety of the realm.
Such action by an order as wealthy and powerful as the Michaelines, coupled with the evidence of a MacRorie conspiracy, pointed to only one thing: there was a plot brewing to attempt the overthrow of Imre and replace him with an alleged Haldane heir. And if the Michaelines were involved, then they must be well convinced that this heir was a true Haldane, and that they looked for at least a reasonable chance of success in their endeavor. Even now, the Michaeline knights must be gathering somewhere, preparing to make their move. By removing their noncombatant members to places of safety, they had rendered themselves invulnerable to reprisal. Why, the Michaelines could be anywhere!
Coel, too, was not blind to the ramifications of the Michaeline disappearance, though his thoughts, as the king raged on, were of a more personal and immediately sobering bent. He had thought himself so clever. Why, he had not been clever at all! All of his planning, his merciless engineering of Cathan’s apparent betrayal, the assassination of Maldred, Cathan’s own murder—all of these had been unwittingly aiding a real conspiracy. He had seen himself as architect of a new power base in Gwynedd, not dreaming of the real enormity of the greater plan. He was but a pawn in a game whose magnitude he was only now beginning to comprehend. And now he could envision himself being swept along in that game, impelled by forces which he, himself, had helped to focus. Would he eventually be a sacrifice for his own king?
“I’ll show them!” Imre was shouting, as Coel’s attention snapped back to the immediate crisis. “They’ll be sorry they dared to defy me!”
Still cursing under his breath, Imre flung himself into the chair behind his writing desk and began scribbling furiously, muttering all the while as Coel and Santare exchanged stunned glances. At length, the king sanded the ink, sealed the foot of the page with his personal signet, and stood, flourishing it under Santare’s nose with a malicious smirk contorting his face.
“You will see to the execution of these commands immediately, Santare.”
“Sire?”
“Go ahead, take it!” Imre said, shaking the page impatiently. “The Michaelines dare to oppose me? They think to replace me with another king? Well, we’ll see! The present king intends to make things very uncomfortable. See to it!” he barked.
Santare bowed his head, not daring to look at the page he now held in his hand.
“Aye, My Liege.”
“And if, in the process, you should happen to run any stray Michaelines to ground,” Imre added, “I want them brought to me immediately. Do you understand? Regardless of the hour. I want to question each one of them personally, before he’s executed as a traitor!”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Then get out! Both of you!”
Outside, Santare exhaled in relief—the first real breathing he had allowed himself since entering the king’s presence—then unrolled the parchment, turning away pointedly when Coel made as though to read over his shoulder. The earl scanned the document slowly, meticulously, as Coel fidgeted in impatience; then he handed it over, as Coel had known he would.
Imre, by the Grace of God, etc., to all leal subjects of Our Realm, greeting.
Know that We have this day been most grievously and treacherously betrayed by members of the Order of Saint Michael, which Order We do dissolve, disband, and abolish. We declare its former brethren outlaw, its goods and lands forfeit to the Crown. We include in this ban all those bearing the name MacRorie: especially Camber, the former Earl of Culdi; Joram MacRorie, a priest of the Michaeline Order; and the Healer known as Rhys Thuryn.
To Our well-beloved Santare, Earl of Grand-Tellie, we give command to proceed to the Michaeline Commanderie at Cheltham with a royal force and take into custody all persons residing there. The establishment shall be sacked and burned, its buildings levelled, its lands sown with salt, this to be accomplished no later than the Feast of Saint Olympias, one week hence. An additional Michaeline establishment shall be dealt with in this manner each week, until the Vicar General of the Order shall present himself before Us on bended knee and surrender both his Order and all members of Clan MacRorie, severally and collectively. Reward is offered for the capture of any and all …
There was more, but even Coel had no stomach for it.
“Per intercessionem beati Michaëlis Archangeli, stantis a dextris altari incensi …”
The words of the liturgy floated fervent and a little desperate on the incense-laden air, barely audible in the listening gallery where Camber MacRorie waited. The celebrant was Cinhil Haldane, thurible in hand, a deacon following behind to lift the edge of his chasuble as he circled and censed the altar. Camber observed in silence as priest-prince and monk completed their circuit and incensed one another again, watching as the deacon put the incense aside and then poured water over Cinhil’s fingertips into a small earthen bowl.
“Lavabo inter innocentes manus meas …”
He had not talked with Cinhil yet today—in fact, had not seen the prince since the previous afternoon, just prior to his last discussion with Alister Cullen. But he had not been heartened by their progress to date. Though Cinhil had been with them for nearly two weeks now, they still had not been able to win him to their cause.
Physically, Cinhil was docile enough. He went where he was told and did as he was bidden. He read the writings they brought him, answered dutifully when questioned on what he had read—even, on occasion, showed sparks of genuine insight into the problems of this land he was but now coming to know about. But he volunteered no word or action and did his best to show no sign of interest or caring about the position for which he was being groomed at such great cost.
It was not resistance as such. That they could have coped with, with force, if necessary. It was an almost studied apathy; an immersion, to the exclusion of nearly all outside influence, in the world he had chosen as a very young man over twenty years before. He tolerated his present situation because he must; but he would allow no inkling of human feeling for his denied birthright to intrude upon his conscience and the world in which
he had lived for the past score of years. So long as they permitted him to celebrate Mass daily, he was reluctantly compliant.
Except that this morning, for the first time since his arrival, he was showing signs of human apprehension, almost despair. Camber suspected he knew the reason why.
Footsteps warned of the approach of another in the passageway behind him, and then Alister Cullen was slipping into the gallery to join him. Nodding greeting, Camber stepped aside to let the Michaeline general peer down into the chapel. Cullen’s demeanor betrayed nothing.
“Orate fratres,” Cinhil prayed, his arms spread in desperate supplication, “ut meum ac vestrum sacrificium acceptabile fiat apud Deum Patrem omnipotentem.”
Camber glanced at Cullen carefully. “I assume you’ve told him?”
Cullen sighed and nodded once, wearily, then gestured with his chin that they should go outside. By the brighter torchlight in the outer corridor, Camber could read the concern which had not been evident in the dim listening gallery. He suspected that Cullen was suffering from more than lack of sleep.
“I spoke with him last night for a long time,” Cullen said.
“I surmised as much. And?”
Cullen shook his head in frustration. “I really don’t know. I think I’ve finally convinced him that he really will have to give up his priesthood, but he’s scared witless.”
“So was I …” Camber mused, almost without thinking. Then, realizing that Cullen might not understand, he continued. “Of course, I didn’t give up mine for a crown—only for the promise of an earldom, after my older brothers died. Nor had I actually been ordained—I was only a deacon. But I recall the anguish, the soul-searching. I thought at the time that I had a real vocation as a priest.”
“You would have been wasted on the Church, and you know it,” Cullen growled, admiration tinging his voice despite the actual words.
“Perhaps—though I think I could have been a good priest. On the other hand, I like to think I’ve been privileged to do important work in the outside world. And of course, if I’d ignored my family obligations and gone your way”—he chanced a sidelong glance at Cullen and controlled the urge to smile—“there’d have been no Joram, and probably no Prince Cinhil, here and now, causing us our present dilemma. What, besides his understandable apprehension, seems to be the problem?”
Camber of Culdi Page 22
