Camber the Heretic

by Katherine Kurtz

  The men drew their swords and stood their ground, darker shadows against the indistinct grey blur of the hoof-churned mud beyond. At the side of the road, in the shelter of a winter-bare tree, a youngish man in once-fine riding garb was attempting to comfort a weeping young woman. The woman’s fair hair was uncovered and coming unbound, and she clutched two muddy handfuls of clothing and cloak to her breast as she wept in her comforter’s arms. An older man in tonsure and clerical attire, also muddy, looked on helplessly and wrung his hands.

  “Hold where you are!” one of the retainers shouted, brandishing his sword and pushing his way to the front of his men. “If you’ve come back to molest her ladyship again, you’ll have to kill us this time!”

  Immediately, Camber backed his horse a few steps and raised his empty right hand to show he was not armed, at the same time parting his cloak so his collar and cross could be seen.

  “We mean you no harm,” he called, trying to make out the men’s badges of service in the dim light. “I am Alister Cullen, Bishop of Grecotha. Were you set upon by the men who just rode off yonder?” He gestured back the way they had come.

  “Cullen?” their lord exclaimed, thrusting his lady roughly into the protection of the cleric before heading toward them, hand on sword hilt. “Hell and damnation, it’s another Deryni! Haven’t you hooligans done enough? Just wait until I tell my brother what has happened!”

  As the men shuffled aside to let their lord stalk through their midst, Camber glanced back at Joram, caught the slight shake of his head.

  “I’m sorry, my lord, I don’t believe I know you. You are—?”

  “Manfred, Baron of Marlor. My brother is Bishop Hubert MacInnis—and when he finds out what has happened here, there’ll be hell to pay, believe me!”

  “I quite agree, my lord,” Camber replied, cutting off Manfred’s tirade smoothly, though he hardly raised his voice. “I am no more pleased by what has happened than you are, and was on my way even now to report the incident to the abbot at Dolban. We, too, were set upon by—”

  “D’you think I care a whit for your problems?” Manfred interrupted. “As for your precious abbot—I hardly expect justice from the Deryni leader of a cult which venerates a Deryni saint!”

  “The abbot, besides his religious and Healing vows, is the king’s sworn man in temporal matters,” Camber replied a trifle haughtily, despite his intention to forbear and not further offend the brother of Hubert MacInnis. “I am certain that Abbot Queron will render you and yours the same justice which is due any loyal subject of the Crown of Gwynedd. That your attackers should have been Deryni only makes me doubly anxious to see them brought to justice. My lady Baroness?” He turned his attention deliberately from the baron and guided his horse forward slowly, its feet making sucking noises as it picked its way through the mud.

  “My lady, I am most sorry for what has happened. I would not remind you of what must have been a terrible ordeal, but may I inquire more specifically what was done against you?”

  The lady, who had frozen at Camber’s direct address, only resumed her nearly hysterical weeping. The cleric held her close and stroked her disheveled hair as if she were a distraught child, finally raising his eyes uneasily to Camber’s.

  “They—were not gentle with her, Your Grace,” the man said haltingly, “but neither did they—use her. They—tore her garments and—threw her to the ground. But then they let her go,” he added, almost puzzled. “It was a taunting sort of play, as if they meant no real harm, but only sport—”

  “Sport!” The very thought set off Baron Manfred again, as he slogged his way back toward the pair and Camber. “Nay, priest, do not side with them and call it sport! They have offered grave insult to me and to my wife. For that, they shall pay!”

  “And so they shall, my lord,” Camber soothed, “and I shall inform the appropriate authorities immediately. I take it that your horses were run off?”

  “Do you see any horses besides your own, you fool?” Manfred raged, his hand clenching white-knuckled on the hilt of his sword. “We are stranded here afoot, and it’s getting dark, and likely to storm, and you prattle on of—”

  “I shall have horses sent from the abbey as soon as possible, and an escort to see you safely to your destination,” Camber said smoothly, gesturing for his men to come closer. “In the meantime, I shall leave you two of my men and four of the horses. Guthrie, you and Caleb stay with his lordship until the abbot’s men arrive, then join us. Torin and Llew, leave your horses for now and ride double with Joram and me. It’s only a short way to Dolban.”

  The moon was just rising above the frosty trees when they came within sight of the abbey gates. Torchlight illuminated several cowled figures walking guard duty above the gatehouse, and the brands flickered and spat in the light mist which had begun to descend.

  Externally, the complex had changed little in the years since Queron Kinevan and the zealous Guaire of Arliss had bought the then rundown fortified manor and begun its restoration—though, according to reports, the inside no longer bore any resemblance to the modest manor house originally built there.

  Neither Camber nor Joram had ever set foot inside the walls, nor had ever wished to, but it was obvious from Llew’s hoot of recognition behind Joram, and a monk’s answering wave from the gatehouse, that he, at least, had been here numerous times and was well known. Even though it was nearly full dark, the gates were opened promptly at the sight of the two double-mounted horses. By the time they had drawn rein in the courtyard and dismounted, it was clear that Camber and Joram had been recognized, too. Grey-clad men and women were gathering on the steps of the chapel which fronted the yard, even as several of their brethren took the horses away toward the stables.

  Camber fidgeted a little as he drew his cloak more closely around him, wondering whether he had made a mistake in coming here. He had not realized his own household was so rife with the cult of Camber, and he knew himself to be on unfamiliar ground. He dismissed his men to go on to the shrine, then stiffened as a small, wiry man in grey robes eased his way through the waiting brothers and sisters and approached them. His face was guarded, a little anxious to one who knew how to read it, but his manner was brisk and efficient. It was plain that he still was not intimidated by either the Bishop of Grecotha or the son of Saint Camber.

  “Bishop Cullen, Father MacRorie, we are honored by your visit.” He bent one knee to kiss the episcopal ring on Camber’s hand, then nodded formally to Joram. “Brother Micah said you rode in mounted double. Is anything wrong? Is it the king?”

  The familiar Gabrilite braid was longer by a handspan than it had been eleven years before, and streaked with grey, where once it had been a rich, reddish brown; but aside from that, Queron Kinevan did not seem to have aged appreciably. The bright eyes still looked out with as much intensity as they had that week in Valoret when Queron and his Order had first brought their petition before the Synod of Bishops.

  “Nay, the king was fine when last we saw him late this morning, Dom Queron,” he replied, trying to keep his tone as neutral and matter-of-fact as Queron’s. “There was some trouble on the road, however, both to ourselves and to another party which we encountered later. We left two of my men plus the extra horses with them until you can send assistance. You are responsible for patrol of the royal road in this area, are you not?”

  “By day, yes, Your Grace. But no one has charge of the roads by night, especially in winter. What trouble did you encounter?”

  With a hitch at his sword belt, Joram gestured back toward the closed gate.

  “A band of young Deryni nobles—younger sons, by the feel of the situation, sir. Perhaps ten or fifteen of them, all looking for trouble. They took us for human at first, and thought to harass us, until they recognized His Grace.”

  Queron clucked his tongue and slowly shook his head. “A sorry business. I do apologize, Father. And to you, especially, Your Grace. What of the other party you mentioned?”

  “Baron Ma
nfred, the brother of Bishop MacInnis, his wife and chaplain, and about ten or twelve retainers,” Camber replied. “All angry but unharmed, and horseless now. I told them you’d bring fresh mounts and escort them to their destination.” He sighed. “I hardly think I need warn you how MacInnis is going to react, when he learns of this.”

  “Indeed, not. Excuse me a moment, please.”

  At Camber’s nod, Queron turned away from them and conferred briefly with a number of his monks, several of whom disappeared immediately in the direction of the stables. After some further discussion with more of them, Queron returned to Camber and bowed again. The second group of monks went to meet the first, who had returned with horses and weapons from the stables.

  “The baron and his party will be rescued immediately, and some of our brothers will drive off the marauders, if they are still in the vicinity, Your Grace. I am told that this kind of incident is becoming far too frequent on the roads around the capital. I regret that our kind are being driven to such acts.”

  “I regret it, too, Dom Queron.”

  “As you say.” Queron sighed. “But, no matter. It will be taken care of, you may rest assured. In the meantime, you will stay long enough to see our shrine, will you not?” He glanced back and forth searchingly between Camber and Joram. “Father MacRorie, I especially understand your reluctance to come here before now, but ours is a shrine of the Blessed Sacrament, as well as of your sainted father, you know. Besides, the rest of your escort will not return for some little while. Surely you will not leave without paying your respects.”

  Though Camber had, for a moment, considered doing that very thing, he heard Joram’s minute sigh of resignation and knew that he, too, realized they dared not. This time they must play out the charade or else risk offending Queron and the many Camberian brothers and sisters waiting expectantly in the background. As Bishop of Grecotha, Camber could not refuse to visit any shrine unless there were very pressing reasons. Alister Cullen would never have considered such neglect of duty.

  “Very well, then, Dom Queron,” Camber said quietly. “We may not stay long, for we have pressing business with the king, but we shall pay our respects. One favor I would ask, for Joram’s sake. May we have some privacy inside the shrine?”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Queron replied with a bow, turning to make a hand signal to one of his monks. Then he looked long and compassionately at the younger priest.

  “Poor Joram,” he murmured. “After all these years, you still cannot accept his sanctity, can you?”

  With difficulty, Joram swallowed, would not meet Queron’s Healer’s gaze, and Camber knew he was remembering how he had been forced to face Queron’s questioning in another time and place, when the legend of Saint Camber had yet to be proven.

  “It is very difficult to be the son of a saint, Dom Queron. If only you knew how difficult.”

  “But—”

  “Please, Dom Queron,” Camber interjected, sensing a long, involved disputation if he did not get Queron and Joram separated. He laid a comforting arm around Joram’s shoulders and urged him toward the doors. “I’ll—see your people when we come out, and give them my blessing then.” That was the Alister part of him talking.

  “For now, though, let’s go inside, son,” he said, drawing Joram toward the plain, metal-studded doors.

  Very soon they were alone, standing quietly at the rear of the nave with their backs against the doors and their nostrils filled with warm air and the familiar scent of incense. Camber heard a door close at the far end of the church and surmised that it marked the exit of his guards.

  For an instant, it was all deceptively familiar. Camber did not know what he had been expecting. He certainly was not prepared for the sight which met his eyes. He supposed he had anticipated the usual overdone treatment which was so often afforded a saint’s principal shrine, gaudy and grandiose in taste, cluttered with candles and statues and other over-pious accoutrements. This place was not.

  For beginnings, the chapel had a somewhat nonstandard layout, perhaps because of its manorial origins. The nave was the usual long and narrow basilica plan, with a double colonnade running its length and dividing off a clerestory aisle to either side, like any proper church; but there was no southern transept. The southern wall, set against the former outside wall of the manor’s living quarters, was windowless and mostly blank, except for a mosaic design of red and gold surrounding each of the fourteen Stations of the Cross.

  The northern wall was quite another story. Several side altars and chapels had been built into that wall, and there was a transept. As Camber and Joram began walking slowly down the left clerestory aisle, they passed a circular baptistry done in mosaic of reeds and doves and flames, a delicate Lady Chapel of gold and lapis and, in the transept, an altar dedicated to the four great Archangels, colored lamps burning at the quarters to signify the angelic protection.

  At the end of the nave, in the sanctuary, was the altar guarded by Saint Camber, the vaguely lit statue of the saint standing to the left of a simple but spacious altar and retable of rose-marble. The statue of the chapel’s patron saint loomed larger than life, carved in a pale grey stone which gleamed almost silver in the light of a thick candle at its feet, arms upstretched to support a jewelled replica of Gwynedd’s crown of intertwined crosses and leaves. The pale tones contrasted subtly with the delicate rose of the altar itself, and paler pink marble veined in smoky grey faced the walls of the sanctuary and formed the altar rail, the color heightened by the glow of the red-shielded Presence Lamp which burned at the right of the altar. The Monstrance on the altar below the Rood Cross glowed like a ruddy sun in the wash of rose light.

  Camber let out a low sigh as he and Joram came up to the gates of the altar rail, doggedly fixing his attention on the Monstrance and its sacred Host as he sank to his knees and signed himself with an automatic gesture. Keeping his mind to his customary set of prayers before the Sacred Presence, he closed his eyes and shut out the sight of the statue, willed a little of the serenity he derived therefrom to flow into his son, kneeling at his left elbow.

  But when the prayers were finished, he had no choice but to open his eyes and look up at the figure which the world now knew as Saint Camber. His annoyance at the idealization they had made of him was overshadowed, as it had been before, by the enormity of the lie he had been living.

  What colossal conceit to have allowed it to continue! True, he had not yet been struck down by lightning or otherwise shown the measure of Heaven’s wrath; but he could not, in conscience, believe that there would not be a price to pay for what he had done.

  His intentions, of course, had always been as pure as he could conceive. So far, though the fight was far from over, he and his children had managed fairly well to keep alive the ideals they had hoped to preserve from the beginning, by placing Cinhil on the throne of Gwynedd.

  There had been setbacks, to be sure, not the least of which had been Alister’s untimely death in battle with Ariella. And the human lords who had flocked to Court in the wake of Cinhil’s restoration had gained far more influence than Camber and his kin had hoped they would.

  But to balance that was the closeness of Cinhil and Camber, which had endured for nearly fifteen years now, though of course Cinhil did not know that it was Camber and not Alister with whom he had dealt so intimately and on so regular a basis for the past twelve. That, alone, had been worth the price Camber had had to pay, if all the factors be totaled.

  That price, of course, was another story altogether. Though the world had accepted him as Alister Cullen, Bishop of Grecotha and Chancellor of Gwynedd, Camber knew that this part of his life was a sham. True, he had legitimated his raising to the episcopate, by being properly ordained a priest before allowing the late Archbishop Anscom to consecrate him bishop. And he had never offended the letter of canon law—though he had bent it—and the spirit of that law had doubtless been broken times too numerous to count.

  What distressed him most, on th
ose rare occasions when he permitted himself to think about it, was that he had been forced to stand by and witness the travesty of his own canonization, powerless to object any more strongly than he had, lest he lose all for which he and his had fought.

  And what of those who believed in Saint Camber? In some ways, that bothered Camber even more than the obvious accounting he would have to make concerning the Alister-Camber impersonation. For the people, both human and Deryni, believed in Saint Camber, ascribed miracles to his intercession, venerated his image and his memory in scores of shrines and chapels across the land, that he might act in their behalf.

  For the thousandth time, he asked himself whether faith alone was sufficient to account for the miracles—for, as Deryni, he was well aware how important mere belief could be in effecting cures, in helping cause things to happen. For many, belief in Saint Camber seemed to bring comfort and assistance. Who was Camber to say that such belief was not valid, if it produced results?

  Suppressing a sigh, he glanced aside at Joram and was surprised to see his son gazing up raptly at the statue. Joram had been against the impersonation from the start, though he had reluctantly agreed to help, when there seemed no other choice. Through all these long years, he had stood by his father, regardless of the shape he wore, and defended both Alister and his father’s name against all attack.

  Camber wondered how the shrine was affecting Joram—the statue, the chamber, and what they all evoked now, for so many people. And in that moment, Joram turned his head and looked him full in the face, reaching out with his mind and willingly opening to his father’s probe. As minds leaped the boundaries of usual sensation, they knew one another’s most secret thoughts of Camber and of sainthood, and they plunged into even more profound communication.

  But there was none of the old bitterness in Joram’s mind now, that combination of fear and outrage which had for so long ruled his inner balance. Something had finally enabled Joram to accept the inevitability of the situation, to forgive the dogged determination which had moved the man who knelt now beside him.