Camber the Heretic

by Katherine Kurtz

  The boys’ day began early. Alroy and his brothers were roused for morning prayers and baths—but not breakfast—and then separated so that Alroy might be drilled a final time for his part in the ceremony. While the royal dressers clad him in his coronation robes of white and gold, the boy was made to rehearse his lines to the exacting satisfaction of Bishop Hubert, who had been tutoring all three children exhaustively for the past month.

  Alroy was pensive but letter-perfect as he repeated the words he had been taught. Too pensive, as Hubert later complained to his fellow regents. The boy had actually asked the bishop whether he thought that Alroy would make a good and wise king. Hubert, of course, had assured him that he would, especially if he heeded the advice of his counselors, but the bishop was not pleased; it would not do for the boy to get the idea that he really was king, so long as the regents ruled.

  The coronation procession left the castleyard precisely at Terce, led by a troop of household guards in the livery of Gwynedd and then by every peer of the realm who had managed to get to Valoret for the occasion—nearly fifty in all, human and Deryni, though of the latter there were far fewer than Camber had hoped. Davin, Earl of Culdi, rode among them, with Ansel at his side; a tense Earl Gregory rode with his sons; and Baron Torcuill de la Marche, who had just returned from his eastern estates and looked as if he wished he were back there.

  But most of the rest were human, Camber noticed, as the procession neared the cathedral steps where he and Jaffray and Bishop Hubert waited. Many of the most powerful and influential Deryni of the kingdom simply had not come!

  With a sinking feeling in his heart, Camber shifted the heavy fabric of the cope on his shoulders—the vestments Cinhil had given him so many years before—and watched the first of the procession begin to dismount and file into the cathedral. Some of the absences he could have predicted; and some of those not in the procession were already inside, like Rhys and Evaine. But this poor a showing had been quite unforeseen—almost a slap in the face to the regents by those of his race. He prayed fervently that the regents would be too occupied to notice the slight, but he knew the prayer to be but wishful thinking. The regents would notice. Even if Murdoch did not, Tammaron or Rhun would. Or Hubert.

  He glanced sidelong at the corpulent Hubert standing opposite Jaffray and saw that the bishop-regent had already noticed. The tiny rosebud lips were set in a petulant pout of disapproval, and occasionally the cherubic face would turn slightly to dictate a few terse words to a clark lurking by his right elbow. The page on which the man wrote was dark down nearly half its length.

  Joram, what is that man writing? Camber sent mentally to his son, who was standing just behind him and Jaffray, and in a much better position to see.

  Names, Joram’s mind whispered in Camber’s. He’s making a list of those in the procession. What do you want to bet that there’s someone inside, too, taking notes on those already seated?

  No bet, Camber responded. Are Evaine and Rhys in their places?

  Yes.

  Thank God for that, Camber thought to himself. Go inside and see. If the regents are making lists, then we’d better do the same, so we can warn those who didn’t show up. I can understand their distaste, but in this case, I can’t help wishing they’d been a little less principled.

  Dom Emrys is inside with the Gabrilites, Joram returned. Shall I ask him to make note? He won’t have to write it down, and I can reach him without arousing suspicion.

  Camber nodded, recalling that the Abbot of the Gabrilites had a perfect memory. Then he gestured for Joram to bend closer.

  “Joram, would you please bring me some water?” he asked, for the benefit of any listening ears. “An old man like me shouldn’t be expected to last through a long ceremony like this, without refreshment.”

  “Right away, Your Grace,” Joram replied with a bow, his face solemnly belying his momentary amusement.

  As he backed off, to merge with the peers filing inside, the first of the royal party entered the cathedral close, to the accompaniment of a trumpet fanfare and a roll of drums. First came the king’s brothers on matched chestnuts, led by Earls Hrorik and Sighere, crimson-clad and wearing silver princes’ circlets on their heads. Behind them, Ewan bore the great sword of Gwynedd, which had been Cinhil’s, and Murdoch the royal banner.

  Finally came the king, bareheaded and looking very young and vulnerable as he sat his tall, albino stallion. Earl Tammaron, the new chancellor, led the boy’s mount, curbing the animal’s proud prancing with a white leather lead that shone in the sunlight. Rhun of Horthness walked on the other side of the king’s horse with one hand on the bridle, hardly able to keep the sneer of triumph off his angular face.

  The sunlight glittered almost as brightly from the jewelled surcoats and coronets of the regents as it did from the king’s town royal robes, and flashed from chains of gold, silver spurs, and raiment stiff with embroidery such as no mere subject had worn in decades—only kings and clergy.

  As the king’s robes were adjusted a final time and his long white mantle arranged to trail gracefully behind him, four earls’ sons stepped into place with the canopy of cloth-of-gold, shading the boy from the bright spring sun. As the cathedral doors were thrown open a final time to admit the royal party, the choir of the Ordo Verbi Dei broke into the traditional strains of the coronation hymn:

  “I was glad when they said unto me, let us go into the house of the Lord!”

  The coronation party began to move down the nave: first the choir monks in their burgundy habits, singing as they processed; then a full dozen altar boys in hooded white robes, scarlet-sashed, each bearing a taper in a bright-reflecting silver holder.

  A lone thurifer came next in the procession, his censer spewing a cloud of sweet incense smoke which hung in the air where he passed and through which the ornate processional cross of the Primate of Gwynedd seemed to float almost unsupported by the young deacon who bore it. Archbishop Jaffray followed the cross, accompanied by his chaplain and a second deacon, and behind him walked Archbishop Oriss of Rhemuth and his attendants. Both archbishops wore heavy copes of white and gold, stiff with embroidery and appliqué; and the jewel-encrusted miters of their offices, rich as any crowns, carried the carved and gilded croziers which proclaimed them shepherds of their flocks.

  The king’s portion of the procession came next, with Camber and Hubert walking to the left and right of Alroy, just under the canopy of cloth-of-gold which the four earls’ sons carried. The rubric had called for Alroy to rest his hands on the inside hands of his escorting bishops, but at the last minute the boy had refused to go along with that part of the ceremony, complaining that their hands were too high, and his arms would get too tired. Camber suspected that the true reason was that Alroy simply had not known whom he might trust, so had decided to trust none of them.

  Now the boy walked quietly between them—but not touching them or allowing himself to be touched, head held high and chin set firmly in a pose which Camber had seen many times on the boy’s father and had learned not to argue with. Perhaps Alroy had a mind of his own, after all.

  More bishops followed the king and his canopy, and then Father Alfred, the boys’ confessor. After him came the four lay regents bearing the regalia: Ewan with the sheathed great sword; Murdoch now bearing the scepter instead of the banner he had carried in the procession to the cathedral; Rhun with the Ring of Fire on a small silver salver; and Tammaron carrying the scaled-down replica of the Gwynedd State Crown which had been made for Alroy, with its leaves and crosses intertwined. Earls Hrorik and Sighere were last in the procession, escorting the Princes Javan and Rhys Michael.

  Into the choir the royal party went, each rank pausing at the foot of the sanctuary steps to bow before moving to assigned positions on either side. While Alroy knelt at a faldstool to the right of the altar, beside the low throne which he would later occupy, Camber and Hubert stood with the other bishops on either side of the archbishops’ thrones which had been set up at the l
eft of the choir.

  The two archbishops prayed uncovered at the altar steps until the processional hymn had ended, then had their miters replaced by their respective chaplains and went to raise up Alroy. The young king trembled as they led him before the altar for the Presentation, looking very small and frail in his heavy robes and mantle.

  As at Cinhil’s coronation thirteen years before, Camber was aware that Jaffray, like his predecessor Anscom, followed Deryni as well as human custom in this part of the ceremony. Common tradition taught that the Presentation at the beginning of the coronation was to the four corners of the kingdom—perhaps to the four winds—that word of the new king might be proclaimed to the farthest reaches of the land. To this end, the presiding archbishop always announced the new king’s name and claim to the four cardinal points of the sanctuary for the people’s acclamation. So it had been for as long as anyone could remember.

  But trained Deryni understood a more esoteric meaning in the action: the bringing of the sacred king to the notice of the Elemental Lords, as personified by the four great Archangels, whose guardianship and protection were invoked for any serious working of Deryni magic. This invocation, plus the ritual censing of the sanctuary later in the ceremony, would ensure that the actual sacring of the king took place within a consecrated circle, guarded from potentially hostile forces. And if the hallowing of a king were not magical, then what was? How odd that most people did not see their religion as magic.

  Jaffray knew this, even if the human Oriss did not. Taking the boy’s right hand in his, and with Oriss holding the left, Jaffray guided Alroy to the eastern end of the sanctuary, to the foot of the altar steps, where all such ritual began. There, all three of them raised their arms in salutation as Jaffray intoned the traditional words.

  “All hail Alroy Bearand Brion, our undoubted king! Be ye willing to do homage and service in his behalf?”

  “God save King Alroy!” the people shouted, only Deryni—and not even all of those—aware that they were participating in the very magic which the young king’s regents would later swear to suppress.

  To the south the archbishop led the young king, raising his arms as before and repeating the recognition.

  “God save King Alroy!” the people repeated.

  To the west and then to the north they went, each time repeating the ancient formula and hearing the answering affirmation of the people. When the last echoes had died away from the northern recognition, the archbishops led the king back to the east, up the steps of the altar itself. There lay the open book of the Gospel, an elaborately calligraphed and illuminated document beside it. With a bow, Jaffray released the young king’s hand, half-facing the people once again as he said:

  “My Lord King Alroy, are you now prepared to take the hallowing oath?”

  “I am willing,” the boy replied, though in a voice so soft that even Camber, standing within a few feet of the boy, could barely hear him.

  Gently Jaffray took the boy’s hand and placed it on the open Gospel, picked up the scroll and began to read.

  “Alroy Bearand Brion Haldane, here before God and men declared and affirmed to be the lawful heir of our late liege lord, King Cinhil, do you solemnly promise and swear to keep the peace in Gwynedd, and to govern its peoples according to our ancient laws and customs?”

  “I so swear,” Alroy murmured.

  “Will you, to the utmost of your power, cause Law and Justice, in Mercy, to be executed in all your judgments?”

  “I so swear,” Alroy repeated.

  “And do you solemnly pledge that Evil and Wrong-Doing shall be suppressed, and the Laws of God maintained?”

  “All this do I swear,” Alroy repeated, yet a third time.

  “Let the Lords Regent come forward,” Jaffray said, turning toward them and bowing slightly as they approached.

  Oriss drew back to stand with folded hands beside Camber as the five regents made their obeisances and ascended the steps on either side of Alroy.

  “Murdoch of Carthane, Tammaron Fitz-Arthur, Rhun of Horthness, Ewan of Rhendall, acting for his father, Sighere of Eastmarch, and Hubert MacInnis: having been charged by our late Sovereign Lord Cinhil with the duty to govern our young king until he shall come of age, do you solemnly swear to uphold the selfsame oath which His Highness has just sworn, to serve as loyal stewards and faithful regents of the Crown of Gwynedd, so help you God?”

  “We so swear,” the regents replied, in perfect unison.

  The archbishop placed a quill in Alroy’s hand and watched him neatly trace his Alroi Rex at the bottom of the page in his careful, childish hand. When the regents had added their signatures and seals to the document, and Jaffray and Oriss and Camber had witnessed it, Alroy gravely laid his small hand on the Gospel and, without further prompting, turned slightly to face the people.

  “That which I have here promised, I will perform and keep, so help me God,” he said, in a much louder voice than he had hitherto managed.

  Then he stood a little on his tiptoes to kiss the Book, waiting until his regents had done the same before descending the altar steps to kneel and be divested of his mantle and outer robes. As he prostrated himself before the altar, now clad in only a simple, alblike garment such as the priests themselves wore, the bishops and priests knelt all around him and the choristers began to sing the Veni Creator, words written by a centuries-dead king of Bremagne and long reserved for the hallowing of kings, priests, and bishops:

  “Veni, Creator Spiritus, mentes tuorum visita, imple superna gratia, quae tu creasti pectora.…”

  A sacring prayer was recited while Jaffray and his assistants censed the altar and the prostrate Alroy, and then the choir monks intoned the ancient coronation formula: Zadok the priest and Nathan the prophet have anointed him king in Gihon, and they are come up from thence rejoicing.…

  As the song ended, Alroy was raised to his knees by Camber and Hubert and the canopy brought into place. Under this protection, Archbishops Jaffray and Oriss began the anointing which would make Alroy a sacred king.

  “Be thy head anointed with this holy oil, as kings, priests, and prophets were anointed,” Jaffray said, pouring oil on the bowed raven head in the form of a cross.

  “Be thy breast anointed with holy oil,” the archbishop continued, tracing the sign on the boy’s chest through the open neck of his alb.

  “Be thy hands anointed with holy oil,” the archbishop concluded, tracing the symbol on each upturned and trembling palm. “As Solomon was anointed king by Zadok the priest and Nathan the prophet, so mayst thou be anointed, blessed, and consecrated to the service of these, thy people, whom the Lord our God has given thee to govern in His Name. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

  They raised him up then, and garbed him in robes befitting a king: a tunic of cloth-of-gold, a jewelled white girdle, and a mantle of fur-lined crimson, thickly encrusted with gems and gold bullion.

  On his heels they placed the golden spurs; in his hands, momentarily, they placed the kingly sword which had been his father’s, before giving it into the keeping of Ewan, the new marshal, to be laid on the altar. On his finger they placed the Ring of Fire, sized down now to fit his boy’s finger—though the jewelled band had already done its most important work. The scepter, a slender wand of gold-encrusted ivory, was placed in his hands long enough for him to feel the weight of it, then set aside on the royal throne.

  Finally, solemnly, the boy knelt at the archbishop’s feet, before the altar, as Jaffray took up the crown and raised it high above the boy’s head, his eyes riveted on the tracery of gold and silver leaves and crosses intertwined.

  “Bless, we beseech Thee, O Lord, this crown. And so sanctify Thy servant, Alroy, upon whose head Thou dost place it today as a sign of royal majesty. Grant that he may, by Thy grace, be filled with all princely virtues. Through the King Eternal, Our Lord, Who lives and reigns with Thee in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God forever and ever. Amen.”

  So Alroy was c
rowned King of Gwynedd, as a silvery fanfare underscored the completion of the moment and the people shouted, “God save the king!”

  After that, the bishops and lesser clergy and then the nobles, led by Alroy’s brothers, came forward to render homage and fealty and to receive the royal recognition, the regents standing triumphantly to either side of the throne as the others came forward. Mass followed the fealty, with the king himself bringing forward the offerings of bread and wine, and then the procession from the cathedral—the procession of a very tired young king.

  Nor could the king’s day end with his return to the castle, for there was yet the obligatory coronation feast to be endured. Though the Vesper bells were ringing as the procession passed into the castleyard, and though Alroy’s head ached abominably from the weight of the crown and the heat and the lack of food since late the night before, little respite would be allowed.

  An hour they had—long enough for Alroy to discard his heavy robes and crown for a little while and lie down, there to succumb to exhausted sleep, which Tavis made more than just a brief nap. On both the other boys, Tavis likewise worked his Healing of forced sleep, and delayed waking them until the regents would be put off no longer. He did manage to insist that they eat something substantial and nourishing first, but beyond that there was nothing else he could do except watch from the sidelines and be prepared to make a rescue, if necessary. If the king fell asleep at table before the evening’s festivities were through—well, older kings than Alroy had been known to nod over their cups or doze into their plates.

  So the king and his brothers were escorted into the hall for the feast, to a trumpet flourish and the cheers of the assembled nobles. Alroy sat on the dais at the center of the high table as official host, dwarfed by the royal throne which had been his father’s and flanked by his regents and their wives, all in furs and jewels and the badges of their offices. Javan and Rhys Michael were isolated at either end of the high table and likewise surrounded by adult courtiers who were far more interested in the prestige their seating gave them than in easing the public discomfort of children forced too soon into adult roles. Other than the pages and squires who helped serve the feast, the royal brothers were the only children in the hall. The evening was to be the first lesson, but not the last, on the loneliness of the Crown.