“So, it’s a royal messenger you’re claiming to be, is it?” the man asked, cocking his head wistfully. “That isn’t what the guards told me.”
“The guards didn’t ask,” Derry said contemptuously, raising his head in defiance. “Besides, my messages were not intended for guards. I was on my way to Duke Ewan’s army in the north, on king’s business. I stumbled on your encampment quite by mistake.”
“Aye, ’tis indeed a mistake, lad,” Campbell murmured, his eyes sweeping Derry suspiciously. “Ye were taken whilst prowling around the edge of the camp, ye lied to the men who asked your identity, killed a soldier who tried to take you into custody. And ye have no credentials or messages on you, nothing to indicate that you are what you say you are, and not a spy. I think that you are a spy. What’s your name, lad?”
“I am not a spy. I am a royal envoy. And my name and my messages are not for your ears!” Derry said hotly. “When the king finds out how you have treated—”
In a flash, Campbell was on his knees beside Derry, his hand twisted in the neck of Derry’s mail and pulling it choking-tight as he stared his captive in the face.
“You will not speak to me in that tone, young spy! And if you hope to see a ripe old age, which appears unlikely the more ye talk, ye’d best hold yer tongue unless you have civil words upon it! Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
Derry winced as the man tightened his grip on the mail, biting back a smoking retort that surely would have been the end of him, if he had voiced it. With a slight inclination of his head, he signaled his acquiescence and took a deep breath as the man released his throat. Even as he wondered what he was going to do next, Campbell took that decision out of his hands.
“We’ll take him to his lordship,” he said, getting to his feet with a sigh. “I have nae the time to fool with him. Mayhap the Lord’s Deryni friends can weasel the truth out of him.”
As his words sank in, Derry was dragged to his feet and herded along a muddy path toward the center of the camp. There were questioning looks as they went, and several times Derry thought he saw faces turn toward him with near-recognition in their eyes. But no one approached them, and Derry was too busy trying to stay on his feet to look at anyone too closely. Besides, it didn’t much matter whether he was recognized now or not. Bran Coris would know him instantly, and what he was about. Nor was the reference to Bran’s Deryni allies comforting.
They skirted a sparse grove of oaks to emerge in the headquarters area, where a splendid tent of royal blue and white dominated the center of a broad patch of velvet green. Other tents of only slightly lesser size and splendor surrounded the central area, their brilliant colors and standards vying with one another for attention. Not far away, the wash of the great Cardosa River ran its swollen course across the plain, the water high and muddy-brown in this run-off season.
Derry’s escort yanked him along as his steps faltered, at last throwing him to his knees before a black and silver tent next to Bran’s royal blue one. His wounded arm had started to ache abominably from the men’s rough handling, and his wrists chafed in their rawhide bonds. From inside the tent, he could hear men’s voices arguing loudly, though the words were muffled and indistinguishable behind the thick fabric of the tent walls.
Baron Campbell paused for just a moment, apparently weighing the advisability of entering, then shrugged and disappeared through the open tent flap. From within came an explosive exclamation of indignation, a murmured curse in an accent foreign to Derry’s ears, and then the sound of Bran Coris’s voice.
“A spy? Damn it, Campbell, you interrupted me to say you’ve captured a spy?”
“I’m thinking he’s more than a spy, m’lord. He’s—well, you’d best see for yourself.”
“Oh, very well. Duke Lionel, I’ll return shortly.”
Derry’s heart sank as Campbell emerged from the tent, and he averted his face as a slender figure in a blue tunic stepped into the sunlight behind Campbell. Derry heard a muffled intake of breath from Bran’s direction, and then he was aware of two pairs of boots standing a few paces before him, one pair black and shining and spurred with silver.
It would do no good to postpone the inevitable. With a resigned sigh, Derry lifted his head to behold the familiar face of Bran Coris.
“Sean Lord Derry!” Bran blurted. The golden eyes went cold. “So! How does my dubious colleague, outside the king’s Council chambers? You haven’t deserted your precious Morgan, have you?” Derry’s eyes flashed defiance. “No, I didn’t think so. My Lord Lionel, come and see what the Duke of Corwyn has sent us,” he called. “I do believe it’s his favorite spy.”
As he spoke, Lionel Duke d’Arjenol emerged from the tent and joined Bran, staring hard at Derry all the while. He was tall and regal and looked vaguely foreign, dark beard and moustache trimmed close to his face to emphasize thin, cruel lips.
A robe of faintly rustling white silk flowed from the duke’s broad shoulders to sweep the toes of claret velvet boots. But there was the gleam of a mail-backed crimson tunic where the robe parted in front, the flash of a curved dagger thrust through his sash. The hair was long and black, pulled in a lock at the back of his neck and held across the brow by a broad fillet of silver. Jeweled wrist guards glittered red and green and violet as he folded silk-sleeved arms across his chest.
“So, this is Morgan’s minion,” Lionel said, his cool gaze sweeping Derry with disdain.
“The Earl of Derry,” Bran replied with a nod. “Kelson appointed him to Lord Ralson’s vacant Council seat last fall. He was Morgan’s military aide for some time before that. Where did you find him, Campbell?”
“On the ridge just south of here, m’lord. A patrol spotted his horse and just waited for him to come back. He cut up some of our men when they tried to take him, though. Peter Davency is dead.”
“Davency? Heavy-set fellow, rather quick-tempered?”
“The same, m’lord.”
Bran hooked his thumbs in the jeweled belt at his waist and stared down at Derry for a long time, slowly rising up and down on the balls of his feet, jaw clenching and unclenching as he stared. For a moment, Derry feared that Bran would kick him, and he steeled himself for the blow; but it did not come. After what seemed like an eternity, Bran curbed his anger and turned slowly to face Lionel, not daring to look at Derry any longer.
“If this man were wholly my prisoner, he would be dead by now for what he has done,” Bran said, his voice hardly more than a whisper. “However, I am not so blinded by anger that I cannot realize the value he may have to you and Lord Wencit. Will you ask your kinsman what he wishes me to do with this offal?”
With a curt bow, Lionel turned on his heel and glided into the tent, Bran following a step behind. They paused just inside the opening, their shapes silhouetted against the inner darkness. Just before Bran twitched the tent flap over the opening, a faint play of light flared somewhere above the men’s heads, suggesting that they intended using some kind of magic to contact Wencit. After a few minutes, Bran emerged from the tent alone, his manner thoughtful and a bit amused.
“Well, Sean Lord Derry, it appears that my new allies are inclined to be merciful. You are to be spared a spy’s execution and instead are to be the guest tonight of His Majesty, King Wencit, in Cardosa. Personally, I cannot vouch for the quality of entertainment you will find there; Torenthi sport can be a bit bizarre for my tastes, I must confess. But perhaps you will enjoy it. Campbell?”
“Aye, m’lord.”
Bran’s face hardened as he stared down at the helpless Derry. “Put him on a horse and get him out of here. The sight of him sickens me!”
MORGAN paced the length of the tiny anteroom in the bishop’s palace in Dhassa and rubbed a hand across his newly shaven jaw, then turned to peer impatiently through the bottom of the high, grilled window. Outside, darkness was falling, the night mists moving in swiftly as they often did in this mountain country, cloaking all of Dhassa in an eerie, clammy shroud. Though it was not yet
fully dark, torches were beginning to appear in the lowering dimness, their wavering flames pale and ghostly against the twilight.
The streets that had teemed with soldiers an hour earlier were almost silent now. Over to the left, he could see an honor guard lined up before the doors of Dhassa’s cathedral, and scores of mailed and cloaked fighting men and city burghers making their way into the high nave beyond. Occasionally, when a lull came in the arrivals at the cathedral, he could see through the open doors and into the great nave itself, catching the gleam of many candles lighting the place nearly as bright as day. In a little while, he and Duncan would be entering that cathedral with the bishops. He wondered what their reception would be.
With a sigh, Morgan turned away from the window and glanced across the room to where Duncan sat quietly on a low wooden bench. A candle burned at Duncan’s end of the bench, and the priest seemed absorbed in the content of a small, leather-bound book with gilt-edged pages. Like Morgan, he was robed in penitential violet, clean-shaven, his face oddly pale where his beard had been. He had not yet bothered to secure the front of his robe, for it was warm in the tiny chamber, close with the night air that drifted on the mists outside. A white tunic, hose, and soft leather boots shone stark beneath the robe, the pristine whiteness unrelieved by any jewel or adornment.
With another sigh, Morgan glanced down at his own robe and tunic, at the gryphon and lion rings winking on his hands, then moved slowly to Duncan’s side of the room and looked down at him. Duncan did not seem in the least concerned that his kinsman had been pacing in precisely the same manner for the past quarter hour, or even to have noticed that he had finally stopped.
“Don’t you ever get tired of waiting?” Morgan asked.
Duncan looked up from his reading with a faint smile. “Sometimes. But it’s a skill that priests must learn quite early in their careers, or else become good actors. Why don’t you stop pacing and try to relax?”
So, he had noticed.
Morgan sat heavily on the bench beside Duncan and leaned his head against the wall behind, arms folded across his chest in an attitude of utter tedium.
“Relax? That’s easy enough for you to say. You like ritual. You’re used to dealing with ecclesiastical pageantry. Me, I’m as edgy as a squire at his first tournament. Not only that, but I think I’m going to die of hunger. I haven’t had a thing to eat all day.”
“Nor have I.”
“No, but you’re better used to it than I. You tend to forget that I am a degenerate nobleman, accustomed to indulging myself whenever the whim strikes me. Even some of that wretched Dhassa wine would be almost welcome.”
Duncan closed his book and leaned back against the wall with a smile. “Think about what you’re saying. Think what wine would do to our clear-headedness after two days with only bread and water—and nothing today. Besides, knowing Dhassa wine, I personally would rather die of thirst.”
“I concede you the point.” Morgan smiled and closed his eyes. “Goes to show you what fasting will do. It doesn’t mortify the soul, it corrodes the brain.”
“Well, perhaps the bishops wouldn’t be averse to a touch of something,” Duncan said with a chuckle. “More bread and water, maybe? I hardly think they’d want us fainting away during the ceremony, for lack of food.”
Morgan grinned, getting up to resume his pacing. “Shows how much you know. Fainting might be the best thing we could do out there. Just think: The penitent Deryni, weakened by fasting, their spirits chastened and their hearts purified, faint away in the presence of the Lord.”
“Actually, that’s an interesting—”
A soft knock at the door interrupted whatever Duncan had thought might be interesting, and he broke off expectantly, glancing toward Morgan as he got to his feet. Bishop Cardiel swept into the room in a rustle of purple silk, the hood of his cape thrown back on his shoulders. He waved dismissal to the black-cowled monk who had accompanied him as Duncan and Morgan bent to kiss his ring, then pulled the door softly to. Then he reached beneath his cloak to produce a folded piece of parchment.
“This came an hour ago,” he said in a low voice, handing it to Morgan and glancing out the window uneasily. “It’s from the king. He wishes us well in tonight’s endeavors and looks forward to meeting us at Cor Ramet the day after tomorrow. I hope we shall not have to disappoint him.”
“Disappoint him?” Morgan, who had moved closer to the candle to scan the letter, looked up with a start. “Why? Is anything wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong—yet,” Cardiel said. He held out his hand for the letter and Morgan gave it over without a word. “Does either of you have any question about what is to happen tonight?”
“Father Hugh briefed us several hours ago, Excellency,” Duncan said carefully, studying Cardiel’s face. “My lord, if there is some difficulty that concerns us, we should know about it.”
Cardiel eyed them both for a long moment, then turned to rest one gloved hand against the high windowsill. He stared at the barred window for several seconds, as though choosing his words with care, then turned his head partially toward the two in the room. His steel-gray head was silhouetted against the darkening sky, his cloak parted slightly by his upraised arm. Beneath the cloak, a spotless alb gleamed like silver against the gray stone wall, and Morgan suddenly realized that the bishop had interrupted his vesting to come to them. He wondered what Cardiel was trying to say.
“You made a good impression this afternoon in the procession. Are you aware of that?” the bishop said lightly. “The people love to see penitents make public demonstration of their contrition. It makes them feel more righteous. Fortunately, the majority of those who will attend us tonight are willing to believe in the sincerity of your reconciliation.”
“However…” Morgan ventured.
Cardiel lowered his eyes and smiled in spite of himself. “Yes, there is usually a ‘however,’ isn’t there?” He looked up, directly into Morgan’s eyes. “Alaric, try to believe that I do trust you—both of you.” He glanced at Duncan. “Unfortunately, there are many who will attend tonight who remain unconvinced. No matter how repentant you may appear to be, I’m afraid it would take a miracle to persuade some of them that you mean no harm.”
“Are you asking us to provide a miracle, Excellency?” Morgan murmured, returning Cardiel’s gaze.
“Good heavens, no! That’s the last thing I want.” Cardiel shook his head emphatically. “In fact, that is perhaps the crux of what I must say to you now.” He laced his fingers together and stared down at his bishop’s ring.
“Alaric, I have been Bishop of Dhassa for four years now. During those four years, and during the tenures of at least the last five of my predecessors, there has never been a breath of scandal associated with the See of Dhassa.”
“Perhaps you should have considered that point before joining the schism, my lord,” Morgan said softly.
Cardiel looked pained. “I did as my conscience bade.”
“Your mind agrees,” Duncan said. “But your heart is afraid of what two Deryni might do. Is that it?”
Cardiel glanced up at them and stifled a nervous cough. “I—perhaps.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps it is.” He paused.
“Duncan, I require your promise that you’ll not use your powers tonight—either of you. Whatever happens, I must have your solemn assurance that you’ll do nothing, nothing whatsoever, to make you appear different from any other penitent who has ever entered my cathedral to make his peace with the Church. Surely you understand the importance of what I am asking.”
Morgan looked at the floor and pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I assume that Arilan knows you’ve come to us?”
“He does.”
“And the subject of conversation?”
“He agrees. There must be no magic.”
Duncan shrugged and glanced at Morgan. “Then, it appears that you must have our word on it, my lord. You have mine.”
“And mine,” Morgan said, after an almost imperc
eptible pause.
Cardiel gave a low sigh of relief. “Thank you. I shall leave you alone for a few more minutes, then. I suspect you will wish to prepare yourselves for the ceremony. Denis and I will return for you shortly.”
As the door closed behind Cardiel, Duncan glanced at his cousin. Morgan had turned away as the bishop left, and now the single candle at the end of the bench was casting long, dancing shadows on the stone walls, planing Morgan’s face into a mask of concentration. Duncan stared at him for a long moment, a thread of unease rippling through his mind, then started to move across the chamber to Morgan’s side.
“Alaric?” he said in a low voice. “What—”
Morgan snapped out of his reverie and held a finger to his lips, then eyed the door as he crossed to the bench and dropped to his knees in front of it.
“Duncan, I fear that I have been a stranger to prayer in these past weeks,” he murmured, motioning for Duncan to join him, and glancing at the door again. “Will you pray with me?”
Wordlessly Duncan knelt at his kinsman’s side, his eyes narrowing in question as he made the sign of the cross. He started to speak again, hazarding another glance at the door, but he saw Morgan’s lips shape the single syllable, No, and he bowed his head instead. Watching Morgan from the corner of his eye, he formed his words so that he was certain only Morgan could hear. He was reluctant to use mind-speech when they had promised Cardiel they would use no magic.
“Will you tell me what’s going on?” he murmured. “I know you’re concerned that we may be watched, but there’s more to it than that. You were reluctant to give your promise to Cardiel. Why?”
“Because I may not be able to keep that promise,” Morgan whispered.
“Not keep it?” Duncan replied, remembering just in time to keep his head bowed. “Why on earth not? What’s wrong?”
Morgan leaned forward slightly to glance at the door past Duncan, then sat back on his heels. “Derry. He was supposed to contact us either last night or tonight. Last night he didn’t. When the time comes tonight, we’ll be right in the middle of the ceremony.”
High Deryni Page 17
