Hubert must have taken his trembling for fervor, for after the Mass was concluded, with Michaela called to kneel beside him, he blessed Rhys Michael with a special benediction and put the crown back on his head, leaving them then for a final moment alone before they must make a public parting. Speaking briefly with Paulin afterward, while they waited for the king and queen to appear on the great hall steps, Hubert remarked that he thought it boded well for the expedition that the king voluntarily should offer up his crown upon the altar of God.
“It bespeaks a dedication I had not expected,” Hubert said. “I am also forced to wonder whether receiving the Cup sparked some sort of religious conversion. Hitherto, I would have described the king’s attitude toward religion as indifferent. Oh, he goes through the motions readily enough—but you know what I mean.”
Paulin was noncommittal, but assured Hubert of his ongoing concern for the king’s spiritual welfare—so long as that did not compromise the great lords’ intentions for Gwynedd.
“A tame king is an altogether useful thing,” Paulin said, “but this particular one occasionally shows disturbing flashes of independence. I begin to think that he may well become expendable, once the new heir is born.”
“Has something happened to make you more wary?” Hubert asked.
Paulin shook his head. “Nothing specific that I can point out to you. But guard the young prince well, Hubert, and pray that his mother is granted safe delivery of another healthy son. I do not trust his father. I shall have Dimitri keep a close watch on him.”
CHAPTER NINE
Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy: when I fall, I shall arise; when I sit in darkness, the Lord shall be a light unto me.
—Micah 7:8
Rhys Michael had not expected even the ragged cheer that went up as he and Michaela came out onto the great hall steps. The castle yard was packed with rows of bright-clad men on horses, from heavy cavalry and lancers to mounted archers and scouts—but no infantry, for the great lords had decided that men on foot would slow the army’s pace too much. For like reason, only a modest baggage train waited outside the open gates to accompany the campaign; provisioning and additional men would come from the estates through which they passed en route north.
The cheer receded into the general din as king and queen slowly descended the steps. Cathan was waiting to lay a thick woolen cloak around the king’s shoulders—Haldane crimson, with the Haldane brooch to clasp it at the throat. Rhys Michael drew it gratefully around him, for a fine mist still hung on the air and a pewter-colored sky promised more rain to come. As Michaela fastened the clasp, Rhys Michael cast his gaze over the waiting men, trying to read their mood.
His commanders were waiting for him at the foot of the steps, mounted and ready. He had chosen none of them. Albertus, the earl marshal, had several of his Custodes officers around him, and Rhun sat his horse beside Fulk Fitz-Arthur, who had the Haldane battle standard footed in his stirrup. Fulk’s younger brother Quiric held the reins of the reliable grey destrier Rhys Michael was to ride, and other squires tended Cathan’s bay and an ill-tempered roan that belonged to Earl Udaut, the castle’s constable, who was consulting with Earl Tammaron off to one side.
Others of the great lords who would be going along were also gathered in the yard behind Albertus and Rhun: Hubert’s brother Manfred, instructing the captain of a smart-looking contingent of lancers in Culdi livery; Richard Murdoch, husband to Michaela’s Lady Lirin, with a company of archers in the colors of Carthane, perhaps a score of them.
Farther back, Paulin had joined a handful of black-clad men whose red-and-gold cinctures marked them as Custodes Fidei. Rhys Michael recognized a few of the faces, but he did not spot Dimitri—though he had no time to really look for him. Behind Paulin were ranged at least thirty black-clad Custodes knights in their red-fringed white sashes. Other lesser lords also sat beneath their banners at the head of more modest contingents—Lord Ainslie, Richard’s brother Cashel, and others Rhys Michael did not recognize. He guessed their total number at about a hundred, not counting servants and support personnel—not many, to defy a Torenthi prince and a bastard pretender. But several hundred more would join them as they passed close to Valoret and Caerrorie and Sheele, in addition to whatever men were already massing from Eastmarch and points north.
Quiet began settling on the company as old Archbishop Oriss tottered out onto the great hall steps in cope and mitre, supported by Hubert and leaning on his crozier, for as Archbishop of Rhemuth, it was he who had the honor of blessing the troops. Tammaron approached Rhys Michael, ready to summon him before Oriss, but the king was already removing his crown, giving it into Michaela’s keeping. Owain’s nurse had brought the boy back to rejoin his parents, bundled in a miniature scarlet cloak against the damp, and Rhys Michael bent to pick up the boy and kiss him.
He turned to face the archbishops then, kneeling with the boy in his arms. A hush fell over the assembled men as they realized he intended so to receive Oriss’ benediction.
Into the settling silence came the rustle of pennoned lances being lowered in salute, the mounted archers saluting with their unstrung bows, cased in oilskin to keep away the damp. Helmeted heads bowed as Oriss lifted a palsied right hand, and the Haldane standard dipped.
“Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus: Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus.”
“Amen,” Rhys Michael responded, with a hundred other voices, as he crossed himself in blessing, repeating the sign over his young son, then got slowly to his feet. Out of the silence behind him arose a cheer from a hundred throats, as lances again were lifted and bows were brandished. After kissing his son on both cheeks, Rhys Michael gave the boy back into his mother’s care, then chastely took her hand and kissed it, meeting her eyes only briefly in final, wordless farewell.
Then he was turning to descend the steps, pulling on his gauntlets, and mounting up on the big grey stallion that Cathan now held for him. He dared not look back at the pair standing on the steps. Quiric handed up the open-faced helm circled by its coronet of gold, and as Rhys Michael settled it on his head, he became suddenly aware of the Haldane standard close by in Fulk’s hand—and that only once before had he ridden under that banner in his own right, as king, on that murky and best-forgotten day of his coronation, with his brain dulled by the great lords’ drugs and his heart still aching for his slain brother, who should have been king instead of him.
The old grief caught at his throat, and he longed to take the standard in his own hand, the way he often had seen Javan do, but he knew such an act of independence would only earn him a sharp dressing-down when they camped for the night—if Albertus could restrain himself from making a public reprimand for that long. Still, the banner that symbolized Gwynedd’s sovereignty now was his to guard and defend, and now, at last, perhaps Rhys Michael would have a chance to assert the freedom for which Javan had died.
Not immediately, of course; but soon. At least in the field, a king might win by valor what caution and timidity had not been able to secure under the close confinement he had endured these six years. There was much to lose, not least of which was the grey-cloaked woman clutching the hand of a very small boy cloaked in crimson, the pair of them watching him from the great hall steps—but there was also much to win, including their freedom as well as his own.
Behind him, Cathan and Udaut were both mounting up, Udaut fighting his mount for a moment before he could force it ahead to join the eight castle guards detailed to escort the royal party as far as the city gates. Balanced between excitement and melancholy, Rhys Michael lifted a gauntleted hand in farewell to those waiting on the great hall steps, imprinting his final glimpse of them in memory, then turned his steed’s head toward the castle gate to follow Albertus and Rhun, not looking back.
The cavalcade moved out at a smart pace, for the mist had turned to drizzle, and the horses were eager to be off. Several ranks ahead of him, Udaut’s roan was still being fractious, even crow-hopping a few times until Udaut
slugged it hard in the neck and forced its obedience. Fulk commented airily that had the animal been his, he would have put the horse down long ago, or at least turned him out to stud. Cathan avowed that this would only perpetuate a bad bloodline.
Leaving the two to debate the issue, Rhys Michael gigged his own mount a few paces ahead of them, then settled in half a length before, happily putting Udaut and his misbegotten horse out of mind. Despite the desperate prospects he might face in the days to come, he already felt freer. He had ridden regularly for years, to keep fit, but not in all that time had he been allowed more than a few leagues from the city. Despite the rain, cheering crowds lined the streets, cheering for him, the way they had done in the old days even before Javan, when Alroy had been king.
He was rejoicing in his growing freedom as they approached the city gates, beginning to relax a little, refusing to think too much about what might lie ahead in Eastmarch—for that was nearly a week away. He had even begun tentatively casting about with his powers to start getting a feel for what he might perceive with them, somehow knowing that the crowd was large enough to hide him, if some other Deryni chanced to catch a psychic glimpse of a probe.
Afterward, he realized that the odd shimmer around Udaut’s stallion should have warned him; he had thought it a fluke of errant sunbeam on raindrops at the time. But when it first began, he doubted anyone had considered the animal’s behavior that surprising. The big roan had an evil reputation and had been acting up from the moment its groom led it into the yard.
Now, spooking at God knew what, the animal suddenly exploded in a screaming, spine-wrenching series of bucks that hurled the startled Udaut over its shoulder to slam into one of the gate pylons with bone-breaking force. Apparently not satisfied with merely ridding itself of its rider, the squealing beast then proceeded to trample the unfortunate Udaut and several screaming bystanders who could not retreat fast enough, biting and kicking in a killing frenzy, until a crusty guardsman with more courage than good sense managed to force his own mount close enough to fling himself across, wrench the stallion’s head around by an ear, and cut its throat.
The animal screamed once more and collapsed. Blood sprayed wide in its death-throes, spattering onlookers and running red on the rain-slick cobblestones, and the guard sustained a bone-bruising kick before the thrashing subsided. The sharp smell of the blood sent several more horses into momentary fits of nervous jigging and snorting until their riders could regain control; but by the time anyone could get near the now motionless Udaut, nothing could be done.
Rhun and Cathan were the first to reach the constable’s side besides the now limping guardsman, but Cathan’s grim glance back told of the futility of it, even as Rhys Michael calmed his own wild-eyed steed. Around Udaut, his men were moving the crowd back with practiced ease, making room for Albertus to dismount and run to Udaut’s side as Paulin and a grey-haired battle surgeon called Stevanus began pushing their way forward from behind the king.
“Let the surgeon through!” Paulin ordered, as Stevanus elbowed his way past several more riders and dashed ahead to crouch beside the victim.
But Stevanus’ brisk examination could only confirm that death had been a mercy for Rhemuth’s hapless constable, for Udaut’s back was broken, one arm was mangled almost beyond recognition, and one leg lay twisted under him at a sickening angle. The head was mostly unmarked, other than for a small trickle of blood that ran from the gaping mouth. The staring eyes looked almost more surprised than pained. Paulin caught up with his surgeon as Stevanus was closing the dead man’s eyes and crossed himself with every evidence of genuine sorrow as the battle surgeon gently straightened out the twisted leg, then moved on to see to the injured spectators.
“I’ve never seen a horse go berserk like that,” Paulin muttered, almost a little awed.
“I have,” Albertus said, going back to prod the stallion’s steaming carcass with a booted toe. “Never quite like this, though.”
As he bent down to begin uncinching the animal’s saddle, motioning one of the guardsmen to help him, Paulin remembered himself and crouched down beside the dead man’s head to trace the sign of the Cross on his forehead. Cathan had come back to stand beside Rhys Michael’s grey, catching hold of the reins and stroking the animal’s neck to gentle it, and though they pretended attention to Paulin’s prayers, both watched surreptitiously as Albertus pulled the saddle free.
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” Paulin murmured. “Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat ei.”
“Offerentes earn in conspectu Altissimi,” came scattered responses from around him, though most everyone else within sight was watching Albertus curiously. The earl marshal was running his hands along the sheepskin lining of the saddle, sniffing at his fingers, his assistant removing the stallion’s bridle to inspect the bit, shaking his head, mystified.
“Kyrie, eleison,” Paulin intoned.
“Kyrie, eleison. Christe, eleison,” the response came.
As Albertus finally ran his hands across the sweat-matted hide on the stallion’s back, tight-lipped as he, too, shook his head, Paulin again signed Udaut’s forehead with the sign of the Cross.
“Tibi, Domine, commendamus animam famuli tuae, Udauti, ut defunctus saeculo tibi vivat.” To Thee, Lord, we commend the soul of this Thy servant, Udaut, that when he departs from this world he may live with Thee. By the grace of Thy merciful love, wash away the sins that in human frailty he has committed in the conduct of his life. “… Per Christum, Dominum nostrum.”
“Amen,” came the murmured reply.
Paulin sighed then, and gestured for one of the guardsmen to cover the body with his cloak as he and the others got to their feet. As the man obeyed, a slight commotion from farther back in the now stalled cavalcade heralded the agitated approach of Richard Murdoch, who was married to Udaut’s daughter. Recognizing the big roan sprawled with legs akimbo at Albertus’ feet, and not immediately seeing Udaut, Richard hastily dismounted and started forward, concern writ large on his handsome face. Albertus now was inspecting the roan’s bloodied hooves, using one of the quillons of his dagger to pick out the mud from around each vulnerable frog.
“It’s too late, Richard,” Rhun said, catching him by the shoulders to stay him. “His horse threw him and then he was trampled. He’s there.” He indicated the cloak-shrouded form with his chin. “There’s nothing you can do.”
Richard sagged against Rhun’s hand for just an instant, catching up a moan, then pulled away, shaking his head slowly as he came to lift an edge of the cloak. Stevanus had seen him approaching and came to crouch beside him.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” Stevanus said quietly. “I—believe he felt very little after the first impact. And had he survived, any one of his injuries would have left him a hopeless cripple.”
Richard swallowed and let fall the edge of the cloak, then glanced back dully at Albertus, who was wiping his hands on the corner of his cloak.
“Do you know what caused it?” he said. “What were you looking for?”
Albertus shook his head and shrugged. “A burr, some trace of an irritant—I don’t know. But there’s nothing. It just—happened.”
He came to stand awkwardly beside the younger man as another guardsman joined the first and, together, they wrapped the cloak more closely around the body and picked it up. One of the Custodes clerics had brought up another horse, and the two laid the cloak-wrapped body across its saddle and began tying it in place.
“This, ah, does leave us with an awkward logistic problem,” Albertus said to Paulin in a low voice, almost as if he hated even to mention it. “Rhemuth now has no constable.”
“Well, we can’t delay our departure, and we can’t leave Rhemuth undefended,” Rhun said.
His gaze flicked appraisingly to the still dazed-looking Richard, then back at Albertus and Paulin, both of whom gave slight nods of assent. With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, Rhys Michael realized what they wer
e about to do.
“So I suppose it’s fitting that we appoint a new constable and get on with things,” Rhun went on quietly, setting a hand on Richard’s forearm, which made the younger man look up with a start. “Do you think you’re ready for this, Richard? It isn’t a hasty offer. We’ve been watching you for some time—since your own father’s death, in fact. We need someone loyal and reliable to hold Rhemuth in our absence and to guard the safety of the queen and the king’s heir. Also,” he added, in a milder tone, “your wife will need you to help bury her father. We could hardly ask you to come with us as planned, under the circumstances. If you wish, I’ll take personal command of your archers.”
Richard swallowed, then nodded tentatively. “Yes, I—thank you. You do me great honor. I shall try to prove worthy of your trust. But—dear God, what am I going to say to Lirin?”
Gravely Paulin came to lay a sympathetic arm around Richard’s shoulders. “I am so sorry, Richard. If it will give your dear wife comfort, remind her that her father will have gone straight to Heaven. He came from Holy Communion not an hour ago.”
As Richard gave a choked nod, turning to take the reins of his horse and remount, Rhys Michael thought the remark might have been one of the more hypocritical ones he had ever heard. Nor had he even been consulted about Udaut’s replacement—not that they had ever consulted him before.
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