The Bastard Prince

by Katherine Kurtz

  Rhys Michael glanced at Rhun and Manfred, keeping attendance from the other side, then turned his gaze to his Eastmarch retainers and their new earl and countess.

  “My lords and ladies, people of Eastmarch,” he said, speaking quietly, but in a voice that carried to the far end of the hall. “Mere words cannot express the honor I feel to be here among you, and to know the loyalty that has surrounded me these past days, as we stood together against would-be invaders. You have paid a high price, for you have lost both your earl and his lady in my service. It is a price they were prepared to pay, but I cannot but wish that payment could have been made in some other coin. I knew Lord Hrorik but slightly, from my boyhood days, and only met the Lady Sudrey on the night before she laid down her life in my defense, but both were brave and honorable. I can only hope and pray that our Lord in Heaven will richly reward those who, in life, served their earthly lord so well and so faithfully.”

  The hall had grown hushed and expectant as he went on, a murmur of approval whispering among his listeners. Rhun had an increasingly sour look on his face.

  “But we have not come here today to speak more of Lord Hrorik and his lady, who are with us no more, but to acknowledge their daughter and heir, who comes before us to be invested as Countess of Eastmarch, and also her husband, Lord Corban Howell, who will rule as earl at her side. It is not often that so noble a title passes through the female line, but knowing what I do of the Lady Sudrey, I cannot think that her daughter will be any less noble as she assumes the office borne so faithfully by her late father. My lady? Lord Corban?”

  At his gesture, the two came to kneel before him, Stacia directly at his knees, Corban a handspan back, for the two would give their oaths separately. As Stacia offered him her joined hands, he slipped his bandaged hand out of its sling to clasp her hands lightly against it with his good hand. Father Derfel had come forward with the Gospel and held it down beside their joined hands.

  “Stacia, Countess of Eastmarch, I am prepared to hear your oath,” the king said quietly.

  Her dark eyes did not leave his as she spoke.

  “I, Stacia, Countess of Eastmarch, do become yer vassal of life an’ limb, an’ enter yer fealty, an’ do homage for all the lands of Eastmarch, formerly held by my father Hrorik, an’ before him by my grandfather, Sighere, Warlord o’ Kheldour an’ first Duke o’ Claibourne. Faith and truth will I bear unto ye, tae live an’ tae die, against all manner o’ folk, sae help me God.”

  Her hands were trembling between his, his injured hand throbbing to be so pressed, but he would not alter the symbolism merely for his own comfort. It struck him that this was the first time he had ever exchanged such oaths with any of his vassals with any sense that he actually had control over how the relationship was conducted. In truth, he had never been allowed an opportunity to interact with any of his vassals as king. The exhilaration made his blood sing through his veins and brought a faint flush to his cheeks that had nothing to do with fever.

  “This do I hear, Stacia of Eastmarch, and I, for my part, pledge the protection of Gwynedd to you and all your people, to defend you from every creature with all my power, giving loyalty for loyalty and justice for honor. This is the word of Rhys Michael Alister Haldane, King of Gwynedd, Lord of Meara and Mooryn and the Purple March, and Overlord of Eastmarch. So help me God.”

  When both he and Stacia had laid their hands on the Gospel and kissed its silver-chased cover, Corban Howell likewise set his hands briefly between the king’s and then kissed the book, though he was not required to repeat the oath—only to affirm it. Rhys Michael liked what he could Read of Corban and had no doubt that the new earl was well content. In all practical aspects, this younger son of an impoverished family of gentry was now Earl of Eastmarch for Stacia’s lifetime, the title to pass to their son upon her death. If one could not himself be born to such titles, attaining such a title by marriage was an entirely honorable and satisfactory way to establish his own noble succession. Young Corban had done well for himself.

  There followed the investiture with the emblems of rank, each with its own symbolism. Handing off the Haldane sword, the king stood to place the silver circlets upon their heads, first Stacia and then Corban. He was awkward with only one hand—he had slipped his injured one back into its sling—but Father Derfel assisted him.

  The banner that Sighere brought forward was easier to manage one-handed. Declaring it a token of Stacia’s authority to govern Eastmarch in his name, the king delivered it into Stacia’s hands. She, in turn, passed it into the keeping of Murray, one of her captains, as Sighere’s son Sean brought forward the sword that had belonged to Hrorik.

  This the king also gave to Stacia, in token of her duty to defend her people. After kissing the holy relic on its hilt, Stacia presented it to Corban, who followed suit and then enlisted the assistance of Duke Graham to belt the weapon around his waist. When that was done, the new earl stood to draw it and salute the king before sheathing it again.

  Finally Rhys Michael presented Stacia with a cauldron, symbolic of her duty to provide for her people. Stacia herself took charge of this, laying her hand upon it in acceptance before another of her captains took it aside. The ceremony completed, Rhys Michael at last raised her up and turned her to face those gathered in the crowded hall, also gathering Corban to her side.

  “People of Eastmarch, I give you your new Earl and Countess of Eastmarch. Be ye loyal and true, as they shall be to you.”

  A lone piper struck up a jaunty march at that, as the men cheered and brandished their swords in support and a few of Stacia’s men took her and Corban onto their shoulders and paraded them the length of the hall and back. Rhun and Manfred and some of the Gwynedd men looked a little dismayed at first, but it soon became clear that pride and high spirits prevailed, rather than any danger. While the demonstration continued, Rhys Michael sank back down on his chair, conserving his strength, trying not to look as if he were anticipating what, for him, would be the most important part of the afternoon’s ceremony.

  When the impromptu parade had returned, young Graham held up his hands for silence, men turned to face the king and bowed. Sighere also had moved closer.

  “Sire, ane boon I would ask, before we adjourn tae tak refreshment,” Graham said. “I assure ye that it is within yer power tae give, an’ that it isnae to the detriment o’ yer crown.”

  Rhun and Manfred drew closer, wary and suspicious, but Rhys Michael feigned ignorance of what Graham intended.

  “Speak, my Lord Duke,” he said. “The king listens.”

  Graham inclined his head, partially turning to address the court as well.

  “Sire, as was my duty, I gave ye my homage and fealty at yer coronation. Neither of us were long come into our manhood at that time, an’ it was said that yer Highness’ health had suffered temporarily from the shock of yer brother’s untimely death, both o’ which perhaps lessened yer Highness’ appreciation o’ the oaths we then exchanged.

  “Circumstances havenae brought me back tae Rhemuth since then, an’ they didnae bring yer Highness tae Kheldour until a few days ago. But in these past days, I and mine hae seen ample evidence that the king to whom I swore allegiance out o’ duty is also worthy o’ that allegiance on his own merits. Accordingly, an’ it please yer Highness, I beg yer leave tae renew my oath o’ fealty at this time.”

  Even having known that Graham was going to do this, Rhys Michael felt his pulse soar in excitement and pride and quickly swept his good hand before him in invitation for Graham to approach, before Rhun or Manfred could object. Paulin or Albertus would have forbidden it straightaway, as too public a display of personal support for the king, but Rhys Michael was gambling that neither Rhun nor Manfred was yet secure enough in his new office to make a public scene this far from home and on a point to which only those openly opposed to the king could possibly object.

  As Graham came to kneel close before his chair, Rhys Michael sat forward and slipped his injured hand out of his sling a
gain so he could clasp the young duke’s joined hands between his own. As Graham’s lips parted to speak the ritual words, Rhys Michael allowed himself to slip into the surface levels of the other’s mind, reading the additional meanings already promised in their earlier conversation of the day before.

  “Before God an’ these assembled witnesses, I, Graham, Duke o’ Claibourne, do affirm that I am yer man o’ life and limb an’ earthly worship. Faith and truth will I bear unto ye, tae live an’ tae die, against all manner o’ folk, sae help me God.”

  As he finished the oath, he dipped to press his forehead to their joined hands, first briefly touching his lips to the king’s fingertips. Rhys Michael did not think Rhun or Manfred noticed, but he felt the fierce surge of the younger man’s devotion, and held the joined hands more closely as Graham lifted his head, even though the pressure made his injured hand throb worse.

  “Graham of Claibourne, this do I hear,” he said, trying to keep his joy from showing but still convey his gratitude to the young duke. “As I swore at my sacring, so I pledge you anew—the protection of Gwynedd to defend you and all your people from every creature with all my power, giving loyalty for loyalty and justice for honor. This is the oath of Rhys Michael Alister Haldane, King of Gwynedd, Lord of Meara and Mooryn and the Purple March, and Overlord of Claibourne. So help me God.”

  As he released Graham’s hands, the younger man crossed himself in affirmation of the oath and then got to his feet. Earl Sighere was already moving in to take his place, thumping to his knees to offer up his joined hands.

  “Ye hae my pledge as well, Sire,” he murmured, as Rhys Michael’s hands enfolded his. “I am yer man—and do ye merely say Amen to affirm it, for there be many more who desire tae swear ye the same.”

  As he, too, ducked his head to kiss the royal hand and then press his forehead to their joined ones in homage, Rhys Michael whispered, “Amen.” Several dozen more came forward after that, to his growing amazement and gratitude and to the consternation of Rhun and Manfred, who quickly figured out what the men were doing when they bent to touch their foreheads to the hands.

  The two drew apart a little to murmur between themselves, and Rhys Michael knew he would have questions to answer when it was all over, but he hardly cared, in the soul-soaring exuberance of learning what support he actually had. He Truth-Read them as they came, knowing there was none to detect it and betray him, and plumbed the depth of loyalty that lay behind each murmured “I am yer man”—loyalty that was his to command, could he ever find a way to tap it to free his crown.

  His hand was aching worse than ever by the time they finished, for he could not help but jostle it in performing the ritual gesture—but he would not have omitted it for all the world and disappoint such fervent devotion.

  But other reckoning came almost immediately, as the court broke up and folk dispersed for the feast to be set up—and Rhun and Manfred shuffled him apart, into the relative privacy of a deep window embrasure.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  And for this cause God shall send them strong delusion, that they should believe a lie.

  —II Thessalonians 2:11

  “What the devil was that all about?” Rhun demanded, drawing the king deeper into the window embrasure as Manfred took up a stance to block further entrance or departure. “They were kissing your hand—every single man jack of them.”

  “I suppose it’s local custom,” Rhys Michael murmured, cradling his aching arm. “They’re a passionate people, these borderers. You’ve seen them in action.”

  “Yes, and I know what it means, when they seal an oath that way,” Rhun said. “It makes the oath a personal one—to the man, not just to the crown.”

  “Does it?”

  “It bloody well does, and you know it!” Rhun snapped, though he kept his voice low. “Don’t play the innocent with me. Did you know Claibourne was going to do that?”

  “Of course not,” Rhys Michael lied. “If I had, I would have told you. But once they’d started doing it, what was I supposed to do? Jerk my hands away and insult them? Spurn the loyalty of a quarter of the kingdom? It may have escaped your notice, Rhun, but without the Kheldour lords—and in particular, without that lady we buried a few hours ago—we might not be having this discussion. And I might not be the only one dead.”

  Rhun breathed out in a perplexed sigh, obviously keeping his temper in check only with the greatest of effort.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter now; it’s done,” he muttered. “Just don’t get any ideas in your head.”

  “Ideas? What ideas?” Rhys Michael retorted, as all the despair of the past six years came welling up, pulsing with the ache in his arm. “What the hell do you think I might do? What could I do?”

  “I don’t know!” Rhun retorted, then glanced around and lowered his voice as he continued in a more conciliatory tone. “Just don’t push me, Sire. As you may have gathered, I’m still uneasy over this whole Eastmarch affair—the deaths en route, the resolution with Miklos, and now this little demonstration by Claibourne and Marley. And with Albertus and Paulin gone, the entire balance in Rhemuth will be shifting as well. If you were to become too inconvenient—well, I don’t think I need to spell it out, do I?”

  Rhys Michael blinked and swallowed with difficulty, tight-jawed, then shook his head.

  “I thought not,” Rhun murmured, glancing out into the hall again. “Now, I think no one would take it amiss if you were to retire early this evening. I’m a little concerned about your hand. You don’t look at all well.”

  Rhys Michael looked away, hugging the injured arm to his chest. “I’ll be all right,” he muttered. “Why should you care? I should think it would be the ultimate ‘convenience’ if I died from it.”

  “Not really,” Rhun said. “Actually, I should prefer to choose the time and place for my convenience.” He gave the king a quick grimace that might have passed for a smile, though without a trace of mirth, then set his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “But I think we need not speak further of such things tonight, Sire. Shall I have Stevanus escort you to your quarters?”

  Rhys Michael made himself stand more erect, setting his good hand on his belt and trying to strike the right balance between assertion and compliance. Were it only for his own comfort, he would have sought his bed some time ago, but one last duty remained to be done before he dared seek that comfort, and he must not allow Rhun to interfere.

  “Not quite yet, if you don’t mind,” he said. “I really am feeling better than I probably look, and it would be insulting to our hosts not to make an appearance at least. Besides, I have to eat. If you prefer, though, I won’t stay too late. I’ll confess that bed sounds like an altogether tempting proposition.”

  “Very well,” Rhun said, “if you’re sure.”

  Rhys Michael could feel the earl marshal’s gaze following him as he pressed past him and Manfred and went back into the hall. To his relief, neither man pressed the issue, though he knew, as he rejoined Cathan and Fulk, that they and probably Stevanus would be told to watch him. So long as it was just those three, the situation probably was surmountable. He prayed that it was, because the very future of the Haldane Crown perhaps depended upon it.

  They were summoned to table very shortly. Rhys Michael was glad to escape to the less demanding small talk of a feast beginning, subdued though it was because of the castle’s recent bereavement. He had Stacia seated on his right, in the place of honor, with her husband beyond and Graham and Sighere at that end of the table, though he could not speak freely because Lior was on his immediate left, followed by Joshua Delacroix. Rhun and Manfred sat beyond with several of their aides, where they might be free to observe and comment to one another in relative privacy.

  Cathan and Fulk took turns serving the king, also giving instructions to the local squires assigned to wait table. Rhun had drawn the two aside early on, one at a time—to order them to accompany the king, if he even went out to use the privy—but later in th
e meal, Cathan was able to confirm that he had gotten the necessary documents to Father Derfel, who was waiting in a tiny chamber just beyond one of the garderobes.

  After the pace of the previous few days, the meal seemed to drag, with the courses interspersed with interludes of sad harping and singing, some of it in a dialect Rhys Michael did not understand. He only picked at his food, but he managed to drink enough wine to further blunt the throbbing of his arm—though he took care lest it also blunt the edge of his wits for survival. Both Graham and Stacia had already disappeared briefly during the course of the meal, and Sighere had been in and out of the hall several times, ostensibly stewarding the flow of wine.

  “All the others have signed,” Cathan finally reported, as he bent close to refill the king’s cup, “but it’s worthless without your signature and seal. The way Rhun is watching you, though, it’s going to be a near-run thing. You’ll only get one chance.”

  The chance came a short time later, when Manfred had just returned from a trip to the privies and settled in beside Rhun again, in time for the serving of a new course; Rhun had disappeared briefly a short time before, so probably would not be inclined to disappear again for a while. Stevanus was talking to one of the men who had been wounded with Hrorik the week before.

  Quietly excusing himself from the company of Stacia and Corban—Lior was deep in conversation with Joshua and one of Manfred’s aides—Rhys Michael rose a trifle shakily on Cathan’s arm and staggered from the hall, Fulk following a few seconds later. Sighere passed them en route to the exit, none too steady on his feet and with a goblet in his hand, but Rhys Michael suspected he was far more sober than he looked. The priest’s chamber lay a few steps farther up the stairwell from which the curtained garderobe opened, just off the landing outside the hall. With a quick glance around, Rhys Michael simply continued up the stair to slip inside while Cathan took up a more leisurely stance outside the garderobe entrance, just as Fulk came out of the hall.