We, Rhys Michael Alister Haldane, by the Grace of God King of Gwynedd, Lord of Meara, Mooryn, and the Purple March, and Overlord of all the lands of Kheldour, being of sound mind and body, do declare this to be an irrevocable Codicil to Our Last Will and Testament, and hereby renounce all previous arrangements that may conflict with this Codicil, and hereby set in place the following Provisions, which may not be changed or set aside save by unanimous assent of the parties herein named or their legal heirs, they being of age and legal majority.
In the event of Our death before the coming of age of Our Son and Heir, the Prince Owain Javan Cinhil, or the coming of age of the Child now carried by Our Queen, should the said Owain die before Our second Child’s majority, We do hereby appoint as Regents for the Kingdom of Gwynedd His Grace the Duke of Claibourne, also known as Graham MacEwan, and the Right Honourable the Earl of Marley, Sighere son of Sighere, to serve jointly or separately, as may seem to them most expedient for the welfare of Our Kingdom, regardless of whatever other Regents may be appointed by Instruments signed by Us or said to be signed by Us. These appointments shall be effective until such time as our Heirs shall come of age or until said Lords are replaced by their heirs of legal age, whether by resignation or death.
In that We repose full and unequivocal trust in the said Lords of Claibourne and Marley, We hereby authorize and pardon any military action deemed necessary by the said Lords to secure and exercise their lawful authority as Regents for Our Heirs.
Given under Our Hand and Seal this twenty-fourth day of June, being the Feast of Saint John the Baptist, in the Year of Our Lord Nine Hundred Twenty-Eight at our Castle of Lochalyn in the Earldom of Eastmarch, Kheldour Province, wherefore the undersigned have this day publicly reaffirmed their Oaths of Fealty to Us, in further witness of their Fidelity to this Our Solemn Decree.
(signed) Rhys R. (his seal)
Agreed: Claibourne (his seal)
Agreed: Marley (his seal)
Attest: Stacia, Countess of Eastmarch (her seal)
Attest: Fr. Derfel (+).
Rhysel let herself drift for a moment when she had finished scanning, allowing the import to sink in. As Joram had told her, it was a brilliant document—no guarantee that the great lords would not try to kill off Claibourne and Marley and thus eliminate the opposition, but certainly a good incentive for them to keep the king alive as long as possible, to avoid having to deal with the problem.
For to deny the Kheldour lords their just due was to risk civil war—a thing she did not think the great lords would dare, given that their ranks had recently been reduced by the loss of Udaut, Albertus, and Paulin. The great lords probably would allow Richard Murdoch to continue in the constable’s post left vacant by Udaut’s death, since Richard had married Udaut’s daughter; but until the Custodes question was sorted out and stabilized and replacements for Albertus and Paulin had been confirmed on the royal council, she suspected the great lords would tread very carefully, indeed. And the document in her hands was a way of ensuring that they did.
Still hovering between trance and wakefulness, Rhysel cupped her hands over it on her breast, considering the hiding place she had already devised for it, then decided that before surfacing she would first send through confirmation to Joram that the document had arrived. It was the hour when they might expect her sending, but to her surprise, a link not only was open but seeking, with Joram himself pushing at the other end.
With both parties stretching for the contact, Joram’s amplified probe swept into her mind like an avalanche, imparting his grim news with a force that nearly made her cry out. Her confirmation of the codicil’s arrival was overwhelmed by the devastating news that it was already in effect, that young Prince Owain had already been king for nearly half a day. The king had died at an obscure convent called Saint Ostrythe’s, somewhere between Sheele and Ebor, already weakened from his hand injury and then bled unto death by order of the Custodes Fidei, despite the fact that Rhun, at least, had known of the codicil’s existence and of the crisis that would loom for him and his fellow regents as soon as the king’s death became known.
It changed everything. Despite Rhys Michael’s heroic effort to safeguard what he could for his sons, his effort now would be tested in the forge of internal strife and possible civil war; and if the shock of his death cost the queen the child she carried, young King Owain Haldane might well be the last Haldane king.
Rhysel kept herself focused for Joram’s instructions, but her mind was numb, the fragile delight of her brief flirtation with Robert Ainslie all but blotted out in the greater urgency of what she must do for the queen. When Joram had withdrawn from his contact, leaving her stunned and bereft, she lay there for nearly an hour with tears running silently from her eyes and into her hair, hugging the now priceless codicil for comfort and caressing the king’s signet between her fingers, mourning this new failure of their hopes and dreams.
Eventually she rose by the light of cautious handfire to secrete the document and the king’s signet underneath one of the floorboards, with a charm set to dispel any curiosity about the possible hiding place. She lay back down in darkness then, though it was a long time before she drifted into troubled sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
For she is privy to the mysteries of the knowledge of God, and a lover of his works.
—Wisdom of Solomon 8:4
Rhysel went to the queen the next morning with some reluctance, for she did not relish the charade she must play, the deception she must maintain. She had awakened to the leaden knell of the cathedral bells tolling down in the city, soon picked up and carried by the closer bells of Saint Hilary’s-Within-the-Walls and other lesser bells throughout the city. Though she knew that news of the king’s death could not have reached Rhemuth yet, apprehension was a choking lump in her throat until she could make inquiries.
She was somewhat dismayed to learn that it was Archbishop Oriss who had died, sometime during the early morning hours, for he had been the sole moderate sitting on the Royal Council and the only one of its members not to have been actively involved in the murder of King Javan six years before. In theory, he would be replaced by a formal vote of the assembled bishops, but in fact it was Hubert, the Archbishop-Primate, who would determine Oriss’ successor—and to Hubert’s advantage, rather than the advantage of the House of Haldane. The one positive aspect to the entire matter was that the mere turnover of the office would further destabilize the existing Council, already weakened by the loss of Udaut, Albertus, and Paulin.
But for now, as a dutiful member of the queen’s household, she must feign respectful regret for the archbishop’s passing, just as she must pretend that she did not know of a far more devastating loss farther north of here. She presented herself in the royal boudoir to find Michaela oddly pensive, wistfully fingering a little gold cross around her neck while Eithne, one of her maids, laced her into a gown of dull purple. Lady Estellan had chosen the gown as a mark of respect for Archbishop Oriss, also laying out a seemly black veil and the simplest of the queen’s gold circlets; but as Rhysel set about the usual morning ritual of brushing and arranging the royal tresses, she realized that the queen’s subdued mood was caused not by regret over an archbishop’s passing but by growing concern for her husband’s safety.
And Rhysel dared do nothing to reassure her on that account, for the truth must be avoided for yet a little while, and offering any false hope would be cruel. To lighten the immediate atmosphere, and also to set the stage for covering any outward reaction to the more welcome news she brought, Rhysel gradually shifted their casual chitchat to a shyly offered description of the young knight who had paid her court in the great hall the night before. It soon focused the attention of all the ladies in the room, eager for the gossip of little Liesel’s new romance, but it also provided ready cover for the queen’s real relief when Rhysel silently confirmed that the knight had delivered the codicil as well as a kiss. Supposed shyness about imparting too much detail about so d
elicate and new a flirtation also saved Rhysel from possibly letting slip hints of the more dread news that had arrived later in the night.
Protocol demanded the attendance of the entire household at Mass that morning, out of respect for the archbishop. En route to the Chapel Royal, Rhysel contrived to press the king’s ring into Michaela’s hand, biting her lip at the glad surge of happiness that swelled the queen’s breast as she slipped it on her hand with the seal turned inward and clasped her hands prayerfully around it.
The Mass itself provided focus for Rhysel to set about the next of the tasks Joram had set her the night before. Kneeling beside the queen, who soon lost herself in renewed prayers for her husband’s safe return, his ring clasped between her hands, Rhysel offered up her own prayer for the repose of the king’s soul, then used the remainder of the service to gently insinuate new controls in Michaela’s mind, set to damp her grief when the inevitable word came that her beloved Rhysem was dead—for nothing must interfere with the child she carried, now become Heir Presumptive of Gwynedd, even before his birth.
Afterward, when the queen returned to her solar for the morning’s unvarying session of needlework with her ladies, all unaware what her Deryni confidante had done, Rhysel betook herself to the castle gardens, far toward the end by the great hall. There she set herself to cutting flowers for the queen’s bower, taking her time, laying them one by one in a flat basket, being careful to move slowly and openly among the garden’s wide paths. She had carried her basket into a rose arbor and was admiring a perfect bloom of blood-crimson when Robert joined her, slipping his arms around her waist from behind and leaning down to nuzzle the side of her neck.
She stiffened and averted her face, ready to muffle his reaction if he could not, as she whispered, “Please, you mustn’t. I have ill news. The king is dead.”
She felt him go rigid as well and sensed the dull grief welling from deep inside him even as he held her more tightly, burying his face against her neck for comfort now rather than passion.
“His hand?” he asked.
“His physicians,” she replied, turning in the circle of his arms to face him. “Or rather, I should say his Custodes physicians. They bled him, Robert. Four times in less than a day and a night, and far too much. Even once or twice would have been perilous, as weak as he had become. One of our people got to him before the end—a Healer, even—but it was too late. He died yesterday afternoon.”
Robert swallowed hard and held her to him. She could feel his heart beating next to hers, but she steeled her own will and made herself extend light controls as she slid her arms around his waist.
“You must go back as quickly as you can,” she whispered. “The little king is safe enough for now, but Lord Cathan must be protected. He will be one of the queen’s few sources of comfort when she learns of the king’s death—but only if he can stay alive to do it. He knows this, but his grief could make him rash. It also may not have occurred to him how important his help will be in aiding the Kheldour lords to assert their rights as regents. You must go to him and be his voice of reason, if you can. I’ll set a message for him. You will not know what you carry until he Reads it from you. Are you bold enough to invite his touch?”
“To use his powers on me?” Robert asked. “He did before, and you have done. If I was going to be afraid of that, it’s a little late, isn’t it?”
She drew back and smiled sadly, setting her fingertips lightly on his cheeks. “My bold, brave knight,” she whispered. “How I wish we had met in less dangerous times. I like it not, to impose my will on one I would liefer have offer his aid.”
“Dear lady, I gladly offer all I have and am,” he breathed, “whether you are Deryni or no, whether or not you must impose your will to help me do what will help our new young king. Do you think I would scorn such assistance, knowing it will make me stronger in his service? I am not so proud as to think I cannot be the more effective tool, simply because the aid you give me is beyond my ability to do alone. If it is humanly possible, I will bring Lord Cathan back safely to the queen. Tell her she may depend upon it.” He frowned. “She doesn’t know yet, does she?”
Rhysel shook her head. “No, and she must not, until official word comes, lest I be discovered. It will also give me time to prepare her. I’ve begun that already. Nothing must be allowed to endanger the child she carries.”
“Aye, God forbid,” he murmured, bending to gently kiss her forehead.
She used the contact to implant the message for Cathan, sent and set in the blink of an eye, even as Robert pulled back to look at her in question.
“You must get to him somehow and give him opportunity to Read you,” she murmured. “I hope he will know to attempt it when he sees you have returned. There will be at least one other among that company who can help you; he will make himself known to you. Once Cathan has my instructions, simply do as he and the other bid you and try to bring both of you back safely. Both the queen and I shall be waiting.”
She kissed him then, this time with no subterfuge or mental augmentation, simply letting herself melt into his arms, feeling the sweet pleasure flooding through her body and his. It was he who pulled back at last, trembling with passion yet unleashed, to draw apart and only hold her hands, looking searchingly into the golden eyes and drawing shaky breath.
“When I come back, Rhysel Thuryn, I intend to ask for your hand in marriage,” he whispered. “Don’t answer now; just think on it until I return. I don’t care what you are; perhaps I love you more because of it. I do know that I love you, as God is my witness. May He keep you safe.”
With that, he was bending to kiss both her hands, then catching up the perfect red rose she had laid in her basket just when he arrived. He took it with him as he receded down the path, not looking back, and Rhysel sank to her knees to weep over her basket of roses, unable to watch him go, wondering whether all their efforts would come to naught. The codicil was even now in force, but could the Kheldour lords execute it?
The codicil to the king’s will was about to become of great interest to others in Rhemuth, though they would not learn for some days that it was already in force. As Sir Robert Ainslie galloped northward out of the city, a sedate ecclesiastical procession under Custodes escort was winding its way back up to the castle after a noon Requiem Mass for the departed Archbishop Oriss, whose body now would lie beneath the cathedral transept until his state funeral, two days hence. Archbishop Hubert had presided alongside Rhemuth’s Auxiliary Bishop, Alfred of Woodbourne, and now gave blessings from the scarlet-upholstered sedan chair that had become his habitual mode of transport in the last few years, as his bulk increased beyond the ability of any single horse to carry him securely.
Six burly gentlemen bore him this afternoon, all but engulfed by the vast black cope that swept from beneath a jeweled golden mitre. His crozier was in his left hand, set in a socket along the side of the sedan chair. A crucifer and two priests swinging thuribles walked before him, and Lord Tammaron and Richard Murdoch rode to either side, both soberly clad in mourning like the rest. The two pressed on ahead as the litter negotiated the last ascent through the castle gate, and as Hubert alighted from the chair before the steps of the castle’s great hall, he was surprised to see Tammaron already reading a missive just handed over by a weary-looking courier in Rhun’s livery.
“I think we’d better go inside to discuss this,” Tammaron said, giving Hubert an odd, strained look as he folded the letter and slipped it into his gown. “It’s from Rhun. It appears the king may have taken the bit in his teeth in a totally different manner than we feared. Oh, and Paulin has died.”
When they were closeted in Tammaron’s private study and Hubert had read the letter for the third time, he tossed it onto the table and shook his head, anger lighting the china-blue eyes. He had shed his mitre and cope and loomed in the sober purple of his episcopal robes.
“It has to be a bluff,” he said. “There’s no way he could have executed a codicil to his will. An
d even if he did, it wouldn’t stand up in court. Not one of our courts.”
“You’ve read Rhun’s letter,” Tammaron said blandly. “He saw the draft copy. If it isn’t a bluff—if enough originals were executed and witnessed by enough people—even one of our courts would at least have to give the matter consideration. And there’s no doubt that the Kheldour lords would certainly push it as hard as they could. I’ve always said it was a mistake to eliminate Duke Ewan from the last regency, and now it’s come back to haunt us. Sorry, Richard, but your father was occasionally overzealous.”
Richard picked up the letter and scanned it again, ignoring the reference to his father.
“We can force him to write a new will when he gets back,” he said. “We’d already begun drafting the provisions to replace Albertus and Paulin in the list of future regents. We’ll simply make certain the wording is ironclad, superseding anything else he’s ever signed.”
Tammaron waved a hand dismissively. “That’s understood. It still won’t stop Claibourne and Marley from producing their documents and trying to assert their rights.”
As he sighed, Hubert was pulling a fresh piece of parchment toward him and taking pen in hand.
“I’m sending for Father Secorim,” he said, over the scratching of the pen on parchment. “Oriss’ death leaves another gap on the Council that I want to fill as quickly as possible, certainly before the king returns. I trust neither of you will object if I name Secorim as archbishop-designate? He’ll have to be ratified by the bishops, of course, but they’ll do as I command. That will put another man I can trust back on the Council right away.”
Tammaron cocked his head quizzically. “Didn’t you have him in mind for Paulin’s replacement?”
“Yes, but if he were only vicar-general of the Custodes, he could be ousted; the Archbishop of Rhemuth can’t. I’ll find another vicar-general: Lior, perhaps, or maybe Hallex, out at Arx Fidei. Meanwhile, this will give us another strong voice on the Council, to put pressure on the king when he returns. Richard, give this to a courier, please.”
The Bastard Prince Page 39
