“Which means a benign regency, to protect him until he’s grown,” Michaela murmured. “Oh, Rhysel, do you think they’ll be able to do it? Will the Kheldour lords reach here in time?”
“God willing,” Rhysel whispered. “God knows they will try.”
The Kheldour lords, meanwhile, were galloping southward from Valoret on blooded horses from the archbishop’s stables, striking out across country rather than sticking to the better-traveled route that skirted the Eirian. The going was harder, but the distance was considerably shorter—and the only way they had a chance of reaching Rhemuth before the king’s funeral on the morrow. The great lords would not be expecting them so soon, certain they could not have received the news and responded so quickly.
They would stop at Mollingford in a few hours to change horses again. They had made the three-day ride to Valoret in two, where Queron had already paved the way with Bishop Ailin MacGregor, Valoret’s long-suffering auxiliary bishop.
Ailin was and long had been one of the keys to their plan. Singled out early in his career by no less a churchman than the saintly Archbishop Jaffray, to whom he had been devoted, Ailin had been hardly a year in his incumbency as Jaffray’s auxiliary when the archbishop’s death necessitated the election of a new successor—and Ailin had not supported the man who eventually won and held the See of Valoret. Not only had he supported the candidacy of Alister Cullen over Hubert as Primate of Gwynedd, but he dared to abstain in the election that made Hubert the ousted Alister’s replacement, a few days later.
It was not an offense for which Hubert could remove him from office—and Ailin dutifully gave his new superior the vow of obedience demanded at his enthronement—but Hubert soon had made it clear that Ailin might forget about ever being promoted to a see of his own, so long as Hubert lived. Nor might he even expect escape as an itinerant bishop, for they enjoyed too much freedom. In Valoret, as a functionary in Hubert’s episcopal machine, Ailin would remain closeted away where he could do no harm, under close observation by Hubert’s spies—who increasingly wore the habit of the Custodes Fidei, whose Mother House was nearby. Resigned to his fate, Ailin continued to honor his vow to his office, for he was a conscientious man and a dutiful son of the Church, but he harboured a smouldering resentment against the man who had stymied his career out of spite and now proceeded to abuse the office of primate and archbishop to extend his secular power.
This resentment did not go unmarked, though Ailin had kept it carefully private in Valoret. The exiled Bishop Dermot—and through him, the coalition led by Joram and the Deryni Bishop Niallan—had been courting Ailin for several years, against the eventual military ouster of the great lords. Ailin had been hesitant about supporting an armed undertaking that could be construed as rebellion against the king he had sworn to uphold; but supplanting Hubert and his cronies in favor of the king’s duly chosen and appointed regency appealed to Ailin. He had inspected the codicils produced by the Duke of Claibourne and the Earl of Marley, duly witnessed by the queen’s brother and a priest who was not a member of the despicable Custodes Fidei, and he had smiled as he lodged one of the copies in the archives of Valoret Cathedral. And he was ready to back up his approval with horses, men, and his own person.
Now, as they pressed on toward Mollingford, pulling back to a walk after a long stretch of cantering, Bishop Ailin drew rein alongside Ansel. Like the rest of them, he wore riding leathers and a leather brigandine, his tonsure covered by a leather cap and with no other sign of his calling visible. Unlike the rest of them, he was unaccustomed to such long hours in the saddle—fit enough, for a man in his mid-fifties, but they had ridden through the night, with only brief stops to water the horses and snatch rations on the go.
“Could we stop for a few minutes?” he said breathlessly.
“Legs still bothering you?” Ansel replied.
At Ailin’s pained nod, Ansel surveyed ahead and behind, catching Sighere’s glance backward, and signaled a halt. They were passing through a broad meadow studded with tiny lake-lets, with a clear view for miles in either direction.
“A quarter hour to rest the horses,” he called, as he pulled up. “Tieg, see if anyone has a problem. Dom Queron, could you join us, please?”
As he swung down, giving his horse to one of the Kheldour men and then going to help Ailin dismount, Queron kneed his mount closer and also slid from his saddle. He was at least a decade older than Ailin, but the past week in the pursuit of the king had reaccustomed him to the rigors of long-distance riding, and he knew exactly what the bishop must be feeling.
“I thoroughly sympathize, your Grace,” the Healer said easily, as Ansel helped Ailin ease down on a rotten log. “From very recent experience, I can imagine that your legs must feel like jelly. I can give you something to dull the pain, or I can do something more direct. It’s your decision.”
Ailin grimaced and stretched out first one leg, then the other, leaning against Ansel for support, his face grey with fatigue and discomfort.
“Well, I don’t suppose I ought to take anything, as tired as I am,” he said, massaging at his inner thighs, “so that leaves something more direct. I won’t deny I’m a little apprehensive, but I’ve trusted you with my life and office and maybe my soul; I might as well trust you with my body.”
Smiling, Queron knelt down in front of Ailin, glancing up at Ansel in quick instruction. “My Healer’s vows are as holy as my priestly ones, to do no harm,” he said gently. “Your Grace may rest easy.”
So saying, he set his hands on Ailin’s knees, even as Ansel took control from behind Ailin, pulling his head back to rest against his waist. Ailin’s pale eyes closed, his whole body going limp against Ansel’s. In Healing trance, Queron worked his magic very quickly, easing the cramped muscles in knees and thighs as best he could, then setting a fatigue-banishing spell on the human bishop. It would need renewal before they rode into Rhemuth, but the rest of the journey would be easier for it.
He left Ailin sleeping for a few minutes while he moved among the others, but everyone seemed reasonably fit. The Kheldour men had slept for a few hours in Valoret, while Graham and Sighere and their Deryni allies talked to the bishop, and the Valoret troops, some thirty of them, were still reasonably fresh. They watched him curiously as he moved among them, for most were young enough never to have known a time when Healers were regarded for their worth and not for their “tainted” blood, but Ailin had chosen his men well. He sensed no hostility or fear.
Tieg was talking to one now, his hands clasped around the fetlock of the man’s mount in healing concentration and carrying on a conversation at the same time, with the young Duke Graham crouching to look on. The lad was good. Queron gave him an appreciative nod before heading back to Ailin and Ansel. Sighere had come over to look at the bishop while he slept, taking a swig from a leather flask, but he stoppered it and hung it back on his saddle as Queron approached.
“Is he going to make it?” he asked quietly.
“Oh, yes—especially now that he’s let me give him a hand. I wasn’t sure about that, but I didn’t want to force anything. He’s got to be a totally willing ally, or it won’t work.”
“Well, it willnae work if we dinnae get there, either,” Sighere muttered, glancing over where Graham was talking to Tieg and the Valoret man. “Mebbe when we change horses at Mollingford, I’ll ask ye fer a jolt o’ whate’er ye gave him. Graham, let’s awa!”
The order brought an immediate flurry of activity, as men and horses reunited and began falling into place. As Queron knelt by Ailin again, Ansel brought him out of sleep, himself abandoning the light trance he had entered to refocus his own energies.
“Better?” Queron asked, as Ailin’s eyes fluttered open with a start.
Ansel’s hands helped him straighten more upright, and the bishop rubbed tentative hands along his thighs, letting out a sigh as he looked up at Queron.
“That’s miraculous,” he murmured. “How can anyone say that’s evil?”
; Queron cocked his head and shrugged. “I’m sure I don’t know. Something to think about, when you get back up on that horse.”
A few minutes later, they were on their way again, settling into the ground-eating pace that would take them to their next stop, that much closer to Rhemuth.
And in Rhemuth, as dusk began to settle over the city, the self-proclaimed regents of Gwynedd met once more in the castle’s council chamber—Hubert and Rhun and Manfred and Tammaron.
“So we simply shut the gates to Claibourne and Marley,” Tammaron said. “We don’t let them into the city. It isn’t as if they won’t be recognized.”
“True enough,” Manfred agreed, “but a great deal depends on how many men they bring. We can shut the gates, but eventually we’ll have to answer them. And once word gets out of this codicil, it’s going to be difficult to deny them entrance.”
“Richard has a force ready to take north to intercept them,” Rhun said. “Do you want them dispatched tonight?”
“How many?” Hubert said, drumming his pudgy fingers on the chair arm.
“About two hundred,” Rhun said. “A joint command of Carthane lancers and Custodes knights. I should think that more than adequate to deal with however many Claibourne and Marley have been able to scare up. Borderers!” He sneered. “Richard will chase them right into the river.”
“Manfred, do you agree?” Hubert said.
Manfred nodded. “I’ve briefed Richard. We can depend on him.”
“Let’s dispatch him, then,” Hubert said, nodding. “What about the eastern approach to the city? Is it possible they could come that way?”
“Unlikely,” Manfred said. “It’s slightly shorter, but not a route for moving lots of men in a hurry. The roads are poor, with very rough going in some spots. For speed, I think they’ll come along the river—and Richard will be ready for them. And if they should come from the east—well, no one is going to let border levies into the city. In any case, I can’t imagine anything will happen tomorrow.”
“Very well,” Hubert said. “In that instance, I suggest we all get some sleep.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Their bodies are buried in peace; but their name liveth for evermore.
—Ecclesiasticus 44:14
The morning of the king’s funeral, Great George was slowly tolling in the cathedral tower below the castle as Gallard de Breffni came with Custodes guards to take Cathan from his prison cell. An hour later, bathed, shaved, and dressed in unrelieved black, still under guard, Cathan received a not-unexpected visit from Manfred MacInnis, accompanied by the Custodes monk called Brother Embert.
“I hear that it’s a fine day for a funeral,” Manfred said coldly, as Gallard set heavy hands on Cathan’s shoulders to prevent him rising. The earl was carrying Cathan’s sword, its white belt wrapped around the scabbard, and Embert had a cup in his hand. “I trust you aren’t going to cause any problems for us today. I shouldn’t want the queen to be upset.”
Cathan shook his head, tight-lipped, well aware what Embert had in the cup.
“Good. I’m glad that’s understood. You will now be so good as to drink down the little potion that Brother Embert has brought you. You know the drill.”
Cathan took the cup that Embert put into his hand, but his eyes flashed his hatred as he glanced up at Manfred, his hand tightening around it.
“What would you do,” he said softly, “if I tipped this onto the floor?”
Manfred’s face went even colder, the light eyes narrowing. “I would make you lap it up like a dog, and then I would have Brother Embert bleed you again, to compensate for what had been lost.”
Raising an eyebrow, Cathan lifted the cup slightly in salute—he could feel Gallard’s hands tensing—then tossed off the contents in a single draught, grimacing as he swallowed and handed the cup back to Embert.
“Bad ale but a good threat, Manfred. It’s far more original than I expected. Come now, you didn’t really think I’d be stupid enough to deny my sister what little comfort I can, today of all days, just to spite you? Gallard, take your hands off me. I’m hardly in any position to defy anyone. I’ve taken my medicine; I’ll be lucky to stay on my feet today.”
“You’ll be lucky to stay alive, if you keep that up,” Manfred muttered, thrusting Cathan’s sword into his hands. “Put that on.”
“Of course.”
With Gallard’s hands still on him he stood, unwrapping the sword belt and passing it around his waist, noting that someone had cleaned the white leather. In addition, though this hardly surprised him, a thin piece of wire had been bound around the quillons and through the rings of the scabbard, to prevent the weapon being drawn. They were taking no chances with him.
When he had finished buckling the belt, passing the tongue behind and through the loop and pulling it taut, he reached aside for the black cap they had provided, setting it squarely on his fair head as he looked back at Manfred.
“I am yours to command, my lord.”
“Yes, you are,” Manfred said, the pale eyes dangerous. “And still shall be, when this day is over. I suggest you remember that, before taking any action that I might find objectionable. Bring him,” he added to Gallard.
They took him downstairs then, to await the arrival of his sister and the young king. The drug started to hit him on the way, the familiar fogging of his senses and faint dizziness, and he had to catch his balance on Gallard’s arm as he came out of the stairwell.
By the time he reached the yard and mounted up on the white charger they had provided—for the little king would ride with his uncle on the way to and from the cathedral—he knew it would take all his concentration to keep him and Owain on the horse and not disgrace them both. It was hot in the sun, especially dressed all in black, and he let himself doze in the saddle as they waited for the royal party to come out.
The royal party, meanwhile, was making final preparations for departure. While the queen’s ladies fluttered nervously in the solar like so many blackbirds, waiting for their mistress, the queen and Rhysel were nearly finished dressing Owain. The process was being overseen by both the Papa knight and the Uncle Cathan knight, whom the boy had set on his mother’s dressing table beside the jewel casket.
“Just hold still,” Michaela murmured, fumbling at his ear, “and then Liesel will hold a mirror so you can see.”
She finished fastening the Eye of Rom in place, setting the other earring of twisted gold back into her jewel box, then gave the black hair a quick swipe with an ivory comb. She wore the Haldane brooch at the throat of her gown, her only adornment save for the State Crown and her marriage ring.
“That’s fine,” she said, turning him to where the black-clad Rhysel stood with the mirror. “It doesn’t pull too much, does it? It’s a little heavier than the other one.”
He fingered at it uncertainly as he turned, his little face screwed up in concentration—and froze as he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, his mouth gaping in wonder. After two days of wearing plain black tunics, he had paid little attention when she pulled this one over his head a little earlier, but now he smoothed an almost reverent hand over the crimson and gold of the Haldane shield embroidered full across the chest of the black velvet. The Ring of Fire hung almost to his waist on a substantial gold chain, but he ignored that to stroke the embroidered lion again.
“Oh, Mummy, it’s beautiful!” he whispered.
“Yes, it is, darling. I thought you’d like it,” she heard herself saying, as she took up the small black velvet cap of maintenance, with its gold coronet nestled behind the ermine of the turn-up. His rosy lips made an awed O as she set it on his head, and Michaela felt her own breath catch in a pang of memory almost too dear to be borne.
“Mummy, I almost look like Papa,” he whispered, reaching up to touch the coronet. “Mummy, do you think Papa looked like this when he was a little boy?”
Most assuredly, Rhysem had never looked like this at this age, as the third son of the king, bu
t Michaela recalled that he had looked a great deal like this at Javan’s funeral, the only time she had ever seen him in mourning. She blinked back the tears and forced herself to put the image from her mind as she dropped to her knees to hug him to her.
“Oh, my darling, you look very much like Papa,” she murmured against his shoulder, choking back the tears. “Your papa would be so proud …”
“Don’t cry, Mummy,” he whispered, patting her cheeks with his little hands. “You said we must be brave for Papa.”
“Yes, darling, I know.”
“Mummy smile, then? Mummy be brave?”
“Yes, darling, Mummy will be brave,” she said, and pressed firm kisses to both his hands before getting shakily back to her feet.
Help me, Rhysel, she sent, as the younger woman steadied her. I don’t know if I can get through this.
“Your Highness must be strong,” Rhysel murmured, for the benefit of the other ladies now beginning to peer in from the solar, impatient to depart. “Let me fix your veil.” And with her mind she reached out for the soothing controls, blurring the grief, instilling calm, urging courage and hope.
Michaela had recovered her composure by the time she must pass through the solar to where Tammaron was waiting to escort her and Owain. Obliged by protocol to take his arm, she had Rhysel walk before her with Owain, the other ladies going ahead and behind, fluttering sympathetically and making much of their privilege of being in the queen’s entourage. At the last minute, Owain again had insisted on bringing the Papa knight, but Rhysel was carrying it and had gotten him to agree that it might ride to the cathedral in the sedan-chair with his mother, for he was to go on horseback with his Uncle Cathan.
As they came out onto the great hall steps, foot soldiers lined up along either side clashed to attention and an honor guard of twenty mounted Custodes knights dipped their lances in salute, already dressed in mourning in the sweeping black mantles over their black armor. This time understanding the honor they did him, Owain did not flinch, holding his little head high as he followed Tammaron and his mother to the waiting sedan-chair and watched her handed into it, checking to see that Rhysel installed the Papa knight safely at her feet. He waved good-bye to Rhysel as she followed the other ladies to the palfreys provided for them, only then allowing Tammaron to lead him down into the yard, where Cathan sat watching him on a white horse with red leather harness. Rhun and Manfred waited behind Cathan, mounted on black horses, and Gallard de Breffni was on his left.
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