“Uncle Cathan!” the boy cried, breaking free of Tammaron to dart between Cathan’s horse and a sorrel waiting for Tammaron, catching at Cathan’s off-side stirrup.
Bending carefully, for sudden movements made him dizzy, Cathan leaned down to take the boy’s hand and press it to his lips.
“Good morning, my prince,” he murmured, as Tammaron caught up with the boy and picked him up, boosting him to sit in the saddle in front of Cathan.
“Just mind your manners, Drummond,” the earl murmured, as they helped the boy settle.
The look he gave Cathan before backing off to bow gave similar warning, but Cathan only held the boy close in his arms, gathering up the red leather reins as the groom released them, and Tammaron mounted his own horse. He was somewhat heartened to see that Owain wore the Eye of Rom and hoped that meant that Mika had followed his instructions; he thought he had caught a glimpse of the Haldane brooch at her throat as she got into the sedan-chair.
“It’s good to see you, Owain,” he murmured, desperately wishing his head was clearer, wondering whether help would come today. “You look very fine this morning. Your papa would be proud.”
“Mummy said we must be brave for Papa,” Owain whispered. “You be brave, too, Uncle Cathan?”
Cathan nodded, bending to kiss the boy’s neck. “We’ll all be very brave, my prince. God help us, we all must be very brave.”
The royal procession rode slowly out the castle gates and through the streets of Rhemuth—no true funeral cortege, since the late king’s body had been taken directly to the cathedral on arrival in the city. Still the crowds lined the streets to glimpse their new young king and his brave, widowed mother, many remarking how fine the boy looked, sitting there straight and proper with his handsome uncle, many bowing as he passed, some of them weeping.
Again Archbishop Hubert was waiting on the cathedral steps with his clergy, ready to follow the royal party inside for the Requiem Mass that would lay Rhys Michael Alister Haldane to rest with his father and brothers. When Cathan had let Owain down into Tammaron’s arms, he carefully swung down himself, forced to steady himself for a moment against the earl’s shoulder, for his medication was at its peak.
“You’d better pull yourself together,” Tammaron whispered sharply.
The moment of dizziness had already passed, but Cathan kept his voice carefully low as he whispered back, “If I fall flat on my face, blame your blessed archbishop. It won’t be because I wished it.”
So saying, he drew himself carefully erect and took Owain’s hand, leading him over to the sedan-chair where Michaela was alighting with the assistance of Manfred and Rhun—obviously with little enthusiasm. But when Owain made to retrieve the Papa knight, Manfred tried to keep him from it.
“Papa—” Owain whimpered, reaching for it.
“You can’t take it into the cathedral,” Manfred said, lifting it away, as Owain trembled on the brink of tears. “It isn’t fitting.”
“For God’s sake, my lord, let him have it!” Michaela begged. “It gives him comfort. He’s only a baby.”
“He’s the king.”
“He’s four years old,” Cathan said softly, locking his hand around Manfred’s wrist.
“Drummond, you push too far,” Manfred whispered, his face but a handspan from Cathan’s, though his hand began to lower.
“Just give the boy his toy.”
Snorting, Manfred jerked his hand away, but he did thrust the wooden knight into Owain’s hands before stalking over to Rhun, muttering under his breath. Cathan saw Rhun glance at him murderously, but he put it out of mind as he bent to comfort Owain, who was hugging the Papa knight and tightly clutching his mother’s hand, lower lip still trembling.
“Here now, what’s this?” he murmured, chucking the boy lightly under the chin. “I promised your papa we’d all be brave. Can you hold your head up like a king while we go inside? It would make your papa very proud.”
Sniffling away the last of his tears, Owain lifted his head and nodded, almost managing a smile. At that, Cathan adjusted the boy’s cap and coronet, then carefully straightened to join Michaela on her other side.
“Thank you,” she whispered, not daring to meet his eyes as he slipped his arm through hers—and had to steady his weight against her until he caught his balance. “Cathan, what’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing,” he whispered. “Just a little dizzy.” I’ll tell you later, he added in her mind.
He had to wait until the procession began moving into the cathedral, to clouds of incense and the chant of monkish voices and the distraction of Hubert’s ecclesiastical splendor, before he dared the concentration to answer her.
Remember what they did to Rhysem, right after Javan died? Well, they haven’t forgotten how, in six years. Since Rhysem died, I’ve been bled twice and kept drugged almost continuously. I’m all right for now, he added, at her start of fear. Just weak and a bit groggy. But I don’t give myself very good chances if the Kheldour lords don’t get here fairly quickly.
Might they reach here today? she dared to ask.
It’s possible, he replied. I pray God they do.
The Kheldour lords even then were approaching the city, though they had taken pains at their last stop to disguise their origins. Bishop Ailin now led the company, a scarlet cope sweeping from his shoulders and his pectoral cross hanging outside his black leather brigandine where it might be seen. A steel cap covered with purple leather also proclaimed his rank.
The episcopal knights he had brought from Valoret backed him, wearing blue and gold surcoats with the device of the See of Valoret on their chests. Tieg rode at his knee dressed as a squire, bearing the banner of Ailin’s episcopal arms; Queron had resumed the brown Saint Jarlath’s habit he wore at Saint Ostrythe’s and rode as Ailin’s chaplain. Graham and Sighere and their twenty bordermen rode after the episcopal knights in plain harness, telltale tweeds now hidden away in saddlebags and bedrolls, with Father Derfel and Ansel and his few ex-Michaelines interspersed among them. In all they were perhaps fifty strong; not a great many, but with a bishop at their head and Deryni power to back him—though magic must remain a last resort.
Ailin’s authority got them into the city by the east gate.
“I’m Ailin MacGregor, Auxiliary Bishop of Valoret,” he told the sergeant who challenged them at the gate. “Why is this gate closed? I’ve been summoned for the conclave to elect the new Archbishop of Rhemuth, and we heard en route that the king has died.”
“Aye, that’s true, your Grace. They’re burying him right about now,” the man replied, giving smart salute and signaling for the gates to be opened. “What you maybe hadn’t heard is that some kind of rebellion has broken out in Kheldour; that’s where the king died. There’s some talk that the Kheldour lords had a hand in his death, and that now they’re heading south.”
“You don’t say!” Ailin gasped.
“Oh, I doubt they’ll get this far. The Earl of Carthane has taken a couple of hundred crack troops north along the main road to head them off, if they do come. And even if they did, it wouldn’t be for several days.”
“It sounds as if we’re just in time to be useful,” Ailin said aside to his “chaplain.” “Thank you, Sergeant. Dominus vobiscum.”
He lifted his hand in blessing, then kneed his horse forward through the gate as he signaled his men to follow. At his nod, his “chaplain” fell back to pass the word among the men, remaining at the rear as they penetrated deeper into the city.
The city streets were mostly deserted, approaching the cathedral from this direction, for many folk had gone to the cathedral square to catch a glimpse of their new young king. As the bishop’s troops clattered over the cobblestones, nearing the square, Ansel broke off his ex-Michaelines and most of the Kheldour contingent to circle around the side while Ailin continued on to meet any official resistance in the square itself. Graham and Sighere remained with Queron and Father Derfel at the rear and kept their heads down, for Sigher
e’s red hair was distinctive, even under a steel cap, though he had sacrificed his bushy red beard and moustache in the interests of passing unremarked.
The square before the cathedral was crowded, but mostly gathered along the side where the royal procession would leave. The great bell in the cathedral tower had begun tolling, signaling that the service inside was coming to a close, and Ailin had his men rein back to a walk as they entered the square.
The twenty Custodes knights who had escorted the royal party from the castle were formed up ready to return, their heads turning with interest at this unexpected arrival, several pointing at the banner Tieg bore. Men in the livery of Lord Ainslie were holding the horses of those inside. Ailin called his captain to his side and muttered something to him, keeping to a walk, then glanced obliquely at Tieg.
“Son, we’re going to ride right up to that Custodes captain and brazen this out,” he said. “Just stay by my side and don’t look surprised at anything I say.”
“Aye, sir,” Tieg murmured, and silently sent the warning back to Queron as a Custodes officer broke off from his men and trotted out to meet them. He had already spotted Jesse among Ainslie’s men.
“MacGregor of Valoret, Captain,” Ailin said, before the man could speak. “We’re here to relieve you. We met a galloper on the way in, and you’re needed up the north road. You can pick up more men at Arx Fidei. Apparently the Kheldour lords are, indeed, headed toward Rhemuth.”
“You’ve come from Valoret?” the man said. “But how—”
“We came by the east road, man,” Ailin said. “I was summoned for the conclave to elect the new archbishop. We’ve been on forced march for nearly three days; you know the terrain on the central route. I can’t ask these men to turn right around and ride north again. We’ll take over your escort duties, and you can go ahead. I’ll explain to the great lords.”
The captain nodded, clearly reluctant, but not one to question the orders of his superiors.
“The command is yours, then, your Grace. You can move in right behind us. They should only be another quarter hour, at the most. I think they’re just now taking the coffin down into the crypt.”
Ailin saluted with his riding crop. “Thank you, Captain.”
As the Custodes troop rode out, Ailin led the Valoret knights in right behind them, dispersing twenty of them along a long line facing the cathedral steps as soon as the Custodes men had disappeared. Lord Ainslie appeared in a wicket doorway as Ailin and his remaining ten knights dismounted and bade his men take the extra horses out of the way as he saw Sighere and Graham also dismounting, coming to meet them on the steps.
“Is it true?” he asked Sighere, also flicking a glance at Graham but ignoring the others.
For answer, Sighere pulled out his copy of the codicil and handed it to Ainslie, who made one quick scan and handed it back, grinning.
“Your other men are already in position, my lord. God, but it’ll be good to have honest regents in this kingdom! Hubert and the royal party just went into the crypt. We’ve got maybe ten minutes to secure the area before they come out.”
“Aye, guid, let’s get started,” Sighere murmured, already moving them back inside. “Exactly who is in the royal party? By th’ by, this is Bishop Ailin MacGregor. Wi’out his help, this wouldnae be possible. Obey his orders as ye would my own; he knows what he’s doin’.”
Nodding distracted acknowledgment, Ainslie continued on with Sighere and Graham, Queron and Father Derfel also falling in behind them as Ailin began dispersing his knights inside.
“In the royal party,” Ainslie said, ticking them off on his fingers: “The queen and the young king, of course; Hubert, Rhun, Manfred, Tammaron, Abbot Secorim—who’s been designated as the next Archbishop of Rhemuth, by the way. Cathan and the Custodes knight who guards him—they’ve done terrible things to him, Sighere. Oh, and four Custodes monks, who carried the coffin into the crypt. I don’t think they’ll give you much trouble.”
“I dinnae think any o’ them’ll gie us much trouble,” Sighere murmured, loosening his sword in its scabbard. “Let’s clear th’ cathedral an’ get a welcoming committee ready, fer when they come oot.”
In the cool and quiet of the crypt below, lit by torches and candles, the rite of interment moved toward its conclusion. As the Custodes monks lowered the king’s coffin into the sarcophagus prepared for it, Hubert having blessed the place with holy water, Secorim began censing it, the sweet perfume of the incense smoke only slightly masking the charnel smell of the damp crypt, which eventually stretched nearly the length of the cathedral in a series of interlinked chambers.
“Ego sum resurrectio et vita,” Hubert intoned. I am the resurrection and the life; he who believes in me, even if he die, shall live; and whoever lives and believes in me, shall never die …
As Hubert continued with the Canticle of Zachariah, the monks answering him with the antiphon he had begun, Michaela let her thoughts wander—anything to keep from thinking about the slab of marble that Rhun and Manfred and Tammaron and the monks were slowly closing over the sarcophagus, sliding it into place; anything to keep from thinking about the man who lay in the coffin beneath it, whose lifeless body she had never even seen after it came home—
No. She did not want to remember him like that. Not bloodless and forever stilled, the grey eyes forever darkened, wrapped in his winding sheet and sealed in lead inside that coffin, for the long, hot journey back to Rhemuth from the place where he had died. Not with his hand cut from his body—the strong, graceful hand that should have been free to wield his kingship, the hand that often had pleasured—
She closed her eyes and made herself stop that line of remembering at once, briefly lifting one hand from Owain’s shoulder to wipe at the tears from under her widow’s veil. Owain stood directly before her, comforted within the circle of her arms, tears runneling down his face as he hugged the Papa knight to his breast. Cathan stood on her right, swaying slightly on his feet, the despicable Gallard de Breffni on his other side.
Beyond Rhysem’s tomb were the tombs of three other recent Haldane kings: King Cinhil and now all three of his ill-fated sons. The carved effigies atop the tombs showed the occupants at their best, even the sickly Alroy depicted as a hale, handsome youth, cut off in the flower of his young manhood. She wondered how the artists would show Rhysem, who perhaps had been the bravest of them all …
“Dearest brothers and sisters,” Hubert murmured, “let us faithfully and lovingly remember our brother Rhys Michael Alister, whom God has taken to Himself from the trials of this world …”
As all of them knelt for the final prayers, Cathan steadied his hand against the edge of Javan’s sarcophagus, leaning his forehead against the cool stone.
That Rhysem, too, should have come to this, and so soon, still seemed so very unfair. Such courage should have enabled him to persevere. Would nothing ever break the stranglehold of the old regents? He blamed it partially on old King Cinhil, for having chosen so unwisely. After Cinhil’s death, the fortunes of the Haldanes seemed to have sunk in ever-deepening spirals. He had hoped desperately that Rhysem might be the one to restore the Haldanes to their rightful prominence, after seeing Javan’s fate; but even in the very best of circumstances, it would be many years before Rhysem’s heir, the young Owain, would be ready to take up his father’s dream.
“Kyrie eleison … kyrie eleison … Christe eleison … Pater noster …”
He could feel the leaden weight of his grief pressing on his chest, heightened by his physical weakness and the drugs they had given him, and a part of him tried to yield to blind, disconsolate weeping; but he used the words of the familiar prayers to force himself back to better balance.
Surely all was not yet lost. Friends were coming. Whether they would get here in time to make any difference remained to be seen; and whether Rhysem’s last will could be enforced …
“A porti inferi.”
“Erue, Domine, animam eius.”
From the ga
te of hell—deliver his soul, O Lord. May he rest in peace … Amen.
“Domine, exaudi orationem meam …” Hubert prayed.
And Cathan echoed the prayer in his own intentions. O Lord, hear my prayer, and let my cry come unto Thee. Avenge him, Lord. His enemies sacrificed him for their own ungodly ambitions, working their evil in Thy name. Strike them down, Lord. Give strength to those who would uphold his will and see his crown freed. Make me Thine instrument, Lord. Use my hands to right the wrongs done here. Please, Lord …
“O Lord, we implore Thee to grant Thy mercy to this, Thy servant, Rhys Michael Alister, which Thou hast commanded to leave this world,” Hubert prayed, in words that shortly made Cathan wonder whether the archbishop realized what he was asking for. “May he who held fast to Thy will by his intentions receive no punishment in return for his deeds, but a place in the land of light and peace, in union with the company of angels in Heaven. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
“Amen,” came the response.
“Thou great and omnipotent Judge of the living and the dead, before Whom we are all to appear after this short life, to render an account of our works. Let our hearts, we pray Thee, be deeply moved at this sight of death, and while we consign the body of Thy servant Rhys Michael Alister to the earth, let us be mindful of our own frailty and mortality, that walking always in Thy fear and in the ways of Thy Commandments, we may, after our departure from this world, experience a merciful judgment and rejoice in everlasting happiness. Amen.”
“Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord,” Secorim said, taking over from Hubert.
The Bastard Prince Page 47
