The Bastard Prince

by Katherine Kurtz

  “And let perpetual light shine upon him.”

  “May he rest in peace.”

  “Amen.”

  “May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.”

  “Amen.”

  The prayers completed, Hubert crossed himself and lumbered to his feet, pulling himself up against the king’s tomb as the others rose. Great George continued tolling in the background. Secorim brought an unlit three-branched candelabrum from a side niche and set it on the tomb slab, and Hubert took up a taper and lit it from one of the torches, beckoning Michaela and Cathan to approach with little Owain.

  “You may each light one of the candles, your Highness,” he murmured, holding out the taper, “adding your prayers to ours.”

  Composing herself, Michaela folded her veil back over her crown, then bent to pick up Owain, settling him on her hip as she took the taper from Hubert and lit one of the end candles, then put the taper in his hand and guided him to light the center one.

  “God bless Papa,” she prompted softly. “Keep him safe with the angels. Amen.”

  “God bless Papa,” Owain repeated dutifully, as she passed the taper to Cathan. “Mummy, angels all around here. They come to bring Papa back?”

  The innocent words nearly made Cathan drop the taper, but Michaela only went a little paler and shook her head, not daring to acknowledge the flutter of unseen wings but silently thanking them for their presence—and praying that Hubert would not press the point of whether Owain could actually see angels.

  “I don’t think angels do that, darling,” she whispered, under the murmur of Cathan hastily offering up a prayer of his own to cover for her, his hand shaking as he lit his candle. “Sometimes angels come to comfort us when we’re very sad—and your guardian angel is always around when you need him. Maybe Papa’s guardian angel came to say good-bye.”

  Owain frowned, but he had caught the mental warning from his mother not to pursue the subject and instead turned his eyes to the other sarcophagi in the tomb chamber as his mother started to set him down.

  “We can go back upstairs now,” Hubert said, gesturing toward the stair that led back up to the rear of the nave. “I don’t know why the bell hasn’t paused, so the years can be tolled.”

  “Mummy, wait,” Owain said, holding back as his mother started to lead him toward the stairs. “Why Papa’s place doesn’t have a king on it?”

  “What?”

  He pointed at the other tombs. “Grandpapa Cinhil has a king on his place, an’ Uncle Javan, an’—”

  “I think he means an effigy,” Hubert murmured indulgently, almost smiling as he glanced at the others. “Your Highness, the stonecutters must make one for your papa. They haven’t had time yet.”

  Owain’s rosy lips compressed in a pout. “My papa should have a king.”

  “He shall, I promise you—”

  “Should have one now!”

  “Your Highness, that isn’t poss—”

  “Mummy—”

  “I may be able to solve this,” Cathan murmured, coming over to scoop Owain into his arms. “Owain, Owain, listen to me, my brave little man. You mustn’t cry. Listen to me.”

  He whispered in the boy’s ear for several minutes, Owain’s tears gradually subsiding as he listened, shortly beginning to nod his head.

  “So, what do you think?” Cathan finally whispered, drawing back a little. “Would that be all right?”

  Gravely Owain nodded. “Papa like that.”

  “All right. Shall I help you?”

  At Owain’s nod, Cathan carried him the few steps over to the empty tomb slab, where Owain gravely set his Papa knight in front of the candelabrum, facing the candles.

  “My Papa knight is a king,” he explained, as Hubert looked at him in question. “See his crown? He stay here until Papa gets a big king.”

  “But darling, won’t you miss the Papa knight?” Michaela asked, taking one of his hands in hers and glancing at Cathan. “If you leave him here, he’ll have to stay for quite a white—maybe months. If you miss him in the middle of the night, we can’t just come down and get him.”

  “I still have the Uncle Cathan knight at home,” Owain reminded her. “Uncle Cathan take care of me now.”

  “‘Uncle Cathan’ may have other things to do,” Manfred said under his breath, gesturing for Cathan to put the boy down. “Let’s go, Drummond. We’ve been down here long enough. Gallard, take him upstairs.”

  Sick at heart, Cathan obeyed. He had eased his young nephew’s immediate distress, but how long the regents would let him live to take further care of him remained to be seen. He gave his sister a forlorn glance as she took Owain’s hand, but he turned dutifully to accompany Gallard up the stairs as the others fell in behind.

  He could see the guard of honor drawn up to attention on either side of the stairwell as they ascended, though he did not remember that Hubert had assigned that many knights of his Valoret garrison. It was only as his shoulders came above the level of the top step and strong hands roughly jerked him and Gallard out of the stairwell, hands clapped over their mouths to stifle outcries, that he saw the longed-for faces among the Valoret men—and knew that the next hour would either see the House of Haldane dead or delivered.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  But if ye bite and devour one another, take heed that ye be not consumed one of another.

  —Galatians 5:15

  Manfred drew back with a shout as Cathan and Gallard were snatched from right in front of him. Cursing, he shrank back from a sword thrust and started pushing back down the stairs as men in Valoret livery swarmed into the stairwell with drawn swords. Rhun had been following directly behind and spun to shoulder past Lior with a shove that nearly sent him tumbling backward, sweeping the queen and Owain back into the crypt and shouting for Tammaron.

  Neither he nor Manfred could get their swords clear in the close confines of the stairwell, but the swords came out as soon as they had gained the open space of the crypt floor, whirling to confront the unexpected intruders. Tammaron was waiting to back them, sword also drawn, helping Lior hustle the queen and the young king into the hands of Hubert and Secorim, who drew them roughly behind the screen of the six unarmed Custodes monks.

  There Hubert restrained the queen with a hand on her arm and Lior presumed to pick up and hold the frightened Owain. As knights in the surcoats of Valoret began pouring down into the crypt with drawn swords, the Custodes men and their hostages eased farther into the open arch of the next chamber, their three “protectors” on guard before them.

  “Throw down your weapons!” shouted one of the Valoret knights, of which there were six. Emerging from the stair behind them came an armored, grey-haired man in a scarlet bishop’s cope and purple cap, accompanied by Lord Ainslie and two knights in Ainslie’s livery.

  “MacGregor!” Hubert thundered, as he recognized his subordinate. “What the devil are you doing? Order those men to put away their swords immediately!”

  “I can’t do that, your Grace,” Ailin said, as his knights fanned across the opening to the stair, interspersing themselves among the tombs. Sighere and Graham quietly joined Ainslie behind him, along with two men in priest’s attire. “I am acting under the orders of lawful regents of Gwynedd.”

  “I am a lawful regent of Gwynedd,” Hubert said haughtily. “Furthermore, I am your religious superior. You swore me a vow of obedience.”

  “I also swore to uphold the king and his laws—which includes lawfully executed decrees issued in his name.” In his hand that wore the bishop’s ring he held up an unfolded parchment document bearing a splotch of crimson sealing wax. “I believe that at least Lord Rhun has seen this in draft. This copy was duly signed and witnessed; I can produce the witness. Another like it has already been recorded in the cathedral archives at Valoret. It appoints Graham of Claibourne and Sighere of Marley as regents of Gwynedd. They have some questions to ask the other regents of Gwynedd, who were
directly responsible for the death of the late king.”

  “That’s a lie!” Manfred blustered, gesturing with his sword. “Who dares to say that?”

  “I do, my lord.” Queron stepped from behind Ailin, hands folded in the sleeves of his brown habit. “And the king himself said it, in his deathbed confession—after having been bled four times in less than a day. The operations were carried out by a Custodes monk called Brother Polidorus, but the king was quite clear that one Manfred MacInnis gave the order. And Rhun of Horthness acquiesced.”

  “I didn’t!” Rhun blurted. “It was Polidorus who wanted it, and Lior—and they had me drugged when I tried to stop them. Ask anyone who was there. The king himself would tell you that, if he were here.”

  “It is precisely because he is not here that we are having this conversation, my lord!” Ailin said sharply. “These are extremely serious allegations—”

  “Serious lies!” Lior said breathlessly, as Owain started to squirm in his arms. “Certainly, the king was bled—in accordance with accepted medical practice. His hand was festering; he was racked with fever. When the bleeding did not relieve him, it became clear that the hand would have to come off. Unfortunately, he did not survive the shock of the surgery.”

  “The king had both his hands when he died,” Queron said quietly. “Shall I lay my hand on his grave and swear it?”

  “Who is that man?” Secorim demanded of Lior.

  “Tell him, Father,” Ailin said, before Lior could answer. “Tell him how you brought in Father Donatus to hear the king’s last confession, because you and your clergy had placed yourselves in such ill repute that the king would rather risk his immortal soul by dying unshriven than receive the last sacraments from any Custodes priest.”

  “And is this priest any better?” Manfred said, pointing with his sword. “Can we trust any part of his testimony? What good is the word of a priest who breaks the seal of the confessional?”

  “What good, indeed?” Ailin said softly. “Except that the king gave Father Donatus leave to reveal what he had been told, to bring his murderers to justice. Therefore, the seal has not been broken.”

  “That is not for you to decide!” Hubert said angrily, thrusting the queen into Secorim’s grasp as he moved a few steps forward. “You have no authority here—or in any other place!” He stabbed a trembling forefinger at his subordinate.

  “Ailin MacGregor, I hereby suspend you from your office and command you, on pain of excommunication, to withdraw these hostile forces from this place and submit yourself to canonical discipline. How dare you presume to judge these men?”

  “’Tis I who presume tae judge them, Archbishop,” Duke Graham said mildly, setting his hands on his sword belt as he moved beside Ailin. Sighere also stepped forward on Ailin’s other side, burly arms crossed on his chest. “As both regent an’ duke in this kingdom, I hae the power o’ high an’ low justice, an’ authority tae hear evidence an’ render judgment. I charge you, Manfred MacInnis, Earl o’ Culdi, an’ you, Rhun o’ Horthness, Earl o’ Sheele, with high treason an’ sacrilegious murder—”

  “I don’t recognize your authority to try me!” Manfred said contemptuously.

  “I further find ye guilty o’ these crimes an’ declare yer lives forfeit,” Graham continued. “Throw doon yer arms. Ye cannae escape. An’ I wouldnae profane this holy place with yer blood—though ’twould be a fittin’ end, here before the tomb o’ the king whose sacred blood ye spilled.”

  “Several kings,” Sighere added softly. “King Javan also died beneath the blades o’ traitors.”

  Not a soul dared to move. Into the taut, expectant silence that settled after Sighere’s words, not a sound intruded save the harsh breathing of the cornered men, Owain’s muted protests as he struggled again in Lior’s arms, and a single, stifled sob from Michaela. Then, to everyone’s surprise, Rhun contemptuously tossed his sword to the floor, where its clangor reverberated through the stone chamber. He reached next to the dagger at his belt.

  “Rhun, what are you doing?” Manfred demanded, gaping at him in astonishment, his sword slowly sinking at his side.

  Even as he asked it, Rhun spun to plunge his dagger into Manfred’s chest, ripping upward as he wrenched it out. Blood gushed from Manfred’s mouth even as Michaela screamed and one of the Valoret knights started forward, but Rhun was already elbowing his way through the line of Custodes monks and grappling Owain from Lior’s arms. He slashed the blade across the side of Lior’s neck when the priest tried to stop him, bundling the struggling Owain under his arm and sprinting back along the vaulted chambers of the crypt. At the same time, a wild-eyed Tammaron roughly seized the queen by one arm and whirled her in front of him like a shield, laying his sword across her throat from behind.

  When Cathan was snatched from the steps to the crypt, his immediate impulse to fight for his life died at once as he recognized Sir Robert Ainslie as his “captor,” with other familiar faces of Lord Ainslie’s levy pouring into the stairwell to back up those who had followed Bishop Ailin and his men into the crypt. And as Robert released him, though supporting him when his weakness would have made him collapse, he saw that no less a benefactor than his cousin Ansel had Gallard de Breffni in protesting custody, straddling his bent form and twisting one arm up behind him while his other hand clamped over his mouth to prevent him crying out.

  “Kill him now!” Cathan gasped, eyes wide as he clung to Robert.

  “You’re sure?” Ansel said, very matter-of-factly.

  “He helped hold Rhysem while they bled him,” Cathan said, numbly shaking his head to force back the memory. “He’s killed many others, over the years. And he would have killed me. Kill him.”

  Gallard had heard his death sentence and tried anew to struggle free, but the end was quick. Ansel’s hands moved almost too quickly to see, twisting the man’s head to one side and back with a sharp wrench and a soft, sickening crack. Then Ansel was letting the limp body sag to the floor, wiping his hands across his thighs, already turning to peer urgently down the stairwell. Cathan fought the gorge rising in his throat as another man calmly began dragging Gallard’s body out of the way, and looked around gratefully as young Tieg was suddenly at his side, helping Robert ease him to a sitting position against the support of a thick stone pillar.

  “I was warned you’d be in pretty bad shape,” the young Healer murmured, slipping his hands to either side of Cathan’s head. “Let me see you. I think I can help.”

  It was an order, not a request. A sudden sensation of vertigo made Cathan gasp and close his eyes, perception briefly blurred. Then someone was tipping his head back, pressing something against his lips.

  “I want you to swallow this for me,” Tieg’s voice said softly, as a cool, minty liquid slid down his throat. “That’s it. Again. I came prepared for several things they might have given you; this should clear your head and give you a jolt of energy in a minute or two. Your blood loss isn’t serious, but the fatigue is. I can counter that temporarily. Just relax.”

  Cathan was somewhat aware of Tieg’s mental touch this time, just before a wave of utter lethargy overcame him, but when he opened his eyes, he could almost imagine that the events of the past few days had never happened, at least so far as his body was concerned. He could feel his head clearing even as Robert helped him sit up, though Tieg was still monitoring with a hand clasped around one wrist.

  “Cathan, come over here,” Ansel called to him softly, from over nearer the stairwell. Around them and farther back in the cathedral, men in plain brigandines were helping Lord Ainslie’s men clear the building. There were a few Custodes bodies here and there, but mostly people were more than willing to leave a place that suddenly had become an unknown battle zone. As Cathan scrambled over to join his half-brother, the great cathedral bell suddenly stopped ringing.

  “Good,” Ansel whispered. “Someone finally got to the bell platform. Now, who, exactly, is down there besides Mika and the boy?”

  Cathan peered
down the stairwell. He could only see the backs of Graham and Sighere and Father Derfel, but he pictured the others in his mind’s eye, as they had stood during the prayers beside Rhysem’s grave.

  “Manfred, Rhun, and Tammaron are armed,” he replied. “There are six Custodes monks who might have weapons under their robes—knives, maybe. And Hubert and Secorim and Lior. What are they doing?”

  “Talking. Arguing.” Ansel motioned for one of Lord Ainslie’s captains, who came to crouch beside him. “Is there another exit from the crypt?”

  “Aye, m’lord. Up to the left of the high altar.”

  “Any other ways out of the cathedral, besides the main doors and the way I came in?”

  “A side door in the south transept, leading into the cathedral close—to the Chapter House, and the archbishop’s residence and such. Another door from the sacristy, that also goes—”

  From the crypt below came a clang of steel against stone, then the sounds of scuffling and a chorus of exclamations and shouts.

  “Rhun has the king!” an anguished shout came from the bowels of the crypt. “He’s headed toward the other end! Don’t let him get away!”

  Cathan was already taking off down the nave, his useless sword hanging against his legs until he steadied it with a hand, praying he would be in time—for Rhun, with his deeds now known and his life already forfeit, had no reason to spare any Haldane, even a four-year-old one.

  In the crypt, Michaela trembled against her captor, trying only weakly to twist around to see where Rhun had taken her child, for Tammaron’s fingers dug into her shoulder like iron, and the steel of his sword was pressed hard against her throat. Manfred was dead in a smear of his own blood on the floor before them, an expression of astonishment etched indelibly on his bloodless face, and two of the Custodes monks were trying in vain to stanch Lior’s wound. The Valoret knights had started forward the instant Rhun stabbed Manfred, but Sighere had called them back sharply as soon as Tammaron seized the queen.

  They stood well back now, swords lowered, glancing uneasily at Sighere for direction as he raised both hands toward Tammaron in a placating gesture. Graham had immediately yielded command to his more experienced uncle, shoving Father Derfel back up the stairs to safety, and Ailin was urgently waving back men who would have come down in Derfel’s place, frantic not to do anything to trigger further violence on Tammaron’s part. Queron had ducked down behind one of the tombs, now hidden from Tammaron’s sight and hopefully forgotten in the confusion.