“Aye, though not deeply enough to do real damage: a slash across one palm, from what I hear. Apparently Morgan was able to heal that, though not right away, with the merasha in it. McLain was quite up to attending Mass the next noon, and seemed to bear no sign of the wound.”
“Blast him for the Deryni heretic he is!—that both of them are!—and that is going to be a bishop!” He indulged an explosive sigh, then glanced at Gorony more mildly.
“How does this change our plans, then, my friend? You’ve worked miracles enough, simply to get me out of Saint Iveagh’s, but there’s no way we can reach Ratharkin in time to prevent the investiture.”
“That’s true, my lord. However, by the time we can reach Ratharkin, the king and his court will be on their way back to Rhemuth. For all the winter, Meara’s new bishop will be guarded only by his garrison—and most of them owe obedience to the Bishop of Culdi or to Judhael himself.”
“Do they, indeed?” Loris breathed.
“Even so, my lord,” Gorony replied, smiling. “Nor does Bishop Creoda’s support end with the gaining of your freedom. He proposes to help you depose Istelyn and then consecrate Judhael in his place. The king won’t even know for several weeks, if things go as they should—and the snows will make it almost impossible to do anything about it until spring. By then, you and the Princess Caitrin should be firm allies.”
When Loris had digested the information, he nodded. “Creoda, too, has served me well. Have we a third bishop available, to make the validity of Judhael’s consecration beyond question?”
“We hope to—ah—‘persuade’ Istelyn to assist,” Gorony said carefully. “His cooperation would lend us credence in the eyes of royalist supporters in the city, and perhaps ease the situation through the winter. Failing that, Mir de Kierney and several of the other itinerant bishops are remaining within easy access of Ratharkin. Once the city is secured, you shan’t lack for bishops to do your bidding.”
“How many?” Loris asked.
“For now, perhaps as many as seven, not counting Judhael or yourself. Three hold titled sees.” Gorony paused. “I should add that none of these know that you are involved besides Creoda and Judhael, though the cause of Mearan independence binds them all. However, I think they can be persuaded readily enough to support you, once it’s learned you plan to champion the Princess Caitrin.”
Loris snorted under his breath, then glanced around behind them before looking at Gorony. “Do you think I care a whit about her, Gorony? It’s my see I want back—and I want the Deryni who took it from me. I want them very badly.”
“I believe you may just get your wish, my lord.” Gorony smiled. “You’ll find these bishops far more biddable than the last lot—and by starting with a united Meara, there’s nothing to prevent the creation of more bishops who will do as you ask them. Meara can be but the first step.”
“Ah, Gorony, you do understand quite well, don’t you?” Loris murmured appreciatively. “I’ll not forget, I promise you.” He sighed as he glanced out at the blank sea ahead. “How long before we make landfall? I am eager to be about our work.”
“Tomorrow, dawn. From there, it’s two or three days’ ride to Ratharkin. We expect no opposition. Why don’t you rest, my lord?”
“Thank you. I believe I shall. And I may even sleep—now.”
Sleep had fled Saint Iveagh’s not long before, however, the abbot suspending the Office of Prime for the first time in thirty years. The old monk who knelt trembling before the abbot and the brethren hastily assembled in Loris’ empty chamber was nearly weeping, his voice barely audible, even though the abbot had already dispensed all in the room from the Order’s Rule of speaking in a whisper save during Divine Office.
“I cannot explain it, Father Abbot. He is simply gone. He asked to attend Vespers, so that he might hear Brother Jeroboam preach, and I myself locked his door when he returned. Here is the key.” He extended it in both hands, not looking up. “I will swear on whatever holy relics you require that it has not been out of my possession.”
Another monk stepped forward from the ranks and knelt beside the distraught man.
“It is true, Father Abbot. Brother Wenceslaus had the key when he returned from escorting Father Loris back to his room. He and I kept vigil in the Lady Chapel until Compline. Both of us looked in on Father Loris before retiring, but he seemed to be asleep—and he often omits the early morning offices. There was no occasion to check on him again until we came to rouse him for Prime.”
The abbot, rumpled and disheveled in a hastily donned mantle pulled over his sleeping gown, sank wearily onto a stool and sighed.
“Then, he could have been missing for many hours,” he murmured. “How can this have happened? Brother Wenceslaus, please believe that I do not hold you personally to blame, but could there possibly have been a second key?”
Another brother, bending to inspect the door latch by the light of a candle another monk held, tut-tutted primly to himself and shook his head as he glanced up at the abbot.
“I doubt there was another key, Father Abbot. The lock shows definite signs of tampering—perhaps one of the tinkers who paid us visit in the last few days.” He paused a beat. “Or some other stranger. I don’t suppose anyone has questioned Brother Jeroboam?”
The abbot shook his head miserably. “Unfortunately, I am informed that Brother Jeroboam is also missing. Alas, it appears the good preacher was not what he appeared. That we did not recognize this is the fault of no one in this Order, but the fact remains that the prisoner entrusted to our charge has escaped. We have failed in our duty.”
As he sighed again, the assembled brethren hung their heads guiltily.
“Well, there is no help for it but to tell the king, my brethren—and told he must be, though I weep at the shame of it.”
“The shame is all of ours, Father Abbot,” one of the monks murmured.
“Yes, yes.” The abbot shook his head and sighed a third time. “Search a final time, my brothers. Perhaps we will find some further clue as to how this was accomplished. Meanwhile, I shall draft a letter to the king. Brother Hospitaller, I shall need a messenger to leave for Rhemuth at dawn. Do you see to his provisioning.”
“Yes, Father Abbot.”
At a noon Mass that same day, the Feast of Saint Andrew, the Most Reverend Henry Istelyn of Rhemuth was officially proclaimed Bishop of Meara and invested with the symbols of his office. Enthroned in his cathedral of Saint Uriel and All Angels, flanked by his archbishops and brother prelates, and witnessed by King Kelson, he received the homage and obedience of every Mearan clergyman present, no one’s more gracefully or humbly offered than Judhael’s. The king himself begged the favor of the new bishop’s first blessing, for he had fond memories of Istelyn’s loyalty during the campaign against Torenth, and he and his closest confidants knelt with bowed heads as the age-tried words were spoken. That night there was feasting in the bishop’s hall.
The citizenry seemed reasonably content with their new prelate, but just to ensure a peaceful winter, Kelson gave Istelyn the loan of twenty sergeants and men-at-arms from his own warband; Cardiel gave a like number of episcopal troops. These were to augment the garrison remaining from the tenure of the deceased Bishop Carsten, which had already been swelled by a score handpicked from Bishop Creoda’s levies. Creoda himself offered to remain in Ratharkin for a few weeks to assist Istelyn’s peaceful assumption of the real reins of power. It was a brotherly gesture which no one had cause to question.
The worsening weather allowed no over-long lingering on the part of the king, however. With Istelyn apparently stable in his new-gained office, Kelson must return to Rhemuth to resume the governing of the rest of his kingdom. Troubles there might be during the long winter to come, but the king felt his new bishop tolerably well protected. He was merry as he rode out the Ratharkin city gates the following morning, he and his party in good spirits despite the light rain which was falling. Several of the other bishops who had come from Culdi fo
r the installation intended to travel with the royal party until it was time to head off for their own holdings, so the journey had taken on almost a festival air. As the cavalcade made its way south, to broach the mountain passes near Cuilteine before bad weather should force a longer route, neither Deryni nor human in the royal van dreamed of the treachery brewing in the city they left behind—or the further treachery afoot but a few days farther north.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The words of his mouth were smoother than butter, but war was in his heart; his words were softer than oil, yet were they drawn swords.
—Psalms 55:21
In the predawn stillness of the following day, the curragh carrying the once and future Primate of Gwynedd pulled away from a ship standing to off the Transha coast and glided silently toward a sheltered cove. The fragile craft bobbed and bucked as it ploughed through the breakers closer to shore, and its two passengers gripped the hide-covered gunwales a little anxiously, huddled deep in heavy mantles against the icy spray. As sand hissed under the keel, two seamen leaped into the surf to pull the craft farther onto the beach. Torches emerged from the early morning fog, gradually revealing armed men, darkly clad. Beyond, just audible above the crash of the surf, horses stamped and snorted and harness jingled.
“Hello, the boat,” a low voice from among the torches called.
As Loris stood a little unsteadily, the curragh teetered in the surf.
“Brice?”
Immediately, the band’s leader and one of the torchbearers detached themselves from the rest and came forward.
“Welcome to freedom, Your Excellency,” said Brice of Trurill. He handed Loris out of the boat and bowed over his gloved hand. “I hope your journey was not exceptionally tiring.”
Loris staggered a little on the wet sand as he found his land legs, but Brice steadied him with a hand under his elbow as together they trudged up the steep incline of the beach. His companion assisted Gorony from the boat. As soon as both men were ashore, the seamen began pushing the craft back into the breakers. Offshore, the waiting ship briefly showed a light.
“My thanks for your assistance, my son,” Loris murmured, puffing a little from the exertion of the climb. “Your service shall not go unrewarded. Is everything in order?”
“All in order, Excellency. We’ve purposely kept your escort small, to avoid arousing undue attention, but Gendon managed to locate several of your former guards from Valoret. All of us are sworn to your service.”
He gestured toward his comrades, waiting dark and faceless by the fidgeting greathorses, and as one, they bowed their heads in homage. With a satisfied nod, Loris raised his right hand in benediction and murmured the words of a blessing. Brice and Gendon also bowed their heads to receive it. When he had done, one of the men brought a pair of horses forward. Brice, after donning a helm with a baron’s coronet embossed around its crown, himself held the renegade archbishop’s stirrup so he could mount.
“What is our destination?” Loris asked, as he swung up and gathered the reins in gloved hands.
Baron Brice of Trurill smiled as he mounted his own steed.
“We ride to Ratharkin, Excellency, where more of your allies await us.”
Loris’ answering chuckle of grim pleasure was the only response he allowed himself as the rest of the party mounted up. As the men one by one hurled their torches into the surf, their dark forms blended with the rising fog once more. Jingling harnesses made but faint counterpoint to the waves as they quit the beach and headed south. Beyond the breakers, the ship lingered a moment longer, riding the long swells like a ghostly seabird, then was gone in the mist. Soon, the only sign of the predawn meeting was a scattering of burnt-out torch stubs drifting out to sea on the tide.
Their passage had not gone unmarked, however. The pair of bearded scouts observing from their bellies on a cliff above the cove had tracked the black-clad warband since just before midnight. The presence of any group of armed men on Transha soil would have been cause for suspicion; these seemed deliberately arrayed to disguise their identities and were certainly there without the leave of the MacArdry chief. The arrival of the ship had only increased the watchers’ suspicions. One of them studied the landing party through a long spyglass, hissing in breath through his teeth as he watched the taller of the newcomers raise his hand in blessing.
“I dinnae know who he is, but I like not th’ feel o’ this,” he whispered, handing off the spyglass to his companion. “Wha’ d’ye think they’re about?”
The other grunted and put the spyglass to his own eye, watching silently for several seconds before replying.
“Nae guid, an’ that’s for certain. We must tell th’ laird.”
“Aye.”
They continued to watch until their quarry had mounted up and left, noting number, direction, and whatever other detail might be gained from such a vantage point. Soon they, too, had melted into the morning mist, settling quickly into a brisk, ground-eating pace as they headed back toward Castle Transha.
“I dinnae think they wore livery or badges, sair, but a band that well armed an’ wi’out standard or banner smacks of treachery t’ me,” the stouter of the men reported an hour later, in the hall where the chief of the MacArdry and his heir broke their fast with a few other of their clansmen. “I’m wagerin’ ’tis Mearan mischief.”
“Mischief, aye. I’ll grant ye that,” old Caulay muttered. “But why Mearan mischief, Alexander? Have ye proof?”
Alexander shook his head. “Nae proof. A feelin’ is all. There’s sommat else, tho’: At least one o’ the men who landed was a priest. He blessed th’ escort before they rode out. Now, why would a priest be makin’ secret rendezvous with rogue knights?”
Blearily Dhugal MacArdry rubbed sleep from his eyes and glanced at his father. The old man had had a bad night. Any physical leadership on the part of the ailing chief had been out of the question for some time; this morning, Caulay was barely even able to follow the conversation—and knew it. As an almost imperceptible nod passed between father and son, Dhugal stood, tossing off the last of his morning ale.
“I think we’d best find out why,” he said, wiping the back of a linen-clad forearm across his mouth. “You say they’re headed toward Carcashale?”
“Aye—unless they turn east at Colblaine, which I doubt.”
“’Tis Carcashale for us as well, then. Caball, how many men can we muster in time to head them off?”
“Mayhap a dozen,” his father’s castellan replied. “I wish I could give ye more, but two patrols are out already—an’ many hae headed to their ain hames for th’ winter. It’s a bad time o’ year, lad.”
“Aye, but there’s no help for that. We must ride wi’ what we have.” Dhugal sighed. “Tomais and Alexander, I’ll ask that ye join us—an’ Ciard as well. Will ye see to it, Caball?”
“Aye, Dhugal.”
As the men left to do his bidding, leaving only the clan piper and Kinkellyan the bard in the hall with the old chief and his heir, Dhugal turned back to his father. The old man’s eyes were troubled beyond his physical pain as he reached out a hand to clasp Dhugal’s.
“This does nae sound guid, lad. I dinnae like it. Th’ priests an’ bishops hae been at Culdi all th’ past month. What cause has another priest tae come in secret this way? An’ tae come by sea this time o’ year—”
Tight-lipped, Dhugal nodded, stripping off linen and kilts to don riding leathers and light armor which his gillie brought.
“Aye, I dinnae like it either, Da. An’ the king would’ve told me if he’d known of it. This smacks of treachery. But we’ve no choice but to investigate.”
“Aye, ye have not. But—be careful, lad. Th’ clan needs its chief.”
Dhugal forced a grin as he squeezed the old man’s hand.
“We’ll hear no more o’ that, Da. The clan has its chief, an’ will for many a year, the Lord willing. Besides, I’ve nae finished my apprenticeship with ye.”
The old man nodded an
d smiled as Dhugal pulled away to let Ciard finish arming him, but both of them knew it was a charade. Dhugal pretended to adjust a strap on his brigandine while Ciard looped a sword baldric over his head and brooched a heavy, fur-lined cloak at his throat.
Then Dhugal was drawing on gauntlets and striding out of the hall, raising a hand in final farewell as he went. Minutes later, the Transha warband rode out the castle gates toward Carcashale.
Two hours later, Dhugal and his men sat their shaggy border ponies stirrup to stirrup across the mouth of Carcashale pass—a position which would bring the approaching foreigners within a dozen yards of the Transha line before they were even aware they were not alone. Dhugal held the center of the line, Ciard at his left with his personal standard and Caball far to the right with the Transha banner. The silks were almost gaudy against the grey December sky.
From the point above, the signal came. As Dhugal drew his sword and raised it, steel slithered from a dozen other scabbards in answer. He shifted the leather-faced targe on his right arm and collected his pony’s reins. As the first of the black-clad intruders rounded the curve and faltered at the unexpected array awaiting them, Dhugal kneed his mount a few steps forward.
“Stand, in the name of the king, and state your business!” he said, letting his sword rest lightly against his left shoulder. “You trespass on the Earl of Transha’s lands.”
But the men ahead were not inclined to parley. Even as Dhugal realized that, wheeling his pony in strategic retreat, they were spurring their larger mounts from trot to gallop, bunching around the two unarmored men in their midst and drawing weapons as they came.
Dhugal signalled his men to scatter as he fled, trusting that the quickness of their border ponies and intimate knowledge of the terrain would at least enable them to escape. The charging men did not fan out in general pursuit, however. To Dhugal’s astonishment and horror, the men at the head of the band made directly for him, the outriders brushing off his more lightly mounted and armed men with devastating results while the leaders drove straight toward him.
The Bishop’s Heir Page 12
