“Who is that?” Judhael asked.
“A hostage,” Loris said casually. “My Lord of Trurill tells me he’s the Master of Transha, Clan MacArdry’s heir. You’ll want his support when Transha is reintegrated with Meara.”
Dhugal felt hands rolling him face upward, and the pressure on his ribs made him moan and actually black out for just a few seconds.
“—want him to witness Judhael’s consecration, then,” Creoda was saying, as consciousness returned. “Is he badly injured?”
“Brice?” Loris called.
The Baron of Trurill came away from unbuckling his armor and knelt to peel back one of Dhugal’s eyelids.
“He’s no worse than he was, Excellency,” the traitor baron said, pressing his fingertips to the pulsepoint in Dhugal’s throat. “He has some cracked ribs that nothing could be done about while we rode, and probably a concussion, but you’re mainly seeing exhaustion. He’s a strong lad; he’ll mend.”
“Well, if he’s that strong a lad, we’d better put him in a secure place, hadn’t we?” Creoda said. “Gendon, take him to one of the chambers below and have someone tend to him in the morning. I don’t think he’ll be causing anybody any trouble before then. After that, you can see to your men. Excellency, if you and Father Gorony will follow me, please, I’ll show you to quarters where you’ll be secure from prying eyes until we’re ready to confront Bishop Istelyn in the morning. I expect you’re in need of sleep yourselves.”
“A few hours will suffice,” Loris said, as they headed out the door. “I wish little delay before informing Istelyn of the error of his ways. Perhaps we can …”
Dhugal lost the thread of Loris’ words in pain, groaning anew as Gendon and one of Trurill’s knights lifted him between them and began slowly walking him toward the door. His only thought, as he tried to make his feet move with theirs through the fog of anguish, the pounding in his head, was that Kelson must be informed of what was happening here. But he did not know how he was going to accomplish that.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Thou art wearied in the multitude of thy counsels.
—Isaiah 47:13
Kelson and his warband swept into Rhemuth the following forenoon on the fringes of a thunderstorm, half-frozen and soaked to the skin despite oiled riding leathers and fur-lined cloaks. Prince Nigel met them in the castle yard, bare-headed and heedless of the rain pelting down, and set his hand urgently on the king’s bridle. The ill tidings he conveyed set a chill on Kelson which had nothing to do with the storm.
“Loris? But that isn’t possible.”
The words carried to the others of his close circle—Morgan and Duncan, Cardiel and Arilan—despite the downpour. Young Baron Jodrell was the first to spring from his horse when the others would have sat there dumbly in the rain, all but immobilized by shock. His movement jarred the rest of them to action. Kelson beckoned his intimates to follow as he dismounted and splashed up the steps to the shelter of the great hall, anger warring with despair.
“I expect you’ll want to question the messenger yourself,” Nigel said, handing off Kelson’s sodden cap and gloves to a page and hurrying to keep up.
“Yes, but tell me briefly what he said right now, so I’ll be prepared.”
He listened tight-lipped as he stalked through the great hall, unclasping his wet cloak with one hand while his other fumbled at the buckle of his sword belt. Morgan collected cloak and sword as he shed them, passing them to another page in exchange for a towel which Kelson used on his dripping face and hair. Nigel left king and company in a small withdrawing chamber while he went to get the messenger.
They sought the meager comfort of the fire while they waited, heaping sodden outer garments in a corner and exchanging guarded glances, no one wanting to be the first to break the silence. Jodrell played squire to the tight-jawed Kelson, removing vambraces and spurs and helping him shinny out of his mail shirt, while Payne and Rory, Nigel’s younger sons, moved among the others with cups of mulled wine. The king stiffened at the approach of footsteps outside the door, hastily drawing a dry robe over his clammy undertunic.
“This is Father Bevis, my liege,” Nigel said, ushering in a nervous-looking young priest in the sea blue robes of Saint Iveagh’s Fratri Silentii. “He has been given dispensation from his abbot to speak aloud.”
The man had the courage to come forward alone, but he could not bring himself to meet Kelson’s eyes as he knelt at his feet. Glancing at the others to draw them nearer, Kelson wrapped his robe closer and sat with his back to the fire, stretching one leg slightly to the side so Jodrell could pull off a soggy boot.
“Be welcome at our court, Father Bevis,” he said formally, “though I fear I cannot say that your news is welcome. Forgive me if Baron Jodrell continues to disarm me while we speak, but I should rather not take a chill—especially if, as it seems, my old enemy is once more at large.”
The priest’s tonsured head bobbed even lower.
“Nay, it is I who must ask to be forgiven, Sire—I and my brethren. We have failed you.” His voice was hardly above a whisper despite his dispensation. “We made every effort to keep the Lord Loris secure as you commanded, but he—got out.” He looked up fearfully. “Please do not hold us entirely to blame, Sire. Father Abbot says he must have had help from outside.”
Morgan, warming his backside to Kelson’s right, snorted contemptuously, but Kelson only shook his head and sighed, bracing himself so Jodrell could pull off his other boot.
“Please rise, Father,” he said patiently. “My uncle has told me the gist of your message already. We are certain that your noble Order did all within their power to ensure the former archbishop’s safe detention. Did you find no trace of him?”
“None, Sire. And an itinerant preacher calling himself Brother Jeroboam was also missing. We think he may have had some part in it. Archb—I mean Father Loris specifically asked that the man be allowed to hear his confession a few days before. We thought he simply had been moved by the man’s preaching.”
“Moved right out of Saint Iveagh’s,” Cardiel muttered. But Kelson ignored the remark.
“I see. And the escape occurred when?”
“Six days ago, Sire—the Eve of Saint Andrew’s—sometime after Compline, we think.”
“Saint Andrew’s Eve,” Kelson murmured. “While we were in Ratharkin. That’s been six days,” he added, glancing aside at Morgan. “He could be anywhere.”
“Would it were in hell!” Morgan said bitterly.
Kelson sighed again and started to turn toward Cardiel and Arilan, then remembered the priest still standing before him.
“Ah, thank you for bringing us this news, Father Bevis. We may wish to question you further, but for now you have our leave to wait outside. The pages will show you where.”
As his cousins escorted the priest from the room, clearly disappointed to miss what might happen next, Kelson pivoted on his stool to face the fire, waiting while the others found seats. Nigel and the bishops claimed the remaining stools, so Jodrell hunkered down on the edge of the raised hearth. Duncan chose to remain standing, his arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the wall to the left of the fireplace. Morgan, too restless to sit or stand, paced a short, fidgeting path between Duncan and the king.
“Very well, gentlemen. Any ideas where Loris might be headed?” Kelson asked.
Cardiel pursed his lips and exchanged a glance with his brother bishop, who had not yet said a word.
“Toward the source of his aid, of course, Sire. He cannot have acted alone in this—and all Gwynedd knows and understands why he was relieved of his office and sent to Saint Iveagh’s. That means his help must surely come from outside Gwynedd. Two possibilities come to mind immediately: Meara or Torenth.”
“Not Torenth,” Arilan said. “Not while Deryni hold the Torenthi throne.”
“Meara, then,” Cardiel said, when Arilan did not go on. “The implications, while quite different, are hardly more reassuring, however.�
�
“How so?” Kelson asked.
“Secular and ecclesiastical politics are very closely intertwined in Meara, Sire, as we are all aware. Loris is very much a political creature. He has always found his support among the conservative clergy—and such clergy were very much involved in the dispute over who should be Bishop of Meara. He garners support from rebel factions as well. Two years ago, it was Warin de Grey; today—well, why not the Mearan Pretender? So long as it suits his plans to regain his position, I should think Edmund Loris would support just about anyone.”
“A sad commentary on the man who once was Primate of All Gwynedd,” Duncan muttered.
“Let’s talk about Meara, then,” Kelson said. “Who in Meara might profit from Loris’ release?”
“That’s simple,” Nigel said. “The Mearan Pretender and her kin.”
“Especially ecclesiastical kin,” Cardiel agreed, glancing at Arilan, who still was oddly quiet. “Like Judhael. Denis and I had quite a discussion about him after the attempt on Duncan, Sire. My brother in Christ made light of my notion that Judhael might have been functioning as an agent for his aunt.”
Morgan, noting Arilan’s sullen expression, decided he had best reveal what he had learned.
“He’s innocent of that, at least, Excellency,” he said quietly. “Or if he is involved, it’s without the direct knowledge or assistance of his aunt. Nor did he know anything about the attempt on Duncan. I—ah—questioned him about it that evening.”
Arilan’s reaction conveyed both surprise and anger. “You questioned him after I forbade it?”
“I didn’t set out to disobey you,” Morgan countered, before the other could raise more specific objections in front of the human Jodrell. “Besides, I only Truth-Read him. He wasn’t sorry to hear about the attack—which is hardly unexpected, given Duncan’s position relative to the Mearan royal house—but he was shocked. When I asked how long it had been since he’d heard from his aunt, he said last Christmastide. I ended the conversation after that.”
“A conversation you should not have begun in the first place.”
“But one which does not rule out Judhael’s political interests in all of this,” Cardiel interjected. “Denis, you surely can’t still believe he’s totally innocent.”
Arilan’s lips compressed in a thin, pinched line. “I never said he was totally innocent.”
“Let’s not wander off the subject,” Kelson said patiently. “Just now, I’m far more concerned that Loris may, indeed, have gone to Meara. Uncle, you said the abbot’s men found no trace of him in the surrounding countryside, didn’t you?” Nigel nodded. “That may mean he made his escape by sea, then. Jodrell, could he sail around the head of Ballymar this time of year?”
Jodrell, scion of an old seafaring family, wobbled his open hand in a yea-nay gesture.
“It would be risky, Sire—but no more risky than sailing the Kheldish coast to reach Torenth by sea. If he is making for Meara, however, my guess is that he’d not go as far as Ballymar. If I were Loris, I’d land somewhere farther east along the coast, probably in Kierney, and go overland to Ratharkin.”
“Why Ratharkin?” Morgan asked. “The Mearan pretender’s in Laas.”
“Ah, but Ratharkin is the episcopal seat of Meara,” Cardiel said, glancing at Arilan and almost daring him to contradict, “and the good Father Judhael is there, just aching to be a bishop. In addition, Ratharkin is only a few days’ ride from Laas and the rebel factions, even in the dead of winter—but more than a week’s ride for us. Oh, he’s picked his ground wisely, if he’s gone to Ratharkin,” he finished bitterly. “The Devil take him for a false and forsworn knave!”
With a dour scowl, Kelson set his balled fists on his thighs and sighed. He was not sure he liked the apparent enmity building between the two bishops. Nor did he understand the reason for it.
“This is getting us nowhere, gentlemen,” he said briskly. “Speculation is cheap. God knows I fear Loris’ intentions as much as any of you, but unless we have some direction, any action we take will only be wasted motion. If he’s tried to round Cassan, nature may solve our problem for us. The same applies if, by some odd chance, he’s headed for Torenth after all.”
“I doubt that,” Nigel said. “My instinct says Meara—not that we necessarily know he’s gone by sea, however. But whether by sea or by land, someone is going to see him and report to us eventually. Loris is too proud a man to hide for long.”
“What about Bishop Istelyn?” Duncan asked. “Shouldn’t he be warned? If Loris is headed for Meara, Istelyn could be in great danger.”
“You’re right, of course,” Kelson agreed. “Uncle, will you see to it? I think it might also be wise to have Archbishop Bradene join us—and any other of the loyal bishops you think should be involved, my Lord Cardiel. Once Loris’ intentions are known, it’s vital that we present a united front, secular and ecclesiastical. I want none of the confusion which marked the beginning of our last campaign against him.”
Cardiel inclined his head in agreement.
“It shall be done, Sire.”
Kelson sighed and rose. “Very well. Loris has to surface sometime—and until we hear where, I don’t suppose there’s much else we can do for now. Uncle, please let me know as soon as you learn anything else. Meanwhile, I’m for a hot bath and some dry clothes. Morgan, Father Duncan, would you please attend me?”
The king said little while his bath was drawn, leading Duncan to wonder why they had been asked to come along, but Morgan suspected he knew. His suspicions were confirmed when the three of them sat down before the fireplace in Kelson’s bedchamber. Kelson yawned and stretched, propping his slippered feet nearer the fire’s warmth, and sipped at a warm posset of milk and honey his squire had left.
“So, what’s the matter with Arilan?” he asked after a moment. “He was as sullen as a schoolboy who’s been caught in a lie. And don’t tell me it was just because you disobeyed him.”
Morgan smiled. “He’s angry with me because I questioned Judhael against his orders, yes. But he is also angry with himself because he championed Judhael’s innocence—or at least he played the Devil’s advocate in telling Cardiel and me why we ought not to suspect Judhael in the attempt on Duncan’s life. And maybe he’s right. But if he isn’t, then the powerful and somewhat self-superior Camberian Councillor has made a grave misjudgment of a human’s character—and he especially doesn’t like having that pointed out by a mere Deryni half-breed.”
“Do you think he’s right?” Kelson asked. “Or has Judhael played us false? I swear I’ll crush him, if he has. I don’t need anyone stirring up trouble when Loris is on the loose. And if he helped Loris, then God help him.”
“Amen to that,” Duncan said, “if he’s guilty. But if he hadn’t any part in the attack on me, Alaric, and if he hasn’t been in contact with Caitrin—”
“He still would have been glad to see you dead,” Morgan interrupted, leaning forward to put another log on the fire. “And simply because he had no literal knowledge of the attack and hadn’t heard personally from his aunt doesn’t mean he isn’t involved up to his ears. That’s one of the limitations of mere Truth-Reading: one has to ask the right questions.”
Kelson pursed his lips. “Then you think Judhael is involved?”
“I don’t know. Someone certainly could have been working in his behalf, though. And Loris—”
“Damn Loris,” Kelson muttered under his breath. “And damn the circumstances that let him escape. It all connects, Alaric, I’m sure of it! He’s planning something terrible. I can feel it crawling up my spine! Here it is, noon, and I’m as jumpy as a page listening to ghost stories at midnight. I knew I should have had him executed!”
As he drained his cup and sat back to stare moodily into the fire, fingertips drumming vexedly against the chair arm, Morgan exchanged a concerned glance with Duncan. Casually his cousin rose and came around behind the king, beginning to massage Kelson’s tense shoulders. Kelson sighed app
reciatively and closed his eyes, making a conscious effort to relax.
“That feels wonderful,” he said after a moment. “I hadn’t realized how tired I was. Don’t stop.”
“We’re all exhausted,” Duncan said easily, reaching out a little with his mind as his fingers continued to knead at steel-taut muscles. “Don’t let your righteous anger tie you into knots, though.”
“If I’d killed Loris while I had the chance, I wouldn’t have to worry about getting tied in knots,” Kelson said dreamily.
“Indulge your fantasy, then, if it makes you feel better. I’ll grant that if you had killed him, things certainly would be easier now.”
Kelson yawned hugely and relaxed even more against Duncan’s touch, mental as well as physical, tipping his head back to loll against the priest’s chest and glance up.
“You aren’t supposed to agree so readily,” he murmured. “I’m sitting here contemplating murder. What kind of a conscience are you, anyway? If Loris has a conscience like you, I don’t wonder that he strayed.” Kelson turned his gaze toward Morgan. “What do you suppose did make him stray?”
“Pride,” Morgan replied. “The belief that his notion of truth was somehow superior to anyone else’s.”
“So he sold his honor to serve his pride.”
“It’s said that every man has his price, my prince,” Morgan said. “Some are simply too high to be met.”
“And is yours that high?”
Duncan faltered just an instant in his ministrations, but Morgan merely smiled.
“High enough that no man could ever pay it but you, my prince,” he replied without hesitation. “I am your man, as I was your father’s before you. You have bought me with your love. Nor can I ever be resold.”
Chuckling delightedly, Kelson yawned and closed his eyes once more, aware that Duncan was urging sleep on him and not fighting it.
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