The Bishop’s Heir

by Katherine Kurtz

  Brice had to consciously remind himself that he was contentedly married, and such a lass not for the likes of him in any case. Short but sapling-slender, with curling locks the color of chestnut burrs escaping from beneath her travel hood, Sidana seemed the embodiment of Brice’s every feminine ideal, dark eyes holding the dreamy mystery of some creature from another realm: worldly yet innocent, wise but naive. She inclined her head politely in his direction as she noticed his rapt interest, but she did not resort to the condescension so often shown by other girls of rank in similar circumstances. Her kindness enabled him to shake off her spell without making too much of a spectacle of himself.

  “Ah, you find my daughter attractive, my lord baron?” he heard Sicard saying, the border lord’s face creased with faint amusement as he extended his hand in greeting.

  Brice looked the girl’s father in the eyes and blurted out the truth.

  “I’ faith, my lord, she is exquisite. I had no idea. She will bring great honor to the man fortunate enough to win her hand.”

  “Aye, she will that,” Caitrin said a little impatiently, “though she is not for just any lord, as I am sure you can appreciate.” She took her elder son’s arm and peered past Brice toward the doors. “But may we go inside now? Our attendants will see to the horses and baggage. It has been hours since our last warmth and refreshment.”

  A short time later, when an embarrassed Brice had shown the royal guests into the bishop’s receiving room and the usual amenities had been exchanged, refreshment taken, royal and episcopal conspirators settled down to serious discussion. Sidana had made her apologies and retired to rest with her ladies, but her two brothers sat expectantly to either side of their parents, keen to be included in the exchange of recent happenings.

  “I like not this news of the Duke of Cassan,” Caitrin said grimly, as Loris took a chair directly opposite her, with Creoda, Judhael, and Brice flanking him. “Cassan is to be Ithel’s, when McLain is dead. With McLain a bishop, it’s conceivable he would try to leave it to the Church.”

  “And Kierney as well,” Ithel said, from his mother’s right. Brice thought the boy’s dark eyes made him look a little like a vulture in that instant.

  Sipping delicately at a cup of mulled wine, Creoda shook his head.

  “Not to the Church, Highness. To the Crown. McLain is the king’s man. We did try to eliminate him, however.”

  Caitrin shrugged. “A poor try, I hear. He was fit enough to attend Mass the next day.”

  “The archfiend Morgan came to his aid,” Loris muttered. “He used his Deryni sorcery to heal him.”

  “That was after the fact,” said Sicard, with a disparaging wave of his hand. “’Tis said that McLain himself warded off the attack. Did you send a child to do a man’s work?”

  Anger flared briefly in Loris’ face, but his response was temperate and controlled.

  “The boy was young, yes, but he had been trained in McLain’s own household. He knew what he was doing. A man could not have gained access as readily. McLain was wounded—”

  “But to no avail, it seems—”

  “My Lord Sicard, the drug on the blade should have rendered anyone with Deryni blood quite incapable of effective defense,” Loris explained patiently. “And for a priest, conditioned not to kill if it can be avoided, the added hesitation should have been fatal.”

  “No matter now,” Caitrin murmured, toying with her goblet. “It wasn’t fatal, so we shall have to eliminate McLain some other way. Before that, however, there is the matter of my nephew.” She favored Judhael with a fond smile, which he returned. “How soon are you prepared to proceed with his consecration as bishop, my Lord Loris?”

  Loris inclined his head. “Tomorrow, if you wish, Highness. It is regrettable that Bishop Istelyn continues to resist the inevitable, but Bishop Creoda and several others will be honored to assist me in that happy task.”

  “So you said in your letter,” Caitrin replied, glancing at her husband. “You said also that the Master of Transha is in your custody. Would you care to explain that?”

  Blinking in surprise, Loris glanced from one to the other of them, husband and wife, then at Creoda, who shrugged.

  “I landed near Transha, Highness, as I am certain I informed you,” Loris said cautiously. “The boy led a patrol which tried to intercept me. My Lord Brice took him hostage to insure our escape, and we kept him because Transha’s support could be valuable in the future. The boy’s young; he might be won over. If you don’t agree, it isn’t too late to kill him.”

  “Kill him?” Sicard gasped, half-rising from his chair.

  As Loris jerked back in surprise and Brice and Creoda poised to intervene, Caitrin caught at her husband’s hand.

  “Peace, Sicard. He obviously does not know. Peace, my lords—please.”

  As all of them subsided, Caitrin returned her attention to Loris, at the same time gently stroking her husband’s hand.

  “In all the intensity of your own escape, you obviously have forgotten my husband’s clan, Archbishop,” she said carefully. “The young Master of Transha is my husband’s nephew. My Lord Sicard has not spoken to his brother, the boy’s father, for many years, but you must realize that blood is very important to border folk. The fact that Sicard and Caulay had a falling out does not lessen my husband’s affection for his only surviving blood nephew.”

  Loris smiled and relaxed, nodding his understanding. “Ah, then, we have no quarrel, dear lady, since young Dhugal is in good health and waits upon your pleasure. Would you like to see him?”

  “Immediately,” Sicard murmured.

  “But, of course—though I assure you, he is honorably detained. He presently shares quarters with Bishop Istelyn, who has been seeing to the injuries he received when he was captured. Nothing too serious, I assure you. Come. I’ll take you to him.”

  Dhugal MacArdry stretched carefully, then moved one of his archers on the gameboard set between himself and Istelyn, glancing up to see the bishop’s reaction. Istelyn raised an eyebrow and passed a ringed hand across his mouth and lower jaw as he studied the new tactical situation, deep in thought.

  It was now more than a week since Dhugal’s capture, and his injuries were healing with the swiftness often granted to the young and healthy. His head still throbbed a little if he moved too quickly or tried to stay awake for too long at a stretch, but the constant ache of his ribs had eased to only an occasional twinge. Nor did it hurt to breathe. For the last day or two, he had even begun light exercise to start getting back into shape.

  He flexed his sword hand and made a fist, heartened by the increased strength he felt, then stiffened and looked up as footsteps approached the outer door. Istelyn pursed his lips in resignation but rose as the door opened, gesturing for Dhugal to rise as well. Dhugal obeyed, for it would do no good to antagonize their captors.

  “You have visitors, Lord Dhugal,” Loris said, moving through the doorway as the guard stepped back. “I assured them you’ve been treated with all the proper respect due your rank.”

  As Dhugal’s eyes darted to the figures entering behind Loris, his heart sank. The rather plain-looking older woman he did not know, but he could guess her identity from her company. Even had the man at her side not worn a shoulder plaid of MacArdry tartan, Dhugal would have recognized the unmistakable stamp of kindred blood. It could only be his black-sheep uncle, Sicard MacArdry, and the woman, the Pretender Caitrin.

  “Kinsman,” Dhugal murmured neutrally, in case he was mistaken, inclining his head in a polite bow.

  White teeth flashed in the man’s heavy beard and mustaches as he chuckled delightedly.

  “So, my brother’s son has grown to manhood, eh? We hear you gave His Excellency’s escort a hard time, lad.”

  Dhugal merely inclined his head again. “I but did my duty to my father, sir. As his heir, I could do no other.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow and glanced over at her husband, apparently pleased with his answer.

 
“The boy speaks well, Sicard, and seems to know how to guard his tongue. Perhaps blood will show him his new duty as well. Will you introduce my nephew?”

  Sicard gave her a little bow and called Dhugal closer with a gesture. Dhugal approached slowly, all too aware why they had sought him out.

  “An’ it please my Liege Lady,” Sicard murmured, “I beg leave to present my brother’s son, Lord Dhugal MacArdry: heir to the Earldom of Transha and tanist of Clan MacArdry. Dhugal, Her Royal Highness The Princess Caitrin of Meara. If you are wiser than your father, I hope you will acknowledge her as your future liege. Transha was once part of Old Meara, and shall be again, if the fates are kind.”

  Dhugal’s heart was chilled by the implication, but it was only what he had expected. Putting on what he hoped was one of his most wide-eyed and naive expressions, he took the hand Caitrin extended and brushed the knuckles with his lips in polite salute. He could feel Istelyn stiffen behind him in disapproval.

  “I am honored to make your acquaintance, Lady,” he said, turning earnest eyes shyly upon her. “Often while I was growing up, I mourned the fact that my father’s quarrel with his brother had robbed me of uncle and aunt and cousins. I hope you will not hold his quarrel against me.”

  “A wise lad,” she replied, taking him by the shoulders to formally kiss him on either cheek. “We shall talk more of this after your cousin Judhael’s consecration tomorrow, if you comport yourself as the well-bred lad you appear to be.” She drew back to glance at Istelyn, who returned her gaze stonily, then nodded to Loris.

  “I wish Lord Dhugal to have an honored place at the ceremony tomorrow, my Lord Archbishop. He is family. I wish him treated as such.”

  Loris bowed. “If the Lord Dhugal will give his word not to interfere with the proceedings, I am certain that can be arranged, Highness.”

  “Well, Dhugal?” She glanced at him pointedly. “Can we trust you to conduct yourself befitting your blood?”

  Dropping to one knee, Dhugal bowed his head and murmured his wholehearted agreement. If that were all the oath required, he could give it in clear conscience—for his blood and honor bound him to his king and brother above all. And by gaining their trust, he might yet escape to warn Kelson.

  “Swear on the Cross, then,” Loris said, not unexpectedly, starting to extend his pectoral cross for Dhugal to kiss. “Nay, on second thought, you shall swear on Istelyn’s cross, lest you harbor some scruple about the one I wear. Istelyn, attend.”

  As Loris snapped his fingers toward Istelyn and held out his hand, Dhugal thought the bishop might refuse at first—Istelyn was looking thoroughly disapproving at what must surely appear to be a defection. But Loris’ command left no room for disobedience. Defiance would only mean the taking of the cross by force. Unlooping the chain from around his neck, Istelyn averted his eyes and held out the sacred relic. Loris glanced at the kneeling Dhugal and complicated the matter.

  “I think Bishop Istelyn should administer the oath as well,” he said softly, seizing Istelyn’s wrist and bringing the hand and cross down to Dhugal’s eye-level. “Place your hand on this holy symbol and swear the oath to Istelyn, young Dhugal. And know that if you are forsworn, you will burn in hell for your sin!”

  Dhugal’s jaw dropped in very real misgiving, but he knew he had already made his decision as he laid his palm on the cross in Istelyn’s hand: his first obedience was to God and the king, and that obedience superseded all other oaths which he might be required to make under duress.

  “Swear that you will take no action to disrupt tomorrow’s proceedings,” Istelyn said softly, at Loris’ impatient buffet of his imprisoned wrist.

  The words were precisely what Caitrin had specified, and Dhugal thought he could still give his oath in good conscience. Perhaps Istelyn had even recognized that the wording left room for interpretation. But before Dhugal could bend to kiss the cross in confirmation, Loris’ free hand clamped around their joined ones, pressing the metal of the cross cruelly into their flesh.

  “Swear also that you will make no attempt to escape,” Loris demanded. “Give me your parole, and you shall be accorded all the honor due your rank.”

  “I swear it,” Dhugal murmured, dragging the words reluctantly from the depths of his soul as he raised frightened eyes to the rebel archbishop’s.

  “Say the actual words of the oath,” Loris insisted.

  Dhugal squirmed inside, but he had no choice but to obey.

  “I give my parole that I shall not attempt to escape,” he said steadily.

  “And that I shall do nothing to disrupt the proceedings …” Loris prompted.

  “And that I shall do nothing to disrupt the proceedings,” Dhugal repeated.

  “So help me God.…”

  “So help me God.”

  “And may my soul burn in hell if I keep not this solemn oath—say it!” Loris ordered.

  Chilled despite his intentions, Dhugal turned genuinely frightened eyes on Caitrin in appeal, but the woman only smiled and nodded.

  “And—and may my soul burn in hell if I keep not this solemn oath,” he managed to choke out.

  “Now kiss the cross,” Loris said, releasing his cruel grip.

  Blindly Dhugal obeyed, adding his own fervent prayer that God would forgive him for taking the oath in vain. He was shaking with the exertion the act had cost him as he stood, but Caitrin looked pleased and even Loris seemed satisfied. Istelyn’s expression revealed nothing as he put the cross back around his neck, meeting Loris’ gaze defiantly as archbishop and then pretender turned their attention on him instead of Dhugal.

  “And what of you, Bishop?” Caitrin said softly. “I am not so naive as to think you can be won as easily as my young nephew, but you shall be present at Judhael’s consecration tomorrow. Whether you attend in the honor due your station is up to you.”

  Istelyn bowed his head. “I will not be a party to any of this, Lady. I do not recognize the authority of this man whose escape you apparently have fostered—and you are foolish to think that the king will do nothing while you usurp his authority in his own lands.”

  “Meara is mine, not Kelson’s,” Caitrin answered.

  “It is a part of Gwynedd, and was lawfully joined to it generations ago,” Istelyn said stubbornly. “If you stand with this renegade priest, you join in treason against your lawful Lord.”

  “History will decide whether it is treason,” Loris retorted, “just as history will decide whether your decision was wise. You may have overnight to reconsider your position—but you will witness Father Judhael’s consecration tomorrow, even if you must be drugged and bound to your throne half-conscious. Do not make the mistake of thinking this an empty threat. It can and will be done.”

  “Then, the legitimacy of what you are doing does matter, doesn’t it, Loris?” Istelyn turned his gaze on Caitrin. “My lady, I pray you to reconsider what you are about to do. It still is not too late to reverse what you have begun and beg the king’s pardon. Loris is a fugitive, and will be dealt with, but you have committed no grave offenses if you back off now.”

  Outraged, Loris lifted a hand to strike him, but Sicard blocked his wrist at Caitrin’s quick signal.

  “We shall take your advice under consideration, Bishop,” Caitrin said smoothly, “as we hope you shall take ours. Archbishop Loris, we have more to discuss in private, I think.” She glanced at the silent and wide-eyed Dhugal as Sicard moved to open the door. “Nephew, if you value the life of this foolish priest, you would do well to try to convince him of the error of his stand. You shall dine with us this evening and report your progress.”

  She turned and swept through the open doorway after Sicard even as the astonished Dhugal made a hasty bow. Loris cast Istelyn one lingering, venomous glance, a more calculating one in Dhugal’s direction, then followed. Dhugal exhaled softly as soon as the bolts had snicked shut on the other side, glancing uneasily at the now-shaking Isteyln.

  “So that’s my Aunt Caitrin,” he murmured.


  Istelyn shot him a look of undiluted disgust and turned away, making his way blindly to the prie-dieu to collapse with his head cradled on his folded arms. After a moment Dhugal followed, kneeling awkwardly on the bare stone beside him.

  “Please don’t be angry with me, Excellency,” he whispered, trying to will the bishop to raise his head. “You don’t think I really mean to do anything that would help Loris, do you?”

  Istelyn’s whisper could barely be heard from behind his folded forearms.

  “You swore an oath, Dhugal—in terrible terms. Do you mean to be forsworn?”

  “I—I had no choice.”

  Istelyn looked up coldly. “You had a choice: the same choice that I did. And you gave him your word!”

  Dhugal swallowed painfully. His ribs were aching again from the pounding of his heart.

  “I gave the king my word,” he murmured. “And if it costs me my soul, I’ll keep my word—to him.” He folded his hands carefully, interlacing the fingers, and pressed them tightly clasped to his chin.

  “But I can’t escape to warn him if I’m too closely guarded,” he went on very softly. “Maybe I can’t escape anyway—but at least I have to try. And if I’m going to try, I owe it to him to give myself the best possible chance of succeeding.”

  “Even at the cost of breaking your sacred oath?” Istelyn asked.

  “Whatever the cost,” Dhugal whispered.

  He could not convince Istelyn that the wisest course lay in pretending to cooperate with their captors, however. He tried until a servant came to fetch him for dinner, but the bishop maintained his stand: to allow the appearance of cooperation was as damaging as actually capitulating to the enemy. Istelyn would not be moved.

  “But they mean to have you there, Excellency—probably even if they have to prop up your dead body on its throne!” Dhugal had said at last. “You can’t help the king if you’re dead!”

  “Perhaps. But I will die knowing that I was true to my office and my God. Loris will never have that satisfaction.”