Dhugal hooked a hand in the back of Kelson’s belt to steady himself and shook his head happily.
“Not enough to give your men any trouble, Sire. Am I ever glad to see you!”
“And I.” Kelson wheeled his stallion on its haunches and glanced after his knights nearing the crest of the hill. “But let’s make sure you counted correctly. Morgan, stay out of the fighting unless we’re needed, but come along with me. Oh, and welcome to Gwynedd, my lady!”
Morgan felt the girl stiffen in his arms as she heard his name, but he only shifted her closer into the curve of his shield arm as he urged his horse up the hill after the king, naked sword still ready in his gloved right hand. Ahead of them, the warband spilled over the crest of the hill with shouts of glee. He could hear the answering cries of consternation as Dhugal’s pursuers saw the Haldane standard in the midst of their attackers.
The sortie was all but over by the time Morgan drew rein at the top of the hill with Kelson. Down on the plain, a handful of Haldane knights were in pursuit of a few stragglers, but the rest of the opposition were on the run far ahead. Several men unhorsed in the encounter were scattered down the other side of the hill, picking themselves up shakily, but none of them wore Kelson’s livery. Haldane knights stood guard over each one, Traherne and Conall marching another one back to join his fellows while the squires rounded up all the loose horses. A cheer went up from Kelson’s knights as he started down the hillside, and at his signal the battle horn sounded to call back their knights still in pursuit. Grinning, Morgan urged his horse after the king’s.
“A happy circumstance, Sire,” he said as they drew abreast at the bottom of the hill and halted, glancing down in amusement at the girl now beginning to wriggle in his arms as he reached around her to sheathe his sword. “And a rich prize young Dhugal has brought us, too. There’s no point in struggling, my lady. You’d best save your strength for the ride back to Rhemuth.”
“My father will avenge me!” Sidana cried. “You took him by surprise.”
“But, that’s the whole point, isn’t it, my lady?” Kelson asked with a grin. “To take the enemy by surprise? I would be a poor commander if I sent my men into battle in rebel territory without the best possible advantage. Your father would have done the same.”
“My father is not a rebel!” Sidana said. “He seeks to restore my mother to the throne which is rightfully hers, and to give Meara back its freedom. We shall not be ruled by—by a Deryni heretic!”
The taunt was only an accustomed annoyance to Morgan, inured from childhood to ignore such affronts, but Kelson reacted as if he had been stung, apparently not expecting it from a beautiful young girl. Dhugal, sitting behind the king, could not see how the grey eyes flashed warning, but he obviously sensed the sudden tension before Kelson brought his anger under control. Even Sidana gasped as she realized what she had said, and to whom, and in whose arms. Morgan forced himself not to react, waiting to see how Kelson would handle this.
“In future, my lady, I should take better care for my choice of words,” the king finally said, after permitting himself a careful sigh. “If the fact that we are Deryni is abhorrent to you, then you should be aware that at least some of what is said about Deryni is true—and we are not made of stone. Do not press our forbearance too far.”
He glanced purposefully out at his returning knights for a few seconds, temporarily releasing Sidana from the intensity of his gaze, but the brief respite did nothing to reassure the girl, trembling in Morgan’s arms like a sparrow in the clutches of a bird of prey. Dhugal’s stiff carriage proclaimed him still stunned as well by the tight-leashed power he sensed in the man suddenly stranger sitting in front of him—even if Morgan had not been able to sense the fear behind the shields Dhugal should not have had. Kelson’s expression was far more mild when he at last looked back at them, but Sidana still recoiled.
“You will not be harmed, my lady,” Kelson murmured. “By my honor and my crown, I swear it. If my earlier words seemed harsh, I apologize, but we have ridden long and hard and I had not thought to have so gentle a captive in our company. My quarrel is not with you, but neither can I let you go. Now you must pardon me while I see to my men.”
He turned his stallion down the slope toward the skirmish site without waiting for reply, white horse stark against the trampled snow, Dhugal shifting his grip from Kelson’s belt to the horse’s crupper behind him as the animal lurched down the slope. Morgan followed more slowly with the subdued Sidana, still pondering Kelson’s reaction.
Dhugal’s Mearan pursuers had not wholly abandoned the situation, Morgan saw, as he scanned the darkening plain before them. They milled in a tight knot a few hundred yards out, obviously trying to decide what to do next. Between them and the skirmish site, most of Kelson’s knights sat their horses in a long single line, ready to repel any renewed attack. Behind the line, the remaining Haldane riders kept watch over the prisoners: six in all—four now standing bunched before Traherne and Conall, hands bound behind them, two more having minor injuries tended. None of the captives were heavily armored, and several wore only court attire—no armor at all.
“Did you interrupt some festive occasion, Dhugal?” Kelson asked over his shoulder, as they approached Traherne and Conall.
Dhugal grimaced, leaning around the king to inspect the captives as they drew rein.
“They would call it so, Sire. Archbishop Loris consecrated Judhael of Meara Bishop of Ratharkin this morning. And I suppose you’ve guessed they have Bishop Istelyn to prisoner.” His face lit with surprise and then pleasure as he got a good look at the sullen young man standing closest to Conall’s horse, hands bound behind and a rope halter running from his neck to Conall’s hands.
“Well, fancy that!”
“Someone you know?” Morgan asked, feeling Sidana’s silent gasp of horror.
Dhugal laughed and clapped Kelson on the shoulder, his earlier uneasiness apparently past.
“Know him? Aye, indeed, Your Grace. Oh, this is rare luck. Sire, may I be the first to commend to your acquaintance Prince Llewell of Meara, the younger of this lady’s brothers.” He gestured grandly in her direction. “Well done, Conall. Did you capture him?”
Conall drew himself up importantly, uncertain whether to be more pleased at the status of his prize or annoyed at Dhugal’s omission of his proper title.
“Of course I did. Llewell of Meara, you say?” he repeated, prodding disdainfully at Llewell’s back with a booted toe.
Llewell bore the affront without physical resistance, but his brown eyes blazed as he twisted to glare up at Conall.
“You never would have taken me if my girth hadn’t slipped,” he said hotly. “My father will return for us!”
“Yes, under a parley flag,” Kelson retorted, directing their attention to the party heading toward his line. “Hardly a dashing rescue mission, I think, but we’ll hear what they have to say.”
Sick at heart, Llewell whirled to crane his head in that direction.
“My sister and I have done nothing wrong,” he said desperately. “You have no right to hold us!”
“Have I not?” Kelson leaned his forearms casually on the high pommel of his saddle. “And what should I do with subjects who defy my laws and usurp my authority in my own lands?”
“But ours is the better claim,” Llewell began. “Our line comes from—”
“I know all about the line from which you spring,” Kelson interrupted. “The matter was settled nearly a hundred years ago.” He glanced up at the squire riding back from the defending Haldane line, the knot of Mearan riders slowly approaching under a white flag, then stood in his stirrups and shaded his eyes to peer farther out on the darkening plain.
“I see them,” Morgan said, noting the numbers of the torches another approaching body bore, perhaps half an hour’s hard ride away. “Sicard’s reinforcements. We’d best make this brief, Sire.”
“My thought, precisely.” Kelson kneed his horse over to the new mount an
other squire was bringing up for Dhugal and helped him shift across. “Llewell, I’ll oblige your father for a few minutes, but I think you can see why I don’t intend to stay around. Jodrell, prepare the men to ride out as soon as we’ve parleyed. Conall, we’ll need a horse for your prisoner as well. And Morgan—bring the girl partway. They may be more inclined to reason if they see she’s safe.”
Torches hastily lit sputtered in the falling snow as they rode out. Kelson and Dhugal led, Sidana still sitting stiff and frightened before the silent Morgan, half a length behind. Conall and Traherne flanked the mounted Llewell, with an escort of four knights behind. Among the dozen riders who approached from the Mearan side, Dhugal identified Sicard MacArdry and his son Ithel in the lead. All but the four principals drew rein within hearing distance of a central point between them, Kelson and Dhugal riding on to meet Sicard and Ithel. They stopped a horse-length apart.
“I have never done you any harm, Sicard MacArdry,” Kelson said quietly. “Why have you broken faith with me?”
Sicard turned a cold, disdainful look on Dhugal, holding a torch beside the king, then glanced back at Kelson.
“I never swore you any oaths, Kelson of Gwynedd. My young kinsman, on the other hand, betrayed his blood and broke oaths sworn on holy relics, before many witnesses. Do not speak to me of faith with an oath-breaker sitting at your side as counsel.”
“He serves far older faith than oaths sworn under duress,” Kelson answered. “But I think you did not come to argue my Lord Dhugal’s shortcomings, if such they are. I assume you wished to verify your children’s safety. As you can see, they have not been harmed.”
Sicard’s tight-lipped glance flicked to his son, anxious but hopeful in his bonds between Conall and Traherne, then more briefly and painfully to Sidana.
“I want them back, Haldane,” he muttered, forcing himself not to look at them again.
Kelson inclined his head gracefully. “A father could not want otherwise, my lord. And that is easily arranged. I have no quarrel with children.”
“And the price?” Sicard asked.
“For a beginning, the return of my bishop, Henry Istelyn.”
“I do not have him.”
“Not with you, no. But you can get him.”
Sicard shook his head. “He is Loris’ hostage, not mine.”
“Loris’ treason is old. I do not hold you answerable for that. Your treason is more recent, and might be forgiven if I received sufficient surety of your future loyalty. If Istelyn is returned unharmed and you deliver Loris into my hands, I would be willing to discuss a general amnesty for all your family.”
“You would never do that!”
“I have said that I would.”
“And what if I refuse?”
“You will never see your children again. And in the spring, I shall lead an army into Meara and scour the land until I have found you, your wife, and every other living member of the Mearan royal house and put them to the sword.”
“You would never do that!” Sicard gasped.
“Do you wish to test that belief?” Kelson countered. “If, on the other hand, you present yourself, your lady wife, and the rest of your family before my court by Christmas, delivering the traitor Loris and his supporters into my hands and pledging your true homage as dutiful vassals of my crown, then this all may be resolved most happily for all concerned.”
“Those are no terms at all!” Sicard said with a contemptuous spit into the snow beside him. “You must take me for an idiot! No sane man would agree to that.”
“Then perhaps you had best go a little mad, Sicard!” Kelson retorted, glancing at the torches now closer by half the original distance. “And I should be mad if I remained to debate the issue with you. I did not expect you to give me your answer without more sober reflection.”
“But what of my children?”
“You have a fortnight to tell me what will become of them,” Kelson replied, gathering up his reins in preparation to leave. “I must have your decision by Christmas Court. In the meantime, I give you my word that they shall not be harmed—and I trust you will make me the same assurances regarding Bishop Istelyn.”
“I told you, that is not within my power.…”
“Then find a way to make it so!”
“I cannot!”
“A fortnight!” Kelson repeated. And as he and Dhugal wheeled their horses and started back, the Haldane line edged forward, curtailing any thought Sicard might have entertained of following after. With a glance backward at the approaching reinforcements, still a quarter-hour too far away to make a difference, Sicard cast one final, longing glance at his son and daughter being drawn back among their captors, then reined his mount around and rode off at the gallop with his remaining son. Llewell took the turn of events stoically enough, only bowing his head and biting back a sob as father and brother receded into the dusk and the nearer torches moved off; but Sidana burst into distraught weeping.
“No! They can’t leave us!” she gasped, struggling to wiggle from Morgan’s grasp. “Father! Father, come back!”
The attempt was futile, of course, but a hysterical woman was the last thing Morgan wanted on his hands if they were going to have to make a run for it. Pulling off his right glove with his teeth while he restrained her in his shield arm, he caught Kelson’s eye and communicated his intention. Kelson agreed. Pinning the struggling girl firmly against his mail-clad chest, Morgan pressed his hand over her eyes and willed her to sleep. Immediately, she went boneless and relaxed in his arms, head lolling against his shoulder.
“What have you done?” Llewell gasped. He wrenched at his bound wrists helplessly as he tried to kick his horse closer to see. “Oh, God, what have you done to her?”
“She’s not been hurt; he’s only made her sleep,” Kelson said sharply, plunging his horse between Llewell’s and Morgan’s to seize Llewell by the shoulder. “And if you keep your head, I’ll not use on you what’s been used on her.”
“Was it magic?” Llewell managed to whisper around an almost tearful gulp.
“No, but I haven’t the time to explain the distinction just now. Agree to cooperate, and I’ll even have them bind your hands more comfortably. It’s a long ride to Rhemuth with your hands tied behind you.”
“You’ll pay for this,” Llewell muttered through clenched teeth. “May your Deryni soul rot in Hell!”
“You’re about to try my patience too far,” Kelson warned. “Don’t push me. If you believe me damned already, then it follows that I have nothing to gain by personal restraint—though despite your belief, it is my intention to deal with you as honorably as possible. Now, is this to be easy or difficult?”
Llewell maintained his glare of tearful defiance for a few seconds, measuring it against Kelson’s calm, passionless gaze, then broke the contact and bowed his head, shoulders slumping dejectedly.
“I cannot stand against a demon,” he whispered. “I am not fool enough to seek my death deliberately.”
“Nor I,” Kelson replied. “Conall, see to his hands, but keep a close guard on him.” With another glance at the approaching Mearan force, he reined his horse around and raised a gloved fist in signal.
“’Tis time we made a tactical withdrawal, my lords!” he shouted, to answering shouts of approval from his men. “We have accomplished at least part of what we came for. Now we return to Rhemuth!”
Thus did they ride from the plain of Ratharkin, richer for two royal prisoners and a rescued earl, Dhugal not yet aware that he was poorer by a father. Darkness and the increasingly heavy snowfall soon enabled them to elude the pursuing Mearan host; and when human and Deryni senses confirmed that they were out of danger, Kelson allowed a brief stop to rest. Only then did he draw Dhugal a little aside and tell him about old Caulay, giving what meager comfort he could as he shared Dhugal’s grief at the news of the old earl’s death.
Grief and futile comfort were served up in full measure that night in Ratharkin as well, when the desolate Sica
rd returned without daughter, forsworn nephew, or second son. Caitrin and Judhael heard his halting report in stunned silence, Judhael lamely holding his aunt’s hand but unable to give a word of reassurance.
“How could the Haldane have known to be there just then?” Caitrin whispered when her husband had done. “’Tis foul, wicked sorcery! And he has my babes to hostage.”
“We were wrong to trust young Dhugal,” Judhael muttered. “To betray his own kin—but who could have guessed he would break his sworn word, given on holy relics? He is damned, damned.…”
“I should have struck him to the heart with my own dagger when first I saw him,” the miserable Sicard whispered. “I should have known my brother would poison him against us after all these years. And my son … my little girl … in the hands of Deryni!”
They sent for Loris and Creoda a little later, when they had recovered some of their composure and reviewed the terms of Kelson’s demands. By the time Sicard had repeated his account for their benefit, Loris was all but foaming at the mouth.
“He offered you amnesty if you would abandon me?” he raged. “He dared to demand Istelyn’s release? The insolence! The very cheek! How dare he think he can threaten us!”
“He does think he can,” Caitrin replied irritably. “What is more, he has done a very credible job of it. I would be naive in the extreme if I thought he expected us to accept his offer, but he almost had to make the attempt. Still, we are not without our own resources. Nephew, please have Bishop Istelyn brought to us.”
“He is still my prisoner, not yours, Lady,” Loris warned.
“I am quite aware of that. I wish to question him. See to it, Judhael.”
Loris let him leave to do her bidding, but he continued to rant and mutter under his breath all the while Judhael was gone, hardly touching the wine which Ithel poured to bolster all their courage.
“God curse the Deryni!” Loris spat, as Judhael brought Istelyn in a short time later. “Curse the Deryni king who pretends piety and honor and continues to consort with magic! And God curse doubly any bishop who would keep counsel with him!” he added, glaring at Istelyn. “You are no better than the Haldane you serve, Istelyn. I should have you executed as the traitor you are!”
The Bishop’s Heir Page 21
