“Loyal Charlan,” Javan whispered, tears welling in his closing eyes as he felt the young knight die.
And in that same breath, he commended his own soul to God, praying that he might have no better companion when he came before the throne of heaven than the brave knight in whose arms he lay—and that other, so recently gone before them, who even now seemed to welcome them both from within a brilliant light on the other side of the darkness.
EPILOGUE
Our inheritance is turned unto strangers, our houses unto aliens.
—Lamentations 5:2
Rhys Michael knew that his brother had died, long before the first Custodes couriers came galloping into Rhemuth with confused reports of an ambush by Ansel MacRorie and renegade Michaelines. Awareness of it intruded gradually through his shock at the brutal murder of Tomais and Sorle and Oriel and then the added and unexpected blow of the death of his son, born far too soon to live and never even drawing breath to cry. He knew it in a deep recess of consciousness never tapped before, but the physicians’ drugs kept him numbed to all of it for many days.
They brought his brother back to Rhemuth on what would have been his seventeenth birthday. The pale and obviously grieving Rhys Michael was permitted to receive his brother’s body at the steps of Rhemuth Cathedral and to walk in his funeral cortege a few days later—attended on both occasions by two solicitous and kindly-looking Custodes priests—but many remarked that he appeared to be in shock. Hence it came as no surprise when the lords of state let it be known that the new sovereign and his young queen were devastated by their double loss and intended to remain in seclusion for some weeks before even considering a coronation date. Meanwhile, the king’s Council would carry out the day-to-day business of government.
Later, Rhys Michael would remember only snatches of those days that put paid to his youth. The new king spent the remainder of the summer a virtual prisoner in his own castle, always at least lightly sedated, periodically more heavily medicated when they must trot him out for some official appearance, though these were few. During the more lucid intervals, they made it quite clear what was expected of him and what would happen if he did not comply. From the depths of drug-induced despondency, it sometimes occurred to him to wonder whether this was what Alroy had had to endure, all those four years he had been king. It got worse again as his coronation approached.
They let him be crowned on Michaelmas, his sixteenth birthday—drugged, of course, and led through his responses by an attentive young Custodes priest, on whom he was often obliged to lean for support merely to stand. His condition shocked most observers. Rhys Michael, of all the princes, had always been hale and robust, his fair, rosy countenance a dramatic foil for the jet-black Haldane hair. But on the day of his coronation, dark hollows stained the delicate skin under his eyes; his physicians had bled him several times during the preceding week.
His appearance and general lethargy only confirmed what had been said all summer: that the new king’s health had been shattered by the shock of his brother’s death and might be some time mending. Quite obviously, he would not be able to take up his public duties for some time, perhaps not until the spring. Meanwhile, the Council would continue to rule in his stead.
It was soon after the coronation that they stopped giving him the drugs. They also moved him at last into the new royal suite already occupied for some months by Michaela, far from the rooms where Sorle and Oriel had been so brutally slain. Within days he found his head clearing, his appetite improving, and his general strength increasing. It was heartening to be able to think clearly again, but he also knew what it meant.
Accordingly, his reunion with Michaela was strained. They had seen one another but seldom through the summer, first because she was recovering and then because his state of continual befuddlement made him no fit company for anyone. She had been frightened, he knew, both by their situation and by his condition, and he was certain she remained frightened.
But because he knew why the great lords had allowed them to resume at least the outward appearance of domestic regularity, he found himself stiffly holding back from any interaction that might lead to renewed intimacy. The privacy denied them all summer was now encouraged, but he would not touch her. The hours they spent together found each of them occupied with solitary pastimes while sitting in the same room, she at her needlework, he trying to read or, more often, simply staring out the window or gazing despondently into the glitter of the Ring of Fire. They spoke little, and then only of inconsequentials. And late at night, when they lay on opposite sides of the great state bed that had been Javan’s and Alroy’s and their father’s before them, he sometimes heard her softly sobbing when she thought he was asleep.
It took her several weeks to summon the courage to question him about it. They had dined silently in the gentle dusk that makes autumn evenings soft and sweet, and afterward they were sitting in cushioned chairs in front of the fire, sipping a fine old Vezaire port that she knew he loved—though he drank far less than he had done in the old days.
“Rhysem, what’s wrong?” she asked.
Smiling sadly, he sighed and rested his forehead against the side of his goblet, closing his eyes. He had been expecting the question for some days.
“I’m a puppet king, Mika,” he whispered, though he knew that was not what she was asking. That had been obvious from that awful day their world turned upside-down.
When she did not say anything, he picked up his head and cupped the goblet between his hands. “Someone once told me—and I honestly can’t remember who, anymore—that before my parents were married, my father told my mother she was to be nothing but a royal brood mare. I’m told that later he did come to care for her, but I suppose that, in a way, that’s what she was. She gave my father five sons in four years—two of them twins, I’ll grant you—and then conveniently died within a few months of giving birth to the last.”
“Whatever does that have to do with us?” Michaela asked. “I want to give you more sons, but I’ve never gotten the impression that you wanted me to be a royal brood mare. I wasn’t even ever certain you were that happy about impending fatherhood—though I think you would have loved our little son, if he’d—”
She broke off and sniffled quietly, bravely wiping away tears with the back of one hand, then whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“I wish I could tell you how sorry I am, Mika,” he whispered. He drew a deep breath. “Neither of us realized, but you were expected to be a royal brood mare—or I was to be the royal stud. It’s me they’re really after; you were just a helpless victim.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The great lords,” he said, looking down into his cup. “They were Alroy’s regents for more than two years, and they kept him under their thumb even after that, partly by intimidation and partly by keeping him drugged. The reason they’ve stopped drugging me is so that it won’t impair the royal stud’s performance. I didn’t want to tell you this, but you have a right to know.”
“Rhysem, you’re scaring me,” she murmured.
“You should be scared. God knows, I’m terrified.” He started to take a deep swallow of his wine to fortify himself, then shook his head and set the cup aside.
“I’ve done a lot of growing up in the last few months,” he said, sitting back squarely in his chair. “This isn’t easy to say to you, but every word is true, so you’d better listen. Javan told me, and I didn’t listen, and now he’s dead. They killed him because they couldn’t control him. And if they think they can’t control me, they’ll kill me, too—but not until I’ve given them what they want.”
“What do you mean?”
“The great lords want another regency. As soon as I’ve secured the succession—probably the traditional ‘heir and a spare’—I can almost guarantee that the new king will meet with a conveniently fatal accident.” He smiled bitterly. “Just think of it: another twelve or fourteen years of unbridled power for the likes of Hubert and Rhun and
the new ones who have come along since the last regency. What kind of a chance do you think our sons would have to rule independently, after a lifetime of indoctrination by men like Paulin and Albertus? Javan didn’t fall for it, but I did—and we only had a few years of their lies and deceptions to contend with.”
“Rhysem, you can’t be serious,” she whispered, moving to sink down at his feet and gaze up at him in the firelight, feeling his trembling as she rested her hands on his knees. “Tell me you’ve made this up.”
“God, if only I had,” he breathed, shaking his head wearily.
“Well, then, we—we just won’t have any children for a while, if that’s the way they’re going to be,” she said indignantly, a look of fierce determination coming over her pretty face. “I love you, Rhys Michael Haldane. I love everything you are. I love your body and the way you make me feel when we’re together, and I loved carrying your child. But if that means your death—”
He shook his head, chuckling mirthlessly. “There’s one other thing I haven’t yet told you. If I absolutely refuse to oblige them, they can’t force me; but they can force you.”
“What do you mean?” she murmured, her eyes wide as she raised up on her knees to stare at him.
“Quite bluntly, my sweet queen, I mean that if I fail to impregnate you, someone else will do it for me. Who’s to know, outside these walls? I’m told that there are several eager volunteers.”
“Who?” she demanded.
“Rhun and Richard, among others.”
“I would rather die!”
“I doubt you’d be given that choice. And if you did succeed, they’d simply drug me up and marry me to some more biddable bride. Rhun’s Juliana, probably. And if I couldn’t be persuaded to perform with her, another willing surrogate would be drafted to found a new royal line. That would be the end of the Haldanes, even though the name would go on.”
“But that’s monstrous! Rhysem, what can we do?” she breathed.
“Well, as I see it, there are three options. One, we can actively defy the great lords and possibly be killed. If I die without male issue, that would end the Haldane line and open the way for the return of that Festillic claimant who’s been lurking in the wings all these years. They don’t want that, of course, so they’ll do their best to keep me alive until I’ve served their purpose. In the worst case, it could go very much as I outlined. Not good for either of us, and not at all good for Gwynedd.”
“What’s the second option?” Michaela asked.
“We defy the great lords indirectly by refusing to breed an heir, but we pretend that we’re trying. That keeps them from drugging me again and gains time for us to maybe figure a way out of this. That can’t go on forever, because they know you’re fertile, but losing the first baby might make it difficult for you to get pregnant again right away.
“Eventually, though, we run the risk that someone else will be ordered to do the honors—which, if it’s one of the great lords themselves, provides a veneer of legitimacy for a new dynasty then directed by the great lords in blood as well as power. Of course, as soon as you’ve produced a few healthy bairns, regardless of their actual father, I become the late king and you become a young and beautiful dowager queen. I think they’d probably keep you around, to care for the children.”
“How can you talk about this so calmly?” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes as she shook her head. “Those are no choices at all.”
“I know.” He could feel tears starting to run down his own cheeks as he lightly touched her hair, and he closed his eyes as she leaned her head against his knee, his hand beginning to caress the shining strands.
“You said there were three options,” she said after a few minutes. “What was the third?”
He leaned his head against the back of the chair and breathed a heavy sigh.
“We can do what they want: Give them their heirs—and ensure the legitimate Haldane line,” he said.
“But—they’d kill you, once we’d done it.”
“Probably. But I’ve thought a lot about this in the last few days. My own life isn’t that important, in the great reckoning of things, but preserving the Haldane line is. Despite the meddling of the great lords, the Haldane kings have been good for Gwynedd—certainly better than the Festils ever were. If I have to die to ensure that Haldane princes will continue to rule—well, if one has to die young, I suppose that’s a better reason than most. Besides—” He flashed her a brave smile. “We might have daughters first. And we can still delay as long as we dare. After that—well, it still takes time to grow babies, even once they’re started. We might have a couple or three years. Maybe that will be long enough to figure out a way out of this.”
“Oh, Rhysem …” she whispered, and burst into tears.
He let her weep against his knee until her despair was spent, continuing to gently stroke her hair. At length she dried her eyes on the hem of her gown and turned her face to him again. He had never seen her look so unlovely, with her nose reddened and her eyes swollen from weeping, and he had never wanted her so much.
“Well, what do you think?” he whispered, wiping a last tear from her cheek with his thumb. “The decision can’t be mine alone. In a way, whatever we decide will affect you far more than it does me.”
For answer, she took his hand and pressed it to her lips, then cradled it against her cheek.
“Rhys Michael Haldane, you are my lord and my love and my king—and my life. If it is your wish as well, I hope one day to bear the Haldane sons you must have—even if it means I must lose you.”
She kissed his hand again, then gave him a bright, courageous smile. “But I hope I bear you several daughters first. And maybe, before it grows too late, we’ll find a way to gain you back a Haldane crown that’s free.”
Turn the page to continue reading from the Heirs of Saint Camber
CHAPTER ONE
Therefore pride compasseth them about as a chain; violence covereth them as a garment.
—Psalms 73:6
The Eastmarch messengers exhausted a succession of mounts in the days that followed, galloping into Gwynedd’s capital less than a week after the taking of Culliecairn. Almost incoherent with exhaustion, the pair made their initial report to a hastily gathered handful of Gwynedd’s royal ministers, then were whisked away for further interrogation in private by Lord Albertus, the Earl Marshal, and certain members of his staff. The king was told of their news, but was not invited to join the impromptu meeting now in progress in Gwynedd’s council chamber.
“Aside from the military implications, this is going to raise certain practical complications,” Rhun of Sheele said, sour and suspicious as he sat back in his chair. “For one thing, the king is going to want to go.”
Lord Tammaron Fitz-Arthur nodded patiently. As Chancellor of Gwynedd, it was his duty to preside over meetings of the king’s council when the king was not present—and in fact, he presided even when the king was present—but formalities hardly seemed necessary with only four of them seated around the long table.
“Of course he’ll want to go,” Tammaron said. “It’s only natural that he should wish to do so—and were the decision up to him, there would be no question. There’s a risk involved, of course. Not only might he be killed, but he might be tempted to assert his independence. However, I believe that both possibilities pale beside the very real prospect that this is the challenge we’ve been hoping to postpone.”
At Tammaron’s right, quietly imposing in his robes of episcopal purple, Archbishop Hubert MacInnis nodded his agreement, one pudgy hand caressing the jeweled cross on his ample breast. Those who did not know him well saw what he wanted them to see: an affable if oversized cherub, ostensibly godly and devout, rosy face framed by fine blond hair cut short and tonsured in the clerical manner, tiny rosebud lips pursed in a languid pout.
But the apparent innocence of the wide blue eyes was deceptive, and the cunning mind behind them had contrived the death of more than one
person who stood in his way. In the last decade, the Primate of All Gwynedd had become the single most powerful man in the kingdom.
“This is damnably inconvenient, if it is the challenge,” Hubert muttered sullenly. “Damn, why couldn’t they have waited even another year? A second son would make all the difference.”
“You’re assuming that the queen carries another son and not a daughter,” said the archbishop’s elder brother, Lord Manfred MacInnis, seated across from Hubert. He was a beefy, red-faced man in his mid-fifties, muscled where Hubert was merely fat, his sunburned hands scarred and callused from years of wielding a sword. “I wouldn’t worry so much about potential heirs as I would about the man who wears the crown right now. If this is the challenge we’ve been dreading, ’tis we and the present king who will have to meet it. And if he can’t do that, not even another prince will be enough to ensure the continuance of the Haldane line in power—and us as the power behind the throne.”
It was no more than a simple statement of fact. The men seated around the table, the core of the Royal Council of Gwynedd, had been virtual rulers of Gwynedd for six years now, since plotting the slaying of the sixteen-year-old King Javan Haldane in an “ambush” far to the north—blamed on Deryni dissidents—and simultaneously masterminding the coup that put his brother, Rhys Michael, on Gwynedd’s throne, though king only in name.
The cost had come high, for the hollow crown this youngest Haldane prince had never sought. Not alone had he lost a beloved brother and king, but the shock of the sudden and brutal slayings surrounding the coup at Rhemuth had caused his young wife to miscarry of their first child—a supreme irony, for eventual control of an underage Haldane heir had been a large part of the ultimate purpose behind the coup.