Joram’s voice trailed off at that, for suddenly he was remembering the throngs of people he had seen but not particularly noted in the chapel at Caerrorie, above the tomb where “Camber’s” body lay. His expression reflected his growing suspicion as he began mentally to put things into new perspective. At Rhys’s urging, he told in disbelieving phrases of what he had seen. Soon Evaine was adding her own stunned observations, describing the gifts of flowers left near the tomb, the increased offerings, the looks of reverence in the scrubbed country faces. Was it starting already?
Silence fell heavily among them for a long, endless moment, as each of them declined to put into words what they all were obviously thinking. Finally, Camber brought the flat of one hand down hard on the table, jarring the dinnerware and making Joram start. The alien face of Alister Cullen was grim as Camber pushed himself back slightly from the table with a sigh.
“Very well, you’ve convinced me. It’s getting out of hand. I hadn’t realized—none of us had realized, obviously. The question is, what are we going to do about it? There’s enough blind superstition in this world without deliberately adding the hypocrisy of make-believe miracles. God knows, I certainly don’t qualify for sainthood.”
Evaine gave a quick, nervous smile. “We know that, Father—but convincing your devoted followers may not be that easy. Frankly, I’m not nearly so worried about Cinhil and Guaire at this point as I am about what’s happening at Caerrorie. If we don’t do something, we’re going to have a full-fledged cult of Saint Camber on our hands. All the signs are there.”
“We could tell the truth,” Joram muttered darkly.
Rhys shook his head. “You know we can’t, at this late date.” He glanced at all of them. “But what would happen if we simply closed that part of the chapel, so people couldn’t get near the tomb? For that matter, is it necessary to keep the chapel open to outsiders at all? The villagers have their own church, where Cathan is buried.”
Evaine shook her head wearily. “We can’t, Rhys. That chapel has always been accessible to our people, and to anyone who wanted to come there and pray. The only time it’s closed is at night, when the manor gates are closed, and then it’s still accessible to the staff. If we shut it down, we admit that there’s something unusual about the place. We give credence to what they think is happening.”
“This is incredible!” Joram exclaimed. “How could we have been so stupid?”
“It isn’t a matter of stupidity,” Camber replied, a little sharply. “No one could have foreseen the way things would come together. Evaine is right, though. We don’t dare prohibit free access to the chapel. That being the case, I think we need to consider how we’re going to protect the tomb—especially since the occupant isn’t who they think it is.”
“Just pray that they never find out who it isn’t,” Evaine murmured under her breath. “Father, what if they should try to steal the body?”
“Then, we would really have a problem.”
Rhys laid a distracted hand on his wife’s in reassurance, but his eager eyes and attention were on Camber. “Suppose we set up wards, then? Deryni wards on a Deryni tomb aren’t unusual. At least they might discourage casual snooping.”
“Why don’t we steal the body and eliminate the problem entirely?” Joram countered, beginning to recover his perspective and humor. “Go ahead and ward the tomb,” he added, as all heads turned toward him in surprise, “but move the body to another burial place. Wards wouldn’t prevent a Deryni from breaking in unless they were so powerful that he’d be sure something was unusual. I don’t think we want anyone to take that close a look.”
“He’s right,” Rhys agreed. “Neither the preservation spell nor the shape change will last indefinitely. Even though the lack of one will tend to cancel out the lack of the other, what’s left still won’t stand up to really close inspection by anyone who knows what he’s doing, especially a Deryni. We could move the body to that hidden Michaeline chapel, next to Cinhil’s little son and that monk, Brother …”
“Humphrey,” Evaine supplied.
“That’s it, Humphrey of Gallareaux. Joram, I think it was always your intention to rebury Alister as himself, in Michaeline soil, eventually, wasn’t it?”
Joram gave a grim, humorless chuckle. “Well, I don’t know that it will make any difference to Alister, but it will certainly make me feel better. Once he’s moved, though, if someone does break into the empty tomb, it will fall to you and Evaine or whoever is at Caerrorie to explain. We don’t want anyone to think that the body was assumed into heaven or anything. All we need is a third miracle.”
Camber, who had been listening to all their exchange with a growing wistfulness, could not restrain a wry smile. “I’m happy to see that you’re all thinking again, instead of merely reacting. Rhys, I don’t think we need to complicate this further. Whether it’s you, or Evaine, or even Elinor who must explain, this is one case where you can simply tell the truth: that the body was moved to another, safer burial place, because you feared that vandals might desecrate the tomb. Camber did have enemies, after all. There’s no need to be more specific, even if you’re pressed. It’s no one’s business besides family.”
There was no dissent to that. While they discussed ways and means of accomplishing what they had decided must be done, the four of them picked halfheartedly at their now-cold meal, too keyed up and preoccupied by their potential dangers to do more than nibble. The details were finally resolved to the satisfaction of all; but by the time they had finished both dinner and discussion, it was within an hour of midnight, and the subject of Camber’s impending consecration as bishop still had not been broached. Evaine and Rhys had carefully avoided the topic, perhaps in deference to Joram’s personal involvement in the issue, and Joram himself had overlooked several obvious opportunities to introduce the subject.
Camber could only conclude that the three of them had reached a prior agreement as to how the situation was to be handled, and guessed that Joram was waiting for Evaine and Rhys to leave. To facilitate that probability, Camber rang for the servants to come and clear away the meal, then retired to a chair by the fireplace with a fresh cup of mulled wine so that Joram could exchange whatever signals or glances were necessary to get Evaine and Rhys out of the room. As expected, the couple followed close on the heels of the servants bearing away the dinner things, bidding Father Alister Cullen good-bye with formal courtesy.
When they all had gone, Joram brought his own new-filled cup and settled carefully into a chair beside his father. The wine in his hands seemed to occupy all his attention as he sipped and listened to the retreating footsteps in the corridor outside.
After a few seconds, Camber glanced sidelong at his son, reading the tension in every line of the taut young body. He wondered what Joram was thinking, knew that the young priest was finding it difficult to begin. For, whatever the outcome of their discussion, both of them knew that Camber must go through with what was planned for the morrow. Camber MacRorie, as Alister Cullen, must be consecrated a bishop and assume all the priestly and episcopal functions which that office entailed, whether or not he was entitled to them in his own right.
As Camber gazed at his son, Joram looked up and met his eyes, then glanced quickly back at the cup in his hand. He took a deep breath before speaking.
“We haven’t had much chance to talk lately, have we?”
Camber turned his eyes but not his attention to the steam curling from the cup in his hands, hoping that would make it easier for Joram.
“No, we haven’t. I had hoped we would have this afternoon together, but—”
He shrugged, a helpless, weary movement, and Joram’s eyes flicked nervously to the low-burning fire before them.
“I know. Cinhil.” Joram hesitated a beat and then continued. “Tell me, have you thought much about tomorrow?”
Camber controlled the urge to smile.
“If you understand me at all, after all these years, you must know that tomorrow has not
been far from my thoughts these many days,” he replied gently. “I share your distress, son. I simply see no way around what I must do.”
“Perhaps not.” Joram’s eyes were hooded beneath blond lashes. “The end result is unavoidable, I suppose. But, have you considered that there might be an alternative means to that end? You don’t have to base everything on deception, you know.”
“No?”
“No. You could make your status legitimate.”
“How?” Camber whispered.
“Be ordained a priest,” Joram replied, turning desperate, heartsick eyes on his father. “Do it now, tonight, and you enter the cathedral tomorrow with a clear conscience. You can! God knows, we’ve talked about it often enough in the past. You were made a deacon as a young man. You’ve been a widower for years. You certainly have the vocation for it. Under the circumstances, I’m sure Anscom would do it.”
“Anscom?”
Camber took a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling his heart pound as the impact of Joram’s words sank into all his being.
Actually to be a priest, not just a sham. The thought excited him and, at the same time, chilled him. Certainly, it had always been in the back of his mind finally to take priestly vows. His early monastic training had taken far better than he or anyone else had thought.
But that had been before, when he had still walked the world in his own skin, and a man named Alister Cullen had still been alive in fact as well as in name. Could Camber MacRorie, having taken that other man’s identity—even though he had not taken that life—presume to approach the altar of God and ask the precious gift of priesthood? Dared he base so holy a calling on a further deception?
On the other hand, could he allow Archbishop Anscom, Primate of All Gwynedd and a friend for many years, to confer the bishop’s miter upon him when he was not properly prepared? Of course, if he told Anscom and Anscom agreed to ordain him, then Anscom would be actively guilty of duplicity in concealing Camber’s true identity—unless, of course, he refused to have anything to do with the situation at all, and renounced Camber publicly instead of going through with the consecration. That, too, was a possibility.
But, if Camber did not take the matter to Anscom, and tried to continue as he had been, what then? After tomorrow, he would no longer be able to avoid the exercise of the priestly functions of Alister Cullen without arousing dangerous suspicions. Yet it was either that or perform those offices for which he was not ordained, and be in peril of his soul.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I will pay my vows unto the Lord now in the presence of all his people.
—Psalms 116:14
He returned to the room with a start, aware that Joram was watching him, unable to say how long he had been off on his own reverie. His fingers were clenched tightly around the earthenware cup in his hand, on the verge of shattering it, and illogically he wondered how he would look at his consecration tomorrow with a bandaged hand, if the thing did break.
With a conscious effort, he willed his hand to relax enough to set the cup on the floor beside him. He took a deep breath before looking up at Joram again.
“You certainly caught me off guard with that one,” he said in an uncertain voice. “I suppose I had refused to consciously consider that alternative. You and I understand why I have to do what I’m doing, but I guess I didn’t want to face the possibility that Anscom might not. If he didn’t, I can’t say I would blame him.”
“Do you really think he wouldn’t understand?” Joram said softly. “I know him better than that, and I’ve known him for less than half the years you have.”
Camber lowered his gaze, watching his finger systematically trace along the carving on his chair arm.
“You know me pretty well, too, son. And you’re certainly right, in the final analysis. The priesthood and what it stands for mean far too much to me to degrade that special magic by practicing the forms without the substance.”
He looked up and smiled. “It’s just that I never thought it would be like this, when I finally asked him to ordain me. I suppose I always thought it would be some years in the future, when all my children were grown and I could settle the earldom on Cathan.
“But that’s all changed now. Cathan is dead, and his son and heir is only a child, and a new king is on the throne who is a child himself, in many ways.” He sighed. “And we’re here and now, and like Cinhil, I’m going to have to learn to live with what I’ve chosen to become.”
Joram looked away briefly, then met his father’s gaze again.
“You’ll talk to Anscom, then?”
“I think so. I want to ponder it a bit more, but if you could make sure that Evaine and Rhys are available, I’d appreciate it. The three of you can be my only witnesses, even if Anscom agrees.”
When Joram had gone, Camber stood staring into the dying fire for several minutes before moving into the adjoining oratory. Only the ruby Presence light burned in the little chamber, and Camber smiled wanly as he lit the other candles on the altar, taking pains to perform all as a human might.
No arcane manifestations of flame for the thinking he must do. He must not let the difference of his Deryniness color the decision he must make.
He covered his eyes with both hands as he knelt at the prie-dieu, letting his conscious mind occupy itself for the first few minutes with the recitation of standard prayers and meditations—anything to let himself settle down so he could move on to this most important consideration.
From there, he turned his attention inward, seeking out all possible ramifications of the subject at hand. Slipping into the profound, introspective trance which he had mastered so many years before, he allowed the deeper facets of his being to explore the situation, drawing upon Alister’s memories and knowledge as well as his own.
When he at last raised his head, the altar candles were shorter by a fingerspan, guttering and quaking in a wayward draft which whispered through the half-open door behind him. Above, the smooth, gentle face of the carved Christus gazed down with compassion from its cross of wood and ivory.
He cocked his head and searched the blank, shadowed eyes as he had done so many times before, mouth set in stubborn questioning, then let the alien lips of his alter ego relax in a little smile, bowed his head in surrender. In the flickering candlelight, he could almost imagine that the figure inclined its head slightly, and that the ivory lips smiled in return.
Very well. He would take it as a sign. He would go to his old friend and mentor, Anscom. He would reveal himself as Camber, and would lay the entire matter at the feet of the man who was at once brother and spiritual father. Then, if Anscom agreed, he would be properly ordained a priest. Only in that way could he go through with the consecration as bishop which must be the lot of Alister Cullen, and his own.
He was knocking on Anscom’s door, a torch-bearing monk at his side, before the full emotional impact hit him of what he was about to do. His breath caught in his throat, his mouth went dry, and his hand jerked spasmodically before he could control it.
Anxiously he wondered whether the monk had seen—tried to fathom the man’s reaction as the silence of waiting began to stretch on interminably. He prayed that the man would merely ascribe his nervousness to the natural apprehension of any man about to be made a bishop. Surely the monk could not see beyond his Deryni facade.
Then the monk’s gnarled old fist was pounding on the door instead of Camber’s, and he was murmuring something about the archbishop’s hearing perhaps not being quite as good as it once was.
Camber, grateful for the timely if erroneous excuse, let his hand fall awkwardly to his side and said nothing as he heard the bolt being shot from the inside. Anscom himself opened the door, his disheveled appearance and bleary eyes bespeaking much of the sleep he had just left.
“I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, Your Grace,” Camber murmured.
“Alister.” Incomprehension and sleep slurred the archbishop’s voice. “I had thought you abed hou
rs ago. Is anything wrong?”
“I was unable to sleep, Your Grace. I wondered whether you might hear my confession.”
“Your confession?” Anscom’s eyes flicked down the figure of the former vicar general and were back on his face in an instant, all drowsiness now completely gone. “I was of the impression that you had your own Michaeline confessor, Father. Was he not available?”
Camber averted his gaze, his words low and careful.
“He is not a bishop, Your Grace. There are certain things I may ask only of you.”
As Camber glanced meaningfully at the monk beside him, Anscom reacted with a start, as though he had forgotten that the man still stood there, overhearing every word of their conversation. With a wave, Anscom dismissed the monk, standing aside to admit his visitor as the monk’s circle of torchlight slowly receded down the corridor.
Camber kept his eyes lowered as he stepped past Anscom, standing awkwardly in the center of the room until the archbishop had re-bolted the door and turned toward him. Even after his long introspection, he was surprised at how apprehensive he felt, now that the moment of revelation was almost upon him. He followed Anscom into the archbishop’s private oratory, much more ornate than the one in his own quarters, and watched him pick up a violet stole from the prie-dieu.
“I thank you for seeing me at this hour, Your Grace,” Camber murmured. “I would not have disturbed you, but what I have to say could truly be trusted to no other.”
Anscom inclined his head slightly and raised an eyebrow as he touched the stole to his lips and draped it around his shoulders. Gesturing toward the prie-dieu and straightening his sleeping robe, he started to turn toward the altar.