But the Bishop of Grecotha dared not indulge these interests overmuch. Winter was fast approaching, and with winter would come the summons from Cinhil, commanding attendance at the capital. In light of that priority, all personal pursuits must pale, though he would try not to let that keep him from sending word to Evaine of his discovery.
And that was one thing he was able to do: to stay in relatively close touch with his children. Beginning with the first week after his arrival in Grecotha, he had been receiving regular fortnightly communications from the capital via Joram, whom Cinhil had decided was the ideal confidential messenger between himself and the new Grecotha bishop. Cinhil had perceived Joram as a dual-purpose messenger, able to transmit news of Alister’s old Michaeline Order as well as missives from his king. Joram and Alister had been close, after all. Who more fitting?
Of course, Cinhil did not know that Joram also brought reports to and from Archbishop Anscom, in addition to his own astute observations on the state of Cinhil’s progress; or that Evaine and Rhys, too, were funneling royal intelligence to Camber in their own ways. Cinhil knew only that Joram’s return reports indicated considerable progress in the revival of Grecotha as a functioning arm of the ecclesiastical hierarchy and that Bishop Alister Cullen was proving as able a diocesan administrator as he had been of the powerful Michaeline Order. That boded well, in Cinhil’s mind, that the said bishop would be able to do the same for a kingdom, come the first snows of winter. Accordingly, he left Alister in peace through the summer and early autumn. Besides, Cinhil was busy getting his own life in order.
Grecotha was a time of personal ordering for Camber, as well, not only from the standpoint of learning to function as an ecclesiastical administrator, but as an experience in being alone. Of course, he was truly alone only rarely, but there was a loneliness nonetheless, for there was no one he could really talk to here in Grecotha.
Of all those who had come with him from Valoret and stayed, only Guaire had he known before—and the human Guaire was busily trying to find his own spiritual balance. As autumn approached, and the harvest was reaped and gathered, Guaire spent an increasing amount of time under the tutelage of the priests and brothers of the episcopal household, growing somewhat distant from Camber. He also began to make a point of chatting with each messenger who came to the Grecotha residence, especially those in orders, Deryni as well as human.
Camber first became aware of Guaire’s growing Deryni attachments one day late in October. He was strolling with his breviary in the newly cleared gardens of the fortified manor house which served as bishop’s residence, savoring the last dregs of sunlit autumn, when he noticed Guaire at the other end of the garden, in animated conversation with a short, wiry man in the habit of the Gabrilite Order. The man’s back was to Camber, the peculiarly Gabrilite braid of reddish auburn hair hanging almost to his cinctured waist, as thick as a man’s wrist. Camber thought he saw the green of a Healer’s cloak behind the man’s body. The man looked vaguely familiar, but there were several Gabrilites who were also Healers.
Curious, he started to go toward them, the better to discover why Guaire should be talking with a Gabrilite, when he realized that he did know the man—and that the man had known Camber MacRorie. The Gabrilite priest and Healer was Dom Queron Kinevan, Deryni like all members of his Order, and a particularly gifted one, at that—a Healer of minds and souls, as well as of bodies, acknowledged as a skilled retreat master. While he and Camber had not been intimates, still, Camber knew the man’s abilities. It made him all the more curious as to why Queron was spending time with Guaire—Guaire, who was bright and pleasant, but hardly in Queron’s class. By their expressions and relaxed manner, this was not the first time they had talked thus.
Pausing in the lee of a leafless tree, Camber opened his breviary and pretended to read, reflecting on the possible reasons for Queron’s presence in Grecotha. But even though something rang strange about the apparent relationship, he could hardly come out and ask Queron why he was talking to Guaire. Nor did he dare probe Guaire’s mind for an answer, so long as Queron was present. He dared not risk the possibility that Queron might recognize his unique mental touch.
With a sigh, Camber closed his book and turned to make his way into another part of the garden, away from Guaire and Queron. He was probably being overly sensitive anyway. The meeting was likely quite innocuous. Perhaps Queron had business with the canons of the Varnarite School, and Guaire, in the bright-polished zeal of a burgeoning religious vocation, had seized on the Gabrilite as a mentor. Perhaps he had even known Queron before.
Foolish for Camber to let himself become apprehensive over an incident which was probably as innocent as Guaire’s new-found faith!
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Even the mystery which hath been hid from ages and from generations, but now is made manifest to his saints.
—Colossians 1:26
Camber never got a chance to follow up on Guaire’s visitor, for it was only a few days later that the summons from Cinhil finally came.
Camber, comfortably perched on a stable gate in worn Michaeline riding leathers, had been watching the farrier put new shoes on a favorite dun mare. The ring of hammer on anvil had temporarily blunted his hearing, so he did not hear the two men approaching from the stable yard until Andrew the smith broke his rhythm to glance curiously up the stable aisle. Camber turned to see Guaire escorting a familiar blond figure in Michaeline blue. He jumped down from his perch as Joram approached to kiss the episcopal ring.
“Joram, it’s good to see you!” he said, allowing one of Alister’s infrequent grins of pleasure to crease his face. “I fear you’ve caught me playing truant from my duties. I should be preparing Sunday’s homily, but instead I thought to watch Falainn shod and then slip away for an hour’s ride. I’d ask you to join me, but I doubt you have any great desire to put backside to saddle again today.”
Joram returned his father’s grin, slipping easily into that relaxed façade which the two of them had built over the past months for the public side of their relationship. He was dressed almost identically to his father and superior, except that he also wore the sturdy Michaeline mantle, hood pushed back from his gleaming yellow hair. Though he must have ridden many miles to arrive so late in the day, he looked as he usually did: unruffled and composed, hardly a golden hair out of place.
“Your Grace is too observant, as usual,” he murmured, bowing slightly in acknowledgment. “And I fear that someone else may have to deliver your homily on Sunday. The King’s Grace requires your presence within the week.”
“Within the week?” Camber glanced at Guaire, then back at Joram, who was pulling a sealed letter from the pouch slung across his chest.
“Aye. He’s convening Winter Court early, since so much must be done—on the Feast of Saint Illtyd, six days from now.” He handed across the letter with a formal bow. “With this he names Your Grace to his first officially constituted royal council, commanding you to make preparations to absent yourself from your present duties at least through Twelfth Night. The commission is countersigned by Archbishop Anscom, granting you leave to delegate such duties as you may to another during your absence.”
With a raised eyebrow, Camber returned Joram’s bow and broke the seal, but stopped short of opening the parchment as Joram produced a second letter, which he tapped against the fingers of his opposite hand to regain his listener’s attention.
“It is also His Highness’s pleasure,” Joram continued with a sly grin, “to create a new office of chancellor in this, his kingdom. To said office, he likewise appoints Your Grace, charging you with duties specified in this warrant and certain others which he shall impart to you in person, when you reach Valoret.” He handed the second letter to Camber and smiled smugly. “My Lord Chancellor, your warrant.”
Jaw dropping in amazement, Camber took the letter and stared at the familiar seal for a moment, glanced at Joram speechlessly, then broke the seal and scanned the contents. As Joram had
said, it was a warrant as Chancellor of Gwynedd, which amounted to primacy in the royal council which the first letter supposedly appointed. A hasty inspection of the first letter confirmed the summons to Valoret which Joram had already conveyed.
Camber sighed and began refolding the letters.
“Well, Andrew, it seems I’m not to have my ride this afternoon after all. In fact, you’ll have to check with the constable to see what other horses need shoeing before the journey. Guaire, is it at all possible that we could leave tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? I doubt it, sir. The day after, certainly. Shall I inquire of the seneschal?”
“Do that, please. I’ll need only a small escort: the household troops and perhaps one other clark besides yourself. Father Willowen will remain as provost during my absence. You can tell him for me, if you will.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Will you take supper with your curia this evening, then?”
“Yes. Please so inform them. And you can start packing and have the apartments next to mine made ready for Father Joram for tonight. We’ll be up in Queen Sinead’s Watch for the rest of the afternoon, if you need me—but try not to.”
A few minutes later, Camber and Joram were high in the interior of the bishop’s residence, climbing the last of the one hundred twenty-seven steps of the tower stair to enter a small, enclosed chamber. The aerie was lined with stone benches and partially screened from the elements by a timber roof and carved screens of alabaster in the windows. Camber had stopped to fetch a flagon of wine from his own apartments on the way up, and he set it on one of the benches as he stepped from the rampart walk into the chamber.
Joram glanced out at the vista of the city spread at their feet as he caught his breath.
“What did you call this place?”
“Queen Sinead’s Watch. Are you familiar with the name?”
Joram nodded. “Queen to the first Aidan Haldane, who was the great-grandfather, several times removed, of our present king.” He watched expectantly as his father poured wine into two cups and passed one to him. “She’s buried somewhere here in Grecotha, isn’t she?”
“She is.” Camber smiled. “You’ve remembered far more than most people. There’s a legend that Sinead and Aidan were extremely devoted to each other and that when Aidan rode off to his last battle, as a very old man, his queen took refuge with the Bishop of Grecotha for safety, and would watch from his tower each day at dusk, praying for his safe return.
“These window spaces were open in those days, and when Aidan’s army finally came back one evening, bearing the body of their slain lord with them, Sinead was so distraught that she threw herself from these ramparts and fell to her death. Her grieving son named the tower in her memory, and had the windows filled in with this tracery so that such a thing could never happen again.”
“Did that really happen?” Joram looked skeptical.
“It makes a good story, anyway.” Camber smiled. He held his cup moodily before him and stared at its contents, then sighed.
“So, tell me how things progress, son. What’s really behind this appointment as chancellor?”
Joram glanced at the doorway leading back to the ramparts, then at his father. “Is it safe to talk here?”
“We won’t be disturbed. Was the chancellorship Cinhil’s idea?”
“His and Anscom’s, I think,” Joram replied. “Anscom has been trying to ease the pressure from me and Rhys in the past few months, making himself increasingly available to spend time with Cinhil. He’s worried, and so are we all, about the new men who have begun cultivating the king—many of them displaced nobility of his great-grandfather’s reign and their descendants, and most of them with definite anti-Deryni leanings. Anscom thought it would be a good idea if a few Deryni in positions of influence got appointed to high-enough offices to counteract some of what the human lords will undoubtedly try to do. You’re one; and he’s also convinced Cinhil that Jebediah should be retained as general in chief of the armies. Crevan Allyn has given his permission for the present, but it’s almost inevitable that that will be but a temporary measure. There’s bound to be a conflict of interests between royalists and Michaelines eventually.”
Camber nodded. “That’s so. However, it was a wise move for the present. And Cinhil—I take it he’s well?”
“Well enough, I suppose. He’s mellowed a lot since you left—I’m not sure exactly why—but he’s still moody and impetuous at times. Some of his new human friends have been talking up the idea of another heir, almost pressuring him, really—and I think he’s starting to weaken and doesn’t much like himself because of it.”
“What does Rhys say?” Camber asked. “Is Megan up to another pregnancy so soon?”
“Not really, but what else are we to do? The barons are right. Even Rhys has to admit that the two little princes aren’t the best of all possible hopes to live long enough to inherit. Javan is healthy enough, but the clubfoot is going to hamper him. And little Alroy’s health is still quite frail. Dynastically speaking, Cinhil needs another heir.”
“You’re right. I just wish it didn’t have to be Megan. We and Cinhil aren’t the only ones who have had to make sacrifices.”
“No.”
“And how are things at Caerrorie?” Camber asked, after a pause.
Joram tossed off the last of his wine and put his cup down very precisely. “No better than they were. We moved the body early last month—I forgot to tell you that, the last time I was here. He’s been safely reinterred in the chapel of the haven, as we agreed—and in good time, I think. I don’t like the feel of things.”
“Have there been further incidents?” Camber asked.
“None outstanding,” Joram replied. “We’ve tried to discourage the pilgrimages, without being hostile about them, but it does no good. The people seem to think that family is too shortsighted to recognize your obvious sanctity. We’re even finding little devotions to ‘Blessed Camber’ left in the chapel by the tomb. It’s—unnerving.”
Camber shook his head resignedly. “It’s not confined to Caerrorie, either. I’ve heard rumblings even here, in Grecotha. And if such talk reaches even me, as sheltered as I am now, I shudder to think what the common folk are really saying.”
Joram shrugged, but said nothing.
“And yet,” Camber continued, “there’s an odd undercurrent, too. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed it, Joram. Even as they laud the supposed accomplishments of a martyred ‘Blessed Camber, Architect of the Restoration and Defender of Humankind,’ they’re also muttering about the old Deryni atrocities. I don’t like the feel of it, Joram. I think we have to consider seriously the possibility of a backlash.”
Joram sat and thought a minute, chin on hands, elbows propped on leather-clad knees, then spoke without looking up.
“Your tone says you see backlash as an inevitability, not a possibility. Are there no alternatives?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so—at least not indefinitely. What you’ve just told me about the new factions forming around Cinhil makes it fairly certain that his reign, if not actually hostile to Deryni, is at least not going to be preferential. So long as you and I and Anscom and a few trusted others remain close to him, I doubt he’ll allow any overt persecution, but the tenor of the court will be changing. We have to prepare for that. Eventually, we may even have to go underground again—and not just for a year, as we did in the haven. In case that time comes, we have to begin building safeguards now. We have to make certain that our people stay in line, that there are no more Imres or Coel Howells trying to reestablish influence through the misuse of Deryni talents. I think we might start with a semi-secret regulating body of some kind, to prevent flagrant abuses and to discipline those we can’t prevent.”
“A regulating body—composed of whom?” Joram asked softly.
Camber sighed. “Would it sound terribly self-righteous to suggest that some of us would have to do it? I’d also recommend men like Anscom, Dom Emrys of the Gabrilit
es, Bishop Niallan Trey, several others. Seven or eight, in all.”
“Deryni sitting in judgment of Deryni,” Joram muttered. “I’m not sure I like the implications for abuse of power right there. They’d have to have power, after all. The rulings of the body would have to be enforceable.”
“That’s true. I don’t have an answer for you yet, either,” Camber admitted. He eased his booted legs to a more comfortable position and stretched, indulging in an enormous yawn. “We’ll have to find a sufficient way to bind our watchers with the very power they wield. Which reminds me of something which may or may not relate to what we’ve just been discussing.”
“Which is?”
“Some fascinating records I’ve been uncovering. Are you aware that the archives of this diocese go back nearly four centuries, two of them in fair detail? They’re badly disorganized, but—”
“What did you find?” Joram asked impatiently.
Camber smiled. “Well, in addition to some written materials which are probably associated with the Protocol of Orin—I say ‘probably,’ because I haven’t had time to translate them fully yet—in addition to these, I’ve found some other material which may relate to some of our ancient Deryni origins. Tell me, what are the two major schools with reputations for turning out well-trained Deryni?”
“Why, the Varnarites and the Gabrilites, of course,” Joram replied.
“Very good. You probably also know that the Varnarite school, now run by laymen, originally broke off from this cathedral chapter around 753, because of philosophical differences. Now, can you tell me where the Gabrilites came from?”
Joram thought a minute. “I—supposed—that they just arose as an independent Order. But I see by your expression that I’m in error. I never really thought about it before. I do know that they have only the one house at Saint Neot’s.”