Camber of Culdi

  She caught just a glimpse of his horse in the entry to the yard, rearing and screaming and lashing out with battle-trained hooves—and a limp, bloodied form slung across the saddle in front of her husband.

  Then the rest of Tarleton’s men were pressing close around him, he was breaking away, and the archers were firing at him as he spurred the stallion toward a street on the other side of the square, people falling beneath the hooves and the archers’ arrows.

  The screams of those around her sent bolts of terror shafting through her mind like the arrows of the soldiers, and she was running with them and screaming and—

  Other screams broke through her consciousness, and she sat up groggily to see the child Bronwyn running toward her across the meadow, shrieking at the top of her voice.

  “Grand-dame! Grand-dame! Come quickly. My brother’s hurt! Oh, come quickly!”

  As Bethane struggled to her feet with the aid of her staff, she could see two of the boys bent over the third, far across the meadow. The child was coming far too fast to stop, and nearly knocked her down as she flung her arms around the old woman’s waist.

  “Oh, come quickly, please, grand-dame. He’s hurt! I think his arm is broken!”

  She did not want to go. These children were nothing to her but nuisance. But something in the little girl’s frantic entreaty reminded her of those other little faces in that long-ago village square, so she fetched her satchel of bandages and healing herbs and hobbled down the rocky hillside, the child tugging at her free hand all the while and urging her to hurry faster, faster.

  The others looked up as she approached, the young McLain boy standing almost protectively. It was the blond one who lay on the ground struggling to breathe. The split branch dangling from a high limb overhead told most of the story. A glance at the odd angle of the boy’s right arm told the rest. Kevin, the young earl, had had the foresight to slit the boy’s sleeve from wrist to shoulder, but the arm thus exposed was already purpling along the bulge of the broken angle. The boy himself was conscious, but breathing raggedly. The fall must have knocked the wind out of him, as well as breaking his arm. At least she could see no blood. That was usually a good sign.

  “Well, let’s have a look,” she said gruffly, heaving herself to her knees at the boy’s right and laying aside her satchel. “Can you feel this?”

  As she touched the arm above and below the angle of the break, he winced and nodded, but he did not cry out. She tried not to hurt him more, but his face went dead-white several times as she went about the business of assessing the damage.

  “Both bones are snapped clean through,” she said, when she had finished her appraisal. “It won’t be easy to set, or pleasant.” She looked across at Kevin. “I can tend it, but you’d best get back to your father’s and bring men with a litter. Once it’s been set, it mustn’t be allowed to shift before it’s had time to knit a little.”

  The young earl’s face was pale, but a touch of the old arrogance still lingered in the clear blue eyes. “It’s his sword arm, grand-dame,” he said pointedly. “Are you sure you can set it properly? Shouldn’t I fetch my father’s battle-surgeon?”

  “Not if you want it to heal straight,” she replied with a contemptuous toss of her head. “Most battle-surgeons would just as soon as cut it off. It’s a bad break. The wrong manipulation, and the bone could pierce the skin—and then be would have to lose the arm. I know what I’m doing. Now go!”

  The arrogance was gone. With a sincere and now thoroughly chastened nod of agreement, Kevin scrambled onto his pony and headed off at a gallop. Bethane sent the other two children to find wood for splints, then settled down cross-legged to resume her examination of the broken arm. The boy’s breathing had eased, but he still sucked in breath between clenched teeth when her fingers came anywhere near the area of the break. He would need a painkiller before she could do much more.

  She pulled her satchel closer and began rummaging inside for the appropriate drugs and herbs, glancing at the boy from time to time through slitted eyes. She left her selection to intuition and was astonished to see that one of the pouches she had withdrawn contained a deadly poison.

  Now why? she thought, staring at the pouch and trying to ken a reason. ’Tis but a boy, no enemy, no— Sweet gods and elemental lords! The boy was Deryni!

  All in a rush, the old bitterness came flooding back: Darrell dying in her arms with the archers’ arrows in his back; dying because he had felt compelled to try to save his Deryni comrade; dying because of those Deryni children.

  And their own child, stillborn in the awful after-anguish following Darrell’s death; and then, a long, long time that she lay sick and despondent at Saint Luke’s, not caring if she lived or died, and something had snapped inside, never to be mended …

  Darrell …

  A choked sob welled in her throat, the tears spilling down her weathered cheeks as she pressed the pouch to her withered breasts.

  Deryni children had cost Darrell his life. For Deryni children, he had taken the archers’ arrows and died. Now another Deryni child lay in her power, helpless to defend himself from her just vengeance. Could she not have just this one life in exchange for her love’s? She reached behind her for one of the cups the children had left after their meal. The first was empty, but the second still contained two fingers’ worth—enough to serve her purpose. The boy’s eyes were closed, so he did not see her pour the measured dose from pouch to cup, or stir the greyish powder with a handy twig. She might have administered the killing draught without a qualm, had not the boy opened his eyes as she raised his head.

  “What’s that?” he asked, the grey eyes wide and trusting, though he winced as his arm shifted from having his head raised.

  “Something for the pain,” she lied, unnerved by his eyes. “Drink. You will feel nothing, after this.”

  Obediently, he laid his good hand on hers which held the cup, pale lashes veiling the fog-gray eyes. The cup was almost to his lips when he froze, the eyes darting to hers in sudden, shocked comprehension.

  “It’s poison!” he gasped, pushing the cup aside and staring in disbelief. “You want to kill me!”

  She could feel the tentacles of his thought brushing at the edges of her mind and she drew back in fear, letting his head fall to the grass. He moaned, his face going white as he clasped his injured arm to his body and rolled on his side away from her, trying to sit up. She touched his shoulder and murmured one of the old charms to drain him of his strength, knowing he could not concentrate to resist it, with the pain—could only just stay conscious now, even if his training were sufficient to resist her spelling, though she doubted that. As she twined her fingers in his hair and yanked his head up-turned, the pain-bright eyes tried to focus on her other hand, as if his gaze might stave off the cup she brought toward him again.

  “But, why?” he whispered, tears runnelling narrow tracks from the corners of his eyes. “I never harmed you. I never wished you ill. It can’t be for the sheep!” She steeled herself against his pleas, shifting her hand to pinch at the hinges of his jaws and force the mouth to open.

  Darrell, my only Love, I do it to avenge you! she thought, as the boy groaned and tried to turn his head aside.

  But as she set her teeth and moved the cup closer, ignoring his groans and weakening struggles, the sunlight caught the wedding band on her hand, flashing bright gold in her eyes. She blinked and froze.

  Darrell—oh, my gods, what am I doing?

  All at once she realized how very young the boy was: no more than eight or nine, for all his earlier posturings of manhood. He was Deryni, but was that his fault, any more than it had been the fault of those other children, or Darrell, or even the self-sacrificing Barrett? Was this what Darrell had tried to teach her? Was she mad, even to consider killing a Deryni, like him?

  With a muted little cry, she flung the cup aside and let him go, burying her face in her hands.

  “I’m sorry, Darrell,” she sobbed, crushing her lover’s r
ing against her lips. “I’m sorry. Oh, forgive me, my love. Please forgive me, my love, my life …”

  When she finally looked up, drying her tears on a tattered edge of her skirt, the boy was on his back again, the gray eyes studying her quite analytically. The fair face was still pinched with pain, the injured arm still cradled in his good one but he made no move to escape.

  “You know what I am, don’t you?” he asked, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

  At her nod, the gray eyes shuttered for an instant, then turned back on her again.

  “This Darrell—was he killed by a Deryni?”

  She shook her head, stifling a sob. “No,” she whispered. “He was Deryni, and died to save another of his kind.”

  “I think I understand,” the boy replied, with a preternaturally wise nod. He drew a deep, steadying breath, then continued. “Listen, you don’t have to help me if you don’t want to. Kevin will bring the battle-surgeon, even though you said not to. I’ll be all right.”

  “Without a sword arm, young Deryni?” She drew herself up with returning dignity. “Nay, I can’t let you chance that. Darrell would never approve. How can you carry on his work without a proper sword arm?” As his brows knit in question, she replaced the lethal pouch in her satchel and began withdrawing rolls of yellowish bandages.

  “I won’t offer you another painkiller,” she said with a wry smile. “I wouldn’t trust either of our judgments in light of what has already passed between us. I will set the arm, though. And I give you my word that it will heal as straight as ever, if you follow my instructions.”

  “Your word? Yes,” the boy repeated, glancing aside as Duncan and Bronwyn returned with an assortment of straight pieces of wood.

  As she sorted through them, picking four which suited her, she remembered that other Deryni’s reply to such a question—My word is my bond!—and she knew that she, too, had meant what she said. When she had put the other boy to work whittling knots and twigs from the splints she had chosen, showing him how to carve them flat along one side, she glanced at the injured one with rough affection.

  Something in her face must have reassured him—or perhaps he read it in the way Darrell once had known her innermost feelings. Whatever the cause, he relaxed visibly after that, letting his sister cradle his head in her lap and even appearing to doze a little as Bethane made a final inspection of the splints and bandages and prepared to do what must be done.

  All three of the children were Deryni, she realized now; and as she bade the other boy kneel down to hold young Alaric’s good arm, she sensed that he knew she was aware—though how she knew, he would understand no better than Darrell had. She had tried to tell Darrell that it was the ancient wisdom …

  “Girl, you try to ease him now,” she said gruffly, probing above the break and sliding one hand down to his wrist. “A pretty girl can take a man’s mind from the pain. My Darrell taught me that.”

  He had stiffened at her first words, perhaps fearing that she would betray her knowledge to the others; but now he closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, tension draining away as he let it out. Bethane waited several heartbeats, sensing a rudimentary form of one of Darrell’s old spells being brought into play, then gave his wrist a squeeze of warning and began pulling the arm straight, at the same time rotating it slightly and guiding with her other hand as the ends of bone eased into place. The boy’s breath hissed in between clenched teeth, and his back arched off the ground with the pain; but he did not cry out, and the injured arm did not tense or move except as she manipulated it. When she had adjusted all to her satisfaction, she bound the arm to the splints Duncan held, immobilizing it straight from bicep to fingertips. As the final bandages were tied in place and the bound arm eased to his side, Alaric finally passed out.

  Across the meadow, horsemen were approaching at a gallop. Bethane stood as they drew rein, her work completed. A man with a satchel much like her own dismounted immediately and knelt at the boy’s side. Two more got down and began unrolling a litter. The fourth man, Lord Kevin mounted pillion behind him, gave the young earl a hand down and then himself dismounted. He was young and fair, in appearance much like her Darrell when first they met.

  “I’m Deveril, Duke Jared’s seneschal,” the man said, watching as the first man inspected her handiwork. “His Grace and the boy’s father are away. What happened here?”

  She inclined her head slightly, supporting herself on her shepherd’s staff. “Boys will be boys, sir,” she answered cautiously. “The young lord fell out of the tree.” She gestured with her staff and watched all eyes lift to the broken branch. “I but lent my poor skills to right the lad’s hurt. He will mend well enough.”

  “Macon?” the seneschal asked.

  The battle-surgeon nodded approvingly as his patient moaned and regained consciousness. “An expert job, m’lord. If nothing shifts, he should heal as good as new.” He glanced at Bethane. “You didn’t give him any of your hill remedies, did you, Mother?”

  Containing a wry smile, Bethane shook her head. “No, sir. He is a brave lad and would have nothing for his pain. A fine soldier, that one. He will fight many a battle in his manhood.”

  “Aye, he likely will, at that,” Deveril replied, looking at her so strangely that she wondered for a moment whether he had caught her double meaning.

  The boy had, though. For when they had laid him on the litter and were preparing to move out, he raised his good hand and beckoned her closer. The battle­surgeon had given him one of his remedies for pain, and the gray eyes were almost all pupil, the pale lashes drooping as he fought the compulsion to sleep. Still his grip was strong as he pulled her closer to whisper in her ear.

  “Thank you, grand-dame—for several things. I will try to carry on his work.”

  Bethane allowed herself an indulgent nod, for by the look of his eyes, he would remember nothing when he woke from the battle-surgeon’s potion. But just as the litter started to move, he drew her hand closer and touched his lips to her ring—Darrell’s ring!—in the same way he had always done, so many years ago.

  Then the fingers went slack as sleep claimed him, and all the noble party were mounting to leave, the litter bearers gently carrying him out into the golden sunlight. The girl Bronwyn dropped her a grave curtsey—could she know what had happened?—and then all of them were heading off across the meadow, toward the castle.

  Wondering, she brought her hand to her face and rubbed the smooth gold of the ring against her cheek, her eyes not leaving the departing riders and especially the bobbing litter. But by the time they had disappeared into the afternoon haze, the day’s events were hardly more than dimly harkened memories, as her mind flew back across the years.

  “Well, Darrell, at least we saved one of them, didn’t we?” she whispered, kissing the ring and smiling at it.

  Then she picked up her satchel and started up the hill, humming a little tune under her breath.

  APPENDIX I

  INDEX OF CHARACTERS

  AIDAN, Prince—only child of King Ifor Haldane to survive the coup of 822; royal name of Daniel Draper, grandfather of Prince Cinhil.

  AIDAN Alroy Camber Haldane, Prince—infant son of Prince Cinhil and Princess Megan; killed by poisoned salt at his baptism, aged one month.

  ALROY, Prince—royal name of Royston Draper, father of Prince Cinhil; son of Prince Aidan (Daniel Draper).

  ANDREW, son of James—the second “Benedict”; at Saint Piran’s Priory.

  ANSCOM of Trevas, Archbishop—Deryni Primate of Gwynedd; Archbishop of Valoret.

  ANSEL MacRorie, Lord—younger son of Cathan MacRorie; age three.

  ARIELLA of Festil, Princess—elder sister of Imre; age twenty-eight.

  ARMAGH, Master—arms master to Imre.

  BEARAND, King and Saint—great-great grandfather of Cinhil.

  BLAINE, King—fourth Festillic king of Gwynedd, reigned 885–900; father of Imre.

  BORS—soldier under command of Coel Howell; followed Joram to
Saint John’s Church.

  CAMBER MacRorie, Lord—Earl of Culdi; canonized as Saint Camber in 906; patron of Deryni magic.

  CAMERON—family name of Princess Megan.

  CARLE—one of Earl Maldred’s men.

  CATHAN MacRorie, Lord—Camber’s elder son and heir; member of Imre’s council; killed by Imre for suspected treason.

  CIERAN, Brother—lay brother at Saint Piran’s Priory.

  CINHIL Donal Ifor Haldane, Prince—royal name of Nicholas Draper, alias Brother Benedict; first post-Interregnum king of Gwynedd; reigned 904–917.

  COEL Howell, Lord—brother to Elinor, Cathan’s wife; member of Imre’s council.

  CRINAN—Cathan’s squire; doubled for Rhys under a shape-changing spell.

  CULLEN, Father Alister—Vicar General of the Order of Saint Michael, and Joram’s superior.

  DANIEL Draper—as Prince Aidan Haldane, only surviving son of King Ifor; grandfather of Cinhil.

  DAVIN MacRorie, Lord—elder son of Cathan; age five.

  DERYNI—(Der-ín-ee)—racial group gifted with supernatural powers and abilities.

  DOMINIC, Father—priest at Saint Liam’s Abbey; former teacher of Joram and Rhys.

  DRAPER—surname used by the Haldanes during the Interregnum; see Daniel, Royston, and Nicholas.

  DRUMMOND—see James.

  EDULF—ostler to Camber; one of fifty peasants executed at Imre’s command, for the death of Lord Rannulf.

  EDWARD, Father—priest who baptized Nicholas Draper.

  EGBERT, Brother—monk at Saint Jarlath’s Monastery.

  ELINOR Howell MacRorie, Lady—wife to Cathan; mother of Davin and Ansel.

  EVAINE MacRorie, Lady—daughter of Camber; later, wife to Rhys Thuryn.

  FARNHAM, Lord and Lady—parents of Megan de Cameron.

  FESTIL I, King—first Festillic king of Gwynedd, reigned 822–839; engineer of the coup of 822.

  FESTIL II, King—second Festillic king of Gwynedd, reigned 839–851.

  FESTIL III, King—third Festillic king of Gwynedd, reigned 851–885.