“You are all unarmed, aren’t you, Dhugal?” she said softly, her eyes never faltering as she read his apprehension.
“Aye, madame. I came as my king’s envoy, all in honor, to treat with an honorable lady—for so she must be, to have married my uncle and borne him children to carry the blood of the MacArdrys.”
With a sad little snort, Caitrin managed a tiny smile. “Brave words, nephew, when I could kill you where you stand—and probably should, for what you have done to me and mine. But you’re right: he was a wondrous fair man, your Uncle Sicard. If I had allowed our children to carry his name instead of my own, how different things might have been.”
“Aye, madame.”
“He was a good man, Dhugal,” she repeated. “And as I have heard of your deeds of valor these many weeks, I have often thought how different things might have been if he had been your father instead of Caulay.”
He almost protested that Caulay had not been his father, but he still had no idea what she planned to do with the little dagger. He thought he could take it from her if she tried to use it on him—she was shorter than he and four times his age—but if she did try to use it, the others would come to her aid as well. It was not unknown for envoys to be killed for bringing the wrong news; and God knew, the news he brought had given her enough cause to hate him, if he himself had not given her sufficient cause before.
But she only fingered the dagger quietly for a few seconds and then offered it to him, hilt first, across her sleeve, a shy, almost wistful little smile faintly lighting her lips.
“A MacArdry gave me this, on our wedding day. I want you to have it.”
“Madame?”
“I want you to have it. Go ahead.” She pressed the hilt into his unresisting palm. “Indulge an old woman’s fancies. Let me pretend, if only for a few seconds, that you were my and Sicard’s son, instead of Caulay’s. My children all are dead, and my dreams for them—and Judhael, my only other kin, will also shortly perish.”
“But the killing can stop there,” Dhugal ventured. “It doesn’t have to go on.”
She swallowed with difficulty. “You saw them all die, didn’t you?”
“Who?”
“All my children.”
“Not—Ithel,” he murmured. “I saw Sidana—and Llewell. But it does no good to dwell upon it, my lady.”
“I do not dwell upon it,” she whispered, “but I do have to ask about Sidana. If—if Llewell had not—killed her, would the marriage have brought peace, do you think?”
“I think it might have. A joint heir would have answered most people’s quibbles about the succession.”
“And Sidana—would she have been happy with your Kelson?”
Dhugal swallowed dry-throated, for he had spoken very little with his royal Mearan cousin.
“I—cannot say, my lady,” he whispered. “But Kelson is my blood brother as well as my king, and I—believe he loved her, in his way. I know that on the night before the wedding, he talked about the marriage, and how he disliked having to marry for reasons of state. But I think he had convinced himself that he was falling in love with her.” He paused a beat. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“If it is true—yes,” she whispered. “And I sense by your face that you believe it is.” She sighed. “Ah, me, if only I had been less stiff-necked, she might be alive now, and Queen of Gwynedd. But I’ve killed her, I’ve killed my sons, I’ve killed my husband—Dhugal, I’m so tired of killing.…”
“Then, stop the killing, my lady,” he said softly. “You’re the only one who can. Accept the king’s terms. Give Meara back to her rightful sovereign, and search for peace in the years remaining to you.”
“Do you really think he’ll let me live?”
“He has given his word, madame. I have never known him to break that.”
She sighed and lifted her chin proudly, moving back into the main room where the others instantly ceased their murmuring.
“Tell your master that we shall send him word of our final decision at noon,” she said. “I—must have time to consider what I must do.”
When Dhugal had gone, she sank slowly back into her chair and laid her head against its back.
“Call my advisors, Judhael,” she whispered. “And bring me my crown.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
But ye shall die like men, and fall like one of the princes.
—Psalms 82:7
At noon precisely, the gates of Laas parted to release a lone herald carrying a white flag. Nor did the gates close behind him.
“My Lord King,” the herald said, bowing in the saddle as he was brought before the mounted Kelson, “my lady accepts your terms in principle, and will receive you in the great hall as soon as pleases you.”
“In principle?” Kelson replied. “What, precisely, does that mean? I thought I made it clear that there would be no further negotiation.”
“I—believe she hopes for a softening of the terms, my lord,” the man whispered.
“I see. My lords?” He glanced at his chief advisors and officers grouped around him. “Dhugal, what say you? You spoke with the lady.”
“I don’t think there will be any treachery, if that’s what concerns you,” Dhugal murmured. “She sounded very weary of it all and almost contrite.”
“They all sound contrite when they’re pinned against the wall,” Morgan muttered.
“Hmmm, I daresay Loris and Gorony won’t oblige us on that count. I’ll ask you and Jodrell to take charge of them for the entry into Laas. Ewan, you’re in command of the main army until we return. If anything happens, you know what to do. Archbishop Cardiel, I’ll ask you to escort the bodies of Sicard and Ithel. Do you know Laas at all?”
“I’m afraid I don’t, Sire.”
“No matter. There will be at least a household chapel where the bodies can be taken. And we’ve discussed the other duties I’ll need you to perform.”
“Yes, of course, Sire.”
“Duncan and Dhugal, you’ll ride at my sides.”
An hour later, King Kelson entered Laas in triumph, preceded by a column of Haldane lancers and archers and backed by a full two hundred men on foot. A crown glittered on his open-faced helm, and he bore his father’s naked sword in the crook of his arm like a scepter.
He met no resistance as he rode through the streets of the city. His orderly progress elicited only silence and taut curiosity as his lancers drew up in the yard of the great hall and formed a cordon of honor, and he waited until foot soldiers and archers had entered and secured the hall before even dismounting from his great white battle charger.
Scarlet silk mantled his shoulders, softening the lion-charged brigandine hardly at all, and it floated on the warm summer air as he mounted the steps from the yard and the great double doors parted for him. Inside, hardly a score of Mearans waited to receive him: Caitrin herself, of course, lonely and vulnerable-looking on the throne at the far end of the hall, all in black, the crown of Meara on her veiled head; and half a dozen elderly gentlemen interspersed with her remaining bishops, the latter in episcopal purple, all of them clumped nervously to either side. Kelson’s own guards lined the sides of the hall, and his archers commanded the upper galleries with quiet but deadly authority.
“All attend!” Caitrin’s herald cried. “His Royal Majesty, the High and Mighty Prince Kelson Cinhil Rhys Anthony Haldane, by the Grace of God, King of Gwynedd, Lord of the Purple March—and Prince of Meara.”
Suppressing a smile of relief at the last appellation, Kelson paused a moment in the doorway to let the full impact of his presence take effect upon those within, even allowing a ghost of his Deryni aura to play about his head—pale enough that no one could be sure whether the glow came of his power or merely the sparkle of sunlight on the jewels of his crown.
Then, slowly and with a dignity not usually associated with seventeen-year-olds, he gave his sword to Morgan, removed his helm and handed it off to Dhugal, then casually removed his white gaun
tlets and tossed them into the helm before starting down the hall to meet the Mearan pretender. He had not expected her to be so tiny or so frail-looking. Morgan and Dhugal flanked him, half a pace behind, Duncan and Cardiel following, Cardiel mitred, Duncan crowned with a ducal coronet, both wearing scarlet bishops’ copes over their armor. Jodrell remained outside with the prisoners.
Caitrin rose as the king and his party approached, her courtiers and bishops making strained bows of deference as he passed. Kelson’s escort split to either side as they reached the dais, but the king continued straight up the steps to stop, facing Caitrin. Her grief had ravaged a face that was never beautiful, even in youth, but a taut dignity kept her composed as she slowly sank to her knees before him, thin hands clasped on her breast. Her eyes burned with passion as she removed her crown and extended it to him; nor did she flinch as he took it from her.
Cardiel had moved to his side as the exchange was made, and Kelson passed the crown to him, only turning slightly so the archbishop could set it on his head. He offered Caitrin his hand then, to help her rise, but she caught up the hem of Cardiel’s cope and touched it to her lips before rising on her own. Duncan was waiting to ease her to the side as the rest of Kelson’s party mounted the steps to range themselves to either side of him, and Kelson took back his sword and laid the naked blade across his knees when he had seated himself on the throne of Meara.
At the rear of the hall, more of Kelson’s barons and officers waited with the Mearan men who had already reaffirmed their allegiance to Kelson at Dorna; and these now filed into the hall to group themselves opposite the dissident bishops and nobles as Kelson surveyed them. When, as Kelson did not speak, uneasy silence had settled over all, Judhael of Meara detached himself from his fellow bishops and moved forward. His cope fell away as he left them, revealing him clad not in episcopal purple, but a rough, homespun monk’s robe, his feet bare. He fell to both knees at the bottom of the dais steps, bowing low over his clasped hands, but his face, as he raised his eyes to meet Kelson’s, was that of a man who knows what his fate must be.
“My Lord King,” he said, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall, “I, Judhael Michael Richard Jolyon MacDonald Quinnell, Bishop of Ratharkin and Prince of Meara, do renounce all future claim to the sovereignty of Meara and acknowledge you as my rightful liege. I do further submit me to Your Majesty’s judgment, begging pardon for all offenses and vowing never again to say or do you any harm. If mercy can be found in your heart, I beg that I be allowed to live out my life in strict confinement with some religious house, for in truth, I never sought a crown; but if that cannot be, then I accept whatever fate Your Majesty may deem meet for my offenses. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.”
Sighing as Judhael crossed himself, Kelson allowed his gaze to shift briefly to the other bishops waiting to hear his decision; to Caitrin, standing taut and tortured before them, hands clasped in supplication. But though he had Truth-Read Judhael as he spoke and knew the man’s future intentions to be honest, he knew he could not afford to be lenient in this matter. Judhael had been too much the tool in the hands of stronger men before. Best to be bluntly honest and implacable.
“Judhael Michael Richard Jolyon MacDonald Quinnell of Meara,” he said steadily. “I freely give my pardon for any offenses you have committed against me and mine. However—” The word fell like a death knell between them. “However, in the interests of my people, both here and in Gwynedd, I cannot knowingly allow a threat of future rebellion to survive. I allowed your cousin Llewell to live, and he slew my bride. I spared Archbishop Loris, not wishing to take the life of a consecrated bishop, and he led a rebellion against me. Were I to allow you to live, even cloistered with some loyal religious house far from here, there would always be the chance that men of misguided loyalties would seek to use you again as a rallying point for yet another insurrection against my lawful rule, even against your will.”
“But, you could keep him closely guarded with me!” Caitrin burst out, throwing herself to her knees in place and raising her arms in supplication. “Have mercy, my lord! He is all the family I have left!”
“And how many other families are bereft because of this senseless clinging to thoughts of Mearan independence?” Kelson countered. “Shall I spare Judhael, only to have him become a Mearan cause célèbre at some future date, to threaten me or my sons or my sons’ sons? No, madame. I cannot and shall not lay that burden upon myself, my people, or my heirs. Judhael, I regret that I must reiterate your death sentence—though you shall be allowed time to prepare yourself. Despite the fact that you technically stand excommunicate, Archbishop Cardiel has offered to minister to you. Do you accept?”
Swaying a little on his knees, his eyes closed, Judhael bowed deeply, hands crossed on his breast.
“I submit me to Your Majesty’s judgment and accept His Excellency’s merciful offer. Will—will it be soon?”
“As soon as you are prepared,” Kelson said quietly. “Archbishop Cardiel, will you go now with Prince Judhael, or do you wish to witness the judgment of the other two ecclesiastical prisoners?”
At Kelson’s gesture toward the far end of the hall, where Jodrell and four guards were now walking Loris and Gorony through the great double doors, Cardiel drew himself to his full height.
“Your Majesty, I would not miss this for a remission of all my time in Purgatory. Guards, you may take Prince Judhael to the chapel to compose himself. Father Judhael, I shall join you in a few minutes. This will not take long.”
Judhael did not look at the other two prisoners as guards led him past and out of the hall. Loris glared at him and, indeed, at everyone in the hall, but he and Gorony both had been gagged before being brought in. They stood defiantly before the king until the guards forced them to their knees. Kelson could read their hatred without recourse to his powers as he gestured to Morgan for the list of the men’s crimes to be read.
“Edmund Alfred Loris, priest and sometime Archbishop of Valoret, and Lawrence Edward Gorony, also priest: you are jointly accused of high treason against the Crown and Kingdom of Gwynedd and inciting to rebellion. In addition, you brought about the judicial murder of Bishop Henry Istelyn and caused grievous hurt to be done to Bishop Duncan McLain. Your accusers are present in the hall. Lawrence Gorony, how do you plead?”
At Kelson’s signal, the gag was removed from Gorony’s mouth, but he only raised his chin defiantly and spat.
“I do not recognize the authority of this court to try me,” he said, “or of a Deryni heretic to read out the list of accusations against me. I claim benefit of clergy and demand to be tried in an ecclesiastical court.”
“Gorony, you and Loris were excommunicated more than six months ago, and your rights of clergy suspended,” Cardiel said coldly, before Kelson could answer. “Nor has either of you made any attempt to gain reversal of that excommunication.”
“I do not recognize your right to pronounce that excommunication!” Gorony objected.
“Guards, gag him again!” Cardiel barked, continuing as the guards obeyed. “Technically speaking, your excommunicate status affords you no rights whatever; but I will entreat the king to spare you the death that Henry Istelyn suffered: you will not be drawn and quartered. However, Bishop McLain and myself constitute all the ecclesiastical trial you are likely to get. Bishop McLain, is the prisoner innocent or guilty of the charges?”
“Guilty, Your Excellency,” Duncan replied evenly.
“I concur,” Cardiel said. “Your Majesty, we find the prisoner, Lawrence Gorony, guilty as charged and remand him to your sentencing. Edmund Loris, how do you plead?”
As Loris’ gag was also removed, he seemed to explode into squirming, shouting action.
“How dare you presume to try me? And how dare you allow these heretics to sit in judgment upon me? A heretic king, with his heretic minions—and Bishop McLain, with his Deryni bastard standing at his side as if he merited the honor done him—”
“Gag him!” Kelson snapped.
“Dhugal MacArdry is McLain’s bastard son!” Loris shouted, before the guards could control him. “Ask whether he dares deny it! And they are both Deryni—”
A guard cuffed him into silence long enough to get the gag in place, but the damage was done. The rumor had been rife among Kelson’s men since the battle at Dorna a week before, but no one had dared to bring the allegation into the open. Now it could hardly be avoided. As Duncan cast a resigned glance at Kelson, the king gave him a faint nod. The hall grew very quiet as Duncan took a step forward and swept them with his eyes.
“It is not I or young Dhugal who are on trial here, but those two men, who have broken faith with their king and the sacred offices they held. Nonetheless, I will not deny that Dhugal MacArdry is my son. I do deny that he is base-born, and shall prove his legitimacy to the satisfaction of an ecclesiastical tribunal within the year. As to whether either of us is Deryni—that is the business of my king, my archbishop, and my God. If any man in this hall has quarrel with that, I suggest he take it up with one of them.”
Awed reaction murmured through the hall, a few Mearans crossing themselves in protective signing, but no one dared any further outburst as Duncan gave first Kelson and then Cardiel a clipped but respectful bow. Further reaction was curtailed by Cardiel laying his hand on Duncan’s shoulder in obvious approbation. Dhugal had not moved from his place at Kelson’s left.
“Your Majesty,” Cardiel said, turning his attention back to the king, “I find the accused, Lawrence Gorony and Edmund Loris, guilty as charged, and surrender them both to secular judgment. Bishop McLain, do you concur?”
“I do, Your Excellency.”
“Thank you, my lords,” Kelson murmured. “Lawrence Gorony and Edmund Loris, we likewise find you guilty as charged and sentence you to be hanged by the neck until dead. Archbishop Cardiel, is there any reason why sentence should not be carried out immediately?”
“There is none, Sire,” Cardiel said evenly. “Inasmuch as the condemned approach execution obdurate and unrepentant, it is not meet that they be allowed to mock God’s law by partaking of His final rites. And since, by similar reasoning, Edmund Loris justified the execution of Henry Istelyn without benefit of the Sacraments, I should think he will not mind if the same standards are applied to himself and his hound.”