Childe Morgan

  “You cannot just assassinate a bishop!” Vivienne retorted. “That would be sacrilege.”

  “And so is regicide,” Barrett countered.

  “So far as I know,” Oisín Adair drawled, “it isn’t bishops who might be trying to assassinate the king.”

  Rhydon sat forward impatiently. “No, it’s Zachris Pomeroy and his associates, and there is no ‘might’ about it. I am confident that is what he intends to do, and this is exactly the sort of opportunity he’ll have been waiting for.” At the others’ looks of question, he went on.

  “Surely you don’t think he would show up at the coronation, not knowing whether Brion Haldane has his father’s powers. Besides, he isn’t after Brion for his own cause; he wants to put the Festillic Pretender on the throne—and Prince Hogan certainly isn’t yet ready to face down a fully-functional Haldane king.”

  “He has told you this?” Vivienne asked, aghast.

  “Not in so many words, no,” Rhydon replied. “But killing Brion now, before he has settled into his kingship, would certainly make it easier for the future. The heir is underage; and his heir is Duke Richard Haldane, a childless bachelor. It would take only a few deaths to leave Gwynedd without a clear heir, open for a king of the old Festillic line to take back the throne.”

  Michon chuckled, then lifted a hand, half in apology. “You have spent too much time with Camille Furstána and her nephews, Rhydon. You make this sound almost a good thing, though I know you do not mean that.” He drew a deep breath and settled slightly forward, fingers interlaced before him.

  “The question is, will Zachris Pomeroy take advantage of the king’s presence to make his move in Valoret?” he went on. “It is, after all, closer to the border, and closer to Cardosa, where Pomeroy has been building his power base for Hogan and the other Furstáns. We can take no overt action, of course—nothing that would reveal our existence to the human population—but it seems to me a wise thing for several of us to make ourselves present at the cathedral, especially at the time of the archbishop’s enthronement. For if I were Zachris Pomeroy, that is when and where I would strike, heedless of the fact that to do so would be to desecrate holy ground. I do not think that would much matter to such as he.”

  Silence greeted this declaration, but it was of the thoughtful sort rather than born out of any disagreement. After a moment, Seisyll gave a heavy sigh.

  “I made certain that Jamyl was included in the king’s party,” he said quietly, “just in case Pomeroy should get wind of the king’s visit to Valoret and try to apprehend him there. If he does, we may rely on Jamyl to do what is necessary from within, though we shall have to be careful to ensure that he is not discovered as Deryni. I do not know the king’s status, regarding the Haldane powers, but I have hope that at least some of them have been awakened. It is little known, but he made a secret visit to the Lady Alyce de Corwyn as she lay dying. Given her involvement with the late king, it is possible that she was able to help Prince Brion.”

  “You have a plan?” Oisín asked quietly.

  Michon nodded. “I do.”

  Chapter 27

  “For they intended evil against thee: they imagined a

  mischievous device, which they were not able to perform.”

  —PSALM 21:11

  THEY had reckoned that for the next day or two, at least until the king arrived in Valoret, he would be in no particular danger, since he was on the move and no one knew he was coming. That gave the Camberian Council time to organize their strategy, for Rhydon to assemble his operatives, and for Seisyll to contact his nephew, already on the road with the king, concerning Zachris Pomeroy. Jamyl dared not pass on the warning to anyone in the royal party, lest he be obliged to reveal his source—and himself as Deryni—but he assured his uncle that he would maintain particular vigilance, and would somehow make contact with Rhydon once they arrived in Valoret.

  Which occurred just at dusk on the afternoon before Paul Tollendal was to be installed as Archbishop and Primate. The arrival of twenty Haldane lancers in the cathedral’s stable yard, and with the king among them, provoked a flurry of initial alarm followed by consternation, as men in black habits and then a few in episcopal purple poked their heads from the chapter house doorway and then began spilling onto its steps, for no one had reckoned that the king might venture out of Rhemuth before his coronation, and certainly not as far north as Valoret.

  “Sire, this is a pleasant surprise. You are most welcome!” said a young bishop Brion did not recognize, though Kenneth did: Faxon Howard, one of the itinerant bishops, and kin to Vera Countess of Kierney. Unlike the others coming warily onto the chapter house steps as the king and his immediate party dismounted, Bishop Faxon looked genuinely pleased.

  Brion acknowledged the bishop’s greeting with a neutral nod, but made no move to approach, allowing his companions to close ranks around him—Richard and Tiarnán and Jiri Redfearn, and Kenneth at his back—as more bishops emerged from the arched doorway, finally some that he knew by sight. First came Esmé Harris, the Bishop of Coroth, followed by Archbishop Desmond and Patrick Corrigan, who had rejoined his brother bishops immediately after Twelfth Night to assist in the deliberations. None of them looked particularly pleased to see Kenneth Morgan in the king’s party.

  “Reverend Father,” the king said, nodding again. Though the stark black he wore was as much for anonymity of travel as for mourning for his late father, it lent him a gravity that belied his youth and stature; his companions stood nearly a head taller than he. Behind him and spilling back through the stable gate, the yard was awash with the Haldane crimson of the lancers’ pennons.

  “Your Majesty, we were not expecting you,” Archbishop Desmond said baldly. “Ah—should you not be preparing for your coronation?”

  The king’s gaze flicked over the other clerics massing all around the archbishop. The resentment of some of them was only thinly veiled.

  “I have had some weeks to prepare, my lord,” he replied. “And it seemed to me right that I pay my respects to our new Primate as he is enthroned—as he shall do for me in another few weeks’ time. I fear I do not know Bishop Tollendal by sight. Perhaps someone would be so good as to present him to me.”

  Accompanied by a flurry of furtive whispering, the mass of purple-clad clerics parted raggedly, allowing a slight, stoop-shouldered figure with a shock of faded ginger hair to pass among them, eyes humbly averted and hands clasped decorously at the waist of his faded purple cassock. Pausing abreast of Archbishop Desmond, he briefly lifted his gaze to the king’s, inclined his head in respect, then glanced expectantly at Desmond, who drew himself up with an air of resignation.

  “Brion Haldane King of Gwynedd, I have the honor to present the Most Reverend Paul Tollendal, lately Bishop of Marbury and now become Archbishop-Elect of Valoret and Primate of All Gwynedd. My Lord Archbishop, His Majesty the King.”

  Handing off his reins to Kenneth, Brion started forward, removing his leather cap as he came. The discreet coronet embroidered around the crown and nearly hidden by the upturned brim was the only mark of his rank—that, and the Eye of Rom in his right earlobe. The archbishop-elect, for his part, came slowly down the steps to meet him, hesitantly extending his right hand when they met at the bottom, where the king briefly bent to kiss the episcopal ring. With the archbishop standing on the bottom step as the king straightened at ground level, Kenneth noted that it made the two nearly the same height.

  “Please allow me to extend felicitations on your election, Holy Father,” Brion said, again inclining his head. “I shall pray that our future dealings may be amicable and harmonious.”

  Bishop Paul bowed in turn. “Thank you, Sire. It is always a blessing when leaders may work together toward the common good. And may I say that you honor us with your presence? I did not expect it, this close to your own coronation.”

  Brion smiled faintly, his gaze flicking briefly over the other bishops and their scowls. “So it would seem. But I am a very young king, my lo
rd, and I fear that I have not yet gained the patience or perhaps the wisdom to sit by idly, when there is so much to learn. I trust that my presence will not inconvenience you overmuch. My men will look after me. Please do not feel that you must dwell on extra ceremony on my account, for I am sure I shall have my fill of it back in Rhemuth, when you come to crown me king.”

  The new archbishop smiled at that: an expression of genuine amusement that surprised the king, for no one had reckoned that Paul Tollendal might possess a sense of humor. Some of the king’s party were smiling faintly as well, though Kenneth, at least, was well aware of the reputation of the man about to become the highest ecclesiastical authority in the land.

  “I shall take you at your word, Sire,” the new archbishop went on, inclining his head as he beckoned aside for a man in abbot’s robes. “And I hope you will take no offense that we can offer you only such humble accommodation as the cathedral’s guesthouse can provide; the castle has not had royal visitors in some time, and it will not be possible to make it ready on such short notice. I fear that your lancers will be obliged to make do in the stable loft, if you wish to keep them near you.”

  “That will be sufficient, my lord,” Duke Richard said, speaking for the first time, and signing for the captain of lancers to dismount and draw nearer. “The men are well accustomed to billeting in the field, so a stable loft will seem to them great luxury. And the rest of us are most grateful for whatever arrangements you are able to make on such short notice.”

  “Then, may I invite you into the refectory, Sire, Highness?” their host replied, extending a hand in the direction of the cloister arch. “It will be warmer there, and I am certain that we can offer at least some token of suitable hospitality after your long ride. For some hours, our deliberations have been distracted by the aroma of fresh-baked bread and mulling wine. Clearly, your arrival is meant to encourage us to succumb to temptation. Please, come, and we shall get to know one another better.”

  THE enthronement of Paul Tollendal as Archbishop of Valoret and Primate of All Gwynedd was to take place at noon the following day, at the city’s All Saints’ Cathedral. That evening, the man at the focus of the planned ceremony hosted the king and his uncle for a modest private supper in his new apartments, accompanied by congenial if guarded conversation regarding past differences between Crown and Church, and how such might be avoided during the tenures of the new king and archbishop. The rest of the king’s immediate party supped with the cathedral chapter, and the lancers with the officers of the archbishop’s household guards.

  Afterward, Kenneth and Sir Tiarnán spent an hour with the captain of lancers and the captain of the archbishop’s household guard, familiarizing themselves with the interior of the cathedral and discussing possible security issues for the morrow, for Brion was still an uncrowned king, protected neither by the mystique accorded an anointed sovereign, as God’s representative within his kingdom, nor by the fullness of his Haldane legacy, abbreviated by Alyce’s untimely death. Awareness of the latter part of this vulnerability had made Kenneth doubly uneasy about making the journey to Valoret, but Brion had been insistent.

  Meanwhile, with the king’s men thus occupied, the king’s squire found his opportunity to make contact with Rhydon, who had arranged to meet Jamyl in the cathedral’s sacristy. The vast building was mostly deserted at that hour, with physical preparations already completed for the morrow’s ceremonials. Jamyl could hear the distant voices of Kenneth and the others walking the galleries high above the clerestory aisles, but nothing moved in the nave below, where the only illumination besides the votive lights in the various side chapels came from a few torches left burning for the inspection party. Above, he could see more torches moving along the galleries, which would keep him aware of their whereabouts.

  The sacristy door was standing slightly ajar as Jamyl approached it, gliding from shadow to shadow. He paused just outside for a moment, briefly rehearsing his cover story, should there prove to be anyone inside besides his expected contact; he dared not risk a psychic probe, since their adversary was another Deryni. Then, with a softly indrawn breath, he gently pushed the door open far enough to slip inside and softly close it. He was startled, nonetheless, to find Rhydon all at once standing in the center of the chamber, pushing back the cowl of a monk’s robes and laying one finger across his lips to caution silence.

  A second gesture seemed to lower a veil around them, deadening the distant sounds of the voices far outside. Another beckoned for Jamyl to approach, as Rhydon moved toward the center of the chamber to bend and grasp a corner of the fine Kheldish carpet covering the floor before the altar, walking it back to expose the tessellated floor beneath. In its center, barely visible by the light of the altar’s Presence lamp, Jamyl could just make out a vaguely circular design.

  “Come closer,” Rhydon whispered, crouching down on his hunkers beside it. “You need to know about this.”

  At once Jamyl did as he was bidden, for the faint tingling just discernible at his feet told of a Portal matrix embedded in the mosaic design. At the other’s gesture of invitation, he shifted onto his knees to lay both hands flat on the center of the tiled motif, closing his eyes to extend his senses, grasping the psychic prickle of the Portal’s unique energy signature and setting its pattern deep in memory. As he looked up with a nod, dusting his hands against his thighs, Rhydon smiled faintly and got to his feet, Jamyl also rising so that the two of them could turn the carpet back over the Portal seal. With a glance at the door, Rhydon drew his younger companion back into the shadows nearer the vesting altar.

  “Take special care tomorrow,” Rhydon murmured, “and stay close to the king, if you can.” His voice was hardly more than a whisper of breath against Jamyl’s ear. “I’ve seen no further sign of Zachris, but I know that he is about. I did see one of his henchmen here at Mass this morning, which is very out of character for men of his ilk. It could well be a prelude for Zachris to make an appearance tomorrow, possibly by means of this very Portal. He certainly would know about it; there are Portals at many of the cathedrals, from the old days. I’ll have a man stationed nearby, but if you can keep the king away from this end of the church, that would probably be wise.”

  Jamyl nodded. “I understand. Sir Kenneth is already planning to bring him and Duke Richard in by a side door,” he said. “They’ll be sitting in the choir, close against the choir screen—not visible from the nave. You really think that Zachris Pomeroy would come here?”

  Rhydon’s lips tightened. “What better place and opportunity, to strike a blow for Prince Hogan’s cause? Killing the king before he can be crowned would throw the kingdom into turmoil, and give Hogan a unique opportunity to seize the crown before the succession can be resolved.”

  “But—Prince Nigel is the heir, and Richard after him,” Jamyl began.

  “Nigel is nine years old. Nor is it at all certain that he could wield the Haldane power, even were he grown to manhood. Richard fares no better in that regard—nor Brion himself, for that matter. Whatever preparations Donal was able to make, he did not expect to die with his heir still so young; and he had not reckoned on Alyce de Corwyn dying at the same time. God alone knows whether her son will be able to function, when he is old enough.”

  Jamyl closed his eyes briefly, in vain attempt to shut out even the thought of the struggle that could follow.

  “Go and get some sleep now,” Rhydon ordered. “I was able to arrange for your brother to be included in the choir coming down from Arx Fidei tomorrow. I have it in mind that he should complain of feeling ill, just before things begin, and be sent to sit in the sacristy while he recovers.”

  “To guard the Portal?” Jamyl only barely managed to keep his voice to a whisper. “Rhydon, he’s only twelve years old—and if there’s trouble, it could cost him his chance at the priesthood.”

  “If there’s trouble, and Zachris has free access to this Portal,” Rhydon replied, “it could cost the king his life.”

  Jamy
l swallowed hard, unwilling to consider either outcome, flinching as Rhydon laid a hand on his shoulder in commiseration.

  “Perhaps I should not have reminded you that the stakes were so high,” Rhydon offered, faintly apologetic. “But be of good cheer. With any luck at all, we shall see no sign of Zachris Pomeroy or his minions, and everything will go smoothly.”

  ALL through the following morning, that seemed to be the case. Final preparations began just after Matins, with the principals assembling in the chapter house an hour before noon to robe and receive their final instructions. Meanwhile, the supporting clergy began gathering outside with all the trappings of the Church’s highest ceremonial: the monks in their habits and church capes, the clergy in cassocks and white surplices, and the bishops wearing sumptuous copes and miters behind the grand processional cross, with acolytes bearing the matching candlesticks—the set said to have been given by the great King Bearand Haldane, encased in sheets of beaten gold and studded with rubies and pearls; the golden thuribles and aspergilla, the great Gospel Book with its jeweled cover depicting serried ranks of the blessèd who gave their patronage to All Saints’ Cathedral, the bright silken banners of the various saints associated with Valoret and with Gwynedd.

  It was a bright, sunny day, if still bitter cold, so the various masters of ceremony were able to line up the processions of choir and cathedral chapter and supporting bishops in the cathedral square instead of in the smaller cloister garth within the abbey walls. The fine weather had also encouraged a good turnout from the local townsfolk, eager to see their new archbishop enthroned, for whom the spectacle of the cathedral at work provided periodic and welcome diversion from their workaday lives. Well before the noon Angelus, people began converging on the cathedral square from all directions, gawking at the processions lining up outside as they shuffled inside to jostle for the best vantage points.