High Deryni

  “So, my lords, have you forgotten the oaths of allegiance you swore to us and our crown?” He surveyed them from beneath the golden circlet with cold gray eyes.

  Loris drew himself a little straighter and gathered up the shreds of his dignity with visible effort.

  “Sire, with all due respect, you are excommunicate. Excommunication removes from you certain prerogatives that would ordinarily be yours to command. You are dead to us, Sire.”

  “Ah, but I am not dead, Archbishop, in body or in soul,” Kelson countered. “Nor are Morgan, nor Father McLain, nor any of the others whom you have anathematized on the basis of one misunderstood incident. Even Warin now does us honor.”

  “Warin is a traitor,” Loris said coldly, with a sidelong glance at the rebel leader. “He has been deceived by your Deryni tricks. You have corrupted him!”

  “On the contrary, Warin de Grey is a loyal subject,” Kelson replied. “He now understands the error of his previous belief, and has voluntarily joined us. The unfortunate incident at Saint Torin’s, upon which you appear to base your retribution against my loyal subjects, has been explained to his satisfaction and that of the bishops at Dhassa. The matter is closed. If you continue to justify your disobedience by dwelling on that incident, we can only conclude that there is some other overriding motive behind your continued defiance of your king. It is not Warin who is the traitor. He has not chosen to continue to defy us.”

  “You have done something to him!” Loris whispered, pointing a shaking finger at Warin. “You have used your vile powers to corrupt his mind. He would not have had this change of heart if you had not meddled.”

  Morgan took a step forward, restrained menace in every line of his body. “Do not forget to whom you speak, Archbishop,” he said, his voice silky but deadly. “Even a king’s patience can reach the breaking point.”

  “Ach!” Loris flung up his hands in disgust and rolled his eyes heavenward. “Must we listen to this heretic? I have nothing more to say to either of you. We will not be shaken in our faith.”

  “Then you will be incarcerated here at Coroth until you reach a change of heart,” Kelson said quietly. “We will not brook defiance from any subject, even an archbishop. Guards, take Archbishop Loris into custody and escort him to a suitable place of confinement. Bishop Cardiel, we hereby designate you as acting Primate of Gwynedd, until such time as the Curia can meet officially to either ratify your appointment or choose some other loyal bishop more to their liking. Archbishop Edmund Loris is no longer acceptable in the eyes of the Crown.”

  “You cannot do that!” Loris raged, as two guards restrained him. “This is absurd!”

  “Hold you tongue, Archbishop, or we shall have you gagged. Now, those of you who do not wish to share His Excellency’s fate have but two alternatives. If you feel that you cannot, in good conscience, unite with us to repel the invader Wencit, we shall free you to retire to the sanctuary of your respective sees, on condition that you swear neutrality until this conflict is resolved.

  “But if you cannot give us that pledge of neutrality, we ask that you not forswear yourselves by pretending that you can. You would be far better off in custody here at Coroth than to face our wrath when we discover that you have broken faith with us.

  “For the rest of you—and we pray that there may be some—we offer an opportunity to renounce the actions you have pursued for these past months and restore your good names. If any of you will bend your knee to us now and renew your allegiance to the Crown, we will be pleased to grant full pardon for past offenses and welcome you back into our company. Your prayers and support will be sorely needed when we face Wencit of Torenth a few days hence.”

  He let his gaze search the faces of the watching prelates once again. “Well, my Lords? Which is it to be? The dungeon, the monastery, or the Crown? You have no other choices.”

  The conditions Kelson had offered were too much for the infuriated Loris.

  “He offers you no choice,” the archbishop ranted. “There can be no other choice where heresy is concerned! Corrigan, you will not betray your faith, will you? Creoda, Conlan, surely you do not mean to bend to this brash young king’s mistaken will?”

  Kelson gave a curt hand signal, and one of the guards holding Loris pulled a cloth from his tunic so that his colleague could begin gagging the archbishop.

  “You were warned,” Kelson said, eyeing Loris, then the rest of them, with a cold intensity. “Now, which is it to be? We have not the time to delay any longer while you ponder.”

  Bishop Creoda coughed nervously and glanced at his colleagues, then stepped forward. “Sire, I cannot speak for my brethren, but I wish no further argument with you. If it please Your Majesty, I shall retire to Carbury for the duration. I do not really know what I believe anymore.”

  Kelson nodded curtly, then scanned the rest. After a slight hesitation, Ifor and Carsten also stepped forward, Ifor bowing slightly before he spoke. “We, too, ask your indulgence, Sire. We accept your offer, and will retire to our respective sees. You have our word on it.”

  Kelson nodded. “What of the rest of you? I told you, I haven’t all day.”

  Bishop Conlan, with a decisive movement, crossed to Kelson and dropped to one knee before him. “I kneel to you once more, Sire. I abjure my support of what followed the Saint Torin affair. If you believe in the innocence of Morgan and McLain, that is sufficient for me. We were all of us caught up in what happened there. Pray, forgive us, Sire.”

  “I forgive you freely, Bishop Conlan.” Kelson reached down to touch Conlan lightly on the shoulder. “Do you ride north with us, then?”

  “With all my heart, Sire.”

  “Thank you.” Kelson returned his gaze to the rest of them: to Loris, struggling in the hands of his captors, making incoherent noises behind his gag; to Creoda and Ifor and Carsten, who would be going into seclusion; then to the two remaining prelates who had not yet declared themselves.

  “De Lacey, I have not heard your answer.”

  De Lacey averted his eyes for a long moment, then rose stiffly from his seat and slowly sank to his knees in place. “Forgive my seeming indecision, young Sire, but I am an old man, and the old ways die slowly. I am not accustomed to disobeying either my archbishop or my king.”

  “Unfortunately, it appears that you shall be obliged to disobey one of us, my lord. Who is it to be?”

  De Lacey bowed his head. “I shall ride with you, Sire. If I might have a horse-litter instead of a warhorse, however…I fear that my bones are too old to travel astride a horse at the pace you will demand.”

  Kelson inclined his head in agreement. “Captain, see to a litter for His Excellency. And Archbishop Corrigan—what about you? Must I ask each of you individually? Surely you have had time to decide by now.”

  Corrigan was ashen, his fat face clammy and glistening with perspiration. He cast long looks at his colleagues, at his henchman Loris in the soldiers’ bonds, then pulled a large handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped his face as he lumbered slowly toward Kelson. When he had come to within a few paces of the young king, he cast a final look behind him at Loris, then cast his eyes down and studied his hands, twisting his handkerchief between stubby fingers.

  “Forgive me, Sire, but I am old and tired and unable to fight any longer. Much as I fear you are wrong, I have not the strength to oppose you—and I fear I could not survive your dungeon. I ask permission to return to my estates outside Rhemuth. I—I am not well, Sire.”

  “Very well,” Kelson said quietly. “If I have your word that you’ll not oppose me, you are free to go. My lords, I thank you for not making this any more difficult than it had to be. And now, Morgan, Warin, Lord Hamilton, I wish to be riding out of here by noon, if at all possible. Please see to whatever needs to be done.”

  IT was late afternoon, not midday, before the combined armies were ready to move out, but Kelson gave the marching orders anyway. By traveling through the night and not stopping until the following midday, they
could hope to cross most of Corwyn before having to rest. Then, a short stop until the early morning hours of the next day, and they could be in Dhassa by noon of the second day.

  From there, it would take at least another two days to combine this army with the other already waiting outside Dhassa. In all, it would be nearly a week before they could hope to meet Wencit’s forces farther north. Kelson prayed that it would be soon enough,

  The shadows were lengthening, but no one felt the slightest urge to complain at the late start as the advance battalions pulled out of Coroth and began their trek to the northwest. Royal lion banners vied with the gray and black falcon standards of Warin’s former rebels, both flags interspersed with the episcopal purple of Cardiel’s elite troops brought down from Dhassa. Supply carts creaked their way along the roads, while mounted cavalry thundered across the grass-green of the fields through which they passed. Pack animals snorted and squealed as their drovers bullied them along in the wake of the main army, gay tassels and braid bright and cheerful in the afternoon sun. The richly embroidered surcoats of Morgan’s rescued liegeman were interspersed with the uniform tunics of the Royal Haldane Lancers, the Joshuic Foot, the Haldane Archers Corps, lord and commoner alike bound in the common tie of loyalty to the young king who rode in the vanguard.

  On returning to his camp, Kelson had once again donned the gold-washed mail of the kings of Gwynedd, had laced his boots with cords of gold, bound his slim waist with a belt of snow-white leather edged with gold, on which hung the gold-chased greatsword that his father had carried in war at a similar young age. Kelson’s golden helmet glowed like burnished sunlight as he rode out that afternoon, a jeweled golden circlet fixed to the helm and a crimson plume bobbing jauntily from the top.

  Around his shoulders was a cloak of scarlet, on his hands gloves of scarlet leather. The white charger between his thighs pranced and arched its neck as Kelson curbed it, red leather reins supple and sleek between its rider’s gloved fingers. At Kelson’s side rode his lords: Morgan, Duncan, Cardiel and Arilan, Nigel and his son Conall, Morgan’s lieutenants, a host of others.

  So they were arrayed as they rode out of Coroth that day. So they would appear when they joined battle with Wencit a few days hence. But for now, it was enough that they were united and riding once more, heading toward a rendezvous with other loyal troops, secure in the knowledge that at least a moral victory had been won within Coroth’s walls.

  There would be other, more glorious days for Kelson King of Gwynedd. But doubtful it was that any of the others would be remembered with quite such fondness in years to come. For the day that King Kelson rode out of Coroth at the head of an army marked his first true military victory, despite the fact that not a sword had been raised. Spirits would still be high when they reached the gates of Dhassa two days hence.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Yea, mine own familiar friend, in whom I trusted, who did eat of my bread, hath lifted up his heel against me.”

  PSALMS 41:9

  THEY arrived in Dhassa as planned, and had been there for a night and a day making final plans for the Cardosa campaign, but news from the front was scarce. There had been no word from the armies of the north for nearly a week—indeed, no word from anywhere at all north and east of Dhassa—and concern was growing hourly. Now that the main armies of Gwynedd were once more united, the outcome of the approaching war was beginning to look more promising as far as sheer numbers were concerned. But the continuing silence in the north augured ill for the days ahead. Morgan was especially concerned that he had not been able to reopen communication with Derry.

  It was not for lack of trying. The night before, as they had on numerous occasions since that last fleeting touch the night of the reconciliation, Morgan and Duncan had joined their efforts and attempted to make contact with Derry through the medallion spell they had used successfully so often in the past.

  But all their efforts were for naught. Morgan had been confident that he could at least discover Derry’s location, especially at this relatively close range; but of the young Marcher lord there had been no trace. Even by stretching his powers almost to the limits of his endurance, Morgan had not been able to make the slightest contact.

  Reluctantly, he could only conclude that Derry either was dead or else in the grip of something so monstrously powerful that he could neither detect Morgan’s call nor be detected. Morgan sadly feared that it was the former: a particularly sobering thought, after the heady successes of the week before.

  Nonetheless, the business of planning for war must go on. On the night before the king’s armies were to depart for Cardosa, the candles burned late in the bishop’s palace at Dhassa. Bishop Cardiel had graciously set aside the great Curia chamber for a meeting place, that Kelson and his generals and military advisors might have a proper place to work. Outside the city walls, in the valley beyond the guardian lake, the soldiers of Gwynedd slept beside a thousand campfires while their leaders plotted and planned.

  The king’s war council was in session. In the Curia chamber, the dishes and cutlery of the evening’s supper had been cleared away some hours ago to make way for the maps and charts and books of military strategy which were the generals’ stock in trade. Amidst the dull rumble of half a hundred gruff voices, the head-work of making war continued as bright-colored markers on painted maps were advanced and withdrawn and scarred fingers traced out positions and troop movements. A light collation of cheeses, fruit, and bread had been brought in an hour before, and some of the men picked at the fare distractedly.

  But no one was particularly interested in food at this point. Though wine goblets dotted the tables, and might be raised in burly fists from time to time, the atmosphere was essentially a sober one. Generals and tacticians worked shoulder to shoulder with princes of the Church, who sometimes were able to suggest startling innovations, despite their disclaimers of secular knowledge. Even minor officers of foot and horse were recruited for their specialized expertise, when warranted. The hall echoed to the ring of steel-shod heels on marble flags, to the clunking of scabbards against sturdy oak furniture as the men came and went.

  The king, for his part, had made it his business to remain on the fringes of what was going on, circulating among the clergy and lesser nobles of his court to soothe pre-battle nerves and leaving all but the most critical decisions in the able hands of Morgan and Nigel and the other generals. To that end, he had elected to remain inconspicuous, clad in the simplest of crimson lion tunics and with raven head bare of any princely adornment, taking special care to reassure those among his nobles who had little to offer besides their goodwill.

  When requested, Kelson would break away from whatever he was doing and rejoin the generals to consider some important point of strategy, to make some decision which only he could make. But he was astute enough to realize that, in the main, his generals and military advisors knew far more of war and military cunning than he did, for all the fact that he was the son of Brion Haldane, who had been an almost legendary leader of men. In the short term, it seemed the single most effective thing he could do was keep quiet and offend no one. For, without the support of every man in the royal army, they could not hope to stand against Wencit of Torenth in the week ahead.

  Nor was Kelson alone in his determination to smooth ruffled feathers and make peace among the nobles of Gwynedd. Across the room, Morgan and Bishop Conlan were wrangling with three of Morgan’s western barons who had joined them at Coroth. Several of the younger lords and Nigel’s son Conall watched and listened with wide eyes. Prince Nigel, too, had been a part of the debate until a little while ago, but now he had returned to the main table to arbitrate some minor difference of opinion between Warin and the Earl of Danoc.

  Only Duncan seemed not to be caught up in the taut bustle of the night’s work, Kelson thought, as he caught a glimpse of the priest gazing moodily out an open window. Duncan had kept himself somewhat apart for much of the evening, declaring himself no authority on military mat
ters, any more than Kelson was. Yet, Kelson knew that Duncan was a trained swordsman, a duke’s son, and must have learned the rudiments of strategy at his father’s knee before he heard his calling to the priesthood. As two more bishops approached Kelson with some new query, he wondered what was troubling the priest. It was not like the usually gregarious Duncan to be so distant.

  Duncan sighed and leaned an elbow against the windowsill, unconsciously shrugging back the plaid that had begun to slip from one shoulder. His blue eyes were hooded as he searched the inky darkness of the mountains east of Dhassa, and the slim, ringless fingers of one hand tapped restlessly against the stone of the casement edging.

  If questioned, he could not have said just why he was so pensive tonight. Certainly, the ceaseless wrangling was beginning to wear on all their nerves, and the pressure was increasing hourly as departure time approached. But he was also worried about Derry—and more, about Morgan’s growing concern over the missing Marcher lord. All aside from the obvious loss to Gwynedd’s service, if ill had befallen Derry, Duncan knew that the young earl’s death would have a profound effect on Morgan. Derry, for all his youthful exuberance and even occasional recklessness, had managed to forge a depth of friendship with Morgan that was enjoyed by few humans. If Derry had died as a result of Morgan’s instructions to go out “a-spying”—even though the idea had originally been Kelson’s—Duncan knew that it would be a long time before Morgan would be able to bring himself to forget.

  And then there was the matter of Duncan’s own sorrow, of a vocation held and not held, which could not be resolved until he could come to grips with his Deryniness—because he had lied about it to get himself ordained, defying canon law and his own conscience.

  Wolves howled in the distant hills, and Duncan let his gaze roam the city walls once more. He could see torches approaching the palace gates from the lake, half a dozen dancing points of light borne by men on horseback. As they drew nearer, he watched the postern gate open to admit them, leaning out then to survey a handful of horses crowding through into the narrow courtyard below.