The Bastard Prince

  “Any problem?” he heard Fulk ask.

  “No, but he may be a few minutes,” Cathan replied. “Say, did you notice that pretty dark-haired lass who was sitting way at the end of the table on the left? She was watching you.”

  “Yes? Which one was that?”

  Trusting Cathan to keep Fulk occupied and divert any suspicion, Rhys Michael closed the door the rest of the way and turned to the table where Father Derfel waited behind a rack of candles, a quill already in hand and extended to him. The faint perfume of melted sealing wax tickled at his nostrils as he removed his signet ring and gave it to the priest, then took the quill awkwardly in his left hand and bent to sign. It was difficult, but he did the best he could, scrawling a reasonably legible Rhys R. on each of the five copies. Derfel began sealing them as soon as Rhys Michael had finished the first one.

  “Get the seal back to Sir Cathan as soon as you can,” he whispered, after finishing the last one with a shaky flourish and then sticking the quill back in the inkwell. “They’re really watching me. If anyone notices that I’m suddenly not wearing it, there could be questions.”

  “Gie me half a minute, an’ ye can tak it now,” Derfel replied, already applying wax to the third of the copies as the king moved to the door.

  Nodding agreement, the king quietly eased the door open far enough to set his eye to the crack. To his horror, Rhun had just stepped into the landing and was looking either at Cathan and Fulk or at the garderobe entrance, a frown furrowing his narrow brow.

  Rhys Michael drew back in momentary panic, heart pounding, then carefully set his eye to the crack again. Rhun did not look particularly suspicious or upset; but he was there. Fulk was nodding amiably to the earl marshal. Carefully Rhys Michael sent out a tendril of thought to Cathan, hoping he could reach him without physical contact.

  Cathan?

  Startlement came through, though Cathan showed no outward sign of it. Dismayed, Rhys Michael realized that his kinsman did not seem to have the power to send back more than impressions.

  Don’t waste energy trying to send back. Just do what I tell you. I know you can handle Fulk. I also want you to maneuver Rhun around so his back is to me.

  From Cathan came a sense of query.

  The only thing I can do; blank him for about five seconds, long enough for me to get into the garderobe. But you’ve got to get him up a few steps so I can reach him before he sees or hears me.

  Agreement came through the link, even as Cathan turned toward Rhun. He was just opening his mouth to speak when Sighere came careening into the landing from the great hall, wine sloshing from a goblet in one big hand as he caught his balance against the door jamb.

  “Weel, if it isnae Rhun the Ruthless,” he said amiably, the words slurred and a little too loud, his gaze unfocused. “I rememmer you. What’re ye doin’ in Marley, Ruthless?”

  As he lurched closer to Rhun and peered at him blearily, and Rhun drew back in distaste, Rhys Michael hoped desperately that Sighere was only trying to divert Rhun, not pick a serious fight. Of one thing he was certain; Rhun was not drunk. He was fairly certain Sighere was not really drunk either. There was bad blood between the two, though. If it came to blows, real blood might be shed—and at least one of the men was apt to die.

  Not that he would mourn Rhun’s loss. But if Sighere died, that would nullify half the document Rhys Michael had just gone to such pains to get signed—and sealed, he remembered, as the priest slipped in beside him to slide the signet ring back on his hand. And if it was Rhun who was killed, he would hate to have to bring Sighere up on charges of murder.

  “You’re drunk,” Rhun said in disgust. “Why don’t you go sleep it off?”

  Sighere drew back in a theatrical posture of mock affront—staggering a few steps away from Rhun and the garderobe entrance—and managed an exaggerated pout.

  “Tha’s no verra friendly. I hae sworn tae yer Haldane king. That makes us allies. Will ye no share a drink?” he asked.

  As he held out his goblet, still weaving on his feet, Rhun was already summoning Fulk and Cathan—who would just about provide a convenient screen between Rhun and the garderobe, provided Sighere kept up the diversion. Already, Rhun had his back to the stairs.

  “Fulk, get him out of here before I do something we’ll both regret,” Rhun muttered. “God, these borderers are all alike—”

  “Wha’s wrong wi’ m’drink?” Sighere was muttering, looking into his goblet quizzically and sloshing a little as Fulk and Cathan swept in to take him in charge, also sweeping Rhun along. “Ish good wine. Ah, yer spillin’ it. Careful!”

  In those few seconds of confusion, as Sighere juggled his wine and the others tried to jolly him along, Rhys Michael was able to dash down the few steps and gain the shelter of the garderobe entrance, pushing the curtain aside even as he pivoted in the doorway, as if he had just come out.

  “What the devil is going on out here?” he demanded, twitching the curtain closed behind him.

  “Oh, there you are,” Rhun said, straightening his tunic as Cathan and Fulk propelled Sighere back into the hall with a good-natured shove. “I wondered where you’d gotten to. Sorry, Sire, but your precious Earl of Marley is a sloppy drunk. The fool accosted me.”

  “What, outside the privy?” Rhys Michael said with a snort, unable to resist the gibe. “I shouldn’t think he was serious.”

  Rhun stiffened and moved closer. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, never mind. If you’re determined to take offense at some simple high spirits from men to whom we owe a great deal—Why were you lurking out here, anyway? You know Sighere doesn’t bear you a great deal of goodwill.”

  “Actually, I was looking for you,” Rhun said.

  “Looking for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whatever for? Can’t I even go to the privy without you following me around? Isn’t it bad enough that Fulk and Cathan are my faithful shadows?”

  Rhun managed to look almost a little embarrassed. “You were in there for quite a while.”

  “What, having secret conferences?” Rhys Michael said, suddenly realizing that he had Rhun on the defensive and could skirt very close to the truth and make it seem outrageous. He gestured toward his injured arm.

  “I don’t suppose it occurred to you that this might have slowed me down just a little,” he went on, letting the sarcasm bite with his words. “Or did you think I might have invited some secret supporter into the garderobe with me, so we could plot intrigues while he helped me take a piss? Your suspicion is getting out of hand, Rhun. Do you want to have a look and see if he’s still in there?”

  As he gestured scornfully toward the garderobe curtain, Rhun turned on his heel and stalked back into the hall. As soon as he had disappeared, Rhys Michael had to turn away briefly as he nearly convulsed in silent laughter, Cathan and Fulk also fighting to control wide grins as a bewildered-looking Claibourne retainer poked his head onto the landing, took one look at them, and went back into the great hall.

  After a few seconds, Rhys Michael drew himself up more soberly, going nearly white as the throbbing in his arm recalled him to more immediate concerns.

  “Well done, gentlemen,” he said with a tight grimace. “And on that note, I believe I shall take my leave and retire. Fulk, would you please give my regrets to Lady Stacia and then ask Master Stevanus to attend me?”

  He was shivering with fever again by the time he climbed into bed, and he curled onto his side under the sleeping furs until Stevanus came to him. With the surgeon were Stacia and an ample old woman dressed in the simple homespun and tweeds of the local folk, carrying a reed basket over her arm.

  “Sire, I hae brought ye Mother Angelica,” Stacia said, as Stevanus laid a hand across his forehead to gauge his fever, tight-lipped and grim as he then gave way to the woman. “She is midwife in the village, but her mother used to work wi’ the Healer we had in those days. There is a remedy she uses fer childbed fevers. It might help this
one.”

  Rhys Michael’s hopes leaped, that the old woman might be a Healer herself, but as she, too, set a hand to his forehead, clucking her tongue and shaking her grizzled head, he knew she was not even Deryni.

  “I would look a’ the wound,” she murmured, shifting her hands to feel the strength of the pulse in the sides of his neck. The gnarled old hands were gentle; the nails were cut short and scrupulously clean.

  He winced as Stacia began unwrapping his hand, keeping his gaze on Mother Angelica and seeking to Read her surface thoughts, though he did not probe lest she sense the touch, from working with the Healer long ago. When re-dressing his hand the night before, Stacia had positioned the bandages so that the dressing could be changed on the actual wound without loosing all the support that bound the broken bones into place. As the wound was bared, Mother Angelica peered at it critically, prodding around it and up his forearm, sniffed disapprovingly, then directed Lochalyn’s chatelaine to clean it and bind it up again with fresh sphagnum moss. Rhys Michael thought it looked much the same as it had the night before.

  “The wound is inflamed, but I dinnae see sign that the poison is spreading up his arm,” the old woman said, rummaging in her basket. “This should help the fever.”

  She pulled out a small earthen jar corked with a wooden plug, opened it to insert a little finger and taste the contents, then nodded and turned to Stevanus.

  “He should have as much o’ this as will cover the bottom of a small cup, dissolved in water or wine, four times a day.”

  “What is it?” Stevanus asked.

  “My mam called it tacil,” the old woman replied. “This is the last of it. The Healer used to make it, but he died.”

  “A Deryni drug?” Stevanus said, frowning.

  “A drug fer easin’ fever,” Stacia said briskly, taking a cup from the stand beside the bed and shaking in a layer of white, crystalline powder. “Do ye wish tae ease the king’s fever or no?”

  “The king wants to ease his fever,” Rhys Michael said, sitting up and reaching for the cup. “And if there were a Healer available, I’d welcome his services, regardless of what Master Stevanus thinks of Deryni. I don’t suppose there is one, though.”

  “Alas, not since I was a wee girl,” Stacia said, and gave him an odd look. Cathan had come with a flask of wine, and she filled the cup halfway and gave it a quick swirl before handing it to the king. “Drink it doon, Sire.”

  He obeyed before Stevanus could decide whether or not to interfere, though he had to swallow three or four times to get it all down. The dregs were bitter, and he made a face as he handed back the cup and lay back on his pillows. The effort had exhausted him, though his hand seemed to be settling down to a lesser throb after the pain of being examined and rebandaged.

  “Am I allowed to have more syrup of poppies, or will the tacil help with the pain, too?” he asked. “I need to get some sleep, if we’re to ride out tomorrow.”

  “The poppy willnae interfere,” Mother Angelica said, “but the hand doesnae want jostlin’. At best, ye will be sair uncomfortable.”

  “The earl marshal wants to get back to Rhemuth as soon as possible,” Stevanus said, before the king could reply. “I don’t think there’s any appeal from that, Sire. We have surgeons aplenty in our train, and there are suitable halting sites all along the way.”

  “Well, we can discuss it with Rhun in the morning,” Rhys Michael said. “If my fever is down, we should move out. The hospitality here at Lochalyn is impeccable, Lady Stacia, but I must get back to my wife and son. She’s with child, you know, and she’ll already be anxious when she hears I’ve been injured.”

  Stacia could not argue with that, and Mother Angelica merely shrugged. When Cathan had shown them out, Stevanus measured out another dose of syrup of poppies—and left convinced that Rhys Michael had drunk it down. In fact, as soon as he had gone, the king set Fulk to bedding down in the anteroom adjacent to the lord’s solar and called Cathan to him.

  “I do want to get home as quickly as possible, but I think it might be wise if we sent a copy of the codicil ahead to Mika, just in case.”

  “Just in case what?” Cathan murmured, leaning close as he sat on the edge of the bed.

  “I’m not sure.” Rhys Michael hugged his injured hand closer and rubbed at the arm above it. “It’s a good week’s ride back to Rhemuth with troops on the march, and a lot of things could happen. You don’t die from having your hand stepped on by a horse, but I—I’d feel better if one of the copies was in her hands.”

  “Fair enough,” Cathan agreed. “Do you have a messenger in mind, or would you like me to go?”

  “Not you,” Rhys Michael replied. “Trust-wise, I couldn’t ask for better, but you’d be missed. Besides, I don’t know that I could make it without you.

  “But it’s important that the copies be dispersed as quickly as possible. I don’t think I’ve yet become too ‘inconvenient’ for Rhun to keep putting up with me, but if it looks as if he’s losing patience, I intend to reveal that the codicil exists and that the only way to keep Graham and Sighere out of government is to keep me alive. I don’t dare make that threat unless I’m sure he can’t get at all of the copies.”

  “Sound reasoning. That doesn’t answer the question of who goes, though.”

  “Who’re our choices?” Rhys Michael said. “I’ll want to set compulsions, in any case, but it’s always better if I can start with someone who’s loyal.”

  “How about one of the local men? Sighere’s son, perhaps. He struck me as being levelheaded.”

  Rhys Michael shook his head. “Whoever goes, he has to be able to gain access to the queen; a borderer couldn’t. One of our men—but he can’t be someone who’d be readily missed.”

  “None of the Custodes, none of Rhun’s men, or Manfred’s,” Cathan murmured, musing aloud. “That means someone in the service of one of the lesser lords, or—Yes. I know just the man. Lord Ainslie’s son Robert—and I saw him in the hall earlier this evening. Do you remember him?”

  “Of course. And he’s perfect.”

  “I’ll see if I can find him, then. I doubt he’s gone down to the camp yet. I assume you’ll want him to leave tonight?”

  “Absolutely. And send Fulk in on your way out. I want to dictate another short document—something to provide for you, in case the other should need to be enforced. I’ll want you to get it to Graham in the morning, before we leave.”

  Cathan looked at him sharply. “Rhysem, are you sure you’re not keeping something from me? You’re not going to die!”

  “I’m certainly not planning on it,” Rhys Michael said, forcing a grin as he tried again to ease his hand. “Just covering my options. Now, back to the codicils—have we got a copy, or does Father Derfel still have them?”

  “Derfel’s got them,” Cathan replied, “but I’ll fetch one before I bring young Ainslie. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Fulk came to him within a few minutes, moving the little writing table closer to the bed with a rack of candles and settling on a stool behind it Reaching out with his mind, Rhys Michael confirmed that he was already controlled.

  “You will take this down,” Rhys Michael murmured, “but afterward, you will not remember that you have written it. Head it with today’s date and place.

  “‘Unto Graham, Duke of Claibourne, and Sighere, Earl of Marley: In the event that you are successful in asserting your authority as regents after my death, as is my will and intention, I command and authorize you to confirm the appointment of Sir Cathan Cinhil Drummond as a fellow regent, as your first legal act following the assumption of your duties as regents …’”

  When Fulk had finished taking the dictation, Rhys Michael read it over once, scrawled a reasonably legible signature at the foot, and had Fulk seal it. Fulk was just moving the table back from the bed when Cathan returned alone.

  “Didn’t you find him?” the king asked.

  Cathan shook his head, coming to lay a hand on Fulk’s shoul
der.

  “Go ahead to bed, Fulk. I’ll take the first watch.”

  When Fulk had gone, closing the door behind him, Cathan came to crouch at the king’s bedside.

  “He’s still drinking downstairs with the others, and I got the copy of the codicil, but it’s going to be impossible to get him up here without anyone noticing. There are just too many people still about. If you want him to go tonight, the only thing I can suggest is to let me send him.”

  Rhys Michael closed his eyes briefly, hugging his injured hand and suppressing a shiver. “I really wanted to send him myself.”

  “I know that. What if we were to delay until tomorrow, catch him sometime during the day, and let him slip away?”

  Rhys Michael shook his head. “Too chancy. Once we leave here, I’ll have even less privacy. Besides that, we don’t know what condition I’ll be in. I could get worse instead of better, though the tacil does seem to be lessening my fever.” A giant yawn took him, sufficient to make his jaws ache when he had finished.

  “All right. I know you can’t set the same kinds of compulsions I was going to use, but do the best you can. Come closer, and I’ll give you some direction. I’m giving you my signet to give to him as well; that will be Mika’s guarantee that it really does come from me.”

  He set his instructions in Cathan’s mind, gave him the signet for Robert and the new document to deliver to Graham MacEwan, then bade him Godspeed and sent him on his way. When Cathan had gone, he took up the cup with the syrup of poppies that Stevanus had left, drank it down, rinsed the cup with a little water, and drank that down, too. His arm seemed to be throbbing worse than ever, even though the fever did seem to be diminishing. He was heavily asleep by the time Cathan returned, some hours later, and slept without moving until a bell ringing Prime roused him to the now familiar throbbing of his arm.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  They gather themselves together against the soul of the righteous, and condemn the innocent blood.