The Bastard Prince

  Queron smiled and reached out to pat Joram’s hand. “You’re a dutiful son and brother, Joram,” he murmured. “For a man who didn’t want to have anything to do with his father’s sainthood, you keep displaying startling evidence of belief. I don’t intend to do anything stupid, though. I’m well aware that, whether we succeed or fail with the Haldanes, Deryni fortunes will not be restored easily or quickly. Reestablishing a viable cult of Saint Camber may give our people hope for the long term, so that eventually we can resume a place of equal partnership again.”

  “I’d certainly appreciate a little assistance from Saint Camber in the present venture,” Joram murmured. “Unfortunately, he seems to have a mind of his own regarding when and where he makes an appearance.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Father always did have a mind of his own.”

  “As do you,” Queron said, smiling. “As did your sister. We shall hope that her son has not inherited that aspect of his mother’s stubbornness, when I give him his instructions. Perhaps I’ll be able to reach Jesse or Ansel instead and urge them to keep a tight rein on young Tieg.”

  Joram finally allowed himself a hint of a grin. “I’ll leave you to it, then, and start making what arrangements I can from sanctuary. Camlin will come to relieve you when you’re ready.”

  Meanwhile, many miles south, Archbishop Hubert MacInnis was receiving news long known to Joram and his kin but just come to Rhemuth. A Custodes monk called Brother Fabius had arrived at the Gwynedd capital just at dusk, with news so dire that Hubert could barely believe what he was hearing. He and Father Secorim, who was Custodes abbot at the cathedral, had been visiting the ailing Archbishop Oriss when the exhausted monk was shown into the parlour near Oriss’ sickroom.

  “Dimitri killed Albertus?” Hubert murmured, when the man had gasped out the gist of his news. “And Paulin is not expected to survive?”

  While Secorim questioned the man further, for he and Paulin had been friends since seminary days, Hubert quickly scanned over the written confirmations the man had brought—assessments from both Rhun and Lior—still unable to believe what he was reading.

  “I must summon the council,” Hubert said, folding the parchment pages and slipping them under his cincture. “Secorim, do you wish to come? I’d guess you’re as likely as anyone to replace Paulin, if he doesn’t recover. At very least, you can deputize for him for the present.”

  “I’ll come,” Secorim said. “Brother Fabius, please come along as well. The council may wish to question you further.”

  Half an hour later, they were seated around one end of the long table in the council chamber, now joined by Tammaron, Richard Murdoch, and the young Earl of Tarleton Bonner Sinclair, whose father had been Earl of Tarleton before he became Lord Albertus of the Custodes Fidei. Though Albertus and his eldest son had not been especially close, young Tarleton still looked stunned, as did the rest of them.

  “I blame myself,” Hubert murmured, when the messenger again had related the gist of his news and then Secorim had read aloud the texts sent by Rhun and Lior. “It was I who recruited Dimitri. And all these years—Dear God, have I sent them all into a trap? Was Dimitri working for Torenth all along and this all was a ruse to lure the king to a meeting on Torenth’s terms?”

  “If it was,” Richard said coldly, “their strategy did not think far enough ahead. Even if the king perishes, we still have the heir and another on the way. Do you really think Marek of Festil is strong enough to assault the gates of Rhemuth to press his claim? No. We still hold the important cards.”

  “You’re probably right,” Tammaron said. “Nonetheless, I think it might be best if we pull additional troops from elsewhere to defend the city—just in case we’ve underestimated Marek. Richard, your lands are closest. How many men can you call up from Carthane?”

  “How many would you like?” Richard replied. “A hundred? More than that? I should think we can also draw upon Custodes troops,” he added, glancing at Secorim.

  Secorim nodded. “I can secure perhaps a hundred overnight, from the garrison outside Arx Fidei Abbey. More, if I summon from farther afield, but a lot went north with the king.”

  Richard shook his head, busy jotting figures on a scrap of parchment. “No, an additional two hundred should be sufficient for now. If a messenger leaves at once, my men can be here within two days. Practically speaking, I don’t think it’s necessary to fortify any more than that until we hear further from Rhun. We do have to feed all those extra men if we bring them in, after all.”

  Hubert had begun to recover his equilibrium and nodded agreement.

  “I quite agree. We should wait for further clarification of the situation before we let ourselves be stampeded into any sort of panic. Richard is perfectly correct in pointing out that we still hold the controlling factor, in young Prince Owain. To that end, however”—he glanced at Tammaron—“I believe it would be wise if we keep any knowledge of this latest development from the queen. It also may become necessary to confiscate future missives from the king, if he mentions anything to do with this latest development.”

  “Are you concerned about another miscarriage, if anything should happen to the king?” Richard asked.

  Hubert nodded. “It may become necessary to confine the queen to her bed for the remainder of her pregnancy. Tammaron, I rely upon you to instruct the court physicians accordingly. No action is to be taken yet—I do not think mere news and rumors of news would be sufficient to match the shock that brought on the first miscarriage—but we must hold ourselves in readiness. And it goes without saying that the safety of Prince Owain now becomes even more important than it long has been.”

  “I’ll see about streamlining the running of the royal household,” Tammaron said. “With reasonable care, things should be able to drift along as they have done, for at least another week or two, but appropriate precautions will be taken.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Keep thee far from the man that hath power to kill … lest he take away thy life presently.

  —Ecclesiasticus 9:13

  While the great lords in Rhemuth pondered what had occurred at Saint Cassian’s nearly a week before, the royal party was returning there en route home. For Rhys Michael, most of the day had passed in a merciful narcotic blur, though that had mostly worn off by the time they rode into the abbey yard, just at dusk. The first news to greet them was that Paulin of Ramos had died the night before and been buried that morning in the abbey crypt beside his brother.

  Though hardly unexpected, the news elicited a wave of pious lamentation among the Custodes members of the king’s party, with appropriate mouthings of regret from Rhun and Manfred and the junior officers in their immediate vicinity. Before quarters could even be assigned for those lodging within the abbey precincts, a joint summons came from Father Lior and the abbot for the king and his principal officers to join the Custodes clergy in the crypt beneath the church for special prayers beside Paulin’s tomb. Rhys Michael tried to plead exhaustion to get out of it, for he could think of few actions more hypocritical on his part than pretending to pray for Paulin’s soul, but Rhun made it clear that he must at least affect the appearance of regret.

  Accordingly, the king knelt in the crypt with the rest of them and mouthed the prescribed prayers and tried not to think about his throbbing hand or the fever still simmering in his brow. He emerged into the evening coolness to find that gossip was spreading to the camp about Deryni involvement in Paulin’s death. Clearly, the circumstances of his illness had not been forgotten by a week’s absence. A little later, at table in the abbot’s refectory, conversation inevitably turned to Paulin’s death.

  “In retrospect, I suppose it was folly to expect the outcome could have been any different,” the abbot said, responding to a question by Manfred. “What chance had he against Deryni sorcery?”

  “Surely you continued the exorcisms, the purifications,” Lior murmured.

  “And the prayers of the entire community,” the abbot said, staring i
nto his cup. “The taint remains, though, Father. I fear it shall take a prolonged period of fasting and prayer and mortification to cleanse this House of it.”

  Shaking his head, Manfred glanced at Rhun, who seemed to be biting back a caustic comment, then at Brother Polidorus, the abbey’s infirmarian, who was sitting farther down the table next to Master Stevanus.

  “I am no churchman,” he said uneasily, “but it seems obvious to me that all was done that could be done, for his spiritual well-being. A pity nothing availed for his physical recovery.”

  Brother Polidorus raised an eyebrow and pushed his goblet away a little.

  “We did try, my lord, but as Father Abbot has said, the prognosis was poor from the start. He could not eat. He could not control his bodily functions. His heart remained strong and he continued to breathe, but my helpers and I were never able to elicit any kind of response.

  “Except when he was bled,” he amended, almost as an afterthought. “Several times, he seemed on the verge of stirring, and we hoped this might be evidence that the taint was leaving him.” He shook his head. “But he never regained consciousness. At least I do not think he felt anything, there at the end. God grant him peace,” he concluded, crossing himself piously.

  Rhys Michael echoed the gesture along with the rest at table, but he could not find it in his heart to regret Paulin’s fate. As he stifled a yawn and tried to find a more comfortable posture, he found himself wondering whether the bleeding that Polidorus had mentioned might have hastened Paulin to his reward, for the Custodes were known to use—and misuse—bloodletting as part of their internal discipline within the Order. He wondered whether they might view it as an alternative coup de grâce for one of their own with no hope of recovery, though the coup generally was limited to fatal battle injuries in the field, and the Church maintained only a precarious peace with the practice. He remembered hearing how a Custodes battle surgeon had given the coup thus to Murdoch of Carthane, the day after Javan’s coronation—or rather, Rhun had done it under Custodes direction. More normally, the Custodes used bleeding as a means of discipline and intimidation, sometimes unto death. If Paulin had succumbed to loss of blood, Rhys Michael could not but think it fitting, to taste the fate he had inflicted on many others.

  But his own fate was far more on his mind just now. After a while longer of listening to the Custodes mouth platitudes and make noises of regret, he excused himself and retired with Cathan and Fulk to the quarters the abbot had allocated him on his previous visit. He was dragging with exhaustion as they helped him out of his armor and into bed, and he lay there shivering under several sleeping furs until Cathan brought him another dose of the tacil. Though no one had summoned him, Stevanus came in very shortly with Brother Polidorus and another, younger monk carrying a small wooden chest and a two-branched candlestick for more light. Cathan had just set the empty cup and the little earthen flask of tacil on a small table beside the bed and tried to push them farther into shadow before the monk set the candlestick on the table.

  “I want to change your dressing and see how you’re faring after a day in the saddle, Sire,” Stevanus said, setting down his medical satchel on the foot of the bed. “Brother Polidorus also thought to have a look at you. Brother Deiniol, could you fetch us a basin and some hot water, please?”

  As the younger monk disappeared to obey, Rhys Michael reluctantly pulled his bandaged hand out from under the furs and let Stevanus begin unwrapping it, while Polidorus felt his forehead and made tsking sounds.

  “Dear, dear me. These things are always so tiresome when broken bones and wounds are involved. The forearm looks clean enough. I see no red streaks.”

  “Aye, but there’s fever in it,” Stevanus said.

  “Yes, I can feel that.”

  “And the laceration shows more inflammation than I would like. I also don’t know what may be going on around the bones that were crushed. There’s still too much swelling and bruising to see or feel much.”

  As he exposed the hand and the two started poking and prodding, Rhys Michael gasped and even cried out, trying not to squirm with the pain. At Stevanus’ summons, Cathan and Fulk came to help hold the arm steady while the examination continued, and Brother Deiniol returned with towels, a basin, and a steaming pitcher, which he set beside the fireplace.

  “I think perhaps those sutures should come out,” Polidorus said, drawing back to wipe his hands on a clean towel. “The flesh is very swollen, the skin taut and shiny. I would say that the wound wants cautery to burn out the impurities. Have you bled him yet?”

  “I didn’t want to weaken him,” Stevanus began.

  “No! I won’t be bled!” Rhys Michael whispered, sitting up in alarm. “And I don’t want cautery. I’m making good progress. Just give me time.”

  “If you hope to keep the hand,” Polidorus said coldly, “then you must allow us to do what we think best.” He gave a curt nod to his assistant, who turned back to the fireplace and began taking things out of the chest he had brought. “The crushed bones may yet necessitate more aggressive treatment,” he went on, returning his attention to Stevanus, “but we can postpone that for now, see how he looks in a day or two. What are you giving him for the pain, syrup of poppies?”

  “Aye.”

  “But I can’t stay here!” Rhys Michael protested. “I have to ride tomorrow—”

  “Well, give him half again the dose you’ve been giving,” Polidorus continued, paying the king no mind at all. “And you, sir—” He nodded to Fulk. “Fill that basin with very hot water, and we’ll get his hand soaking. The heat will draw out some of the inflammation and also ease the removal of the sutures.”

  “I’ve told you, no,” Rhys Michael said again. “Leave the sutures. I don’t want cautery, and I won’t be bled.”

  “Don’t be foolish. You’re in no condition to know what you want, or what’s best for you,” Polidorus muttered, turning away to supervise his assistant.

  As Stevanus also withdrew, pulling his satchel from the end of the bed to measure out the painkiller Polidorus had ordered, Rhys Michael pulled Cathan closer with his good hand.

  “Go and tell Rhun what they’re doing,” he whispered. And added, in Cathan’s mind, Tell him I refuse to stay here and that if I die, they’re going to have a different regency than they bargained on. Tell him about the codicil—but you haven’t got an original copy, and I’ve ordered you not to tell who does. “Hurry.”

  Stevanus looked annoyed as Cathan nodded and turned away to dash out the door, and he was shaking his head as he brought a small metal medicine cup filled with syrup of poppies.

  “Sire, Rhun isn’t going to interfere in this,” he said, holding out the cup. “Drink this down now. You needn’t make this any more difficult than it has to be.”

  “I don’t want the cautery,” Rhys Michael said stubbornly, ignoring the cup. “You can soak the hand if you want—I can see how that might help—but the wound isn’t bleeding. And I won’t be bled; I might be too weak to ride. I can’t stay here. I have to be able to keep traveling. I have to get back to Michaela.”

  “Sire, are you trained as a surgeon?” Polidorus said pointedly.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then do not presume to tell me my business. Take this and drink it. What must be done will be done, with or without this help. Don’t force me to have you held.”

  As he pressed the cup into Rhys Michael’s good hand, Fulk brought a steaming basin to the right side of the bed, looking uneasy as Polidorus came to move the bedside table closer. The earthen flask of tacil and the empty cup were still sitting on the little table, and the monk had to move them before he could spread the towel hung over Fulk’s arm. He sniffed curiously at the cup as Fulk set the basin down.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “It’s something for the fever,” Rhys Michael said, before Fulk or Stevanus could reply. “It seems to be helping. The chatelaine at Lochalyn Castle gave it to me.”

  “Som
e folk remedy, eh? What is it called?” The monk glanced at Stevanus as he opened the flask and then peered inside and sniffed again.

  “The old midwife with her called it tacil,” Stevanus replied. “Lady Stacia said her mother used to get it from a Healer who’s since died.”

  “From a Healer? Then it’s a Deryni drug!” Polidorus said, holding it away from him with a grimace of distaste. “I’ll have none of that under this roof!”

  “No, it’s helping me!” Rhys Michael cried. Still encumbered with the cup in his good hand, he made an inadvertent grab for the monk with his injured one—and jarred it against the edge of the basin with enough force to bring tears to his eyes, just as Stevanus rescued the cup of painkiller.

  “Don’t be impertinent, Sire,” Polidorus muttered, as Rhys Michael curled defensively over the injured hand, gasping, and Fulk moved in protectively. “Brother Deiniol, get rid of this. Burn it or something.”

  “But, it does seem to be helping,” Stevanus said uncertainly, though he blocked Fulk from interfering with the younger monk, who came and took the flask from Polidorus.

  “Nonsense.” Polidorus shook out another towel with a snap and spread it on the bed beside the table. “If it’s Deryni, it can’t possibly be helpful. Now, give me that hand, Sire, and let’s get it to soaking before the water gets cold. Stevanus, either persuade him to drink that or get some strong men in here to hold him down.”

  As Rhys Michael heard the smash of pottery down the garderobe shaft, he sank back against his pillows in dismay, gasping but no longer resisting as Polidorus took his injured hand and plunged it into the steaming water. The tacil had helped—he was sure of it—but now there would be no more relief from that quarter. And all because a Deryni had made it …