“In all seriousness, however,” he resumed, “I should like to think of your work as a living memorial, if you will—for you have served me and all of Gwynedd, both present and to come, by your earnest intentions to right the wrongs inadvertently and, alas, sometimes intentionally imposed upon loyal subjects of this land for many, many generations. Judging by what you have proposed, I hope I may assume that you believe Deryni can be a valuable part of the many and varied peoples who make up this kingdom—and not merely because four of them are sitting here before you, and one of them is your liege lord. Indeed, were it not for these three, I would not be here today.”
Another ripple of faint uneasiness passed among the listening bishops, though it was not tinged with fear, as it had been so often in the past, but only with the slight apprehension natural to anyone contemplating something just a little unknown.
“Which brings us to the last item I should like to present for your consideration,” Kelson went on, “and that is the full reinstatement of one of your own number, who has served me and Gwynedd in ways most of you can hardly begin to fathom. I refer, of course, to Bishop Duncan McLain, whose loyalty and service to myself and my father before me can in no way be impeached. And since that part of the Statutes of Ramos forbidding those of his blood to take holy vows is now in the process of being rescinded, I would pray that you extend him the right hand of brotherhood and forever put aside any reservations you may have had because of his Deryni blood. I believe he has proven far too often that it is just as red as anyone’s and that he has always been willing to shed it to defend our crown and land.”
Duncan, sitting quietly a little behind Kelson, austere and solemn in the plainest of black working cassocks, rose respectfully at the gesture of Archbishop Bradene, waiting as the archbishop glanced around the room at his colleagues. He and Bradene had conversed briefly the night before and agreed on a format for what they hoped would follow, but its success depended upon whether the other bishops would go along.
“Your Majesty,” Bradene said quietly, still watching his colleagues, “in the matter you have just addressed, I personally am satisfied that, in every instance save one, perhaps, Duncan McLain has acted for the honor of his God, his king, and himself, in that order of priority. If any shadow of a doubt remains in my mind, it concerns his personal justifications at the time he accepted ordination to the priesthood, knowing that he was Deryni and that the Church forbade him this sacrament.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the assembly, but again, it was not hostile—only wary. Kelson allowed himself to breathe a little as Bradene went on.
“I propose, then, that Father Duncan confess those justifications openly before this assembled company, and that if, in our opinion, he can be absolved of wrongdoing, absolution be granted and the matter nevermore brought before this assembly—for I should hate to lose so able a shepherd,” he concluded, giving Duncan a faint but genuinely warm smile. “Is anyone opposed?”
Miraculously, no one was. And so, with Kelson, Morgan, and Dhugal watching very much as outsiders—for what was about to transpire was under the full seal of the confessional for the priests seated in the room—Duncan came forward to kneel at the foot of Bradene’s throne. The bishop’s ring on his right hand flashed in the torchlight as he bowed his head and crossed himself—the ring wrought of gold that formerly had been a piece of altar plate associated with Saint Camber—and his blue eyes were almost silver as he looked up at the archbishop, clasping his hands before him.
“I confess that on the Feast of Easter, in the Year of Our Lord 1113, I accepted ordination to the priesthood from Archbishop Alexander of Rhemuth, knowing that I was Deryni and that canon law forbade my reception of this sacrament.”
“And why did you do this, my son?” Bradene asked.
Duncan’s vocation had never been so apparent, as he gazed into Bradene’s eyes.
“I believed and still believe that I was called by God to be His priest and that the gifts of my Deryni inheritance should be turned to His service, as Deryni priests had served Him in prior times.”
“And what of the Church’s teachings, that Deryni might no longer serve in this way?” Bradene asked.
“My decision was a matter of conscience, Excellency, formed by years of study and prayer. The Church also teaches that, once formed, not to have followed my conscience would have been a serious, grievous sin.
“And so, knowing that I was called, how could I not have responded to His will? His call was an ache within me that could not be satisfied save by giving myself wholly to His service—a yearning to be constantly in His presence, offering His sacraments to His people, both human and Deryni. And in offering those sacraments, I, too, become a part of them, and myself offer up all that I am upon God’s altar, to use as He wills. Is there a man here among the clergy who has not heard and heeded that call?”
There was not, of course—or at least none who would admit it. One elderly itinerant bishop asked about the evil inherent in Deryni powers, but Duncan’s old friend Hugh de Berry, the newly appointed Bishop of Ballymar, answered that argument before Duncan could.
“It is not power that is evil, your Excellency,” Hugh said, “but the use to which evil men sometimes put their power. Surely we are more sophisticated than to believe that a valuable gift should be destroyed because someone unscrupulous once used such a gift for other than its intended purpose and brought destruction with it, rather than joy. Are we not all given certain gifts at birth, that, with proper training, make one man strong, another scholarly, another nimble of fingers, still others bound by every breath they take to give their lives in God’s service? Are Father Duncan’s gifts so different? How dare we say that it is not to God’s glory that Duncan can ascertain whether a man speaks the truth, protect the innocent against those who would misuse their power, or heal the injured? Have you forgotten, Excellency, that Duncan McLain, like Our Lord, has the gift of Healing in his hands? Who better than a Deryni Healer-priest to heal the rifts and exorcise the fears that have separated us from our Deryni brothers?”
Little remained to be said after that impassioned appeal. As Hugh took his seat and Duncan continued to kneel before the archbishop, Bradene requested a period of meditation, at the end of which each bishop was to cast his written vote as to whether Duncan should be absolved. Kelson closed his eyes while the voting went on, listening to the whisper of silks and fine wools as each bishop took his ballot to a small table in the center of the chapter house, just at Duncan’s back, and dropped it into a large chalice. When everyone was done, Bradene himself went to the table and began to read the ballots, Duncan raising his eyes to the crucifix above the archbishop’s empty throne as the votes were read.
“Absolvo,” came the first vote. I absolve him.
“Absolvo.
“Absolvo.
“Absolvo.”
The tally went on without a single dissenting vote, a full nineteen repetitions of the healing word: “Absolvo.” At the end, Duncan buried his face in his hands and wept tears of joy that he made no attempt to hide. His eyes were still wet when he looked up again as Bradene came to sit once more upon the episcopal throne. The archbishop was smiling. Nor had Duncan’s tears been the only ones in the ancient chapter house.
“Duncan Howard McLain, you who are called to be Christ’s priest,” Bradene said formally, paralleling the calling forward of a priestly candidate to be ordained as he referred to a book that Bishop Tolliver came and knelt to hold for him.
“Adsum,” Duncan replied softly. Here am I.
“Duncan Howard McLain,” Bradene repeated. “According to the ordinal under which you were ordained these twelve years hence, you were commanded and charged, under pain of excommunication, not to come forward for ordination to God’s holy priesthood under any pretext if you were irregular, excommunicate in law or by judicial sentence, under interdict or suspension, illegitimate, infamous, or in any other way disqualified. At that time, according to the le
tter of the law, being Deryni was not only a disqualification from the priesthood, but an automatic death sentence if you had been discovered after your ordination.
“And yet, in the spirit of the law, you came forward and accepted the yoke of God’s holy priesthood, obeying a higher call than that which had prompted frightened men to make frightening laws two hundred years before, in the aftermath of a terrible tyranny—for you knew in your heart that you were called. By the letter of the law, you would have incurred the most severe penalties of Church and state had you been discovered; but in the spirit of the law, you chose to serve God despite the danger, remaining true to your conscience and your calling, in hope that God’s will and man’s might one day be as one again.”
Bradene sighed as he closed the book and gave leave by gesture for Tolliver to return to his seat.
“I wish I could say for certain that God’s will and man’s are, indeed, one at last, though I believe—and your brothers obviously believe—that in this matter at least, we are reaching a little nearer that perfect reunion with His will, by the progress we have made in these latter days. But you, beloved son in Christ, are surely more aware than any of us just how far we still have to go to right what was awry as the legacy of our forebears. Still, your brothers in faith have absolved you of any further guilt in whatever technical disobedience you may have committed in the past—and your own soul has been your harshest warder, I think, so far as any recompense that might be owed for expiation. Further, canon law will soon legitimize the truth you recognized more than a decade ago.
“Therefore do I absolve you as well, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” He made the sign of the cross over Duncan’s upturned head. “May almighty God have mercy on you, forgive you your sins, and bring you to life everlasting.”
“Amen,” the bishops said together, as Duncan also mouthed the response.
“May the almighty and merciful Lord grant you pardon, absolution, and remission of your sins,” Bradene said, signing Duncan again.
Again, the assembly said, “Amen.”
“And finally,” Bradene concluded, “may the blessing of almighty God, the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, descend upon you and remain with you forever.”
The third “Amen” positively resounded among the ceiling beams as Bradene signed Duncan a third time, then gently laid both his hands on Duncan’s head.
“I ask you a special favor now,” Bradene said then, bending closer to Duncan’s head as he took away his hands. “Will you again promise obedience and reverence to me and my successors, according to justice and according to your grade of ministry, as you promised on your ordination day, aware from this time hence that deception no longer will be necessary?”
Smiling, tears running openly down his cheeks now, Duncan placed his hands between Bradene’s and ducked his head to kiss the archbishop’s ring.
“Promitto.” I promise.
“Ora pro me, frater.” Pray for me, brother.
“Dominus vobis retribuat.” May the Lord reward you.
With Duncan once more restored to his episcopal purple, a proper cassock lent by Bishop Hugh, the evening meal was cause for joyous if subdued celebration—for it was still Holy Saturday, after all, and the most solemn time of Lent. The fare was simple, but Duncan sat in a place of honor at the archbishop’s right hand, Kelson deliberately taking the left, out of deference to Duncan’s restoration to grace. Early on Easter morning, the king and his party kept the Paschal feast with the bishops in Valoret Cathedral, raising their voices with the choir in the joyous introit.
“Resurrexi, et adhuc tecum sum, alleluia.…” I have risen and am still with thee, alleluia; Thou hast laid Thy hand upon me, alleluia.… Lord, Thou hast seen me put to the test; Thou hast seen my death and my resurrection.…
Afterwards, when the Mass was ended and all of them had received Communion, the MacArdry men and Kelson’s mountain folk as well, Duncan and Morgan led them into the sacristy, especially cleared for the occasion, and began taking them through the Portal. Archbishop Bradene also came.
Their emergence from the sacristy at Rhemuth Cathedral half an hour later, just as Archbishop Cardiel’s High Easter Mass was ending, nearly provoked a riot. The sudden appearance of men in the rough border and mountain garb of Kelson’s escort was first taken as an attack by local belligerents who had somehow managed to pass the city gates unchallenged and infiltrate the cathedral compound, for Kelson was not recognized immediately, being similarly dressed.
But Morgan was recognized, and then Duncan and Bradene. And then, as the company parted around Kelson, anger and fear melted into astonishment and then joy. The king had returned!
“Let’s not make too much fuss, though,” Kelson warned them, after the initial shouting had died down, when one of the priests wanted to begin ringing the cathedral bells, and the overjoyed Squire Dolfin asked whether he ought to ride to the castle to tell Prince Conall the good news. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to tell my cousin myself.”
And so, it was a subdued but barely contained assemblage that began making its way from the cathedral complex up the hill to the castle gate, picking up followers as it went and the word spread. And Kelson, now that he was nearing home, prepared himself to meet his cousin Conall and the woman who was to have been his own queen, but was now his cousin’s wife.
Conall, coming out of his father’s bedchamber, shuddered and pressed the back of a trembling hand to his forehead for a moment when he had closed the door softly behind him. His mother had been bathing the comatose Nigel when Conall came to make his expected daily visit to the royal bedside. Seeing the once powerful body so wasted and frail had been a shock. He had not realized how much his father had deteriorated in two weeks of unconsciousness; and that recognition, colored by his own secret pangs of regret and guilt, made Conall’s own rising star seem less bright—though there was nothing he could do or say about the situation without betraying himself, even if restoring Nigel were within his power.
He had mastered his trembling, but he was still very sober when he returned to the king’s solar to sit in the sunshine and review the draft of a coronation plan submitted by Duke Ewan—premature, perhaps, but it would be necessary to have one ready when Nigel inevitably died, for the semi-limbo status necessitated by a regency ought not to be prolonged overmuch once the regent was king and ready to be crowned. Conall chewed on a heel of new white manchet bread as he read the draft, elegantly booted legs propped on a footstool, enjoying the luxury of one of Kelson’s silk tunics next to his skin, the front and back adorned with golden Haldane lions. He came to his feet immediately, however, as Rothana joined him in the solar, hair unbound and looking sleepy still, wrapped in a fur-lined dressing gown of deep blue velvet.
“Darling, I had thought to let you sleep,” he said, coming to put his arms around her from behind and nuzzle at her neck. “I’m afraid I let you have precious little rest last night. Can you forgive me?”
Her expression, had he been able to see it, might have been read as a trifle resigned or even indulgent, but no hint of anything but proper wifely affection was reflected in her voice.
“There is nothing to forgive, my lord. But I must not sleep the morning away. ’Tis Easter, and I’ve already missed the early Masses.”
“I’ll go with you,” he murmured, turning her to nibble fond kisses across her lips and eyelids. “I’ve been already, but I’ll go again, just to be beside you that much longer.”
“Such devotion will surely gain you much grace, my lord,” she replied, laughing a little as he caught her double meaning and held her even closer, kissing and caressing her as if he could not get enough of her.
“Oh, God, how I adore you, Rothana!” he whispered, when he had drawn back enough to look down into her eyes again. “I want to love you every hour of the day and night. I want to fill you with sons! I want us to be the greatest rulers Gwynedd has ever known, the beginning of an even more glorious line
of Haldanes!”
She smiled a tiny, secret smile as he buried his face against her bosom again, gently stroking his sable hair for several seconds.
“Your wishes are coming true, then, my lord, for I think you have already filled me with sons—or with a son, at least.”
As he pulled back to look down at her in astonishment, she lowered her eyes demurely.
“A son?” Conall breathed. “You’re with child? Rothana, are you sure? How can you know so soon?”
She shrugged. “There are no objective signs yet, but Deryni women often—know. I have never been with child before, of course, but I believe that I have conceived. If so, your heir will be born next winter—a little Haldane prince.”
“A—prince?” Conall whispered, awed. “Then, you know that it’s a son as well?”
“Well, of course, my lord. One can—”
A commotion of some sort had been increasing in the castle yard for several minutes, and Conall held up a hand for silence as he strode to the window and pushed open one of the mullioned panes to look down. A large crowd of men, mostly on foot, many of them garbed in rough border tweeds and plaids, was surging through the gatehouse entrance and moving briskly toward the great hall steps. None of the men seemed belligerently armed, but Conall turned in alarm as booted feet pounded down the corridor outside and fists pounded against the solar door.
“Your Highness! Prince Conall!”
With sudden foreboding, Conall dashed to the door and wrenched it open.
“What is it?”
“The king, Your Highness! The king! He’s come back!”
“My father’s regained consciousness?” Conall gasped.