The Bishop’s Heir

  “You always know the right thing to say, don’t you? Here.” Kelson handed his empty cup to Morgan. “And Duncan, you needn’t nag; I was planning all along to have a nap.”

  “That’s one of the more reasonable things you’ve said all day,” Duncan replied. “You ought to go lie down in your bed, however. You’ll get a crick in your neck if you fall asleep here.”

  “Nag, nag, nag,” Kelson whispered around another yawn. But he smiled as he rose to obey. He was asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. Duncan pulled a fur coverlet more snugly around him and closed the bed curtains, then returned to the chair the king had just vacated.

  “He’s in quite a mood,” Morgan observed. “Anything we should worry about?”

  “I don’t think so. He’s just tired. And shocked far more than he wants to admit, over Loris’ escape. What do you think he’s up to, Alaric?”

  “Loris?” Morgan shook his head and glanced into the dying flames. “Damned if I know. As Kelson said not long ago, however—something terrible.”

  “And Judhael?”

  “The same, I fear.”

  Even as Morgan and Duncan spoke, Loris was making good their suspicions in Ratharkin. Bishop Istelyn, after celebrating the noon Mass, was seized by armed men wearing the livery of the Bishop of Culdi and, still vested, was conducted to the chapel adjoining his apartments. Creoda and Judhael waited near the altar. A third man wearing the same episcopal purple as Creoda knelt close by the altar steps with his back to Istelyn, who could not see his face. Something in the line of the shoulders and bowed head struck a chord of both familiarity and danger.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Istelyn demanded, approaching the three as the guards released him and withdrew.

  Creoda and Judhael moved diffidently to either side as the stranger rose and turned.

  “Hello, Henry,” the stranger said.

  Istelyn froze in the center of the aisle and blanched nearly as white as his alb.

  “Loris!”

  The renegade archbishop folded his hands complacently across his narrow waist and gave a thin smile.

  “Why, Henry, you seem surprised,” he said softly. “But I would have thought that after so many years in Orders, you would know better how to greet your Primate.”

  “Primate?” Istelyn’s jaw dropped. “You must be mad! How did you get in here? You were at Saint Iveagh’s, the last I heard.”

  “Obviously, I am no longer at Saint Iveagh’s,” Loris said in a low, dangerous voice. “Nor was I pleased at my accommodations there—accommodations which you had a part in forcing upon me.”

  For the first time, the true danger of Istelyn’s situation registered. Calling for the guard would do no good, for the men “loaned” him by his supposed benefactor, Creoda, were the same who had brought him here. Nor was Judhael’s presence reassuring. The Mearan priest who had sought the office which Istelyn now held would have no reason to champion his former rival.

  He was totally in their power, with no way to summon help or even to distinguish whose help could be trusted. He supposed that the men left by Bradene were still loyal, but they were probably under guard by now as well. He hoped they had not been harmed. And Loris’ reference to himself as Primate bespoke a far greater treachery than simply the escape of an imprisoned ex-archbishop and his exaction of vengeance against a man who had helped to unseat him from his previous glory.

  “What do you want of me?” Istelyn said carefully. “Your pretense to the Primacy is treasonous and your very presence in Ratharkin illegal. And Creoda—” He shifted his gaze to the betraying bishop. “You and Father Judhael also tread on extremely dangerous ground if you harbor this man. Was all your offer of assistance merely a sham to gain my confidence until this fugitive could join you in your betrayal of Mother Church?”

  Judhael said nothing, though his jaw tightened in resentment, but Creoda smiled pleasantly and inclined his head.

  “We perceive no betrayal of Mother Church,” he said amiably. “Rather, we perceive the actions of the consistory and the king as a betrayal of the Mearan people. Father Judhael should have been bishop here—not you. It’s as simple as that. And Archbishop Loris ought never to have been relieved of his office and imprisoned like a common felon. We feel that the time has come to rectify the error, Henry.”

  “What error?” Istelyn demanded. “His own brother bishops pronounced judgment on him, Creoda. You were there. Nor do I recollect any outbursts of righteous indignation on your part at the time.”

  Creoda raised an unconcerned eyebrow. “I was ill-informed.”

  “You mean you’ve since been bought! What did he offer you, Creoda? You’re Bishop of Culdi, for God’s sake! What could a disgraced archbishop possibly have offered you that was better than that?”

  “You would do well to remember who and where you are, Bishop,” Loris said pointedly. “And you will either cooperate or pay the price reserved for traitors. We shall begin with Meara: the seating of a Mearan priest upon an episcopal throne in Meara, the restoration of the legitimate Mearan royal line, and the extension of Meara’s borders to her previous boundaries. Meara shall be an independent princedom once more, with her own ecclesiastical hierarchy—”

  “Headed by yourself, no doubt,” said Istelyn.

  “Yes, headed by myself. And then we shall cleanse error from the land in Meara and eventually in Gwynedd and the rest of the Eleven Kingdoms. Deryni heresy has corrupted even the mighty. It must be obliterated. This time, we shall not fail.”

  “But, the king is part Deryni,” Istelyn murmured.

  “A crown does not confer immunity from the just wrath of an offended God!” Loris thundered, drawing himself to self-righteous attention. “The king has erred; the king must be chastised. If it would change the past, I would strike off my own hand which poured the sacred oil upon his head! His error must be burned from him, even unto death, if necessary, for the sake of his immortal soul! The Lord’s trust has been betrayed. The Lord will repay!”

  “He’s gone mad,” Istelyn murmured under his breath, shaking his head as he turned half away. “They’ve all gone utterly mad.”

  He heard the rustle of episcopal silk coming nearer and glanced back to see Loris almost within reach of him, Creoda and Judhael flanking him to either side.

  “I give you one chance and one chance only for clemency,” Loris said, raising a single finger to illustrate his point. “If you will assist Creoda and myself in consecrating Father Judhael a bishop, I shall permit you the same kind of ‘honorable retirement’ to which you so generously consigned me for the past two years. It is more than you deserve.”

  “And all I must do to be granted this magnanimous favor is betray my archbishop and my king by raising a traitor in my stead,” Istelyn said. “I decline the honor.”

  “I should not be too hasty, if I were you,” Loris warned. “Do not let misplaced loyalties lead you to your death.”

  “Do not threaten me!” Istelyn snapped. “I’ll not turn traitor for offices or riches or even to save my own life. Nor will I lift one finger to assist your illegal consecration of that man.”

  “I beg of you, Henry, be reasonable,” Creoda said.

  “Oh, I am. I’m being quite reasonable. And it occurs to me that there’s only one reason you’d be courting my assistance to consecrate your Mearan traitor. You need another bishop’s hands to make it valid, don’t you?”

  Eyes narrowed and dangerous, Loris slowly shook his head. “There is nothing I need from you, Istelyn. Judhael shall have his sacring whether you will it or no.”

  “Not by my hand.”

  “If defiance gives you comfort, then so be it,” Loris replied. “But do not make the mistake of thinking that your refusal will make it impossible to consecrate Judhael. Surely you do not think I would embark upon this holy crusade if I did not have further support among the episcopate of a reunited Meara? The Bishop of Cashien and two itinerant bishops are within Ratharkin’s walls
even as we speak, and Lachlan and Calder arrive with the Lady Caitrin’s party within a few days—so we will have twice the number needed to make Judhael’s consecration valid.”

  “Twice the number of traitors,” Istelyn countered.

  Loris’ eyes narrowed. “You are as stiff-necked as ever, Istelyn. I believe I am becoming bored with this conversation. Judhael, ask the guards to come in, please. Father Istelyn will be going to his new quarters now.”

  “In the dungeons?” Istelyn asked, as Judhael bowed and moved past him to obey.

  Loris returned him a prim smile. “I am not a man wholly lacking of a sense of propriety, Henry. Out of respect for the office you still technically hold, you shall be detained in reasonable comfort until after Judhael’s consecration as bishop.” He signed to the entering guards to wait just inside the doors. “For the sake of propriety, however, I shall require that you remove your vestments before going to your new quarters. We should not want sacred raiment soiled, should you decide to resist your escort.”

  The mere suggestion that guards might lay hands upon him while still vested for the altar sent a chill up Istelyn’s spine, but he knew the threat was not an idle one. Loris’ hard eyes had convinced him early on that there would be no quarter, even had he agreed to terms. Slowly he removed the violet chasuble with its somber symbols of Advent and laid it across the waiting arms of Judhael, followed by maniple, cincture, stole, amice, and alb. Finally he stood before them clad only in the violet cassock, slippers, and skullcap of a bishop, clasping the jewelled pectoral cross on his breast in silent affirmation of his continued defiance. A guard came from behind and laid a fur-lined cloak around his shoulders, and Istelyn nodded surprised thanks as he drew it around himself against the cold.

  “Bishop Istelyn is to lodge temporarily with the young Master of Transha,” Loris told the guard captain. “Please escort him there with such respect as his behavior warrants. He is to receive no visitors. He has our leave to celebrate Mass privately and to minister to the boy, and may have what he needs for either intention. You may go now.”

  The guards started toward him, but Istelyn ignored them to shoulder numbly past Loris and Creoda and make a reverent obeisance before the altar. He wore his dignity like a mantle as he rose and went to his captors, even though he was sick with fear inside, but the guards responded to the outward nobility of the man and fell into step as a true escort rather than a custodial force. He managed not to start shaking until they had closed the door of his prison chamber behind him. He did not know how long he stood there with his back against the door, trembling and fighting down the nausea of defeat, until gradually he became aware of eyes watching him from the shadows of a fur-covered pallet near the pleasant fire.

  “Who’s there?” he called softly.

  “Forgive me for not rising to greet you, Excellency,” a young voice answered, “but my ribs hurt me if I move too much. You must be Bishop Istelyn.”

  “I am.”

  Cautiously Istelyn moved closer. The boyish face the firelight revealed was far younger than he had been expecting. Below a greyish bandage tied around the boy’s forehead, tawny eyes gazed up at him with disconcerting directness, though a reddish smudge of mustache marked him as a little older than Istelyn had first thought—perhaps fourteen or fifteen. Dark circles stained the fair skin underneath the eyes. It was evident the lad had lived with pain for some time.

  “You must be the young Master of Transha,” Istelyn said, crouching down beside the pallet.

  “Almost the late Master of Transha, thanks to Loris’ escort,” the boy replied, offering a hand from underneath his sleeping furs and essaying a tentative smile. “I’m called Dhugal by my friends. This hardly seems the place for overmuch formality.”

  Istelyn took the extended hand briefly and returned the smile. “Then I shall call you Dhugal, young laird, since we seem to be destined at least to be colleagues. Did they hurt you very badly?”

  “The horses hurt me about as much as the men, I suppose,” Dhugal admitted, settling back against his mound of pillows with a barely bitten-back grimace. “After I got knocked off my pony, I was kicked a couple of times and nearly trampled. The men only hit me in the head. I’ve some cracked ribs, but at least the headaches seem to be letting up. What day is it?”

  “The fifth of December,” Istelyn responded. “We’re in Advent season. Shall I look at your injuries? I haven’t much skill in such matters, but perhaps I can do something.”

  Dhugal closed his eyes briefly and managed a slight nod. “Thank you. I can tell you what to do. I’ve had training as a battle surgeon myself, but there’s only so much one can do on oneself as patient. Have a look. My ribs are the worst just now.”

  Dhugal was nude beneath the sleeping furs, his slender torso and limbs displaying the number of old scars one might expect of a lad trained in warrior disciplines, but Istelyn sucked in breath between his teeth at the massive bruising across the left ribcage. Another bruise purpled the top of the right thigh in the precise outline of a horseshoe. Istelyn could even see the prints of the nails which had held the shoe in place.

  “That one looks much worse than it is,” Dhugal said, brushing the bruise lightly with his right hand. “Which is not to say it doesn’t hurt, or that I won’t limp for a while, but at least I didn’t break my leg. If they’ll give you bandages, or if something can be improvised, I need you to bind my chest. Without support, even breathing can be an agony if I move the wrong way. And coughing—”

  As Dhugal braced both hands over his ribcage to draw a deeper breath carefully, Istelyn looked alarmed.

  “You haven’t punctured a lung, have you?”

  Dhugal shook his head and winced as he pulled the furs back up to his waist. “I don’t think so. I’m not coughing blood. I’d give a lot for a good night’s sleep, though.”

  “Loris said I might have medical supplies,” Istelyn said. “Perhaps they’ll have something to help you sleep. What about your head? Any actual wounds?”

  Dhugal flinched as the bishop pulled the bandage from his head and began probing gently beneath the reddish hair.

  “No—and I don’t think I’ve missed any fractures. It’s just the headaches, and they’re letting up.”

  “All right.” Istelyn managed a shaky smile as he rose and glanced apprehensively at the door. “Let’s see whether Loris meant what he said about medical supplies.”

  An hour later, bundled in a cloak against the cold, Dhugal was sitting gingerly in a chair beside the fire and feeling more comfortable than he had since before his capture. So long as he did not breathe too deeply, the bandages Istelyn had bound around his chest gave him enough support so that his ribs no longer hurt beyond a dull ache—and that was fast receding as he sipped at the cup of wine he had directed Istelyn to prepare.

  “This should make me sleep at least through the night,” he told the bishop, as he took another swallow of the drugged wine and let the bitter undertaste roll over the back of his tongue. “If they’ll let you have more, I want you to keep me sedated for at least another day and night beyond that. I don’t like leaving myself so vulnerable, but unfortunately sleep and rest are still the best treatments I know for head injuries like mine.” He sighed dismally. “It’s too bad Kelson isn’t here. He could—”

  He broke off and glanced at the bishop furtively as he realized what he had almost said, afraid even a veiled reference to the king’s newfound powers might offend the human Istelyn. To his horror, Istelyn seemed to know exactly what he had been about to say.

  “He could do what?” the bishop asked. “Help you in some way with his magic?”

  Dhugal swallowed audibly, trying to stay on guard. The drug was loosening his tongue as well as damping the pain. Istelyn seemed trustworthy, but this was hardly the time to begin so controversial a discussion with a man whose sympathies were unknown.

  “I—don’t want to offend you, Excellency, but most clergy aren’t altogether tolerant of—ah—magic. P
lease forget I said anything.”

  “Ah, then his magic frightens you.”

  “I—I’d rather not talk about it,” Dhugal whispered, feeling trapped.

  Istelyn cocked his head, then glanced back at the closed door before leaning closer to Dhugal.

  “Why not?” he asked. “You spoke of the king with affection and familiarity, as if you were his friend. Do you think there’s something wrong with his—ah—let’s call them ‘talents,’ if you don’t like the term ‘magic,’ shall we?”

  “It isn’t that,” Dhugal murmured.

  “Is it that you aren’t sure of me, then?” Istelyn persisted. “You’ve already trusted me with your life.”

  “That trust is mine to give; Kelson’s isn’t.”

  “I can appreciate that.”

  The bishop’s eyes did not leave Dhugal’s as he sipped at his wine—which made Dhugal increasingly anxious—but after a few seconds the man sighed and gave a tiny smile, raising his cup in resigned salute.

  “I don’t blame you for trying to shield the king, son, but why don’t you let me tell you how I feel about him? I can’t prove that I’m telling the truth, but you’re smart enough to judge for yourself. I wasn’t present at Dhassa when Loris and the rebel bishops split off from the Curia, but I sided with the king as soon as I learned of it. I was with his army at Dol Shaia. It was I who had to bring him the news that Loris had excommunicated him and placed the kingdom under Interdict.”

  He sighed again, then went on. “Now I’ve put myself on the line again where His Majesty is concerned. Loris wants me to help him consecrate Judhael of Meara a bishop. I’ve refused, and he’ll probably kill me for it. I swear by all I hold sacred that I’m not lying, Dhugal. I don’t care that the king’s Deryni—not the way Loris does, at any rate. It seems to me that Kelson’s done only good with his powers. Or are you going to try to tell me differently?”

  “Of course not.”

  Dhugal looked away into the flickering flames and made himself take another swallow of the drugged wine, even though he knew it would make him only more vulnerable to the bishop’s questioning. He believed Istelyn. And even if the bishop were no better than the others ensconced here at Ratharkin, it could do little further harm to Kelson’s already checquered reputation for Dhugal to report that he had seen the king put an injured man to sleep with magic. Far worse had been alleged in the past two years, and by far more important people than a fifteen-year-old border lord.