The Bishop’s Heir

  “This arrived within the present hour, my prince,” Morgan said, scanning the narthex as he signalled Nigel to pull the door shut behind them. “I had a little difficulty finding where you’d gone. It’s a reply from Ratharkin, though I fear it isn’t the answer any of us would have wished.”

  The parchment was heavy with pendant seals and dark with the meticulous script of someone who had favored a broad nib to his pen. Kelson skipped over the first few lines, with their expected formulae of titles and assumed titles. The crux of the message was contained in only a few terse phrases.

  … that We do not intend to surrender ourselves; and further, that if you do not immediately give indication of your willingness to return our son and daughter, Bishop Henry Istelyn will suffer for it. As earnest of our determination, We send you his ring….

  The missive was signed by Caitrin and Sicard, as co-rulers of Meara, and witnessed by Prince Ithel, Archbishop Loris, and a host of other bishops, expected and unexpected, eight in all.

  “I can’t say I’m surprised at the demand,” Kelson observed, scanning the script a second time, “though I am surprised at the amount of support Loris managed to gather in so short a time. He must have been laying his groundwork for several years—all the while he was in prison. He almost got enough names to set up a counter-synod like last time. Do you think he will, Duncan?”

  “I should think it almost inevitable, Sire,” Duncan replied, peering over his shoulder.

  “There’s more to it, I’m afraid,” Morgan said, drawing a small wooden box out of the front of his tunic. “This was with the letter. It’s going to put you in a very unenviable position.”

  “I’m already in an unenviable position,” Kelson said, taking the box and turning it to worry at the clasp, “though I fail to see what Caitrin thinks she can offer that would make me trade Sidana and Llewell for Istelyn.”

  “I suspect we have Loris to thank for this little piece of work,” Morgan said quietly, as Kelson opened the box. “The note, at least, is his. The rest, I fear, is from Istelyn. And more than just his ring.”

  Kelson’s eyes widened and he recoiled so violently that he nearly dropped the box.

  “Sweet Jesu!” he gasped, his eyes darting to the others as if to seek denial of what his eyes saw. “Look what they’ve done!”

  Lying on a curl of closely inscribed parchment inside was Istelyn’s bishop’s ring, with the cut-off finger still inside.

  “And Loris threatens to send ever more important parts of our captive bishop until you relent,” Morgan said quietly.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Let our strength be the law of justice: for that which is feeble is found to be nothing worth.

  —Wisdom of Solomon 2:11

  “I had begun to suspect Loris had no conscience, but I never dreamed even he would be this ruthless,” Archbishop Bradene said a short time later, when the king had presented his council with Caitrin’s ultimatim and Loris’ grisly postscript. “Certainly I never thought the Lady Caitrin would be a party to such an act.”

  “You underestimate the lady’s desire to be queen, Sire,” Ewan muttered.

  Cardiel nodded grimly. “His Grace is right, Sire. Nor should we forget how persuasive Loris can be when it suits him. God knows he nearly fooled many of us, two years ago. And he’s certainly fooled the other bishops who’ve joined him this time, in Ratharkin.”

  “Just now, my concern is with the bishop who didn’t join him,” Kelson said, “and whose finger lies in that box.”

  His curt gesture between himself and Morgan, where the box weighted a corner of the offensive letter, renewed the anger which had flared in every heart at his first reporting of the outrage.

  “Unfortunately, I fear this is only a taste of what Loris has in store for Istelyn,” Kelson went on after a studied pause. “Be that as it may, I cannot agree to the Mearan terms. Nor may I sacrifice my kingdom for the sake of one man, however precious he may be to all of us. As my council, you must know that at the outset.”

  They were not his full council, for several important members had not yet arrived from their outland holdings to keep the compulsory Christmas Court with the king, but they represented some of Gwynedd’s finest minds. Kelson knew some of those minds in quite a literal sense; but without making unwarranted use of his powers, he could only guess about the others.

  Morgan was no mystery, of course—at least in his feelings on this matter. Seated as usual at the king’s right hand, he was as close as a touch, whether of hand or of mind. Morgan had spent his outrage on his first inspection of the letter and the box, so that now only cool purpose remained—that his old adversary should not have the ultimate victory.

  Duncan occupied the next chair, where once his father and brother had sat as Duke of Cassan and Earl of Kierney; and after him came Ewan, senior of Gwynedd’s three nonroyal dukes. Kelson sensed an uneasiness in Duncan which was as much an aftereffect of their interplay with Dhugal as a concern about Istelyn, but Ewan required no Deryni reading at all; he would say what he thought, when he thought it, as he always had.

  Beyond Ewan sat Bishops Arilan and Hugh de Berry—the Deryni Arilan, whom Kelson could not have read even if he dared to try, and the earnest and faithful Hugh, touchingly human. Arilan had resigned a council seat on taking up the See of Dhassa, but Hugh had never been a member. Hugh had been secretary to Loris’ deceased colleague, Patrick Corrigan, however, which meant he knew Loris as well as any man present.

  Dhugal knew Loris, too—not as intimately, but certainly more recently—and he was acquainted with the Mearan royal family as well, which none of the rest of them were. He was not an official member of the council either, though Kelson planned to remedy that once Dhugal had been formally confirmed as Earl of Transha. Now that they had been reunited, the king wanted his foster brother at his side—especially in light of Dhugal’s unexpected but intriguing shields. The recent probing of those shields, as well as Dhugal’s on-going discomfort from his aggravated injuries, had left the young border lord a little shaky, but he was at Kelson’s side now, perched self-consciously on a stool between Kelson and Archbishop Bradene.

  Archbishop Cardiel sat next to Bradene, and Jodrell and Saer de Traherne beyond them, all four new to the council since Kelson’s accession. Nigel occupied the chair at the opposite end of the table, as heir presumptive, with Conall as an unofficial observer at his right.

  “No one questions your position, Sire,” Bradene said quietly, when a few of the others began to fidget at the lengthy silence. “Least of all would Istelyn question it. According to what young Dhugal has told us, Istelyn is totally resigned to the consequences of his loyalty.” He sighed. “I fear we can do nothing save to offer up our prayers for his deliverance.”

  “Prayers will not deliver him from the agony Loris intends for him,” Arilan murmured under his breath. “If I could give him the coup and save him Loris’ spite, I would.”

  Arilan’s open espousal of an act the Church forbade as murder startled Bradene and Hugh, each only recently emerged from the relative shelter of cloister or academia. But the coup de grâce was an acknowledged if reluctantly practiced fact of life to the battle-seasoned—a human mercy to friend or foe when only pointless suffering lay between a man and death. Other than the two bishops, only Conall was yet unblooded in that regard. Even Dhugal had not escaped the grim initiation. Most of the young border lord’s experience had been limited to animals sick or injured past healing, but once it had been one of his own clansmen shattered in a fall from a river cliff, and no one else was nearby to take responsibility. The man had been beyond speech already by the time Dhugal reached him, hardly a bone unbroken in his twisted body, but the pain-glazed eyes had begged for release, all the suffering ending as Dhugal drew his dirk across the pulsing throat. Dhugal had just turned thirteen.

  As Nigel cleared his throat impatiently and sat forward, Dhugal jerked himself back from memory and suppressed a shudder, glad that the decision about th
e unfortunate Istelyn was none of theirs to make. He knew no one blamed him for not bringing Istelyn out of Ratharkin, but he regretted his inability nonetheless. The bishop had been a brave man and a welcome friend for the short time Dhugal had known him, even if they had disagreed over points of conscience.

  “We serve neither Istelyn nor ourselves by brooding on this further,” Nigel said quietly, breaking the awkward silence. “No one regrets his situation more than I, for he has been a good friend as well as a faithful shepherd to the Church, but I think we must address more constructive concerns.” He looked directly down the table at Kelson. “Sire, Loris may seem the greater threat at the moment, but his importance is directly related to the influence and support of the Lady Caitrin. Break her and you will break him as well.”

  Kelson inclined his head in wry agreement. “I should like very much to do both, Uncle. Unfortunately, I fear that any meaningful forcing of that issue must wait until the spring.”

  “Well, thank the heavens for that bit of wisdom,” Ewan muttered under his breath. “I thought he might be intending to gallop off to Meara again tonight!”

  “In this weather?” Bradene asked, shocked.

  Morgan, sensing the disapproval under Ewan’s gruff aside, flashed a warning look at Kelson.

  “I think His Majesty is quite aware of the situation, Ewan,” he said easily. “In any case, even were it not for the weather, we’ve lost our element of surprise. Our foray into Meara went unchallenged because no one expected us to venture forth on the edge of the season’s first storm. They’ll be ready for us next time.”

  “They’ll be ready for a military offensive, yes,” Nigel countered. “However, I have in mind an offensive which requires no military action whatsoever. The means of accomplishing that offensive is already in your hands, Sire.”

  Expressionless, Kelson sat back in his chair and lowered his eyes, tracing the carving on the chair arm with one fingertip. He suspected he knew what was coming. He had hoped to avoid the question indefinitely.

  “If you’re referring to our hostages, Uncle, I don’t make war on women and children.”

  “Nor am I asking you to do so,” Nigel said. “I would remind you, however, that not all wars are won on the battlefield.”

  Before Kelson could frame a reply, Ewan’s bearded face creased in a lecherous grin.

  “He means the marriage bed, lad. Now, there’s a merry winter’s sport! I told ye a bride was what ye needed. An’ wouldn’t that frost her mother?”

  “Ewan, please!”

  Kelson’s rebuke stilled the old duke’s tongue, but it did not wipe the grin from his face or extinguish the gleam in his eyes. Nigel was studying his royal nephew with a mixture of compassion and resolution, not liking the suggestion any more than Kelson did. To Kelson’s left, Archbishop Bradene looked dubious, Cardiel thoughtful. As Bradene cleared his throat, all eyes instantly turned toward him.

  “Sire, it appears that between them, Their Noble Graces have just suggested a marriage with the Lady Sidana,” Bradene said quietly.

  “The Princess Sidana, by Mearan reckoning, Excellency,” Nigel amended, “and heiress to what they regard as the legitimate royal line.”

  “But it isn’t the legitimate royal line,” Kelson pointed out. “And even if it were, she has a mother and two brothers ahead of her.”

  “The mother is not a young woman,” Nigel countered. “Even if she were to escape us, you have time on your side. You can easily outwait her. Of the brothers, one is in our hands already and the other eventually will be taken or slain in battle. Eliminate the two of them and marry Sidana—not necessarily in that order—and the Mearan royal line will become the legitimate line in your children’s generation, as should have been done in your great-grandfather’s time.”

  From the animation of the discussion that followed, it soon became apparent that the notion had already occurred to at least a few of them, probably from the moment Sidana rode through the city gates in Morgan’s arms. Kelson mostly listened for the first few minutes, occasionally exchanging uneasy looks with Morgan, Dhugal, or Duncan; but when at last he held up a hand for silence, he had shuttered his true feelings behind a facade which even Morgan could not pierce.

  “There is a certain logic in what my uncle has proposed, my lords,” the king said carefully. “I will tell you from the outset that this is not the first time the lady in question has been proposed as a potential royal bride. When I was in Transha a few weeks ago, Lord Dhugal’s late father also extolled the lady’s suitability—not as an uncle seeking rich dowry for his niece, but as a loyal liegeman suggesting a possible way to ease the tension which has been increasing along the Mearan border for the last several years.”

  “Old Caulay offered you her hand and you didn’t tell us?” Ewan blurted, eyes flashing above his bushy beard. “Why, that old fox!”

  “He didn’t offer me her hand, Ewan!” Kelson retorted, allowing himself a sigh of exasperation. “He wasn’t in any position to make me such an offer. He simply pointed out the obvious advantages of such a match. Sidana was still in Meara at the time.”

  “And now that she is in Gwynedd?” Nigel asked.

  Kelson closed his eyes briefly and drew a deep breath, then let it out with a patient sigh.

  “Frankly, the idea terrifies me. I don’t even know the girl. But I’m a king first and a man second. If such an alliance would ease the tension along the border and help secure peace, then I would be less than true to my coronation oath if I did not give it my wholehearted support.”

  “It might just do that, Sire,” Jodrell said thoughtfully. “I know the Mearans. My patrols go back and forth across the border constantly. Caitrin’s sons or Sidana’s sons—it would make no difference to most folk. They’ve been sending sons and husbands and brothers off to war with Gwynedd for over a hundred years.”

  “I doubt a marriage with Sidana would stop that,” Saer de Traherne said. “Unless Caitrin does submit by Christmas, which I think highly unlikely in light of that,” he gestured curtly toward the letter and box, “there’s still going to be a war in the spring—at least until we take her and Ithel.”

  Bishop Hugh, silent until then, sat forward and raised a hand for recognition.

  “Sire, forgive me if I speak out of turn, but might not a marriage with Sidana be used to negotiate a true peace? Perhaps Caitrin would be willing to renounce her claim, if she were assured that her daughter would be queen of a united Meara and Gwynedd.”

  Dhugal shook his head emphatically. “Not a chance, Excellency. Even if she would, Ithel wouldn’t. He’s full of plans for when he’s king. Llewell’s little better, though at least we have him in custody.”

  “The lad is right, Sire,” Jodrell agreed. “Marriage with Sidana might provide an ultimate solution, but we’ll still have to take Caitrin and Ithel—and any other Mearan heirs, while we’re at it—before it would be meaningful. Judhael, in particular. Mearan partisans might pass over Sidana if another male heir could be persuaded to take up the cause.”

  “We will deal with Judhael, my lord,” Arilan said pointedly. “You need not worry about a renegade priest. The marriage does have its merits, though. Sire, from what has been said, I assume that you would be willing to enter such a union. Is that a correct assumption?”

  Kelson shrugged, making a game attempt to appear casual. “If I must. However, a great deal depends upon the lady. She may not want to marry me.”

  Ewan snorted. “She’ll do as she’s told, if she knows what’s good for her!”

  “And suppose she doesn’t?” Kelson asked.

  Jodrell shrugged. “She is your hostage, Sire. If such is your desire, I hardly think she has much choice in the matter.”

  “Oh? And if I drag her to the altar against her will, how then for the sanctity of our marriage vows?” Kelson retorted. “What say you, Archbishop?”

  As Bradene squirmed under the royal scrutiny, Arilan shook his head. “It is not required that the bride b
e eager, Sire, only willingly resigned. And if the wooing is carried out with—the proper delicacy,” he arched an eyebrow knowingly at the king, “I think she would not be unwilling.”

  His glance at Kelson conveyed all the potential of a Deryni king’s ability to persuade, without even resorting to his own Deryni abilities. Kelson read his meaning instantly, a little sick at heart, and knew by Morgan’s quickly damped flare of indignation that he had read it, too.

  With a chill smile, Kelson leaned back in his chair and allowed himself a resigned sigh.

  “I take your meaning, Bishop,” he said quietly, trying to put out of mind the temptation Arilan had just presented him. “If wooing’s to be done, however, I’ll do it in my own fashion. For the sake of my kingdom, I’ll even take her by force if I must. I’m sure a priest could be found who would turn a blind eye to her protests,” he added dryly. “But if peace can be secured some other way, without much loss of life, then I would as soon not wed for now. We still have time.”

  “And does Istelyn have time?” Bradene demanded. “How do you intend to answer that?”

  As he gestured angrily toward the box across from him and Kelson, the king slapped his open palm against the table in consternation.

  “Obviously I cannot answer it, Archbishop! I have already said that I can do nothing for Istelyn. I shall reiterate our demand that Caitrin and her son submit to me by Christmas.”

  “And if she does not?”

  Kelson sighed heavily, his momentary anger deflated.

  “If she does not, then I shall take the Princess Sidana to wife at Twelfth Night and send out summons of array for a spring campaign.”

  “Alas, I fear that will mean Istelyn’s death,” Cardiel said, as murmurs of concurrence rippled around the table.