The Bastard Prince (17 page)

A squire bore a torch before them as they carefully descended the dim newel stair, and Michaela's ladies followed with another torch. The sounds of voices drifted up on the damp air to meet them as they approached the screens passage, whence they would enter the dais end of the great hall. Just as they reached the landing, little Owain broke away from an indulgent nurse and came running to join them, crimson-clad and joyous, miniature Haldane lions emblazoned bold across breast and back, though differenced by a label of the eldest son. He shrieked with delight as his father scooped him up to ride on his shoulders.

Thus did King Rhys Michael Alister Haldane make his way through the great hall and on to the Chapel Royal, with his queen on one arm and his laughing young son overseeing all from his superior height. Those gathered in the hall gave them reverence as they passed—courtiers and officers and a few of their ladies, some of the latter sniffing back tears to see the young prince thus. Those set to accompany the king on his expedition fell in behind, to join him for the Mass of Dedication that would send them blessed on their way.

Not until Mass was well in progress did Michaela find the opportunity to pass on Rhysel's news. Owain had gotten fidgety very quickly, once the Mass began, so Lirin had taken him out to be handed back to his nurse. Hubert was intoning a seemingly endless Gospel.

“… The harvest truly is great, but the labourers are few; pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that he would send forth labourers into his harvest. Go your ways: behold, I send you forth as lambs among wolves …”

Close your eyes and don't react to this
, Michaela sent to Rhysem, as they stood with hands clasped between them in the folds of her cloak, and Hubert's voice droned on and on. She wanted to bow her head, to retreat further into the hood of her cloak, but one could not incline one's head too far forward while wearing a crown.

Rhysel had more news this morning
, she went on, hoping her concentration would be taken for attention to the reading.
Joram and Tieg ran into Dimitri after they left us last night. They took him prisoner and
—
did things to him. It wasn't only the great lords he was working for—but he serves our purposes now. Rhysel says he won't be useful for very long
—
his conflicting loyalties are going to catch up with him, probably before you reach Eastmarch
—
but meanwhile, don't be surprised if things happen
.

He had managed not to react as she passed the message, but he did dare a glance at her before averting his eyes again and pretending to be caught up in the service.

What do you mean, if things happen?

She squeezed his hand more tightly and swallowed.

He was supposed to kill people. He still will. Except that Joram has changed some of the targets
.

Who chose the original targets?
Rhys Michael demanded.

Miklos of Torenth, acting for Marek. That's all I know
.

He withdrew from her then. He still kept hold of her hand, but she sensed he had retreated to some intensely private place deep inside his mind where, at least for now, she was not welcome. He remained tightly shuttered until, at the offertory, he squeezed her hand, with a whisper bade her stay in her place, and went forward to remove his crown and lay it on the altar before the startled Archbishop Hubert.

“Your Grace, as I prepare to embark upon this journey, I offer up this endeavor to the greater glory of God and for the continued freedom of this kingdom from those who would usurp her sovereignty,” he said quietly, hoping Hubert would not guess the double meaning in his words. “May Culliecairn be freed, and may God give us victory.”

With that he retreated to the lowest altar step and knelt there for the remainder of the Mass, head humbly bowed over clasped hands. Later, he could not have said he exactly spent the time in prayer, but he certainly found much food for contemplation in the news Michaela had brought him. To his surprise, when the time came for Communion, Hubert gave him the Cup as well as the Host.

It was meant as an honor and sign of approval from Hubert, he knew, but for some reason he found it profoundly disturbing. It had nothing to do with religion. Drinking of the Sacred Blood brought more personal images of blood flashing through his mind—his own blood of the night before, shed by Joram and then by his own hand; the blood of friends slain on the day of the coup, six years before; Javan's bloodless body when they had brought it home,
his
royal blood soaking a field Rhys Michael had never seen, by a river ford north of Valoret, where his slayers had cut him down untimely; and more blood on Rhys Michael's hands—a great deal of it—whether his own or that of others, he could not tell. At one point, the sensation of wetness was so intense that he even wiped his palms surreptitiously on his thighs. Then he had to clasp his hands again to keep from shaking.

Hubert must have taken his trembling for fervor, for after the Mass was concluded, with Michaela called to kneel beside him, he blessed Rhys Michael with a special benediction and put the crown back on his head, leaving them then for a final moment alone before they must make a public parting. Speaking briefly with Paulin afterward, while they waited for the king and queen to appear on the great hall steps, Hubert remarked that he thought it boded well for the expedition that the king voluntarily should offer up his crown upon the altar of God.

“It bespeaks a dedication I had not expected,” Hubert said. “I am also forced to wonder whether receiving the Cup sparked some sort of religious conversion. Hitherto, I would have described the king's attitude toward religion as indifferent. Oh, he goes through the motions readily enough—but you know what I mean.”

Paulin was noncommittal, but assured Hubert of his ongoing concern for the king's spiritual welfare—so long as that did not compromise the great lords' intentions for Gwynedd.

“A tame king is an altogether useful thing,” Paulin said, “but this particular one occasionally shows disturbing flashes of independence. I begin to think that he may well become expendable, once the new heir is born.”

“Has something happened to make you more wary?” Hubert asked.

Paulin shook his head. “Nothing specific that I can point out to you. But guard the young prince well, Hubert, and pray that his mother is granted safe delivery of another healthy son. I do not trust his father. I shall have Dimitri keep a close watch on him.”

C
HAPTER
N
INE

Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy: when I fall, I shall arise; when I sit in darkness, the Lord shall be a light unto me.

—Micah 7:8

Rhys Michael had not expected even the ragged cheer that went up as he and Michaela came out onto the great hall steps. The castle yard was packed with rows of bright-clad men on horses, from heavy cavalry and lancers to mounted archers and scouts—but no infantry, for the great lords had decided that men on foot would slow the army's pace too much. For like reason, only a modest baggage train waited outside the open gates to accompany the campaign; provisioning and additional men would come from the estates through which they passed en route north.

The cheer receded into the general din as king and queen slowly descended the steps. Cathan was waiting to lay a thick woolen cloak around the king's shoulders—Haldane crimson, with the Haldane brooch to clasp it at the throat. Rhys Michael drew it gratefully around him, for a fine mist still hung on the air and a pewter-colored sky promised more rain to come. As Michaela fastened the clasp, Rhys Michael cast his gaze over the waiting men, trying to read their mood.

His commanders were waiting for him at the foot of the steps, mounted and ready. He had chosen none of them. Albertus, the earl marshal, had several of his
Custodes
officers around him, and Rhun sat his horse beside Fulk Fitz-Arthur, who had the Haldane battle standard footed in his stirrup. Fulk's younger brother Quiric held the reins of the reliable grey destrier Rhys Michael was to ride, and other squires tended Cathan's bay and an ill-tempered roan that belonged to Earl Udaut, the castle's constable, who was consulting with Earl Tammaron off to one side.

Others of the great lords who would be going along were also gathered in the yard behind Albertus and Rhun: Hubert's brother Manfred, instructing the captain of a smart-looking contingent of lancers in Culdi livery; Richard Murdoch, husband to Michaela's Lady Lirin, with a company of archers in the colors of Carthane, perhaps a score of them.

Farther back, Paulin had joined a handful of black-clad men whose red-and-gold cinctures marked them as
Custodes Fidei
. Rhys Michael recognized a few of the faces, but he did not spot Dimitri—though he had no time to really look for him. Behind Paulin were ranged at least thirty black-clad
Custodes
knights in their red-fringed white sashes. Other lesser lords also sat beneath their banners at the head of more modest contingents—Lord Ainslie, Richard's brother Cashel, and others Rhys Michael did not recognize. He guessed their total number at about a hundred, not counting servants and support personnel—not many, to defy a Torenthi prince and a bastard pretender. But several hundred more would join them as they passed close to Valoret and Caerrorie and Sheele, in addition to whatever men were already massing from Eastmarch and points north.

Quiet began settling on the company as old Archbishop Oriss tottered out onto the great hall steps in cope and mitre, supported by Hubert and leaning on his crozier, for as Archbishop of Rhemuth, it was he who had the honor of blessing the troops. Tammaron approached Rhys Michael, ready to summon him before Oriss, but the king was already removing his crown, giving it into Michaela's keeping. Owain's nurse had brought the boy back to rejoin his parents, bundled in a miniature scarlet cloak against the damp, and Rhys Michael bent to pick up the boy and kiss him.

He turned to face the archbishops then, kneeling with the boy in his arms. A hush fell over the assembled men as they realized he intended so to receive Oriss' benediction.

Into the settling silence came the rustle of pennoned lances being lowered in salute, the mounted archers saluting with their unstrung bows, cased in oilskin to keep away the damp. Helmeted heads bowed as Oriss lifted a palsied right hand, and the Haldane standard dipped.

“
Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus: Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus.
”

“
Amen
,” Rhys Michael responded, with a hundred other voices, as he crossed himself in blessing, repeating the sign over his young son, then got slowly to his feet. Out of the silence behind him arose a cheer from a hundred throats, as lances again were lifted and bows were brandished. After kissing his son on both cheeks, Rhys Michael gave the boy back into his mother's care, then chastely took her hand and kissed it, meeting her eyes only briefly in final, wordless farewell.

Then he was turning to descend the steps, pulling on his gauntlets, and mounting up on the big grey stallion that Cathan now held for him. He dared not look back at the pair standing on the steps. Quiric handed up the open-faced helm circled by its coronet of gold, and as Rhys Michael settled it on his head, he became suddenly aware of the Haldane standard close by in Fulk's hand—and that only once before had he ridden under that banner in his own right, as king, on that murky and best-forgotten day of his coronation, with his brain dulled by the great lords' drugs and his heart still aching for his slain brother, who should have been king instead of him.

The old grief caught at his throat, and he longed to take the standard in his own hand, the way he often had seen Javan do, but he knew such an act of independence would only earn him a sharp dressing-down when they camped for the night—if Albertus could restrain himself from making a public reprimand for that long. Still, the banner that symbolized Gwynedd's sovereignty now was his to guard and defend, and now, at last, perhaps Rhys Michael would have a chance to assert the freedom for which Javan had died.

Not immediately, of course; but soon. At least in the field, a king might win by valor what caution and timidity had not been able to secure under the close confinement he had endured these six years. There was much to lose, not least of which was the grey-cloaked woman clutching the hand of a very small boy cloaked in crimson, the pair of them watching him from the great hall steps—but there was also much to win, including their freedom as well as his own.

Behind him, Cathan and Udaut were both mounting up, Udaut fighting his mount for a moment before he could force it ahead to join the eight castle guards detailed to escort the royal party as far as the city gates. Balanced between excitement and melancholy, Rhys Michael lifted a gauntleted hand in farewell to those waiting on the great hall steps, imprinting his final glimpse of them in memory, then turned his steed's head toward the castle gate to follow Albertus and Rhun, not looking back.

The cavalcade moved out at a smart pace, for the mist had turned to drizzle, and the horses were eager to be off. Several ranks ahead of him, Udaut's roan was still being fractious, even crow-hopping a few times until Udaut slugged it hard in the neck and forced its obedience. Fulk commented airily that had the animal been his, he would have put the horse down long ago, or at least turned him out to stud. Cathan avowed that this would only perpetuate a bad bloodline.

Leaving the two to debate the issue, Rhys Michael gigged his own mount a few paces ahead of them, then settled in half a length before, happily putting Udaut and his misbegotten horse out of mind. Despite the desperate prospects he might face in the days to come, he already felt freer. He had ridden regularly for years, to keep fit, but not in all that time had he been allowed more than a few leagues from the city. Despite the rain, cheering crowds lined the streets, cheering for
him
, the way they had done in the old days even before Javan, when Alroy had been king.