The Bastard Prince (26 page)

He stopped dead, left hand clenching tightly around the pommel of the Haldane sword, abruptly thankful he had not yet broken his fast. Over near the yard's outer wall, the source of the greasy black smoke now became all too obvious. The sight sickened him, never mind that Dimitri would have been dead for hours by the time they chained him to the stake and lit the pyre. Kindling and bundles of fagots were mounded waist-high all around, well ablaze, and the body itself was engulfed in flames.

The
Custodes
were responsible for this, without doubt, exacting the last measure of petty vengeance on an enemy now beyond their reach. Several were standing close by, prodding at the pyre with long poles to encourage the flames. Forcing down the gorge rising in his throat, for he knew this fate also was meted out to living men, Rhys Michael crossed himself and averted his eyes.

“They didn't have to do this,” he muttered, well under his breath.

Ahead of him, Lord Joshua suddenly had realized that he no longer had an entourage and turned to glance back at the king. Seeing the king's expression, he returned immediately, hand set on the hilt of his sword.

“Please come along, Sire. They're waiting for you.”

“Why are they doing this?” Rhys Michael demanded. As he gestured toward the pyre, Lord Joshua moved a little closer, reluctant to meet the royal gaze.

“Sire, they say he loosed black magic in the abbey last night,” he murmured, keeping his voice low so that only Rhys Michael could hear. “The abbot feared contamination, if the body was not burned.”

“That's superstitious nonsense,” the king retorted. “The man was dead.”

“Fortunate for him, Sire. If he'd survived his interrogation, he would have been burned alive.”

“I thought spies were hanged, drawn, and quartered.”

“Aye, sir, but burning is the penalty for sacrilege. The Deryni killed a professed Christian knight with magic and also used it to attack a mitred abbot. That gives the Order precedence in dealing with the crime.”

It was useless to argue with the single-minded Joshua, who was only a tool. Biting back a number of highly satisfying retorts, none of which would endear him to his
Custodes
keepers, the king glanced reluctantly at the fire again. Though the face was no longer recognizable, for which Rhys Michael was thankful, the limbs were starting to contract in the heat, moving eerily. With a shudder, he turned his back on the blaze.

“We were on our way to see Father Paulin, I believe,” he said quietly.

With a smart salute, Lord Joshua turned to lead the way, taking them through the cellarer's stores and on into the cloister garth, along the south range, past kitchens and refectory and thence through another arcaded passage that led to the very steps of the infirmary hall. Still a little numbed by the scene in the cellarer's yard, the king paid no special note to the chanting he could hear as he entered and followed Lord Joshua down a long central corridor.

To his consternation, the scene in Paulin's sickroom was perhaps even more grotesque than what they had just witnessed. They had shed their escort knights at the door, but Cathan and Fulk were at his heels and nearly ran him down when, just at the open doorway, he stopped dead.

Because so many men were crowded inside, the room seemed far smaller than it actually was. Two beds occupied the center of the chamber, on the nearer of which lay the still, deathly pale form of Paulin. To the king's astonishment, Albertus' body lay on the other, decked out in the full ceremonial robes of his former office. Two monks with thuribles were censing the beds from either side, and six more were ranged along the side toward Albertus, chanting the responses to an antiphon being sung by the abbot. Aspergillum in hand, the abbot was punctuating his verses with sprinkles of holy water over the two beds.

“
Pax huic domui
…”

“
Et omnibus habitantibus in ea.
”

“
Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo, et mundabor
…”

“
Lavabis me, et super nivem dealababor.
”

“
Miserere me, Deus
…”

“
Secundum misericordiam tuam.
”

With incense smoke filling the room and the aural onslaught of chanting, Rhys Michael noticed only as afterthought that all the principals of the previous night's debacle also were present, kneeling hard against the wall toward the foot of the beds: the four
Custodes
men who had conducted the interrogation—Lior, Magan, Stevanus, and Gallard—and Manfred and Rhun, nearest the door. Brother Polidorus, the infirmarian, was huddled against Paulin's bedside with his back to the king, mostly kneeling with his head jammed down over folded hands, but occasionally rising up to check his patient's pulse or peer hopefully under a slack eyelid.

“
Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domine
…”

“
Qui fecit caelum et terram.
”

“
Deus huic domui
…”

“
Et omnibus habitantibus in ea.
”

“
Exorcizo te, immunde spiritus
…”

Rhun noticed the king's arrival just as Rhys Michael started to whisper a horrified comment to Cathan and shot him a sharp look. The abbot had turned to sprinkle holy water on the kneeling observers, but as soon as he turned his chanting back in Paulin's direction, Rhun crossed himself and quietly rose to come over to the doorway, drawing the king and his aides a few steps outside the room.

“I do not wish to hear your opinion of what is being done here,” he said very quietly, keeping his eyes on the abbot but with his voice directed to the king. “Please accept that Abbot Kimball and Father Lior believe it prudent and efficacious.”

“Are they
exorcising
Paulin and Albertus?” Rhys Michael whispered, incredulous.

“You will refrain from any comment or expression that might detract from the dignity of this occasion,” Rhun murmured. “You heard Brother Polidorus' comment last night—wondering whether Dimitri's black magic had summoned evil spirits under this roof. They decided it was best to be safe, in case he did bring evil into the house.”

“And that's why they're burning Dimitri's body,” Rhys Michael said. “Just to be safe.”

“To be safe, and to keep
us
safe,” Rhun murmured. “That is why you and your aides will also submit yourselves for exorcism before we go to Mass.” Rhys Michael looked up at him in quick rebellion. “Defiance in this matter would be most unwise, Sire, regardless of whatever personal distaste you might feel. This gesture costs little and retains the goodwill of the
Custodes
. You might even derive some benefit. We still do not know what the Deryni might have done to
you
, that you say you cannot remember.”

All Rhys Michael's protests died in his throat. Dimitri had done nothing to him, of course—except to save his life—but if he hoped to maintain the illusion that something
might
have happened, and thereby reinforce his own innocence, then submitting to the abbot's ministrations must be a part of that illusion.

“They've begun the individual exorcisms,” Rhun murmured, touching his elbow. “Come in and kneel with me and Manfred. Cathan, Fulk—go on in.”

All wide-eyed obedience now, Rhys Michael went where he was bidden, dutifully kneeling beside Manfred and bowing his head over folded hands as the abbot came to stand before Father Magan. He had already done Lior, who was closest to the wall.

“
Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis, et in nomine Jesu Christi Filii ejus, Domini et Judicus nostri, et in virtute Spiritus Sancti, ut discedas ab hoc famulo Dei, Maganus
…” I exorcise you, every unclean spirit, in the name of God the Father almighty, and in the name of His Son, Jesus Christ, our Lord and Judge, and in the strength of the Holy Spirit, that you may depart from this servant of God, Magan …

Rhys Michael had never seen an exorcism before, much less been the object of one. In common with most laymen, who rarely delved beyond the externals of their religion, his performance of the obligations expected of him usually came more from a sense of duty than from devotion. Merely dutiful practice of one's faith generally did not require attendance at the casting out of demons. Certainly, his outward religious fervor in no way approached that of his father or his brother Javan; and in that, Rhun had been entirely correct in assuming that he might view the present circumstances with scepticism.

“
Et hoc signum sanctae Crucis, quod nos fronti ejus damus, tu, maledicte diabole, numquam audeas violare
…”

Cautiously Rhys Michael dared a glance at Abbot Kimball, who was tracing a cross on Magan's forehead with holy oil, forbidding accursed devils to violate that sign. The king's sparse liturgical Latin was not good enough to follow all that the abbot was saying, but to his surprise, he thought he could sense the faint stirrings of power being raised—which was somewhat startling, because he had not thought that religious ritual could do that, at least not when performed by mere humans.

As for casting out evil with it, the only evil possibly present in this room resided in the hearts of some of its occupants and was not likely to yield to any ritual motivated by hatred and fear. He felt certain that whatever taint of evil might linger with Paulin or Albertus had nothing to do with having been touched by Deryni magic.

“
Per eundem Christum, Dominion nostrum, qui venturus est judicare vivos et mortuos et saeculum per ignem. Amen.
”

As Abbot Kimball moved on to Stevanus, the king could not deny that there was power in the words, even on the lips of a
Custodes
abbot whose blind intolerance surely prevented any understanding of what he did. Lacking the keener focus a Deryni might have given it, the power was merely brooding sluggishly in the room, as random and diffused as the incense smoke drifting over the heads of the men being exorcised. It did no harm, but Rhys Michael wondered whether Kimball could have put it to effective use even if there
had
been something evil in the room. Meanwhile, he would have found the present ritual almost ludicrous, were the abbot not so deadly serious in what he did.

Lest his misgivings show in his expression, Rhys Michael buried his face in his hands and affected to be moved by the ceremony, as Kimball moved on along the line of kneeling men and repeated his words, sprinkling each one with holy water, anointing each with oil. The ambient power level never rose above a certain level and never focused. Nor did anyone else in the room seem to be aware of it, even Cathan.

“
Exorcizo te, immunde spiritus … et decedas ab hoc famulo Dei, Rhys Michaelis
…”

He kept his head bowed as the abbot's words rolled over him, expecting to feel nothing, but he found that the focus of the anointing enabled him to draw a little of the random power to himself—very little, but enough that by the time the abbot moved on to minister to Fulk, he had managed to replenish at least a little of the energy depleted by last night's emotional workout and his lost sleep. He was considering the implications of this achievement as the abbot concluded the ritual with a general blessing.

“…
Per Dominum nostrum Jesum Christum Filium Tuum: Qui Tecum vivit et regnat in unitate Spiritus Sancti Deus, per omnia saecula saeculorum. Amen.
”

Immediately, the solemnity of the ceremony shifted to the bustle of the room clearing, the choir monks filing out, Lord Joshua's
Custodes
knights entering to convey Albertus' body to the church. Pressing back against the wall with Cathan and Fulk, Rhys Michael did his best to stay out of the way, resolving to pay closer attention to religious ritual in the future. He had no idea whether the others or Paulin or the dead Albertus had benefited, but he had to admit that
he
had derived something from it. He wondered whether power was raised every time and he simply had not noticed before.

He was feeling somewhat reassured as he fell into the procession to accompany the body back to the abbey church. They returned by a different route, along the east range of the cloister garth and into the church through a processional door in the south transept. He did not look toward the smoke still spiraling upward from the cellarer's yard.

Inside, he took the place reserved for him in choir and did what was expected of him, making all the appropriate responses and paying outward respect to the man laid before the altar, as he must.

But the prayers he offered up in his heart were for another, who went unshriven and unmourned to no grave at all, whose ashes would be scattered on the wind without ceremony or blessing when the flames died down.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

And that we may be delivered from unreasonable men.

—II Thessalonians 3:2

It was nearing noon by the time they rode out of Saint Cassian's, after laying Albertus to rest in the crypt beneath the abbey church. In the absence of any higher-ranking
Custodes
priest, Father Lior had assumed leadership of the
Custodes
religious accompanying the royal forces, with Sir Joshua commanding the
Custodes
knights. Messengers had ridden out at dawn to notify the other
Custodes
Houses of the incapacitation of their vicar-general, so that an election could be held in due course. Further dispatches went to Rhemuth, to inform Hubert and the remaining great lords there.

Meanwhile Rhun of Horthness took up his duties as the new Earl Marshal of Gwynedd, riding at the king's right hand and directly under the Haldane banner as the cavalcade headed north out of Saint Cassian's at a brisk clip. The pace allowed no leisure for conversation or even serious cogitation, but it was not sufficient to divert Rhys Michael from the rumblings in his stomach. The promised travel fare had turned out to be a chunk of bread and a few sips of ale snatched before mounting up in the abbey yard, though at least the bread was fresh, direct from the abbey's bakehouse. Fulk's saddlebag produced some dubious-looking cheese during a brief rest stop at midafternoon, but Rhys Michael was ravenous by the time they began meeting outriders from Lochalyn Castle.