The Bastard Prince (27 page)

They approached Lochalyn just as dusk began settling over the foothills. The castle itself glowed golden in the failing light, just catching the last rays of the setting sun. The camps of the investing troops were sprawled tidily all around the base of the bluff on which it perched, slowly coming alight with scattered campfires. As Rhys Michael rode through the outskirts with his officers, under the dour inspection of rough-looking men in border tweeds and leathers, the delectable aroma of food in preparation mingled with the more earthy smells of wood smoke and damp earth and horse manure.

An informal guard of honor rode out to meet the king and his party as they approached the castle gates, bearing torches and led by Sighere of Marley, brother of the slain Hrorik. There was more grey in Sighere's red beard than when Rhys Michael last had seen him, but that had been nearly seven years ago, at Javan's coronation. Rhys Michael had plucked a grey hair from his own head only a few months ago and had remarked to Michaela that he was surprised that all his hair had not turned white, if worry was a cause.

“Well met, King o' Gwynedd,” Sighere called, as he and his companions drew rein before the royal standard. “I bid ye welcome, in the name o' Sudrey of Eastmarch an' Stacia, her daughter.” He gestured toward the senior of the two men flanking him, a darkly handsome young man with a close-clipped black beard and kind eyes. “This is Corban Howell, m'niece's husband. We pray that ye will acknowledge him as Earl of Eastmarch, alongside our beloved Stacia. This young sprat wi' the outrageous moustaches is m'son, Sean Coris,” he added, indicating the redheaded youth at his other knee with a proud jut of his chin and a twinkle in his dark eyes.

Rhys Michael suppressed a smile, for young Sean's moustaches
were
impressive—as was the lad himself, sturdy as a young oak, though he could not be more than twenty.

“Lord Corban, Sir Sean,” he acknowledged, and lifted a gloved hand toward Rhun, sitting beneath the Haldane banner at his right. “I believe the Earl of Marley will remember Lord Rhun, the Earl of Sheele,” he went on carefully, for there was no love lost between Sighere and Rhun. “I am obliged to inform you that Lord Albertus has died, and Lord Rhun now serves as earl marshal.”

“Albertus dead?” Sighere said, before the king could go on. “When? How?”

Rhun kneed his horse a few paces ahead. “I believe that would best be discussed in greater privacy, my lord,” he said coolly. “Lord Manfred serves as my deputy, and Sir Joshua Delacroix has assumed interim command of the
Custodes Fidei
forces. Perhaps you would be so good as to indicate the billeting arrangements, so our officers may see the men settled. We have ridden from as far as Saint Cassian's since noon, and men and horses are in need of rest and refreshment.”

Watching and listening from the sidelines, swathed in border tweeds like most of the men around them, Ansel MacRorie and Jesse MacGregor exchanged glances, melting back from the cavalcade when the immediate royal party of about a score began to follow Sighere on toward the castle gates.

Well, that confirms the news from Joram
, Ansel sent to Jesse, as Corban and Sean joined Joshua and several of his captains to confer briefly, and the new arrivals began dispersing to their designated campsites.

Jesse's eyes narrowed as he watched a party of
Custodes
clergy trot by, several of them following after the king and his officers.

Interesting, how the command structure seems to have shifted
, he responded.
Quite a shake-up in the
Custodes,
that's for sure
.

Ansel glanced around, judged them sufficiently removed not to be overheard, and shifted to whispered speech.

“Not enough of a shake-up to suit me. That older priest who joined the royal party was Lior, the Inquisitor-General; I don't recognize the younger one. I think the battle surgeon with them was Stevanus—the one who patched up Rhys Michael after he was ‘kidnapped,' six years ago.”

“A thoroughly disreputable lot,” Jesse agreed. “Methinks we shall have to make some discreet inquiries, once the camp starts settling down for the night.”

“Aye. Meanwhile, this has to be a major topic of gossip among the men, to lose their earl marshal this close to a potential battle. They must know something about it. I'll have our folk see what they can pick up by more conventional means.”

Lady Sudrey received the king's party in the castle's great hall, gowned and coifed in black, attended by her daughter, Stacia, and Graham, the twenty-year-old Duke of Claibourne, who was her nephew. Graham had grown from gangling boy to comely young man since Rhys Michael last had seen him—not so burly as Sighere or his cousin Sean; clean-shaven, but sporting a wiry border clout a good deal lighter than the rich shades of auburn that marked all the other male descendants of the first Sighere. Stacia's hair was a much darker red, full and wild where it escaped from the shawl of fine tweed over her head but otherwise confined only by a band of braided gold across the brow. She had her mother's dark eyes.

Sudrey gave the king profound obeisance as he entered the hall, sinking to both knees and kissing both his hands when he came to raise her up and express his condolences. Even in her grief, she was still a handsome woman—and with the air of brisk competence Rhys Michael would have expected of Hrorik's wife. She had several of her dead husband's senior captains ready to brief the king and his officers as soon as they had settled at table. The latest communication from Prince Miklos, received at midday, indicated a willingness to parley the next morning, but only with the king himself.

“That's out of the question,” Rhun said, as they tucked into simple but hearty fare spread out on one of the hall's long trestle tables. “We've told you what happened last night. I couldn't possibly allow the king to be exposed to further Deryni treachery.”

“How kin ye know what Miklos might be wantin' tae offer if ye dinnae at least receive his emissary?” Sighere wanted to know.

“Why should he be wanting to offer anything?” Manfred countered, around a mouthful of venison. “If your estimates of his strength are correct, we can push him out of Culliecairn in any military encounter. It might take a while, but we have the time. Does
he
have the time to spend the next months holed up in Culliecairn?”

“We dinnae want him holed up in Culliecairn, m'lord,” young Graham replied. “We want him oot. But he certainly willnae go if ye willnae even treat with him.”

Rhun scowled. “I thought I made it clear that I am not willing to deal with more Deryni treachery, especially not where the king is involved.”

“Do you fear that the messenger might be Deryni?” Sudrey asked. “If so, simply specify that only a human is an acceptable courier. Tell Miklos that you'll test his man with
merasha
, and then do it.”

“'Tis common practice, here in Eastmarch,” a captain named Murray volunteered. “Gi'e him a stirrup cup laced wi'
merasha
. It will only mak a human drowsy, but a Deryni cannae possibly hide the effects.”

“We hae found it a safe way o' dealing with them,” Graham added, “an” far more civil than keepin' archers trained on them, the minute they approach. If ye agree, we can send a messenger tonight an' set up tomorrow's meeting.”

“I suppose it does make sense to hear what they've got to say,” Rhun agreed reluctantly. “Tell me more of how you go about this.”

The discussion digressed into specifics, shifting to map briefings on the area where a meeting might take place, during which Corban and Sean Cons returned from the camp below to report that the royal troops were settled. After a little while, as Rhun and Manfred coordinated their plans with Sighere, Graham, and the others, Sudrey came to stand unobtrusively beside the king, who had joined little in the discussion.

“I cannot tell you how relieved I am to have you here, Sire,” she said quietly. “My husband used to speak fondly of your brother Javan. He was a noble and honest liege. We were all shocked to hear of his death.”

Rhys Michael glanced at her sidelong, wondering how much she knew of the true circumstances of Javan's death.

“I hope I may prove half so faithful a lord as Lord Hrorik was a subject, my lady,” he murmured. “I was greatly saddened to hear of your husband's death.”

She ducked her head. “That it came at the hands of my own kin made the anguish double, Sire. I—” She broke off and looked up at him hopefully. “Sire, might I beg a small favor of you this evening, while the others are occupied? I know your mind must be awhirl with weightier matters, but might I presume to ask that you accompany me to the chapel for a few minutes, to offer up a prayer for my husband's soul?”

He started to decline, knowing that Rhun would not approve of a solo foray, but she added, “Please, Sire. It would ease my grief greatly, to have my king come to pay respect to my dear husband. I ask only a few minutes of your time.”

Though he could detect no menace in the request, neither did he think it motivated by simple piety. Sudrey had something on her mind that she did not wish to say in front of the others. Curious to see what it might be, he glanced aside at Fulk.

“Tell Cathan, very quietly, that I'm going to the chapel for a few minutes to pay my respects to the late Earl of Eastmarch,” he murmured. “I shan't be long. We'll wait for you outside the door.”

Not waiting to see the effect, as Fulk passed on the message and then rose to follow, Rhys Michael offered the Lady Sudrey his arm and escorted her from the hall. Since Fulk offered no comment when he shortly joined them, the king gathered that his explanation had been accepted. Bringing Fulk instead of Cathan probably had reassured Rhun as well, for the great lords believed Fulk's loyalty to be more certain than that of the king's brother-in-law. Now, so long as he did not linger too long out of Rhun's sight …

Sudrey said nothing as she led them out across the castle yard and up the chapel steps, but as she held back to let Fulk open the door, she briefly rested her free hand on one of his.

“Good Sir Fulk, please keep watch and see that our prayers are not disturbed,” she murmured.

Somewhat to Rhys Michael's surprise, Fulk ducked his head in mute agreement, remaining outside the door as he closed it after them. Sudrey gave him a bleak glance as she led him through the tiny, dim-lit nave, directing his attention forward as they came to a halt before the altar rail.

“My Hrorik lies here, in the holy place before the altar,” she murmured, crossing herself ponderously. “He would have scorned the presumption, but his chieftains insisted. When I die, I hope to lie there beside him. 'Tis no claim of sanctity on my part, I assure you, but my place is at his side. He was a bonnie man.”

Choking back a sob, she buried her face in her hands and sank to her knees on the tapestried kneeler before the rail. Rhys Michael knelt down beside her a little awkwardly and dutifully crossed himself, intending to offer up at least a token
Pater Noster
in Hrorik's behalf, but something had struck him as odd about the exchange by the door. He found his gaze wandering across the carved stone of the screen behind the altar, lifting to the crimson gleam of the Presence Lamp suspended to one side. He would have expected some comment from Fulk, but there had been none.

“Do not react, in case we are observed,” Sudrey's voice murmured low, close at his left side. “Are you aware that someone has been tampering with Sir Fulk's mind?”

The question startled him, though he managed not to make any physical reaction. He closed his eyes briefly, bowing his head over his folded hands, then dared to glance at her sidelong, ready to Truth-Read.

“What makes you say that?” he whispered. “If it were true, how could you know such a thing?”

She raised her face to the altar, but her glance darted sideways as she folded her hands piously before her.

“Now, that is a reaction I had not expected,” she murmured. “You seem surprised that I know of this, but not surprised that the thing was done.”

As she glanced at him again, he felt the faint quest of a probe against his shields, and he stiffened them in automatic reflex, brief panic surging up then as he realized she could sense it.

“Oh, my,” she whispered. “Forgive me, Sire, but I had no idea. Or rather, I had heard rumors—about the Haldanes, not you in particular—but I paid them little mind. Sire, I swear to you that I would never do you harm. Can you Truth-Read that oath?”

He could only stare at her speechlessly, his mind whirling with the implications, still uncertain whether he dared trust her, even though he knew she spoke the truth.

“You do have the power of the Haldanes, don't you. Sire?” she whispered. “Dear God, this changes everything. I begin to have a little hope. Sire, though I share Miklos' bloodline, I have little power and am little trained. My allegiance I gave to my husband and his people many years ago, and that will always remain. I have not much to offer, but what I have is yours to command. Read me, I beseech you. We have little time, and there is so much I would have you know.”

Trembling, she bowed her head and folded her arms along the altar rail, the left arm underneath, and turned that palm upward, her open fingers inviting his contact but hidden from sight from the door behind them.

“Read me, I beg you,” she urged, pressing a little closer. “I will make you no resistance. God willing, I may be able to assist you in ways neither of us dreamed.”

Her words were truth. He could sense no danger in what she asked. Adopting the mirror image of her pose, he laid the fingers of his right hand atop hers and used the link of flesh to forge a link of mind, extending cautious probes against erratic shields that wavered and rolled back immediately at the pressure. She had neither the strength nor the control of the other Deryni with whom he had had contact—except, perhaps, Mika and Cathan—but such support as she could give was there, and his for the asking.