The Bastard Prince (35 page)

As he had on his ride from the Gwynedd encampment, he found himself reliving the events of the day before, well aware that he might not have survived without her help—and that
she
might still be alive, had it not been for him. He found himself wondering, not for the first time, whether she really would have died from her injuries, had she not chosen to hasten the process with her own magic—and whether he dared ask the help of her kin.

After offering a prayer for the soul of Sudrey of Eastmarch, and for divine mercy on Deryni in general, he got awkwardly to his feet and gently drew aside the veil of white lawn to press a respectful kiss to her forehead. He made himself draw a deep, steadying breath as he let the veil fall back in place and turned to face her daughter and her nephew. Young Claibourne had gotten to his feet as the king rose, and both his face and Stacia's were unreadable.

“Sudrey of Eastmarch was a very great lady,” the king said softly. “Would that I had had the opportunity to know her better.”

Claibourne glanced at his cousin a little uncertainly, then back at the king.

“If the King's Grace were more inclined to visit his northern provinces, he would hae had such opportunity,” the duke said, though his tone conveyed no hint of disapproval. “E'en so, she kept faith with yer Royal House.”

Rhys Michael cradled his aching arm in his good one, absently kneading at the stiff muscles along the forearm.

“Had it been wholly in my choice,” he said quietly, “I would have come. Of all the great lords of Gwynedd, none have served my House half so well as the sons and grandsons of Sighere of Kheldour—and this daughter by marriage,” he added, nodding toward Sudrey's coffin. “Claibourne, Eastmarch, and Marley—these are the brightest jewels in my crown.”

“If they be yer brightest jewels, then why did ye no come?” Stacia asked. “Are ye no the king? Whose choice was't, if not yours?”

Rhys Michael glanced at her bleakly, wondering how much of the truth he dared to tell them—and set to Truth-Read them. With Rhun and the others off on other business, this might be a unique opportunity to sound out the loyalties of Kheldour. Graham and Stacia were of an age with himself, of a younger generation than had spawned the great lords who ruled in Gwynedd, and Graham's father had been murdered through the great lords' treachery. Perhaps Kheldour could become the source of military strength Rhys Michael would need to take back control of his crown. But he would never know, if he did not ask.

He glanced back at the church door, still closed, then moved closer to the pair, drawing Graham with him to kneel at Stacia's feet.

“Please listen closely, because I may not have much time,” he murmured. “If any of my men should enter besides my light-haired aide, we are praying together for Sudrey's soul. The great lords have gone to elaborate lengths to conceal it, but believe me when I tell you that I have been a prisoner for these six years of my reign, ever since they arranged for the murder of my brother and seized control of Rhemuth.”

“The murder—” Graham began. “Ye mean, King Javan?”

Rhys Michael nodded.

“But, they said that renegade Michaelines—”

“It wasn't renegade Michaelines,” Rhys Michael said softly. “His own great lords betrayed him. And that same day that Javan was killed, probably at the very same hour, Archbishop Hubert and others took me prisoner in Rhemuth Castle. They drugged me and forced me to watch while they slaughtered the few men still loyal to Javan. The shock made my wife miscarry of what would have been our firstborn son.”

“Dear holy Mother,” Stacia whispered, wide-eyed, clutching her own son more closely to her breast “But,
why
?”

“To retain their power, of course. Javan was proving to be too powerful a king. They'd meant to pass over him in my favor. They'd hoped to keep him in the monastery and shunt him off into a harmless religious vocation. They didn't realize that he himself had sought out the monastery as a place to grow to manhood in safety, while he also gained the education he would need to rule. He never intended to be a monk. Weren't you surprised when you heard that Alroy was dead, and it was Javan to be crowned, not me?”

“Well, aye,” Graham admitted. “But you didnae seem upset by it, when we came tae Rhemuth fer his coronation.”

“Of course I wasn't. Javan was always supposed to be king after Alroy. Knowing what befell your father, Graham, believe me when I tell you that the great lords have stopped at nothing to retain the power they seized after my father's death. All during my brother Alroy's reign, even once the legitimate regency had ended, he was kept drugged to ensure his compliance, and the great lords actually ruled.”

“D'ye think my father found out, an' that's why they killed him?” Graham asked, horrified.

“If he didn't know, he would have found out, if he'd spent much time at Court,” Rhys Michael replied. “And I'm convinced that the only reason you remained safe was because your uncles were quick enough to uphold your rights and then smart enough to pull back to the fastness of the borders and the Kheldour highlands, where the regents dared not come. As long as none of you tried to interfere in Rhemuth, they were content to let you remain unmolested in the north; but you saw how savagely Murdoch went after Hrorik, when you came to Javan's coronation.”

“But, they all swore Javan allegiance, before God an' on holy relics,” Graham murmured. “I was there; I heard them do it!”

“Aye, and they were forsworn within the year,” Rhys Michael replied. “Javan saw the danger from the beginning and tried to warn me, but I didn't want to see. As he began gaining strength, they began trying to undermine him. They were very good at it. Both Hubert and Manfred secretly encouraged me to marry, even though Javan warned me of the danger, if there were minor heirs while the great lords still had such power. I didn't believe him—I didn't
want
to believe him, because I really do love Michaela—but I agreed to back off.

“When it became clear that I wasn't going to go against my brother, they had me kidnapped by ‘Ansel MacRorie' and ‘renegade Michaelines,' then had me ‘rescued' by Manfred's men. They even arranged some convincing injuries in the process—and there I was, ‘safe' in Manfred's castle to recover, and with Michaela conveniently there to nurse me back to health. She didn't know they were using her, of course. We both believed it was all real at the time, and we let the circumstances carry us right into marriage. Once Michaela was pregnant, it was only a matter of time before they set up Javan's murder.”

Graham was still shaking his head slightly. “I cannae believe they would murder an anointed king,” he whispered. “I mean, I dinnae doubt yer word, Sire, but—”

Rhys Michael glanced back at the door, then returned his gaze to Graham. “I understand,” he said. “I didn't want to believe it either, at first. There's worse, too. Once Javan was dead, they kept me drugged until after my coronation, the way they'd done with Alroy. And once Michaela had recovered from her miscarriage, they—ordered us to start producing Haldane heirs.”

“They ordered—” Stacia began. “But, ye cannae
order
someone tae do that.”

Rhys Michael allowed himself a bitter smile. “To survive, and to ensure the survival of one's line, one learns to be far more flexible than you can possibly imagine, my lady,” he said softly. “We delayed as long as we dared, but the ultimate threat was that if
I
didn't impregnate my wife, there were willing volunteers waiting in the wings to ensure that the job got done—and who would have known? Neither of us were ever allowed unsupervised contact with the outside world. From the time Alroy died, the eventual aim has been to secure the succession and then eliminate both Javan and me—which would give them another long regency in which to further entrench their power.

“They've got one heir now, and they'll have another after the first of the year. I expect I'm living on borrowed time. By the time my sons come of age, the authority of the crown will be so thoroughly bound up in the hands of Gwynedd's great lords that they won't even know it could be any other way. Unless … listen carefully,” Rhys Michael said, drawing the two close. “I have a plan.”

Stacia dared to lay a hand on his—cautious, tentative, sympathetic.

“Ye—dinnae sound like ye expect to get back to Rhemuth alive, Sire.”

He shrugged. “Rhun probably would just as soon I'd died yesterday with Sudrey. It would have made life a great deal less complicated for him and the other great lords—though at least there're three fewer of them than when we rode out of Rhemuth.”

Graham nodded, tight-jawed. “We'll no miss the likes o' Paulin an' Albertus,” he muttered. “
Custodes
bastards! But—how can we help? Wha' can we do fer ye?”

Rhys Michael closed his eyes briefly in relief. “Do you mean that?” he whispered.

“Of course I do,” Graham replied. “The Haldanes have always been friends o' my House. It wasnae Haldane treachery that slew my father. I know my uncle Sighere would agree, too. How can we help?”

Rhys Michael swallowed with difficulty and touched his good hand to Graham's. “Now that you've offered, I'm—not sure. I'd hoped for your support, but I haven't had much time to work through the details. Eventually, I may need military support, but for now—” He raised an eyebrow in sudden inspiration. “Would you and Sighere agree to be appointed regents for my son, if anything should happen to me before he comes of age?”

“Regents? Aye, whate'er ye wish, Sire.” Graham paused a beat. “Are ye sure?”

“Oh, I am. The more I think about it, the surer I am. I know that neither of you could afford to neglect your own duties to be at Court all the time, but maybe you could take turns in Rhemuth. A regency council is already specified in my will; they made me sign what they wanted, years ago. But now that Paulin and Albertus are out of the running, they'll at least have to draw up a codicil. Maybe I could draft a codicil of my own before I leave; could you get me a local priest to witness it? And I'd try to set it up so that the other regents couldn't boot out either of you, the way they did with Duke Ewan and with Bishop Alister. If both of them had remained regents, the way my father wanted, Javan probably would still be alive and—”

He broke off as the door rattled behind them—Cathan's warning that they might be about to lose their privacy—and got to his feet.

“All right, we've got to make this quick,” he murmured. “I don't know how long Cathan can hold off whoever's out there. Now, Rhun already knows I won't leave until after Lady Sudrey's funeral; try to delay that as late in the day as possible, so that by the time we've held court, he can't possibly try to leave before the next morning. I'd also like to move back to quarters here in the castle—tonight. There's no privacy at all in the camp, and it's going to take Cathan most of a night to draw up the document and make the necessary copies. Graham, I'll ask you to brief your uncle and line up that priest.” He drew a breath and shifted his gaze to Stacia, who was hanging on his every word.

“My lady, I haven't forgotten you. By statute, I can't appoint a woman as regent who isn't of the Royal Family, but I'll be making a formal acknowledgment of you and your husband as the new Earl and Countess of Eastmarch, and taking your oaths of fealty. It will fall upon the two of you to help keep the peace here in the north, when Graham or Sighere or both are needed for extended duty in the capital.”

“I understand, Sire. Ye have my support nonetheless—an' that o' my lord.”

“Thank you. One last thing. Graham, it won't be possible for all of us actually to sign the documents in one another's presence—that's why it's essential that we have a good man as witness. However, as a sign of your approval and support of Stacia and Corban here in Kheldour, it wouldn't be inappropriate for you and Sighere to offer me reaffirmation of the oaths you swore at my coronation, once they're invested. We could agree among us privately that this also serves as a public affirmation of taking on potential regents' duty, and so specify in the document.”

Graham nodded, wide-eyed.

“And that,” Rhys Michael said, kneeling down at the altar rail on her other side, “is about all we have time for today. I suggest we all pray.”

He had time to bow his head into his good hand before the door rattled behind him again and then opened. It was the Earl of Kierney who had come to fetch him—Iver MacInnis, Manfred's son, fully harnessed and armed for the field as he came striding down the little nave.

“Culliecairn's vacant, Sire,” he said, including Graham and Stacia in his nod of address, as Cathan also appeared in the doorway. “The last of the Torenthi troops disappeared up the Coldoire Pass about an hour ago. My father says that if your hand isn't giving you too much discomfort, you might want to ride up and have a look. Lord Corban has already begun investing the castle with Eastmarch troops. You could even stay in Culliecairn tonight, if you wish.”

Relieved that Iver seemed to be offering a choice, Rhys Michael got to his feet. His hand was throbbing again, but he knew he must not let that slow him down.

“I'll concede that the thought of a proper bed is appealing, after camp last night,” he said, “but I've already accepted Lady Stacia's kind invitation to stay here, as a mark of respect for her mother. It's also occurred to me that we'll need to arrange for a formal court tomorrow; immediately after the funeral would probably be best. I'll want to invest the new Earl and Countess of Eastmarch and take their oaths of fealty.”

To his surprise, Iver agreed. “I believe Lord Rhun had already intended something of the sort, Sire. Did you wish to ride up anyway? We can be back before dusk.”