The Bastard Prince (42 page)

“And then what?” Joram demanded. “Walk right up to Rhun and introduce yourself and demand to see the king?”

Queron rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair, drumming his fingertips on his chair arm.

“Of course not. But I can find out what the king's condition is by then. If it proves impossible for
me
to see him without subjecting myself to unreasonable risk, perhaps I can at least influence someone who does have access to him, if things can be done for him via conventional medicine that aren't being done.”

“Those risks are acceptable,” Rickart said, before Joram could disagree. “For that matter, it might be possible for Tieg to do much the same sort of thing, until Queron can get there to take over. We could ask him and Ansel and Jesse to shadow the army as they head south and watch for opportunities to find out more.”

The creases in Niallan's brow had been deepening as Rickart spoke, and he cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I—ah—believe we may be losing sight of the fact that Tieg is not yet fourteen. I know he looks older, with all that gangly height and those big hands, but I'd be very surprised if he yet has the conventional training to do that kind of infiltration. Correct me if I'm wrong, but so far as I was aware, the bulk of his preparation to date has been centered around his vocation as a Healer.”

“That's quite true,” Queron replied, “and I'm not prepared to risk him, under any circumstances. But Ansel and Jesse do have the necessary skills to ferret out the kind of information Rickart was talking about. They could have collected a great deal of valuable information by the time I meet up with them. And if Tieg's assessments as a Healer are necessary, those can be done indirectly, without risking him overmuch.

“I really think this is the only reasonable approach we can take, just now,” he went on. “The twin factors of the codicil and the king's injury make this both a more and less stable situation than it has been for the past six years. It may totally change what we were planning for year's end. I think we're going to have to be both flexible and conservative in our approach until we see how the current situation resolves.”

They continued to discuss practicalities of the coming exercise for another hour, also agreeing that while Rhysel ought be alerted to what was happening, the queen should not be told.

“I fear for the poor lass, if the king doesn't make it through this,” Queron told Joram, after the others had returned to the sanctuary. “This pregnancy still has a long way to go. If she should lose the king
and
this new baby, the way she lost the first one, I don't know that we'll ever be able to salvage the Haldane line—or if it's worth even trying anymore. One four-year-old prince isn't much on which to base a strong dynasty.”

Joram only shook his head and dropped it to one hand. “Queron, I don't even want to
think
about that possibility,” he murmured. “And I don't want to think about what I'll do if anything happens to
you
. Since we found out about the queen's new pregnancy, we've been focusing our preparations to make a major attempt at shifting the balance back in Rhys Michael's favor later in the year; but don't lose sight of what you and I have been doing for the last six years, in addition to monitoring the Haldane situation.”

Queron smiled and reached out to pat Joram's hand. “You're a dutiful son and brother, Joram,” he murmured. “For a man who didn't want to have anything to do with his father's sainthood, you keep displaying startling evidence of belief. I don't intend to do anything stupid, though. I'm well aware that, whether we succeed or fail with the Haldanes, Deryni fortunes will not be restored easily or quickly. Reestablishing a viable cult of Saint Camber may give our people hope for the long term, so that eventually we
can
resume a place of equal partnership again.”

“I'd certainly appreciate a little assistance from Saint Camber in the present venture,” Joram murmured. “Unfortunately, he seems to have a mind of his own regarding when and where he makes an appearance.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Father always did have a mind of his own.”

“As do you,” Queron said, smiling. “As did your sister. We shall hope that her son has not inherited that aspect of his mother's stubbornness, when I give him his instructions. Perhaps I'll be able to reach Jesse or Ansel instead and urge them to keep a tight rein on young Tieg.”

Joram finally allowed himself a hint of a grin. “I'll leave you to it, then, and start making what arrangements I can from sanctuary. Camlin will come to relieve you when you're ready.”

Meanwhile, many miles south, Archbishop Hubert MacInnis was receiving news long known to Joram and his kin but just come to Rhemuth. A
Custodes
monk called Brother Fabius had arrived at the Gwynedd capital just at dusk, with news so dire that Hubert could barely believe what he was hearing. He and Father Secorim, who was
Custodes
abbot at the cathedral, had been visiting the ailing Archbishop Oriss when the exhausted monk was shown into the parlour near Oriss' sickroom.

“Dimitri killed Albertus?” Hubert murmured, when the man had gasped out the gist of his news. “And Paulin is not expected to survive?”

While Secorim questioned the man further, for he and Paulin had been friends since seminary days, Hubert quickly scanned over the written confirmations the man had brought—assessments from both Rhun and Lior—still unable to believe what he was reading.

“I must summon the council,” Hubert said, folding the parchment pages and slipping them under his cincture. “Secorim, do you wish to come? I'd guess you're as likely as anyone to replace Paulin, if he doesn't recover. At very least, you can deputize for him for the present.”

“I'll come,” Secorim said. “Brother Fabius, please come along as well. The council may wish to question you further.”

Half an hour later, they were seated around one end of the long table in the council chamber, now joined by Tammaron, Richard Murdoch, and the young Earl of Tarleton Bonner Sinclair, whose father had been Earl of Tarleton before he became Lord Albertus of the
Custodes Fidei
. Though Albertus and his eldest son had not been especially close, young Tarleton still looked stunned, as did the rest of them.

“I blame myself,” Hubert murmured, when the messenger again had related the gist of his news and then Secorim had read aloud the texts sent by Rhun and Lior. “It was I who recruited Dimitri. And all these years—Dear God, have I sent them all into a trap? Was Dimitri working for Torenth all along and this all was a ruse to lure the king to a meeting on Torenth's terms?”

“If it was,” Richard said coldly, “their strategy did not think far enough ahead. Even if the king perishes, we still have the heir and another on the way. Do you really think Marek of Festil is strong enough to assault the gates of Rhemuth to press his claim? No. We still hold the important cards.”

“You're probably right,” Tammaron said. “Nonetheless, I think it might be best if we pull additional troops from elsewhere to defend the city—just in case we've underestimated Marek. Richard, your lands are closest. How many men can you call up from Carthane?”

“How many would you like?” Richard replied. “A hundred? More than that? I should think we can also draw upon
Custodes
troops,” he added, glancing at Secorim.

Secorim nodded. “I can secure perhaps a hundred overnight, from the garrison outside
Arx Fidei
Abbey. More, if I summon from farther afield, but a lot went north with the king.”

Richard shook his head, busy jotting figures on a scrap of parchment. “No, an additional two hundred should be sufficient for now. If a messenger leaves at once, my men can be here within two days. Practically speaking, I don't think it's necessary to fortify any more than that until we hear further from Rhun. We do have to feed all those extra men if we bring them in, after all.”

Hubert had begun to recover his equilibrium and nodded agreement.

“I quite agree. We should wait for further clarification of the situation before we let ourselves be stampeded into any sort of panic. Richard is perfectly correct in pointing out that we still hold the controlling factor, in young Prince Owain. To that end, however”—he glanced at Tammaron—“I believe it would be wise if we keep any knowledge of this latest development from the queen. It also may become necessary to confiscate future missives from the king, if he mentions anything to do with this latest development.”

“Are you concerned about another miscarriage, if anything should happen to the king?” Richard asked.

Hubert nodded. “It may become necessary to confine the queen to her bed for the remainder of her pregnancy. Tammaron, I rely upon you to instruct the court physicians accordingly. No action is to be taken yet—I do not think mere news and rumors of news would be sufficient to match the shock that brought on the first miscarriage—but we must hold ourselves in readiness. And it goes without saying that the safety of Prince Owain now becomes even more important than it long has been.”

“I'll see about streamlining the running of the royal household,” Tammaron said. “With reasonable care, things should be able to drift along as they have done, for at least another week or two, but appropriate precautions will be taken.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-THREE

Keep thee far from the man that hath power to kill … lest he take away thy life presently.

—Ecclesiasticus 9:13

While the great lords in Rhemuth pondered what had occurred at Saint Cassian's nearly a week before, the royal party was returning there en route home. For Rhys Michael, most of the day had passed in a merciful narcotic blur, though that had mostly worn off by the time they rode into the abbey yard, just at dusk. The first news to greet them was that Paulin of Ramos had died the night before and been buried that morning in the abbey crypt beside his brother.

Though hardly unexpected, the news elicited a wave of pious lamentation among the
Custodes
members of the king's party, with appropriate mouthings of regret from Rhun and Manfred and the junior officers in their immediate vicinity. Before quarters could even be assigned for those lodging within the abbey precincts, a joint summons came from Father Lior and the abbot for the king and his principal officers to join the
Custodes
clergy in the crypt beneath the church for special prayers beside Paulin's tomb. Rhys Michael tried to plead exhaustion to get out of it, for he could think of few actions more hypocritical on his part than pretending to pray for Paulin's soul, but Rhun made it clear that he must at least affect the appearance of regret.

Accordingly, the king knelt in the crypt with the rest of them and mouthed the prescribed prayers and tried not to think about his throbbing hand or the fever still simmering in his brow. He emerged into the evening coolness to find that gossip was spreading to the camp about Deryni involvement in Paulin's death. Clearly, the circumstances of his illness had not been forgotten by a week's absence. A little later, at table in the abbot's refectory, conversation inevitably turned to Paulin's death.

“In retrospect, I suppose it was folly to expect the outcome could have been any different,” the abbot said, responding to a question by Manfred. “What chance had he against Deryni sorcery?”

“Surely you continued the exorcisms, the purifications,” Lior murmured.

“And the prayers of the entire community,” the abbot said, staring into his cup. “The taint remains, though, Father. I fear it shall take a prolonged period of fasting and prayer and mortification to cleanse this House of it.”

Shaking his head, Manfred glanced at Rhun, who seemed to be biting back a caustic comment, then at Brother Polidorus, the abbey's infirmarian, who was sitting farther down the table next to Master Stevanus.

“I am no churchman,” he said uneasily, “but it seems obvious to me that all was done that
could
be done, for his spiritual well-being. A pity nothing availed for his physical recovery.”

Brother Polidorus raised an eyebrow and pushed his goblet away a little.

“We did try, my lord, but as Father Abbot has said, the prognosis was poor from the start. He could not eat. He could not control his bodily functions. His heart remained strong and he continued to breathe, but my helpers and I were never able to elicit any kind of response.

“Except when he was bled,” he amended, almost as an afterthought. “Several times, he seemed on the verge of stirring, and we hoped this might be evidence that the taint was leaving him.” He shook his head. “But he never regained consciousness. At least I do not think he felt anything, there at the end. God grant him peace,” he concluded, crossing himself piously.

Rhys Michael echoed the gesture along with the rest at table, but he could not find it in his heart to regret Paulin's fate. As he stifled a yawn and tried to find a more comfortable posture, he found himself wondering whether the bleeding that Polidorus had mentioned might have hastened Paulin to his reward, for the
Custodes
were known to use—and misuse—bloodletting as part of their internal discipline within the Order. He wondered whether they might view it as an alternative coup de grâce for one of their own with no hope of recovery, though the coup generally was limited to fatal battle injuries in the field, and the Church maintained only a precarious peace with the practice. He remembered hearing how a
Custodes
battle surgeon had given the coup thus to Murdoch of Carthane, the day after Javan's coronation—or rather, Rhun had done it under
Custodes
direction. More normally, the
Custodes
used bleeding as a means of discipline and intimidation, sometimes unto death. If Paulin had succumbed to loss of blood, Rhys Michael could not but think it fitting, to taste the fate he had inflicted on many others.