The Bastard Prince (47 page)

“How long?”

“Until the convulsions ease up.”

“No, how long until
that
happens? Stevanus, could I die from this?” he asked, trying to catch the battle surgeon's gaze.

Stevanus glanced away. “I—don't think you're going to die from this, Sire,” he whispered. “But here, I've got some more of the sisters' willow-bark tea for you. And a bit of sedative. It seems to help the spasms a bit. Cathan, just lift his head a little.”

Whether the sedative would have helped was a moot point, because the draught had not been in his stomach long enough to take effect before his body was again racked by wave upon wave of violent, cramping convulsions that arched his spine and choked off his breath and eventually left him unconscious. When he came around, he knew not how much later, angry voices were being raised in argument all around his bed, and he could feel his body tensing for another set of convulsions even as he opened his eyes to look around him.

“Medically, that's precisely what is called for!” Brother Polidorus was saying, as Lior laid a restraining hand on an angry Stevanus' shoulder. “I wanted it done days ago and look what's happened.”

Manfred was standing in the background, looking determined, and Sir Rondel, his aide, had the furiously struggling Rhun in a hammerlock, two
Custodes
knights pulling his arms outstretched while Father Magan bared one burly forearm and angled for a clean jab with a Deryni pricker. Cathan was nearby, but Gallard de Breffni had
him
in custody, with a dagger held to his throat rather than a Deryni pricker. Fulk was over by the door flanked by two more
Custodes
knights, not actively in custody but looking defeated and sick at heart.

“But he's too weak already!” Stevanus was protesting. “If you bleed him, he may not even survive
that
, much less the longer-term effects.”

Through the red haze that was creeping over the king's vision as convulsions claimed him again, wrenching him once more toward oblivion, the sense of Stevanus' words sent cold dread flooding through his mind. They meant to bleed him after all! He had forbidden Stevanus or Rhun to allow it, but Lior and Polidorus apparently had prevailed against even Rhun's orders. By an exhausting act of will, for the residual effects of the
merasha
continued to cloud his access to his powers, Rhys Michael managed not to succumb to this latest set of convulsions, but as they receded and he could again turn his perceptions outward, he was not certain he would not have been happier not to know.

For they were not arguing over him anymore. Cathan was kneeling at the right side of the bed, one hand gently stroking his forehead, weeping bitterly into his other hand. And on the left, as a sudden, burning pain in his arm made him flinch and turn his head in dismay, he saw Polidorus lifting a bloody lancet.

“No!” he cried weakly, instinctively trying to jerk away, even as Polidorus released the ligature that had kept his blood from flowing. “Noooooo!” he groaned, as the hot blood began to stream around his arm and collect in a basin set beneath his elbow.

But a
Custodes
knight had one hand set firmly against his shoulder and the other on his upper arm, and Father Magan had that forearm in an unrelenting grip, to ensure that their unwilling patient did not twist against the padded wrist restraint that held the arm outstretched. Another
Custodes
knight had moved in beside Cathan at the king's first sign of movement and restrained his right arm and shoulder. Stevanus was nowhere to be seen.

The horror and the helplessness of it all swept through him in less than a blink of an eye, along with the anger and betrayal and the utter futility of continuing to resist. Even so, he did try, wrenching at his bonds with a moan of outrage but then forced to succumb as Gallard de Breffni pressed across his body to pin him helpless, crushing the breath from his lungs, and his other captors tightened their holds on his twitching limbs. The exertion made the blood flow even faster, a still-rational part of him dimly realized, briefly spilling over the edge of the bowl until Polidorus could steady it. As the king gave up his struggling, Gallard eased off on crushing his chest, and the
Custodes
men pinning his shoulders let up slightly.

“Rhysem, forgive me, I couldn't stop them,” Cathan whispered, urgently turning his kinsman's face from what was being done. “They won't kill me, for Mika's sake, but they would have made me leave you, if I hadn't stopped fighting them. I couldn't bear the thought of you suffering this alone.”

“But, why?” Rhys Michael managed to croak, his voice quavering. “Is this how they're going to kill me?”

“Now, Sire, you mustn't get such ideas in your head,” Polidorus purred, calmly milking at his upper arm to keep the blood flowing, the bloody lancet still in his hand. “You're a very stubborn patient. You don't know what's best for you. Bleeding will let out the evil humours that are causing your illness. Believe me, we know what we're doing.”

Unable to argue such illogic, Rhys Michael cast his gaze helplessly around the room and saw that Rhun had subsided onto a stool over nearer the door, eyes closed, his head leaned back against the wall. Manfred was standing beside him, one hand on his shoulder, glancing down at him occasionally. Lior was on his other side. And Rhys Michael's blood continued to run around his elbow and into the basin, more and more of it, just as Javan had described when the
Custodes
bled him, what seemed like a lifetime ago.

“Rhun, listen to me,” Rhys Michael called, with as much strength as he could muster. “Rhun, if they kill me, I've told you what will happen. Don't let them do this—for your own sake, if not for mine.”

Manfred's hand tightened on Rhun's shoulder, and he quirked an uneasy smile at the king. “I'm not certain he can hear you, Sire. In any case, I am not as gullible as Lord Rhun. I don't believe you.”

“Shall I have Cathan show you the document?” the king asked.

“Anyone can draw up any document in their fantasies,” Manfred replied. “I think you're bluffing.”

“And if I'm not?”

Manfred shrugged. “Sire, it is regrettable that sometimes, despite the best of medical care, even the most illustrious patients do not survive illnesses as serious as yours. There will be ample witness that all was done that could be done and that your Highness refused sound medical advice on more than one occasion, until it was too late to save you.”

“But, it's murder,” Rhys Michael murmured, despair curling in his gut like a slithering snake. “What's more, it's sacrilege. But then, you've killed a king before, haven't you? At least Javan was able to die in the field, with his sword in his hand!”

Smiling a terrible little smile, Manfred walked over to the bed and glanced dispassionately at the basin collecting the king's blood, now nearly filled.

“I am not a vindictive man, Sire. I give you my faithful promise that when the time comes, you may die with your sword in your hand, if you wish—with the very sword that Javan held in
his
hand, in
his
last moments. But it will not be today.”

At his nod, Brother Polidorus set aside his lancet and pressed a pad of clean towel to the wound in the king's arm, lifting it clear so that Father Magan could remove the bowl of royal blood. When they had washed the arm clean, Polidorus applied a new dressing and bound it up, then directed Cathan to press his fingers against the dressing to be sure the wound was stanched, for they did not loose the restraints.

“Thank you, Brother Polidorus,” Manfred murmured. “Your services may be required again during the night, if our patient shows no sign of improvement, but for now, you may go. Sire, I'll send Master Stevanus and Lord Fulk back to you after Father Lior has had a word with you.”

Polidorus made Manfred a slight bow and retreated with him, the
Custodes
knights following with the groggy Rhun stumbling between them. When they had gone, Lior came over to the bed to sniff disdainfully at the bowl of blood still set on the table beside it. Father Magan was quietly gathering up the bloodied towels and instruments, collecting them on a wooden tray.

“A pity your Deryni friends could not be here, Sire,” Lior said softly. “No doubt they would find royal blood highly desirable for their rites of abomination. As it is, the custom in religious houses is to fertilize the gardens with the products of bloodletting. Perhaps in a year or two, the good sisters will be able to tell us whether royal blood is superior to merely mortal blood for that purpose.”

Increasingly light-headed, either from the loss of blood or the sedative earlier, Rhys Michael could hardly believe what he had just heard. But it was Cathan who challenged the
Custodes
priest, blue eyes wide with horror and indignation.

“Just what is that supposed to mean?” he demanded. “That's a lie, about the Deryni!”

“Oh, had you not heard of their blood rites?” Lior asked. “Of course, you mostly escaped their taint. I remember testing you. But 'tis well known that the Deryni consort with demons, who demand blood of their devotees. My sources inform me that royal blood is considered to be only slightly less efficacious than that of virgins or infants. In some cases, it is more useful. Be thankful that they do not have access to your body, Sire, much less to your soul.”

Cathan had blanched, unable to reply, and Rhys Michael could only turn his face away in loathing. His breathing had become more labored, and his thinking was not as clear as it had been.

“Speaking of which,” Lior went on, “I shall have a priest come to you in a little while. I am sure you will wish to make confession and receive Extreme Unction, being in mortal peril. I would offer my services, but somehow I doubt you would find me acceptable. Or Father Magan, I expect.” Rhys Michael could only shake his head numbly. “Well, I shall find someone. Good evening, Sire.”

When he and Magan had gone out, taking the tray and the blood with them, Stevanus was allowed to return, Fulk also coming to stand uneasily by the king's bed.

“I am truly sorry, Sire,” the battle surgeon murmured, looking distraught. “I tried to stop them. Sir Fulk tried as well, but we could only insist so far.”

Rhys Michael closed his eyes, tensing for a new set of convulsions he could feel coming on.

“I know,” he whispered. “You're none of you to blame. Cathan—”

Cathan's hand closed around his good one, and he hung on for his life as the spasms racked him again and Stevanus and Fulk tried to still his thrashing. Thereafter he slipped into troubled sleep, given respite at last by his sedation, his three guardians keeping watch by turns, as day slipped into evening and to night.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SIX

For I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand.

—II Timothy 4:6

Queron caught up with the Gwynedd army late in the morning of the next day. He had expected to find them much farther south, and caught intimations of a royal pause only a little after dawn, when he paused at a farmer's steading to beg food and drink.

“Aye, Father, they're camped round about the convent up the road,” the goodwife told him, as she poured him fresh milk from a crockery jar. “They say the king fell ill, an' they took him there for the good sisters to care for him.”

Queron soon found opportunity to probe the woman more closely, but she had already told all she knew. Begging a slab of cheese and a hunk of bread, he left the brown mare in exchange for the farmer's more suitable grey donkey and set off up the road, wolfing down the food for sustenance and planning how he might gain access to the king.

The cover he had chosen was an excellent start. Not only did his obviously advanced years present no physical threat to whatever laymen might be responsible for the king's safety, but his monastic habit virtually guaranteed the hospitality of just about any religious house. An itinerant cleric could always be prevailed upon to share the latest news of the outside world in exchange for his supper and a bed, while also enabling his hosts to exercise Christian charity. A visiting priest also might be asked to hear the odd confession and perhaps celebrate Mass, if the community did not have its own resident chaplain. Begging a noonday meal was perhaps not as satisfactory an entrée as requesting travelers' fare and lodgings at day's end, but Queron reflected that he could always make the donkey limp temporarily, if no other ruse seemed likely to gain him entrance.

He did not have to resort to such tactics. Though he could see the vast sprawl of the army's encampment across the fields as he approached, and there was much evidence of horsemen riding to and fro on the road as he neared the convent gates, no one gave him a second glance as he guided the little donkey under the entrance arch. Across the cobbled courtyard, several armed men were tending horses outside what he presumed must be the guesthouse, and more horses stood tied beside what appeared to be the entrance to the stable yard. As he drew rein, a smiling young sister in a black wimple and habit came to greet him, setting work-roughened hands on the donkey's bridle as he slid to the ground.

“God's greeting to you, good brother. Welcome to Saint Ostrythe's. How may we serve you?”

“God's greeting to you, Sister. Might I trouble you for a bite to eat and fodder for my four-legged friend? 'Tis a long ride yet to Saint Jarlath's, and I do not know where the evening will find me. My name is Father Donatus.”

“And I am Sister Winifred,” she said, bobbing him a curtsey. “Of course you may find hospitality in this house, Father. I fear the fare may be less ample than our usual wont, for we guest the king and his party, but you are welcome to share what we have. Come and I'll show you where to put your beast.”

Following her into the stable yard, Queron took in as much as he could of the layout of the place, alert for any sign of the king's presence nearby; but he could find no trace.