The Bastard Prince (48 page)

“Tell me, what brings the king to these parts?” he asked, as she led him past several soldiers into a well-built barn.

The little nun gave a sad shrug, stroking the donkey's neck as she guided it into a spacious box stall strewn with sweet-smelling hay.

“I fear he is very ill, Father. They brought him here yesterday, all but unconscious, and 'tis said that even bleeding has not eased him. Mother Prioress instructed us to pray for him, both last night and this morning.”

Stunned, Queron laid a hand on her shoulder, gently taking control as he turned her to face him and then probed deep. Sister Winifred's discretion was what might be expected of a religious, but her knowledge of the king's condition was not confined to a mere glimpse or convent gossip. She was only a very junior member of the community, but she had been one of several sisters to tend the king immediately after his arrival.

From her he read the king's condition at that time and what had been done for him in her presence. The injured hand had not been dealt with, for it was fever and convulsions that had interrupted his journey. Queron would have preferred talicil for the fever and could have prescribed several specific Deryni drugs that might have eased the very alarming spasms, but the tea brewed from white willow bark conveyed some of the same benefits as talicil, and sedation, in general, usually helped to ease convulsions.

Unfortunately, Sister Winifred had no direct knowledge about the bloodletting, though it was understood that the king almost certainly had been bled more than once since his arrival and possibly as many as three or four times. That was alarming enough, but earlier this morning, one of the king's officers had made inquiries concerning the availability of the convent's chaplain—which seemed odd to young Winifred, since the king's immediate party certainly had several priests among their number. One had celebrated Mass for them this morning, for the convent's resident priest was away.

This additional piece of information struck a dread chill in Queron's heart. That a priest was being sought was ill news, indeed, for it bespoke the very real possibility that the king was in danger of death. And how like Rhys Michael to refuse the services of his
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priests. Queron recalled being told that the dying Alroy had done precisely the same thing, only finally receiving his last Communion from his brother Javan's hands.

But herein lay a possible way to gain access to the king, not as an itinerant hospitaller but as a disinterested and neutral priest who might be acceptable to a man who knew the failings of his own priests far too well to entrust his soul to them as he approached death. It was not what Queron had hoped to accomplish, and he tried not to let himself expect that he was in time to make a difference as a Healer; but at least if Queron was too late to save the king's life, perhaps he might help ease that life to a more peaceful close, with the solace of a friend beside him, even in the midst of his enemies …

“It grieves me to hear that the king is so ill, Sister,” Queron murmured, shaking his head, smoothly releasing her without memory of any passage of time. “Far from home and kin, it must give him comfort to receive the loving care of this House. And for his soul's cure, I should imagine he has the ministrations of many good priests.”

She dropped her gaze and folded her hands in the wide sleeves of her habit, biting at her lower lip. “I—am not certain he has yet received the sacraments, Father. Earlier this morning, one of his young officers was inquiring for a priest; alas, ours is away. Later, the senior of the king's priests said Mass for us—a Father Lior—but he seemed preoccupied and almost angry. I—wonder whether he and his brother priests may be out of favor with the king. I can think of no other reason to ask for ours.”

Queron raised an eyebrow. “You think he would not see his own priests? But—oh, dear. Sister, I can hardly claim to be the sort of courtly, sophisticated priest to which the king must be accustomed, but do you suppose he still needs one? I would be honored to offer what solace I may, if he would think it no impertinence from a humble country cleric.”

Sister Winifred smiled hopefully.

“You're very generous, Father. I can take you to the king's men. It may be that his Highness would be well content to confess himself to a priest who knows him not at all. Perhaps there lies the problem.”

“Perhaps,” Queron agreed.

Leaving the stable with Sister Winifred, Queron followed her back across the central courtyard and through into the cloister garth, heading for the Chapter House. It appeared the king's officers had appropriated the building for a temporary command headquarters. Several
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guards were posted outside the open doorway, some of them looking grim, indeed, but they gave only casual interest to the aged, brown-robed cleric who followed silently at the heels of the pretty Sister Winifred, hands folded piously in the sleeves of his habit and head ducked down in his cowl. Fortunately, Queron had never had a face-to-face meeting with any of the men likely to be inside, though he knew most of them by others' mental recall and description.

“Beg pardon, my lords,” Sister Winifred said, peering timidly into the open doorway and bobbing a nervous curtsey as several of the men looked up. “One of the young officers was inquiring earlier this morning about a priest. This is Father Donatus, on his way to Saint Jarlath's. Could he be of any assistance?”

An intense, black-eyed priest in
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habit detached himself from a knot of
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officers and came over to the doorway—Father Lior, Queron realized.

“What was that name again, Father?” Lior asked.

“Donatus,” Queron said, making the obviously grander Lior a deferential bow, eyes averted. “I do beg your pardon, Father, but perhaps Sister was mistaken. I was told a priest was required, but I see several priests among you.”

Behind Lior, Manfred gave a snort. Rhun of Horthness stood beside him, sullenly nursing a large goblet.

“Well, Lior, your prayers are answered,” Manfred said. “I doubt it will make much difference to
him
, but I'm sure you priestly types will feel better about all of this if the proprieties are observed.”

Biting back whatever retort had come to mind, Lior merely folded his hands behind his back and curtly gestured to Queron with his chin as he headed out the door.

“Come with me, please, Father. Thank you, Sister.”

A few minutes later, Lior was leading Queron past a pair of
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guards and into a dim, close room tinged with the sweetness of incense and beeswax and the underscent of blood. Two motionless figures in leather and shirtsleeves knelt to either side of a white-covered bed, and a third in the black tunic of a
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battle surgeon turned a compress on the forehead of the bed's occupant. Though Queron had never met any of the three, he recognized all of them as they looked up—Cathan, Fulk, and Stevanus—and he sent a quick burst of thought to Cathan, who alone might guess what he was.

Say nothing. I am sent by Joram
.

“This is Father Donatus,” Lior said, gesturing toward Queron. “How is his Highness?”

“Quiet,” Stevanus said, setting his compress aside, not meeting Lior's eyes as he got to his feet. “It—cannot be much longer.”

Lior's lips tightened, and he shook his head, piously folding his hands at his waist. “These are sad times, indeed, Father. I gave his Highness holy anointing early this morning, when his condition became grave, but he would not speak to me, he would not make last confession, nor would he receive Viaticum. If you can reach him, if you can persuade him to make his peace with God, I would count it a personal favor.”

“I am honored to offer that comfort to any soul in need, Father,” Queron said quietly, somewhat surprised to find that Lior's regret seemed genuine—though he was also aware that Lior took little personal risk by asking another priest to hear the king's last confession, since any accusations against Lior or the others would be sealed by the confidentiality of that sacrament. “If we may have some privacy, please?”

“Of course.”

With a pointed glance at the others, Lior began making shooing motions to urge them out of the room. Cathan rose obediently enough, though clearly on the brink of tears, but he lingered near the foot of the bed as Fulk, Stevanus, and then Lior passed outside.

“Might I stay in the room, please, Father?” he whispered. “Maybe over in the corner? He has been like a brother to me. The queen is my sister.”

“Not just now, son,” Queron said, setting his hands on Cathan's shoulders to guide him to the door—and in those seconds Reading all he could of what had been done to the king. “Why don't you wait outside with the others? I promise I'll call you before the end.”

Cathan choked back a sob but gave a nod as well, for Queron had sent explicit instructions during the brief contact. When he had passed outside, Queron gently closed the door and then came back to gaze down at the king.

Rhys Michael's eyes were closed, and his labored breathing barely stirred the stark white sheet pulled up to midchest. He was no longer restrained. Both arms lay outside the sheeting, the right hand heavily bandaged and splinted and lesser bandages binding both arms at the elbows, evidence of the repeated bleedings. Cathan had witnessed four, though the king probably had not been aware of the last of these. He still had lucid moments, but they were becoming fewer and shorter.

Crossing himself with weary resignation, Queron knelt at the king's left and took the slack hand in one of his, chafing it gently as his other hand came to rest on Rhys Michael's forehead, Reading deep as a Healer Reads and knowing, as only a Healer can know, that all his powers could not reverse what had been set in motion. The physical damage to the hand could still be Healed—and Queron would have been willing to risk personal discovery, if such Healing might save the king's life—but nothing could be done to replace the vast quantities of blood the king had lost, or to quell the fever burning away what little strength remained to him.

The pain Queron blocked, for that, at least, he could do; but nothing more for the body that housed Rhys Michael Haldane's soul. The king stirred slightly at this respite, though his breathing still was labored, and he did not open his eyes.

“Rhysem, I know you can hear me,” Queron whispered softly, very near the king's ear. “It's Dom Queron. Joram has sent me. I deeply regret that I cannot Heal you, but is there anything else I can offer you? Don't try to speak aloud; just give me your thoughts. Rest in the Mercy and let me help you find your peace.”

The hope that had stirred faintly in Rhys Michael's soul fluttered back and was stilled, yielding once more to resigned acceptance, for he had given up any real hope of surviving this when they bled him the second time. Before the third time, Manfred had even laid the Haldane sword under his hand, in confirmation of their intentions, though he already had been too weak to hold it. Still, this final acceptance of what soon must be his fate enabled him to send his thought to Queron strong and focused.

Dom Queron … sweet comfort come at last … Please hear my confession, Father. I would not go to God unshriven, but I could not confess to Lior …

Dear son
…

Their thoughts merged and blended then, beyond all need for mere words as the king offered up all his fears and failings for the examination of his spiritual physician, humbly acknowledging the Healer's assessments, letting Queron guide him in making his contrition. Withholding nothing, he also revealed to Queron how he had made provision for passing the Haldane potential to his son—not the full empowering, for Owain was only four, but the means for the ground to be prepared and the seeds sown.

And Cathan must be his agent in this and cautioned not to do or say anything after the king's death that might prevent his return to Michaela, for whom he also bore a last, loving farewell from her Rhysem. It was all the king could offer, in the end—one final bequest to the kingdom he had never really ruled. Having discharged this ultimate obligation, he was content to rest, mind intertwined to mind as hand to hand, even as Queron softly pronounced the ritual words of absolution and signed him in blessing.

“
Ego te absolvo, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.
”

“Amen,” Rhys Michael whispered, opening his eyes at last, the light blazing in them, fierce and strong and nearly burned out.

“Rhysem, I have brought you the Blessed Sacrament,” Queron murmured, touching a hand to his breast, where the little pyx rested under his habit in its soft leather pouch, suspended from a cord. “Will you receive Viaticum now? It is heavenly bread, the Body of our Lord, to speed you on your way.”

Almost too weak to speak, Rhys Michael nodded, tears welling in his eyes as he remembered the passing of his brother Alroy and how Javan had called him to the dying Alroy's side to share Communion together one last time.

“Call Cathan?” he managed to whisper. “And Fulk and Stevanus, if they wish. They have served—as best they could. In another little while, I think I could have won them truly … but no time.”

“Perhaps you have won them better than you knew,” Queron murmured. “I'll call them.”

He did. Cathan slipped past him anxiously, almost as soon as Queron opened the door, Fulk and then Stevanus following gratefully at the priest's beckoning gesture. Lior had been joined by Manfred, Rhun, and several more
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clerics, and would have followed the three the king had asked for, but Queron laid a hand on his wrist to stay him, his stern glance also halting the others.

“He wishes only these three, my lords.”

“But I should be there,” Lior protested, looking quite ashen-faced in his
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black, for he knew that Queron must be aware of his duplicity. “I have offended him, and I would seek his forgiveness.”