The Bastard Prince (53 page)

“He's a murderer like the rest of them,” Cathan murmured, pulling on his boots, though he kept his voice low.

Stevanus heaved a disconsolate sigh. “I've come to see that. I can't but think the entire
Custodes
Order must be tainted as well, though I didn't want to believe it at first. I thought I had a true vocation, that the Order had important work to do. I even thought I was doing the right thing when I helped stage the king's ‘abduction' while he was still prince. And I was very good at what I did.

“But it was all a lie,” he continued, handing Cathan the tunic to his riding leathers. “The entire focus of the
Custodes Fidei
is and always has been a cover for gaining secular power. I lay most of the blame for that on Paulin and Albertus, but I have little hope that their successors will be any better.”

Cathan pulled on the leather tunic over his head, wincing at the twinge on his sore arm, and began doing up the front laces.

“You said this Brother Embert is to be my new physician. Does that mean you're being sent away, too, like Fulk?”

Stevanus glanced at his feet, nodding dismally. “Would that it were so benign. No one will dare to slay Earl Tammaron's son. I'm—ordered to go to the abbey at Ramos tomorrow, when we pass nearby. Father Lior has called it a ‘retreat,' to refocus myself after the strain of what I've been through. He's my superior in the Order, so I have no choice but to go. But it's the harshest of the
Custodes
houses. God alone knows whether I shall ever leave there, save in a coffin like the king.” He looked up uncertainly. “Can you forgive me for what they made me do to him?”

“You were never like them,” Cathan assured him, bending uncomfortably to buckle on his spurs. “And you tried to serve him faithfully, in the end.”

“Aye, but too little and too late.”

“For him, perhaps, but not for the Haldane line, pray God.”

“I do—and shall,” Stevanus whispered. “And for you, my lord.”

Saying nothing, Cathan tried to put on a brave face for Stevanus as he stood to buckle on his sword, a little surprised that he had been allowed to retain his weapons—though what harm he could do with them now, with the king already dead, God alone knew. To his dismay, his knees went weak and his vision blurred, and he had to catch his balance on the battle surgeon's arm until a wave of vertigo had passed.

“Light-headed,” he murmured. “Is that from the drug or the bloodletting?”

“A little of both, I expect. If you can exaggerate the effects, pretend to be more affected than you are, there's a chance they'll decrease the medication after a day or two. I wish there were something I could do to help, but—” He shrugged and sighed, apparently resigned to his fate. “Do you think you'll be able to manage a horse?”

Cathan gave a weak snort. “I'm sure I'll have minders to keep an eye on me. You don't really think they'd let me fall off, do you?” His tone made it no question at all.

One of his minders turned out to be Gallard de Breffni, though he hardly cared who rode to either side of him that first morning. Merely staying on his horse occupied the greater part of his conscious effort until well past noon, and he had no need to exaggerate anything. It was not until late afternoon that his brain had cleared sufficiently for him to string together more than two thoughts without getting lost in his own chains of logic, and by then he was too physically exhausted to do more than fall into bed after picking wearily at an ill-cooked meal.

His observations over the next few days were not reassuring. Though his minders became less attentive, once convinced of his disinclination to do anything besides try to stay mounted, Gallard de Breffni's presence at his side was a constant reminder of the story Rhysem had told him of his kidnapping, a few months before Javan's murder, when the treacherous Gallard had posed as one of the prince's captors and Rhysem himself had been swept along similarly helpless and drug-blurred and weakened. He thought they did ease back on his medication after the first day, but he continued to feign greater weakness than he actually felt, in hopes that he might begin to regain some degree of control.

But always with him was the awareness that any untoward initiative on his part might bring a dose of
merasha
with a Deryni pricker rather than the gentler sedative Embert had been giving him. He nearly wept that second morning when, just before midday, he saw Stevanus and half a dozen
Custodes
set off on another road, headed eastward toward Ramos. He found himself hating the
Custodes Fidei
more with every passing hour.

And ever before him was the fear, the uncertainty, both for his personal safety and for the greater goal. He wondered whether Robert Ainslie had made it safely to Rhemuth and prayed that Mika's copy of the codicil was now in safe hands.

For that matter, what of the even more important copies in Kheldour? Did the holders even know yet that the document must already be exercised? Dom Queron had promised to get word to their allies at Lochalyn Castle, but could Claibourne and Marley act quickly enough?

Even as Cathan pondered these questions, Ansel and Tieg and an escort of four armed men rode under the gate arch of Lochalyn Castle and asked for urgent audience with the highest-ranking person in charge. It was just on noon, and the castle yard seemed mostly deserted, though a blacksmith was hammering away in his forge, over by the stable yard, alongside several armorers repairing weapons. Stacia came down to see them presently, a wolfhound pressing against her apron and tweed skirts, the glorious red hair bound under a linen kerchief. She blanched as she recognized young Tieg.

“May we speak with you in private, lady?” Ansel murmured.

She summoned Father Derfel as soon as she heard the bare gist of their news, and by midafternoon they had been joined in the solar by Graham, Sighere, and Corban, recalled from their patrolling of the surrounding area.

“Damn the bluidy lot o' them!” Sighere blurted, slamming a beefy hand against the table when Ansel had given them a sketchy account of the king's death and touched anew on the implications. “That puir lad. An' they're apt tae cut us right out if we dinnae act quickly.”

“
Can
you act this quickly?” Ansel asked. “Is the border secure enough to pull troops just now?”

“Och, aye,” Graham replied. “There hasnae been a peep fra Torenth this week gone, nae sign o' Marek. Besides, we willnae need ta tak many. No more'n a score, or we cannae travel fast enou'. Corban, kin ye spare us those?”

Corban nodded. “Aye, the fewer gone, the fewer missed. It's coverin' yer and Sighere's absence I'm thinking will be chancy. Ye dinnae want the bluidy
Custodes
houndin' ye back tae Rhemuth tae mak life more difficult.”

“God forbid!” Tieg breathed. “Can you create some kind of diversion?”

“Aye, it can be done,” Sighere said. “We'll send the
Custodes
north wi' Delacroix, tae check out the pass through the Arranal, an' the levies fra Caerrorie an' Sheele can be dispersed locally tae guard the pass here.”

Corban nodded his agreement. “Just ane favor I'd ask: Could ye mebbe figure a way tae clap the Caerrorie commander in irons? He's Manfred MacInnis' son, ye know. I wouldnae feel safe wi' one o'
that
tribe left in any position of authority while ye hare off tae Rhemuth.”

“I think something can be arranged,” Ansel said grimly. “I'd also suggest that you try to keep news of the king's death from leaking out until we're well away. I suspect that official notification will be delayed for some time, since Rhun and Manfred know about the codicil, but it
will
reach here eventually. What are MacInnis' officers like? Anyone who can be trusted?”

Sighere shrugged. “I couldnae say. He's keen on discipline, though. 'Tis probably best tae pretend he's goin' with us, an' mebbe forge some orders tae cover his absence.”

Tieg chuckled. “No need to forge anything, my lord. If you'll get him here, I believe I can safely assure you that Lord Iver MacInnis will write a brilliant set of orders to cover whatever we'd like. I don't ordinarily condone tampering with a person's free will, but in this case, I'll be pleased to make an exception.”

“I think I can improve on that idea,” Ansel said. “We'll send Iver MacInnis
and
the
Custodes
commander north to do some reconnoitering—after both commanders have written impeccable orders to cover their maneuvers. That will also delay them finding out about the king, and give us a few more days' lead time. If we succeed in Rhemuth, it will be right away or not at all.”

“About Rhemuth,” Graham ventured. “D'ye really think we can pull this off wi' only twenty men?”

Ansel smiled. “We'll be more than twenty by the time we reach Rhemuth.”

As he outlined the rest of their plan, hastily reworked from the original scenario for year's end, Sighere laughed aloud in sheer delight, his bristling red hair and beard giving him a look of vulpine cunning. Stacia, too, was smiling and nodding, as Ansel started drafting the brief sets of orders that would be necessary to get Iver and Joshua out of Lochalyn.

By nightfall, following a flurry of activity in the several hours preceding, Lord Iver MacInnis and Lord Joshua Delacroix led out fully half the royal troops still based at Lochalyn, heading northward on a special recce to scout the next pass northward. The remaining royal troops were left in Corban Howell's capable hands.

Shortly after their departure, a rather smaller, more lightly mounted band headed south, led by the Duke of Claibourne and the Earl of Marley and including two new-come borderers and a middle-aged priest mounted somewhat precariously on a smooth-gaited rouncy. The new Earl of Eastmarch rode with them as far as the camp, his lady watching from the castle ramparts. When the riders had disappeared into the dusk, the countess retired to the castle chapel to offer prayers for the success of their mission, and a special mother's prayer for the little boy in Rhemuth who now was king.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY

And through covetousness shall they with feigned words make merchandise of you.

—II Peter 2:3

It was on the morning of the next day, the royal party's third day out from Saint Ostrythe's and the fourth since the king's death, that Cathan Drummond at last was able to seize some small hope concerning his situation. The army had camped the previous night in a field half a day's ride south and west of Ramos, close along the banks of the Eirian. Wispy fog still clung to the ground, risen up from the river during the night, as his minders escorted him to his mount. Just as Gallard was giving him a leg up, Cathan spotted Robert Ainslie not far away, leading up a saddled horse for his father.

The exertion required to mount made Cathan light-headed, so that he had to hold tight to his horse's mane for a few seconds until his vision steadied. When he could look around again, Robert was gone.

Though he knew his mind was at its muzziest early in the morning, right after taking Brother Embert's potion, he was sure it was Robert he had seen. But Embert's drug also made him uncertain whether the young knight had returned from his mission or simply had betrayed Cathan and the king and never gone. He put but little stock in the compulsions he had tried to set, for he knew his own shortcomings as a Deryni, but he hoped he had not misjudged Robert that badly. Beyond thinking was the possibility that Robert had gone right to Rhun and Manfred and given them the codicil—though he could not imagine his own life would have been spared, if that had been the case.

All day, as they rode along, he tried to figure out a way to speak with Robert. The prospects seemed slim, for Gallard or the other man, a knight named Cloyce de Clarendon, were always beside him, maintaining the illusion of benign regard but ready to intervene if he put one foot wrong.

It must be something subtle, then—or as subtle as Cathan could manage, with his thinking fogged and his physical reflexes slowed, though at least they had not bled him again. He decided that if Robert
had
been to Rhemuth and returned—as was most likely, when Cathan was not feeling paranoid—he probably had delivered the missive through Rhysel. And if the Deryni Rhysel had been the contact, there was a fair chance that she had set some return message in Robert's mind for Cathan's reading—perhaps instructions and guidance, though she probably would not have known yet of Rhysem's death.

But how to gain access to the young knight? Since Robert was not Deryni, and Cathan only a very weak one, even when in full command of his faculties, he could only Read such a message through physical contact. But how was Robert going to get past Cathan's ever-vigilant minders?

Cathan decided he was going to have to create his own opportunity and trust that Robert would recognize it and follow through. He watched for his chance all through the afternoon, the while continuing to feign listlessness and fatigue and even nodding off in the saddle, but he did not once even see Robert again. Not until they were splashing through the sandy shallows of a wide ford across the Eirian, approaching the
Custodes
House that was their destination for the night, did a ghost of a chance present itself.

It was not much of an opportunity, and if Robert was not trying to get to
him
, it was not going to work, but it was worth a try. The day was warm; a dunking would do no harm.

For Robert and another young knight were spurring casually forward along the line to make some inquiry of an officer just beyond Cathan, who was already turning in his saddle in response to Robert's hail. Cathan waited until the two were nearly abreast of him and his minders, slumped heavy-lidded in his saddle—and let himself topple soundlessly over the side closer to the pair, which was also the side away from Gallard, who was more likely to be alert than Cloyce.