The Bastard Prince (57 page)

The choir offered up a hymn promising resurrection and salvation as the great lords gently set the coffin on the catafalque prepared for it and then moved the funeral candles into place: thick, bright-burning yellow brands set in six tall silver candlesticks, three on a side. Hubert offered more prayers as the pallbearers came to kneel behind the queen and the little king, and he sprinkled and censed the coffin again, sending up more clouds of sweet-smelling smoke that made Owain sneeze. At some point, Tammaron and Rhun brought the State Crown and sceptre from the altar, Rhun laying the wand of gold-embellished ivory close beside the Haldane sword and Tammaron exchanging the state crown for the simpler circlet that had traveled with the king from Eastmarch. The latter he brought to the queen, presenting it on bended knee.

She thanked him softly as she clasped it to her breast, kneeling dutifully with Owain and Cathan at the head of the coffin while the prayers droned on and on, the pious responses murmuring from the congregation kneeling behind them. Only with Rhysem's circlet in her hands, the one she once had set in place on his helm, did she truly begin to accept that he was dead. Not the eternal part of him, of course, which Cathan assured her had been taken up to God by archangels; but she still could mourn the human part of him, that lay in that oaken box, that nevermore would take her in his arms—and that other part, so recently glimpsed, that might have made of him so truly magnificent a king.

She was weeping quietly by the time it was over at last, but it was a sadness rather than an anguish. Tammaron approached her as the procession was forming up to go out, accompanied by a concerned Master James, but she assured both that she would be fine and let Cathan escort her and her son back up the aisle with the rest of the royal household. Blessedly, the curtains had been let down on the sedan-chair, so she and Owain were screened from prying eyes for the return to the castle. The curtains also muffled the sounds from outside, the hollow clip-clop of hooves on cobblestones and the faint murmur of the crowds still lining the streets.

“Mummy,” Owain whispered a little later, as they lurched along and he snuggled close in the circle of her arms, hugging the Papa knight close. “Mummy, Papa wasn't really in that box—was he?”

She bit back a smile, wondering whether he could have caught some hint of her own soul-searching, back in the cathedral.

“No, my darling. His body was in there, but it's only an empty house now. His soul, the most important part of him, has gone to God.”

He pulled back to glance down at his chest, then looked back up at her. “Is this my house, Mummy?”

“Yes.”

“When—when I go to sleep, does my soul come out of my house?”

She closed her eyes briefly, trying to think of imagery that a four-year-old could understand and that would not frighten him.

“Some people say it can—but you mustn't be afraid of sleeping, darling. We always come back to our bodies until it's time for God to call us home. Some people think every person has a silver cord connecting the soul to the body. It's a magical cord that can stretch to the very ends of the earth—but it always brings us back when we're ready. When people get old, the cord starts to wear out, it starts to ravel. And eventually it goes all unraveled and lets the person go back to God.”

“Papa wasn't old. What happened to his silver cord?”

“Well, sometimes, when we're very sick, or very badly hurt, the cord breaks. When that happens, angels come to carry the person to God. That's what happened to Papa. You can ask Uncle Cathan. He says he saw the angels.”

“He did?” Owain's eyes got very wide and round. “He saw angels take away my papa?”

“You mustn't think they did it to be mean,” she said hastily. ‘It's the angels' job to guard us and keep us safe. But Papa's cord was already broken. His body had been very sick. That's why the angels came to take him to God.”

“Oh.”

Owain's momentary anger at marauding angels died away at that reassurance, and he subsided against her arm, apparently satisfied with the explanation, cradling the Papa knight close. He was asleep by the time the sedan-chair drew up before the great hall steps, and it was Cathan who drew back the curtains to gather the sleeping boy into his arms.

“Let him sleep,” Cathan murmured, when Michaela would have protested that he himself was too weak for the exertion. “I can carry him. He isn't very heavy.”

He was allowed this privilege, though clearly no privacy would accompany it. Manfred followed them up to the royal apartments, Tammaron trailing after. As soon as Cathan had deposited the boy in his mother's bed, Manfred crooked his finger at him from the doorway.

“May I have just a moment with my sister—please?” Cathan begged.

“That will have to wait. We're expected downstairs.”

“Just a few seconds. I only want to give her a few of her husband's keepsakes.”

“What keepsakes?” Manfred demanded, barging into the room with an uncomfortable-looking Tammaron following.

Trembling, for he feared he might not have another chance at this, Cathan hastily pulled a folded handkerchief from the pouch at his belt and fumbled out the Eye of Rom.

“This is part of the regalia of Gwynedd,” he said, placing it in her hand. “You'll have to pierce his ear so he can wear it.”
And do it, as soon as possible
, he managed to send, while he briefly had contact with her.

She nodded numb agreement as she closed it in her hand and Manfred set a heavy hand on Cathan's sleeve.

“The Council requires your presence, Sir Cathan. Don't make me ask again.”

Shrinking from the thought of what they might want him for, he pressed the Haldane brooch into his sister's hand, still partially wrapped in the handkerchief.

“He also wanted you to have—my lord, this is a private piece!” he added sharply, his hand blocking when Manfred would have reached for it. “It's only his cloak clasp. She had it made for him after the birth of Prince Owain! May she not keep this one remembrance of their love?”

“Manfred, leave it be,” Tammaron said wearily. “Your Highness, I apologize for Lord Manfred. His manners obviously have worn thin from his journey. Manfred, the Council has certain questions it would like to put to you, as well as to Sir Cathan. Will you both please come with me, or must I call a guard?”

“Don't
you
push me,” Manfred muttered, as he turned on his heel to go. “Drummond, come along, or you haven't heard the last of this.”

Head meekly dipping, Cathan let himself be herded toward the door. “If they'll let me, I'll try to come and have supper with you, Mika. God keep you, sweet sister.”

“And you, dear brother,” she whispered, as the door closed behind all three of them.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-TWO

Then the chief captain came near, and took him, and commanded him to be bound with two chains.

—Acts 21:33

The reckoning that awaited Cathan in the council chamber was both more and less than he had feared. Not unexpectedly, Richard was waiting just inside the door to demand his sword. Cathan could feel the hostile eyes upon him from the table beyond as he slowly unbuckled the belt and wrapped it around the scabbard before handing it over, using the time to assess his chances, wishing his head were a little clearer, trying to keep his hands from shaking.

Hubert was already seated in his customary place at the left side of the table, nearest the king's empty chair, with Lior to his right and Rhun next. After indicating that Cathan should sit at the foot of the table, where the queen normally would sit, Richard escorted Tammaron to the chair opposite Hubert and sat beside him, casually laying Cathan's sword on the table before him. Abbot Secorim was directly to Cathan's right, and Manfred huffed himself down in the empty place between Lior and Rhun.

“Manfred, we shall speak with you privately later about certain aspects of your actions during your absence,” Hubert said without further preamble, shuffling a stack of papers in front of him, the amethyst on his hand glinting in the sunlight. “For now, I am far more concerned with the report that Lord Rhun sent us some days ago, staring that the late king claimed to have written an unauthorized codicil to his will, naming additional regents not sanctioned by this council. Father Lior believes this to be the draft of the codicil that the king showed to Rhun to substantiate his claim.” He indicated the page before him. “Sir Cathan, I believe the hand is yours. Perhaps you would be so good as to shed some light on this subject.”

Cathan bowed his head, aware that every word he said from here was likely to bring him that much closer to a death sentence. He supposed Lior had found the draft copy in the king's saddlebags, to which Cathan himself had not had access since the king's death.

Denying anything was pointless. The draft
was
in his hand, as were all the executed copies—as they would discover, when the Kheldour lords arrived to try to enforce the codicil. He could not and would not change the truth about his part in helping the king produce and execute it; but if the great lords became too angry with him, too soon, he was a dead man.

“The codicil exists,” he said quietly. “It was executed at Lochalyn Castle, before valid witnesses. The king was unable to write out the text with his injured hand, so he dictated it to me, and I made copies, as was my duty to him—to do as he commanded.”

“And what about your duty to this council?” Hubert said sharply. “I seem to recall that the terms of your appointment to the king's household were such that your first loyalty was to your superiors on this council. You swore an oath on holy relics.”

“And I swore another, more binding oath to my king,” Cathan said boldly. “With my hands between his sacred hands, made holy at his anointing, I swore him faith and truth before all men, saving only my allegiance to God. In obeying his command, I kept that faith. I am not sorry.”

“That has been clear for some time now,” Manfred said. “How many copies of the codicil were executed?”

“Enough,” Cathan dared to retort.

“Don't you play cheeky with me!” Manfred said. “How many?”

“One each for those named in the codicil, one for Lady Stacia, one for the priest who witnessed it, and one for the king,” Cathan said evenly, for it could make no difference now whether they knew or not—and they would torture it out of him anyway, if he did not tell.

Lior cleared his throat. “Your Grace, we found no copy among the king's effects, other than the draft.”

“What happened to the king's copy, Cathan?” Tammaron asked.

Cathan looked him in the eye. He was the most decent of the men seated at this table, but he was still one of them.

“The king had it sent ahead to Rhemuth, I don't know by whom or to whom.” The first part was true, the rest a blatant lie—but plausible enough that they probably would not torture him to get another answer.

“That's impossible,” Rhun muttered. “You must have known.
We
would have known. Not that many of our men moved freely about the castle.”

“With all due respect, my lord, it was not
your
castle,” Cathan said quietly, seizing on an ironclad explanation that would not implicate him. “Having just entrusted the regency of his young son to the Duke of Claibourne and the Earl of Marley, do you not think he could have enlisted their aid to smuggle out his copy of the document?”

As Rhun and Manfred stared at him dumbfounded, Hubert snorted and pulled the draft codicil back into his stack of papers, jogging the edges self-importantly as his hard blue gaze flitted briefly among the others—resentful and agitated, but willing to let him take responsibility.

“Cathan, I have no more time for playing games with you,” Hubert said. His voice had the exasperated tone of a parent finally pushed too far by a wayward child. “Your sister carries the next heir. Clearly, I cannot risk killing you until after she is safely delivered. I promise you, however, that you shall not enjoy these last months of your life.”

Cathan kept his eyes averted, hands clasped tightly in his lap.

“I'm sure you are aware of the constraints that were placed on the late king in the months following the death of King Javan,” Hubert went on blandly. “Well, your constraints shall be far more rigid, and the worse for knowing, beyond hope of reprieve, that the day the queen is delivered, you shall die—with merciful quickness, if the child lives.

“But if she loses the child—well, you cannot begin to imagine the pain that the human body can endure before death finally releases it. Or perhaps you can—but no, you did not witness the fate of one Declan Carmody, who betrayed our trust some years ago. You were too young. It happened the same day that Richard's father rid us of an earlier Kheldour lord—the father of the present Duke of Claibourne, if I'm not mistaken. Did Murdoch tell you of it, Richard?”

Rhysem had told Cathan of it; and obviously Murdoch had told, too, for Richard went very pale as he gave the archbishop a curt nod.

“I thought he might have done,” Hubert said with a cold smile. He drew a deep breath and let it out before going on.

“But, enough of these pleasant digressions. As for the immediate future, dear Cathan, your docile presence will be required at the king's funeral two days hence. You will make one more public appearance at the young king's coronation in a few months' time. Father Lior, if I entrust him to the
Custodes'
tender care, can I be assured that he will be sufficiently biddable to meet his remaining obligations?”

Lior inclined his head. “You have my word on it, your Grace, by the obedience I owe you.”

“Then take him out of here,” Hubert said coldly. “I don't wish to look at him any more.”

As Lior summoned guards, and Cathan suffered himself to be bound and hustled from the council chamber, he thanked God for his temporary reprieve and resigned himself to at least his immediate fate—though he allowed himself a breath of hope that the Kheldour lords might arrive in time to save him from everything that Hubert had planned. He could endure the next few days, unpleasant though they would be.