The Bastard Prince (63 page)

That Rhysem, too, should have come to this, and so soon, still seemed so very unfair. Such courage should have enabled him to persevere. Would
nothing
ever break the stranglehold of the old regents? He blamed it partially on old King Cinhil, for having chosen so unwisely. After Cinhil's death, the fortunes of the Haldanes seemed to have sunk in ever-deepening spirals. He had hoped desperately that Rhysem might be the one to restore the Haldanes to their rightful prominence, after seeing Javan's fate; but even in the very best of circumstances, it would be many years before Rhysem's heir, the young Owain, would be ready to take up his father's dream.

“
Kyrie eleison
…
kyrie eleison … Christe eleison … Pater noster
…”

He could feel the leaden weight of his grief pressing on his chest, heightened by his physical weakness and the drugs they had given him, and a part of him tried to yield to blind, disconsolate weeping; but he used the words of the familiar prayers to force himself back to better balance.

Surely all was not yet lost. Friends were coming. Whether they would get here in time to make any difference remained to be seen; and whether Rhysem's last will could be enforced …

“
A porti inferi.
”

“
Erue, Domine, animam eius.
”

From the gate of hell—deliver his soul, O Lord. May he rest in peace … Amen.

“
Domine, exaudi orationem meam
…” Hubert prayed.

And Cathan echoed the prayer in his own intentions.
O Lord, hear my prayer, and let my cry come unto Thee. Avenge him, Lord. His enemies sacrificed him for their own ungodly ambitions, working their evil in Thy name. Strike them down, Lord. Give strength to those who would uphold his will and see his crown freed. Make me Thine instrument, Lord. Use my hands to right the wrongs done here. Please, Lord …

“O Lord, we implore Thee to grant Thy mercy to this, Thy servant, Rhys Michael Alister, which Thou hast commanded to leave this world,” Hubert prayed, in words that shortly made Cathan wonder whether the archbishop realized what he was asking for. “May he who held fast to Thy will by his intentions receive no punishment in return for his deeds, but a place in the land of light and peace, in union with the company of angels in Heaven. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

“Amen,” came the response.

“Thou great and omnipotent Judge of the living and the dead, before Whom we are all to appear after this short life, to render an account of our works. Let our hearts, we pray Thee, be deeply moved at this sight of death, and while we consign the body of Thy servant Rhys Michael Alister to the earth, let us be mindful of our own frailty and mortality, that walking always in Thy fear and in the ways of Thy Commandments, we may, after our departure from this world, experience a merciful judgment and rejoice in everlasting happiness. Amen.”

“Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord,” Secorim said, taking over from Hubert.

“And let perpetual light shine upon him.”

“May he rest in peace.”

“Amen.”

“May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.”

“Amen.”

The prayers completed, Hubert crossed himself and lumbered to his feet, pulling himself up against the king's tomb as the others rose. Great George continued tolling in the background. Secorim brought an unlit three-branched candelabrum from a side niche and set it on the tomb slab, and Hubert took up a taper and lit it from one of the torches, beckoning Michaela and Cathan to approach with little Owain.

“You may each light one of the candles, your Highness,” he murmured, holding out the taper, “adding your prayers to ours.”

Composing herself, Michaela folded her veil back over her crown, then bent to pick up Owain, settling him on her hip as she took the taper from Hubert and lit one of the end candles, then put the taper in his hand and guided him to light the center one.

“God bless Papa,” she prompted softly. “Keep him safe with the angels. Amen.”

“God bless Papa,” Owain repeated dutifully, as she passed the taper to Cathan. “Mummy, angels all around here. They come to bring Papa back?”

The innocent words nearly made Cathan drop the taper, but Michaela only went a little paler and shook her head, not daring to acknowledge the flutter of unseen wings but silently thanking them for their presence—and praying that Hubert would not press the point of whether Owain could actually see angels.

“I don't think angels do that, darling,” she whispered, under the murmur of Cathan hastily offering up a prayer of his own to cover for her, his hand shaking as he lit his candle. “Sometimes angels come to comfort us when we're very sad—and your guardian angel is always around when you need him. Maybe Papa's guardian angel came to say good-bye.”

Owain frowned, but he had caught the mental warning from his mother not to pursue the subject and instead turned his eyes to the other sarcophagi in the tomb chamber as his mother started to set him down.

“We can go back upstairs now,” Hubert said, gesturing toward the stair that led back up to the rear of the nave. “I don't know why the bell hasn't paused, so the years can be tolled.”

“Mummy, wait,” Owain said, holding back as his mother started to lead him toward the stairs. “Why Papa's place doesn't have a king on it?”

“What?”

He pointed at the other tombs. “Grandpapa Cinhil has a king on his place, an' Uncle Javan, an'—”

“I think he means an effigy,” Hubert murmured indulgently, almost smiling as he glanced at the others. “Your Highness, the stonecutters must make one for your papa. They haven't had time yet.”

Owain's rosy lips compressed in a pout. “My papa should have a king.”

“He shall, I promise you—”

“Should have one
now
!”

“Your Highness, that isn't poss—”

“Mummy—”

“I may be able to solve this,” Cathan murmured, coming over to scoop Owain into his arms. “Owain, Owain, listen to me, my brave little man. You mustn't cry. Listen to me.”

He whispered in the boy's ear for several minutes, Owain's tears gradually subsiding as he listened, shortly beginning to nod his head.

“So, what do you think?” Cathan finally whispered, drawing back a little. “Would that be all right?”

Gravely Owain nodded. “Papa like that.”

“All right. Shall I help you?”

At Owain's nod, Cathan carried him the few steps over to the empty tomb slab, where Owain gravely set his Papa knight in front of the candelabrum, facing the candles.

“My Papa knight is a king,” he explained, as Hubert looked at him in question. “See his crown? He stay here until Papa gets a big king.”

“But darling, won't you miss the Papa knight?” Michaela asked, taking one of his hands in hers and glancing at Cathan. “If you leave him here, he'll have to stay for quite a white—maybe months. If you miss him in the middle of the night, we can't just come down and get him.”

“I still have the Uncle Cathan knight at home,” Owain reminded her. “Uncle Cathan take care of me now.”

“‘Uncle Cathan' may have other things to do,” Manfred said under his breath, gesturing for Cathan to put the boy down. “Let's go, Drummond. We've been down here long enough. Gallard, take him upstairs.”

Sick at heart, Cathan obeyed. He had eased his young nephew's immediate distress, but how long the regents would let him live to take further care of him remained to be seen. He gave his sister a forlorn glance as she took Owain's hand, but he turned dutifully to accompany Gallard up the stairs as the others fell in behind.

He could see the guard of honor drawn up to attention on either side of the stairwell as they ascended, though he did not remember that Hubert had assigned that many knights of his Valoret garrison. It was only as his shoulders came above the level of the top step and strong hands roughly jerked him and Gallard out of the stairwell, hands clapped over their mouths to stifle outcries, that he saw the longed-for faces among the Valoret men—and knew that the next hour would either see the House of Haldane dead or delivered.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-FIVE

But if ye bite and devour one another, take heed that ye be not consumed one of another.

—Galatians 5:15

Manfred drew back with a shout as Cathan and Gallard were snatched from right in front of him. Cursing, he shrank back from a sword thrust and started pushing back down the stairs as men in Valoret livery swarmed into the stairwell with drawn swords. Rhun had been following directly behind and spun to shoulder past Lior with a shove that nearly sent him tumbling backward, sweeping the queen and Owain back into the crypt and shouting for Tammaron.

Neither he nor Manfred could get their swords clear in the close confines of the stairwell, but the swords came out as soon as they had gained the open space of the crypt floor, whirling to confront the unexpected intruders. Tammaron was waiting to back them, sword also drawn, helping Lior hustle the queen and the young king into the hands of Hubert and Secorim, who drew them roughly behind the screen of the six unarmed
Custodes
monks.

There Hubert restrained the queen with a hand on her arm and Lior presumed to pick up and hold the frightened Owain. As knights in the surcoats of Valoret began pouring down into the crypt with drawn swords, the
Custodes
men and their hostages eased farther into the open arch of the next chamber, their three “protectors” on guard before them.

“Throw down your weapons!” shouted one of the Valoret knights, of which there were six. Emerging from the stair behind them came an armored, grey-haired man in a scarlet bishop's cope and purple cap, accompanied by Lord Ainslie and two knights in Ainslie's livery.

“MacGregor!” Hubert thundered, as he recognized his subordinate. “What the
devil
are you doing? Order those men to put away their swords immediately!”

“I can't do that, your Grace,” Ailin said, as his knights fanned across the opening to the stair, interspersing themselves among the tombs. Sighere and Graham quietly joined Ainslie behind him, along with two men in priest's attire. “I am acting under the orders of lawful regents of Gwynedd.”

“
I
am a lawful regent of Gwynedd,” Hubert said haughtily. “Furthermore, I am your religious superior. You swore me a vow of obedience.”

“I also swore to uphold the king and his laws—which includes lawfully executed decrees issued in his name.” In his hand that wore the bishop's ring he held up an unfolded parchment document bearing a splotch of crimson sealing wax. “I believe that at least Lord Rhun has seen this in draft. This copy was duly signed and witnessed; I can produce the witness. Another like it has already been recorded in the cathedral archives at Valoret. It appoints Graham of Claibourne and Sighere of Marley as regents of Gwynedd. They have some questions to ask the
other
regents of Gwynedd, who were directly responsible for the death of the late king.”

“That's a lie!” Manfred blustered, gesturing with his sword. “Who dares to say that?”

“I do, my lord.” Queron stepped from behind Ailin, hands folded in the sleeves of his brown habit. “And the king himself said it, in his deathbed confession—after having been bled
four times
in less than a day. The operations were carried out by a
Custodes
monk called Brother Polidorus, but the king was quite clear that one Manfred MacInnis gave the order. And Rhun of Horthness acquiesced.”

“I didn't!” Rhun blurted. “It was Polidorus who wanted it, and Lior—and they had me drugged when I tried to stop them. Ask anyone who was there. The king himself would tell you that, if he were here.”

“It is precisely because he is
not
here that we are having this conversation, my lord!” Ailin said sharply. “These are extremely serious allegations—”

“Serious
lies
!” Lior said breathlessly, as Owain started to squirm in his arms. “Certainly, the king was bled—in accordance with accepted medical practice. His hand was festering; he was racked with fever. When the bleeding did not relieve him, it became clear that the hand would have to come off. Unfortunately, he did not survive the shock of the surgery.”

“The king had both his hands when he died,” Queron said quietly. “Shall I lay
my
hand on his grave and swear it?”

“Who is that man?” Secorim demanded of Lior.

“Tell him, Father,” Ailin said, before Lior could answer. “Tell him how you brought in Father Donatus to hear the king's last confession, because you and your clergy had placed yourselves in such ill repute that the king would rather risk his immortal soul by dying unshriven than receive the last sacraments from any
Custodes
priest.”

“And is this priest any better?” Manfred said, pointing with his sword. “Can we trust any part of his testimony? What good is the word of a priest who breaks the seal of the confessional?”

“What good, indeed?” Ailin said softly. “Except that the king gave Father Donatus leave to reveal what he had been told, to bring his murderers to justice. Therefore, the seal has not been broken.”

“That is not for you to decide!” Hubert said angrily, thrusting the queen into Secorim's grasp as he moved a few steps forward. “You have no authority here—or in any other place!” He stabbed a trembling forefinger at his subordinate.

“Ailin MacGregor, I hereby suspend you from your office and command you, on pain of excommunication, to withdraw these hostile forces from this place and submit yourself to canonical discipline. How
dare
you presume to judge these men?”

“'Tis
I
who presume tae judge them, Archbishop,” Duke Graham said mildly, setting his hands on his sword belt as he moved beside Ailin. Sighere also stepped forward on Ailin's other side, burly arms crossed on his chest. “As both regent an' duke in this kingdom, I hae the power o' high an' low justice, an' authority tae hear evidence an' render judgment. I charge you, Manfred MacInnis, Earl o' Culdi, an' you, Rhun o' Horthness, Earl o' Sheele, with high treason an' sacrilegious murder—”