The Bastard Prince (7 page)

A knock at the door made them both freeze, and Rhys Michael reluctantly turned his gaze in that direction, though he kept his arms around her.

“Come.”

Cathan poked his head into the doorway, tentative and immediately apologetic as he saw them. One of his hands clutched the sheathed Haldane sword, the other a thin gold circlet chased with Celtic interlace.

“Sorry, Mika,” he said, glancing at his sister. “Rhysem, they're ready for us.”

Closing his eyes briefly, the king heaved a heavy sigh and got to his feet, drawing Michaela with him.

“I don't want to go,” he whispered.

“You must, my love,” she replied, lifting her face to his. “Go with my love and my prayers.”

With only her brother as witness, Rhys Michael felt no need to forgo a proper kiss of leave-taking. Pressing his lips to hers, he let himself drown for a few seconds in the bliss of their joining, more than usually aware that any parting might be their last, if that proved most expedient for the men who held their fate. When, at length, he finally raised his head from hers, his body ached from wanting her. He held her close a moment more, feeling her heart pounding beneath his, then resolutely kissed first the tip of her nose, then her forehead.

“Right, then. I'm off.” His voice was a little hoarse. “We'll dine privately, I think. Cathan can join us for supper, because I know you'll want to say good-bye, but he goes to bed early.” He grinned. “Make sure you get that nap. I should be back in a few hours.”

Bravely blinking back her tears, Michaela followed him into the solar and watched him continue on into his own apartments with Cathan, ruffling one hand through his hair with a familiar gesture that made her throat constrict with the loving of him. She caught a sob as she turned away from the closing door, determined not to let her ladies see her distress.

Over in the window bay, her ladies had risen as the king passed through the room, but they settled back to their needlework at a gesture from the queen. As one of them held a hank of silk to the light, drawing out another long strand, the queen's young maid emerged from among them. After casting a questioning look at her mistress, she picked up an ivory-backed brush and came back to the sunlit stool where the queen had been sitting, testing a damp strand of hair as the queen sat down again.

“It's very nearly dry, my lady,” she said. “Shall I brush it a little?”

“Yes, thank you, Liesel,” the queen replied. And as the girl began to brush, her mistress closed her eyes and gave a contented sigh.

“That feels wonderful,” she murmured after a few seconds, eyes still closed. “I could sit here and let you do that all afternoon.”

A faint smile tugged at the rosy lips of the girl addressed as Liesel. Pert and pretty, she was a little younger than the queen and shorter by a head, with hair a slightly paler shade of gold braided and pinned close under the white kerchief that bound it. The pale oatmeal color of her close-sleeved gown was not flattering to most women—which was precisely the intention of the great lords, in choosing it for the castle's female servants—but Liesel's high color made it a perfect foil for beauty yet to ripen fully. Her eyes went golden in the sunlight, lit against the pale raiment—eyes that shone with genuine affection for the woman whose hair she continued to brush.

“My lady has beautiful hair,” she said quietly. “Caring for it gives me pleasure as well.”

“Does it?” Michaela smiled dreamily but did not open her eyes. “Aye, it must be something like stroking a cat. It pleasures the cat, but the stroking is also pleasing to the one who does it.”

“'Tis like heavy silk that catches the shimmer of the sunlight, my lady,” Liesel replied. “Small wonder that the king prefers it unbound.”

“Aye, he does.”

Michaela's smile evaporated as she opened her eyes to glance sidelong at her maid, a haunted look flashing briefly in her gaze.

“Liesel, you must help me do something special with it tonight,” she murmured. “The king dines with me, and tomorrow he rides for Eastmarch. God alone knows if I shall see him again in this life.”

Liesel had stopped brushing and stared at her mistress with pity in her golden eyes.

“Oh, my lady,” she breathed.

Reaching back to pat the girl's hand, Michaela conjured up a brave smile, suddenly very weary.

“Now, don't
you
get weepy, or you'll make me cry as well,” she whispered. “He must not know how much I fear for him.” She looked about to say more, but then she sighed heavily and felt at her hair again. “I think I'm dry enough now. I really do need a nap.”

“Yes, my lady,” Liesel murmured, eyes downcast.

Covering a yawn with one graceful hand, Miehaela bestirred herself to glance over at the women in the window bay as she rose.

“Dear Lady Estellan, why don't you and Lirin and Adelicia enjoy the gardens for an hour or two? I'm going to have a nap, so I shan't need you for a while. Liesel will help me undress.”

She did not linger to see that they went. She did not much care for them anyway, but she had to maintain a facade of geniality. As she made her way back into the bedchamber and watched Liesel turn back the coverlet on the high, canopied bed, with its hangings of crimson damask and gold-shot yellow silk, another heavy yawn claimed her.

“I don't know why I get so sleepy carrying this baby,” she murmured, as the maid helped her shed the blue over-robe. “Owain didn't make me this tired.”

“Perhaps this time my lady is more preoccupied,” the maid replied, as her mistress climbed up onto the bed. “But lay you down and rest awhile, your Grace. Sleep is a remedy for many ills.”

Yawning again, Michaela did as she was bade, her eyes closing even as she lay down in her undergown. A deep sigh soon told of her shift into sleep, and the maid, after laying the blue over-robe across the back of a chair, came treading softly back to the bed to lean close to her sleeping mistress.

“Sleep deeper now,” she whispered, as she laid one hand lightly across the royal forehead.

Her own eyes closed briefly, and after a moment a faint gasp escaped her lips. She was shaking her head as she gazed at her mistress once more, concern in her golden gaze.

“God give you gentle rest now, sweet queen,” she whispered, as she withdrew her hand. “Sleep well and wake refreshed. You gave me leave to go and fetch a book of poetry from the library. If you should wake before I return, you also bade me fetch fresh flowers for your hair tonight.”

The ladies in the solar had gone when Liesel came quietly out of the royal bedchamber, though another maid called Elspeth lay napping in the sunshine of the deserted bay, not stirring as Liesel passed through. The usual guards were at their posts in the corridor outside.

“Merry greetings, Mistress Liesel,” their captain said, sauntering over to smile down at her.

She had to tip her head back to look up at him, for she came only to his shoulder, but she had the measure of the man and knew this one could be manipulated.

“God give you grace, Captain,” she said boldly. “My lady is sleeping. Pray you, see she is not disturbed.”

He stepped aside with a courteous salute and let her pass without a word. He had been one of the more brutish of the regular guards when first she came to royal service a few months earlier, but now he was as tame as a fireside tabby in the presence of this bold-eyed slip of a girl.

For the name of the queen's favorite maid was not Liesel at all, nor was she only a maid. Just now, this golden-eyed daughter of the Healer Rhys Thuryn and Evaine MacRorie was also the sole interface between the royal couple and certain Deryni working behind the scenes to extricate them from their indenture to the lords of state.

Not that either Rhys Michael or his queen were yet aware of “Liesel” 's true identity or her mission—though she knew, as she headed briskly down the corridor toward a turnpike stair, that this would have to change, and soon.

The eventual plan had been to gain access to the king and awaken his Haldane powers—a task for which Rhysel Thuryn was one of the pivotal players—then stage a sudden coup such as put the king's father on the throne nearly a quarter century before, spearheaded by Deryni-backed pro-Haldane forces who even now were beginning to gather in remote parts of Gwynedd. The target date had been some five or six months hence, when the queen's new pregnancy would have progressed to the point that safe delivery of a second heir was likely—as was the increased danger that the king would be eliminated by his captors, once his dynastic duty had been done. That danger was dire enough to hazard making their move despite its attendant perils—for the king could perish in any attempted coup—but his impending departure for Eastmarch on the morrow suddenly placed him in far more immediate danger, if he must face Torenthi magic without a way to counter it.

Fighting down a wave of sick fear, Rhysel gained the welcome dimness of the turnpike stair and started down, left hand trailing along the newel post for balance. Not for the first time, she found herself regretting the circumstances that had kept her mentors from moving in the king's behalf long ago.

But it simply had not been possible to establish contact with the new king during those precarious days and months immediately following the death of King Javan. Not only was Rhys Michael closely guarded, but no one was sure what reception a Deryni contact might receive, for no one knew how much Javan had confided to his brother before riding out on his final journey north.

Furthermore, the reshuffling of power that had put Rhys Michael on his brother's throne had also cost his would-be supporters dearly. Though several well-placed Deryni had established a precarious foothold in Javan's court, keeping their true identities secret and slowly beginning to erode the great lords' influence, Javan's fall had brought their deaths as well. It was believed that the great lords had not suspected the Deryni presence; and, indeed, they must never learn of it, else Rhys Michael himself must fall under closer scrutiny—if that were possible.

It also had become clear, once those critical first months were past, that the new king probably was relatively safe where he was, for the time being—at least until he produced an heir or two, and so long as he did not take too long about it. Even the great lords did not desire the extinction of the Haldane line. They wanted another long regency, heralding a succession of grateful and biddable monarchs who would support the dispersal of royal power among the great lords who had engineered their very existence.

But here, theory and expediency might well diverge. Preserving the legitimate succession was most desirable; but if Rhys Michael had declined to cooperate, the great lords had decided very early that it was sufficient for their purposes merely to keep the king alive until some willing surrogate ensured that the queen did, indeed, bear offspring that would be taken for Haldane. What the great lords most desired was a puppet Haldane king; but a puppet bastard carrying the Haldane name would suit them well enough, if it came to that.

Rhysel guessed that the king would have come to understand this all too well, as the months spun on into years. From clandestine probes of Queen Michaela, she knew that the royal couple had delayed conceiving an heir as long as they dared, but the birth of a son in the second year of the king's reign had made Rhys Michael's continued survival that much more precarious. He now was no longer the only Haldane. The birth of a second heir, especially another prince, might well push the great lords to a second regicide, once they were certain the second child thrived; for a regency for a four-year-old heir, with a spare in the royal nursery, would require far less effort than maintaining the illusion that a grown king actually ruled his kingdom. Whenever it suited the great lords, whether sparked by actual transgression or mere pique, Rhysel had no doubt that the king would meet a convenient “accident,” as many had done before him.

Thus had it become urgent that the king be brought to his full Haldane powers before the birth of his next child—and now it became essential that he be awakened before he left for Eastmarch, lest he perish at the hands of a Deryni enemy before he had a chance to clean his own house. The prospect would have been daunting enough with time for preparation, months from now, as they had planned. But if they were even to try, on such short notice, the king must be willing to cooperate without reservation, to give himself totally into the guidance of his Deryni allies with little time for wariness or explanations, for there
was
no time except for trust and the doing of what must be done.

From what Rhysel had learned of the king by her own meager observations, securing that trust would be no easy thing. He had little reason to trust anyone besides his wife and her brother, and certainly not the Deryni who seemed to have abandoned him these past years. What Rhysel thought might swing the balance was a factor she did not believe even her mentors had considered. Both Queen Michaela and her brother possessed Deryni blood of their own; it was diluted and had been rendered impotent in early childhood, but what potential they once had possessed could be restored—
if
the blocking process could be reversed.

So far as Rhysel knew, only one person now alive could do that—her own brother Tieg, not yet fourteen. She did not want to think about the danger of bringing him here to Rhemuth—for Michaela and Cathan certainly could not go to him—but she and Tieg had already discussed the possibility. She found herself wondering whether Tieg's unique powers could also catalyze a Haldane's powers. She knew from reading Michaela that the king had shields and perhaps could Truth-Read—which had kept Rhysel herself from probing more directly—but he would need far greater skills than those to keep him safe from a trained Festillic adversary.

Pale skirts gathered close about her ankles, Rhysel glanced left and right as she emerged from the spiral stair that led down to the library floor. The corridor was deserted, as she had hoped it would be at this time of day, and her slippered feet made no sound as she moved quickly along the expanse of diagonally set black and white tiles. Her true destination was a disused chamber just beyond the library, but to be seen entering it might arouse unwelcome curiosity. So she would go into the library first, fulfilling the errand she had set herself from the queen and also disarming whatever potential betrayal might be lurking there.