The Bishop’s Heir (48 page)

—Isaiah 62:4

To Kelson's already heightened senses, the bright-etched images of the procession route were almost overwhelming: crowds cheering, banners rainbow-hued, fluttering above the streets, showers of snowdrops and other winter flowers carpeting his path—and cheers and flowers also for the dark-haired bride who followed. The sounds and the colors carried him higher on a wave of hope, and he grinned at Morgan and Dhugal, riding to either side of him.

The streets were narrow and winding, the procession thick with celebrants between him and his bride, but on the few occasions when the way was straight or they passed through a square, he could glance back and just catch the top of her rose-crowned head under its silken canopy. Once, their eyes met, and he almost fancied he could feel the current leap between them, kindling anticipation in his brain and a white heat in his loins.

He told himself that he was imagining things, that he was letting himself read too much into their earlier meetings—a word, a glance—but it was not in his nature to hold back, once a commitment had been made. His body was eager to unite with hers already, but he was also resolved to make theirs a union of hearts as well as lands, if he could. He tried not to think too much about the coming wedding night. He was much relieved when they reached the cathedral at last and he could dismount, turning mind as well as body to less physically distracting contemplation.

Archbishop Cardiel received him at the great doors, golden cope and mitre almost blinding in the noonday sun, rich counterpoint to Kelson's crimson and gold and the crown of leaves and crosses. When the two of them had exchanged formal greeting, archbishop bowing, king bending to kiss the episcopal ring, Arilan and Duncan joined them for more casual interchange, lace-lavished surplices immaculate and pristine over purple cassocks, gold glistening on stoles of snow white silk. Kelson accepted their greetings in something of a daze, pulling Morgan to him psychically as he made nervous conversation with the bishops, drawing on Morgan's calm as he shaped his own thoughts into more suitable framework for the sacrament he was about to exchange with Sidana. As the bride's procession began to enter the cathedral yard, king and escort fell into place behind the three prelates and went inside.

More clergy waited just beneath the western portico—the crucifer with Cardiel's processional cross, candle bearers, a flock of choristers—men and boys with fresh-scrubbed faces above the white and scarlet of surplices and choir cassocks—two older boys gently swinging censers. As the archbishop and the rest of the royal party joined them and the procession began to move down the nave, musicians in the gallery above trumpeted a royal fanfare and salute.

Kelson held his head high as he walked, oblivious to the scrutiny of the congregation, eyes focused on the roundel on the back of Cardiel's cope. He recognized the choir's anthem as a solemn
Te Deum
. Flanking him, he could feel the solid, reassuring presence of both Morgan and Dhugal: Morgan his usual pillar of bolstering calm, Deryni senses extended just slightly to give Kelson psychic substance to lean against—but even Dhugal seemed somehow more solid, more confident, almost Deryni himself in the steadiness of his presence, either not feeling or not minding the distracted but curious feather touches that Kelson sent fleetingly in his direction.

They crossed the transept, passing directly over the Camber seal, and Kelson briefly wondered what the Deryni saint would have thought of what he was about to do. As he recalled, Camber had arranged a marriage between his own ward and Cinhil Haldane, even before the Restoration. The name of Cinhil's eventual queen escaped him, but he toyed with the notion that she might have been crowned with the same golden coronet resting on the altar before them, shimmering in the light of the altar candles. He eyed it wistfully as he followed the bishops into the choir to approach the altar steps, also taking in the wedding guests standing in the choir stalls.

Nigel and Meraude held the places of honor to his right, closest to the altar, they and their three sons ranged along the front row of stalls. Others filled in behind them and on the other side: Ewan and Derry, Jodrell, Saer de Traherne—all the senior members of his court—their faces reflecting all the varied expectations of the marriage. Just before Kelson reached the altar steps, he caught Nigel's quick smile of reassurance, the fond, approving nod of his aunt.

Lord, forgive me if I approach Thy altar with reservations in my heart
, Kelson prayed, as he paused behind the bishops at the foot of the steps and bent his knee to the Divine Presence.
Let me love the woman I am about to marry
—
and let her love me. And help me to be a wise and compassionate husband to her
.

Then the bishops were turning to face him in anticipation, he and his supporters shifting slightly to the right to turn and await the bridal procession. In the loft above the western doors, Kelson caught the glint of the trumpets being raised again—silvery notes sounding Sidana's fanfare this time, sweet and lingering. The choir began to sing a Psalm to greet a queen.

As the doors opened outward to reveal her, she seemed for an instant to be floating on a cloud of sunshine, so light that she might have drifted away, were it not for the anchor of her hand on her brother's arm. As the canopy moved slowly inside, she and Llewel following under its splendor, the white roses on her hair seemed to glow with a light of their own, lending her an almost Deryni nimbus in Kelson's Sight.

O God, she wears peace like a mantle!
he thought, watching her approach him, eyes demurely downcast. He hardly even saw the tight-lipped Llewell, or Richenda and the other attendants following behind.

Please, Lord, let it be peace between the two of us, as well as our lands. I don't want to have to kill her people. I don't want to have to kill anyone else. I want to create life, not death. Please, Lord….

Then she and Llewell were genuflecting at the foot of the altar steps, mounting the steps to stand beside him, Llewell scowling between them. Flanked by Arilan and Duncan, Cardiel waited for the canopy to move into position, setting apart the place where the marriage rite would be performed. Morgan and Dhugal remained just outside the canopy, Richenda and the other attendants ranged to the other side, as Cardiel read from the Mass book, addressing the pale, attentive king.

“
Kelsonus, Rex Gwyneddis, vis accipere Sidanam hie praesentem, in tuam legitimam uxorem juxta ritum sanctae Matris Ecclesiae?”

Kelson, King of Gwynedd, wilt thou take Sidana, here present, to thy lawful wife according to our Holy Mother, the Church?

“
Volo
,” Kelson breathed, not daring to glance in her direction. I will.

Bowing gravely, Cardiel turned his attention to the bride, asking her the same question.

“
Sidana, Princepessa Mearae, vis accipere Kelsonum, hic praesentem, in tuum legitimum maritum juxta ritum sanctae Matris Ecclesiae
?”

Holding his breath, Kelson allowed his glance to flick just slightly to his left, past the tight-jawed Llewell to his bride. Part of her glossy hair fell like a curtain over her right cheek, so that he could not see her eyes, but after only a slight hesitation her lips parted.

“
Volo
,” she whispered.

Kelson could almost hear Llewell's mental moan of despair, but he forced himself not to read it further. The boy was bred to duty, even as Kelson was. What purpose, for Kelson to disturb the calm which should be his own as he exchanged this sacrament of marriage with his future queen?

“Who giveth this woman in marriage?” Cardiel asked.

Woodenly, Llewell placed his sister's right hand in the archbishop's, only allowing himself a cold glance in Kelson's direction as he stepped back a pace. As Cardiel joined Sidana's cold, slightly clammy hand to her bridegroom's, Kelson permitted himself a tiny sigh of relief.

“Repeat after me,” Cardiel said. “I, Kelson, take thee, Sidana …”

“I, Kelson, take thee, Sidana,” Kelson said steadily.

“To my lawful wife …”

“To my lawful wife …”

His eyes were riveted on her face as he repeated the ancient formula, not daring to use his Deryni abilities for fear of what he might read there, but increasingly hopeful at the warmth he thought he sensed. Only as he finished did she raise her eyes to his for just an instant—and what passed between them then was like a flash of summer lightning, bright and hot, surging into every nerve and sinew.

The dark eyes were quickly lowered—had she felt it, too?—but the sensation lingered as she repeated her own part of the vows, her voice as cool and still as the sacred well at Candor Rhea, the ripples of her words stirring hope and even gentle promise of what might be. Kelson kept her hand in his when she had done, and she did not flinch or try to pull away as they looked back to Cardiel for the blessing of the ring.

But it was Duncan's hand that produced it, and Arilan's that blessed it, sprinkling it with holy water and then passing it through incense smoke with a special prayer. An artisan of Arilan's acquaintance had wrought it of Cassani gold—a Deryni craftsman of Camberian Council connections, the bishop had confided to Kelson alone, in a rare moment of candor about that particular aspect of his own life. On a flat, oval facet pared from the curve along the top, the man had etched a delicate Gwynedd lion, the eyes set with tiny rubies—fitting token to seal a new queen to her lord and land. Kelson's hand was trembling only a little as he recited the words after Duncan, slipping the ring briefly over the tips of thumb, forefinger, and middle finger before ending with her ring finger.

“
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen
.”

Cardiel joined their inside hands then, binding them ritually with the stole from Duncan's neck, all three bishops laying their hands on the joined ones as Cardiel pronounced his confirmation of the marriage vows:

“
Ego conjungo vos in matrimonium: In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”

In that holy moment, lulled by the great “
Amen
” chanted and embellished by the choir, no thought of danger entered Kelson's mind. Head bowed and eyes closed, hand locked to his bride's, he was too intent on savoring the fullness of his new estate to sense Llewell's heartsick shift from thought to deadly action.

Only as Sidana gasped and was half jerked from his grasp did he become aware—far too late to prevent it! Far too late for
anyone
to prevent it! With his hand tangled in the stole binding him to Sidana, he could not whirl in time to stop Llewell—or the deadly little knife the Mearan prince inexplicably produced from somewhere. The lightning flash this time was bright-honed steel glinting in the candlelight, dyed by a pluming shower of crimson as Llewell slashed it across his sister's throat in a single desperate stroke.

It seemed to Kelson that everyone but Llewell was encased in thick honey, moving far too slowly to do anything but gape in horror at Llewell's ghastly act. Even the blood fountaining from the victim's mortal wound seemed to hang suspended in space, Sidana's lips frozen in a silent
O
, the light in the brown eyes already fading as Kelson's scream echoed in the cathedral, both physical and psychic:

“
Nonononononononono
.…'”

Then all at once,
everyone
was moving. Shouts of outrage and dismay ripped the silence as Dhugal and the knights who had held the canopy swarmed over Llewell and dragged him to the floor, trying to avoid his knife—trying to keep him from turning it on himself. Kelson, stunned almost past function by the senseless horror of the act, caught the sinking Sidana to his breast and eased her to the floor, one futile hand clamped to the awful wound in her throat even as his eyes sought Morgan and Duncan and his mind screamed for them to save her.

Blood gushed from her throat as they crowded around her, drenching the blue of her gown and pooling in the hair spread under her head like a cloak, staining the white roses. Duncan's white surplice turned red almost in the blink of an eye, his and Morgan's hands slick with her blood as they tried to staunch her wound.

“Don't kill him!” Arilan commanded, as Dhugal and the knights finally brought Llewell under control and yanked him to his feet, battered and bruised. “That satisfaction is for another!”

Still Morgan and Duncan fought to save the mortally wounded princess, Kelson staring numbly at the blood, Cardiel finally summoning the initiative to begin shepherding horrified witnesses out of the choir, Arilan assisting. The two Deryni continued their feverish efforts for yet a few more minutes, until finally Morgan looked up at Kelson and shook his head, bloody hands lifted in a vanquished, futile gesture. Duncan murmured a silent prayer for Sidana's soul, making the sign of the Cross over her bloody forehead, then sighed and also raised his eyes to Kelson's. His once white surplice was drenched with her blood, his hands red with it, and he could only look up at Kelson helplessly, unable to offer any solace.

“Kelson, we tried,” he whispered. “God help us, how we tried! But it happened so fast—she lost so much blood, so quickly.…”

Before Kelson could respond, Morgan's glance flicked to the panting, triumphant Llewell, bloody himself from his rough handling, standing on wide-spraddled legs in the midst of the hard-eyed knights, Dhugal with the bloody dagger in his hand. In a single motion, Morgan was on his feet and seizing Llewell by the throat of his tunic, wrenching him downward, grey eyes as cold and brittle as an ice-filled sea.

“On your knees before your king, Mearan excrement!” he muttered between clenched teeth. “What kind of animal would slay his own sister on her wedding day?”

“Morgan, don't kill him!” Kelson snapped, turning a colorless face toward the two of them and raising a hand to stay Cardiel's alarm. “It's clear what he's done. I want to know why.” He turned the full intensity of his Haldane gaze on the captive prince, though he did not move from his crouched position beside his bride.