“Nidian, I want you to imagine that you’re looking
through
the wine and the tray,” Morian said very softly, setting both the other man’s hands on the edge of the tray and holding them there with his own. “Imagine that you can see your feet through the tray. Don’t try to focus; just relax and drift, let it happen. I give you my word that you’ll come to no harm.”
The Mearan’s eyelids flickered, but his gaze did not waver from the shallow wash of wine. Cautiously Ahern set his hand on Morian’s shoulder, trying the most tentative of contacts, so that he could better monitor what the more experienced Deryni did—and deepened the contact as Morian allowed it.
“Now recall what you’ve just told us, Master Nidian, and what you saw,” Morian urged softly. “Don’t speak. Simply allow your memories to flow, and try to focus on every detail you can remember.”
A faint sigh escaped the man’s lips, and his head sank a little lower as the tension eased into expectant silence. After a few seconds, as Donal and Ahern watched and Richard craned his neck to see past their subject, a faint miasma seemed to rise from the surface of the wine, clouding the flat expanse of burgundy with a silvery sheen reflected from beneath, resolving then into misty images of stone ramparts, bartizans with conical roofs, portcullises barring sturdy gates, and defenders massed along the battlements of distant Ratharkin.
The colors of old Meara fluttered above the walls of the ancient city, rather than the scarlet and gold standard of Donal’s royal governor. And camped before the walls of the city were the Mearan levies—far more than anyone had thought Judhael could assemble.
At Donal’s gesture, Richard came softly closer and the two brothers studied what was shown, noting the troop deployments and encampments, estimating numbers. After a silent interval, Richard withdrew to one side to make notations on the map. When it became clear that no more was to come, Donal tipped the contents of the tray onto grass at one edge of the tent while Morian adjusted Nidian’s memory of what had just occurred.
“What will he remember of this?” Richard murmured, as Donal wiped off the tray with a cloth.
“Only that he was asked to report again on what he saw, and that he did so, while notes were taken. That
is
what happened,” Donal added, cocking an eyebrow at his brother.
“As you say . . .” Richard murmured.
When they had given Nidian back into the custody of Sir Kenneth, still waiting outside, the king recalled his officers and spent another half hour advising them of a revised strategy for the coming day before settling down for a few hours’ sleep.
Chapter 22
“The Lord hath set at nought all my mighty men in the midst of me.”
—LAMENTATIONS 1:15
THEY rose before dawn, to prepare for a battle Donal hoped they would not have to fight. After hearing Mass with his officers in the open air before his tent, the king broke his fast while Kenneth armed him and he gave final instructions to his brother. Morian listened silently, already armed and ready, the roundels and martlet on his green surcoat gleaming in the early morning light. He did not ride with the king when the royal party mounted up to make their way to Ratharkin, departing in another direction with a squadron of Claibourne cavalry and orders of his own. Dukes Andrew and Ursic likewise had their orders.
An hour later, the king was drawing rein before the gates of Ratharkin beneath his royal standard, his brother at his side. Ahern and his Lendouri cavalry rode behind him, and a herald rode well before him under a white flag of truce, to carry his terms to the city.
The Mearan answer was an arrow through the herald’s heart, defying all conventions of honorable warfare and unleashing the cold relentlessness of Haldane justice: justice which Donal Haldane had the means to deliver. That the rebels were betrayed from within the city they had thought to hold was fitting judgment of their folly as, an hour later, the king’s loyal subjects in Ratharkin infiltrated the rebel-held gatehouse and threw open the city gates to their royal deliverers, as Nidian ap Pedr had promised.
The next two hours saw heavy fighting in the streets of Ratharkin, quickly focusing on the rebel-held fortress of the city’s inner citadel. Casualties were heavy on the Mearan side and light among the royalist troops. Judhael of Meara soon abandoned his position, seeing the futility of continued resistance in the face of Ratharkin’s betrayal. As the vanquished prince fled deeper into Meara, Duke Andrew and his Cassani cavalry in pursuit, some of the junior Mearan royals made a dash southward toward the mountains of Cloome. Donal sent Richard after them, himself remaining in Ratharkin with Duke Ursic and an occupation force to restore order. It was in the great hall of the recaptured inner citadel that they found the body of Iolo Melandry, the city’s royal governor, hoisted to the full height of one of the main hammer-beams.
“Damn them all,” Donal said softly, as he gazed up at the bloated body and blackened face of the saintly little man he had called friend, who had upheld Haldane rights in Meara for more than a decade. “
Damn
them!” Running a trembling hand over his eyes, he turned to the men at his side, trying to put the image of Iolo’s face out of his memory.
“Kenneth, get him down from there,” he murmured. “
Gently.
Dear God, that man deserved a better end than this!”
The king lingered in Ratharkin for another week, for a new royal governor must be designated, at least for the interim, and a sharp lesson must be delivered to the Mearans, even though Ratharkin, in the end, had remained mostly loyal to their king. Calling a council of the great lords who had accompanied him on the Mearan campaign, Donal heard their recommendations and assessments of the situation, told them what he would have
liked
to do to the Mearans, then allowed his righteous anger to be tempered by the practicalities of those who would have to keep the peace once he departed.
“Very sadly, I am now short one royal governor, gentlemen,” he told them. “At least for the interim, it will have to be one of you. Do I hear any volunteers?”
The men around him exchanged glances. Such an appointment was an honor and an opportunity for advancement, a chance to prove one’s worth to the Crown, but it was also a virtual exile; and all were well aware of the fate of the last royal governor of Meara, lying in his coffin in the nearby chapel.
“I know what I’m asking,” Donal said, when no one spoke up. “And I don’t expect the post to be permanent. We all know that a Mearan is best suited for the position. But I don’t know that I have any Mearans I can trust right now. And none of us can go back to Rhemuth until I have someone in place here.”
Ursic Duke of Claibourne glanced around the table, then cleared his throat. “If I might make a recommendation, Sire,” he said tentatively.
All eyes turned in his direction, for the advice of a duke always carried heavy weight. Donal merely smiled and gave a wave of his hand.
“All right, out with it, Ursic. Who’s to be the lucky man?”
“Well, he is, perhaps, a bit young for such responsibility,” Ursic allowed, “but he has been well tutored at his father’s knee. And that father would not be far away, if he needed assistance from time to time. Until a permanent royal governor can be appointed, of course.”
By now, all eyes had turned toward the man obviously fitting Ursic’s description: Duke Andrew’s son, Jared Earl of Kierney. Though but five-and-twenty, Jared McLain was also a battle-seasoned soldier and a man exceedingly well schooled in the duties he would eventually take on when he succeeded his father as Duke of Cassan—which lands did, indeed, border on rebellious Meara. Said Duke of Cassan had raised one eyebrow at this nomination of his son for such an important appointment, nodding faintly. The prospective appointee looked thunderstruck.
“Well, what do you say, Sir Jared?” the king asked. “Are you willing to take it on?”
Jared’s astonishment shifted from shock through consternation into pleased satisfaction. “I am, Sire—if you’re sure I’m ready for it. I know that I am young.”
Donal snorted and gave the younger man a grim smile. “Old enough to be husband, father, and widower as well as warrior. It occurred to me that you might value some worthwhile work to take your mind from your loss.”
Jared glanced at his folded hands on the table before him. “So long as it does not leave my young son fatherless as well as motherless, Sire.”
“Well, we shall certainly endeavor to make certain that does not happen,” the king said. “And when I have relieved you of this burden by appointment of a permanent governor, we must see about finding you a new bride. Meanwhile, I trust that you will not be aggrieved to be parted awhile from your infant son?”
Jared fought back an impulse for a grin, and Andrew covered a smile with his hand.
“Sire, I
have
considered taking a new bride,” Jared allowed. “But even were I to remarry tomorrow, I would be hard-pressed to quickly reclaim my son from my mother and his doting aunties.”
“’Tis true,” his father agreed. “My wife and my sisters would be inconsolable, were young Kevin to leave my household just yet. And indeed, since he is my only grandson at present, I confess that I should be less than happy myself.”
Sir Kenneth Morgan had snickered at the mention of doting aunties, and shrugged as the king looked at him in question, still smiling.
“’Tis all true, Sire,” he said. “One of those doting aunties is my dear mother. At least if the worst were to befall, young Kevin McLain would never lack for kinfolk.”
“Then it appears that a tour of service from Jared in Meara would not place undue stress on your domestic arrangements,” Donal said to the McLains, father and son.
“Aye, Sire. So long as he fares better than Meara’s last royal governor,” Andrew replied gravely. “He is my only son, and I shall not get another.”
“With one like Jared, you shall not
need
another,” the king replied. “And accordingly, I shall be pleased to make him my governor in Meara, at least until next spring.”
In one thing only would the king not be moved—and that was the manner in which he chose to pay tribute to his late former governor. Taking counsel of his lords who knew Meara better than he, he agreed to exact no retribution against the citizens of Ratharkin for the killing of Iolo Melandry, knowing that to be the crime of Judhael and his rebels. But on the day appointed for installing Jared Earl of Kierney as Ratharkin’s new interim governor, the king summoned all those holding Mearan offices of any description to attend him in the great hall of the citadel and there renew their oaths of loyalty upon Iolo’s body, laid upon a bier in the center of the hall and draped to the waist with the king’s own Haldane standard.
Only then, after each man had bowed to the body and kissed its slippered toe in homage, were they allowed to approach the new governor and press their foreheads to his hand, in token of their obedience to him and the crown he would henceforth represent. Morian being still in the field, as was Duke Richard, Ahern Earl of Lendour was requested to stand with the king at the side of the hall and gauge whether his subjects were earnest in their acknowledgement of Meara’s new governor—for while Ahern was still new in the more subtle applications of his powers, such as Morian regularly employed, he could certainly Truth-Read.
But neither Ahern nor the king could detect any duplicity among the men who came forward to swear; and no one refused to comply. Still, it was with a heavy heart that the king prepared to return to Rhemuth, the immediate crisis having been resolved.
MEANWHILE , they must wait for Richard and Morian, for the resolution of that part of the tale had yet to be learned. It was late in May, on the afternoon before they were to depart, that both Richard and Morian returned. The king had been walking on the ramparts of the inner citadel with Duke Ursic, Ahern, and Sir Kenneth Morgan, having spent the morning going over administrative matters with Jared and the local sheriff, one Wilce Melandry, nephew of the slain Iolo.
It was Ahern who first spotted the banners at the head of the column clattering into the yard below, and touched the king’s arm to direct his attention there. Foremost among the banners was that of the king’s brother, with his three golden demi-lions replacing the Haldane lion on the scarlet field, though there could be no doubt that Richard Duke of Carthmoor was entirely a Haldane.
“Ah, here’s Richard,” Donal murmured, and immediately headed down to the yard.
But Richard’s news was mixed, and he had brought back none of the important Mearan prisoners for which Donal had hoped.
“We never even got a glimpse of Judhael,” Richard muttered, as he and Morian walked with the king into the day-room Donal had appropriated during his stay in Ratharkin. “Morian caught up with Francis Delaney and a few of the others, who’d been escorting Judhael’s daughters, but they were odd men out in what turned out to be a suicide stand, so that the women could get away. The only good news on that front—and it sounds calloused, saying this—is that Onora apparently went into labor along the way, and died giving birth, or soon after.”
“What of the child?” Donal demanded, waving both of them to chairs.
“Probably dead,” Morian replied. “It was a girl, but my informant didn’t think it would survive.”
“Well,
there’s
a blessing, at least,” the king muttered. “One less Mearan ‘princess’ I’ll have to contend with. I don’t suppose you saw any bodies.”
“Not of any Mearan princesses,” Morian replied. “I was riding separate from Duke Richard, as you know, and we were the ones to catch up with the rear guard they left behind to create a diversion. We killed most of them outright, gave the coup to the wounded, and questioned the rest before executing them. There were two of note: the Earl of Somerdale’s brother and a Sir Robard Kincaid—kin, I believe, to your late aunt’s husband. At the time, we thought we might catch up with the others, so we didn’t try to bring along any prisoners. They were small fish, in any case.”