Camber of Culdi (14 page)

“Well—”

“Please, Brother. I
am
a monk,” Camber reminded him. “Come, there isn't time to waste.”

That night, in their room at a distant inn, Camber and Rhys sat on either side of a small table, a lighted candle between them, their hands linked loosely to either side. On arriving, they had eaten a hasty meal in the common room downstairs, again thawing out from their wintry ride, then had hied themselves to their chamber. The past half-hour had been spent in deep trance, as Rhys imparted to Camber the little he had learned in his brief exploration of Cinhil's mind; the impressions were more easily conveyed from mind to mind than in spoken words.

Cinhil
. Now they were free to voice the name.

Camber was the first to stir, and he sat back in his chair with a sigh as he broke off contact, shaking his fingertips to restore the circulation. Rhys's eyelids fluttered, and then he too was taking one deep breath, two, three, clearing away the residual effects of the trance from his mind. Camber suppressed a yawn as he poured mulled ale for the two of them.

“Your reading was only superficial, of course—and had to be, under the circumstances. But offhand, I will have to say that I'm impressed.”

Rhys rubbed his eyes and forced them to focus on the older man. “Aye. He's brilliant, if undeveloped. But—” He sighed, a weary, frustrated sound. “Damn it, why does the man have to have a true vocation for the priesthood? That's going to complicate things.”

“The man must be true to himself, else he would not be a true Haldane,” Camber smiled. “Cinhil is a priest, he feels that he was called to be that, and he is a good one. He could be no other, given his present circumstances.”

“Joram would understand that; I don't,” Rhys said testily. “The question is, will he forsake that vocation for a crown? I think it's clear that, with proper training, he has the
ability
to rule. But
will
he? Which will come first for him? The duty of his birth, or the duty of his vows? He's going to have to make one hell of a choice. For that matter, can we even afford to let him make that choice?”

“To forsake his vows and wear the Crown.” Camber sighed. “To take a wife, produce heirs, re-establish a dynasty—things which, for most men, would be a joyous task. But it will never be so for Cinhil. He
is
a priest forever, I fear. And though we may force him to put aside his monkish robes, and walk the world again, and take a wife, and wear the crown of his ancestors—and we
must
do that, I know that now—I suspect he will nevermore be a truly happy man. We dare not even let him make the decision for himself, if there is any chance he will refuse us. Cinhil Haldane must be King.”

“Aye …”

Rhys rested his elbows on the table and let his hands support his head, strangely melancholy.

Camber was silent for a long time. Then: “You're not certain, are you?”

Rhys shook his head wearily. “We know so little about him, Camber. What if we're wrong?”

“That's supposed to be
my
line.” Camber chuckled. “You and Joram are the ones who were going to be the crusaders against tyranny, and oust the evil king, and restore the true heir.”

Rhys smiled despite his fatigue, but his expression was solemn as he looked again at Camber. “I know. And you're right, of course. Cinhil has too much potential for us not to attempt a Restoration. But the price …”

“It will be high for all of us,” Camber nodded. “The peasants' deaths will not be the last we shall have to pay. And Cinhil—Even if we bring him out of Saint Foillan's, there's still the matter of convincing him that he and only he can make the coup successful. I hesitate even to contemplate what that will cost the inner man.”

Rhys could only nod agreement as he readied himself for bed. But sleep did not come easily that night, for all his bone-weariness and mental fog from the day's exertions. Long after Camber's deep breathing told him that the other slept, Rhys lay staring at the dark ceiling of the chamber, listening to the night sounds of the inn, the winter wind whistling outside the shutters.

He kept thinking of the parts of Cinhil which he had not been able to read, which lay behind close-guarded shields that he had not expected to find in a human, and which he had not dared to probe, for fear of discovery.

He wondered how much Cinhil really knew of his true identity. And he wondered if the thought had ever crossed Cinhil's mind that he might one day be called upon to assume his Haldane heritage and the Crown of Gwynedd.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

Wrath is cruel, and anger is outrageous; but who is able to stand before envy?

—Proverbs 27:4

In the practice yard of the royal armory at Valoret, Imre of Festil was hacking at a pell with a blunted blade, under the sharp-eyed scrutiny of a master of arms. A score of his retainers watched from the perimeter of the yard and occasionally shouted out words of encouragement and advice. But all other arms play had ceased when the king took the field. The caprice of Imre's favor being what it was of late, few men were anxious to risk a misunderstanding of their intent.

Imre was exceedingly nervous of unsheathed steel in his presence, even when it was borne by men known to be loyal to the Crown. Some few men he permitted this liberty—Armagh and Selkirk, his chief weapons masters, and a handful of others. But to raise steel against the king at any time could be construed as treason, if the king chose to view it that way—even if the alleged traitor believed himself to have acted in sport. Would-be sparring partners risked contending with the king's bodyguards, two of whom were lounging even now, with deceptive casualness, near the entrance to the armory proper, within easy hearing of the royal voice. It made the session less than relaxed.

Imre's own martial abilities were not outstanding, which partly accounted for his attitude. His slight stature and indulgent upbringing had not been conducive to the molding of a master swordsman, nor was this really in Imre's area of interest. He was judged by his fighting masters to be merely competent with broadsword and shield, and they had long ago despaired of teaching him to wield a greatsword or couch a lance with any degree of proficiency. However, this did not mean that the king's skill should be taken lightly. His apparent level of competence was often deceiving. More than one adversary had made a mistake, only to have Imre's blade slip suddenly home beneath a careless guard. Though his bodyguards were always nearby, it was clear—to those who knew—that Imre did not always have to rely on others' steel to save him from would-be assassins.

Indeed, Imre's favored weapon was not the sword at all, but the more sub le dagger. At this deadly game, even his instructors had to concede that the king had few peers. Armagh, the master now scrutinizing Imre's swordwork with the pells, bore a long, raised scar across one forearm to this day—lasting reminder of a practice bout in which he had allowed himself to become careless.

Imre, his pell work completed, turned and saluted the instructor in question, then strode into the center of the yard and began readjusting a vambrace that had begun to slip.

Master Selkirk, who had been arming on the sidelines, took this as his signal and moved onto the field, ponderous in heavy padding, mail, and great barrel helm. Bending knee before the king he offered up his blunted sword, hilt first, as was customary when requesting permission to cross blades with the Crown.

Imre laughed inside his helmet and touched Selkirk's helm lightly with his own sword in acceptance, then saluted his retainers with a flourish as they burst into scattered applause. Soon he and Selkirk were circling warily, each looking for the best opening blow. The retainers resumed their low conversation as Selkirk and the king began sparring.

Cathan MacRorie was among the circle of intimates waiting upon the king this morning. Indeed, it was Cathan's first appearance at an inner Court function in many a week. Though he had dutifully appeared at Court each day since his return after the executions, he had not been summoned to the royal presence until this very day. In fact, Imre had made pointed detours to avoid any encounter with his former favorite.

But today had been different. Cathan had presented himself at the Chapel Royal for the morning devotions of the Court as usual, fully expecting to be royally snubbed as he had been for the past three weeks. But instead, when the king had emerged from his session with his confessor, he had headed straight for Cathan and embraced him warmly, declaring his unhappiness at having shunned his friend for these many weeks. He had realized, he said, that Cathan's behavior regarding the executed hostages was out of filial duty to his father, and not out of defiance of his king and friend. And he, Imre, had been wrong to exclude his good and faithful Cathan from his presence for doing only what he ought, as a dutiful son. Could Cathan ever forgive him?

Cathan could. Much taken aback, and flattered by the king's public show of reconciliation, Cathan was only too willing to renew the royal friendship: despite Imre's faults, Cathan was still devoted to the king. The invitation to watch Imre at the armoury was further proof that all was forgiven.

Now Cathan stood in the place of honor beside Imre's squire, the king's tankard and towel in his hands. He smiled and nodded approval as Imre completed a particularly difficult combination move against Selkirk and glanced in his direction. Behind him, Jamie Drummond and Guaire of Arliss applauded politely, their faces betraying none of the misgivings they felt about the entire morning's events. Cathan, in his happiness, had already decided to ignore the glares which were coming this way from the other side of the yard.

The source of the majority of these glares was Coel Howell, standing sullenly beside the two warrior-earls, Maldred and Santare. It was Coel who had supplanted Cathan with Imre during the past few weeks, and who now faced possible exclusion if Cathan should be restored to the royal favor.

After a few minutes, Coel called his squire and began pulling on gauntlets, coif, and helm. He made an inaudible remark which set his companions to sniggering as they glanced in Cathan's direction. The sparring slowed to a halt as Coel took up sword and shield and strode onto the field.

“Sire, I mean no offense to Master Selkirk, but 'tis apparent that he is weary today, and cannot give Your Grace the challenge you desire. I am hardly a match for Your Highness, but I would be honored to provide you more energetic sport.”

“Aye, friend Coel,” the king grinned, dismissing Selkirk with a wave of his sword. “Come and have to!”

Coel bowed in formal request to approach with steel, and then the two began to spar.

Cathan's mouth tightened as he watched, not certain what to make of his kinsman's move. Coel was more than ten years the king's senior, and outweighed Imre by a considerable amount—a fact which made for a distinct advantage against the small and lightweight king.

Imre was fast—there was no doubt about that. And his form was basically sound: the finest swordsmen in the land had been his mentors at one time or another. In fact, Cathan had never seen him in better form than he was today. But Coel was the better swordsman, though he rarely made a public spectacle of this talent. And he was pulling his blows whenever he could get away with it.

Cathan's lips compressed in a hard, tight line as he realized what Coel was doing.

It was a typical Coel maneuver. By slowing his speed just a fraction, by deliberately misjudging openings, responding to feints, he could make Imre appear to be the master, pandering to the royal ego, which so needed bolstering. Cathan watched as Imre slipped and recovered on the beaten earth, backed off to straighten his helm with a gauntleted sword hand, and resumed his stance. As the fighters closed once again, Cathan saw that Coel was playing with his opponent, maneuvering him around so that the sun shone in his eyes and made his blows even less sure. Cathan frowned, for he did not recognize this as part of Coel's apparent plan.

But it was part and parcel of a larger plan.

A seemingly chance parry raised a little to the right brought a flash of sunlight lancing into Coel's helm—not Imre's—reflecting blindingly off a leaded window behind the king. Coel missed his step and faltered, dropping his shield just a fraction, and Imre used the opening to advantage. His blunted sword came swooping from behind his head in a solid blow to the side of Coel's helm, connecting with a sound which echoed across the yard and made Coel stagger.

Playing the game to its proper conclusion—for, with proper weapons, he would have been dead—Coel reeled and let fall his sword, then toppled slowly and noisily to the ground. Imre's courtiers applauded politely as the king doffed his helmet and extended a hand to help Coel up.

“Well fought!” the king laughed, clenching the older man's wrist in his fist as Coel scrambled to his feet. “I'll swear, you nearly had me there. Bad luck for the sun to flash in your eyes that way!”

“Nay, 'twas your skill, Sire,” Coel replied, smiling as he gave his shield to a waiting squire. “I fought well enough today, but you are improving. The best man won—that is all.” He pulled off his helm and gauntlets, as well, and gave them to a waiting page.

Imre grinned delightedly, raising a hand to summon Cathan. As Cathan approached, he forced himself to ignore the indulgent look which Coel was giving him behind the king's back. Imre took the towel and mopped it across his sweat-begrimed face. Then, handing it to Coel to use, he took up the tankard and raised it to Cathan.

“To your most excellent kinsman,” he said, tipping back his head to drink thirstily. What was left was passed to Coel, who tossed off the remainder with casual ease.

Then the king was turning to go, his hand outstretched to bid Coel attend him. He did not see the expression on Coel's face as he handed Cathan the empty tankard and dropped the soiled towel across his arm, or hear the laughter of Coel's friends as Cathan's face went crimson at the affront.