Camber of Culdi (29 page)

The vicar general, noting the lapse into the formal “we,” stood at once and bowed, backing silently out the door and closing it behind him. The archbishop, when he had gone, returned to his chair and sat down, touched the discarded letter briefly, folded his arms on the table, and lowered his head to pray.

Though he had not indicated so to Robert Oriss, Archbishop Anscom knew who had accompanied Rhys Thuryn to Saint Foillan's, and was now implicated in an abduction. He and the “monk” had studied for the priesthood together at Grecotha and had shared a thousand moments of the joys and sorrows of the world.

For “Brother Kyriell” was the name which had been used in religion by Camber of Culdi.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

There is one alone, and there is not a second; yea, he hath neither child nor brother; yet is there no end to all his labour; neither is his eye satisfied with riches
.

—Ecclesiastes 4:8

Whatever Anscom's personal feelings about the MacRories, and about Camber MacRorie in particular, the good archbishop was also a servant of the Crown; and duty dictated that, even though the abduction of a monk was an ecclesiastical matter, it must be reported to the king.

Anscom did delete the physical description of Brother Kyriell; let Imre figure out who the mysterious monk was. In the meantime, perhaps Anscom could contact Camber and find out what was going on. For Camber to reassume his old religious name as a subterfuge was very much out of character for the Camber Anscom knew. Perhaps Camber was trying to tell him something; or perhaps there was another Brother Kyriell, and it was all coincidence—though Anscom tended to mistrust coincidence. Whatever the explanation, Anscom wanted to know.

Accordingly, the archbishop's missive went through regular channels; no sense in giving the king a head start, if Camber was involved.

And so, in due course, it was delivered, not to the king but to Earl Santare, named but the week before to head the investigation of the apparent MacRorie conspiracy. Coel Howell had made it his practice in the past week to shadow Santare and be as helpful as possible, even to the extent of sharing with Santare some of the intelligence he had gathered on his own; and thus he was also present when the missive arrived. But even before they received the new information, their combined resources had already turned up some interesting coincidences—or were they coincidences?

They had known for some time, for example, that Daniel Draper, one of the men named in the documents stolen by Joram, had died of natural causes but a scant two months ago—and that he had been attended on his deathbed by none other than Lord Rhys Thuryn.

But further inquiry, in Thuryn's household and surrounds, had revealed that the same Rhys Thuryn, on the evening after the old man's death, had taken horse and ridden out of the city. Though his servants insisted that he had but gone to Caerrorie for Michaelmas, the brethren of Saint Liam's Monastery School—where Father Joram MacRorie was currently assigned—claimed that Thuryn and Father Joram had ridden off in great haste the same day, and in driving rain, in the direction of Saint Jarlath's Monastery.

Curious.

And as if that were not enough, the monks of Saint Jarlath's told how the two had inveigled permission, in the dead of night, to consult the abbey's induction records. The crowning touch to the entire piece of work was the statement of one Gregory of Arden, Abbot of Saint Jarlath's, who remembered the two saying that they were looking for a Brother Benedict whose grandfather had died recently in Valoret. Coel's scribes were compiling a list of Brothers Benedict in the order even now. It was just possible that they were on the verge of locating the missing Nicholas Draper.

Coel and Santare were together with a couple of Santare's aides when the archbishop's messenger arrived, and it fell to Coel to receive the letter and break the seal. His feet propped comfortably on the edge of the raised hearth, a tankard of ale at his elbow, Coel read impassively until he had come almost to the end, the silence broken only by the crackle of the fire. Then he started and sat up abruptly, swinging his feet under him in astonishment.

“S'blood! Would you look at this?” He shoved the parchment under the earl's nose. “You wanted to know what Joram MacRorie and Thuryn were doing? Well, I can tell you about Thuryn. And I'll bet that this Brother Kyriell was MacRorie! What do you want to bet that this Brother Benedict and our Nicholas Draper are one and the same person?”

Santare pulled the missive before him and scanned it briefly. When he had finished, he leaned back in his chair and hooked thumbs in his ample belt, nodding slowly.

“No wonder we couldn't find Draper. He's been holed up in a monastery all these years. They must've traced him through the records at Saint Jarlath's, the same way we were trying to trace Benedict. And yet …”

The earl got to his feet and began pacing, his boots stirring the rushes beneath them. Coel watched him, hawk-like, scarcely able to contain his impatience.

“You know, that's odd,” Santare continued, after several circuits of the room. “According to the archbishop's report, they went to Saint Foillan's for the first time a good month ago, but they didn't do anything. It's as though they weren't sure he was the right one. The question is, the right one
what?
Why all this interest in a simple monk from a family of merchants?”

One of the aides cleared his throat hesitantly. “There—ah—
have
been the rumors of the Haldane, m'lord. You've seen the handbills that are starting to appear.”

“Willimite speculation and wishful thinking!” Coel snapped. “That may be what they're trying to imply, but it simply won't work.”

“But, Thuryn
did
steal the painting of Ifor Haldane, sir,” the second aide volunteered. “He must have had a reason.”

“It's a fraud. It has to be!” Coel insisted. “No Haldane survived the Coup. Everyone knows that.”

“But if one had, wouldn't this be a bloody good time for him to turn up?” Santare said, motioning the aides to leave them.

Coel sat back and planted a booted foot on the edge of the hearth in disgust as the door closed behind the aides. “Yes, it would,” he agreed grudgingly. “But, it doesn't make sense. This whole thing doesn't make sense. What is a Haldane to the MacRories? They're Deryni, the same as you and I. Certainly, Camber has no reason to love the king, especially after the way Cathan died; but, damn it, they're
all
Deryni! He can't seriously mean to replace Imre with a human king of the old line—or worse, one who only says he's of the old line. Where's their
proof?
And where is Camber?”

“I don't know,” Santare shrugged. “We've questioned the servants and peasants at Caerrorie, of course—”

“And learned nothing! Santare, I find it difficult to believe that skilled inquisitors were unable to extract even one jot of information about Camber's plans or motivations. If it were up to me—”

“If it were up to you, I have no doubt that half of Camber's servants would now be swinging at the ends of ropes, the way those peasants ended up in October—for not divulging information which they did not have,” Santare said pointedly. “Don't you think that a Deryni as powerful as Camber could manage to keep his plans secure from a few human servants, if he wanted to—and be certain that no one could get that information out of them?”

“But, he's got to be somewhere!”

Further argument was curtailed by the explosive entrance of a very out-of-breath young squire in Imre's personal colors. A look of relief crossed the lad's face as he swept off his cap and bowed.

“My lords, the King's Grace commands your presence in his chambers at once. He—” The boy paused to gulp another breath. “He is most distraught, my lords. It would do well not to tarry.”

As one, Coel and Santare bolted for the door.

“Miserable, ungrateful, misbegotten whoresons!” Imre was screaming, as Coel and Santare were admitted to his chamber. “Lying, deceitful—Coel! Do you know what they've done? Can you conceive—”

“What
who
has done, Your Grace?” Coel interjected, bowing cautiously.

“The Michaelines! Filthy, two-faced, double-crossing, treacherous—”

“Sire! What have they done?”

Imre glared at him, wild-eyed, then flung his hands into the air and flounced into a chair. “They've disappeared—every last treasonous one of them! They took their treasury, their altar plate—everything! They're just—gone!”

“Gone …” Santare breathed.

His reaction was lost on Imre, who lurched to his feet and immediately launched into a new stream of invective, proclaiming fluent and obscene descriptions of the base birth and gross physical habits of the order in question. Santare, awed and more than a little apprehensive, tried to discern a motive, forcing himself to begin planning for the safety of the realm.

Such action by an order as wealthy and powerful as the Michaelines, coupled with the evidence of a MacRorie conspiracy, pointed to only one thing: there was a plot brewing to attempt the overthrow of Imre and replace him with an alleged Haldane heir. And if the Michaelines were involved, then they must be well convinced that this heir was a true Haldane, and that they looked for at least a reasonable chance of success in their endeavor. Even now, the Michaeline knights must be gathering somewhere, preparing to make their move. By removing their noncombatant members to places of safety, they had rendered themselves invulnerable to reprisal. Why, the Michaelines could be anywhere!

Coel, too, was not blind to the ramifications of the Michaeline disappearance, though his thoughts, as the king raged on, were of a more personal and immediately sobering bent. He had thought himself so clever. Why, he had not been clever at all! All of his planning, his merciless engineering of Cathan's apparent betrayal, the assassination of Maldred, Cathan's own murder—all of these had been unwittingly aiding a real conspiracy. He had seen himself as architect of a new power base in Gwynedd, not dreaming of the real enormity of the greater plan. He was but a pawn in a game whose magnitude he was only now beginning to comprehend. And now he could envision himself being swept along in that game, impelled by forces which he, himself, had helped to focus. Would he eventually be a sacrifice for his own king?

“I'll show them!” Imre was shouting, as Coel's attention snapped back to the immediate crisis. “They'll be sorry they dared to defy me!”

Still cursing under his breath, Imre flung himself into the chair behind his writing desk and began scribbling furiously, muttering all the while as Coel and Santare exchanged stunned glances. At length, the king sanded the ink, sealed the foot of the page with his personal signet, and stood, flourishing it under Santare's nose with a malicious smirk contorting his face.

“You will see to the execution of these commands immediately, Santare.”

“Sire?”

“Go ahead, take it!” Imre said, shaking the page impatiently. “The Michaelines dare to oppose me? They think to replace me with another king? Well, we'll see! The present king intends to make things very uncomfortable. See to it!” he barked.

Santare bowed his head, not daring to look at the page he now held in his hand.

“Aye, My Liege.”

“And if, in the process, you should happen to run any stray Michaelines to ground,” Imre added, “I want them brought to me immediately. Do you understand? Regardless of the hour. I want to question each one of them personally, before he's executed as a traitor!”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Then get out! Both of you!”

Outside, Santare exhaled in relief—the first real breathing he had allowed himself since entering the king's presence—then unrolled the parchment, turning away pointedly when Coel made as though to read over his shoulder. The earl scanned the document slowly, meticulously, as Coel fidgeted in impatience; then he handed it over, as Coel had known he would.

Imre, by the Grace of God, etc., to all leal subjects of Our Realm, greeting
.

Know that We have this day been most grievously and treacherously betrayed by members of the Order of Saint Michael, which Order We do dissolve, disband, and abolish. We declare its former brethren outlaw, its goods and lands forfeit to the Crown. We include in this ban all those bearing the name MacRorie: especially Camber, the former Earl of Culdi; Joram MacRorie, a priest of the Michaeline Order; and the Healer known as Rhys Thuryn
.

To Our well-beloved Santare, Earl of Grand-Tellie, we give command to proceed to the Michaeline Commanderie at Cheltham with a royal force and take into custody all persons residing there. The establishment shall be sacked and burned, its buildings levelled, its lands sown with salt, this to be accomplished no later than the Feast of Saint Olympias, one week hence. An additional Michaeline establishment shall be dealt with in this manner each week, until the Vicar General of the Order shall present himself before Us on bended knee and surrender both his Order and all members of Clan MacRorie, severally and collectively. Reward is offered for the capture of any and all …

There was more, but even Coel had no stomach for it.

“Per intercessionem beati Michaëlis Archangeli, stantis a dextris altari incensi …”

The words of the liturgy floated fervent and a little desperate on the incense-laden air, barely audible in the listening gallery where Camber MacRorie waited. The celebrant was Cinhil Haldane, thurible in hand, a deacon following behind to lift the edge of his chasuble as he circled and censed the altar. Camber observed in silence as priest-prince and monk completed their circuit and incensed one another again, watching as the deacon put the incense aside and then poured water over Cinhil's fingertips into a small earthen bowl.