Camber of Culdi (34 page)

“But, I'm afraid …” Megan began.

“So am I. Constantly,” Evaine replied gently. “But if we do not support our men in their good works, what hope is there for any of us? Think what has been risked already, even to bring us this far. You said that I am fortunate to have Rhys. Oh, how right you are! But he has been in grave danger for these many months now, and every day there was the chance that I might lose him. Still, I would not have held him back from doing what he had to do—nor will I. Just as I would not expect him to keep me from my part, simply because I might be harmed. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?”

“A little, I think.” Megan sniffed, wiping at her eyes, and finally managed a smile. After a minute, she asked, “Evaine, will you promise me something?”

“If I can.”

“Promise that you will not leave me when I am queen. I shall be very lonely, otherwise.”

“Oh, Megan!”

Evaine hugged the younger girl close, tears welling in her own eyes, but suddenly there was the sound of movement in the chapel below, and both of them moved breathlessly to the viewing slits.

It was midnight; it was Christmas Day. And as the door was thrown open and the processional cross appeared in the doorway, they knew that this day brought the coming of more than just the Christmas King.

“Dominus dixit ad me: Filius meus es tu, ego hodie genui te
…” the Michaeline knights and monks sang. The Lord said to my Lord, You are my Son. This day I have begotten you.…

And as the strains of the ancient introit swelled in the chapel, reverberating from vaulting to the gallery, Anscom led Joram and Cullen as escort to a pale but stately Cinhil. Cathan's young sons followed the princely procession, each bearing a silver circlet upon a velvet cushion. The boys stood beside their grandfather, eyes wide with wonder, as Archbishop Anscom ascended the altar. Cinhil, with Joram and Cullen bowing to either side, knelt before the lowest step and inclined his head, his face still and emotionless in the candlelight.

When the prayers had been concluded, Anscom turned and descended the three low steps, cope and miter glittering in the candlelit chamber. Joram and Cullen moved from Cinhil's sides to Anscom's, waited for the archbishop to speak.

“Who art thou,” the archbishop demanded, “who makest bold to approach the altar of the Lord?”

Blanching, Cinhil stood up and managed a nervous bow, all self-possession dissolving as the time came to speak the fateful words. “May—may it please Your Grace, I am”—he swallowed hard—“Cinhil Donal Ifor Haldane, son of Alroy, grandson of Aidan, great-grandson of King Ifor Haldane of Gwynedd, and the last of my line.” He paused to draw shaky breath. “I come to claim the birthright of my name and family.”

“And what proof bringest thou, Cinhil Haldane, that thou art, indeed, the true-born heir of Gwynedd and, therefore, Prince in this realm?”

The green-cloaked Rhys stepped forward and presented a sheaf of parchment. “Your Grace, I present the baptismal records of Prince Cinhil and his father, Alroy. Though the records were kept in the mundane names which the Haldanes were forced to use while in hiding these past eighty years, I vow and affirm that Daniel Draper, Prince Cinhil's grandsire of record, was, in reality, Prince Aidan, true-born son of Ifor Haldane, last of the Haldane kings before the present dynasty.”

Joram brought forth the Gospel, and Rhys laid his hand upon it. “This I swear by my gifts of Sight and Healing, and may God rip them from me and destroy me if I speak ought but the truth.”

At this Rhys bowed, Anscom bowed, and Rhys returned to his former place to be replaced by young Davin MacRorie, bearing his silver circlet on its cushion of velvet. As Joram extended the book once more, Anscom took the circlet in his gloved hands and laid it on the open pages.

“Kneel, Cinhil Haldane,” he said in a firm voice.

Cinhil obeyed.

“Cinhil Donal Ifor Haldane,” the archbishop intoned, holding his hands above the prince's bowed head, “I acknowledge thee Heir of Haldane and Prince of Gwynedd in exile.” The hands came to rest upon the silvered head. “Though it is not within my power to restore thee to thy rightful place at this time, I give thee this circlet as a token of thy royalty.” He took the circlet and held it above Cinhil's head. “It is my fervent prayer that one day soon I may replace it with a crown of gold, in regal, public splendor, as is thy due. Until then, wear this as a reminder of the weight of responsibility which thou assumest for thy people.”

With that, he put the circlet of silver on Cinhil's head, then raised him up and bowed.

Cinhil acknowledged the bow awkwardly, then glanced at Camber and Rhys and, removing the circlet, knelt once more. “Your Grace, I accept this circlet in the spirit it was given, but I bear the burden of prior vows which prevent my full assumption of the duties that accompany it.”

“Dost thou, then, wish release from those vows, my son?”

“Not for myself, but for the sake of my people, Your Grace,” Cinhil murmured, barely audible. “I am the last of my royal line. If I shrink from my responsibilities, my people will suffer longer under the tyrant's heel. Though I love my former life, I am told that I may better serve God's purpose, for now, by taking up my birthright and my crown, to free my people from the bondage of the conquerors and restore just rule.”

“We thank thee for thy former service and do release thee from thy vows.
Ego te absolvo
…”

As the archbishop recited the words of the release, Evaine stirred in the gallery chamber, to lead a frightened but determined young girl down the narrow steps to the chapel door. A moment later, the door was opening again, this time to admit a silver-clad princess who kept her eyes averted as she came to meet her bridegroom. All eyes turned toward her as she glided to the altar and made her obeisance—all save Cinhil's. The prince, standing to her right, kept his attention fixed mostly on the crucifix on the archbishop's breast, not daring to glance aside.

His vows released, it was this part of the ceremony which frightened Cinhil most; and he had difficulty concentrating on what was being said. He let himself be led through the ceremony, responding when he was told, until he suddenly realized that he had said the vows of marriage, and that a low, quavering contralto voice was now repeating similar vows at his side.

“I, Megan de Cameron, only begotten daughter of the Lord and Lady of Farnham and ward of my Lord Camber MacRorie, Earl of Culdi, wittingly and of deliberate mind, having fifteen years completed in the month of January last past, contract matrimony with the right excellent and noble Prince Cinhil Donal Ifor Haldane, Heir of Gwynedd, and take the said Prince Cinhil of Gwynedd for my husband and spouse, all others for him forsake, during his and my lives natural, and thereto I plight and give him my faith and troth.”

Then there was a slender band of gold in Cinhil's hand, and he was slipping it on the finger of this strange young girl.
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.”
After that, he vaguely remembered joining hands with her while the archbishop laid the ends of his stole across their hands and pronounced a blessing—and then Mass.

He thought he remembered receiving Communion, but for the first time in his life he could not be sure. Because after that they bade him take the crown of holly and rosemary from Megan's head and remove the pins which held her coiled hair in place. It came tumbling down in a cloud of wheaten glory, sweet-smelling, soft as gossamer, reaching nearly to her waist—and he nearly dropped the silver circlet they bade him place upon her head.

Only when he was safely in his chamber, and she in another, was he able to think clearly again—and then, his thoughts did little to ease his anxiety. After a few minutes, Joram came in to help him undress, then left him standing numbly before the fire in a fur-lined dressing gown.

He did not know how long it would be before they came for him, and though he knelt dutifully at the
prie-dieu
in the corner of the room and tried to say his evening prayers, the words came stiff and meaningless, holding little comfort. He trembled as he knelt there.

All too soon, a knock at the door called him from his tangled thoughts, and then a torchlit procession escorted him to the door of the nuptial chamber. As the door opened, he could see the archbishop sprinkling the bed with holy water. A pale, shy face peered out above the top of the sleeping furs; it was surrounded by all-too-familiar wheaten hair.

He entered, hesitantly, and the archbishop bowed to the occupant of the bed and then bowed to Cinhil and blessed him with holy water as well. A reassuring touch on the shoulder as he passed, and then archbishop and attendants and ladies and everyone except the two of them were departing, the door closing; and they were alone.

Cinhil swallowed heavily and studied the floor with great interest. Finally, he chanced a cautious glance at the girl in the bed. To his surprise, she looked at least as frightened as he felt. He wondered whether he looked the same to her. He looked away quickly.

“My—my lady,” he whispered, his voice cracking and betraying him as he tried to speak. “I—thou knowest what manner of man I am, that—that I know not the ways of women …”

His voice trailed off, and he dared to raise his eyes to hers. They were deep pools of sea-blue, eyes a man might drown in—and he could not have looked away now if he had wanted to.

“Then, we are even, my lord,” she murmured, not quite so frightened as before, “for I know not the ways of men. But thou art my husband”—she extended her hand tentatively—“and I am thy wife. Wilt thou come and let us learn together the ways of men and women?”

The bed was wide, and she lay toward the middle. To take her hand, as he knew he must—and as he suddenly wanted to do—he had to cross the several feet separating them and sit on the bed. He did. And after a moment, when they had gazed into one another's eyes as best they could in the dim light, she brought his hand to her cheek and rubbed it gently. He was astonished to find her cheek damp with tears, incredibly soft lips brushing the back of his hand.

Alarmed that he might have frightened her, he shifted to peer at her more closely, and soon found his other hand stroking her hair, wiping her tears away. Then she was reaching up to touch his face, his beard, to run her fingers lightly along the edge of his mustache, to brush her fingertips across his lips; and he was responding, kissing her palm.

Camber, when he looked in on them in the early dawn hours, found them peacefully entwined in one another's arms, the bedclothes in disarray, Cinhil's fur-lined robe discarded across the foot of the bed. As he eased his way back out of the room, a smile on his lips, he breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving to whatever saint watched over nuptial beds. Whoever it was, that saint had apparently done his or her work well.

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

And they put him in ward, that the mind of the Lord might be shewed them
.

—Leviticus 24:12

The days stretched into weeks, and the weeks into months, until it was spring—spring, with its promise of new beginnings. Deep in the rockbound fastness of the haven, the exiles could not see the usual signs of spring: the flowering trees and the leaping forth of all the new grasses and blossoms of the meadows. But there was a greater flowering in the womb of her who was, perhaps, to be their future queen. Archbishop Anscom himself returned to the haven long enough to celebrate the Mass of Thanksgiving. And with the expectation of the royal birth in the fall, they at last had a timetable toward which to work; they had not dared risk Cinhil in a coup until the royal succession was assured. The next season's snow would bring with it the winter of Imre's reign.

For Cinhil, however, this spring was not a time of rejoicing. Frightened and conscience-stricken at what he had done, he betook himself more and more to his academic studies after that, shunning his young bride's bed and keeping himself apart as much as possible. Though Rhys assured him that he had fathered a son, and had only to wait until October to see the living proof, Cinhil pushed the knowledge out of his mind and raised his defenses even more. They might force him to become a prince, and even a king, but he did not have to like it. Never again did he come as close to letting down his shields as he had in the chapel that day at his last celebrated Mass, or on the afternoon of his wedding when he spoke of his vocation as a priest. He refused even to address the possibility of assuming Deryni-like powers on his own.

One rather curious gain had been made, however.

Though Cinhil still would not speak to Camber or Joram or any of the other men in the compound about other than what was required, he did talk with Evaine sometimes. And, oddly enough, it was not until after her marriage to Rhys on Twelfth Night that the breakthrough began. Joram had blessed the union, with Camber and the entire population of the haven standing proudly by. But though Cinhil had attended, with Megan, and wished the couple well, he had retired to his own quarters soon after the ceremony, oddly pale and quieter than even he was wont to be. He had not felt like celebrating, he told Evaine later.

But if Evaine's marriage shook Cinhil almost like his own, at least it placed Evaine in another, safer relationship to him. He was not aware, and she would never have dreamed of telling him and jeopardizing the fragile trust which was building between them, but there had been a potential there—at least on Cinhil's part—for quite a different relationship than he would have approved or been comfortable with. Whatever the potential, however, that facet was closed to him forever when she made her marriage vows to Rhys. What Cinhil did not realize was that the way had been opened for an even
more
intimate association: he had no reference point for the union of minds.

It became their practice to meet each afternoon to talk, occasionally with Rhys or Joram in attendance, but more often just the two of them, sitting comfortably before the fireplace in his outer chamber. He told her of his childhood, of his father and grandfather, and sometimes they even talked about his life in the monastery—a thing he had never discussed with anyone before, and certainly not with a woman.