Camber of Culdi (5 page)

But the schoolrooms and the quarters of the schoolmasters lay through the passage just ahead. If he could not himself locate Joram, there was a good chance of finding someone who did know where the young priest was.

He stood aside as a double line of schoolboys marched past with their master, solemn in their blue school cloaks with the badge of Saint Liam blazoned on the breast. Then he was moving through the passage to the central hall, into which the schoolrooms opened. Across the hall he spied a priest he knew, and he approached with a respectful bow.

“Good morning, Father Dominic. Do you know where I might find Father MacRorie?”

The old priest peered at him myopically, then beamed as recognition came. “Why, it's young Rhys Thuryn, isn't it? Were you not one of my pupils some years ago?”

Rhys smiled and bowed again. “I'm flattered that you remember after so long, Father.”

The priest's rheumy eyes had flicked to the Healer's insignia on Rhys's tunic, and this time it was his turn to bow.

“How could I forget, my lord? Your sacred calling was apparent to me even in those early days.” He glanced around as though to reorient himself, then turned back to Rhys with a smile. “You're looking for Father Joram, are you? As I recall, he's reading in the library this morning. It's fortunate you came when you did, however, for I believe he said he was leaving later today to go home for Michaelmas.”

“Yes, I know. I'm invited to spend Michaelmas with the MacRorie household myself this year, so I thought to lure him away a few hours early and save him the ride alone.”

“Well, then, don't let me keep you, lad. God go wi' ye.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Retracing his steps, Rhys made his way back through the covered passageway, past the Chapter House, then mounted the wide day stair toward the library. True to Father Dominic's directions, he found Joram in the third carrel chamber into which he peered.

Joram had his feet up, the manuscript in his lap tilted to catch the light which filtered through the rain-washed window above his head. He looked up with a pleased grin as Rhys entered and perched himself on the edge of the table.

“Rhys, brother! Why, you look like the proverbial drowned cat himself. What brings you here in this weather? I would have seen you at home tomorrow.”

With silence for answer, Rhys reached into his pouch and produced the silver coin, gave it a perfunctory glance, dropped it into Joram's outstretched hand.

“Ever seen one of these?” he asked.

Joram bent his head and studied the object closely for several minutes.

Father Joram MacRorie was lean and fit, blond like his father, and with the uncanny ability to appear perfectly garbed and unruffled whether serving High Mass with the Archbishop or gutting out a deer after a long afternoon's chase. Just now he was clad in the simple cassock and cowled surcoat of his order, the hood pushed back casually from tonsured yellow hair. The sandalled feet had not moved from their resting place on the table edge. The slender fingers were still as they read the silver coin.

The outward aplomb of the man was not inappropriate. Ordained at age twenty by the Archbishop of Valoret himself, it had been clear from the outset that young Joram MacRorie was slated for high Church preferment. As younger son of an extremely well-connected house, such would have been his due even had he not been so brilliant a scholar or so shrewd a judge of men. He was his father's son in every way. The fact that he would probably deserve every future honor bestowed upon him spoke well of the man, was an unexpected nicety in a world characterized by nepotism and the purchase of office and political influence.

Indeed, even in the religious life it was difficult to be anything
but
political, especially if one moved in the upper circles of Deryni society. In the past century, religious establishments had gained an unenviable reputation for being corrupt, most of the corruption blamed, directly or indirectly, on the Deryni regime. Joram's Michaeline Order was thought to be spiritually and intellectually sound, with better attention than most to the Rule of their order. But they were also a militant brotherhood, whose knights had more than once taken sides in a controversy which should, by rights, have remained in secular hands. Such was the way of the Church in Gwynedd.

Nor had Joram himself been entirely able to avoid political entanglements, for all his protestations and honest calling. Sought out by his fellow priests whenever royal crisis threatened, he was not often permitted to forget that his father, Camber, had once been a high-ranking minister of the Crown. After all, it was no great secret, among those acquainted with the situation, just
why
Camber had resigned. Though the official explanation had mentioned something about Camber wishing to retire from government service “while still young enough to enjoy his academic pursuits,” it was widely known that Camber had not approved of young Imre's policies as prince, while his father lived; and still less did he approve, once the young man became king. Camber MacRorie was not a man who could continue to serve a crown whose wearer he did not respect.

Adding to the complication was the fact that Joram's older brother Cathan was a friend of Imre, and had, at the new king's request, stepped in to fill the place left vacant by Camber's departure. There was no enmity between father and son: Camber well realized that a younger, more flexible man might be better able to temper the king's rash boldness with reason. In Cathan's abilities and judgment he had no doubt.

But Cathan's entry into the political arena continued the difficulties Joram faced, as the priest must constantly try to curb the natural gift for politicking which he had inherited in full measure from his father. Joram and Rhys had discussed the quandary more than once over a glass of Fianna wine, when the wind howled outside through the long Gwyneddan winter nights.

For himself, Rhys believed that a physician, like a cleric, should try to remain neutral, despite the temptation to become politically involved. Only now that neutrality was being shaken as never before, by the simple expedient of a dying man's words and the flash of a silver coin in a priest's long fingers.

“Where did you get this?” Joram asked. There was no trace of suspicion in his question—only, perhaps, a certain wistful curiosity.

“Never mind that for now,” Rhys said. “What is it?”

“It's a dower coin. They were sometimes given as mementoes to the next of kin of postulants entering the old religious orders. They aren't made anymore.”

“Can you tell where it's from?” Rhys tried to keep the impatience from his voice. “I mean, can you tell which monastery?”

“Hmm. I have an idea, but I fancy you want something more definite than that. Come on, we'll look it up.”

Without a word, Rhys got up and followed Joram into the main portion of the library, past the reading brothers with heads bowed over parchment membranes, past the scrivener monks painstakingly copying texts in their fine majuscule hands. A very aged monk sat atop a high stool behind a reading desk, guardian of a polished oak door barred with a stout beam.

Joram murmured a few words to the monk, then bowed and raised the bar on the door and opened it. Taking a rushlight from a stand by the monk's desk, he motioned for Rhys to follow him into the next room.

It was a small, dark chamber lined with row upon row of open shelves holding rolls of parchment and a few bound volumes. The volumes were massive and ragged-looking, since they had originally been assembled from roll entries cut to fit, and they were secured to the shelves by chains which allowed them to be moved only as far as a small reading stand.

Handing the rushlight to Rhys to hold aloft, Joram roamed the row in front of them, then pulled down a dusty volume and inspected the cover. With a grunt, he replaced the book and moved farther down the row, where he removed another volume. This one he opened and began scanning, opening his hand to glance at the coin again as Rhys peered over his shoulder.

“Hmm. I suspected as much. It was struck at Saint Jarlath's, which is the mother house of the
Ordo Verbi Dei
. They're a cloistered order based at Barwicke, not far from here. Saint Jarlath himself was a sixth-century bishop of Meara—an abbot, too, if I'm not mistaken.”

Rhys lowered his eyes and was silent for a moment. Then: “Barwicke—you said that's not far from here. How far?”

“Oh, a few hours' ride. Why are you so interested in Saint Jarlath's?”

“I—” Rhys paused, then went on cautiously. “An old man died yesterday, Joram. A patient of mine. His grandson may have taken vows at Saint Jarlath's about twenty years ago. It's important that I find him.”

“To tell the monk his grandfather is dead?”

“Yes.”

Joram replaced the volume on the shelf and turned to eye Rhys curiously.

“And then what?” Joram asked softly. “Rhys, you're not making much sense. If the man took vows at Saint Jarlath's twenty years ago, he may not even be alive by now. Even if he is, he'll be a cloistered monk. You couldn't see him. The most you could hope from him would be prayers for his kinsman's repose—which, if he's any kind of monk at all, he'll have been giving all these years, regardless of whether his grandsire was alive or dead. Did the old man leave him an inheritance or something?”

“In a way,” Rhys murmured. He took the coin from Joram and glanced at it distractedly, but would not meet the priest's eyes.

Joram frowned and folded his arms across his chest.

“What do you mean, ‘in a way'? If the old man left him anything, it belongs to his order now. You know that monks haven't any property of their own.”

Rhys smiled in spite of himself. “Not this inheritance, my friend. This is not for monks.”

“Will you stop dissembling and get to the point? You know about cloistered orders; you know about community property; and you know what would be involved to find this man after twenty years. Who
is
this monk?”

Rhys paused, then wet his lips nervously. “All that you have said is true, or would be true in ordinary circumstances,” he whispered, looking up. “But this is no ordinary monk, Joram. We must find him. God help us, and him, but we must! His father is long dead, and his grandfather also, now. But his grandfather claimed to be Aidan Haldane, last living son of King Ifor. Your so-called cloistered monk may well be the rightful Haldane King of Gwynedd!”

Joram's jaw dropped, and he stared at the Healer in disbelief. “The rightful
Haldane
heir?”

At Rhys's guarded nod, Joram reached blindly for the bench he remembered being somewhere behind him, eased himself down upon it gently.

“Rhys, do you realize what you're saying?”

Rhys shifted uncomfortably. “I'm trying to avoid thinking about the political ramifications just yet, if that's what you mean. Can't we simply say that we're looking for a monk whose grandfather died? Besides, the man himself may be dead by now, for all we know.”

“But, what if he's not?” Joram replied softly. “Rhys, you may not want to think about it, but I'm not sure you can afford that luxury. If what you say is true …”

With a defeated sigh, Rhys sank down on the bench beside the priest. “I know,” he murmured, after a long silence. “But the illusion of innocence gives me a semblance of comfort. God knows, I'm not a political creature, Joram, but I …” He bowed his head. “I had a friend,” he said. “I gave him my hand and comfort in his final hour, and he gave me his most precious possession: the identity of his only grandson. He showed me an ancient and noble heritage, and a potential for something different from what we know. And then he said, ‘Ask yourself if the man on the throne is worthy of the golden circlet,' Joram. He said, ‘Ask if this is the sort of rule you wish for your children and your children's children. Then you decide.'”

“And, have you decided?”

Rhys shook his head. “Not yet. I don't think I, or you, or any one man can make a decision like that alone.” He looked up wistfully. “But I
have
considered what old Daniel told me, Joram. And now—well, I think we must try to find his grandson.”

“To tell him his grandfather is dead?” Joram asked.

Rhys glanced quickly at his companion, fearing to find some hint of mockery in the other's expression. But there was none—only a gentle, indulgent wisp of a smile flicking across the other's mouth.

“Thank you for knowing when not to push,” he said simply, his own lips curving in response. “I'm afraid I've not been honed for this sort of thing the way you Michaelines have. It may take me a while to adjust.”

Joram chuckled as he stood, clasping a hand to the other's shoulder. “You're doing fine,” he said, picking up the rushlight again. “For now, let's just worry about that monk that wants finding, who will doubtless wish to offer prayers for his grandfather's repose.”

Within half an hour, Rhys and Joram were gone from Saint Liam's, riding pell-mell through driving rain toward the tiny village of Barwicke, where Saint Jarlath's lay. Once the full implications of Rhys's news had sunk in, Joram had moved quickly to secure fresh horses for the two of them and obtain leave to depart early. More details of the previous day's events had been imparted to Joram as he changed to riding attire in his chamber—boots and cloak and sleek, fur-lined riding leathers. Then they were mounting up on two of the abbey's sleek, blooded horses, clattering hellbent out through the abbey yard.

By the time they reached Barwicke, both men were half frozen and soaked to the skin. It was also quite dark.

“Where is the monastery?” Rhys croaked, as the two drew rein under a tree at the edge of the village square.

Joram wiped silver-gilt hair out of his eyes and turned in the saddle, standing in the stirrups to get his bearings.