The Bastard Prince (2 page)

Appendix V: Partial Lineage of the MacRories

About the Author

P
ROLOGUE

He hath put forth his hands against such as be at peace with him; he hath broken his covenant.

—Psalms 55:20

The nagging drizzle of the night before had yielded to clearing skies at dawn, but a persistent overcast remained even at noontime on this chill day in early June of the Year of Our Lord 928, now seventh in the reign of Rhys Michael Alister Haldane, King of Gwynedd. Climbing to the castle's highest rooftop walk, two women had braved a cutting wind to seek out a sheltered angle between cap-house and rampart wall, a natural sun trap that was warm enough to shrug off fur-lined cloaks and begin to thaw chilled bones while they resumed their watch of the day before.

It was a better place than most to await the return of their men, now several days overdue. To the south they could see for miles across the vast plain of Iomaire—and a lesser distance eastward, to where the mists of the Rhelljan foothills obscured the approach to the vital Coldoire Pass. It was toward this pass that their men had ridden, more than a week ago, and it was toward Coldoire that the elder of the pair now turned her gaze yet again, shading her dark eyes against the glare of sunlight on persisting tatters of fog.

She had kept this kind of vigil all too many times before. Sudrey of Eastmarch had been chatelaine of this castle for fully twenty years. She was hardly more than a child herself when she first came to Lochalyn as a bride and, within the year, bore the daughter who would become the taller, redheaded young woman fretting at her side. Apart from the death of a beloved brother, a decade ago, the intervening years had been mostly kind, though she and Hrorik had never been blessed with any more children. Stacia was their only child and sole heir, herself now a mother, suckling an infant son but hours old when his father and grandfather had spurred urgently toward the Coldoire Pass to investigate reports of Torenthi troop incursions.

“D'ye think it's only yesterday's storm that's delayed them?” Stacia suddenly blurted, startling one of the wolfhounds basking at her feet as she rose to peer out over the rampart again, clasping her son closer. “Dear God, what if sommat's happened to Corban? They should hae been back days ago. Oh, sommat's happened—I know it has!”

“Hush, child. We don't
know
anything yet.”

But as Sudrey of Eastmarch gazed out at the Coldoire mists, her lips compressing in a tight, expectant line, she very much feared that she did know more than she cared to admit. Not of Stacia's beloved Corban, but of her own dear Hrorik.

The dread confirmation would come soon; she could feel it. She carried but little of the blood of the magical race that once had ruled this land, and she had denied what she had for more than half her life, but it was enough to give her sudden, blinding flashes of unsought knowledge when she least expected or wanted it. Nor had she ever received but rudimentary training in the use of the powers that might have been hers to command, for she and her brother had been orphaned young and brought up by their uncle, a Deryni lordling whose abuse of
his
power and privilege eventually had led his tenants to turn on him and kill him.

That had been just on the eve of the overthrow of King Imre of Festil and the Haldane Restoration. After that had come the turmoil and wars that left her and her brother hostages of Hrorik's father, the fierce but kindhearted Duke Sighere of Claibourne, for she and Kennet were both of them distant kin to the royal House of Torenth. In those days, she had deemed it the better part of prudence to pretend that she had no powers at all; and after a time, she had almost forgotten that she ever did. She had never expected to fall in love with one of her jailer's sons …

Her wistful recollections had distracted her from her watch across the castle ramparts, so that it was Stacia who first saw the riders, first only a handful and then dozens of them, picking their way slowly and painfully along the muddy, winding track that led down from the mist of the Rhelljans to approach the castle gates.

“They're comin'!” Stacia breathed, pressing hard against the rampart edge as she squinted against the glare. “Look ye, there's Da's banner!”

Sudrey's breath caught in her throat as she, too, began to make out the battle standard borne by one of the lead riders—a silver saltire and two golden suns against an azure field.

“Mother—I dinnae see Corban's banner,” Stacia cried. “Mother, where is't? Corban—”

She was turning to careen down the turnpike stair before Sudrey could stop her, moaning and clutching her son fearfully to her shoulder, the wolfhounds lumbering after. Behind her, Sudrey cast her own anxious gaze over the approaching riders again, now seeing what her daughter had failed to notice: the dark, irregular shape bound across the saddle of one of the horses nearer the banner, wrapped round in a greeny tweed cloak that she herself had mended before her husband rode out, what seemed like an eternity ago.

Later, she would not remember her own numbed descent of the narrow, winding stair; only that, all at once, she was down in the castle yard with men and horses churning all around her, the din and the stench of blood and death almost beyond imagining. Across the yard, her son-in-law all but tumbled from his spent mount to stagger toward her, one bandaged and bloodstained arm braced around the shoulders of his weeping but relieved young wife.

He was grimy and exhausted, young Corban, his helmet gone, his sweat-matted black hair mostly pulled free of its border clout, his leather brigandine showing the signs of heavy battle survived. As he reached Sudrey, he collapsed to armored knees at her feet, his broad, leather-clad shoulders heaving with a dry sob as he crushed her to him with his free hand, burying his bearded face against her skirts.

“Forgive me, I couldnae save him!” he gasped. “They've ta'en Culliecairn—God knows why! We lost dozens, an' most of those returnin' carry wounds. They lured us wi' a flag o' truce, then o'erran us. We must get word tae Sighere an' Graham an' beg reinforcements—an' from the king!”

“Is it invasion?” Sudrey heard herself calmly asking.

“I cannae say.” Corban raised his head and drew back a little, dark eyes as bleak and empty as her heart. “They wore the livery o' Prince Miklos of Torenth. It
could
be one prong of an all-out invasion. We must see if Sighere's outposts hae seen activity in the Arranal region or along the coast.”

Her mind flicked back at once to a private meeting several months before at Lochalyn: herself, Hrorik, and the strikingly handsome Prince Miklos—who was technically a distant cousin—and another, slightly younger man, as dark as Miklos was fair, then presumed merely to be the prince's aide. Hrorik had reluctantly encouraged the meeting, not out of any love for Torenth but in hopes of putting to rest nearly seven years' worth of letters sent periodically from the Court at Beldour, the Torenthi capital, badgering his wife about her hostage status.

She had answered
that
question quite firmly: that she was no longer hostage or Torenthi, but gave her loyalty to her husband's liege lord in Rhemuth. The Torenthi prince had been quietly furious. Hence, this present conflict probably was not really about border disputes; it was Miklos' response to her refusal to espouse the cause of his companion, finally revealed as Prince Marek of Festil, Pretender to the Crown of Gwynedd. And now Sudrey's refusal had cost her her beloved Hrorik and the lives of many other loyal Eastmarch men.

“I do not think there will be activity farther north,” she whispered, raising her gaze above Corban's head to where Eastmarch squires and men-at-arms were loosing the lashings that held a sad, tweed-wrapped shape across the saddle of a spent bay mare. “This is not the true invasion—though eventually, that will come. Hrorik and I had feared that such might happen, but not so soon. Prince Miklos tried to win me to his cause some months ago, appealing to my Torenthi blood. I refused, and this is the result. It has to do with the Festillic Pretender.”

“A feint, then, for testin' the waters?” Corban asked, leaning heavily on Stacia to get to his feet.

“Aye—and perhaps a deliberate provocation, to lure the young king out of Rhemuth. They will know, or at least suspect, that he is not a free agent. I pray that, in meeting this new threat, he is also able to come into his own.”

“God grant it!” Corban said fervently. “But meanwhile, I must see that Eastmarch doesnae become the Pretender's own.” He bent to press his lips to his son's forehead, then thrust his bewildered wife from him as he called to several of the Eastmarch captains.

“Attend me, men of Eastmarch. We must ride for Marley, to seek Sighere's aid. Elgin, I need those fresh horses
now
. Nicholas, have ye seen to those provisions? Murray, I give ye command o' the garrison here at Lochalyn. I'm takin' half a dozen men, in addition to Elgin. Will that leave ye enou' tae hold the castle?”

Stacia looked thunderstruck, though Sudrey knew that Corban was only doing what he must, under the circumstances. He was a good commander, the son she had never borne. Behind him, some of the fittest-looking men were already mounting up again, others shouting answers to his questions.

“But, ye cannae just leave!” Stacia wailed. “What about my da? What about our bairn? What about
me
?”

“
Mo rùn
, my heart, your da is dead. I share yer grief, but I cannae change fate.” He turned aside to nod gruff thanks as a man brought up a fresh horse, setting foot to stirrup and springing up into the saddle. The animal was fractious, and nearly unseated him as another man offered him the flapping Eastmarch banner.

“But—that's my father's banner!” Stacia gasped, clutching her son closer and barely avoiding the horse's hooves as her husband fought his mount and deftly footed the banner's staff at his stirrup.

“Stacia, my daurlin', have ye no been listenin'?” Corban said. “This is
your
banner, now that yer father is dead. 'Tis you who are Countess of Eastmarch. An' that makes me
Earl
of Eastmarch, so 'tis also
my
banner. An' one day, if we all live through this, it will be
his
banner.” He jerked his bearded chin toward their now squalling son, then cast a beseeching look at his wife's mother.

“My lady, I beg ye to make her understand. I cannae delay more. See to the wounded. Bury Hrorik. Hold this castle, howe'er best ye can. I'll bring ye help as soon as I may. Murray's sendin' messengers on to Rhemuth to inform the king. God keep ye.”

He was spurring back out the castle gates at the head of his tiny escort before either woman could gainsay him, the bright blue and gold and silver of the Eastmarch banner fluttering boldly above his head. Watching him go, Sudrey of Eastmarch, née of Rhorau, found herself already shifting into that calm, passionless efficiency that must be her bulwark for the next little while, setting aside the grief that would render her useless if she let it take over.

“Jervis, please start bringing the wounded into the great hall,” she said to her household steward, turning her back on the men now carrying the long, tweed-wrapped bundle toward the castle's chapel. “That will serve the best as infirmary, until we can get everyone taken care of. Have the kitchen start boiling water and tell the women to gather bandages. And summon Father Collumcille and Father Derfel and that midwife from down in the village. She may be some help. And Murray—”

“Aye, my lady?”

“Did my husband's battle surgeon come back from Culliecairn?”

“He did, my lady.” Murray was instructing the two messengers about to leave for Rhemuth, and looked like he, too, could use the surgeon's services—or at least a woman's hands—to clean and bind his wounds. “He's already working on some men o'er in the stable entrance.”

“Well, have him move everything and everybody into the great hall as soon as he can. I want some order to this.”

“Right away, my lady.”

As she turned to deal with her daughter, she saw that Stacia, too, had rallied to necessity and training and was tearfully entrusting her baby to Murray's eldest daughter, with instructions to take the bairn upstairs to her bower and stay out of the way.

“I have to be strong now, for my da,” Stacia told her mother tremulously, lifting her chin and wiping away her tears on the edge of a sleeve. “He raised me tae be his heir. He'd be shamed if he thought I couldnae take care o' his men—of
my
men.”

In the din of milling horses and clanking armor and shouting and moaning men, the two made a tiny island of calm as, arms around one another's waists, they began to head purposefully toward the great hall. Behind them, the messengers chosen to carry word to Rhemuth swung up on fresh mounts and galloped out the castle gates.

C
HAPTER
O
NE

Therefore pride compasseth them about as a chain; violence covereth them as a garment.

—Psalms 73:6

The Eastmarch messengers exhausted a succession of mounts in the days that followed, galloping into Gwynedd's capital less than a week after the taking of Culliecairn. Almost incoherent with exhaustion, the pair made their initial report to a hastily gathered handful of Gwynedd's royal ministers, then were whisked away for further interrogation in private by Lord Albertus, the Earl Marshal, and certain members of his staff. The king was told of their news, but was not invited to join the impromptu meeting now in progress in Gwynedd's council chamber.

“Aside from the military implications, this is going to raise certain practical complications,” Rhun of Sheele said, sour and suspicious as he sat back in his chair. “For one thing, the king is going to want to go.”