The Bishop’s Heir (23 page)

“You mean this man is one of our bishops?”

“Unfortunately, I fear he is, Sire,” Duncan replied. “I
thought
he looked familiar. I wonder how many other bishops Loris has managed to subvert.”

“Let's see if he knows,” Morgan said, turning pale eyes on his subject and locking his attention. “You
are
Bishop Nevan, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” Morgan insisted, touching further control.

Nevan moistened his lips and inclined his head in unwilling respect.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“That's better. And as a bishop, to whom do you feel you owe your obedience?”

“To the Bishop of Culdi.”

“Culdi?” Kelson blurted, glancing from Nevan to Duncan in dismay. “Does that mean there were Culdi men with those of Trurill? Assisting Loris in his escape?”

“Only one question at a time, my prince,” Morgan reminded him, returning his attention to the fidgeting Nevan. “Remember that he's very literal-minded in this state. Bishop Nevan, are you saying that the Bishop of Culdi was aware of the escape plans of Archbishop Loris?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“I see. Did he, perhaps, instigate them?”

“No, sir.”

“Someone else approached him, then, with a proposition?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who was that?”

“I'm not sure, Your Grace.”

“Then, who do you
think
approached him?”

Nevan seemed to fight the response, but the name came out nonetheless.

“Monsignor Gorony, Your Grace.”

“Gorony!” Kelson breathed.

With a glance, Morgan silenced him and returned his attention to their reluctant informant.

“Was Monsignor Gorony in your company, then?” he asked.

Nevan nodded.

“And Brice of Trurill?”

Again, the nod.

“How many men?”

Nevan thought a moment. “Fourteen now.”

“Because you were taken?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And where were you bound?” Kelson asked.

“Ratharkin, Majesty.”

“For what purpose?”

“To consecrate the Lord Judhael Bishop of Ratharkin.”

“Not of Meara?” Duncan interjected.

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Meara is to be a patriarchy under Bishop Creoda.”

“Under Creoda,” Morgan repeated, exchanging glances with the astonished Kelson and Duncan. “And Loris?”

“He will become Primate again, of course.”

“Not while
I
live and breathe,” Kelson muttered under his breath. “Tell me this, then, Nevan. Does Bishop Creoda owe his obedience to Loris or to Bradene?”

“To Archbishop Loris, Majesty.”

“And there are other bishops who feel the same way?”

Nevan nodded agreement.

“How many?”

Nevan thought a moment. “Six, Majesty.”

“Six besides yourself and Creoda?”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“And I suppose you know who they are?”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“Name them.”

“Bel—” The pattern of obedience had been well set, but Nevan stopped in midsyllable, fighting the command. Impatiently Morgan twitched at his controls, taking up just a fraction more of Nevan's ability to resist.

“Name the other bishops, Nevan,” he said softly. “We haven't all day.”

The eyes closed, but the lips parted once more.

“Belden, Bishop of Cashien; Lachlan, Bishop of Ballymar; and the four itinerant bishops, Mir de Kierney, Calder of Sheele, Gilbert Desmond, and Raymer de Valence.”

“And he's consecrating Judhael—he'll have a whole rival hierarchy!” Duncan muttered. “
Damn
his impertinence.”

“His impertinence doesn't bother me nearly as much as the fact that he's succeeding,” Kelson said grimly. “He thinks he's scored the advantage, that there isn't a thing I can do to stop him until the spring. Well, maybe he's made a fatal miscalculation. Guards!”

Kelson's council judged that their king was making a fatal miscalculation at first.

“It's sheerest folly, Sire,” Ewan argued, from his place three seats down from the king at the council table. “You can't hope to mount a successful campaign this late in the season! It's December, for God's sake!”

“Which is precisely why I'm going now,” Kelson replied. “They won't be expecting me. Ratharkin is well fortified, but I won't believe the citizenry could have been won over that completely to Loris' leadership already. At best, he probably has control of the episcopal forces and nominal control of the city. A show of royal force, especially in December, when he thinks I can't do it, may be sufficient to break his strength.”

“Perhaps he hasn't even gone to Ratharkin,” ventured Saer de Traherne, sitting opposite Ewan. “If he has the support of the Mearan Pretender, he may be heading straight for Laas.”

Kelson shook his head. “No, Nevan said Ratharkin. Loris has episcopal business to settle before he takes the time for secular politics. And I have a bishop in Ratharkin that I've sworn to protect.”

“And you also have a friend in hostage there, Sire, if Loris has indeed gone to Ratharkin,” Archbishop Bradene observed. “Might that not be clouding your judgment?”

“I have a duty to protect them both, Archbishop,” Kelson replied. “And Loris must not be allowed to gain any more of a toehold than he already has. I shouldn't have to lecture you, of all people, about Loris.”

“I still don't like it, Sire,” said Arilan, who had already made it quite clear what else he did not like, when he heard of the manner of questioning Nevan. “Loris is clever—”

“Even if he has Ratharkin fully garrisoned, which I doubt,” Kelson interrupted pointedly, “he does
not
have sufficient strength to come out from behind the city walls and defeat a force the size I plan to bring. We would have heard of any large massing of troops. Even in Laas, there's been no report yet of anything larger than a household guard. At worst, it's a standoff and we come back home.”

“I can think of worse, Sire,” Cardiel sighed, “but be that as it may. Perhaps you're right. I shall pray that you are. But suppose that you aren't? If you were to be captured or killed—”

“If it will ease your mind, Archbishop, then be assured that my uncle is remaining here as regent,” Kelson answered. “If anything should happen to me, he will be your king—and he has three sons to succeed
him
.”

“And you should have sons to succeed
you
,” Ewan muttered petulantly, “before you go charging off on such harebrained ventures.”

Kelson grinned, almost glad for the old argument.

“Don't I need a wife for that, Ewan?” he quipped.

“Then stay home an'
take
a wife, lad!” Ewan returned. “Spend the winter in bed with a bonnie queen, making bairns—not dashin' about in the snow, taking on rebel archbishops and God knows what else! There'll be time enough in the spring for making war.”

Chuckling, Kelson motioned Duncan to take up pen and parchment, shaking his head in affection.

“I wish I
could
stay home, Ewan. Nothing would please me more. Now, I'll need the household troops, Nigel—and gentlemen, precisely because it
is
winter, I'll need to raid each of your personal guard units to augment my own. I'll want a hundred knights, lightly mounted for maneuverability and speed, and the minimum support force. I'll take Morgan, of course, and Jodrell and Traherne; the rest of you I'll leave to begin preparing summons of array for the spring, in case this doesn't resolve everything. Duncan, as Duke of Cassan I'd take you as well, but Nigel may need your good offices here in Rhemuth.”

He did not
say
that Duncan would also be his Deryni link back to his capital, but Arilan seemed to sense it.

“Shouldn't you take a bishop to represent the legitimate episcopal hierarchy, Sire?” he asked, as prelude to including himself in the campaign.

“The matter is best handled by secular authorities at this point, Excellency,” Morgan answered for the king, before Kelson had to stumble over a reason not to include Arilan as that bishop. “Unless His Majesty particularly wants to risk one of his loyal bishops in this venture—?”

He glanced at Kelson, ready to back down if the king had strong reasons for wanting to include the disputed Arilan, but to his relief Kelson shook his head.

“That won't be necessary. If anyone holds Ratharkin besides Istelyn, my sworn man, it's out of ecclesiastical jurisdiction. Now, does anyone have a major objection that hasn't already been stated?”

No one had.

“Then, I suggest we all set about making the necessary preparations. I suspect Loris has agents here in Rhemuth, so I want to leave tonight, under cover of darkness, before anyone has a chance to send word ahead and warn him. Morgan, let's get started.”

As he rose and headed toward the great double doors leading from the chamber, the others stood and made their bows, Morgan exchanging a resigned glance with Duncan before falling into step behind the king.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

Therefore the prudent shall keep silence in that time; for it is an evil time
.

—Amos 5:13

Two days later, as Kelson and his battle force rode toward Ratharkin in an icy rain, the Pretender of Meara entered the city gates with her husband and children. Snow had been falling since before dawn, discouraging casual travel, so her party passed largely unnoticed through nearly deserted streets. Only the guards keeping the gates at the bishop's palace recognized the old Mearan colors her captain carried, and hailed her as she passed.

She took their homage as her due; she rode like a queen. The Lady Caitrin Quinnell of Meara had never been a beautiful woman; nor had the years been kind. But at sixty-one, she was compelling in that cool self-possession that sometimes comes of the promise of power and the unquenchable belief that one has been wronged by one's station in life but eventually will be vindicated. The white palfrey she rode was not a large animal, but the top of Caitrin's immaculately coifed head barely reached its shoulder when the Baron of Trurill handed her down in the snow-covered palace yard. When he kissed her hand, she acknowledged the salute like a queen receiving homage, polite but aloof as she waited for the rest of her entourage to dismount around her.

“Welcome to Ratharkin, Your Royal Highness,” Trurill murmured. “Or perhaps I shall be privileged to greet you as the Queen's Grace, ere long. I am Brice, Baron of Trurill, your most humble servant. Your hosts await you inside.”

She favored him with a quick smile, distracted and distant as she tapped a riding crop gently against her gloved hand, nodding toward the bearded man in border tartan who joined her from behind. He was plain of face and a little thickset, but robust and fit, his costly riding leathers cut to enhance muscular legs.

“My husband, the Lord Sicard MacArdry,” she said, by way of introduction. “And these are my children: Prince Ithel, Prince Llewell, and the Princess Sidana.”

Brice's jaw dropped a little as the three approached, for in addition to being far younger than he had been led to expect, Caitrin's offspring were strikingly handsome. He had no idea where they had gotten their aristocratic looks—neither Caitrin nor Sicard could have been described as more than pleasant looking, even in their youth—but it seemed the couple had thrown three of the comeliest offspring Brice had ever seen. The two boys, only slightly younger than King Kelson, compared very favorably with the king himself for poise, bearing, and fairness of feature; and the young princess—

Brice had to consciously remind himself that he was contentedly married, and such a lass not for the likes of him in any case. Short but sapling-slender, with curling locks the color of chestnut burrs escaping from beneath her travel hood, Sidana seemed the embodiment of Brice's every feminine ideal, dark eyes holding the dreamy mystery of some creature from another realm: worldly yet innocent, wise but naive. She inclined her head politely in his direction as she noticed his rapt interest, but she did not resort to the condescension so often shown by other girls of rank in similar circumstances. Her kindness enabled him to shake off her spell without making too much of a spectacle of himself.

“Ah, you find my daughter attractive, my lord baron?” he heard Sicard saying, the border lord's face creased with faint amusement as he extended his hand in greeting.

Brice looked the girl's father in the eyes and blurted out the truth.

“I' faith, my lord, she is exquisite. I had no idea. She will bring great honor to the man fortunate enough to win her hand.”

“Aye, she will that,” Caitrin said a little impatiently, “though she is not for just any lord, as I am sure you can appreciate.” She took her elder son's arm and peered past Brice toward the doors. “But may we go inside now? Our attendants will see to the horses and baggage. It has been hours since our last warmth and refreshment.”

A short time later, when an embarrassed Brice had shown the royal guests into the bishop's receiving room and the usual amenities had been exchanged, refreshment taken, royal and episcopal conspirators settled down to serious discussion. Sidana had made her apologies and retired to rest with her ladies, but her two brothers sat expectantly to either side of their parents, keen to be included in the exchange of recent happenings.

“I like not this news of the Duke of Cassan,” Caitrin said grimly, as Loris took a chair directly opposite her, with Creoda, Judhael, and Brice flanking him. “Cassan is to be Ithel's, when McLain is dead. With McLain a bishop, it's conceivable he would try to leave it to the Church.”

“And Kierney as well,” Ithel said, from his mother's right. Brice thought the boy's dark eyes made him look a little like a vulture in that instant.