The King’s Justice (14 page)

But the ring held power beyond the mere symbolism of a bishop's office; and as Duncan's consecration approached, the presumption of wearing a martyr's ring weighed increasingly on his conscience—until, on the morning of the ceremony, Morgan insisted he face his fear. Together they had used their Deryni abilities to read the psychic impressions the ring carried—and had experienced what they could only describe later on as a vision of Saint Camber, not the first nor the last of many.

Camber's magic was in the gold itself—which had been a communion vessel of some kind, before it was Istelyn's ring—and the metal seemed to have retained some whisper of its earlier sacramental nature, even through the fire of crucible and forge and the metamorphosis from holy cup to consecrated ring. A measure of that special magic surrounded both of them as Duncan lightly touched Morgan's bright gold hair.

“May Almighty God bless and keep you safe, now and forever,” he murmured, tracing a cross on Morgan's forehead with his thumb. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

Then the moment was past, and they were moving on into the yard, Duncan striding toward his waiting men and Morgan bounding up the steps by twos to join Kelson, a bright splash of green riding leathers against grey stone. Archbishops Bradene and Cardiel, Bishop Arilan, Nigel, and a handful of courtiers also waited to witness the departure. Not surprisingly, Queen Jehana was not present.

As Duncan neared the center of the front line, one of Dhugal's border drummers did a brisk drumroll. At that signal, Baron Jodrell brought forward the new battle standard, bright as a cardinal in his color-bearer's surcoat over mail and leather, the silk of the standard spilling down the cross-tipped staff and billowing over his gloved hands. Duncan caught a handful of it as he and Jodrell continued to the foot of the stairs and knelt on the bottom-most step, holding the silk clear of the stone when Jodrell lowered the staff in salute to the two archbishops coming down to bless it.

“Omnipotens Deus, qui es cunctorum benedictio et triumphantium fortitudo
…” Bradene prayed, he and Cardiel laying their hands on the standard as Duncan and Jodrell bowed their heads.

Almighty God, Thou Who dost bless all men, Who dost give strength to those who triumph in Thee: in Thine infinite kindness, hear our humble prayers and with Thy heavenly blessing deign to bless this standard, meant for use in battle, so that it may be a source of strength against aggressive and rebellious peoples. Armed with Thy protective power, may it strike terror in the enemies of Thine anointed, King Kelson.…

As Bradene continued, Duncan fixed his gaze on one of the red roses scattered over the particolor of blue and white that formed the tails of the standard. The roses symbolized the McLain commitment to the coming venture, as the Haldane lion on its red field, next to the hoist, signified Kelson's support as king and overlord.

Duncan touched the silk to his lips as Cardiel aspersed the standard with holy water, and remained kneeling as Kelson came down to join the archbishops. As the king laid his own consecrated hands briefly on the standard, half a hundred lances dipped in salute, swallow-tailed pennons of blue and white almost brushing the ground.

“Receive this standard, blessed with the blessing of heaven,” Kelson said, helping Jodrell raise the weight of the staff as the latter stood. “May its sight strike terror in all our enemies, and may the Lord grant all who follow it grace to break through the ranks of the enemy with it safely and without harm.”

“Amen,” Bradene and Cardiel responded.

The Haldane lion danced on the breeze as Duncan released his handfuls of silk, and the azure and white of the standard's tails cloaked his shoulders in a mantle of McLain roses. Gravely he ducked his head to receive the flat-linked chain of gilt that Kelson laid around his neck, then offered the king his joined hands in token of his homage.

“Be our Captain-General in the North, Duke Duncan,” the king said, clasping the ducal hands between his own and thereby raising him up.

“I will, my Liege, and shall serve you faithfully, upon mine honor and my life.”

“Cassan!” shouted Duncan's men, rattling lances against shields as the two exchanged a formal kiss of peace.

Then Duncan was escorting Jodrell back to their waiting line, bracing the standard against his hip while Jodrell swung up on a mean-tempered blood-bay that had to be sharply curbed before it would move close enough to take the banner back. Beyond, Dhugal waited on a rust-colored mare that matched his hair and brigandine, the reins of Duncan's grey in his hands.

He grinned as Duncan mounted, raising a hand toward Kelson and Morgan, who were heading down the steps toward where their own horses and a small escort waited for them to accompany the troops for the first few miles. Behind them on the landing, Nigel had been joined by his three sons. They, the bishops, and a handful of lesser nobles watched attentively as king and champion fell in with Duncan and Dhugal, wheeling to follow the Cassani lancers already eddying out of the yard through the gatehouse passage.

“Well, then. They're away,” Nigel said to Conall, who was looking very tight-jawed and upset. “Here—what's this gloomy face? I thought you were going to ride out with Kelson and Alaric for a way.”

“He can't,” said the thirteen-year-old Prince Rory, smiling primly. “Payne hid all his riding boots.”

“Rory! You said you wouldn't tell!” Payne blurted, kicking his brother sharply in the ankle and then ducking hastily between him and his father as Conall whirled on him with fratricide in his eyes. “Papa, don't let him hit me!”

“Conall!”

At Nigel's warning, Conall reluctantly lowered his fist, but to be sabotaged by a nine-year-old was no mean affront to his adolescent pride. Several men who had overheard Rory's announcement were fighting to control snickers, and one had already walked away to keep from laughing. Conall could scarcely contain his anger.

“You'd better thrash him, Father,” he said through clenched teeth, “because if you don't, I will. I swear it.”

“You'll thrash
no one
without my leave, sir!” Nigel retorted. “You're a grown man, for God's sake! You're almost twice Payne's age and size. I'm sure it was only a childish—Here now!” he barked, as Payne poked his head from between Rory and his father long enough to stick out his tongue at his eldest brother. “Stop that before I
do
thrash you! You're not innocent in this matter, y'know.”

As Nigel grabbed him by the upper arm and gave him a shake, Payne paled visibly and deflated, all the defiance draining out of him as Nigel went on.

“I can't say I blame Conall for being angry, if you're going to act like a spoiled brat. Perhaps I
should
let him thrash you. Now, why did you hide all his boots?”

“It isn't fair, Father,” he whispered. “Why does
Conall
get to go on the campaign with Kelson? Why can't I go, too?”

Nigel sighed and released the boy's arm, and even Conall looked a little less angry.

“We've been over all of this before, son. Conall needs the battle experience. He's going to be knighted next spring. Your time will come.”

“But Duke Alaric is taking Brendan, and he's not even seven!”

“Brendan will be serving his stepfather as a page,” Nigel said patiently. “I need you and Rory to be
my
page and squire. You
know
I'm to be regent while Kelson is away. Do you understand what that means?”

Payne fidgeted and studied the toes of his pointed court boots, trying to hide his sniffles behind a scowl.

“Lots of boring courts,” he muttered.

Nigel smiled. “I'm afraid that's a major part of the life of a prince, son. And it's a very necessary one. When a king has to go to war, it makes his job far easier if he knows that the ‘boring courts,' as you put it, are being taken care of by someone he can trust. If you ask Kelson, I'm sure he'll agree. Rory understands that, don't you, Rory?”

Rory, the thirteen-year-old, managed a grimace of a smile. “Yes, sir. It isn't going to be nearly as exciting as being with Kelson, though.
I
could go with him. I'm almost as old as he was when he became king. And it
will
be glorious, won't it, Conall? You're going to have
all
the fun!”

Conall, mellowing as he realized what had sparked this minor rebellion on the part of his younger brothers, decided he could afford to be gracious.

“Ah, so it's
glory
you're worried about, is it?” he said, feigning amazement as he planted both hands on his hips and looked down at the two boys. “Are you afraid you're going to miss out?”

At their shy, grudging nods and murmurs of agreement, he glanced at their father and gave him a broad wink.

“Well, then, little brothers, if that's all that's bothering you, I promise to win enough glory for all three of us! Perhaps it isn't quite as exciting as actually coming along on the campaign, but it's better than nothing, isn't it? And Father
will
need your help while I'm away.”

“They can help me right now, if they're interested,” Nigel said, laying an arm around both boys' shoulders and flashing Conall a look of gratitude as he tousled their hair. “Gentlemen, did you know we're to receive a Torenthi embassy in the next few days?”

“So what?” Payne muttered under his breath, as Nigel began walking him and Rory back into the hall.

“Well, young King Liam of Torenth is coming to reaffirm his fealty to Kelson as overlord,” Nigel went on. “His brother is coming, too. Liam's ten, as I recall, and Ronal's six. They'll probably be as bored as you are. Perhaps you can help me plan some interesting things for them to do while they're here.”

Conall hung back as his father and brothers disappeared into the hall, paying no mind now to the few courtiers still congregated on the great hall landing. In retrospect, he supposed he could not blame Payne for his little prank. In fact, it was a compliment. Younger brothers were notorious for wanting to emulate their elders—and Conall
was
going to go after all the glory he could on this venture.

The last of Duncan's escort were long gone, however—and he had wanted to watch them ride out. But perhaps he could catch a last glimpse of them from the battlement. One day,
he
would lead an army out to crush the enemies of Gwynedd!

He ran across the yard, and was panting by the time he reached the top of the newel stair that led to the parapet beside the gatehouse, but he was rewarded with the sight he had come for: the Cassani warband winding its way onto the plain north of the city, bright banners undulating gently on the breeze that rose from the river. Beyond, a larger Cassani force waited for their duke to join them. They were too far away for him to make out much detail, but Kelson's red-liveried outriders at the rear of the march stood out against the green of the riverbank and the blue water beyond, and the crimson-clad speck of Kelson was a beacon all alone, far at the head of the procession.

Conall watched until the red speck and a barely discernable green one broke off from the rest and headed back along the line to rejoin the other red dots at the rear, and wondered who would watch
his
going when the second army left in a few days' time.

But before the glorious departure must come one of the boring courts about which young Payne had complained so bitterly—though, in fact, the court did not turn out to be nearly as boring as anyone had hoped for. The great hall was crowded, despite the departure of the Cassani forces a few days before. The child-king Liam of Torenth duly presented himself as specified, but the six-year-old Prince Ronal was nowhere to be seen.

“Prince Ronal was ailing with a cold that has lingered for some weeks now,” his mother Morag informed the king, standing haughty and proud before the man who had killed her brother and her husband. “I felt it best not to tax his health further with a needless fortnight's journey. I have already lost one son in the past year.”

And
that
was an allusion to the death of young King Alroy the previous summer, under circumstances sufficiently bizarre for many Torenthi nobles, his mother among them, to charge that Kelson had somehow contrived it, most probably by magic. Kelson, so the story went, had been fearful that young Alroy might constitute a renewed Torenthi threat, having recently come of age. In fact, the fourteen-year-old Alroy had broken his neck in a fall from a horse—not at all an unusual accident—and Kelson had not even learned of it for several weeks.

“We can understand your motherly concern for your youngest son, my lady,” Kelson said gravely, glad that his own mother had declined to attend the ceremony. He was robed in full Haldane panoply, crimson lion surcoat over gold-washed ceremonial mail and the state crown on his head. “However, we must question the wisdom of leaving so precious a child without suitable protection. And you
were
commanded to bring both princes before us as a sign of your good faith.”

“You need not fear for Prince Ronal,” Morag retorted. “His uncle, the Duke Mahael of Arjenol, acts as his guardian in my absence. And the presence of myself and my elder son should be sufficient sign of faith, even for a Haldane!”

Murmurs of affront rumbled among the observing nobles, but Kelson refused to let himself be ruffled. Nor was there any point in asking the advice of Morgan or Nigel, standing to either side of the throne. Morag and the absent Prince Ronal had suddenly become two entirely different problems, only one of them of immediate urgency. Morag was Deryni, like her dead brother Wencit, and immune to any subtle pressure Kelson or Morgan might have applied to some human belligerent, but she must not be allowed to interfere with the taking of Liam's oath.

As for Prince Ronal—whether or not he was, indeed, too ill to travel, the fact remained that he was the next heir after Liam, and in the hands of Duke Mahael, who had no cause to love the man who had slain his brother. If anything happened to Liam, Mahael had the next King of Torenth in his control—and eight years to wield the power of the Torenthi Crown in young King Ronal's name.