The King’s Justice (32 page)

“Damn!” Duncan muttered, stretching in his stirrups to gain a better vantage point as their danger became apparent. “Dhugal, I think we've just found Sicard's main army.”

Sicard's son, however, stood captive at that moment before Duncan's king, with Brice of Trurill at his side and some forty officers of various ranks bunched behind them, waiting for the judgment of the king's tribunal. Two dukes flanked Kelson behind the camp table set before his tent: Corwyn and Claibourne. Each had already signed the documents to which Kelson now affixed his signature and seal.

“Brice, Baron of Trurill, step forward,” Kelson said, looking up coldly when he had laid aside his quill and wax.

The men on trial had been divested of all military accoutrements and stripped to their undergarments before trial began, their wrists bound behind them, even Ithel and Brice. Brice had also been gagged, having tried the patience of the already sour-tempered Kelson once too often with his defiant outbursts.

When the rebel baron did not move, only glowering defiantly at the king from behind his gag, two guards hustled him forward none too gently and thrust him onto his knees. In sight of the impromptu court, but well-guarded by watchful Haldane troops, the ordinary Mearan soldiers who were not on trial watched and listened anxiously from a large holding area, straining to hear the king's verdict—which might give some indication as to their own fates.

“Brice, Baron of Trurill, you have been found guilty of high treason,” Kelson said, setting his hands precisely on the arms of his camp chair. “Not only have you broken faith with your sworn liege and king, giving allegiance to a suzeraine in unlawful rebellion against her rightful over-lord, but you have aided enemies of this realm and victimized its innocent subjects without mercy. Therefore, it is the sentence of this tribunal that you be hanged by the neck until dead—and be thankful that I do not have you drawn and quartered, as your ‘sovereign lady' had done to my bishop. Sergeant, take him to that tree across the clearing and carry out sentence.”

Ithel gasped, and Brice struggled wild-eyed in his bonds, outraged, as his guards pulled him roughly to his feet, for to hang a man of his rank with so little ceremony was almost unprecedented.

“Will ye no' allow the man a priest, Sire?” Ewan asked quietly, from the king's left elbow. “Wi' such sins on his soul—”

“He receives the same solace of religion that he allowed his victims,” Kelson said coldly.

“But, laddie—an eye for an eye—”

“That's right, Ewan. This is Old Testament justice. I will not discuss it further. Sergeant, hang him.”

And as the guards, the sergeant, and two men with ropes coiled on their shoulders began dragging the condemned man toward the indicated tree, Kelson turned his attention to the stunned Ithel, ignoring the continued but now muted rumblings of Ewan and the cool shielding that was Morgan, sitting silent and neutral at his right. The officers standing behind Ithel had been murmuring fearfully among themselves, their watching subordinates across the clearing similarly shocked, but all speech ceased as Kelson summoned Ithel to his judgment.

“Ithel of Meara, step forward.”

Unnerved already by the stark harshness of Brice's sentence, and praying that his royal blood would mitigate at least a little of the king's wrath, Ithel meekly obeyed, not daring even to think about the activities now beginning at the tree across the clearing behind him.

“Ithel of Meara.” Kelson drew careful breath and let it out slowly. “I find you likewise guilty of high treason and assign the same sentence: death by hanging.”

“But—I'm a prince!” Ithel gasped, stunned, tears welling in his eyes as the finality of the words registered and two more guards laid hands on his rigid shoulders. “You—you can't just hang me like a common felon!”

“You
are
a common felon,” Kelson said evenly. “By your heartless destruction of towns like Talacara and others too numerous to mention, your rape of defenseless women—”

“Rape?” Ithel blurted. “I had no part in rape! Ask my men. I was never even off my horse!”

“I believe,” Morgan said quietly, “that His Majesty is referring to a certain abbey farther south of here, where you personally violated religious sanctuary and raped at least one of the women who had taken refuge there.”

The color drained out of Ithel's face so suddenly that he looked as if he might faint.

“Who told you that lie?” he whispered.

“Is it a lie?” Kelson answered, standing at his place. “Shall I ask Duke Alaric to ascertain the truth?”

Morgan did no more than flick his glance dispassionately down Ithel's rigid form, but the Mearan prince blanched even whiter, if that were possible, and swayed on his feet. Not a man present could be unaware of the reputation of the king's Deryni champion; and the Mearans, whose fear of Deryni had doubtless been fanned by Loris, surely harbored wildly exaggerated ideas of what he could and could not do, even by a look.

“At least let me die by the sword,” Ithel pleaded, finally managing to tear his fascinated gaze from the Deryni duke. “Please don't hang me. You granted my brother—”

“No,” Kelson said, with a finality that surprised even Morgan. “There is honor in death by the sword. Your brother, despite his crime of murder, truly believed he acted in honor, for the honor of his family. That is why I granted him an honorable death. Your acts had no honor, for yourself or your family.”

“But—”

“The verdict has been given. Sentence will now be carried out. Guards, take him away.”

Brice of Trurill was already twitching at the end of the first rope as the guards obeyed, escorting the stunned and stumbling Ithel across the clearing to join him. Some of the watching Mearan soldiers gave salute as their prince passed, but most had already turned their attention to the forty officers remaining before the king. At the urging of the guards, these moved forward uneasily to kneel in the dust before the royal tent.

“Now,” said Kelson, casting his grey Haldane gaze over their number as he sat down again. “What to do with you? It is poor military discipline to punish subordinates for obeying the orders of their superiors. But nor, on the other hand, can I dismiss the excesses that were sometimes countenanced by some of you, far exceeding the scope of your actual orders. You were dealing with your own countrymen—not a conquered people. The murder and rapine committed with your knowledge and consent, and sometimes with your assistance, is inexcusable.”

“Please, Lord King!” one of the kneeling men cried. “Not all of us had a hand in that. For the love of God, have mercy!”

“Mercy? Yes. I will grant you far more mercy than some of you showed your victims,” Kelson replied, his face hard and set. “However, I must also mete out justice. And unfortunately, I have neither the time nor the stomach to determine the precise degree of guilt of every one of you. And if I
did
, I doubt there is a man among you who can claim total innocence.”

Not a sound came from any of them as he continued.

“I therefore intend to impose an ancient form of justice: your number shall be decimated. One man in ten shall be hanged. That's four, to be chosen by lots. The rest will be flogged twenty lashes and left to the mercy of the townsfolk remaining here in Talacara—
with this exception
.”

He let his gaze scan their stunned faces, aware that Morgan was not entirely satisfied with the sentence he was imposing, but not caring.

“Other than the four condemned to hang,” he went on, “I shall grant a full pardon to any man who will swear me complete and unswerving fealty from this moment on—and believe me, I shall know if any makes me oath falsely.”

Consternation rippled among the prisoners, for the king's final statement touched far deeper fears than mere death for some. The black-clad man seated at the king's side was Deryni, and could read men's minds—everyone knew that—and the king himself was rumored to be not without power.

Even Morgan was forced to concede that the latter part of Kelson's judgment was masterful. He himself could not have contrived a finer justice than to make mercy contingent upon a moral trial that would also underline the power of the king.

The method of singling out those slated for execution disturbed him, though. And when he could not probe beyond Kelson's shields to ascertain a reason for the measure, he leaned physically closer to Kelson's chair, casually raising one hand to screen his mouth from the watching prisoners.

“My prince,” he murmured, “I do not question your right to impose this sentence, but might not the web of your justice catch innocent men, if you choose the condemned by lots?”

Kelson lowered his eyes, only resistance smoldering across the surface of still-adamantine shields.

“Are you going to argue with me, too?” he muttered. “You heard what I said. Would you have me Truth-Read all forty? No, actually, I'd have to Mind-See them, to determine the degrees of guilt. Would you have me use my powers that blatantly, for the sake of such as these?”

As he jerked his chin angrily in the direction of the prisoners, Morgan shook his head.

“Of course not, Sire,” he soothed. “But you could allow
me
to choose the worst four. I assure you, my culling would be far more just than lots. As for the blatant use of powers, they already know that
I'm
an evil Deryni sorcerer. That enables you to keep them guessing about yourself.”

Kelson scowled, but he gave a reluctant nod.

“Very well,” he murmured. “Be quick about it, though.”

“Thank you, Sire. And believe me, I relish the task even less than you do. May I use the tent?”

“Do what you like,” Kelson said, as he stood and glanced across the clearing to where two bodies now swung from the gallows tree, and Morgan and Ewan also rose. “I'm going for a walk. When I come back, I want to see four more bodies on that tree.”

Morgan had never seen Kelson in so bloodthirsty a mood, but he knew better than to push any further. As the king strode off, Ewan falling in at his side, the Deryni duke sighed and cast his eyes wearily over the still-kneeling prisoners.

They were afraid of him, of course. Morgan needed no recourse to his powers to read human fear. They had no idea what had transpired between himself and Kelson; only that the king apparently had left a Deryni to decide which four of them were to die. He could imagine what Loris had probably told them about him.

For that matter, some of the men guarding the prisoners looked none too happy about the veiled references to Deryni powers, so Morgan summoned two of the scouts who had adjusted easily to Deryni methods of working.

“Jemet, Kirkon, I'll require your assistance for a little while. Go into the tent, please.”

And as the two obeyed, only curious, not fearful, as to why he had singled them out, he hooked his thumbs in his swordbelt and turned to scan the prisoners. By what he had said to them before he began, he could also do a great deal to set the prisoners' attitudes in more positive directions.

“All right, you know who I am,” he said, his voice stern but without deliberate menace. “I'm going to have a private little chat with each of you. While you're waiting for your turn, I suggest that you give careful thought to which four of you most deserve to die for what you've done—because I'm going to ask you that, and I'll know if you're lying. That's the fairest way I know to see that justice is done—though I'm sure His Majesty is right, that more than four of you probably deserve to hang.

“So, I'll have you first,” he concluded, singling out a burly, greying man in a second rank whose face betrayed his honesty even at that distance, and crooking a finger at him. “Guards, get him on his feet.”

The man went white as two Haldane lancers came to do Morgan's bidding, trembling and afraid, not resisting as they laid hands on him.

“Oh, God,” he managed to whisper. “Not me. I wasn't the worst. Please, m'lord.…”

“Fine. Come in and tell me who was. Guards, he'll walk in on his own, I think. And have the next man ready when this one comes out.”

He did not even look to see if the wretch was following, for he knew he had judged his man correctly. Though he had exerted not a jot of force to compel the man's obedience, he could hear the faint foot-treads, bare feet on sand, as the man staggered reluctantly after him. He doubted any of them would put up much of a fight now.

“Kirkon, can you write?” he asked the R'Kassan scout, as he entered the tent and both men came to attention.

“Aye, m'lord, but only my own native tongue.”

“That will do well enough for names, I think,” Morgan replied, setting a stool in the middle of the floor and gesturing for the prisoner to sit on it. “You'll find writing materials in that chest behind you. Jemet?”

“Sir.”

“I'll ask you simply to stand behind the prisoner and make sure he doesn't fall off his stool. Now, you, soldier,” he added, distracting the prisoner's attention before he could twist around to look up at the scout. “Suppose you begin by telling me your name.”

“R-Randolph, m'lord,” the man managed to whisper, though he flinched as Jemet's hands came to rest heavily on his shoulders. “Randolph of Fairhaven.”

“Randolph of Fairhaven,” Morgan repeated slowly.

Pulling another stool close to the man's knees, Morgan also sat, much to Randolph's obvious consternation.

“Very well, Randolph of Fairhaven. Now tell me about your fellow officers.”

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

The snare is laid for him in the ground, and a trap for him in the way
.

—Job 18:10

In the great hall at Rhemuth, another loyal Haldane man also labored in the service of his king: Nigel, continuing to act the unaware potential victim. After nearly three solid hours of court, he was beginning to wonder whether both his Deryni sources could have been mistaken about a Torenthi plot to kill him, for not one but two Torenthi delegations had already been presented, made their petitions, and gone their way without incident.