The King’s Justice (47 page)

“One. No further reprisals will be taken against the Mearan populace at large, though the nobility and all former military personnel will be required to swear allegiance to King Kelson of Gwynedd as their rightful sovereign and liege and will face summary execution if this oath is forsworn in the future. Individuals who have defied the law of Gwynedd in such a manner as to cause harm to others shall be dealt with on an individual basis.

“Two.” He took another deep breath, not looking up as he read the next provision. “Permission will be granted for the bodies of Sicard MacArdry and Ithel of Meara to be given honorable burial here in Laas. The Lady Caitrin will be permitted leave to attend such ceremonies as are customary.”

“How did they die?” came Caitrin's voice, cutting through the formality of the rehearsed speech.

Dhugal looked up, then slowly lowered the scroll.

“Are the details that important now, my lady?” he asked softly. “They will only distress you further.”

“Tell me!” she demanded. “Otherwise, I shall not listen to another word of your lord's demands.”

“Very well.”

Uncomfortably, Dhugal let the scroll curl back on itself, trying to soften the truth a little by his choice of words.

“Your husband fell with a sword in his hand, madame,” he said softly. “I—am told that he died bravely, preferring death to capture, when he realized he had lost your army.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “That would have been his wish. Did you see him fall?”

“No, my lady.”

“But it was quick?” she urged. “Tell me he did not suffer.”

“I believe he did not, my lady,” Dhugal said, seeing in his memory the arrow protruding from Sicard's eye. “His wound would have been immediately fatal. I doubt he felt much.”

“Praise be to God for that, at least,” she whispered into clasped hands, before looking up again. “And my son?”

Dhugal swallowed, aware that this one would wound Caitrin even more than her husband's death had. But he could find little sympathy in his heart for Ithel.

“Two weeks ago, at Talacara, Prince Ithel was taken prisoner,” he said. “That day, he and Baron Brice of Trurill were tried, convicted, and executed for their treason.”

“How—executed?” Caitrin breathed.

“They were hanged.”

There had been no way to soften the word, no way to prepare her for its starkness. As she closed her eyes, reeling in her chair, Judhael bent to comfort her, himself ashen with apprehension—for if Ithel, who was the heir, had been executed, what chance had he, as next in line?

“I—shall not press you for further details,” Caitrin murmured, after recovering most of her composure. She took Judhael's hand as she gestured for Dhugal to continue, turning her eyes to gaze out the sunlit window through a film of tears.

“Three,” Dhugal said, unrolling the scroll to read once more. “After giving assurance that she will never again rise in arms against the rightful sovereign of Meara, namely King Kelson of Gwynedd or his heirs, the Lady Caitrin will be permitted to retire to a convent of His Majesty's choosing for the rest of her natural life, there to spend her time as a religious of that house, doing penance and praying for the souls of those who died as a result of her rebellion.”

“It is generous, my lady,” Judhael murmured, tears welling in his own eyes as he stroked her trembling hand with his. “Dhugal, what of me?”

“Four,” Dhugal went on, not daring to look at the young bishop. “In the matter of Judhael of Meara, nephew of the Lady Caitrin and sometime Bishop of Ratharkin: for his treason, both secular and ecclesiastical, and because His Majesty does not intend to allow another potential Mearan rebellion to form around said bishop, as heir to the Lady Caitrin, Judhael of Meara's life is forfeit.”

A little gasp escaped Judhael's lips, and he swayed on his knees, going even paler. Caitrin moaned and hugged his shoulders convulsively. But before the other bishops could do more than mutter, Dhugal cleared his throat and stayed them with a shake of his head.

“However, for that Judhael is, by his descent from the ancient princes of Meara, a prince by birth as well as by episcopal elevation, King Kelson grants said Judhael the dignity of a prince's death by beheading with the sword, outside the public eye, and honorable burial with his kin here in Laas.”

He looked up furtively at the stunned Judhael, avoiding his eyes, then glanced at the other clerics as he returned to his scroll.

“Five. After determination of any civil culpability, Bishop Creoda and any other dissident clergy who have been associated with the Mearan uprising shall answer to an ecclesiastical court to be convened by Archbishops Bradene and Cardiel, and the king shall abide by the recommendation of that court.” He let the scroll curl back on itself as he looked up at last. “No further concessions are open to discussion.”

There followed a harried few moments of recapitulation, with several clarifications of the exact terms offered, before Caitrin stood shakily to signify that the audience was at an end.

“Tell your king that his terms are harsh, young Dhugal, but we shall consider them, and give him our answer at noon.”

“Aye, madame, I shall,” he murmured, making her a polite bow of agreement.

“Thank you. And Dhugal—”

“Aye, madame?”

Swallowing, she signaled Judhael to withdraw with the other bishops and motioned Dhugal closer, drawing him into the partial shelter of the nearby window embrasure. The sun lit his tied-back hair like a helmet of burnished copper as he gazed at her awkwardly, and he started as she suddenly produced a little dagger from her sleeve.

“You are all unarmed, aren't you, Dhugal?” she said softly, her eyes never faltering as she read his apprehension.

“Aye, madame. I came as my king's envoy, all in honor, to treat with an honorable lady—for so she must be, to have married my uncle and borne him children to carry the blood of the MacArdrys.”

With a sad little snort, Caitrin managed a tiny smile. “Brave words, nephew, when I could kill you where you stand—and probably should, for what you have done to me and mine. But you're right: he was a wondrous fair man, your Uncle Sicard. If I had allowed our children to carry
his
name instead of my own, how different things might have been.”

“Aye, madame.”

“He
was
a good man, Dhugal,” she repeated. “And as I have heard of your deeds of valor these many weeks, I have often thought how different things might have been if
he
had been your father instead of Caulay.”

He almost protested that Caulay had not been his father, but he still had no idea what she planned to do with the little dagger. He thought he could take it from her if she tried to use it on him—she was shorter than he and four times his age—but if she
did
try to use it, the others would come to her aid as well. It was not unknown for envoys to be killed for bringing the wrong news; and God knew, the news he brought had given her enough cause to hate him, if he himself had not given her sufficient cause before.

But she only fingered the dagger quietly for a few seconds and then offered it to him, hilt first, across her sleeve, a shy, almost wistful little smile faintly lighting her lips.

“A MacArdry gave me this, on our wedding day. I want you to have it.”

“Madame?”

“I want you to have it. Go ahead.” She pressed the hilt into his unresisting palm. “Indulge an old woman's fancies. Let me pretend, if only for a few seconds, that you were my and Sicard's son, instead of Caulay's. My children all are dead, and my dreams for them—and Judhael, my only other kin, will also shortly perish.”

“But the killing can stop there,” Dhugal ventured. “It doesn't have to go on.”

She swallowed with difficulty. “You saw them all die, didn't you?”

“Who?”

“All my children.”

“Not—Ithel,” he murmured. “I saw Sidana—and Llewell. But it does no good to dwell upon it, my lady.”

“I do not dwell upon it,” she whispered, “but I do have to ask about Sidana. If—if Llewell had not—killed her, would the marriage have brought peace, do you think?”

“I think it might have. A joint heir would have answered most people's quibbles about the succession.”

“And Sidana—would she have been happy with your Kelson?”

Dhugal swallowed dry-throated, for he had spoken very little with his royal Mearan cousin.

“I—cannot say, my lady,” he whispered. “But Kelson is my blood brother as well as my king, and I—believe he loved her, in his way. I know that on the night before the wedding, he talked about the marriage, and how he disliked having to marry for reasons of state. But I think he had convinced himself that he was falling in love with her.” He paused a beat. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“If it is true—yes,” she whispered. “And I sense by your face that you believe it is.” She sighed. “Ah, me, if only I had been less stiff-necked, she might be alive now, and Queen of Gwynedd. But I've killed her, I've killed my sons, I've killed my husband—Dhugal, I'm so tired of killing.…”

“Then, stop the killing, my lady,” he said softly. “You're the only one who can. Accept the king's terms. Give Meara back to her rightful sovereign, and search for peace in the years remaining to you.”

“Do you really think he'll let me live?”

“He has given his word, madame. I have never known him to break that.”

She sighed and lifted her chin proudly, moving back into the main room where the others instantly ceased their murmuring.

“Tell your master that we shall send him word of our final decision at noon,” she said. “I—must have time to consider what I must do.”

When Dhugal had gone, she sank slowly back into her chair and laid her head against its back.

“Call my advisors, Judhael,” she whispered. “And bring me my crown.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-
TWO

But ye shall die like men, and fall like one of the princes
.

—Psalms 82:7

At noon precisely, the gates of Laas parted to release a lone herald carrying a white flag. Nor did the gates close behind him.

“My Lord King,” the herald said, bowing in the saddle as he was brought before the mounted Kelson, “my lady accepts your terms in principle, and will receive you in the great hall as soon as pleases you.”

“In principle?” Kelson replied. “What, precisely, does that mean? I thought I made it clear that there would be no further negotiation.”

“I—believe she hopes for a softening of the terms, my lord,” the man whispered.

“I see. My lords?” He glanced at his chief advisors and officers grouped around him. “Dhugal, what say you? You spoke with the lady.”

“I don't think there will be any treachery, if that's what concerns you,” Dhugal murmured. “She sounded very weary of it all and almost contrite.”

“They
all
sound contrite when they're pinned against the wall,” Morgan muttered.

“Hmmm, I daresay Loris and Gorony won't oblige us on that count. I'll ask you and Jodrell to take charge of them for the entry into Laas. Ewan, you're in command of the main army until we return. If anything happens, you know what to do. Archbishop Cardiel, I'll ask you to escort the bodies of Sicard and Ithel. Do you know Laas at all?”

“I'm afraid I don't, Sire.”

“No matter. There will be at least a household chapel where the bodies can be taken. And we've discussed the other duties I'll need you to perform.”

“Yes, of course, Sire.”

“Duncan and Dhugal, you'll ride at my sides.”

An hour later, King Kelson entered Laas in triumph, preceded by a column of Haldane lancers and archers and backed by a full two hundred men on foot. A crown glittered on his open-faced helm, and he bore his father's naked sword in the crook of his arm like a scepter.

He met no resistance as he rode through the streets of the city. His orderly progress elicited only silence and taut curiosity as his lancers drew up in the yard of the great hall and formed a cordon of honor, and he waited until foot soldiers and archers had entered and secured the hall before even dismounting from his great white battle charger.

Scarlet silk mantled his shoulders, softening the lion-charged brigandine hardly at all, and it floated on the warm summer air as he mounted the steps from the yard and the great double doors parted for him. Inside, hardly a score of Mearans waited to receive him: Caitrin herself, of course, lonely and vulnerable-looking on the throne at the far end of the hall, all in black, the crown of Meara on her veiled head; and half a dozen elderly gentlemen interspersed with her remaining bishops, the latter in episcopal purple, all of them clumped nervously to either side. Kelson's own guards lined the sides of the hall, and his archers commanded the upper galleries with quiet but deadly authority.

“All attend!” Caitrin's herald cried. “His Royal Majesty, the High and Mighty Prince Kelson Cinhil Rhys Anthony Haldane, by the Grace of God, King of Gwynedd, Lord of the Purple March—and Prince of Meara.”

Suppressing a smile of relief at the last appellation, Kelson paused a moment in the doorway to let the full impact of his presence take effect upon those within, even allowing a ghost of his Deryni aura to play about his head—pale enough that no one could be sure whether the glow came of his power or merely the sparkle of sunlight on the jewels of his crown.

Then, slowly and with a dignity not usually associated with seventeen-year-olds, he gave his sword to Morgan, removed his helm and handed it off to Dhugal, then casually removed his white gauntlets and tossed them into the helm before starting down the hall to meet the Mearan pretender. He had not expected her to be so tiny or so frail-looking. Morgan and Dhugal flanked him, half a pace behind, Duncan and Cardiel following, Cardiel mitred, Duncan crowned with a ducal coronet, both wearing scarlet bishops' copes over their armor. Jodrell remained outside with the prisoners.