The King’s Justice (48 page)

Caitrin rose as the king and his party approached, her courtiers and bishops making strained bows of deference as he passed. Kelson's escort split to either side as they reached the dais, but the king continued straight up the steps to stop, facing Caitrin. Her grief had ravaged a face that was never beautiful, even in youth, but a taut dignity kept her composed as she slowly sank to her knees before him, thin hands clasped on her breast. Her eyes burned with passion as she removed her crown and extended it to him; nor did she flinch as he took it from her.

Cardiel had moved to his side as the exchange was made, and Kelson passed the crown to him, only turning slightly so the archbishop could set it on his head. He offered Caitrin his hand then, to help her rise, but she caught up the hem of Cardiel's cope and touched it to her lips before rising on her own. Duncan was waiting to ease her to the side as the rest of Kelson's party mounted the steps to range themselves to either side of him, and Kelson took back his sword and laid the naked blade across his knees when he had seated himself on the throne of Meara.

At the rear of the hall, more of Kelson's barons and officers waited with the Mearan men who had already reaffirmed their allegiance to Kelson at Dorna; and these now filed into the hall to group themselves opposite the dissident bishops and nobles as Kelson surveyed them. When, as Kelson did not speak, uneasy silence had settled over all, Judhael of Meara detached himself from his fellow bishops and moved forward. His cope fell away as he left them, revealing him clad not in episcopal purple, but a rough, homespun monk's robe, his feet bare. He fell to both knees at the bottom of the dais steps, bowing low over his clasped hands, but his face, as he raised his eyes to meet Kelson's, was that of a man who knows what his fate must be.

“My Lord King,” he said, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall, “I, Judhael Michael Richard Jolyon MacDonald Quinnell, Bishop of Ratharkin and Prince of Meara, do renounce all future claim to the sovereignty of Meara and acknowledge you as my rightful liege. I do further submit me to Your Majesty's judgment, begging pardon for all offenses and vowing never again to say or do you any harm. If mercy can be found in your heart, I beg that I be allowed to live out my life in strict confinement with some religious house, for in truth, I never sought a crown; but if that cannot be, then I accept whatever fate Your Majesty may deem meet for my offenses. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.”

Sighing as Judhael crossed himself, Kelson allowed his gaze to shift briefly to the other bishops waiting to hear his decision; to Caitrin, standing taut and tortured before them, hands clasped in supplication. But though he had Truth-Read Judhael as he spoke and knew the man's future intentions to be honest, he knew he could not afford to be lenient in this matter. Judhael had been too much the tool in the hands of stronger men before. Best to be bluntly honest and implacable.

“Judhael Michael Richard Jolyon MacDonald Quinnell of Meara,” he said steadily. “I freely give my pardon for any offenses you have committed against me and mine. However—” The word fell like a death knell between them. “However, in the interests of my people, both here and in Gwynedd, I cannot knowingly allow a threat of future rebellion to survive. I allowed your cousin Llewell to live, and he slew my bride. I spared Archbishop Loris, not wishing to take the life of a consecrated bishop, and he led a rebellion against me. Were I to allow you to live, even cloistered with some loyal religious house far from here, there would always be the chance that men of misguided loyalties would seek to use you again as a rallying point for yet another insurrection against my lawful rule, even against your will.”

“But, you could keep him closely guarded with me!” Caitrin burst out, throwing herself to her knees in place and raising her arms in supplication. “Have mercy, my lord! He is all the family I have left!”

“And how many other families are bereft because of this senseless clinging to thoughts of Mearan independence?” Kelson countered. “Shall I spare Judhael, only to have him become a Mearan
cause célèbre
at some future date, to threaten me or my sons or my sons' sons? No, madame. I cannot and shall not lay that burden upon myself, my people, or my heirs. Judhael, I regret that I must reiterate your death sentence—though you shall be allowed time to prepare yourself. Despite the fact that you technically stand excommunicate, Archbishop Cardiel has offered to minister to you. Do you accept?”

Swaying a little on his knees, his eyes closed, Judhael bowed deeply, hands crossed on his breast.

“I submit me to Your Majesty's judgment and accept His Excellency's merciful offer. Will—will it be soon?”

“As soon as you are prepared,” Kelson said quietly. “Archbishop Cardiel, will you go now with Prince Judhael, or do you wish to witness the judgment of the other two ecclesiastical prisoners?”

At Kelson's gesture toward the far end of the hall, where Jodrell and four guards were now walking Loris and Gorony through the great double doors, Cardiel drew himself to his full height.

“Your Majesty, I would not miss this for a remission of all my time in Purgatory. Guards, you may take Prince Judhael to the chapel to compose himself. Father Judhael, I shall join you in a few minutes. This will not take long.”

Judhael did not look at the other two prisoners as guards led him past and out of the hall. Loris glared at him and, indeed, at everyone in the hall, but he and Gorony both had been gagged before being brought in. They stood defiantly before the king until the guards forced them to their knees. Kelson could read their hatred without recourse to his powers as he gestured to Morgan for the list of the men's crimes to be read.

“Edmund Alfred Loris, priest and sometime Archbishop of Valoret, and Lawrence Edward Gorony, also priest: you are jointly accused of high treason against the Crown and Kingdom of Gwynedd and inciting to rebellion. In addition, you brought about the judicial murder of Bishop Henry Istelyn and caused grievous hurt to be done to Bishop Duncan McLain. Your accusers are present in the hall. Lawrence Gorony, how do you plead?”

At Kelson's signal, the gag was removed from Gorony's mouth, but he only raised his chin defiantly and spat.

“I do not recognize the authority of this court to try me,” he said, “or of a Deryni heretic to read out the list of accusations against me. I claim benefit of clergy and demand to be tried in an ecclesiastical court.”

“Gorony, you and Loris were excommunicated more than six months ago, and your rights of clergy suspended,” Cardiel said coldly, before Kelson could answer. “Nor has either of you made any attempt to gain reversal of that excommunication.”

“I do not recognize your right to pronounce that excommunication!” Gorony objected.

“Guards, gag him again!” Cardiel barked, continuing as the guards obeyed. “Technically speaking, your excommunicate status affords you no rights whatever; but I
will
entreat the king to spare you the death that Henry Istelyn suffered: you will not be drawn and quartered. However, Bishop McLain and myself constitute all the ecclesiastical trial you are likely to get. Bishop McLain, is the prisoner innocent or guilty of the charges?”

“Guilty, Your Excellency,” Duncan replied evenly.

“I concur,” Cardiel said. “Your Majesty, we find the prisoner, Lawrence Gorony, guilty as charged and remand him to your sentencing. Edmund Loris, how do you plead?”

As Loris' gag was also removed, he seemed to explode into squirming, shouting action.

“How dare you presume to try
me?
And how
dare
you allow these heretics to sit in judgment upon me? A heretic king, with his heretic minions—and
Bishop
McLain, with his Deryni bastard standing at his side as if he merited the honor done him—”

“Gag him!” Kelson snapped.

“Dhugal MacArdry is McLain's bastard son!” Loris shouted, before the guards could control him. “Ask whether he dares deny it! And they are
both
Deryni—”

A guard cuffed him into silence long enough to get the gag in place, but the damage was done. The rumor had been rife among Kelson's men since the battle at Dorna a week before, but no one had dared to bring the allegation into the open. Now it could hardly be avoided. As Duncan cast a resigned glance at Kelson, the king gave him a faint nod. The hall grew very quiet as Duncan took a step forward and swept them with his eyes.

“It is not I or young Dhugal who are on trial here, but those two men, who have broken faith with their king and the sacred offices they held. Nonetheless, I will not deny that Dhugal MacArdry is my son. I
do
deny that he is base-born, and shall prove his legitimacy to the satisfaction of an ecclesiastical tribunal within the year. As to whether either of us is Deryni—that is the business of my king, my archbishop, and my God. If any man in this hall has quarrel with that, I suggest he take it up with one of them.”

Awed reaction murmured through the hall, a few Mearans crossing themselves in protective signing, but no one dared any further outburst as Duncan gave first Kelson and then Cardiel a clipped but respectful bow. Further reaction was curtailed by Cardiel laying his hand on Duncan's shoulder in obvious approbation. Dhugal had not moved from his place at Kelson's left.

“Your Majesty,” Cardiel said, turning his attention back to the king, “I find the accused, Lawrence Gorony and Edmund Loris, guilty as charged, and surrender them both to secular judgment. Bishop McLain, do you concur?”

“I do, Your Excellency.”

“Thank you, my lords,” Kelson murmured. “Lawrence Gorony and Edmund Loris, we likewise find you guilty as charged and sentence you to be hanged by the neck until dead. Archbishop Cardiel, is there any reason why sentence should not be carried out immediately?”

“There is none, Sire,” Cardiel said evenly. “Inasmuch as the condemned approach execution obdurate and unrepentant, it is not meet that they be allowed to mock God's law by partaking of His final rites. And since, by similar reasoning, Edmund Loris justified the execution of Henry Istelyn without benefit of the Sacraments, I should think he will not mind if the same standards are applied to himself and his hound.”

“So be it, then,” Kelson said, lifting his eyes above the heads of the stunned Loris and Gorony to the men lining the upper galleries. “Guards?”

At his signal, two of the men tossed coiled ropes over one of the beams running the width of the hall, letting the ends fall to either side. The Mearans gasped as his intentions became clear, but no one made a move to interfere as the guards holding Loris and Gorony moved them beneath the ropes and secured nooses around their necks. Gorony looked stunned, finally afraid, but Loris' face was contorted with rage.

“Remove the gags and haul them up,” Kelson said coldly, flinching a little as his orders were carried out. “And may God have mercy on their souls.”

Kicking and squirming, their faces already beginning to turn blue, the two were hoisted up until their feet cleared the heads of those below; then the ropes were tied off. Caitrin reeled a little, catching herself against the arm of one of her supporters, and a few of the watching men went a little green as the kicking gradually subsided, but no one said a word. Kelson slowly counted to one hundred, only watching them all as he did so, before shifting his sword into the crook of his arm like a scepter. His movement gave him their undivided attention once more.

“Archbishop Cardiel, you have our leave to go to Prince Judhael now.”

“Thank you, Sire. During my absence, I deputize Bishop McLain to act in my stead, in such action as may require the authority of my office.”

When Cardiel had gone, Kelson surveyed them all again: Caitrin, her remaining nobles, and the dissident bishops. Many of his own nobles and officers were also present, and all hung on his every word.

“Men of Meara,” he said quietly. “The time has now come for me to tell you what will be the fate of your land. Meara is and has long been an adjunct of the Crown of Gwynedd. The title of Prince of Meara was vested in me shortly after birth by my father, King Brion, and I intend eventually to vest it in my firstborn son. Had things been otherwise, that son might also have been the firstborn of your Princess Sidana. I devoutly wish that such were the case.”

He swallowed before going on, one thumb rubbing the marriage ring on his little finger, and Morgan knew that Kelson truly had wanted that union. He saw tears well in Caitrin's eyes, and guessed that she, too, might eventually have come to accept that solution. But that option was now long removed from possibility. Another fate would have to be worked out for Meara.

“In opposition to the marital solution I had proposed,” Kelson went on, “there was a Mearan plan for this land—and that was to reunite her with the ancient Mearan honors of Cassan and Kierney. That is now my intention as well, though I intend to accomplish that reunion in a different manner than your leaders had planned. Until I have a son and heir, it is my desire and intention that Duke Duncan McLain serve as my viceroy in Meara, with my foster brother Dhugal, the Earl of Transha, to be Lord Lieutenant of Meara, and Baron Jodrell and Generals Godwin and Gloddruth to assist them. To those who will swear me and them their unreserved allegiance, I shall grant full pardon and general amnesty, saving those offenses committed as individuals against the code of chivalry properly observed in times of war. For most of you, I believe that gives you a fresh start—but I warn you all: let no man come forward and swear me faith falsely, because I shall know. I shall require that your oaths be sworn with your hands between mine own, and ratified with your kiss on the Gospel book, administered by Bishop Duncan, and on my father's sword, which Duke Alaric shall present. I hope I need not remind you what that means.”

Again he let his aura flare to light the jewels of the Mearan crown, simultaneously signing for Morgan and Duncan to do the same. Like Kelson's, Duncan's aura might have been dismissed as the glint of sunlight on his coronet; but Morgan's, misting faintly greenish gold on his golden hair, could not be so rationalized. The three of them held the magic, casting the occasional meaningful look at the still twitching bodies of Loris and Gorony, until all the Mearan lords had sworn. Nor was Kelson surprised, as each came forward to set his hands between the king's, that all the oaths were earnest—at least in that moment.