The King’s Justice (49 page)

When all was done, he took his sword in the crook of his arm once more and rose.

“But one sad task remains to be performed,” he said quietly. “It is not one I relish, but it is one I must do. Lady Caitrin, may I escort you to the chapel to bid farewell to your nephew?”

She went with him, but she declined his offer of the support of his arm. Morgan, Duncan, and Dhugal accompanied him as he followed her along the silent way to the chapel opening on the yard outside. Mearan and Haldane men alike bowed them past—for whose sake, Kelson himself could not have said.

Inside the chapel, Cardiel and Judhael knelt together on the steps of the high altar; but it was the two plain coffins laid before the steps that arrested Caitrin's attention as she proceeded down the aisle. She gasped as she saw them, and sank to her knees between them, one fragile hand lightly touching each. Cardiel turned at their approach, and gestured for Kelson to come nearer.

“Prince Judhael has asked that you join him in a prayer, Sire,” he said.

Swallowing, Kelson handed off his sword to Morgan and went ahead alone, aware that Morgan, Duncan, and Dhugal had sunk to their knees behind him. Passing the coffins, and Caitrin mourning between them, he made an obeisance at the foot of the steps, then rose to join Judhael at his right. When the three of them had recited the Lord's Prayer together, Cardiel rose and backed off a few paces to give them privacy.

“I—wish you to know that I bear you no animosity, Sire,” the Mearan prince said, not raising his eyes to Kelson's. “I knew, when all of this began, that the burden of the crown was a heavy one, but I never knew
how
heavy until it began to be apparent that I myself might have to bear it. I never wanted that. All I ever wanted to be was a priest. Well, I
did
want to be a bishop,” he conceded, with a tiny smile, “but only as the perfection of my priesthood. At least that was what I told myself. I know now that my sin was in letting myself be seduced by the wishes of others—my aunt, Archbishop Loris.” He swallowed. “Is—Loris to be executed?”

“Sentence has already been carried out,” Kelson said quietly.

Judhael nodded, briefly closing his eyes. “It was justly done,” he whispered. “And mine shall be justly done as well. I—stood by and let him—do what he did to Henry Istelyn, that godly man.”

“There is talk of making Istelyn a saint,” Kelson offered uncomfortably.

“I hope it becomes more than talk. He died loyal to you and to God, Sire—and to the Church that Loris said had rejected him. I wish I had had the courage to go to him in his final hour, regardless of Loris' orders, and give him the last rites you have so graciously permitted me.”

“Your own actions and contrition have permitted you this grace and solace—not I,” Kelson murmured, almost wishing there were some way he could spare this surprisingly noble Mearan prince. “If Archbishop Cardiel had not vouched for you, no such concessions would have been granted.”

“He, too, is a godly man, Sire,” Judhael replied. “You are fortunate, indeed, to be served by such men.”

“I know.”

Judhael sighed, but it was not the heavy sigh Kelson would have expected of a man about to die.

“Well, then, I suppose I'm ready,” he said softly. “Is the swordsman's blade sharp?”

“Aye, it is sharp,” Kelson breathed, suddenly moved to compassion, and laying one hand on Judhael's to read as deeply as he dared without the other's awareness. “But perhaps there is another way than this. I said before that it would be too difficult to simply keep you locked away for the rest of your life—but if you're truly repentant for what you've done—and I see that you are—perhaps a way could be found—”

With a little catch of horror to his breath, Judhael pulled his hand away and stared at Kelson.

“You would offer me my life?”

“With your promise of future loyalty, yes, and against my better judgment. I'm tired of killing, Judhael! Your uncle and all your cousins have died because of me. Oh, all of them but Sidana brought it on themselves, but—God, there must be some other way!”

“No,” Judhael replied, shaking his head dully. “There is no other way. You were right the first time. If you let me live, there would always be the chance that I might escape, that some ambitious Mearan lordling less honorable than ourselves might make me the focal point of yet another uprising—and you would rue this moment of mercy for the rest of your life. I think a king must have enough causes for regrets, without needlessly producing more of them. A king must be strong—and you are a king who can bring unity and peace to Meara at last, Kelson Haldane. If your Deryni touch can reveal men's hearts, then read my heart and know that I truly believe what I am telling you,” he said, taking Kelson's hand and deliberately holding it to his breast. “Like you, I do not wish to be the cause of any more needless deaths. The only way to be certain of that is for me to die. You cannot afford to let me live.”

Kelson shrank from the request, but he had no choice but to do as Judhael asked. And Judhael
was
resigned to his fate, believing it best for Meara and for Kelson.

“I still will spare you,” Kelson said stubbornly, dropping his hand from Judhael's breast. “You have only to ask.”

“But I shall not ask.”

“Then I shall not press the point,” Kelson said. “I shall permit you the dignity you have earned by your honor, and say that I wish we could have reached this understanding months ago, while there was still time to change things. Under better circumstances, I think I might have been proud to have you as my friend and counselor, Judhael of Meara.”

“And I should have been proud to serve you—my Liege,” Judhael whispered.

“Then serve me in one thing, at least, before you go,” Kelson murmured. “Give me your blessing?”

“With all my heart, Sire.” And his right hand lifted to trace the sign of blessing on Kelson's forehead. “May almighty God bless you and give you long to reign in wisdom and courage, Kelson Haldane. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.”

“Amen,” Kelson whispered.

But he would not meet Judhael's eyes again. Tears springing unbidden to his eyes, he rose and turned away, striding briskly back up the aisle toward the yard where the swordsman waited, pausing only to take his own sword from the silent Morgan's hands.

He laid the sword in the crook of his arm like a scepter again just before he emerged into the sunlight, schooling his face to an expression of solemn resignation as he took a position at the head of his officers and beckoned for the swordsman to approach. The man was the same who had executed Llewell of Meara six months before, his great hand-and-a-half broadsword at rest between his gloved fingers as easily as a lesser man might lean upon a rapier. The man approached instantly at his signal, to kneel on one knee, great hands resting on the quillons.

“Sire?”

“He will be out in a moment,” Kelson said in a low voice. “Do it as he wishes. He is unbound, and I do not think he will ask for a blindfold. Will that unnerve you?”

“No, Sire.”

“Good. Grant him as much dignity as you may and remember that he is a prince. I would not have him suffer.”

“I shall be quick, Sire.”

“Thank you. Would that I never should need to call upon your services again.”

“That is my wish as well, Sire.”

“I know it is. Go now. He will be coming out soon.”

The executioner did not answer; only nodded his agreement and rose to return to the execution area, which had been strewn with straw all across the cobblestones. Kelson started as Morgan eased into place at his left elbow, and was grateful that the Deryni lord said nothing.

Just then, Caitrin appeared in the doorway of the chapel, leaning on the arm of Dhugal, Duncan escorting her on the other side. And following them came Judhael and Cardiel, both of them with heads bowed in prayer, Judhael listening avidly to what Cardiel said.

The two paused there for a moment, Cardiel finally signing the condemned man with a cross. Then Judhael walked slowly into the center of the yard. The executioner knelt briefly for his blessing, which Judhael freely gave. Then it was Judhael's turn to kneel, letting the man position him with his back to the sword now lying partially concealed under the straw—and also to Kelson.

A moment more Judhael bowed in prayer, clasped hands pressed to his lips, as the swordsman drew the bright blade quietly from underneath the straw and took up his stance, waiting for Judhael's signal. Then Judhael raised his head, lips still moving in prayer, and dropped his hands to either side, palms upturned, and the blade flashed.

Even Morgan grimaced as the blade connected with a dull thud, but the blow was sure, as the executioner had promised, and severed Judhael's neck like a stalk of wheat. The body toppled slowly, blood fountaining from the severed neck and soaking into the straw like a sponge, and as Cardiel moved in to say a final prayer for the departed soul, Kelson handed Morgan his sword again and moved in as well, removing his silken mantle to lay over the body. There was blood on Kelson's hand as he came back to retrieve the sword, and at first Morgan thought it was Judhael's—until he saw more blood on the blade, and knew it was Kelson's.

“My prince, you've cut yourself,” he murmured, keeping hold of the sword with one hand as he reached for Kelson's hand with the other.

“It doesn't matter,” Kelson murmured, letting Morgan draw him aside to inspect it. “Alaric, I could have saved him, but he wouldn't let me. I offered him his life. He chose to die instead.”

With the bonding of blood between them, it was easy for Morgan to slip gently into Kelson's mind to read just the barest ghost of what had passed between him and Judhael—and to know that this specter Kelson must exorcise for himself.

“Shall I heal your hand, my prince?” he whispered quietly. “Or would you rather let it stay?”

Kelson swallowed noisily and bowed his head.

“Let it stay, for now,” he said in a low voice. “It's fitting that I have real blood on my hands. I've spilled a great deal in the nearly four years I've been king.”

“And will spill more, in years to come,” Morgan reminded him gently. “Pray God that it will always be in the cause of justice and honor, as it has been, hitherto. We do what we have to do, Kelson.”

“Aye.” Kelson sighed heavily. “We do what we have to do. But there are some things I shall
never
like.”

“No. Nor should you.”

Sighing again, Kelson wiped his blade on the side of his boot—the blood would not show against the crimson—then sheathed it. The blood on his hand he allowed to remain, though he cupped his fingers around it to hide the slight wound.

“What now?” he murmured. “I don't suppose there's any chance I can have some time to myself?”

“A few minutes only, I fear, my prince. Shall I clear the chapel for you?”

“No, I'll find a spot. Hold this for me, will you?” he asked, handing Morgan the crown of Meara. “It's given me a headache. And see if you can get a staff meeting going within the hour. In the great hall, I think. Ask all the newly sworn Mearan officers to attend as well. We have a lot of loose ends to tidy up before we can even think about going home.”

“Aye, my prince.”

Morgan was left holding the Mearan crown as he watched Kelson turn and make his way toward the horses, slipping between his own and Morgan's black to find at least a semblance of privacy even amid the bustle of the crowded yard. And he knew, as he watched Kelson bury his face in his horse's snowy mane, that it was not the physical crown in his hands that had given Kelson his headache. The burden of the crown was far more than the weight of the jeweled circlet that Kelson had entrusted so casually to his keeping. It was the blood, and the lives, and the loneliness.

The loneliness was one of the worst parts, Morgan knew. Some of the loneliness, at least, might have ended if Sidana had lived—but, as so many times before, Morgan made himself quit that dead-end reasoning of “if only.” Sidana had
not
lived; and her death had necessitated this campaign to Meara—which permitted the attempted Torenthi coup that likely never would have reared its head except in Kelson's absence.

Now, once the Mearan royals were buried and the new regime set in place, must come the return to Rhemuth and dealing with the Torenthi question again and the remorse over the deaths of Judhael and countless others; and, eventually, choosing another bride. Perhaps that little novice, Rothana. Richenda had told him that the two seemed drawn to one another, even after so short an exposure as at Talacara. Regardless of what Kelson thought, a wife—the right wife—would be good for him.

But for now, Kelson needed his few minutes alone, to reconcile his conscience and his heart and find the inner strength to continue in his duty. He was only seventeen, after all—hardly more than a boy, despite the rigors life had already thrust upon him. No one had ever said it was easy to be king. It certainly was not easy to be a good king, much less the great king Morgan believed Kelson would become.

Even as Morgan watched, Kelson lifted his head and squared his shoulders, looking around the yard with new determination. And Morgan, as he hailed several of Kelson's junior officers and set about implementing the king's orders, knew that his king would persevere through this most recent trial of character as he had persevered through all the rest. As he had always been proud to serve Kelson's father, so would he also be proud and honored to serve King Kelson of Gwynedd.

Here ends Book II of
The Histories of King Kelson
.

Book III,
The Quest for Saint Camber
,

will chronicle Kelson's quest to fulfill his dream

of restoring Saint Camber to his rightful place