Deryni Checkmate (30 page)

Yes, he was sure Morgan’s companion had been Duncan McLain. The suspended priest even knew he had been recognized, had known Gorony, called him by name, had actually threatened him with sacrilegious murder if he did not obey!

With that Loris had exploded, venting his spleen on Morgan, Duncan, the Deryni, and circumstances in general. Corrigan and the others had followed suit, indignation so heavy on the air that one could almost taste it. Now the dispute went on, in small, vehement groups. Though degrees might differ, there was little question that terrible things had happened at Saint Torin’s, and that appropriate action must be taken.

Bishop Cardiel, in whose chambers the debate raged, cast a sidelong glance across the room at his colleague Arilan and then returned his attention to a side argument between the aging Carsten of Meara and Creoda of Carbury. Arilan nodded to himself and suppressed a small smile as he continued to study Loris and Corrigan in action.

Thomas Cardiel and Denis Arilan, at forty-one and thirty-eight respectively, were Gwynedd’s two youngest bishops. Next youngest after them came the fifty-year-old Tolliver of Coroth, Morgan’s bishop, with the rest of the episcopacy grouped predominantly in their late sixties.

But besides age, there was at least one other important difference between Cardiel and Arilan and most of the other bishops present. For the most junior members of the Curia were finding Loris’s unseemly outburst almost amusing. They were not amused by the threats Loris was making; both were secretly in sympathy with the Deryni Morgan, who had protected their young king so ably during the coronation crisis last fall. And Duncan McLain had, for a time, been a rather promising protégé of the fiery Bishop Arilan.

Nor were they happy about this Warin person whom Gorony had mentioned. Neither liked the idea of an anti-Deryni religious fanatic running around loose in the countryside, and they were decidedly offended that Loris had presumed to sanction Warin’s movement on his own, even if unofficially.

On the other hand, it was quite satisfying that the ineffable Morgan had once again managed to make Loris out an idiot. Cardiel, a relative outsider by dint of being Dhassa’s traditionally neutral bishop, had only an academic interest in whether or not Loris was, indeed, a fool. But Arilan knew it was so and relished this public proof of the fact. The young Auxiliary Bishop of Rhemuth had had to put up with what he considered fanatic foolishness far too many times to be impressed just because Loris was Primate of Gwynedd. Perhaps what Gwynedd needed was a new primate.

Not that Arilan had any delusions that he might be that new man. He would be the first to admit that he was far too young and inexperienced. But the scholarly Bradene of Grecotha, or Ifor of Marbury, or even de Lacey of Stavenham would be much superior to Edmund Loris as Archbishop of Valoret.

As for Loris’s colleague and Arilan’s immediate superior, the blustering Patrick Corrigan—well, perhaps the Archbishopric of Rhemuth could stand some new blood, too. And that was not necessarily out of Arilan’s reach.

Loris finally managed to curb his temper and stop shouting. As he stood at his place and raised both hands for silence, his clergy gradually ceased their railing and took their seats. Younger priests and clerks in the service of the bishops pressed closer to their masters to hear what the archbishop would say. Total silence descended, save for the raspy breathing of old Bishop Carsten.

Loris bowed his head and cleared his throat, then looked up. His bearing was erect, composed, as he swept his gaze around the room, for he was speaking now as Primate of Gwynedd.

“My lords, we beg your indulgence for our recent outburst. As you are doubtless aware, the Deryni heresy has been a special interest of ours for many years. Frankly, we are not surprised at Morgan’s actions. Indeed, we could have predicted them. But to discover that one of our own clergy, a nobleman’s son and a member of the monsignori, at that, is a”—he forced himself to say the word without embellishment—“is a Deryni—” He paused to swallow his anger before continuing.

“Again we must apologize for our excess of emotion, my lords. Now, as reason returns, and we further contemplate what this discovery of deception in our midst means to the Church in Gwynedd, we realize that there is but one way to proceed from this point, at least with the heretic priest McLain. That is excommunication: excommunication, degradation from the priesthood, and, if the Curia will allow it, execution as the treacherous Deryni heretic that he is.

“We recognize that the second and third sanctions require time-consuming legislation by this august body, and we are prepared to accede to the proper procedures.” His sharp blue eyes scanned the room. “But it is within our jurisdiction as Primate of Gwynedd to declare that Duncan Howard McLain and his infamous cousin Alaric Anthony Morgan shall be declared anathema. Archbishop Corrigan, our brother of Rhemuth and McLain’s immediate superior, supports us in this declaration. We trust that as many of you as see fit will join us for the rite of excommunication after Compline tonight.”

Uneasy discussion rippled around the room, but Loris cut it off sharply. “There surely can be no question of conscience in this matter, my lords. Morgan and McLain have this day most foully murdered good and loyal sons of the Church; have threatened the life of our servant Monsignor Gorony, an ordained priest; have used vile and forbidden magic in a consecrated place. Looking back, we must even surmise that McLain was probably responsible for much that occurred at the coronation of our beloved King Kelson last fall. For that, he and Morgan share double blame.” His gaze swept the room once more. “Is there any dissension? If so, feel free to speak.”

No one spoke.

“Very well, then.” Loris nodded. “We shall expect all of you to assist in the rite of excommunication this evening. Tomorrow we shall decide what further action, if any, is to be taken in this specific matter. In addition, we shall again discuss what is to be done with Morgan’s Duchy of Corwyn. It may be that we shall yet be obliged to lower the Interdict we discussed earlier. Until this evening, my lords.”

With a short bow, Loris took leave of his clergy and glided out of the room, followed by Corrigan, Corrigan’s clerk, Father Hugh de Berry, and a half-dozen other assistants and scribes. As soon as the door had closed behind them, the rest of the occupants broke into heated debate once more.

“Arilan?”

Bishop Arilan, at first following the discussion between Bishops Bradene and Tolliver, looked up at the sound of his name above the din and saw Cardiel signal from across the room. Taking his leave of the two more senior bishops, he made his way through the throng of railing prelates and clerks surrounding his host bishop and inclined his head in question.

“Did my lord Cardiel wish to see me?”

Cardiel returned the bow without a hint of emotion. “I had thought to retire to my private chapel to meditate on this grave crisis that has come upon us, my lord Arilan,” he replied, leaning closer to Arilan’s ear, trying to make himself heard. “It occurred to me that you might care to join me. As our elder brethren retire to their own deliberations, I expect the Curia chapel will become somewhat crowded.”

Arilan controlled a smile and inclined his head graciously as he waved dismissal to his attendants. “I should be most honored, my lord. And perhaps our joint prayers will be of some use in assuaging the anger of the Lord against our brother Duncan. To damn any priest of God, even a Deryni one, must needs be a serious matter. Do you not agree?”

“We are in complete accord, my brother,” Cardiel replied, as they slipped out through a private door. “I believe we might also meditate on the merits of this Warin person whom the good Monsignor Gorony mentioned in his somewhat hysterical report.”

“An admirable idea,” Arilan agreed.

Guarded nods were exchanged with a pair of monks passing in the corridor, and then they were entering the secluded and sound-proofed private chapel of the Bishop of Dhassa. As the doors closed, Arilan finally allowed his smile to escape without restraint, leaned easily against the doors as Cardiel struck light to a candle beside him.

“Warin is only part of the issue, of course,” Arilan said, squinting as the candle fire flared. “But while we’re discussing him, I would suggest a careful study of this Interdict notion that Loris seems determined to foist upon us. I don’t see how we can fail to support the excommunication and remain in good standing with the Curia. The facts are there, and Morgan and McLain appear to be at least technically guilty as charged. But I totally reject the idea of Interdict unless the people of Corwyn should refuse to honor the Curia’s excommunication of their duke.”

Cardiel snorted as he took his candle to the front of the chapel and lit a pair of candles on the altar. “I am not certain I could support the Interdict even then, Denis. Frankly, I am not convinced that Morgan and McLain did anything but defend themselves. And even the inherent evil of Deryni magic is highly questionable, to my way of thinking.”

“It is good you say that only to me,” Arilan said with a faint smile, walking down the short aisle to join Cardiel. “Others among the Curia might not understand.”

“But you do,” Cardiel said confidently. He glanced at the red Presence lamp hanging from the ceiling and nodded toward it. “And He for whom that light burns understands. We three are enough for now.”

Arilan smiled again and settled back in the front pew. “We are enough,” he agreed. “So let us discuss how to make us more than three; what things might be done and said to change Loris’s plans when the time is right.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

UNKNOWN DERYNI MONK

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

IT was still raining as Duncan and Morgan came down off the mountains. Lightning streaked in the west and paled the fading sunset, and thunder rumbled and echoed among the mountain peaks. The wind howled through the ruins of Saint Neot’s, lashing rain against weathered gray stone and charred timbers as the two riders rode through the ruined courtyard.

Duncan squinted into the gloom and pulled his hood farther over his head. At his right, Morgan huddled in the saddle, gloved fingers locked on the high pommel and eyes closed as he nodded with the motion of his mount. He had slipped into semi-consciousness some hours ago, his stupor mercifully numbing him to the discomfort of the long ride, but Duncan knew his cousin could not last much longer without rest. Thank God they had finally reached shelter.

Duncan guided his mount into the protected corner where he and Morgan had spent the previous night, and reined in. Morgan swayed in the saddle, then jerked to awareness as the horses halted and Duncan jumped to the ground. His glazed eyes searched his surroundings uncomprehendingly.

“Where are we? Why have we stopped?”

Duncan ducked under his horse’s neck and moved to Morgan’s side. “It’s all right. We’re at Saint Neot’s,” he said, taking Morgan by the shoulders and helping him from the saddle. “I’m going to leave you here to rest while I look around. There should be a Transfer Portal somewhere about. That will get us as far as Rhemuth, if it’s still working.”

“I’ll help you look,” Morgan mumbled thickly, almost stumbling as Duncan led him to the driest corner of the old campsite. “It’s probably by the Camber altar I told you about.”

Duncan shook his head as he eased Morgan to the ground and knelt beside him. “If it’s there, I’ll find it,” he said, urging his kinsman to lean back against the wall. “Meanwhile, you’re going to get some proper sleep.”

“Now wait a minute,” Morgan protested, feebly trying to sit up. “You’re not going to wander around out there by yourself while I sleep.”

Duncan smiled indulgently, but his hand was firm as he pushed Morgan back against the wall and shook his head once again. “I’m afraid that’s exactly what I’m going to do, my friend. This time you haven’t any say in the matter. Now don’t fight me, or I’ll have to force you to sleep.”

“You would, too,” Morgan muttered petulantly, slumping back against the wall with a sigh.

“I would, indeed. Now relax.”

As Morgan closed his eyes, Duncan stripped off his gloves and stuffed them into his tunic. Clasping his hands together for just an instant in preparation, he stared across at his cousin and collected his thoughts, his pale eyes going hooded. Then he reached across to place a hand on either side of Morgan’s head, thumbs to temples.

“Sleep now,” he whispered. “Sleep deep, without dreams. Let slumber wash away fatigue and restore you.”

He let himself slip into silent Deryni mind-contact as he continued.

Morgan’s breathing became slow, regular; the handsome features relaxed as he slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep. Duncan dropped his hands and watched for a moment, satisfying himself that his cousin would not reawaken until he returned, then stood and pulled a blanket from his saddle to drape over the sleeping form.

Now for the Transfer Portal.

He paused on the threshold of the ruined chapel and surveyed the place warily. Though night was falling, the rain had slackened so that he could see the half-fallen walls looming against the darkening sky. Over to the left, where portions of the roof still held, windows of the ruined clerestory stared down at him like empty eye sockets, their bright glass gone forever in the general destruction that had befallen the place. Lightning flashed, illuminating the once-proud chapel bright as day as Duncan made his way toward the main altar and chancel. Shallow puddles on the broken flooring flashed fragmented brightness whenever a new bolt of lightning seared its way across the heavens. Wind whined through the ruins, moaning protests of bygone ignominies and misadventures.