Saint Camber (6 page)

“So now I stand alone and aloof—for I dare not trust again—stripped of my priestly authority, living in sin with a woman forced upon me, father of sickly babes—whose deformities I deserve for my transgressions—”

His voice caught in a sob, and he bowed his head, fighting back bitter tears. He might have succeeded, had not Cullen come and laid sympathetic hands on his shoulders.

With that, Cinhil dissolved into desolate weeping for all the terrors of past, present, and future, abandoning conscious thought to his misery, finding but little comfort clasped against the shoulder of the vicar general. Finally, when tears were spent and coherent thought began to return, he pulled away from Cullen and drew a sleeve across red-rimmed eyes. The silence grew awkward as Cinhil tried to regain his emotional balance.

“I'm sorry,” he finally whispered. “I should be a better master of myself than that. For—for a moment, I almost felt that I could trust you.”

Cullen bowed his head briefly, then looked up at Cinhil again.

“I want to help you, Cinhil,” he said quietly. “I know this hasn't been easy for you. If there were some way I could undo what has been done, without endangering the kingdom—”

“That's the key, Father. You've said it yourself.” Cinhil's tone was bitter. “‘Without endangering the kingdom.' The kingdom comes before the king—oh, I know that. In a certain, detached sense, I can even agree—if it were some other king.” He sighed. “You'll have to excuse me, Father. I'm sure you mean well, but …”

He let his voice trail off disconsolately, knowing that no matter how sympathetic Cullen was, he was still Deryni, and bound to the course set by Camber and the others. He ran his finger along the edge of the window casement and looked out at the rain, though he did not really see it.

“Was there anything else, Father? If not, I'd really like to be alone for a while, if you don't mind.”

“Nothing that can't wait until another time. Oh, there is one thing: Jebediah has called a final meeting of the war council in the morning, to finalize our battle strategies. He thinks, and I agree, that if you were there it might help morale. And try to be a bit more positive.”

“As if they really needed me,” Cinhil said whimsically. He turned to face Cullen. “What does an ex-priest know about fighting wars, Father? And even I, in my supreme ignorance, recognize the odds we face.”

“Things change,” Cullen said. “By then we may have additional information.”

The words themselves were innocent enough, but there was some spark of anticipation in Cullen's tone which piqued Cinhil's further interest. Cocking his head, he eyed the vicar general curiously.

“Are you expecting some change of circumstances?”

“Not expecting—but we have hopes, of course. Why do you ask?”

“I thought I heard—some note of …” He glanced down at the floor, considering what Cullen had said—and not said—and looked up again, shrewdly. “No matter. Perhaps it was my own wishful thinking. Despite myself, I do care, you know.”

“Sometimes thoughts are prayers.” Cullen smiled. “By the way, I do have one piece of news which may not have reached you yet. I received it myself only yesterday.”

“Yes?”

“As you will doubtless recall, the sees of Rhemuth and Grecotha have been vacant for some time now. Imre had declined to fill them, since he could not be assured of the election of candidates who would ignore his excesses. However, in keeping with your eventual plans to move the capital back to Rhemuth, Archbishop Anscom has decided to revive the Rhemuth archbishopric.”

Cinhil nodded. “I knew of that. Robert Oriss, the vicar general of my old Order, is to be raised to the purple.”

“A most deserving man,” Cullen agreed. “What you may not have heard is that Grecotha is to be revived as well, and that the archbishop and synod have elected me to fill that seat. I'll be consecrated bishop with Robert in a few months' time, as soon as all this war business is over.”

“
You
, Bishop of Grecotha!” Cinhil breathed. His initial glow of pleasure faded almost immediately to one of disappointment. “But that's a long way from here, and days away from Rhemuth. Then I shall
never
see you.”

Cullen shrugged, a helpless gesture. “Even as Bishop of Grecotha, I expect to spend a certain amount of time in the capital, wherever that might be, Sire. But I appreciate your concern. I, too, have mixed emotions about the promotion, though for additional reasons. Certainly, I'll enjoy returning to Grecotha—I was partially educated there, you know. And I welcome the challenge of setting the diocese in order again. But it will be a grave responsibility to have the cure of so many souls in my care. And, of course, it will mean giving up my Michaelines.”

“The Michaelines—that's right. I'd forgotten. You can't retain both offices, can you?”

“No, but perhaps my successor will be able to do better for them than I have done. It will take years to rebuild what we lost under Imre, even with the generous assistance you have given us.”

“You lost it for me,” Cinhil murmured. “Is there nothing more I can do to repay that debt?”

“Only pray for us,” Cullen said simply. “And pray for
me
, if you will—for strength to know and do God's will in my new undertaking. I would value your prayers, Cinhil.”

Cinhil stared at the other man for a long moment, then smiled tentatively, almost shyly.

“It is I who would be privileged to pray for you, Father—or should I say ‘Your Grace'?”

“‘Father' is always appropriate. Or ‘Alister,' if you wish.”

“Nay, not ‘Alister.' Not yet, at least. But a bishop,” Cinhil repeated. “You're to be a bishop. What a wondrous thing!”

“Perhaps we can share a few of our mutual burdens, Sire,” Cullen said, touching Cinhil's arm lightly as he turned to go. “You may tell me how it is to be a king, and I shall tell you how it is to be a bishop. At least that is not forbidden us.”

Cinhil watched almost reverently as Cullen moved to the door and turned to bow.

“Thank you for coming, Father.”

“Thank you for seeing me, Sire.” Cullen smiled.

When he was gone, Cinhil sank back on the cushions of the window seat and let out a sigh.

Cullen to be a bishop, and Bishop of Grecotha at that! And just now, when it had begun to look as if he were one Deryni who might be trusted. True, Grecotha was not
that
far away, but still …

Even so, to have one in so high a place in sympathy, even if he
was
Deryni—that could not help but be useful. Perhaps Cullen could even be persuaded to restore Cinhil's priestly functions, after a time. Or Oriss, for that matter. As Archbishop of Rhemuth, he would be in an even better position than Cullen to permit a more suitable disposition of Cinhil's priestly status, especially once the capital returned to Rhemuth. And Oriss was human.

True, Oriss had not known Cinhil while Cinhil was a monk under his rule. Oriss probably had never even heard of the Brother Benedict Cinhil had been before Joram and Rhys spirited him out of Saint Foillan's Abbey.

Still, Oriss would be Archbishop of Rhemuth, second only to Anscom; and Cullen would be Bishop of Grecotha. Perhaps the day was not so far off as Cinhil had feared, when he might openly celebrate the Mass again!

He mused on that for a long time, dreaming of many yesterdays, then sat up with a start. The idea had flashed through his mind so suddenly that he could not even articulate it, dared not give mental substance to what was taking shape.

Quickly, before he could think about it too much and find a reasoned argument against, he scrambled to the bellpull beside his bed and rang for a servant. Sorle, his valet, appeared momentarily, breathless and anxious-looking.

“Sorle, please ask Father Alfred to join me,” he said, avoiding looking at the chest at the foot of his bed. “Tell him to bring parchment and ink. I have work for him.”

Sorle bowed, somewhat mystified, and left to do his master's bidding. Cinhil threw himself on his bed and hugged knees to chest in sheer delight.

What a singular opportunity! With Cullen and Oriss slated for elevation to the purple, it was altogether fitting that Cinhil, as king, make them suitable gifts upon the occasion of their elevations. And what could be more suitable than several sets of new vestments apiece?

No one need ever know that not all of the vestments so commissioned would find their way to the two new bishops. No one would know that at least one set would find its way into the reverent and longing hands of Cinhil Haldane!

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

For death is come up into our windows, and is entered into our palaces
.

—Jeremiah 9:21

Camber sat in a cushioned chair before the fireplace in his sleeping chamber, eyes unfocused in the direction of the fire, his feet propped comfortably on a padded stool.

He felt very peaceful now—ready to cope with whatever might come. After leaving the hall, alone at his own insistence, he had returned to his quarters to shed his bloody clothing and relax for a few minutes before beginning preparations for that evening's work.

Others also had plans for him, however. Guaire, who insisted upon acting as his squire most of the time, had appeared very shortly—obviously briefed by Joram or Evaine—and coaxed him to sit and soak in a hot bath, which Guaire had already had drawn. When Camber emerged, clean-clad and feeling far better than he had expected for the experience, there was a simple but hearty meal set for him before the fire: a joint of beef, cheese, crusty bread spread thick with butter and honey, and plenty of good red wine. He
knew
Evaine had had a hand in that.

He had not thought he could eat much. Besides, he had the feeling that he wanted to fast at least a little for the ritual planned later that night.

But Guaire was insistent, and Camber could not really tell him why he did not wish to eat; so Camber complied. Guaire stood over him sternly until he had consumed more than half of what had been put before him.

After, feeling admittedly restored, Camber dismissed Guaire on the pretext of wanting to rest—which was true, though not quite yet—then spent the next hour and more cleaning and arranging the dressing room to his satisfaction. Following that, he did rest, stretching out supine on the bed while he employed diverse Deryni relaxation techniques to ensure that he would be fresh and alert when the time came for him to do what he must.

When he awoke a few hours later, the room darkening into dusky twilight, he was feeling quite fit and ready. He spent the hour until the Vesper bell in more-active meditation, making the mental and spiritual preparations he felt necessary for the task approaching. The steady rain outside was a constant reinforcement to his intent, helping to drive him to ever-deeper centering points of consciousness.

What he planned tonight was not particularly dangerous, though the best-intended dabblings in this realm could turn threatening if one did not pay proper attention to what one was doing. He had checked his source document again, while he prepared the room, and the author had made the need for prudence abundantly clear.

But the prime consideration was precision, and the necessity for great concentration and a steady outpouring of energy. The results could be unsettling to anyone not anticipating all aspects, but Camber knew he would have ample support from those assisting him. There would be no faintheartedness from those four.

Their images flashed before him in the flames as he thought about them, and he allowed himself to dwell on each one lovingly: Evaine and Rhys, beloved daughter and new-found son, fearless and above reproach; Joram—not his first-born or even his eldest son, but the only son of his body now alive, dear
because
of his stubborn differences, not despite them; and Alister Cullen, gruff and often cynical, a former adversary but now a respected colleague and friend, even if he
was
sometimes suspicious of the magic which they wielded.

He yawned and stretched luxuriously, the scarlet velvet of his sleeve catching his attention in the firelight. He wondered again why the document required that he wear red for the operation he was going to try, remembering the look on Guaire's face earlier in the afternoon when he had asked the young man to search the wardrobe of the former king for just such a garment. The feel of the velvet against his body gave him a sense of comfort as he stood and moved quietly toward the door to the corridor. He opened it before the two outside could even knock.

Rhys and Evaine passed to the fireplace without a word as Camber bolted the door, the Healer settling onto a stool while Evaine curled up on the fur at his feet, her arms cradling something bulky and awkward in its wrappings beneath her cloak.

Camber moved back to his chair, but stood with one hand resting lightly on the back as he gazed down at his daughter.

“Are the others on their way?”

Evaine nodded and began unwrapping the bundle in her lap, letting her cloak fall back from her shoulders in the warmth of the fire.

“Joram officiated at Vespers tonight, and Cinhil wanted to speak with him afterwards. Father Cullen is waiting for him in the sacristy. Will this bowl suit our purposes?”

Firelight flickered mellow and warm on the silver as she withdrew the bowl from its wrappings and put it into her father's hands, flashing quicksilver into Camber's eyes momentarily as he gazed at his distorted reflection.

“It's perfect.”

He set it carefully on a chest near the door to the dressing chamber, very much aware of their eyes following his every move as he returned to the fireplace.

Rhys coughed gently to engage his attention.

“Can you tell us what you're planning now, or must we wait for the others?”

“I'd rather not have to explain it twice, if you don't mind.”