The Bastard Prince (36 page)

Rhys Michael nodded, cradling the arm again. “The hand hurts, but I expected that it would. It's about time for more of Master Stevanus' painkiller. He tells me that tomorrow is apt to be the worst.”

“My sympathies,” Iver said, and actually meant it. “If you're ready, then, we ought to go.”

After taking his leave of Stacia and Graham, Rhys Michael rode back to the Gwynedd camp with Iver and Lior and his
Custodes
escort. While Cathan and Fulk helped him arm—for he must look fit, even if he felt as if his whole body had been trampled, not just his hand—he managed to pass on to Cathan what was required in the way of documents. Since they had known of Hrorik's death before leaving Rhemuth, Cathan had been working en route to draw up the letters patent confirming Stacia and her husband as Earl and Countess of Eastmarch. Sudrey's death necessitated slight changes to the document—which provided perfect cover for Cathan to remain behind and also draft the codicil naming Graham and his uncle to any future regency.

“Consider the wording carefully,” he murmured, as Cathan tightened down the buckles on the red brigandine. “It has to be unbreakable, and it has to stand up to the new will that I'll be forced to sign when we return. This may be the best hope yet, to at least help safeguard my sons, if anything happens to me.”

He let Stevanus give him another half dose of the syrup of poppies before they rode out, and tried to set his mind against the pain that the drug could not control as he, Fulk, and Iver rode up to Culliecairn with a small escort to inspect the fruits of their past day's work.

In Rhemuth, while Rhys Michael rode toward Culliecairn, Queen Michaela gained her first inkling of some of those fruits as she strolled in the castle gardens with Rhysel. Earlier, they had taken advantage of the fine, sunny day to wash the queen's hair. Rather than remain cooped up in the solar with too many chattering ladies, Michaela decided to let it dry while she walked in the perfumed open air of the garden. She hummed snatches of a court tune as she paused to cut red roses climbing up a white-painted trellis, laying the blooms in a flat basket that Rhysel carried on her arm. The sun had kissed her face and hands with color, also lending highlights to her hair, which spilled past her hips in a fragrant cloud of wheaten glory.

After glancing around the garden with apparent indifference, Rhysel briefly closed her fingers round a handful of the tawny hair, then gestured toward a garden seat under the trellising.

“You're getting dry. Why don't you let me comb this again?”

Not thinking anything of the request, Michaela moved obediently under the trellising and sat down, closing her eyes as Rhysel set aside the basket and began gently combing through the damp tresses.

“Don't react, in case we're watched, but I heard from Joram last night,” Rhysel murmured. “Culliecairn is resolved, and Prince Miklos is dead. So, unfortunately, is Sudrey of Eastmarch. She was Deryni, you know.”

Michaela felt a cold claw clench at her insides, for Rhysel had not mentioned Rhysem, but she forced herself to keep her eyes closed as Rhysel kept combing, hoping nothing showed on her face.

“What about Rhysem?” she whispered.

“He's safe for the moment,” Rhysel replied. “He had some kind of injury to his hand, but it doesn't appear to be too serious. What's potentially far more dangerous is that apparently there was a good deal of magic afoot when the king met Miklos. He'd taken Lady Sudrey with him, and most witnesses seem to think it was her magic that clashed with Miklos', but she wasn't thought to have that much power. Of course, no one really knew, because she put aside whatever she had when she took a human husband, and that's been twenty years ago.”

“How—” Michaela had to pause to swallow before she could go on. “How did this meeting come to pass? I shouldn't have thought Rhun would let Rhysem meet Miklos face-to-face.”

Rhysel shrugged and kept combing. “I can't tell you that Joram had his information from Ansel, who isn't exactly in a position to ask the principals involved. All he's able to do right now is to observe—and be ready to step in, if that's possible and advisable. I hope to have more information after tonight. It's likely, though, that the army will be heading home in a few days. With any luck, you should have your Rhysem back within a fortnight.”

Plucking one of the roses from the basket, Michaela brought it to her face and inhaled deeply of its perfume.

“Dear God, let it be so,” she whispered.

She returned to her quarters to try to sleep after that, both heartened and uneasy about Rhysel's news—and obliged not to reveal, in any way, that her information was more current than what was in the letters she received almost daily from her husband.

The most recent had told of Albertus and the odd attack by bees, though she knew from Rhysel that Albertus now was dead, and Paulin as good as dead, and that the spy Dimitri had perished as well—and Rhysem had come through it all safely. She expected official confirmation of that news to arrive at any time. It would shake the despicable Archbishop Hubert to the very core of his substantial and sanctimonious self and leave the remaining great lords similarly discomfited, for it totally shifted the balance of power among those who continued to presume that they, and not the king, should govern Gwynedd.

Later that evening, as she paid her permitted visit to her young son, she hugged him close and kissed him before tucking him into bed, ruffling the thick, dark hair and reflecting that perhaps, if fate continued to smile on his father, young Owain might inherit a free kingdom after all.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

Righteous lips are the delight of kings; and they love him that speaketh right.

—Proverbs 16:13

It was not yet dark when the king's party returned to Lochalyn, satisfied with the arrangements at Culliecairn, but Rhys Michael was exhausted. His hand had not ceased throbbing, and he feared he was beginning to run a fever. After picking halfheartedly at supper in the castle's hall, he asked Stevanus to have a look.

“Maybe the bandages just need loosening,” he said. “I expect it's more swollen than it was, but that's normal, isn't it?”

At Stacia's invitation, they retired to the lord's solar formerly shared by her parents, where his belongings had been moved up from camp during his absence of the afternoon. Though the new accommodation afforded greater comfort and privacy, and a woman's touch gentled the process of baring the hand for inspection, neither Stacia nor Stevanus looked particularly pleased. Most of the back of the hand was now a livid purple, and the skin around the sutures in the laceration was tight and shiny.

“There's certainly a good deal of swelling,” Stevanus murmured, prodding at it gently, “but that isn't unexpected. I
am
concerned about your fever. It could mean that an infection is developing. I think I need not tell you that a horse's hoof makes an incredibly filthy wound.”

“But we cleaned it,” Rhys Michael protested. He winced as Stacia began applying a fresh dressing of sphagnum moss.

“'Tis difficult tae clean sicht wounds properly,” she murmured. “Ye shattered bones, too. That makes an injury like this especially dangerous.”

“How dangerous?” Rhys Michael asked, turning his gaze on Stevanus.

The battle surgeon shrugged and began winding the bandages back over the splints. “I will not lie to you, Sire. Whenever bone is exposed to the air, there is danger. It could become necessary to take the hand. God knows, that would be a measure of last resort, for amputation carries its own dangers, but—”

“No,” Rhys Michael whispered, hugging the wounded hand closer to his chest, remembering the Healer Tavis, who also had lost a hand. “Stevanus, I won't lose my hand. I won't!”

“We'll hope it doesn't come to that,” Stevanus reassured him. “It's early on. A certain amount of fever is normal, with any wound. With luck, it will pass.”

After Stacia had gone out, the surgeon prepared another draught of the syrup of poppies, watching the king drink it down before he left him to the ministrations of Cathan and Fulk for the night. When the drug had taken the edge from the pain but not yet made him too drowsy, Rhys Michael asked Cathan to show him the codicil he had drafted. Fulk had bedded down on a pallet near the door and, with a little encouragement from Cathan, was already fast asleep.

“I hope this is what you had in mind,” Cathan said, perching on the edge of the bed beside the king. “If you approve, I'll make five copies during the night. I'm not sure exactly when we can arrange to get everybody to sign, but we'll manage something. At least Rhun has definitely agreed to stay through tomorrow night Corban intends to host a supper after the funeral and court. I expect that will be our best opportunity, once the wine starts flowing.”

He held a rushlight closer so that Rhys Michael could read through the text. It named Graham MacEwan, Duke of Claibourne, and Sighere of Marley as regents during any minority of the king's heir, to serve regardless of whatever other regents might be named in any present or future decretal or last will and testament of Rhys Michael Alister Haldane. The appointments could not be reversed save by the king himself or the resignation of the men themselves. In case Sighere died before a Haldane heir came of age, the document designated the twenty-year-old Sean Coris, Master of Marley, to serve as Sighere's replacement.

“You're sure you want to make this an irrevocable appointment?” Cathan said, when the king had read it through. “Rhysem, I know you trust Claibourne, because you had a chance to talk with him and Truth-Read him, but you hardly know Marley. You have only Claibourne's word that he'll even accept, under these terms and conditions, and you have no idea about Marley's son.”

Rhys Michael closed his eyes. His medication was making him drowsy. “Sighere and his brothers have always been loyal to my line,” he whispered. “Their father gave my father his unqualified loyalty and bound his three sons to my father as well. The blood runs true in the brothers' offspring; I must trust that it runs true in Sighere as well. Both Graham and Stacia trust him.”

“Wouldn't it make more sense to appoint Stacia, then?” Cathan asked. “At least you know
she's
loyal. And she's got a few drops of Deryni blood, if that makes a difference.”

“And I will cherish her for that, as well as for her loyalty today,” he said, smiling as he glanced up at Cathan. “But I daren't appoint a woman as regent. The law forbids it and always has, except for members of the Royal Family. Besides that, I'm already treading on thin ice by trying to make this appointment at all. God alone knows whether it will stand up, if Graham has to exercise it. But at least he's a duke, so there's no one to outrank him.”

Cathan allowed himself a sigh of exasperation, but he clearly could not argue his brother-in-law's point.

“I have to agree,” he murmured. “Shall I make those copies, men? This is how you want it to read?”

Rhys Michael nodded, rubbing his upper arm above his bandages.

“I'd prefer to run it past more experienced legal minds, but we don't have that luxury. Make the five copies. Tomorrow we'll worry about how we're going to get them signed without Rhun or Manfred interfering.”

Through the rest of the night he drifted fitfully in and out of sleep, unable to get comfortable, periodically aware of Cathan scratching away on his copies at a small table on the other side of the room, and that the rushlights burned nearly until dawn. On the occasions when he did dip deeper into sleep, his rest was marred by disturbing dreams that he could not remember on waking.

It was Fulk who came to rouse him, a few hours after dawn, looking by far the freshest of the three of them for having had a full night's sleep. Rhys Michael himself was hardly more rested than when he had gone to bed. He suspected that his fever had worsened during the night—his whole right arm was hot, from shoulder to fingertips—but he made himself get up and wash and dress, for he
must
put in an appearance at Sudrey's funeral and the court and meal to follow.

Before the funeral, Rhun held an impromptu staff meeting in the castle's hall, to receive reports on the continued Torenthi withdrawal during the night and finalize plans for a departure on the morrow. Rhys Michael listened dutifully enough, brushing off Stevanus' attentions, for he did not want the surgeon to order him back to bed, but after drinking some ale he really did not want and eating a few mouthfuls of bread, he did accept another dose of painkiller.

The Requiem Mass for Sudrey of Eastmarch seemed to last forever, as he had feared. Being feverish, he bundled up in his crimson cloak with the Haldane brooch at the shoulder and alternated between shaking with chills and wanting to throw off all his clothes. The little chapel was packed, with people standing shoulder to shoulder, wall to wall, and even in the open doorway. Rhys Michael was feeling light-headed by the time it finished, but he could not even make an immediate escape, for Duke Graham had contrived to tell him, on the way into the chapel, that the priest, a Father Derfel, was utterly trustworthy and had agreed to witness the documents. But the king must make the final arrangements.

The priest disappeared into the little sacristy with his fresh-scrubbed altar servers, one of whom remained to extinguish the altar candles. The chapel quickly began to empty. Though Rhun and Manfred went out with the family, Graham gravely shepherding them as they headed toward the hall, where the court would follow, Rhys Michael kept back Cathan and Fulk—and Stevanus, lest there be any question, later on—and knelt near the front of the chapel in pretended prayer, waiting for the priest's servers to come out. Sudrey's closed coffin still lay before the altar, with four strong Eastmarch men waiting to lower it into its final resting place in the crypt once the mourners had gone.