The Bastard Prince (37 page)

Very shortly, the boys burst from the sacristy like exuberant puppies, their high spirits damping only momentarily as they saw him and made hurried bows before dashing on out the chapel door to the freedom of outdoors. Faintly smiling, Rhys Michael glanced at his companions and got to his feet. He had liked what he Read of Father Derfel during the Mass. The man exuded an air of kindness—a quality he did not often see in the sour
Custodes
priests to whom he was accustomed.

“Wait here while I thank the good father for the Mass,” he said “I won't be but a few minutes. I know court will be waiting.”

His smile dimmed as he passed close to Sudrey's coffin, where the Eastmarch men were starting to move the slabs away, opening the vault to receive her. Drawing a deep breath, he set his hand on the latch of the sacristy door and went in.

The priest was still in alb and stole, his back to the door, diligently shaking out the black chasuble he had worn. Ginger-haired and bearded, of indeterminate middle years, he looked around in some surprise as the king closed the door behind him.

“I hope I didn't startle you, Father,” Rhys Michael said in a low voice. “I believe his Grace of Claibourne spoke to you earlier this morning—or perhaps last night.”

The priest gave him a careful nod and laid the chasuble aside.

“He did that, Sire. If what he has told me is correct, ye tak a grave risk.”

Rhys Michael allowed him a fleeting smile and rubbed at his aching arm. “I do, if my great lords find out what I've done while I'm still alive. For that reason, I must ask that you keep all knowledge of this under the Seal of the Confessional. Once I'm gone, of course, you're released from that Seal. Then I'll
want
the document to be broadcast as widely as possible.”

“Ye have my word, Sire,” the priest said, bowing slightly as he touched his right hand to the stole he still wore.

“Thank you.” Rhys Michael pulled a much-folded copy of the draft of the text from inside his sling and passed it to the priest. “This is the draft version of the document I intend you to witness. Five copies have been drawn up in proper form. They'll need to be signed and sealed by the other principals before I sign. Do you mind if I sit while you read over it, Father? I'm feeling a bit light-headed. I fear my wound may be festering.”

Quickly the priest procured a stool and shoved it under Rhys Michael as he sat, moving then to tilt the document by the better light from a lancet window beside the little vesting altar. He moved his lips as he read, his florid face going more and more pale, so that freckles stood out all across his tonsure and cheeks by the time he had finished.

“Sir, ye repose great trust in m'lords of Claibourne and Marley,” he murmured. “Knowing both men, I believe such trust to be well placed, but ye
are
aware that if the document stands in law—that ye may appoint such regents—they cannae then be ousted?”

Rhys Michael sighed wearily and shook his head. “Father, if you're counseling caution, know that I must seize this opportunity while I may and trust that I have judged these men correctly. Once my great lords have me back in Rhemuth, there will be no further opportunity to adjust the terms of a future regency more to my liking—and I cannot refuse to go back, or let my friends keep me here, for my wife and son and my unborn next heir lie totally in the great lords' power.

“As to whether the document will stand in law—that must be for others to determine, when and if it comes to that,” he went on. “I can only do what best I may, while I yet live, to ensure that my sons have better regents than those with whom my brothers and I had to contend—if regents they must have. I pray, of course, that I shall live to see my sons' sons playing at my knee, serene in my old age, and free at last of the fetters of this past decade. But I harbour no illusions about my personal safety, once my queen is delivered of the child she now carries—especially if it is another prince, as I believe it to be.”

He did not tell the priest that he already knew the child was another boy, for not even to a holy man dared he reveal that the Crown of Gwynedd again had Deryni connections. Even so, Father Derfel stared at him, mouth agape, then dropped to his knees at the king's feet.

“I am yer man, Sire,” he whispered. “Earl Hrorik, God rest 'im, ever said yer line were brave and honorable, an' now I know it tae be true. But, how do ye mean to accomplish e'en this, if yer great lords watch ye so carefully?”

Rhys Michael rubbed his good hand over his face, trying to think. He was shivering with fever again, and even his good hand shook as he clasped it closer around the injured arm.

“After court, Sir Cathan will bring you the copies of the document. There are five: one each for Claibourne, Marley, and Lady Stacia, one for yourself, and one for me. The other principals will come to you individually during supper, in the place Lady Stacia shall designate, to sign and seal them in your presence. At some point I shall contrive to join you and add my own signature, such as it is.” He slightly raised his bandaged hand. “That's another reason it's essential that I sign in your presence. I shall leave you my signet to seal the documents while I return to the hall, but you must get it back to me or to Sir Cathan as soon as possible, lest someone notice. I must also have my copy of the document before I leave tomorrow.”

“I understand,” the priest agreed. “But—Sire, are ye well enough to see this through? Ye look sommat feverish.”

Rhys Michael touched the back of his good hand to his forehead and suppressed a shudder. “I
have
to be well enough, Father,” he whispered. “I'm sure I'll be all right. Master Stevanus said I might expect a fever for the first few days.” He indicated his bandaged hand and gave an ironic smile. “Did they tell you what happened? Somebody's damned horse
stepped
on me!”

Without invitation, the priest touched his hand to Rhys Michael's forehead and grimaced at the heat he felt. “'Tis no matter fer jest, Sire,” he murmured. “Are they giving ye sommat for the fever?”

The king shook his head. “Not that I know of. Just syrup of poppies for the pain. To be fair, the fever's only gotten bad in the last little while. But I have to make it through court.”

“God willin', ye shall do, Sire,” the priest replied. “May I tell Lady Stacia? Her dear mother taught her much o' the healing arts that is not widely known.”

“She helped Stevanus change my dressing last night,” Rhys Michael murmured. “I expect she's done all she can. But go ahead and tell her, if you think it might help.”

A cautious rap at the door returned their attention to more immediate concerns.

“I'd better go,” the king said, getting to his feet. “That will be Sir Cathan, warning me I'll be missed soon.”

“Aye, Sire. May I offer ye t'drink before ye go? Ye should be havin' lots o' fluids, with that fever.”

“If it isn't too much trouble, that would be very kind,” the king replied.

Fetching a silver ewer from a credence table near the vesting altar, the priest set it beside the communion vessels he had brought in from Mass and swept the burse and pall and veil off the chalice.

“I noticed, by the way, that ye didnae come up for Communion,” he said, as he poured wine into the chalice. “Was there a reason for that? Should ye be seeking me out for shriving?”

Rhys Michael snorted. “My great lords would never allow me to confess to a priest who isn't of the
Custodes
Order,” he murmured. “Besides, I'd already eaten this morning. Master Stevanus wouldn't give me any more painkiller until I'd eaten something, and I thought that was more important than to keep the fast so that I could receive.” He raised an eyebrow as the priest handed him the chalice, and asked, “Should I be drinking from this? I thought that holy vessels were reserved for holy things.”

“What thing more holy than ministerin' tae one o' God's children who is ill?” Derfel replied with an arch smile. “Especially if that child be my anointed king. Would ye still be desirous o' receivin' Communion, Sire?”

Rhys Michael paused with the chalice halfway to his lips, suddenly aware that he did wish it. Somehow, the offer from this rustic priest meant more to him than all the bishops and other high-ranking clerics with whom he had ever come into contact.

“Yes, I would, Father. But only if you're sure it doesn't violate any rules.”

“I keep the rules that serve His pleasure,” Derfel said, gesturing toward the Presence Light burning atop the tabernacle on the little altar. “An' His pleasure is tae see His children come to Hun in love an' prayerfulness. I dinnae think He cares o'ermuch for some o' the legalities imposed by the men who govern His Church on earth—not when those legalities would deny His solace to His children who are in need. Ye took food as part o' medicine.” He gestured toward the chalice. “That's medicine as well. Drink up, Sire, an' then kneel in thanksgiving, while I bring ye the Body of our Lord.”

Somehow imbued with new energy, just by the words, Rhys Michael drained the chalice to the dregs, welcoming the cool wine sliding down his dry throat, then eased to his knees, clutching the chalice to his breast. Father Derfel had turned to reverence the tabernacle on the little altar, and now swung wide its golden door to part a veil of green silk and take out a ciborium of hammered gold. Removing the cover, he set it aside and turned to face the king, carefully taking out a small Host, which he held above the cup.

“
Ecce Agnus Dei: ecce qui tollit peccata mundi
,” he said. Behold the Lamb of God, behold Him Who taketh away the sins of the world.

Bowing his head, Rhys Michael murmured, “
Domine, non sum dignus, ut intres sub tectum meum: sed tantum dic verbo et sanabitur anima mea.
” Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldst come under my roof; speak but the word and my soul shall be healed …

He found himself gazing into the empty chalice as he recited the words, somehow visualizing light collecting in the golden bowl, and for the first time in many days he felt a sense of inner peace moving in his soul as he looked up again at Father Derfel, who now raised the Host a little higher.

“
Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodial animam tuam in vitam aeternam.
” The Body of our Lord Jesus Christ preserve thy soul unto everlasting life.

“Amen,” Rhys Michael murmured, closing his eyes then as Father Derfel put the Host on his tongue.

He could not have said, later, that it tasted any different from Communion he had received a hundred times before, but it somehow meant more to him. He knew he dared not linger to savor the feeling, but when Father Derfel had covered the ciborium again and put it back into the tabernacle, he felt a greater sense of his own sacral station than he had ever felt before, even at his anointing as king. Despite the fever still mounting in his body, he felt profoundly at peace as he handed the chalice back to Father Derfel, and when the priest offered a hand to help him up, Rhys Michael bent instead to kiss it.

“Sire, ye shouldnae do that,” Derfel murmured, gently shifting his other hand to caress the king's sable hair in blessing.

“But I wanted to,” Rhys Michael murmured, looking up at him. “I give you this salute as a token of my gratitude. You've given me back my balance, so that I can go out and do what I must, as an anointed king. I'd almost lost that, after years of going through the motions with priests I detest, whose sins are in their hearts and on their lips, and whose hands are stained with innocent blood. Thank you for reminding me that it doesn't have to be that way.”

“My dear, dear boy,” Derfel murmured.

Another, more insistent rap at the door impelled him to draw the king to his feet again, this time urging him to go.

“Be off wi' ye now, Sire. I'll see to the arrangements. God be with ye.”

Rhys Michael was blinking back tears as he made his way back to the door, and he had to pause for a few seconds to compose himself. Stevanus said nothing as he came out, obviously reassured by Cathan, but the king decided it was probably best to offer at least a partial explanation for his long absence. As soon as they had gotten clear of the chapel, where men were already closing the slabs above Sudrey's grave, he glanced at the surgeon.

“I was only going to thank him for the Mass, but he'd noticed that I didn't go forward for Communion,” he told Stevanus, as they went into the courtyard to cross to the great hall steps. “I told him I'd already broken my fast, so I could take my painkiller, but he said that was medicinal, under the circumstances, so it didn't count. I didn't think you'd mind the short delay.”

“That was very kind of him,” Stevanus said. “I shouldn't think even Rhun will mind—but we do need to hurry.” He reached out to touch the king's hand, then his forehead. “That fever doesn't seem to be abating, though. Are you up to this court? I could have Lord Rhun deputize for you.”

“No, I want to do it,” the king said. “After coming all this way and costing them their lord and lady, it's the least I can do for Eastmarch. I'm also very hungry, so don't try to send me off to bed until I've had a crack at the food they've been cooking for two days.”

He was
not
hungry, but he knew he must establish from the start that he intended to perform his duties. He was feeling more and more light-headed, perhaps partially from the wine, but it was essential that he get through this, both for the reasons he had outlined to Stevanus and for the ones Stevanus must never know. He hoped he would feel better, once he had eaten. As it was, the smell of the food made him faintly nauseated as they approached the steps to the castle's hall.

The party to be invested were already assembled in the yard outside, Stacia and her husband waiting with half a dozen of their retainers. An adolescent girl in border tweeds held the infant Kennet, and two younger girls carried cushions bearing hammered silver circlets. Earl Sighere was husbanding a banner of the arms of Eastmarch in the crook of his arm, looking impatient, and his son Sean bore a sheathed broadsword with the sword belt wrapped around the scabbard—presumably the former property of Hrorik.