The King's Deryni (56 page)

“Does he wish the coup?” Brion asked. “Senseless, for him to suffer this way.”

“He hasn't asked yet, my lord.”

But he was asking now, Alaric had no doubt. He watched as the young man fumbled his hand into Jiri's and pulled him close for a gasping, whispered exchange. He could see Jiri nodding and reaching with his free hand for the dagger in the small of his back, keeping it close against his leg as he and Kennet continued to converse.

“Take this and help his lordship,” the surgeon murmured, pressing a basin into Alaric's hands. “This place is bloody enough already.”

Alaric glanced at the king, question in his eyes, but Brion only nodded, “Do it,” then turned to leave with his entourage.

Heart pounding, Alaric knelt beside Jiri and, at his gesture, pressed the basin in the angle of the dying man's shoulder. Young Kennet closed his eyes, lips moving in prayer, but Alaric still flinched at the gush of hot blood that sprang from beneath Jiri's blade and frothed into the bowl, instinctively cupping his one hand over the wound to keep most of the blood in the bowl as he bent closer. In that instant of hard contact against Kennet's neck, he could sense the dying man's surge of fear. Instinctively he found himself reaching out with his mind to ease him on his way.

“Courage,” he whispered, bending closer. “It will soon be over. Let go and let it happen. Go with God. . . .”

After, as he and Jiri washed the blood from their hands in the new basin the surgeon's assistant brought, Jiri eyed him thoughtfully and nodded. “You did well, lad. Your first time?”

Alaric nodded.

“Even better, then. I'm afraid it doesn't get easier, but you do learn to endure it.” Jiri glanced down at the motionless form now shrouded under a blanket. “It's harder when they're so young. But he's at peace now.”

He wiped his hands dry on a rough piece of toweling, then handed it to Alaric. “We'd best go find the king. I think he means to deal with the rest of this today.”

“You mean, the Earl of Eastmarch?” Alaric said.

“Aye.”

•   •   •

T
HEY
found Brion and his brother seated on camp stools in the main tent, conferring with the Duke of Claibourne and the Earl of Marley, along with Arban Howell and several of his captains. Saer, assigned as Nigel's squire, stood to his back. A sharp-faced young man in battle leathers stood behind Arban, a familial resemblance suggesting that he might be Arban's son.

“Ewan tells me that this is mostly your victory, Sir Arban,” the king said, as Jiri and Alaric took up places behind him and Nigel. “Is it your opinion that we should execute the ringleaders?”

Arban Howell glanced briefly at his dusty boots, apparently somewhat surprised to have a duke defer to him, but his voice was resolute as he met the king's gaze again. “My cousin betrayed his fealty to you, my lord, and persuaded others to join him in treason. For that, he deserves to die. The penalty the law requires is that he be hanged, drawn, and quartered.”

“I do not question the law,” the king replied, and turned aside to Jiri. “Is the boy dead?”

Jiri inclined his head. “Aye, Sire. He asked for the coup, and I gave it.”

“Then, the direct line ends with Rorik.” Brion considered briefly, then rose, the others hastily following suit. “Very well, let's be done with it,” he said. “Summon your officers and as many of the Eastmarch captains as may be assembled before this tent. Such trial as Rorik Howell may merit will be carried out before his men.”

Half an hour later, in the long, late summer twilight, Brion emerged to a clear space before the command tent where camp stools had been set for himself and Nigel, Duke Ewan, Earl Ryan, and Arban Howell, whose squire now stood behind his seat. In the interval, Alaric had learned that he was, indeed, Arban's son and heir, called Ian. Jiri and a pair of lancers stood behind the king's chair with folded arms. Lord Lester had gone to see to the troops.

Alaric, for his part, was charged with holding the sheathed Haldane sword to the left of the king. Brion had thrown on a dusty crimson mantle over his battle harness, and Alaric had tidied the king's battle braid before setting in place a leather band studded with cabochon garnets: practical diadem for travel. At not quite four-and-twenty, Brion Haldane looked every inch the warrior-king.

As the king and his lords took their seats, about a dozen Eastmarch men were chivvied before them and made to kneel. At Brion's nod, the defeated Earl of Eastmarch also was brought before him, hands bound behind, and likewise made to kneel, to a murmur of consternation from among his men. Brion fixed all of them with his scrutiny, silence settling over the gathering as he surveyed them, then turned his gaze on Earl Rorik.

“Sir Jiri, please remind this assembly of the penalty for high treason against the Crown.”

“My Liege,” Jiri said slowly, the title underlining just what Rorik had transgressed, “the penalty for high treason is death: to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. More specifically, the condemned is to be hanged to the point of unconsciousness, then cut down and revived, his entrails drawn from his body while still living, the body then to be beheaded and hacked into four pieces, all of these to be displayed at the king's pleasure, in a place or places of his choosing.”

A faint murmur of dismay had rippled through the assembled listeners during Jiri's recitation, and Rorik himself had gone a little pale, jaw hard clenched, though he lifted his head bravely.

“I have but one question, my lord,” he said quietly. “What has happened to my son?”

“Your son has died,” Brion said starkly. Although Alaric's hands tightened slightly on the scabbard of the Haldane sword, he decided that the king also had granted Rorik a small mercy, not to specify just how Kennet Howell had died.

Even so, Kennet's father briefly closed his eyes, ducking his head, then lifted his gaze to the king once more. “Then, I have no reason to continue living. I commend me to God's mercy, for I know that I can expect none from this court.”

Brion let out a measuring breath, then rose and reached his right hand across toward Alaric, taking the hilt of the Haldane sword to draw it from its scabbard. As the blade emerged, the ruddy sky of a dying day glinted red fire along the blade, gleaming as he reversed the weapon to let its tip rest on the packed earth beneath his feet.

“Rorik Howell Earl of Eastmarch, for that you have forsworn your oaths of fealty to our person and our Crown, and have risen against us in treasonous rebellion, and have attempted to take by force the lands of another, and thereby caused the deaths of many innocents; so, therefore, do we, Brion Cinhil Rhys Anthony Haldane King of Gwynedd, sentence you to die for the crime of treason, the penalty for which is to be hanged, cut down while still alive, your entrails drawn from your body, and your body then to be quartered.

“This is the just sentence prescribed by law, witnessed by your peers and henchmen here present.”

Rorik had blanched as the sentence was pronounced, despite his earlier defiance. Brion stared at him for a moment, then shifted his gaze back across the kneeling Eastmarch men.

“This is the just sentence, prescribed by the law,” he said. “But I desire to be known as a merciful king as well as a just one. I therefore direct that the said Rorik Howell Earl of Eastmarch shall be hanged by the neck until dead. Only then will the remainder of the sentence be carried out.” He cast a cool glance at the surprised Rorik. “Ordinarily, a silken rope is specified for the execution of an earl, but my urgency in coming here to relieve the good people of Marley did not permit me that luxury.” He glanced back at one of his lancer guards. “Over there, I think,” he said, with a jerk of his chin in the direction of a nearby grove of sturdy oaks. “Take him.”

The stunned Rorik was immediately dragged to his feet and hustled back through the assembled men, his warders heading him toward the indicated trees, where other lancers were bringing up a horse and tossing a rope over a high tree limb. At the same time, Brion cocked the Haldane sword over his shoulder and began to head toward the execution site. Jiri and Alaric fell in behind him, his other noble companions accompanying them.

Meanwhile, some of Arban's men chivvied the kneeling Eastmarch men to their feet, to stand and watch as Rorik was briefly allowed to bow his head before a black-clad priest for blessing. The king and his party halted a dozen paces from the execution site. As the condemned man then was lifted onto the horse and the noose dropped around his neck and drawn tight, Alaric swallowed down a queasy churning in his stomach, for he had never witnessed an execution by hanging.

“Steady, lad,” Jiri murmured from the side of his mouth, for Alaric's ears only. “It won't be as bad as a burning.”

Alaric tried to keep reminding himself of that, as the rope was adjusted and tied off, and the lancer holding the horse's bridle glanced at the king. He had been told about the involuntary reflexes that took over with a man's sudden death, the voiding of bladder and bowels, but mere words were different from actually seeing it. He tried not to grimace as execution was carried out, and decided that Kennet Howell's death had been far easier than his sire's.

“You all right, son?” Jiri murmured close beside his ear.

Alaric dipped his head minutely in a nod. “Aye, sir.”

“Good lad.”

They returned then to the stools before the command tent, where the king handed his sword to Nigel and then drew Alaric with him inside as the others again assembled.

“I'm about to do something that I hope I won't regret,” Brion said in a low voice. “I still haven't dealt with Rorik's captains, but I first want to make Arban Howell the new Earl of Eastmarch. That part will be fine. I am more concerned about the captains.” He cast a wary glance back out the tent flap, then returned his attention to Alaric.

“This is asking a great deal of you, but I understand that, some years ago, your late uncle, Lord Ahern, performed a great service for my father, by standing at his side while formerly rebellious subjects in Meara re-swore their oaths of fealty. Ahern was Deryni, of course, and used his ability to Truth-Read, to ensure that those swearing intended to keep their oaths in the future. Can you do that for me, with the Eastmarch captains? I really don't want to execute them, if I can avoid it. There's been enough of death in this place.”

Alaric's jaw had dropped as the king's intentions became clear, and he swallowed with difficulty against a suddenly dry throat.

“You want me to Read so many, all at once?”

Brion snorted. “No, just one at a time. But I think the mere threat of a Deryni standing at my elbow will probably be sufficient. And I do think you'd detect at least any overt bad intention. I know it's best if you can touch them, but they don't necessarily know that. And I have a little of the ability, so you won't be alone. Between us, we should be able to spot at least the worst of them.”

Alaric slowly nodded. It was a gamble, but he knew that the king was, indeed, said to be able to Truth-Read, to some extent. And a convincing performance of his own should give him greatly enhanced credibility for the future.

“I'll do my best, Sire,” he said with rather more confidence than he actually felt. “Do what you must do, and I shall follow your lead.”

With a curt nod, Brion led the way through the tent flap and took back his sword from Nigel, cocking it over his shoulder. The others had risen at his return, and the Eastmarch captains again knelt before the tent.

“Lord Arban, please attend us,” the king said, taking his place before his stool.

Arban glanced uncertainly at Duke Ewan, Earl Ryan, and even Prince Nigel in question, but they looked as mystified as he. Stepping before the king, Arban immediately sank to one knee, looking up a little nervously. His son stood uneasily behind his father's empty stool.

“Sire?”

“Arban Howell Baron of Iomaire. We find that we are in need of a new Earl of Eastmarch,” Brion said formally. “Will you accept this office from our hand, and do us homage for the lands of Eastmarch?”

A pleased expression came over Arban's handsome face, and a murmur of approval whispered among the men behind him. “Sire, I do and I will!”

Smiling faintly, Brion lifted the Haldane sword to bring the flat of the blade down lightly on Arban's right shoulder. “Then we, Brion, King of Gwynedd and Lord of the Purple March, do create you Earl of Eastmarch, and lord of all its lands and folk, for yourself and your heirs.” The sword lifted to arch to the left shoulder. “We confer on you all the rights, privileges, and responsibilities thereunto pertaining.” He lifted the sword and handed it off to Alaric to be sheathed. “Will you now do homage for your lands, Arban Howell Earl of Eastmarch?”

At once Arban lifted his joined hands to set them between the king's, his voice steady as he swore the oath.

“I, Arban, do enter your homage and become your liege man for Eastmarch. Faith and truth will I bear unto you, to live and to die, against all manner of folk, so help me God.”

“And I receive your homage, Arban Howell Earl of Eastmarch, and pledge you my loyalty and protection for so long as you keep faith with me.”

So saying, the king released his hands and cast a speaking glance toward Ewan and Ryan. “Does one of you have the Eastmarch signet, I hope?”

Earl Ryan hastily rummaged in his belt pouch to produce the ring, taken from Rorik Howell at his capture. This Brion placed on Arban's left forefinger.

“Receive this ring as a seal of fidelity to the oaths you have sworn, and a symbol of your authority. And next, as I recall, I would invest you with the coronet, but you'll have to sort that out when you actually take possession of your lands.” He smiled as he raised Arban up and embraced him briefly, then stepped back so that Ryan and then Ewan and Nigel could likewise congratulate the new earl, pounding him on the back in approval.