Camber of Culdi (33 page)

“Your Grace, is anything wrong?”

“I'm feeling rather ill,” the archbishop said weakly. “Would you please ask Bishop Roland to take my place at Mass tonight?”

“The Midnight Mass? Why, certainly, Your Grace, but—is there anything I can do for you? May I send for the apothecary or a Healer to attend you?”

“No, that won't be necessary,” Anscom murmured, lying back on the bed and giving a pained sigh. “Something I ate, I have no doubt. I shall meditate, and try to sleep. It will pass by morning.”

“Very well, Your Grace,” the priest said doubtfully. “If you're sure—”

“I'm sure, Father. Please go now, and on no account am I to be disturbed. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

No sooner had the door closed behind the priest than Anscom was leaping out of bed to draw back the curtains of the oratory doorway.

Camber chuckled at the look on the Archbishop's face. “Does this remind you of the pranks two young subdeacons played at Grecotha? Though, I'll warrant, neither you nor I ever handled a subterfuge with better wit or finesse in those days.”

“Humph! I would hope that we had improved since then,” Anscom rumbled. “What next?”

“Your nearest Transfer Portal.”

“You're standing in front of it,” Anscom replied, pushing Camber back a few steps farther into the oratory and taking his place beside him. “What do you want me to do?”

“Just open your mind to me and let me take you through. I promise to give you the background information as soon as we're there.”

“And also ensure that I can't figure out where we've gone.” Anscom snorted with a slight smile, folding his arms across his chest. “Go ahead. I understand why you have to do it that way. I just want you to remember,” he said, closing his eyes, “that I see right through you, Camber MacRorie.”

“And so you always did, my friend.” Camber grinned and laid his hands on either side of Anscom's head from behind. “Open to me now …”

And they were gone.

And standing in another Portal, in another place.

Anscom opened his eyes, stunned, and turned to stare at Camber incredulously.

“You can't be serious,” he whispered. “A Haldane heir
here?
It was the Haldane that was stolen out of Saint Foillan's? Camber, you're mad! It can't possibly succeed!”

“There are a great many who don't agree,” Camber said quietly. “Even our Haldane himself is beginning to believe that it's possible and desirable. Unfortunately, his moral scruples are interfering a bit with his dynastic duties. Your sanction of his cause would be the seal of approval which he needs.”

“You want me to give him my blessing?”

“I want you to acknowledge the legitimacy of his descent, to declare him a lawful Prince of Gwynedd, to release him from his vows, and to marry him to my ward—tonight. Will you do that for me?”

“What you're asking—”

“I know what I'm asking. If you cannot find it in your conscience to do it, then I'll release you, as I promised. We'll just have to make do with Father Cullen.”

“Alister Cullen, the Vicar General of the Michaelines? He's here?”

Camber nodded. “And has been with us almost from the beginning, though it was Rhys who discovered the first clue to the prince. Cullen can do what I've asked you to do, but it won't carry the same weight.”

Anscom drew himself to his full height and looked across at Camber indignantly, his craggy face a mask of resentment. “I forbid Alister Cullen to do those things. If they're to be done,
I
will do them.”

“And will they be done?” Camber asked, controlling a smile and suspecting that he was about to net his quarry securely in the snare of sacerdotal jealousy.

“It is the prerogative of the Archbishop of Valoret,” Anscom intoned, “to acknowledge the royal succession, to perform royal marriages, and to crown the kings of Gwynedd. While it is impossible to do the last tonight, I shall certainly perform the first two!”

“Good,” Camber said simply. He turned away so that Anscom could not see the grin of triumph on his face. “If you'll come with me, I'll introduce you to our reluctant bridegroom and prince.”

And the intended bridegroom was, at that moment, still reluctant.

“Father Joram, I beseech you, do not let them do this. I cannot go through with the marriage. I will be forsworn.”

Joram, partially vested for his role as deacon later on, folded his hands and prayed for patience.

“Your Highness, believe me, I understand your hesitation—”

“My hesitation?” Cinhil shook his head and began pacing again, the silver tissue-cloth of his wedding garments rustling with his agitation. “Nay, my refusal. It is all well and good for you to promise that Father Cullen will release me from my vows. But I did not make my vows to him, or even to his order. I made them to the Vicar General of the
Ordo Verbi Dei
, and to God. The archbishop himself could not—”

“Suppose we allow the archbishop to speak for himself, Your Highness,” Camber said, entering the room with a man whom Cinhil had never seen. “May I present His Grace, the Archbishop of Valoret, Anscom of Trevas. Your Grace, His Royal Highness, Prince Cinhil Donal Ifor Haldane.”

Cinhil had whirled, alarmed, at Camber's first words, and now stared with blank amazement at the gaunt, purple-cassocked man at Camber's elbow. The man introduced as Archbishop Anscom gazed sympathetically at the startled prince and made a slight bow before extending the ring of his office. Cinhil's resolve crumbled at that, and stifling a sob he seized Anscom's hand and dropped to both knees, pressing the ringed hand first to his lips and then to his bowed head as he collapsed at the feet of his superior.

“Help me, I beg you, Your Grace!” he choked. “I cannot do it! They say I must forsake my vows and return to the world. I am afraid, Father. I do not know the world!”

In compassion, Anscom laid his free hand on Cinhil's head, signed with his eyes for the others to leave them alone.

“I understand your fear, my son,” he murmured, when they had gone. “I grieve with you that such a cup must be placed before you. But these are grievous times in which we live, and all of us must make sacrifices.”

Cinhil looked up at that, his wide eyes abrim with tears. “Are—are you telling me that I must obey them? That I must forsake my vows, as they ask, and take up this crown that they would thrust upon me?”

“It is not always an easy thing to walk the path which has been chosen for us, Cinhil,” Anscom said gently. “But we who strive to serve the true path, to listen to the will of God, must realize that we cannot hope to comprehend all which the Creator has laid out for us. You can do a great service for Our Lord, and for all His people, if you will take up this cross and bear it faithfully for Him.”

“But I have given Him my life already! I have served Him these twenty years and more, and would gladly have given the rest of it for—”

“I know, my son,” Anscom nodded. “You have served Him, and well. But now He demands a different kind of sacrifice. All of us have things which we alone can do best; now He asks for that unique service which only you can give. It cannot be by accident that the Lord allowed one Haldane to survive until this troubled time, waiting in safety and love until His will might be fulfilled.”

There was a spark of defiance in Cinhil's eyes as he searched Anscom's gaunt face. “You're telling me, then, that I have no choice in the matter? That my fate is bound to Camber's futile cause?”

Anscom shook his head. “Not Camber's cause only, my son. And ‘futile' only if you choose it to be so. Nor are you bound by other than your knowledge of God's will. He has called, and clearly; and the power to disregard His call is in your hands. But if you make that decision, the lives of many thousands of His people will be upon your head. The choice is yours; but you must also bear the consequences.”

“Your Grace, how can you do this to me?” Cinhil whispered. “You are no better than they, playing on my emotions like a master lutenist, knowing exactly which strings will tug most insistently at my heart and mind. It isn't fair …”

“In your eyes, no,” Anscom agreed. “But we are only mortal, Cinhil. We can only listen to that silent voice within, and remember that we shall have to live with the consequences of whatever we do, at least for the remainder of our allotted time here on earth. My conscience is clear, my son. Is yours?”

Cinhil could make no answer to that. Sinking back on his heels, he buried his face in his hands and wept silent, bitter tears for the road which now unrolled before him, and which he knew he could not choose to refuse.

The archbishop, a shrewd judge of men, finally knelt down beside the prince and laid gentle hands on his shoulders, holding the sobbing man close and letting him weep.

After a while, they prayed.

Half an hour before midnight, two women sitting in the listening gallery above the haven's chapel peered repeatedly through the viewing slits as they waited for the hour to arrive. Below, most of the inhabitants of the haven had gathered in the chapel—MacRories and priests and Michaeline knights—and the chapel itself shimmered with the light of many candles. Racks of holly-twined candelabra had been set along the faceted walls, throwing gay shadow-shapes among the ribs and columns of the shallow vaulting, glinting gold and amber on the altar plate. A rectangle of precious Kheldish carpet had been laid at the foot of the altar steps, where the ceremonies of recognition and marriage would take place.

In anticipation of the first Mass of Christmas (and, all hoped, the promised royal wedding), the altar had been dressed with evergreen boughs and the best altar linens which the haven could provide. There was an air of uncertainty, a hushed anticipation, as all waited for midnight and the coming of their king. The bride, at least, was present, though nerves were wearing more than a little thin.

Megan de Cameron, ward of the Earl of Culdi and soon to be Princess of Gwynedd, had borne up bravely following her lone encounter with her intended, but now fatigue and tension were beginning to take their toll. She was flushed with excitement and had not been able to eat since her arrival that afternoon. Evaine had tried to assure her that all would be well, but such attempts fell on deaf ears. She suspected that Megan would probably be just as nervous, even were the situation not charged with so much uncertainty.

All things considered, Evaine wondered how Megan and Cinhil would suit if the marriage did take place—and right now, there appeared to be no guarantee that it would. Rhys had told her of Cinhil's mood when he and Joram went to prepare him for the ceremonies, and of Archbishop Anscom's unexpected arrival. She wondered whether Anscom had been successful. According to Megan, the prince had not even looked at her when she tried to speak with him.

That was bothering Megan most, Evaine knew. And from as objective a point of view as she could manage under the circumstances, that was Cinhil's loss: Megan was beautiful. Of medium height, willow slender, with wide turquoise eyes spiced by a spray of freckles across the slightly tip-tilted nose, Megan even moved with an unaffected grace—an unspoiled girl-woman with, perhaps, just the right combination of guile and innocence to appeal to the shy and conscience-stricken Cinhil. She was gowned in silver tissue, as befitted a princess, her wheaten hair caught up in shining coils beneath the crown of holly and rosemary. Truly a vision to turn a prince's fancy—at least an ordinary prince. The question was, could she turn the head of a prince who wanted to be a priest?

The vision glanced at Evaine and twisted a fold of silver tissue between shaking fingers.

“Oh, what's the use?” she whispered. “He does not need me. He—he does not even wish to marry at all, and I—I fear I do not please him.”

“Give him time, Megan,” Evaine said, laying a reassuring hand on the younger girl's arm. “He is as afraid as you are—more afraid, for he had never thought to marry, and you”—she touched the girl's nose impishly—“you have been the object of men's devotion almost from birth, beginning with your father, God rest his soul, and not ending with mine. For you, it was never a question of whether you would marry, but when, and to whom.”

“But, he said—he said that the marriage was only for dynastic purposes, and that I should be nought but a royal b—broodmare,” she stammered, her eyes reflecting her hurt.

“He said
what?”

Evaine tried to keep the shock and anger from her voice, unsuccessfully, and wished she could take Cinhil by the shoulders and give him a good shaking, prince or not.

“Oh, I don't think he meant to hurt me,” Megan added quickly. “He was lashing out at all his own hurt of the past few weeks. It can't have been easy for him.”

“No, it has not.”

“And I know what it will cost him to take me to wife,” Megan continued softly. “For his own sake, I wish I might spare him, but for all our sakes, I dare not. If it were not to me, then it would be to some other maid he must be wed. Even I understand that.”

She sighed resignedly, and Evaine studied her carefully for several seconds.

“I think you love him already,” she finally said, not moving as Megan's head snapped up to stare at her. “You do, don't you?”

Megan nodded miserably, and Evaine returned a gentle smile.

“I know. It's difficult, isn't it, to love and not be loved in return? God grant his love will grow.”

“Easy enough for you to say, who have Lord Rhys who loves you dearly,” Megan whispered. “I shall have only a crown, and perhaps not even that, if we fail.”

“And so, he needs you even more, don't you see?” Evaine answered. “He needs a gentle, loving wife—more than just a bedmate—who can comfort him when he is afraid and encourage him when he grows faint of heart. He is so much younger than you, Megan, in so many important ways, and he has such a heavy burden to bear. Do not make him bear it alone.”