High Deryni (15 page)

As the man reached for his elbow, Morgan's hand instinctively moved toward the hilt of his sword, and he stepped back. The movement was sufficient to swirl the robes closer around the sheathed blade, silhouetting it beneath the cloth, and to show the toe of a riding boot instead of the sandals that should have gone with monastic attire.

Several of the soldiers gave a concerted gasp as the implication registered, and then they were rushing to grab Morgan's arms, pinning him against the wall and entangling his sword arm. He was aware that Duncan, too, was under assault; and then someone got a grip on the shoulder of his robe and yanked until the fabric parted with a muffled, ripping sound. Morgan's hair gleamed like a sleek golden helmet as the cowl fell away.

“God in Heaven, this is no monk!” one of the soldiers gasped, recoiling involuntarily from the impact of the cold gray eyes.

Even as Morgan was borne to the floor by the massed weight of five or six bodies, he continued to struggle, almost throwing off their restraints at one point. But then he was pinned, helpless, swords leveled at throat and side, one blade pressing dangerously hard against his jugular.

Abruptly he stopped fighting and let them disarm him, biting his lip as they removed even the stiletto in its slim wrist sheath. As they pulled away the black robes and discovered the mail beneath his riding leathers, he forced himself to relax, hoping to allay any senseless brutality. His captors appeared to appreciate the cooperation, for they merely consolidated their hold on him, one man sitting on each of his limbs while a fifth continued to hold a dagger to his throat. He decided against trying to raise his head to see what had happened to Duncan. He dared not risk getting his throat cut before he could talk his way out of this mess.

The guard officer straightened, breathing hard, and sheathed his sword in disgust as he glared down at the two prisoners.

“Who are you? Assassins?” He prodded Morgan in the ribs with the toe of his boot, none too gently. “What's your name?”

“My name is for the bishops only,” Morgan said softly, staring up at the ceiling and forcing himself to remain calm.

“Oh, it is, is it? Selden, search him. Davis, what about the other one?”

“Nothing to identify him, sir,” a guard replied from Duncan's side.

“Selden?”

Selden fumbled with the pouch at Morgan's belt, then opened it and extracted a number of small gold and silver coins and a small doeskin bag with drawstrings. The bag was heavy in his hand as he lifted it from the pouch, and the guard officer saw something change in his captive's face as the guard handed it up.

“Something more important than gold, isn't it?” the officer guessed shrewdly, loosening the ties and opening the bag.

Two golden rings tumbled out into his hand as he turned the bag bottom-up. One was a heavy gold band set with an onyx, the black stone etched with the golden Lion of Gwynedd: the ring of the King's Champion. The other showed an emerald gryphon set in an onyx face: the seal of Alaric Morgan, Duke of Corwyn.

The man's eyes widened as he recognized the devices, his mouth going agape. Then he glanced down at his captive once more, squinting through the beard. A gasp escaped his lips as he recognized the man lying at his feet.

“Dear God, it's Morgan!” he whispered, his eyes going wider still.

“MORGAN!”

“My God! The Deryni among us!”

Several of the men crossed themselves furtively, and those holding the prisoners shrank back, but none of them loosened their holds.

Just then, one half of the double doors to the room opened, and a priest poked his head out. He took one look at the soldiers massed outside the doors, gasped as he saw the two men pinned spread-eagled on the floor among them, then ducked quickly back inside to return momentarily with a tall man in a violet cassock, with a silver pectoral cross gleaming on his breast. The face of the Bishop of Dhassa was calm and serene beneath the steel-gray hair as he, too, took in the scene with a glance, his pale eyes coming to rest at last on the officer of the guard.

“Who are these men?” Cardiel asked quietly. Gold and amethyst glinted as he rested his hand on the latch of the heavy door, and the guard officer swallowed nervously as he gestured toward his two prisoners.

“Th-these intruders, Your Excellency, they—”

Without further words, he came closer to extend a shaking hand holding the two rings he had taken from Morgan. Cardiel took the rings and inspected them, then glanced carefully at the two, who returned his gaze measure for measure. Then, abruptly, Cardiel turned inside to call, “Denis?” before stepping out into the corridor. Seconds later, Bishop Arilan appeared in the doorway, his face a study in control as he saw and recognized the two prisoners. Cardiel opened his hand to show the rings, but Arilan gave them only a perfunctory glance.

“Father McLain and Duke Alaric,” he said carefully. “I see that you have reached Dhassa at last.” He folded his arms across his chest, his bishop's ring flashing cold fire in the stillness. “Tell me, have you come to seek our blessings or our deaths?”

His face was stern, the deep blue-violet eyes cold, and yet there was something in his face that Duncan could read to be satisfaction rather than enmity, almost as though he were putting on an act for the benefit of the guards.

Clearing his throat, Duncan attempted to sit upright but almost had to give it up until Arilan signed for the guards to allow it. Duncan slowly drew himself to a sitting position on the corridor floor, two of the guards retaining control of his wrists and another continuing to pin his legs. They were taking no chances. Beside him, Morgan, too, was permitted to slowly wriggle upright, similarly restrained.

“Your Excellency, we crave your pardon for the manner of our coming,” Duncan said, “but we had to see you. We have come to give ourselves into your authority. If we have acted wrongly, either now or in the past, we beg to be shown our errors and forgiven. If we have been falsely accused, we hope for the opportunity to show that to you, also.”

Several of the guards looked at him sharply as the statement registered, but Arilan seemed implacable. His gaze shifted from Duncan to Morgan and back again. Then he turned and pushed the double doors apart, standing aside in the doorway to face the guards once more.

“Bring them inside and then leave us, please. Bishop Cardiel and I will hear what they have to say.”

“But, Your Excellency, these men are outlaws, dangerous, damned by your own decree. They destroyed Saint Torin's, they killed—”

“I know what they have done,” Arilan said, “and I am perfectly aware that they are outlaws. Now, do as I say. You may bind them, if it will ease your fears.”

“Very well, Excellency.”

As the soldiers gingerly pulled the two captives to their feet, several brought forth strips of rawhide and bound their hands tightly in front of them. Cardiel watched silently, following Arilan's lead as his colleague moved back into the room. The priest who had answered the door hurried to pull two heavy chairs away from the fireplace to face into the room. Then, as the guards ushered their prisoners into the room, nervously glancing at Arilan for guidance, the priest stole a covert look at Duncan. Father Hugh de Berry and Father Duncan McLain had been friends since boyhood, seminarians together, ordained on the same day; but he bowed his head in dismay, sick at heart, as Duncan glanced in his direction and attempted a smile of reassurance. Only God knew what the fates now had in store for the man he had thought he knew.

Arilan crossed briskly to one of the chairs and sat, waving dismissal to his secretary and the guards. Father Hugh started to withdraw immediately, but several of the guards hesitated around the doorway. Cardiel, who had lingered nearer the doors, reassured the men with the promise that they might remain on guard outside, and that he would call them if there was any need. He stood adamant until the last one had left the room, then closed the doors securely and locked them. As he took his place in the chair beside Arilan, the younger bishop made a bridge of his fingers and sat looking over them at the prisoners for a long time. Finally, he spoke.

“So, Duncan, you have come back to us. When you left our service to become the King's Confessor, we lost an able assistant. Now it appears that your career has gone in directions neither of us dreamed.”

Duncan bowed his head uncomfortably, well aware of the formal phrasing in Arilan's “we” and “us.” The bishop's statement had been relatively neutral, but its deeper meaning could be read in many ways, some of them not at all hopeful. Duncan would need to tread very carefully, indeed, until he ascertained just where the bishop's sympathies lay. For now, his demeanor was stern. Duncan glanced at Morgan and knew that his cousin was waiting for him to speak.

“I am sorry if I have disappointed you, Excellency,” he murmured. “I hope to offer an explanation that will at least meet with your understanding. In time, I dare to hope for your forgiveness.”

“That remains to be seen. We are in accord on the reasons for your coming, though, are we not?”

Morgan cleared his throat. “Excellency, we were under the impression that the king would be in contact with you, and that he would have advised you of the reasons for our coming.”

“He has,” Arilan agreed. “However, I had hoped to hear confirmation of those reasons from you. It is your intent, is it not, to attempt to clear your names of the charges levied by the Curia this spring and to seek absolution from the excommunication which was laid upon you at that time?”

“That is our intent, Excellency,” Duncan murmured, sinking to his knees and bowing his head once more. Morgan, with a glance at his cousin, followed suit.

“Good. Then we understand one another. I think it would be well if Bishop Cardiel and I heard your individual accounts of what happened at Saint Torin's, each separately.” Arilan rose. “My Lord Alaric, if you will come with me, we shall leave Bishop Cardiel and Father McLain to the privacy of this room. This way, if you please.”

With a glance at Duncan, Morgan rose from his knees and followed Arilan through a small doorway to the left. Beyond the door was a small anteroom, its walls pierced only by a single leaded glass window rather high up. A rack of candles burned on a writing table against the wall with the window, and a straight-backed chair stood before the table.

Arilan pulled the chair away from the table and turned it around, then sat, motioning for Morgan to close the door. Morgan obeyed, then turned to stand awkwardly before the bishop. There was a low bench not far from Arilan's chair, against the opposite wall, but Morgan was not invited to sit and did not dare to presume.

Carefully veiling his apprehension, he dropped to one knee at Arilan's feet and bowed his golden head, resting his bound wrists across his upraised knee. He searched briefly for the right words with which to begin, then raised his eyes to Arilan's. Gray eyes met blue-violet ones in a steady, even gaze.

“Is this to be a formal confession, Excellency?”

“Only if you wish it,” Arilan replied with a slight smile, “and I suspect that you do not. But I must have your leave to discuss what you tell me with Cardiel. Will you release me thus far from the seal of the confessional?”

“For Cardiel, yes. There is no longer any secret to what we did, since all now know us to be Deryni. But I may have to tell you things which are best kept private from most.”

“That is understood. What of the other bishops? How much may I tell them, should such telling become necessary?”

Morgan lowered his eyes. “I must trust your discretion in that matter, Excellency. Since I must make my peace with all of you, I am hardly in a position to dictate terms. You may tell them as you see fit.”

“Thank you.”

Arilan's pause became an awkward silence, and Morgan realized that he was expected to begin. He wet his lips nervously, painfully aware how much depended upon what he said in the next minutes.

“I beg you to bear with me, Excellency,” he murmured. “This is very difficult for me. The last time I knelt in confession, it was at the feet of one who had sworn to slay me. Warin de Grey held me captive beneath Saint Torin's, and Monsignor Gorony with him. There I was forced to begin a similar recitation of sins which I did not commit.”

“No one forced you to come here, Alaric.”

“No.”

Arilan waited for a moment, then sighed. “Am I meant to infer, then, that you claim to be innocent of all the charges brought against you in the Curia?”

Morgan shook his head. “No, Excellency. I fear that we did do most of the things of which Gorony accused us. What I wish to clarify is why we did the things we did, and to ask whether, in your judgment, we could have done any differently, if we hoped to survive the trickery prepared for us.”

“Trickery?” Arilan made a steeple of his forefingers and rested them lightly against his lips. “Suppose you tell me about trickery, then, Alaric. I understand that a trap was set. Tell me about it.”

Morgan stole a fleeting glance at Arilan but realized that he could not meet those eyes if he hoped to recount the Saint Torin affair accurately. With a deep sigh, he lowered his gaze. When he began to speak, his voice was very low, and Arilan had to lean closer to hear what he said.

“We were on our way to plead with the Curia not to lower the Interdict,” Morgan said. He raised his eyes as far as Arilan's chest and held them fixed there on the center of the cross the prelate wore. “We were convinced, as we still are, that the Interdict was wrong—as you and your colleagues here at Dhassa apparently have since decided as well. We hoped that if we appeared before the Curia, we might be able to reason with you, to at least take the burden of your wrath upon ourselves instead of letting it fall on my people.”

His voice assumed a hollow tone as he prepared to let the memory of his ordeal surface in all its detail.

“Our way lay through Saint Torin's, through the shrine as any other pilgrims—for even then, I was suspect, and could not officially enter Dhassa as Duke of Corwyn without Bishop Cardiel's permission. I knew that he would never dare to give that permission with the Curia in full session here.”

“You misjudge him, but go on,” Arilan murmured.

Morgan swallowed and continued. “After Duncan had visited the shrine and returned, I went in. There was merasha on a needle on the gate. Do you know what that is, Bishop?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” Morgan whispered. “That will make this somewhat easier. I—I scratched my hand on the gate, and the drug overcame me. I passed out—and when I came to my senses, I was in the hands of Warin de Grey and a dozen or so of his men. With him was Monsignor Gorony. They told me that the bishops had decided to give me to Warin, if he could capture me, and that Gorony had been sent only to lend some semblance of legitimacy to the act—to minister to my soul, should I choose to acknowledge my ‘sins' and seek absolution.

“They—were going to burn me, Excellency,” Morgan said haltingly, hardly able to force out the words. “They had the stake all ready for me…and the chains. They never had any intention of letting me clear myself. I—I didn't know that at the time, however.” He paused to wet his lips again, to swallow painfully.

“They—questioned me; the substance of that interrogation is mostly a blur. Finally, Warin decided that it was time to kill me. I was helpless in his power; I could barely stay conscious, much less use my powers to protect myself.

“And then he said that I had this one last, partial reprieve: that though my life was to be forfeit, I was to be permitted to at least try to redeem my soul by confessing to Gorony. The only clear thought I remember in that instant of desperation was that I must stall for time, that if only I could stay alive long enough, Duncan would surely find me. So I—I…”

“And so you knelt to Gorony,” Arilan supplied.

Morgan closed his eyes and nodded painfully as he remembered. “And would have confessed to almost anything to keep death at bay, was ready to invent sins to prolong the time until…”

“I quite understand,” Arilan said softly. “What did you tell him?”

Morgan shook his head. “I had time for nothing. At that moment, God must have heard my prayers. Duncan came hurtling down through an opening in the ceiling, and his sword cut a swath of death through that place.”

IN
the next room, Bishop Thomas Cardiel sat stiffly in a window seat, Duncan kneeling at his feet. Duncan, though his wrists were bound, had laced his fingers together in an attitude of prayer, his hands resting lightly on the cushion of the seat beside Cardiel. Duncan's head was slightly bowed, but his voice was steady. Cardiel's gray eyes were focused incredulously on the top of his head as he listened to Duncan's tale.