High Deryni (17 page)

Cardiel was markedly silent and said little, which Morgan thought a bit strange when he remembered some of the brilliant letters that had come to Kelson from the man's pen in the past three months. The Dhassan bishop kept glancing at Arilan with a strange, questioning expression, which Morgan could not interpret: a look that sometimes raised the hackles on Morgan's neck, though he could not say just why.

Arilan, on the other hand, was now relaxed, witty, and seemingly unaffected by the gravity of the situation. He was also quick to point out, however, just before the four entered the room where the convocation waited, that the real dangers were only beginning. There were still half a dozen bishops in the chamber who must be convinced of the innocence and penitence of the two Deryni lords—and then the eleven grim men in Coroth. And all of this must be resolved before they could even think about any confrontation with Wencit of Torenth.

There were a few mild protests when the four entered the chamber. Siward had gasped; Gilbert had crossed himself furtively, his small, pig-eyes darting to his companions for support; and even the peppery old Wolfram de Blanet, staunchest opponent of the Interdict, had gone a little white. None of them had ever knowingly been in the presence of even one Deryni, much less two.

But they were reasonable men, these bishops of Gwynedd. And while not entirely convinced of the beneficence of Deryni in general, they were at least willing to concede that perhaps these particular Deryni had been more wronged than wronging. The excommunication must be lifted and absolution given, now that repentance had been shown.

The situation was by no means resolved with that decision. For, while the bishops at Dhassa were, for the most part, reasonably educated and sensible men, not overly given to superstition and certainly not inclined to hysteria, convincing the common folk would be quite another matter, and one which must be carefully considered. The average man had long harbored the belief that the Deryni were an accursed race, whose very presence in a place could bring ruin and death. And while Morgan had managed to keep a relatively neutral name while in the service of Brion and Kelson, and Duncan's reputation had been impeccable until the Saint Torin affair, these facts had been largely overshadowed in the greater knowledge that both men were Deryni.

For that reason, a more tangible affirmation must be offered to show that Morgan and Duncan had, indeed, mended their Deryni ways. So simple a measure as absolution and penance would not do for the common folk: the townspeople, soldiers, artisans, and craftsmen who make up and support an army. Their simple faith demanded a more exacting reconciliation, more substantial proof of the humility and repentance of the two Deryni lords. A public ceremony was called for, which would graphically demonstrate to the people that the bishops and the two Deryni were now in complete accord in the sight of Almighty God.

It would be nearly two days before final battle plans could be formalized; two days before the bishops' army could be ready to move out, in any case. Also, Morgan and Duncan had brought word that Kelson could not be at the planned rendezvous point before the end of the fourth day anyway. It took but two days to reach that point.

Taking all of that into account, the time for formal reconciliation had been set for the evening hours two nights hence, on the eve of departure for the meeting with the king. During those two days, the two Deryni would confer with the bishops and their highest military advisors and plan the strategy of the war to come. And Bishop Cardiel's monks would go out among the people and spread the word of Morgan and Duncan's surrender and subsequent repentance. The evening of the second day would see their official reception back into the Church, before as many of the army and citizenry as could crowd themselves into Dhassa's great cathedral. There, in a solemn display of episcopal authority, Morgan and Duncan would be taken back into the fold with all the pageantry the Church could muster. The people would approve.

TWO
days later, at the edge of the great Llyndruth Plain below Cardosa, Sean Lord Derry pulled off his helmet and wiped a tanned forearm across his brow. It was warm here at Llyndruth Meadows, the air already charged with the sticky heat of approaching summer. Derry's hair was damp where the helmet had matted it to his head, and his body itched between the shoulder blades beneath its leather and mail.

Restraining a sigh, Derry shrugged his shoulders to ease the itch and slung the helmet over his left arm by the chin strap. As he started back toward the clearing where he had left his horse tethered, he moved stealthily, treading as soundlessly as possible in the new spring grass. He had chosen this meadow return with care, for the footing among the trees was treacherous with the threat of snapping twigs and branches left from the long winter. To be captured now could mean a painful and lingering death at the hands of those who camped on the plain below.

Derry reviewed what he had learned as he worked his way in the direction of the thicket. Off to the east, the Rheljan Mountain Range reared its jagged peaks more than a mile above the plain, sheltering the walled city of Cardosa in the cut of the Cardosa Pass. Wencit of Torenth was there, or so men said. But to the west, Derry's right, the Llyndruth Plain stretched on for miles and miles. And just over the ridge behind him lay the massed armies of Bran Coris, the traitorous Earl of Marley, now the ally of that same Wencit of Torenth whose presence at Cardosa threatened the very existence of Gwynedd.

The picture taking shape in Derry's mind was not a pleasant one; nor could he expect it to improve in the near future. After leaving Morgan and Duncan two days earlier, Derry had headed northeast through the greening, boulder-strewn hills of northern Corwyn, making his way toward Rengarth and the supposed campsite of Duke Jared McLain and his army.

But there was no ducal army at Rengarth; only a handful of peasants who told him the army had gone north five days before. He rode on, and the gently rolling green of Corwyn slowly gave way to the bare, silent plains of Eastmarch. Instead of the expected army, he found only the aftermath of a terrible battle: terrified villagers huddled in the ruins of sacked and burned-out towns; the hacked bodies of men and horses lying unburied, rotting in the sun, the McLain tartan on their saddles dark with blood and gore; broken standards of red, blue, and silver trampled in the dusty, blood-drenched fields.

He questioned those of the villagers he could lure out of hiding. Yes, the duke's army had come this way. They had joined with another army that had seemed friendly at first. The two leaders had clasped arms across their saddles as the two armies met.

But then the carnage had begun. One man thought he had seen the green and yellow banner of Lord Macanter, a northern border lord who had often ridden with Ian Howell, late the Lord of Eastmarch. Another told of a preponderance of royal blue and white among the standards: the Earl of Marley's colors.

But whoever led the opposing army, the blue-and-whites fell upon the duke's men without mercy, cutting down the ducal army almost to the man, and taking captive those they did not slay. When the battle was over, some remembered black-and-white banners among the riders of the rear guard, and the leaping hart badge of the House of Furstán. Treachery was definitely afoot.

The trail of blood and death ended at Llyndruth Meadows. Derry had arrived at dawn to find the army of Bran Coris encamped in concentric circles around the mouth of the great Cardosa defile. He knew he should report what he saw and get out while he could, but he knew that there would be no chance to speak with Morgan by the prearranged Mind-Speaking until later tonight; and Derry might learn much more by then.

Discreet wandering among the outlying camps of the army revealed even more disturbing information. For apparently Bran Coris had switched his allegiance to Wencit of Torenth on the very eve of war, not more than a week ago, tempted and held by dark promises whose implications were too horrible to even contemplate. Even Bran's men grew uneasy when they talked about it,
if
they talked about it; though they, too, were lured by the promise of fame and fortune which Wencit seemed to offer.

Now, if only Derry could stay free long enough to tell Morgan tonight. If only he could last until a few hours after sunset, it would be a simple matter to slip into that strange Deryni sleep by which he and his lord could communicate even at this distance. The king must be told of Bran's treachery before it was too late. And something must be done to determine the fate of Duke Jared and the remnants of his army.

Derry had re-entered the trees and was almost to his horse when the faint crackle of a breaking twig put him on his guard. He froze and listened, hand creeping to the hilt of his broadsword, but heard nothing further. He had nearly decided that the sound had been nothing, that his taut nerves were playing tricks on him, when he heard a horse snort and shuffle its feet in the clearing ahead.

Could the animal have smelled him?

No, he was downwind of the thicket. The situation was showing all the signs of a trap.

A faint rustling sound repeated itself slightly to his left, and he was sure of the trap. But he could not hope to escape without a horse. He had to brazen it out. There lay his only chance.

Hand resting warily on sword hilt, he strode into the clearing ahead where his horse was tied, making no effort now to go quietly. As he had feared, there were soldiers there waiting for him: three of them. He rather expected that there were others that he could not see: perhaps even bowmen with feathered death aimed at his back right now. He must act as though he belonged here.

“Are you looking for something?” Derry asked, coming to a cautious halt a few yards inside the clearing.

“What's your regiment, soldier?” the foremost of the three men asked. His tone was casual and only faintly suspicious, but there was something vaguely menacing in the way his thumbs were thrust under his belt to either side. One of his companions, the shortest and heaviest of the three, was more openly hostile, and toyed with the hilt of his weapon as he glared across at Derry.

Derry put on one of his more innocent expressions and spread his arms in a wary gesture of conciliation, his helmet dangling by its leather chin strap.

“Why, the Fifth, of course,” he dared, guessing that there had to be at least eight horse-regiments in Bran's army. “What is this, anyway?”

“Wrong,” the third man glared, his hand also going to the sword at his belt as his eyes flicked over Derry's form. “The Fifth wears yellow buskins; yours are brown. Who's your commanding officer?”

“Now, gentlemen,” Derry soothed, edging his way backward and calculating the distance to his horse. “I don't want any trouble.”

“You've already got that, son,” the first man muttered, thumbs still hooked nonchalantly in his belt. “Now, are you going to come peacefully or not?”

“Not, I should think!”

Flinging his helmet into the face of the startled man, Derry whipped his sword from its scabbard and lunged forward, dispatching the short, fat soldier with his first deft thrust. Even as he wrenched his blade free, the two remaining guardsmen were shouting and attacking, leaping over the body of their slain comrade to charge him with drawn swords. He could hear shouts in the distance and knew that help was being summoned. He must get away
now
, or it would be too late.

He dropped momentarily to one knee and came up slashing with the dagger he had drawn from his boot top, raking the blade across the knuckles of one of his attackers. The man screamed and dropped his weapon, but Derry was beset by the fellow's partner and another pair of swordsmen before he could press the advantage. A glance hazarded over his shoulder revealed half a dozen more armed men approaching at a dead run, swords already drawn, and Derry cursed under his breath as he slashed his way to his horse's side.

He lashed out with the dagger and one booted heel as he tried to scramble to the horse's back, but someone had loosened the girth and the saddle went out from under him. Even as he flailed for balance, reaching hands were grabbing at him, pulling at clothes and hair, hooking into his belt to drag him from the saddle.

He felt a lancing pain in his right bicep as someone's dagger caught him, and his sword slid from fingers that were suddenly slippery with blood: his own. Then he was being borne to the ground under a crush of mailed bodies, his limbs pressed down spread-eagled against the new spring grass, the breath being choked out of him.

DERRY
winced and stifled a groan as rough hands rolled him to his back and began probing his wounded arm.

He had passed out briefly as the men manhandled him from his horse, regaining consciousness as he was half-dragged and half-carried to where he now lay on a patch of damp grass. Three armed soldiers pinned his limbs to the ground: three grim men in the harness of war, badged in the royal blue and white of the Earl of Marley.

One of the men held a dagger's blade casually at his captive's throat. A fourth man in the tunic of a field surgeon knelt by Derry's head, clucking to himself disapprovingly as he bared the wound and began to dress it. Derry's concentration brought a score of additional men into focus, standing watchfully around and staring down at him. With a sinking feeling, Derry realized that escape was now close to impossible.

When the surgeon finished binding up the wound, one of the standing guards pulled a length of rawhide from his belt and looped deft coils around Derry's wrists, securing them in front of him. After testing the bonds, he straightened and stared at the prisoner suspiciously, almost as though he recognized him, then disappeared from Derry's range of vision. Derry lifted his head and tried to orient himself as the men who had been holding him got to their feet and joined the watching circle.

He was back in the camp, lying partially in the shade of a low, brown leather tent. He did not recognize the specific place and did not expect to, since he had seen only a small part of the encampment; but there was no doubt in his mind that he was deep within it.

The tent was of the sort used by the plainsmen of Eastmarch, low and squat but finely finished: an officer's tent by the look of it. He wondered briefly whose tent it was, for he had certainly seen no one of appropriate rank so far. Perhaps these men did not realize the importance of their prisoner. Perhaps he could avoid meeting someone of higher rank who might recognize him.

On the other hand, if they did not realize who he was and believed him to be but a common spy, he might not even get a chance to talk himself out of this one. They might execute him without further ado.

But they had bandaged his wound—a senseless waste of effort if they only meant to kill him. He wondered where the men's commander was.

As though in response to his thought, a tall, middle-aged man in mail and a blue and gold plaid strode to the green beside the tent and tossed a crested helmet to one of the watching soldiers. He had the lean, assured carriage of aristocracy, a sureness of movement that immediately marked him as an accomplished warrior. Jewels glittered on the pommel of his sword and subtly within the links of a heavy gold neck chain. Derry recognized him immediately: Baron Campbell of Eastmarch. Now, would Campbell recognize him?

“Well, what have we here? Did the king send ye, lad?”

Derry frowned at the condescending tone, wondering whether he was being baited or whether the man already knew who he was.

“Of course the king sent me,” Derry finally decided to say, permitting a trace of indignation to show in his voice. “Is this how you always treat royal messengers?”

“So, it's a royal messenger you're claiming to be, is it?” the man asked, cocking his head wistfully. “That isn't what the guards told me.”

“The guards didn't ask,” Derry said contemptuously, raising his head in defiance. “Besides, my messages were not intended for guards. I was on my way to Duke Ewan's army in the north, on king's business. I stumbled on your encampment quite by mistake.”

“Aye, 'tis indeed a mistake, lad,” Campbell murmured, his eyes sweeping Derry suspiciously. “Ye were taken whilst prowling around the edge of the camp, ye lied to the men who asked your identity, killed a soldier who tried to take you into custody. And ye have no credentials or messages on you, nothing to indicate that you are what you say you are, and not a spy. I think that you
are
a spy. What's your name, lad?”

“I am not a spy. I am a royal envoy. And my name and my messages are not for your ears!” Derry said hotly. “When the king finds out how you have treated—”

In a flash, Campbell was on his knees beside Derry, his hand twisted in the neck of Derry's mail and pulling it choking-tight as he stared his captive in the face.

“You will not speak to me in that tone, young spy! And if you hope to see a ripe old age, which appears unlikely the more ye talk, ye'd best hold yer tongue unless you have civil words upon it! Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Derry winced as the man tightened his grip on the mail, biting back a smoking retort that surely would have been the end of him, if he had voiced it. With a slight inclination of his head, he signaled his acquiescence and took a deep breath as the man released his throat. Even as he wondered what he was going to do next, Campbell took that decision out of his hands.

“We'll take him to his lordship,” he said, getting to his feet with a sigh. “I have nae the time to fool with him. Mayhap the Lord's Deryni friends can weasel the truth out of him.”

As his words sank in, Derry was dragged to his feet and herded along a muddy path toward the center of the camp. There were questioning looks as they went, and several times Derry thought he saw faces turn toward him with near-recognition in their eyes. But no one approached them, and Derry was too busy trying to stay on his feet to look at anyone too closely. Besides, it didn't much matter whether he was recognized now or not. Bran Coris would know him instantly, and what he was about. Nor was the reference to Bran's Deryni allies comforting.

They skirted a sparse grove of oaks to emerge in the headquarters area, where a splendid tent of royal blue and white dominated the center of a broad patch of velvet green. Other tents of only slightly lesser size and splendor surrounded the central area, their brilliant colors and standards vying with one another for attention. Not far away, the wash of the great Cardosa River ran its swollen course across the plain, the water high and muddy-brown in this run-off season.

Derry's escort yanked him along as his steps faltered, at last throwing him to his knees before a black and silver tent next to Bran's royal blue one. His wounded arm had started to ache abominably from the men's rough handling, and his wrists chafed in their rawhide bonds. From inside the tent, he could hear men's voices arguing loudly, though the words were muffled and indistinguishable behind the thick fabric of the tent walls.

Baron Campbell paused for just a moment, apparently weighing the advisability of entering, then shrugged and disappeared through the open tent flap. From within came an explosive exclamation of indignation, a murmured curse in an accent foreign to Derry's ears, and then the sound of Bran Coris's voice.

“A spy? Damn it, Campbell, you interrupted me to say you've captured a spy?”

“I'm thinking he's more than a spy, m'lord. He's—well, you'd best see for yourself.”

“Oh, very well. Duke Lionel, I'll return shortly.”

Derry's heart sank as Campbell emerged from the tent, and he averted his face as a slender figure in a blue tunic stepped into the sunlight behind Campbell. Derry heard a muffled intake of breath from Bran's direction, and then he was aware of two pairs of boots standing a few paces before him, one pair black and shining and spurred with silver.

It would do no good to postpone the inevitable. With a resigned sigh, Derry lifted his head to behold the familiar face of Bran Coris.

“Sean Lord Derry!” Bran blurted. The golden eyes went cold. “So! How
does
my dubious colleague, outside the king's Council chambers? You haven't deserted your precious Morgan, have you?” Derry's eyes flashed defiance. “No, I didn't think so. My Lord Lionel, come and see what the Duke of Corwyn has sent us,” he called. “I do believe it's his favorite spy.”

As he spoke, Lionel Duke d'Arjenol emerged from the tent and joined Bran, staring hard at Derry all the while. He was tall and regal and looked vaguely foreign, dark beard and moustache trimmed close to his face to emphasize thin, cruel lips.

A robe of faintly rustling white silk flowed from the duke's broad shoulders to sweep the toes of claret velvet boots. But there was the gleam of a mail-backed crimson tunic where the robe parted in front, the flash of a curved dagger thrust through his sash. The hair was long and black, pulled in a lock at the back of his neck and held across the brow by a broad fillet of silver. Jeweled wrist guards glittered red and green and violet as he folded silk-sleeved arms across his chest.

“So, this is Morgan's minion,” Lionel said, his cool gaze sweeping Derry with disdain.

“The Earl of Derry,” Bran replied with a nod. “Kelson appointed him to Lord Ralson's vacant Council seat last fall. He was Morgan's military aide for some time before that. Where did you find him, Campbell?”

“On the ridge just south of here, m'lord. A patrol spotted his horse and just waited for him to come back. He cut up some of our men when they tried to take him, though. Peter Davency is dead.”

“Davency? Heavy-set fellow, rather quick-tempered?”

“The same, m'lord.”

Bran hooked his thumbs in the jeweled belt at his waist and stared down at Derry for a long time, slowly rising up and down on the balls of his feet, jaw clenching and unclenching as he stared. For a moment, Derry feared that Bran would kick him, and he steeled himself for the blow; but it did not come. After what seemed like an eternity, Bran curbed his anger and turned slowly to face Lionel, not daring to look at Derry any longer.

“If this man were wholly my prisoner, he would be dead by now for what he has done,” Bran said, his voice hardly more than a whisper. “However, I am not so blinded by anger that I cannot realize the value he may have to you and Lord Wencit. Will you ask your kinsman what he wishes me to do with this offal?”

With a curt bow, Lionel turned on his heel and glided into the tent, Bran following a step behind. They paused just inside the opening, their shapes silhouetted against the inner darkness. Just before Bran twitched the tent flap over the opening, a faint play of light flared somewhere above the men's heads, suggesting that they intended using some kind of magic to contact Wencit. After a few minutes, Bran emerged from the tent alone, his manner thoughtful and a bit amused.

“Well, Sean Lord Derry, it appears that my new allies are inclined to be merciful. You are to be spared a spy's execution and instead are to be the guest tonight of His Majesty, King Wencit, in Cardosa. Personally, I cannot vouch for the quality of entertainment you will find there; Torenthi sport can be a bit bizarre for my tastes, I must confess. But perhaps you will enjoy it. Campbell?”

“Aye, m'lord.”

Bran's face hardened as he stared down at the helpless Derry. “Put him on a horse and get him out of here. The sight of him sickens me!”

MORGAN
paced the length of the tiny anteroom in the bishop's palace in Dhassa and rubbed a hand across his newly shaven jaw, then turned to peer impatiently through the bottom of the high, grilled window. Outside, darkness was falling, the night mists moving in swiftly as they often did in this mountain country, cloaking all of Dhassa in an eerie, clammy shroud. Though it was not yet fully dark, torches were beginning to appear in the lowering dimness, their wavering flames pale and ghostly against the twilight.

The streets that had teemed with soldiers an hour earlier were almost silent now. Over to the left, he could see an honor guard lined up before the doors of Dhassa's cathedral, and scores of mailed and cloaked fighting men and city burghers making their way into the high nave beyond. Occasionally, when a lull came in the arrivals at the cathedral, he could see through the open doors and into the great nave itself, catching the gleam of many candles lighting the place nearly as bright as day. In a little while, he and Duncan would be entering that cathedral with the bishops. He wondered what their reception would be.

With a sigh, Morgan turned away from the window and glanced across the room to where Duncan sat quietly on a low wooden bench. A candle burned at Duncan's end of the bench, and the priest seemed absorbed in the content of a small, leather-bound book with gilt-edged pages. Like Morgan, he was robed in penitential violet, clean-shaven, his face oddly pale where his beard had been. He had not yet bothered to secure the front of his robe, for it was warm in the tiny chamber, close with the night air that drifted on the mists outside. A white tunic, hose, and soft leather boots shone stark beneath the robe, the pristine whiteness unrelieved by any jewel or adornment.

With another sigh, Morgan glanced down at his own robe and tunic, at the gryphon and lion rings winking on his hands, then moved slowly to Duncan's side of the room and looked down at him. Duncan did not seem in the least concerned that his kinsman had been pacing in precisely the same manner for the past quarter hour, or even to have noticed that he had finally stopped.

“Don't you ever get tired of waiting?” Morgan asked.

Duncan looked up from his reading with a faint smile. “Sometimes. But it's a skill that priests must learn quite early in their careers, or else become good actors. Why don't you stop pacing and try to relax?”

So, he
had
noticed.